In the Emperor's Name, Let Judgment Fall

The embers of war had died out. The Word Bearers fleet hung among the stars like a gray graveyard adorned with sacred reliefs, silently encircling the wreck of the Xenos living warship they had thoroughly purged.

The battle's aftermath had become thin bands of debris, drifting like dust in the dim, bloody light of Hios.

In the stretch of space that had just witnessed such extreme violence, a new Warp Rift quietly tore through the fabric of Realspace. The energy surging from it was steadier and grander than that of an ordinary warship emerging from the warp.

Then a vessel vast enough to redefine this region of space glided slowly out of the rift, graceful and imposing.

Its arrival was an unmistakable declaration of the power of order and civilization.

Its lines were grand and classic. Its blue-and-gold livery shone even beneath the red giant's dim light, while the magnificent eagle on its prow and Macragge's Crest gleamed brightly.

It was the pride of the Thirteenth Legion, the flagship of the Ultramarines: the Gloriana-class Battleship Macragge's Honour.

Inside the cavernous hangar of the Chronicle of Ashes, the atmosphere had changed.

The bloodshed and fervor of moments before had given way to solemnity.

The surviving Ultramarines had put themselves in order.

They had wiped away as much evidence of battle damage from their armor as they could and straightened their backs. Surrounded by the Word Bearers' dark gray, they formed a distinct, steadfast island of blue.

Though vastly outnumbered, they stood in a perfect formation, their legion's discipline and dignity plain to see.

At the front stood Company Captain Slox, gravely wounded.

Deep claw marks and energy burns covered his armor. One shoulder plate had been almost completely shattered, exposing the healing flesh and mechanical structure beneath.

But he had refused to lie in a medical pod. Supported lightly by two warriors, he insisted on greeting his Gene-Father, his Primarch, with all due ceremony.

The transport's hatch opened with a soft hydraulic whine, releasing a gust of purified air tinged with machine oil and ozone.

Then a figure stepped out.

Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Macragge and Primarch of the Ultramarines, set foot on the deck of the Chronicle of Ashes.

His gaze went straight to the blue formation and the badly wounded figure at its head: Company Captain Slox.

A flicker of grief crossed his eyes, almost too brief to catch, before a deeper resolve, steady as a mountain, took its place.

These were his people, his warriors. They had paid the price.

The Xenos would pay for what they had done.

Then his gaze moved past them to Lorgar, who stood waiting nearby.

Against a backdrop of Xenos wreckage and human sacrifice, the two Primarchs met each other's eyes for the first time.

Guilliman strode toward his brother with firm, measured steps.

He broke the silence first. His voice was calm and direct, marked by the pragmatism of Macragge's ruler.

"You are my brother, a fellow Primarch?" he asked, studying Lorgar swiftly and carefully, his gaze as precise as a measuring instrument.

A gentle smile appeared on Lorgar's face, one that seemed capable of putting anyone at ease.

He stepped forward with effortless grace. "Yes, Guilliman. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lorgar Aurelian, lord of the Seventeenth Legion."

If Guilliman embodied scientific reason, Lorgar embodied the feeling of faith.

To Lorgar, if he wanted to guard against the Horus Heresy, he had to bring Guilliman to his side.

The Horus Heresy was bound to happen. All he could do was keep the losses as low as possible.

"My brother, thank you for rescuing them." Guilliman let out a quiet sigh, heavy with grief for his lost warriors and sincere gratitude for the timely aid.

He was not accustomed to being the one who needed help, but he would remember this kindness.

Meanwhile, Lorgar was quietly studying the brother he had never met.

To him, Guilliman was neither an embodiment of pure violence like several other Primarchs, nor a cold war machine like Perturabo.

He seemed more like an ideal ruler drawn equally from classical heroic epics and visions of utopia.

To Lorgar, Guilliman looked like a young warrior. His body held the extraordinary strength of a Primarch, yet every part of it was balanced and proportioned almost perfectly.

He saw the elegance and wisdom of Macragge's nobility, the bearing of a man raised in a civilized world. Guilliman looked as though he ought to hold a law code rather than a Warhammer.

He also saw a scholar's composure and a ruler's authority: an understated brilliance that inspired confidence in Guilliman's power to command events and shape the future.

His face was as handsome as a sculpted god from Greek or Roman myth, its features clear, balanced, and flawless. Every line seemed carefully designed to unite strength with beauty, wisdom with courage.

Lorgar could not help thinking that this brother was hundreds of times more handsome than the illustrations he had seen in novels in his previous life—though still not quite as handsome as himself.

After the brief exchange and their mutual appraisal, Lorgar got to the point. His voice regained the decisiveness of a legion lord. "We've learned the exact coordinates of their homeworld from a prisoner." He did not elaborate on how he had obtained them, but the implacable will to destroy beneath his calm tone was unmistakable.

"Next, we intend to bring utter destruction down on their heads. Do you and your Ultramarines mean to join us?"

The moment Lorgar finished speaking, Guilliman turned to him.

The scholar's composure vanished from his blue eyes, replaced by the cold, sharp look of a warrior.

It was the anger of a man who had seen his sons wounded and killed, who had witnessed Xenos desecration. Yet reason contained that anger, forging it into a resolve for vengeance that was pure and ruthlessly effective.

"Of course, my brother." Guilliman answered without hesitation, firm and decisive. His voice was steady, but held the power of the deep sea.

He paused, his eyes passing over the loyal warriors in battered blue armor. Then he looked back at Lorgar and spoke one word at a time, as though pronouncing a decree already written into the laws of fate:

"We will bring the Emperor's Wrath down upon their heads with absolute precision."

"In the Emperor's name, let judgment fall."