The Heir
"Karaashi Station Command, this is Stormbird A-7, carrying First Captain Julius Kaesoron. We are on approach. Do we have authorisation to enter local space, over?"
"Copy, Stormbird A-7," came the expected response. "Your flight plan has been updated. Proceed to Hangar Bay Four, over."
"Copy, Station Command. We are proceeding."
The dropship's pilot turned to face his commander. "Sir, we will be docking in approximately four minutes."
"Acknowledged," responded Kaesoron. The pilot turned his full attention back to the controls, while Kaesoron stared out the void-shield at the massive behemoth of a space station that dominated the view-screen. He had only been here three times since its construction, and each and every time the sight of Karaashi Station was impossing.
It had the ruggedness and functionality typical of Iron Hand designs, but it had sheer power forged into it. Designed by Ferrus Manus himself in the years following the mass exodus of the Traitor Legions and their allies to the Eye of Terror after the Imperium's Great Scouring, it was a symbol of unchanging strength and iron resolution. For being in the Eye it was, simply, perfect.
But its grand appearance paled in comparison to the reason why Kaesoron was coming to it for the fourth time in three centuries. This station held a very important significance in the Eye: it was neutral territory.
Oh there were dozens of worlds, asteroids, ships, stations and the like that was considered "neutral ground" throughout the Eye, but only this was considered the neutral ground for all of the Traitor Legions, even those that did not call the warp-storm home. From Angron's gladiators to Lorgar's preachers, this was considered safe territory, free of the warfare that plagued the Storm and its inhabitants.
Here, representatives from two or more Legions or warbands could discuss matters in as cordial a manner as it was possible in Hell. The Iron Hands that manned the station, personally chosen by their primarch, were to enforce the rules set down by him:
1. The commanding Iron Hand officer held rank over all others within the station, barring primarchs.
2. No more than one warship from any faction was allowed to enter the star system, unless given approval by Manus.
3. A faction representative could bring no more than four honour guards on board the station.
4. Only melee weapons were allowed by members not of the Tenth Legion; no ranged weapons.
5. No violence was to occur without the consent of the Iron Hand commanding officer.
Treaties were made and broken here. Alliances developed and shattered in those bland, grey halls. It allowed what was to occur today a reality. The council of a dying Legion was soon to begin.
The first three councils had been over various topics. The first had been an attempt to select a Legion Master, which failed miserably, leading to the formal fracturing of the Third Legion into hundreds of independent warbands. This began the Succession War.
The second had been an attempt to end the Succession War a century later, which also failed miserably. Their losses in that war, which continued to the present, had allowed them to become weak, easy targets.
The third had taken place shortly after the World Eaters attacked Falzyer, leading to the Legion Wars. In the decades prior to the Legion Wars there had been dozens of skirmishes and conflicts between Legions but nothing larger than a company or warband. The Razing of Falzyer changed that, leading to two centuries of constant war on a scale similar to the Heresy. War that was seeing the slow extinction of the III, he thought sadly.
If only Fulgrim had killed the Emperor and ascended to throne. Then, the Sons of Fulgrim would be the warrior-scions of the most powerful being in the galaxy; a general, a primarch… a god. Alas, it was not to be so. The Emperor killed the War Commander and the Traitor Legions fled from Terra, broken and defeated.
Kaesoron shook his head in remembrance. Now was not the time. Later, perhaps he could meditate and contemplate further, but not now.
Since the Slave Wars began there had been no council here. None held, much less attended, by any warband-companies that comprised the remnants of the Third Legiones Astartes, at least. So when the call for council came, it was a genuine surprise. Leaving his warband to his second-in-command, Kaesoron had taken his flagship and rushed to the unnamed star system that the Karaashi Space Station resided in.
After a three week journey, though it was hard to tell in the Eye, he emerged from the warp into real-space. To be greeted by close to one hundred warships. Some were battered frigates, others fully functional battle-barges. These were the ships that carried their warband's commander.
Kaesoron had done a quick count and knew that dozens of warbands and their leaders were missing. Either they had chosen not to attend or were not invited for various reasons, it did not matter. This before him was the true representation of what leadership the Sons of Fulgrim still had amongst its ranks.
If it were not for the reason the council had been called, Kaesoron would not have attended. But with a new threat, an unknown threat at that, emerging in the Eye of Terror, targeting only Third Legion warbands, it was the wisest, and dare he think it, honour-bound course of action available to them.
Stormbird A-7 entered Hangar Bay Four quickly and efficiently. Kaesoron was late, and he wanted the talks to begin immediately. The ramp lowered with infinite slowness, at least to him, but when it lowered enough he strode out onto the barren plasteel deck.
A welcoming party of Iron Hand legionnaires awaited him. They saluted and bowed their heads in respect, momentarily. One approached Kaesoron, his appearance signalling him to be an Iron Father. This particular blend of Techmarine and Chaplain was known to Kaesoron, for they had served together during the Heresy.
"It is good to see you, Sabik," spoke Kaesoron as he approached the black armoured Astartes.
Sabik Wayland nodded in respect. "The feeling is mutual, First Captain."
As always when someone spoke his official rank, he winced slightly. What was he a first captain of? Nothing more than a broken, dying gene-line where he held little power outside his own warband, it was an embarrassment for him to be called 'First Captain'. Even during the Great Crusade and Heresy, his power had often been side-lined by the Lord Commanders, especially Eidolon, making Kaesoron effectively powerless in the Third's strictly set and designed hierarchy. But he could not admit such weakness, especially to one not of the Third Legion.
"Follow me." Sabik turned around and began striding towards the council chamber. Kaesoron and his four bodyguards followed, the Iron Hand honour guard bringing up the rear.
It took nearly twenty-eight minutes before they made it to the audience chamber's doors.
"Ready?" asked Lycaon, his Equerry, one of the four bodyguards he had brought.
"Always," he replied confidently.
Sabik took this as a cue and pushed open the doors, and stepped forth, bringing his iron-encased staff upon the ground, the sound echoing in the chamber.
"First Captain Julius Kaesoron, commander of the Knights of Chemos Warband, enters."
Kaesoron stepped forward, his men three steps behind as was protocol. All eyes turned towards him. Some were respectful, and some were uncaring, while others were filled with hate. The eyes of Eidolon burned that way.
After a few seconds, the attention turned back to mingling with each other. Generally, captains talked to captains, lord commanders talked to lord commanders with other ranks being side-lined. Instead of moving off to talk to the lord commanders, whom he viewed as a general rule as arrogant even for a son of Fulgrim, he made his way to the outskirts, where low-ranking captains and lieutenant commanders made their talk.
Fulgrim had once told him that the most important information was not always at the heart of things. It was a statement proven true time and time again, he found. His guards remained behind, near the wall, hands on blades though forbidden to draw them. Kaesoron was not worried. Every warlord's guard detail in here was doing the same after all.
Kaesoron's eyes swept the room, noting the warlords present. Captain Tyrion of the Black Sons Warband was talking to Xiander and Hellespon, captains both and leaders of their own warbands. Lord Commanders Anteus and Cyrius were in deep discussion, their movements curt and demeanour sour. He had heard that their two forces had suffered heavily in the last six months against the unknown threat.
He saw dozens of high-ranking officers, warriors he had not seen in decades or centuries, yet here they were. Brought together by fear; how low the Third had fallen.
As he made his way through the crowd, he saw Marius Vairosean, commander of the Kakophoni Warband, standing idly with several other officers. Kaesoron noticed that all of them were devotees of Slaanesh. While the bulk of the Third Legion followed their gene-sire in becoming adherents to Chaos Undivided, some within the III chose one of the Four Gods of Chaos. These sects were generally quite small, but the Sect of Slaanesh was several thousand strong at the height of its power. Recently, it had fallen onto hard times, but still retained enough strength to be a considerable power bloc within the Legion.
Vairosean saw him and smiled a predator's smile, his teeth filed and skin stretched. He was a monster. Not a warrior, but a pleasure and pain seeking monstrosity. Frowning, he moved on, wishing that the entire Slaaneshi Sect would leave, never to return. Perhaps they could join the multitude of V Legion warbands roaming the void. After all, they shared a god.
Something caught his eye as he continued to move further into the crowd. Four Astartes were adorned in Tactical Dreadnought Armor. He noticed they flew the banner of the Flawless Host, Eidolon's warband. Typical, thought Kaesoron. To have a set of Terminator Armor, let alone four, was a display of a warlord's power. Kaesoron himself had eleven, though eight were in use by his Knights in various battlefields. Out of his bodyguard, only his equerry did not sport one as he had little to no training in one. The three that did wear the armour were veterans all.
Kaesoron's spies had reported that Eidolon could field over a score of the precious suits. How he held so many baffled Kaesoron, though as Lord Commander of the First Millennial it was not too hard to fathom where they came from. If one were to truly reunite the Third Legion, there would only be a scant few more than a hundred, such was the state of Fulgrim's gene-line.
Shrugging, he continued.
Servants, dressed in Tenth Legion colours, moved to and fro, providing food and drink. Kaesoron took a green coloured wine and sipped. Sweet and tasty, with an unforgettable aftertaste; he raised an eyebrow as he recognized the vintage: Chemosian Perfection. Impressive, the Iron Hands must have had several bottles on board.
It might be the last remaining bottles of the fine drink left in the galaxy, its particular grapes having died when Chemos burned. Very impressive indeed, he thought. Glancing at Sabik he raised his glass in appreciation. The Medusan nodded politely before moving to another set of doors on the opposite side of the chamber. These led into the council chamber itself.
As he moved through the crowd, Kaesoron heard whispers as he walked by.
"…I heard three ships are missing, no wreckage."
"Impossible, there must have been some."
"Not from what my Techmarines concluded. I even had my Dark Mechanicum Adept enact a scan. His results mirrored mine. It's as if those ships disappeared into thin air."
Kaesoron moved far enough away to where even his hearing could not divulge the responding whisper. To stop in mid-stride would have been seen as suspicious so he continued.
More whispers from others followed.
"…I lost thirty-two brothers in that action…"
"A Word Bearer Host engaged a White Scar raiding fleet recently. It was quite successful for the XVII…"
"The World Eaters broke through Kallyn's Gate and slaughtered Charmosian and his warband, all ninety-two of them."
Informative for sure, but already known to him via his spies, therefore he continued. He trudged on, wanting to find something interesting to grab his attention.
"An Alpha Legion strike force ambushed a Night Lord convoy, taking nearly four million slaves."
Alpha Legion? Night Lord? In the Eye? While it wasn't unheard of, it was certainly rare. Out of the Eight Legions that rebelled, all but the VIII and the XX made the Eye their home. The VIII resided on a world they imaginatively called the World of Shadows, far outside Imperial borders, but close though not inside the Eye. This proximity allowed their terror-fleets to reap glory and prizes within the Storm.
But the Alpha Legion… they almost never came into the Storm, preferring to move constantly throughout the Imperium and staying isolated from the others in their secret, unknown homeworld. Their actions almost always bred more questions than answers.
While indeed quite interesting, the next piece of news he heard is what drew him to three officers talking to each other.
"…that's right. Three star systems in as many weeks. Felker II, Mediah, and Exxastes Minor, all Imperial."
Kaesoron placed himself beside the three Astartes, two were centurions and another was a captain.
"You took three Imperial worlds, you say?
The one that spoke, boasted really, turned and eyes widened at who he saw. Kaesoron could see the centurion wanting to turn around and properly salute and address a superior officer. Discipline and respect for rank ran deep in the III, even in its current state. But the Legion was a Legion in name only, and the centurion had neither reason nor expectation to salute.
Instead a single bob of the head was all that was given. "Aye, Fi- Kaesoron."
"That is impressive. What did you gain from these worlds?"
The centurion's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Seven cargo ships, millions of tons of unprocessed ore, and two hundred and thirty-one thousand slaves," was the answer.
"Ah, that is less impressive." Before the centurion fumed, he continued, "But, you did more damage to the Imperium in three weeks than I have done in three centuries. So, congratulations, Centurion-"
"Thadam, Kaesoron, Centurion Thadam, Silver Spears Warband."
"Hmm. Wasn't the Silver Spears led by Lieutenant Commander Jex?"
"It was until he took a daemon's blade to the cranium."
"That does have a way of preventing continued leadership."
A grunt of humour left Thadam's throat, almost against his will at the dry joke.
A proper response was in development when a loud echo rang through the room three times.
Kaesoron turned his head to see Sabik standing in front of the now opened chamber doors. "Officers of the Third, the time has come for the council to commence. Proceed to the chamber behind me."
Kaesoron and the other largely purple-and-gold Astartes made their way to the directed chamber. The bodyguards of the officers and warlords would wait until their commanders had seated themselves before entering the room.
As the First Captain passed Sabik, his Medusan acquaintance leaned and whispered, "Make the right choice, Julius. You need to."
Before he could question the Iron Father, Kaesoron was surged forward by the press of Astartes behind him. The chamber was large, with simple stone thrones spread throughout. The speaking floor was in the centre, with the stone thrones rising from it. The higher the rank or more powerful the warband, the closer you sat to the bottom floor, near the speakers and the Iron Judge.
Kaesoron made his way to a seat where the lord commanders and several high-ranking, veteran captains were taking their seats. Eidolon and his detail looked at Kaesoron with disgust and sat down as far from him as possible, which might have been unwise due to forcing them to stare at one another from across the circular chamber.
Within minutes, everyone was seated and, from a signal from the Officer of Guard, the chamber quietened. The Iron Judge, representative and voice of Ferrus Manus on the Station rose from his own, raised throne.
"This council hereby begins. As befitting this office, I will declare the reason for this meeting and then ask for several officers here to speak of the recent losses suffered by their forces these past months from an unknown enemy. Is this acceptable?"
All nodded or murmured agreement.
"Good." The Iron Judge looked around the room. "This meeting, called for assembly by Captain Gaeus of the Sublime Stalwarts Warband, is to discuss and figure out the enemy behind the attacks on several Third Legion warbands, leading to significant loss in supplies, slaves, armaments and Astartes."
A pause followed this. Many did not know who had called for the council, nor had any heard of a Captain Gaeus.
"Captain Gaeus, you have the floor."
An Astartes adorned in armour that was in pristine condition, unlike the vast majority of his peers, descended the steps to the floor. In the centre of an Octed symbol, he began to speak.
"Many of you do not know me, this is no surprise. Last time a council was called, I was but a lowly battle-brother. Now, I am captain, successor to Captain Herven, former commander of the Sublime Stalwarts. He died against this unknown threat, he and fourteen of his warriors. The survivors now follow me. But I am not here to speak of this threat, not in the way you anticipate.
"Instead, what I am here for is…" Gaeus took a breath.
"…your submission."
The room erupted into chaos.
"Order! Order in this chamber! Disruption will see you banned from this Station if you continue!" bellowed the Iron Judge, using a worn but stout metal hammer to quieten the room through its repeating thumping against the Judge's desk. Eventually the room quietened but the underlying anger rose higher and higher.
"Submission?!" barked Eidolon. "You must be mad, captain," he snarled the word. "You have neither the prestige nor rank to even broach that subject."
"It is not I who demands your submission, but rather the Heir of Fulgrim, whom I am honoured to speak for at this council."
The Heir of Fulgrim, thought Kaesoron, hmm, someone is playing a dangerous game with that name. While the succession to Fulgrim had been contested for the past few centuries, none had dared used the title of 'Heir.' It made it almost seem like a legitimate claim, something anathema to a broken Legion led by madmen, demagogues, and pirates.
"The Heir?" Harsh laughter erupted from Commander Galliad of the Seven Swords Warband. "None have the right to claim that title." The legionnaire officer looked around the chamber, contemplating. "I see you have brought nought but a fool's statement here today, Gaeus. You have wasted our time, boy."
Galliad looked around him again. "I say we kill him, send his head back to this 'Heir' of his."
Several Space Marines nodded their agreement at this, noted Kaesoron.
Gaeus' bodyguard descended from their position to establish a protective circle around their lord. Spears readied, with swords close at hand.
Half a dozen warlords stood and laughed at the young captain.
"You will not make it out of here alive, Gaeus," tutted Eidolon. "But, before you leave, who is this Heir Pretender?" The question froze everyone, intent as they were to find out who had been attacking them.
Gaeus' jaw clenched, he was intent not to reveal the name, but an armoured gauntlet rested upon his shoulders by one of his guards. Surprisingly, the captain bowed and took the guard's spear and took position.
Kaesoron leaned forward in his throne, studying the "guard."
He was average height, bulk, and carried himself confidently and he seemed to… emit power, but not be overwhelming with it. More subtle, more dangerous, he thought.
"I am the Heir of Fulgrim," declared the Astartes, his helm's speaker's distorting his voice, yet there was something familiar there. Something he had not heard in a long time, a familiar voice that his memory muddled due to the ebb of time.
"You? Ha! You do not appear to be much," sneered Galliad as he walked down the stone stairs to stand on equal ground. His own guards behind him, two of whom were Terminators.
"Why should we not kill you where you stand?" asked Galliad.
"Because I bring the promise of victory and unity," spoke the Astartes.
Victory and unity; such lofty words, filled with forgotten dreams and broken promises. Those words were usually associated with the hubris of the past, of fading ideals that no longer resonated within the Phoenician's sons. Those dual-ideals, those concepts of victory and unity died in the Imperial Throne Room. It died when their gene-sire was killed by the Emperor's fiery blade and psychic might.
Before the stunned Galliad could speak, Kaesoron stood. After receiving approval from the Iron Judge he stepped onto the floor.
"A question if I may, Heir. What victory and unity is this, hmm? Is it victory in the Succession War, victory in the Legion Wars? Unity of the Legion, I gather? These have been attempted before and all have failed. We are being bled dry by those that we once called allies. Our fortresses number few, our fleets pale reflections of what once was, and our brotherhood is shattered like a poorly made sword. We are cursed."
Kaesoron stood in front of the Astartes, trying to discern the identity behind those red eye-lenses.
The Astartes responded, "What you say is true, of that I will not deny. Our brotherhood is shattered, broken into hundreds of pieces. However," he turned slowly to look at all before him, his voice carrying easily through the chamber, "it can be renewed in the flames of war. The Succession War will end, it is inevitable. The Legion Wars will never truly end, but they can wane and be contained. We can survive this, stronger than before and emerge like a phoenix from the ashes of old, more perfect and more dedicated to our one true goal."
"Which is?" asked the First Captain.
"Vengeance."
Silence reigned. The emotion, the intent, the hate built into that word could only mean vengeance against the empire that they created.
"You're insane," spoke Galliad, disbelievingly. "The Imperium has recovered from the Heresy, its borders defended by the Iron Cages, protected by countless billions of Guardsman and over two hundred Space Marine Chapters. Not to mention it has several primarchs alive and well, vigilantly protecting the False Emperor's Domain. It has the resources, the manpower, and the will to forever keep us out. There is simply nothing we can do against that! Nothing but raid and pillage undefended star systems and small squadrons of warships! Our best chance was washed away when our father died."
The Heir looked at the disbelieving Space Marine and shook his head. "I knew you to be weak, Galliad, but I never knew you to be a coward." Faster than the eye could properly track, the Heir pulled a throwing knife from a scabbard across his chest. He threw the sharp blade, it darted across the room, impaling deep into Galliad's skull, killing him instantly. The leader of the Seven Swords fell to his knees and after a moment, fell face down, blood spreading from the corpse.
The chamber was shocked. The warlord's guards looked at their fallen commander with mute disbelief. A death had been caused and without permission from the Iron Judge. This had never happened before. Not even a Berserker of the World Eaters or a psychopath of the Night Lords would do something so foolish, so brazen. Many looked towards the dozens of Iron Hand legionnaires that circled the room, arms carrying bolters and waists carrying combat blades, swords and axes.
All were held at ease, none moved to arrest the Heir.
Realisation dawned on Kaesoron. This was planned in conjunction with the Iron Tenth. "Who are you?" he moved closer. The Heir's guards turned to meet him, but the Heir motioned them aside.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
The Heir looked at Kaesoron for several seconds. Hands went to the helmet's neck seals, unlocking them. Pressurised air hissed at it was released. When the helm was lifted off, the face of the warrior beneath the helm was easy to recognise. He had been Lord Commander of the Second Millennial during the Heresy and had schemed and stole from his brothers over Chemos when the Scouring's fires of retribution roared through the Imperium. Kaesoron heard mutters of, "Impossible," "It can't be," "He's supposed to be dead," and so forth. Eidolon hissed the legionnaire's rightfully earned moniker, "Deceiver."
As the Heir mag-locked the helm to his belt, Kaesoron stared into the violet eyes of Tyberius Sakaeron.
"It is I, brother. Surprised to see me?" Sakaeron lips twitched in genuine humour. Turning to look at the assembly around him, he spoke.
"Brothers, I have returned to lead you in the Long War against the Imperium, a war that has been muted for far too long. Many of you believed me to be dead, or that I merely cowered in the Eye after I left Chemos. But I am clearly not dead and I was not idle. I have found us a new home, a new Chemos if you will. There I have assembled and built a mighty fleet and replenished much of our ranks. I have made alliances with other warbands and come to an understanding with many others."
The lack of reaction by the Iron Hands represented proof of that.
"I have come to you to ask you to join me. I ask this only once, for I will never ask you again. Join me in ending these bouts of pointless internecine warfare. Join me in tearing down the Imperium and installing ourselves as the true rulers of the empire we built with our blood, sweat, and toil. Join me and become something greater than you currently are. Join me and pursue vengeance. I am the Heir of Fulgrim and therefore the Second War Commander. I will finish what our father started. Who will stand by me?"
Some rose from their thrones, arms pressed to the breastplate in salute. "I do. Hail Sakaeron."
"Hail," returned the Deceiver.
A moment passed, and a third of the chamber stood in allegiance. Kaesoron noted Galliad's former bodyguards now stood beside Sakaeron whom turned his gaze to Kaesoron.
"Julius, what is your answer?"
Kaesoron's mind went to what Sabik had told him earlier. Make the right choice, Julius. You need to.
Join him or kill him. Join or kill? Kneel or murder? Kaesoron gripped his sword, and in one fluid motion pulled it from his scabbard and stuck it into the stone floor, his hands resting on its pommel.
"I am yours, War Commander." He bowed his head.
"Good, brother. That was the right decision." Sakaeron looked around the chamber, frowning at how many refused to bend the knee. "I had hoped there would be more, but we have more than enough."
Eidolon spat on the floor. "I will never join you, Deceiver. You abandoned us when you were needed most. Stealing our lord father's corpse and his flagship… Where exactly is the flagship? Where is the Pride of Chemos?" demanded Eidolon.
Sakaeron smiled a cold smirk. "She is here."
Kaesoron never knew how the War Commander did it, no matter how much he asked in later years. Sakaeron would always give a knowing smile and refuse an answer. Right as he spoke, "She is here," a wound in reality formed close to Karaashi Station, visible through the thick armoured glass windows that dominated the chamber, close enough for the entire chamber to witness the Pride of Chemos with a dozen capital ships and scores of escorts emerge from the warp like predator-hunters from the deepest, dangerous oceans. It was perfectly synchronised.
As the chamber looked on in awe as the massive Gloriana-class warship passed the station, Kaesoron noticed Sakaeron pressing a rune upon his gauntlet, a red rune blinking then turning sapphire green.
The back of his tongue began to itch; the air wavered and reeked of ozone. It could mean only one thing.
Teleportation.
With a thunderclap roar, forty Astartes teleported inside the chamber, warp-residue steaming off their armour as they took position around Sakaeron and those that pledged to him. Not only were the forty legionnaires armed with bolters, storm bolters and flamers, but all wore Terminator Armour. And there was not a single casualty, not one.
Kaesoron had not seen so many Terminator suits in such a small area since the Siege of Terra. It was a wonder. The near hundred officers and their guards backed away from the centre. The Iron Hands stopped them with their bolters pointed.
"Orders, War Commander?" asked the Iron Judge.
"Kill them."
A bolter was known to be loud. It was not a silent weapon of war. Not like the dagger of the Officio Assasinorum nor the lasgun of the Imperial Guard. It roared and clacked as it fired. It was meant to brutally kill, and kill brutally it did.
Forty Sons of Fulgrim Terminators and nearly seventy Iron Hands unleashed their gunfire on those that refused to follow Sakaeron. Some were quick and rushed the Iron Hands, engaging them in hand-to-hand, the guards sacrificing themselves so their leader could flee. Kaesoron watched as Eidolon disappeared in a flare of teleportation activity. He must have had a transponder on him, his ship waiting for a signal to teleport him out at a moment's notice. Eidolon was many things, but he was not stupid. His ship must have had its teleport coils primed and warmed.
The others, though, were not so lucky. Within moments, all that refused the War Commander lay dead, their blood painting the stark grey stone red. The Iron Hands departed the room, all but the Judge and Sabik.
Sakaeron dismissed the Terminators, all but ten who took their place near their lord. The War Commander placed a vox-bead in his ear. "Report."
Kaesoron could hear static and words, but not clearly. After a moment, the Heir frowned.
"What is it?" Kaesoron asked.
"Eidolon successfully fled. His ship was ready to withdraw quickly. But other than him and a few others, this little operation was a complete success. The warlords who died here left me their flagships and it is likely most of their legionnaires will join me in due time. A new age is upon us. An age of renewed brotherhood and revenge, my, how long I have waited and planned," Sakaeron paused for a moment, processing this success.
The War Commander looked at the Iron Judge and Sabik. "I thank you and your primarch for allowing this to occur. I shall pay back this debt in due time."
The two Iron Hands bowed their heads. "The Gorgon wishes to see the Legion Wars fade, and the war against the Imperium renewed. He believed you to be the best chance of this happening," explained Sabik.
"Tell Lord Manus that he is right, and soon I will launch a vast crusade into the Imperium. The Cages cannot and have not covered everything. There are ways through the cracks."
The two Iron Hands bowed again and departed with farewells.
As they left a tear in space and time opened behind Sakaeron. Kaesoron readied his sword.
"At ease, brother, these are my men, my new brothers."
The two Astartes that stepped through were of different Legions. One wore the deep blue and gold armour of the Thousand Sons, the other the black and white of pre-Heresy Dark Angels. Kaesoron looked to Sakaeron with an eyebrow raised.
"Former Calibanite Independent, but he left them shortly after the destruction of Caliban. He disdains Luther almost as much as the Lion and the Emperor." The black armoured Astartes nodded at this.
"Where are my manners? Julius Kaesoron this is Iskandar Khayon and Merir Astelan. Two of my most able advisors and loyal brothers, they have been with me for some years now, helping me ready all that is to come. In the Long War, we are all brothers, no matter the bloodline or heraldry."
The three Astartes exchanged pleasantries.
"Now that you are all here, kneel."
Khayon and Astelan did so without hesitation. Kaesoron had not knelt before another since before his father perished. He found it odd at first, but his kneepad hit the stone floor only a second after the first two.
Sakaeron accepted a weapon from one of his Terminators. It was a Guardian-Spear of the Legio Custodes, now the Adeptus Custodes. But this one was still gold and red, showing it belonged to a Custodian when the Emperor still walked amongst the stars. Resting the blade against Astelan's left shoulder-pad, Sakaeron began to speak.
"Merir Astelan, former Dark Angel, former Independent, you shall from henceforth be my Force Commander of the Phertalien. Though you and they may not bear the gene-seed of Fulgrim, you have proven yourself worthy. You are to become a founding member of the Tyberkenna. Tomorrow you will don the livery of the Third Legion, all but this shoulder-pad which is to remain void-black to reflect your past."
Astelan bowed his head in acknowledgement. Sakaeron moved to Khayon and placed the Spear's blade upon his left shoulder-pad.
"Iskandar Khayon, former Thousand Sons, former mercenary, you shall from henceforth be my First Sorcerer, leader of all those with psychic ability. Though you may not bear the gene-seed of Fulgrim, you have proven yourself worthy. You are to become a founding member of the Tyberkenna. Tomorrow you will don the livery of the Third Legion, all but this shoulder-pad which is to be void-black to reflect your past."
Khayon bowed his head as well. Sakaeron came to him and placed his spear on the left shoulder-pad.
"Julius Kaesoron, First Captain and fellow Son of Fulgrim, you will no longer be called by First Captain, that rank was useless and meaningless in the old Legion, rather you shall be Lord Captain-Commander of the First Millennial of my new Sons of Fulgrim. You will be my second-in-command. You are to become a founding member of the Tyberkenna. Tomorrow you will repair and repaint your armour."
The War Commander stepped back. He planted the base of the Spear onto the ground, causing it to echo in the stone chamber.
"Rise, my brothers, and become heralds of the new age."
They rose as one, the first of Sakaeron's Tyberkenna looking at their lord and brother and all began to imagine the wars they would wage together.