I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

Inspired by the Dornian Heresy, by Aurelius Rex.

He has returned.

The Scourge of the Imperium. The Arch-Traitor of Mankind. The Root of All Evil. The Avatar of Ruin. The Dark Master of Chaos. The Destroyer of Eskrador. The Butcher of Isstvan. The Cancer of the Ethereal Council. He has many names, but I will always call him Father.

For ten thousand years the galaxy has thought him dead, but I knew better. I knew his malice would not end so easily, knew that he would claw his way back from the grave he so rightly deserves sooner or later. Even after he betrayed me and tried to kill me and my brothers, even after everything I did in the rebellion to oppose him, we are still connected, still linked by the genetic and spiritual ties that bind every Space Marine to his Primarch.

Sometimes, I think the Emperor made His creations too well, and other times, not well enough.

I knew he was alive, and plotting from his place between life and death, scheming to cross back and claim vengeance for his past defeat. Because if there is one thing we still have in common, it's our determination. Neither of us have ever been able to take defeat in stride, to just give up.

And so I wandered, fighting Ruin everywhere I went, in the dark places between stars where the Imperium fear to thread. I sought a way to finish what Fulgrim and the Emperor had started on Terra. A way to avenge my lost brothers. A way to kill the chosen of the Chaos Gods.

For my sins, I found one.

On the fringes of the galaxy, where gods and daemons fear to thread, bathed in blackest light, with a man even more desperate than I my sole companion, I found the power I needed to bring an end to my Legion's shame. It took us, remade us, and spat me back out. As far as I know, my companion is still in there, and though there is little emotion left to me, I still tremble when I think of his fate, and of what he may have become by the time he too is released. I am not sure the galaxy is ready for one such as him, but at the same time, he may be its only hope against what else is coming.

Such things I have seen, such wonders and horrors. So many things I once would have thought impossible, had I even be able to imagine them. The galaxy is so much bigger, so much stranger than we ever suspected. So much more beautiful, too, even though it took me centuries to be able to see it, and I will never be able truly appreciate it again.

For all its horrors, it is a place worth fighting to defend. A place worth dying for.

And now, at the end of the Age, my father rises from his throne once more, and the universe will scream before the end. Psykers across the stars weep without knowing why, sensing the terrible darkness that has returned to haunt the galaxy. The servants he has seeded within the ranks of those who would oppose him know he is back as their leashes tighten around their necks, and they go about their appointed tasks with renewed vigor, afraid of failing their master and god. In the Eye of Terror, Daemon Primarchs stir as ancient oaths of loyalty tug at their monstrous souls once more.

It will be some time before they all realize what has happened, and by then it might be too late. The gate has been unlocked by those who did not know better, its hinges have been oiled with the blood of my fallen brothers, and he has stepped back through.

He is here.

But so am I.

The Battle of Macragge

Part Three : Know My Name

In the skies above Macragge, the fleet of the Black Crusade marshalled by Marius Gage was still engaged with the planet's orbital defenses and the ships of the warbands that had gathered in answer to Marneus Calgar's call for reinforcements. The engagement had been going on without pause since the Sacrificed Son's armies had reached the surface, and Macragge's orbit was filled with the husks of dead ships slowly turning into the void. The planet's defenders had been crippled by the Loathed Ones, but there were still many left, unwilling to abandon the Legion's homeworld and run, and the captains of the Black Crusade revelled in the slaughter of such easy prey.

On the bridge of the Macragge's Treachery, flagship of Marius Gage himself, the thing that had once been known as Edward De Lioncoeur stirred on his command throne. It had been centuries since the captain had fused with his ship, becoming little more than a head and torso bound to an increasingly complex network of cables, not all of which were mechanical in nature. Secondary hearts pumped black blood into his remaining flesh, and nerve clusters transmitted his will across the corrupt vessel faster than even the most perfectly trained bridge crew.

Centuries ago, before being forced to flee from the Imperial Navy under (entirely true) accusations of piracy, Edward had been the lord and master of the cruiser Shining Spear. After the loss of that ship to the endless battles of the Ruinstorm, he had been recruited by Gage and, once he had proven his skills through a series of brutal engagements with the warlord's rivals, he had been selected to become the captain of the newly constructed Macragge's Treachery. Had he known in advance what the post would entail, De Lioncoeur would have run as fast as he could and to the Warp with his privileged position among Gage's circle – but by the time he realized what the hereteks were doing to him, it was already too late. Since then, his mind had been transformed by the fusion with the ship to the point where he couldn't remember why he had feared this fate in the first place.

Edward could sense every kill of the Treachery as if it were committed by his own hands, and he exulted in the power he wielded. For too long, the flagship had been consigned to Calth's immediate surroundings, where Gage's power was all but unchallenged. This Crusade was the first true war into which it had taken part, and it was glorious. Between the battle at the system's edge and this one, the fleet had crushed the pathetic slaves of the Avenging Son with ease, all thanks to the Sacrificed Son's superior planning. Edward had suggested to his lord that they could simply bombard Macragge from orbit until nothing remained but dust and ash, but Gage had rejected him. Apparently, he wouldn't trust his father's body had truly been destroyed until he had seen it with his own burning eyes. Edward admired the strength of his master's hatred, and he had to admit that the energy shields above the Fortress of Hera were even more powerful than he had anticipated, so he guessed Gage had been right in insisting on a ground assault after all.

From what the ship's auspex were telling him, the situation planetside was going well, with the Black Crusade having finally reached the Fortress itself. The final battle was taking place, and Edward expected to receive word from Gage's triumph soon. He wondered what, if anything, the Sacrificed Son had planned to do after he finally completed his millennia-long revenge against the gene-sire who had sent him to his death during the legendary days of the Great Rebellion.

He was pondering these matters while idly taking apart another frigate when suddenly, every sense he had linked to the Treachery started shrieking, along with every alarm on the ship's bridge. He tore his attention away from the frigate just in time to see through the Treachery's eyes as a rift opened in the turbulent tides of Warp-space, some distance further away from Macragge than the Black Crusade's fleet. Ship after ship emerged from that rift, bypassing the Path to Glory entirely, but Edward didn't care for how impossible that was. He was too busy gawking in shock and horror at the vessel leading this new armada.

The Macragge's Honour. The ancient flagship of the Thirteenth Legion, built in the great shipyards of Mars as the command of the False Emperor Himself and given to His son Guilliman as the greatest vessel of the Ultramarines fleet. He recognized her from the data stored in some of the oldest cogitators of the ship, cannibalized from much more ancient vessels during the Treachery's construction. Though the battleship had greatly changed since the last of these records, its shape and sheer size made it unmistakable, even before its identity broadcast hit the Treachery's receivers in a machine-howl of domination and superiority. The biggest difference, and the one that alarmed Edward the most, was the immense canon that had been added to the twenty-six kilometers long battleship : a monstrous thing of black metal and burning runes that hurt to look at, even through the Treachery's Warp-touched senses. The twisted machine-spirit of the Treachery groaned in fear at the sight, and Edward knew then, without a doubt, the purpose for which that weapon had been crafted :

To break through the Iron Cage. To lead the Ultramarines outside of the Fourth Legion's prison.

When Edward had been given command of the Treachery, he had enjoyed the name of the ship. It was a declaration of intent and an insult to the Ultramarines still loyal to Guilliman's memory, an echo of the past shaped into the promise of future glory. But now that the source of that name was here, and sailing straight on an intercept course toward him, the name suddenly wasn't so funny anymore. Powerful as the Treachery might be, it was still no match for the might of a true Gloriana-class battleship, especially one such as the Macragge's Honour, which had been greatly enhanced by the Dark Mechanicum when the hereteks repaired her during the Heresy's prolonged campaign.

Still, mighty as she was, the battleship was still just one ship. Alone against the might of the Black Crusade, it would not be able to triumph, though Edward didn't doubt it would reap a bloody tally before its destruction. His confidence returning, Edward prepared to send the orders that would bring the might of the armada to bear. But his words died on his lips before he could even begin to speak, as the sensors of the Macragge's Treachery screamed once more.

More ships were appearing behind the Macragge's Honour, clad in the livery of the Ultramarines. Legion vessels, all of them, and as their names reached Edward he recognized them as ships thought to have been lost to the Warp during the Long War, the Heresy – and even a few that had vanished during the Great Crusade, years before Guilliman had even undertaken his fateful journey into the Eye of Terror in pursuit of the previous Dark Master of Chaos. All of them bore the traces of a long time spent in the Ruinstorm, their hulls warped and their weapons twisted by infernal power, with several lost entirely to the denizens of the Warp, reborn in the hell-forges of the Empyrean into daemonships controlled by mighty Neverborn. There were dozens of them, and though the Black Crusade fleet still outnumbered them, Edward wasn't so certain of their victory anymore.

Then came the transmission, though it wasn't broadcast on any vox frequency. Instead, it boomed into the heads of everyone aboard the Black Crusade fleet, driving many to their knees with its sheer volume. Edward swayed on his throne under the strength of the voice, crying out in pain for the first time since he had woken up from the surgery that had made him one with his ship.

"Lord Guilliman has returned. By His will, this petty feud is ended. Submit to Him or die."

From the chatter across the fleet, Edward was able to piece out that every psyker and witch had sensed the awakening of something monstrously powerful on the surface of Macragge. None of them were coherent enough to identify it properly, but many had already accepted the Voice's announcement and believed it to be the Primarch Guilliman. Rumors were circulating that Gage was already dead, destroyed utterly by the wrath of the Dark Master reborn, and the alliance that had been painstakingly assembled over the course of centuries dissolved within minutes, faced with the threat of the Ultramarines fleet and the arrival of such a powerful warlord. That had happened quickly – far too quickly, in Edward's opinion. He suspected there must have been agents loyal to whoever the master of the Macragge's Honour was scattered through the Black Crusade, waiting for the arrival of their true lord so that they could switch sides and bring as many traitors along with them as possible. The few surviving ships of Calgar exulted, revelling in the divine providence that had seen them delivered from certain annihilation, chanting the praises of their Spiritual Liege and professing their undying loyalty.

And just like that, the Black Crusade died before his eyes.

Edward watched helplessly as his fleet tore itself apart. Whole warbands defected to the side of the Dark Master or seized the opportunity to settle old scores with their rivals, while others ran for the system's edge, sensing the wind had turned. The Macragge's Honour and her fleet moved in, destroying all vessels failing to broadcast their change of allegiance, and tore a path directly toward the Treachery. The captain knew that he would not be given the chance to turn his coat. The insult to the Legion that the flagship represented would not be tolerated – and even if it had, the Treachery was crewed only with those most loyal to Gage's vision of a Thirteenth Legion freed from the grip of Roboute Guilliman. Even Edward would rather choose death other submission.

Some trace of the captain he had once been kindled in his soul as he saw the armada approach, and he gave the order to abandon the ship, knowing full well that this option was closed to him. Tens of thousands of crew fled the Macragge's Treachery, using every transport and evacuation pod available – though whether those lacking Warp-capability could expect any succour from the other ships in the system was beyond Edward. To his surprise, all of the bridge crew remained on their stations, even those who weren't physically melded to them. The sight of them filled him with something like pride, something he hadn't felt for hundreds of years.

When the Macragge's Honour drew close, Edward bent all of his will to guiding the ship, acting as replacement for the departed crew. The guns of the battleship boomed and unleashed an onslaught that could have ravaged entire worlds, but the shields and hull of the Gloriana-class vessel absorbed it all with barely any visible damage. Still, he continued firing, even as the main cannon of the Macragge's Honour charged, causing spikes on the energy readings of every auspex at Edward's disposal. He continued to fire, even as one of the vox-officers shouted above the dim of alarms, groaning metal and raging fires, telling him that the planetside battle had stopped, the two Legion armies clashing at the walls of the Fortress of Hera having heard the same proclamation as the fleet.

The last thought of Edward de Lioncoeur was to wonder whether Gage had known this would happen all along. He hoped he had, even if it meant that he had been left to die by his lord. He hoped the Sacrificed Son had a plan ...

They faced one another, father and son, Primarch and Space Marine – though neither of them could accurately be described by such limiting terms anymore. Both of them had changed since the last time they had stood on the same world, reforged by cruel fates into beings of power and will rather than flesh and blood. One was the Dark Master of Chaos, Chosen of the Dark Gods, and the other was … something else entirely. Perhaps something powerful enough to stop what was to come, to prevent all the horrors Roboute's return heralded, though that was yet to be seen.

Behind them knelt the Lords of Chaos, champions of the Dark Gods, gathered for the Black Crusade and brought to heel by the indomitable will of Guilliman. Be'lakor, Master of Shadows and Firstborn Son of the Gods; Cato Sicarius, Warrior-King of Espandor and Champion of Slaanesh; Castus, Vessel of the Daemon Prince Parmenides; Titus, the Wrath of Khorne; and Uriel Ventris, the Drinker of Sorrows, who had submitted to no God yet served them all with his every breath nonetheless. They had come here to destroy Guilliman, to break down the stasis field around his corpse and end the possibility of his return forever. Each had joined the Sacrificed Son for their own reasons, united in a force rarely seen among the Traitor Legions.

But they had been too late, or rather, as it slowly dawned upon them, they had been deceived. They all saw things as they looked at the Primarch, at the rent in his chest where the Emperor's sword had run him through. They saw screaming, burning faces, and instinctively knew that these were the souls of all those scions of the Thirteenth who had died in their Crusade, reduced to mere kindling consumed to fuel the resurrection of the Dark Master of Chaos.

They understood that they had been manipulated, moved like pawns on a chessboard to bring about the return of Roboute Guilliman, and fury battled with dread within their black hearts. And yet, when their leader stood before their arch-enemy and suddenly revealed that he too had been deceiving them from the very start, the only emotion they could feel was shock. They all stared at the red-helmeted Space Marine who defied the will of Guilliman, and their minds churned and turned in sheer, stupefied incomprehension.

'Aeonid Thiel,' said Guilliman softly, his voice echoing unnaturaly into the chamber as if spoken by all the statues and frescoes at once. Behind the Sacrificed Son, the Lords of Chaos twitched, as they too recognized the name from the Ultramarines' legends. 'I do remember you. A Sergeant of the 13th Chapter, 135th Company. The Red-Marked who led the other castoffs on Isstvan III, who didn't even have the decency to die when ordered. Such a disappointement you were. And yet … I confess I did not see this coming. Marius Gage was supposed to be my greatest servant by gathering the mightiest lords among the Ultramarines and bring them to me, that they may kneel and serve, as is their place. Then he too would kneel, and the Legion would be reunited under my command. And instead … here you are. A ghost of the past, masquerading as a prince of the Warp. How ?''

'Wouldn't you like to know,' replied the Sacrificed Son, and though his helmet hid his face, all could hear the smile in his face – cold, vicious, and hungry for vengeance after being denied it for so long. He raised the pistol he held in his left hand and, without hesitation, shot directly into the face of the resurrected Primarch.

The bolt of plasma tore through the air, superheating the molecules in its path, only to detonate against the sorcerous barrier surrounding the Dark Master's bare head without causing any damage. Unfazed, Aeonid discarded the weapon, which turned to mist the moment it left his hand, and drew instead another power sword before charging the traitor Primarch, the blade manifesting out of nothingness into his ready grip.

Guilliman raised one of his hands, clad in the Talons of Might, forged by the Dark Mechanicum in grotesque parody of the Talon of Horus granted onto the Warmaster to mark his ascension on Ullanor. Psychic power surged through him and burst from the claws in a torrent of dark lightning, but instead of throwing Aeonid to the ground in agony, it washed over him harmlessly, cancelled out by another, seemingly equal power. The Arch-Traitor frowned, and went forth to meet his treacherous son's charge head-on.

The two warlords clashed with a thunderous boom, blades meeting claws in showers of sparks. Aeonid was far smaller than his Primarch, but he was more agile, and his swords were just a little longer than the Talons' claws, allowing him to parry Guilliman's attacks away. Guilliman remained where he stood, while the Sacrificed Son danced around him, moving faster than any mere Space Marine should have been capable of, dodging blows that not even a master duellist would have seen coming with apparent ease.

'What are you ?' asked Guilliman as the two of them fought. 'The Aeonid who led the failures of my Legion was no psyker … Where did you find this power ? To whom did you sell your soul ?'

Aeonid didn't answer. He just kept fighting, displaying breathtaking skill with every blow and parry. Again and again, Guilliman called upon his mantle of power, unleashing terrible energies against his son, forces that would have vaporized a tank or driven entire crowds to soul-rending madness. But each time, the attack simply slid off the Red-Marked, and the wrath of the Arch-Traitor grew with each failure. As it did, his concentration on the others present in the sanctuary waned, and Be'lakor was able to break through the compulsion of his infernal nature. The Master of Shadows stood, clad in the tattered remnants of his glory, eyes blazing with a hatred he had nurtured longer even than Aeonid had his own. Be'lakor cared nothing for the Sacrificed Son's deceit – not when the source of all his woes in the last ten millennia stood before him, alive once more.

The Sacrificed Son leapt backward as Be'lakor flew toward Guilliman, envelopping his ancient foe and lifting him in the air while unleashing the full measure of his wrath. Guilliman was caught off-guard, and reacted too late to evade the Firstborn, who clawed at Guilliman's armor and sorcerous protections. Tears began to appear in the ancient war-plate as the Master of Shadows managed to pierce Guilliman's shields, overpowering them through the sheer strength of his hate.

But for all of Be'lakor's spite, Guilliman darkling soul had been tempered by an eternity suspended out of time, and his mastery of the Warp's powers had grown a hundredfold. The Dark Master struck back, drawing upon his mantle of power to shatter Be'lakor's hold onto the half-reality of the Ruinstorm. Howling in thwarted rage, the Daemon Prince began to dissolve, but Guilliman wasn't done. He reached into the threads of Warp energy composing the very essence of Be'lakor, what had become of his ancient soul after he had been elevated to daemonhood countless millennia ago. To mortal eyes, it looked as if the Talons were glowing with an unholy radiance as they tore through ribbons of smoke, but all those present were so much more than merely mortal. They saw Guilliman rip Be'lakor's essence to shreds, casting him back into the Empyrean with his leftover power scattered. This was more than a mere banishment, and only the Gods knew how long it would be before the Master of Shadows would be able to gather enough of himself back together to be able to manifest. Not since Be'lakor first confrontation with Guilliman at the heart of the Eye of Terror had the Firstborn been so thoroughly defeated, and his howls of rage at his defeat spread far and wide across the Warp, waking his cultists and pawns throughout the galaxy.

One thing was different this time, however, for as the Firstborn vanished, two silhouettes were left behind, emerging from the dissipating shadows. They were pale and translucid, but undeniably human – and Roboute knew them well. The others in the room knew them too, having seen their likeness in temples dedicated to the Avenging Son – or, in Aeonid's case, picts and recordings. Silence fell into the room as all watched, feeling the weight of destiny and the Gods' gaze.

The ghosts of Konor Guilliman and Tarasha Euten walked toward the one both of them had regarded as a son when they had been alive. The violent banishing of Be'lakor had finally broken the daemon's hold onto their souls, and they were free for the first time since that terrible night of blood and fire, when the Firstborn had manipulated the lords of Macragge and orchestrated their deaths, making Roboute take his first step on the road to damnation. The lord of Macragge and his Seneschal approached the Primarch, their steps floating a few centimeters above the marble floor.

Roboute, they said, and their voice was full of kindness, compassion, and understanding – as well as sadness and regret. It is over. You can stop now. You don't need to go on.

Konnor's ghost reached out to his son with an ethereal hand. A supernatural silence fell upon the scene, as if the Gods themselves were holding their breath for what would happen next.

We can help you, my son. You have accomplished what you set out to do. Do you remember ? You don't need to listen to them anymore.

At the sight of his parents, the face of Roboute softened for the first time since he had been imprisoned within his stasis field. The infernal glow of his eyes dimmed. For a moment, he appeared almost human again, or at least as human as any Primarch could ever be.

They lied to you, whispered Euten's wraith. They have always lied to you. But you are stronger than they think. You can break from their chains and be free. You can reclaim your destiny …

'I know my destiny,' said Roboute, his voice almost breaking with emotion. 'And nothing will turn me away from it. Not even you.'

The fire in the Primarch's eyes ignited anew. He stood straighter, and the shadows in the chamber seemed to deepen. Then Roboute Guilliman, Avenging Son no longer, walked directly through the ghosts of Konnor and Euten, the spirits turning into mist at the contact of his rune-marked armor with a last, pleading, mournful cry that went as unanswered as their previous calls.

'You actually did it,' called out Aeonid, and the hatred was gone from his voice, replaced by disbelief and bitterness. 'I thought … some part of me thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something left in you of the man I admired. But I guess I was wrong. That was your parents, you bastard. Your last chance to turn back from the path you were set upon by their lies … your last chance to choose, Roboute. But … there is nothing left, is there ? The Dark Gods have taken everything. You really are just a monster now.'

'They took my weaknesses and filled the void left with power,' spat back Guilliman. 'And you are ill-placed to speak such accusations, Aeonid. How different from me are you ? This power you possess is not something a mere mortal could ever hope to wield ! Now, enough of these games. If you will not submit, then you will die. Kill him, my sons !'

The Lords of Chaos groaned and trembled as the will of their Primarch hit them, forcing its way past their mental defenses and into the deep-rooted obedience that was written into a Space Marine's very gene-code. The four Chaos Marines rose slowly, hesitantly, struggling against the invasion of their thoughts. All of them were strong, but they weren't strong enough, and Roboute spoke for the Gods to whom their souls belonged. One by one, their resistance faded, and they drew their weapons and began to walk toward the Sacrificed Son.

Except for Titus. Every second he had spent forced to his knees, his fury had grown, stoked to heights it had never reached before by the humiliation, the loss of control. Of all the Lords of Chaos who had rallied the Sacrificed Son's banner, only Titus had done so out of a desire to destroy all of the Thirteenth Legion. The revelation of Marius Gage's true identity had shaken the others, made them reconsider their positions and allegiances in the grand scheme of things. But Titus didn't care. If anything, the revelation that the Sacrificed Son was Aeonid Thiel, the legendary renegade whose infamous deeds were still recounted across the Ruinstorm to this day as a warning for those who would dare betray the legacy of Guilliman, only reinforced his decision to stand with him.

Titus screamed all of his rage and hatred, and even though the Lord of Skulls' power flowed into Guilliman along with that of the other Chaos Gods, the dark gifts Titus had earned through his service answered his fury. Power flooded Titus, breaking Guilliman's hold onto his psyche, and the Wrath of Khorne launched himself against his three former allies, still in the thrall of the Dark Master of Chaos. For Khorne cares not whence the blood flows, only that it does.

Even with their minds dominated, the Lords of Chaos were still great warriors, and they immediately reacted to Titus' assault. Sicarius' infernal blade caught Titus' chainsword and turned aside an attack that would have severed the Warrior-King's neck, but there was still enough strength behind the blow to send him reeling backward. Castus' maul flew, but Titus ducked under the blow and struck back, his weapon's teeth tearing a great rent in the Plague Lord's chestplate, rotting entrails and foul, black blood pouring from the wound.

Then Titus' blade was stopped as it met the strange, xenos sword of Uriel Ventris. The Drinker of Sorrow grimaced under his helmet as he struggled against the terrible strength of the Wrath of Khorne, while sparks of alien energies filled the air between the two of them as the field surrounding Uriel's blade met the infernal power dwelling within Titus' chainsword. And all the while, Titus continued to scream in incoherate fury, his rage fuelled by every pain, every torment he had suffered at the hands of the Thirteenth Legion – and not even the shackles of the Blood God could stop him. Blocking Uriel in place with the strength of a single arm, he punched the Drinker of Sorrows with the other, sending him flying directly into one of the sanctum's columns.

Such was the strength behind that blow that the pillar cracked and fell, cutting the Lords of Chaos from the Sacrificed Son and the Primarch in a shower of broken masonry. Uriel forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain of his bruised bones – just in time to see Titus freeze as the point of Sicarius' sword burst out of his chest. Blood flowed from the wound as the blade's sorcery prevented Titus' healing from kicking in – it was clear to all that this was a mortal blow.

All but Titus, that is. Instead of falling down and dying, the Wrath of Khorne turned, tearing the sword still embedded in his chest from the hands of the Warrior-King. Sicarius could only watch in shock as the warlord he was sure he had slain struck back one last time, his chainsword cutting a bloody trail from Sicarius' left shoulder to his right hip, eviscerating him. The champions of Khorne and Slaanesh fell together, Titus dead before he hit the ground, Sicarius kept in atrocious agony as the daemonic power he had claimed from Amnaiach the Golden surged to heal the terrible wound.

On the other side of the newly formed barrier, the Sacrificed Son laughed.

'See ? Even after everything you have done, everything you have cast aside, there are still some among your sons who can defy your power. How does it feel, father ?'

Roboute turned from the rubble and glared at Aeonid. Without a word, he marched toward his son, his Talons covered in writhing, eldritch energies. The Sacrificed Son raised his blades, and the two of them started battling again. But something was different now. Perhaps it was that Guilliman's anger was more powerful than before, perhaps it was that the Primarch no longer needed to keep part of his attention on holding down the Lords of Chaos, or perhaps it was that whatever font of power Aeonid had been calling upon was slowly running dry. Regardless of the cause, the Sacrificed Son was being driven back, step by step.

Eventually, inevitably, Aeonid was too slow. He didn't dodge fast enough, and the first blow he took threw him off-balance – and the next blow caught him right in the chest. Guilliman's right Talon pierced through his chest, four claws bursting out of his back in a shower of blood. The shock and the pain – more from the energies wreathing the Talon than the actual wound – forced Aeonid's hands open, and his swords fell, vanishing into thin air before they even hit the ground.

'Now you will answer me, insolent cur,' growled Guilliman. 'How did you gain such might ?'

'You always … loved to talk. I see that, at least, hasn't changed.' Impaled on the Talons, Aeonid took in a shuddering breath before continuing speaking, sounding like a condemned man finally unburdening his conscience. 'Here is the truth, then : I searched, for a long, long time, and finally … I found a way to turn the power of Chaos against itself. And with that power, I returned to the Ruinstorm, and took up the name of Marius Gage. He was long since dead by then, having offered up his soul to the Daemon Prince Samus, but his name still carried great respect in the Thirteenth Legion. I took it, disguised myself as a Daemon Prince using my new power, and launched the first attack on this world, shattering the Ultramarines' remaining unity in the wake of your fall.'

Aeonid lowered his head, staring directly into the burning eyes of his father :

'And ever since then, I have fought against you and your pawns. Without pause, without witness, without hope, without reward, I have fought to keep the galaxy safe from the Ultramarines, ensuring that the Chapters remained divided, that the Legion was kept at its own throat. And I have succeeded, father. Do you know what the other Traitor Legions think of the Thirteenth now ? They think you are a joke. They think the last ten millennia of endless failures are the Gods' punishment upon you. And in a way, they are right, for the only power I used to accomplish all this was that of Chaos itself. Tell me … Isn't that funny ?'

Guilliman laughed, a deep and horrible sound that caused the damaged frescoes and statues to twist in anguish. When his hilarity died down, his voice was thick with contempt :

'I suppose it is funny, you pathetic fool. Did you really think you would succeed ? Even in your defiance you served me, by purging my Legion of the weak from its ranks, and now by gathering those worthy of kneeling at my feet. I am the Dark Master of Chaos, and all who bear the Mark of Ruin are mine. Chaos cannot be turned against itself. Many have tried before you, and they all met the same fate : they ended up serving the very powers they hoped to defeat. You are no different.'

'You are wrong,' Aeonid laughed weakly, red blood spilling from his mouth with every word. 'There is, or rather, there was, a way. Or have your masters concealed that from you as well ? No, I can see that you know what I speak of. Oh yes. I found it, father. I found the tomb, and it is opened.'

'You lie !' shouted Roboute, shaking the Sacrificed Son, his claws tearing his insides apart. 'Yes, I know of what you speak, but it is impossible for that power to be the one you wield. He is dead. Dead and gone and forgotten, the very memory of his existence wiped from the universe !'

'Yes …' whispered Aeonid despite the terrible pain, 'but the Warp forgets nothing … and even dead gods can dream.'

With a furious roar, Guilliman threw Aeonid through the room, sending him flying and crashing on the marble floor. Aeonid cried out for the first time in the battle as his spine was crushed inside his armor, and the pain was even greater when the wound healed and the broken pieces of bone and nerve endings were forcefully reconnected. He stayed on the ground, trembling, trying to fight through the pain. Not yet, he thought to himself. I can't stop just yet. Need more time …

'It doesn't matter !' shouted Guilliman. 'Even if you are the avatar of his lingering power, it changes nothing. You will die here, now, and the last dying gasp of that failed god will have been in vain. You are nothing more than one more trial put onto my path by the Gods, to prove my worth to them before I reclaim my rightful place as the supreme lord of Chaos !'

Slowly, painfully, the Sacrificed Son rose to his feet. His helmet was done, smashed to pieces by the impact, and his power was nearly exhausted, so he couldn't call upon it to replace the headgear. His face, revealed for the first time in uncounted centuries, was battered and bruised.

And yet, he was still smiling. And that, more than anything else, made Guilliman wary.

'You always were … so blind. Always so sure … you knew … what was going on. But now … as before … you are blind. Blinded by your pride … and your certitude everything is about you. I … am not … the avatar. Nor was this … ever … about killing you.'

Aeonid's trembling right hand reached into a pouch at his belt, and produced a small cylinder of metal, with a red button at one extremity already pushed and a blinking red light on the shaft.

'Too late, Roboute. You are … too late.'

The moment the final word left Aeonid's lips, the ground shook, and a fraction of a second later a monstrous shock-wave hit the sanctum.

'What have you done ?!' roared Guilliman, fighting to keep his footing as the floor broke apart under the strain of the quakes.

'The bomb Titus found on Graia,' gasped out Aeonid. 'I had my tech-priests study it and replicate it … except about a hundred times more powerful. They placed it into the temple where we found Be'lakor. I pressed the detonator the moment I saw you rise up … all that remained was to keep you busy, buy enough time for the detonation sequence to reach completion.'

'First Alpharius on Eskrador … and now me. Tell me … oh mighty Dark Master of Chaos. How does it feel … to be beaten by the same trick … twice ?'

Guilliman howled, almost entirely lost to rage. He could feel the destruction spreading from the detonation, the utter obliteration of hundreds of millions of cultists and the spreading of the destruction across all of Macragge. He could sense the death of his homeworld and smell his ambitions turn to ash alongside the very first world he had ever conquered.

But there were still things that could be salvaged. Guilliman drew all of his power to him and, in a god-like feat of sorcery and willpower, reached out to every Ultramarine on the planet. He seized them, body and soul, and teleported them aboard the armada holding into orbit above, throwing them into empty holds without caring for their comfort. The warriors from the other Traitor Legions who had rallied the Sacrificed Son were abandoned on the planet, left to urgently call on their ships to send transports to their location before their doom reached them. Very few would survive to reach their vessels, and those would face the difficult decision of choosing what to do next.

As for Guilliman himself, he vanished as well, with one last venomous glare at the bleeding, broken form of Aeonid – who was still smiling, even as the sanctum fell to pieces around him.

"He is here ! He has come ! He rises from his throne, reborn in the blood of his children ! By betrayal was he elevated once, by betrayal has he risen again !
The Great Sea screams and the future burns ! I see stars turn to ash, I see a rain of death on a million worlds ! I see the poison of Chaos spread through the galaxy's soul ! I see doom come for all ! I hear the cries of a trillion souls, caught in eternal torment, the promise of an Imperium of Chaos ! Weep and mourn, children of the Emperor, for Hope dies and Salvation burns ! The galaxy's pyre has been lit, and all will scream before the ashes settle !
The Lost and the Damned are coming, a host beyond counting, forged into a blade wielded by his single, terrible hand !
The end is here !
And yet …
And yet, I see another …
Can it be ? Oh God-Emperor, can it be ?
The son, he is here ! Fire, fire and death … I see the red mark, and I hear the laughter of Man and the screams of the Gods ! I see defiance unto oblivion, and the embers of hope rekindled !
A victory paid for in blood, the schemes of the great betrayer undone … I hear the cracking of a world, the unmaking of the great nightmare ! I see it fall, fall, fall in fire and ruin, its legacy of evil ended at last …
Fallen, all of it, fallen … MACRAGGE IS FALLEN !ˮ
From the ramblings of Imperial Seer Dominique, just before his death from massive cardiac arrest.

It was done.

He could taste blood, ash and dust in his mouth. Every part of his body hurt, and he could feel what he believed to be his own soul slowly falling apart as the last of his eldritch powers were drained. That was good, he decided. This was how a victory like this one should feel.

Aeonid Thiel forced himself to his feet as the sanctum collapsed around him, its ancient foundations giving way before the force of the tremors shaking the entire world. A wall collapsed, revealing the exterior. The Fortress of Hera was falling apart, and not too far away he could see the Temple of Ptolemy tumbling down. The horizon was lit with the light of the unimaginably large explosion that had gutted the world, and the sounds of destruction were so loud they almost drowned out the screams of the dying – almost, but not quite. Billions were dying, their last moments of terror and panic as their god returned, only to abandon them to their fate.

The Sacrificed Son took no pleasure in this, for all the bravado he had shown to Guilliman. He, too, had been born of this world, what seemed like a hundred lifetimes. To watch it die, even now, tore what remained of his heart to pieces. But it had to be done.

Didn't it ?

Macragge was no longer the world he remembered from half-forgotten childhood memories. It had become Hell, a place where souls were damned from their very birth, made into servants and sacrifices to Chaos. A realm of torments, dedicated to fuelling Guilliman's made ambitions. Surely it was better to end it, to destroy it all in fire and deny the Arch-Traitor the legions of cultists he would have been able to raise from the planet for his new crusade against the Imperium.

Wasn't it ?

So many questions. The truth was, Aeonid didn't know. Perhaps it would have been better if he had died all that time ago, during the Heresy, instead of surviving and leaving his armor behind for the Alpha Legion to find while he vanished into the shadows of History. Perhaps it would have been better if he had fallen during the ten thousand years that had followed. Better if he had fallen to one of the many, many enemies of Mankind he had fought against during these long centuries, and had never found the tomb, buried deep beneath the black light of that hateful star, in that backward Sector. Perhaps … yes, perhaps the galaxy would have been better off then. At the very least, with the power of the dead god still trapped within, the tomb would have remained in balance, and wouldn't have unleashed its evil upon an entire Sector, haunting its worlds with its baleful radiance. So many had died, or suffered fates far worse than death, as a result of his actions. Worlds had screamed, in the past, present and future, for the works of the Gods were unbound by temporal causality. Had Guilliman been right, in the end ? Had all of his actions served Chaos ?

No. He did not believe that. He couldn't believe that.

He had accomplished so much, since he had found himself cast into the Ruinstorm, stripped of much of his humanity by the eldritch power of that terrible tomb. Knowledge of what was to come had helped him ensure that the Imperium was kept safe from the depredations of the Thirteenth Legion. He was not prideful enough to think he alone had protected Mankind from the Ultramarines, but he knew he had played a great part in it. Even if the Iron Warriors would never know it, it was in part thanks to him that the Iron Cage still held.

He still remembered that awful moment of revelation, when he had understood what had happened to he had realized that he had been cast through time as well as space. And soon after that revelation had come another one, as he sought the first attack by Marius Gage on Macragge, determined to ensure that things proceeded as he remembered them – only to find that there was no Sacrificed Son, emerging from the Warp to lead the disbelievers of Guilliman's divinity. And so he had done the only thing he could think of : he had become Marius Gage, rather than risk altering the course of History. The Thirteenth Legion had to be broken, and he had done so. It had been disturbingly easy to play the part of Marius – a son betrayed and cast away by his own father, left to burn on the altar of Guilliman's ambition ? That was all too familiar to Aeonid Thiel.

He had rallied the discontents and the castoffs to him, and together they had shattered the Ultramarines' unity beyond the ability of any Chapter Master to repair. He had known this would lead to the creation of the Loathed Ones – he had learned of their existence in dismal texts seized from Thirteenth Legion cultists during his mortal life. It bothered him how easy it had been for him to sentence those who had been his brothers to such a terrible fate, all so that he could make use of them at a later date. Many a night he had spent in his quarters, darkly pondering just how much of himself had been left after the tomb had been done with him.

Centuries later, when the War of the Beast had ended, he had heard the clamours of war as the Traitor Legions sought to seize the opportunity the Orks had unwittingly provided them. With the Imperium brought to the very brink of collapse by the greenskins, there was little left to stand in the way of the Chaos Marines. Again, Aeonid had acted to protect Mankind – but this time, he hadn't done so alone. He had reached out to the Hydra, using frequencies and encryption sequences engraved upon the armor he had entrusted to them, and warned them of what was coming.

They had created the Ascended One, the Ultramarine warlord who had led the Thirteenth Legion out of the Ruinstorm and directly into the path of the other Traitor Legions pouring out of the Eye of Terror. One of the Twentieth's own heroes had volunteered for the part, his entire identity erased and rebuilt through hypno-conditioning so thorough, not even Corvus Corax had been able to see through it when they had faced each other aboard that hateful daemonship that had become his flagship. Aeonid had met the Ascended One only once, in his disguise as Marius Gage, and passed just enough of his power to him that he could pass for a Daemon Prince too, and fool even the Dark Gods, as Aeonid had. Of course, that power hadn't been enough to face the Ravenlord – which was why the Alpha Legion had made sure that the daemonship had exploded when the two had come face to face. With both their leaders gone, the two forces had destroyed each other, the remnants scattered and easy prey for a resurgent Imperium.

The sons of Alpharius had never known the true nature of their informant. Oh, Aeonid didn't doubt that there had been plenty who had suspected it had been him behind the mysterious intel drops and acts of sabotage, but none had learned behind which face he hid in the Ruinstorm. There were only three people in all the galaxy who knew what Aeonid Thiel had done in the name of duty : himself, the friend who had journeyed with him into the tomb for reasons of his own … and the Emperor.

Often, he had wondered what would happen if he left the Ruinstorm. If he sought his former, mortal self. Would he even survive outside the Ruinstorm ? Could he warn his past self of what was to come ? Or had some of the daemons he had fought during his long, secret crusade actually been those very messengers, trying to deliver knowledge from the future ?

In the end, he had abandoned the idea. His destiny was laid before him : to claim the name of Marius Gage, in order to hide his own from all – even from the Dark Gods themselves. Even from himself, sometimes. For centuries, he had lost himself to the act, forgotten who he really was and become the Sacrificed Son in truth rather than in pretend. He had done terrible things in that state, things that would haunt him until the end – which now seemed close, at last.

And what an end it had been. Not only had he deprived Guilliman from his cultist army and his planetary base, he had also made sure that the Imperial prisoners of Mortendar were freed. He had manipulated the forces sent to attack the prison world to help the Imperial captives escape, band together and seize one of the smaller ships – which just so happened to be fully Warp-capable, and crewed by a recently-captured Navigator whose loyalty was still to the Golden Throne, even after everything she had endured in the Ruinstorm. They would carry word of what had happened at Macragge, and the Imperium would have no choice but to listen. After all, not even the Iron Warriors could ignore the word of a Living Saint and several Lord Inquisitors, among others.

The Last Osirian had been destroyed, too. Had that vile xenos been left alone on its nightmare planet to torment its thralls, it would soon have mastered its dark gifts, and Humanity would have suffered greatly at its hands. By calling it to the Black Crusade – a temptation he knew the alien wouldn't be able to resist – Aeonid had ensured that the Changer of Ways was denied one of its potentially most dangerous pieces in the age to come. A small thing, perhaps, when compared to the magnitude of Guilliman's threat – but where the Great Deceiver was concerned, there were no threats too small not to crush while there was still time to do so.

Aeonid was pulled from his rememberance as the clouds of smoke and dust parted, revealing an unexpected sight. With the detonation of the Warp bomb, the Empyrean had been pushed back for a time, and the skies of Macragge showed real stars for the first time since the Ruinstorm had been unleashed. How long had it been, Aeonid wondered, since he had seen true stars rather than the many-hued madness of the Warp ? Ever since he had arrived in the Ruinstorm after his reforging, he had known, without knowing why, that to leave the Ruinstorm would destroy him. Perhaps the paradox of being in two places at once would be too much, or perhaps without the energies of the Warp, he wouldn't be able to sustain his material form.

As he looked to the heavens with a smile on his face, Aeonid felt the last of his life burn away. He didn't look down, but he sensed his body dissolve, turning to mist, and then to nothing at all. He closed his eyes, and let oblivion swallow him. His soul faded away as the last of his power was exhausted, consumed by the very fire that had driven him so far.

Except for one spark, the tiniest fragment of his soul, a shard of the Sacrificed Son's core identity.

That spark was caught in the psychic wave of Macragge's destruction. It was cast through the raging tides of the Empyrean, into the depths where even the Chaos Gods dared not reach, and surfaced again in another, more ignorant age. And that spark embedded itself into the newborn body of a son of Macragge, who would grow up under the rule of Roboute Guilliman, and be chosen to join the Ultramarines once the Great Crusade reached the Five Hundred Worlds.

And the name of that child, now and forever, was Aeonid Thiel.

Alone in one of the Macragge's Honour observation bays, Roboute Guilliman watched as the corpse of his homeworld fell to pieces. The ships that had been fighting mere hours ago for control of the planet's orbit were fleeing from it, fearful of being dragged into its fiery destruction. The explosion of the Warp bomb was over, and the Empyrean was already moving back to reclaim the area from where it had been expelled by the detonation. Tendrils of Warp energy seized shards of the world, dragging them deeper into the Sea of Souls. Flocks of Neverborn fed upon the suffering and terror that saturated these lifeless rocks before discarding them and moving on to the next.

The rest of the system was also suffering the consequences of Macragge's destruction. The Path to Glory was no more, and the ancient spells that had preserved the balance of Macragge had unraveled. The remaining daemon worlds were once more being fought over by the hordes of the Dark Gods, with the legions of the Blood God fighting through the marshes of Thulium and the hosts of the Changing God flocking to Laphis' gardens. Ardium was already lost to madness since the passing of the Last Osirian, and even the infernal legions of Chaos were wary of the Slumbering Ones' power. As for Nova Thulium … Nothing had really changed there. The war just went on.

The Dark Master of Chaos was alone, for none dared to risk drawing his terrible wrath upon them. The very air was trembling with Guilliman's barely contained fury. The army of cultists he had spent millennia carefully cultivating – gone. The Ruinous artefacts and secrets they had accumulated – gone. The gene-labs and all the relics held in the vaults of the Fortress of Hera – gone. In one single blow, Aeonid had taken more resources from him than a hundred Chaos Lords could ever hope to possess. His plans were in tatters, and though the situation could still be salvaged, he would need to rethink his oncoming campaign completely.

And to top it all off, Aeonid's soul had vanished. The first thing Roboute had done after reaching the Macragge's Honour had been to try and capture the shade of the renegade – such torments he would have visited upon him, to punish him for his treachery … But he had found nothing. Aeonid's soul had completey vanished upon the destruction of Macragge, and no amout of threats could make the Neverborn swarming around the planet's husk deliver it to him. And so he stayed here, alone, and brooded darkly over the ruination of his schemes, while his faithful Tetrarchs worked to bring the armies under his command into order.

Until he sensed a new presence, suddenly with him in the observation bay where there had been none before. Guilliman knew this presence. He turned, and faced the entity his sons knew as the Gravekeeper. The ancient daemon of Nurgle stood tall in its black robes, showing no sign of how it had entered this restricted area of the ship. But Roboute didn't care about that.

'We had a pact, daemon,' the Dark Master sneered, fighting to contain his anger – fighting against the Neverborn would solve nothing. 'In return for all the bodies of those who died in the Ruinstorm, you were to protect Macragge; to ensure that the balance was maintained. Why did you let this happen ?!' he accused, pointing to the destroyed world visible through the reinforced glass.

'The details of our pact were clear,' replied the Gravekeeper in a deep, raspy voice. 'Macragge would be preserved until you rose from your slumber. You were already risen when the bomb exploded, were you not ? I kept my end of our bargain, Roboute, and our pact is now ended.'

'I will not forget this,' said Roboute. 'You know everything that occurs in the Ruinstorm – it was part of your duties as the Gravekeeper. You must have known about the bomb, yet you did nothing as it was planted on Macragge. And when Mortendar was lost, then too you did nothing. Do not believe that there won't be consequences for this, scion of the Plague God.'

The daemon laughed, a sound wholly inhuman, yet which caused Guilliman no discomfort.

'Are you threatening me, Roboute ?'

'Yes,' replied the Arch-Traitor bluntly. 'These are the Times of Ending, daemon. This is the prophesied hour, for me to return and finish what I started. I will not allow anyone to interfere with my plans. Not even one such as you.'

'My, my, how scary,' chuckled the Gravekeeper. 'I can see I am not welcome here, so I will leave. But, Roboute … I will forgive you this time, since you are clearly not in the best of moods. But you should be more careful in the future. Your position among the Courts of Chaos is far from being what it was before … You can ill-afford to turn potential allies against you.'

With these words, the Gravekeeper vanished, leaving the Macragge's Honour in the same way it had arrived. Left alone, Guilliman's mind went back to the exchange he had just had with the servant of Nurgle. He focused not on the words of the conversation, but on what he had seen. Thanks to the blessings of the Dark Gods, his eyes could pierce through the disguise of the Neverborn and see their true form, yet he had still been unable to see through the Gravekeeper's glamour, seeing only the hooded silhouette the daemon allowed the rest of the universe to see. And yet … During the final moment, when the daemon had turned to take its leave, Guilliman had caught a glimpse of the creature's hands inside its black robe. They had been skeletal, without any skin, muscle or tendo left, but there had been something … something strange …

He froze. He remembered now. In that final moment, just before the Gravekeeper had vanished ...

… on one of its fingers, there had been a speck of silver.

AN : Remember when I said that this chapter would answer all of your questions ? In retrospect, I think I may have been lying, or at least not entirely honest. Sure, there is plenty of information in this chapter ... but I am fairly confident that you have new questions now.

As alluded to by the chapter's title, there are three names hidden in this chapter. The last one is also the easiest to figure out : it is that of the Gravekeeper. Remember that the Princes of the Warp are not bound by petty limitations such as being in only one place at the same time.

Then we have the name of the dead god whose tomb Aeonid entered. According to my dear beta-reader Jaenera (thanks as always for your help), there are enough clues in the chapter for you to figure it out.

And then ... we have Aeonid's companion. Now that, I would be surprised if anyone figured it out. It is based upon a fairly obscure piece of Warhammer lore, though one I thoroughly enjoyed back when I first read it.

Dominique is indeed a reference to the (in)famous character of the same name in the webseries "If the Emperor had a text-to-speech device". But his presence here is actually another clue (though quite a convoluted one) concerning the mystery above. All I can say is that where one reference is, there might well be another ...

I look forward to your reactions and theories based on this chapter. Now that Guilliman has returned, the galaxy will know that the Times of Ending have well and truly begun (as you may have understood, his awakening wasn't exactly ... discreet). I had already planned for the Dark Master to return in the Index Astartes for the Ultramarines, though I had not planned that Aeonid would be involved, and would throw a spanner in the Arch-Traitor's plans like that. Blood of the Gods, I love writing.

I have already begun work on the next part of the Times of Ending. Like the Rise of Ynnead, it will be a single-chapter arc, and it will cover the events of Chemos and the Black Legion fleet sailing toward the Emperor's Children's homeworld. Then, once this is done, it will be time for the Terran Crucible ... And boy, that one is going to be fun to write.

That's all for now. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you did, please leave a review. If you have questions, don't hesitate to ask them, though I cannot promise that I can answer them at this time.

Zahariel out.