Chapter VI
The Sol System, the heart of the Imperium, the cradle of mankind, had not known true invasion since the Siege of Terra ten thousand years ago. Every approach was heavily fortified, every passage monitored by the most advanced defenses the Imperium had left.
The Khtonic Gate—the final threshold before reaching Terra—was its ultimate barrier.
A vast and impenetrable fortress, the Gate was a void bastion of immense power, armed with countless macro-cannons, lance batteries, torpedo silos, and squadrons of Imperial warships, all dedicated to a singular purpose: To protect Terra from anything that emerged from the Warp and on this day, something did. Something that would shake the Imperium to its core.
The silence of the void was shattered by the first flicker of unstable reality. A warp rift—larger than any seen in millennia—tore open before the Khtonic Gate, spilling brilliant, unnatural light into realspace.
At first, the defense fleet stationed at the Gate stood ready, but not alarmed. They had seen warp breaches before. Pirates, rogue traders, lost ships, even Imperial forces returning home.
But this?
This was different.
"Multiple contacts emerging from the rift! Hundreds—no—thousands of signals!"
The bridge of the Imperial defense flagship, Throne's Aegis, erupted in tension. Lord-Admiral Constantine Dravon, commander of the Khtonic Gate Defense Fleet, leaned forward in his command throne. His weathered face remained calm, but his fingers tightened around the gilded armrests.
"Identify."
The sensorium officers worked frantically, trying to make sense of the monumental readings flooding their auspex arrays.
The first ships broke through the rift.
And they were massive.
"Emperor preserve us…"
An entire wall of warships emerged from the void, their hulls gleaming beneath the artificial sun of Sol's defenses. Hundreds, then thousands, of vessels—battle-barges, strike cruisers, void destroyers, ships of every size and classification, forming an impossible fleet.
At the heart of the approaching armada was a behemoth. A warship so unfathomably large that it cast a shadow over every other vessel in its wake. A void-black battleship, its hull etched with the unfamiliar heraldry of an unknown force, its presence like a monolith of doom descending upon the Imperium's doorstep.
And it was followed by thousands more. Ships of Ultramarine blue. Ships of Blood Angel crimson. Ships of black and gold, bearing ancient markings lost to history.
The Imperial defense officers froze.
Because no Imperial fleet was this large. No Imperial Crusade could have amassed such an unprecedented force. There was only one logical explanation.
"Sound the alarm! All batteries to firing solutions! Ready the fleet for immediate engagement!" Lord-Admiral Dravon stood, his voice booming across the command deck. "By the Throne, only the traitors could command a force this vast!"
The entire Khtonic Gate garrison scrambled. Within moments, the Imperial void defenses sprang to life. Hundreds of gun batteries swiveled, macro-cannons and plasma lances locking onto the approaching fleet. The void lit up with the glow of primed warheads, targeting solutions being fed into every gunner's display. The Imperial Navy had been trained for this moment for ten thousand years.
If a Legion-scale invasion force ever returned to Sol, they would not hesitate. "I want every ship on standby to fire the moment we confirm hostility!"
"Sir—"
A comms officer hesitated, his face pale.
"Sir, we are receiving an incoming transmission from the lead warship."
Dravon turned sharply.
"Put it through."
The vox-screen flickered to life and what the Lord-Admiral saw made his breath catch in his throat. The figure on the screen was massive, clad in void-black power armor. His features were sharp, his eyes like deep blue pits of unfathomable presence. He was not mortal. He was something more and when he spoke, his voice was absolute.
"Lower your weapons."
A cold chill ran through the bridge crew. The voice carried authority beyond rank, beyond title. It was a voice that commanded compliance, demanded obedience.
And yet, Lord-Admiral Dravon did not yield.
"Identify yourself! By order of the Imperial Navy, you will declare your allegiance immediately!"
The figure on the screen smirked slightly.
"I am Solas. Primarch of the Second Legion. Son of the Emperor"
"I have returned to claim what is ours."
Silence. Complete. Utter. Silence.
The Imperial officers did not breathe. A lost Primarch? Here?
Dravon's mind raced, struggling against disbelief. It was impossible. The Second Legion did not exist. The Second Primarch was a myth, a name struck from all records, erased from the annals of Imperial history.
And yet—here he was and he was not alone. The screen shifted, revealing another figure standing beside him. A towering warrior clad in blue and gold, his gaze piercing and unreadable.
The officers recognized him instantly.
"By the Throne…"
"That is Roboute Guilliman!"
The bridge fell into chaos. Dravon's mind reeled. Guilliman was the Lord Regent of the Imperium. If he stood beside this supposed lost Primarch, if he was marching with this fleet—
"My Lord Admiral!"
Another officer shouted.
"There's… there's more!"
Dravon turned, his heart pounding and then, the final figure appeared on-screen. A golden giant, his face beyond divine, his wings stretching behind him like a celestial god. His presence crushed all doubt, all hesitation.
Because there was no mistaking him. There was only one being in existence who could bear such majesty.
"Sanguinius," Dravon whispered.
The bridge fell to silence once more.
"This cannot be real…"
"The Angel is dead—he died at the Siege—this is—"
"Reality."
Sanguinius' voice carried across the void.
"Lower your weapons, Admiral. We have come home."
Lord-Admiral Dravon, a man of iron discipline, a commander of the Imperial Navy, felt his legs tremble. He had prepared for everything.
But not this.
His hands hovered over his command console, hovering over the order to fire.
And then—he lowered them.
"By the Emperor…"
"Lower the defenses. Open the Khtonic Gate."
"Let them pass."
With those words, the Sol System opened its gates. The Primarchs had returned.
Aboard Solas' flagship, the Indomitable Wrath, the war council had gathered for one final strategy.
The chamber was large enough to hold titans of war, its walls etched with ancient sigils of the forgotten Second Legion, its floors a polished black steel that absorbed the light rather than reflected it.
Seated around a massive war table, the most powerful leaders of the Imperium planned their approach to Terra. The Primarchs: Roboute Guilliman, the Avenging Son, the Imperium's last hope—until now. Sanguinius, the Angel of the Emperor, a being revered as divine, yet now alive once more. Solas, the Forgotten Primarch, the unknown force, the son of the Emperor whose very existence was erased from history.
The Chapter Masters: Dante, Lord Regent of the Blood Angels, the immortal ruler who had carried Sanguinius' name for over a thousand years. Marneus Calgar, Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, the guardian of Guilliman's legacy and the Imperium's discipline. Dain, Chapter Master of the Void Legion, the unyielding commander of a Legion the Imperium did not even know existed.
This was the most powerful assembly of Imperial authority since the Great Crusade and they were about to break the Imperium's foundations.
Sanguinius sat at the head of the table, his golden wings folded behind him, his expression calm but unreadable.
"We cannot enter Terra as warriors."
The words hung in the air.
Solas smirked, leaning back in his seat.
"Then how would you have us enter? As beggars?"
Guilliman exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"No. But neither can we appear as conquerors."
He turned to the others.
"Terra is ruled by fear. The High Lords cling to their power, not out of loyalty, but out of necessity. If they see us as a threat, they will resist."
Solas scoffed.
"They will resist no matter what we do."
Dain nodded in agreement.
"The Imperium is built on the idea that the Emperor no longer walks among us. That his sons are myths, long dead. If we appear before them, we will shake the very foundation of their rule."
Dante, silent until now, finally spoke.
"Then we must control the narrative."
Guilliman nodded, his strategist's mind already weaving the path ahead.
"Yes. Our arrival must be seen not as an overthrow, but as a restoration."
He looked at Sanguinius.
"You are the key to everything."
Sanguinius remained still, his golden eyes filled with quiet thought. For ten thousand years, his name had been whispered in prayers. He had been a symbol of sacrifice, a martyr whose death secured the Imperium. Now? Now he was alive. His voice was calm, but firm.
"They will call it heresy."
Solas leaned forward, his expression darkening.
"Let them. They can call it whatever they want."
He gestured toward the war map before them.
"We have proven our power. We have already restored Imperial worlds. We have already shown the people that they are no longer ruled by cowards and bureaucrats."
He locked eyes with Sanguinius.
"But they need more than victory. They need a sign."
Guilliman nodded.
"They need to see the impossible made real."
Solas smirked.
"Which is why they need to see you."
Sanguinius sighed, shaking his head slightly.
"You truly want me to be a god."
Solas leaned back.
"No. I want you to be a weapon."
The table fell silent.
Sanguinius exhaled slowly.
"And how do we reveal me?"
Guilliman steepled his fingers.
"Not immediately. We let the rumors spread. The Imperial Navy already knows we are coming. The High Lords will be in panic. They will try to suppress information, but it will be impossible. The whispers of the Angel's return will spread faster than any order of silence."
Dante nodded.
"By the time we step foot on Terra, half the population will already believe it."
Calgar sighed.
"And the other half will be calling for our heads."
Solas gave a small smirk.
"Which is why we must control our first steps carefully. So, we walk in as rulers, not conquerors."
Guilliman nodded.
"Yes. We land at the Imperial Palace directly. No armies."
Dante raised an eyebrow.
"No escorts?"
Guilliman shook his head.
"No. Just us. The three of us. The sons of the Emperor, walking as his true heirs."
Dain let out a low chuckle.
"And how will the High Lords react to that?"
Solas grinned darkly.
"They will fear us."
Sanguinius sighed.
"And what of the people?"
Guilliman's gaze softened slightly.
"They will not fear."
His eyes flickered with something rare—something close to hope.
"They will believe."
Their arrival was set. The Primarchs would walk into the Imperial Palace itself, no armies, only the weight of their presence. The moment they set foot on Terra, everything would change.
Solas smirked, crossing his arms.
"Well then, little brothers. Let's go remind them who truly rules the Imperium."
As the fleet continued its approach to Terra, the fate of the Imperium hung upon the edge of a knife and soon, the Imperial Palace itself would tremble at their arrival.
The massive Thunderhawk broke through Terra's clouded skies, its descent slow, deliberate, heavy with significance. It was not escorted.
No Imperial fleet had guided it through. No permission had been requested and yet, the gates of Terra had opened for it.
All of Sol had been shaken when the fleet had breached the Khtonic Gate. Now, the moment they had all feared—or hoped for—was here. The Thunderhawk came to rest upon the great landing platform, its hull still gleaming from the journey through the void.
A massive assembly of warriors, dignitaries, and high-ranking officials had already gathered—Custodes in their auramite plate, palace guards, members of the Imperial Court.
At their head, standing like a living relic of ages long past, was Constantin Valdor. The First of the Legio Custodes. The Emperor's greatest warrior. A being that few had seen, and even fewer had lived to speak of.
His golden war-plate shimmered beneath Terra's eternal dusk, his massive spear resting lightly in his gauntleted hand, but his stance was rigid, unreadable. He had not moved since the Thunderhawk had arrived. He had simply watched.
And now, the ramp lowered. The entire assembly tensed. A hush fell upon the platform and then—he stepped out.
The first bootstep upon the platform was deafening in its silence.
Roboute Guilliman emerged from the Thunderhawk, his form towering, his armor reflecting the golden glow of the Custodes. For a moment, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. Even the wind itself died, as if Terra had paused in reverence.
The Custodes did not move.
The gathered palace officials did not breathe. Even Valdor, the unshakable, the ever-vigilant, stood in utter stillness, because they were seeing something that should not exist. Roboute Guilliman, The Avenging Son, The Primarch of the Ultramarines.
Alive.
Walking on Terra.
Valdor's golden helm reflected the unmistakable figure before him. For a long, agonizing moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, his voice—hard as war, tempered by a thousand lifetimes of battle—spoke.
"Impossible."
His grip tightened upon the Spear of Terra, his knuckles pale beneath his golden gauntlet. Guilliman stopped before him. His blue eyes, cold and calculating, studied the ancient warrior before him.
"You look well, Constantin."
The words were simple, but they carried the weight of history. Valdor did not respond immediately. Instead, his gaze searched Guilliman's face, looking for the lie, for the trick, for the deception.
Because this could not be real.
For ten thousand years, he had stood guard over the Imperium, over the Throne, over a dying empire led by corpses and cowards. He had buried his brothers. He had watched the Imperium turn to dust and blind faith. He had watched the light of reason fade. Yet—here stood one of the Emperor's true sons.
Alive. Walking. Real.
"You are dead."
Valdor's voice was not accusatory. It was not hostile. It was simply a statement of truth. Guilliman gave a small, knowing smirk.
"I was."
Valdor's golden eyes narrowed beneath his helm.
"And yet, you stand before me."
Guilliman took another slow step forward, his armored form casting a long shadow across the landing platform.
"It seems the Imperium still has need of its true rulers."
Valdor's grip on his spear tightened further. The Custodes behind him shifted slightly, unsure, unreadable, their expressions hidden behind golden helms.
But none of them spoke.
Because what words could be spoken in the face of the impossible?
Beyond the Custodes, beyond the assembled warriors and officials, the people of Terra had begun to gather.
It had started with a few. Servitors, palace attendants, robed Administratum officials, low-ranking scribes.
But then it had spread. Word had already swept through the highest levels of Imperial command.
The Primarch Guilliman had returned.
And now, from the balconies, from the terraces of the Imperial Palace, from the grand bridges that overlooked the landing platform, thousands began to gather.
Their whispers filled the air like a storm about to break.
"A Primarch…?"
"Is it real?"
"The son of the Emperor walks again?"
Some fell to their knees, unable to process the sight before them. Others simply stared in pure, unfiltered disbelief. For ten thousand years, the Imperium had existed in stagnation, its rulers faceless, its leadership distant and untouchable. Here stood a true son of the Emperor. Not a legend, not a statue, not a god upon a distant throne.
A man.
A warrior.
Walking among them.
For the first time in ten thousand years.
The whispers grew louder. The weight of history pressed upon Valdor's shoulders. He had lived long enough to see the rise and fall of empires. He had fought beside the Emperor Himself. Now, he stood before His son. Slowly, Valdor raised his free hand.
The Custodes behind him stiffened. The palace officials held their breath. Then—he lowered his spear.
It was not a gesture of submission. It was a recognition. A recognition of authority. A recognition of blood. A recognition of the son of the Emperor.
"You are far from home, Roboute."
Guilliman's expression remained calm.
"No, Valdor."
"I am home."
The golden warrior of the Custodes exhaled slowly. For the first time in millennia, something flickered in his voice.
Something like hope.
"Then let us see what remains of it."
And with that, the first step had been taken.
But the true storm was still to come.
Because Guilliman was not alone.
The landing ramp hissed as it fully lowered, revealing a second colossal figure stepping onto the platform. Where Guilliman had been a familiar, albeit shocking sight, this one was something entirely different. His black warplate absorbed the light, the gold etchings of an unknown heraldry shimmering faintly beneath the artificial sun of Terra's eternal dusk.
His blue eyes, like frozen oceans, swept across the gathered Custodes and palace officials—assessing them, weighing them, judging them.
He walked without hesitation, without uncertainty, without fear. For Solas was not returning as a guest. He was returning as a ruler.
"He…"
One of the Custodes murmured under his breath, his gauntleted hand tightening around his halberd.
"No," another muttered. "The exiled one."
And Constantin Valdor—the First of the Ten Thousand, the Emperor's chosen, the unbreakable warrior of the Golden Throne—felt his entire being tense. This was not just a lost Primarch. This was the son the Emperor had erased.
A Memory of the Past
For the first time in ten millennia, Valdor remembered something he had buried deep within his mind. He had stood on this very same platform once before.
The sky had been dark that day, heavy with rain, thunder rolling through the heavens like the roar of the gods.
And in the middle of the storm, two figures had faced one another.
Valdor and Solas.
It had been one of the greatest duels ever witnessed within the Imperial Palace. A test of will, of skill, of absolute mastery. A warrior who had never been bested against a Primarch who could not be touched by the Warp.
The memory came back with painful clarity. The day the Emperor cast out His Second Son.
Valdor still remembered the rage in Solas' eyes when he had stood at the palace landing platform, his armor drenched in rain, his voice echoing through the halls.
Flashback
The Hall of Concordance was heavy with silence. At its center, Solas stood alone, unbowed beneath the gaze of the Master of Mankind. The Emperor did not move. He rarely needed to.
High above, the Primarchs had gathered. Guilliman, arms folded, gaze narrow.
Russ, snarling like a chained hound. Sanguinius, watching with mourning already in his heart. Magnus, silent—because he had known this day would come. And Horus, inscrutable. Measuring.
Malcador stepped forward, his voice sharp and polished.
"You question the Imperium itself. You challenge the unity your father built."
Solas' voice was not raised.
"I question the cost of that unity. I challenge the lies that uphold it."
Leman Russ barked.
"You speak like a traitor."
Solas turned slightly, eyes piercing.
"Then you should ask yourselves what you've become if truth is now treason."
Silence.
The Emperor finally stirred, golden light casting long shadows.
"You are my son. But you have chosen your path."
"Then I will walk it," Solas said. "Not in rebellion—but because I will not serve a dream built on silence and fear."
His final gaze lingered on Sanguinius, who whispered with pain in his voice—
"There's still time. Don't go."
"I must be the one who remembers when all of you forget."
He turned. And no one followed.
The Hangar Platform
The marble halls of the Imperial Palace had never seemed so cold. What once stood as symbols of unity, conquest, and triumph now echoed only with the sound of one man leaving everything behind.
Solas, the Primarch of the Second Legion, walked alone, his long cloak dragging in silence behind him. His footfalls struck the polished floor like war drums in a funeral march.
He said nothing. His eyes forward. His expression calm. Until he reached the final gate.
The hangar that led to his personal Stormbird, the Veilcutter.
There, waiting for him, stood Constantin Valdor, Captain-General of the Legio Custodes, flanked by a full shield detachment—ten golden giants in perfect formation, radiant and still, their presence unmistakable.
"You are not permitted to leave."
Valdor's voice was as precise as his blade—calm, but unmovable.
Solas stopped.
A long silence stretched between them.
"Do you intend to stop me?" he asked, voice low.
Valdor's head tilted slightly, expression hidden beneath his ornate helm.
"We follow our Lord's will. And He has not given you leave."
Solas turned to face them fully. The ten Custodians subtly adjusted their stances, reading the shift in the air, like seasoned hunters aware that the creature before them had changed.
"Then let me give you a piece of wisdom, Captain-General," Solas said, stepping forward, his boots ringing loud on the stone.
"I am not asking for leave."
A flicker of power vibrated through the corridor. Not flame, not psychic energy—
but an absence. A crushing, expanding void. For the first time in their lives, the Custodes felt something they had only ever heard in stories.
They felt…
vulnerability.
The world around them seemed to tighten. The ornate columns groaned. The air grew thick, as if choked. Runes engraved into the walls—wards against daemonic intrusion—flickered and went dark. The light around Solas dimmed, the golden glow of the Palace itself seeming to shrink away from him.
Valdor's grip on his Guardian Spear shifted. Not in aggression, but in instinct.
One of the Custodes took a step forward.
"Hold," Valdor commanded, and the warrior froze.
Solas' voice echoed through the stillness like a blade cutting silk.
"For centuries, I stood beside you. I bled for the same dream. I warned Him. I warned all of you and now—when I choose to walk away from a lie— you would raise your weapons against me?"
The Null Aura expanded further, pressing down like a tidal wave of crushing gravity. Even Valdor—immortal, gene-wrought perfection—felt it gnawing at the edges of his soul. His thoughts blurred for just a moment. His connection to the Emperor's presence felt… distant.
Like a candle guttering in a storm.
Solas stepped within arm's reach of the Custodes. None moved or breathed.
"You mistake loyalty for blindness. And faith for obedience."
His eyes, glacial and unblinking, locked onto Valdor's.
"You should feel this. You should remember it."
"This is what truth feels like, when all the illusions are stripped away."
And then—just like that—the aura retracted.
Not diminished. Not spent. Contained.
Solas turned his back on them.
"You will not stop me. And you know why."
The ramp of the Stormbird lowered, cold mist rolling from the artificial atmosphere of its sealed interior.
Solas paused only once before boarding.
Without looking back, he spoke one last time.
"When it all falls apart, and you kneel in the ashes of your dream—
You will remember today."
And with that, he vanished into the belly of his ship.
Flashback end
And then—he had left. Vanished from history. His name scrubbed from the records, his deeds unspoken, his existence erased.
But now?
Now he stood before Valdor once again.
He had not changed.
Valdor took a single step forward, his golden armor gleaming under Terra's light. The Custodes tightened their formation around him, ready for a command, ready for an order—but no such order came.
"Solas."
His voice was steady, but beneath it was something else. Something no Custodes had ever heard before.
Uncertainty.
The black-armored Primarch smirked slightly, tilting his head.
"I see you still know my name, Valdor."
His voice was calm, measured—but there was a cold amusement in his words.
"That's more than I can say for the rest of the Imperium."
Valdor's fingers tightened around his spear.
"Why are you here?"
Solas chuckled.
"Why am I here?"
His smirk faded and when he spoke again, his voice was deadly serious.
"Because I was right."
A ripple of tension spread through the Custodes. Guilliman remained silent, watching, knowing that this moment belonged to Solas and Valdor alone.
"You remember, don't you?"
Solas took another slow step forward.
"I told all of you what would happen. I told you that the Imperium was a dream built on false foundations. I told you that the bureaucracy would consume it. That corruption would take root in the heart of its rule. And I told you…" His blue eyes darkened, voice lowering to something cold, absolute. "That one day, when the galaxy was in ruin, you would have no one left to save you."
Valdor said nothing. Because he could not deny the truth. The Imperium had decayed.
The High Lords were corrupt. The Emperor was a silent husk.
Solas was right.
He had been right all along.
"But don't worry, Valdor."
Solas tilted his head slightly.
"I've come back to clean up the mess."
The air was thick with tension and then—Valdor did something no one expected.
He exhaled, slowly, he lowered his spear just slightly, but his eyes remained locked on Solas.
"And where does your loyalty lie now, Forgotten Son?"
Solas' smirk returned, but it was grim, sharp like a knife.
"With my brothers. With humanity." Then, his smirk vanished. "But not with the corpse-worshipping fools who let this empire rot while calling it sacred."
Valdor's gaze did not waver.
"Then we shall see, Solas. We shall see if you have returned to save us— or to burn us down."
Solas chuckled softly.
"Oh, Valdor."
His eyes gleamed with something unreadable.
"Maybe a little bit of both."
The Custodes remained silent, awaiting their commander's order. Valdor turned his head slightly, glancing at Guilliman, then at Sanguinius, who now stood in the Thunderhawk's doorway, watching the exchange. Then, finally, Valdor lowered his spear completely.
"Welcome home, Primarch."
Solas chuckled, stepping forward.
"Oh, Valdor. You have no idea how fun this is going to be."
The people of Terra had gathered in the millions. At first, they had come simply to witness the impossible—one Primarch had returned.
But now?
Now the crowd was so large it stretched beyond the landing platforms, spilling into the grand plazas and towering balconies of the Imperial Palace itself. They were nobles, warriors, priests, and the common laborers of the Throneworld alike.
And they waited.
Whispers spread like wildfire through the assembled masses, the shock of Guilliman's return still settling upon them like an unshakable weight.
"The Avenging Son has returned."
"A Primarch walks among us."
"The Imperium will change forever."
And then—it happened.
A shadow fell over them.
It was not a darkness of doom. It was something greater. The first to react were the Custodes. For the first time in ten thousand years, the warriors of the Legio Custodes—who had faced traitors, xenos, and the horrors of the Warp itself—felt their breath catch in their throats.
Valdor, ever the unshakable, ever the impenetrable wall, turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as the shadow grew larger over the platform. The assembled Imperial dignitaries, fleet commanders, and palace officials turned their gazes upward, blinking in confusion, their hands trembling against their robes.
And then, the crowd itself began to react. At first, it was small gasps, quiet murmurs, uncertain whispers—
Then it became cries of shock, of disbelief and finally, it became screams of pure, unfiltered awe.
"No… no, it cannot be."
"This is not possible."
"The Angel… The Angel walks again!"
From the depths of the Thunderhawk, stepping into the golden light of Terra's sun, Sanguinius emerged.
His wings stretched wide and the entire world seemed to freeze. His golden armor, untouched by time, gleamed like the very soul of the Emperor. His face, serene yet filled with power, carried the same divine radiance that had once inspired an entire Legion. His wings, those impossible, angelic wings, unfolded in their full, majestic span.
They caught the light of the heavens, each feather shining like a star reborn, their sheer presence dwarfing the awe of even the greatest statues and monuments of the Imperium.
This was not a trick. This was not a dream. This was not a vision. This was Sanguinius, the Great Angel, the most beloved son of the Emperor.
Alive.
Real.
Returned.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, as if struck by an unseen force, the first among the crowd dropped to their knees.
Then more and then, all of them. One by one, hundreds, thousands, millions of people collapsed to the ground, heads bowed, hands trembling in absolute reverence.
Even the high nobles of the Imperium, those who had never bent to anything in their lives, sank to their knees, unable to process the enormity of what they were seeing.
Some wept openly. Some clutched at their robes, at their weapons, at their very hearts, struggling to comprehend the truth before them.
And among them all—Valdor stood frozen.
The First of the Ten Thousand, the warrior who had never flinched, never doubted, never faltered—was motionless. His golden eyes, once hardened by centuries of duty, now widened with something even he could not name.
Because he remembered the Siege of Terra, he remembered watching Sanguinius enter the throne room, knowing he would not return, he remembered Horus, he remembered the death that had come to pass.
But now?
Now, the Angel stood before him once more.
Alive.
Whole.
Real.
"This is…"
For the first time in his immortal life, Valdor was without words. His fingers tightened around the Spear of Terra, his breath steady yet shallow. He had seen wonders beyond human understanding. He had seen gods rise and fall and yet, he could not believe what was standing before him.
Sanguinius took another step forward, his wings still spread wide, his golden gaze sweeping across the millions kneeling before him.
His voice was soft, yet it carried across the entire landing platform, across the entire assembly, across the world itself.
"Rise, my children."
It was not a command. It was a blessing. Slowly, hesitantly, the first among the people began to lift their heads. Their faces were stained with tears, their hearts pounding with a reverence beyond words.
"For ten thousand years, you have waited. For ten thousand years, you have fought, bled, and suffered in the name of our father. You believed me lost." His golden eyes dimmed slightly. "You mourned me and yet, here I stand."
The crowd was shaking. Some sobbed openly, unable to control themselves. The Custodes, the most elite warriors in the Imperium, stood in absolute silence, their minds struggling to grasp the reality before them.
Even Valdor, the most resolute of them all, remained unmoving and then, Sanguinius did something none of them expected. He smiled, it was warm and kind. It was real.
"Do not fear, my brothers and sisters. For I have returned."
The First of the Custodes finally took a step forward, his golden armor glistening under the eternal glow of Terra's skies. For all the awe, for all the reverence, for all the faith in the air—Valdor's mind was steady. He did not kneel, he did not waver.
Because he had been at the Emperor's side for longer than any of them.
He had seen the fall of Primarchs. He had seen the war that shattered the galaxy and he had seen Sanguinius die.
Yet, here he was.
Valdor did what no one else had the strength to do.
He spoke.
"How?"
The single word hung in the air, weightier than a planet, more powerful than any decree. The Custodes around him remained rigid, awaiting the answer with the same silent question in their minds. The nobles, the warriors, the citizens of Terra leaned forward in breathless anticipation.
Even Sanguinius himself remained still, his golden gaze watching Valdor carefully.
"How is this possible?" Valdor asked again, his voice steady.
"What power has restored you, Angel of the Emperor?"
Then, Valdor's gaze shifted, his piercing eyes locking onto Guilliman and Solas.
"Who is responsible for this miracle?"
The question was not just for Valdor.
It was for the Imperium itself. They did not know who had brought him back. They did not know who had shattered the laws of the universe to undo a death written in history.
And then—Solas chuckled. A low, quiet sound.
Solas stepped forward, his black warplate gleaming in contrast to Sanguinius' golden radiance. His expression was not smug. It was knowing. He glanced at Guilliman, then at Sanguinius, then at Valdor.
And then, he answered.
"Me."
Valdor's eyes narrowed.
The Custodes shifted slightly, their grip tightening on their weapons.
"You?" Valdor's voice carried a note of caution.
Solas exhaled, tilting his head.
"Yes. Me."
His gaze met Valdor's unflinching stare and then, his voice deepened, his words like iron. "Did you think this happened on its own? Did you think the gods of the Warp simply let him go? Did you think his soul was waiting to return?"
The weight of those words sent shivers through the gathered masses. Because they had not considered that. Sanguinius' death was absolute. Even the Emperor Himself had not undone it.
And yet, here he was.
Alive. Breathing. Whole.
Valdor's grip on the Spear of Terra tightened.
"You meddled with his soul?"
Solas tilted his head slightly.
"No, Valdor. I saved it."
His voice was sharp, unwavering.
"The Chaos Gods would have kept him. They would have made him a weapon, a prize to torment the Imperium for eternity."
He gestured toward Sanguinius.
"I ripped their hold away. I burned the corruption from his soul with my power."
A ripple of uncertainty passed through the Custodes.
"And I brought him back."
Solas' gaze darkened.
"Because this Imperium needs its Angel."
Valdor stared at Solas for a long moment, his expression unreadable beneath the golden mask of his helm. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze to Guilliman—the Avenging Son, the Lord Commander, the Strategist.
Guilliman met his gaze without hesitation.
"This changes everything," Valdor said quietly.
Guilliman nodded once. "Yes. It must."
The silence between them was heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. Then, Guilliman took a step forward—not toward Valdor, but beside him. Toward the gates of the Imperial Palace.
"We did not come this far for spectacle alone," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "This is not the end of a journey. It is the beginning of one."
He looked up at the towering edifice of the Imperial Palace, the stone and gold silhouette of history itself looming over them.
"Constantin," Guilliman said, turning back to face the First of the Ten Thousand. "Take us to him."
Valdor's fingers tensed slightly around the haft of the Spear of Terra. Behind him, the Custodes waited like statues of judgment.
"To the Emperor?" Valdor asked, though the answer was already clear.
Guilliman nodded once, firmly.
"Yes. It is time for us to speak with our father."