The Leonine Heresy

by Sharrowkyn

Inspired by the Roboutian Heresy, this is the tale of Lion El'Jonson's fall to Chaos as he leads half of his brothers (and not necessarily the ones you might think) in rebellion against the Emperor. All Index Astartes entries have been completed, and now we are journeying through the various War Zones of the 41st Millennium.

14. Index Astartes: Imperial Fists

Chapter 14: Index Astartes- Imperial Fists

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Index Astartes- Imperial Fists: Bitter Hearts, Black Vows

From the darkest and most hellish recesses of the galaxy- Immaterial storms, daemon worlds, hidden fortresses- the armies of the Seventh Legion come to topple the crumbling Imperium and crush Mankind beneath their armored bootheel. Long ago, these foul traitors bore different colors and marched under a different name: the Imperial Fists were a proud brotherhood, renowned for their consummate professionalism. Masters of sieges and fortifications, fate and treachery conspired to bring the Seventh to its knees, a mere shadow of its former self, and for the past ten thousand years, their primarch Rogal Dorn has remained secluded within his grand fortress, contemplating the nature of reality and unreality. In his absence, his sons have united beneath the banner of Sigismund the Destroyer as the Black Templars, the single greatest threat to the Imperium of Man. Twelve times have they struck out from the Eye of Terror in their Black Crusades, killing countless trillions and threatening to topple Reality itself, and now the Thirteenth Black Crusade stands poised to finally shatter the Cadian Gate. Victory in the Long War is now in sight for Sigismund's dread host, and should they breach the woefully-unprepared Imperial defenses, the Black Templars will set the galaxy ablaze.

Origins: The Emperor's Fists

The history of the Master of Mankind extends far beyond what recorded knowledge has survived to the present day. Though most remains hidden or lost, what is known for a certainty is that the Emperor arose within the mountainous wastes of the Himalazian Plateau. Most texts concerning his activities begin with his uncontested dominance of that region, and proceed to the Unification Wars. However, to neglect the sheer vastness of that hostile land is to do it a disservice, for it too had to be conquered by force. From the heart of the tallest peak upon Terra, transhuman armies began to march out, claiming neighboring valleys and fortresses in the name of the Emperor of Mankind. After seizing the southern passes, these mighty forces soon swept down into the densely-populated plains of Ind, ignoring the comparatively-worthless highlands of the rest of the Himalazian Plateau. All the while, the Emperor's fortresses began to grow, bastions and towers ringing his domains, for what he took with his hand was gripped with an unbreakable fist. New armies eventually replaced the old, Astartes in place of Thunder Warriors, and these proto-legions proved far more adaptable and focused than their bloodthirsty predecessors. Where the Legio Cataegis had once ignored the western expanses of the Himalazians, the VII Legion did not, and battalions of post-human fighters soon cleared the Wind-Caller Clans from their aeries. So too were the Crystal Sea Cities shattered, as was the Tyrancy of Kennestar brought low, and many others, all seized and secured by the conquest-hungry Seventh Legion.

The Seventh Legion was a focused and direct force, even compared to their cousins. Massed assaults were their preferred method of war, crushing all beneath their rapid advance and leaving behind conquered nations and new fortresses to signify their conquests. The Emperor himself recognized the Seventh as perhaps the most true to his designs, for they were both builders and crusaders, and personally decreed that they would be known as the Imperial Fists. Their golden yellow armor was permitted to bear the Laurels of Victory, a honor afforded no other legion, and they adopted the Junker Code of ancient Prusse, displaying their attention to detail and honor both on the battlefield and off. Under the able leadership of Legion Master Mathias, the Seventh was permitted high levels of autonomy in planning their operations, and their eye for detail saw them secure many regions untouched by the initial waves of conquest. The Imperial Fists were experts at fortress-craft from the beginning, and every land that they took was soon overshadowed by towering bastions, from which the Seventh inducted new recruits. This practice enabled them to keep high numbers despite the large casualties inflicted upon them, but other legions began to grumble against them, seeing certain regions as their exclusive recruiting grounds. The Fourth and Eighth Legions in particular protested quite vigorously after the Seventh's recruitment drives expanded into neighboring lands many leagues from their fortresses.

"You cannot do this, the Britannics are quite clearly under the jurisdiction of the Eighth." The giant who called himself Fel Zharost roared at the yellow-armored demigod opposite him, who stood unmoving like a living wall of muscle. Between the two stood a small boy, his blond hair stained by the same crimson that covered his arms and chest, the blood which had splattered everywhere as he smashed a metal bar into the gang members who had attacked him. The boy pressed the bloody metal bar to his head, calming his nerves as he blocked out the sights and sounds of the world around him. When he looked up again, the one called Zharost had left without him even realizing it.

"What's your name, boy?" the remaining giant said softly, his hand dwarfing the boy's tiny shoulder. "You must have some spirit to kill a dozen grown men with only a metal bat at your age." The boy looked up at him, utterly unafraid.

"My name is Sigismund."

The Imperial Fists became even more effective after the conclusion of the Unification Wars, planting the Emperor's banner on dozens of worlds throughout what later became Segmentum Solar. They were experts at void warfare, excelling at boarding actions as every enemy ship was seen as another fortress to topple from the inside. The Fists were single-minded in their devotion, laying low every foe with clinical precision, none beyond their capabilities with the bolter. Their discipline was as firm and unyielding as stone, tempered by constant, cleansing pain. To receive their gene-seed was said to be the embodiment of agony, and many aspirants died upon the operating tables. This quirk was the one stain upon their honor, a secret which was carefully concealed from the wider public lest investigations be launched into them as they had into the other legions. The Imperial Fists prosecuted the Great Crusade for over three and a half decades without a single loss or major setback, a record almost unrivaled by the other legions that would continue for long after the day their primarch returned, though it could not last forever.

The Ice Caves of Inwit

Decades before the first Astartes or Thunder Warrior was created, the being known as the Emperor had worked tirelessly to see his visions through to fruition. With the self-destruction of the Aeldari Empire, the galaxy was now ripe for conquest, and if Man did not become the dominant species, then another would. Thus the Emperor designed twenty beings of unparalleled complexity, using arcane gene-science to craft the Primarchs, his heirs and generals which would help him lead Man to its destiny of ruling the stars. However, such grand designs inevitably attracted attention from those who not only sought to reclaim what they viewed as theirs but also subvert and destroy this chance. The Primarchs were stolen away when a Warp rift opened inside the Emperor's inner sanctums, ruining his laboratories and undoing his work. The pod bearing Subject VII was stolen away before the Emperor could react, but the Master of Mankind was not one to yield without a fight. Marshaling his psychic might, the Emperor did his best to mitigate the damage, choosing to slow some pods while accelerating others as to disrupt the nefarious schemes of saboteurs. As one of the first to be taken, Pod VII was one such target for slowing, hurled away to the south as it was wrenched from its trajectory to come to a screeching halt deep in the heart of Segmentum Tempestus, upon an ice world known as Inwit. This frozen wasteland was, like many of the worlds the Primarchs were hurled to, a death world. Half of the world was eternally shrouded in darkness, while the other half little better, its tundra only partially heated by the meager warmth of the dying red giant star it orbited. This tidally-locked world received little light, for its skies were filled with a dense orbital debris field containing ruined ships and stations of all kinds, the remains of what was once the heart of a thriving shipbuilding industry that had been left to die during the Age of Strife. Its people were grim, organized into nomadic clans split between those who scraped by on the surface and those which roamed what remained of subterranean hive cities, eternally fighting amongst themselves to secure enough resources to survive the winters.

However, this cycle of life and death in the frozen wastes was to come to an end with the arrival of Pod VII, a fiery comet which crashed through the orbital fields, through the frozen crust and the icy oceans beneath, down and down into the caverns below the surface. Destabilized by this sudden intrusion, the tectonic plates of Inwit began to shift, subducting to form countless undersea volcanoes and burying thousands as their hive cities collapsed under the stress. Even as the people of Inwit attempted to recover, their world began to change unseen around them, the thick ice sheets beginning to crack as the planet began to change for the first time in millions of years. The inhabitant of Pod VII knew nothing of this however, nor of the world he found himself on, for he was a stranger in a strange land. Though he was but a boy, the young primarch swam up from the lightless depths of where the pod had crashed, his physiology immune to the crushing pressure as he held his breath for hours. Emerging from the depths, the boy was taken in by Clan Dorn, and named Rogal by its elderly patriarch. Rogal grew far quicker than the other children, and soon took his place among the warriors of the tribe, raiding their rivals and growing in fame and stature. His childhood was more idyllic than that of most of the Primarchs, but it was not without its dangers. Air quality began to deteriorate, asphyxiating many of the elderly, including the Patriarch of Clan Dorn, and war became ever more frequent amidst the tundras overshadowed by endless winter.

Now the head of his people, Rogal Dorn quickly determined the best course of action. Acting upon the brutal, utilitarian worldview which he had learned was the necessity on a planet like Inwit, Dorn led his people upon a war of conquest. Their home could no longer support its current population, and so they would need to be either controlled or culled, forcefully if necessary. A bitterness for the circumstances beyond his control which had forced him to make this grim calculus was born that day, along with a deep-seated need for control. The primarch's brilliant tactics and incredible fighting skill meant none could stand before him, and soon all the tribes of Inwit were united under the banners of House Dorn. Only a few million still survived, for its proud people had often refused to bend the knee, but it was enough for Rogal's purposes. The newly expanded Clan Dorn set to work in vast communal farms and factories, united as one people for the first time in memory, and under Rogal's leadership, the steep population decline was slowed to a manageable rate. Hope blossomed as the orbital stations were scavenged for resources, and news of an interstellar expedition rapidly spread as the first Warp-capable vessel, the Phalanx, was made ready for launch. Only Dorn knew the truth, for his superhuman intellect was the only mind capable of realizing Inwit was doomed to a slow extinction over the course of the next few centuries. The Phalanx would save some, himself included, but there was nothing that could be done to save their world from the nuclear winter created by the many volcanoes. Their only hope was to find a new world capable of supporting life, and none were more determined or stubborn than Rogal that they would achieve their goal.

As Dorn prepared his people for their interstellar exodus aboard the Phalanx, a brilliant golden light filled the heavens above Inwit. A sleek golden warship, small compared to Dorn's masterpiece but imposing nonetheless, approached the station and sought a meeting with its captain. The primarch agreed to meet with the stranger, his blunt and forthright mind easily accepting the existence of visitors from another world, and for the first time in his life, he was truly surprised. The unexpected arrival proved to be none other than his true father, the Emperor of Mankind, who had sensed his son's presence and had come to retrieve him. The Emperor took one look at the size of the Phalanx, and congratulated Dorn, no doubt assuming that the primarch was on his way to explore and conquer the stars as he himself was. It was not in Dorn's nature to lie, but nor did he see any point in revealing a weakness, thus he remained silent, neither confirming nor denying the Emperor's statements of praise. He agreed to serve his father, seeing straight away that the future of his people depended on it. As reward for his filial devotion, Rogal accompanied his father back to Terra, learning all that he could of the Imperium and its history during the journey, absorbing not only knowledge of the past, but also the future as the Emperor spoke of what he called the Great Crusade.

When Dorn arrived on Terra, he was greeted by his brothers, first amongst them Horus Lupercal. Dorn and Horus quickly became good friends, as did Dorn and Vulkan, the primarch found just before him, and the two appreciated each other's forthrightness. Rogal was the seventh found, and all his brothers respected him, at least for his philosophy if not his personality. Perhaps his strangest relationship was the one he had with his father's advisor, Malcador the Sigillite. The towering young primarch was inexplicably close with the frail old Regent, and the two spent a great deal of time together as Dorn learned the finer points of leadership. The primarch would not mince words with anyone, an unfortunate quality in one required to be a diplomat, and woe befell any attempting to deceive him, for none could spot a lie better than he. Malcador attempted many times to instruct him in the finer points of being tactful, but such lessons never seemed to stick, and Dorn eventually moved on, eager to join in the Great Crusade. The Emperor introduced his seventh son to the legion made in his image, and Dorn pronounced himself well-pleased with the Seventh, confirming their name would remain as he assumed command.

Great Crusade: Clenched Fists

Reunited with their primarch, the Imperial Fists set out to bring glory to the Emperor and the Imperium. Their consummate professionalism meshed well with Dorn's unyielding expectations, and they soon grew in size. Unlike many legions, the Fists did not restrict themselves to recruiting solely from Inwit, and maintained their long practice of recruiting from every world they conquered, even if it was technically seen as the fief of another. Nonetheless, the results spoke for themselves, and the legion's size stabilized at around one hundred thousand Astartes, placing them firmly in the middle of the pack. The Imperial Fists were seen as the standard to live up to amongst their cousins: proficient in all categories, failing in none, and exceptionally skilled in siegecraft. It was in the construction of bastions and fortresses that none could compare to them, save perhaps the Fourth Legion, who were renowned for their tenacity. However, the IVth did not have their primarch, and so this was no issue at all. Dorn continued to lead his sons from victory to victory, campaigning alongside many legions and creating strong ties wherever he went. Though his demeanor remained stony, only his brothers could see the idealism which lay beneath; he desired victory, but it needed to be won the right way. However, even they could not fathom the true nature of this idealism, whose origins lay firmly rooted in his need for control; if he could not win his way, then he would prefer to bulldoze his foe and try again elsewhere. The Seventh retained their unspotted compliance record because they did not report their failures, as every human world that did not submit was reduced to ash.

The legion began to rationalize just as their father did in that the appearance of results mattered more than results themselves so long as control was being maintained. Every aspect of their life was carefully regimented, and punishments for not living up to their primarch's expectations were most often self-inflicted. All knew Dorn would not ask anything of his sons he was not prepared to do himself, and so the practice of self-flagellation proliferated throughout the Seventh alongside nerve induction through the use of an esoteric device known as the Pain Glove. Many legionaries took to battle wearing smaller versions of these devices, some consistently inflicting agony while others contained miniscule machine-spirits designed to punish missed shots. None ever had reason to suspect the Fists of self-harm or concealing secrets, for all assumed them to be forthright about everything. Perhaps it was their blunt and candid nature which led the Emperor to assign the Seventh far away from the frontlines of the Second Rangdan Xenocide despite their excellent record. Little information ever made it back to Terra from those shadowy campaigns in the inhospitable northern wastes, and the Fists never sought to join the fight, for they remained occupied battling greenskins near the galactic center. Long renowned for their relentless nature, the Fists were the perfect legion to root out the orkish empires which had grown like tumors during the Age of Strife, and many warbosses met their end at the hands of Dorn himself, who most often led from the front.

As the decades of the Great Crusade passed, the Fists remained one of the top legions in the Emperor's service, their record second only to the Luna Wolves. Dorn's blunt nature meant he did not brag in this status, but nor did he hesitate to point out flaws in the methods and tactics of others. Even brothers like Horus and Russ began to show signs of irritation after protracted campaigns with Rogal. However, the strain on their relationship was as nothing compared to the one which existed between Konrad Curze and Rogal Dorn. From the beginning, the Fists had looked down upon the VIIIth, seeing their terror tactics as unworthy of Astartes, an opinion unchanged by the discovery of Konrad Curze, an unhinged and psychotic maniac whom Dorn had had the displeasure of being by the Emperor's side during his discovery. Only one joint campaign ever occurred between the two primarchs, that of Cheraut, which Dorn agreed to as a favor to Horus. The Third, Seventh, and Eighth Legions began to fight alongside each other, attempting to build bridges through the use of honor duels and joint training, but the Night Lords refused to fight honorably, leading to many disputes. Tensions between the Seventh and Eighth began to spike after initial negotiations failed with the people of Cheraut, and Dorn ordered his forces to storm the world without consulting his brother's opinions on the matter. As Dorn oversaw the siege from his command center, he was approached by Fulgrim, Primarch of the Third, who insinuated Curze was suffering from strange visions along with other signs of mental instability. Dorn's temper finally ran out when his forces on the surface reported the Eighth had begun to massacre prisoners, and so he and Fulgrim departed to confront Curze directly. The madman did not even attempt to conceal his misdeeds, crowing with pride about the necessity of his actions and the need to punish the guilty. Dorn's temper rose and rose, shouting in his brother's face as Fulgrim looked on, disinterested. However, rather than shouting back, Curze began to twitch and froth at the mouth, and as Rogal paused to take a breath, his brother assaulted him.

Dorn woke in the medical wing of his ship, instantly assessing the situation from his surroundings. Curze had fought like a man possessed, his combat prowess far exceeding Dorn's expectations of his emaciated brother. The sting of defeat hurt far more than any of the wounds Curze had inflicted, the blows which would have slain a lesser man outright healing as a result of his primarch constitution. Both the Eighth and Third had departed after the incident, leaving First Captain Sigismund to oversee the compliance. Though a part of Dorn wished to conceal the defeat as a stain upon his honor by destroying Cheraut, there would be no way to silence the bragging Curze or the uncaring Fulgrim. No, Dorn sought revenge upon the man who had humiliated him, and swiftly contacted the Emperor in the hopes of receiving justice. Unfortunately, the Emperor declined his offer to bring his brother in by force, and so Dorn returned to his campaigns. Cheraut marked a turning point in the fortunes of the Seventh Legion. As the glory days of the early Crusade began to fade into memory, their record began to come under suspicion. The news of Dorn's defeat at Curze's hands somehow spread throughout the Imperium, and many began to see him as among the weakest of his brothers, on a tier with the weakling Lorgar or the snake Alpharius. The account began to twist and grow of its own accord, especially after Curze rejoined the Great Crusade a changed man, until it portrayed the Fists as the aggressors and the Night Lords the victims. Accidents in logistics began to occur with increased frequency, forcing the Fists to rely upon themselves more and more, a marked contrast from the combined arms operations with the Imperial Army which had been a vital part of many earlier successes. Even other legions began to doubt and slander the Seventh, none more so than the Fourth Legion, the Iron Warriors.

From the moment Rogal Dorn met his brother Perturabo of Olympia, a character-defining mutual hatred was born. Though both were renowned for their siegecraft and blunt nature, their similarities ended there. Dorn was idealistic to Perturabo's pragmatism, solemn vs moody, preferring to build up instead of tear down. Where Perturabo focused on absolute quantity, dispersing his forces to garrison every world he conquered, Dorn kept his legion intact, smaller in numbers but undiminished in strength. He was the iron to Dorn's stone, a variable that could only be planned around but never controlled. The Fourth and Seventh Legions only fought alongside each other a handful of times before departing, swearing to never again fight side by side. As the Great Crusade progressed, Perturabo's criticism of the Imperial Fists began to wear away at them, and as the other legions began to turn against them as well, Dorn felt he could no longer ignore his brother's snide remarks. However, his rebuttals only seemed to make things worse as other primarchs felt it unbecoming of him to respond to taunts. Frustrated and isolated, Dorn continued on regardless, and the war of words between the two brothers escalated, a shouting match from one side of the galaxy to another that was carefully hidden from mortal ears lest morale drop seeing two figures of legend at each other's throats.

After the events of Cheraut, the Imperial Fists continued their campaigns against the greenskin empires that infested the galactic center. Human worlds were few and far between, and the legion discovered many ruins that had no doubt once housed thriving civilizations before the orks found them. Dorn's fury at such senseless loss began to grow and grow, a bitterness at the rank injustice and senseless cruelty of the galaxy. Nor did his brothers do anything to alleviate this burden. Around the turn of the millennium, Horus Lupercal called for aid in dealing with the largest ork empire in recorded history, the forces of Urlakk Urg upon the world of Ullanor. Dorn immediately offered his aid, but Horus declined, as the forces of the Iron Warriors had already engaged and he did not wish to spark a further conflict. Stunned by this betrayal, Dorn contemplated ordering his forces to cease operations entirely, for he did not wish to spend his sons' lives for those that did not appreciate them. To his credit, Horus recognized this dishonor, and months later, he invited the Fists to take part in the Triumph of Ullanor. After learning Perturabo had already departed, Dorn agreed, and stood side by side with many of his brothers and the Emperor himself at the head of the Triumph. For a moment, Dorn felt as if he were back in the days of the early Crusade, honored and included. Then the Emperor announced he was stepping down, and in his place would rule Horus Lupercal, Warmaster Supreme.

Feigning disinterest, Rogal gruffly congratulated his brother before gathering his forces and departing. On the inside, his fury knew no bounds. His Fists had fought and died under his command for sixteen solar decades, and had a record equal to, if not surpassing the best of the legions. He secluded himself within his quarters, taking his frustrations out on combat servitors and bulkheads. None of his sons dared to confront him; that is, none save First Captain Sigismund. Long renowned as the best fighter in the Seventh, if not all the Legiones Astartes, Sigismund had received his position after the unfortunate death of Legion Master Mathias, who was crushed beneath a glacier during his tenure overseeing recruitment on Inwit. Sigismund was utterly fearless, the highest ranking and most experienced Terran in the Legion, and he was Master of the Temple of Vows, the honored sanctum at the heart of the Phalanx. The Templar was not without his critics, such as Captain Archamus, commander of the primarch's Huscarl bodyguards, who believed him to be hot-headed and reckless, but none could doubt his courage. It was Sigismund alone who confronted Dorn in his chambers, telling him the Emperor was calling a council upon Nikaea to discuss the Librarius. Some believe his words went far beyond merely relaying a message, that Sigismund told Dorn that his behavior was unworthy, but such tales are impossible to believe, for surely no legionary would speak to his father in such a manner.

Whatever the case, Dorn ordered his forces to remain where they were, to gather their strength while he journeyed to the world of Nikaea to attend the Council. Dorn cared little on the issue of psykers: he was partially in favor of them, recognizing their utility, but he would abide by the Council's decision however it ruled. No, what Dorn truly sought was a chance to speak to the Emperor, an opportunity he had been unable to obtain at Ullanor. Thus the Phalanx journeyed west from the galactic center toward Nikaea, a frontier world located on the eastern edge of Segmentum Solar. When the Seventh Legion delegation entered the system, they discovered they were one of the first to arrive, right around the same time as forces from the Fourth Legion. Before the situation could escalate, the Phalanx was hailed by the Vengeful Spirit, flagship of the Sons of Horus, the recently-renamed Sixteenth Legion. Horus spoke to Dorn personally, asking for his aid in building the council chambers for the upcoming summit, and Dorn agreed, pleased he was finally being recognized. He had not spoken to Horus in several months, the last time being a communication asking for some of his forces to join a project Horus was putting together known as the Legion Auxilia. It had been Sigismund that had replied to that message, a snub which had seen the unimportant 405th Company under the command of Captain Alexis Polux sent in response. Dorn had not cared one way or the other, but Horus did not seem to mind, praising him for the bravery and efficacy of his sons, who worked well as part of the Auxilia.

As Dorn landed upon the barren steppes of Nikaea alongside a small armada of vessels carrying building supplies, he was met by Horus. However, the Warmaster was not alone, for accompanying him was none other than Perturabo. Horus spoke to the two of them as equals, all but begging them to work together, for the Emperor was less than a week away, along with the teeming masses of the Administratum and other organizations that took part in his court. Recognizing the necessity of the situation, the two rivals shook hands, both straining to tighten their grips. However, things only went downhill from there as the building commenced. The two primarchs had wildly different visions of how the council chambers should look, as well as entirely different measurement systems and materials, not to mention the constant arguments between the Astartes overseers. Lupercal was forced to mediate these decisions, for Dorn and Perturabo always ruled in favor of their own sons, and eventually ordered the two legions away in frustration. Their joint efforts had succeeded in crafting a mismatched travesty of a structure, unworthy of the Emperor, and so Dorn and Perturabo returned to their vessels in orbit above on opposite sides of the planet from one another.

Days later, Dorn and his chosen sons returned to the surface, discovering Horus had somehow managed to make things work out. The Emperor had finally arrived, along with the Council of Terra and representatives from many legions, including nine primarchs in total. Thus began the Council of Nikaea, and to Dorn's disgust, Perturabo was the first to speak. The Lord of the Fists had intended to speak in favor of the Librarius, but to his surprise, his brother used his time to advocate opinions shockingly similar to his own. Rogal was now faced with a dilemma: if he voiced his true thoughts, he could be accused of copying his brother; besides, surely Perturabo was only voting in favor due to a cynical desire to be on what he regarded as the winning side. Thus when the Primarch of the Fourth Legion finished, Dorn was quick to seize the chance to speak next. Even though he was coming up with these objections off the top of his head, Dorn was confident of undoing his brother's progress, totally destroying Perturabo's arguments with facts and logic. However, his efforts were interrupted when Perturabo rudely started to make derisive noises, and the two began to shout at each other directly. Their argument came to an abrupt halt when the Emperor ordered them to leave the chambers, which Dorn considered rank unfairness as it had been his turn to speak, but his father would not listen to his evidence that clearly showed Perturabo had started it.

Dorn spent the next few days within the heart of the Phalanx, punishing himself through incessant use of the Pain Glove for failing to foresee Perturabo would attempt to cause trouble. His meditations came to an end when he received word from Sigismund, who had been allowed to stay in his father's absence, that the Council had decided in favor of banning the Librarius and censuring Magnus the Red. Dorn had never liked Magnus, considering him unreliable, but was ecstatic that his father had seen his wisdom. Rogal rushed down to the surface to join the rest of his brothers in hearing the Emperor's final pronouncements. After discussing his reasoning for his decision, the Master of Mankind announced he would not be going back to Terra alone, but would be taking one of them with him. He spoke to them on the need for someone to aid him in building up the Imperial Palace, someone who could fortify the Throneworld to become the crown jewel of the empire. Hearing these words, Dorn knew there were only two logical choices: only himself or Perturabo had the skills necessary to create such a fortress. Having decided Nikaea based in part on his arguments, no doubt the Emperor would choose Rogal to accompany him, for it was the only logical choice. Caught up in his own thoughts, Dorn returned his attention to the world around him, and realized there was already a Primarch up on the stage beside his father: Vulkan, Primarch of the Eighteenth. It was at that moment Dorn discovered he could hate someone with overwhelming intensity besides Perturabo, and looking over at his brother, it appeared for the first time in their life, they agreed on something.

Storming through the empty halls of the Council chambers, Dorn ordered his sons to prepare for immediate departure. As he approached his personal Thunderhawk transport, the Aetos Dios, Dorn found his path blocked by a most unexpected figure: Malcador the Sigillite. The Regent of Terra begged Dorn not to storm off, to just listen to his words, but Dorn would not relent. He began to shout at Malcador, whose calm replies only infuriated him even more.

"You want me on that wall, you NEED me on that wall! You speak of honor and loyalty, and then turn around and stab me in the back again and again." Dorn roared at the Regent, who remained steadfast in the face of the primarch who towered over him.

"Please Rogal, you need to calm down. I have known you for over a hundred and sixty years. You and I are far closer than any of your brothers, have I not given you sound advice in the past?"

"Then why was I not chosen? Keep in mind, Regent, that refusing to answer the questions of Imperials of high stature is punishable by death."

"It is good to see your humor is still intact." Malcador replied. Dorn's expression did not change, for he had not meant it as a jest. "Ever since the incident on Cheraut, you have allowed anger to rule your heart. Konrad is not the man you believe him to be, nor is Perturabo. In a way, the Emperor's decision is your own, Rogal. You refuse to change, or to admit others have changed, and that is why you were not chosen as Praetorian."

As Malcador finished speaking, Dorn's fury reached its breaking point. It was clear the Regent did not understand the situation at all, and further discussion was pointless. He attempted to move past the smaller man, but Malcador moved to block him once, twice, and then a third time. His patience expired, Rogal brought his hand up with the speed only a primarch could hope to match, and with a flick of his hand, backhanded Malcador out of his way. The Regent went flying to the side, bones crunching as he came to rest twenty meters away. By the time Malcador rose from the crater created by his impact, Dorn had already departed, his transport but a faint dot in the sky above. Malcador frowned.

Heresy: Executioners and Excoriators

Still nursing his temper, Dorn returned to the Phalanx, and swiftly departed to rejoin his sons, who remained gathered around the galactic center. When the titanic station finally exited the Warp, having battered its way through uncooperative tides, Dorn was unsurprised to discover other legion vessels were present among his own. Ever since he struck Malcador, Rogal had mused over how the Emperor would react. Would he come himself, as had happened to Konrad and Lorgar? Or perhaps he would send the Warmaster? Dorn doubted Lupercal would have the stomach to drag him in by force, but to his surprise, it was not the sea-green vessels of the Sixteenth. No, the ships which hung back from the gathered Imperial Fist armada were liveried in the unmistakable black of the First Legion. An incoming hail soon confirmed the sight as Lion El'Jonson himself appeared on the hololith, requesting a meeting with Dorn and only Dorn. Rogal had always respected his brother, both for his record and fighting prowess, but his excessive secrecy left much to be desired. Nonetheless, he had no reason not to speak with him, and so Dorn and Lion met within the Temple of Oaths aboard the Phalanx. The two primarchs had not spoken in many years, but amidst the calm silence of the Temple, an accord was reached that day.

Over the millennia, Inquisitorial acolytes have pored over the records in search of what made so many primarchs turn against their father. In many cases, it seems the primarch in question was already on the verge of turning, such as Angron of the World Eaters; in others, such as Sanguinius of the Blood Angels, the Lord of the First promised something; still others such as Guilliman were corrupted by their own natures, and required only a push from the Lion to send them spiraling into damnation. Only Dorn remains a mystery. What did the Lion promise his brother to gain his loyalty, to make him change the target of his idealism away from his father? Was it perhaps, as some scholars have posited, the position of Praetorian, so recently denied him? Or could it be the desire to be free of the Emperor's control, to have his legion appreciated as it was in the old days? The Dark Angels too had been more feared and respected, back before the Rangdan Xenocides, which had left them crippled. Still others have suggested it was the desire for revenge against Perturabo. The only reason Inquisitorial scholars have a record of this comes from Ygethmor the Deceiver, a foul lieutenant of Sigismund the Destroyer, who confessed it while in captivity. This unreliable source claims the Lion told his brother information long thought lost and purged, though what it was, even Ygethmor knew not.

Whatever the case, when the two brothers emerged, they were of one mind. Dorn knew it was unlikely that his sons would so quickly turn their backs upon the Emperor, and so set about preparing his legion. The first legionary won over to the new cause was First Captain Sigismund, or at least, such is the claim of Ygethmor, though his self-interest in such a tale is obvious. The Archtraitor spent time speaking to a select group of Dorn's sons, commanders who would help disseminate his message to those under their command. Thus the seeds of Heresy were sown from the top in the Seventh, a legion whose nature made them more receptive to commands from above rather than from below as was the case in other legions, whose treachery was birthed in the warrior lodges. For the next twelve years, Heresy grew like a cancer in the Seventh Legion. Many legionaries were killed in secret, those deemed unlikely to turn, while others were sent in unwinnable battles, perishing as much-needed reinforcements failed to materialize. A similar purge occurred in the fellowship of Thousand Sons which the Lion had convinced Horus to assign to the Seventh Legion, who were used as cannon fodder to whittle away their strength and convince them of the futility of serving the Emperor. Agents of the Lion ensured new recruits were trained with more loyalty to their primarch than the Emperor, and even veterans began to believe. Only the 405th under command of Captain Alexis Polux remained untainted, but even this could not last, for Dorn ordered those forces to rotate with another company whose loyalty had already been assured.

Keeping apace of events in the wider galaxy, Dorn and his forces remained near the galactic center, ostensibly purging orks and generally keeping a low profile. Unlike in the other legions, here there were no sorcerers, no black rituals or daemons of old forgotten nightmares; the sole difference was instead of the Emperor, the Fists were now loyal to Dorn and the Lion, in that order. No one ever had any reason to suspect the Seventh of anything remotely approaching treachery, and that was how Dorn preferred it. Inwardly though, he worried, for the Lion was just as inscrutable as the Emperor. Would their rebellion truly be enough to topple their father? Part of Dorn still missed the old times, his idealistic nature struggling to accept that those days were gone, but could still come again under the Lion. The colors of the legion began to change, the golden-yellow fading to stone gray, while their gauntlets became blood red, an unwittingly-ironic mirror of the hated Night Lords. Many legionaries joined the ranks of the Templar Brethren, shackling their weapons to their bodies and swearing powerful oaths to slaughter all who disparaged their legion. Small detachments of these Templars, forces who could be utterly relied upon, began to disperse throughout the galaxy, gathering data on their current and future foes. Thus when the Lion finally called upon them, the Imperial Fists were ready.

As befit a legion looking to reclaim their position of glory and honor, the first steps on the path to Terra lay through the parade grounds of the world of Davin. Across the vast, lifeless plains, countless Astartes marched under banners which bore symbols not only of their legion but also the winged sword of the First Legion. At the head of this Traitor's Triumph, Dorn stood alongside four of his brothers, his surprise at how many legions the Lion had won to their cause mixed with disgust that Perturabo had been one of them. He had not seen these siblings in many years, and it was clear that in their time apart they had been changed by more than just the passing of the years. Dorn stood at one edge of the parapet, as far from the Lord of Iron as possible, and thus the brother nearest to him was Magnus the Red. The Master of the Fists was unsure how his brother had escaped their father's clutches, but it was clearly through the use of his psychic powers, for he now gave off the same stench as many of the witches and sorcerers purged during the Great Crusade. Across from Magnus sat the Lion, elevated upon a pitch black throne from which he could oversee the entire parade, a position of power Dorn was not entirely comfortable with as his brother was far too inscrutable for his liking. On the opposite side of the obsidian throne stood Fulgrim, whose disheveled appearance shocked Dorn the most. Ashen flakes sloughed off his rusty armor, blackened like soot, which hung loosely off his thin frame. It almost seemed as though he had a disease, and looking down at the Emperor's Children formations below, it appeared many of them had the same condition. Not for the first time Dorn wondered whether he had made a mistake, and as if reading his thoughts, the Lion turned to stare at him, and gave him a soft smile, an expression which chilled Dorn to the bone. Far below, the Imperial Fists marched, free of their father's concerns and ready to reclaim the glory which they saw as so rightfully theirs.

After the conclusion of the Triumph, almost all cohesion in the gathered forces began to break down. Both the Fourth and Seventh Legions recognized the drive for Terra as a chance to show up their rival, and began jockeying to depart the system first so as to get a head start. However, there was much work to be done before they could even think of assaulting the Throneworld so as to avoid being ensnared from behind by the might of the entire Imperium. The northwestern approaches were given over to the Third and Seventh Legions, and so accompanied by forces he would have rather avoided, Dorn began his conquests. The combined might of two legions moved like a sledgehammer from Ultima Segmentum into Segmentum Obscurus, skirting the edge of Segmentum Solar as they moved to form a contravallation of systems under their control. However, dead worlds were just as useful as compliant worlds, for according to Fulgrim, the deaths of billions fueled the Warp storms which slowed loyal reinforcements, a school of thought which led their foes to dub them the 'Crimson Fists'. A year passed, Dorn found himself caring less and less about the worlds which burned beneath his wrath, an apathy which seemed to increase whenever he was around his brother. By this time, their rapid advance stretched around half of Segmentum Solar, unchecked by any coherent defense.

However, Dorn's attention soon turned away from this thankless but necessary task. It was clear that something was affecting his Third Legion allies, some Warpborn malady that he had no wish to see infect his own troops. In addition, mocking missives from Perturabo had made it clear he believed he was winning in terms of conquests, something Dorn could not allow. Thus the Fists departed from the Emperor's Children, leaving them to continue establishing the contravallation around Segmentum Solar, while they themselves split into dozens of battlegroups in the hopes of increasing their victory count. Of all the legions, the Seventh had always had the largest void fleet in terms of tonnage, totaling nearly fifteen hundred vessels of various sizes, and so they scattered to the stars. The largest of these remained under the command of Dorn himself, transferring his flags to the Monarch of Fire, a flagship much more nimble than the mighty Phalanx, and so they moved toward Segmentum Tempestus. The Fists struck out in every direction, swiftly conquering hundreds of systems in order to forcefully annex them to a new polity, the Inwit Star Empire. The Segmentum defenses proved to be no match for the assault of a legion, and soon the bulk of the galactic south fell under traitor control, a massive swathe of territory stretching from Segmentum Pacificus to the borders of Ultramar. However, Dorn's new empire was a tenuous thing at best, immediately falling under assault from all sides. From the north, Imperial forces sought to push out from Segmentum Solar, the vast defensive network known as Bastion Omega blunting the advance northward. To the east, a chance encounter with Konrad Curze upon the world of Estaban III led to a humiliating personal defeat for Dorn, who pulled his forces back lest his brother attack him again before hashing all accounts of the event.

However, the biggest threat to the Inwit Star Cluster came not from these conventional forces, but from a more slippery foe: the Raven Guard. Dorn had long since written off the Raven Guard as a spent force after learning of Corax's fate, but it appeared his sons had not properly understood the lesson taught them by the World Eaters. Dorn's empire now stretched between Terra and Deliverance, the Nineteenth's homeworld, but curiously it appeared as though the Raven Guard were not attempting to reach the Throneworld, but rather cause as much damage as possible through irregular warfare. Whether their cause was that of misguided loyalty or simple spite, Dorn tasked his legion to stamp out these pests, and so the bulk of the Seventh put their might toward carrying out their father's will. The armies of the Nineteenth and Twentieth, the so-called Blackshields, could not have numbered more than a twentieth of the forces Dorn could bring to bear, but their mobility and expertise in this type of warfare was simply unmatched, and their talent for decapitation strikes led to the deaths of many officers. Thus while the Crimson Fists had grown to nearly double their size before the Heresy as a result of having so many worlds to recruit from, their effectiveness began to rapidly diminish when facing off against a true enemy such as another legion. However, no Astartes regardless of experience was a match for a primarch, and when Dorn took to the field personally aboard the Phalanx, the Imperial forces were dealt a crushing blow at the Battle of Aleusis.

Satisfied that his foe had finally been crushed, Dorn returned to administering his empire, tasking Captain Alexis Polux with hunting down the last of the Blackshields. In the west, the bulk of the legion under the command of First Captain Sigismund whittled away at the Imperial defenders of Bastion Omega. Sigismund led his men from the front, stalking the battlefield in search of commanders and champions to lay low. Many of the forces under his command began to idolize him for his peerless skill, both as a consummate swordsman and as a commander, and his name became a terror to the Imperial Army garrisons forced to fight him. The First Captain handled every aspect of the warfront, even going so far as to treat with other primarchs on Dorn's behalf, handling negotiations and discussing strategy with primarchs such as Magnus the Red. With the aid of the Crimson King, Sigismund led a daring raid upon the Solar System itself, slipping far behind enemy lines by traveling far above the galactic plane in hidden Warp routes, and soon his legend began to eclipse that of his own father. Far to the east, Dorn received only periodic updates on the status of the war, and as Sigismund seemed to have everything well in hand, he turned his attention toward fortifying his eastern marches against a far more irksome foe: the Despotate of Olympia. Perturabo's spies had no doubt kept him informed of the movements of all his enemies, Dorn included, and had built up his own domain in response. The Lord of Iron's empire stretched across the bulk of Ultima Segmentum, bounded only by natural barriers such as the galactic core and the Ruinstorm and pressing ever closer to border Dorn's own empire. Though the two primarchs were nominally united beneath the banner of the Lion, both sides knew their peace could not last forever, and remained perpetually in a cold war, seeking to outdo each other. As the Leonine Heresy dragged on, Dorn began to focus his attention more and more on Perturabo, and even news of the destruction of Chemos, homeworld of Dorn's nominal ally the Star Hunters, at the hands of a now-resurgent Raven Guard, did not draw his attention away, for the armies of the Fifth Legion were inexperienced auxiliaries at best. No, a far more tempting opportunity had presented itself: the Baal Cluster.

Through communications with the Lion, Dorn had learned the Ninth Legion had committed themselves to the Warp entity known as Khorne, the god of war. While Rogal did not believe in anything remotely approaching the concept of a deity, it was hard to refute the evidence of the Ninth Legion's transformation. The sons of Sanguinius had long been savage fighters, but now they took bloodshed to another level entirely, as evidenced by the pict-recordings Dorn had obtained of various slaughters in the Eastern Fringe. Evidence suggested that the bulk of the Blood Angels were operating under Sanguinius's direction, a trail of destruction steadily moving across the northeastern sectors of the galaxy. However, it was also confirmed that a significant part of the Ninth had retained the order expected of an Astartes, and now operated under the command of one Nassir Amit, the so-called Flesh Tearer. More importantly, Dorn had learned Amit's forces had clashed with forces of the Despotate; if he could form even a loose partnership, Perturabo would be forced to move more of his forces to the north, thus giving Dorn a golden opportunity to expand his domain at the expense of his rival. Thus the Phalanx along with a small escort fleet set off for Baal, an irritatingly slow journey which took them all the way around the galactic core, battering its way through storms which slowed their progress significantly. While other allied fleets reported a significant increase in Warp speed after turning their backs on the Imperium, Dorn's forces had experienced no such effect. They were more mobile than the Imperial forces, but not nearly as mobile as forces which openly sacrificed and worshiped the so-called Powers of Chaos. Dorn had attempted many times to study these entities, along with the concept of psychic powers, but had little luck. However, none were more tenacious, or stubborn as some would say, than Rogal Dorn, and so he refused to give up, absorbing all the knowledge he could when the opportunity presented itself.

After bulling through the storms on the path to Baal, Dorn's temper was indeed something to behold when he learned Amit was not even present at Baal. However, something far more unexpected was waiting for them: a fleet of Space Wolf vessels. The sons of Russ had long been written off as a spent force much like the Raven Guard, the bulk of their legion including their primarch hurled into the trackless depths of the Warp by Magnus the Red before the Heresy had even officially begun. However, the Sixth Legion was more renowned for their ferocity than their intelligence, and it appeared they were intent on obtaining revenge by destroying another legion's homeworld. Though outnumbered by the Blood Angels forces, the Sixth moved far more cohesively, their ships hunting in a pack as they picked off outlying traitor vessels one by one, and it was clear to all that the battle would soon be theirs. Or at least, it would have been, had it not been for the arrival of the Phalanx. No vessel, not even a Gloriana-class battleship had there been one present, could stand up to the might of Dorn's flagship, and thus he took bitter satisfaction in crushing these unfortunate sons of Russ. However, as though conjured by wishful thinking, one appeared. While the Phalanx was in the midst of breaking the Imperial ships one by one, scouts began to report the arrival of a new vessel, one bearing the colors of the Fourteenth Legion. Dorn's ships began to fall as the Terminus Est assault force smashed its way through their lines, but even it could not halt Dorn's Daughter, which began to flay the interloper with contemptuous ease. However, the Death Guard ship did not slow as it approached, its escorts hurling themselves into the way to keep safe the accelerating Terminus Est, which appeared to be overheating its drives in an attempt to close with them. Dorn frowned as the realization of what they were attempting dawned on him, his confusion turning to horror as he contemplated what the death of such a mighty vessel would do to an unprotected ship. Only the reactions of a primarch saved the flagship of the Seventh Legion from the explosive death of the Death Guard's vessel that day as Dorn moved faster than the eye could see across the width of the bridge to hurriedly activate the station's Gellar Field. The rest of the Astartes aboard the bridge realized the implications, reacting with panic as the protective shield crawled up the flanks of the mighty vessel to finally envelop it. By the time the Phalanx was finally protected, a vast chunk of its hull had been ripped away, a deep scar ten kilometers in length now gouged in place of dozens of decks and compartments. Only Dorn's quick reaction had saved his vessel from being torn to pieces by the Death Guard's desperate attempt to take him with them, as had happened to dozens of Blood Angels vessels, whose shattered hulls now filled the void around them on all sides. When the auspex and other sensors were finally operational again, the Space Wolves were nowhere to be seen, a seeming impossibility as no vessel of that size could have made it to the Mandeville Point in the time their sensors were down.

Dorn's irritation was only further compounded by the events which unfolded over the next few weeks. As the Phalanx sat in orbit above Baal repairing the deep wounds left by the battle, a vessel of the First Legion entered the system, bearing none other than Paladin Corswain, an emissary from the Lion who demanded the Seventh cease their conflicts with the Fourth and attend to the will of the Archtraitor. The time to break the Imperial defenses once and for all was fast approaching, but before then, certain preparations had to be done. Corswain informed the primarch that his new task was to gather the disparate forces sworn to the Lion, from the countless trillions of Traitor Army soldiers to the scattered and leaderless Star Hunters, still reeling from the loss of their homeworld. Dorn scoffed, demanding to know why he should complete such a thankless task, but it was clear the Lion had anticipated such a response, for the missives Corswain carried made it very clear the price of disobedience. Reminded of his oaths of loyalty, Dorn had no other choice than to obey, especially as Corswain's vessel remained docked within the Phalanx as an unwelcome guest.

A Bastion Shattered: The Battle of Verzagen

The return journey back to Inwit passed much more smoothly than Dorn's previous sojourn in the Warp. When the primarch expressed as much to Corswain, the Emissary made it quite clear that the Seventh's lack of commitment to the powers of Chaos were hampering them. However, if Corswain thought to tempt Dorn by informing him Perturabo had already begun to utilize the tools of the Warp, he was sorely mistaken; if anything, Dorn's resolve to remain in control only solidified after witnessing the rampant mutations Corswain's Possessed bodyguards exhibited. Once back on his perpetually frozen homeworld, Rogal issued a summons throughout his fiefdom, and so the might of a stellar empire strained to obey. Across the southern rim of the galaxy, tens of thousands of worlds across thousands of systems began to pool their resources in preparation for the coming offensive. Trillions began to starve to death as their food supplies and energy resources were requisitioned to feed the countless Traitor Army regiments mustering upon select worlds until the time came for them to join the fight. Recruiters bearing the banner of the Lion traveled from world to world, sweeping up the Lost and the Damned and all the pitiful refuse they could find: mutants, beastmen, hereteks, all were welcome in the Angelic Host, as the traitor military was ironically termed. To the east of Inwit and south of the galactic center, Dorn's scouts sought out the scattered Fifth Legion, the Star Hunters. Fate had not been kind to the sons of Jaghatai: betrayed by the capricious Guilliman, the Wanderer of Chemos had been slain and his sons hunted for sport by the Ultramarines. Most of the legion had been killed within Ultramar, unable to escape the depths of the Ruinstorm, and their homeworld had been destroyed by the Blackshields.

Nonetheless, the Lion's missive made it quite clear that the Archtraitor believed tens of thousands of Jaghatai's sons still remained. It was likely that most were nothing but new recruits of poor quality, rapidly inducted to quickly stave off the legion's extinction, but the Fifth was far from the only legion to have done so. The Crimson Fists themselves (a disparaging term appropriated from the loyalists as a point of spite) had taken in many new aspirants to make up for their losses against the Blackshields, though a substantial core of veterans still remained, including the massive forces of the Templar Brethren under the command of Sigismund. Dorn had attempted to summon the First Captain back to Inwit, but the Black Knight had actually refused, his astropathic message stating that the Lion had given him orders to keep up the pressure. Legends of the primarch's wrath that day have survived to the present day, and it is said his temper did not fully subside until the arrival of the Flesh Tearers. In order to aid the Fists in gathering the scattered Fifth, the Lion sent one of the traitors' most competent generals, Nassir Amit, the sole Blood Angel of any prominence to have not given himself fully over to worship of the Ruinous Powers. Dorn and Amit got along well, both recognizing each other's obvious military skill, and within the course of a year, the bulk of the Fifth Legion had been gathered, rooted out from the worlds they had claimed by force. Now bearing the appellation of White Scars, the sons of Jaghatai were led by Captain Saul Tarvitz, one of the few veteran officers still alive, who had escaped the destruction of Chemos by being offworld at the time, and soon the White Scars were ready for deployment.

With his forces now gathered, Dorn relayed his state of readiness through Corswain to the Lion, and the reply came quickly, summoning Dorn and his armies to join forces in preparation to take the Verzagen System. Once known as Alpha-Centauri, the triple star system located to the south of Terra had long been a vital staging ground for the Great Crusade, and as it sat at the heart of a stable Warp route directly into the Solar System itself, was sure to be highly defended. In order to seize such a valuable system, the Lion had tasked a mighty army composed of hundreds of thousands of Astartes from multiple legions. From the Prosperine Dominion came forty-five thousand witch-lords of the Thousand Sons under command of Aforgomon the Fatewoven, a sorcerer of rare skill whose very presence made Dorn suspicious; the Master of the Fists himself brought nearly sixty thousand of his sons, though this total was but half of his levies, for another ten thousand of his sons remained to garrison the Inwit Star Empire. The remaining fifty thousand were already deployed elsewhere under the command of Sigismund, a pinning force to keep the Sons of Horus trapped in the Trisolian Salient and unable to reinforce their allies; in their place mustered twenty thousand Flesh Tearers and fifty thousand White Scars. However, even this potent force paled in comparison to the final legion preparing to give battle, for at the head of this massive gathering stood the Archtraitor Lion El'Jonson himself, accompanied by over a hundred and five thousand of his sons. Dorn's logistical genius was further strained by the mortal soldiery totaling some thirty trillion men, women, and mutants divided into a dizzying array of regiments, divisions, and corps from tens of thousands of worlds from across the Inwit Star Cluster. Elsewhere, the mighty Titan Legios missed out on such a grand muster, along with the rest of the Traitor Astartes for they had been deployed elsewhere at the Beta-Garmon Cluster, the major eastern Warp-route into the Solar System. There the bulk of the New Mechanicum forces and the remaining traitor legions gathered as part of the two-pronged push designed to finally break Bastion Omega, an unstoppable force acting as the beginning of the end for the Emperor and his misguided lapdogs.

The Lion himself had little interest in directing the campaign, ceding control to the only other primarch present, Dorn, in what proved to be more of a burden than an honor. The Astartes legions were far from the organized machine that they had been during the Great Crusade, and many now sought to follow their own desires rather than remain within the confines of the order Dorn attempted to establish. His patience running thin, the Lord of the Fists began to take a more direct approach, disposing of those who refused to obey while threatening others with a similar fate. With a somewhat tenuous peace established, Dorn began to minimize the chance of a mutiny, beginning the first stages of his grand battleplan with an echelon assault to test the Imperial defenses. Acting upon information acquired by the sorcerers of the Fifteenth, the first wave consisted of the White Scars, whose speed and savagery more than made up for their inexperience. The loyalists quickly adapted, dispersing their forces to hunt down and pursue the lightning-fast outriders, but such a move only played into Dorn's hands. With their forces now spread thin, the loyalists were dealt a crushing blow by the next wave which consisted of the Crimson Fists and the bulk of the mortal soldiery accompanying them. The Fists's numerical superiority meant they could besiege all three fortress worlds simultaneously, though their allies took appalling casualties in the attempt. The time Dorn had spent wrangling the forces under his command had reduced their supply dangerously low, and while Astartes could subsist on the slimmest of rations, the Angelic Host could not. Cannibalism swept through the Inwit Army regiments as quickly as Chaos-worship, both practices only encouraged by the rest of Dorn's allies, who had already given themselves to the so-called gods. In space, the dogged resistance of the Death Guard punished the disorganized armada with grim efficiency, often achieving fifteen to one kill ratios against their demoralized foes. Only fear kept Dorn's mortal auxiliaries hurling themselves into the fight, for advancing behind all the vast armada came the Phalanx and the attendant vessels of the Seventh Legion, executing all that fell behind or attempted to flee, loyalist and traitor alike.

However, despite the countless forces brought to bear, the loyalists still hung on. The arrival of the Dark Angels should have been the decisive factor, but reports soon came in of a Sixth Legion counterattack that stopped their advance in its tracks. Prolonged far beyond any reasonable expectations, the battle of Verzagen began to cost both sides far more than what the system was actually worth. The primary causes of death began to shift, combat attrition giving way to disease and starvation, and soon the only effective units were the Astartes legions. War had rendered the worlds of Alpha Centauri utterly worthless, the constant bombardment from both sides leveling mountains and boiling oceans until there was nothing left but bunkers and trenches, the soldiers inside stubbornly clinging on past all sanity. Nevertheless, this was the sort of war in which the Seventh Legion excelled, and Dorn made sure to keep the Lion well-informed of his sons' progress. The prospect of becoming Praetorian and humiliating Perturabo was incredibly enticing, and through careful allocation of his rapidly-dwindling resources, Dorn finally broke the loyalist defenses. Verzagen was now fully in the hands of the Lion: the Alpha Centauri star system and all its satellites had been thoroughly soaked in oceans of blood and covered in corpses, including nearly twenty-five trillion mortals; of the just-under three hundred thousand or so Astartes, nearly a third had perished. The Lion remained impassive as Dorn read him the casualty figures, congratulating his brother on his achievement before ordering him to fortify the system in preparation for the final drive on Terra. Supplies soon began to flow into Alpha Centauri, the resources of the Inwit Star Empire drained of all they could spare to rebuild the broken Verzagen into a world worthy of the new Master of Mankind. Convoys beyond counting streamed in and out of the system, protected by the outriders of the White Scars and Flesh Tearers, and Dorn's own forces were soon replenished with the arrival of Sigismund's forces, fresh from their successful conquest of Trisolian in the wake of Lupercal's retreat.

Other legions began to trickle in, including brothers Rogal had not seen since Davin seven years earlier. Mutual distrust pervaded the gathered forces, an army united only by their allegiance to the Lion and hatred of the Emperor. In the course of tallying the forces at the Lion's disposal, Dorn was incensed to learn of the cost incurred at Beta-Garmon. The destruction of nearly every Titan sworn to their cause as a result of Perturabo's wasteful tactics was severely detrimental to Dorn's strategy, and coupled with the loss of so many Army regiments at Verzagen meant the Siege of Terra would be an Astartes affair. Nearly a million post-humans from the Nine legions gathered aboard the tens of thousands of vessels orbiting Verzagen, chomping at the bit to be unleashed upon the False Emperor, but one final task remained before they could depart. A towering fane dominated the center of the encampment, a structure built to the specifications provided to the Crimson Fists by Paladin Corswain, who even now stood atop an altar the size of an Ordinatus siege engine.

Doing his best not to breathe too deeply, Dorn stood beside Fulgrim, impatiently tapping his feet as Corswain whipped the crowds into a frenzy. The floor of the temple was awash with loyalist blood, both mortal and Astartes, preliminary sacrifices in the name of the Lion's patrons. Standing opposite the two primarchs across the vast sacrarium were Perturabo and Guilliman, the Lord of Iron's scorn as palpable as the thoroughly repulsive aura radiating from the Battle-King of Ultramar. Both Guilliman and Fulgrim were now creatures of the Immaterium, whose contagious insanity seemed to have infected all but Dorn himself. Even the Lord of Caliban was different, his mental state seemed questionable at best, for the day before, El'Jonson had approached him, demanding his Pain Glove. Even Rogal's instinctual refusal was quickly worn away, the Lion's aura of authority and power seemingly grew by the hour, and Rogal wondered how long it would be before he too was reborn like their brothers.

As Dorn ruminated on how exactly it had all come to this, his attention was brought back to the present by the sound of armored boots. The Lion had arrived, quickly moving to the center of the stage with his typical brusqueness, and Corswain's pontificating cut off abruptly, replaced by the screech of voxcaster feedback. Across Verzagen, the Nine Legions watched their viewscreens with bated breath as the Archtraitor and Architect of the Leonine Heresy knelt beside his son at the center of the altar. Despite the silence, Dorn was mystified that he could not hear the words spoken by the Lord of Caliban to his favored son, and judging by Guilliman's frustrated countenance, even the creatures of the Warp were equally unable.

Curiosity soon turned to morbid fascination as the Lion removed a tiny knife from an armor pouch, its simple flint blade standing in utter contrast to the finery which surrounded it. In a swift motion, the Lion opened his son's throat, a sudden rush of sound filling the fane as Corswain's rich red vitae sprayed across the altar. The Paladin had evidently not expected this, judging by his horrified expression, and nor had the other primarchs, whose faces showed similar looks of surprise and alarm. Dorn's attention however soon drifted from the dying Astartes, staring intently at the Lion, for he had always seen more deeply than his brothers. Was that sadness he detected? Or was it something else?

The Sundering: The Siege of Terra

"Not one stone shall be left upon another, that shall not be thrown down." Unknown author, M1

Though such an action would have appalled Rogal a decade ago, the harsh reality of the war meant he understood all too well what the Lion had done. Like Agamemnon at Aulis, the Lord of Caliban had sacrificed one very dear to him in order to obtain safe passage, and even as the blood spilled from Corswain's lifeless body, the first ships began to enter the Warp, the swarm of dots in the sky beginning to lessen as hundreds of ships left reality. The Lion met Dorn's gaze one final time before departing the altar, and so the assembled primarchs went their separate ways, no thought of camaraderie or brotherhood given in the shadow of the task they were about to face. The journey through the Warp was impossibly swift and orderly, tens of thousands of vessels remaining in close proximity to emerge as one deep within the heart of the Solar System. With the Phalanx at the heart of his vast fleet, Dorn's forces were the anchor around which the rest of the traitor armada centered themselves, an unstoppable wedge which smashed through the Sons of Horus, who were unprepared to face a fleet of their size emerging unexpectedly. Dorn's brilliant tactical mind quickly analyzed their situation as they exited the Warp portal stretching across the Great Red Spot. Based on Jupiter's rotational velocity, they had less than two hours before their ships would be forced to spill out facing away from Terra, easy pickings for the loyalist defenses located upon every moon.

Thus the Phalanx and all her attendants began to strain their engines, desperately struggling to break free of Jupiter's gravity. It appeared the Iron Warriors had done their jobs for once, for most of the moons were silent, ringed by debris fields of shattered vessels, and so the shields of the Seventh Legion held firm against the pitifully few shots sent their way. Lupercal's sons were soon in full retreat, but Dorn was not taking any chances, leaving Captain Archamus in control of the Phalanx as it led the rest of his sons to advance steadily across the Asteroid Belt. Meanwhile, Dorn himself led a small detachment to investigate Saturn. According to allied reports, the gas giant had remained shrouded and impassable since they arrived, but Rogal was not willing to leave such a large gap in their defenses. As the rest of his sons swept through the Imperial defenses like an inexorable tide, Dorn's small fleet scoured the stormy sheath that covered Saturn, seeking some sort of ingress or access. For weeks Dorn pondered the ever-shifting colors of this obstacle, unwilling to hurl his ships into the storm without some idea of where they were going, but his patience was running thin. As the Lord of the Fists meditated within his chambers, reality shifted.

"Hello, Rogal," came a tired voice Dorn would have recognized anywhere. Opening his eyes, the primarch saw the hunched, robed figure to whom the voice belonged.

"How did you get on my ship?" Dorn demanded. The Regent smiled softly.

"This is a vision, Rogal. I have come to beg you to change your course before it is too late. You alone have this choice, for your father understands what you have been through."

"He understands nothing. I served the Imperium loyally for centuries, and was repaid with betrayal. Curze and Lorgar flout his decrees without penalty, whereas my sons and I are insulted and demeaned."

"Please, Rogal. The Lion has been manipulating you, filling your head with lies. The Second and the Eleventh…"

"Do not speak to me about them. I know you have manipulated my mind to hide their fate from me."

"That is not the case. You, yourself, Rogal…"

"Enough! I have heard your prattle for too long." Dorn roared. "You will not turn me from my path!" Drawing his chainsword, Dorn swiped it at Malcador's frail torso, but to his frustration, the blade passed right through him. The Regent sighed.

"This is only a vision, Rogal, I am not actually here. Your choice saddens me, but do not say I did not warn you."

The vision vanished, just as sudden as it had come, and Dorn found himself alone in his chambers once more. The Regent's words had cast a shadow of doubt upon his heart: if the old man had managed to reach out to him, he must be close. However, there was no telling what awaited them within Saturn. The Regent's preparations were no doubt defensive rather than offensive, and so could be dealt with at a later date, such as after Terra fell. Thus Dorn gave the order to return to the rest of the fleet, which even now had pressed past Mars to give battle above Luna. Though Dorn had left Archamus in command, few were paying him any heed other than to avoid the unstoppable momentum of the Phalanx. No, the Crimson Fists were following in the wake of a far more charismatic individual: Sigismund. The First Captain was death incarnate, the Eternal Crusader an unstoppable spear cast into the heart of the enemy's defenses. Upon Luna itself, he moved with incredible speed and finesse, each duel ending in seconds as he decapitated any foolish enough to face him. Sigismund had one goal in mind: the laboratories of the Selenar Gene-Cults, whose vaults held a treasure beyond compare. With the gene-seed of all the legions at his disposal, Sigismund would hold a valuable bargaining chip, for he could see all too well that this alliance would not last forever. No, the future would hold only war, and Sigismund was determined to come out on top, no matter who he had to kill to do so.

By the time Dorn's small fleet had arrived, the last of the Imperial navy had long since been broken, its shattered remnants now fled far from Terra in hopes of escape. Only the Lion's will had kept the assembled hosts from throwing themselves at Terra immediately, as even Dorn's disciplined sons had become restless with their goal so close at hand. All sought the glory of being the first to land upon Terra, but the defenses would have to be softened up first. After weeks of preliminary bombardment, the first dropships began to descend, containing millions of mortal chaff, who would wreak havoc in preparation for the main offensive. Many of these vessels contained Inwitian regiments, veterans of Verzagen and dozens of other campaigns, and their discipline gave them a decisive edge over foes expecting the disorganized rabble that made up so much of the attacking force. When the order for the drop pod assault came, the Seventh Legion were among the first to disembark upon Terra itself, quickly assembling into formation to begin the brutal slog through the outer slums which spread for hundreds of square kilometers around the Palace. Far above, the elite troops of the First Assault Cadre led by High Executioner Fafnir Rann prepared for their time to strike.

High Executioner Fafnir Rann

Born upon Inwin in the Tribe of Rann, the boy known as Fafnir was raised to hate the Clan of Dorn. From a young age, Fafnir knew he was a Chosen One, and so had fearlessly led raids against the enemies of his tribe in search of resources on their rapidly-cooling planet. The arrival of the Emperor saw Rann and many others inducted into the Imperial Fists regardless of their feelings toward Dorn, and Rann quickly rose through the ranks to become Lord Senechal and commander of the First Assault Cadre. Rann's proclivity toward close combat and dislike of the primarch made him a natural choice to fight alongside First Captain Sigismund's forces during the Heresy, and the two became close allies. The Siege of Trisolian created a lasting grudge between the High Executioner and the Sons of Horus due to how many loyalist champions fell to his twin power axes, including Grael Noctua. Equally bitter were the grudges he fostered with the Iron Warriors at the command of Sigismund, a practice which would lead to open war between the First Assault Cadre and the Second Grand Battalion of Warsmith Kroeger at the Battle of the Raven's Gate.

By Dorn's estimation, the Siege of Terra would need to be concluded within two more months. Reports from the eastern edges of his empire indicated the loyalist legions had already escaped the confines of Guilliman's Ruinstorm, and had begun to probe the defenses he had left behind in search of the quickest route to Terra. More importantly though was the dearth of ammo: while Mars was now back under their control, the Ultramarines were far from an ideal master of the Red World, and most of its forges had been wrecked beyond any immediate hope of repair. The forces under his command alone outnumbered the loyalists, but that also came with a correspondingly high rate of supply issues: energy weapons were theoretically endless, but weapons which used physical ammunition, from the humble bolter to the siege engines which lobbed shells the size of hab-blocks, were already on the point of starvation. The loyalists were highly tenacious, their positions well-fortified beneath the mighty Aegis, an energy shield neither Dorn nor Perturabo had as of yet been able to breach. So long as it stood, their daemonic brethren would be unable to lend their aid within the Palace itself, but that did not mean their mortal sons were so limited. However, since the beginning of the assault, the other legions had refused to lend their aid, and so only the Crimson Fists and what few auxiliaries they could scrounge or impress into service were left to hurl themselves at the Palace Walls in a race to beat the Iron Warriors who were faring much the same in other sectors. When the Siege of Terra began, Dorn had initially given his sons strict orders to avoid conflict with the Fourth Legion, both a courtesy to a nominal ally as well as an attempt to avoid infighting. However, it appeared Perturabo had different plans in mind, for as the Seventh Legion contravallation encircled the northern half of the Imperial Palace, reports of sabotage and friendly fire began to roll in.

High above Terra within the protective safety of the Phalanx, Rogal gave his commanders full authority to deal with intruders in whatever manner they saw fit, for he had no time to deal with such minutiae during this siege to end all sieges. Thus it was on his own initiative that when Captain Rann learned the Iron Warriors were close to seizing the Raven's Gate Spaceport, he did not hesitate to undertake his own attempt to achieve victory even at the expense of his nominal ally. Tens of thousands of Imperial Fists rallied to his call, eager to win the glory of taking the primary route into the Palace. Caught by surprise, the Iron Warriors were sent fleeing, and Rann spent the next few days personally hunting down the last remaining foes, both loyalist forces and Kroeger's men still clinging on within the vast holds of the spaceport. However, little attention was given to this success, for no praise was forthcoming from Dorn, whose time was still spent managing the disparate forces of his nominal allies throughout the planet, many of whom were worse than useless. The Ultramarines had landed in the western hemisphere, half a world away from the Palace, and quickly began to lose far too many troops to ambushes from the hated Alpha Legion, and the White Scars were all but useless against fortified walls. The bulk of the Blood Angels were lost to rage, slaughtering their way across the entire Afrik continent, while the Emperor's Children would not obey his calls to abandon their ravages of the Xinic Hives. Nor would the Dark Angels aid in the Siege, continuing to busy themselves digging up something in the deserts far to the west of the Palace. Thus as Quartus turned into Quintus, the Imperial Fists were on their own, occasionally diverting from their endless Siege to aid their allies before returning to break down still more of the seemingly-endless walls that still stood between them and the heart of the Inner Palace. As the rivers of blood became oceans and the hills of bodies became mountains, a deep-seated resentment began to grow within the Seventh Legion, hatred and anger at their supposed allies, as well as their long-absent father who had left them to bear the cost of the Siege and who would no doubt show himself at the end to steal some of the glory.

Nowhere was this change more evident than in Sigismund. When the Siege began, the First Captain was full of passion and fury as always, eager to face the champions of other legions in the glory of combat. Yet such foes were few and far between, and each unworthy kill seemed to eat away at him until there was nothing left but cold hatred. None had ever bested him in a duel save for Sevatar of the Eighth and that strange False Salamander upon Pluto, and from the foes he now faced, it appeared none would. As the weeks passed, Sigismund continued to hunt for a worthy foe, dueling Astartes from almost every legion, friend and foe alike, as command of the legion on the ground began to fall lower and lower as senior commanders died in the most intense siege in human history. High above, Dorn's fury reached its apex as a foul stratagem, no doubt from Perturabo, saw a daemon manifest within the Phalanx itself, which threatened to destroy his flagship in a fiery explosion which would have irreparably shattered his lines. After dispatching the creature, Rogal descended to the surface of Terra to take personal command for the first time, where his sons had finally entered the Inner Palace in the wake of the confusion caused by the simultaneous assault of the Third, Fifth, and Ninth Legions, none of whom had consulted him before making their attacks. Through the vast gaps in the Mercury Wall streamed thousands of legionaries, no longer stymied by the towering fortifications due to the efforts of the traitor titans, and at their head was Rogal Dorn himself. The Lord of the Fists had never been considered one of the strongest amongst his brothers, but he was still a primarch, and none could stand before him, though many tried. Hundreds of loyalist Astartes fell to bar his path, desperately attempting to slow him as he marched down the halls of his father's house, accompanied by an armored wedge of terminators who struggled to keep pace with him. Down and down he slaughtered his way into the depths of the Palace, his chainsword Storm's Teeth shredding through bodies and walls alike as he vented his rage in a maddened search for his brothers or father. Yet none of them ever showed themselves, though new foes continued to present themselves as though they were eager to die.

Even amidst his hatred and rage, Rogal had to admit his father had chosen his bodyguards well. This latest group, consisting of five Custodian Companions, were the first of their kind to confront him, and to their credit, they had managed to slow him for far longer than the Astartes before them. It was just the five of them and him now, the rest of his sons dying along the way or becoming separated in the endless maze that Vulkan had made of the Palace. They fought with perfect precision, always managing to keep one or two in his path to act as pillars barring the way, while the others constantly slid around to strike from every angle. However, even they were no match for a primarch, as attested by the damage they had suffered. One lay dying upon the ground, and would no doubt require internment in a dreadnought if not for the fact none would survive this day, while the others had discarded their armor piece by piece as it became ruined with each swipe of Dorn's blade. The vox crackled.

"My Lord Primarch."

"What is it, Archamus?"

"You must return to the Phalanx, my lord. Our lines still hold, but the Eighth Legion has arrived. The Seventeenth is right behind them, our allies flee." Dorn stepped back from the melee, quickly analyzing the situation to determine the best course of action. For the first time in hours, the roar of Storm's Teeth died down, and without another word, he began to return the way he came.

Accompanying Dorn into the depths of the Imperial Palace were the vast majority of the Seventh Legion terminators. Their deaths were an irreplaceable loss to the Imperial Fists, an absence quickly noticed by the forces defending the Raven's Gate. After High Executioner Rann had seized the spaceport, he had moved on, eager to return to the battle, leaving behind only a skeleton force which was further weakened when Dorn withdrew all terminators from their ranks. While Dorn was in the Palace, this paltry force was quickly overwhelmed by the arrival of a new and unexpected foe: the Death Guard. The few Fists present were no match for the Primarch Mortarion, and within three days, the bulk of the spaceport was back in loyalist hands, including the vital docks atop the superstructure. Without these vital landing sites, no more titans or siege engines could be landed with any real speed, a setback which Rann knew the Lion would not receive too kindly. Should the Everchosen learn of their failure, he may well have tasked the Iron Warriors to retake it in their stead, a blow to legion pride which would see heads roll. Thus the First Assault Cadre descended upon the Raven's Gate once more, though this time they were not alone. Psykers remained incredibly scarce within the Seventh Legion through some quirk of fate, and those that were available were specialized in the use of geomancy, a discipline somewhat less useful in a structure towering hundreds of kilometers above the ground. Thus instead of their own brothers, the Fists were accompanied by sorcerers of the Fifth Legion, whose unnatural arts altered the flow of time and pierced the Immaterial barriers. Daemons beyond count began to spill into the halls of the spaceport, unimpeded by the Aegis, the protective barrier which had once shrouded the whole Palace but now covered only the core structures such as the Bhab Bastion. Though the Death Guard were vastly outnumbered, they clung on with dogged resistance, forcing Sigismund to divert more forces to aid the First Assault Cadre, which took heavy losses before eventually giving up the fight due to outside circumstances.

When Dorn returned to the surface, he had no time for sideshows like the spaceport, for his primarchial mind quickly recognized the space battle as the true threat. If these new arrivals were able to secure void supremacy, the battle would become utterly hopeless, a fact many of the other legions had noticed as well. A panicked scrum had broken out in other areas of the upper atmosphere as thousands of vessels crewed by mortals blindly fired upon everything they saw, terrified of the prospect of being trapped by the second wave of loyalist reinforcements that would no doubt attempt to slice through their lines to reach the Palace. The Imperial Fists fleet still held the majority of that void space, the remainder being occupied by Fourth Legion vessels, but the Phalanx was far away and unavailable, as Dorn learned to his fury that Archamus had spent the last few hours fooling around chasing the newly-arrived Night Lords' flagship. Thus when Rogal finally reached his substitute flagship, his vanguard had already begun to engage the loyalists, including their flagships, the Fidelitas Lex and its Abyss-class attendants. Reports quickly began to roll in, panicked messages detailing the golden light suffusing these behemoths, rendering them even more unstoppable than before, and even the largest guns were struggling to inflict lasting wounds upon them. However, rather than erupting into a fury, Dorn remained calm, for he knew what this meant. Though he had always been an idealist, Rogal knew full well the realism his position required, an outlook only strengthened by his new allegiance, and so when these reports continued to come in, he wasted little time. There would be no point in throwing away his fleet recklessly, his single greatest asset and advantage over the other legions, nor would he allow his sons to die without purpose. Thus with grim finality, Dorn broadcast new orders across legion-encrypted channels. Across Terra, the Seventh Legion began to fall back en masse, returning to their dropships and transports in good order. All felt the sting of humiliation for falling back before the Iron Warriors, for giving up despite all the progress made and losses suffered, but anything was preferable to being trapped and killed upon the Throneworld by the vengeful Imperials.

However, they were not joined by the Templar Brethren, who refused to yield ground while victory was in sight. Unleashing great slaughter within the inner districts of the Imperial Palace, Sigismund's forces were in no position to fall back even if they wanted to. Their choleric fury had led them to push back the Iron Hands and Salamanders on all fronts, and were within sight of the Eternity Gate itself, the final barrier before the Golden Throne itself. However, Sigismund himself was not with them, for he had left the Palace entirely to seek out the Everchosen, both to inform him of their progress as well as to demand his presence, for he knew full well no Astartes had any hope of killing the Emperor himself. Ignoring the spectacular explosions taking place overhead, Sigismund remained cold and detached as he arrived on the outer edges of the Lion's fortress, but it seemed others had gotten there first. In place of imposing walls, the skeletal remains of a once-mighty fortification loomed over a deep crater, its inner walls scoured by some brilliant light. A trail of Dark Angel corpses led the First Captain down and down through the faintly-glowing corridors, until he arrived at the heart of the complex, an ancient ruin of some sort. The Lion was nowhere to be seen: all that lay there was splashes of blood, too much to be from one person, and Sigismund soon deduced he was not the first to have arrived when he located multiple footprints, both Astartes and a larger set which must have been primarchial. His cold, analytical mind quickly grasped the battle was lost, and rapidly relayed orders to his Brethren to fall back to the Eternal Crusader and await his arrival.

What had kept the Lion here, Sigismund wondered. All that were present were piles of rubble, clay bricks which seemed insignificant as he held them in his gauntleted hands. Slipping several into the pouches on his armor which had once held ammunition, now long since expended, Sigismund began to return to the surface. The Lion may have failed, but he would not. Terra would not be the end, but merely a setback. The Leonine Heresy was now over, the opening gambit in a war which Sigismund knew was only beginning. There would be no pity, no remorse, no fear, Sigismund swore this oath, alone at the heart of the crater. The mantle of Everchosen was now his, and by the power invested in that title, the Black Knight swore a blood-oath, to himself and whatever gods were listening, that one day he would return, to not only claim the secrets and power the Lion had died trying to discover, but to topple the False Emperor from his Golden Throne. Until that day, Sigismund swore, the galaxy would burn.

-Archive of the Accounts of Ygethmor, Clearance Level Vermilion

Post-Heresy: The Iron Cage Campaigns

With the unstoppable bulk of the Phalanx forming the center of their thrust, the Imperial Fists fell back from Terra in good order, one of the few legions to do so. Thus they did not take the heavy casualties or suffer the disorganization and chaos running rampant across the traitor armada, which took as many self-inflicted losses as wounds inflicted by the vengeful loyalists. Of the hundred and thirty thousand or so Fists who had entered the Solar System months earlier, only eighty thousand escaped the crucible of war which had engulfed Terra. The Eternal Crusader was the last of the Seventh Legion's vessels to depart, its holds filled with warriors of all nine legions. However, Sigismund did not follow the rest of his brothers back to Inwit, departing for parts unknown after bombarding the ruins of the Lion's fortress to cover it beneath the ground, and would not be seen again for many years. The rest of the fleet made for Inwit, struggling through the tides as they always had, but the sons of Dorn were used to it by then. This was no true retreat, for Rogal's commands made it quite clear they were preparing for a renewed offensive. For thirty years, the resources of the Inwit Star Empire were siphoned toward its capital, repairing the damages to the fleet and resupplying its armies. Entire star systems were left devoid of life, its people forcefully taken to work in the vast industries of the forge worlds under the Fists's control, and soon the Seventh Legion stood around one hundred thousand strong. Psycho-indoctrination saw to it that these new recruits were up to standard, as strong as ever, and the fleet grew back to its starting strength of over fifteen hundred vessels, their holds filled with the supplies needed for the campaigns to come.

As preparations neared completion, most commanders of the Seventh Legion assumed they would be testing their might in a renewed offensive against the Imperium, but the Master of the Fists had a rather different target in mind. Rogal had had much time to think while his forces prepared themselves, and he had come to many grim conclusions as to how the Siege of Terra had failed. The first and most obvious source was the Dark Angels for not only refusing to aid in the Siege, but also losing their primarch, the Archtraitor himself, without him so much as showing himself on the field of battle to rally his soldiers. All the psykers Dorn had consulted had told him much the same thing, that the Everchosen had slain the Lord of the Night, a fact which irritated Dorn as he would never be able to claim revenge now, before facing the Emperor in single combat. The fact that his father still persisted while the Lion was gone made it quite obvious how their duel had gone, but Dorn had greater concerns to worry about. The other legions were another source of failure, for the Palace would have fallen far more quickly had they followed his commands, but there was one legion in particular who had done the most to sabotage their chances of success, and for that they would be destroyed. Thus after thirty years of preparation, the fleets were mustered on the eastern edges of the Inwit Star Empire, far from any Imperial scouts or vengeance fleets, and at the primarch's command, the armies of the Seventh were unleashed once more upon the most hated foe of all: the empire of the Iron Warriors.

The armies of the Inwit Star Empire swept like an unstoppable tidal wave across the southwestern worlds of the Despotate of Olympia, swiftly overrunning the meager garrisons Perturabo had guarding his border. The initial attacks were devastatingly effective, dozens of systems falling without so much as a call for help escaping. The Fists had learned much of the ways of the Immaterium from their allies, not only its techniques but also its limitations. The sons of Dorn were determined to be the masters of the Warp, not its slaves as the other legions were, and so they had many methods of subjugation at their disposal. The tortuous death of astropaths ensured no calls for aid got out while armies of legionaries swept across their holdings. Many Astartes had been left crippled over the course of the Leonine Heresy, but with the power of Chaos, they were whole once more, imbued with the energies of the Warp to become soldiers known as the Secondborn. These Daemonkin were incredibly powerful, far faster than Perturabo's plodding sons or the mortal chaff aiding them, and soon Dorn's forces had seized a substantial portion of the Despotate. In space, the sheer numbers and might of fifteen hundred legionary vessels ensured the fleets of the Fourth Legion were always outnumbered in the void if not the ground, and so across an ever-widening front, the hated foe was driven back and back. The forces of Perturabo seemed as vast as their empire, but Dorn was certain his well-trained detachments would storm through every obstacle in their path. On and on his fleets pushed, living off the resources of the worlds they took, the concentrated wedges dispersing ever further so as to retain a cohesive front. Thousands of Perturabo's sons fell in quick succession, entire Grand Battalions encircled and slain, and the sacrifice of the gene-seed to the powers of the Warp ensured constant favorable tides and boons for the Daemonkin.

However, as the campaign continued, the decisive battle which Dorn had sought remained elusive. For fifty long years, the Imperial Fists pushed and pushed, seeking to root out the Iron Warriors from every world they could find. The Warp was no help in locating their armies either, for Perturabo clearly had turned it to his aid as well, and so Dorn was forced to rely on scouts and rumors. Plans to take Olympia itself were considered, but were ultimately abandoned due to the unpredictable tides of the Dominion of Storms, which would force them to arrive piecemeal, a far too risky endeavor for Dorn's liking. However, the Seventh could not support a campaign of this magnitude forever, for while the Iron Warriors were surely on the brink of collapse, the Imperium was not, and Dorn had no wish to be assaulted in the rear as had happened at Terra. Far to the west, the armies of the Imperium had already begun to press in, the meager defense forces no match against the loyalist legions led by their primarchs. Already the borders of the Inwit Star Empire had been pushed out of Segmentum Solar, and the meager allied armies conscripted from the worlds they took were being shipped back piecemeal to shore up the defenses at horrific cost. However, Dorn could not afford to spare any Astartes, for while his forces had confirmed the death of over one hundred Iron Warriors, Perturabo no doubt had reserves laying in wait.

The beginning of the end finally came when the scouts and auspices located a large Fourth Legion fleet, gathering to the north of the Dominion of Storms in the Phall System. Recognizing this as the chance they needed to deal a decisive blow, Dorn called his fleets together for the first time in decades so that they could arrive as one cohesive armada. Once the Iron Warriors had been crushed at Phall, Olympia itself would no doubt be vulnerable, and its destruction would spell the end of the Despotate. Thus even as the armies of the Imperium closed in upon Inwit, the Seventh Legion were preparing for the largest fleet battle since Terra itself. The full fifteen hundred vessels of the Fists carrying almost one hundred thousand Astartes swept in like a yellow tide of death, a Retribution Fleet capable of unimaginable destruction. To oppose it was a fleet of nearly nine hundred Iron Warrior vessels bunched together like a wall of iron, their gunmetal gray livery gleaming in the light of Phall's sun as they sat in close formation above the agri-world of Phall I. The primitive farmers must have witnessed a sight beyond comparison that day as nearly twenty-five hundred vessels slugged it out above their heads, a display of force only matched during the Siege of Terra itself. Each Fourth Legion vessel was a solid slab of iron, its corridors deathtraps to any invaders, but there was no legion more skilled at boarding actions than the sons of Dorn. Their breacher teams swept through dozens of vessels, though at horrific cost, all the while both fleets slugged away at each other at point blank range.

In the end though, the numbers and tonnage of the Imperial Fists were simply too much to overcome, and the Iron Warriors were forced to fall back in humiliating defeat. Barely a third of their fleet escaped, just over three hundred vessels pursued closely by eleven hundred ships of the Seventh Legion. The trajectory and destination of the retreating sons of Perturabo was quickly determined: the Sebastus System, an unremarkable backwater only a few weeks of Warp travel from Olympia itself. The end was now in sight, for once the Fourth Legion fleet had been broken, there would be nothing to stop them. Far to the south, Inwit itself splintered and died, the nuclear winter finally dissipating as the orbital bombardment superheated the frozen tundra and melted the ice caps beneath the fires of the vengeful Scouring fleets. However, Dorn himself knew nothing of the death of his homeworld, caught up in the thrill of victory as the destruction of the Iron Warriors was in sight. However, he was not prepared for the sight which greeted him as the Phalanx entered orbit above Sebastus IV.

"It isn't even damaged! What are we going to do now?" rang out the panicked voice of a bridge officer. When his fleet had entered the system, auspex scans picked up a fortress spanning hundreds of square kilometers, a dark rival to the Imperial Palace that bore the hated gunmetal and hazard stripes distinctive to the Fourth Legion. A hail had greeted them as the Phalanx closed in, a voice all too familiar. The hated Perturabo was within this colossal fortification, his so-called Eternal Fortress, which had irritatingly survived the bombardment with seemingly no damage. The hail rang out again, and this time, Dorn himself answered.

"Your authority is not recognized within my fort, Rogal. Dare you enter my fortress, knowing that only perpetual pain awaits you?

"I accept your challenge. We are going to dig you out of this hovel you call a fortress, and when we capture you, you will live out the rest of your days within an iron cage. You will beg for death, but that would only end your agony, and silence your shame. I will break you."

With the challenge issued, thus began the Iron Cage Campaign. For five long years, the full might of the Imperial Fists attempted to dig out the Iron Warriors from their fortifications, a siege just as bitter as the Siege of Terra had been as the former allies tore each other to shreds. It was unknown how long the Lord of Iron had been building this, nor how many of his sons now garrisoned it, but it was undeniably a citadel of incredible workmanship. It was no doubt Perturabo's magnum opus, and would thus be all the sweeter when it was finally broken. Victory grew ever closer as they took each wing of the Eternal Fortress one by one, concentric rings containing miles of open killing grounds and every environment imaginable, from steaming jungles to icy tundras to featureless chambers devoid of gravity. Daemons loyal to neither side began to infest the compound, attracted by the wanton slaughter, but inch by grueling inch the Fists pushed forward, closing in on the center of the complex as they left nothing but destruction and corpses in their wake, for there was no time to recover the dead. Yet when they reached the center, the Lord of Iron was nowhere to be found, only a large viewscreen, which displayed a live feed from an orbiting satellite. Buried far beneath the surface, the primarch and his sons had lost sight of the stars, but now he saw them all too clearly, and in that moment, Rogal Dorn knew despair.

While the Fists had fought upon the surface, a new Iron Warriors fleet had entered the system, one of unimaginable scale. By his estimation, the Fourth Legion's fleet outnumbered his forces nearly three to one, outclassed in both numbers and tonnage. Despite how many had perished upon Terra, and half a century of punishing losses, Perturabo's forces outnumbered his armies at a scale Dorn had not believed possible. There were only two choices left now, to either find Perturabo and kill him at the cost of his own life, or sacrifice his sons to death and the unknown in order to escape. The ideal and the practical, the optimistic and cynic sides warred within Rogal at that moment as the fate of the legion hung in the balance. In the end, there was only one choice. Swallowing his pride, Dorn called upon the Phalanx for retrieval, its powerful teleportarium retrieving a meager few thousand legionaries before falling back lest it be destroyed. The Imperial Fists died that day, its sons surrounded and cut off within the depths of the Eternal Fortress even while its fleets shattered and burned beneath the guns of the Iron Warriors. It is estimated that nearly ninety thousand Astartes from the Seventh Legion alone died on Sebastus IV, their souls accompanied to the Warp by an equal or greater number of the Fourth Legion, though only the sons of Perturabo know the true number of the slain.

Only a handful of Imperial Fists vessels escaped the trap laid for them, most of which fled for the Maelstrom or the Eye of Terror, desperately seeking some avenue of escape. When the forces of the Imperium led by Warmaster Horus discovered the system a year or so later, they were staggered to tally up the dead, and the Fourth and Seventh Legions were declared destroyed in order to boost morale in an empire weary of war. As for the Phalanx itself, it entered the Warp near the edge of the galactic core, that impassable region from which few have ever returned. Down and down it sank into the Immaterium, coming ever closer to the Deep Warp, where it has remained since, its fate hidden from all but a select few. However, the sons of the Seventh Legion still cling to their ancient hatreds, and though the banners of Rogal Dorn wave no more, his tenacity lives on in their successor. Learning of his legion's fate from survivors, First Captain Sigismund renounced his father's legacy of failure, and roused from his exile, began a dark path to glory which saw forces of all traitor legions flock to his banner. Less than nine hundred years later, though time is tenuous at best in the Warp, the Black Templars erupted from the Eye of Terror, ready to bring death and destruction to the unready Imperium of Man. As the end of the 41st Millennium draws ever closer, the Black Templars have gathered their armies in preparation for their Thirteenth Black Crusade, the culmination of Sigismund's dark efforts to sever the last threads of safety and sanity still holding the Imperium of Man from falling into the abyss.

Homeworld, Recruitment, and Gene-seed

In the aftermath of the Iron Cage Campaigns, the Imperial Fists were a legion in name only. Barely twenty thousand Astartes split across dozens of companies and warbands escaped the wrath of the Iron Warriors, and with the absence of their primarch, most turned toward their own selfish aims. However, there was one who was not content to allow the legacy of his legion to be one of failure. While his brothers threw their lives away in accordance with Dorn's commands, First Captain Sigismund and his Templar Brethren were busy establishing a new empire within the Eye of Terror, accompanied by an ever-growing array of allies conscripted by force. Thus came to be a new legion, the Black Templars, who renounced the failures of the past and swore new oaths aimed at the destruction of the Imperium. All who stood against Sigismund were either humbled or ruined, and for that the First Captain gained the title of 'Destroyer', and tales of his dark exploits have filled entire wings of Inquisitorial Librariums. It was Sigismund who halted the First Distension of the Iron Warriors at the Battle of Harmony alongside the forces of four other legions, and it was he who gained the allegiance and support of all nine traitor legions in preparation for the First Black Crusade, a campaign which cemented the Black Templars as a force to be reckoned with. The prestige of this campaign saw the forces of Sigismund secure a substantial portion of the Eye of Terror to serve as a base of operations, including multiple Hell-Forges as well as their nominal homeworld, the Daemon World of Uolesh.

A realm of perpetual night, the homeworld of the Black Templars is a grotesquely-huge graveyard, where the very ground is formed by a mosaic of unliving corpses that constantly wail and scream. Each of these unfortunate souls was once somebody foolish enough to die after making and breaking a pact with the Ruinous Powers, and for that they suffer eternally, spiteful and malicious at those whose souls remain pure. The Black Templars are unique amongst the Traitor Legions for how seriously they take their oaths, and below this living carpet lie vast dungeons filled with those who thought they could break their promises to the Destroyer or his lieutenants. Most of Uolesh is empty plains, for the Templars care little for their nominal homeworld, and the surface is undeveloped save for the Basilica of Vows, a vast unholy fane crowned with hundreds of spires. In this temple dwell countless damned, for not an hour goes by without a sacrifice to the Ruinous Powers by one of the many priests who implore their deities for the good fortune of the Black Templars, a practice which ensures Forces of the Everchosen always have the blessings of the dark gods. Other wings are given over to armories and barracks, where captured Astartes are persuaded of the wisdom of bending the knee to the Destroyer, for the Black Templars do not recruit as other warbands do, but rather, are composed of soldiers hailing from nearly all legions. All are welcome beneath the banners of the Destroyer so long as they swear the requisite binding oaths and repaint their armor black, an offer taken up by many defeated warbands given that their other alternative is death. The true size of the Black Templars is unknown, but is estimated to number less than a hundred thousand, a third of which possess the gene-seed of Dorn.

For many years, the Inquisition believed the bloodline of the Seventh Legion to be all but extinct, for to survive ten thousand years of war intact is impossible. Knowledge of Sigismund and his deeds has never been hard to come by, at least for the savants of the Holy Ordos, who work tirelessly to ensure that civilians who are aware of the Traitor Legions believe that the Destroyer is the greatest threat, a fallen angel who seeks to despoil all that is good. The name of Rogal Dorn has been forgotten by all but the most learned, and what little knowledge that does survive is almost entirely negative and contradictory. However, the terrifying truth is that Dorn is anything but dead, and that Uolesh is but one of two centers for the Seventh Legion. Deep within the Eye of Terror, the primarch dwells within his Phalanx, his mighty battlestation, which has grown immeasurably, empowered as it is by the radiations and energies of the Deep Warp. Metaphors and comparisons fail to describe this region of the Warp, but the closest decipherment is that Dorn's Daughter exists within the liminal space between the Warp and Deep Warp, whose essences remain separate but touching like water and oil. All attempts to scry the Phalanx have resulted in the same description, that of a mighty fortress, which some have speculated is the result of the primarch imposing his will and memories upon his surroundings. There exists the possibility that the interior of the Phalanx appears as the Imperial Palace would have had Dorn been chosen as Praetorian so many millennia ago, but such baseless speculation can never be proven. Inside the halls of this fell bastion exist not Black Templars, but a different warband entirely, the so-called Crimson Fists. What was once only a derogatory nickname has apparently been adopted by these legionaries who remain loyal to their father, and only around four hundred or so exist at any given time.

The Crimson Fists are highly unique compared to their Black Templar kin, or even the rest of the Traitor Legions. Rather than being led by veteran Astartes who have been around since the days of the Leonine Heresy, the Crimson Fists appear to have regular turnover in their ranks. However, what is most intriguing is that this replacement is the result of choice, rather than casualties or infighting. Little is known of how they are recruited or where they come from, but after an indeterminate amount of time, Crimson Fists will willingly depart the Phalanx, wiped of their memories, and journey from the lightless depths of the Deep Warp to join their brothers as part of the Black Templars. It is unknown why this happens, but the Destroyer is no doubt satisfied with a steady stream of dependable recruits, who help him retain dominance and keep the Seventh Legion a plurality in the Black Templars. As of the waning years of M41, the name of only one Crimson Fist is known to the Inquisition, Pedro Kantor, the Praetorian of Dorn, who is known for perpetrating the Slaughter of Rynn's World, where his forces toppled Waagh! Snagrod before deploying vortex missiles upon the defenseless populace. It is believed the Crimson Fists carry out the will of Dorn as opposed to the will of Sigismund, but what exactly the Lord of the Fists desires is unknown. Some suggest he is meditating upon the nature of Chaos; others believe he plots his revenge on those who did him wrong; a radical faction of the Inquisitors believe the Primarch to be long dead, for surely the Destroyer would not permit a challenge to his authority to remain.

Whatever the case, the Crimson Fists continue to exist, their presence and goals as mysterious as the Dark Angels or Alpha Legion. So too do the Black Templars continue to plague the Imperium, erupting irregularly from the Eye of Terror to wreak great havoc. As mentioned before, the forces of Sigismund do not recruit youths as the other legions do, but rather grow their forces through conquest. The state of the gene-seed of Rogal Dorn is thus all but unknown, though it is no doubt subject to the same mutative influences that affect all who dwell within Warp Storms such as the Eye of Terror. Before the Leonine Heresy, the genetic legacy of the Seventh was somewhat unremarkable: it had one of the highest implantation success rates, only marred by how incredibly painful it was to receive. Indeed, many aspirants perished merely receiving it, though no root cause was ever determined. Nearly all organs function as intended save for the Sus-an Membrane, which enable legionaries to enter suspended animation, and the Betcher's Gland, whose absence means that sons of Dorn cannot produce acid spittle. Boons of Chaos affect them as they do the other Traitor Legions, but many legionaries amputate these so-called gifts in order to retain their focus and purity, for the Templars prize their vows to purge the unclean very highly. Aside from these minor physical defects, several mental issues plagued the bloodline of the Seventh, including a predilection toward stubbornness and self-castigation. The Imperial Fists took their duty very seriously, which persisted even after they turned their backs on the Emperor, a fact proven by the existence of the Basilica of Vows.

Combat Doctrines and Organization

As mentioned before, the Seventh Legion is divided between the Crimson Fists and the Black Templars. The forces of Sigismund make up over ninety-nine percent of the legion, of which no more than a third actually bear the gene-seed of Rogal Dorn. Much like the other legions, the Black Templars are incredibly divided, only loosely united beneath Sigismund's banners, and most warlords have incredible freedom of operation. This setup is borne from both necessity and desire, for even the Champion of Chaos has limits to his grasp, and complete organization is antithetical to the Ruinous Powers regardless. However, those that do wear the livery of the Templars are bound to answer the High Marshal's calls to arms, few and far between though they are, and few are foolish enough to disobey. Many of the spires of the Basilica of Vows bear the still-living mangled forms of those who thought themselves above the authority of Sigismund, right beside other would-be usurpers. Few commanders can match the labyrinthine cunning of the High Marshal, and he has never been bested in open battle. However, only Sigismund's inner circle know his true plans and goals beyond simply toppling the Imperium, and thus his forces are most often left to their own devices. Many Chaos Lords of the Black Templars have their own agendas and schemes, passing time by fighting each other or carrying out smaller raids against the Imperium. It is a rare year indeed that does not see at least half a dozen minor incursions from Chaos forces attempting to breach the Imperial defenses surrounding the Eye of Terror, most of which come from forces bearing the livery of the Templars.

Warbands of the Black Templars are known as crusader hosts or just crusades, a foul mockery of the Imperial terminology they left behind so long ago. Each host is led by a Chaos Lord, generally known as a Marshal, who has almost complete operational freedom. Few warriors can hope to match blades with a Marshal and survive, and only the most experienced and powerful Templars can hope to ascend to this rank. Conscripted warlords often claim the mantle of Marshal so as to command the respect of others, as the very title inspires fear, and their underlings often adopt much of the same terminology; thus does Sigismund's influence permeate all the varied forces under his banners. Beneath every Marshal are the Castellans, officers who are recognizable by their powerful weaponry and relics upon the battlefield. The Castellans often act as enforcers and lieutenants, making them a powerful tool for the Marshal to utilize, but no Chaos Lord rests easily in the presence of such warriors. Most Marshals were once Castellans themselves, ascending to command through brutal violence and treachery as is the case in so many warbands, and a wise Marshal recognizes the threat each such lieutenant poses. Castellans are often played against each other, constantly striving amongst themselves to curry favor, but such efforts are not always enough, as evidenced by the fate of Marshal Amalric at the hands of his Castellan, Brigarr.

Marshal Brigarr

Commander of the Cruxis Crusade, Marshal Amalric was tasked by Sigismund himself to overthrow a fortress world near the Cadian Gate in preparation for the long-anticipated Thirteenth Black Crusade. As a veteran of a hundred such campaigns, Amalric's overconfidence was his undoing when the mortals operating his teleportarium redirected his deployment from the surface of the planet into the holds of his own vessels in a trap prepared for him by his Castellan. Stripped of his weapons, Amalric and his lieutenants were torn to pieces by the maddened contemptor dreadnought Dzongries, after which Castellan Brigarr became the new Marshal. After completing the destruction of their target, Brigarr was confirmed in his role by the ever-pragmatic Sigismund, and now rules the newly-named Centerpoint Crusade with an iron fist. Countless heroes have fallen to his Unholy Orb and Sword of the Lost Crusader, and his warband has grown to include hundreds of warriors that have flocked to his banner. Reports of Brigarr's foul deeds have reached even the High Lords of Terra, and the knowledge that the warlord bearing the Seal of Sigismund has pledged his sword to the Thirteenth Black Crusade is something that keeps many Cadian commanders up at night.

Beneath the dread Marshal and his Castellans exists the collection of veterans known as Sword Brethren. Equivalent to the Chosen squads in other traitor legions, the Sword Brethren are those veterans who have proven themselves through many acts of butchery and other foul deeds. Each Sword Brother rules over a squadron of his own, which grows depending on notoriety and strength. Most Templar warbands possess only a handful of Sword Brethren, and beneath them are the Initiates, who form the bulk of any force. These rank and file warriors are most often equipped with chainsword and bolter and are utterly fearless, charging in maddened waves to overrun even the most fortified gunlines. Normally such outdated tactics would see any charging force annihilated, but the Templars are well-versed in closing in on their enemies far faster than they have any right to be. The true bulk of each Crusader Host is composed not of Sword Brethren or even Initiates, but Neophytes. Rank in the Templars comes only to those who can take it by force or skill, and thus the average Chaos Space Marine, regardless of his experience, is known as a Neophyte, and is treated accordingly. Some see this role as the equivalent of scouts in loyal legions, but such assumptions give far too much credit to the heartless warriors of Chaos. Though still Astartes and equal to many lesser warriors, the true role of the Neophyte is to serve as ablative wounds, to take the fire instead of their betters which enables the more powerful Initiates to reach close combat where they are most effective.

Divided into many small Crusader Hosts, the Black Templars are truly the greatest threat to the Imperium of Man for their ability to appear without warning. The largest of these Hosts are the forces which serve under Sigismund directly, though they utilize but one ship, the infamous Eternal Crusader, an ancient Gloriana-class battleship which is perhaps the single most recognizable traitor vessel in existence. All Crusades are self-sufficient, possessing their own fleets and resources, and generally acting on their own at any given time. The Eye of Terror possesses many smaller avenues of escape, and so many Crusades attempt to enter the Imperium through these more dangerous passages rather than brave the firepower of the Cadian Gate. The Space Wolves are sore-pressed to respond to every such incursion, and the two legions have come to blows with increasing regularity. The Marshals of the Seventh Legion are no strangers to allying for a greater purpose though, and join forces far more often than their more disparate cousins in the other legions. Nowhere is this more evident than in Sigismund's Black Crusades, those galaxy-shaking events that see forces from Traitor Legion and Renegade forces alike flock to his banners at the prospect of attacking the Imperium. The resources required for such a monumental undertaking are immense indeed, and thus in ten thousand years, only twelve such assaults have ever been completed. Each assault is preceded by centuries of planning, whereby Sigismund gains the allegiance of countless warbands and daemon worlds, and ends with the destruction of some vital system or army, deadly cuts to fester and weaken the Imperium in preparation for the ultimate triumph of Chaos. Many Inquisitorial scholars believe the upcoming Thirteenth Black Crusade may well be the largest incursion yet, the deathblow that will finally break the Imperial defenses keeping the legions of Chaos pinned within the Eye of Terror.

Contrary to popular belief, not all Black Crusades have been aimed at the same target, and the data overwhelmingly points to lesser goals than Terra itself as the objectives of the previous Crusades. The First Black Crusade, occuring at the beginning of M32, was a complete shock to the unprepared Imperium, who believed the traitors destroyed after Terra. After obtaining a temporary truce in the Legion Wars which had engulfed the Traitor Legions in the Eye of Terror, the vast armada of the Black Templars erupted from their hellish prison. Their first victory came at Cadia itself, overcoming a force of Night Lords led by the heroic First Captain Jago Sevatarion, afterwards smashing their way toward Terra in an unstoppable tide that occurred in conjunction with renewed assaults from the Ultramarines around the Maelstrom. However, Sigismund himself did not lead these forces, which were instead commanded by the High Executioner Fafnir Rann, and instead pursued his own agenda. The Black Templars were only stopped by the intervention of a new legion, the Grey Knights, the mythical daemonhunters, who saw the speartip of the Templars blunted and Rann killed at the hands of one of the Nine Legendary Grandmasters. By the end of the First Black Crusade, the Templars retreated to the Eye, having struck fear into the heart of the Imperium and achieved the destruction of dozens of systems. Sigismund's true aim was later unveiled with the revelation he had obtained the infamous blade Drach'nyen, forged by combining the black sword shattered by Sevatar with a powerful daemon obtained from a warp-prison known only as the Tower of Silence. In the subsequent millennia, eleven more Crusades would be launched, seeing the destruction of shipyards, forge worlds, and military installations across dozens of sectors, as well as hundreds of seemingly-insignificant worlds located all around the Eye of Terror. Some have even been directed at other Chaos forces, such as the Sixth Black Crusade, which saw Sigismund personally kill Warsmith Harkor of the Iron Warriors upon the world of Hydra Cordatus alongside the treacherous Boreas, a Marshal who had served him since before the Leonine Heresy. However, each Black Crusade often has dozens of lesser aims, many of which result in countless losses and deaths which continue to drain an Imperium which can increasingly no longer support such costs. The defenses of hundreds of systems have been drained dry in preparation of the Thirteenth Black Crusade, and should these initial defenses fall, the Templars will have almost free rein to sweep down toward Terra.

As a result of the diplomacy necessary for such monumental undertakings, the Seventh Legion has the most allies of any of the Nine. They are highly willing to work alongside other warbands, calling together sworn foes in the cause of something greater. This extends to not only Astartes, but mortals as well, for each Black Crusade is accompanied by the countless hordes of the Lost and the Damned, as well as the myriad forces of the Dark Mechanicum. Even the Iron Warriors, whose rivalry with the Seventh Legion goes back further than any other, will fight alongside the Templars under the banners of Sigismund. The Destroyer has treated with every daemon primarch, obtaining compliance if not obedience through ceaseless effort, and has earned the respect of many beings far more deadly than himself. Other Traitor Astartes, such as Amit the Flesh Tearer or Eidolon the Soul-Severed, respect Sigismund like no other, and the influence he wields makes him perhaps the most powerful mortal in the galaxy, for mortal he remains, refusing to ascend to daemonhood despite earning such a blessing many times over. However, not all are so worshipful of the Black Knight. Of all the traitor legions, the War Hounds alone refuse to fight alongside the Seventh Legion. The Black Templars retain their hatred of mutants and psykers, and thus relations with the Thousand Sons are always uneasy at best. Like in all legions, xenos are hated and destroyed without remorse. However, this fury pales in comparison to the cold hatred Sigismund bears for the Imperium of Man. His sole goal in life is to see all the works of the Emperor toppled and crushed beneath his armored boots, and there is no ideal he will not break, no line he will not cross to obtain total victory in the Long War. Other Black Templars are not quite so focused, and are more flexible in their unholy zealotry, hiring mercenaries in order to obtain their goals. While Sigismund and his elite hate all the armies of the Imperium equally, his lesser commanders bear grudges of their own. The Space Wolves are particularly despised as a result of their ceaseless watch over the Eye of Terror, and many veterans retain a special hatred for the Salamanders, a lasting resentment caused by Vulkan and his sons becoming Praetorians of Terra, a role many Seventh Legionaries still believe should be theirs by right.

Beliefs and Warcry

There are few beings in the galaxy more devoted to their cause than Sigismund the Destroyer, and through him, the Black Templars. Utterly and fanatically convinced of the righteousness of their cause, the Seventh Legion firmly believes the Imperium betrayed them and must be toppled. Thus they are willing to perform any action no matter how heinous, excuse any crime in pursuit of this goal, and ignore any hypocrisies that may arise. Thus does a legion famed for its intolerance of the mutant and psyker not only include such deviants amongst their ranks, but ally with more of the same. Firmly convinced of their own righteousness, the Templars are first and foremost incredibly zealous, many singing hymns as they butcher the innocent before building fortifications from their bones. Such devotion combined with the charisma of a towering armored demigod is often enough to sway the unwary, and many Imperial Guard regiments have thus fallen to the Ruinous Powers in such a way. Compared to the more obviously corrupted legions such as the Thousand Sons or Emperor's Children, the Black Templars appear far more like loyal Astartes, and many ignorant commoners have mistaken their black livery for that of the Raven Guard or Iron Hands. The forces of Sigismund have long taken advantage of this, and thus every Crusade possesses a handful of Dark Apostles, foul parodies of loyal chaplains, who are expert orators and have led to the damnation of millions.

Grimaldus, the Doom of Helsreach

A veteran Dark Apostle, Merek Grimaldus has plagued the galaxy for centuries. One of the youngest Sword Brethren in the history of the Templars, Grimaldus impressed his superiors with his fanatic orations and single-minded hatred of the Imperium, and was assigned to accompany Marshal Helbrecht, another up-and-coming champion of Chaos, as part of the invasion of the world of Armageddon. Taking advantage of the disorder brought about by an ork invasion, Grimaldus brought fire and death to the people of Hive Helsreach, and in their desperation, the people believed him, forsaking their allegiance to the Emperor and submitting to the message he brought. His fiery devotion and seeming ability to work miracles, such as surviving the collapse of a temple around him without a scratch, have inspired his followers to match his fanaticism, and their continued control of the vital Hive Helsreach has proved a persistent thorn in the side of the Armageddon Steel Legion, who are spread thin battling both Templar raiders and the never-ending Orkish hordes.

The source of the Black Templars' devotion is their master Sigismund, a darkly inspiring figure whose leadership and undeniable charisma means he has replaced both Dorn and the Emperor as the Seventh Legion's focal point for adoration. None have ever faced him and survived, and thus most knowledge of him is secondhand, such as the information the Inquisition has taken from captured lieutenants such as Ygethmor. Once a hotheaded duellist, the Long War has drained the Destroyer of his passions, and he lives only to see the Imperium toppled; perhaps it is this dispassion which has allowed him not to give into the wiles of Chaos. There is no line Sigismund would not cross to see his goal through to completion, accepting any challenge no matter the odds. Such single-minded fanaticism means even ostensibly more powerful beings such as the Daemon Primarchs hesitate to cross him, for while it is unlikely he could best them in single combat, their immense pride means few dare to risk that chance. For his part, the Destroyer looks down upon those who have sold their souls to the Ruinous Powers. However, this has not stopped him from accepting the blessings of the Four, for he bears the Mark of Chaos Ascendant, the first being since Lion El'Jonson himself to do so. Yet most Inquisitors believe Sigismund will never embrace daemonhood, for his goal is and always remains the destruction of the Imperium. The Black Knight recognizes all too well that to embrace Chaos would be to enslave himself to different masters, ones whose primary attention is upon their Great Game rather than the Long War. Perhaps only the Destroyer himself knows what inspired such reckless hatred in him for the Imperium, or if the original reason still holds true today, but whatever the case, it is he whom the common people of the Imperium fear above any other.

The average citizen is well-versed in the lore of the Nine Great Devils of the Outer Dark, those rebels and traitors who turned their backs upon the Emperor and caused the Leonine Heresy, and such is Sigismund's legend that he is often counted amongst their ranks instead of his father. Imperial records have all but written the primarch of the Seventh out of existence, believing the Black Templars to be one of the Traitor Legions with Sigismund as their leader, or that the Lord of the Fists was one of the primarchs who died during the Leonine Heresy such as the Mad Dog Angron or the Wild Hunter Jaghatai. His contributions during the Great Crusade have been downplayed, the credit given to others, and Dorn's true fate is unknown to all but the most learned; even his sons have barely any allegiance to him, save for his faithful Crimson Fists. Their devotion is now tied to their oaths, a single-minded focus once the preserve of only the Templar Brethren which has spread to all forces under Sigismund's banner. In a display of irony visible to all save the Templars themselves, oathbreaking is perhaps the greatest sin imaginable to the Seventh Legion. The sons of Sigismund are willing to forgive most anything, from betrayals of Marshals by their Castellans to system-wide genocide, so long as Sigismund's desires are carried out. In service to this end they are extremely flexible in their approaches, though every Templar is incredibly single-minded about fulfilling their orders, and the shirking and self-interest so common in other legions is almost entirely absent. The word of a Templar is his vow, a burden symbolized by the devotion chains they all wear upon their fists which bind a warrior to his weapons; perhaps it is this practice, adopted and adapted from the World Eaters, that makes the Twelfth Legion despise them so. Whatever the case, there is no reasoning with a Templar, and even minor differences have seen entire Crusader Hosts fighting with their own kin over slights to their honor or accusations of oathbreaking. One such example of this fratricidal phenomenon occurred during the so-called Soul Drinkers incident, where the titular warband had a civil war amongst their ranks instigated by a daemon of Tzeentch known as Abraxes. Now under new leadership, the Soul Drinkers are outcast amongst their brothers, for their rebellion never received Sigismund's approval, and they remain renegades to this day, no longer permitted to join in legion-wide events such as the Feast of Blades.

Feast of Blades

Occurring once every century, so much as it can be measured in the unreality of the Eye of Terror, this competition has been held for over 8000 years. Each warband that is able to attend makes the long journey to Uolesh, presenting their most powerful champions to duel amongst themselves for the honor of winning the coveted Dornsblade, a daemon weapon of staggering power forged from the souls and blood of each legionary that died upon Sebastus IV during the Iron Cage Campaigns. Infused with the essence of pure death, each duellist skilled enough to win the Dornsblade has gone on to perform incredible feats in Sigismund's name. However, no user has ever lived more than a century after taking up the blade, and many believe it to be cursed by Dorn himself, draining the user's lifeforce and twisting fate to ensure that it will be free for another by the time of the next Feast of Blades. The current wielder is Marshal Lysander, who has possessed the blade for over ninety years, and many wait to see if and when the curse will claim him as it has claimed so many before him.

The livery of the Seventh Legion has changed much over the years. For many decades, they bore bright yellow, with little to no deviation from the tenets of the Principia Belicosa, the tome of Imperial military organization devised by the Emperor for his Legiones Astartes. As the Leonine Heresy began, their colors faded to the gray hues of stone save for blood red on their fists, hues which symbolized they no longer held allegiance to the Imperium. This led many to refer to them as Crimson Fists, a derogatory title adopted in part by an unwillingness to still refer to traitors as 'Imperial'. When Sigismund came to power in the aftermath of the Iron Cage Campaigns, the white and black tabards, once reserved for the Templar Brethren, were extended to all legionaries under his command, regardless of their genetic heritage, and so the Seventh Legion adopted the sable armor they are known for today. Each Crusader Hosts bears heraldic devices of their own so as to denote which warband they belong to, though these change so frequently as to be almost impossible to track due to how often crusades splinter or refound themselves with new goals in mind. Those legionaries still loyal to Dorn have adopted entirely different livery, bearing indigo armor while retaining the blood red fists, while their symbology is esoteric to the point of incomprehensibility even by other traitor legions.

The war-cries of the Black Templars most often consist of chanted oaths and oratory from their Dark Apostles. The Templars consider themselves to be the masters of Chaos rather than the servants that the other legions are, a hubris which both delights and enrages the Ruinous Powers. All Four Choirs are invoked by the legion, both as acts of devotion and in beseeching them for aid. Invocations to Sigismund himself are frequently voiced when facing Imperial foes, for the name of the Destroyer strikes more fear into the hearts of mortal men than any other. For their part, the Crimson Fists are silent in battle, though few recognize them anyway.

The Phalanx drifted alone in the void like a leaf on the surface of a pond as it always had and always will, listing on the edge between the madness of the Deep Warp and the comparative sanity of the upper reaches of the Immaterium where traveling was less suicidal. It was a ghost halfway faded between one realm and another, at once both insubstantial as a breeze and at the same time an island of rationality in a sea of madness, its bulwarks firm and rigid, shaped so through the will of its master, though its edges continued slowly melting and shifting as its occupant's resolve waxed and waned. He had once been so certain in his vision, but now not so much, for he had seen so many things in the shining darkness of this realm: pasts that once were, futures that might have been, and the never-ending now of a universe that had no end and no beginning. Or perhaps the enigma that was this reality actually did, it had become so hard to tell what was just fiction and what was the truth. Compared to his sons, those modern crusaders, Dorn had no mission here, no passion, or at least not anymore, for he had long since learned things more primordial than the Primordial Truth.

Images flitted past, both in the mind and before Dorn's unblinking eyes as he stared into the shapeless void that surrounded his ship, realities of many kinds and things that need not have happened to be true. The Numbers counted down, always down, from eleven to six, and perhaps five would be next. What would happen when they hit Zero? Such a Thing Should Not Be, a thing that Must not be. By his best estimates, that would not be for another ten, no, twenty thousand years, if ever they did. In some realities, the Lord of the Fists saw himself as he might have been, standing by his father's side in resplendent yellow armor, loyal to the end; in others, he was a monster, his form transformed akin to the daemonic Neverborn that so many of his brothers now were. Even now, ten thousand years and countless eons later, the Warp still confused him; he did not trust the story-teller, but he had long since ceased to doubt the story.

Other visions spun past, portents of doom and madness, but Dorn cared not, for nothing truly mattered. Even the relics and information his loyal Fists gathered meant very little in the long run. Only one vision truly mattered now, an elusive sight which continued to elude him no matter how deep the Phalanx sunk into the liminal mire of the Deep Warp. What was beneath this surface, he wondered. The little sense he could glean from the fleeting glimpses of the vision spoke of the Return of One Thought Lost, the Herald of the End of the Cycle. There was no way to know their identity for certain until he received the vision in full, and until then, it Lingered, right on the edge of consciousness like a word he couldn't quite place or dream only half-remembered. Who was the figure it spoke of? Someone new? Someone from his past? The Emperor? The Lion? It could be anyone. But if there was one thing Dorn was certain of, it was that he could know anything. He just had to find it.

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A/N: Oh Dorn. Poor, poor Dorn. One of the first comments I ever received on my story was the pity they felt for Dorn, and now all his miseries are finally unveiled. It's been over a year since I started publishing this story, and even longer since I began to write it, and I just want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who's subscribed or read my labor of love. At one story a month, I should be on track to finish this story very shortly, and I hope you will all continue to join me in this grimdark future that I'm putting together. As always, please leave your thoughts in the comments, I love to read them. Next up is the Space Wolves, who just like the Fists have been greatly misunderstood and have suffered for the Imperium. I'll leave you with one spoiler: there are no wolves on Fenris.

Sharrowkyn, out.