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Chapter Text

The soft beeping of the instruments pulls you from your slumber. You struggle to lift your heavy eyelids and peer at the ceiling through a transparent mask. Your body feels unnaturally light, as if you're still ensnared in the dreams that had held you captive.

But everything around you is painfully real. The recovery pod, the tangled black-gray pipes on the ceiling, the tubes and monitors attached to your body, even the faint metallic tang of blood in the air—it's all real. You try to move your arm but find it restrained, as if by some invisible force. Your body feels disconnected, unresponsive to your commands.

The Servo-Automata notices your struggle. This blend of metal and synthetic flesh, devoid of independent thought, whirs softly as it approaches you.

"Madam," it speaks with a synthesized voice, worn and crackling from age. "Do you have any requests?"

It takes you two attempts to push out a raspy whisper, "Am I... awake?"

Fragments of memories strike you like cosmic rays. The dark purple chitin of the Tyranids. Their scythe-like claws mercilessly tearing through the red-armored warriors who barely shielded you. Blood splattered, organs exposed—the scenes flash vividly in your mind.

You remember the excruciating pain in your abdomen, a searing agony that made you believe you were being split in half. The memory makes you shiver, reviving the terror and bone-chilling cold.

You realize with a jolt that the life you carried within you, for so long, has been wrenched from your body. The scars of pain it left are now but faint traces. You begin to doubt if any of it was real or just a millennium-long nightmare.

Yet, you know it wasn't a dream.

The Servo-Automata waits for your command, but your thoughts are elsewhere. Your eyes drift around the room. "My... child."

"Madam, are you referring to the infant you delivered one standard day ago?"

You manage a difficult nod, your gaze returning to the machine.

"Information encrypted, inaccessible."

"Was... it taken by THEM?"

"Information inaccessible."

The monotonous mechanical response frustrates you. Struggling, you rip at the tubes and wires binding you, desperate to break free from the cursed transparent shell. You slide out of the recovery pod, collapsing to the floor like a heap of wet clay. Alarms blare from the monitoring devices.

"Madam, cease this behavior," the Servo-Automata warns. Its modified mechanical limbs clamp down on your arms and waist, pinning you to the pod. The cold metal and pressure make you groan in pain.

The lightness you felt upon waking was a lie. Your body is swollen, grotesquely misshapen, your abdomen still distended as if pregnant. With the sudden movement, blood and necrotic tissue gush from you, soaking the loose white gown meant only to cover your modesty.

Amid the chaos, you hear the door slide open.

A tall, imposing figure in blue and white armor steps into the room. His eyes sweep over the scene, quickly assessing the situation, before rushing towards you. The sight of his short golden hair makes you momentarily disoriented.

"Roboute..." you murmur, but then realize he merely resembles his progenitor, the genetic father of the Ultramarines.

Silently, he takes over from the Servo-Automata, lifting you off the floor with ease, trying to place you back into the recovery pod.

You cling to his light armor, your hand bleeding from the ripped-out IV, as you ask about your child.

"Apologies, madam. I do not know," he says in a low gruff voice, devoid of any real regret. He quickly states his purpose, "My mission is to ensure your recovery. Please comply.”

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't expect to extract information from a stoic Apothecary. But now, driven by maternal instinct, you abandon all reason. You bite his hand, scratch at him with your nails. It's not the first time you've fought an Astarte, knowing your efforts are futile. But it's the only way you can fight back.

Effortlessly, he restrains you, securing your wrists and ankles before administering a sedative.

"Guilliman..." you gasp before losing consciousness, "I want to see Guilliman."

"The Lord Commander does not have time for a Remembrancer," the Apothecary states flatly.

The Ultramarine Apothecary takes about two minutes to confirm that the Remembrancer won't wake up anytime soon before leaving the chamber. At the narrow corridor entrance, he encountered a colleague.

"I heard the alarm," his fellow brother says. "Do you need help?"

He shakes his head, his voice indifferent. "I gave her a sedative. She'll sleep for a while."

"Good," the colleague clicks his tongue. "These Remembrancers always think they're special. Writing poetry with the fleet doesn't seem all that useful. But this one," he chuckles softly, "having a child on a warship, that's a first. It's hard to imagine the Sons of Sanguinius tolerating such a thing. I wonder what it would be like on our flagship, the 'Macragge's Honour.'"

The Apothecary's lips twitch slightly as he tries to keep his expression neutral. In his heart, he agrees with his colleague. Giving birth in the midst of a battle with the Tyranids is indeed troublesome. If Lord Guilliman hadn't ordered the rescue upon receiving the distress signal, she might have already perished at the hands of the xenos.

His hand unconsciously clenches, as if the sensation of crushing something fragile into a sticky pulp still lingers on his fingers. He is accustomed to the Astartes' extreme strength and resilience, their bodies capable of easily conquering worlds. The mortal woman's body, barely half his size, seems extraordinarily small to him. She is unlike any of the mortals in the Imperial Guard or the other Remembrancers on the flagship. Her fragility is not only physical but seems to manifest on a psychological level as well. He can't help but wonder how she has been selected as a war correspondent.

"What did she say?" the colleague asks curiously.

"She wants to see the Lord Regent," he replies.

The colleague can't help but laugh, the sound echoing down the narrow corridor. "Do you plan to relay her message?"

The Apothecary recalls her pinned down by the powerful Servo-Automata, the blood and filth, the chaos. Her pale lips part as she looks at him.

"Roboute..." he silently mouths the name, unconsciously brushing his own short golden hair, similar to that of his genetic sire.

That is the name of the Regent of the Imperium, Master of Ultramar, Father of the Ultramarines. Such an intimate form of address, spoken so easily by a Remembrancer.

"No," he instinctively answers, then adds, "My mission is to ensure her health. Relaying messages is not within my duties."

The colleague nods. "That's probably why you were chosen for this job."

In the core area of the "Macragge's Honour," Roboute Guilliman sits in the large commander's chair at the end of the meeting room.

He listens to the account of Arenos Karlaen, Captain of the Blood Angels 1st Company, his gaze lingering momentarily on the battle-scarred red ceramite of the Blood Angel's power armor. Guilliman can't help but recall the recent battles, the fierce clashes between the black and red-armored Blood Angels and the Tyranids. Their brutal, bloodthirsty demeanor, swinging chainswords and firing boltguns indiscriminately, is a direct manifestation of the Ninth Legion's genetic flaw. The Revenant Legion, haunted by the Red Thirst, must have looked similar before the return of their Primarch, Sanguinius.

Facing Karlaen, Guilliman feels a twinge of uneasy suffocation within his power armor. He remembers how, upon seeing the unexpected figure in the chaotic battle footage sent by the Ultramarines rescuing the Blood Angels, he had involuntarily stood up from his chair.

He can foresee that the Blood Angels Captain might doubt his position, especially regarding the next topic involving that child—the progeny of the Primarch Sanguinius.

"Brother Karlaen, you have just escaped from the Cryptus System and now decide to return to Baal for battle. I understand your resolve," Guilliman says, his tone calm but firm, addressing his brother's genetic offspring with an intimate term rather than the usual military rank. "But your warship needs repairs and cannot be immediately deployed. However, chapters across the galaxy are assembling to jointly combat the Leviathan Tyranids. The 'Macragge's Honour' will also join this battle."

The stubbornness of the Blood Angel before him gives Guilliman a headache. Any other Astartes would have been compliant, thrilled to receive a private audience with the legendary son of the Emperor, the Regent of the Imperium. Perhaps that's why Dante, the Blood Angels' Chapter Master, sent Karlaen for this task.

Guilliman wonders if he should emphasize the importance of the child born on his ship. It's an ancient secret dating back to the Blood Angels' legion era, a secret that Karlaen, as a mere Captain, might not yet fully grasp.

"That child carries half of your Primarch Sanguinius's bloodline," Guilliman finally says, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Yes, I know." He sees Karlaen's frosty gaze fixate on him as he continues, "You understand what this means. The child is the key to solving the issues that plague your chapter. Brother Karlaen, taking the child away from here is not just important; it is essential."

As expected, the Blood Angel grows suspicious. It's a secret of their chapter, something not even a brother of their Primarch should know.

Guilliman shifts his gaze from Karlaen to the silver-gray metal walls adorned with the sigils of Ultramar and the Imperial Aquila. The symbolic patterns cast distorted shadows under the bright white lights.

"I am not prying into other chapters' secrets. Ten thousand years ago, Sanguinius and I made a secret vow," he admits, his tone steady and unyielding. "I know about some of your chapter's struggles and my brother Sanguinius's efforts to address them."

He pauses, allowing his words to sink in. "Given that Sanguinius is now considered a legend and a saint... this may be hard to accept, but if the Remembrancer mentioned anything about her and Sanguinius, I assure you, she wasn't lying."

Karlaen remains silent, evidently weighing Guilliman's words.

"It is merely a suggestion, my brother," Guilliman's tone softens slightly, but retains its firmness. "I will provide you with a ten-man squad and a small warship."

"What are the conditions?" Karlaen asks.

Guilliman takes a subtle breath inside his power armor before speaking, "The child is crucial to your chapter, perhaps capable of quelling the Red Thirst. You need the child. So first, you must take it to a safe place, like Terra. But his mother, she's a problem. Yet, she's an old acquaintance of mine..."

He leans back slightly, avoiding the light. When he speaks again, his voice is controlled, yet unconsciously low and slow. "Second, she stays on the 'Macragge's Honour.'"

The Blood Angel leaves.

Guilliman's gaze shifts to the stars outside the ship, the steady bright light of the stars and the flickering glow from the cosmic rays and celestial bodies seemingly reflecting his thoughts.

He forces himself to recall Sanguinius, those turbulent days, and the time they established the unspeakable Imperium Secundus, facing the endless darkness and despair that threatened humanity's last hope.

He remembers Sanguinius under the dim light during their secret meetings, his golden hair darkened by his rebellious words. He recalls his brother's chest, covered in golden ceramite armor, rising and falling slightly as he looked up at the impassioned crowd, his hand raised high in salute, resembling the Imperial Aquila, yet bearing the weight of an entire empire.

White feathers flew, obscuring Guilliman's vision. In that moment, he can't help but remember the secret hidden under Sanguinius's angelic wings.

Primarch and human. The great angel and a mortal.

The most perfect Primarch, the holy archangel, had feelings for that Terra woman. There is not the slightest "maybe" or "perhaps" about it.

He restrains himself from thinking about how his superhumanly strong brother impregnated the Remembrancer, who was as small as a kitten in comparison.

He reminds himself to respect his brother's partner. Yet, he immediately recalls that "partner" might not be the right term.

A partner is a word of respect and blessing. But clearly, the Blood Angels view her as a nuisance, whether ten thousand years ago or now.

By the customs of those decayed High Lords, perhaps "mistress" is more appropriate.

Whether partner or mistress, neither term seems fitting for a Primarch born for war and conquest. Whether it's Sanguinius or Roboute Guilliman.

He pauses at this thought, unconsciously tapping his fingers on the table. He had traded a precious warship of his chapter to the Blood Angels to keep her on the "Macragge's Honour," a decision so generous it seems uncharacteristic, especially now, when every corner of the galaxy is desperate for resources and manpower.

By ancient Terra standards, she truly is a witch.

Chapter Text

Ten thousand years in stasis was both an eternity and an instant, a surreal dream for you. In your slumber, the vast magnificence of the universe unfolded: warp rifts tore through space like wounds in time, stars wailed in their death throes. Countless worlds turned to dust while new ones were brought into the expansive fold of the Imperium. Humanity's reach extended across the galaxy, advancing bravely at times, retreating in despair at others.

The Emperor, now entombed on the Golden Throne, became a corpse-god unable to leave His seat of power, while the Primarchs, His sons, fell one by one. But all this is irrelevant to you, forgotten on the planet of Asphodex. Your memories remain frozen, brief as a comet's flash across the night sky. The entirety of a Terran's life, filled with its struggles and achievements, seems like the brief cry of an infant compared to the timeless existence of the Astartes.

Living in hive cities, generation after generation, repeating the same daily routines—the life of a Terran is monotonous and repetitive. You always knew, as you gazed at the stars, that you desired something more.

The worlds conquered by the Astartes reflected the starlight, beckoning to you. As a Remembrancer during the 30k era, you were far luckier than those in the 3k era, with enough real technology to support those legendary tales and liberate you from mediocrity, allowing you to witness extraordinary events firsthand.

The universe's battleships burned near the constellation Orion, and C-beams glittered in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. These were the most romantic and poetic aspects of your role in documenting the Great Crusade to reclaim lost worlds.

You glance at your hands, trying to clench them into fists, but they barely obey. The cell on the "Covenant of Baal" is too cold for you, far colder than your small quarters on the "Red Tear." But the "Red Tear" was almost completely destroyed when it crashed into the primary star of Signus.

You barely set foot on the soil of Signus Prime, huddled with the few survivors, dreading what would come next...

No, the fear had started much earlier.

You were dispatched to chronicle the Blood Angels' conquests, writing poems and stories. The previously harmonious and handsome Astartes of the Blood Angels suddenly became uncontrollably berserk when the xenos pushed them into a corner. They swung their chainswords with bloodthirsty savagery, discarding their helmets, exposing themselves to the irradiated air, baring terrifying fangs, and attacking friend and foe alike. One nearly snapped your neck until his comrades restrained him, halting his frenzied rampage.

You clutched your neck, watching him lick your blood from his lips, expecting him to become even more feral under restraint. Yet, his eyes cleared, as if awakening from endless madness.

"He recovered so quickly?!"

You had no idea what had happened, but you knew it wasn't something a Remembrancer should know. It seemed you possessed some ability not meant for a Remembrancer. You should have stopped there, but that wasn't your nature.

Faced with a secret involving you and potentially crucial to the Astartes legion you devoted yourself to, could you resist investigating? You couldn't, and perhaps no one else could either.

The urge to uncover the truth gnawed at you, driving you to secretly collect information, all the while deeply anxious. Your fears proved justified, leading to your confinement: an outsider attempting to pry into the Blood Angels' secrets.

Records showed the legion's dark history before Sanguinius's return: uncontrolled attacks on allies, cannibalism, vampirism… For a mortal like you, the Astartes' superhuman abilities were indeed extraordinary.

If you hadn't witnessed it yourself, you'd never believe the handsome Astartes could act like savage beasts. Yet, you seemed able to restore their sanity to some degree. Was this destiny or divine intervention? As a Remembrancer assigned to the Blood Angels' flagship, the "Red Tear," you miraculously survived the demonic onslaught in the Signus system.

Now, confinement in a cell seemed like a minor inconvenience compared to your past ordeals.

Heavy footsteps echoed from outside the chamber, followed by the sound of the door opening.

You looked up from where you huddled in your clothes, glancing towards the intruder.

It wasn't one of the numerous mortal servants or soldiers aboard the ship. Standing before you was an Astartes.

Squinting, you searched your memory for his name—Mkani Kano, Librarian and assistant Chapter Master of the Blood Angels.

Was he here to judge you? To expel you from the "Covenant of Baal"? Or perhaps to silence you for prying into their secrets?

You were mistaken. He scrutinized you for a moment, then crouched down in front of you, still towering over you even in this position.

You forced yourself to sit up straight, trying not to appear too disheveled in front of these warriors who were far stronger than any mortal.

"Madam," he addressed you, his voice carrying a certain gravitas that made it impossible for you to lie. "Brother Meros has told me some things about you."

"Meros? Is he alright?" you asked.

Apothecary Meros of the Ninth Company was a close friend and one of the Astartes who had witnessed you being attacked by your own brother.

He had protected you and the other mortals during the battle on Signus Prime, but you hadn't seen him since.

Kano looked at you, his expression clouded with melancholy. He pressed his thin lips together and did not answer your question.

"He said you have an ability..." He seemed to struggle to find the right words. "You can... calm the frenzied emotions of our brothers?"

"Frenzied emotions?" you scoffed, meeting his gaze. "I'm not an ignorant fool."

The man before you frowned, as if making a great decision. "You need to come with me. I will get you out of here. Don't ask any questions..." He paused. "In fact, it's best if you remain silent. Otherwise, you'll be on the next transport ship back to Terra, and I assure you, it won't be a pleasant journey."

Mkani Kano was undertaking something extremely risky.

As the Space Marine covered your face with a cloth and hid you in the shadow of his power armor to avoid the mortal security personnel, you realized this.

Your vision was obscured, and you felt disoriented, not knowing how long you walked. Sometimes, there was only the sound of your footsteps, while at other times, the surroundings were filled with noise.

He stopped. You heard him arguing with someone, catching a glimpse of his golden armor through a small gap in the cloth.

Then, you heard the hydraulic hiss and mechanical grind of a door opening. A cold draft swept over you, chilling your body.

"Quickly, before the Lord arrives," the man in gold armor said. "Don't make me regret this decision."

You were led forward, feeling the air crackling with a strange energy. The metallic, bloody, and deathly scent filled the air. The low growls around you quickened your pulse. When the hood was removed, the scene before you was awe-inspiring, reminiscent of the grandeur of an ancient Roman coliseum.

The chamber, adorned with murals and sculptures depicting ancient wars, had two levels of empty seats and a bloody battlefield in the center. Several Astartes lay on the ground, their blood covering the double-headed eagle insignia.

Corpses no longer frightened you. What made your skin crawl was the surviving Astartes in the hall.

You couldn't tell if his severely damaged red power armor was originally painted red or stained with blood. Ceramite was cracked from his left shoulder plate, and his arm and hand armor were missing.

He crawled among the corpses like a beast, tearing flesh from his fallen brothers with his bare hands, squeezing out red juice like from a ripe fruit, and eagerly lapping it up.

You couldn't even scream, your body stiffening and retreating a step, bumping into another ceramite-covered figure behind you.

"You know what to do, Remembrancer," the Blood Angel said gloomily, his voice heavy with despair. "I know you can help him. I can see it..."

"NO... it's NOT like that!"

You weren't naive; the fragmented conversations, the snippets of information, and the surroundings had already made you aware of the Blood Angels' intentions.

But seeing an Astartes in such a dire state was a first for you. Previously, when you were attacked, a group of Astartes immediately restrained their maddened brother, preventing you from being torn apart.

This time was different. In this isolated chamber, only three people were breathing.

You realized Kano didn't know what would happen next. He wasn't prepared and perhaps didn't care about your fate.

With a slight push, he sent you into hell.

As you fell, you curled into a ball, trying to minimize the impact. When you hit the ground, the pain was excruciating, as if your bones would shatter.

The pain made it almost impossible to breathe, but fear drove you to lift your head. The blood-red Space Marine stood up, a low growl emanating from his throat, his fangs glinting in the artificial light.

You let out a strangled cry, using all your strength to get up, leaning against the cold, smooth wall in desperation.

The next moment, a tremendous force slammed into you, and your body went numb from the impact.

Pain radiated from your neck as you struggled to escape your fate.

The warrior's charred scent, mixed with blood and sweat, overwhelmed you. Your consciousness was slipping away under the waves of pain and blood.

...

How could one describe what happened next?

In truth, your memory became hazy from blood loss. Adrenaline surged through you like a fire, burning your awareness and sanity.

You, an ordinary Remembrancer among billions, looked up at one of the eighteen surviving demigods of the galaxy—Primarch Sanguinius. As a humble Remembrancer, you would never have spoken to him, even if you spent your entire life on his ship.

In the weightlessness and heat of flight, you felt like Icarus from ancient Terra myths, your waxen wings melting as you approached the sun—approached him—dropping and staining the corner of his white robe with red.

Sanguinius folded his wings, landing gracefully on the highest step.

He stood like a statue, overlooking the crimson madness below, seemingly forgetting to put you down. He held you by the waist like a kitten, your body pressed against his taut muscles.

His emotions shifted slightly as he surveyed the scene, anger, and even disappointment. You were surprised you could sense this. A mortal should not, could not, perceive a demigod's emotions.

But you felt it. You could even smell his scent, a mix of light incense, metal, and blood. This tangible sensation shattered some of the divine aura, awakening something nameless within you.

The Astartes began to gather. Kano and the golden-armored Azkaellon approached. You also recognized First Captain Raldoron in his red power armor.

Below, an Astartes in red armor with a white medical symbol on his pauldron carefully approached a brother who had lost his mind and was subdued by the Primarch.

The warrior, just awakened from his frenzy, looked around at the fallen comrades, the blood-stained ground, and then towards your group, his body trembling. He silently mouthed "Father" before collapsing in agony.

Sanguinius's wing muscles twitched almost imperceptibly.

"The Remembrancer really... worked," Azkaellon muttered, astonished.

You were set down at some point, clutching your neck, blood seeping through your fingers.

"You're bleeding."

The voice, like the light of the stars, descended upon you, drawing nearer.

This was Sanguinius speaking to you for the first time. Compared to the holograms and recordings on the ship, hearing his unfiltered, natural voice was overwhelming.

You understood why some wept with joy upon seeing his face or hearing his voice.

He knelt before you, his white robe and feathers stained with your blood. His exquisite face was just inches away from yours.

You were too stunned to speak.

In that moment, you recalled the battleships burning near Orion, the C-beams glittering in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. Dreams long eroded by time rose again like stars on the horizon. You felt a joy filled with power and hope.

You saw his golden eyes meet yours, his gaze tracing your trembling nose, cracked lips, and the fingers pressed to your bleeding neck.

You saw his lips, full like flower petals, part slightly, his Adam's apple moving in his vein-lined neck.

For a moment, his eyes seemed to change color—red with bloodlust, black with depth. It felt like he was being swallowed by an abyss, falling into an endless dream.

"Lord..."

The sensation unsettled you, and you called out. Before you could react, he closed his eyes, then opened them again abruptly.

"I don't know what you've done, madam," he said, standing and stepping back, becoming unreachable. His voice turned cold as ice. "My children have been led astray."

You were dazed, the dizziness making it hard to grasp his words.

Not just you, the Blood Angels seemed equally confused and bewildered.

"Lord, she seems to be able to suppress the Red Thirst. Amit just... we wanted to try to find a solution," Azkaellon hurriedly explained.

"No, my son, I require NO justifications," Sanguinius said, his gaze never wavering from you. "What you have attempted is beyond comprehension, a perilous gamble. Even if it were to succeed... I cannot allow such a risk to be borne by my children."

Your heart clenches, overwhelmed with confusion, helplessness, and despair as you look from the red-armored Blood Angels captains and soldiers to the golden-armored Sanguinary Guard and their genetic father, Sanguinius.

You can almost hear the sound of your hazy dreams shattering.

Kano seems to want to speak, but his superior, Raldoron, holds him back.

Sanguinius speaks, his voice calm and weary. "Madam, I implore you to grasp the weight of my burden. Should you be innocent, then let this sin fall upon my shoulders."

You quickly grasp the meaning behind the words of this beautiful demigod, worshipped and adored by countless beings. Whether it was the blood-soaked air or something else, you can't tell if he intentionally or unintentionally concealed the murderous intent in his words.

When the Sanguinary Guard leads you to the compartment at the rear of the chamber, the reality you refused to believe comes crashing down.

Beyond the gray plassteel wall lies the vast void of space. No breathable oxygen, zero pressure in the vacuum.

You have no protective suit, while the golden-armored Azkaellon silently dons his helmet.

"I… I haven't done anything!" You grab his gauntlet, finally unable to hold back your tears.

Azkaellon hesitates, seeming to want to pull his hand away but ultimately stops. Kano's voice pleading for your life comes through his communication device.

But it seems to be of no use.

A cold despair surges from your feet to your heart. All illusions shatter instantly.

You have no time to think about everything that just happened: your naive, foolish joy at soaring into the sky, burned by a foreign sun, then plummeting back into hell unprepared.

Condemned to death by the Primarch himself, you try to maintain your dignity in the face of your imminent demise. But it's difficult. You cry, trying to straighten your back, trying to release your grip on the executioner's hand.

But you can't.

Azkaellon easily pries your fingers off one by one. He says, "I'm sorry..."

The hatch to the universe opens behind you.

A powerful suction almost blows you out immediately. Your survival instinct makes you grab onto anything within reach.

But the pressure change feels like it's squeezing your organs out of your body.

You can't breathe, and blood clouds your vision.

And then... everything stops.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, a deep and abiding fear of the Blood Angels took root within you.

More than once, you were jolted awake by nightmares, where those who had once treated you with politeness and grace suddenly bared fangs, tearing you to shreds in an instant.

You served as a Remembrancer for the Blood Angels, gradually seeing the Astartes aboard the Red Tear as your companions, despite it not being within official protocol.

The Astartes were strikingly handsome, and compared to other Legions, they treated mortals like you with a rare courtesy. This led you to form close bonds with some of them.

Caught in the fervor of their devotion to Sanguinius, you, too, came to idolize him as the embodiment of perfection.

Like many Remembrancers aboard the ship, you had pinned his poster above your bed, dreaming of the day you might stand in his presence, perhaps even share a fleeting conversation.

And that day came.

But when you lay injured and vulnerable, he looked upon you not with compassion, but with suspicion, believing you had bewitched his sons.  In that moment, the angel you revered sought to cast you out into the void.

The betrayal and the terror of near-death left you feeling utterly powerless and despairing.

Even in the final moment, he spared you.

You wondered if it was out of mercy or if he could not abandon your unique abilities.

You were certain it was the latter.

For after that, you were placed under house arrest. Every day, an Apothecary would draw your blood, collecting samples for analysis.

Your body was no longer your own.

Before it all began, you had told yourself that this was to be expected. But when the cold, invasive instruments probed your mouth and intimate places between your legs, your emotions unraveled. You realized you would spend the rest of your life as a mere experiment.

You were not a trained soldier with a steel will; you were just a Remembrancer, barely out of your apprenticeship.

Your breakdown was a slow accumulation of despair and nightmares. Perhaps madness was only a matter of time.

Later, Kano came to see you.

He brought you paper and a pen, the tools of your work as a Remembrancer.

You looked at the oversized objects, clearly designed for Astartes, being pushed through the small window into your transparent cell. There was no kindness left in your gaze for him.

"Is this your idea of comfort, sir?" you asked coldly, your voice dripping with bitterness and accusation. You saw through his hypocrisy and cruelty. To them, you were insignificant—a mere mortal—unlike his brother Meros, who had once protected you and the others. Yet now, Kano and his powerful, revered father had judged you guilty, wanting you dead, but chose to keep you alive only to use you as a lab rat.

The lines of Kano’s mouth grew tighter, but when you mentioned his Primarch father, he couldn’t contain himself and slammed his fist against the transparent glass of your cell.

"Innocent?" he growled. "You’ve been prying into the secrets of the Legion all along."

You recoiled in fear.

The thunderous impact had drawn the attention of the Apothecaries working outside the chamber.

Kano closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to regain composure. Slowly, he unclenched his fist and pressed his gloved hand against the glass.

"On Signus Prime, we were betrayed by our own kin, suffering losses beyond measure... Many of us fell, either in battle or to the grip of madness," he murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Brother Meros, the one you speak of, gave his life to shield our father..."

Then he lifted his gaze, locking eyes with you, the intensity of his stare sending a shiver down your spine. "But then you appeared... Remembrancer, whoever you may be, remember this: as a citizen of the Imperium, you are bound to give everything for it—your duty, your loyalty, even your life."

The conversation ended on a bitter note.

You stared at the paper and pen he had brought, but they only deepened your despair.

Meros was gone, your mortal friends lost on Signus, and the angelic demigod Primarch you once revered now felt like a distant stranger.

Everyone tied to the Blood Angels seemed as shattered as the Red Tear itself, adrift in the void, with no clear destination in sight.

Its course was shrouded in silence, unknown to all.

Until the angel descended.

Shortly after Kano’s visit, you were granted a reprieve from the confines of the transparent chamber and allowed to move into a private room. Though the daily examinations continued, the semblance of privacy brought a small measure of relief.

But true privacy was an illusion.

One night, an unexpected visitor entered your quarters.

You had just returned from your routine examination, the servo-automata following closely behind to ensure you reached your destination. According to Terran time, it was night—the corridors of the Covenant of Baal dimmed to simulate the passage of time, creating the illusion of evening.

Even in the endless void of space, where day and night hold no meaning, both humans and Astartes alike adhere to the rhythms of time. Perhaps this shared routine hints at the deeper connections between you, a mere Terran, and the Baal-born Astartes you serve—a subtle reminder of the shared humanity that ties you together.

Behaviors, after all, are often the same, whether in the light of day or under the cover of night. Secrets, too dangerous to speak aloud in daylight, are whispered in the shadows. Not even an angel is exempt from this pattern.

He stood there in the soft glow of your quarters, as still and perfect as a statue. The golden chains entwined around his wings glinted in the low light.

When you saw the Primarch, Sanguinius himself, occupying most of the space in your room designed for mortals, your heart skipped a beat, and you instinctively retreated, your back pressing against the closed door.

The walls of your room were adorned with posters of him, hastily covered in stickers, while your bed was scattered with crumpled sheets of paper, filled with frantic scribbles. The sense of being exposed made your blood rush, flooding your face with heat.

“Cast aside your fear,” Sanguinius spoke, his voice resonating through the room like the echo of an ancient hymn. “No harm will come to you by my hand. I seek only to converse with you.”

You stayed pressed against the door, uncertainty gnawing at you.

What could a demigod possibly have to discuss with a mere mortal?

“You already know everything about me, don’t you, my lord?” Your voice wavered, betraying your nerves, and any pretense of formality crumbled. “Everything—my past, my very essence—there’s nothing left to uncover.”

Sanguinius paused, his golden eyes searching yours, holding you in place with their intensity. After a moment, he leaned forward, his towering form bowing to meet you at eye level, diminishing the vast distance between demigod and mortal. "I’ve come to apologize," he said quietly. "I know how difficult this has been for you. The pain my decisions have caused you is something I did not foresee…"

You averted your eyes. "You don’t need to apologize, do you, my lord? You are the father of the Legion, the Primarch of the Imperium…" You bit your lip, forcing the words out. "You are the reason I serve."

He shook his head gently, urging you to listen. “Each choice I make is in service to humanity and the Legion, for their greater good. Yet, this does not render me blind to the suffering such decisions may cause. I confess, in my relentless pursuit of logic and reason, I may have failed to consider the toll it has taken on you.”

His gaze drifted to the bandages on your arm, lingering there before returning to meet your eyes. “I ask that you find it in your heart to forgive me.”

The sincerity in his voice was undeniable, resonating with a depth that was almost palpable. His eyes, shimmering like distant stars reflected on a tranquil lake, stirred something within you, making it impossible to dismiss his words without a pang of profound guilt.

Your breath caught in your throat as you watched his hands—so strong—clench into fists. A strange, unsettling sensation welled up inside you, and before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out.

"What do you want from me, my lord?"

After leaving you to the Apothecaries for so long, he had already taken everything—your skin, hair, blood, and every part of your body.

He gazed at you, his eyes widening slightly before a faint, almost wistful smile played on his lips. "Indeed, your meticulous attention as a Remembrancer is commendable. I do have a request."

His expression softened, resembling the one you had seen on Kano's face, though in Sanguinius, it held a more intricate and layered depth.

When he spoke again, even you could detect the subtle emotion that laced his voice. "I am aware that to ask this of you directly is an enormous imposition, but understand that I ask because I am certain that within YOU lies the power to save my Legion from the Red Thirst."

"The Red Thirst? You mean… my blood?"

A flicker of that familiar blood-red hue passed through his eyes, only to be swiftly replaced by an expression of deep revulsion, as if dismissing the very notion.

"My father crafted me, and from my gene-seed, my sons were born. I understand that humanity passes its lineage through a different, more… primal method."

You looked at him, confusion clouding your thoughts as you waited for him to clarify his request.

Sanguinius’s gaze lingered on your face, as though searching the depths of your soul for something unspoken. Then, his eyes shifted, deliberate and measured, as if weighing each word with the gravity it deserved. “My Apothecaries wanted to convey this to you, but I could not allow it. This request must come from me."

The feathers on his wings twitched involuntarily, a subtle ripple of tension, and the muscles in his jaw tightened and relaxed. Finally, with a solemnity that made your heart race, he spoke. "I ask you to bear a child—one who will carry within them the gift we share, a gift potent enough to silence the Red Thirst."

In that moment, your mouth formed a silent "O," his words striking you like a bolt of lightning, leaving your heart pounding with a storm of conflicting emotions.

This request pierced the very core of your privacy and dignity, leaving you feeling exposed and disoriented. The unspoken implications—the act of creation, the intertwining of life, the sacred bond between a man and a woman—brought a wave of shock and confusion crashing over you.

The demigod you once idolized now stood before you, uttering a request so deeply personal and profound that it shattered the pedestal upon which you had placed him.

You couldn’t ignore the admiration and affection you had once harbored for him, but those emotions had long been eclipsed by the shadows of fear and uncertainty. As you recalled how Sanguinius and his Legion had treated you—from nearly condemning you to death to now laying this intimate burden upon you—you were torn apart by a whirlwind of conflicting feelings.

"Is… is this truly your wish, my lord?" Your voice trembled, betraying your inner turmoil. "I… I don’t know how to respond. This is all so sudden, and…"

You hesitated, your gaze unwillingly tracing the contours of his statuesque form—from the towering height that eclipsed you, to the broad, shield-like shoulders, to the powerful legs that spoke of unmatched strength. But when your eyes inadvertently lingered on the forbidden center of his body, the less godly, perhaps primal part concealed beneath the flowing white robe, a sudden wave of nervousness and embarrassment surged through you—an unsettling, almost taboo sensation.

Your thoughts spiraled, a torrent of emotions swirling within you, and before you could rein them in, the question that had been simmering in the depths of your mind escaped your lips.

"Do you love me?"

For a moment, the angelic Primarch’s perfect features registered an uncharacteristic flicker of surprise, as though such a question had never crossed his mind. The word seemed foreign on his lips, leaving him momentarily speechless.

"Love?" he echoed, the word tumbling out mechanically, as if he were testing its weight for the first time.

Even you hadn’t expected to say something so foolish. The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? You were strangers, insignificant mortals, suspicious in your very existence. Yet your mind whirred, desperate to break the awkward silence, to regain some semblance of composure.

"Your father spoke of his love for humanity. But what of his sons?" you pressed, your voice trembling but growing bolder as you met his gaze, feeling a dangerous warmth rise within you. "You love your Primarch brothers, your sons… but could you ever love me?"

...Could you ever accept me into your eternal protection, bound by an oath forged in love and unbroken by the passage of time?

You didn’t have the courage to finish the thought, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze, refusing to back down.

Sanguinius regarded you with an intensity that seemed to pierce through to your very soul. After a moment, his voice, calm and resolute, broke the silence. "Is that what you seek? A condition upon which my plea rests?"

You remained silent, yet the pressure in your chest grew, an unfamiliar sensation swelling like a balloon on the verge of bursting.

Was it ambition or folly?

The thrill of risking everything or the weight of a guilt too heavy to bear?

Whatever it was, it rooted you to the spot, paralyzing you.

His gaze wandered to the wall, where a poster of his image, obscured by careful stickers, revealed only the flowing golden hair, the blood-filled chalice, and the gilded armor bearing the double-headed eagle. There was no mistaking who it depicted.

"You harbor resentment against me. I can sense the fear that grips your heart." His voice, though gentle, resonated with a power that reverberated deep within you.

"I…"

It was as if that balloon burst, all at once. Your feeble attempt at manipulation had been effortlessly seen through, and you couldn’t help but clench your fists, feeling the heat rise to your face in shame. But still, you stubbornly held your ground, meeting the Primarch's gaze.

Sanguinius sighed deeply. "This is my failing."

In your moment of bewilderment, the demigod before you began to lower himself, his form descending with an almost reverent grace. Slowly, he bent to one knee, extending his hand toward you.

You watched, as if under a spell, as your own hand hesitantly reached out, trembling as it hovered before finding its place within his broad, powerful grasp. The disparity in size was stark—your fragile fingers, delicate as those of a newborn, seeking the shelter and protection of a being far beyond mortal ken.

The Primarch inclined his head, allowing golden strands of hair to cascade gently over his brow. Those lips, which had once spoken words of both harshness and comfort, now brushed against your trembling palm in a kiss as light as a whisper.

As his lips met your skin, you glimpsed the great wings behind him, adorned with chains of gold. The feathers, as if stirred by some hidden emotion, flared and quivered before slowly settling back into a state of serene repose.

Kano watched from a distance as his gene-father, the noble Primarch, finally returned to his quarters.

The angelic figure walked alone, his steps unhurried as he passed through the corridors of his residence. The light from the hovering globes bathed his golden hair, his flowing white robe, and the majestic wings folded behind him in a radiant glow.

Kano, along with the other officers present, knelt on one knee on the polished stone floor, their heads bowed in reverence.

The angel inclined his head slightly, a gesture for them to rise, yet there was a heaviness in his demeanor, a burden that seemed to weigh upon him, leaving him uncharacteristically silent.

It was Raldoron, their commander, who broke the stillness first. Dispensing with formalities, he spoke directly, "My lord, has the Remembrancer agreed to cooperate?"

Kano's gaze flickered toward him, then back to the Primarch.

"Ral…"

As Kano had anticipated, this question seemed far removed from the thoughts that preoccupied his gene-father. The angel merely uttered his name, acknowledging the inquiry without directly addressing it.

"She will agree, naturally," came the confident voice of Azkaellon, the captain of the Sanguinary Guard. "It is a request made by none other than our father, the Great Angel Sanguinius himself."

Kano observed a fleeting, inscrutable expression cross Sanguinius's face—perhaps hesitation, perhaps concern, or some other emotion beyond mortal understanding. After a pause, the Primarch finally spoke.

"My sons of Baal, do you recall, in the days before you were reborn as Astartes, the great feasts of our homeworld? The wine that flowed like rivers, the delicacies that graced our tables, the men and women who danced with abandon... And afterward, beneath the shadow of ancient monasteries, upon the crimson sands of the plains, amidst the towering salt mountains, and under the dimly glowing stars, tainted by the echoes of radiation..." He paused, as if lost in the memory, "The fleeting pleasures... the ephemeral joys of a mortal life."

For a brief moment, Kano felt a wave of confusion. Like his fellow Astartes, he remained silent, pondering the Primarch's words.

"The influence of hormones, beyond bloodlines and genes," the angel murmured softly.

"My lord, I assure you, those hormones, unrelated to battle, were effectively suppressed during the Astartes transformation process," Azkaellon responded.

Kano pressed his lips together, feeling his fingers tighten slightly. His eyes followed the Primarch's gaze to a painting on the wall.

The painting captured a woman amidst golden hills and fig trees, her gaze both innocent and mysterious, her arched brow a wordless enticement. Her alabaster neck and bosom, bared and vulnerable, were encircled by an ornate golden collar, a gleaming shackle of sorts. The brilliance of the gold overwhelmed the scene, masking the shadowed figure of the man she cradled, his head lowered and stained with blood.

Chapter Text

Aboard the warship, the hierarchy was as immutable as the stars.

The boundaries between ranks were etched as indelibly as ancient inscriptions in steel—clear, unyielding, and impervious.

In the lowest levels, shrouded in shadow, servitors and countless human thralls moved like forgotten spirits, bustling through narrow, dimly lit passageways. The middle decks throbbed with life, the ship's pulsing heart, where mortal soldiers and technical crew worked alongside the Astartes. And in the upper levels, like temples suspended in the heavens, resided the Astartes officers and their human advisors—a sanctum of power and reverence.

On both the Red Tear and now on the Covenant of Baal, these divisions remained unchanged.

Having spent most of your time in the middle decks, with only occasional forays into the upper echelons for interviews, you knew your place well. But now, led by the servitor into a realm you had only heard of in hushed whispers, you were treading on ground reserved for the divine.

As you crossed through the ship's metallic gates, the stark, utilitarian walls began to give way to signs of artistry—sculptures emerged from the cold steel, and elegant carvings traced patterns along the corridors. Then, with the opening of yet another door, your feet sank into the unexpected luxury of a carpet, its soft fibers stretching across a grand hallway.

At the corridor's far end, a figure in resplendent golden armor stood like a sentinel, as imposing as a titan from ancient lore. His presence was overwhelming, a tower of majesty and strength. As you approached, his gaze lowered, scrutinizing you as if you were nothing more than a trinket, utterly insignificant in his eyes. Before an Astartes, you always felt as inconsequential as a grain of dust, a child gazing up at a being beyond comprehension. With a mere thought, he could break you in two, and you would have no chance to resist.

A mix of emotions churned within you as you looked up at him, towering and aloof, his gauntleted hand extending toward you.

You recalled how those very hands had pried your fingers loose when you were nearly cast into the void, how they had lifted your trembling, weeping form back into the ship's safety.

All of it had been done under the command of his gene-father.

"We have not formally met, Remembrancer. I am Azkaellon, Captain of the Sanguinary Guard."

You hesitated before lifting your hand to touch his, but he withdrew almost instantly, as if the very act of contact was distasteful.

"Come," he said, turning with a fluid grace to open the door behind him.

The servitor that had guided you was left behind as Azkaellon led you down yet another corridor, his strides so long that you had to jog to keep pace. He halted before a door, his golden form exuding an unspoken authority.

"Your hand," he instructed curtly, indicating a screen set high above your head.

As your palm met the cool surface, the light flickered to life, and the door slid open with a whisper.

The room beyond was vast—far larger than anything you had ever known. The walls were adorned with masterful paintings, the ceiling a soaring dome, and the floor was a tapestry of intricate patterns.

Yet, for all its grandeur, the room was sparsely furnished—a bed, a table, and a few chairs, their simplicity stark against the opulence surrounding them, as if they were mere afterthoughts in a place meant for far greater things.

"This will be your quarters, Remembrancer," Azkaellon's voice echoed like a distant star's call, devoid of warmth. "In recognition of your contributions, Lord Sanguinius has granted you this space." He pressed his lips together, as though disapproving of his own words—or perhaps frustrated that a warrior of his stature was reduced to showing a mortal their lodgings.

"But..."

"A word of advice, Remembrancer," he interrupted. "It would be wise for you to remain here and not wander. Your belongings will be brought to you shortly by the servitors." With that, he departed swiftly, as though every second spent in your presence was an imposition.

You stood alone in the vast, echoing room, momentarily paralyzed, unsure of your next move.

Was this room the beginning of Sanguinius’s promise being fulfilled?

As you paced the unfamiliar space, a growing unease stirred within you, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

You pressed down on the edge of the bed, and its softness was unlike anything you had ever known in the harsh confines of Terra’s hives.

Sitting, you felt the chair cradle you, its comfort so profound that it instantly eased the ache in your back.

For someone raised in the squalor of Terra’s underbelly, this level of luxury was unimaginable—a comfort you had never dared even to dream of.

Yet, this newfound comfort brought no peace. Instead, it stirred a deeper, more insidious fear—a fear of the unknown future that lay ahead.

You realized with a jolt that you had made a shocking request of the Angel, and he, against all expectations, seemed to have accepted it.

Love?

The word now felt foreign on your tongue, alien in your thoughts. What did love mean to him, if it meant anything at all?

Primal instincts, offspring, procreation—concepts you once understood now felt twisted and obscure. You no longer knew what they signified, what you were being shaped into.

You were lost, adrift in a sea of uncertainty, with no one to help you untangle these knots.

Perhaps only the Primarch himself held the key to unraveling this mystery.

You wanted to ask him, to seek the answers you so desperately needed.

But for now, you were alone in this strange, opulent space, where everything seemed distant, blurred, and beyond your grasp.

Yet, in the midst of your despair, a flicker of resolve sparked within you. You realized the door wasn’t locked—it could be opened with ease. If no one noticed your absence, then perhaps you hadn’t truly defied the Sanguinary Guard’s command. After all, you were not an Astartes bound by their rigid orders.

Your heart raced as you cautiously peeked out. The corridor beyond was deserted, not even a servitor in sight. The silence was profound, almost oppressive.

Steeling yourself, you stepped out of your quarters and began your cautious exploration.

The corridor lights, like distant stars, guided you through the vastness of the ship as it drifted through the void. Everything around you was enormous, clearly built for the towering forms of the Astartes. The spacious, immaculate halls were adorned with sculptures and paintings, each representing different eras and styles.

You moved from one artwork to the next, admiring the craftsmanship and pondering the identity of their creators. Eventually, you found yourself in a larger, more open space—like a hidden plaza within the ship. Here, the artworks were more vivid, the sculptures grander and more imposing, silently narrating the glory and tribulations of the Imperium.

Just then, you heard the distant creak of a door opening, followed by the heavy thud of footsteps and the low murmur of male voices.

One of them was unmistakably Azkaellon’s, and a wave of panic surged through you. Desperately, you scanned your surroundings and realized the nearest corridor was still dozens of meters away.

With your heart pounding, you darted into the shadow of a towering sculpture. Its wings spread wide, shielding you and the portrait behind you from view.

The portrait revealed a beautiful woman, her serene smile set against golden hills and fig trees. Her neck and bosom, pure alabaster, were adorned with an intricate, elegant necklace. Yet beneath the glint of gold, she cradled something ghastly—a bloodied head, half-hidden within her delicate hands.

As you strained to listen, the voices in the hall became clearer, and with a sinking heart, you realized you were overhearing the Legion’s highest council.

The melodic tone of Primarch Sanguinius intertwined with the distinct accents of Baal-born Astartes and the sharper Terran lilt of human officials, their conversation filled with words that sent a chill down your spine: the Navigator’s blindness to the Astronomican, the betrayal of the Warmaster, the fleet lost in the warp.

These revelations overwhelmed you, almost too much to grasp. Your fingers traced the sculpted muscles of the angelic figure, gripping its broad wings with a desperate intensity. Your chest pressed against the cold, firm surface, your breath quickening as the tension built between your body and the shadowy, bloodied head you cradled in your embrace.

Time seemed to lose all meaning, a suspended eternity broken only by the deep, resonant tones of Sanguinius’s voice, filling the space like a distant echo.

“Step forward, child.”

Cautiously, you edged out from your hiding place, only to find yourself caught in the unwavering intensity of his gaze from across the room.

Instinctively, you recoiled, a flutter of fear tightening in your chest, but realizing the futility of hiding, you took a trembling breath and stepped forward, your heart pounding in your ears.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” you managed, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I did not intend to eavesdrop.”

He appeared unfazed by your intrusion. The Angel, seated with a weary grace upon his ornate throne, extended his hand with the effortless fluidity of one who commands without words, beckoning you closer as if summoning a fragile creature.

Hesitantly, you moved to his side, standing by his bent knee, and even then, he loomed over you, his snow-white robes and wings cascading down from the throne like a celestial waterfall. You carefully avoided brushing against them, wary of disturbing the sacredness of his presence.

“You were admiring my collection.” His voice was a gentle murmur, his body leaning forward as he sought to bring his gaze level with yours, a subtle gesture that belied his towering stature.

You nodded, the memory of the painting that had pressed against you still vivid in your mind, half-veiled by the statue’s protective wings.

“Do you… dislike that one? The golden woman?” you asked, the words escaping you with all the courage you could muster.

His face, now so close, revealed every detail—the pores on his skin, the delicate veins that threaded through his eyes, and the breath that seemed to envelop you, as if his very presence could fold around you like the wings of the statue.

His long lashes fluttered, a brief hesitation that cast shadows over his irises, as he considered your question with an intensity that made the air around you seem to still.

“And why do you think so?” His voice, though soft, was laden with an unspoken depth that made your pulse quicken.

Caught off guard by his inquiry, you fumbled for a response, your mind scrambling for words that would not sound foolish.

“Perhaps… its style is too bold?” you offered, your voice wavering as you tried to sound reflective.

“Perhaps,” he whispered, his breath barely stirring the air, his teeth catching his lower lip in a moment of contemplation. His eyes did not leave you, instead tracing the lines of your face—lingering on your eyes, your hair, then slowly descending to your neck, as if memorizing every curve, every detail…

His gaze felt almost like a physical touch, caressing your features with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. Unsettled, you brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, a small, instinctive movement that seemed to break the spell.

As if stung, he quickly averted his gaze.

Moments passed before he spoke again, his voice shadowed with fatigue: “You’ve heard it all… The Warmaster has betrayed the Imperium, and we are lost in the warp, the path to Terra shrouded in darkness.”

"But… wasn’t the Warmaster your closest brother?” you asked, still reeling from the shock. “I’ve seen your records… When you spoke of him… you loved him.”

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes, “Love is a word you wield with ease, child, as if its meaning were simple.”

“I’ve read the histories! And I have feelings too!”

“Very persuasive.” A whisper of amusement curling his lips.

“Long ago, when I was just a girl on Terra, gazing at the night sky… It was your story that guided me through those nights,” you said earnestly. “Every interview, every report, I tried to piece together an image of you… Though the pieces never formed a complete picture. But I knew of the bond between you and Horus, and I couldn’t help but…” You paused, “Feel worried.”

Sanguinius’s silence was deep, the kind that filled the space between stars. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with a quiet, simmering grief: “Signus Prime… drenched in the blood of my sons—that was HIS doing.” His eyes darkened, the blood-red hue of agony and anger bleeding through. “My father, our Terra, hang by a thread, their fates unknown and uncertain. Do you still believe I love a traitor?”

You lowered your gaze, focusing on your arm, bruised from the blood draws, and touched the wound on your neck, still tender from Amit’s bite.

Like him, you too harbored a quiet, unspoken fury.

“Your hatred is born of love,” you paused, “Will you… try to save him?”

“I do not know,” he confessed. “I must see him.” Then, with a sudden, intense focus, his gaze locked onto yours. “Would you? Help someone whose hatred is rooted in love?”

You hesitated, the weight of his question pressing down on you.  “I don’t know what to do… Will I die?” you asked, your voice trembling as you cut through the uncertainty. “When my womb carries your child, a demigod, your genes and mine will merge, it will stretch my body, make it something unrecognizable…”

Your words struck something deep within him. His towering form moved closer, his large hands grasping your wrists, easily encircling your entire forearms.

His sudden movement nearly drew you into his embrace.

You watched as Sanguinius closed his eyes, then slowly opened them, emotions swirling like a burning nebula behind his gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was a soft murmur, “I cannot say…” A pause, heavy with unspoken fears, then he admitted, “Even my Apothecaries cannot foresee what lies ahead. No one has ever walked this path. But know this—I would never wish harm upon you.”

You met his gaze, your voice dry and weak: “No one wants to ruin an experiment.”

“An experiment?… NO,” he frowned, a shadow of pain crossing his features. “Perhaps it feels and looks that way…”  A faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips. “Even now, it may seem as though I’m coaxing you into a decision. But you must understand—you hold the power to choose.”

You stared at him, confusion and uncertainty swirling within you.

“We sail through the warp, bound for Terra. The galaxy’s state is unknown to me; it may already be engulfed in war. But when we pass the first habitable world, if you wish to leave, I shall not hold you back.”

“But what about you, and your Legion?”

You felt the pressure of his grip on your arm tighten briefly, his emotions betraying him in that fleeting moment.

“We have our own fate…”

After a beat, he released you, exhaling deeply before a smile softened his features, his tone lightening like a dawn breaking through the night: “But let’s not dwell on such thoughts now, my lady. Are you hungry?”

The servitors laid out a feast, each dish a tantalizing relief after months of bland rations. It seemed impossible that, amid the Legion's heavy losses and the ship's damage, fresh bread, succulent meat, and ripe fruits could be offered so freely.

“Fortune has smiled upon us,” the Primarch mused, his gaze lingering on you with quiet amusement as you eagerly consumed the meal. He sipped from an enormous goblet, the deep red wine swirling like blood within. “It allows me the rare delight of witnessing such vitality.” A playful smile tugged at his lips as he selected the most vibrant fruit from the platter and held it out to you.

A wave of embarrassment washed over you, realizing how ravenous you must have appeared. Quickly, you dabbed at your mouth with a napkin before accepting the fruit from his hand.

“There is no need to hurry, child,” he murmured, his voice as soothing as a lullaby. “You may stay in my quarters for as long as you require, until your heart has made its choice.”

“Your quarters?” you echoed, the realization dawning on you.

“I trust Azkaellon has shown you to your room,” he continued, his tone light yet tinged with something deeper.

It struck you then—all the spaces you had passed through belonged to him, a part of his personal domain.

“Your biometric data is now part of the servitor system here,” he added. “If there’s anything you need, they will attend to you.”

“This… it’s all too much…” The sudden luxury made you falter, hesitant to take another bite. After all, you were just a Remembrancer, not even his personal one. “It doesn’t feel right,” you confessed, your voice small.

Sanguinius shook his head, a gentle smile on his lips. “I ask only one thing of you.” His eyes met yours as he sipped the dark, crimson wine, the motion of his throat deliberate and slow.

“Be a good girl.”

Chapter Text

In this age of 40k, you still lie within the confines of a medicae pod, the scent of medicinal scent lingering in the air. As you glance down at your arm, you see it still bears the countless marks of needles.

The only change, it seems, is in the decor of the chamber and the uniforms of the Astartes—where once there were wings and blood drops, now there is the inverted Ω symbol.

Your moments of clarity are few, your mind often clouded by the effects of the drugs.

Instinctively, your hand drifts to your abdomen, pondering what brought you to this place, to this state.

Is this all Sanguinius’s fault?

The perfect Angel had once whispered that you had the freedom to choose.

And yet, why did he keep you by his side, as a mere Remembrancer, following in his shadow, moving through every corner of the warship? You witnessed his tender conversations with each of his gene-sons, soothing their wounds. When he whispered to the weary mortal servants, they would fall to their knees in reverence, kissing the hem of his robe.

Your pen followed these scenes, moments you once only dreamed of capturing in words and images, as if you had achieved the highest honor any Remembrancer could—becoming the personal chronicler of a Primarch.

The mortal servants of Baal bowed before you, and those too timid to approach the Primarch directly would hand you their handcrafted tokens, hoping you would pass them on. Faced with their expectations, you felt awkward, yet found it difficult to refuse.

You had to admit, there were times when you nearly forgot you were still a prisoner on reprieve.

The master of the Legion should not have spoken to you.

He confided in you memories of times long past, stories you had never heard, nor read in any archive.

The irradiated lands of Baal, the scorching rays that seared the skin, the coarse sands of the white salt flats, the rose-tinted light of the ancient sun, and the shadows cast by the towering walls of the ancient monastery.

The figures of men and women dancing beneath the twin moons during the brief nights. The gentle touch of the woman who raised him, and the tension of the air currents brushing against his face as he soared through the skies.

These memories had nothing to do with war, nothing to do with the Legion.

As these recollections resonated, you lay beside him under the vast canopy of his quarters, where the strange rays and lights of the warp danced above you both.

You were enveloped in his radiance, his golden hair and soft, beautiful wings intertwining with you like silken ribbons. In his gentle voice, the whispers of demons faded into oblivion.

You couldn’t help but wonder, was this all by design? In this vast universe, who could resist being drawn to him?

The freedom of choice he had granted you seemed nothing more than a lofty illusion.

When your eyes met his, did he see the rising tide of emotion within you? That fervor, so intense, it nearly drowned your reason, made you forget yourself. Made you forget that you were merely an ordinary Remembrancer, perhaps just a potential experiment, a vessel to bear his offspring.

Was this all part of the Angel’s undisguised trap?

It was a fleeting dream, so intoxicatingly beautiful that you almost believed it. And yet, it served as a stark reminder: should you choose the other path he offered, should you decide to leave the Legion, everything you had here would vanish like a morning mist, never to return.

It’s not that you hadn’t wrestled with this decision.

The fleet lost its way in the warp, mistaking the Pharos Beacon for the Astronomican and arriving at Macragge. When Sanguinius and the Astartes attended the welcoming ceremony of the Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds, the Primarch of the Ultramarines, Roboute Guilliman, the doors of the ship opened for you.

No one stopped you.

In that moment, you were transported back to a time before you had ventured into the cosmos, to the innocent days of girlhood, wandering the bustling streets of the hive, gazing up at a sky crowded with ships, witnessing the crowds’ cheers in the square, and the image on the colossal screen.

The Angel, clad in intricate ceremonial armor, his right arm raised in joyous unity by his brother toward the heavens. He looked up at the sea of fervent faces, allowing his hand to be lifted high. Behind him, his majestic wings spread fully, mirroring the Imperial Aquila.

The Imperial Regent of Imperium Secundus… What a foreign title.

You watched as the camera lingered on his face, beyond the sea of people and the vast screen.

You were startled to realize that you could easily discern the shadows of doubt in his eyes, so out of place amidst the jubilant crowd.

This isn’t what he wants.

The thought echoed in your mind, and for a moment, it felt as if his golden eyes pierced through the multitude, seeking you out in the throng.

But that was nothing more than an illusion.

You were lost in the crowd, while he stood high in the palace.

Your knowledge of him—his scent, his voice, his warmth—would soon fade to mere memories. And you would live a peaceful, uneventful life, free from the trials of illness and pain, until time slowly eroded every trace of the Angel from your mind.

That was the other path you could choose.

“We have our own fate…” you suddenly recalled him saying those words to you.

If fate led you to dream of the stars, if fate wove the cure within your veins, if fate placed you among the Blood Angels, if fate drew you to Signus and Macragge, if fate made you daring beyond all restraint—then you would embrace this destiny. 

Not just from love or desire, but because it was ordained.

Sanguinius, high above in his unseen towers, with his hand raised by his brother, was destined to follow his path. And you, in your own way, had accepted yours.

It was Kano who found you.

By then, you had realized you were without your Remembrancer credentials, unable to return to the grand warship. With no other choice, you wandered back to the plaza, climbing the long road up to Hera’s Crown Mountain, lingering foolishly outside the Fortress of Hera in the Valley of Laponis for hours until the skies began to weep with rain.

You had a little Terran currency, but it was a public holiday on Macragge, and the banks were closed.

The mundane, grounded reality of it all made you want to laugh, yet soon, hunger and exhaustion gnawed at you.

Two options presented themselves: one, approach a security post and tell the patrol officer that you wished to see Sanguinius, only to be thrown into the Macragge dungeons as a madwoman. Or two, find a sheltered spot near the fortress and wait out the night, hoping to figure things out the next day.

Reluctantly, you chose the latter.

That’s when Kano found you.

When you looked up and saw him, you sighed in relief.

“Thank Terra, I thought I wouldn’t make it back today… Didn’t you attend the ceremony?”

His light armor was soaked through with rain, his voice carrying a dark undertone. “If you intended to run, you should’ve gone farther,” he said slowly. “Your scent—it's detectable from miles away.”

You blinked, noting that the shoes you wore, ill-suited for long walks, had rubbed your heels raw, likely drawing blood. The Blood Angels knew blood better than any other Legion.

“I did think about leaving… but…”

“But you returned. Is it because Sanguinius granted you an unprecedented position aboard the Covenant of Baal? Now that he’s the Imperial Regent of Imperium Secundus, you’ve come back to chase power—or is it, as before, to uncover our deepest secrets?”

You listened calmly as he laid out his string of accusations, sharp and unrelenting. It was the longest speech this proud Astartes had ever directed at you, a mere mortal Remembrancer.

Rain trickled down his hair and onto his face, and strangely, you felt no urge to refute him.

In your mind, the image of the endless rain from ancient Terran films came to life—the dying soldier speaking of the burning warships off Orion's shoulder, of C-beams glittering in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.

All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.

You couldn’t help but lift your hand, touching his face, brushing away the rain that trailed down his jaw.

He flinched as if shocked, stepping back. Silence hung between you, broken only by his low voice.

“I saw it…” he murmured. “An endless sea of red, like a dream you can never wake from. Time becomes meaningless…” He took your hands into his, bare of gauntlets, holding them with a solemnity that sent a shiver down your spine. “If you return to us… you may face suffering worse than death.”

“All those moments will be lost in time…” you whispered, biting your lip, before forcing a small, sad smile. “You told me I should serve the Imperium.”

“Yes, you should,” he replied, his voice tinged with a quiet frustration, his lips pressed into a tight line as though restraining his emotions. “It’s time to return to your cage.”

He hoisted you onto his shoulder, armored in ceramite, draping his cloak over you to shield you from the rain and the gaze of the Ultramarine guards. Like a cat that had strayed too far from home, he carried you back to Sanguinius.

The Angel wasn’t seated in the grand chair meant for a Primarch, as he often was. He paced restlessly in the chamber, still clad in the ornate ceremonial armor from earlier. The red gems and the Eye of Terra on his chest armor glinted in the dim light.

When he saw your drenched form, he quickened his pace toward you.

Your gaze faltered, lowering as the Primarch knelt on one knee to meet your height.

He removed his cloak, the rich fabric thick as a blanket, and wrapped it around you, enveloping you in its warmth. But not before his eyes lingered on your bloodied socks, his expression darkening.

You heard him sigh heavily. “I had hoped you had chosen the right path. You should not have returned.”

“I don’t want to run from my duty,” you whispered, meeting his eyes.

““This is what I asked of you—not your burden to bear. You understand… I cannot foresee what will come.” The ornate decorations on his brow, the golden laurel wreath, caught the light as he shook his head slightly.

“I know.”

“You will endure more examinations…” He frowned. “ “You once told me how much you despised them—how you abhorred the needles.”

“I know.”

“Your body… so fragile…” He hesitated, as though battling with himself over the words, “I can hardly imagine it swelling like a ripening fruit…”

“I know.”

“You could die.”

“We have our own fate…” you whispered, echoing the words he had spoken to you once before.

His gaze fell, and silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, before he finally let out a long, weary sigh. “Look at yourself, my lady… Blissfully, naively, you clasp this golden collar of a shackle around your neck, and yet you wish for me to fasten it, to bind you tightly.”

You paused, then with a surge of courage, reached out from beneath his cloak, your small hand encircled one of his large, armored fingers—able to grasp only one or two—guiding them to your neck, to the spot concealed beneath the damp scarf.

There, hidden by the fabric, was the ugly, bitten scar left by his son. A mark that had once bled profusely, staining his wings…

His hand trembled slightly at the contact.

“Would you do it? Tighten it for me?”

The Angel’s gaze flickered, his lips parting as if to speak, revealing the faintest glint of his teeth. His golden fingers encircled your neck like a broad chain.

“I… would not resist,” you whispered, your voice soft, your lips curling into a small smile, much like the golden woman in the portrait.

He hesitated. His hand, so capable of wielding the mightiest of weapons, moved from your neck. His rough fingers, now tender, gently brushed away the rain that clung to your hair, tracing a path down your cheek.

The Gloriana-class Battleship Macragge’s Honor, 40k

When Roboute Guilliman finally “remembers” to visit the Terra-born Remembrancer, seven standard days have already passed since the child was born.

"Remembers" might not be the most accurate term. In truth, he has been restless, a low hum of anxiety always present, lingering at the edge of his mind.

He has been waiting for the right moment, waiting for a plan to take shape.

It is, perhaps, a bit underhanded of him. He waits for the Blood Angels to leave with the child so he can then inform the mother that he cannot help her reclaim the baby from them—because he knows she will ask.

Mothers have an innate sense of responsibility and protection for their offspring. Just as his own foster mother, Madame Euten, once had for him.

But when that moment comes, all he will be able to offer her is an apology.

And then what? What can he say after that?

Perhaps reminiscing would be a suitable topic.

But the garden in the Fortress of Hera, where she once lay on the grass a millennium ago, has long since been razed and rebuilt, its memory erased by the passage of time.

Or should he discuss his future plans?

Yet the galaxy now lies in ruin, teeming with countless enemies, each more pressing than the last, all demanding his attention.

Are these the topics a lady would care to hear? He doesn’t know.

Guilliman stares at his reflection in the ship’s viewport, the weighty, inescapable armor that sustains his life making him feel suffocated.

In the span of ten thousand years, he has changed in ways both visible and invisible. His once-golden hair seems longer now, his beard in need of a shave.

But here he is, the Imperial Regent, Master of Ultramar’s Five Hundred Worlds, unable even to pick up a comb to groom himself. Instead, he must rely on clumsy servitors to manage the simplest tasks.

Yet despite everything, he knows he needs to see her. Not as the Lord of Ultramar, nor as the Imperial Regent, but as a ghost from a time long past, as one of the Emperor’s sons, to meet his brother’s… widow.

Chapter Text

In this era, when the world you once knew has long faded away, you drift like a lone star across the boundless void. Your only solace, your only anchor in this endless dark, lies in the company of another soul just as lost as you.

As days blend together, each moment of clarity carries a fragile hope… that perhaps, in a galaxy still echoing with memories of the past, the bond forged a millennium ago on Macragge, in the gardens of the Fortress of Hera, might still hold some lingering meaning for Roboute Guilliman.

But fate is seldom kind.

It delivered you into the guardianship of the Angel, the Primarch Sanguinius—only to wrench him away, leaving you adrift, stripped of all that once defined you.

It didn’t take long to face this truth.

Perhaps… seven days?

In the age of 40k, medical advancements allow swift recovery. Within a week, your body had regained its former shape—your slender waist, your smooth skin—creating the illusion that you are still that naive Remembrancer from ten thousand years ago, untouched by the scars of time.

But you are not.

Seven days were enough for a battleship to ready itself for a long voyage across the stars, carrying the child that was taken from you and the anxious Blood Angels toward their destined star system—just as you overheard in the muttered exchanges between Apothecaries.

You never had the chance to seek help.

On the seventh day, when an Ultramarine Apothecary informed you that their Primarch, the Regent of the Imperium, Roboute Guilliman, would visit, you realized with stark clarity that the one person you had hoped might help had never intended to offer you any such chance.

He remains as you once knew him—the architect of Imperium Secundus, the brother who once confined Sanguinius to the Regent’s throne.

You gaze out the viewport, where the reflection of the void blurs with the silhouette of the opening door. Memory washes over reality, painting the darkness in hues of gold, reshaping it into the gleam of Sanguinius’s ceramite chest armor. It shimmers with the same light that once pierced through the doors of the Library of Ptolemy, a light under which you had once reached out to smooth the long feathers at the tips of his wings.

But unlike a millennium ago, you do not shrink away like a frightened creature, hiding behind the Angel’s throne.

Now, curled upon a bed far too vast for any mortal in this recovery chamber, you turn calmly as the Regent approaches. His grand blue armor gleams as he steps with unyielding purpose—just as you once glimpsed through the curtain of Sanguinius’s towering wings.

His presence looms ever larger as he nears, transforming your level gaze into one that must now tilt upward, until he kneels before you, bringing his eyes in line with yours.

You tremble slightly as you extend a hand toward him.

His massive fingers, cold within their ceramite casing, cradle your hand with surprising gentleness, as though handling the most delicate of treasures, lifting it with reverent care.

Then, his armored form bends with a subtle strain, lowering his head to brush a kiss against the back of your hand.

“Madam,” Roboute Guilliman says, his voice resonant and composed.

He lifts his gaze to meet yours, and his piercing blue eyes seem to draw you in, holding you captive.

After a long silence, your lips, dry and cracked, part to release a breathless murmur, “Roboute… you haven’t changed at all.”

For a fleeting moment, he feels an involuntary tightening around his eyes. The words he had prepared dissolve like mist in his mind.

He suddenly realizes how long it has been since anyone simply called him by name. All these years, it’s been titles upon titles, the weight of them suffocating. And how many have lived through these years to address him so? The count is but a handful.

And this woman before him, her eyes pools of shadow, seems so delicate, so fragile, as if she could be snapped in two with the slightest touch. Once, she was the least significant of them all. So much so that when he first encountered her in the brief summer of a thousand years past, he nearly overlooked her entirely.

What had brought him to visit his already-crowned brother during that brief summer a thousand years ago?

The memory blurs; what was once vivid is now dulled, covered by the dust of ages.

Guilliman tries to transport himself back to the dimly lit Library of Ptolemy, where his brother, Sanguinius, once sat, wings draped elegantly over the back of the chair. The Angel leaned forward into the light, speaking in his soft, melodic tones, every word steeped in a grace that was both mesmerizing and distant.

Ah, yes, it was during one of those heated debates with Lion El’Jonson. Was it about the guiding light of Sotha or the mundane matters of conscripting new recruits?

His ever-proud brother, the Lion, had a way of treating the lands of Ultramar with a brusque arrogance that always set him on edge.

So there he was, likely furious enough that his keen senses, capable of detecting the slightest shift in the air or the faintest temperature change, completely overlooked the presence of someone who had no place in that private conversation.

“How did a rat slip in here?” Guilliman’s voice cut through the dim room, sharp with a rare edge of anger as his eyes swept past the Angel, locking onto a pair of wide, fearful eyes half-hidden beneath a shroud of immaculate feathers. The unexpected sight left him briefly stunned.

Those eyes blinked once, quickly retreating back into the white plumage.

The Lion began growling at Sanguinius, demanding that the uninvited guest reveal themselves, but the coarseness in the Lion’s voice grated against Guilliman like a rasping blade. 

It felt wrong—jarring.

Without thinking, he barked, "You will not address our brother with such disrespect!"

The Lion’s brow furrowed as he took a step back, only to straighten, ready to retort.

The tension in the room was electric, ready to snap—but before it could, the Regent of Imperium Secundus could bear it no longer. He rose from his seat, towering frame casting long shadows, and placed a firm hand on each of his brothers’ shoulders in a gesture of peace.

Moments passed before Sanguinius finally let out a gentle sigh, his voice barely above a whisper, "There’s no need for this discord."

Guilliman’s gaze instinctively shifted to the hand resting on his shoulder, then to the one who placed it there.

The golden-haired Angel stood with an awkward stillness, his wings half-spread in a posture that spoke of restrained unease. In his eyes, a flicker of discomfort danced—subtle yet undeniable—an emotion that seemed out of place in the flawless image Guilliman held of his perfect brother. It was as if the pieces of a puzzle almost fit, but didn’t quite align, leaving Guilliman teetering on the edge of a revelation just beyond his grasp.

His eyes strayed once more to the space behind Sanguinius, where the cause of the commotion—this troublesome interloper—had finally emerged from the protective shadow of the wings.

A mortal woman stepped into the light. The towering frame of the Primarch cast sharp shadows across her flowing white robe. She leaned slightly against the gleaming armor of the Angel, lifting her slender neck to meet their gaze, her hair sliding softly across her cheek.

"Apologies," she said, her voice trembling faintly, a thin facade of calm masking her unease, like a small creature feigning bravery. "My lords, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop… I simply couldn’t find a moment to leave."

Guilliman studied her. Clutched against her chest were the well-worn notebooks of a Remembrancer. Almost deliberately, Sanguinius let his hand fall over her shoulder, nearly covering the entirety of her bare skin.

"Please, do not trouble my Remembrancer," the Angel’s voice flowed softly, laced with a delicate thread of restrained ire. "She carries no fault in this matter."

Unbidden, Guilliman felt a dryness in his throat.

He watched as Sanguinius drained the wine from a glass beside the books and, with an almost languid grace, retrieved two more goblets to pour drinks for him and the Lion. As he lifted the glass, a swirl of thoughts, unsettling and elusive, surged in his mind.

The lavish chambers Sanguinius had maintained in the Fortress of Hera, adorned with art both exquisite and provocative…

The Blood Angels, infusing their deep scarlet karash with the forbidden essence of mortal blood…

Guilliman felt his lips part as a realization dawned on him—his immaculate brother harbored private secrets of his own.

And perhaps… Guilliman grasped those secrets more intimately than he was willing to acknowledge.

The woman’s pale cheeks were stained with a flush that felt out of place, a color too vivid to be natural.

It was almost tangible—the slow bloom of warmth spreading beneath the sleek curtain of her hair, reaching the delicate shell of her ears as she spoke, her words laced with a faint, elusive scent that wove into the library’s air, mingling with the aromas of aged parchment and spiced wine.

The more he focused, the more that fragrance intensified, tightening its grip on his senses, much like strands of silk hair coiling around his fingers.

He was certain Sanguinius felt it too—perhaps even the Lion. Of course they did. They were brothers, bound by blood and intuition deeper than mortal comprehension.

Instinct told him this was perilous. The urge to speak, to warn his brother, gnawed at him… yet he held his tongue.

He had a thousand justifications ready.

She was the Blood Angels’ Remembrancer, beyond his authority…

Sanguinius was wise and virtuous; surely he wouldn’t court disaster…

The Lion was there; it wasn’t Guilliman’s place to intervene…

But the true reasons—the ones that echoed like whispers of deals struck a millennium later with Captain Karlaen of the Blood Angels—were things Guilliman wrestled to contain, let alone admit.

None of it matters now. The Remembrancer, fragile and pale, remains aboard his warship, just as he promised his brother. She is whole, unbroken, but the light in her eyes has dimmed, her once lean face now gaunt, making her wide, hollow eyes all the more haunting.

"I believe you should eat more, Madam." After a long silence, the words finally stumble out of Roboute Guilliman, Regent of the Imperium and Lord of Ultramar.

"And what about my child? What is it feeding on?" Her gaze locks onto his, piercing and desperate. "Shouldn’t it be nursing from its mother’s breast? Tell me… Roboute, is it true what your sons say? The Blood Angels took it away..."

Those shadowed eyes, like distant stars, seem to draw him in. Instinctively, he looks away but forces himself to meet her gaze again.

"My apologies, Madam, but I cannot stop them. The child belongs to the Blood Angels..."

"Is it a boy or a girl?" she interrupts.

Guilliman hesitates, his mouth opening slightly, but no words follow.

"You don’t know."

"…"

"Lord Regent, don’t you think this is… cruel?"

She sits on the bed, her hollow eyes fixed on him, her voice lashing out like a whip across his face. He feels his blood rush to his head, the room tilting, as if his legs can no longer bear his weight.

He thought this would be a simple conversation. He planned for this, prepared his responses. His body, sustained by alien technology, and his heart, hardened by a millennium of cold calculation, should be immune to such matters. Even now, knowing he himself is the architect of this situation, discomfort gnaws at him.

He takes a deep breath, hoping the cool air will clear his mind, but it only unsettles him further.

The sharp tang of medication mingles with a subtle, natural scent emanating from her—a fragrance that stirs emotions he thought long buried. His jaw tightens as he fights to suppress the intangible unease creeping into his mind. A storm churns beneath his composed exterior, his instincts surging like a tide straining against the dam of his self-control.

But Guilliman, by sheer force of will, quells the rising flood.

He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, calm is restored, though only just.

"I’ve done everything within my power," Guilliman begins in a steady, low voice. "The Blood Angels will protect Sanguinius’s bloodline. And you…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "I swore to Sanguinius that I would keep you safe."

Your hands clench and release, fingernails digging into your palms until you taste the faint tang of blood on your tongue.

But you don’t lash out at his hypocrisy, his coldness.

Not because you’ve resigned yourself to accept his words.

You reach out, pressing your hand against the rich cobalt armor that encases his towering form. It is a fortress of ceramite, with no glimpse of flesh—more coffin than shell.

"He said Horus beat him like a disobedient dog, broke every bone in his body, even tore the skin from his face," you whisper, each word heavy and deliberate.

You watch as the carefully constructed facade on Guilliman’s face cracks, just as you expected, each word widening the fissure. Anger, sorrow, and helplessness swell within the typically composed Regent of the Imperium.

"This is the path prophesied long ago by both Sanguinius and Konrad Curze. Sanguinius chose to embrace that fate, letting the Red Thirst and Black Rage spread like a disease among his sons. He once believed I was the end of this road," you say, your voice calm and even.

"His prophecy has come true. You bore the child that will save Sanguinius’s sons."

You pause for a moment. "But the end is not yet here."

Yes, your choice still hangs in the balance.

Your hand slowly rises, brushing against Guilliman’s face. He doesn’t pull away, allowing the touch.

As your fingers graze his lips—cool, thin, and slightly parted—you feel the shift in his breath, and in that instant, you realize the power in your grasp, the power to decide what comes next.

Chapter Text

In the 30k era, all the splendor and power of the Imperium coalesce around the golden throne, where Sanguinius, Regent of Imperium Secundus, reigns in his resplendent armor. 

And by his side, you now stand in a place far above the common throng.

From this elevated vantage point, you look down upon the cobalt-armored Astartes positioned below on the steps. Their towering forms seem diminished, their helmet designs barely discernible from here.

Below him, the petitioners assemble like pawns on a vast chessboard, their ranks meticulously aligned within the grand hall. From this height, they appear almost insignificant—small, muted figures bowing low, desperately trying to suppress the tremors of awe and trepidation that ripple through their bodies.

Their robes ripple like gentle waves as they walk, the faint rustle of fabric blending with the hushed murmurs of prayer and petition. The words drift upward like echoes from a distant realm, faint whispers that seem to lose their way as they ascend toward the towering throne. From this distance, the words are barely audible, often requiring the intervention of officials who prod them to raise their voices.

Yet, the Primarch listens intently to each one, offering solace and aid where it is needed.

You observe from afar, unable to make out their faces, yet you can feel the emotions rippling through them—joy, relief, or awe—as they receive the Angel’s response.

“It’s quite a different view from up here, isn’t it?” A low voice hums near your ear, snapping you out of your reverie.

You turn and meet eyes as golden as those of the Primarch himself. It’s Raldoron, the favored captain, kneeling behind you, lowering his massive form to speak at your level.

You quickly glance around.

In the distance, Sanguinius sits encircled by his most trusted Astartes, clad in golden and crimson armor, occupying the central throne. Raldoron’s presence, alongside yours, barely draws any attention.

“Usually, I’d be one of those figures down there,” you whisper back, half-hiding your face behind your notebook. “Just a few months ago, I was one of them.”

"Do you enjoy the change?" Raldoron’s voice cuts through your reverie, his gaze sliding from the figures below to you. There’s a quiet amusement in his eyes as he adds, "With but a word from Lord Sanguinius, you ascended from down there…" He gestures subtly toward the steps, “…to here.”

You bite your lip, avoiding a direct answer.

“I can’t hear what they’re saying from here,” you tell him. “We’re too far away…”

Your attention shifts to an elderly woman below, tears streaming down her lined face as she struggles to rise from her knees. Her frail frame trembles with exertion, and in this vast, imposing hall, she seems so small—so easily overlooked, a tiny speck lost in the grandeur.

Once, the Astartes looked at you the same way. Perhaps some still do.

“Can she even hear what he’s saying? It seems like no matter what Sanguinius speaks, they’re just blindly overjoyed. It’s irrational, almost…”

Raldoron chuckles softly. “Of course they’re overjoyed. He’s the Regent of Imperium Secundus. It’s not just reverence or fear; they truly love him. What you call blind devotion is the foundation of Lord Sanguinius’s power. This is a common sight on Baal.”

And because of Sanguinius’s favor, you now stand here, experiencing a view and influence you never had before.

Your eyes are drawn back to Sanguinius, whose serene smile has remained unbroken from the moment he took his seat. It is a smile as unchanging as the marble of statues, delicate and almost too perfect, as if sculpted into his features. Were it not for the occasional, subtle flutter of his wings—those magnificent, snow-white feathers brushing against the throne—he could be mistaken for an artful depiction of divinity.

“I don’t think he’s as powerful as it seems. He’s trapped, unable to leave,” you murmur more quietly, thinking of his solitary midnight flights. “Even if he chooses this willingly.”

“I understand,” Raldoron sighs softly. "We do what we must, even if it defies what we desire. There are forces that bind us, compel us to make choices that transcend our personal wants." He gives a wry smile, adjusting the rare, ornate shoulder pauldrons and wing-shaped armguards. "We should be tearing through traitor fleets, ripping out their hearts, not playing dress-up like pretty dolls…"

Realizing his words may be too candid, Raldoron pauses, then shifts the topic with a rueful smile. "Though, I have to admit, the Lord seems in far better spirits today… I wonder if we have your influence to thank for that?"

“The implications of his words strike you like a cold shock, and your heart skips a beat.

Does he truly grasp what he’s suggesting?

His words dig into your thoughts like barbed hooks, dragging your mind back to the tempest of the previous night.

The lingering spice of karash from Sanguinius's lips still clings to your throat, its taste faint yet enough to make you feel like someone else entirely.

In a reckless moment, you explored that sculpted form, your fingers and lips tracing the lines of his wings and collarbone, only to discover an untouched innocence beneath his strength. You were shaken by the realization that you had unintentionally awakened a hidden force beneath his taut muscles—a power far beyond your comprehension.

When the morning light of Ultramar crept through the warmth of rumpled sheets and tousled feathers, all you could think of was erasing those sacrilegious memories from your mind.

Yet, the fragments remain, surfacing unbidden, bringing a flush of heat to your cheeks.

Just as you struggle to find words, the Angel’s voice flows down from the golden throne.

“You two.”

Several Blood Angels turn their attention toward you, their expressionless, flawless faces reminiscent of marble statues. But Sanguinius’s own smile, once serene and unwavering, has faded, replaced by a slight frown and a trace of gentle reproach. "I did not miss a single word of your exchange."

"My deepest apologies, Lord," Raldoron’s voice shifts instantly to a tone of grave respect. The playful ease vanishes as he straightens, resuming the solemn bearing of an Astartes, his demeanor now as polished and unyielding as the armor he wears.

You gape in disbelief at how quickly this Astartes, who moments ago had casually nudged you into discomfort, has returned to rigid formality.

"If you’ve gathered all the inspiration you need, Remembrancer…" Sanguinius’s voice drifts toward you again, despite the weight of the crown and delicate chains that bind him, restricting his movement. He winks at you, his golden eyes gleaming even as a flush creeps up your neck. "You might find that the palace holds tales just as vivid in its other corners. This audience is far from over, and there’s no need to exhaust yourself here."

It’s a gentle suggestion—you don’t have to endure the tedium with him, that you’re free to leave and rest.

Gratefully, you seize the opportunity to excuse yourself, hurrying away—not because the formalities bore you, but because you can no longer bear the thought of meeting his gaze, knowing the secrets that last night revealed.

The audience hall sits at the very peak of the Fortress of Hera, the place closest to the heavens.

The moment you step outside, the wind howls through the towering mountains, carrying grains of sand that whip your hair into disarray. Loose pages flutter from your notebook, torn free by the gusts, scattering like leaves on the breeze.

You reach out instinctively to catch them, but they slip through your grasp, drifting over the stone railing, spiraling down the long steps toward the distant palace square.

In the pale sunlight, fractured by the sharp angles of distant geometric spires, the crowd awaiting the Angel’s audience moves like a silent tide, a dark ink spreading across the white-bricked plaza, staining the surface with its slow, deliberate flow.

You watch for a while, tightening the thick cloak around yourself, bundling both your body and the leather satchel that holds your notebook.

Above you, the aquila banner of Imperium Secundus flutters with a sharp snap in the wind. 

You lick your dry lips. The rain from the day of the Imperium Secundus’ founding feels like a distant memory.

You need somewhere warm, somewhere with moisture.

The greenhouse gardens of the Fortress of Hera, teeming with vibrant flora and towering trees from Ultramar’s Five Hundred Worlds, have always beckoned you—an oasis after the cold steel corridors of warships or the sun-baked ridges of Macragge, where even a hint of green is rare.

But Sanguinius seldom finds solace here. Perhaps it’s the way the creeping vines and low-hanging branches snare his magnificent wings, tugging at the delicate plumes. Or maybe it’s the dense, humid air that clings to the leaves, weighing down his feathers and making flight feel sluggish, almost burdensome.

Nevertheless, you love it here.

The greenery provides a hidden sanctuary, allowing you a moment of solitude, a brief escape from the noise of this world.

As you step into the garden, ready to lose yourself under your favorite patch of shade, an unfamiliar sensation pricks at your senses.

The feeling of being watched crawls over your skin like countless centipedes skittering up your spine—cold, unsettling. You whirl around instinctively, only to spot an unexpected figure.

Beneath a distant tree, a looming figure sits in silence, draped in a green cloak that melds seamlessly with the surrounding foliage. His hair, in stark contrast to the Angel’s smooth, golden tresses, is a rough, tawny mane, bristling with the wildness of untamed nature. A dense beard shadows his stern jawline, while his eyes—sharp and unrelenting—fix on you with a predatory gleam, like a lion zeroing in on prey too weak to flee.

This is your first time confronting Lion El’Jonson up close since that fleeting encounter in the library. Panic flares in your chest as you fumble to your feet, limbs stiff and clumsy under his gaze. Crossing your arms in a hurried Aquila salute, you feel the tremor in your voice betray your unease as you stammer, “My lord Protector… Forgive me—I didn’t see you there.”

His gaze remains fixed, cold as iron, pinning you in place before he finally speaks, his voice deep and commanding, "What are you doing here?"

"I… I’m just strolling in the garden," you reply, striving to keep your tone polite, though unease ripples beneath your words.

“Strolling?” He repeats the word with deliberate slowness, a hint of mockery curling at the edge of his mouth. “This is the second time you’ve trespassed into spaces where you don’t belong. Tell me, Remembrancer of my beloved Regent brother—is prying into secrets a favorite hobby of yours?”

Your teeth bite into your lip as you murmur, “I don’t understand what you mean. I only wanted some fresh air. If my presence bothers you, I’ll leave at once—”

But he cuts you off sharply, “Fresh air? Or is it attention and power you’re after—things that should never be within your reach?” He rises from the shadows of the tree, closing the distance with a measured menace, his towering form casting a dark shroud over you.

Your pulse quickens.

So close, the air thrums with a wild, dangerous energy emanating from him—a sharp contrast to the comforting warmth you know from Sanguinius. Under the weight of his accusations and the sheer force of his presence, you steel yourself, forcing your voice to steady as you raise it, “I seek no one’s attention, least of all that kind.”

“Are you so blind that you don’t see how your very presence clouds the Angel’s judgment, twisting it into something irrational?” His voice bears down on you, compelling you to crane your neck just to meet the piercing intensity of his gaze.

"I…" You want to deny it, but a flood of memories—sharp and clear—clashes against the adrenaline fogging your mind.

The silent flow of crowds like dark ink spreading across the square…

The hunched, weeping back of an elderly woman in the audience chamber…

Golden eyes blinked as he whispered, "you ascended from down there… to here."

"It wasn’t intentional." After a long silence, you finally manage to say.

"Unintentional? That’s even worse. Unwitting influence is often more dangerous than calculated schemes." His gaze bores into you, laced with an accusation you can’t fully grasp, "Sanguinius’s pet, you’re like a stone dropped into still waters."

"I am not a pet. I have my own will."

"Your own will? From your hair to your toes, every part of you reeks of my noble brother. You sway the Regent’s decisions with your seemingly innocent eyes, your pitiful voice, your enticing, slender form."

His relentless accusations push you to the edge of your patience. You snap your gaze up to meet his piercing green eyes, "Is that your opinion, or his?"

For a brief moment, his gaze falters, the green depths flickering as if stung by your words. His beard twitches slightly. At last, he draws a deep breath, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "You overestimate yourself, Remembrancer."

After a tense silence, the Lion speaks again, though his tone shifts unexpectedly, "I have a proposal. I need a Rememberancer…" He seems almost reluctant to continue, his stiff posture betraying discomfort. "…To record the true deeds of me and my Dark Angels—not the legends, but the real battles, the genuine glory. No offense to Sanguinius, but I intend to show that the Invincible Reason’s prowess rivals that of the Red Tear."

For a moment, you’re dumbfounded, unable to follow the abrupt turn in the conversation, "What? Don’t the Dark Angels have their own Rememberancer?" But as you catch the intensity of his gaze, realization dawns.

"You mean me?" you stammer in disbelief. After all those baseless accusations, he now offers you an olive branch? You’re utterly at a loss to comprehend his behavior.

Just as confusion grips you, the sound of rustling footsteps echoes through the greenery. A figure clad in cobalt-blue armor cuts through the verdant scene.

He doesn’t look at you directly, instead stepping past you to meet the Lion’s gaze. "Brother, I’ve been searching for you. I’m surprised that on a day like this, you chose to linger here rather than attend the Regent’s audience."

The Lion’s demeanor darkens, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained irritation, the lion’s head emblem on his armor seeming to bristle. "The Regent still has countless commoners to see. Wasn’t that your doing, Roboute?"

Guilliman ignores the jab. Unlike his previous hostility in the library, he now approaches with an unexpected elegance, dropping to one knee and gently taking your hand.

"Madam," he speaks with deliberate emphasis, drawing your scattered attention back to him until your eyes are locked on his piercing blue gaze. "This garden is indeed a pleasant refuge. I trust my brother hasn’t disturbed your peace?"

The Lion lets out a derisive snort, clearly unimpressed with Guilliman’s placating tone. "I don’t need anyone telling me what to do, least of all here, in the Regent’s domain."

You glance between the Lion and the Primarch kneeling before you.

Guilliman’s ungloved hand wraps entirely around yours, a grip that feels almost excessive. At the Lion’s words, his fingers tighten slightly, betraying a flicker of restrained anger.

You shake your head, "Lord Protector was merely discussing matters related to my duties as a Rememberancer."

If they were to clash, you’re no Sanguinius—you couldn’t possibly stand in their way.

The Lion lingers a moment longer, his gaze cold and inscrutable as it sweeps over you both.

Finally, he turns to you and says, "Remember my offer, Remembrancer." Without waiting for a response, he strides away, disappearing into the verdant depths.

Guilliman rises, watching his brother’s retreating figure vanish into the trees before turning his attention back to you.

"My brother’s temper can be difficult. For that, I apologize." He straightens, broad shoulders lifting, his presence swelling with both authority and assurance. Sunlight, filtered through the leaves, dances across his armor, every surface polished to a mirror’s sheen, the aquila and inverted "Ω" glinting with pride.

"Should you ever need anything, Madam, know that my door remains open to you."

Chapter Text

30k.

You have a room in the Fortress of Hera, reserved for you not because of any unspoken reasons, but purely due to your role as the Remembrancer to a Primarch.

Though this room isn't far from the grand quarters of the Regent, nestled within the residences for the palace's officials, it is modest compared to the opulence enjoyed by those who live in closer proximity to the Angel.

This space is truly yours, a sanctuary from the overwhelming grandeur of the Regent's estate. Despite the many servitors and slaves ready to attend to every need there, the palace is not your domain.

You haven't spent many nights in this room—but lately, you find yourself returning here more often.

When Sanguinius decides he needs solitude for meditation or spends the night in counsel with his officials, you return here to organize your drafts or indulge in the luxury of a long, undisturbed sleep.

Unlike Astartes, who require only brief periods of rest to regain their strength, you, as a human, need adequate sleep to function, making these moments all the more essential.

You don't despise the night. In fact, as a Remembrancer, nightfall often brings your most creative inspirations.

But sometimes, you fall into a sleep so deep that you lose all awareness.

The nights in the Crown Mountains are cold. You forgot that unlike the Regent's quarters, your room lacks servitors who would add fuel to the fire before it fully dies out.

It was the chill that woke you, and the moment your eyes fluttered open, you nearly gasped in fright.

A shadowy figure loomed over you, blurring in your still-drowsy vision. The figure stood so close, its silent presence made your scalp prickle, and instinctively, you clutched the sheets and recoiled to the far side of the bed.

The smell was the second thing you noticed—an odor both rank and familiar, a blend of blood, sweat, and dirt, conjuring images of filth.

Yet you recognize this scent. Even after spending so much time in the company of the noble Sanguinius, you have not forgotten it.

The underbelly of Terra…

The ravaged worlds left in war's wake…

The cramped corridors of the Red Tear where men and women huddled together in fear…

How could you forget?

"Who are you? What are you doing here?!" you demand, your voice lowering out of instinct.

As your initial shock fades, you notice the figure remains eerily still—no hint of aggression or motion, only the unyielding grip of his gaze, locking you in place like chains.

He doesn't speak, but his breathing grows heavier, a slow rasping sound that fills the dark room. Then, a sudden flicker of light from outside slices through the gloom, spilling across your window. For a fleeting second, the shadows lift, revealing his face—a pale, ghostly visage marred by grime, flickering into view like a nightmare half-formed.

His features are caked with dirt, and he flinches slightly, instinctively recoiling from the light as if it stings him.

From his towering build, he resembles an Astartes, but the ragged state of his appearance doesn't match the immaculate image of a Blood Angel or Ultramarine. Perhaps he's one of the lost legions, drawn here by the Pharos beacon through the warp's chaos.

Yet he remains a mystery. He offers no name, no explanation, and no intent. Still, he hasn't harmed you, not while you slept, nor when you stirred and gasped in fear. Instead, he stands watchful, motionless. Does this suggest he means you no harm?

With a trembling hand, you slowly reach out from beneath the sheets, cautiously extending your fingers toward his face. He doesn't flinch, even leaning in closer so that your touch grazes the dirt on his skin before you gently wipe it away.

For an instant, there's a curious connection, a silent understanding, as if you were attempting to tame a massive, stray predator, drawing it near with cautious trust. You can almost feel the warmth of his breath in your palm.

Then, unexpectedly, a soft, warm tongue flicks out, lapping at your hand—a gentle, almost hesitant motion, tasting the faint traces of your sweat and scent-marked fear.

The shock jolts through you, and you pull your hand back sharply, eyes wide in disbelief.

But before you can react further, the silence shatters—a sudden noise at the door breaks the tension, sending a jolt through both of you.

The figure by your bedside rises swiftly. A cold realization grips you—his height far surpasses that of any ordinary Astartes. This is the stature of a Primarch.

In the dim, diffused light, you catch a glimpse of his face, deathly pale beneath streaks of grime, framed by long, dark hair that hangs like bat wings in the night.

For a heartbeat, your pulse stutters before it explodes into a frantic, erratic rhythm. Terror floods your veins, making every hair on your body stand on end—you forget to breathe.

The knocks at the door and the muffled voices of Blood Angels outside seem distant.

You lock eyes with the figure, cold dread creeping up your spine as the Primarch's fingers—sharp as blades—press against his lips in a silent command for your obedience.

With a trembling breath, you force your voice into steadiness, managing to call out that everything is fine, just a bad dream.

"A wise choice, Remembrancer."

In the darkness, the Night Haunter, Primarch of the Night Lords, lets out a low chuckle, baring his sharp, white teeth.

You know who he is. The fallen Primarch, a demigod who betrayed the Imperium and spread terror in the shadows of war. His punishments are legendary for their cruelty.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, each beat a violent drum that threatens to shatter you from within. It's a struggle just to draw breath, as terror coils through your veins, every nerve tight like a string on the verge of snapping.

Curze leans in closer, his hand slipping beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown, resting cold and deliberate over your pounding heart. You go rigid, paralyzed by fear, as his claw-like fingers trace the frantic pulse thrumming just beneath your skin.

His voice slips through the shadows, a low and unsettling murmur, "Your heart needn't race like a cornered mouse. I only wish to talk."

"Talk… about what?" The words scrape out of your throat, each one a struggle as your mind churns through frantic, hopeless plans of escape. No one will think to check on you here. And even if they did, what Astartes could face a Primarch and live?

"About you, dear lady…" He kneels beside your bed, his voice a velvet whisper, disturbingly intimate, as if exchanging sweet nothings with a lover. The sickening dissonance makes your skin crawl, a chill tightening around your spine. "You're right—the highborn lords are engrossed in their noble pursuits, leaving a Remembrancer all alone with the shadow of Nostramo."

It's as though his gaze pierces right through you, stripping away every layer of pretense, laying bare your thoughts and fears until you're left exposed, defenseless, a creeping dread worming its way deep into your core.

"Indeed… I have been watching you. But why do you tremble? My scrutiny is no different from that of my brothers or the ever-watchful Astartes. You—a fragile mortal in a world of giants—have always been under vigilant eyes."

"I…"

Those gazes—gentle, scrutinizing, curious, expectant, doubtful—have clung to you since the day you were named Sanguinius's personal Remembrancer.

"Yes," Curze hisses, "standing on that platform in the audience hall, next to the Angel's shining presence, every arrogant warrior casts their gaze upon you—assessing, pitying, yet simultaneously discarding you as insignificant…" His voice spikes, sharp and cutting, before plunging back into a chilling quiet.

His large, calloused fingers brush against your temple, catching a loose strand of hair. "I see you differently. I see your essence, the nature of your creation… I know everything about you…"

His voice grows distant, as though he's slipping into a long dream, "Tell me, when those nobles and Astartes kneel before you, do you see your shadow stretch, transforming into that of a giant?"

"That's not me…"

"…It's like savoring a sip of sweet wine, fueling your petty ambitions. My exalted brother lets your blood mingle with his wine, sharing it with you… but that wine was never yours. It belongs to the Angel."

Trembling, you whisper, "I… I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ah, but I see it…" His voice trembles, as if emotion threatens to break it, while his large hands clutch your shoulders, almost swallowing you whole. "I saw the Angel's face when he beheld that misshapen lump of flesh that emerged from between your legs."

His words cut deep, like talons ripping through flesh, unearthing wounds you thought had long healed.

The sharp agony surges through you, and without thinking, you bite down, sinking your teeth into his exposed forearm.

He doesn't flinch. Instead, he lets you gnaw into his skin.

"Tell me, little wretch, did that hypocrite cockerel tell you how he saw the Angel's death?—Horus, his beloved brother, beating him like a disobedient dog, broke every bone in his body, even tore the skin from his face."

His cruel words cut deeper, twisting his talons closer to your heart.

The metallic tang of blood floods your mouth, and you choke back a sob.

You release him suddenly, gasping, "Stop… stop it…"

Curze slowly retracts his hand, licking the blood from the wound where you bit him.

There's a trace of regret in his voice, "The grail that holds Sanguinius's bloodline—you, like me, are both deceived and used. He sees his fate, and he sees yours—a path swallowed by black and red. Why do you let yourself be enslaved, soaked in his scent?"

"He's not like that!" you cry, your voice breaking. The truths you've hidden from yourself spill out, raw and painful.

You recall those nights when, trapped in his nightmares, the Angel would, in the hazy boundary between sleep and waking, unconsciously tighten his grip around your waist.

He would murmur something—"My love…"

But you could never fully grasp the words. Were they spoken in the Imperial Gothic you knew so well, or in the ancient tongue of Baal, where similar syllables carried entirely different meanings? You couldn't be sure if you were anything more than a piece of driftwood he clung to in the tumult of his unrest.

Even so… it was you who remained at his side, not anyone else.

In a whisper that feels more like a resigned confession than a statement, you murmur, "We have our own fate…"

For a moment, Curze says nothing, his gaze unreadable in the dark. Then, a cold, bitter laugh escapes him. "Yes… fate. A twisted design, isn't it? Whether it's you, the Angel, or me—we're all ensnared, all of us chained to paths we can't evade."

The words barely leave his lips before he moves, swift as a specter. His form blurs into shadow, vanishing and reappearing like a flicker of dark flame. In a heartbeat, a jarring explosion shakes the room as your door is blasted apart, shards splintering in every direction.

The crash of plasteel colliding with splintered wood erupts through the room like the roar of an unstoppable storm, followed by the nails-on-chalkboard screech of grinding metal that tears at your eardrums, sending a shiver down your spine.

Alarms blare through the night, shattering the eerie silence.

Konrad Curze's shadowy figure slips through the door, and you hear the dull thud of metal striking metal, followed by a familiar voice groaning in pain.

You fling yourself out of bed and rush into the corridor, only to be struck by a scene that rips through your heart like a jagged blade: Curze's lightning claws have already skewered a Blood Angel, the crimson armor of Mkani Kano dangling helplessly in the Primarch's grip as if he were a disobedient hound. Kano's golden hair—so reminiscent of Sanguinius's radiant locks—dangles lifelessly, sweeping against the cold floor as his body hangs in brutal submission.

Just as Curze prepares to raise his claws and deliver a final, killing blow, you scream out, your voice raw and desperate.

"No!"

The Night Haunter halts mid-motion. Amid the blare of alarms and the relentless thunder of approaching boots, he turns with icy deliberation, his eyes locking onto yours with a malevolent gleam before flicking back to his prey. With a casual flick of his wrist, he hurls Kano aside like a discarded rag doll, the Astartes's body crashing to the ground with a sickening thud.

Without thinking, you throw yourself toward Kano's fallen form.

Blood pours from his mouth and nose, and you frantically try to stem the flow from the grievous wound.

Even as he bleeds out, Kano clings weakly to your hand, dragging you into his fading vision, needing to be certain you're safe.

The air is thick with the coppery tang of blood, the shouts of commands, and the heavy clatter of armored feet. You press your hands against Kano's wounds, feeling his life ebbing away beneath your touch as despair clutches at your chest like icy fingers. The shock threatens to engulf you whole.

Time blurs—at some point, the Apothecaries push you aside, and the once orderly formation of Blood Angels surrounds the scene. Their red-and-gold armor catches the glow of artificial light and the chill of the night breeze.

"Remembrancer, are you unharmed?" Azkaellon's voice breaks through the fog in your mind, and you look up in a daze.

"Save your concern, Azkaellon," Amit's voice interjects, cold and cutting. "Your sensors should have already told you—she hasn't a scratch on her. It's Kano who's at death's door after facing that traitor, Curze."

"Kano… I…" you try to speak.

"The Apothecaries will see to him," Amit snaps. "Leave the worrying to those who actually matter."

Azkaellon's gaze flicks over your bloodstained nightgown before shifting away. "Stay here. Don't cause any more trouble," he orders.

"I want to see Lord Sanguinius…" you murmur.

You need to see him.

Curze's haunting prophecies—have they appeared in Sanguinius's dreams too? Could they be what's been tormenting him these past days?

The Blood Angels pay you no mind; it's as though they don't even hear your words.

Azkaellon is already coordinating the lockdown of your quarters, while Amit curses the Ultramarines and Dark Angels for their negligence as he rallies men to hunt down the Night Haunter.

You drift like a specter through the throng of warriors, their crimson armor a sea of blood-stained metal surrounding you.

It's as though you've become a ghost—unseen, unnoticed, moving through them like mist.

Your gaze drops to the hem of your nightgown, now soaked in gore, and memories long buried rise from the depths…

The embryos suspended in glass tubes…

Clusters of cells that never formed into life…

Failed experiments…

Your chest tightens, and a wave of nausea washes over you, mingling with the bitter chill of the night air.

You stand in the corridor for what feels like an eternity before your thoughts begin to settle.

You want to return to your room and find something to wear.

You approach your quarters, but chaos has torn through them—nothing is where you left it. The papers you meticulously arranged have been scattered like leaves in a tempest. The bed is overturned, pillows and blankets twisted into tangled heaps, as if someone had ransacked the room in a frantic search. Clothes once neatly hung now lie strewn about in wild disarray, some draped across the oddest corners like abandoned banners.

The only thing left untouched is the Imperial Aquila emblazoned on the wall.

The Blood Angel standing guard at your door looks down at you. "Apologies, Madam. The area is sealed off—no unauthorized personnel allowed."

…my noble brother shared your blood in a goblet with you…

You stand silently for a moment, trying to reason, "But it's my room. I am Lord Sanguinius's personal Remembrancer…"

"I know who you are, Madam. My apologies. This is Lord Azkaellon's order."

…but the wine was never yours; it belongs to the Angel…

You lower your head.

You understand the situation. Compared to Raldoron, Azkaellon is stricter. You should heed his words: stay put, don't cause trouble.

After wandering aimlessly, you find a quiet corner sheltered from the wind.

At the corridor's end, the towering statue of the Lord of Ultramar looms above you, a monument to unwavering strength and duty. You find a small space beneath his colossal boots and the drape of his cloak, curling up like a wounded animal seeking refuge.

You tilt your head back, watching the red and gold-armored Astartes stride past. In this moment, you feel like one of the mortals who prostrate themselves on the floors of audience halls—your kind—straining to catch a glimpse of the unreachable demigods above, offering their fleeting lives in service to the Imperium.

Your teeth sink into your lip, the pressure building until the taste of blood seeps into your mouth. Your vision blurs, as if veiled by the spray of water from the Hera Falls. You bury your face between your knees, the world narrowing to the steady thrum of your heartbeat, the scent of blood, and the cold stone beneath you. The pull of consciousness begins to fade…

Until—

"Madam, are you alright?"

A warm cloak, heavy with the scent of unfamiliar cologne, drapes over your trembling form, pulling you back to the present. You lift your head slowly, your eyes meeting a pair of piercing blue irises filled with a controlled, smoldering fury.

Chapter Text

The rememberancer expresses her desire to share a meal with him.

There’s a subtle quiver in her voice—a barely noticeable tightness in her slender throat, sending tremors through her vocal cords as air passes through the narrow passage. But for Guilliman, whose senses are as refined as they come, such details are as glaring as the errors in a novice Ultramarine’s report.

She’s nervous. It’s understandable; asking the Regent of the Imperium, Roboute Guilliman, for such a personal favor crosses a boundary.

And indeed, it does.

As a Primarch, sustenance isn’t something he requires like mortals do. For him, food is more about pleasure than necessity.

Yet Guilliman agrees, even before she finishes asking.

What he hesitates to admit, even to himself, is that this feels more like a gift than a request.

He tries to understand her situation, going so far as to help her obtain new identification and credentials from the Imperial Archivists.

It’s a fresh start, after all. Her role as a Remembrancer for the Blood Angels is a relic from ten millennia ago. Now, in the 41st millennium, she must find her place again.

Amid the endless reports from mortal lords and Astartes officers, he carves out time to meet her in his quarters, handing her the new documents. He reminds her, this expressionless girl, that the present matters more than the distant past.

She remains silent, gaze lowered in contemplation. When she finally lifts those eyes to meet his, she makes her request.

He can't to refuse.

“If this helps you finally move beyond your mourning, my lady,” he says after a pause, keeping his voice gentle. “After all, it’s been ten thousand years since the Angel’s passing.”

With that, he returns to the towering stack of documents before him.

The Remembrancer doesn’t express thanks. After a long moment, he glances up, pretending not to care, just in time to catch her retreating figure.

For the universe, the Angel’s death is ancient history. But for you, emerging from stasis, it feels like mere months ago.

You remember how, millennia ago, you nearly collapsed upon hearing the news while being escorted back to Baal by the Sanguinary Guard. You recall their heated arguments about avenging the Angel. You remember the dizziness, the weight pulling at your abdomen, and then nothingness—until you awoke in the 41st millennium.

Ten thousand years have passed for the galaxy, but for you, it was merely a blink.

You could wear that black gown to dine with the Regent—it would be fitting. But instead, you choose to change.

Your newly assigned quarters aboard the warship are filled with garments prepared by the servitors.

In the end, you find a dress.

The details differ slightly from what you remember. The waistline is more fitted, the pleats more elaborate than those of the 30k era. But the cobalt blue remains pure and vivid, unchanged from your memory.

Cobalt blue—the color of the Ultramarines, the color of Roboute Guilliman.

Will wearing it please him? Will it grant you the favor you seek?

But when you appear before Guilliman in that dress, for a brief moment, his eyes flash with anger.

At that moment, he’s directing a Ultramarines Honour Guard and servitors as they clear away towering stacks of documents spread across a table several meters long, making room for the awaiting spiced meats and wine.

You falter.

As you try to stir his memories, something unseen holds you back. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around yourself, as if the cold winds of Macragge still bite at your skin. For a moment, you can’t tell if you’re still wearing that bloodstained nightgown.

You stare into Guilliman’s eyes, and he stares back across the vast table. The shadows beneath his eyes, cast by the artificial lights, tremble faintly. His lips part as if words are on the verge of escaping.

But the sound of the Astartes saluting and departing shatters the silence.

You snap out of your reverie, only to see the rigid lines on Guilliman’s face harden.

With the Honour Guard and servitors gone, only the two of you remain in the chamber.

You turn back to him.

The Primarch remains silent, his expression unreadable, as if he sees through every calculation you might be making. He doesn’t even extend a hand to invite you to sit.

After a moment of hesitation, you straighten your posture and approach him, purposefully displaying the dress bearing his colors as you position yourself between his armored legs.

You reach out and touch the large gauntleted hand resting on his knee. Then, lowering your head, you humbly press a kiss to his thick fingers.

His breath grows heavy above you before he awkwardly pulls his hand away. “There’s no need for that, my lady…”

“It’s a token of my gratitude,” you interrupt. “It’s strange, isn’t it…” You lift your gaze to meet his. “This is something I should have done long ago, yet I never had the chance to thank you properly…”

“It’s all in the past.” He gazes at you for a long moment, then closes his eyes as if suppressing a wave of frustration.

“Is it?” You smile faintly. “But I still remember…”

You take a seat beside him, your hand passing over the small cup prepared for a mortal and reaching instead for the Primarch’s chalice—so large it’s like a vat in your hands.

It’s already filled with wine. You lift the chalice with both hands, gazing into the honeyed liquid within, then speak softly, “You once shared your drink with me. You asked me to call you Roboute…”

He seems ready to stop you from continuing, almost instinctively wrapping his hand over both the chalice and yours, the soft plasteel of his gauntlet making a delicate sound against the glass.

Through the distorted reflection of the wine, you see his face blur, but the memory only sharpen.

The night winds of Crown Mountain in the 30k era…

The warmth beneath a cobalt blue cloak…

And how, amidst the chaos following Curze’s intrusion, you were swept away by the Primarch of the Lord Warden, brought to his quarters.

“I’ll have a messenger inform the Regent that you’re resting in another palace,” he told you as you huddled beneath his statue at your door, reluctant to leave.

Only then did you timidly place your hand in his, never expecting the sudden rush of vertigo that followed.

Instinctively, you resisted, but the Primarch easily encircled your hand around his neck, lifting you effortlessly into the secure embrace of his powerful arms and broad chest.

His body, free from armor, radiated warmth, the heat of a demigod’s flesh seeping into your chilled bones. It was a warmth distinct from the Angel’s, lacking the faint metallic scent of blood; instead, it was purely that of a man’s body—tangible, undeniably real. You felt akward, but keeping your distance now seemed impossible.

It is a instinct for any mortal to seek warmth.

Even though you knew none of this should be happening. It was abrupt and broke every sense of propriety.

Perhaps the Primarch was just as aware of this as you were. He wrapped his cloak tightly around you—not merely to shield you from the wind but perhaps to cover the last shreds of his rational restraint over this inappropriate display of care.

Enveloped in the cloak’s shadowed warmth, you swayed with the rhythm of his breathing and footsteps, while a flurry of concerned voices buzzed around you.

“No sign of Curze…”

“Not able to communicate with the Regent…”

“The Lord Protector is out of contact…”

His heartbeat quickened, a rising tension surging through his chest. At last, his voice broke out like thunder tearing through the sky: “I’ll turn Macragge upside down to drag that wretch out!”

You trembled involuntarily within his hold. The Primarch suddenly halted.

You felt his chest heaving beneath you, clearly battling to regain control over his emotions.

“Madam Euten,” his voice finally regained a measure of calm, though the strain was evident, “what brings you here?”

From within the cloak, an aged voice answered, muffled but stern, “I came to ensure that our palace remains secure after hearing of Curze’s appearance.”

You felt Guilliman’s arms tighten protectively around you. “This is the Regent’s palace, Madam Euten,” he corrected her. “But rest assured, I will fortify the defenses. You may sleep soundly.”

“Then why are you here, not overseeing matters directly? And why, might I ask, have you brought back a Blood Angel’s Remembrancer?”

Her words hit you like a shock, yanking you back to harsh reality.

You knew exactly who she was and felt acutely aware of how you must look to her—standing here as the Remembrancer of the Blood Angels, held in the arms of Roboute Guilliman, the Lord Warden of the Imperium, under the watchful eyes of Madam Tarasha Euten, his seneschal and foster mother.

You couldn’t help but squirm. The iron grip around you loosened instantly, allowing your feet to touch the ground as you cautiously emerged from the cloak.

The elderly woman’s gaze cut like a hawk’s, piercing and unyielding. Her figure, bowed by time like an ancient oak, was crowned with silver hair twisted into a tight, severe bun atop a face etched with the lines of wisdom and years. The cane she gripped wasn’t merely for support—it was a scepter of command, radiating such authority that even the Astartes behind her shifted uncomfortably under its presence.

You straightened yourself as much as possible, offering a formal Aquila salute, but the cobalt blue cloak draped over your shoulders slipped awkwardly.

“She’s a key witness in the search for Curze,” the Primarch’s deep voice rumbled above you. You felt him step closer, his hand resting reassuringly on your shoulder.

Madam Euten’s gaze remained sharp, unwavering. Her brow furrowed slightly before giving way to an expression you couldn’t quite read—part skepticism, part amusement. When she finally turned her attention to Guilliman, it was with a look that seemed to mock his intentions, as if silently questioning his motives but choosing to keep her thoughts restrained.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Roboute,” she said slowly, her voice laced with a dry humor. “Or perhaps you’re simply weary of the old woman’s wisdom and wish her gone?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Guilliman swiftly countered.

Madam Euten gave a soft huff, dismissing his defense with a faint air of disdain. Her eyes flicked back to you, assessing.

You opened your mouth, desperate to say something that might make the situation less awkward, but the words faltered. All you managed was a shaky, “I’ll leave…”

“There’s no need, child,” her tone softened, her gaze warming into something almost maternal. “The great Lord of Ultramar would never send a lady off into the cold unprepared. Ensure she’s provided with suitable attire.”

With that, Madam Euten turned and walked away, the rhythmic tapping of her cane gradually fading as she retreated down the corridor.

Guilliman watched her go before turning to address his gene-son, his posture straightening. “You heard Madam Euten, Thiel, find suitable clothing for our witness.”

You saw the red-helmeted Astartes falter, looking momentarily lost, as if doubting whether he misunderstood the order, even questioning if his name truly was Aeonid Thiel.

His gaze flickered between Guilliman and you, contemplating how a battlefield hero had somehow become a servant tasked with fetching clothing.

“I think it’s better if…” you began softly, attempting to refuse, but the weight of the Primarch’s hand on your shoulder pressed your words back down.

Finally, after a brief moment of silence, the Ultramarine seemed to reach an uneasy acceptance of this unexpected role and gave a reluctant nod.

“As you command, my lord.” He turned to leave, shaking his head unconsciously.

You had no chance to comment on what had just transpired, as the Primarch almost gently ushered you into a room.

Around you, deep blue drapes hung like the night sky, Roman columns rose to support the vaulted ceiling, and intricately carved reliefs adorned the stone above. The decor was not as lavish as the Angel’s palace, but every piece exuded a sense of power and nobility. Stacks of documents towered like mountains on the desk, and a grand chair rested casually by the fireplace, its fabric emblazoned with the Imperial Aquila, a silent testament to the owner’s glory and duty.

It dawned on you in an instant—you were standing in the quarters of Roboute Guilliman, the Lord Warden of the Imperium and the Primarch of the Ultramarines. This realization made you freeze in place.

“Come here,” Guilliman’s voice broke through your hesitation as he gestured for you to approach. There was an undeniable command in his tone.

You hesitated briefly, then slowly removed the cloak from your shoulders, awkwardly trying to fold it as you held it out to him. “My lord, I have nothing of value to tell you.” The fabric bunched in your hands, partially obscuring your face.

But all you felt was the lightness as he took the cloak from your hands, and the door shut behind you, blocking out the chill that had crept into the room.

“Warming yourself by the fire won’t make you a traitor to the Blood Angels,” Guilliman said, holding the cloak as he gestured to the plush fur rug before the enormous fireplace.

“Stay here for now. I have matters to attend to,” the Primarch told you.

He stepped into the adjoining room. Soon, you heard the low murmur of intense discussions coming from the other side of the wall. Even after you had changed out of your bloodstained nightgown and into a thick cobalt blue dress, the heated debates continued for some time.

The chill had left your bones, but you still sat huddled by the fireplace, gazing into the flickering flames. Your fingers absently stroked the soft fur beneath you, as if trying to rub away the lingering touch of Curze.

Your mind kept spiraling back to his words. If what he said was true, then Sanguinius was destined to sacrifice himself. Could the Angel’s recent behavior be linked to these prophecies? People fear the unknown—but to see everyone’s fate, including your own, and be powerless to change it… how unbearable must that grief be? Both Curze and Sanguinius carried that weight.

He never spoke of such things to you. Perhaps he was shielding you, too protective to share that burden. The thought crossed your mind, but you dismissed it as naive. After all, who would expect a mortal to shoulder a demigod’s anguish? And yet, against all reason, you wished you could.

You glanced down at your hands.

Curze said he knew how you were created…

The Red Thirst…

The progeny…

Your fists clenched tightly.

When you inquired if there was any news of the Blood Angels, Aeonid Thiel grumbled that he wasn’t a messenger. But then, softening slightly, he mentioned that the situation throughout the Fortress of Hera was tense.

You nodded, grasping the unspoken message. Both he and Azkaellon had made it clear—they expected the Remembrancer to stay out of trouble.

But you could wait...

As sleep began to creep back into your mind, you slowly drifted off. When you next opened your eyes, you found that the cobalt blue cloak had once again been gently draped over you.

At that moment, the scent of something savory filled the air.

Propping yourself up, you turned to see servitors filing in, bearing trays of dishes and steaming food.

Guilliman, having returned to his quarters, was busy clearing away the piles of documents on the table, making room for the feast.

Seeing you rub your eyes as you woke, he beckoned you over.

“There’s spiced roast meat here. You might like it.”

The aroma of the roasted meat was intoxicating, a perfect fusion of spices and rich, melting fat that teased the senses, igniting a hunger you hadn’t realized was there.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the steaming platter, where the golden-brown crust crackled invitingly, revealing succulent, juicy meat beneath. Your throat tightened as you swallowed instinctively, drawn in by the sight and scent of it all.

But then, as if remembering something, you quickly averted your gaze, hesitating. “My lord, I think I should probably head back…”

“Roboute,” he suddenly interrupted, his gaze lingering on the way the blue dress hugged your form, accentuating the curve of your waist.

You met his gaze, puzzled.

He reached out, casually lifting a piece of roasted meat, the skin crackling as it broke apart under his fingers. He held it out to you, the savory aroma filling the space between you.

“That’s my name,” he murmured, his voice low and steady as he watched you. “You can use it.”

A sudden tightness gripped your heart, your thoughts shifting from the enticing food to the man before you.

To be granted permission to address a Primarch by his given name—only a rare few had that honor. 

Sanguinius did. Madam Euten as well. 

They were his kin, his most trusted companions.

You bit down on your lip, an unnamed emotion swirling within you.

But his eyes held yours, steady and unyielding, leaving no room for refusal. 

Almost as if guided by instinct, you slowly reached out and took the offering. The moment it touched your lips, the explosion of flavors—rich, succulent, with the perfect blend of spices—drew a sigh of unexpected pleasure from you. For a brief instant, the world narrowed to just that taste, a moment of pure, undiluted bliss.

Mortals are fragile, indeed.

The longing for warmth, the ache of hunger—these primal needs are so intricately woven with love and desire, forming the essence of what it is to be human. Once awakened, they are impossible to resist.

You ate ravenously.

Across from you, the Primarch didn’t eat. Ever since he had carefully lifted you onto the chair opposite him, propped up with books to bring you to the right height, he’d simply watched you in silence.

Primarchs seemed to find some odd fascination in watching you eat; you’d long since grown used to this under Sanguinius’s gaze.

When a small bite caught in your throat, Guilliman smoothly slid a cup of golden mead toward you. In the soft candlelight, it shimmered with a honeyed glow.

“Take your time. Try the mead—it’s from the most bountiful orchards in Ultramar. You might find it pleasant. But for mortals, perhaps it’s best to…”

Before he could finish, you eagerly took a deep gulp.

“…dilute it with water.”

You knew what this meant. You had crossed a threshold from which there was no return.

Everything that had transpired tonight—right or wrong—mixed with the sweet warmth of honey and the searing bite of alcohol, igniting a quiet fire deep within you. That heat spread through your veins, wrapping you in a tender glow, as if bathed in the light of a distant star.

Clutching your chest, you looked dreamily at the Primarch before you. His crystalline eyes widened in a fleeting moment of surprise, then in your hazy vision, his figure seemed to grow even larger, filling every corner of your sight.

“Roboute…”

You felt the name leave your lips, a whisper so delicate it was barely there, like the remnants of a fading dream.

Until everything around you was bathed in a soft, golden light, laced with the heavy, familiar scent of blood—a scent that embraced you like a cradle.

In the depths of this dream, you heard a woman’s voice, gentle and ancient, weaving through your mind like a forgotten lullaby, carrying the weight of life’s deepest mysteries.

“May you guide the lost souls home from the abyss of desire.”

And you felt yourself slipping, deeper and deeper, into that abyss…

Chapter Text

“My lord Sanguinius, you questioning your brother over a Remembrancer?”

“‘My lord’? Roboute, you take from me what is mine and now choose to crown me with titles?”

“Your sons are blind to her presence.”

They did as duty required.”

“Then be honest with me, brother. First you, then the Lion, and now even Curze are entangled with this Remembrancer. Who is she?”

“My words may wound with their directness, Roboute, and for that, I offer my regrets. But the truth you seek is veiled in shadows, and it will not grant you the clarity you desire.”

“I just want to be sure she’s not a threat. Curze emerged from her quarters and left her unharmed. This is the Lion’s failure—his incompetence in tracking Curze…”

“Now is not the hour for such matters.”

The muffled exchange drifted to you like a distant echo, less an argument and more a shared frustration.

Your head throbbed as you shifted uncomfortably, instinctively wrapping your arms around the warmth holding you close. Your fingers clutched at the feathers within reach as you buried your face into the familiar scent of golden hair.

A strong hand pressed against your back as if trying to mold your body into the broad, heaving chest beneath you—a chest that trembled with barely restrained power, like molten rock on the verge of eruption.

“I want to go back…” you mumbled, your plea barely audible.

The alcohol fogged your mind, but you could still sense the charged atmosphere, almost smelling the tension of what was to come.

The rhythm of his breath seemed to hitch. “Go back?” The strained, raspy voice vibrated through flesh and bone, tinged with a hint of sorrow. “Do you truly wish to return?”

You couldn’t grasp his meaning.

Wasn’t returning to him the most natural thing?

You felt a surge of words welling up within you, but they tangled and knotted, refusing to take shape.

The heat within you burned like a fire in your chest.

The wind whipped past your ears, the force of it flinging Roboute Guilliman’s frustrated voice into the distance: “For the love of the Emperor, brother, this flight isn’t safe!”

You couldn’t tell if the rush of blood in your veins was from the exhilaration of the flight or the dizziness of the alcohol.

You couldn’t tell if the blood pounding in your veins was from the thrill of flight or the heady intoxication of the drink.

Through the cascade of starlit hair whipping around you, your gaze fixed on the horizon of Macragge as the deep veil of night began to lift, with the moon hanging close, so near it seemed you could touch it.

This was only the second time you’d felt the exhilaration of flight—chasing the cool, indifferent moonlight instead of the blinding sun. The moon would not melt the wax binding Icarus’s wings. There would be no fall this time.

The world below receded, its grandeur reduced to insignificance beneath your feet—palaces perched atop towering mountains, civic halls spreading through the valleys, interwoven with the pyramids of the Mechanicum and the shadowed River winding near the Palace of the Astropaths—all bowing in submission beneath you.

Once, you would have marveled at such sights, overwhelmed by the scale of it all. But now, cradled in his arms, it all blurred into the background. All that remained vivid was the rhythmic drumming of his heartbeat, speeding up with every wingbeat, capturing all your attention.

You gazed up at Sanguinius, your eyes tracing the powerful curve of his neck, the taut muscles connecting to a sharp jawline—a perfect triangle sculpted by nature. Gently, you reached upward as though scaling a statue made of living marble.

It was like savoring the richness of a deep, sweet wine…

He once mingled your blood with his own and let you taste the shared bond…

Your lips brushed against the pulse in his neck, your tongue trailing along the steady rhythm beneath his skin. You could almost sense the life pulsing just beneath the surface, as if a little more pressure could pierce through and draw forth the blood.

His divine body jolted violently, wings snapping still mid-flight. Muscles tensed like drawn wires, holding him rigid in the air for a heartbeat. Then, gravity claimed you both, pulling you earthward as the sprawling mountains and cities below swelled like an ocean rising to swallow you whole.

In that weightless descent, fear never touched you; instead, you leaned closer, seeking more of his warmth.

Just before impact, his wings unfurled with a sudden burst of strength, twisting the fall into a graceful spiral that sent you soaring upward once more. He descended in a slow arc, finally landing on solid ground with feathered grace.

His breath, ragged from the long drop, vanished into the space between your lips.

The roar of a waterfall filled the night air. Water droplets crashed against rocks, sending a mist swirling around you, shrouding everything in a fine, glowing veil. The angel’s wings and flowing golden hair were dampened by the gentle spray.

Neither of you seemed to care where you had landed—lost in the moment, swept away by a sense of inevitability, as if destiny had carefully woven every thread to lead you here.

Tucked away behind thick, tangled foliage, the natural caves felt like a hidden refuge. A cloak lay haphazardly spread across mossy stones, turning rough rock into an impromptu resting place. The fire crackled and popped as the flames licked hungrily at the logs, sending brief bursts of embers into the damp air, which clung heavily with the scent of smoldering wood and earth.

Here, everything was a world apart from the artistic grandeur of the Covenant of Baal, with its galleries of refined elegance, and from the ancient, imposing Fortress of Hera, steeped in solemn tradition. Instead, this place was pure, unrefined wilderness—a return to the primal, where every detail screamed simplicity and raw need. Gone were the polished façades; all that remained were the core elements of survival: a dry shelter, the warmth of a fire, the trickling sound of nearby water, and an unrestrained mix of desires and emotions—unhidden, unashamed, and entirely in tune with the essence of human existence. 

The cave’s tight confines made it impossible for the Angel to fully spread his wings.

You straddled his waist, your hands tenderly tracing the contours of his broad, muscular form. Carefully, you began to untangle the delicate golden chains draped across his wings, fingers searching for the hidden fasteners. With his guidance, you eased away the light armor from his shoulders and chest, peeling back layers until only the soft garments remained between your touch and his bare skin.

His desires were no longer a mystery to you. As your fingertips traced the warm, sculpted lines of his muscles and your lips pressed softly against his chest, you could feel his breath, uneven and heated, stirring the strands of your hair.

"My brother should have known better than to use mead to charm you."

The light dimmed before your eyes, and with ease, his large hand enveloped your entire head, finally coming to rest on your chin.

He gazed deeply into your eyes. Different from the unsteady breaths that accompanied his rising and falling chest, his strikingly handsome face revealed no emotion.

You coquettishly extended your hand, wrapped it around his neck, and leaned up to kiss his lips, while he lightly yet forcefully tore the fragile blue fabric at your chest and threw the piece of cloth aside.

Startled, you pulled back, instinctively covering your bare chest with your hands as you stared at him in confusion. He responded by wrapping his arm around your waist, drawing you closer, pressing your exposed body against his, and capturing your lips in a deep kiss.

This action did not have the warmth and freshness of usual encounters, but instead, it was filled with wild urgency, biting and gnawing. You couldn't escape, his tongue pressing against yours, as if wanting to taint you with the flesh of desire, bit by bit.

You fervently reciprocated, embracing his head, your breasts rubbing against his neck. He easily licked his way to them, his two lips enveloping your nipples, starting to suckle. The slight pain made you tremble, recalling the slightly sharp, canine teeth in his mouth that once brushed against the nerves-rich sensitive spots.

You body was already familiar to him.

He had once played with you in this way, from fingertips to hair. Even the most secret of places, the one you agreed to for procreation.

The demigod, in the overly narrow crevice, kissed your inner thigh. Just as you were about to close your legs out of embarrassment, he lowered his head to your genitals, sucking the flowing nectar.

Shame, surprise, and pleasure surged, pinning you to the head of the bed, tears starting to flow from your eyes, your subconscious hands slided themselves to his golden hair, to no avail.

You thought, This is wrong. How could he, so noble and pure, stoop to such a base act? He was the exalted and radiant Angel, the Regent of Imperium Secundus, the Emperor's flawless son—yet here he was, lost in the hollow between your all-too-mortal thighs.

Your fetus was being nurtured in the incubation dish, only needing to wait for the right time to be implanted in your abdomen. In truth, there was no need for him to have any form of contact with you, let alone in this manner.

However, the degrading pleasure was so intense, and the nerves' sudden twitches quickly spread throughout your body, causing your toes to curl into the bedsheets. It took a long time for you to calm down.

When he asked about your condition, you dared not look at him again, burying your face in the blanket.

This reaction might have misled him. He gently pulled you closer, trying to gauge your well-being, even offering an apology: His instincts told him you enjoyed this, though he feared he might have misunderstood.

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment as your eyes darted across his earnest expression, searching for the right words.

After a moment's hesitation, you finally whispered, "Please don’t tease me, my lord..."

He blinked, then slowly leaned down, his towering form enveloping you as his lips met yours in a tender kiss. You lay on his bed, felt the awakening of the colossal manhood beneath him.

Despite all the intricacies, a primitive, original, human instinct still existed within him. You felt its presence. It was awakened by your carnal desires but was hidden by self-control and virtue.

"It will hurt you," he told you, either with tender reluctance as he kissed your lower abdomen, as if your disheveled self were a precious cradle, or with restrained affection as he kissed your forehead, as if your rumpled clothes made you a noble saint.

But this time, in this narrow cave, everything is different. 

Your bare folds brushed against the fabric covering his groin, leaving a trace of desire upon it. He tried to stop you, but you were no longer as easily controlled as before, no longer content with merely a fleeting taste.

"Enough...," the demigod murmured, "Curiosity can be satisfied in moderation."

He strained to maintain his dignity and not lose control, yet his hand firmly clung to the side of your thigh. Despite the ease with which he could have easily pulled the tiny kitten-like you off his body, he merely issued a verbal warning that lacked any sense of threat. Even the hoarseness and stickiness between his words were like the fuzzy mist outside a cave.

As you released the towering monster, exposing it to the air and your gaze, it was unlike the angelic grace and beauty. It was ferocious and terrifying, facing your face, and greedily drooling from its orifice. Yet, you felt no disgust towards it.

What you truly disgust is the technology probing your body and the needles that took away your ovum cells.

You opened your mouth and took the swollen, erect dragon into your mouth under the angel's intense gaze. At that moment, he trembled uncontrollably, flapping his wings, surrounding you both with their embrace as if it was his last struggle.

In the cocoon created by the wings, the temperature began to rise rapidly, making the air thin. The mixture of intoxication and warmth made you feel dazed once again.

Just the tip of the sword was enough to fill your mouth. The feathers covering your body gently quivered as you began to suckle. It was different from the pleasant scent on his body; this one carried an intense, carnal stench, filled with the invasive lust of a madman.

You enjoyed him, licking and kissing his manhood. It was originally the most primitive organ for human propagating, The advanced technology, however, had made it into a spear that never needed to be wielded for reproduction. Yet, it remained unaltered, carrying the seed of a possibility.

This possibility existed within you. Despite your seemingly unlikely physiques.

He was right. He would hurt you. His offspring would cause your abdomen to swell like a ripened fruit, his phallus as thick as your thigh would damage your flower, the intimate closeness would turn bloody and brutal, devoid of any pleasure.

But you were so young, not the sort of appearance that could be altered by surgery. You were truly at the best time for reproduction.

You gripped the base of the colossal manhood tightly between your quivering thighs, your body writhing in a self-indulgent spasm. The fleshy, scorching sword plunged in and out of your depths, grating against your slick entrance and occasionally bruising your delicate petals. With each guttural thrust, pleasure built within you, a simmering cauldron of desire. The carnal flower between your thighs gushed nectar, slickening its long engorged shaft, as you stared down, mesmerized by the sight of your body devouring the pulsating stem. The unfamiliar friction set your nerves ablaze.

Your moans crescendoed into desperate whimpers as your body quaked, too weak to support itself. The angel's grip on your waist tightened, his golden eyes blazing with a blood-red madness. He held your fragile, broken body aloft, increasing the frenzied pace of his thrusts as if in a self-flagellating frenzy.

Your thighs clutched the throbbing spear pulsating between them, squeezing it to rub against your most sensitive spot hiding between petals. Like a beached fish, your lips parted and closed soundlessly, trembling and leaving crescent marks on his skin as if craving more. Your legs clamped down, ass pushing back, trying to engulf the tip of the stem just a little deeper.

That slight intrusion felt like a great sword cleaving you open. You bit your lip, using your slick folds to suckle and kiss the tip. The pressure mounting, your moans muffled as a torrent of nectar gushed from your core.

Beneath you, the mountain-sized man froze, his groin muscles clenching. A deluge of viscous fluid erupted into your depths, splattering against your inner walls. In a flash, the giant member withdrew, only to jerk back, colliding with your chest and chin, spraying sticky, opalescent liquid.

You panted, gazing up at him.

His body was still tense like a bowstring, and while his gaze stayed locked on you, it seemed to pierce through time and space, staring at an unknown future. The handsome face had a bewildered and lost expression. His hand, as if drawn by some force, inexplicably covered your small belly.
...

The warmth in the palm was scorching like fire…

It was the hands of his Astartes brothers, desperately working to save him… Their heated palms burned against his skin.

Kano’s consciousness wavered, drifting through a haze. He faintly heard his brothers calling out to him, felt their careful efforts to remove the crushing weight of his power armor. The Apothecary’s needle pricked his veins, sending unknown chemicals coursing through his blood, but when he tried to draw a breath, the searing pain that followed swallowed every sense, blurring the edges of his awareness.

An indescribable fury and feverish heat raged within him. His mind conjured vivid, terrifying visions—scenes so appalling, they defied words.

This wasn’t the arid, crimson caverns of Baal. Here, there was too much water—endless swirls of gray-blue mist clung to the stone walls.

Through the haze stood a girl, her expression both innocent and resolute, like a lamb prepared for sacrifice. A golden chain coiled around her neck, weighing her down like a heavy shackle.  She slowly spread her legs before him, like a seductive siren, revealing the sinful bloom hidden between her thighs.

He wanted to stop but found himself powerless, as if an unseen force gripped him, compelling him to raise the heavy blade.

The craving for the girl’s blood consumed every part of him, driving him to the brink of madness. He bellowed in desperate resistance, but the blade still sliced through her flesh, releasing the intoxicating scent of fresh blood into the air.

Like a ravenous beast, he lost himself in the gruesome feast, eagerly devouring the sticky remnants of tissue cocooned in crimson.

Yet, through it all, the girl’s blood-streaked hand gently cupped his face…

...

You cradled Sanguinius’s face in your hands, the golden chain that once symbolized his nobility and power now draped softly around your neck, cascading from your skin to rest against his broad chest.

“We’ll make it through,” you whispered to the Angel. “The prophecy doesn’t have to come true.”

His body slowly eased, the tension unwinding, and at last, your reflection flickered into focus within his golden eyes.

You pressed a tender kiss to his lips, breathing out, “Can you believe it?”

He hesitated, as if caught off guard, then simply stroked your hair, his voice a gentle murmur, “We have our own fate.”

A long silence stretched between you, until the soft patter of rain reached your ears, the damp scent of green leaves seeping into each breath.

Leaning back against his chest, you murmured, “I want you to know, my lord, my choice isn’t for the Imperium, nor for the Legion… Forgive my shallowness, but humanity’s fate isn’t what drives me… And even at first, it wasn’t just love…”

The arms around your waist drew you closer as he sighed, “I know, my love.”

My love…

This time, you heard it clearly.

You lay there quietly in his embrace, feeling the warmth of his presence.

As dawn gradually crept in, the carvings on the cave walls became visible, emerging from shadow.

Ultramarine glyphs intertwined with Gothic inscriptions that you could read: Blessed be the Lord of Ultramar, Roboute Guilliman.

Sanguinius’s gaze rested on the words, and he said, “Perhaps it’s time we return.”

He gathered the torn blue cloth, gently wiping your skin clean before wrapping you in his own cloak.

Chapter Text

On the Macragge’s Honour, every dinner with the Regent of the Imperium is an unspoken contest. It’s not always about conversation—sometimes, all he seeks is your quiet presence, like a silent star orbiting within his vast gravity.

You tread carefully, striving to be the obedient and pleasing companion the Regent expects. Yet still, you can’t find the right moment to express your true request.

Your thoughts remain far away, wandering in distant star systems, longing for a reunion with the child taken from you.

But deep down, you know that in the Regent’s eyes, that child—carrying the bloodline of Sanguinius—is never truly yours. The idea of helping you reclaim the child from the Blood Angels is a notion too distant, an impossible reach across the galaxy.

You once hinted at wanting to leave the Macragge’s Honour to be with your child.

He silently set down his oversized cutlery, wiping his hands and mouth with a napkin as if deep in thought. His gaze lingered on the reflection in his wine glass before he finally spoke, telling you that the galaxy was fraught with dangers and that every route was perilous. He needed to ensure your safety.

You were not naive. You knew exactly what he meant. You also knew that if you were to blurt out all your desires at once and be met with outright refusal, there would be no room left for negotiation. All the effort you’ve put into gaining his trust and drawing closer to him would be wasted.

You feel as helpless now in the 41st millennium as you did in the days of 30k—adrift like a ship guided only by the Pharos, lost in the endless void.

Sanguinius was once your guiding light. He gave you many things you both deserved and didn’t deserve—like sweet wine laced with blood. Though you tried to stay cautious, you still found yourself hopelessly lost in it.

But the sweet wine was never yours… Whether Sanguinius lives or dies, you never held any real power.

The Blood Angels, even the mortals who followed them, loved the Angel, not the figure who stood beside him on the dais.

So after Sanguinius’s sacrifice, they sealed you away in stasis without a second thought. None of the Blood Angels objected.

Sometimes, when you look back, you don’t know who you should blame.

Sanguinius warned you; Kano tried to caution you. But in the days of 30k, you were too blinded by your own desires.

Sanguinius saw it all and ultimately chose to sacrifice everything.

He belonged to humanity as its angel, never truly yours alone as Sanguinius.

This reality persists into the 41st millennium.

And now, things are even worse.

Back then, Sanguinius hoped you would bear a child for him. The Primarch needed you. But now, you can offer nothing of tangible value to the Regent, Roboute Guilliman. On the contrary, it is you who needs something from him.

You’re uncertain whether you’re suited for the delicate dance of reading intentions and offering subtle flattery. You thought it would come naturally—after all, as a Remembrancer, you’re trained to catch even the smallest nuances. Yet your own self-awareness is so overpowering that it hinders you from fully attuning to someone else's desires and delivering the words they long to hear.

In truth, you might be terrible at it.

You’ve tried recording your conversations with the Regent, searching for hints of useful information hidden in his words.

But there haven’t been many conversations.

You sit quietly, attempting to piece together the current state of affairs from his exchanges with Astartes officers and mortal lords.

It’s no simple task.

Sometimes, the Regent pauses to explain things to you, but perhaps due to your time spent in stasis, your mind is muddled. You often struggle to grasp those complex names and strange factions, nodding along as he speaks of matters you barely comprehend.

Each time you’re allowed to leave the Regent’s presence and return to your quarters, you feel utterly drained, loosening your collar as if gasping for air, and then cursing yourself for your own weakness.

Milk still seeps from your breasts at unexpected moments—a remnant the Apothecaries overlooked when they restored your body with all their advanced techniques. They lacked the subtlety to account for such an intimate detail. It’s a small but persistent shame, something you can’t bring yourself to mention to the Regent. Instead, you quietly stuff tissues inside your clothing, a flimsy barrier to hold onto your dignity amidst the discomfort.

You understand that dining with him, even sharing his presence, is the Regent’s gesture of goodwill—your chance. You’re served fresh food instead of flavorless nutrition bars. He’s well aware that, in this age, you have no one else but him. Yet, what you truly long for is something he won’t even acknowledge, let alone provide.

He generously offers what he believes you need, yet remains indifferent and parsimonious toward what truly matters to you.

It’s like how he notices the dress you carefully chose to please him but fails to see that the servitor assisting you has frayed wiring protruding from its hands.

Perhaps it’s petty of you—small concerns like that shouldn’t trouble the ruler of a galaxy.

As you exit his quarters, you glance up at the Astartes guard stationed by the door. He stands like a monument wrapped in honor. His blue power armor gleams beneath the artificial lights, medals densely covering his chest, and red honor sashes cascading from his shoulders like banners of war.

“Sir…” you call out softly, your voice tinged with hesitation. The Astartes remains motionless, lost in his own world, until you repeat yourself. Slowly, he lowers his gaze, as if descending from his lofty pedestal to acknowledge your presence.

“I know I have no right to command you, but I’d like to request your help… My servitor—it seems to need repairs…”

There’s a pause before the Astartes finally responds, his voice filtered through the helmet, cold and detached: “I follow the Regent’s orders alone.”

You recognize the voice—Captain Cato Sicarius. Frustration pricks at you as you bite your lip.

The Regent had spoken highly of this scion of the 41st millennium, praising his tactical brilliance and flexibility. But there was a note of weariness in his tone when he added, “His obsession with personal honor is his flaw—his pride too rigid to be the mark of a true leader.”

His demeanor is all too familiar, a pattern that has remained unchanged through the ages. Whether armored in gold or blue, whether in the era of 30k or now in 40k, whether it’s the Blood Angels or the Ultramarines, the cold indifference of the Astartes remains a constant.

You can exchange a few words with them, but when you’re in real need, you hesitate to ask.

You offer a polite thanks, almost by instinct giving up on pressing the matter further. Perhaps another guard might be more approachable than the famed Sicarius. Or you could ask the Regent directly—surely he wouldn’t deny you such a trivial request…

But just as you prepare to leave with the servitor, a memory flashes through your mind, holding you in place.

...

“Azkaellon and Amit are not as distant as they seem. If you ever sought to speak with them at length, you’d find they’re more like children—earnest, if a little rough around the edges.”

“I doubt they’re truly interested in conversation with me… But I don’t mind… My lord Sanguinius, I only wish to stay by your side…”

Perhaps because the child within you is not born of ordinary flesh, your pregnancy feels endless, each day dragging on with a strange weight. Whether it’s the tumult of your own emotions or some deeper, unspoken instinct, you cling to him with increasing fervor, barely straying from his quarters, content to nestle in the cushions steeped in his scent.

Sanguinius exhales softly, his voice tinged with a sorrowful tenderness. “If you yield too quickly, the sons of Baal won’t come to respect you. What they honor is strength, unwavering resolve, and an honest heart…”

But his words drift past you unheeded as you press your face into the hollow of his neck, allowing his warmth to wrap around you...

…

The memory wraps itself around you like a rope tightening across your chest, your arms instinctively folding around your own body. The warmth in your recollections morphs into a suffocating grasp.

Sanguinius had once shown you the way, but you brushed it aside without a second thought.

It’s only when you come to your senses that you find yourself turning back, hurrying toward the towering Astartes.

His helmet tilts down as if acknowledging your approach, his unseen gaze behind the ceramite mask fixed on you.

You hesitate, a shiver running through you before you gather your courage and stand straight.

“You know, sir…” you begin, summoning the nerve. “I’ve seen this scene before—a warrior in a red helm standing sentinel at his gene-father’s door. The Regent cherished him as much as he does you. But his deeds were simple, fulfilling his duties without seeking grandiose feats…”

As the words spill out, your face flushes from the rush of blood. In the reflection of the Astartes’ helm, you catch a glimpse of your flaring nostrils and fiery gaze.

But in contrast to your rising emotion, the Astartes simply regards you with quiet detachment, as if humoring a naive child. He has no intention of responding, his silence signaling that your attempts to lecture him on honor and duty are as insignificant as the words themselves.

No one likes being preached to—especially not by someone who is neither a commander, nor a brother, nor a friend. You realize you lack the standing to instruct him.

This is Cato Sicarius—the indomitable Knight Champion of Macragge, the High Suzerain of Ultramar, and the Grand Duke of Talassar. His accolades and titles stretch nearly as long as the Primarch’s own. Why would he care for your words?

In the awkward silence, a wave of embarrassment washes over you… Your brief surge of confidence evaporates, leaving you deflated.

“I didn’t mean anything by it…” You fumble for a way to salvage your dignity. “It’s just… if I’m not mistaken, my servitor is assigned to the Victrix Honour Guard. I thought… this sort of task wouldn’t require the Regent’s direct command…”

Sicarius removes his red helmet, his eyes locking onto yours with a gaze that is as sharp as it is assessing.

Those blue-gray eyes bear a resemblance to his gene-father’s—though not as strikingly blue, they are still captivating, reminding you of another warrior who had once, out of apparent disinterest, told you he wasn’t a messenger yet still went out of his way to brief you on the situation at the Fortress of Hera after Guilliman took you in.

“Enough, Remembrancer.” After a moment, Sicarius’s lips curl into a reluctant, slightly awkward smile. “I’ll have a look at your servitor. But know this—it’s not because of the pompous words you’ve been spouting, but because of my own judgment.”

“Ah?” You blink in surprise, caught off guard by how quickly he agreed. You hadn’t expected him to be so amenable, your eyes widening with a mix of disbelief and relief, like savoring a taste you never knew existed.

“Whatever the reason, I’m grateful, sir,” you say sincerely, even if his motives might be to silence your prattle or to honor the Regent’s standing.

Sicarius’s brow furrows, and he turns his gaze away. “Keep that smile for the Regent. It’s wasted on me.” With those words, he slides his helmet back on, hiding any trace of his expression.

You never expected that brief conversation to spark anything further.

But soon enough, you start catching him watching you, even when the Regent is in the room, his gaze flicking in your direction.

It must be curiosity. He’s likely wondering why a mortal like you has the privilege of sitting at the Regent’s table, sharing in his meals, even being present during discussions that touch on less significant matters of governance.

While he reports on Macragge’s status, the Regent takes the time to explain to you the tournaments held in his beloved city and how he regrets not being able to take you there in person.

You catch the brief arch of Sicarius’s brow before he quickly smooths it away, causing you to stifle a grin.

“The Knight Champion of Macragge is right here,” you lightly remind the Regent.

The Regent’s gaze shifts to Sicarius, then back to you, his expression softening into a smile. “Indeed, my lady. He is one of my proudest sons.”

You think to yourself that Sicarius must be pleased to hear those words—after all, the admiration in his eyes as he looks at the Regent is unmistakable.

In your mind, Sicarius has helped you, and though it’s his duty, you harbor some goodwill toward him, hoping to repay him in kind. Whether by speaking a good word on his behalf to the Regent or in some other way, you’re willing to advocate for him.

It’s your way of returning the favor.

You also know that the days when you could rely solely on the Primarch’s favor for a comfortable life are long gone.

One day, you’re in another chamber, avoiding a meeting between the Regent and Chapter Master Calgar, along with Captain of the Ultramarines' elite Veteran 1st Company Agemman. Sicarius is waiting outside, preparing to report once the meeting concludes.

Curled up on the Regent’s oversized couch, you watch the Astartes standing in rigid posture, though the taut line of his jaw betrays his growing impatience.

Out of kindness, you strike up a conversation, telling him there’s no need to be so tense, and asking if he’d like something to drink.

His gaze sweeps over you before returning, his brow furrowed in curiosity as he asks about the red-helmed Astartes you mentioned before.

“What?” You’re genuinely surprised by the question, never expecting him to bring it up.

“You said he was favored by the Primarch. Calgar? No, he’s too attached to that monocle. Agemman? Impossible, he doesn’t wear a red helm. So who is this red-helmed warrior you speak of?”

Calgar? Agemman? Your gaze flicks toward the door of the Regent’s chamber as it dawns on you—he’s jealous.

You hold back a laugh and reassure him not to worry. Sicarius has no idea of your identity, only seeing you as a Remembrancer. If you were to reveal the name Aeonid Thiel—a warrior long dead since millennia ago—he might think you’ve lost your mind.

He continues to watch you, a frown deepening on his face. “Your records are peculiar. You speak with a Terran accent, but your files list you as being born in the Underworld of Asphodex. Beyond that, there’s nothing. Who exactly are you?”

Sicarius’s intuition is sharp. The Regent has hidden your true identity from his sons, cautious that the secrets of the forgotten Second Imperium could be unlocked with you as the key.

“Why does it matter so much?” You try to deflect. “I’m just an ordinary Remembrancer.”

But he doesn’t relent easily. “The Regent’s Remembrancer is no ordinary figure. And… my Primarch… he treats you differently. He cares for you.”

Yet simple affection alone isn’t enough to grant you any real worth. But shared secrets can bind people together, and that’s what you need—a bond rooted in shared knowledge. Perhaps revealing a secret of your own will win Sicarius’s trust.

After a moment’s thought, you decide to take the plunge. “I knew your father ten thousand years ago,” you tell him. “I met one of your forebears… Aeonid Thiel. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard his name.”

Sicarius stiffens, shock rippling through him exactly as you expected. “You’re lying! No mortal could live for ten thousand years.”

Almost instinctively, he steps closer, towering over you as you remain seated on the couch, tilting your head back to meet his scrutinizing gaze. His eyes dart between yours, searching for any trace of deceit.

But every word you’ve spoken is true. Every sentence perfectly explains the Regent’s unique regard for you and the mysteries that surround you.

“I was sealed in stasis for ten thousand years,” you say, your voice dry. “If you want to know what it’s like… it’s like being trapped in a nightmare that never ends.”

To your surprise, the moment your words escape, you notice a change in Sicarius. His towering form bends slightly, leaning closer. His gauntleted fingers brush against your lips, a touch so unexpectedly gentle that it leaves you momentarily speechless. The proud, unyielding lines of his face falter, revealing an emotion he fights to keep hidden.

“Sir…” Your small, pale hand rests lightly on his armored arm, almost lost against the expanse of the cerulean power armor.

“Do not speak of nightmares,” he murmurs. “They are the lairs of daemons.”

In his storm-gray eyes, you catch a fleeting shadow of chaos and darkness. Just as you’re about to respond, the sound of metal grinding against metal reaches your ears. The door to the Regent’s chamber creaks open.

Chapter Text

The Remembrancer is trying to please him.

He knows it from the moment she appears before him in that blue dress.

She slides through the cracks in his armor of duty and fate like a sleek, blue-scaled siren, winding her way into his veins, her tail wrapping tightly around his heart and lungs with cunning flattery.

Her lips part, and her tongue stirs the dry winds of Crown Mountain, mingling with the damp warmth of the greenhouse air, brushing against long-faded memories of lost places and people to the millennia. There are fleeting moments when he almost longs for the arrogant presence of his elder brother, Lion El’Jonson. 

The era of the Primarchs has passed, leaving only noble sons of the Emperor and a lowly remembrancer…

He awakens from the comforting haze of the past, realizing that this frail mortal woman is exploiting her ability to reach deep into his heart. She is cleverly manipulating his guilt toward his lost brother Sanguinius, drawing on the subtle emotional bonds between them. Beneath her sweet demeanor lies a cunning mind; every small gesture, every exchanged glance, tests his boundaries. She’s inching closer, seeking what she desires most.

He considers what it would be like to grip that delicate, pale neck and drag this slippery fish of desire out into the open, watching her struggle and thrash helplessly.

But he won’t do that. 

He is the Regent, the Emperor’s son, the returned Primarch. He would never stoop to engage in such pettiness with a mortal remembrancer.

In his oath, protecting her is an unbreakable duty, bound by his solemn vow to his long-lost brother.

She has her own quarters in the Fortress of Hera, and she should have the same aboard the Macragge’s Honour.

She once dined at Sanguinius’s table, and now she will do the same at Roboute Guilliman’s.

She occupied much of the Angel’s solitary moments, so it’s best she remains where he can keep an eye on her.

This is, after all, a promise from one Primarch to another—unless, of course, she persists in her flirtations with Cato Sicarius…

She easily hooks that foolish lad’s attention with her fake, sugary smile. It’s like a trap laced with mead—one sip and the drinker is bound to lose themselves to her whims.

Who, besides the Primarch Roboute Guilliman himself, could ever be wary of such a mild-mannered young woman?

As the door slides open with a whisper, Roboute Guilliman’s gaze is instantly drawn to the improper scene unfolding on the sofa. The remembrancer lounges carelessly, her flowing skirt fanning out to reveal a glimpse of her slender leg.

She doesn’t rise to greet him as is her custom. Instead, there at the hem of her rippling blue dress, kneels his proud son—the one who holds honor above all else.

At the sound of the door, they hastily pull apart. The remembrancer even has the audacity to blink at him with feigned innocence.

Anger flares hot in Guilliman’s mind, impossible to ignore. But now is not the time to show it. Calgar and Agemman stand behind him, unaware of the remembrancer’s nature. It’s best not to draw their attention to her. He doesn’t want this two sons falling under her spell as well. And he has no time to waste on such distractions—there’s a schedule to maintain, and next, he must hear Sicarius’s report.

Guilliman forces himself to focus, listening as his genetic son’s lips move, though none of the words register.

His attention is entirely consumed by the gauntlet of his son. He can sense it carries the remembrancer’s scent, laced with a trace of genetic material, teasing his nerves and clouding his thoughts.

He needs to confront her about this. She can’t be allowed to toy with him and his sons alike. This is a matter of duty as a father of the Legion.

He tries to remain composed, to at least convey his point calmly and assertively.

But he undoubtedly fails.

When Sicarius leaves, the remembrancer answers his call, standing before his chair with her practiced, fake smile, addressing him sweetly as “Lord Guilliman” while her hands shamelessly press against the Armour of Fate between his legs.

Such brazenness, such disregard for propriety—he feels the heat of her touch even through the armor, the sensation like an electric shock as he leans back into the chair, instinctively pulling away from her.

The remembrancer, seemingly unaware of the tension, maintains her facade, tilting her head up at him.

Guilliman closes his eyes briefly, masking his discomfort with a hand to his forehead. When he opens his eyes again, he asks her as evenly as possible, "What do you think of my son with his reckless tendencies?

Her eyes meet his without a hint of caution, and she answers with unnerving candor, uttering a string of words he immediately regrets asking for.

He can’t ignore the phrases: “handsome,” “talented,” “youthful vigor”… Each word stokes the flames of suppressed rage in him, like pouring oil onto a smoldering fire.

“‘Lord Sicarius’?” He draws out the name, barely restraining the tremor in his voice. “You address him as ‘lord’? Is that the same false respect you feign when you speak to me?”

He narrows his eyes at the clueless woman before him, who now looks bewildered and trapped, sensing the danger but with nowhere to flee.

In that instant, Guilliman knows he’s crossed a line, but the molten rage bubbling inside him bursts through before he can leash it. He seizes her by the shoulders, nearly pulling her into his lap, his voice a venomous snarl: “From me to my sons—how many more will you sink your claws into, you deceitful little viper?” His grip tightens, his words laced with a raw, seething fury that cuts like a blade, more savage than he ever intended.

Finally, she snaps out of her daze, and the mask crumbles—first confusion, then shock… until shame washes over her, turning her once expressionless face a deep, vivid red.

The raw emotion spilling from her is unlike anything he’s seen before. For a split second, it catches him off guard. But then, a sharp sting on his cheek pulls him back to reality.

Guilliman stares, stunned, at the trembling woman before him, shrinking back as if she’d struck a beast far beyond her control.

The slap doesn’t hurt—it’s barely a graze—but the insult of it, combined with a strange surge of unease, only fuels his rage.

This foolish woman has no idea what she’s done, driven by a wild, reckless impulse like an untamed animal.

He locks her wrists in his grip, careful not to crush her fragile bones, though the anger still simmers just beneath the surface.

“This is an OFFENSE against the Regent! There’s NO need for a trial; my Emperor’s Sword would gladly pierce the heart of anyone guilty of such treason!”

His words are the law—they’re the truth. But even as they leave his mouth, he regrets them.

He sees the tears welling in her eyes, shining with a light that pierces straight into his soul.

And before he realizes it, she somehow wriggles free from his grasp with a strength that defies her mortal limits.

She breaks free from his grasp.

Then, time seems to stretch, each second dragging out as he stares in utter disbelief at the frail woman before him. Her pale fingers curl slowly, knuckles taut, gripping the neckline of her dress. The sharp rip of fabric echoes in his ears as the blue garment tears apart from the collar, fluttering to the ground like the delicate wings of a cicada.

It’s a sight he was never meant to see.

Her flushed skin blooms with feverish patches of red across her chest, made all the more striking by the angry scratches left from her desperate struggle.

The Remembrancer hisses at him like a cornered beast, “Then go ahead—stab me here!” She jabs a finger at her bare chest. “Isn’t that what you want?”

She lifts her breasts, as if purposefully displaying herself to him. The small, tender mounds are streaked with the remnants of milk, leaking from the stiffened buds.

Her voice, once honeyed, is now raw and jagged, laced with despair. “Do you see, my lord? I have nothing left! Even the child who should be here, suckling milk from my breasts, is gone!”

For a moment, he stands frozen, as if turned to stone, as an indescribable sensation courses through every nerve in his body, racing to his mind.

Memories flood back—of Sanguinius, of Karlaen, of that first moment when he met her again after ten thousand years, lost and broken.

A deeper, more destructive emotion surges within him, threatening to overwhelm.

Her accusations crash against him like orbital bombardments tearing through energy shields, unleashing a torrent of emotions he’s fought so hard to keep buried.

“You’re the revered Regent, a returned Primarch, the avenging son. Time itself could not dim your glory; you rise from its depths, still untouchable, still magnificent. But what about me? I wake from the same sleep, and everything is gone! Am I destined to be degraded, powerless, and forgotten—just as I was ten millennia ago?”

Her fury ignites like wildfire caught in a storm, and before he can react, she’s on him, her burning lips crashing against his. For a heartbeat, his breath is ripped away.

The sudden shift catches him off guard. In one moment, he's the condemned, shackled by his own fury; in the next, he's thrust into a realm of searing sensations beyond control.

His thoughts scatter. Her delicate tongue flits across his lips, leaving a tingle like the lash of that teasing blue fish. Instinct takes over as he parts his lips, pulling her in, his teeth grazing her tenderly, as if crushing her between them could bring back his grip on reason.

But he’s gravely mistaken—terribly so.

It’s nothing but a finely crafted trap, a lure meant to draw him in only to release venom deep within his being, a poison that blooms in the pit of his soul.

Her fragile frame clings desperately to the massive armor, her fingers spread wide, gripping the ornate edges of his pauldrons. Under the pressure, her soft flesh oozes milk from her breasts, leaving invisible stains on the elaborately crafted cobalt plates.

The Armor of Fate, this masterpiece of destiny, is rendered useless, reduced to nothing more than a useless shell. It’s powerless to repel the corruption that assaults him from both within and without.

The remembrancer bites down on his lips, taunting him softly, “This is seduction in its purest form.”

He cannot let her go.

The Hand of Dominion, for all its power, is a clumsy tool against this venomous lust; neither chainblade nor bolter can combat such insidious temptation.

His roar of frustration reverberates through the chamber as he sweeps everything from the table—files, devices, goblets, plates—all clattering to the ground.

He slams the writhing, blue-scaled fish that coils around him onto the aged, scarred tabletop. He glares at her lips, flushed and parted, gasping for air as it flails helplessly on the shore.

The door swings open, and in strides Sicarius, his power armor gleaming in the harsh artificial light. The scene before him is nothing short of chaos.

The regent, the demigod of Imperium, the most revered genetic father, has pinned a nude, fragile mortal beneath him. Her hair unfurls across the table like strands of a chaotic prophecy.

She tilts her head toward the door, her neck craned back, jaw forming an inverted “v” as her upside-down face stretches into a mad, despairing grin. It’s as if she’s trying to display something to the intruder, but the regent’s massive hand shoves her back down onto the table.

“Get out! Get out now!” Guilliman roars at his most beloved son, his voice laced with fury, mingling with the woman’s eerie, high-pitched laughter.

“He’s seen it…” she rasps, “The madness of Ultramar’s master, the true Roboute Guilliman.”

The true Roboute Guilliman?

Is it this towering suit of armor that she kissed?

Her lips curl around the gauntlet of the Hand of Dominion, leaving a glistening trail of saliva as her tongue slides over the ceramite emblazoned with the numeral “XIII,” her lashes fluttering like the fan of a taunting blue fish.

But that isn’t him.

The massive hand could almost encircle her entire waist. With the slightest touch, her fragile body would yield, and milky droplets would seep from her ripened poppy-like breasts.

He devours her flesh hungrily, like a starving child suckling from its mother or a hopeless addict chasing his fix. With ease, he teases those tender buds until they stand flushed and swollen, coaxing soft moans from her trembling lips.

But that isn’t him.

He is the Emperor’s son, the Avenging Regent, the father of the Ultramarines. If his hand tightened even slightly around her throat, she would be reduced to cosmic dust, and all chaos and madness would be set right.

She was once the breeder of Sanguinius, Angel’s grail, carrying his bloodline. Her purpose was fulfilled long ago. Now, her remaining days are little more than wasted time, breeding endless trouble.

His beautiful brother Sanguinius understood their father’s grand vision. He was even willing to sacrifice himself… He wouldn’t hold blame against him… This was an act of desperate necessity…

He must—pierce this woman—merge her into his being.

But this cursed armor, like the shackles of a prisoner, restrains his body, robbing him of sensation, making even the simplest movements a struggle. He can’t remove it.

His fingers can’t feel the warmth of her skin. How soft is her flesh? How sleek and cold are those hairs?

He greedily tastes her with nose, lips, and teeth—from her slender neck to her unnaturally swollen breasts, from her flat abdomen to the trembling, slick folds between her thighs.

But it’s all in vain. The fire within him rages on, each movement an unsatisfying itch beneath layers of unyielding ceramite.

Did his brother witness this too? Was he, like him, drawn into madness by that alluring scent? Or did he restrain himself, fumbling with unfamiliar passion for this exquisite flesh?

Their bodies pressed together, leaving imprints upon each other.

She must be comfortable. She’s always loved warmth and softness. The image of her curled up on his plush rug before the hearth, from millennia ago, remains vividly clear in his mind.

But he can’t. He’s nothing more than a useless block of iron.

Entombed in layer upon layer of ceramite, the icy, unyielding material traps his flesh, strangling his desires within its cold, narrow confines.

Before him, the tainted flower of lust desire beckons, and he can scarcely resist them, his heart aching.

As the Hand of Dominion penetrates her, she must feel comforted. The cold ceramic glove, adorned with protruding interface studs, elicits a tremor with the mere touch of a single finger.

He fills her, his thick fingers thrusting through her folds, parting creases, brushing against wall of the hole and the rim. He doesn't need finesse, nor can he muster it. He thrusts relentlessly, swiftly mimicking carnal union.

His brother, too, must know this passion, plunging fingers into the sacred caves of mortal procreation, leaving their hands slick with the viscous filth of unrestrained lust,  watching the petite mortal flush, bite her lips, frantically shake her head, moan, and plead for mercy. The angel, must did the same thing as he is doing now, lowered his head to claim the trembling red lips.

Her legs, forcibly separated, spasm in the air as if attempting to flee from his grasp when he breaches her once more.

He clamps down on her stomach, forcefully inserting another finger, ruthlessly grinding it through her swollen and puffy and tender flesh. The succulent, tempting flesh undulates and unfurls under his relentless touch.

In the next moment, he hears her distorted moans, her flower constricting, as a stream of fluid gushes from the petals below.

Bewilderment floods his mind as the warm fluid relentlessly seeps between his fingers. When he finally pulls them away, droplets even splatter against the proud aquila crest emblazoned on his grand armor.

This desecration, this corruption, has seeped into the very core of his mighty armor, pulling him into the same abyss of depravity.

The mortal, overwhelmed by shame, covers her face as tears stream down her cheeks while her red, swollen flower still rhythmically contracts, exuding the heady scent of carnal indulgence.

He, bewitched, ignores the filth and degradation and without hesitation, pulls the rememberancer tightly against his chest. His lips trace her hairline, gently kissing the corner of her eye.

Perhaps this is what the remembrancer excels at—whether it’s Regent Sanguinius or Regent Guilliman, she has always known how to lure them into a sweet, sordid descent, dragging their nobility and authority down into the mire.

But none of that matters now. In this moment, he offers her something beyond the titles and grandeur—something primal and pure, the pleasure of a man to a woman.

As he uses the discarded blue fabric to wipe their entwined bodies, her flushed skin still trembles from the aftershocks.

He lowers himself, his lips brushing against the reddened buds of her breast, licking away the bead of white milk threatening to spill.

The sensation is too much for her. Instinctively, her arms tighten, pulling his head closer into the warmth of her embrace.

In the dimly lit chamber, the servitors bring in a bath, warm steam rising in delicate wisps.

The Primarch seems to have regained his composure from the earlier madness. Despite the heavy armor weighing on him, he cradles you with the tenderness one would show an infant, gently lowering you into the bath filled with heated water.

You keep your eyes tightly shut, letting him meticulously wash away every trace of filth from your body. The roughened pads of his gauntleted fingers pause now and then, brushing over the marks he left on your skin—perhaps inspecting his own handiwork, or perhaps offering a silent apology in the form of a tender caress. Finally, you feel his lips press softly, tentatively, against yours.

In a hoarse whisper, he murmurs against your lips, "Bear me a child."

Your eyes snap open, as if jolted awake from the void of space, your gaze locking sharply onto his.

His eyes hold an intensity that stretches across time, as though he’s already envisioning the years ahead. “I will restore the glory of the Fortress of Hera. You love that greenhouse, don’t you? It will be filled with lush greenery and fragrant blossoms. You’ll be the most esteemed lady of Macragge. Our child—he will rule Ultramar with unmatched honor.”

But none of what he says matters to you…

You hold his gaze, each word you speak dragging him out of his idealized dream and back to harsh reality.

“I want my child back.”

Chapter Text

You hide on the balcony.
Not long ago, you were raising glasses with your colleagues from the Remembrancer Order, toasting to Guilliman - the hero who defended Ultramar through the Plague Wars.
You never dared to meet his eyes, stealing glances only when his attention turned elsewhere.
Cato Sicarius had revealed to you that Guilliman bore grievous wounds from his battle with Mortarion, and even his Armor of Fate - meant to be his wellspring of life - had become nothing but a lifeless dull shell, drained of all power.
The news struck your heart like a blade of ice, bringing back that bone-deep chill you felt when the Great Angel Sanguinius was lost to you.
Yet today the Lord Regent seemed transformed - vital and strong, somehow transcending the need for his Armor of Fate. This sight brought a measure of peace to your anxious heart, though such peace bred its own kind of chaos.
The celebrations had run their course, and you should have departed, yet some inexplicable enchantment held you there, as a minor character trapped in a grand tale.
In the end, you could only clutch your wine glass and hide behind the balcony's curtains, watching from afar as the Lord of Ultramar and Imperial Regent sat upon his great throne like a war god stepped from ancient bronze. The canopy above formed a natural halo, enhancing his divine, untouchable authority. His smile carried both power and warmth.
Before Guilliman’s throne, the long table was littered with a chaotic mix of half-finished delicacies and scattered remnants. The endless stream of well-wishers mirrored this disorder, forming a vibrant tapestry of diverse races and garments as they moved past his seat. This unexpected scene of disarray seemed to contradict everything you believed about Guilliman’s nature: this man had built his legacy on unity and perfect order. You found yourself wondering what profound change could have led the ever-rational Imperial Regent to embrace such magnificent chaos.
The high lords gleamed in their ceremonial robes. Astartes officers in blue power armor radiated strength and determination, while red-robed Mechanicus priests moved with strange mystery, and the few elegant offered blessings with their characteristic ethereal grace. This disorder, so contrary to his usual principles of order and efficiency, left you adrift in confusion.
In all the time since Primarch Roboute Guilliman returned to the Palace. Until this victory celebration, not even half a word has passed between you.
Perhaps it's better this way.
Before marching to war, he spoke of how your words wounded him - each syllable falling like bitter rain when he thirsted for sweet comfort. He hungered for your grief, your reluctance to let him go. Yet in those moments, your tongue turned traitor, becoming nothing more than lifeless metal, unable to whisper the gentle deceptions his heart begged to hear. How could you speak of loss to one, when another's absence still consumed you?
Sanguinius's wings - their touch still haunts your skin, that exquisite coolness ghosting across your palm. You reach out to grasp the sensation, but catch only shadows and mist.
The Great Angel has ascended beyond mortal reach. When he forbade you from following him to Terra, he might as well have placed the entire galaxy between you. At the moment your love burned brightest, he chose duty over your heart, abandoning you to face the infinite darkness alone.
This was always to be your fate - you knew it in your bones, and no bitterness stains your soul... Yet even his parting gift - the sacred bloodline that should have bound you eternally - has slipped through your desperate fingers like stardust.
In the depths of your heart, you know the truth: it was never truly the child you craved, but Sanguinius himself. How can a mother love what she has never cradled, never beheld? That divine spark of maternal love - you know now it was a flame that never caught, a warmth your heart was destined to never know.
Yet you yearn for this phantom child with a pain that tears at your soul, as if by loving this shadow-fragment of Sanguinius, you might somehow grasp one last echo of his radiance.
You curse stars in bitter grief and woe, that made your love so high, and you so low.
Once, you might have continued to court the Imperial Regent Primarch Guilliman's favor, trading honeyed words for the hope of your child's return, but somewhere along the way, such acts became unbearable.
You've grown weary of false smiles...
And your tongue refuses to shape more words of flattery...
He did not take you to war, choosing instead to leave you on Macragge. At the time, you knew nothing of the brutal battle that awaited him, and you felt relief at his decision.
You needed time to untangle your thoughts. 
In this age of the 40th millennium, darkness follows you like a shadow - when you close your eyes, you feel only the bitter cold between distant stars; when you open them, you face an endless sea of alien blue, stretching mercilessly across the void. Everything you've gained through supplication and pleading stands like a fortress built on treacherous sands - grand and imposing to behold, yet hollow at its core, threatening to crumble with each passing moment. This perpetual uncertainty has become your constant companion, a ghost that whispers of inevitable collapse. Until Primarch Guilliman's departure, when it finally devoured you whole.
One lazy afternoon, as you passed the Library of Ptolemy by chance, a bone-chilling wind made you shiver involuntarily.
There on the library's ancient wall, a weathered relief of the Great Angel remained - time-worn yet eternal, like a whisper preserved in stone.
Here, the Emperor Sanguinius once sought solitude, made this corner his own sanctuary. Now it stands as nothing more than a memorial to absence, marked by millennia of longing.
You found yourself drawn closer, your trembling fingers following the faded lines of his face. Each groove and shadow held a memory, each worn edge spoke of glory long since passed into legend.
The rough surface caught at your skin, and suddenly time had no meaning. Ten thousand years vanished like morning mist, and there he was - the Great Angel, radiant and eternal, his outstretched hand still showing you the way forward through the darkness:
As Primarch Guilliman's personal remembrancer, you held the key to his inner world. Such intimate knowledge became your most precious coin.
The mortal officials from Terra, lost in the labyrinth of the Primarch's commands on Macragge, inevitably found their way to your door. A carefully chosen word here, a subtle insight there - you showed them how to read between the lines of his orders. And you... you asked so little in return, or so it seemed.
The transformation of your life came like twilight - gradual, yet inexorable. Simple robes gave way to finery, quiet days dissolved into an endless stream of council meetings across Macragge. Your words, once mere records, now carried weight in marble halls. Even as war drained the coffers, government offices competed to fund your journeys across Ultramar, eager to keep your pen flowing, your voice heard.
In the end, you had learned to play the game well - trading the Primarch's shadows for your own rising star. One small secret expanded into an empire of whispered favors, growing like a delicate web in the dark.
Yet in the depths of night, sleep became an ever more distant stranger.
The fine fabrics and jewels lay cold and hard against your skin. In your fevered thoughts, they transformed into the icy gauntlets that had once parted your flesh.
The Primarch had soothed you with burning breath and words of love. He was your only anchor to reality, not another bubble from your dreams that would burst at a touch...
But such tender memories had no right to haunt your mind.
You shouldn't have dwelled on these thoughts when other remembrancers gathered around you, eyes bright with envy for your honored position as the Primarch's personal remembrancer aboard the Glory of Macragge. They peppered you with questions, hungry for every detail about him...
"...My lord's desk, it must have been used for a long time? I noticed all the scratches on it..."
...The cool surface pressed against your bare back as he towered over you, his fingers caressing your cheek as his lips traced your neck and collarbone...
"...What does Lord Guilliman prefer with his meals? Wine or water?..."
...Wine traced a path across your chest, its cool touch instantly replaced by the heat of his tongue, trailing from your breasts to your belly and lingering lower still...
You bit your lip, desperately trying to redirect these too-intimate topics.
You reminded yourself that these were all his games. He had entered your body through your secret path, and you had merely lost yourself in the infinite physical pleasures offered by this impossibly powerful demigod...
But then he was wounded.
You remembered clearly that moment of panic when you heard the news.
You were shocked to discover your mind was utterly clear, without any "maybes" or "perhaps" - you simply cared for him, purely and completely.
You couldn't bear the thought of experiencing such pain again, not after losing Sanguinius.
But thankfully, it had all been just a nightmare. The Regent Primarch sat well and whole upon his throne, celebrating yet another victory.
You hold your wine glass, absently twirling the tassels of the blue balcony drapes between your fingers.
Anxiety builds in your heart, mirroring the chaos and clamor of the celebration below.
You wonder if, during your time apart, he had learned of your actions.
Each time you leveraged your position as the Primarch's remembrancer for gain was a betrayal. Your intimate knowledge of Guilliman was both your weapon and a double-edged sword, capable of wounding him without intent. Perhaps now it had cut you as well.
"What would he think if he knew?"
The question echoes in your mind. Perhaps you would finally get what you desired, or perhaps these actions would only push you further into isolation.
But what was done, was done.
The streets of Macragge are flooding with pamphlets you'd written praising the Primarch. You are wearing an elegant gown that shimmers like liquid silk.
There is no going back now.
From your distant perch, you watch as a mortal official - one of your closest allies - navigates through the blue wall of Astartes to reach the Imperial Regent Primarch. He raises his glass of amber liquid in toast, his lips moving in what appears to be words of blessing.
You tilt your head back and drain your own glass of watered honey-wine in one swift motion. The burning liquid traces a path down your throat, making you instinctively clutch at your neck.
Your heart thunders in your chest, its pounding growing louder until it drowns out even the roar of the reveling crowd.
You can't remember when you left the celebration.
The mountain winds of Macragge strike much like they did atop the Fortress of Hera, scattering your thoughts into the golden sunset. You look toward the audience square - where once ink-dark crowds flowed like rivers, now only empty marble reflects the dying light. Through corridors of sunlight gold and shadow grey you walk, beneath the flutter of Imperial eagles and Guilliman's "U", while cold air bites your wine-warmed skin.
Thirst. Heat.
You almost hear the sound of mist embracing you beneath the waterfall, as the scent of cave moss and burning damp wood paints your mind a foggy white.
When awareness returns, you find yourself curled beneath the black doors of the Ptolemy Library, caressing the weathered relief of Sanguinius.
Until the shadowed figure in the sunset, features indistinct in stone, is consumed by climbing darkness. You feel your fingers tighten against the rough sculpture.
"I knew I would find you here." His voice, so achingly familiar, rough with emotion.
At last, you must turn, must lift your eyes to the Regent Primarch who stands alone before you.
Light gilds the edges of his massive frame, while shadows gather within. Those shadows easily engulf your form, encompassing you completely.
He said he "knew."
He knows your habits, has been watching you all along.
You struggle to your feet, fighting dizziness from fatigue, wine, and low blood pressure. Your vision dims, but still you strive to maintain dignity in his presence.
You curtsy, not the Imperial salute, but like a lady of ancient Terra, slightly lowering yourself with bent knee.
"My lord..." The smile comes to your lips by habit as you gaze into his shadowed eyes, words spilling forth almost unbidden, "...are you well? It brings me such joy to see you unharmed."
He has shed his cold armor for a white dress uniform heavy with medals, a blue ceremonial sash crossing his chest and falling to the ground.
Here before the Ptolemy Library, you stand with Sanguinius at your back, facing the gene-father of the Ultramarines, just as you did millennia ago.
In the 30th millennium, he had furiously called you "rat."
Now in the 40k, he lets your words hang in the air,and his gaze lingering on your face as if searching for something hidden in your eyes.
You watch him as your breathing grows unsteady, as if something indescribable struggles to break free from within, threatening to distort your very form into something strange and twisted.
If you were innocent, you would pour out your longing and joy without hesitation.
If you were honest, you would confess all your deeds, your worries, without thought.
But you are neither.
Standing before Sanguinius's relief, you cannot be.
As your nails dig into your palms, he kneels before you.
The golden-orange sunset spills suddenly over his head into your eyes, forcing them downward to watch as he takes your small hands, his warm fingers gently stroking your skin.
He says he wishes to speak with you privately. "—But we must find another place. It's too cold and empty here, and the wind will only grow colder after sunset."

You enter the bathhouse wearing a thin white linen robe, your steps measured and slow.
The space soars upward, supported by towering marble columns adorned with intricate reliefs. At its center, a vast open-air hot spring mirrors both starlight and the dancing warmth of artificial candlelight above.
Steam embraces every inch of your skin, your footsteps lost in the gentle sound of flowing water - a soothing melody promising to wash away all fatigue.
Through the warm golden mist, you see the Primarch's silhouette. He sits at the pool's edge, his back to you, mosaic tiles beneath him, waters gently embracing his form. Light plays across his loosened golden hair, casting deep shadows along the vast expanse of his shoulders and the sculptured muscles of his back.
Your heart suddenly races.
You know every version of him - the casual simplicity of his daily attire, the grandeur of his ceremonial dress, even the way training gear hung loose as he sparred with Sanguinius, and always that massive war-plate. But this... this unarmored truth before you feels like meeting him anew.
Perhaps soon, you might first touch, feel, press against that body, as the inevitability of his claim sends a shiver through you.
Your mouth goes dry, the steam suddenly scorching in your nostrils. Instinctively, you clutch your robe's collar, hesitating, wanting to retreat.
You aren't ready. Everything once familiar has become strange.
It isn't about facing an unclothed Primarch. It's that you haven't spoken privately for so long. No messages through Astropaths, no personal letters. Only fragments of battle reports from mortal officials' lips.
Until he appeared behind you moments ago, abandoning the celebration, you couldn't even be sure if he still held any of the feelings you hoped for.
Then suddenly, he's drawn you into this intensely private setting. You should have refused from the start.
As you step backward, preparing to slip away, his voice cuts through the steam barrier, low and simple: "Come."
You have no choice. After a moment's hesitation, you slowly approach the pool's edge.
The bath is designed for the powerful frames of Primarchs and Astartes. Even seated, the water only reaches his solid chest.
In the dim light, you cannot see the bottom, have no sense of its depth. You dare only sit on the stone steps at the edge, clutching your robe, maintaining what you deem a safe distance.
He glances at you, his brow slightly furrowing. Yet he raises no objection.
His gaze drifts to the luminescent water surface. After a moment's silence, he speaks softly: "I used to speak with my father here."
Father?
You shift slightly, realizing he means not the Master of Mankind, but his adoptive father, Konor.
Perhaps then, you wonder, you speak not with the Imperial Regent Primarch, but with Macragge's heir.
He pauses, as if remembering, "After him, came Gage, Auguston, Thiel, Calgar, Sicarius..."
He lists each name - his gene-sons, trusted warriors of renowned deeds.
"What did you discuss?"
The muscles in his face and body imperceptibly relax as he leans back, tilting his head to view the star-strewn sky framed by the colonnade. His eyes hold expectation, satisfaction, and infinite contemplation.
"Ultramar, Ultramar, Ultramar."
Three times he speaks the name of his Segmentum - not the galaxy, not humanity, certainly not the Emperor.
And this frontier Segmentum has nothing to do with you at all.
Born in Terra, the heart of the human Imperium, you are no child of Ultramar, no Astartes, no one of consequence.
Your only reason for being here stems from the Primarch's own desires.
"My lord, if you wish to discuss Ultramar, I may not be the best choice," you say softly.
His gaze returns to you, eyes complex with unspoken thoughts.
"No, Ultramar is exactly what we must discuss," he murmurs.
Then, he continues in an almost approving tone: "As a remembrancer, your efforts haven't gone unnoticed. Throughout Ultramar, even the galaxy, your works will be preserved and reprinted. Such talent deserves respect."
His words make your breath catch.
You're not foolish - your works aren't preserved for talent alone. These words clearly mask his true intent. Unable to read his thoughts, silence seems wisest.
Good news is he doesn't seem to expect a response, simply shifting his gaze away as he continues in a stable tone, almost plain tone: "I've also noticed your recent social activities. Integration, utilizing collective strength - this is a wise move. You seem to finally understand that an Ultramarine's strength comes from unity."
His behavior is unusual - delivering these words of praise while staring at some nonexistent point on the water's surface, never meeting your eyes. You clench your fists, studying every expression on his face, holding your breath for his next words.
Then suddenly, he turns. His gaze burns like starfire, cutting through the misty steam between you: "However, there are things you've kept from me, which surprises me. Do you hold back out of caution, or something else?"
You can barely hold his gaze, instinctively looking away before forcing yourself to meet it again.
His voice drops to an incredibly low register, his chest rising and falling, disturbing the water: "In this court, information is power. Secrecy only breeds distrust. I'd prefer to hear truth from your lips rather than learn of your actions from others."
"I..." You want to say something - anything. Whether defense or agreement. But what can you say?
As the Primarch speaks, your careful walls of avoidance crumble. Of course he would know everything you've done. You clutch your robe tighter, aware that beneath it you are as naked as your actions are before him.
The warmth that had been building in your body suddenly turns to ice in your veins.
He shows no mercy, his gaze lingering on the jeweled earrings that catch the light. When he speaks, there's a thread of mockery in his voice: "Those sparkling trinkets in your ears, that elegant dress - impressive, I admit... You could have simply asked me for such things. Instead, you chose to work behind my back, trading the precious gift of my trust for worthless stones. These petty games make me question if you truly understand the value of maintaining honesty, of preserving what lies between us."
Your hand trembles as it rises to touch the earrings you forgot to remove.
When you put them on at dawn, you had thought of him. The sound of flowing water grows louder in your burning ears. These ornaments - that you'd hoped would please him - now feel unbearably heavy. Heavy enough that you want to tear them off.
The Primarch's voice seems to come from far away. He continues expressing his disappointment, mocking your little schemes, demanding your honesty.
But what truths could you possibly offer? Doesn't the almighty demigod Primarch already know everything?
All your deeds, your betrayals, your actions that disgust him so.
Then there are other deeper truths you dare to speak.
The way your eyes lingered on his silhouette when he wasn't looking, your treacherous mind imagining the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips.
The hours you spent before the celebration, heart fluttering as you changed dress after dress, choosing each ornament with trembling hands, hoping to catch his eye.
Your heart clenches with shame, not guilt - shame at these foolish fantasies, these desperate attempts to please a demigod who sees you as a pathetic fool.
Instinctively, you wrap your arms around yourself, trembling, desperate to escape his presence.
Perhaps you were wrong from the start - having already betrayed his trust, how dare you indulge in such intimate fantasies about him?
Your whispered words of "I'm not regret" are nearly lost in the gentle song of the hot springs.
As steam rises, the wine in your blood and long-held exhaustion betray you. You stand suddenly, and the world tilts. Your body falls helplessly toward the pool.
The warm waters swallow you whole. Suddenly, terror grips you as water floods your nose, burns down your throat. You can't breathe - your lungs scream for air as you thrash wildly in the depths, your mind blank with primal fear.
Then powerful arms seize you from the drowning. Through churning water and desperate gasps, he pulls you against his chest. You cough violently against his shoulder, each spasm wracking your body as your lungs fight to expel the burning water.
His hand moves smoothly across your back - each impact carefully controlled yet still making you flinch, forcing more water from your lungs with every strike.
When your ragged breathing finally slows, his deep voice fills the steam-laden air: "Look at you. After all this time apart, I ask a few questions and you try to flee." His brow furrows as his eyes find yours, demanding yet somehow gentle. "At least give me an explanation, or even a word of comfort." A note of weariness enters his voice. "This isn't how we should be with each other."
Your coughs soften to shaky breaths against his shoulder. His wet hair drips onto your cheek, each drop a burning reminder of how little separates you - just your thin, soaked robe between your skin and his. His spring-warmed body radiates heat into yours, and you breathe in his scent mingled with the sulfurous waters.
What flows between you in this embrace isn't the anger you feared, but something deeper, more complex. No true fury could exist in the way he cradles you against his broad chest, in how his arms form a sanctuary around your trembling form.
His stern words carry deeper meaning. They speak of the fragile, precious thing between you that he fears you might break. You understand now - all your careful schemes, your intricate plans, appear to his ancient eyes as a child's first attempts at craft. Your cautiously gathered advantages mean nothing compared to what he can truly offers, what he truly expects.
If you were braver, perhaps you would have slapped him hard in your anger, making this Imperial Regent, this son of the Emperor, understand how his dismissiveness stings.
But the truth is, you haven't gained what you truly seek—despite the Primarch's supreme power, he may neither be willing nor able to return your child to you.
You feel despair. Yet you still need his influence to elevate your own. You know you must find a way to handle this situation immediately.
You brace against the crook of his neck, instinctively trying to create distance, but his arms remain like chains around your legs.
His pale eyes study you. In their depths, you can see your own conflicted expression reflected.
"What are you thinking?" he asks.
You meet his gaze directly, your voice trembling: "After you left, I was lonely, and worried."
These words clearly startle him. He hadn't expected such emotional honesty in this moment.
"I kept seeing Sanguinius departing for Terra. I wondered what would become of you, of my child. I couldn't bear it... if you too, like him..." your voice drops to nearly a whisper.
Your hands unconsciously clench against his broad shoulders, fingers finding raised scars beneath them. Your lowered lashes finally allow you to fully see the centipede-like scar that winds from his neck to his chest, once hidden beneath the Armor of Fate.
You close your eyes briefly, then look up at him: "Did you... even for a moment... think of me?"
You hear his breath catch at your question. His gaze grows impossibly complex. His lips, dampened by the spring's steam, tremble slightly - the answer you seek almost escaping. But the Primarch never allows himself such emotional indulgence. Instead, he chooses a more direct response.
When his lips meet yours, you respond without hesitation, almost desperately, your hands instinctively wrapping around his wet head.
His voice reverberates against your lips as he murmurs "cunning woman" - half admiration, half accusation. Even in vulnerability, you know how to strike true.
You know he sees through you, sees how you've woven truth and tactics into this moment.
But what does it matter now?
Your breaths mingle together as steam blurs everything around you.
His body is warm and soft against yours, like gentle sunlight - no longer that cold, hard surface that once threatened to cut your mortal flesh. You hold him fiercely, your bare skin seeking his, your fingers tracing every inch of his neck and shoulders, mapping the rise and fall of muscle. Your breasts press against his chest as if trying to meld your flesh with his.
His large hands press against your waist and back, every callus and line of his palms distinct as they glide from the hollow of your spine to between your shoulders, making you shiver uncontrollably, your skin electric under his touch.
You whimper, beating your clenched fists against his back, finally releasing all your fear, frustration, and hurt without restraint.
How long have you yearned for this?
A warm, solid embrace had become such a distant memory. You thought it meant nothing to you, yet when his lips claim yours fiercely, when he impatiently strips away your thin robe beneath the water to press skin against skin, emotion nearly overwhelms you, tears threatening to spill.
Humans crave warmth and softness, seek safety and comfort. For 10,000 years, you knew only cold and darkness. The ancient stasis chamber, the hard cold power armor - all meant to protect you. One a coffin of time, the other piercing your body like a knife opening an oyster.
It has been so very long since anyone held you in warm embrace, made you feel like the only treasure in this cold universe.
But here in these waters, he is yours - not the Imperial Regent, not the Emperor's son, not the gene-father of the Astartes, not even Sanguinius's brother.
The man who holds those titles would never allow such abandon, would never let you bite his reddened ear so fiercely, would never permit you to pull his wet hair, much less allow you to leave scratches down his broad, powerful back. He who is known for his discipline, who always follows rules, who considers every action carefully, never permitting any misstep.
But the man who haunted your thoughts in countless right and wrong moments, would permit this. He craves your bold actions, making no move to stop you as your nails rakes his skin, leaving faint red lines that pulse with his desire. The grand palaces of his ordered and disciplined world crumble to dust around him, when his hands roam your back, tracing downwards until they cup and part your cheeks of rear. His gaze burns into you, dark and hungry, silently begging you to raise a temple of lust from the rubble of his shattered convictions.
A mighty, god-like man, raw and untamed like the sainted Sanguinius of old, seems unfamiliar with the pleasure-giving parts of his own powerful frame. You guide his uninitiated hands to explore every inch, tracing the pulsing veins of his neck with your nose before trailing lower, nipping at the firm, supple muscles of his chest beneath the water's surface. His flesh quivers under your touch, the peaks of his pectorals hardening like pearls against your fingers as they map the terrain of his divine body.
For you, standing fully upright is necessary to keep your head above the water's surface and breathe. But for him, sitting is more than enough. This disparity grants you an opportunity, allowing your toes to brush against the massive, unrestrained manhood nestled between his thighs as you venture lower in the submerged world. A shuddering sigh, unlike any voice he's uttered before, escapes through his clenched teeth as he struggles to maintain control. It carries notes of longing, urgency, and a hint of aching, unquenched desire.
You've never been this bold before. The mental blade underneath your, almost matching your calf's length and size. You kickes his attempting hands away, seeking instead to slip between his muscular thighs. Brazenly, you stroke his manhood with your toes, tracing from the root where coarse hairs sprout, gliding along the rigid, throbbing shaft. 
His face, now cradled in your palm, reflects shock and astonishment in his lust-darkened, cerulean eyes. The massive, pulsing member, thicker than your foot is wide, throbs with primal hunger, its engorged veins rippling beneath your touch like a beast straining against its cage. The wiry hairs tickle your toes, as if debating whether to deter your daring caress or ensnare you further. 
You feel his raging desire, long suppressed beneath the Armor of Fate. Countless times, his hands, sheathed in gauntlet, have roamed your body in reverent caresses from the finest hairs on your head to the tips of your toes, lingered and explored every inch of your skin. Now, your bold touch teases his most sensitive area, rubbing and kneading the rock-hard planes of his abdomen. His grip tightens, unable to control the urge to pull you closer, fingers constricting around your thighs as he struggles against the overwhelming sensations.
"You!" He growls,
You respond with gasps. Voice low and husky, ignoring the pressure of his grip as you lean in to whisper hotly in his ear, "do you enjoy this, Lord Commander? Are you so consumed by lust that you'd Indulge in pleasure with a mortal, sharing these sacred waters that have witnessed countless decisions shaping Ultramar's destiny, all to satisfy his own desires.
His chest heaves with labored breaths, the heat of his skin scorching like the depths of a geothermal spring. One large, calloused hand finds your wandering foot, knowing and confident in its path as it traces up your calf, heading inexorably towards your most intimate center. 
"This is my palace," he rasps, his rough, calloused hand gripping your thigh, preventing you from closing your legs as his thumb traces maddening circles over your sensitive clit. His other hand, free from gauntlet, now bare and deft, parts your slick and lust folds, stroking along your narrow entrace of hole with a precision that speaks of long-denied hunger.
Like now, he allows your brief wildness - perhaps out of indulgence, perhaps to savor every sensation you offer his body. But once he's understood you, been provoked to his limit, his counterattack begins.
Indeed, it is his domain, a place where he may indulge his every whim, while he carelessly denies you the same freedom. In his eyes, perhaps, your actions poses no true threat. 
The water churns around you. Before you can catch your breath, you find yourself lifted effortlessly, spun and pinned beneath his god-like form against the hard stones of the pool wall. His massive, muscular frame looms over you, his chest and abdomen a furnace of heat that seeps into your chilled back.
You shudder violently, instinctively arching your back to press against the unyielding surface behind you as your nipples rubs against the cold stone. His hand, a brand of searing heat, spans the width of your back as it drags upward to close around your throat, fingers flexing with a unconscious urge to extinguish the flames of his desire.
Your lungs burn, crying out for air as your head lolls back, your neck exposed and vulnerable beneath his grip. You turn your face into the crook of his neck, seeking solace even as your body trembles on the knife's edge of fear and exhilaration.
"Roboute..." you breathe out, your voice strangled yet yearning as it escapes your throat. The sound of your voice seems to pierce through the haze of his lust. One hand slides down, fingers reflexively tightening around the delicate mounds of your breasts. His other hand drifts lower, pausing at your flat belly. The belly once swollen and stretched by his brother's seed.
"I... I saw you, I saw you..." he murmurs, his deep voice heavy with unspoken emotions. His hot, moist breath stirring the hairs at your temple before his lips trail a path of tingling kisses along your jawline, igniting sparks with every touch.
You strain to turn your head, neck aching as you seek his mouth. Your lips meeting his in a hungry kiss.
"My brother kept you well-hidden, allowing no one a glimpse of your. But I saw you... I saw the swell of your belly, taut and rounded with his child."
His rough, calloused hand caresses your stomach, the lines of his palm etching into your skin like a brand. "When he bid you farewell, you were ripe and heavy."
Guilliman's massive hand slides from your shoulder, engulfing yours within his grasp. He guides it to his lips, his mouth trailing kisses along each finger, before drawing it inside, his tongue teasing and tasting your skin.
"Your small hand clutched his wings, tears streaming down your face as he left. I couldn't comprehend how a being of such divine compassion could abandon a soul so delicate and fragile."
A jolt runs through you, your heart racing as your mind struggles to reconcile the present with the painful memories of the past. You don't know why he brings this up now.
In a voice dripping with forbidden whispers, his lips trace the line of your jaw, mirroring your earlier path as they blaze a trail down to the column of your throat. His breath, hot and heavy, ghosts over the delicate skin stretched taut over your racing pulse. As his hand drifts lower, skimming over your hip and the soft curls at the center of your thighs, his fingers once more find your most intimate fold, stroking and parting your slick petals.
"An Imperium's Regent, the Lord of Ultramar, would never sully himself so," His hot breath cascades over your nape, as the colossal, throbbing length of his manhood, far too vast for your frame, presses with searing insistence into the tender valley of your thighs. The scorching heat of his arousal pulses against your most intimate flesh, a brand of his unbridled desire, a silent promise of the claiming to come. 
Half-question, half-purr, he asks, "Tell me, how did Sanguinius, the Great Angel of Baal, put his seed in you? Describe how he claimed your body, his divine essence filling you, your womb quickening with his immortal child."
How did the Great Angel of Baal, put his seed in you? 
It was no cold, clinical extraction, no sterile concoction of cells nurtured in glass. 
He claimed you with reverent kisses, trailing his lips over every inch of your quivering flesh as you clung to his mighty form, inhaling the intoxicating blend of his divine essence and the heady scent of blood. 
He bowed his head. His tongue delving deep to seek out your hidden pearl. He knew your secrets, your sensitive spots, his fangs grazing the swollen clit before sinking in with unrelenting hunger. Your nectar flowed freely then, a sweet ambrosia to slick his path as he prepared to unite with you in the most primal of acts.
His fingers part your delicate petals with tender care, slowly, reverently easing open the portal to your womb. Yet for all his gentleness, he knows the impossible task that lies before him - a mortal woman's body could never hope to sheath his massive manhood in its entirety. He seeks not to force an impossible union, that you yield to his touch, allow him to part your soft folds and slip within, even just the head of his great sword.
He explores your body with the enthusiasm of a man discovering a new world, his hands and mouth worshipping every curve and hollow. Your hair, your lips, your breasts, the juncture of your thighs - no part of you is left unexplored by his ardent caresses. It is as if the human half of his nature, the part that once walked among mortals, has awoken and seeks to possess you utterly.
From your first joining, your body knew his touch, your flesh molding to his will. No guidance is needed for him now.
His brother will do the same.
He lifts you from the water, your back pressed against the cold marble of the warm pool. He spreads your thighs, mouth descending to your already tender, swollen entrance. 
His rough hands leaving reddened marks upon your delicate flesh in your inner thighs like his used to do. Before, the weight of his power armor had impede his movements, its ornate adornments threatening to mar your soft skin with every errant touch.
But now, your legs rest high upon his brawny shoulders, as his tongue, no longer content with teasing your entrance, curls up to lick your quivering, sensitive urethra hole. The depraved stimulation sends jolts of electric pleasure coursing through you. Your mind reeling as your body instinctively tries to clench your thighs together for respite. But his grip only tightens, forcing your legs wider apart as he holds you fully open to his hungry gaze.
Glancing down, you meet his fiery, half-lidded stare, the intensity of it piercing your very soul. The sight of his golden-haired head nestled between your thighs, his lips glistening with your essence, stirs a primal, visceral reaction within you. It's as if he's not merely savoring your body, but has been reborn from your very flesh, his life force intertwined with your own.
His fingers plunge into your aching tunnel, stretching your long-dormant walls, as he gazes up at you with a wicked grin. "Two fingers are too much for you now? I remember when you could take my gauntlet, your greedy little thing swallowing me whole."
Memories flood your mind, of pain that once was agony but transformed into ecstasy. 
From the very first time, he knew your spots, your body's hidden triggers. Now, a single fingertip circling your upper passage sends shockwaves of ecstasy through you, threatening to shatter your sanity. You clench and spasm around his invading digits, your velvet walls gripping them like a vice as they plunge deeper, two fingers becoming three, then four, stretching you, claiming you.
Frantically, you try to close your thighs, to escape the overwhelming pleasure, but he holds you fast, his grip unyielding. Tears stream down your face as the sensations consume you, your own arousal mingling with the mineral-rich water, the heady scent of your desire thick in the air. You're drowning in sensation, sinking into a sea of lust.
Overwhelming ecstasy builds within you, cresting in wave after wave of mind-numbing bliss. Tears of rapture stream down your cheeks as you feel your control slipping away, your body betraying your desire. You feel you want to urinate. The thought of surrendering to such shameless, animalistic abandon in his presence terrifies you, and yet, your treacherous flesh yearns for it.
With the last of your strength, you try to crawl away, desperately scraping your back against the slick tiles, seeking escape from his relentless onslaught. But it's a futile effort. In an instant, his hands are upon you again, and you're dragged back into the churning water. Your body arching like a marionette as he manipulates you at his whim.
He pins your trembling body between his muscular body. The heat of his skin searing yours as he looms over you. His gaze locked with yours. His large hands grasp your wrists, pulling your arms to his chest, and you feel the pounding of his heart, a primal tempo that echoes the throbbing of his arousal. Gentling, he leans in, his forehead resting against yours in a gesture of intimate tenderness.
Beneath the water, his massive, throbbing length probes between your thighs, the thick head nudging past your folds to spear into your core. He begins to move, his hips rocking in a primal rhythm as old as time, the hard shaft dragging along your sensitive flesh with each powerful thrust. The stimulation against your swollen pearl is unbearable, sending jolts of electricity through your overwrought body.
Your limbs feel like jelly, your very bones seeming to melt under his relentless onslaught. The day's exhaustion, the emotional whiplash, and the unfulfilled ache of before have left you a quivering, pliant thing in his arms. And yet, he shows no mercy, using your body to chase his pleasure, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your rear as he pulls you onto his pistoning length.
It's something he's never experienced - instinctively pursuing desire through your body. Just like once... 
"Sanguinius..." You murmur.
Your eyes flutter shut as you clench your thighs around him, your body instinctively seeking more of his electrifying touch. The next second, his immense strength lifts you off the pool floor, your toes pointing beneath the rippling water. His lips devour yours in a fierce, hungry kiss, his tongue dominating your mouth, exploring every inch of your warmth. Your nipples, hardened and aching, scrape deliciously against the coarse, golden hairs of his sculpted chest with each powerful thrust. Jolts of electricity seem to arc from the point of contact, converging at the molten center of your being.
He guides your hand to the base of his throbbing shaft, the skin searingly hot to the touch as it plunges in and out between your thighs. It's as if he's forcing you to masturbating with his own sword of flame. Your fingers stroking and caressing in time with his relentless thrusts.
Your needy whimpers rise in pitch, morphing into breathless sobs of ecstasy as his thumb finds your aching pearl again. He strokes and circles the sensitive nub in time with his relentless thrusts. The rough pad teases your flesh, pushing you closer to the precipice. 
"Ah... oh... " The sounds spill from your lips unbidden, foreign yet thrillingly familiar. Your limbs tremble and jerk beneath the water, toes curling as sensation overwhelms you. His grip on your rear tightens, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he finally hilts the tip of his gaint sword inside you.
The sudden, brutal stretch of your battered, already swollen and sensitive hole, sends a shockwave of pain and pleasure ricocheting through your core. 
Your fingers release his throbbing shaft. Your nails raking up the chiseled expanse of his abdomen. You press your palms against his heaving chest, feeling the powerful heartbeat beneath your touch. Unable to contain your cresting passion, you lean in and sink your teeth into the corded muscle of his shoulder, biting down until you taste the coppery essence of his blood. As your jaws clench around him, you feel his mighty frame shudder, his muscles rippling beneath your teeth. The sensation of his body's reaction, so primal and raw, sends a thrill of dark satisfaction through you.
In the next instant, a blazing heat erupts within your core, his seed flooding your depths in pulsing waves. The scorching torrent of his release, combined with the electric pleasure radiating from where your teeth pierce his flesh, catapults you into the throes of a shattering climax. Your vision blurs, your body convulsing uncontrollably as the most intense, mind-numbing ecstasy crashes over you. Your body drifts downward, like a ship surrendering to the depths.
A pair of hands lifts you from beneath the water. Roboute Guilliman's moisture-laden eyes watch you in the dim light.
"I—"
"Hush," he presses against your lower abdomen. "Embrace this moment and let pleasure sweep you away completely…"
For a long time, you cannot speak.
The water continues its gentle song. All evidence of passion mingles with the spring waters, slowly fading to nothing.
You lie back in Guilliman's embrace, feeling his solid chest rise and fall with each breath. Your mind empty, you gaze through the mist at the stars beyond the bathhouse's elegant columned ceiling, wondering what all of this truly means.
Another Primarch spreaded you, and breeded you with his seed.
You know Sanguinius needed an heir who could cure the legion's Red Thirst. His choices always revolved around the legion's future.
But Guilliman - what was his purpose in this?
You cannot fathom it.
Would he, for the promise of an heir, stand by you—carrying his child—to help you reclaim the one you’ve lost?
You feel uncertain.
Last time this topic ended in discord. This time, he simply acted.
Your fists clench beneath the water, filled with both resentment and fear, yet you dare not guess at his thoughts.
Perhaps sensing your trembling, Guilliman's hand moves gently across your back.
"There are things within my reach and others beyond it."
Your head snaps up to look at him. His cryptic words leave you completely bewildered.
"But I will try to satisfy you." Guilliman toys with your wet hair, like a satisfied war-beast after a feast. He continues in a measured voice: "Your child, she's on Terra. She's well. If I'm not mistaken, she is growing into a young woman now."
This sudden news makes your heart race wildly, your eyes instantly wet with a mix of shock and longing that defies words.
Guilliman tilts his head slightly, "Don't look at me like that, my lady. She has Sanguinius's blood - you know we all develop faster than mortals. If you wish to see her, perhaps it could be arranged..."
Your heart churns with turmoil, lost in uncertainty.
A flash of complex emotion crosses his eyes, then all traces of passion fade from his face, replaced by gravity - as if the Imperial Regent's authority has descended once more. His finger traces circles in the water, creating tiny ripples. "In this universe, there is no aid without reason, remembrancer." His voice drops low, carrying the weight of undeniable truth. "Every decision, every assistance, is based on calculation and exchange."
He meets your gaze directly, the water's reflection making his eyes startlingly bright. "So," he nearly whispers in your ear, "I need to know what helping you means - for me, for the Blood Angels, for this Empire at the galaxy's heart."
He leans closer, his gaze sharp as a blade, "Tell me clearly what you expect by standing with me. Is it merely redemption you seek? Or..."
The Primarch's words lay out a path through darkness toward light. He pats your shoulder gently: "Think carefully about it, remembrancer."

Chapter Text

The noble ladies of Macragge would gather at banquets, hiding giggles behind their fans as they shared secrets. Their husbands, they would whisper, spoke sweetest words when seeking pleasure, and became most agreeable after satisfaction.
You reflected on these ladies' wisdom and found truth in it, for even demigod Primarchs shared this mortal tendency. Both Sanguinius and Guilliman, after sating their desires with you, would grow languid and unguarded, speaking strange words and granting slightly excessive requests.
You curled on his couch, carefully arranging the Great Angel's vast wing feathers to preserve his divine image and ensure proper flight. He lounged lazily, head propped on hand, watching you with half jest: "Should you, by chance, claim but a single feather from my wings... ah, such a thing the Blood Angels and all of Baal hold as sacred beyond measure. It would be nothing less than divine sacrilege.
You wondered what mortals might do with a feather. Ancient Terrans had made quills, a custom preserved across many worlds. But using Primarch Sanguinius's feather as a pen seemed too extravagant, and such large plumes would have been unwieldy for a mortal woman's hand.
Lost in such thoughts, your fingers must have brushed some sensitive nerve, for his wings suddenly trembled. Before you could withdraw your touch, you accidentally pulled free a magnificent feather from his wing tip.
You both drew sharp breaths.
Sanguinius's golden eyes locked onto yours, their depths unreadable.
You held your breath, trying to discern his thoughts, but those golden eyes remained veiled like silk, leaving you uncertain whether they held anger or indifference.
Your heart raced at the realization of what you had done. He was Sanguinius, divine idol of the Blood Angels, and you had dared to claim one of his sacred feathers. You clutched it nervously, uncertain of your fate.
Time stood still in that sacred moment until his voice broke the spell, soft as falling feathers: "Are you aware of what your hands have wrought?" His words carried layers of meaning, like light through stained glass, neither harsh nor gentle.
In your moment of hesitation, something like a smile flickered through Sanguinius's eyes, so faint it might have been your imagination.
He casually reached out and took the feather from your hand, as if what had just happened meant nothing at all.
"Well," his voice remained perfectly neutral, "it seems you might need to face some consequences for this."
"I... truly apologize," you finally found your voice.
"Hush now," his laughter flowed like sunlight. "A single feather means little to one who bears the wings of divinity. Would such a trifle truly warrant my displeasure?"
He gently patted your hand in reassurance. You felt his body relax, heard his breathing grow steady, as if the matter had been lightly dismissed.
Just as relief began to wash over you, Sanguinius twirled the feather between his fingers, his expression turning subtle, a meaningful smile playing on his lips: "Though I wonder... should my gene-sons learn of this little theft of their father's plumage... their reaction might prove rather less... gracious."
At these words, panic fluttered in your chest as visions of Blood Angels surrounding you flashed through your mind. You hurriedly pressed yourself against him, trying to snatch back this evidence of your crime, but Sanguinius effortlessly drew you beneath him.
"Birds pluck their feathers to build nests and help their mates breed. So this must be your gift to me!" you searched for excuses.
"Are you suggesting I am some kind of bird?" His lips nearly grazed your neck, his warm breath caressing the delicate skin above your pulse. "If the Red Tear were restored, perhaps that might be the nest I'd build for you." He chuckled softly, amusement in his voice. "But here... every pillar, every stone, even this bed that embraces us... belongs to my brother. Surely, this is not the 'warm nest' your heart seeks."
Yet those pillars, stones, and bed, after 10,000 years, truly became yours... at least in the words of another Primarch.
You had thought that as Imperial Regent, his vast responsibilities and grand Imperial matters would leave him no time for you. But you were proven wrong.
Whenever he shed that heavy Armor of Fate, his gaze no longer surveyed the galaxy's countless stars, but focused solely on you.
Sometimes in the halls of Hera, he would slow his pace, evading the eyes of Astartes and servitors, pulling you into hidden corners behind massive statues.
His passionate kisses fell like burning stardust upon your lips. In these moments, he was no longer the Regent, but a soul bound by mortal desires, desperately seeking you.
His hands no longer guided Imperial destiny, but gently caressed your hair, your shoulders, with delicate persistence, as if this was his only truth. Like the soft winds of Macragge, carrying an ineffable tenderness.
And you knew that in these brief encounters, his desire and exhaustion wove into a force he could not resist, while you fell deeper with each touch...
Just as his massive form now breathed heavily beneath your small frame, rising and falling like a volcano about to erupt. His chest firm and full, abdomen carved with shadowed valleys.
He praised your skin with characteristic efficiency, noting how smooth and fine it felt, how it seemed to retain his hands. How the warmth and wetness between your legs drove him to madness. Your lips, your hair, your voice, the rise and fall of your body's curves...
Only in such moments would this ever-practical man turn sweet with words. Yet weren't these honeyed phrases simply another practical means of encouraging you to please him more thoroughly and utterly?
So you would satisfy him. Kissing him on the lips, on the thick neck of his, his sensitive auricle and nipples, and even more private part between his legs.
You even would allow him to hold your waist, slowly rubbed your slick folds with his gaint thing, made you adapt to his swollen head to finally breed you deep inside.
You lay spent against his body, your mind blank. It seemed an eternity passed before you noticed his breathing begin to steady.
Usually, he would rest with you a while longer before rising to attend his duties.
But on one particular day, things were slightly different...
This happened not long after his battle with Nurgle. In the Regent's quarters of the Fortress of Hera, a place you knew more intimately than any other.
You had served two Regents there. As a remembrancer, and more accurately, as a lover.
Neither Primarch Regent required much rest, yet both had placed enormous beds in these quarters.
It was a chamber where ecstasy and death intertwined.
But today, you experienced not the usual pleasure that bordered on death, but rather a suppressed, fierce possession and comfort, until it all ended...
After a long while, his hand finally trace your jaw, his head lifting slightly from the soft pillows. His gaze linger on your cheek, fingers brushing it lightly. You hiss in pain, brows furrowing. His expression instantly froze, his gaze darkening. His hand slowly withdraw, clenching into a rigid fist as cold fury enter his low voice.
"The Inquisition has forgotten its place... to dare lay hands on what is mine, here in my own Macragge."
You had never told Guilliman about that day in the Ptolemy Library. You and Fabian witnessed Librarian Tigurius battle the Rainfather. But Fabian, whom Guilliman himself had appointed as Chief Historian, found you in a quiet tavern in the Crown Mountains, wordlessly offering a data- slate that would change everything.
It displayed scanned pages from a book you had read - "The Empire of Sanguinius."
Your heart raced, and despite maintaining outward calm, you couldn't hide your inner turmoil. The mere existence of such records could lead to catastrophic misunderstandings.
Fabian watched you intently, waiting for any slip. On the enlarged screen, a photograph of the Great Angel revealed your figure in an obscure corner.
"What a coincidence," you laughed to mask your unease, "to find such an ancient record with someone who looks like me."
"If you say so," Fabian murmured, his eyes full of unspoken thoughts.
While you maintained composure, turbulent thoughts churned within. You emphasized to him not to show the book to others to avoid misinterpretation. After leaving the tavern, you rushed to the Fortress of Hera to inform Guilliman, but at its very gates, the Inquisitors detained you - claiming you had contact with those suspected of Warp corruption...
"You? Corrupted?" Barely contained rage burns in Guilliman's eyes. "Absurd... and the Victrix Honour Guard didn't inform me immediately!"
You knew he was furious, and you had hoped to avoid mentioning this unpleasant experience now, but he clearly couldn't let it go.
During your passionate moment just now, like galaxies colliding, you had wanted to forget these troubling memories. Yet he had suddenly brought up this incident, his anger mixed with subtle possessiveness.
You recall his expression upon seeing you released from the Inquisition—your pallor, disheveled appearance, and swollen face causing a noticeable twitch in his eye muscles.
His fury nearly reached its peak: the Primarch, standing almost twice the height of a human, filled the cramped room. He erupted, threatening to obliterate the Ultramar stronghold of the Inquisition.
Such rage, unprecedented even to you, left you trembling against the wall.
Now, as you reflect on his words, you can't help but frown. Given the Empire's intricate and delicate political landscape, was his resolute anger truly well-considered?
Seizing the moment as he clenches his jaw again, you gently grasp his slightly trembling hand, redirecting his attention to you.
"My lord... you wouldn't truly confront the Inquisition, would you?"
"I will do what must be done."
As his words fall, you immediately embrace him tightly, resting your head in the crook of his neck, and whisper softly:
"If this is merely to vent your anger... whether for me or for yourself, I hope you won't proceed."
You feel his breath, already uneven with anger, tremble again, his voice low and brimming with disdain: 'Who do you think I am? Hmm? That I would fear those people?"
"If they trouble you again..." your hands glide gently over his chest, your touch soft and deliberate as you continue in your most mellifluous voice, "I'm afraid… worried…"
Men like him would find your submissiveness agreeable, taking pleasure in taming something so willful and unyielding. They would savor the sight of it rendered harmless, its fangs withdrawn—soft and unthreatening, like a gentle, downy dove.
Just as you anticipated, his long arms pull you closer with his broad chest rising and falling in a deep sigh. After a moment's silence, he speaks in a low voice, his anger not entirely dissipated:
"If they dare offend again, I will make them understand who holds true authority."He weilds his power between lips again.
His gaze as he looks down at you carries hidden meaning, everything veiled in a subtle possessiveness. His hand reaches out to caress your cheek, the touch warm yet containing an unmistakable firmness.
"You are mine." He presses his forehead against yours, looking straight into your eyes with an implicit threat, though it isn't clear who that threat is meant for.
Such direct words make your eyes widen in surprise.
You don't know if you should react, or how.
In that moment, you think of Sanguinius.
The Great Angel had spoken the same words, and in that first instant, your very consciousness had been stolen away. As if your entire soul had submitted to his sovereignty, regardless of whether his words were merely born of passing emotion.
What had your reaction been then? You can't remember...
Just as you hover in uncertain thought, the Regent Primarch Guilliman plants soft kisses in your hair, murmuring that he is yours, that he would lay everything at your feet. Every pillar of the Fortress of Hera, every stone, every bed that holds you both. He would give you everything, tell you everything, if you only ask...
You lift your head suddenly. "My lord!"
His fingers slip between yours, interlocking them. "You think I'm lying." He plays with your joined fingers. "You believe my words are merely empty pleasantries?"
"No... mmph!"
He captures your lips, sucking, even invading past your teeth with his tongue, as if seeking some feedback and assurance from your mouth.
But you push him away forcefully, creating distance between you.
"That's not what I want!" The sweet lies taste bitter in your mouth. You know exactly what you are worth, the precise boundaries of what you can ask for. You hate how he pours these shameless honeyed words into your ears, tempting you to desire things that you both know he will never give.
"Oh?" He seems slightly dazed from the kiss.
"I want to know... how one person makes others submit." The words come out despite your better judgment. You know your place, you know exactly what favors you can and cannot ask of a Primarch. And while this is far from the right moment for such questions, you find yourself staring directly into his eyes anyway.
He watches you for several seconds, seeming slightly taken aback, clearly not expecting such a question in this moment.
A demigod's mind usually sees through your intentions instantly. But this time, he merely raises an eyebrow, apparently unwilling to engage in serious discussion in such an atmosphere.
After a moment, a resigned smile touches his lips as his large fingers lift a string of your hair to his nose to feel its scent. "Haven't you already mastered such arts?" In his voice, you hear the acknowledgment of your own subtle manipulations, how you've learned to use his desire to your advantage.
"That's not what I mean." You squirm in his embrace, hands against his chest. This isn't about the power you wield in his bed. You create distance between you, meeting his knowing gaze directly.
The warm yellow light from the lamps cascades behind him, flowing gently over your bare skin and the bedding between your legs. Yet when that light reaches your eyes, it blinds you, making the Imperial Regent before you unclear.
You can feel his reluctance. He doesn't speak, only thoughtfully kneads your chin and cheeks.
You sit up, wrapping yourself in bedding to appear more dignified, gazing at him intently: "The Inquisitors are so... compliant before you. Yet they show me no reverence at all."
Guilliman raises an eyebrow slightly at this, seemingly surprised by your persistence with this topic.
He smiles faintly, his expression somewhat scrutinizing, as if weighing the deeper meaning behind your words, but maintains his silence, apparently in no hurry to respond.
You don't back down, continuing: "I cannot rely on your protection forever..."
Guilliman studies your face, your torn garment fidgeting irritably between his fingers before he finally lets it drop, as if your insistence has forced him into deeper thought than he intended.
After a moment, he responds softly: "You think they respect me out of fear?" His tone carries a subtle probing, as if testing whether you truly understand the nature of his power and position.
You meet his gaze unflinchingly, your voice low: "The Astartes, the mortals - they don't obey you out of fear." You continue, "Is it your status then? You're the Emperor's son, Konor's adopted son - does such position naturally command their obedience?"
Finally, he lifts his gaze, speaking slowly and deeply: "...No. I believe they obey not me, but the institution in their hearts: whether the Empire's protection or the blade that falls in the Emperor's name. I am merely the symbol carrying that will..."
You watch him closely, studying his subtle expression, catching a glimpse of barely perceptible pride and hidden concern. In the dim light, his blue eyes appear a cold grey.
Carefully, you venture: "Many rulers hold titles, yet fail to see their will truly executed. But you can..."
His lips curve slightly, both acknowledging your implied meaning and seeming to mock its absurdity: "So, you're suggesting I'm an emperor? Crowning me without authority is a grave offense."
He kneads your thin shoulders, as if trying to draw you back into his embrace, away from these complex questions of power.
But you shake off his hand, meeting his gaze directly: "Then is it your wisdom and methods? Many leaders win loyalty through strategy, yet they can still be betrayed... like Caesar, from ancient Tera, murdered by his allies."
You pause, your eyes traveling over his massive form, his broad solid chest, his muscled arms: "I don't think you'd face such a fate. You're a Primarch, possessing unmatched strength. Anyone thinking to challenge you must carefully weigh their chances."
"Not necessarily. I've faced plenty of assassination attempts, and you know that." He replies with casual indifference, as if reminding you not to idealize his position.
"Don't change the subject." Your voice rises slightly, cutting him off. "I haven't finished."
He lifts his hands in surrender, inviting you to continue.
You study him for a long moment before speaking: "I think they follow you not just because you're a Primarch, but because they believe you can lead them to victory, fulfill their dreams."
You pause, then continue: "The people of Baal saw Sanguinius as a god. Raldoron told me it was because they saw a better future in him..."
You drift away for a moment, lost in memories of your days as the Emperor Regent of the Imperium Secundus' exclusive remembrancer, his 'pet'. Following at his side, or hiding behind his massive wings, watching countless 'believers' worship him, weeping with joy...
When you come back to yourself, you find the Regent has pulled you back into his embrace, stroking your hair.
You notice that after your long discourse, he still hasn't offered much opinion.
"Tell me if I'm right," you struggle to raise your head from his embrace again.
"Fear, status, institutions, wisdom, strength, achievement and miracles... you're trying to analyze the sources of my power, and you've listed quite a few," he says. "Honestly, I didn't expect you to contemplate such matters - these aren't questions a remembrancer should be considering. You wish for others to submit to you?"
You frown, silent for a moment, then speak softly: "People succumb to indolence, willingly surrendering their fate to others' hands, forever seeking to make another bear the weight of their choices."
Guilliman studies you through narrowed eyes, his previous nonchalance vanishing entirely, replaced by deep scrutiny. Yet he doesn't respond immediately, only patting your arm gently.
You notice the tension in his habitually stern mouth relaxing into a slight curve.
"You know, I don't mind if you become 'indolent.' You shouldn't trouble yourself with responsibilities that aren't yours to bear."
"I'm not talking about myself!" you protest too quickly. "I meant most people..."
"Very well. Most people need not concern themselves with duties beyond their station. But I suspect that's not the answer you're seeking." He kisses your forehead. "What else do you wish to ask? Speak freely."
You fall silent for a long moment. You lack his background, his strength, any meaningful achievements of your own.
"What about me?" you murmur. Even you can hear the unsteadiness in your voice, the underlying anxiety and confusion. "No one listens to me..."
"Ah, this..." Understanding dawns on his face. He frowns in thought. "I won't retract what I said earlier - I do want you to rely on me. However..."
Seeing you about to interject anxiously, he raises a hand for silence, "...I won't oppose you seeking to grasp control of your own choices, to have both the resolve and ability to say 'no.'"
You part your lips, watching him expectantly.
"Come to think of it, not everything relies on bloodline or strength," he says, reaching to pinch your cheek.
You look up at him questioningly.
"A mortal like you might not be able to establish yourself through what you consider important, but you have another path. Though..." he chuckles, "Didn't I say it from the start? You have already mastered. First Sanguinius, then me..." He lowers his head to bite your bare shoulder in mock punishment.
You freeze for a moment, sensing something significant yet not fully grasping it.
"...Though Primarchs are powerful, we're not immune to emotional influence. And what of other humans and Astartes? In some ways, we are so fragile..."
Fragile?
As he pushes you back onto the bed, stripping away the covers that shield you, you wonder how a Primarch could possibly understand mortal fragility and the anxiety it breeds.

Chapter Text

Water droplets are sliding down Renatus's shoulders, spreading across the marble floor beneath his feet before disappearing into the intricately carved drainage channels. He is standing under the flowing water, hands pressed against the wall, letting the hot stream wash over his weary body. The scent of incense mixes with steam filling this grand bathhouse, yet it cannot calm his restless mind.
The hot water is cascading over his firm muscles, each one honed to perfection through farm work, well-defined yet not exaggerated. He closes his eyes, returning to those golden wheat fields.
Under the azure sky, ancient water wheels creaked and turned, wheat waves rippling in the wind. In his memory, he and his brother Soranus labored under the scorching sun, their shoulders and backs gradually taking shape under the weight of farm tools, their arms growing strong and powerful from years of gripping the plow. Sweat soaked through their clothes, the scent of earth lingering in their nostrils.
"Is this our destiny?" Renatus gazes up at the bathhouse's soaring dome, his eyes scanning the warrior inscriptions carved into the walls. The exquisite marble decorations proclaim power and glory everywhere, the solemn incense adding an air of sanctity. But to him, this grandeur is unsettling. There is no earthy fragrance here, no free wind, not a trace of home.
He and Sora had stumbled from the soil, step by step arriving here, at this marble palace.
His mind flashing to scenes from the day's selection ceremony. When their names were called, candidates around them turned to look. 
Shocked.
puzzled. 
Even mocking.
Gazes pierced his back. But what unsettled him most was that lady. 
Her gaze when she stopped before them.
"Why us?" Renatus touches his own arm, those muscle patterns left by farming so different from the warriors around him. Everyone present seems born for battle, while he and Sora's bodies are shaped by countless dawns bent over planting rice, countless noons swinging the scythe for harvest.
Facing this world he has always yearned for, complex emotions surge in his heart.
Just as he is immersed in memory, a low complaint from the other end of the bathhouse interrupts his thoughts.
The selection ceremony should be presided over by glorious Ultramarines!" The voice carries mockery, clearly making no effort to hide its dissatisfaction. "We should have seen battle heroes, not a woman!"
Renatus slowly opens his eyes, his brow furrowing slightly. He recognizes that voice—Licanor, a burly candidate. The man waves his towel, his voice echoing through the bathhouse steam.
"You're complaining because she didn't choose you, aren't you, Licanor?" Soranus's voice suddenly rings out beside him.
Renatus's body instantly tenses. He turns to look at his brother, who is standing in the mist with a dark expression. He knows this look well—whenever his brother gets provoked, things always become difficult to handle.
"Sora, shut up," Renatus warns in a low voice, but Sora isn't listening at all.
Licanor stands up from the bath, water droplets sliding down his broad chest. His shoulders could almost fill a doorframe, the bulging muscle blocks on his arms reminiscent of shield thickness. "What," he sneers, "just because she pitied you two farmers? Don't tell me you have feelings for her? She's just a mortal, what makes her worthy of our respect?"
Fire flickers in Soranus's eyes. Renatus senses trouble—whenever someone says something they shouldn't, his brother is always the first to stand up and argue back.
This scene reminds him of the day's fiasco—Sora had similarly impulsively swung at a candidate who mocked them, only to be easily deflected, both brothers falling awkwardly to the ground and accidentally bumping into that lady, tearing her gown.
Shame cut through his heart like a blade.
The Librarian following the lady flew into a rage, demanding their immediate disqualification. But the lady stepped forward, her voice calm as she requested they be given a chance. Even more shocking, when the Librarian declared their physical condition would likely not survive Astartes implantation procedures, she turned and looked directly at him.
That gaze seemed to change the electrical current in the air, Renatus felt something strange along his spine.
"Are you willing to try?" she asked. "Whatever the outcome, we all have our own destiny."
"Why would she do this?" Renatus still can't understand. He looks up through the mist toward the bathhouse dome, steam blurring his vision.
Just as the confrontation is about to escalate, another voice cuts through the fog: "Enough."
Everyone turns toward the voice's owner. The man stands up from the bath, tall in stature, with extremely broad chest muscles and shoulders, a white towel wrapped around his waist, revealing sturdy, solid calf muscles.
"Who are you talking about?" Alexander Sicarius's voice is steady and powerful. He walks over calmly, his expression composed. When his gaze sweeps over Licanor, his tone carries a hint of sharpness, "That lady is the Primarch's personal remembrancer, she's probably seen the Primarch more times than you've seen your captain."
Licanor snorts disdainfully: "Of course, she chose you. That makes your words more convincing, Sicarius."
Alexander's eyes darken, but he isn't provoked: "The selection was presided over by honored Ultramarine Librarian veterans. Their decision is unquestionable. Being chosen is our honor, not an excuse for your complaints."
Licanor steps forward: "Honor? Seems you quite enjoy being favored by a woman, no wonder you're so eager to defend her."
The bathhouse air seems to freeze, tension filling the steam.
Renatus grabs his brother's wrist, pulling the restless Sora back to his side. But his gaze unconsciously falls on Alexander's clenched fist, knuckles white from pressure, forming a stark contrast with his surface calm.
Alexander Sicarius, Macragge nobility, a recruit bearing the legendary Ultramarine warrior surname. Renatus admits his brilliance.
"Perhaps, even he cannot fully accept this outcome," Renatus thinks privately, unease rising in his heart. He recalled Alexander's name being called. The man’s face remained composed, yet behind that calm lingered something: a flicker of doubt, a buried resistance.
Why? Is his dissatisfaction with that woman merely because of being chosen, or because he can't understand her decision?
A series of speculations flash through Renatus's mind, unconsciously tightening his grip on Sora's wrist, vaguely feeling that facing such future comrades, his brother's impulsiveness will only bring more trouble.
Just then, Alexander's voice rings out, low and cold, penetrating the pervasive steam: "The meaning of the selection ceremony is loyalty to the Emperor and the Legion, not satisfying your pride."
His tone remains calm, his gaze sweeping over Licanor like pouring cold water, instantly extinguishing the flames.
Licanor's expression changes, but in the end he just mutters a few words and turns to leave.
The tension in the air gradually dissipates, steam once again enveloping the bathhouse. Renatus lowers his head, realizing his hand has somehow clenched into a fist. He sighs, casting a grateful look toward Alexander, but the latter only nods coldly before turning to leave.
"This is just the beginning," Renatus thinks, looking at the still unwilling Sora.