Chapter 432: Behold Caliban, Ten Millennia Past
There was no turning back the clock. The die had been cast.
Naberius hung his head low, the weight of his disgrace heavier than his Terminator plate, as he listened to the hushed vox-chatter of the Dark Angels surrounding him.
"Once His Highness has achieved his victory, this one's existence serves no further purpose," a voice murmured over a private channel. The speaker's tone betrayed the scars of centuries spent in shadow warfare; these Astartes were struggling to adapt to a galaxy where their shame was no longer their defining trait.
To the Supreme Grand Master, the logic was sound—if a tool is broken, discard it—yet the sentiment left a bitter taste of ash in the mouth.
Azrael turned toward the Deathwing. He intended to issue a status report, but the commotion surrounding Grand Master Sammael drew his attention. having conferred with the Supreme Grand Master, the Master of the Ravenwing was now striding toward the dungeon sectors of The Rock. His boots rang against the stone floor with purpose.
He carried the full census. Sammael was consolidating the Fallen captured over the recent years. His Highness, the Lord of Knights, and the Formless Lord, Ramesses, would personally adjudicate their souls. They would discern which among them had truly succumbed to the Ruinous Powers. Those tainted would be purged; the rest—along with the most dangerous historical figures of the Unforgiven—would be sequestered within the Webway.
A small, dedicated fleet would stand vigil over them there, awaiting the conclusion of the war before final judgment was rendered.
"Supreme Grand Master?"
"I know," Azrael sighed, the sound heavy with the burden of his station. "This is unprecedented."
He looked at the gathered officers. "But we must maintain discipline. Above all, even if you harbor doubts, look to the will of the Lord of Knights. Your ranks grant you the right to petition him directly. If you do not understand his command, ask him. Do you understand?"
"I am uncertain, Supreme Grand Master," admitted Kamael, Chapter Master of the Angels of Vigilance.
In truth, the commanders of the Unforgiven Chapters were loath to trouble His Highness with trifles. To fail in handling these matters internally felt like a dereliction of duty, especially when the disparate Chapters had already performed poorly in the recent theatrical farce of their reunification.
Yet, relying on past doctrine, their only solution for Naberius would have been a bolt round to the back of the head in a dark cell.
After all, the dead do not speak.
"..."
If only I had died, Naberius thought.
He stood in the center of a cordon of Deathwing Terminators, his eyes fixed on the floor. He noted the irony that standing beside him were Fallen Angels from ten thousand years ago.
The Lord of Knights had set the law: those who had stood their ground and fought for the Imperium in this campaign would be granted amnesty. Their actions had proven that their past transgressions were errors of methodology, not a corruption of values.
Those who had refused the call, however, were deemed spiritually rot. They would be sent to the Knights of the Round Table for judgment—execution or stripping of rank, as the law demanded.
If Naberius had been executed during the initial upheavals, he might have died a martyr. Now, he was merely a living monument to the Dark Angels' sins, a target to be toppled to make way for the new era.
"The right of judgment belongs solely to His Highness and the Knights of the Round Table who enforce his will," Azrael explained, his voice cutting through the gloom. "Inquiry is not insubordination; it is a mark of respect. As for the historical sins of the Legion... you have the clearance to access the archives. Brother-Knight Gareth will organize a comprehensive history indoctrination for the rank and file of all Chapters."
Azrael paused, letting the gravity of his next words sink in.
"We no longer require fratricide to shroud our secrets. Not now. Not ever again."
Azrael believed the Lord of Knights had found the key to the Legion's salvation. Arthur had redefined the authority of the structural hierarchy, respecting the traditions of the Inner Circles while binding them within a framework that the majority could accept. He had taken the external factors that once plagued their battlefield focus and seized them in an iron grip, reforging the Dark Angels into a pure instrument of war once more.
Most of the Battle-Brothers could now focus on their duty: purging the xenos and the heretic, rather than trembling in fear of inquisitorial purges or questioning their own loyalty.
Azrael mentally reviewed the list again.
He held no reservations about the fate of Chapters like the Angels of Redemption. Even if they had turned to Chaos, it mattered little now. Over thirty years of slow infiltration and education reforms in the Dawnstar Sector meant that the ideology within most Chapters had softened. The risk of civil war had been suppressed to the absolute minimum.
If not for this sudden anomaly, the correction of the Chapters could have been gentler. But the current situation was acceptable.
To die as a warrior, fighting for the Emperor, was the last mercy of the Lord of Knights. If they spurned that mercy for treachery, then they deserved only oblivion.
Recruitment was no longer an issue. The Dawnstar Sector's thirty-year educational overhaul had created a vast strategic reserve of aspirants and personnel. The only bottleneck now was the production of warp-capable escort fleets.
"Supreme Grand Master."
Grand Master Belial approached. Seeing the crowd, he used Azrael's formal title.
"The fleet consolidation is complete. Massive Chaos corruption signatures detected on Wyrmwood. The Deathwing has pacified the uncooperative elements."
"You mean there were still dissenters?" Azrael felt a sudden wave of exhaustion.
He looked around. Belial, Sammael, and the new blood that had risen to prominence over the last few decades. These warriors, raised under the Dawnstar doctrine, were the future of the Dark Angels.
Azrael marveled at the Lord of Knights' foresight. Without these decades of raising sane, rational warriors, this legion would have been as undrinkable as seawater mixed with promethium.
"What did you expect?" Belial raised an eyebrow, then offered a rare, grim reassurance. "Rest easy. The combat intensity was within acceptable parameters."
Letting the Wardens of Steel handle internal policing was a stroke of genius. Their automata outnumbered the Astartes three-to-one. Let the machines fight, Belial thought. They don't bleed, and they don't talk.
It did wonders for preserving the lives of the loyal battle-brothers.
"..."
Kamael stared at Naberius, the disgraced former Master. Thinking of the massacre at the hive world of Gryhne, the Master of the Angels of Vigilance ground his teeth. "Many brothers died in the last few years because of this criminal."
"He will not escape his penance," Azrael replied evenly. "You may witness it, if you wish. I swear this by the Lion and the Throne."
"Now, return to your posts. We cannot afford idle rumors spreading through the fleet."
Kamael held Azrael's gaze for a few seconds longer, then nodded, accepting the decree. The Chapter Master turned, his power armored boots clanking heavily as he ascended the stairs to the upper levels of The Rock.
He donned his gauntlets, took up his ornate storm shield, and stopped beside Arthur.
"Azrael conveyed your doubts to me," Arthur said, anticipating him. The Lord of Knights stood tall, a beacon of calm in the storm. "As he said, speak your mind. You are excellent warriors, and warriors of the Emperor should not be shackled by the shadows of the past."
Yes, Kamael thought. We have been trapped in the dark for too long.
Feeling a sense of security he hadn't realized he was missing, Kamael remained silent. He deeply understood what the return of a Primarch—or one of his lineage—meant for the Astartes.
"I understand, Your Highness."
Kamael requested access to the Legion archives and withdrew. The Lord of Knights was busy, and the Lion was returning. Soon, the Dark Angels would have two gene-fathers to guide them.
Thinking of Arthur's nobility and decisive command, Kamael found himself eagerly awaiting the Lion's awakening.
"..."
Azrael cast one last glance at Naberius before departing. He had hoped for a private audience with the Lord of Knights, but the situation allowed only for brief counsel.
Returning to the strategic command center of The Rock, Azrael approached the primary hololith.
Time was short.
The wreckage of Chaos warships drifted in the void, illuminated by the distant sun like a golden nebula of debris.
Arthur needed to control the corrupted Plagueheart and the Tuchulcha Engine. These devices of the Old Ones were notoriously difficult to pin down, phasing in and out of reality. Defensive grids were being erected around Wyrmwood.
Belial reported that Nurgle's rot was spreading from the ruins of Wyrmwood. A warp rift, forced open by brute psychic force, was encroaching on realspace. Engagement was estimated within hours. Under Azrael's orders, the Librarian Zahariel was coordinating the psychic defense of the sector.
Cyclonic torpedoes were fired sporadically, only to be displaced by warp eddies, detonating harmlessly elsewhere.
The massive battleships of the Legion hung in the void, their lance batteries charged, searchlights sweeping the dark. The tension was taut as a steel cable snapping under load.
The hololith rotated slowly, displaying the rift.
"Look there," Ramesses said, pointing at the display. "And there. Do you see it?"
Massive concentrations of plague forces were manifesting on the surface of Wyrmwood. These entities occupied every sector, and some were launching themselves into the void as boarding torpedoes aimed at the Imperial fleet.
These fragments were dangerous; each one possessed the destructive potential of an Arks of Omen boarding party.
"Azrael will handle the interception," Arthur said dismissively, his boot resting on the trembling form of the Plagueheart.
The Dark Angels fleet moved to engage, utilizing their superior maneuverability to unleash a torrent of macro-cannon fire upon the debris attempting to ram The Rock.
"Here they come," Ramesses noted.
A greater anomaly bloomed on the planet's surface. The Daemons, seemingly uninterested in attacking, were focusing their Nurgle-blessed power on maintaining the structural integrity of Wyrmwood. The corruption turned the planet a sickly, necrotic green, as if trying to fill the voids in the shattered world with pus and bile.
As a planet steeped in the Warp, Wyrmwood was the perfect catalyst for a ritual.
The Plagueheart attempted to pulse, but an invisible force crushed it down.
Thrummm.
Deep within the Webway, the Tuchulcha Engine was dragged out of its phasing cycle by the metaphysical link.
As an Old One construct, Tuchulcha's physical shell was merely its anchor in the materium; its true mechanism operated in the Warp. But against this power, it could only shift its position slightly.
Crack!
A hand, wreathed in golden psychic fire, clamped onto the metal sphere. The eldritch lightning dancing across Tuchulcha's surface was snuffed out instantly, leaving it a dull, ordinary sphere.
For the first time, the engine experienced what Vashtorr must have felt—the agony of having its warp-essence torn from its physical anchor.
Even a C'tan Shard could not easily dismantle its structure, yet this power dominated it completely.
ROAR!
Ramesses heard a furious bellow echoing from the Empyrean.
Arthur ignored it.
"Pressure on the Chronos Key sector has dropped," the voice of Corvus Corax crackled over the vox.
In the Garden of Nurgle, the Primarch of the Raven Guard stood amidst a sea of rot. Every inch of the Plague Lord's domain was packed with daemons—Plaguebearers, Great Unclean Ones, a tide of filth.
They charged Corax and his ascended 'Super-Raven Guard' like moths to a flame. Yet, the expected eternal battle ended abruptly.
Nurgle, distracted by the ritual in realspace, withdrew his favor. The daemons, mere extensions of their god's will, dissolved into sludge mid-charge, revealing the pristine, human forces of the 19th Legion standing behind the Primarch.
"He can only focus on one artifact at a time," Ramesses chuckled.
Azrael lowered his hand, invisible currents of power dissipating from his fingertips. The clamor of the Warp screamed through the void. The Rock shuddered, a vibration that ran from its keel to the spire of the Tower of Angels.
He commanded the fleet while stealing a glance at Arthur. The Lord of Knights had suppressed the artifacts and was now staring intently at the horror unfolding below.
"Is it as we hypothesized?" Arthur asked.
"Close enough," Ramesses agreed, watching the rift expand from the core of Wyrmwood.
"Predictable," Ramesses added, straightening up.
Through the tear in reality, they saw a massive fleet—hundreds of ships—hanging in orbit over a lush, green world. They were bombarding the surface, while the planetary defense batteries returned fire with blinding plasma geysers.
"Warning. Dark Angels fleet engaging..."
"It's a full bombardment... static... hardline cut... I..."
"...The Lion... we have visual on the Lion's gunship... he is making landfall... he is slaughtering us..."
The vox-channels flooded with distortion. Thanks to the advanced auspex arrays of the Dawnstar ships, The Rock intercepted ancient, ghostly transmissions. The chaotic noise triggered memories in many of the veterans present.
"THE LION IS A TRAITOR!"
A scream tore through the comms, before being swallowed by static.
Everyone on the bridge froze. Then, with practiced discipline, they returned to their tasks as if nothing had happened.
For a moment, Azrael truly understood the necessity of their secrets.
"..."
Veteran Aphkar, his face grim, stepped up to the silent Azrael. He adjusted the cogitators, isolating the transmission from the ancient past and feeding it into The Rock's internal address system, while switching the fleet to a secure tactical network.
The voices of the dying, the screams of betrayal from ten thousand years ago, echoed through the command hall.
Hearing the death throes of their ancestors, Gareth, the Knight of the Round Table responsible for morale and indoctrination, clenched his fist until his ceramite gauntlets groaned.
In the command center, the air shimmered. The strategic hololith coalesced into a real-time image. Azrael looked around to see dozens of Watchers in the Dark—small, robed figures—lining the raised platforms of the walls. Their glowing red eyes were all fixed on the image.
Azrael looked closer.
As Nurgle poured his power into the ritual without reserve, a massive, transparent serpent—corrupted by decay—forced the rift wider above the remains of Wyrmwood.
Ouroboros.
Azrael realized.
Through the rift, past the veil of time, he saw the fratricide of the First Legion in full swing.
"That is..." he whispered.
"Just as we guessed," Ramesses said, observing the rift. Even he, who usually delighted in tormenting those around him, dropped his cavalier attitude. The ten-thousand-year-old veterans in the room could barely keep their composure.
"Caliban. Ten thousand years ago. The Dark Angels are butchering each other. The Lion and Luther are at war."
"And right now," Ramesses said, "if we reach out, we can touch them."
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