The air in the Grand Conclave Chamber of Macragge's Honour thrummed with reverence and suppressed energy. Thousands of Ultramarines stood in perfect, silent ranks, their cobalt armour gleaming under the vaulted ceilings. At the apex of the raised dais, Roboute Guilliman, the Avenging Son, Primarch of the Ultramarines, stood like a colossus wrought in ceramite and resolve. Before him, alone on the polished marble steps, knelt Captain Titus. Scars, both old and new, marked his armour, a testament to battles that had pushed him to the very edge.
"Captain Titus," Guilliman's voice, amplified yet intimate, resonated through the immense chamber, silencing even the imagined whispers. "The galaxy bleeds. Chaos gnaws at the Imperium's foundations. Yet, in this darkness, beacons of unwavering loyalty and peerless valour shine all the brighter. You, Titus, are such a beacon."
The Primarch began the recounting. "Today, we honor not just a warrior. Not just a son of Macragge. But a soul who bore the weight of falsehood and rose unbroken.
Captain Titus of the Ultramarines—once cast in chains by those he swore to protect. Accused of treachery. Of consorting with the powers he sought only to destroy. A warrior who stood at the edge of the Warp, defied the pull of damnation, and emerged untainted. Yet what was his reward?
Not laurels. Not honor. But silence. Shackles. Years stolen in the cold oubliettes of the Inquisition.
And yet... he never broke.
He did not curse the Emperor. He did not forsake the Imperium. He did not kneel to the Dark Gods whose touch he had rejected.
When the Hive descended and the Tyranid darkness blotted the skies of Kadaku, he returned—not in vengeance, but in service. Reforged as Primaris, reborn not by fate but by necessity, Titus fought not for absolution, but for mankind.
And fight he did. With fury. With duty. With the terrible grace of a soul who knew the truth: that the Emperor's will is not bound by blind law, but by righteous action.
He led his brothers through the swarm. He broke the cults that festered beneath our very soil. He showed a younger generation what it truly means to be Astartes—not a servant of doctrine, but a protector of humanity.
And so today, we cast down the lie.
We say this with one voice: Titus was never a traitor. He was a shield when others cowered. A torch when others were blind. A blade when others hesitated.
Let his name be burned into the annals of the Chapter. Let every fortress-world echo his deeds. Let every young initiate learn that even in betrayal, a true son of the Imperium stands resolute.
To Captain Titus—
The Forgotten.
The Vindicated.
The Emperor's Will Made Flesh.
Ave Imperator.
A hush, deeper than before, fell. Guilliman gestured. A venerable Chaplain approached, bearing a long case of adamantium and ivory. With a hiss of releasing pressure, it opened. Nestled within, gleaming with ancient power and intricate craftsmanship, lay a power sword. Its blade seemed to drink the light, etched with Celestial runes, its hilt wrapped in the leather of some long-extinct beast from Terra's forgotten ages.
"Captain Titus," Guilliman declared, "for your exceptional service, your unyielding resolve, and your absolute purity of purpose, you are hereby elevated to the rank of Master of the Marches. Furthermore, you are granted the right to bear the relic blade, Certus Fides – 'Sure Faith'. May it strike true in the Emperor's name for another ten thousand years."
A thunderous roar erupted from the assembled Ultramarines. Bolters slammed against chest plates in a deafening salute. Titus, head still bowed, felt the weight of the honour settle upon him, heavier and more profound than any Terminator plate. He reached out, his hand closing around the grip of the relic power sword. A surge of cool, focused energy flowed through him, the spirit within the ancient weapon resonating with his own unwavering spirit.
"FOR TITUS! FOR THE EMPEROR! FOR GUILLIMAN!"
As the echoes of the salute began to fade, replaced by the low hum of celebration and brotherhood, a single, strident voice cut through the reverent atmosphere like a shard of glass.
"My Lord Primarch!"
All eyes snapped towards the source. Sergeant Leandros, his face pale but set in grim determination, stepped forward from the ranks of the 2nd Company. The celebratory mood instantly curdled into shock and suspicion.
"Leandros?" Titus murmured, rising slowly, Certus Fides held loosely but ready at his side.
"Lord Guilliman," Leandros pressed on, his voice tight with fervent belief, "this honour... it is misplaced! On Graia! Captain Titus... he was exposed to the Warp artifact! He touched the Daemon Soul! He resisted its influence where others fell instantly! He... he dismissed the Codex protocols concerning Chaplain assessment! This... this resistance... it is not natural! It is the mark of corruption! Slow, insidious, but undeniable! He is tainted, my Lord! I accuse Captain Titus of harbouring the Ruinous Powers within him!"
Silence, absolute and crushing, descended. The air crackled with tension thicker than plasma discharge. Thousands of eyes burned into Leandros, then into Titus. Disbelief warred with ingrained suspicion. Guilliman's expression, previously one of paternal pride, hardened into an unreadable mask of stone.
Titus met his Primarch's gaze without flinching. He saw the flicker of doubt, the necessary caution born of ten millennia fighting Chaos. He lowered the sword, placing the relic blade gently on the steps before Guilliman. He knelt again, not in submission, but in unwavering conviction.
"My Lord Primarch", Titus's voice was calm, clear, carrying effortlessly in the stunned silence. "Sergeant Leandros voices a suspicion that has shadowed me since Graia. I welcome scrutiny. I submit myself wholly to any test, any trial, any examination you or the Chaplains deem necessary. Probe my mind, scour my soul. Let the truth be known, whatever it may be. My loyalty is to the Emperor and to you. It can bear the light."
Guilliman studied Titus for a long, agonizing moment. The silence stretched, suffocating. Then, the Primarch gave a single, curt nod. "So be it. Chaplain Cassius. Librarian Tigurius. Attend."
The chamber remained frozen as the highest-ranking Chaplain and Chief Librarian of the Fleet approached Titus. Cassius placed a hand upon Titus's head, murmuring litanies of purity and banishment, his crozius arcanum glowing with holy fire. Tigurius, his eyes swirling with psychic power, delved into the depths of Titus's mind, a scalpel of pure will searching for any stain, any whisper of the Warp.
Minutes felt like hours. Leandros watched, his earlier certainty fraying into nervous tension under the weight of the Primarch's impassive stare and the palpable disapproval radiating from his brothers. Titus remained utterly still, his mind open, his spirit a fortress built on duty and faith.
Finally, Chaplain Cassius stepped back. "No taint. No corruption. The soul is pure, an adamantium bastion against the Warp."
Librarian Tigurius withdrew, his psychic presence receding. "The mind is clear. No whispers, no lingering touch of Chaos. Only duty, honour, and unwavering loyalty to the Emperor and the Primarch. His resistance on Graia was born of exceptional willpower and the Emperor's grace, not corruption."
A collective sigh, like the release of a pent-up storm, swept through the chamber. Relief, then a wave of outrage directed squarely at Leandros.
Guilliman's gaze shifted from Titus to Leandros. The warmth he had shown the Captain was gone, replaced by glacial disappointment and stern judgment.
"Sergeant Leandros," the Primarch's voice was low, but it carried the weight of tectonic plates shifting. "You have borne witness to Captain Titus's valour, his sacrifices, his unwavering service. Yet, consumed by dogma and suspicion, you allowed fear to override brotherhood and reason. You chose the hour of his greatest honour, before his Primarch and his Legion, to level a baseless accusation born of zealotry, not evidence."
Leandros flinched as if struck. "My Lord, I... I sought only to protect the Legion! The Codex..."
"THE CODEX IS A GUIDE, SERGEANT, NOT A SHACKLE!" Guilliman's voice cracked like thunder. "It teaches vigilance, not paranoia. It demands judgment, not the abandonment of trust in proven brothers. Your actions were not vigilance; they were betrayal. A betrayal of your Captain, your squad, and the very ideals of the Ultramarines – honour, brotherhood, and measured judgment."
Guilliman gestured. Two stern-faced Victrix Guard stepped forward.
"Sergeant Leandros," the Primarch pronounced, his words final. "You are hereby stripped of your rank. You are stripped of your armour, for you are unworthy to wear the heraldry of Ultramar. You are censured for reckless endangerment of a brother's honour and for sowing discord within the ranks. You will be remanded to the Reclusiam for penitent contemplation and arduous labour under the watch of the Chaplains. Your path back to brotherhood, if it exists, begins in humility and atonement."
The order was executed swiftly. Techmarines approached, tools humming. Leandros stood rigid, his face ashen, as the sacred plates of his power armour were unsealed and removed piece by piece. Each removal was a physical and spiritual humiliation, reducing him from a proud Astartes to a shamed initiate in simple grey fatigues. The clatter of ceramite on the marble floor echoed like funeral bells. The once-proud Sergeant was led away between the impassive Victrix Guard, his head bowed, not in penitence yet, but in stunned disbelief and crushing shame. Not a single brother met his eyes.
As the disgraced former Sergeant escorted by the Victrix Guard was being escorted out, the focus returned to the dais. Guilliman's expression softened as he looked upon Titus, who had remained kneeling throughout the ordeal.
"Rise, Master of the Marches," Guilliman commanded, his voice regaining its warmth. He lifted Certus Fides and presented it once more. "Your faith has been tested in fire and now, unjustly, in the court of brotherhood. You have emerged not just pure, but proven stronger. Your loyalty is beyond question. Your honour is unblemished. Bear this blade, Master Titus. Bear it as a symbol of the sure faith you possess, and the sure faith we place in you. Lead the Marches. Bring victory to Ultramar and the Imperium."
Titus took the relic blade, the cool certainty of its grip a balm after the searing heat of accusation. He rose, turning to face his Legion. The roar that erupted this time was deafening, a tidal wave of pure adulation and restored faith.
"TITUS! TITUS! TITUS!"
As the cheers shook the very deck plates of the Macragge's Honour, Master Titus, holding Certus Fides aloft, stood bathed in the light of his Primarch's approval and the unwavering loyalty of his brothers. The shadow of Leandros's accusation was gone, burned away in the crucible of truth, leaving only the shining, unbreakable certainty of his duty and the gleaming promise of the relic blade – Sure Faith, indeed. The celebrations could truly begin.