The Withered Legion and the Broken Legion;
The Blighted Legion and the Ghoul Legion;
The Third Legion and the Ninth Legion.
Clad in identical grey armor, they stood solemnly before their gene-father.
"Primarch…" Thrallas and Ishidur murmured softly.
Tens of thousands of Astartes raised their heads at the same time, gazing at the two transcendent beings.
The silver-haired, purple-eyed angel and the golden-haired, golden-eyed angel stood side by side. Their features were flawless, their proportions so perfectly mirrored that they seemed nearly identical, down to the tiniest contour
Most astonishing of all were the unfolded pure white, sacred wings behind them.
Every feather shimmered with a gentle halo, as though containing a power beyond the mortal world.
The legionaries stared in stunned silence, awe and shock intertwining within their hearts.
They had never imagined their Primarchs would be a pair of perfect twins, nor imagined their gene-fathers would possess such wings.
Yet along with the shock came unease. Would someone regard those wings as an abhorrent mutation? And their near-identical appearance blurred the mind, whose Primarch was whose? Which legion belonged to whom?
Outsiders might be confused, but the warriors who shared the same blood would never mistake them. The resonance deep in their genes was more precise than any outward feature.
The silver-haired angel turned his head slightly, "Which of us should go first?"
The golden-haired angel smiled at him, "You are the elder brother. It's only right that you go first."
The silver-haired angel did not refuse. They were brothers; there was no need for false courtesy.
The Third Legion held its breath, the deathly silence swelling with indescribable anxiety.
The Ninth Legion had forty thousand warriors, while the Third Legion had only two hundred.
The overwhelming disparity made the armored fingers of the Third Legion unconsciously tighten. Beneath every helmet, the same fear churned; they had brought shame to their gene-father.
In unison, the Third Legion straightened their backs, proudly raising their company banners high, trying to mask their inferiority with ornate decorations.
Every suit of power armor bore different embellishments and ancient noble crests.
But on every warrior's pauldron was carved an indelible emblem, the Imperial Aquila and the numeral III.
The symbol of the Third Legion's former glory.
The silver-haired angel gazed at his sons.
"I know your past, Third Legion."
"And I also know the suffering you have endured. The Blight eroded your former glory, wasting the Third Legion away to skin and bones."
Thrallas swallowed hard, as if forcing down unspeakable bitterness.
"My brother and his Legion bear witness here. Our father watches over this place."
"And I detest empty ceremony."
Fulgrim's purple eyes slowly swept across every warrior, his voice like crystals gently tapping.
"My brother and I are about to return to the Imperium."
"If you are still willing to pledge loyalty, then kneel before me!"
In silence, the Third Legion knelt. Only their banners remained stubbornly upright, snapping in the wind.
"I am Fulgrim, Twin Angel, son of Caelan, Lord of Baal."
"Now," Fulgrim lowered one knee to the ground, wings folding downward, "I am also the Emperor's Son, Master of the Third Legion, your gene-father."
"In the name of the father-"
"You offer loyalty, and I offer an oath."
"I will take command of the Third Legion and reforge its former glory!"
"Rise!"
His wings spread in the morning light, holy radiance rippling outward like water.
The two hundred legionaries' power armor rang in perfect unison as they stood, synchronized with their gene-father.
"You are the Emperor's chosen, His envoys, His warriors, His children. This is only the beginning!"
Fulgrim flew back to Sanguinius's side. Sanguinius turned his head slightly and took a step forward.
Forty thousand warriors of the Ninth Legion stood like a forest, eyes fixed upon the sacred golden-haired angel. The same tension that gripped the Third Legion now spread among them.
The Third Legion's Blight had been an enemy conspiracy; they were unfortunate victims.
But what explanation could the Ninth Legion offer?
Ishidur had prepared hundreds of speeches: their achievements in the Great Crusade, their loyalty written in blood rather than glory, their victories deliberately ignored yet undeniably real.
He should have argued, yes, the Ninth Legion walked in mud beyond the light, but that mud, too, bore witness to the Emperor's great work.
Yet when their gene-father's gaze fell upon him, every defense and justification he had rehearsed through countless sleepless nights vanished like morning mist.
Sanguinius's golden eyes shimmered with a warm light. His voice was as soft as the morning breeze.
"My brother dislikes ceremony. So do I."
"I am Sanguinius, Twin Angel, son of Caelan, Lord of Baal, son of the Emperor."
"And I am soon to be Master of the Ninth Legion, your gene-father. That depends on whether you are willing to offer your loyalty and kneel to me."
This was not out of fear.
Though they did indeed fear the Primarch might discard them like failed creations.
If that happened, they would still argue like rejected children, proving their worth through blood and deeds.
But now, their Primarch acknowledged them.
What was there to hesitate for?
The thunder of steel knees striking sand echoed in the silence like a battle cry.
They knelt not in submission, but in belonging.
Sanguinius did not kneel. His wings gave a light flap. His golden eyes swept over every kneeling warrior.
"The Ninth Legion has achievements, yet not the honor to match."
"Mortals see your victories as terrifying legends, indifferent to the heroic sacrifices that won them."
"You claim to stand above mortals yet crave their recognition."
"When mortals avert their eyes in fear, you respond with scorn."
"You despise their weakness yet resent their distance."
"You wear cloaks woven from fear, yet blame mortals for not admiring blood-stained honor."
"This is mortal ignorance, and also your arrogance!"
"Your loyalty pleases me, but your past disappoints me."
The Ninth Legion's warriors turned ashen, trembling beneath the harsh reprimand.
Each word cut like a poisoned blade, stripping loyalty and dignity layer by layer. Even veterans found breathing difficult.
They lowered their heads, pain from failing their Primarch, and pain from staining the legion's honor.
"This is also my fault," Sanguinius's voice was like thawing snow at winter's end, clear and cold with a hint of gentle compassion.
"Because I had not yet returned, unable to guide you with a father's duty."
He slowly knelt, a solemn sound as his knee touched the ground.
"You offer your loyalty, I offer my oath."
"I could not guide your past, but I will surely walk your future with you!"
"Rise, and the oath is sealed."
He stood. Forty thousand warriors rose with him.
Their bodies trembled uncontrollably, not with fear, but with the excitement surging from the depths of their blood.
The Primarch's words were like a revelation, finally showing these abandoned warriors the way home.
.....
"Not bad, right?" Caelan said.
Neoth replied, "Not what I expected."
"Is it better or worse?"
Caelan took the cantaloupe handed to him by Karin. He took a bite; the sweet flesh burst with a refreshing fragrance across his mouth.
Neoth glanced briefly at Karin. 'Just an ordinary perpetual girl, rare, but not unusual.'
Neoth withdrew his gaze and continued conversing with Caelain.
"The future is utter chaos."
"You can't see clearly either?"
"Only fragments. But fragments hold no value; they won't necessarily become reality."
"Then they can still eliminate wrong options, right?"
"Only occasionally."
"Then forget the future, just talk about now. Do you like this change?"
"Personal likes and dislikes have no impact on established reality."
Caelan gazed at him. The look was neither scrutiny nor inquiry, but it was impossible to refuse.
"Look in my eyes. Answer me. Yes or no?"
After a long mental struggle, Neoth yielded.
"Yes."
.....
Fabius Bile stood in the apothecarion. His armored knuckles were slightly white from unconscious tension.
A private summons from the gene-father was a sword over his head. If the Primarch knew the Third Legion's shame, how could he miss his crimes?
How would the Primarch treat him?
Punishment.... or execution?
"Apothecary."
The alloy door slid open silently. The silver-haired angel stepped in slowly, his purple eyes reflecting the cold light like a deep pool.
"My lord." Fabius bowed his head in salute, his armored fist striking his chest plate heavily, to hide the slight tremor in his fingers.
The Primarch's voice carried irresistible authority.
"Speak. You have at three sentences to say."
"I... I..." Fabius's throat bobbed with difficulty. He heard the shameful tremor in his own voice. "My Lord, I am guilty."
"Not that one."
"I am the legion's disgrace."
"Not that either." Fulgrim's eyes turned cold, like disappointment after unmet expectations.
'One chance left. Should I confess?'
"I have the Blight disease," Fabius's voice was hoarse, as if pronouncing his own death sentence.
"You also caused the death of a loyal warrior."
Fabius lowered his head. Indeed, the gene-father had long known of his sin.
"You must atone," Fulgrim said.
Fabius bowed deeply in the most humble posture: "My Lord, I will atone with the rest of my life!"
Fabius had thought death was certain, but unexpectedly received a chance to atone. Relief welled in his heart.
"How will you atone?"
"I will dedicate my life to curing the Blight!"
Fabius was the Legion's sole Apothecary. By all rights, his status should have been exalted.
Yet his rank had never been elevated. The Legion Master had proposed it more than once, but the warriors opposed the idea.
Fabius himself refused it as well. The slaughter of his battle-brothers weighed heavily upon him, filling him with quiet guilt and constant unease.
His lifelong pursuit of a cure for the Blight was both survival instinct and penance, a duty to the Legion he could never forget.
But this was not the atonement Fulgrim desired.
"Baal holds millions of mutants," Fulgrim said calmly. "Across the galaxy, they are beyond counting, all living in misery. Devote your knowledge to saving the innocent. That shall be your path to redemption."
"As you command… my lord."
Bitterness stirred within Fabius. The Primarch was ordering him to abandon his research into the Blight. If the disease manifested within him, he would die.
Yet standing before Primarch himself, how could he refuse?
Fulgrim studied his son in silence.
He had no intention of ignoring the Blight.
The flaw lay within his own gene-seed. If someone were ever to trigger its awakening, even a Primarch might not survive. If he and his Legion were to cast off their chains, the sickness had to be cured.
But he would not entrust that task to Fabius.
Instead, he would seek aid from his brother. His brother's Men of Iron Medea guarded relics and knowledge from the Golden Age; surely among them were masters of genetic science beyond compare. None would be more suited to the work.
If Fabius's Blight erupted before a cure was found, then it would be his fate.
And if Fabius dared to continue his forbidden experiments in secret, Fulgrim would show no mercy.
He could give his son a chance, but Fabius had already wasted two.
.....
Thrallas, Ishidur, and Abdemon, and the high command of both legions gathered together, helmets removed, smiling.
Their Primarchs were twins. If your father bore the same face as mine, then we were family.
The seating arrangement was deliberate. The two Primarchs had ordered both Legions intermingled rather than divided. The message was obvious, though unspoken.
"My Lords!"
When the two Primarchs entered side by side, every warrior dropped to one knee in perfect unison.
"No need to kneel," Fulgrim said lightly.
The warriors of the Third Legion rose at once.
The Ninth Legion did not.
They remained kneeling because the command had not come from their Primarch.
Sanguinius tilted his head slightly. "You do not obey my brother's word?"
Silence.
Ishidur answered, voice steady. "You are our Primarch."
Sanguinius's expression softened. "Then hear my command. The Ninth Legion shall honor my brother as they honor me."
"As you command, my Lord."
"Rise."
The two angels took their seats at the head of the round table. Behind them hung the Imperial Aquila, its wings spread wide.
Five commanders from each Legion sat to either side.
Fulgrim began, "How many warriors does the Ninth Legion possess?"
"Forty-six thousand, my Lord," Ishidur replied, the echo of Sanguinius's order still fresh in his mind. "All awaiting your command."
"Transfer twenty-three thousand to the Third Legion."
No hesitation. "As you command, my Lord."
Sanguinius turned to Thrallas. "Transfer one hundred warriors to the Ninth Legion."
"As you command, my Lord."
Neither Thrallas nor Ishidur was a fool. Primarchs issuing orders to the other Legions was no accident. They were conditioning both Legions to accept dual authority.
When the twins had first shared titles, the implication had already been clear.
Now it was undeniable.
To serve two Primarchs simultaneously, this was an honor no other Legion possessed.
Fulgrim spoke again, "The Ninth Legion shall henceforth be known as the Blood Angels."
Sanguinius followed. "The Third Legion shall bear the name the Emperor's Children. This is the title our Father granted you."
"As you command, my Lords!" both Legions answered in unison.
Sanguinius said, "I dislike tedious formalities."
Fulgrim smiled, "So there's no need to respond to everything."
The warriors swallowed their next reflexive reply and lowered their heads in disciplined silence.
Orders flowed swiftly thereafter.
"Half of the Blood Angels' Apothecaries and Techmarines will serve with the Emperor's Children for twenty years," Fulgrim decreed.
"When their rebuilding is complete," Sanguinius added, "half of the Emperor's Children's Apothecaries and Techmarines shall serve the Blood Angels for the same term."
"Baal Secundus will remain the Blood Angels' homeworld. Recruitment will draw from the Mutants."
"Baal Primus shall belong to the Emperor's Children. Recruitment will draw from the purebloods."
"Baal belongs jointly to both Legions."
"We will raise a legion fortress there."
"Phoenix, the City of Angels," Fulgrim named it.
The twin Primarchs spoke seamlessly, finishing one another's thoughts.
Then Sanguinius turned his attention to Thrallas. "Does the Emperor's Children possess sufficient recruits?"
Thrallas's expression darkened. "My Lord… we have received no reinforcements from Terra in five years. Our gene-seed reserves number only three hundred. Some Legions have offered to share Terran recruits with us."
Ishidur felt genuine shock.
Three hundred gene-seeds.
One of the Ninth Legion's vaults held more than that.
But now the Third had its Primarch. With a Primarch, gene-seed would never be scarce, though the burden upon him would be heavy.
Terra alone could sustain twenty Legions. The First Legion already numbered one hundred thousand, all Terran-born. Other Legions with reunited Primarchs were expanding rapidly, soon to match that strength.
Many now recruited from their homeworlds. Nostramo's endless hive populations. Nuceria's hardened stock.
Sharing recruits with the Third Legion was generosity and leverage.
Fulgrim's gaze shifted to Ishidur. "Remember this favor. We will repay our brothers."
Ishidur bowed his head.
A debt incurred by the Emperor's Children, repaid jointly by the Blood Angels. The Ninth would inevitably shoulder part of that cost.
But to object now would be madness.
The Primarchs stood united, two halves of a single will.
Fulgrim leaned forward slightly. "We will found a new Chapter."
Sanguinius nodded. "When called upon, each Legion will contribute one-tenth of its strength."
Together they declared, "This Chapter shall be named the Twin Angels."
And for a moment, beneath the Aquila's shadow, it felt as though history itself held its breath.