As the morning light of Terra rose, within the halls of the Imperial Palace, Dukel sat in discourse with Lev, the Chief Minister of the High Lords of Terra. Their discussion, though civil, was a battle of ideologies, an attempt to bridge the chasm between mortal governance and transhuman perspective.
They spoke of the Imperium's culture, its politics, and the nobility that ruled over Terra.
"Your Highness, I know that in your eyes, the nobility are but parasites, playing their power games while the Imperium rots," Lev said, his gaze locked onto the Primarch. In this moment, he seemed to embody the collective will of all mortal administrators. "We have indeed committed great follies in this dark and desperate age. We acted blindly. But we are not merely corrupt bureaucrats. We know what we guard. We know who sits upon the Golden Throne. We bow before the Master of Mankind and are willing to sacrifice everything for Him."
The High Lords may have indulged in the Imperium's greatest luxuries, but many had perished, not from decadence, but from the sheer exhaustion of rule.
Dukel recognized the sincerity in Lev's words. Humanity was a contradiction—capable of both great wickedness and selfless devotion. But understanding did not equate to agreement.
Seated upon his throne, Dukel shook his head. "You overcomplicate matters, Lev. My judgment is not solely about guilt or innocence." He paused, allowing Lev to absorb his words before continuing. "I believe you are loyal. This is not a platitude; I can see your loyalty as plainly as I see the stars. I have known this truth since Ophelia VII."
Lev's breath hitched, but Dukel pressed on. "But what of it? The issue is far simpler than you believe. You may think stepping forward with the left foot is an act of loyalty to the Emperor, while another believes it is the right foot. Our wills differ. And so, I must remove you. Not because you are evil, not because you are corrupt, but because you stand in the way of the Imperium's true path. I am a wheel rolling forward, and you are an obstruction. I will crush you, nothing more."
"Good and evil are trivial matters," Dukel continued. "Eliminating the corrupt is merely a consequence of this premise."
Lev felt as though the weight of the entire Imperium bore down upon him. "Your Highness, you have drenched Terra in blood. Tens of thousands of families will be annihilated in the wake of your purges—all for this reason?"
Lev had spent eighty years as Chief of the High Lords, wielding immense power. He understood the Imperium as a vast, intricate machine, one that must be handled with care lest it collapse. Yet, Dukel approached it like a warrior on the battlefield—seeing a flaw, he simply cut it away, heedless of the aftermath.
"How can you be sure this is the right path?" Lev demanded, his voice rising. "If this great structure collapses, my lord, how will you bear the guilt? How will you rebuild?"
Dukel regarded him calmly. "I am not sure this is the right path."
Lev's blood ran cold. If even the Primarch did not know their course, where then lay the Imperium's hope?
"This universe is chaos incarnate," Dukel continued. "No path is guaranteed. Any path may lead to salvation—or destruction. But I know one thing: only unity of will can create true power. Only overwhelming strength can drive us forward. As for what lies ahead—"
The Primarch rose from his throne, extending his massive, gauntleted hand toward Lev.
"—we will bear witness together."
Lev felt the weight of the moment. It was not words that convinced him, but the sheer force of will radiating from the Primarch. Dukel was a war chariot thundering forward, unstoppable, heedless of what lay in its path.
And now, that chariot offered him a place aboard it.
Lev had no time to think, no time to hesitate. He knew that if he faltered for even a moment, the chariot would leave him behind forever.
It did not matter where it was headed.
What mattered was that he refused to remain stagnant.
In the vast, grand halls of the Imperial Palace, Lev clasped the Primarch's iron hand without hesitation. It was like a drowning man being pulled from the abyss. The cold despair of the Imperium's long dark age faded, replaced by a searing conviction.
"No matter what horrors await us," Lev declared, "I will face them at your side."
In that moment, something stirred in the Immaterium. The warp, the very essence of thought and emotion, recognized the oath. A connection was forged.
Even Efilar and Shivara, standing by the throne, the Slayer lurking in the shadows, and Aisha clad in heavy armor—each of them felt it.
Dukel did not promise salvation. He did not promise certainty.
And yet, they followed him.
The Sororitas remembered Ophelia VII.
The Doom Slayers recalled the trenches of Krieg.
The once-unwilling bore witness to the Garden of Nurgle itself.
They, too, had no desire to remain still.
At different times, for different reasons, they had all chosen to ride upon the same chariot.
And so, the conversation in the Palace stretched into the dawn.
Deep within the Imperial Palace, in the Sanctum Imperialis, the true ruler of humanity stirred.
The Emperor of Mankind, bathed in golden radiance, remained seated upon the Golden Throne. Though His mortal body had been shattered, His will had never wavered. He had long since waged an unending war upon the horrors of the Immaterium.
At the foot of the Throne, a Custodian Centurion knelt, watching as Tech-Priests scurried about, their binary chatter filling the chamber.
"I hope this works," the Custodian murmured to himself.
"The speaker is in place, Gris," one of the Mechanicus Sages reported to his colleague. "Stability appears optimal. Far more reliable than the augmetics in your own decrepit shell."
"Better than yours, certainly," Gris retorted. "I can hear your radiator wheezing like a dying grox."
The Custodian, still kneeling, brightened at their exchange. "Then it is done? Our Glorious Majesty will finally be able to speak to us again?"
"Indeed, Guardsman. It was no small feat," the Tech-Priest replied. "Gris, don't forget our deal."
Gris sighed and motioned to an acolyte, who presented a relic—an ancient STC template.
"This is your reward," Gris admitted grudgingly. "A sacred toaster. I obtained it from the tomb of the Necron Overlord Trazyn, after countless perils."
The recipient snatched it eagerly. "I don't care how you got it!"
A low hum filled the air. The Golden Throne shuddered.
The Tech-Priests fell silent, retreating.
The Custodian stepped forward, head bowed in reverence.
"O Great Emperor," he prayed. "We have installed a speaker upon Your Throne. Please, my Lord, grant us Your Word."
A crackling noise filled the chamber. Then, at last—
A voice, unheard for ten thousand years.
"The damn moment has finally arrived."
The Custodian clenched his fist in triumph. "At last! Our Glorious Lord speaks once more!"
… The Gathering of the Primarchs
The early morning light bathed Terra in a golden hue as the Custodians led the procession toward the Sanctum Imperialis. The Primarchs—four of them reborn in the Emperor's service—walked in solemn step alongside their fallen brother, Magnus the Red, whose essence was now contained within a runic-sealed vessel.
Aboard the hovering transport en route to the Throne Room, Roboute Guilliman turned to Dukel, his tone laced with disbelief.
"Brother, I can scarcely believe you actually installed a speaker on the Golden Throne."
Dukel inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Of course. It wasn't easy. I even had to pay for it with a sacred toaster."
Guilliman frowned. "A what?"
Dukel's voice took on a tone of reverence. "A most venerable relic, a wonder found buried deep in the lair of the Undead Overlord. Its worth is beyond measure."
From within his container, Magnus said nothing, though his silence carried volumes. The Lion, ever stoic, averted his gaze as if to distance himself from the absurdity of the conversation. Sanguinius, youthful and perceptive, scrutinized Dukel with keen eyes, trying to discern the sincerity behind his words.
"Truly, brother?" Guilliman's expression was a mixture of shock and admiration. "You would sacrifice something so invaluable?"
Dukel straightened, his voice unwavering. "It is nothing. All things are for His Majesty—the Emperor we serve, and the Imperium we strive to protect."
This was to be the first public reunion of the Primarchs with their father since their return, an event of momentous significance. Across Terra, citizens had gathered in throngs to witness history unfold. The air was thick with the hum of countless flying servitors and Imperial war engines, the very world holding its breath in anticipation.
Upon reaching the Sanctum Imperialis, the Primarchs disembarked. Palace Guards stood in rigid formation, their armor reflecting the celestial radiance pouring in through the colossal stained-glass windows. Ahead of them loomed the Eternal Gate, its monumental structure adorned with reliefs of angels and daemons locked in eternal struggle.
This gate, which had once barred Horus's advance, now swung open without resistance, a symbol of the Emperor's will.
They crossed the bridge spanning the Inner and Outer Sanctums, their path lined with the imposing fortifications that Rogal Dorn had once painstakingly devised. The halls and corridors of the Imperial Palace stretched on, each turn revealing more splendor—gilded statues, immense banners bearing the Aquila, and frescoes depicting the Emperor's triumphs.
At last, they arrived before the final gateway. Beyond it lay the Throne Room, the very heart of the Imperium.
Here, only days prior, Dukel had driven his blade into the Emperor's chest.
Standing at his post, Constantin Valdor—the Lord Commander of the Custodes—watched their approach, every muscle in his form taut with tension. His grip on the Guardian Spear tightened until his gauntlets creaked under the strain. His entire being radiated unease.
Dukel met his gaze and merely smiled, offering no words of reassurance.
Inside the Throne Room, golden murals bathed the chamber in ethereal light, and vast stained-glass windows depicted the Emperor's most glorious victories. The air was thick with the weight of history and divinity, and at the very center of it all, enthroned in eternal vigil, sat the Master of Mankind.
The moment had come.
Countless eternal candles burned in solemn silence, their flickering flames casting elongated shadows across the vast and sacred chamber. A dreamlike mist curled through the air, carrying the weight of incense and prayer.
Hymns to the Lord of Mankind intertwined with the voices of the choir, their celestial melodies echoing endlessly within the immense hall.
At last, the Primarchs stood before the Emperor.
Though the Master of Mankind possessed many faces, the sight of Him bound to the Golden Throne stirred sorrow in their hearts. The pain of ten thousand years was etched into His form, a stark reminder of the cost of the Imperium's survival.
For young Sanguinius, this was the first time in millennia that he had laid eyes upon his father. The shock struck him harder than any battlefield wound.
Before him stood not a throne of majesty, but the most nightmarish torture device in existence. Even the depraved and sadistic Dark Eldar could not conceive of such an instrument of unceasing agony.
The horror of the Golden Throne surpassed even the Archangel's darkest fears.
He had fought daemons, waged relentless war against the traitors, suffered grievous wounds, and even met death at the hands of his own blood. Yet none of those experiences compared to the torment he now witnessed.
Tears welled in his luminous eyes, flowing freely down his pale cheeks as silent sobs wracked his form.
Upon the Golden Throne, the Emperor sat, His eyes closed as if in deep slumber, seemingly oblivious to their arrival.
Dukel stepped forward, a sealed box in his hands. His voice rang clear in the solemn chamber.
"Your Majesty, I have returned to see you once more—and I bring a gift."
With a flourish, Dukel opened the box. Within lay a massive crimson head, a singular cyclopean eye forever frozen in its final moment.
"Magnus, your beloved son. What do you think? Are you satisfied with this offering?"
The Primarch presented his grim trophy with an almost ceremonial reverence.
At that moment, the Emperor stirred. His ancient, sightless eyes opened slowly, and His divine voice—amplified through the Throne's intercom—resounded through the chamber.
"Damn it, Dukel, get this idiot bookworm out of my sight. His soul is shattered beyond repair. This is not my son—only a broken fragment stolen by the Ruinous Powers. I don't want to see this fool again until he's whole."
A stunned silence filled the hall.
Sanguinius's sobs ceased instantly.
The severed head of Magnus, bound and muted, seemed to darken in shame. The Lion, ever composed, averted his gaze.
Guilliman turned to Dukel, his voice hushed with disbelief. "Brother… are you certain this is our father? He seems… different."
"His manner of speaking is indeed… altered," Dukel admitted, equally perplexed.
The Emperor exhaled, as if weary of their confusion. "There was a minor incident," He explained. "During a war in the Immaterium, I had to break free of the divinity those fools forced upon Me. In the process, My… polite side was unfortunately sacrificed. It may take some time to recover."
Dukel folded his arms, nodding sagely. "I see. So your polite side is rather fragile, then."