Part I - The Uneasy Meeting, but the Clear Future
The asteroid field sprawled in silent majesty, a graveyard of ancient stone adrift in the void, untouched and untroubled, as so many forgotten things in the galaxy are. Here, the system's sun burned with a sterile brilliance, too fierce and unyielding to nurture even the most desperate spark of life. Its planets circled in sullen exile, unreliable and barren, offering no promise of home to any who might seek it. Yet, by some cosmic irony, this desolate crossroads lay precisely between the ever-shifting borders of the T'au Empire and the Imperium of Man. The Lithesh Sector, a scatter of Imperial worlds, had become a crucible of attrition, where the ambitions of two empires ground against one another in a slow, relentless war. Of its forty worlds, thirteen now bore the mark of the T'au, while the remainder clung stubbornly to the Imperium's fading light. It was here, upon these ashes, that the two forces would meet, drawn by necessity to a place that promised nothing but uneasy truce.
This system, a cypher in the ledger of the sector, offered nothing but its constancy—a rare anchor in a galaxy of shifting allegiances. It was upon this unremarkable stage that the T'au Water Caste made their entrance, their fleet gliding through the void with the quiet confidence of diplomats who understood both the necessity of strength and the art of subtlety. At their head sailed a ship, or rather a large flagship. They named it Or'es El'leath, but it was often known in Gothic as a Custodian-Class Carrier. Its hull gleaming with the promise of the Greater Good, bearing the Ethereal Aun'Jash in serene authority. Flanking it, Hero-class vessels and Protector-class cruisers moved in disciplined formation, their presence a silent warning that peace was always negotiated at the edge of a blade. Even as the Water Caste prepared their words, the Air and Fire Castes watched the darkness with wary eyes, suspicion coiling in their hearts, for they knew too well the treacheries that might lurk behind the mask of any Imperial envoy. Escape routes were plotted, engines kept warm, for in this meeting of empires, trust was a currency none could afford.
Aun'Jash gazed into the void, his patience as deep as the silence between the drifting stones. He didn't need to glance sideways to sense the commander beside him—her gaze fixed on the same stars, but tempered by a simmering mistrust and quiet disdain.
"Your eyes tell a story of mistrust and anger," Aun'Jash stated as Commander Shadowsun snapped from her thoughts.
"My apologies, Aun'Jash. But my experience with the Imperium—the Gue'la who spurn the light of the Greater Good—has never been a positive one," she replied, bowing her head.
"I understand. You have carried the burdens of the T'au for some time now. I do not judge your sentiments, nor claim our experience with the Gue'la has been easy. But I hope we might begin to understand them," he said, returning his gaze to the void. Commander Shadowsun frowned slightly.
"If I could speak freely, Aun'Jash…"
"You can."
Commander Shadowsun stared at the blinding sun ahead, then at him. "The Gue'la—they are savages. I have seen how they treat their own, seen with my own eyes the absence of reason, the depths of their zealotry, their madness is…!" She bit her tongue, then drew a steadying breath. "I doubt peace is possible between us. I do not believe the Imperium possesses the understanding or will to seek peace with a xenos race like ours. Their ignorance offends everything we stand for."
Aun'Jash hummed thoughtfully, his eyes on the sun. "You are correct, but you are also shaped by what you have seen. The Fire Caste carries the scars of war, just as the Gue'la you fight do. It is not wrong to see them as unenlightened, as savage. But the Gue'la grew in darkness, without the light of the Greater Good. That is why we must engage them—not with destruction, but with the illumination only the Tau'va can offer."
Commander Shadowsun looked at him, and then at the sun.
Aun'Jash regarded her, nodding to himself. "Besides, I find myself most intrigued by this… Princess."
"The Princess…?" Commander Shadowsun looked at him, frowning. "Why is the Gue'la princess so interesting, Aun'Jash?"
"Because of what she represents. By all accounts, she was a scientist, a remarkable mind among the Gue'la, someone who cared deeply, who pursued the best for her people. And then—she vanished, only to reappear and send both the Gue'la and even our own Gue'vesa into fervour," he explained.
"Isn't that a problem?" Commander Shadowsun asked.
"It may appear that way. But wisdom lies in distinguishing between inspiration and obedience—and in knowing how to use both. If the Princess is someone we can negotiate with, someone who can serve as a bridge, it will benefit us and give vindication to the Gue'vesa under the Tau'va. It will strengthen our resolve and cement our influence on the worlds we already guide," Aun'Jash said, holding Shadowsun's gaze. "Trust in the Tau'va, Commander. Trust in the Ethereals' guidance."
Commander Shadowsun took a deep breath and sighed. "I understand, Aun'Jash. But I will still be prepared for emergency actions."
Aun'Jash chuckled loudly. "Of course."
An Air Caste commander announced an incoming signal. On the projection before them, Aun'Jash and Commander Shadowsun watched as the Imperium's envoys approached in convoy. Most of the ships were familiar—Lunar Class Cruisers, their silhouettes instantly recognisable to T'au eyes, flanked by escorts. But the convoy's centrepiece was something entirely new: an Aquila-Class Battlecruiser. Its silver hull and unique contours set it apart, a vessel unlike any the T'au had seen from the Navis Imperialis. The strangeness of its design unsettled even the most seasoned observers.
"Focus on that ship. Scan their shields and systems," Commander Shadowsun ordered. "Scan whatever is possible. All ships, raise shields."
As Shadowsun issued her orders, Aun'Jash hummed, studying the ship with keen interest. Was it a new Imperial warship, or some relic returned to service? Whatever its origins, its presence was deliberate—a message from the Imperium. They did not come as supplicants, nor as weaklings desperate for peace. They came to show that power and innovation still lay within their grasp.
"An intriguing opening move—and one I can respect," he murmured to himself.
"Commander, we are receiving a signal."
Aun'Jash hummed, already moving toward the exit. "Initiate directive protocols. Prepare for the meeting."
Commander Shadowsun obeyed, but cast a lingering glance at the mysterious ship, her brow furrowed in silent unease. A sensation she could not name stirred within her, yet she remembered Aun'Jash's counsel: trust in the Tau'va. And so, she would.
Part II - Words and Meanings
The meeting chamber was anchored in the shadow of the largest asteroid—a primaeval bulwark suspended in the cold silence of space. Here, in this fortress of stone and ice, the T'au and the Imperium would parley on ground as neutral as the void itself. The chamber was a feat of engineering, fused from the hulls of the Stellaris Battlecruiser and the Custodian Class Carrier, their disparate technologies woven together in a seamless, uneasy alliance. Within, the silence was not merely the absence of sound; it was a living thing, heavy and watchful, laced with the unspoken dread of what might unfold.
Aun'Jash and the Water Caste envoys stood to the right, robed figures haloed in the gentle blue light of recessed luminators, faces composed in diplomatic calm. Along the periphery, Fire Caste Warriors waited—statuesque, hands flexing on the grips of their lances and Pulse rifles. Commander Shadowsun, clad in her XV22 Stealth Battlesuit as though it were her own flesh, scanned the chamber with the wary intensity of a hunting beast. The tension among the Fire Caste was palpable; at the faintest provocation, they would become a storm, clearing a path for Aun'Jash's escape and leaving nothing in their wake.
Por'O Vior'la Sha'is Mont'yr, one of the Water Caste ambassadors, leaned in and murmured, "Surely they won't make us wait longer than usual."
Aun'Jash's reply was gentle, his tone touched with amusement. "Are Imperium envoys known for tardiness?"
"I cannot say, Aun'Jash. I have never met one," she admitted, her eyes fixed on the sealed doors.
As if summoned by their words, the doors hissed open. Shadowsun's posture tightened, a ripple of readiness passing through the Fire Caste and Aun'Jash's bodyguard. Through the threshold strode giants clad in power armour—Adeptus Astartes, Space Marines. Shadowsun recognised the threat instantly, as did every Fire Caste Warrior. Their response was a cold calculation, the anticipation of violence simmering just below the surface.
Yet these Space Marines were unlike any others. Their armour gleamed pure white, trimmed with green and gold—heraldry of the Lionsguard, the Princess-Regent's own Chapter. The Mark X-Noverrium S-01 Tacticus suits they wore were not just new, but transformed, their lines and embellishments evoking the knights of ancient Terran legend. They moved with the discipline of the Dark Angels, but there was a knightly gravitas to their bearing—a controlled power, where the Dark Angels would already have struck.
Shadowsun's sensors swept over the unfamiliar armour, her HUD filling with data—none of it conclusive. The Earth Caste engineer behind her frowned at his drone's live feed; whatever these suits were made of, it was beyond T'au's understanding, the readings contradictory and strange.
Then, the golden giants arrived—two towering figures whose mere presence seemed to bend the air around them. Their forms glimmered with a metallic sheen, the Earth Caste drone stuttering as it tried and failed to classify the material. These were Custodes, but not of any kind Shadowsun had seen before: Custodes Immortalis, legendary guardians whose souls had been bound into living metal. Their origin was a mystery whispered only to the Princess herself. They moved like Necron lords, uncanny and terrifying in their perfection.
The Earth Caste envoy scrutinised the data streaming from his drone, only to be met with line after line of "unknown." Every scan, every spectral sweep, returned nothing but inscrutable readings. He could not tell if what stood before him was a marvel of advanced automation or some arcane hybrid of flesh and machine. But wasn't the Imperium supposed to abhor artificial intelligence? Weren't they the relics of a crumbling order—old, stagnant, capable only of churning out death, ignorance, and decay? The contradiction gnawed at him, unsettling as the golden figures themselves.
How? How could the Gue'la forge such things? Shadowsun wondered, a chill settling in her core.
And then, at last, she came—Consul-Palatina Anna-Murza Jek. She glided into the chamber, her robes resplendent yet elegantly understated, every line and fold speaking of power worn with effortless grace. Augmentations winked at her brow, and alien jewellery adorned her wrists and neck, marking her as one who treads the boundary between faith, science, and command. In that moment, she seemed less a diplomat and more an emissary of a higher order—one who stood at the very crossroads of destiny.
Jek did something that caught the T'au envoy party off guard—a small, graceful bow, accompanied by a gentle, genuine smile. There was no hint of condescension, no veiled cruelty or arrogance; just the precise courtesy befitting a seasoned diplomat. Aun'Jash immediately recognised the strategy at play: the negotiation had already begun, even before words were exchanged. This Gue'la had been trained, and trained well. The Princess had sent an envoy who understood both the weight and the nuance of her role. For the first time, Aun'Jash felt the T'au Empire was not dealing with a mere planetary governor or a blustering Space Marine Chapter Master, but with the true voice of an Imperial authority—an envoy of the regent in all but name. That, in itself, was astonishing.
Jek approached the table, her eyes briefly scanning its polished surface before addressing them. "I apologise for the tardiness. There is no excuse for it. It's unbecoming of us," she said, her tone soft but firm.
Commander Shadowsun, ever wary, found the gesture disquieting. It felt too polite, too practised, too... bright. But Aun'Jash, who had seen many negotiations, was not surprised; that was the difference between Ethereal patience and Fire Caste suspicion.
"None taken, honoured guest. It was only a few minutes," Aun'Jash replied, guiding Jek to the seats. He allowed her to sit first, a gesture of respect, then took his own place. The Water diplomats arrayed themselves behind him, while the Earth Caste engineers struggled not to stare too intently at the two golden Custodes and their enigmatic weaponry.
"First, let me present myself. I am Aun'Jash, Ethereal Caste, and the principal voice of the Tau'va at this meeting," he said, his tone gentle and grandfatherly, but with an edge of caution beneath the surface.
"Pleasure to meet you, Aun'Jash. I am Anna-Murza Jek, Consul-Palatina and chief subordinate to Her Imperial Highness. I hope our talks bring positive outcomes for both our species," Jek responded, her voice high and refined, the pride in her words unmistakable—but not boastful. She carried her authority openly, and Aun'Jash respected her for it.
"I may add that we, the Ethereal Council, are more than pleased to finally find a form of authority with whom we may have direct contact. Too much blood has been spilt between us. We would like to believe that peace is not beyond our grasp. And I hope Her Highness shares this vision," Aun'Jash said, watching closely for any reaction. He caught the faintest twitch of Jek's eyebrow at the mention of the Princess—a flicker, quickly suppressed.
"Her Highness believes so as well; it is one of the reasons she has made great efforts to contact the T'au Empire," Jek replied smoothly. "Our Princess is a wise ruler. She understands that nothing is gained by our two empires warring, especially given the present circumstances."
"Yes, indeed. The chaotic nature of the times is too dangerous to ignore," Aun'Jash agreed, meeting her gaze with calm conviction.
Jek gestured, and a pair of Imperium emissaries emerged from behind, bearing golden scrolls and a polished data-slate. They presented the documents with a solemn flourish. Aun'Jash glanced over his shoulder; the Water Caste ambassadors moved forward, accepting the offerings and immediately poring over the contents.
"Her Highness is willing to establish a full trade agreement, recognisable borders, and diplomatic envoys for both our empires. She proposes, as well, an immediate ceasefire and the cessation of all military operations against T'au-recognised territories," Jek announced, her words measured, the proposal broad and carefully noncommittal. Aun'Jash and his Water Caste envoys exchanged a glance, but withheld comment—for now.
"A reasonable beginning. However, as you are aware, there remain certain border disputes that must be ratified and respected," Aun'Jash replied diplomatically. One of the Water Caste ambassadors handed a lengthy data slate to Jek. She accepted it with a nod, skimming its contents. It did not take long for her eyes to narrow in understanding; the human envoys flanking her barely concealed their displeasure, though they said nothing as Jek gave them a sidelong, silencing look.
"The recognition of Imperial worlds under T'au rule," Jek recited, her gaze steady.
"They have joined the Tau'va of their own accord, and many are now deeply integrated within our Empire," Aun'Jash said evenly. "It is only natural we seek formal recognition of these worlds as true members of the T'au Empire."
"But they remain spiritually bound to the Ecclesiarchy and the Imperial Creed. Surely you are aware of this," Jek countered. Commander Shadowsun could not deny the truth of it: the Gue'vesa prayed to the God-Emperor and to the Princess as ardently as they did to the Greater Good, blending faiths as though the Greater Good itself were a god.
Commander Shadowsun's lips tightened. The syncretic faith of the Gue'vesa unsettled her. She knew the pain of trying to separate identity from belief, and the shadow of those memories clouded her vision. Aun'Jash, too, remembered the reports from the Fourth Sphere of Expansion—he could read Shadowsun's thoughts with a single glance.
"Our auxiliary forces are free to pursue their own beliefs. The Greater Good does not forbid faith, nor do we force our subjects to renounce it. Old temples remain standing, new ones are raised, and the faithful are allowed their paths," Aun'Jash replied, his voice calm but steely beneath the courtesy. Jek heard the firmness in his words—a kind of tolerance unfamiliar in her experience of Imperial politics.
"Would the T'au Empire permit the Ecclesiarchy to exercise this freedom? To open pilgrimage routes to our holy worlds, and allow our saints and Cardinals to visit the faithful within T'au-controlled space?" Jek asked. One of the Water Caste whispered urgently in Aun'Jash's ear; he listened, then hummed thoughtfully before meeting Jek's gaze.
"We are open to concessions, provided our own terms are met," he replied in kind.
Jek leaned back, studying him with new interest, the game now fully underway. But Jek had many opportunities because the Princess was with her.
Part III - The Custodian Hierarchy
Trajann Valoris, Captain General of the Adeptus Custodes, belonged to the most elite body of warriors ever wrought by human hands—an order whose duty surpassed all others. There was no arrogance in Valoris's bearing, no boastful strut or self-important rhetoric. For him, the supremacy of the Custodes was not pride, but fact—etched as indelibly into his consciousness as it was encoded in his very genome.
The Adeptus Custodes were the Emperor's sword and shield, their mere presence a living extension of his will. This truth was stitched into their purpose with every strand of golden gene-seed. Yet, deeper still, older than any living Custodian, was a law—a hierarchy as old as the Custodes themselves.
It bore many names, the oldest and most formal being the Lex Aurea Hereditatis, Protectionis et Tutelae: The Golden Law of Inheritance, Protection, and Guardianship. Malcador the Sigilite, in his wisdom, had insisted on such a grand, cumbersome title so none would mistake its gravity. But among the Custodians, it was known by a simpler term: the Custodian Hierarchy.
For all its ceremony and history, the law was stark in its simplicity. The Adeptus Custodes answered to no authority but the Emperor himself. No law, no council, no inquisitorial decree could bind a Custodian—save for a single exception. One being, second only to the Emperor, for whom the Custodes would bend the knee and raise their shields: the Princess, the heiress anointed by the Emperor's own hand.
She alone could act as his voice, wield his authority, and command the loyalty of the Emperor's golden guardians. The Princess was, by imperial design, the living regent of the Imperium—the sole inheritor of the Emperor's purpose and power.
This was not an entirely new precedent. In the distant past, Malcador himself had stood as regent, bearing the Emperor's trust and the Custodes' protection. But Malcador had been a singular figure, a confidant and tutor to the Imperial household, a man whose wisdom shaped the very future of the Imperium. The Princess, however, was unique in a different way.
For she alone had been named Imperial Princess by the Emperor himself, sole heiress to his legacy. No High Lord, no Primarch, could claim such a title or privilege—only her.
Thus was the hierarchy set: the Emperor above all, the Princess his chosen successor. It had been decreed long before the banners of the Great Crusade had unfurled. Valoris, like every Captain-General before him, had pored over the ancient tomes and scrolls, their pages inked by those who had stood at the Emperor's side when the law was first spoken.
It was clear—the difference in how the Princess and the Primarchs were regarded, not only by the Emperor but by the Custodes and the Sisters of Silence, as chronicled in those ancient tomes. The Princess's creation was shrouded in mystery, her genesis fundamentally unlike that of the Primarchs. The records spoke only in vague terms: the Emperor had used other methods, perhaps gentler, perhaps more subtle, to inspire unbreakable loyalty in her. Valoris could only speculate, but the result was undeniable—a different path, a different purpose.
The Princess was raised not in distant laboratories or on scattered worlds, but within the heart of the Imperial Palace itself. She was shaped under the watchful eyes of the Emperor, Malcador, and even Constantin Valdor. Her lessons were not only of war and conquest, but of unity—why humanity was scattered, and why it must be brought together again.
Valoris had studied the accounts intently: the Princess, in the eyes of the Emperor's closest companions, was the embodiment of hope for the future—a living bridge to humanity's true potential. Unlike the Primarchs, bred for conquest, her education, her duty, and her loyalty were all directed toward healing and elevating the Imperium. The testimonies of Custodes from the era of the Great Crusade painted a figure of warmth and devotion, brilliant and compassionate, inventing technologies that hinted at a new golden age just over the horizon.
To Valoris, the tone of these writings was almost too optimistic, too idealised—but then, they were composed at the dawn of the Great Crusade, a different age with different expectations. Even so, the truth of her unique influence was undeniable. The Princess's return had been the most pivotal event in the Imperium's recent history. The pace of change she wrought left even Valoris reeling. She had not merely returned—she had mended the Emperor's soul, sustaining it with her own mysterious power; she had made it possible for him to speak again, not through dreams or cryptic omens, but with a presence as real as anyone seated in the throne room. Not always, of course, but enough to remind the Custodes that their liege was truly among them.
Had the Custodes been as zealous as the Ecclesiarchy priest, they might have fallen to their knees in worship. But their devotion was of a different kind, revived and sharpened by her presence. They were once more more than golden statues guarding a silent throne—they were living sentinels, renewed by purpose, by hope, and by the living legacy of their Emperor.
And that was why the Princess's return carried such monumental weight—why the loyalty of the Adeptus Custodes and the revitalised Anathema Psykana was now unshakably bound to her. It was not just the legacy of ancient law or tradition, but the Emperor's own living decree, spoken before Trajann Valoris himself: his daughter, his heir, was now the Imperium's hope. The future of humanity rested upon her slender shoulders.
Should she fall—should the Princess be slain—the Emperor's fate would be sealed alongside humanity, and the Imperium would crumble into darkness. Their destinies, father and daughter, were now inextricably entwined, and every Custodian understood the gravity of that truth with a clarity that needed no further words.
Valoris bore the immense responsibility of safeguarding the Princess and serving as her right hand—her regent shield. He moved through the Golden Tower in silence, a lone sentinel amid the labyrinthine corridors, ever-vigilant for the slightest breach. The Blood Games had become more frequent, a reflection of the times, and the tension in the air was palpable. As he walked, Trajann's sharp gaze caught sight of the Lionguards and the Battle Sisters of the Order of the Holy Hestias. He harboured his reservations; their presence was not to his personal liking. Yet he could not deny their effectiveness, nor their necessity. Protecting the Princess transcended personal bias—every resource, every tool, had its purpose. Even them.
Their usefulness is noted. Their zeal, however, remains too much of an affront to my taste, Valoris mused as he approached the gates that guarded the most sacred space on Terra, second only to the Golden Throne itself. The main tower—her residence, her sanctuary, her office—was a fortress within a fortress. Three passages, each sealed by a massive door, stood between any visitor and the Princess's inner sanctum. At every threshold, a Captain-Commander of the Custodes stood watch, commanding squads of Tharanatoi Terminator Custodians, Custodian Wardens, and Sentinel Guards.
Sisters of Silence, led by Knight-Centuras, patrolled every corridor, their new golden armour gleaming, their faces carved from discipline and resolve. Their eyes met Valoris's, cold and appraising; their Null aura pressed against him, but he did not flinch. They saluted with precision before resuming their patrol.
Valoris felt no insult at the scrutiny. If they had let him pass without challenge, only then would he have been affronted. The Captain-Commanders were the same—all were fulfilling their sacred duty.
At last, the final door came into view—unique among all the gates in the tower. Forged by the Princess's brothers, it was a marvel of defensive engineering, able to withstand the fury of a plasma cannon. Beyond it lay the Princess's private chambers, and before it stood the mightiest of Terra's protectors: the Hetaeron Guard, the Emperor's Companions, and among them, the Custodes Immortalis—ancient warriors reborn in living nanoarmour, their secrets known only to the Princess. Some bore names that echoed through legend, veterans of the Unification Wars, guardians who had watched the Princess grow from childhood.
Valoris inclined his head in solemn respect to these immortal sentinels, acknowledging the unbroken chain of vigilance that protected the Imperium's greatest hope.
"Captain-General Valoris," intoned one of the Custodes Immortalis, saluting with the flawless precision of ages past. The voice was distinctly feminine, bearing the lilt and gravitas of ancient Terra—a voice that echoed with memory and loyalty. She was taller than most, her presence radiating both strength and a kind of quiet familiarity. Valoris knew she had been close to the Princess since childhood, roused from her millennia-long vigil only recently, along with the other Immortalis at the Princess's command. It was no surprise; all of the Custodes Immortalis had been present since the very day the Princess first opened her eyes. Their bond with her was both natural and profound.
"Sister El'bera," Valoris replied, mirroring her salute. "Is Her Highness awake?"
Sister El'bera let out what Valoris recognised as a tired sigh—an odd sound coming from one who no longer had lungs. "Her Highness is awake and has, once again, forgotten to eat."
Valoris caught the hint of exasperation in Sister El'bera's tone and, though he would never admit it aloud, found it quietly amusing. The massive gate slid open with a hydraulic whisper. The Princess's chambers opened, and were as elegant as they were cosy. It didn't take Valoris long to find the princess's office, revealing the Princess-Regent at her desk—an island of focus amid the whirring, clicking chaos of data-slates, cogitators, parchment scrolls, and tirelessly circling servo-skulls. The room buzzed with ceaseless motion, yet the Princess herself seemed untouched by the chaos, her eyes flicking from screen to document, signing with one hand, dispatching letters by servo-skull with the other, then moving seamlessly on to the next task—all in contemplative silence.
Upon her table, a tray of food had grown cold. A Battle Sister of the Order of the Holy Hestias stood nearby, vigilant but silent, perhaps unwilling to disrupt the Princess's concentration.
Trajann approached the desk and spoke gently, "Your Highness."
The Princess looked up, momentarily startled, but then offered a wry smile. "Oh, Captain-General," Aurelia said, setting aside her work with a declaration that she would take a break.
Ra Endymion, another Custode Immortalis stationed beside her, inclined his gleaming head. "I have advised Her Highness to rest…"
"It hasn't been that long," Aurelia protested, rising to her feet. "How long has it been?"
"Around forty minutes," Ra replied.
Aurelia's frown deepened as she eyed the long-cooled soup and tea. The Hestia at her side looked anxious, but Aurelia quickly realised the blame was her own.
"I did it again," she sighed, shaking her head.
"My Princess, allow me—" the flustered Hestia began, but Aurelia gently waved her off.
"It's alright, my fault," Aurelia assured her, settling at the small table where the food waited.
"My Princess, the food is cold," the Sister said softly.
"It's alright, Sister Genieve. Lukewarm food won't harm me," Aurelia replied with a gentle smile, raising her tea to her lips. "See, still delicious."
Aurelia turned her gaze to Valoris, her expression apologetic. "I'm sorry, Captain-General. I know the ongoing campaign against the Genestealers on Terra has demanded much of your time—and the efforts of so many others."
"They are elusive, Your Highness, but not indestructible," Valoris replied, his tone resolute.
Aurelia understood well the limitations of her own power. The radiant aura she wielded—so effective against the Immaterium, against the Warp and its denizens—seemed to have the opposite effect on the Genestealers. Her very presence and the light of the Astronomicon acted as a lure, drawing the Hive Mind's attention like moths to a flame. She knew why, and she had confided her suspicions to Trajann and her brothers: she was, in essence, the ember of creation, a delicacy not for her flesh, but for the metaphysical energy she embodied.
Only days before, Genestealers had attempted to breach the Golden Tower itself, forcing the entire Imperial Palace into lockdown and sparking a brief but furious skirmish. The discovery of a Genestealer Cult festering beneath the Palace was a profound shock—a stain on the honour of the Custodes. In the aftermath, Trajann and Rogal Dorn had mobilised every force at their disposal: the Inquisition, Arbites, Lionsguard, Sisters of the Hestia, Custodes, Sisters of Silence, Officio Assassinorum—every weapon in the Imperium's arsenal, all bent to the task of purging this threat from Holy Terra. They called it the Unthinkable War, and its battles still raged, as Aurelia saw in every grim report that crossed her desk.
"I've read that Blade Champion Aristothes Carvellan is leading the hunt for this Patriarch Begeter," Aurelia said, her voice thoughtful.
"Yes, Your Highness, and if possible, we hope to take it alive," Valoris replied.
Aurelia closed one eye, humming softly. Valoris recognised the sign—a vision, a glimpse of possible futures. For an instant, her eye shimmered with a greenish light before returning to its normal hue.
"I'll instruct Magos Malthus to assist you," she said, lowering her voice. "He's experimenting with… unusual technologies designed to target Tyranids. If we can capture the Patriarch, we may finally find a way to craft a weapon against them." She leaned closer, her words a private warning. "But keep an eye on Magos Malthus. He can be… overzealous."
"I'll remind Brother Aristothes to be patient," Valoris replied, inclining his head. Aurelia returned to her meal, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
After a moment, she looked to Sister Genieve and offered a gentle smile. "Would you mind bringing me some fresh-baked bread and a few grapes?" she asked. The Hestia bowed and departed. Valoris and the other Custodians exchanged silent glances—knowing full well it was a polite ruse to grant the Princess a few moments of privacy.
After a moment's silence, Aurelia fixed Valoris with a direct gaze. "Speak freely, Captain-General Valoris. I wish for your honest opinion."
"Of course, Your Highness," he replied, curiosity piqued as to what lay behind her request.
"You've met my two brothers—Dorn and Roboute," Aurelia continued, her tone gentle but intent. Ra and several of the Custodes Immortalis exchanged subtle glances, well aware of what the Princess was truly asking. "What do you make of them? Of the Primarchs as a whole?"
Valoris understood the gravity of the question—and the reason she had summoned all the Custodes Immortalis. The Custodes' opinions of the Primarchs had never truly been secret, but there was a chasm between those who had stood at the Primarchs' sides in the Great Crusade and the newer generations who had only known their legends. Valoris took a thoughtful pause, weighing his words.
Rogal Dorn was as the ancient tales described: resolute, unyielding—a fortress made flesh. Yet the Dorn Valoris seemed changed from the stories of the Siege of Terra. He was calmer, less rigid, surprisingly pragmatic, and determined not to be shackled by the past. As the Praetorian of Terra, Dorn remained a towering symbol of Imperial strength, but even the strongest walls can crack. Valoris suspected there were wounds within Dorn that only the Princess could truly heal.
Roboute Guilliman, by contrast, was the consummate administrator—the master of logistics, command, and the machinery of empire. Valoris did not hate Guilliman's methods, even if he found them grating at times. He understood their necessity; the Imperium was more than an army, it was a vast, hungry civilisation that demanded order and care. Guilliman saw the broader tapestry, and for that, Valoris respected him. Yet he was convinced the Primarch's return would have been far rockier had the Princess not been present to anchor and temper him.
He spoke at last, his tone measured and professional. "The return of the Primarchs is, in principle, a remarkable event. They bring stability, vision, and a sense of control that the Imperium desperately needed—especially in their stewardship of the Imperial Guard, the Navis Imperialis, and the Space Marine Chapters."
Aurelia's eyes narrowed, perceptive as ever. "But…?"
Valoris inclined his head. "But they are as dangerous as they ever were—formidable commanders, yes, and able to draw forth the best from the Imperium when it is most needed. Yet my trust in them is pragmatic, not personal. I see them as powerful and useful tools of the Emperor's will—necessary, but never to be trusted without caution."
Aurelia's lips curved in a wry, knowing smile. "And tools not only break, but sometimes turn against their maker," she finished, her words echoing Valoris's own unspoken thought. Silently, the assembled Custodes—both ancient and new—murmured their agreement.
Aurelia's smile faded, replaced by a look of inner strain—a grimace more than true amusement. Her gaze drifted to Tribune Ra Endymion, whose stance toward the Primarchs was openly hostile, then to Diocletian Coros, the last of the Custodes Immortalis she had personally overseen. Even encased in his gleaming armour, she could sense his disdain; it was a mercy Guilliman was not in the room, for Diocletian would have voiced his distrust—perhaps even his outright hatred. Tribune Kadai Vilaccan, survivor of the bloody Webway War and now immortalized in unique warplate, was more reticent, but the tension in his silence spoke volumes.
"May I ask, why do you inquire, Your Highness?" Valoris broke the silence, curiosity and caution mingling in his tone.
Aurelia exhaled, settling back in her chair, her shoulders heavy with the burdens of command. "Because I want to know if Custodes and Primarchs can work together. I don't expect friendship—just enough pragmatism to get the job done." Her voice softened, tinged with memory. "Not all of my brothers are like Sanguinius, who was easy to respect, even love. There's always been tension between Primarchs and Custodes. I've seen it—sometimes mild, sometimes nearly insurmountable. After the Siege of Terra, when Father's Custodes were so few… things were strained."
Diocletian gave a subtle tilt of his helm—a gesture that, had he lungs, might have been a hiss. Aurelia chose to ignore it.
"Our duty will not waver, Your Highness. We will do what is required," Valoris affirmed, his words crisp and formal.
Aurelia chuckled. "That's a very Custodian way of saying you'll tolerate my brothers' presence."
Valoris offered no denial, and Aurelia nodded, accepting the truth for what it was.
She rose, snatching up a data-slate. "Still, I won't allow miscommunication between Father's guardians and my brothers. That would be costly, and I trust the Custodes to see the bigger picture." Her eyes darted over the slate, and she grimaced, sighing deeply. "Though it seems my dear brother has taken it upon himself to teach the Custodes with him the very human emotions of exasperation and despair."
She handed the slate to Valoris. "It's from Tribune Colquan," she explained.
Valoris scanned the message, his eyebrows twitching as he read. He glanced up to see Aurelia looking sheepish, as if caught in some cosmic joke. He read aloud:
"The Lord Commander appears to enjoy exposing himself to danger. Lord Guilliman has taken great pleasure in making the Custodes find it very hard to do their duty, as the Lord Commander has decided to forsake rational thinking and do unnecessary actions. The most recent, for example, includes jumping from a bridge—"
"It wasn't that tall," Aurelia interjected, half-heartedly defending her brother.
"It was three hundred meters tall," Valoris replied, voice dry, already picturing Tribune Colquan's mounting frustration.
"Well… height builds character?" Aurelia offered a nervous smile, tugging at her lips.
Valoris closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. For a moment, he understood exactly why Tribune Colquan might fantasise about throttling Roboute Guilliman. He couldn't allow it—but the thought was oddly comforting.