Part I - A talk with Faith
The Princess wasted no time in attempting to steer the Imperium away from the edge of doom. That alone was no small feat; the Imperium's nature was a monolith, immutable even to the so-called gods of the Immaterium. Many had tried before, to no avail. Not even the Emperor himself—when he still walked among the living—could truly change the flow of humanity's fate. Lorgar's humiliation at Monarchia had only deepened the wound of faith, not healed it; Horus's betrayal was born of failures and divisions that began long before the final split; Magnus's folly shattered the last hope of the Emperor's dream, leaving it to drift as dust. Aurelia understood all this. She made no pretence of being able to save humanity with a gesture, nor did she believe she could snap the Ecclesiarch's grip from the soul of the Imperium. That battle was unwinnable, no matter her power.
So Aurelia chose another path: she began with the Ecclesiarch itself.
The cult devoted to her father, her brothers, and now herself, was too deeply woven into the Imperium's social fabric, law, and daily life to be simply excised. Guilliman saw the Ecclesiarch for what it was—too vast to dismantle, too deeply rooted for the common citizen to live without. Dorn, for his part, despised it, seeing in its rituals and dogma the death of the Emperor's original dream—a rational, united humanity, lost to superstition.
And yet, both brothers recognised the truth: the cult was a tool too powerful to ignore. It provided unity, propaganda, and control on a scale unmatched by any other institution. With that in mind, Aurelia decided to harness that zeal, to channel the fervour not for division, but for survival.
She spoke candidly with her brothers about her vision—how the Ecclesiarch could become an instrument of expansion, cohesion, and hope for the Imperium. It was easy to say she would use it for propaganda; Guilliman and Dorn, despite personal revulsion, understood that survival demanded every resource, even those they found distasteful. For now, they would accept what was necessary to carry humanity through the coming storm.
Aurelia also discussed her intentions with her father. The Emperor, true to his nature, despised every prayer uttered in his name, but in this era, that hatred was all he could muster. For now, enduring the worship he never wanted was the price of giving the Imperium a chance at survival.
This was another crucial truth—Aurelia and the Emperor did not always see eye to eye. In fact, they openly disagreed on many matters now, something few in the galaxy could have imagined possible. The notion of someone defying, even refusing the Emperor, was once unthinkable. Yet Aurelia had outgrown the child who once hungered for her father's approval, those words of praise that never came. She no longer hesitated to look him in the eye and tell him plainly: He was wrong.
He was wrong about faith. Wrong about what he did to Lorgar. Wrong to keep Magnus in the dark, to let ignorance fester. Wrong in his methods and in his stubborn refusal to see another way. Wrong to hide so much from his own sons. Aurelia understood his reasoning, of course; she saw why, at the time, it must have seemed the only path forward. But she could not condone his choices, nor accept the wounds they left behind.
As she once told him in a dream, "I am ruling now. Not you." The Emperor, for the first time, acknowledged the change. His daughter was no longer the child he remembered, and he was no longer the father she had longed for. At last, he relented, telling her to lead as she saw fit—to see if she could succeed where he had failed.
Which was why she now found herself preparing to meet Eos Ritira, one of the current representatives of the Ecclesiarch on Terra—a High Lord tasked with navigating the turbulent waters of faith and governance. Eos had arrived from Ultramar alongside her brother Roboute, her reputation preceding her as a more level-headed presence than most members of the Holy Synod. Guilliman had vouched for her, or at least assured Aurelia that Eos Ritira would keep the Ecclesiarchy's excesses in check—as much as anyone could hold the Ecclesiarch in check. For Aurelia, that was enough for now.
She waited in her garden, one of Terra's rejuvenated sanctuaries nestled beside the healthy soil where the main farms sprawled. Vegetables, grains, and fruits grew in domes protected by layers of artificial sunlight and reinforced shielding. Since Aurelia had pushed for the new Terraform engines to run around Terra, the sky had begun to clear, sunlight once again touching the ancient peaks, and artificial rains washing away centuries of toxins. Greenery remained a distant dream, but Terra was healthier than it had been in ten millennia—a world slowly healing.
By the lakeside, Aurelia paused, watching the fish swim in clear water. Their vibrant energy was a small but reassuring sign that her efforts were bearing fruit. She checked on them daily, making sure their ecosystem was thriving.
"They look healthy," Aurelia murmured, tossing food to the fish. They snapped it up eagerly, and for a brief, whimsical moment, she almost expected one to look up and demand more—perhaps even to ask for a sun to devour. Then she remembered these were ordinary fish, not C'tan Shards. "I have to stop listening to them," she chuckled softly to herself.
Soon enough, Aurelia sensed a gentle presence drawing near. Eos Ritira approached quietly, clad in unadorned robes—a stark contrast to the opulent, symbol-laden garments worn by most Cardinals. Eos knelt before Aurelia, murmuring a reverent prayer, mindful that she stood before the Emperor's daughter, the Imperial Regent, the torchbearer of humanity's survival. Aurelia, for her part, barely noticed; she was often unaware of the effect she had on others.
Truth be told, her presence was unlike that of her brothers. Roboute and Dorn carried an aura that struck awe into those around them—a grandeur that set them apart as beings beyond human comprehension. To stand before a Primarch was to be overwhelmed by a sense of the uncanny, to feel both fear and reverence in equal measure. Dorn's presence was immovable, like an endless mountain silently judging all who dared to look up. Guilliman exuded supreme authority, as though every word spoken in his presence was measured and weighed.
Aurelia, in contrast, was not a transhuman colossus. She was tall—taller than most women—but not impossibly so. Her presence was like the coming of dawn: gentle, enveloping, and quietly radiant. To be near her was to feel warmth and hope, an all-encompassing sense of renewal. She was not awe-inspiring in the way of her brothers or her father, nor was she the blinding, consuming light of the Emperor himself. His presence, even before he became chained to the Golden Throne, was said to have been like standing before the sun—an overwhelming force that could swallow even the Primarchs in its intensity.
Aurelia's presence was something else entirely: softer, kinder, and more human, yet carrying the quiet certainty of a new beginning. It was a dawn—never demanding worship, but gently inviting faith.
Eos Ritira dared not lift her gaze to meet the Princess's eyes; a sense of unworthiness weighed heavily on her shoulders. Aurelia, noticing this, offered a gentle smile and gestured with a graceful hand. "Please, stand up, Eos Ritira," she said, her voice warm and reassuring.
Eos straightened, bowing her head in respect. "Your Highness, I am at your service."
Aurelia tilted her head, her demeanour inviting rather than commanding. "Walk with me, Eos. There are matters I wish to discuss."
Eos nodded, falling into step beside her. Despite the apparent intimacy of the moment, they were far from alone. The Princess was never unguarded—at least a hundred Custodes surrounded her at all times, along with Lionguard and vigilant sisters of the Order of Hestias. Reaching this serene garden had taken Eos nearly an hour—less because of the distance, and more due to the endless layers of security she'd passed through. Even now, she was acutely aware that every glance, every word, was being weighed and measured by unseen eyes.
She wondered, not for the first time, if the Officio Assassinorum ever let the Princess out of their sight. The answer, though she would never know, was a resounding yes. At this very moment, a Vindicare assassin had her in his sights, while two Callidus agents passed invisibly among the Adepta Sororitas. The Princess's protection was as absolute as it was invisible—an ever-present shadow ensuring that nothing would threaten the hope of humanity.
They walked together along the tranquil edge of the lake, Eos Ritira keeping a respectful distance—a space dictated by reverence and uncertainty. Aurelia's steps were unhurried, her presence gentle yet impossible to ignore, her voice soft but imbued with a subtle, irresistible authority.
"My brother tells me you're working on reforms within the Ecclesiarch," Aurelia began, her tone conversational but her gaze keen.
"Yes, Your Highness," Eos replied, her voice careful yet earnest. "I am trying to use this position to introduce much-needed changes to the faith. The reforms I am proposing are meant to bring renewal and stability, especially in these uncertain times."
Aurelia hummed in acknowledgement. "And the Holy Synod—how do they receive these ideas?"
Eos sighed, a hint of fatigue in her posture. "They are slow, Your Highness. Especially when it comes to change or making decisive choices. Since the recent purge within their ranks, reaching consensus is even more difficult."
Aurelia considered this. "Is it possible the Holy Synod could be persuaded to accept broader reforms? A change not only in decrees, but in the very soul of the faith itself?"
Eos looked at her, surprise flickering across her face. "Decrees, Your Highness?"
Aurelia paused, turning to face the lake. "Yes. I intend to use the Ecclesiarch as the conduit for the change that must sweep through the Imperium. It is the only institution with the reach to touch every heart and mind. Change must be felt not just through armies and technology, but through the souls of those who pray in my father's name—and in mine."
For a moment, Aurelia was silent, her gaze fixed on the serene waters. The lake, once polluted and lifeless, now shimmered with new life—a small yet vivid symbol of the slow healing she was determined to bring to the entire Imperium. Faith, prayer, statues, and icons—she would wield them all, turning divinity itself into a tool for humanity's survival. If it meant donning the mantle of a living saint or goddess in the eyes of mankind, then so be it. She would become whatever was required to save her people.
"We serve the God-Emperor, Your Highness," Eos replied, bowing her head in reverence. Then, with cautious curiosity, she asked, "If I may, what sort of changes are you proposing?"
Aurelia regarded her for a long moment before answering. "You've heard about the treaty between the Imperium and the T'au Empire, I presume."
Eos's jaw tightened instinctively. The first official peace with a xeno empire—a concept still difficult for many to accept, herself included. Yet, she knew it was necessary. The Imperium was bleeding, stretched thin across the stars, and it was time to choose their battles wisely. The T'au, with their small cluster of worlds, posed less of a threat than the countless other dangers the Imperium faced. Even so, the Holy Synod clung to the vision of the Emperor and, now, their Princess.
She nodded respectfully. "Of course, Your Highness. Circumstances require it. The Holy Synod believes in the Emperor's grand vision—and in yours."
Aurelia chuckled quietly, her gaze drifting back to the lake. "That's a diplomatic way to put it," she said. "What I intend is to re-establish and revitalise sectors in desperate need—Jericho Reach, for one, and the regions bordering the T'au Empire. I want to spread new reforms throughout the Imperium, but the focus will begin at the borders."
Eos listened intently, waiting for more.
"The core of these reforms will be within the Ecclesiarch," Aurelia continued. "I want you to spread the news—about me, and about the Emperor. Not in body, but in mind and spirit. The people must know that their prayers are finally being heard—by him, and by me."
Eos gasped softly. "Your Highness…"
"Second," Aurelia pressed on, "the Ecclesiarch must focus on the sectors I designate, and begin the work of rebuilding. Jericho Reach, Acteron, Affluix, and Vida Sectors."
Eos hesitated. "Your Highness, some of those are lost… swallowed by the Cicatrix Maledictum."
"Yes," Aurelia agreed, her tone steady. "And the routes to Imperium Nihilus are few, unstable, and contested. The Nachmund Rift is a battlefield, and the other passages are unreliable. But," she added, lowering her voice, "that will soon change."
Eos looked at her, wide-eyed. "Change in what way, Your Highness?"
"I will open more paths," Aurelia declared, turning from the lake to meet Eos's gaze. "And when that day comes, I want the Ecclesiarch to be the torch that lights the darkness."
Aurelia tasted the words—bittersweet, but necessary. She hated what she had to do, but the Imperium was too deep in the abyss for pride or purity to matter now.
"Your Highness… you're the God-Emperor's daughter. His chosen, his light, the goddess for this new age!" Eos whispered, awe and reverence trembling in her voice. Aurelia neither winced nor flinched at the words. She had grown accustomed to such declarations—too preoccupied with the burdens and realities of leadership to let them trouble her now. She understood all too well that prayer, faith, and belief could transform or doom a world just as surely as any war.
But Aurelia was not her father, nor her brothers. She was herself—someone who understood that, to save humanity, she must wield the same tools her foes used against her people.
"Then be prepared for it," Aurelia whispered, her gaze returning to the calm surface of the lake, the ripples reflecting the enormity of what was to come.
Part II - The Endless Way of Space and Time
Aurelia stood in the Basilica Liminalis, her features shifting and fracturing into countless reflections of herself. It was not a matter of making faces out of frustration or private anguish—this was something deeper, stranger. These were facets of herself, variations and echoes, each one wrestling with the same fundamental reality: the impossibility of ever truly ceasing to be what she was. Control, for Aurelia, did not come from denial or suppression, but from accepting the weight of her own existence—and then, with will and discipline, bringing it back to the singular shape of who she was now: a human being.
If she could explain it, she would say it was like trying to give a storm a form and then hold it there, unchanging. But this wasn't merely a storm. It was the ember of creation, the living spark of existence—a primordial fire, the first concept, the seed of all life and form. To bind that into a single vessel, to keep the infinite contained, was a task beyond comprehension. Especially now, as Aurelia felt herself growing, her power deepening in ways that language could scarcely contain. The word "power" itself felt almost childish—lacking nuance, meaning, and weight—when applied to beings like her.
One might call the C'tan powerful, back when they were star vampires, feasting on the galaxy as if it were their private larder. One might use the word for the Chaos Gods, who exist as endless, shifting archetypes—constant presences, yet forever changing. But such a word never truly encompassed what those beings were. The C'tan were more than gluttonous cosmic predators; the Chaos Gods were more than mere personifications of mortal emotions and concepts. These entities existed beyond limitation—beyond death, time, or even the notion of stasis. Their "power" was something utterly alien to mortal comprehension. For a human, a bolt-action rifle was powerful. A plasma gun, a battle tank—these were "powerful." But the comparison ended there.
The Emperor, too, had once been powerful in the sense mortals understood. Then he became something else, transcending those boundaries—until, in order to attain that magnitude, he left more and more of his humanity behind. In the end, only the idea of him remained—raw, unyielding power. Aurelia remembered him as he was in the twilight of the Great Crusade: not cold or cruel, but no longer truly human. After his passage through the Warp gate at Molech, something fundamental had changed. He could still see humanity, but could no longer fully understand it—he was above it, apart from it, seeing mankind as an obligation rather than a kin.
That, Aurelia understood, was the final truth of power. To wield it, to survive its weight, to shape it without being undone, one had to move beyond the mortal mind's brittle limits. Otherwise, the mind would shatter long before it could comprehend what it had become.
For Aurelia, the sensation was always the same: as her power grew, so too did the boundaries of her form strain and blur. The greater she became, the more she risked losing herself to something vast and unknowable.
She sighed, settling beside the galaxy pool, its surface rippling with the pulse of the Great Rift—stars vanishing, war raging, the endless dance of destruction and hope. Then a voice, clear and resonant, cut through the silence: no longer just a whisper.
"You keep doing it, little princess. Forcing the chaos of the universe into a mortal vessel. You're handicapping yourself—limiting the true power inside you," Og'dríada intoned, its moth-angel form now resplendent and unmistakable, shimmering as it made the pool its personal sanctuary.
"If I don't, I lose myself. I lose who I am. I know what you want, Og'dríada, but tell me—what if I become something even worse than you?" Aurelia replied, her voice a balance of anxiety and genuine curiosity.
Og'dríada glided closer, its wings stirring the air. Aurelia approached the C'tan pools, seeing now that these were no longer mere shards. She had not only fed them, but she had helped them mend, to become something closer to what they once were—though not yet returned to their full, terrible glory. For some reason, Aurelia felt no fear; instead, she leaned in, her fingers tracing the edge of Og'dríada's pool, her exhaustion plain.
"I can't keep forcing myself to stay as I am. Even as I grow, even as I test and push my limits… I can't see a future where this ends well," she whispered.
Og'dríada drifted near her hand. Their relationship was strange—less adversarial than symbiotic, a dance of mutual necessity.
"Mortal problems are mysteries to us," the C'tan said. "You invent your own complications. I pity you, even as I find your clinging to humanity… distasteful."
Aurelia let out a weary laugh. "I appreciate your honesty."
Vesh-Kael's voice, reptilian and shifting, rippled through the chamber. "You could lead us—feed us, restore us, and we will destroy your enemies. Your enemies are ours now."
Aurelia smiled wryly. "A generous offer—but I know you're not motivated by kindness."
"No," Vesh-Kael admitted, his form coalescing into a lizard-like shape of ever-changing patterns. "It is survival. If you fall, if your vessel breaks, our existence hangs in the balance. We are bound to you now. Not as we once were, but we are returning. If you give us strength, we could end your foes."
Aurelia didn't respond immediately, lost in thought. "The Necrons are still out there."
"The slaves are not what they once were!" hissed Hsiagn'la, her endless, star-swallowing serpentine form winding through her pond as Aurelia's finger traced along her gleaming scales.
"True. The Infinite Empire is gone, but even a fraction of it means millions of worlds—hundreds of dynasties, billions of Necrons, all waiting. Even with shattered technology, they will rebuild," Aurelia whispered, watching Hsiagn'la enjoy the caress.
"My plan for the Etherway is still only in its infancy. But perhaps you're all right—I can't win this by standing still. Yet I refuse to lose myself, as my father did, or those before me," Aurelia said, rising to address the C'tan in their pools. "I am the ember of creation. My existence is bound to each of you—we are constants in this cosmos. Even if my current form doesn't fit the legend, you all know it's true."
Aurelia turned her gaze back to the galaxy, her voice flat but resolute. "But I doubt anything will ever be so simple. I don't trust you. I'm not naive enough to think this alliance is anything but mutual necessity. You want revenge on those who shattered you. I want humanity to survive. That alignment lasts only as long as our enemy remains. I won't fall for the same lies that trapped Szarekh."
"We are not Mephet'ran!" Hsiagn'la hissed, as if that settled anything.
"No, you're not," Aurelia agreed, "but that doesn't change the danger. Every decision comes with a price—heavy, horrific consequences, not just for me, but for all of us." She stared into the shimmering pool, seeing not just her own reflection, but the branching paths of potential futures.
"You dabble with fate and time, little princess," Vesh-Kael warned, his voice slippery as oil. "You know as well as we do—future and possibility are quicksilver. They split and diverge, especially when you try to look too closely."
"So it's always been said," Aurelia murmured, "but looking lets me see further than blindness ever would."
"You should stop pretending to be a mere mortal," Hsiagn'la admonished, coils undulating with agitation. "Embrace what you are. You're the only one of us who still cares for mortality, for limits, for consequences. That will be your undoing."
Aurelia's eyes lingered on the battered, bleeding galaxy spread before her—on the history of empires that believed themselves untouchable, only to fall to their own arrogance. "I've seen what consequences do. I've watched this galaxy drown in the aftermath of pride and reckless ambition. I won't add another tragedy to this pile of hubris."
She turned to the three C'tan, who waited—whether out of amusement or genuine curiosity, she couldn't say.
"But you're right about one thing," she conceded, walking closer. "I worry—about myself, about what happens to this galaxy after I'm gone. I need a weapon. Something I can wield."
"You intend to use us?" Og'dríada asked, curiosity glinting in his ethereal form.
"Yes. In certain circumstances," Aurelia replied. "You'll have your revenge on the Necrons. In exchange, I'll grant you complete forms again—but on one condition: when it's done, you'll leave this galaxy. I'll send you each to another galaxy—a place with endless stars, a new playground, a new feast. But this," she gestured to the shining spiral before them, "this is my home. I won't have you here."
The trio of C'tan regarded her, inscrutable and ancient. "We are primordial laws made flesh," she continued. "But I am the ember of creation—you're born from me, and we're bound. You can't exist without me, and I can't erase you without wounding myself. This is the only outcome that preserves us all."
Vesh-Kael's voice was a whisper of scales and shifting light. "What did you see?"
"A path," Aurelia replied, gaze distant. "I don't know its end, but it's the one I must follow."
"And if you fail? Like your golden Emperor?" Vesh-Kael pressed.
"Then… I fail," Aurelia said simply.
"No. You can't fail, little princess," Og'driada hissed, voice trembling with something between hunger and awe. Aurelia arched an amused eyebrow.
"I didn't know you treasured my life so highly."
"Not your life—what you are. Szarekh will find you, eventually. You're the ember of creation; strip away flesh and bone, and you are possibility itself—a wellspring of answers, the power of life and creation. For us, you're sustenance, primordial law, and more. For others, you're the key to reclaiming their bodies—and so much more."
Aurelia met Og'drada's gaze and nodded with quiet resolve. "I know. Szarekh would use me—break me, as he broke all of you. He'd turn me into an endless ember, a foundation for a new empire raised from the bones of his people. That's as much a reason as any why we must not fail."
She drew a deep breath, determination hardening her features. "But it's not enough. I need more. We all need more." Her thoughts drifted to the Etherway project—an undertaking that would demand an unimaginable reservoir of energy, a scale of power beyond even what she now commanded. And that was only the beginning.
Still, Aurelia steeled herself. She would not fail. Not here. Not now. Not with everything at stake.