As the engines of the gunship died down, only the whistling of the dry, hot winds of Badab Primaris remained on the landing pad. However, that wind was soon replaced by a different kind of silence.
Endymion's brow furrowed slightly.
When Huron spoke passionately about "cleansing the universe with the momentum of thunder," the Custodian Tribune felt a powerful sense of déjà vu. That oratorical posture—it was similar. It was far too similar. It was as if a replica of Roboute Guilliman stood upon a high platform, addressing a gathered Legion of Ultramarines.
During the height of the Great Crusade, Endymion had witnessed the speeches of the Master of the Thirteenth Legion on more than one occasion. Guilliman, a son of Macragge, was a master of oratory; he could make the most rational warrior's blood boil for his vision, make the most complex strategy sound simple and clear, and command the loyalty of an entire Legion.
And at this moment, Huron was exuding that same aura.
From the corner of his eye, Endymion glanced at Diocletian beside him. Through the tacit understanding forged from their partnership during the Unification Wars of Terra, he could already feel the chill radiating from his companion.
As expected, he thought. I knew it. A total case of PTSD acting up.
"Oh, is that so?"
Diocletian's voice was icy, his pupils reflecting Huron's slightly startled face. "Then what about the other sectors? Chapter Master Huron, are you aware of how many resources the Imperium would need to mobilize a force sufficient to cleanse the entire Maelstrom? How many warships, how many supply lines, and how much Legion strength—which could otherwise garrison other fragile worlds—would be required?"
Huron opened his mouth to respond, but Diocletian gave him no chance.
"For what?" The Custodian Tribune took a step forward. "Is it because of some practical benefit the Imperium would gain from conquering the Maelstrom? Or is it so that you—Lufgt Huron—can obtain some ridiculous 'Astartes Honor'?"
"No, I am not—"
Huron's voice was cut short. Behind him, a slight commotion broke out among the Astartes; the fingers of the Honor Guard were already pressing against the grips of their weapons.
"Do you think the Imperium is blind to your actions in the Badab Sector?" Diocletian's voice continued relentlessly. "Withholding tithes, withholding Gene-seed taxes, covertly building an independent army, and annexing Chapters that have already split off... I suspect there is a massive question mark over the actual number of the Astral Claws Chapter right now, isn't there?"
Of course, Diocletian did not yet know that Huron had used Gene-seed for experiments involving the Warp—experiments that failed and consumed the entire stock. Had he known, he might have added another charge to the list, or perhaps simply struck then and there.
This time, the unrest became obvious. The sound of armor grinding came from the Astartes phalanx, and nearly a hundred pairs of eyes projected wary or even hostile gazes through their lenses.
Huron's expression darkened. "Tribune, you are insulting the honor of our Chapter."
"Honor?" Diocletian's face remained expressionless. But as he recalled the Great Heresy, the Siege of Terra, and even the fall of the Emperor, he spoke with a sharp edge of pain. "Heh, honor again. It has been ten thousand years. You Astartes never change in that regard."
"Enough!" Huron finally snapped. He stepped forward, the servo-motors of his Terminator armor emitting a low hum. The face of the Lord of Badab was etched with offended rage. "That is still better than sitting idly in the Imperial Palace for ten millennia! At least we are still fighting! At least we are guarding this Imperium!"
Diocletian laughed. It was a cold, joyless sound.
"Interesting. I won't speak of the Custodes' mission to guard the Golden Throne, but I will mention one thing," he said. "Do I need to remind you who created the 'Restriction Order' that prevents the Custodes from leaving the Palace in large numbers? Was it not your Primarch—the great Roboute Guilliman—who wrote those rules in black and white ten thousand years ago?"
Huron fell silent. His lips thinned into a straight line. The Astartes behind him also fell into a hush. They could not refute this fact. After all, regardless of anything else, the Astral Claws were a successor Chapter of the Ultramarines, and Guilliman was their gene-father. They had no room for rebuttal.
"However, that probably doesn't convince you at all, does it? After all, in your heart, you don't take the laws left by your gene-father seriously," Diocletian continued, his tone returning to a frigid calm. "Otherwise, why wouldn't you properly look at that Codex written by Roboute Guilliman ten millennia ago? Why haven't you honestly maintained a size of one thousand men according to its regulations?"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the phalanx behind Huron.
"In any case, I'd wager," Diocletian's voice dropped, yet every word reached the ears of everyone present. "You definitely don't have just a thousand men. With so much Gene-seed tax withheld—just how many Astartes does the Astral Claws have now? Two thousand? Or three thousand?"
In that instant, the atmosphere exploded.
"You—!"
A Space Marine in MK7 power armor, with insignia emblazoned on his pauldrons, lunged out from the phalanx. He moved with incredible speed, reaching Huron's side almost the moment the words were spoken.
"I am the Tyrant's Champion, Corien Sumatris, Captain of the Astral Claws Honor Guard! I hereby request an Honorary Duel!" His voice thundered across the landing pad. "Because you are insulting the honor of our Astartes Chapter! Even the Emperor's Custodes have no right to trample upon ten thousand years of blood and sacrifice!"
Diocletian looked at him, a flash of complex emotion in his eyes.
"Very well," he said simply, tightening his grip on his Guardian Spear. Sensing its master's will, the weapon's energy field began to hum, and the blade flickered with a dangerous disruption field.
But just then, a hand pressed down on Diocletian's pauldron. Ra Endymion stepped forward, positioning himself between Diocletian and Huron.
"Let me," he said calmly.
Endymion knew all too well that if Diocletian were the one to fight, today's events might truly become irreconcilable. His companion had clearly never moved past the shadow of the Great Heresy and had accumulated ten thousand years of resentment toward the Primarchs and their sons.
Endymion turned toward the Astartes phalanx, his eyes deep.
"Custodian Tribune, Ra Endymion," he announced his name calmly. "I accept your request for an Honorary Duel."
Huron opened his mouth as if to say something but ultimately just nodded heavily. He looked at the Chapter Champion standing beside him, and Corien met his gaze with steady determination.
And so, the welcoming ceremony ended on a sour note, dissolving into a tense, sword-drawn atmosphere.
_______
If only I knew who everyone except Ra Endymion is...