The outer defense perimeter of the Aurelian System.
There is no sound in the void, but if a psyker were present, they would hear a voice of vast, profound compassion.
It was the psychic echo unconsciously radiating from the warriors of the Blood Angels Legion as the Ninth Legion's fleet navigated through the Warp.
Mingled within this echo was a pursuit of beauty, a yearning for salvation, and the ever-present Red Thirst deeply embedded in their genetic code.
The Gloriana-class battleship Red Tear was the first to phase out of the Warp.
Spanning ten kilometers in length, its hull lacked the harsh, angular lines of the Fist of Iron. Instead, it featured flowing curves and wing-like structures, resembling a massive bird spreading its wings across the sea of stars.
The ship's prow bore a crimson eye, and its hull was painted in the iconic blood red and gold of the Blood Angels.
A statue of a six-winged angel was sculpted onto the bow, each feather inlaid with adamantium foil that gleamed brilliantly under the starlight.
Following closely behind were three battle barges, twelve strike cruisers, and dozens of escort frigates.
The entire fleet maintained a flawless wedge formation, their thruster wakes carving hundreds of azure trails through the void.
"Arrived at designated coordinates. Aurelian IV is 0.3 light-minutes away." The Navigator's voice echoed through the bridge's comm array, trembling slightly from prolonged exposure to the Warp.
Sanguinius stood before the observation deck's grand window.
Today, he was not clad in his famously radiant armor, opting instead for a simple white tunic.
But the pristine white wings upon his back unfurled naturally, each feather shimmering with a faint, golden psychic luminescence.
The Emperor's ninth son stood over three and a half meters tall, his features boasting a breathtaking, flawless perfection.
It was a trait shared among all the Primarchs, but it manifested with unparalleled prominence in Sanguinius.
Deep within his gilded, amber-slitted eyes, golden hues danced as if entire constellations were shifting inside his pupils.
It was his precognition passively at work.
Azkaellon, Commander of the Sanguinary Guard, stepped forward. The battle-hardened veteran was clad in artificer power armor, his pauldron etched with seven honor rings of combat. "Father. The identification signals of the Iron Hands fleet have been confirmed. Lord Ferrus invites you aboard the Fist of Iron."
Sanguinius gave a slight nod.
His gaze pierced through the viewing port, falling upon the distant, grayish-yellow planet.
Aurelian IV.
It was the very picture of a typical mining and industrial world. The atmosphere was polluted into a murky, yellowish-brown haze. Across its surface, vast stretches of exposed strip mines and towering hive spires were visible, making the planet look like a rock riddled with metallic boils.
Within Sanguinius's psychic vision, the fog that constantly shrouded the planet's surface was gradually clearing.
Yet, some form of cognitive interference still lingered, preventing his prophetic sight from clearly grasping the threads of fate woven within the world.
"Fascinating," Sanguinius murmured softly to himself.
The last time he had felt something similar was in the presence of the Emperor. His peerlessly majestic father was a being whose very existence could warp all prophecies.
But this was just a fringe industrial mining world.
"Azkaellon."
"Here, Father."
"Have the fleet take over defense duties according to standard protocols. Bring the Crimson Fist squad and accompany me aboard," Sanguinius ordered, turning around as his wings folded neatly against his back. "Let us see just what my brother Ferrus has discovered here... something interesting enough to warrant his personal vigil for an entire month."
–
Fist of Iron, Upper Hangar.
The area had been temporarily converted into a reception zone.
True to the style of the Iron Hands, there were no flashy decorations or ostentatious honor guards here.
There were only two neatly arrayed columns of Terminators standing at attention.
On the left stood the Morlocks, the honor guard of the Iron Hands Primarch. Clad in Cataphractii Terminator armor painted in the Legion's signature silver-grey, their pauldrons were etched with the insignia of a gear and a clenched fist.
Each Terminator had undergone heavy cybernetic modifications. Their external armor plating was thicker, exposed hydraulic cables snaked around their joints, and their optic lenses flickered with an icy red glare.
On the right stood a Terminator squad of the Blood Angels' Sanguinary Guard.
They were also encased in Cataphractii plate, but painted in rich blood red and gold, their pauldrons intricately sculpted with angelic wings.
Compared to the Iron Hands warriors, their degree of modification was noticeably lower. The gazes behind their visors still retained a warmer, more human touch.
Two distinct styles. Two different Legions.
Yet, at this moment, both stood in solemn silence, the barrels of their bolters angled towards the deck in a gesture of peace.
The hangar blast doors slid open.
As Sanguinius entered, every Terminator simultaneously raised their right fist, striking their chest plates in unison.
Clang!
The metallic impact echoed with perfect synchronicity.
Opposite him, Ferrus Manus strode forward to meet his brother.
The Primarch of the Tenth Legion was similarly unequipped in his full battle plate. He wore lightweight carapace armor, leaving his famed silver-grey alloy arms completely exposed.
They were the result of his triumph on his homeworld of Medusa, where he drowned a massive, great silver wyrm known as Asirnoth, fusing its living metal into his very flesh and blood.
It was the very origin of the Iron Hands' name.
Ferrus's voice was deep and steady. "Brother. Your fleet arrived right on schedule."
The two Primarchs halted in the center of the hangar, stopping five paces apart.
Sanguinius smiled, an expression radiant enough to make even the most stubborn heretic forget their hatred. "The Departmento Munitorum's transfer orders were drafted in quite a rush. I'm guessing... someone doesn't want you lingering here any longer?"
His words were sharp and direct.
This was Sanguinius's style. He was an idealist, but he was far from naive.
Ferrus's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Just the tricks of some Fabricator-General within the Mechanicus. They thought that by transferring me away and tossing in a random company to garrison the planet, they could reclaim control over this world. But what they didn't anticipate was that you would be the one taking over the defense."
The two walked side-by-side toward the bridge.
Behind them, the Morlocks and the Sanguinary Guard followed in silence, their heavy footfalls echoing across the hangar deck.
"So, what exactly is so special about this planet?" Sanguinius asked, the tips of his wings lightly brushing against the polished metal floor. "What makes it worth a Fabricator-General pulling strings through Terra's political web?"
"Minerals, resources, and..." Ferrus paused for a moment. "...a rather unusual group of mortals."
–
The Banquet Hall, Fist of Iron.
Calling it a banquet hall was generous; in truth, it looked more like a retrofitted large-scale tactical analysis room.
A long metal table sat without any decorative tablecloth, flanked by standard-issue bridge command chairs.
The food arranged on the table was equally monotonous.
High-energy nutrient paste blocks, synthetic protein bars, and vitamin supplement tablets.
There were also a few platters of roasted meats and vegetables that actually resembled real food, likely a makeshift spread prepared specifically to host the Blood Angels.
The beverages, however, were notably special.
Before each seat rested a crystal goblet filled with a clear liquid that gave off a faint, golden halo under the harsh lighting.
Next to the goblets sat a metallic cigarette case, its surface etched with intricate cog-wheel patterns.
"Sit," Ferrus said, taking his place at the head of the table and tapping his metallic fingers against the surface. "Gabriel, pour the drinks."
First Captain Gabriel Santar stepped forward, picking up an unlabeled bottle.
The bottle was crafted from coarse industrial glass, but the liquid inside was as pure and clear as distilled water.
He filled Ferrus's glass first, then poured for Sanguinius.
As the liquid cascaded into the goblet, it released a strange, captivating aroma: a blend of the mellow richness of fermented grains and the crisp, refreshing scent of some unknown flora.
Sanguinius's pupils contracted slightly.
His precognition was passively warning him.
"Try it," Ferrus said, raising his glass. His metallic palm clinked against the crystal with a crisp chime. "It is a local specialty."
Sanguinius held his goblet, raising his right arm slightly and tilting the rim. It was a universal toasting etiquette among the Legions, a gesture of honor and respect. "To the honor of the Iron Hands. To victory."
Ferrus raised his glass with his metal hand, tapping his chest plate lightly in return—the simplified etiquette of the Iron Hands, who despised tedious formalities. "To the Emperor. To fighting side by side."
The two brothers drank in unison.
The moment the liquid slid down his throat, Sanguinius felt it.
A gentle, soothing warmth blossomed from his stomach, rapidly spreading through his limbs and bones.
To his absolute astonishment, Sanguinius realized that deep within his genetic code, the eternally restless Red Thirst...
It had actually been quelled for a fleeting moment.
Though it lasted for less than half a second, for the Primarch of the Blood Angels, this was nothing short of earth-shattering.
Sanguinius lowered his glass, shock flashing in the depths of his azure eyes. "This liquor... it actually soothes my genetic flaw."
Ferrus smiled; he had noticed this earlier. "Though the effect is faint and its duration short, it is unmistakably there. I had the Apothecaries analyze its composition. The base is grain-fermented alcohol, but it is infused with seven unique botanical extracts, and..." Ferrus paused. "...an unidentifiable psychically active ingredient."
"Unidentifiable?" Sanguinius asked.
"It is not Warp taint, nor does it belong to any known psychic lineage." Ferrus poured himself another glass. "It acts more like the crystallized byproduct of some... uncharted energy."
A brief silence fell over the banquet hall.
Sanguinius raised his glass again. This time, he drank very slowly, carefully tracing the path of the warming current as it circulated through his body.
It truly worked. The Red Thirst was faintly pacified.
While the effect was not as potent as Karash—the unique Angel's Vitae exclusive to the Blood Angels Legion—this was entirely natural. There was no added blood, and there were absolutely no side effects.
"What is the production yield?" Sanguinius asked, striking at the heart of the matter.
"Very little," Ferrus said, shaking his head. "Three hundred crates a month at most, two hundred of which supply my Legion. But since you are the garrisoning Legion now, per the agreement, you are allocated fifty crates."
"Who supplies it?"
"A local organization calling themselves Crimson Dawn." Ferrus brought up a holographic projection. The files on Kent Hive and the blurry footage of the Cogboy and the others were all shot from a distance, lacking clear facial details. "They claim to be excavators of civilized ruins and leaders of a sanctuary built by oppressed workers. Now, they have taken over Kent Hive, managing a population of nearly a hundred million."
Sanguinius quickly scanned the data.
The more he read, the deeper his frown became.
Public trials, Phosphex artillery executions, the purge of tens of thousands of Merchant Guild members in just three days, the enactment of sweeping new policies, the reconstruction of public healthcare and education systems...
Their methods were far too radical for Imperial bureaucrats, yet their goals were entirely too pure for local warlords.
"What do they worship?" Sanguinius asked.
"They claim to follow the Imperial Truth, but in practice..." Ferrus switched off the projection. "...it operates more like a modified Mechanicus societal structure: labor in exchange for survival, effort earns respect, shared technology, and communal resources."
"Sounds like heresy."
"Yet there is no psychic worship, no Warp rituals, and no anti-Imperial rhetoric." Ferrus looked at Sanguinius. "Furthermore, their administrative efficiency is exceptionally high. Kent Hive's promethium output has increased by sixty-two percent compared to before, and refinement purity is up by seventeen percent." He paused before adding, "After I leave, sixty percent of their annual ore production will be handed over to your Legion, twenty percent retained for their own use, and the remaining twenty percent kept as trade reserves. This is the treaty the Iron Hands brokered with their planetary governor, Cage Lawrence."
Sanguinius remained silent for a long time.
His feathered wings flapped softly, unconsciously stirring up a faint breeze in the room.
"You think highly of them?" he finally asked.
"I think highly of efficiency," Ferrus corrected. "As long as they consistently produce minerals, refrain from psychic heresy, and do not betray the Imperium..." He took a sip of his drink. "...I do not care what methods they use to govern their hive."
Sanguinius smiled and let the topic drop.
The two spent some time discussing military affairs, the current status of the Crusade, and the movements of their brother Legions.
When the conversation shifted to Ferrus's impending deployment to the Cruz Blind Zone, the Gorgon spoke more candidly than usual. "The Munitorum claims there is a three-year window there, but I checked the records of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. The Warp storm cycles in that sector last at least ten years." He looked at Sanguinius. "This transfer order was drafted with far too much haste."
Sanguinius nodded.
His precognitive sight was also issuing warnings, but they were frustratingly vague. They only revealed that something of monumental consequence lurked within the Cruz Blind Zone, without specifying whether it was a golden opportunity or a deadly trap.
"Be careful, brother," Sanguinius said, raising his glass. "If you run into trouble, the Ninth Legion stands ready to support you at a moment's notice."
"Likewise." Ferrus clinked his glass against his brother's. "If the bureaucrats on this planet dare to trip you up... tell me. The next time I make planetfall, I will purge them all."
The two Primarchs shared a knowing smile.
In this fleeting moment, they were not the burdened demigods leading massive Legions; they were simply brothers who had fought side by side for years.
The banquet lasted for two hours.
When Sanguinius rose to take his leave, Ferrus ordered Gabriel to bring out ten crates of the special reserve liquor. "Take these for your sons. The quantity is small, but in a critical moment... it might prove useful."
"Thank you, brother," Sanguinius said, accepting the gift with solemn gratitude.
Before departing the Fist of Iron, he cast one final glance at the grayish-yellow planet below.
The fog still blanketed the world, but this time, he could faintly discern something deep within the mist... a light was flickering.
Crimson Dawn... Sanguinius repeated the name softly to himself.
--
Goal = 500 Powerstones.
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