The Battle of Baal was over. Once again, the Imperium had secured a great victory, and the expeditionary fleet earned itself a brief respite.
Archmagos Gris, alongside Belisarius Cawl, departed aboard their Mechanicus vessels, dispersing throughout the Baal system and surrounding star fields. The devastation wrought by Hive Fleet Leviathan had left many worlds covered in biomass, still requiring extensive purification and reclamation.
Through the technological prowess of the Mechanicus, these war-torn planets would be transformed into thriving bastions of the Imperium once more.
Aboard the Heartfire, within the Primarch's Office
Dukel sat at his desk, brow furrowed, staring at the sight before him with visible irritation.
Neatly arranged across his desk were Tyranid dolls—scores of them. Warrior organisms, Ravener broods, Hive Tyrants, Carnifexes, even grotesquely accurate representations of massive bio-titans and the loathsome Norn Queens. Each was meticulously crafted with lifelike detail, every exoskeletal ridge and chitinous marking reproduced to perfection.
These were the trophies of the Doom Slayers, sculpted in homage to the foes they had vanquished in battle.
His frown deepened.
"My Lord, these are offerings of loyalty from the Doom Slayers," Efilar stated solemnly, standing at attention before his desk. A slight smile ghosted the corners of her lips, though she quickly schooled her expression into one of professionalism.
She was the elder sister, after all—trained, disciplined, composed. She would not allow herself to laugh.
"Your Highness, what troubles you? Are you moved to silence?" Shivara, black-haired and sharp-eyed, covered her mouth as she chuckled. She was far less reserved than Efilar.
"I am not a particularly cheerful person." Dukel sighed, shoving aside the grotesquely detailed Tyranid replicas. "Put them in storage."
A pause.
"Clearly, Doom and his warriors have too much free time."
The Heartfire's Mechanical Workshop
As the mass production of Psychic-Series weaponry escalated, the Heartfire's manufactorums expanded at an exponential rate. On the endless assembly lines, Doom Slayers toiled with mechanical precision, assembling war machines with the efficiency granted by their gene-forged minds.
Despite the mind-numbing repetition of their labor, they conversed.
"Doom, do you think Father liked our gifts?" one asked.
"Of course!" Doom himself answered, his previously expressionless face lighting up with enthusiasm. "Anything looks better as a doll! Besides, the Lord of the Second Legion didn't punish us—if he didn't disapprove, that means he approved!"
The surrounding Doom Slayers nodded sagely.
"Doom, do you think we'll ever be reassigned from the assembly line?"
Hope flickered in their eyes.
"Well, our numbers have grown to over two hundred now. When we surpass the Legion's formal establishment limit, maybe…"
"Maybe we'll be deployed?" one asked eagerly.
"Or," Doom interjected, "maybe we'll just be reassigned to another assembly line."
Silence.
He continued, "I saw the research team's scribe yesterday—he was carrying an entire stack of new schematics. The expansion of this workshop far outpaces our recruitment."
Another pause.
"So, we will never have enough manpower?" someone muttered.
"We can always look forward to the next war."
"When will HeartNet issue missions to the Warp? I'd rather battle daemons for ten thousand years than stay here."
Murmurs of agreement followed.
If there were any mortals in the galaxy who longed for war, the Doom Slayers were among them. Formerly of Krieg, now reborn as something else, they felt more at home on the battlefield than in the sterile repetition of the manufactorums.
"Actually, there's another way to get reassigned," Doom remarked suddenly.
All eyes turned to him.
"The HeartNet has issued a mission for bodyguard duty—protecting His Highness Saint Gilles."
A beat of silence.
"Never mind."
"I suddenly feel at peace with the assembly line."
"His Highness Sanguinius is a noble figure, but I am not suited to childcare."
Baal's Temple of the Blood Angels
Little Sanguinius sat upon the high throne. At the foot of the dais, the twenty-two Chapter Masters who had survived the Battle of Baal knelt as one, their expressions solemn with reverence and remorse.
"Father, we have failed to uphold your principles and safeguard that which you entrusted to us."
"We are unworthy, our deeds unfit to honor the sacred blood within our veins."
"Cadia should not have fallen. Our blindness and selfishness led to calamity."
"We accept the burden of our failure."
Bowing their heads, the Blood Angels repented before their Holy Father—and to themselves.
Then, without warning, the sound of powerful wings filled the chamber.
Dante, still kneeling, felt a hand rest lightly upon his head. A warm, compassionate voice followed.
"You need not seek absolution. You have done well. There is no forgiveness to be given, for there is no fault to atone for."
The voice was gentle yet firm, like a spring breeze after a long winter. The Blood Angels looked up, their eyes widening with awe and emotion.
The voice was not that of a child—it was mature, carrying the weight of wisdom and kindness, like that of a noble and benevolent elder.
Before them, the youthful face of Saint Gilles bore an expression of deep understanding, far beyond his apparent years.
"All beings falter. Perfection is an illusion. Even my father, the Emperor of Mankind, in all His divine wisdom, was not beyond error. My sons, we need only strive to do our best. That is enough."
"You are my proud and cherished children."
As the voice faded, Dante felt the hand lift from his brow. Little Sanguinius collapsed gently onto the throne.
"For the blood of Sanguinius, we are worthy!"
"For the blood of Sanguinius, we are worthy!"
"For the blood of Sanguinius, we are worthy!"
The cry rose from their hearts, spreading throughout the temple and beyond, echoing across the city until every soul on Baal heard it.
"What has happened?" a bewildered citizen asked upon hearing the resounding proclamation.
A blind elder, sitting calmly on the roadside, smiled knowingly.
"The angels have received their blessing."
She hummed an old Baalite nursery rhyme, her voice carrying on the warm desert wind.
Inside the temple, as the echoes of the chant faded, Little Sanguinius stirred. Gone was the profound voice of wisdom, replaced by the youthful tone of a child.
"Dante, I have a request."
The Chapter Master bowed low. "Holy Father, the Blood Angels will obey your will for eternity. Speak, and it shall be done."
"I want to visit the 'Delicious Food' ship of the Sons of the People!"
Little Sanguinius declared with absolute seriousness—though he unconsciously swallowed at the thought.
Dante hesitated. "Ah? But Your Highness, Dukel has cautioned against overindulgence..."
Sanguinius narrowed his eyes, the brightness in them dimming with what seemed like betrayal. "Dante, does this mean your devotion was false?"
At that single glance, Dante felt his soul shrink, as though he deserved the most severe judgment in the galaxy.
"My Lord, we would never dare deceive you! Preparations shall be made at once."
"Good. Also, take extra food for the nuns. Gag them if necessary, and ensure they say nothing to Dukel!"
"Your will shall be done!"
With the morning prayers completed, the Blood Angels moved swiftly.
Soon, the people of Baal watched as an immense formation of aircraft soared into the sky.
Smiles spread across the faces of Imperial citizens. They knew—their beloved angels were departing to taste legendary delicacies once more.
The return of Saint Sanguinius the Younger was no secret.
Dukel had not concealed it. Guilliman himself wished to proclaim it far and wide.
For an Imperium shrouded in darkness, the rebirth of the Angel was a beacon of light, a warmth against the encroaching cold of despair.
With such importance came the necessity of protection. A vast security detail was deployed around the Archangel, ensuring no harm could befall him.
None were more enthusiastic about this duty than the Sisters of Battle from the Heart Network.
The militant nuns of the Imperial expeditionary force took great pride in this task, dedicating themselves to the Archangel's safety with a fervor that bordered on worship.
Even if they could not approach him directly, their mere presence was an honor.
Among those observing from afar were the Doom Slayers, grim warriors who bore the lineage of Sanguinius yet struggled with their place beside the reborn Saint.
They did not hate him, nor did they reject his divinity. They simply did not know how to interact with a child, making their presence one of quiet, awkward reverence. … Aboard the Delicious Food, a Converted Moon-Class Cruiser
Meanwhile, in high orbit, a formation of warships belonging to the Sons of the People floated in the cold vacuum of space.
And yet, despite the void's emptiness, the scent of rich, aromatic food permeated the air.
Dukel never could have predicted that after the expeditionary force assigned ten Moon-class cruisers to the Sons of the People, they would convert one into a grand spaceborne dining hall.
The vessel, a five-kilometer-long warship now known simply as 'Delicious Food,' was filled with the tantalizing aromas of countless dishes.
"By the Emperor, how did they achieve this?"
"Is this truly food? Have we been eating mere rations all these years?"
"Glorious. Simply glorious."
The warriors of the expeditionary corps were enthralled, their palates overwhelmed with wonder.
Perhaps it was the years of famine in Baal's outer reaches, but after the Battle of Baal, the Sons of the People had developed an obsessive passion for culinary mastery.
Not only had they refined their own skills, but they had also trained millions of mortal attendants to become skilled chefs.
They provided food for the entire expedition fleet.
They even offered delivery services.
Yes, in times of peace, their hundreds of assigned fighter craft were repurposed for food transport.
To ensure safe passage, the Sons of the People personally escorted deliveries—fully armed, ready to fight for their cargo.
Space Marines and deliverymen—two completely unrelated vocations—had, against all logic, merged into one.
But there was more.
Much to Dukel's growing exasperation, these warriors had also begun culinary experiments with the most blasphemous of ingredients.
Tyranids.
Had the Mechanicus not intervened, the Sons of the People might have begun serving xenos flesh as a delicacy.
The bio-sages repeatedly declared that Tyranids were inedible, their genetic corruption inducing horrific mutations.
Yet, the Sons of the People refused to concede.
"We can purify the meat! We can make it delicious!"
Dukel still recalled the moment their Chapter Master, brimming with enthusiasm, had described to him in great detail the potential flavor profile of Tyranid flesh.
Had he not personally fought those abominable creatures, he might have believed they were discussing fine seafood.
Utter madness.
The Tyranid swarms have consumed countless star systems, leaving nothing but barren husks in their wake.
And yet, even with the unfathomable intellect of the Great Devourer, perhaps it could never have conceived that one day, in the vastness of the galaxy, someone would actually look upon its flesh and wonder how best to prepare it for consumption.
Aboard the battleship Delicious Food, the massive kitchens stretched beyond sight. Tens of thousands of chefs worked tirelessly, their movements a symphony of precision and efficiency, striving to meet the ever-growing demand for sustenance. The sheer scale of the operation was breathtaking, a sight rarely witnessed even within the Imperium's grandest strongholds.
Amidst the controlled chaos, a voice from the corner called out:
"Where is our forge-brother? Wasn't he supposed to help in the kitchen?"
"He has no talent for the culinary arts. What use would he be here?"
"Then where did he go?"
"He was sent to Heartfire. His Highness Dukel assigned him to the forge, where his skills as a blacksmith can be put to better use."
"Ah, I see. That's fitting."
"Indeed. The life we have now is something I never even dared to dream of."
The two fell silent for a moment, contemplating their newfound reality. For most within the Imperium—especially its mortal subjects—securing a place within an expeditionary fleet was a privilege beyond imagination, an escape from the relentless grind of suffering and war.
"Praise the Imperium. Praise the Primarch," one murmured.
And across the ship, from the forge to the kitchens, others echoed the sentiment. Those who had found sanctuary here, far from the encroaching darkness, whispered their gratitude with unwavering faith.