Dukel stood within the Chamber of Inner Fire, feeling the surge of newfound power coursing through his form. Even though his faith in the Goddess of Life was not absolute, her allegiance had granted him a tangible force of vitality and renewal. As Aisha's devotion deepened, so too would this power strengthen within him.
Just as he was growing accustomed to its presence, Dante entered his office with measured urgency.
"Your Highness, I have something to report."
Dukel glanced up with mild curiosity. "What is it?"
Typically, the Blood Angels sought guidance from Sanguinius, their beloved Primarch. They only turned to Dukel when the young Sanguinius was unable to provide sufficient insight. That alone indicated the gravity of the matter.
"During our survey of the nearby star systems, we discovered several worlds where the plant life had withered unnaturally. Through omen analysis of the samples, we uncovered a trail—a pattern that recurs each time a certain signal appears."
Dante's voice was steady, but the significance of his words was evident.
"Wherever this signal manifests, there are reports of a singular figure. He is called the Grim Knight, Tyrant Doom, Beast-Slayer, and—most unsettlingly—the Emperor Incarnate."
Dukel's lips curled into a knowing smile. "You suspect the return of a Primarch?"
Dante met his gaze firmly. "That is our belief."
"Yes, I think so too. Perhaps," Dukel mused, "the Lion of Caliban has awakened."
Dante's pupils constricted slightly. There was only one being who could rightfully bear that title: Lion El'Jonson, the Lord of the First Legion, the Primarch of the Dark Angels.
Realization dawned on the Chapter Master, and his tone betrayed a rare flicker of hope. "Your Highness, may I request permission to leave the expedition fleet and pursue this lead?"
Dukel nodded. "Go. I, too, am eager to know the truth behind this." Then his tone grew colder. "But if it turns out to be a deception…"
"You know what must be done."
Dante stiffened, instinctively holding his breath at the weight of the unspoken command. Then, with a deep bow, he declared, "In your name, and in the honor of the Holy Father, I will grant them mercy."
Dukel nodded approvingly. "Very good."
…
The Lion had slumbered for millennia, drifting through a dreamscape of shattered realms and spectral mists. His body, once broken, had slowly mended in his torpor. In his visions, he hunted monstrous beings that did not belong to this universe, creatures that lurked in the shadowed woods of an imagined Caliban.
Beyond his resting place, the stars continued their ceaseless dance, and time, like the eternal tides, eroded all things.
Then, he awoke.
The giant rose, donned his armor, and took up his sword once more. A renewed resolve burned within him. The Lion of Caliban walked again, for duty, for vengeance, for the Emperor.
A warrior fights for eternity, and though he had slept for ten thousand years, Lion El'Jonson was ready to hurl himself into war once more.
Even in his incomplete state, his mere presence turned the tide of battle. Though his body felt heavy, though fatigue clung to him like an unseen shroud, he fought. And he slew the foes of the Imperium without hesitation.
After laying waste to a warband of Chaos Annihilators, he paused, resting his blade upon the ground.
"How do I rid myself of this weariness?"
The fallen Annihilator before him, barely clinging to life, let out a wheezing chuckle.
"Weakened? You?" the traitor rasped. "You are not cursed, Lord of the First."
The Lion narrowed his eyes. "Then what is this?"
The dying warrior laughed, a harsh, rattling sound that echoed from behind his helmet. "You are simply old."
The Lion was silent.
For a long time, he gazed at the slain heretic. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he turned and walked away, his body weighted with something heavier than mere exhaustion.
Time had worn him down.
The once-proud Lion of Caliban, whose arrogance had been as legendary as his skill, now found himself reflecting on the past. The Imperium was in ruin, and the burden of its decline lay upon his shoulders like a mantle of lead.
His heart had aged, and the warrior who had once stalked the forests of Caliban with an unshakable will now found himself lost in memories of a world long gone.
Meditation and the Dreaming Forest
In the days that followed, the Lion summoned the remnants of the First Legion—those sons of the Dark Angels who yet remained, including a few ancient veterans who had survived the carnage of Randan. Despite his weariness, he fought alongside them. Yet each battle, each betrayal, each fleeting victory only deepened his fatigue.
The Lion possessed a singular gift: the ability to banish all distractions and focus with absolute clarity. As a child, before he had even known the touch of civilization, he had survived the horrors of Caliban's wilds through this alone. But now, he faced a different challenge.
Not thinking was harder than remembering.
Seated within his chambers aboard the Glory of Terra, he attempted meditation. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, centering himself as the Knights of Caliban once taught. He envisioned the great forests of his homeworld, the towering trees, the rustling leaves, the distant howls of beasts prowling the undergrowth.
Time became meaningless. He did not know how long he sat there.
Then, the air around him shifted.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer aboard the Glory of Terra. He was in a vast forest—not real, but a place of the mind, a realm he had glimpsed in dreams.
As he walked, he beheld a great hall, its doors ajar. Warily, he stepped inside.
Across the hall, seated upon a high-backed chair behind a wooden table, was a wounded king.
The figure neither moved nor spoke. He simply watched Lion El'Jonson approach, dark eyes unreadable beneath lank, graying hair. A golden circlet rested upon his brow, and beneath his throne, blood dripped endlessly onto the cold stone floor.
The scent of it was unmistakable.
The king's gaze pierced through Lion El'Jonson, as though seeing not him, but something beyond, something eternal and unchanging.
Lion El'Jonson knew, with absolute certainty, that the king was aware of his presence.
But he was not worthy of the king's attention.
Lion El'Jonson saw the expectant look on the king's face.
—He's waiting for you to ask the right question.
For all his wisdom, Lion El'Jonson knew he lacked patience for such games. But he had to play along. The silence of the regal figure before him was not a riddle; it was a barrier. Unless he asked the right question, true communication was impossible.
It was the strangest thing he had ever encountered.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The moment the words left his lips, Lion El'Jonson felt the king's gaze sharpen, truly seeing him for the first time. Yet, in the king's eyes, Lion El'Jonson—majestic, battle-hardened, a superhuman warrior beyond mortal comprehension—was insignificant.
—If you don't attract his attention the right way, he won't truly acknowledge you.
Lion El'Jonson pondered the revelation.
"Where did your injuries come from? And what can I do to heal you?" he tried again.
The king's gaze intensified, and for a fleeting moment, Lion El'Jonson thought he had found the correct path.
But then came the warning.
He did not know why, but he understood: how to heal the king was not his concern.
Annoyance flickered across Lion El'Jonson's face. He tried again.
"Where is—"
Before he could finish, the king's gaze grew sharper. Lion El'Jonson had strayed further down the wrong path. There was anger now, and disappointment.
"I've seen you before." Lion El'Jonson changed course swiftly; he could not stand the disappointment in those eyes. "Once, you told me I was not strong enough."
"You weren't."
The voice was not heard, yet it echoed within his mind.
"And now?"
"That remains to be seen."
Lion El'Jonson nodded. It was enough. More than he had expected, even if he did not know what he had been hoping for.
Before him, a great door swung open. Darkness awaited beyond, so thick and absolute that even his enhanced vision struggled against it.
Then—light. Faint and fleeting, for a figure stood against it.
Lion El'Jonson's breath caught.
Golden hair, curling and braided. A mighty frame clad in ornate armor. But where once it would have gleamed in the deep black of midnight, now it was the ashen gray of a world frozen in death.
The figure's blue eyes shone. His lips curled back, exposing elongated canines.
Relief. Anger. Joy. Alarm.
A storm of emotion raged within Lion El'Jonson.
"Russ?"
"Hello, traitor."
With a savage snarl, the Wolf King lunged, his gauntleted hand closing around Lion El'Jonson's throat.
Lion El'Jonson wasted no breath on words. He had fought Leman Russ before. When a wolf marks its prey, only two outcomes remain: it is subdued, or it submits.
He twisted away from Russ's grip and countered with a powerful backhand. Once, a strike like this had knocked his brother unconscious, and Russ had laughed. But there was no laughter now. His face twisted in rage.
Only fools believed the Space Wolves were mere savages. Lion El'Jonson knew better. Russ's berserk fury was calculated. Every move, every strike, had a singular purpose—destruction.
Lion El'Jonson met him head-on. Focused precision clashed with wild ferocity, neither willing to yield.
Then Lion El'Jonson saw his chance. He struck with sudden force, sending Russ crashing into a stone pillar.
"Traitor?" The accusation stung. "Brother, you know that isn't true!"
Russ's lips twisted in a grim smile. But the voice that came was not his own.
A massive figure rose in his place, clad in the hulking bulk of Terminator armor.
"Horus."
Lion El'Jonson's voice was cold. His hands clenched into fists.
"You are dead. I do not know what has become of Russ, but I know your fate. You are dead. This is some trick of the Warp."
His heart sank.
"A wise man once said," Horus mused, extending a clawed hand, "that so long as a name is remembered, a man never truly dies."
His movements, his voice—every bit of him was as Lion El'Jonson remembered. The charisma, the effortless grace. Once, these traits had been noble. Now, they were weapons.
"As long as humanity endures, I endure." Horus's lips curled. "Because I am the measure against which all of us are compared. And you, dear brother—you live each day trying not to become me."
Lion El'Jonson snarled. "Perhaps you are not Horus. But it does not lessen my desire to destroy you."
He launched forward, fists raised. Horus was strong enough to wound even the Emperor, but Lion El'Jonson did not hesitate. In memory, Horus had been the greatest of them all.
Lion El'Jonson dodged the counterattack and struck hard.
Horus staggered. He lifted his hands, shielding his face. But when he lowered them, his features had changed.
His skin was pale, cables writhing from his skull to his armor.
"Everything is under control," Perturabo intoned. "Pity you lacked such foresight, brother. That is why we stand in ruin."
Lion El'Jonson scoffed. "At least find a brother I care about."
He lunged, knocking Perturabo aside—only for the next figure to rise, clad in white.
"You were too slow, Lion El'Jonson," Jaghatai Khan sneered. "Too slow to stop Horus."
The Khan's foot struck Lion El'Jonson's torso. Lion El'Jonson caught it and hurled him away.
"You weren't wise enough," Magnus accused, seizing Lion El'Jonson's skull with a colossal hand.
Lion El'Jonson slammed a fist into Magnus's face, breaking free.
"I know you are a lie. Magnus doesn't hit that hard."
The red giant fell, and in his place, another rose.
"You are old," Mortarion rasped. "Worn and broken."
"The Emperor never trusted you," Dorn's voice was cutting. "That is why, when he sent you to the abyss, he kept me by his side."
"You thought he entrusted you with his secrets?" Alpharius laughed as he was struck down. "I know truths you will never fathom, first son."
"You never fight fair," Lion El'Jonson growled.
"Fair?" His opponent shifted, and Angron stood in his place, eyes burning.
"Where is your vengeance?" Ferrus Manus demanded, his fist hammering into Lion El'Jonson's gut.
"You can't even learn subtlety." Corax struck next.
"You're not good enough." Fulgrim sneered, his blade nicking Lion El'Jonson's throat.
"And yet now you turn to gods," Lorgar scoffed.
Lion El'Jonson roared, hurling himself forward—only for a steel boot to trip him.
Guilliman towered over him. "How dare you lecture me."
A crimson gauntlet lifted Lion El'Jonson's chin.
"If only you had chosen correctly, I would still live."
Sanguinius.
His voice was filled with sorrow as he turned and walked into the darkness.
A force seized Lion El'Jonson and lifted him high.
"Will you die?" Konrad Curze whispered, and then Lion El'Jonson was flung through the air, crashing into the threshold of the great gate.
Bang!
As he soared through the air, his body collided with an armored mass, the impact akin to striking a fortress wall. The force left him reeling, his vision swimming with disorientation.
"Lion El'Jonson... you never truly had the courage."
The blows had dulled his senses, but the voice cut through the haze like a blade. Struggling to rise, Lion El'Jonson looked up from where he lay. A towering figure stood before him, draped in a crimson cape, eyes burning with an unnatural intensity that pierced the surrounding darkness.
"Hah... even you have come, Dukel. What an absurd farce this has become." Lion El'Jonson forced himself to his feet, his body aching under the weight of unseen chains. "I never thought I'd see you again, even in a dream."
"A dream? Is that what you think this is?" Dukel's gaze remained cold and unwavering. "You, who pride yourself on duty and honor, have spent your life clinging to a title—'Primarch of the First'—as if it could absolve you of your failures. You sought to be the Emperor's sword, but the truth is, He has always kept you in the shadows because that is where you belong. You long to be a hero, but even you know—Lion El'Jonson is a coward."
"Silence!" Lion El'Jonson's roar echoed through the void, a defiant stand against the weight pressing upon him.
"I have never wavered! I have followed the will of the Emperor, the one true architect of mankind's salvation! I am His blade, His instrument of unity."
"You are a dog bound by a master's chain, too afraid to question whether the path laid before you is just," Dukel retorted, his piercing gaze stripping away pretense. "You never had the strength to think for yourself. You only execute orders, never daring to ask if they lead to salvation or damnation."
Lion El'Jonson clenched his fists. "You are the traitor, Dukel. You questioned the Emperor's wisdom and, in doing so, you brought ruin upon us all! You doomed our home! You nearly shattered the Imperium!"
"And yet, was I wrong?" Dukel's voice was a low rumble, like a storm approaching. "Look around you. The Imperium lies in ruins, a hollow empire of misery and war. I saw this end ten thousand years ago, but you, blinded by duty, refused to listen. If you had, perhaps today's tragedy could have been averted."
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then, Lion El'Jonson exhaled a bitter chuckle. "If I were to question my father's choices, my first regret would be allowing you to exist as a Warmaster's contender. You always sought your own path, but all it ever led you to was an abyss of your own making."
He steadied himself, pushing past his pain. "The Emperor has not yet failed. This war is not lost. As long as I stand, as long as my blade is raised in His name, I will not let this Imperium fall."
Dukel studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, his form began to waver, dissipating like mist in the wind.
"Rest now, brother," Lion El'Jonson murmured. "You are but a shadow of the past, a specter conjured by my doubts. Our debate holds no meaning anymore."
He reached out, fingers grazing the aged surface of a shield hanging upon the wall—a masterwork of ceramite and gold, adorned with the proud relief of an eagle crowned in laurels. Firelight flickered across its polished surface, casting long shadows.
Lion El'Jonson turned to where Dukel had stood, finding nothing but the whispering echoes of memory. He gripped the shield, feeling its weight settle into his grasp, then strode forward.
Yesterday's burdens were gone, entombed in the past. The present demanded action. The future would be forged in war.
"Dukel... brother..." Lion El'Jonson's voice was steady, resolute. "This time, I am the Warmaster."
As he stepped into the darkness, his burdens lifted. For the first time in millennia, he felt unshackled—ready to face the war that had never truly ended.