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The dark clouds hung low, as if they had fallen from the sky itself. Thunder cracked through the heavens, splitting the endless darkness with violent flashes of light. The fury of the storm raged unchecked, a reflection of the judgment about to unfold.
Through the chaos, a voice echoed—deep, unrelenting, and absolute.
The voice of a Primarch.
It rolled like a divine decree, drowning out the storm, shattering all defiance.
It was the voice of an emperor's son, a being beyond mortal men.
The planetary governor trembled. The gathered nobles, once adorned in silks and excess, now shook where they stood.
"M-my lord, surely there is some misunderstanding?" The governor's voice quivered, the confidence he had worn moments ago vanishing like mist in the wind.
"There is no misunderstanding." Guilliman's gaze, as cold as the void, bore into him. "The Grouse family has been declared excommunicate and traitorous."
Silence fell.
The honor guards stood like statues, faceless beneath their gleaming metal helms. Not one of them reacted to the proclamation, though it was enough to shake the very foundation of the Imperium's hierarchy.
The governor slumped to his knees. Gone was the smug, self-assured nobleman. In his place knelt a man who had just lost everything.
The Grouse family spanned galaxies. Their wealth was immeasurable. With fortunes beyond reckoning, they had secured private fleets and extended their lifespans with the most expensive medical procedures.
Yet, before a Primarch, it all meant nothing.
With a single sentence, Roboute Guilliman had erased them from existence.
The governor's wide, panicked eyes darted to the other nobles, silently pleading for support.
None of them moved.
These same nobles had once sworn loyalty to the Grouse family, had pledged to stand with them through any storm.
But now, not a single one dared to speak.
Not one dared to defy the Primarch.
They averted their gazes, took cautious steps back, distancing themselves from the doomed governor like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
Guilliman did not wait for their cowardice to turn to protest.
"Sicarius," he commanded. "Execute the adults of the Grouse family. Send their children to the punishment camps. Let them learn that only war and blood can cleanse the sins of their forebears."
The nobles recoiled. Some stumbled, stepping further away, as if hoping distance could spare them from the coming purge.
Guilliman's gaze swept across them, and his very presence made them shrink. "You allowed the Grouse family to defy my orders. You sat in silence, clutching your power in greed. Now, you will be judged."
The chamber filled with weeping.
Nobles broke down in fear, their masks of dignity crumbling.
One man, his robes embroidered with the history of his so-called noble lineage, surged forward in desperation. "M-my lord! My ancestors fought for the Emperor! They bled for the Imperium! You cannot do this!"
The Honour Guard blocked his path, Terminator armor forming an impenetrable wall.
Guilliman's voice was like steel against stone. "Then they would be ashamed of you."
Tears streamed down the noble's bloated face as he clawed at the warriors standing before him. The Space Marines did not flinch.
"Take them all," Guilliman ordered. "Investigate each one. If they are guilty, they will be dealt with immediately."
The nobles screamed.
Some fell to their knees, sobbing and pleading. Others tried to force their way through the towering warriors, only to be thrown back like ragdolls.
A cry of madness broke through the despair.
"You are a tyrant!" a noble shrieked, eyes wild with fury. His trembling hands yanked a pistol from his belt, and he fired.
The laser shot hissed through the rain.
It did not even scratch Guilliman's armor.
The Honour Guard reacted in an instant.
A bolt of steel and ceramite slammed into the noble's face, the butt of a weapon wielded by a warrior who barely exerted any effort. Bone shattered. Teeth scattered across the marble floor. The noble collapsed, writhing, his face a ruin of blood and agony.
He was not dead.
Not yet.
But perhaps he wished he were.
The judges of Guilliman's fleet moved swiftly, dragging the nobles away. Those still conscious sobbed in terror. Those unconscious would wake to something far worse.
The Primarch did not spare them another glance.
As he strode forward, his honor guard flanking him, the scene around him shifted.
This was supposed to be a grand ceremony.
A red carpet had been prepared. Musicians had been arranged. Banners of welcome had been hung.
Now, the very men and women who ordered that welcome were in chains.
The city would remember this day.
The news spread faster than the storm itself, roaring through the hive like fire. Servo-skulls and cherubs carried the proclamation through the air, announcing the judgment of the Great Primarch.
For the nobles, it was the end of everything.
For the people, it was salvation.
The Grouse family had bled them dry for generations. With the aid of the Adeptus Mechanicus, they had calculated the precise value of every citizen, ensuring that workers remained trapped in endless cycles of labor.
Wages were carefully controlled—enough to survive, never enough to escape.
Love, marriage, even the birth of children were dictated by the Grouse family's economic plans.
The people were not citizens.
They were livestock.
And now, the butcher had been slain.
Cheering filled the lower districts. In the streets, in the factories, in the slums, the people rejoiced.
And yet, not all celebrations were joyful.
A lone figure wept in an alley.
Hawk pushed through the crowd, looking for his friend. He had so much to say—Madara would receive his pension, he could finally live with dignity. He would no longer suffer.
But Madara was not there.
His body lay against a crumbling wall, an old blanket draped over him like a shroud. His thin, frail form was curled in on itself, his once-proud posture lost to death's embrace.
His crutches rested at his feet.
His face, pale and lined with suffering, bore an expression of pain and relief.
He had lived long enough to see justice.
But not long enough to enjoy it.
Hawk fell to his knees, tears blurring his vision. His hands clutched his friend's cooling body, his grief echoing through the alley.
And then, his gaze lifted.
On the wall beside Madara's corpse, scrawled in charcoal with an unsteady hand, were words that would never be forgotten:
Mankind must prevail. The Empire must prevail.
Beneath it, a signature.
Captain of the 33rd Regiment of the Imperial Yakos Planetary Army – Madara.