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Sicarius strode into his Primarch's reception chamber with the disciplined grace of a master swordsman. Each step was measured, each movement precise, betraying the years of rigorous training that had honed him into one of the Imperium's deadliest warriors.
He was more than just a soldier. Cato Sicarius, Captain of the Ultramarines' Second Company, Lord of the Watch, Champion Knight of Macragge, stood as one of the most formidable warriors in the Imperium of Man. His titles were many, but none weighed upon him as heavily as the responsibility they carried. His gauntleted hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade, not out of habit but as an unconscious manifestation of his ever-present readiness.
Even here, in the heart of Ultramar's might, within the presence of his lord, he remained prepared. Always.
"My Lord," Sicarius spoke, his voice steady.
Guilliman, the Avenging Son, the Primarch of the Ultramarines, sat back in his throne-like chair. The room was austere yet regal, a reflection of the man who occupied it. His piercing gaze settled upon his Captain. "Is there any news?"
"Saint Celestine has arrived first at the Konor system. She has already engaged the enemy."
Guilliman's expression was unreadable, yet the flicker of something—concern, perhaps—passed through his eyes. "And the battle?"
"The situation remains at a standstill," Sicarius reported. "The enemy presence is formidable. The Word Bearers and the Iron Warriors fight alongside traitors from the Black Legion. There are others, remnants of forces that once swore loyalty to the Great Crusade, now twisted by their hatred. The main world of the system has yet to fall. The Emperor's Scythes and a contingent of the Sons of Guilliman hold the line, but the forces of Chaos press them with relentless fury."
Guilliman's gaze darkened. The Black Legion—the favored warriors of Abaddon, the inheritor of Horus' treachery. They were more than mere marauders; they were the architects of devastation, bound by vengeance, wielding the gifts of the Dark Gods. Since the death of Horus, the shattered remnants of the Sons of Horus had devolved into splintered warbands, scavengers fighting over the bones of their former glory. It had been Abaddon who reforged them into the Black Legion, a force with singular, terrible purpose.
Through the Eye of Terror, they struck at the Imperium again and again, waging endless war. The Imperium defended as best it could, but it was never enough.
"They seek to drive a blade into the heart of Ultramar," Guilliman mused, his voice calm but edged with steel. "To plant a festering wound and force us to bleed."
Sicarius gave a sharp nod. "They believe we will falter."
"They underestimate my resolve." Guilliman's tone hardened. "We will answer in kind. The fleet will make for Konor at full speed. We will not allow these traitors even a foothold."
"As you will it, my Lord," Sicarius said, bowing. "We shall make haste."
The fleet's journey was relentless.
Warp storms, which had raged with terrible fury for so long, began to abate as the Imperium pushed forward. A sign, perhaps, that the Emperor's hand still guided them. With each passing day, the sublight engines burned hotter, the navigators pressing harder to bring them to war at the soonest possible moment.
Three weeks passed.
Then, with a final shudder of reality's fabric, Guilliman's fleet emerged from the Warp at a safe distance from Konor's gravity well. A host of warships, bristling with firepower, burst forth into realspace, their hulls shedding the lingering tendrils of the Immaterium's touch.
Aboard the Glory of Macragge, a robed serf moved with hurried steps down a dimly lit corridor. His legs were mechanical, grafted into his flesh to ensure stability even amid the tremors of war. A servo-skull drifted at his side, its red-lit optics scanning, ever-watchful for daemonic incursion.
Clutched in his skeletal fingers was a parchment of vital data. He passed the crew without hesitation; they, too, were locked in their own duties. Gunnery teams prepped their weapons, servitors calibrated targeting arrays, and the wounded were carried to medicae stations, casualties of the tumultuous journey through the Warp.
Arriving at the bridge doors, the serf was met by towering warriors clad in Terminator armor. The Glory Guard of Guilliman, their storm bolters mag-locked to their armored chests, regarded him with the impassivity of living statues. Their blue armor bore the sigils of Ultramar, polished to a gleaming perfection.
He bowed, holding up the parchment. "This is the latest report on the Immaterium's fluctuations, for the Lord Primarch."
One of the giants nodded, his helmet's vox-caster (Communication link) rasping. "Proceed."
The doors parted, and the serf stepped into the grand chamber beyond.
The bridge was a vast space, its towering ceilings adorned with bas-reliefs of ancient Ultramarine victories. Holo-displays flickered with battle projections. Battle analysts worked in silence, their cerebral augmetics linked to data nodes. Shrines to strategic divination lined the walls, standing ready to guide the Imperium's warriors.
At the heart of it all, seated upon a throne marked with sigils of command, was Guilliman.
The serf approached, bowing as he extended the report.
Guilliman took it, scanning its contents with the speed only a Primarch could manage. Barely ten seconds passed before he was finished. He handed the parchment back. "Seal it."
His gaze then shifted to Captain Breher, standing before a cluster of strategic holograms.
"Report, Captain."
Breher gestured to the projections. "The enemy still holds sixteen capital-class warships and an unknown number of escort vessels. Saint Celestine's forces are gaining the upper hand. Her victory is inevitable. Our fleet will strike hard, encircle the traitor vessels, and see to it that none escape."
Guilliman said nothing. A simple nod was all it took to confirm his approval.
And then, war.
The traitor fleet never stood a chance.
Guilliman's ships swept into battle like an executioner's blade. Torpedoes cut through the void, their contrails carving deadly arcs. Lances of fire scythed across the enemy formation. The air crackled with the screams of vox-caster as Chaos vessels burned.
The rebels faltered. One by one, their ships were obliterated.
Some tried to flee.
The Ultramarines did not allow it.
Like a pack of predators, they surrounded the last remnants of the enemy fleet. There was no mercy. Plasma broadsides ripped through failing shields, leaving nothing but the cold remains of shattered hulls drifting through the void. Those that once bore the banners of the Warmaster were reduced to frozen corpses and broken wreckage.
It was over in less than an hour.
A crackle of vox-caster sounded over the bridge.
"My Lord," an officer announced. "We are receiving an incoming transmission."
Guilliman turned his gaze toward the comms officer. "From who?"
The officer hesitated for only a moment. "Saint Celestine, my Lord. She requests permission to board."