The Imperium of Mankind—Holy Terra, throne of the God-Emperor. Within the sanctified walls of the Emperor's Palace stood the giants in auramite war plate, the Adeptus Custodes, eternal wardens of the Master of Mankind. His most loyal weapons, wrought not by mere gene-science but by art, ritual, and divinity. Ever since the Great Betrayal—the Horus Heresy—the emperor has remained enthroned upon the Golden Throne, His divine essence sacrificed to seal the Webway breach, holding back the tides of the Immaterium.
Without His active hand, mankind's fate has withered. Invasions unending, war eternal, famine, the loss of ancient technologies and fallen worlds. Unseen terrors stalk the stars, yet through the Imperium's indomitable will and unwavering devotion to the God-Emperor, this state of horror continues—not victorious, but unyielding. Mankind shall not fall. From the lowliest scum-born hive thrall to the gene-forged might of the Adeptus Astartes; from the High Lords of Terra to the silent vigil of the Custodes—all stand in service to the Imperium and the Emperor.
Yet always, corruption festers. The Archenemy, the Ruinous Powers—Chaos taints men's hearts. Cultists and mutants, rebels and heretics, warp-worshippers and apostates—they conspire to unravel all mankind has bled to build. The galaxy groans with the predations of the Xenos: Tyranids that consume all, Orks that revel in war, and a thousand other horrors. Peace is a myth in the grim dark of the far future. But through the might of the Imperium, mankind endures. For the Emperor protects.
Within the Imperial Palace, in the sacred shadow of the Golden Throne, the Custodes stood—still as statues, silent as the tomb, radiant in auric splendor. Each one a towering figure of divine martial perfection, taller than any Astartes, their war plate covered in intricate etchings of Imperial scripture and the sigils of their order. Their eyes never ceased watching, and their vigilance never faltered.
Once in a while, the great warriors shifted posts, relieving one another or taking up patrol routes through the hallowed corridors. The silence was profound—too profound.
*BOOM*
A thunderous detonation shattered the quiet. In an instant, the Custodes came to alert. Vox channels flared to life.
"Brothers, what is occurring? Report—what was that explosion?" one Custodian inquired, voice calm but sharpened by focus. All across the palace, similar queries echoed.
"Report to Captain-General Valdor. There has been a breach—from the Webway."
Alarmed but composed, the Legio Custodes tightened formation. trouble was near.
"This is Valdor. I want all units near the breach to converge on the sector. Atrius—where is Atrius?" came the voice of Captain-General Constantin Valdor, the Emperor's first and greatest Custodian. He was clad in resplendent auramite, taller than most of his kin, bearing his masterwork Guardian Spear and the finely wrought helm of office, now held at his side. Regal, stern, and ancient beyond reckoning, Valdor's presence alone could silence an entire chamber.
A calm response followed almost immediately: "I am in the Throne Room, my lord. I came as soon as I heard the explosion."
"Good work, but I will be needing your help. I require you to lead the advance unit into the Webway. Reconnaissance and containment. We do not know much of this breach—caution is paramount," Valdor instructed, his tone sharp but familiar.
there was a pause.
"Very well, Lord Valdor," came Atrius' reply—solemn and firm.
Valdor nodded, unseen but felt. "The Throne shields you, brother. Godspeed."
Silence returned to the vox as golden-armored giants began to move with purpose—thud, thud, thud—like thunder in a cathedral.
INNER PALACE SANCTUMIMPERIALISSANCTUM IMPERIALIS
Through the hallowed halls of the Sanctum Imperialis, a golden colossus marched with heavy purpose. This was Atrius, a living relic, forged anew by the emperor's own hand. Unlike his brethren, Atrius was massive—even by Custodian standards. A Custodian may stand 9 to 10 feet in war plate. Atrius? Nearly 15 feet of sculpted might, his pauldrons like fortress gates, his every footfall an earthquake. His war plate bore an archaic gleam, older than most relics, inscribed with sigils long forgotten.
As he strode past his kin, nods of respect were exchanged. There was no interruptions in their paces as they passed.
He should not exist.
He was a fragment of the Heresy, resurrected in gold. During that ancient war, it is said a child found his way into the heart of the palace, into the very presence of the Emperor and Horus. When the battle ended, the boy lay slain—his small form cradled in the emperor's arms. Horus, dead at His feet.
Before the Master of Mankind entombed Himself upon the Golden Throne, He created a Custodian—a perfect vessel in the child's image. Thus was Atrius born, wrought not merely by gene-craft but by divine will. He served without question. The emperor was not just his master; He was his Father, his Purpose.
For millennia, Atrius had stood sentinel. He did not age, did not tire. But often, he stood before the Throne, wondering silently—Why was I made? What was I meant for? Only the Emperor could answer. And the Emperor did not speak.
Now, approaching the breach, his purpose stirred. He would destroy all that threatened the Throne.
Custodes gathered near the rift. A shimmering wound in reality, pulsing with sickly light. Among them stood Valdor, helmless, his stern features set like marble. His Armour gleamed with honors only he could bear.
With the booming of colossal footfalls, all heads turned.
*thud* *thud* *thud* *thud* with the heavy steps, he approached Valdor.
"Last son," Valdor greeted, his grim expression lightning as the giant approached. "You took long."