When Roboute Guilliman stepped out of the warp portal and onto the scorched battlefield, all had already been decided.
Dukel stood at the center, holding a jagged shard of metallic crystal in his gauntleted hand—silent, contemplative.
"Brother," Guilliman called, eyes narrowing, "what is that in your hand?"
"The Dragon of Mars," Dukel replied. His voice was calm, yet heavy with implication. "I'm considering where He should be used."
He had previously claimed two shards from the Star God known as the Endless One. Back then, his only course of action had been to channel their essence, using the raw energy to shatter the bottleneck at the 250,000 horsepower threshold of the Life Magnetic Field.
But this fragment… this was different.
This was not a shard—it was nearly half the core essence of the Void Dragon. Had it not remained dormant for millennia, had it the time to replenish its vast energy reserves, neither the Emperor ten thousand years ago nor Dukel today would have found it easy to overcome.
This fragment still held almost the entirety of the Void Dragon's will. To absorb it without restraint would invite calamity.
"Dukel, destroy it," Guilliman said. He unsheathed the Emperor's Sword, the golden flame wreathed around its blade radiating pure annihilation. "The power of the Martian Dragon is too dangerous. Leaving this abomination intact risks untold ruin."
"If it were so simple to end Him," Dukel replied with a slow shake of his head, "then why did His Majesty leave Him slumbering on Mars?"
"These star-born predators," Dukel murmured, "are the darlings of the material universe. To completely erase His will might invite a curse far beyond what any of us can bear."
The complete destruction of a C'tan—of a Star God—was not impossible. The Emperor of Mankind, embodiment of destruction incarnate, could turn anything to ash should He so will it. Dukel himself could siphon the C'tan's essence and bend it to his own ascension.
And yet, such acts were not without cost.
The Necrontyr had once shattered a Star God, splintering it into fragments to enslave its power—but in doing so, they cursed themselves with a legacy of madness and betrayal. Some curses could not be undone.
"Then…"
Guilliman fell silent. Wherever this Star God fragment was kept, it would remain a time bomb. Yet to annihilate it entirely might be worse. So, like Dukel, he simply stared at the crystalline shard, and brooded.
A soft, deliberate voice broke the stillness.
"My Lords, I have a proposal."
Both Primarchs turned toward the sound. From the fractured shadows stepped a slender figure cloaked in a dark red robe.
Efilar, ever vigilant, summoned his wings of flame in caution. The Doom Slayers—towering Astartes clad in adamantine ceramite—raised their twin-barreled bolters, standing as a wall between this mysterious woman and their Primarchs.
They recognized her.
She had fought the Dragon during the climactic battle—her armor shattered, her body scorched, but her resolve unbroken. Her presence demanded wariness.
As the guards of a Primarch, they would not allow even a whisper of threat to linger.
Gris and Caul exchanged glances through the flickering crimson light of their bionic lenses. Both had witnessed her clash with the Star God—and neither dared to underestimate her now.
Dukel remained unflinching, relaxed, unmoved.
With his strength, there was no need to fear.
Even immortals could be slain by his hand.
His gaze lingered on her not with suspicion, but curiosity. He wanted to hear what she had to say.
She stepped into the light.
A woman in her early thirties—or so she appeared. Her face was unmarred, youthful, almost impossibly so. But her eyes told another story. They were ancient—serene as a still lake, heavy with centuries of knowledge and silence.
"Thank you," she said, bowing her head respectfully. "Great sons of the Emperor. You have saved me—and prevented a catastrophe long in the making."
She looked to Guilliman, calm and respectful. "I had thought this place forgotten by the galaxy. To be visited by two Primarchs in a single day… I can scarce believe it."
"Dragon Guard?" Dukel's voice echoed softly, yet every syllable held weight.
"Yes, my lord." Her voice wavered with guilt. "I failed. The Emperor entrusted me with the task of imprisoning the Dragon of Mars. I was His jailer… but I did not succeed. The Dragon broke free."
There was no denial, no excuse—only remorse. She stood apart from the Primarchs, posture deferent, shoulders heavy with regret.
Guilliman stepped forward, his voice grave. "When did you take up this duty?"
"When Kelbor-Hal unleashed the Death Skull Titan Legion against Lava City," she answered, eyes drifting toward the cavern ceiling as if peering into time itself.
"That was ten thousand years ago," Guilliman said, his brow furrowing.
"Yes," she whispered. "Since then, I have kept vigil in this place."
She paused, then spoke again with quiet clarity.
"Before I arrived, Mars had already descended into chaos. The seal on the Moravec Undercrypt had been broken, and the taint of the Warp began to gnaw at the Mechanicus' Noospheric sanctums. The Oracle Network collapsed. In the confusion, I was summoned by His Majesty and given the legacy of the Dragon Guard."
"Kelbor-Hal…" Gris muttered. His synthetic voicebox buzzed with surprise. "He was a radical Fabricator-General during the early era of the Imperium's alliance with Mars."
Indeed. Kelbor-Hal had been a firebrand among the Martian priesthood, a radical who chafed under the Emperor's mandates—one who believed that no truth should be forbidden, no knowledge off-limits.
His heresies festered in silence for generations. And when the Horus Heresy ignited, radicals like Kelbor-Hal did not hesitate to side with the Warmaster.
Their betrayal had left scars that lingered to this day.
As a representative of the radicals at the time, Kelbor-Hal received a promise from the Warmaster Horus: if Horus successfully seized the title of Lord of Mankind, the ban on knowledge would be lifted immediately—including the heretical pursuit of Abominable Intelligence. Horus promised the Mechanicum freedom to explore forbidden truths without limitation.
The allure of such a promise was undeniable. Kelbor-Hal released an immense trove of proscribed knowledge, plunging Mars into chaos.
"During the ritual beneath the Martian surface, I inherited everything from my predecessor—even the immortality mortals only dream of," the woman continued. "The Emperor commanded me to guard this place until the end of time. You may call me Dahlia."
As she spoke, Dahlia tried to approach Dukel again, but Efilar stepped forward, wings of flame extended, issuing a silent warning.
The saint would never permit anyone to draw near to Dukel until they had earned his trust.
Dahlia, sensing Efilar's resolve, ceased her approach and remained still, her eyes locked on the Primarch. She stood in quiet penance, ready to accept whatever judgment he saw fit.
In any case, the fact remained: the Dragon of Mars had broken free. Her failure was undeniable, and she would bear whatever consequence followed.
Dukel watched her silently. After Guilliman and the others had posed their questions, Dukel was almost certain—the woman before them was indeed Dahlia, the Dragon Guard.
"Dahlia, why did the Martian Dragon lose control?" Dukel finally asked the question weighing on him most.
"The roots of this failure were planted ten thousand years ago," Dahlia replied. "When I arrived in the Silver Vault and assumed my duty as Dragon Guard, I discovered the tome that concealed Mars' Great Lie had been stolen. From that moment, I knew the dragon would eventually escape. It was only a matter of time."
"And yet, knowing this, you did nothing?" Dukel's tone sharpened.
"I did all I could," she answered, not defensively but with weariness. "Without those preparations, the dragon would have already reached Mars' surface. Even so, its strength exceeded all calculations. The safeguards I established were never meant to last forever. Your arrival saved more than just this facility—it saved mankind from catastrophe. If the dragon had escaped to the surface and drawn power from the Martian star-forge, the destruction would have been unimaginable. I would have been remembered as a traitor to humanity."
Dukel gave a short nod. "I believe you, Dragon Guard."
His suspicion was justified. In a galaxy twisted by Chaos, a shapeshifter or daemon could easily impersonate someone trusted. Had Dahlia been a puppet of the Ruinous Powers, the consequences would have been dire.
"Stand down," he said to Efilar and the Doom Slayers. "She speaks the truth."
Turning to Dahlia, he asked, "What is your proposal? What shall be done with the Dragon of Mars?"
Dahlia replied, "It has already escaped once. To imprison it again here is folly. But complete destruction will invoke a terrible curse—the Emperor Himself feared as much."
She continued, her voice growing more measured.
"I once read a manuscript authored by His Majesty Himself, buried deep within the archives beneath Mars. It spoke of a plan—to forge the Dragon of Mars into a weapon. Horus' betrayal interrupted this grand endeavor. The Emperor ascended the Golden Throne, and the vision was lost. My lord, perhaps that vision can live again through you."
"A weapon?" Dukel mused silently. "You truly are the most reckless scientist in the galaxy."
He activated his mind-link, tapping into the immense computational power of his neural network, analyzing the concept's feasibility.
In truth, it was not without precedent. The Necrons had long forged weapons and constructs from the shattered essence of the C'tan.
"It can be done," Dukel said at last. "Take me to the manuscript."
"At once, my lord." Dahlia bowed.
Led by the Dragon Guard, the group once more ventured into the labyrinthine depths of Mars.
"Brother," Guilliman said as they walked side by side, "do you truly intend to transform a Star God into a weapon? This is madness. I never imagined mankind would harness the power of these ancients. What do you plan to make of it?"
Dukel thought for a moment before answering.
"What about power armor?" he said, gesturing at the ancient plating he wore. "These relics are ten millennia old—better suited to a museum than the battlefield."
Guilliman blinked. Weapons had always meant blades or bolters to him. But armor—especially forged from the essence of a Star God—could be a weapon in its own right.
"Can it really be done?" he asked, his interest now piqued.
"We must try to know. There are fragments of the Star Gods scattered across the galaxy. If we forge them into armor, we could equip every champion of the Imperium. Personally, I hope to succeed."
As the two Primarchs spoke, the group arrived at an ancient subterranean library—one of the Emperor's personal sanctums on Mars.
Here, the Master of Mankind once labored, and many of His original manuscripts remained.
At the sight of this treasure trove, Dukel, Gris, and Kaul each stared with awe and a barely hidden hunger for knowledge.
But far away, on the Throneworld itself, a storm was brewing.
High Commander Waldo, supreme commander of the Imperial Guard, stood within the halls of judgment on Terra, pouring over datafiles.
His expression grew graver by the second.
Ever since Dukel departed for Mars, heretic activity on Terra had surged. Cultists grew bold, enacting rituals without fear of death. Imperial Guard detachments were now required to assist in purging operations.
None of this, by itself, was new. Heresy festered every year.
This in itself was not unusual. After all, each year saw waves of heretics descending into madness, driven to reckless acts as their final defiance before the Emperor's justice found them.
But this time, Valdor, the seasoned Commander of the Legio Custodes, now acting in place of the Inquisition, sensed something far more sinister beneath the surface.
A day earlier, a massive tremor had shaken Mars to its core. The seismic disturbance was unnatural—an energy surge of such magnitude it seemed as if the very crust of the red planet would tear apart, unleashing something long buried.
The anomaly did not go unnoticed. Probes and scout fleets were dispatched to investigate, their data-spirits already whispering of impossible energy signatures.
And then came the riots.
Cultists of Khorne erupted in unprecedented fury. Across the hives of Terra, they spilled forth from the underhive's fetid depths, dragging their rusted axes and blood-slick blades behind them. They tore through hab-blocks, slaughtered arbitrators, and defiled shrines in great, gory rituals of blood sacrifice. It was a final orgiastic frenzy—one that seemed almost deliberately timed.
Valdor glanced toward the chrono on the wall.
"Tomorrow is the day of the Ascension Rite," he murmured. "Dukel will be declared Warmaster before the High Lords and the galaxy entire…"
He did not finish the thought.
The investiture of a new Supreme Warmaster was a moment of enormous symbolic and strategic weight. Terra itself would play host to rulers and generals from across the Segmentum Solar and beyond. The entire Imperium would be watching.
If something were to mar the celebration…
If Dukel's ascension were disrupted—publicly, catastrophically—it would not simply be an insult. It would be a political disaster, a loss of face for the Imperium, and a provocation Dukel might not suffer quietly.
Valdor, eternal sentinel of the Emperor's Palace, did not like uncertainty.
He hoped—prayed, even—that Terra would remain at peace for just one more day.
But fate is rarely so merciful.
Even as he reviewed threat reports and calculated response deployments, Valdor's enhanced hearing picked up something... off.
Screams. Distant at first, then swelling—waves of panic rippling through the crowded city-scape.
He strode to the wide windows of the Hall of Vigilance, eyes narrowing.
Across the spires and domes of Holy Terra, mortals fled their habs and manufactoria, screaming in terror. They surged toward the Ecclesiarchy cathedrals and colossal statues of the Emperor, falling to their knees in desperation, murmuring prayers with cracked voices.
And then the sky tore open.
In an instant, Holy Terra's heavens were ignited. Crimson lightning split the blood-dark clouds, casting a baleful glow over the gilded spires. Thunderous howls echoed across the hive-stacks. Fires erupted in cascading blossoms, oily smoke clawing upward as panic turned to carnage.
The heart of the Imperium—the cradle of mankind—was transformed into a warzone.
A Shura-field, born of rage and bloodlust.
It was not random. This was no spontaneous uprising.
Chaos had come.
Not with stealth, but with violence and spectacle.
The Blood God's followers—his red tide—had come uninvited to the crowning of the new Warmaster.
A "celebration," indeed.