…
The *New Badab* Blackstone Fortress.
Roboute Guilliman and his companions were led deep into the dungeons at the fortress's base. There was no advanced technology to be found here, only the eerie sorcery of the prison conjured by Karolos.
Blue flames burned steadily around the vast chamber, giving off no heat and leaving no trace of harm upon anything they touched. To approach them was to feel their solidity, as though they were more physical than fire. These flames seemed indestructible, and yet the world beyond their glow felt both tantalizingly near and infinitely distant.
Guilliman was bound by chains, fastened to a position against the wall. One chain connected him to Cawl by the neck, while the Ultramarines were secured to the mechanized limbs of Cawl's immense frame.
Celestine and Greyfax, though restrained, appeared in slightly better circumstances.
"I must admit, they have a particular flair for torment," Greyfax remarked, her tone as sharp as her gaze.
The Inquisitor and the Living Saint were bound back-to-back, an arrangement that was itself an aggravation for Greyfax, given her distinct dislike for Celestine. Perhaps their treatment reflected the captors' perception of them as mere mortals—restrained as mundanely as any other.
Guilliman glanced at the Living Saint and the Inquisitor before his gaze settled on Ivrayne. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't, big guy." Ivrayne sighed, exasperation painting her features. "This damnable ritual… Even if you avoided capture in battle, there'd be 999 other ways to get yourself caught. In a sense, this isn't the worst-case scenario."
"It's not your fault, Father," one of the Ultramarines said softly.
"They're right, Son of the Emperor," Celestine added.
Everyone nodded in agreement, though their faces betrayed a shared resignation.
Even so, no one could entirely shake the memory of how Guilliman, not for the first time, had allowed his fervor in battle to leave him isolated and vulnerable. If only he'd remained on the bridge moments ago, the daemon would never have had the chance to capture him so easily.
And yet, Ivrayne had a point. Here, within the Maelstrom, no one could entirely escape the pull of the ritual's influence. Some defeats seemed predestined.
Silence fell over the group until a sharp exchange of voices broke through.
"Get in there, old fool!"
"Old fool? Wash your neck while you still can; I'll take your head with my black blade soon enough."
"You'll need the chance first."
The blue flames flickered, a section of them dissipating to reveal a new prisoner—a black-armored Space Marine thrown into the cell.
"Looks like we're not the only ones having a bad day, hmm?" Greyfax muttered, casting a critical glance at the newcomer. His elaborate appearance, with a golden crown upon his helm and gilded patterns etched into his armor, marked him as more than an ordinary marine.
"Primarch?"
"Are you a son of Dorn?"
Guilliman's eyes met the black-armored warrior's. For a moment, surprise lingered between them. Then, constrained by chains, the marine managed a respectful bow.
"I am Marius, Emperor's Champion of the Black Templars."
"Emperor's Champion?" Celestine's gaze swept over him, and recognition dawned. "We met before—on Cadia."
Marius inclined his head. "Indeed, Living Saint. It is good to see you again."
They had fought side by side during the battle for Cadia, facing enemy lines on the plains between two arrays of weapons.
"What brings you here?" Celestine asked.
Marius sighed deeply before recounting his tale. After the fall of Cadia, he had returned to his Chapter to hunt down traitors in their ranks. A week prior, he'd been pursuing an apostate initiate named Saefro—a psyker who had betrayed the Chapter and had to be eliminated. But during the chase, as he approached the Maelstrom, a warp storm swallowed his ship. When the storm finally abated, he found himself at the doorstep of Huron's domain.
"A two-headed creature wielding a staff captured me," Marius said, his voice heavy with regret. "I intended to die fighting, but even my limbs refused to obey my will."
He glanced at Guilliman, as if to suggest their predicaments were eerily similar.
"This is the Emperor's guidance!" Celestine exclaimed, her excitement breaking the gloom. "He has led you to us!"
Marius shook his head gently. "I doubt that. If it were His will, I would have brought a host of brothers with me."
"The Emperor? My father is no god!" Guilliman snapped, cutting through Celestine's rising fervor.
Celestine turned her exasperated gaze toward the Primarch. "I don't know how to make you see… but the Emperor *is* a god."
"He is not!" Greyfax interjected, siding with Guilliman. "The Primarch speaks the truth!"
Unable to strike Celestine, Greyfax pushed her further into the corner with her back, a visible expression of irritation on her face.
"How primitive," Ivrayne muttered, shaking her head. "Arguing over theology at a time like this? Are you serious?"
"We should focus on escaping," Cawl suggested, his tone neutral.
The group fell silent again, each lost in thought. Even Guilliman, sharp as his mind was, found no immediate solution. Every weapon, including Marius' black blade, had been confiscated.
The only silver lining was the unusual stillness within Guilliman's mind—a silence where once his inner doubts had raged. Perhaps Karolos' ritual had quelled even that torment.
"They're desecrating *Macragge's Honour*!"
The cry came from one of the Ultramarines, his voice filled with anguish.
Beyond the blue flames, the scene shifted and blurred, offering glimpses of the fortress's exterior. In the frozen void of space, *Macragge's Honour* was being dragged alongside the Blackstone Fortress, surrounded by the vessels of the Red Corsairs. Transports swarmed like insects, ferrying troops to board the great Ultramarine flagship.
"The machine spirits of that ship are blessed by the Omnissiah," Cawl said, drawing back from the view. "They will not betray the Primarch."
Guilliman barely acknowledged the tech-priest's assurances. His mind wandered back to the tale of the Emperor's first appearance before the Mechanicum, during the signing of the Treaty of Olympus.
He could almost imagine the scene—a sweltering morning on Mars, with the Emperor and Malcador arriving on a small skiff. Malcador, no doubt, had instructed the Emperor on how to make an impression, how to repair the prearranged Titan, and how to summon a psychic rainstorm to lend a divine aura to the proceedings.
But there was no time for idle speculation.
Guilliman pushed such thoughts aside, forcing his focus back to their dire situation. They needed a plan. They needed to escape.