Belisarius Cawl emerged from the makeshift medicae chamber constructed in the darkened warzone, where Guilliman lay in critical condition.
Most of his biological components had long been replaced by cold, unfeeling machinery, and he had spent ten millennia encased within his augmented form. In those endless years, emotions had become little more than echoes of a past life, leaving only logic, duty, and the weight of his oaths to the Emperor.
To many, he was a machine that walked alone, his form betraying no semblance of humanity. Yet as he stepped from the chamber, even Cawl could not mask the sorrow that clung to him like a specter.
"Cawl, what is the Regent's condition?"
Evelyne, commander of the Death Korps, approached alongside a cadre of Aeldari Farseers.
"Dire." Cawl's voice, typically as cold as the cogitators that guided his mind, now carried an uncharacteristic strain. "The poison has spread again. The armor can no longer repair the Regent's wounds. The force fields of the Adepta Sororitas can halt further deterioration, but they cannot purge the corruption. We must find another way to save him."
Evelyne inhaled sharply. Her expression darkened with concern.
The Farseers had long spoken of Guilliman's importance, hinting at a destiny intertwined with the survival of the Aeldari race. Her worry extended beyond the Primarch—his fate might well determine the fate of her entire people.
But when she moved to enter the chamber, she found herself staring down the barrel of a grenade launcher.
"Why?" she demanded, raising her hands in a show of peace, her brow furrowing.
"Hold it right there, little Aeldari."
The voice was sharp, teasing, but undercut by steel. A black-haired, black-eyed Sister of Battle emerged from the shadows—Shivara, the current Captain of the Psychic Guard. Once headstrong and reckless by Sororitas standards, her past failures had cost the lives of an entire squad of Space Marines. Seeking penance, she had subjected herself to the torturous trials of the Repentia before eventually earning redemption within the Heart Network. Now, she was no longer the undisciplined warrior of old but a tempered and resolute protector.
"You're obstructing the Primarch's treatment," Evelyne countered. "Aren't you afraid of the consequences?"
"Oh, I'm terrified." Shivara raised her hands mockingly, only to drop the act a moment later. "But it's not my decision. Until my master gives the order, you're not stepping through that door."
To the warriors of the Imperium, xenos and heretics were one and the same—untrustworthy, contemptible. Even Evelyne, who had earned some measure of respect from the Regent, was no exception in Shivara's eyes.
"You—" Evelyne started, her voice tightening in frustration.
But before she could say more—
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Heavy footfalls echoed, accompanied by the scraping of something massive being dragged.
Evelyne turned and froze.
A towering figure, clad in ornate power armor, loomed before her. Nearly three times her height, he strode forward with effortless power, dragging the broken carcass of a beast the size of a small fortress.
It was the shattered body of Carlos the Fateweaver, the two-headed daemon lord of Tzeentch.
Evelyne's breath caught in her throat. The anger that had flared within her extinguished instantly, replaced by the cold weight of realization.
With the Primarch came the overpowering scent of blood, thick and cloying, nearly suffocating in its intensity. Even the hardened Death Korps commander found it difficult to breathe.
Before she could recover, the giant spoke.
"Enough, Shivara. Evelyne is Guilliman's guest."
The voice belonged to Dukel, his presence alone enough to command obedience.
Shivara immediately straightened, stepping aside and falling into place behind her Primarch. She exchanged a quick glance with Ephila, who returned it with a faint, knowing smile.
Evelyne, regaining her composure, pressed forward.
"Your Highness Dukel, we must place the Regent in stasis immediately and seek the guidance of the Farseers. Only they may divine a means to—"
The moment she uttered those words, the gathered warriors of the Imperium stiffened. Their glares bore into her like knives.
To seek xenos aid? Did she mean to imply the Imperium was incapable of saving its own Primarch?
Though she likely had no such intent, the arrogance woven into her words—born of Aeldari pride—rankled the assembled soldiers.
"It won't be necessary," Dukel said, unmoved. "I have received the Emperor's guidance. I know how to save my brother."
With that, he dragged Carlos into the medicae chamber. As he entered, the daemon's ruined beaks struck the metal doorframe, the dull impact ringing through the silence.
The warriors of the Imperium looked upon Dukel with reverence. Their faith in the Emperor was absolute. What need had they for the counsel of xenos when their Primarch walked in the Emperor's light?
Evelyne opened her mouth to protest.
But Ephila stepped forward, blocking her path.
"We appreciate your concern for the Regent, Lady Evelyne," she said, her voice gentle yet firm. "But this is as far as you go. My lord is healing his brother."
As Dukel worked, the operation proved to be a task of unparalleled precision.
Absorbing the raw essence of a Greater Daemon was one thing. Extracting it, refining it, and transferring it into armor or weapons without catastrophic consequences was another.
It was why his chainsword had only been lightly infused with the essence of daemons in past battles.
Piece by piece, Dukel extracted the core essence of Carlos, weaving it carefully into the Armor of Fate. The process took an entire day, every moment demanding absolute focus.
By the end, the changes were subtle yet profound. The armor's sleek surface rippled faintly with an otherworldly energy, an aura of enigma and power woven into its very structure. But most notably, a golden Aquila now adorned the shoulder plate, wreathed in ethereal soul-flame—hovering between reality and illusion.
It was a safeguard.
If the armor were ever to be compromised, the soul-fire within would trigger, consuming it entirely rather than allowing it to fall into enemy hands.
And with the final infusion, Carlos the Fateweaver—once a mighty servant of the Changer of Ways—was no more.
What remained of him was little more than a desiccated husk.
Dukel studied the shriveled corpse in his hands. He had no intention of wasting even this.
Turning, he handed it off to the Psychic Guard.
"Find a craftsman. Coat it in gold and mount it as a relic aboard the Soulfire."
A smirk crossed his lips.
"This will be one of my proudest trophies."
...
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