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Eisenhorn was old.
The once high-spirited inquisitor, whose very presence had once struck terror into the enemies of mankind, now bore the weight of years upon his shoulders. His hair, once dark and commanding, had turned to ashen gray, a reflection of the long and arduous path he had walked. Though his face still carried the severe, unyielding gaze of a judge, his features had weathered—marked by scars both visible and hidden.
Once, Eisenhorn had been a hero of the Imperium, a paragon of the Inquisition's might. Now, he was an outcast, a man whose past was as much a burden as it was a legacy. There had been a time when the Imperium had turned against him, branding him a heretic, a traitor to humanity itself. Surrounded, hunted, condemned—yet he had endured. He had clawed his way back from the abyss, proving his loyalty in the only way he knew how: through blood and sacrifice.
He had slain the heretic inquisitor Quixos, a name whispered in dread even in the darkest corners of the galaxy. Thought long dead by the Tribunal, Quixos had instead thrived in the shadows, orchestrating horrors beyond comprehension. His death was a moment of vindication for Eisenhorn, but not his pinnacle.
His true achievements lay beyond the records of the Imperium. He had ventured past the guiding light of the Emperor's Astronomican, purging alien remnants that the Imperium had long considered extinct. He had called upon the power of a daemon prince to annihilate a fallen Emperor Titan. Time and time again, he had harnessed the power of the enemy against itself—commanding daemons to slay daemons, walking the razor's edge between salvation and damnation.
He had uncovered and dismantled a heretical plot that threatened to consume an entire sector. He had expelled blasphemies that had festered in the underbelly of the Imperium, exorcising the heresies that had woven themselves into the very fabric of humanity.
But glory never came without a price.
His friends, his disciples, his lovers—all lost to the war against darkness. One by one, they had fallen, leaving him to bear their memories alone. The burden was one he could never set down. His mind had been engineered to remember everything—every detail, every face, every scream. There was no refuge in forgetfulness, no mercy in the passage of time. The pain of loss was eternal.
The Mechanicus had once offered to purge his memories, to free him from the torment that haunted him. But he had refused. Those memories, however painful, were the only remnants of the ones he had loved. To erase them would be to erase their very existence.
And so he endured.
The life-extension augmetics implanted in him over a century ago still functioned, keeping his body alive despite the toll of the years. But while he still had decades left to live, they would be years of solitude and sorrow. His body, once a weapon honed to perfection, now betrayed him. The artificial systems that sustained him also tormented him. Every movement beyond the simplest exertion sent searing pain through his limbs. The battles of the past had not killed him, but they had crippled him.
Still, he had tried to fight on. To remind the enemies of the Imperium that Inquisitor Eisenhorn's fury had not been extinguished.
But even rage had its limits.
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He had not expected to be summoned by the Lord Regent himself.
Eisenhorn had spent his life hunting xenos and daemons, and he knew well the power of a Primarch. The galaxy teemed with horrors—abominations of unimaginable strength and eldritch terror. For every one that Eisenhorn purged, he had paid a steep price.
But the Primarchs? They had slain such creatures with impunity. They had built an empire upon the corpses of monsters, carving humanity's future from the bones of the damned.
Now, walking through the vast marble corridors of the Imperial Palace, flanked by silent attendants, Eisenhorn felt an unfamiliar sensation creep into his bones. A feeling he had not known in centuries.
Doubt.
The walls around him were adorned with portraits of fallen inquisitors, those who had given their lives to preserve the Imperium. Their faces bore the weight of their sacrifice, immortalized in paint and stone. They had upheld their oaths, and so they were remembered.
Would he, Eisenhorn, be among them one day?
Perhaps not.
For all his victories, his sins loomed just as large. The stain of daemonology could never be washed away. He had done what he must, wielding forbidden power in the defense of humanity—but the Imperium was not known for its forgiveness. He had eliminated fellow inquisitors, not out of malice, but to serve the greater cause. And yet, the Inquisition was an institution of absolutes. He had survived their judgment for now, but the past had a way of catching up.
As he stepped into the grand hall, his gaze met the warriors stationed on either side—the Honour Guards. Clad in Terminator armor, they stood like statues of war, their bolters held at the ready.
Eisenhorn suppressed a grim chuckle.
"One shot from those bolters, and I'd be reduced to little more than a smear on the floor."
He had seen these warriors in battle before, had witnessed them unleash devastation upon the enemies of the Emperor. No force in the galaxy could withstand them. They were war incarnate.
As he advanced, servo-skulls hovered around him, their crimson scanners sweeping over his body. Satisfied that he was no threat, they floated away, resuming their silent vigil over the hall.
Then he saw him.
Seated upon a grand throne, clad in azure armor that shimmered under the vaulted lights, was the Lord Regent of the Imperium.
Roboute Guilliman.
His face was flawless, sculpted in solemn divinity. Even seated, he exuded an authority so absolute that it was impossible to resist. His presence alone commanded obedience. He was reviewing classified documents, his keen eyes absorbing the weight of history with every flick of a page.
Beside him stood Covenant, a fellow inquisitor—yet, unlike most of their kind, Covenant stood in quiet deference. A rare sight indeed.
"Inquisitor Eisenhorn has arrived, my lord," Covenant announced.
Guilliman's gaze shifted, fixing upon Eisenhorn. His expression was unreadable.
"Leave us," the Primarch commanded.
Covenant bowed, performing the sign of the Aquila before departing. The hall emptied, leaving only Eisenhorn and the Lord Regent.
Silence.
Eisenhorn inclined his head in deference. "Master Primarch, what would you ask of me?"
This was no bureaucrat he could dismiss, no inquisitorial rival to outmaneuver. This was a legend, a being from an age that had become myth.
Guilliman studied him for a long moment before speaking.
"You have summoned daemons. Commanded them. Fought beside them," he stated, his voice even, unjudging. "There are multiple accusations in your dossier detailing these acts."
Eisenhorn inhaled, already preparing his defense. "Yes, my lord. At the time, it was necessary. I—"
Guilliman raised a hand, cutting him off.
"You do not need to explain. I understand."
Eisenhorn felt his breath catch. This was not what he had expected.
"You have fought for humanity, and for that, any means are justified," Guilliman continued. "Only the most ruthless can achieve victory in the darkness."
Eisenhorn blinked. He had anticipated condemnation—perhaps even a swift execution. But this? This was something else.
"Tell me, Eisenhorn. Are you loyal to the Imperium?"
"My lord, I am."
"Do you love humanity? Would you give everything for its survival?"
"My lord, I have already sacrificed everything."
Guilliman's gaze sharpened. "Then will you bear the burden once more? Will you endure the accusations of fools, walk in the shadows, and fight for mankind, unseen, until the dawn finally breaks?"
The weight of the question settled upon Eisenhorn.
There was only one answer.
"I am willing."
Guilliman leaned forward. "Then swear it."
Eisenhorn raised his hand. "Before the dawn of the Imperium, I will hold my oath. I will never question, never falter, no matter the cost."
Guilliman nodded. "Good. Then let us speak of what must be done."
Eisenhorn straightened. "What is it, my lord?"