Jon-Frederic Aristide

Jon-Frederíc Aristide
Title/Honours	Stallion of the Imperium, L'enfant Stellaire, Warmaster
Discovered (world)	Thiepval Prime
Discovered (period)	805.M30
Legion	Emperor's Dragoons
Great Crusade Command	Primarch, 45th Expeditionary fleet
Heraldry/Sigil	WIP
Unique Weapon	WIP
Distinguishing Traits	WIP
Flaws	WIP
Role	Separatist
Fate	Unknown
Dominion	WIP

This page is part of the Warmasters Triumvirate, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the Warmasters Triumvirate page for more information on the Alternate Universe.

Jon-Frederic Aristide is the Primarch of the Emperor's Dragoons Space Marine Legion and the Warmaster of the Union Astarte.

History

Primarch Origin

After conquering the warring tribes of Terra during the Unification Wars, the Emperor of Mankind set out to reconnect all the lost colonies of mankind, which had been lost during the Age of Strife. To this end, the Emperor began work on the Primarch project; 21 gene-sons that would serve as his generals in the Great Crusade. Before he could finish the project however, his sons would be snatched away by the Dark Gods of Chaos and scattered across the stars. The Primarch of the XIVth legion, who would come to be known as Frederíc Aristide, landed upon the world of Thiepval Primaris.

Thiepval Primaris was situated in a small but prosperous system, Rhedon XLII, on the eastern fringe of Segmentum Solar, amongst first colonized by humanity during the Golden Age of Expansion. Thiepval Primaris’s climate was perfect for humanity; similar to Terra, but unkempt, lush and a thing of primal beauty. The crown jewel of the Rhedon system, Thiepval Primaris was the economic, governmental, and cultural center, trading with nearby worlds to sustain itself. Unlike Terra however, Thiepval was not nearly as dependent on trade for food and resources. As humanity crumbled about itself during the Age of Strife, the system, though cut off, remained relatively unscathed, though not completely. STC libraries were lost wholesale, and the means to produce, maintain, and repair ancient technology withered and died.

Because of this, after several centuries, society on Thiepval had managed to stabilize and recover from much of the damage dealt to it by the Age of Strife. A lot of technological prowess would remain lost, however. As centuries turned to millennia, Thiepval became divided across countless nation states.

The infant sixteenth Primarch crash landed on Thiepval Primaris in its darkest era, the once prosperous world stricken with poverty, war, and harsh class divides the world over. The nobility and governments of the planet played wars of fancy with each other, expending lives for games of court and diplomacy. Thiepval's premier empire, and general instigator of the near constant conflict, was the Rayeux Sovereignty, a massive and brutal monarchy that retained a great deal of ancient technology, lobotomizing the Royal Guard and arming them with advanced arms and armour to keep their lands tame, while the rest of their military and subjects suffered by on bolt action rifles and petroleum based vehicles.

The babe’s loose gestation pod crash-landed in a field in the large principality of Bordeois, where he was found by failed farmers, and disgraced nobility, Jeanine and Grigón Aristide. These exiled nobles, cast from court and exiled to the very lands they used to own, decided that their child, borne from heaven, was an omen. So they abandoned their failing farmhold and moved to the city of Saileux.

His mother worked as a seamstress, a courtly diversion serving as a valuable skill. His father was denied many chances of employment, the commoners seeing a chance to strike back at the upper class, even if that was the case no longer. The most bitter irony being that his claims to land and noble titles were seized by the throne for his demands for better treatment of the rural peasantry that fed their war machine. Resigned, his father became a street sweeper.

Their boy, the Star Child, grew more and more everyday, his mother overjoyed at the boys miraculous nature. His father, betrayed by court and the commoners he sought to protect, became embittered and jealous, and was often given to drink and would become abusive. It was when the babe was the size of a young man, his mother tried to defend the quiet youth from his father's ravings, wherein she was struck by her husband for the first and last time. Frederíc broke his father's legs with his bare hands.

His father crippled, albeit accidentally, by his adopted son, Frederíc was forced to abandon the safety of his home and seek real work to feed the family. His mother's homeschooling and the boy's work as a clerk in a local bakery gave the boy a keen mind, and his reputation as a hyper intelligent giant eventually made the crueler commoners give his family a wide, but respectful birth. Frederíc was not some silent golem, how ever, and would often spend nights transcribing books to pass to illiterate commoners in a bid to increase literacy. He would gather the neighborhood to clean and repair the city streets, broken gas lamps, and over crowded apartments. Here he worked a variety of menial professions, with a greater proficiency than his fellows allowing him to work at a breakneck pace and thus take more paying work. Fellow labourers first began to loathe the giant young man, but the sheer myriad of work he adopted saw that most crews did not see him long enough to feel outclassed, felt his absence long enough to miss his impact, and enjoyed his return to their labours. Frederíc made few friends during his time supporting his family, keeping to himself and his family. His chair ridden father at the mercy of his son and improving in sobriety and disposition, his mother so proud of her miracle son. It was merely existence for young Aristide, nearly six years of monotonous work simply keeping his parents fed.

It was only in the waning months that his father opened up to his son, when it became apparent that while the boy was certainly miraculous, he lacked direction and drive. With a sober mind he attempted to mend the broken bond he had with his son. After his long days of labour, he would cook with his wife at the fire and regale them of tales of courtly intrigue and his battles with the crown to improve the conditions of the common people. Frederíc saw that his father was not always the embittered husk that sat hobbled by his own hand before him, and while their relationship did little to improve, his tales of political heroics and bold maneuvering unlocked something within Frederíc. The large lad had little in terms of drive, but he began to see the deep flaws his planet, his nation and his city in ways he did not before. It was a strange sensation of civic duty but he saw the world around him with new eyes. The streets were filled with chaos, ignorance, and indiscipline. Frederíc began to loath it, and the commoners and the nobility that allowed it to happen.

He continued to renew his city, menial repair work turning into concentrated renewal efforts, lazy and drunken work crews whipped into tradesman unions. Though Frederíc never entered into the literally cutthroat politics of the city, and the Rayeux Sovereignty, in the short few months of his spiritual awakening, many local politicians sought his advice and sponsorship. In seven years he redeemed the Aristide name, and revitalized the stagnant city and surrounding countryside. Eventually the governorship was made aware of the strange man bearing the Aristide name revolutionizing the principality, seemingly through sheer good example alone. This giants crusade of progress undermined their power. The Sovereignty knew very well the nature of their power and a warrant for Frederíc Aristide's arrest was announced, and the city fell into riot. Peacekeepers were torn apart in the street, civilians put down under rifle and gas, buildings set aflame and destroyed. Infuriated by the chaos and destruction of the lives he helped improve, the Primarch surrendered, to keep the peace and prevent any more loss of life. He was hailed a hero and martyr.

In Rayeux, there are no executions, just conscriptions. Frederíc was sent to the southern front, to fight a nation barely ten years old, created by the Sovereignty to fight. Under equipped, undertrained in anything beyond a street brawl, and without leadership, Frederíc and thousands of other prisoners, dissidents, defectors, deserters, degenerates, and down trodden were thrust out of great armoured transports to the field of battle, to act as wall of living flesh. Naked and furious, Frederíc rallied those who would listen, and using mountains of corpses and rubble as cover, wound their way to the enemy's defensive line. It was a massacre. The enemy expected starved prisoners, ready for death. They did not expect the Stallion.

He burst through concrete walls, dug through mudded trenches, and stalled through shadowed bunkers. His men, emboldened by their first victory in their lives, were a meager but motivated force. It took days, but after disabling gun emplacements, raiding mess halls, and pillaging armouries, the giant of man had turned a small band of desperate but attentive men into an adequate fighting force, aided by the break in enemy morale and Frederíc's seemingly inherent abilities in combat and leadership. Frederíc soon discovered that he had a certain sense of...clarity. It wasn't detached, or some automaton's cold logic, simply a grand focusing of the mind, in which he knew what had to be done, and a vague idea on what he must do to do it. As more desperate conscripts trickled into the besieged bunker complex, Frederíc was able to offer them rest and meals ad he turned to assault into a slow burn siege, having his forces, eat, sleep, maintain their equipment, and train as they best they could, all in shifts. Frederíc took his time, having deserters and discharged soldiers of the Sovereignty military train the poor conscripts without a clue as to the sharp end of a bayonet.

Eventually, the enemy, mad from starvation and lack of sleep, surrendered, signaling to the Sovereignty forces their intent. Frederíc accepted their surrender, and waited as the main force came to the subdued enemy line. They were astonished, a ragtag group of suicide troops managed to rush, assault, and force the surrender of a fully fortified trench complex. Normally, the conscripts would have been beaten, but...what rules were broken? They had not done their job, they far exceeded it. Frederíc was singled out as the hero of the battle, not a single Sovereignty round fired.

So a grand experiment was conducted. Frederíc, and the most capable of the conscripts in his assault, and a chosen few from each batch thereafter, would be given the uniforms of the dead, and nothing more, Frederíc was given four ponchos and a field blanket for him to sew into something resembling a uniform. They would charge the enemy position, loosed from armoured prison carriers like race hounds, and if they claimed the position and no soldiers had to be used, they all would live. If they failed, or if a single Sovereignty boot was forced to touch the field, they would be dead, if they weren't already. It was a massive proposition, for a hundred odd unarmed men to take some of the most fortified and entrenched positions in the southern front. And each time, Frederíc Aristide, the disgraced noble, the Giant of Saileux, the Star Child, would lead a wild assault, finding the route of least resistance and ran, crawled, dug, and sneaked into the enemy's heart. There where losses, that was inevitable, but the Primarch's keening clarity brought victory to him and his mean each time, sparing them from an ignoble death.

Eventually the soldiers began "leaving" things in the prison transports, boots, socks, field rations, shovels...as Frederíc's legend grew, his group of conscripts became known as the No Men, named after the stretch of land between two fortified or entrenched positions. The No Man's Land. That and "No men would be crazy enough to run across to a trench bare handed and live."(edited) Frederíc, now nicknamed the "War Horse", had proven himself as a peerless commander and warrior. The Sovereignty High Command saw his position as a neglectful waste of potential, and offered him a commission and position of command in one of the premier cavalry units. So Frederíc because High Marshal of the 373rd Sovereign Cavalry Regiment. Scarcely accepted by the other noble born commanders, but the respect he commanded over the troops and his tactical acumen put him leagues beyond his peers.

Under his guidance, his regiment collapsed the southern front, his simultaneously careful but brash tactics completely taking the enemy, used to patient gun lines and swarms of "disposable" infantry, completely unawares. Within a month of his assumption of command his cavalry and agile No Men stood upon the steps of of the enemy capitol. When he pressed his saber against the lord of the land and demanded his surrender, the Lord spat at his mercy. It was in this moment that Aristide saw that his mercy emboldened the enemy, they did not see him as a conqueror, but as a weak chinned politician. As the rival Lord spat his defiance, Aristide flicked his wrist and claimed his kingly head. As he tossed it down the capitol steps, he gave but one command; "Burn it."

And so the nation burned.

They were quick, and merciless. The flames of conquest consumed the capitol, and spread to the few places not cowed by the War Horse's bloody tear.

The Great Crusade

Deserter

The Heir of Superiority exited the warp, tendrils of nightmarish empyrean lashing at its alabaster hull. The Ist and Xth Dragoon battle fleets emerged in tow from the rip in space, dwarfed by the enormity of the Stallion’s flagship. Before the arrayed fleet, a derelict shipyard, a conglomeration of tangled space hulks and abandoned stations, within; the Vth legion. In all, it was similar to the Astral Warden's homeworld, albeit stripped of the warmth and evidence of civilization, hanging on to the most austere of environs. So too was the scrap field bereft of the cosmic and Immaterial tumult that surrounded Bishop's home, making the Dragoon's approach blessedly easy. To many, this was an open invitation. The Wardens were laying low, neutral, largely defected. Aristide was convinced of their neutrality, and their silent defection. Of invitation? That he was more hesitant to assume. Laying a trap in this manner would be out of Bishop's tactical acumen, and honour. Of what he was walking into, he was uncomfortably ignorant.

The Astral Wardens and their gene-sire simply disappeared from Imperial control, summarily cutting off contact with the rest of the Crusade force and their Warmaster, Marduk, as tensions in the Triumvirate legions began to rise. For Frederíc, this was a dark omen for the crusade. The Wardens, and by extension “Cal”, were one of the few genuinely magnanimous forces in the Legio Astartes ensemble. The Silver Blades were often considered “men of the people”, but Frederíc always considered their lack of discipline and drunken bravado to be charming to mortals, not that the average Blade had very much concern for the safety and well being for the average citizen. The Corsairs Gallant, were...gallant, but Rahman and the greater Mansa clan dealt in subterfuge and controlled words. They built confidence with their lesser fellows as a thief does unwitting marks. Frederíc did not consider this a blemish on their character, only that their charisma is not for the consideration of others. The Doomsingers largely were the most charismatic, their enthusiasm for the stories of strangers and their tales was genuine as far as Frederíc could tell, but their thirst for glory and legend forging could overrule their care for the frailty of others. Since Kinnévail’s fall to darkness, the Doomsingers are more readily given to zeal, and their compassion for others manifests more readily as children's crusades more and more. Something they shared with the Liberators, whose love for Humanity did not so often reach the human. A trait they no doubt inherited from the Emperor. Frederíc didn't see cause to inflame Piter with such a concern, as Piter took great pains to justify his means, and moreover it would mark him a hypocrite. Jon-Frederíc understands better than most the quality of lesser evil. The Astral Wardens were different. Calael may lack the radiant charm that Kinnévail once possessed, or the eagerness of Lambach, but he was resolute, his sons earnest. Many viewed the Warmasters as guiding stars, or looked up to the more bombastic Primarchs, but Frederíc always found a certain hope when considering the Vth. Thiepval was his crucible and it left him cynical, hardened, and dire. Einchurt, Adras, Kane, all saw tremendous hardship in their adolescence, and were darkened for it, some simply were born to cruelty like Hadad or Dyestes. Others had disaster thrust upon them much later, like Vokar, or Kincaid and Eyanosa. For those, they came away forever changed. But Aristide wasn't convinced that the same fate could befall Calael. A moment of melancholy, a brief passing of anger, but Frederíc thought the Wardens too pure to fall to the temptation of lesser emotions. Bishop, quiet, humble, inexorable, was seemingly impossibly resolute.

Which is why this turn of events disturbed him deeply. If the Wardens had a change of heart, a desolation of hope, there was little chance the other legions could withstand the shifting sands beneath them. With this, wars of succession, secession, and frustration would break out. However if Aristide could assess their status, perhaps pull them back into the crusade, he could retain a semblance of stability. He would need a generally popular legion in the middle to maintain peace.

Aristide sat upon his command throne on the bridge, a simple construction of gilded wood, harvested from the beams and rafters from his old home. A small and hidden joke, or perhaps a commentary on humble origins. Frederíc had difficulty parsing why he used the wood from that ashen hovel, only that he felt it important when he crafted the chair. The back was composed of a unicorn and a horse, both rampant, symbols of power and majesty on his homeworld. The Imperial Aquila was bore aloft on the equines’ heads, a grand celestial halo illuminating the Aquila and the Primarch, perched attentively upon the throne. The rests were also fierce beasts, his right a lion resting upon a stack of corpses and poppies, clutched in its outermost paw a lance that dove towards the base. His left was a gryphon, roosting upon vellum scrolls and stacks of tomes. In its claw it bore a great shield, the heraldry of the Dragoons engraved upon its face. He leaned forward, his gauntleted hands steepled before him, his countenance grim in contemplation. The bridge itself was comparatively austere compared to most Dragoon constructions, indeed compared to any Imperial one. Comfortable, not overly imposing or spartan, but largely unadorned and simple, the Primarch's command centre being an ornate centerpiece in a sea of simple militaristic design. This was by design, of course, to keep the bridge crew on task and clear of distraction, and keeping Jon-Frederíc the center of attention when dictating orders. Most of the Heir was constructed this way, with plain battleship grey corridors and bulkheads, with anything important or stations of command made ornate and with filigree. The living, leisure, and training areas were usually lavish, a reminder of the rewards that come with excellence. The bare austerity of everything else kept the mind on duty, and the splashes of quality draw the eye to importance. A design philosophy Aristide wished the rest of his commanders acknowledged, instead of celebrating their opulence.

The heavy thud of power armour broke him from his contemplation. As if summoned by thought, the captain of his honour guard, Guy Maxíme strode forth. His armour was battle damaged, his hair bordering on out of regulation in length and helm tossed all the same, his mutton chops intersected at the upper lip and about the temples by scars, one going across his nose, cheekbones and ears. The long scar a memory from when an Eldar corsair caught him about the head and face with a saber. He traded the bottom of his ear lobes for the pirate's jaw. Maxíme was a constant thorn in the Primarch's side, an insubordinate, gruff, short tempered, crass, ill kempt boar of a man, like a wolverine given human shape with no better temperament. He was also one of Frederíc's closest friends within the Dragoon's, the best warrior in the entire legion. His unconventional methods had landed him on the wrong end of many courts martial, censures, and formal admonitions. However the myriad punishments levied against him did little to change his attitudes, or his efficacy as a warrior or leader. His popularity amongst the Imperial Army, other legions, and the Dragoon enlisted also made it difficult to inflict grievous punishment upon him without damaging morale. So after consulting his command staff and advisors, and putting the matter to the vote, Frederíc made the bastard his official Equerry and Captain of the Palantine Guard. This in equal parts made Guy infinitely smug and frustrated, as he had officially broken free of his perceived stranglehold from Dragoon doctrine, but also made it easier for Aristide to punish him by sending him out on diplomatic missions alone, and his sense of duty would force him to execute an at least adequate performance. Despite his fantastic array of faults as a human being, there was no doubting his place as a Dragoon, leader, or warrior. Now he served as the Primarch's cudgel, replacing inefficient commanders, treating them like children, and leaving their companies better than he found them. All and all, he was what the Primarch needed, even if he wasn't what he wanted at times. He stopped at the Stallion's side, resting his arm on the throne.

“They have yet to return our hails, complete vox silence,” the marine said, “Were this any other legion, I would call this a piss poor excuse for a trap. But I doubt they would attack us, and I hope they're not foolish enough to assume we're here to censure them.” Frederíc nodded, “My assessment as well. They were not subtle when they withdrew to this...fortress. They must be expecting a response.” Guy scratched his stubbled chin, “Aye, although I can't say I'd be shocked if this was the Warden equivalent of subterfuge, ‘They can't see us if they we can't see them’.”

Frederíc sighed, “Maxíme, do not force me to leave you on the ship.”

“What, and allow you to be sucked out an airlock without me? Doubtful, ‘my liege’.” Guy was always deferential when he wanted to jibe his Gene-sire. This was the least of his bad behavior, and a small bit of humour between the two of them, Guy being the only marine Aristide would allow to be so casual, anything else would simply be...unnatural. Formality from Guy simply made the Primarch uncomfortable, and so he addressed him as a near equal.

“Of course not. I require a shield should I go through a debris field, and you would be no worse for wear.” “Of course. The Noble Countenance mustn't be marred. Though mine is better used as a striking surface.” “That scar on your face says otherwise, marine.”

That elicited a grunt, and a smirk. Frederíc allowed himself a small grin as well. Amongst the reasons he tolerated Guy is that his gruff exterior and surprisingly quick wit reminded him of his days as a No Man, a trench runner meant to die. When he was but a soldier, chaff, canon fodder in the old Thiepval games of war. The slaves there were grim and hopeless, but when he made soldiers of them, the camaraderie he experienced was unparalleled. He wasn't treated as some mythic figure amongst his men. He was their commander and one of the men. As they crept toward the ship graveyard, his small mirth extinguished. If only things could remain so simple.

“So what's the play, Aristide,” Guy queried peering behind his shoulder, Aristide's support staff, both Astartes and standard humans, gathered timidly at the top of the stairs ushering one up to Frederíc’s command dias, “The lambs are dancing in anticipation. They expect a thirty page battle plan, no doubt.”

“What do you expect?”

“For you to talk to him like a man.”

The primarch nodded, “That is about the whole of it.”

“It’s solid. Bishop isn't one for word games.”

“I need him back, Maxíme, we teeter on a knife edge. I need one someone can look to for stability. Someone who inspires hope. Kinnévail is lost to us, and Rahman is too shrewd. Ashur too demure, Lambach too controversial, Vokar too destructive. Je'she too embroiled in political conflict he never asked for and Marduk...who can claim to know Marduk. It needs to be Calael Bishop. He needs to be our figurehead.”

“He isn't universally loved, Frederíc. Many think him and the legion soft. The psykers envy his power, the butchers despise his easy hand, and the word-smiths find him dull. He isn't the lynchpin you need, socially.”

“I have few others that I can rely on for this purpose. “The Burned One” is too extreme, what he was would have been perfect. I need someone others can look to and find peace in their hearts.”

“Not you? Or the other Warmasters? Is the indomitable Jon-Frederíc doubting himself?”

“I am too controversial as well. My rank and position have made me largely unapproachable. Amongst some I am too brutal, others not enough. And I lack the grace and patience for games of court.”

“That's where I get it from”

Aristide scoffed, “Indeed. Je'She...damn but if Je'She could have been under my command…,” he rubbed his face with a gauntlet, looking away from Guy. He spoke from behind his hand, “Je'She is not a Warmaster. He is a champion, an architect. Were he and Calea-Cal. Were he and Cal switched he would be the one I turn to, without doubt. Well liked, proficient in battle, a warrior with vision. It is no wonder why Malcador made him such, but Warmaster is not his proper role. He suffers from the same problem as I, where his station makes him largely unapproachable. Which is only compounded by radicals and mavericks; Linares, Kincaid. Vokar is largely controllable, but he has been severe of late. Solomon is honourable, but his ends and means are his own. Marduk is too approachable, his words poison. The man is a snake and none can see it.”

“So Cal is your last resort for approachable figures, eh?”

“He is loved well enough, and is under Marduk's command. Having council in that camp is important.”

“You seek to exert influence beyond your rulership.”

“I seek stability, I seek the success of the Crusade.”

“And you do that accosting another Warmaster's rogue legion?”

“You think Marduk would handle this with such a gentle hand? Or would a Host battlefleet be here in my stead?”

“That wasn't the question, Frederíc. Nor is it in question.”

“Yes, applying diplomacy that I trust to an unknown is my key to stability, instead of allowing another unknown to be applied, one that could end in bloodshed. If it wasn't in question, then why ask it by any other means?” “Because in your tactical brilliance, lord, I feel that you have blinded yourself to how this looks from beyond. How does this look to the other Warmasters? The other legions? To Malcador?”

“I assume you will tell me, regardless of my wishes.”

Guy nodded, “Of course, sir. My point is that your displeasure with the Triumvirate was vocal, and is well known. Those that know you well know that your sense of duty preserves the Triumvirate, but those who don't see a warlord amassing power.” The implication was clear.

“I am not a usurper.”

“I know Frederíc. But few others can say the same.” Guy walked from his side and to his fore, leaning on the railing that ran around the exterior of the raised platform, “You've made yourself too high, too mighty. Everyone will claim to know your heart. I want to be sure you know it as well.”

“I know only what must be done. I know I have standing orders from the Emperor, I know I have legions to lead, and a people to unite. These are truths fundamental to my being as a Primarch, as a general. As a soldier.” Guy nodded, turning a bit to consider the sinister web of hollowed out vessels that reached forth to swallow them, “Cal won't appreciate deception, intended or otherwise, or weakness of purpose. You must come to him with a bold heart, intent honed like a razor.”

“Of my resolve I have few doubts.”

“Then all you need to do is make sure he doesn't feel used.”

“Used? How so?”

“Your intent is to simply draw him back into the crusade. Hold back the appearance of a crumbling crusade, but moreover have someone you can count on to assuage fears. A neutral party.”

“Yes of course, but what is your point?”

“A man like Cal won't like idea of being someone's show pony. He might agree with your intentions, but if you make him feel like a tool in your plan, he will buck at your tyranny. Lead him to water, and he'll drink on his own.” He folded his arms, and nodded. Guy was useful for bluntness, and his critical eye. He saw weaknesses in plans as easily as those in an opponent, and wasn't afraid to show them to you. His concerns were well founded, and well articulated, but the truth was Frederíc wasn't exactly sure what he would find. The galaxy had countless unknown horrors, what if this was much more sinister than the Warden's regrouping in the face of collapse? What if they had gone against the Edict of Nikaea so direly that self imposed exile was Bishop's response? What if some Xenos terror took the minds of the legion in its entirety, or some technological monstrosity from the Dark Age of Technology? What if Calael was slain, and pretenders and dissidents rule in his stead? A sea of possibilities danced before Aristide, a hellscape of outcomes and futures. He silenced them, calming his mind. He had to trust his Legion's intelligence, his observations, and his intuition. He knew not exactly what he was going to encounter, but he knew it was a secret conclave of the Astral Wardens, of some kind. He knew he should be concerned, and he knew he was the best man to interrupt it, if any at all existed.

“Your council is invaluable.” Frederíc finally admitted, he knew praise meant little to Guy, but he felt the admission was a symbol of humility. He would need to face a humble man on equal terms. L'enfant Stellaire, Empereur Regent and Lord Commander of Thiepval, Warmaster Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Primarch of the Emperor's Dragoons, Stallion of the Imperium, would have to take a seat to Frederíc of Saileux, clerk, baker, street sweeper, carpenter. Political dissident, a man who silently protested the corruption of his oppressors by simply doing what was right. This was the man Cal of Providence would speak with on honest terms. He hoped that the man that came after, Field Marshal Aristide, Warhorse of the No-Men, blood soaked butcher and fire breathing beast would not be needed. He looked up at Guy, and rose from his throne, his tall frame and massive armour filling the dias with commanding presence. He heard his viziers, counselors, generals and equerries shuffling into presentable formation.

Guy grunted, and pushed off the railing, “I'll meet you in the bay, and gather the Palantine.” and he stomped off to the Stormbird Frederíc would take into the tangle. He growled at the gathered staff before chuckling to himself, tossing on his helm, and trundling down the stairs through the small formation. Most of the mortals were visibly tense, while the Astartes officers simply seemed weary at his taunting. The Stag amongst them had his hands on his hips, and seemed to be chuckling. Stags either seemed to be the epitome of a Dragoon, prim, proper, precise. Others followed in Maxíme's shadow. While Stags were largely anonymous, Maxíme's stripping of the title was fairly public and a subject of controversy to this day. This one, Sanque d’Lumé, was the latter. He was relatively new, but as a Stag his performance was exemplary. Thankfully his relative silence, being a Stag, would be that his presence would be merely ceremonial. “Come,” Frederíc commanded, “to the ships. We fly into the lion’s den.” The crowd dispersed and marched off, muttering. They were no doubt nonplussed that Guy Maxíme, Bastard of Thiepval, was able to hold the Primarch's ear and not them. Jon-Frederíc required not their council, or even Guy's. He subjected himself to the marine to test his resolve, and the wisdom of this plan. As he passed the throne he caressed the golden wingtip of the Aquila, and thought of his mother, and the Emperor, ‘Oh Maman...that you did not live to see these dark times. Oh Father...if only you were here to end them…’

They boarded the Stormbird, the Wings of Triumph, Jon-Frederíc’s personal airship. He was attended by twenty Thunderhawks, a squadron of Fire Raptors, and a Xiphon Attack Wing belonging to his Palantine Guard. All in all, it was a comprehensive strike force when backed by the fleets behind, well armed and armoured, but the primarch kept them in a neutral position, simply flying as one. It was a ‘subtle’ show of might, simply a reminder that the Dragoons are fatal if crossed, and leery to whatever plot exists, should there be one at all. The force poured from the battlefleet, the loading and execution of movement a comparatively quiet affair. There were few amongst the fleet ignorant to the implications of a rogue legion, even the Wardens. Frederíc stood at the helm of the Stormbird, looming over the pilots. A rising tide of battle edge swelled in his heart, but his Focus swept in like a winterborne tide, an icy surge of understanding and confidence.

It was a private thing, but he was well read on the exploits of generals across recorded space and time. Often they spoke of moments of true clarity at their most dire hour, a tactical celerity that allowed them to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Frederíc experienced what he called the Focus often, and assumed it was a boon implanted by the Emperor as a mechanism in his role as a leader, a general’s intuition scaled to a Primarch’s profound capacity. Time slowed to a crawl, the cabin of the vehicle bursting into activity as once invisible dust swirled in a twisting nebula of glittering motes, light from the various panels and readouts flared as they shone differently with sharpened sight. When he Focused, time slowed and his senses elevated ever so slightly, giving him a dominance of perception necessary to make superlative judgements on the battlefield. He could summon it at will, but it required that he, well, focused, but that did him little good with tasks immediately at hand. Often, it struck him in moments of duress, or extreme danger (often without his knowing of it). This was not always a boon. His city burned over the span of a perceived day, as he ran in slow motion to save his mother. He watched as he broke his brother's heart, tears streaming down their blood coated faces as the Emperor was extracted by the Custodes. He shamed him in an agonizing crawl, he watched their bond shatter as he pushed through the slowing effect of his Focus. Some of his greatest victories were won because of it, and some of his most painful memories were made despite it. Now, the random tangle of space debris ordered itself in his vision. He imagined that to a mortal eye the active perception of each bit of floating detritus would be disabling, but in his eye he could track each item, all in their own lazy path. As he peered into the abyss, a path became clear to him. Displaced material, as well as the speed and pitch of the disturbed scrap indicated a clear path of the hidden fleet, dust and chunks pushed away...and spinning away, downwards? It clicked in his mind, and the Focus bled away, his hyper aware state fading, and the comparatively dim world swam up to meet him. He lay a gauntlet on the pilot's pauldron, “Abandon the cloud, the Warden fleet is beyond, and below. Take a descent, marine.”

The pilot obliged, and the attack wing dove through the perilous field. The marine piped up, “Lord, the Wardens now hail us. Naval code sign signalling our approach. Proceed?” Frederíc nodded, “Indeed, follow their directives as given, marine.” As they broke through the bottom of the field, the Wardens made themselves apparent, ships coming alive with lights and systems, once indistinguishable from the derelicts of the wreckage. They made their approach as directed by the silent datum streams and machine vox transmissions. The lack of human interaction set Frederíc on edge, the Wardens were comparatively holistic, with little love for servitor platforms, which Aristide himself saw as a macabre but efficient technology, little different that the Imperial proclivity for skeletal imagery or the Martians insistence on shoving a human gallbladder into anything more advanced than a boot knife. Also trends that the Wardens seemed to balk at. In moments the entirety of the Warden fleet loomed before the small air wing, in which moment Frederíc began to question the tactical value of humility.

From the bulk of the fleet came a single Thunderhawk to meet their party. The pilot marine turned again, “They are hailing us on vox, Lord.”, which comforted Aristide. Finally, contact. “Answer them then, patch them into the cabin, I would treat with them myself” “Yes, lord.”, the marine intoned. The distinct crackle of the vox network filled the cabin, and silence carried on it. Frederíc took the dead transmission and spoke first, “This is Warmaster Jon-Frederíc Aristide, lord and commander of the Sixteenth Legion, the Emperor’s Dragoons. I seek an audience with Calael Bishop, commander and Primarch of the Fifth Legion, the Astral Wardens.” The vox line was stagnant for a moment longer, then he was answered by a human voice he could only describe as tired, “Understood, Lord Aristide, you’re in the presence of the Fifth, the Lodestar expects your arrival. Adjust to our trajectory.” The line was cut as the missive was sent, and the thunderhawk rose and corkscrewed, leading up back into the field. Frederíc preempted his marine’s request to follow, “Follow their lead, with a generous distance,” he saw the direction the Warden Thunderhawk took, and followed it to a derelict ship at the bottom of the field, small cruisers and thunderhawks perched upon it like parasites. As they neared it was clear that work had undergone to fashion it into an impromptu fortress, derelicts were tethered to soft points on the hulk, cruisers

Brotherwar

Fratricide

The air was ash-choked and sullen, the smell of burning fuel and metal poisoned the wind, the smoke buried the twin suns of New Hope, the snow of debris and ash turned the vibrant desert into a bleak tundra. Malcador’s crashed flagship, the Barchamos, had turned the planet into a pallid grave. They couldn’t even retrieve his corpse, but the remnants of the ship’s vid and pict recordings would have told the tale. The Sigilite was dead, and nothing could ever be the same. The burgeoning Imperium had died in its adolescence. The legions that had gathered to refocus the Crusade and bring peace from division now gathered in tense silence for the coming war. Frederíc knew what would happen next. The final piece of the eroding foundation had crumbled, his only hope for peace died in that wreck. Malcador called the Warmasters to New Hope to inspire, to unite, to no doubt scold. Now they’ll argue over his body like vultures. The Sentinels were the first to arrive to the cataclysmic scene, and they were reluctant to share what they found, as somber silence met requests for information. That told Frederíc everything he needed to know. This was no accident, no tragic result of a perilous warp jump. If it were, it would have been announced, and the mourning would bind them, if only for a moment, as one. This was no assassination by Xenos forces, or enemy malcontents. If it were, they would have taken to stars already in vengeance. No, Malcador was murdered, and the list of suspects was terrifyingly small. To best the Sigillite in his own ship...the thought left a chill in Frederíc’s bones.

Many are the planets which escape notice by the powers that be. Lacking in resources, devoid of useful manpower and occupying no strategic location. This planet, New Hope, had once been lush and ripe for colonization, but the Age of Strife had been devastating. Yet the course of history is winding and endlessly complex, and on rare occasions a planet is thrust to the forefront, the hub upon which the galaxy might spin for a moment or two. New Hope was also such a place. Once a bustling and verdant world filled with industry and civilization, now all that remained was a dusty ruin. Primarch Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Imperial First Son and gene-sire of the Emperor’s Dragoons, was the first to set foot upon New Hopes’ crumbling, salt-laden soil and rolling sand dunes. In more abundant eras long past, his encampment was a beautiful ocean, a shallow sea filled with warmth and life from which huge aquaculture farms produced enough food for the entire sector. The Old Night was not kind to this world, and now only the titanic rusting skeletons of mighty industrial complexes now protruded from the endless salt flat, blue waters replaced by orange sand and white ash.

His contingent had camped on the farside of the planet, on the western hemisphere, amongst the sand covered ruins of cities and factorums. Zelbezis with his Iron Guard, Piter with his Liberators. Valorn with his Pale Hounds secretly in reserve. There was an agreement amongst the meeting parties to bring a supporting element, so that Malcador’s edict would not go ignored, or at the very least, be understood without the interference of the Warmasters. It was a concession proposed by Je'She, agreed upon by Marduk, and abided by Frederíc. Aristide would have preferred to come alone, but Je'She obviously did not trust his brothers, which Aristide understood because he felt the same. Marduk’s introduction as a neutral party did not sit well with him. Lambach and Kane’s disappearance into the fringes and the intelligence detailing the increasingly erratic behaviour of the Soaring Host and the Gunslingers made for a grim picture of the state of Marduk’s legions. Then again, the same could be said for his own legions. The Iron Guard and the Pale Hounds were famously austere, and the grievous losses the Liberators regularly incurred on Imperial Army auxilia were only overshadowed by their impeccable victory record. Of course, the Forge Lords were always disagreeable and cantankerous, their gene-sire Mot Hadad most of all. Save for the Astral Wardens and their Primarch, Aristide’s forces were famously unpopular, the Warmaster himself least of all at the moment. Without the Emperor to lead the Crusade, the Warmasters were the only authority in the frontier, and Warmaster Aristide was reluctant to allow mortal bureaucrats and entitled monarchists buck at that authority. While wildly controversial, he would not have disorder and corruption follow in the wake of his warfront.

Still, his brothers called him a seperatist, or worse, a usurper. Propaganda and misinformation caged him in, and any defense of his actions would be observed through the lense of skepticism and doubt. Worse still were his brothers under his command that took the bait and declared themselves “Astartes Supremacists”, consequences be damned. Mot in particular had been a staunch advocate of this stance, despite the Warmaster’s own views. Seperatist or not, Aristide’s image had been ruined by this movement, and his apparent enemies were more than glad to spread it, and as the debate grew more fevered, skirmishes broke out between the legions. And so Malcador called them here to discipline him and the other unruly legions. Without him, true conflict was inevitable.

Frederíc sat in a tent, a plain construction of canvas that flapped in the polluted wind. The command tent was picked clean in preparation for the meeting of the Warmasters. Only he and the austere chair he sat in remained. He had done this to himself. His experience with his homeworld made him paranoid, gave him little faith in regards to human rulers, and little trust in pacified peoples. He was not misguided, only overzealous in his response. Now his men think themselves revolutionaries, or the true successors to the Emperor’s vision. Frederíc was a leader of a movement not of his making, and yet it was his all the same. As the desert wind whipped through the tent he felt a peculiar sensation of everything falling around him, the unfamiliar impression of failure causing his stomach to sink, his head feeling light. Even that humble feeling he was supposed to be above, and here was. A disoriented man at the brink of collapse, watching all he had attempted to build be carried away with the wind, like the ash and sand. What hurt the most, was that in Malcador’s final moments, he likely considered Aristide a potential enemy. The realization that he failed the Sigillite somehow wounded him more than the prospect of coming to earnest blows with his brothers.

He felt very empty in his tent, gazing vacantly into the shifting dunes beyond. He had done this to himself.

He registered the steps coming from behind him long before they reached him, the monotonous crunch of sand blending in with the roaring of the blood in his ears. He didn’t turn to greet his brothers, and his son. Zelbezis Dyestes, the Primarch of the Iron Guard. Intimidating, severe, and nigh emotionless. He was clad in imposing black Cataphractii terminator plate, chains and spikes adorning the sinister ensemble. Despite his terrifying appearance, he was Frederíc's most loyal brother, ultimately deferential and precise in his execution of orders. Aristide often wondered what he done to engender such support, but he was glad for it nonetheless. “Warmaster, the forces are mustered, we are prepared to attend the council on your orders.” Aristide nodded absently, “Very good, Dyestes.”

An awkward silence followed, interrupted by Piter’s voice. Piter was likewise clad in Terminator armour, the new, experimental Indomitus pattern, which traded the unparalleled protection of Cataphractii and the overall perfection of Tartaros with greater mobility while being easier to manufacture and repair in comparison. Being the armour of a Primarch it was far more advanced than that which his sons wore, but the impression that he was no better equipped than his men. It was a strange bit of hypocrisy in Frederíc's mind, but it seemed to work for the Ussaran Liberators.

“Get up, Aristide. We should attend Malcador’s funeral, and fight over the scraps of the Imperium.” Piter said. Malcador’s funeral. It still didn’t feel real to Frederíc. There it was again, that crumbling sensation, like the seat beneath him and the ground beneath it disappeared, and he was falling into the void. The routine of command assisted Frederíc where conscious thought was failing him, “Indeed. Expect conflict, and a rapid exfiltration. We came here to prevent war, but do not be unprepared if war begins here.” He rose fluidly, his flesh numb to the motion, as if he was drawn up by marionette strings. He turned to face them for the first time. Zelbezis was placid as ever, his constant expression of stern disapproval was plastered on his face. Piter seemed bored with the whole affair, likely just waiting to learn if the Crusade is reunited, or if the “Revolution” is to begin.

Guy Maxíme however, was positively furious. “We were at war the second you started leading planetary governors to the guillotine and left Marines in their place.” Frederíc considered him coldly, “I curbed dissidents. I will not conquer the stars in the Emperor’s name only to have them turn against us when we present them with our backs.” Zelbezis nodded sagaciously in agreement,“There is little use in claiming worlds in title only.”, he said, echoing his Warmaster's sentiment. Guy’s nostrils flared in irritation, “Calael Bishop openly abandoned the Crusade, you allowed him to put secession into your mind, you’ve broken nearly every law of the Imperium save open rebellion and the Truth!” Piter rolled his eyes, “Brother, why do you allow this troop to speak to you this way? In my legio-” Jon-Frederíc Aristide snapped to, the fog of despair lifting for a moment, and the piercing stare from his stormy eyes lashed out as he spoke. “The Imperium is dead. It died this morning. It’s been dying since Ullanor, but today we hold the wake. Today we decide either to resurrect it, or give birth to something new. If the maggots on its corpse resist, then you should be very glad for what I have done.”

Guy’s eyes widened, “This is madness.” Frederíc turned his back to him, gazing out to the desert once more, now examining the invisible paths before him, “In an insane world, the sane man must appear truly mad. I play the part I must, for all of our sakes, but do not mistake this as the world I wanted. This is the world thrust upon me, and now I must maneuver it or we risk destruction.” Guy huffed, “All of this could be avoided if you just capitulated and fell in line. Instead, your pride compels you to be the pinnacle, to be the Warmaster of Warmasters. You are not a general, you are a tyrant.” Those words started a flame in his stomach, taking residence in the once hollow pit. Dyestes spoke up for him, “Watch your tone, marine, your liege has put down more tyrants than any before him, and has instituted order amidst chaos. You should be grateful for him.” Frederíc turned to the group, and Maxíme starred in return, “Oh, for Thiepval? Believe me, Lord Primarch, I remember Thiepval. Better than most.” Dyestes made to speak, perhaps even strike him down for his insolence, but Jon-Frederíc held up a staying hand,”Tell me, Maxíme, who now holds the title of Praetorian of Terra, and now Regent with the death of Malcador?” Guy eyed him suspiciously, “Kinnévail Kincaid.” Jon-Frederíc nodded, “Indeed. Remind me, what do they call him now?” Guy was silent. “Say it, marine.” Guy spat out the words, “The Burned Prophet.” Jon-Frederíc nodded again, “Indeed. It seems I am not the only to hold the laws of the Imperium in disregard, even on Terra. None here are without guilt, were that the case, this would not have come to fruition. Now I will hear no more dissent. We have come here for peace, we shall see what my brothers have come for.” With that, Guy was silenced, Piter seemed relieved to proceed on with the day, and Zelbezis returned to taciturn silence.

The journey to the meeting place was a long convoy, several hours of uncomfortable silence. A moderately sized contingent of Dragoons, with a few Iron Guard and Ussaran Liberator tank platoons, a few Sicarians and three Fellblades respectively. In the Dragoon force was a Mastodon, four Land Raider Platoons, three jetbike squadrons, and three land raider platoons shuttling infantry to the site. The bulk of his force was ordered to keep overwatch some few kilometres away, far away enough so that he didn’t arrive with a literal army, but close enough to make apparent that he did indeed have one. Frederíc elected to ride at the fore of the sprawling convoy upon his jetbike, the Gauvin. While it may have been more expeditious to take to wing in his personal Thunderhawk, his presence was more striking whilst on his steed. To his brothers on the other side of the divide, he would appear nonchalant and unafraid, to his men, he would be inspiring and steadying. The council was to be held in the ruins of some great hall or temple, a once massive circular tower long since decapitated by the blade of time, the tower now an open topped colosseum. As they approached it rose out of the ground from the horizon, like the breaching head of some mammoth sandwurm. The nature of the arena before him bore an unsettling resemblance to Nikaea, the Trial of Lambach writ small. Without the Emperor or Malcador, Frederíc doubted this council would resolve itself any better. However without such iconoclasts as Kincaid actually being present to speak, there was a small hope. Small.

Dust plumed from either side of the ruinous column, to the left, the “loyalist” forces, Sentinels, Titan Marchers, and Silver Blades. Razorbacks, Rhinos, Land Raiders, Land Speeder transports and Imperial Knights. They were well matched, and no doubt Je'She had support not far behind as well. Arriving from his right was a comparatively miniscule air wing, Marduk’s personal Thunderhawk flanked by Raptors and escorted by Xyphons that broke away once the gunships touched ground. It was a wise choice, as the mediating party, but if this is the force Marduk chose to arrive in, there was no doubt that a much more decisive force waiting in the wings. The message was clear, albeit subtle. Be civil, or else. Were Marduk not playing the caring third party attempting to heal wounds, Frederíc would have thought it a nonchalant boast. It may have simply been a sign of respect in respect to Malcador’s passing. But Frederíc was reluctant to rule anyone out as a suspect in his murder. He could rule no one out, save for his own men. Perhaps not even them.

He had kept close tabs on his forces, but acting beyond his orders wasn't necessarily their way, save for Mot, who couldn't be reigned in despite Frederíc's best efforts. Even still, the murder of the Sigilite? The Black Dwarf may have been spiteful, but that was beyond his means at the very least. Besides, he was on the other side of the galaxy, and no mere marine would have been able to best Malcador, surely. He spoke over the comms, hailing the detachment, "Hold here. I will take the Palantine Guard and we will approach the meeting alone. Palantine, assemble at the entrance. I meet with my brothers alone." Various affirmations met him, and the small battalion halted whilst the mounted honour guard rushed past, following their gene-sire. Guy Maxíme crackled in over the vox, "What do you hope to accomplish here?" Frederíc pondered the question for a moment, "Unity." and that was all. Guy seemed content with the answer, and fell silent as the shadow of the tower enveloped them.

The Palantine Guard dismounted their jetbikes at the sweeping archway to the tower, one of several at regular, if wide, intervals. Up close the lost glory of the thing made itself apparent. The worn stone hinted at intricate patterning in the large slabs, the archway itself a masterful piece of architecture and stonework, long eroded effigies of beasts and men of import holding up the great pillars of the tower. From the deep tracks at the entryway Frederíc presumed the ground he walked was once beach, elegant ships coming from abroad to make port within the tower, passing through the generous birth of the arch. The Primarch took a moment to regard the scene, imagining starry eyed pilgrims arriving to their destination, or foppish traders in their regalia sailing into the tower to trade and boast, or militant leaders steaming forth to discuss the fate of nations. He joined their ranks and stepped into the tower, removing his helmet and allowing the cool breeze flowing through the arrid ruin to run past his face, only to be defeated by the crushing heat beyond the shadow of the temple. He turned, facing his men, "Post up here, this is a meeting of Warmasters in good faith. Wish me luck, and hopefully we shall rejoin our comrades in the Crusade. But be alert. Guy nodded, and whirled his hand about, signalling for the guard to form a perimeter. The Stag amongst the Guard trotted up to the entryway, standing guard with Guy. At times Frederíc forgot he made the marine the captain of his honour guard. He tucked his helm under his arm, and stepped reverently into the meeting place. "Aristide!" Guy called after him. The Primarch turned halfway, and saw his Equerry standing in shadow, on his face a look of...desperation? "Aristide...bring us peace." The Primarch's jaw tightened, the weight of his duty bearing down on him. He nodded, and Guy nodded in turn, before taking a visible deep breath, donning his helmet, and turning out to face the desert with the Stag.

Frederíc turned back to the darkened depths of the ruin, and ventured forth to the whims of fate.

The base of the tower was surprisingly verdant, vines and plump desert vegetation taking root in cracks and spots of sunlit ground. Sand-worn but otherwise preserved frescos confirmed his suspicions of the use of this place. It was a gathering point for all peoples, the neutral ground amongst nations. The mosaics and frescoes told of a gift from some sea deity to the chief deity of the sky, and the gods gifting the people in celebration of their union. Images of traders giving eachother goods, with a suspicious absence of coinage or other payment, warriors and warlords plunging blades into the earth and embracing, the faithful offering up their children for blessings and good fortune. This was a place of good will, a place bound in love. It was little mystery as to why Malcador had chosen this place to make peace and reform the bonds of brotherhood, even when taking into account New Hopes' strategic unimportance and quiet location. Even in disuse, that was the spirit of this temple. Religious or not, oaths were made here, and good will was shared. Although, given the Imperial Truth, it was amusing that he would choose a temple.

Frederíc paused at a mural depicting a pair of pair of peasants offering a babe up to the sky god, while the god's advisor, a messenger spirit, stood by approvingly. A lump formed in his throat, despite himself. He approached the painting, admiring the plain but emotive artistry. He absently thumbed the mother figure. He wondered if the babe given to the gods had a good life, what legends and appellations he gained, what hardships he endured. He rested his forehead against the wall, and considered the diminutive messenger god at the feet of the sky god. No doubt in the mythology of this faded people he had some great importance. The unappreciated bureaucrat, the dutiful servant. He began to form a distaste for the artisan that placed this display along his path, it was awfully inconsiderate. He pressed off it, and took a deep breath. The Primarch could mourn his mentors later, for now he had to honour them.

Minutes passed as he coursed through the thoroughfare in silent contemplation. He attempted to plan what he would say to his brothers, but he found himself continually distracted by errant thoughts. What have he could have done differently? What if he was made sole Warmaster over all the legions? Could he have saved Malcador? Was he willing to die for him? For the cause his legions have created? It was useless. Even his peerlessly focused mind was sent wandering in the wake of the morning's grim tidings. So he decided to simply take the meeting as it came, to be bare and honest. To approach his brothers as he did Calael. With an open heart. Perhaps...perhaps he was too militarized from the very start, too indoctrinated in the way of war to ever truly connect with his brothers in a way that mattered. It was a disturbing thing to consider, that he had been wrong from the beginning. He stifled his doubts, suffocating them with resolve. Whole worlds counted on his competence, and his diplomacy would be tested like never before.

The pathway neared its end, terminating in a round chamber with a great stone table, a round construction easily thrice his prodigious body length, easily able to seat several dozens of people at its circumference. Other soaring archways lined the walls, although their number, and the smaller diameter of this inner sanctum, suggested that the paths fed into each other, or led upwards into the tower. The open top of the tower was fully observable here, the high ceiling of the path inwards remarkably intact, supporting the floors above it. Here the vegetation was once more absent, or at the very least confined to corners where the merciless twin suns could not bleach them. Still, with the ash laden sky, a somber light filtered into the chamber, casting a dim light onto the affair. Despite his moment of distraction in the hall, he appeared to be the first to arrive. He wasn’t sure if he should be smug about the speed of his legion or his own personal promptness. Smugness likely wasn’t wise regardless.

The footfalls of power armour echoed from a leftward hall, likely Je'She. He realized there was far more than just one set of steps. He hadn’t come alone. Aristide tensed, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sabre. Je'She and his Immortal honour guard emerged from the tunnel, and the guard marched in place for a moment, parting to allow their liege to break from the formation, before coming to a halt. Je'She removed his helmet, and Aristide saw his brother’s face for the first time in ages. He looked tired, the imperishable nature of Primarchs had not protected his brother from the damages of stress and tumult. Frederíc considered how he must look to Je'She. The Primarch of the Sentinels regarded Aristide cooly for a few moments, belying no emotion save his weariness. “You have come alone.” He said, finally, his accent tinted by his sandswept homeworld, easy lilting tones that contrasted Aristide’s own clipped, aristocratic speach. Frederíc sat his helm down on the table, and spread his arms, looking about him, “Aye, that I did. Was it not what we had agreed upon?” Je'She regarded him passively once more, then nodded slowly, “That it was.” Frederíc let his arms fall to his side, resting both hands on the pommel of his blade, “And you arrive with your honour guard.” Je'She exhaled sharply, regarding his statuesque guard, “A precaution, I am sure you understand.” Aristide raised an eyebrow, “Do I?” He saw Je'She’s jaw tighten at the snide retort. It dawned upon Aristide that his brother may have suspected him in Malcador’s death. The thought shook him, but he made no outward display of it. He would dissuade these fears handily enough, to be sure. “Brother,” Frederíc said, “Please, let us attend to this matter in private, as we had agreed. I come alone, in good faith.” Je'She hesitated, but waved off his guard, and they reformed, and marched back from when they came. The brothers now were alone.

There was a pregnant silence in which the Primarchs simply stared at each other, Frederíc from the table, Je'She from the archway. Je'She finally broke it with a sigh, and strode forth, setting his helm down upon the stone surface as his brother had. He did not relinquish his polearm, “Darker days have not been seen since the fall of our Father…” Aristide looked away, and to the morose sky, “All the days have been dark since then.” Another silence followed, and Aristide brought his eyes down from the heavens, “I regret many of those days.” Je'She met his eyes, and a forced grin crawled along his mouth, “It only took the death of the Sigilite to elicit humility from Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Primarch of the Emperor’s Dragoons.” Frederíc couldn’t even muster polite humour to trade with his brother, he simply looked to the ground before resting his hands on the table, running a gauntlet down his face to shake the growing chill there. He didn’t meet his brother’s gaze, and searched for the right words to say. They wouldn’t come. Je'She rounded the table finally moving away from the exit, “I apologize, Jon-Frederíc, that was cruel of me.” Aristide nodded wearily, “Have we ever been so formal, Je'She of the Watch?” Je'She stopped at an arm’s length from Aristide, reside his backside on the corner of the table, leaning on his glaive for support, “Not by my count, no.” Aristide sunk down further to his elbows, resting his head on met hands, “The last time I saw Malcador we argued...the final words I spoke to him were in spite…” “When?” Je'She asked, but Aristide knew he was fishing for information. Frederíc scoffed, “‘When?’ You know exactly when. After Ullanor. After the Triumvirate. ‘Time will prove me right.’ I said. Time will prove me right...I was so sure that a divided crusade would be our undoing, that it was a fatal flaw in the Sigilite’s unparalleled wisdom.” He shook his head, striking the table as he rose, “Now I must live with that regret.” Je'She huffed, looking away from him as he rose, “My people spoke of the dangers of self fulfilling prophecy,” he said with hints of venom, “but I suppose time did prove you right. Here we are, divided.” Frederíc placed his hand on his brother’s pauldron, and he felt the subtle shift as Je'She recoiled at his touch, “Brother, know this please, I wish this never came to pass.” Je'She turned his head slowly, “And yet it did, because of the actions of your legions, your actions.” Aristide did not relinquish his grasp, “I know. I know, brother, if anyone knows this it is I. Believe you in me. I was so focused on victory I did not see the cost, to claim the East in our father’s name. No matter the means. We are here because of me.” The contrite words seemed to catch Je'She off guard, and once more Frederíc found himself critical of his past aloofness.

For a moment Je'She seemed to consider his brother in earnest, not a suspect or a war criminal, but as a brother. The old flame of kinship flickering, faintly, back to life. Je'She let his weapon slide to the crook of his arm, and offered forth an open hand. Aristide lifted his hand off his brother’s shoulder and readily grasped it, “There was a time where we were the closest of comrades, was there not?” Frederíc allowed himself a small smile, “Aye, by my count, yes.” Je'She returned the gesture by placing his hand on Frederíc’s shoulder “Then there may be reconciliation yet,” the heavy echoes of another’s approach foretold of Marduk’s approach, and signalled that the council was to begin in earnest, “your contrition gives me great hope, brother. Be true here at this council, and we shall discover the truth of the matter.” Frederíc frowned, realizing that he was alluding to Malcador. Be true? Truth of the matter? He realized this was a test. Je'She still didn’t remove him, or at the very least his forces, from suspicion. Something was wrong. Je'She knew something he was not telling him.

Marduk Engur, Primarch of the Leviathan Host and third Warmaster sauntered into the chamber, a look of reserved confidence smeared on his delicate countenance. He was unhelmed, unarmed, but armoured, fine purple robes draped across his impressive plate. He brought his hands up in a steeple, then spread his arms in an embracing gesture, "Ah, good tidings in terrible times, my brothers. I see my gamble has paid off." He said smoothly, a slight smile blossoming from his mouth, his warmth tinged by sadness. His voice was sonorous and rich, almost clashing with his soft, polished features, his accent not far removed from Je’She’s, but the rolling tides and thunderous storms of his homeworld were almost tangible in his voice. Even the measured Marduk was left touched by Malcador's passing. Passing. The term felt too passive. Je'She's marines had investigated the scene, so if Je'She was guarded with Aristide there was a reason beyond a simple, albeit catastrophic, mechanical failure. Aristide watched Je'She take in Marduk. The same critical eye he gave to Frederíc, which was partly relieving as it meant that he wasn’t being fully held accountable for the crime, but unnerving since it confirmed his suspicions. Not an accident, not the work of the enemy. There was a traitor amongst them, a murderous strain in their ranks. For Je'She, this wasn’t a peace council, it was an inquisition. Frederíc was determined to start his own.

“Your gamble?” Frederíc asked. Marduk turned to his brother, obviously pleased with himself, “Indeed. I had hoped that the cooler minds of Warmasters would prevail over the passions of their subordinate brothers. I had hoped that a moment to yourselves would provide some good. I am here as mediator between aggrieved parties, something I am sure neither of you have any...fondness for. To be patronized by the youngest brother. Perhaps, I thought, it would be best to allow the elders of the family to reconnect, to grieve in privacy. I was correct, it would seem, and that gladdens me. Malcador would have been proud, I should think, that even with his loss we reknit the broken bonds. Your temperance honours me, and this council, and I thank you both. May we have a moment of silence in remembrance of the Sigillite, before we proceed?” Marduk’s usual sickly sweet demeanour had seemed to evaporate since Frederíc last saw him, more sincere and forthright, less eager to please, to be the center of attention, to be the favorite. He wasn’t sure if the metamorphosis was wrought on the campaign trail or this morning. Frederíc looked to Je'She who looked to Marduk, and the two nodded in acceptance, and Marduk smiled wistfully, and the trio bowed their heads in unison.

Frederíc took the moment to consider his options. Confronting the mystery head on was clearly a poor move, as it would put them on the defensive. The best move seemed to allow the council to proceed as planned, allow Je'She to play his hand and watch Marduk’s reactions, or Je'She’s questions. What Je'She asked would reveal what he knew, and give Aristide insight into the exact nature of the murder. Marduk’s answers would either incriminate him or absolve him, but even then the whole scenario seemed improbable. Frederíc struggled to think of a motive for Marduk, as far as Marduk was concerned he was content with his position. He proved himself to the Emperor, and was thus at the very least considered Warmaster surely, and Malcador awarded it to him. His presumably tennous control over his legions would at the very least keep him preoccupied from murder. And removing Malcador would likewise undermine his authority as a Warmaster. Without Malcador only favoritism and bonds of loyalty remained, and his front, and all others, would collapse into cabals of comrades and like minded individuals. Chaos wouldn’t serve Marduk well, so his motive was thin. Je'She may not have been proper Warmaster material, but he was fiercely loyal and such a malodorous crime was both beneath him and unlike him, the consideration alone was ludicrous, so he was not a suspect. The other legions...the Forge Lords did not dabble well in subterfuge, Einchurt was far and away, as were the Gunsligners, the Loxidontii, and the Soaring Host. The Corsairs Gallant would have nothing to gain as the Regent of Terra legitimized their hoard of Writs of Trade. Valorn and the Pale Hounds wouldn’t enact such a dastardly plan without his consent and authorization. Callous they were, but not foolish.

The list of legitimate suspects became short indeed. Lambach perhaps had good motive, considering the Edict of Nikaea, and he was unaccounted for, but even in his melancholy he would not murder one of his mentors, perhaps even less so because of it. That left Kincaid. Afterall, he had the most to gain. If the open secret of his full blown theism were true he would be open to proselytize with the last bastion of the Imperial Truth gone. Resurrectionists and Emperor cultists would flock to his words, and he would be unstoppable. Regent and Praetorian, with a legion at his back and untold hordes of now openly worshiping faithful as a shield before him, only civil war would be able to depose him. He had the most to gain, without a doubt, but the issue remained; only a Primarch had a hope of even being able to engage Malcador, and only the Emperor himself had a chance to defeat him. Motive may have been present, but Kincaid himself was certainly not, as the tensions of Mars and Terra would keep the maniac tied to the rigours of politics, and even where he to slip aboard Malcador’s ship, that sinister cripple would have been smote. None could kill him, perhaps not even in a fatal tie. Were that the case Je'She would have discovered evidence enough to openly accuse a culprit, and this disguised investigation wouldn’t be happening. It was perplexing, and horrifying.

The observance was ended by a polite "Ahem" from Marduk, and the Warmasters raised their heads. "Now," Marduk began, "we have assembled in this place to discuss the winding path the Crusade that our father began has taken. Tragedy before tragedy has distracted us, turned our legions from comrades to rivals, and halted the course of salvation for humanity from Terra to the eastern most reaches of the Galaxy. Our father created us to be the leaders of the vanguard, to unite the stars under the Imperial Aquila. Malcador had called us here because that most sacred purpose has been lost. Je'She of the Watch, while your loyalty to the cause of the Emperor has been great, your legions clash with those of Jon-Frederíc Aristide in ways unbecoming of Astartes. The Great Joust and Great Hunts of our martial tradition are places enough to shed blood and war amongst brethren, for it is this conflict that encourages the strengthening of our men. Petty brawls and aimless skirmishes serve no purpose other than strife. Lord Aristide, your forces likewise are not innocent in this matter. The frontier nature of my legions preserves my nature as the neutral party, but I am not so naive to believe that where my armies closer at hand, there would be no such combat." He paused, eyeing Je'She with an unreadable expression, "After the censures, of course. Brothers, we have slipped farther and farther from each other each year since Ullanor and the death of our father-"

Je'She cut in, sternly, "He is not dead." Marduk winced, likely regretting the choice of words, "Of course. I misspoke. The passing of Malcador has turned my thoughts to the grim eventuality of death. Though our father recovers steadily, his wounding and absence makes it difficult to separate him from the fallen at this moment. But now is not the time for grief, not yet. Gone though the Sigillite may be, his mission remains. We must exit this chamber in concordance, or not at all. So now, I shall state, plainly, the complaints, and cede the floor to the honourable Warmasters. Je'She, you are accused of criticizing Warmaster Aristide to the point of defamation, which sows discord in the ranks, and of loose control over your legions resulting in unheeded bloodshed amongst the Emperor's legions. Jon-Frederíc you are accused of perverting the purpose of the Legiones Astartes by removing mortal governance and emplacing Astartes in their place, which disobeys the Emperor's intent, of loose control of your legions likewise resulting in battle but also the gestation of a political movement that borders on separatist, of courting worlds to your banner and not that of the Imperium, and of open dissent to the decrees of the late Regent of Terra. As the more grievously accused party, you shall be the first to speak, Warmaster Aristide. During this mediation I ask only civility. Please, brother, proceed, state your case to us."

Frederíc chose his next words very carefully; "Brothers, I am glad we meet here under common cause. Marduk, you speak true that the Crusade and its myriad misfortunes have created rifts between kin and comrades that may never be healed. I have spoken rashly, furiously, and hastily on many things. Kane, a brother who has been near to my heart as a brother in battle and in family, now decries my alleged crimes more than any other because of my misguided passion. To the Dragoons, to my legions, I present myself as the consummate general, but Je'She, you are one of the few who know me with familiarity. And you would know, I, like many of our brothers are kept from the Emperor's vision of perfection by that base humanity that tainted us all. Some of our brothers, such as Dyestes, Hadad, or Einchurt, view this as a weakness, a primitivism that constrains our potential as warriors and leaders. Some like Bishop, Pacha, or Ashur view this as our strength, lest we overlook the man for mankind. I view this, as many mortal men do, as simply the state of affairs. The love I share for my brothers, for our father, is no greater a boon than rage, or arrogance, or pride is a flaw. We are human, in part, and that is simply something that must be accounted for. My humanity has seen me berate my brothers at their weakest, defy my betters at their wisest, and act in extremes to protect that noble construct that we have made in the fires of war. And it is my core humanity that sees that I regret these actions in retrospect."

"But brothers, surely you must recognize the motivating force behind all my actions. I did not live a full and storied life upon my homeworld, I did not see generations rise and fall and prosper or wither in the wake of my actions. I saw injustice and rectified it, I took the planet for the Emperor before I had even known that was my ordained purpose. When he arrived, the truth of my being was revealed to me and I became a soldier in his name in short order. For nearly the entirety of my vast life, service to the Emperor is all I have known. To lead his armies, to inspire his troops, to wield his banner. Never have I acted in my own interest, for I have no interests save the growth and health of the Imperium. When dissident lords thought they could disregard the Lex Imperialis, written by the very hand of our brother Kane, what recourse is there but swift removal and replacement with competent and loyal leadership? Would you see me simply allow such transgressions to go unchallenged? No, surely not. What then is the proper response? Discard leaders until we discover one loyal to the Throne? Simply reduce the planet to astral rubble, thus denying my forces, already stretched thin, of a logistical asset? My actions, while controversial, have resulted in success in my theater. The East is a harsh place brothers, with human empires unaccustomed to near peers and challengers, xenos forces that have long forgotten humanity after age old conquest, and the merciless traversal of warp and void. I cannot, will not, allow greed and the capriciousness of unruly subjects to undermine my campaign. So much relies on our combined success, on a scale that only the mind of a Primarch can appreciate. It is not just the fate of worlds that hangs in the balance, but that of an entire species. The Emperor did not intend for us to be masters of men, no. But neither did he intend to fall on Ullanor. In his absence we must be the caretakers of humanity."

Before he finished, he paused, gauging the attitudes of his brothers. Je'She seemed vaguely discontented, likely disagreeing with a great deal he had said but offering him the courtesy to finish his thoughts. Marduk meanwhile was placid, observing the proceeding passively. "Brothers, I act only in good of the Imperium, the crusade. You may criticize me for the lengths I take, but you cannot construe them as anything but what I deemed to be the necessary course." He folded his arms, nodding to Marduk, and gesturing to Je'She, indicating that he had concluded. Marduk clapped a hand to his chest, a motion of appreciation, "Thank you, Aristide. Je'She?" Je'She scratched his chin, contemplating his introductory statement, “I do know you well, Frederíc, better than most perhaps. And if we are to be true here, then I must confess it was never in doubt that your installation of Astartes rulers was committed for the Imperium’s benefit. However, it is the actions of your soldiers that has brought me here against you, and you as their commander are accountable for their actions. You speak of your faults, a rare occasion indeed, and were we not close kin I could besmirch your self reflection as excuses. But I will not do this. Instead, I target your failings of command, not character.” As he spoke, he began to pace about his end of the table, his free hand pressed behind his back, “Your actions, well intended or not, have stoked the fires of a dangerous and seditious thought, that it is Astartes that must rule over men, against the creed of the Emperor. To compound this, you have taken a legion, not under your command, into your protection. What reasonable excuse is there for this? You should have remanded the Astral Wardens to Warmaster Marduk so they may be dealt with appropriately. Instead you appropriated the entire legion. Frederíc, you must admit that this, coupled with the rousing calls of the legions on the Eastern Front create ill omens. You conquer for the good of humanity, and for the Imperium, but my greatest fear is that you no longer recognize the underlying concept of the Imperium. That Astartes are to serve the good of mankind, to head the dictates of Terra, and without the voice of the Emperor, the words of mortal men take its place. You have gone against this social contract imposed upon us all, and now your legions strain against the natural order of the Imperium. And you have done nothing.” Je’She ceased his pacing, and faced his brother, “Someone must answer for this, Frederíc. Were Malcador here, I believe he would hold you accountable, but instead you have your brothers to judge you. So if not you, who then?”

Frederíc blinked in incredulity, “I will not be held on trial for keeping my campaign a cohesive front. Je’She, surely you cannot be asking for further censures? Nearly all of our psychic brothers were driven off after Nikaea, to the point where Kropor and the Chosen still are in self imposed exile, and the Astral Wardens outright desired to leave us behind and live out their days in peace!” Je’She scoffed, “The Chosen of Hecate disobeyed a direct edict from the Emperor, you speak of cohesion and striking down dissent in equal terms, save for when it concerns the Astartes. If a Dragoon disobeyed orders would you simply slap his wrist and have him continue about his day? No! Do not try and divorce the issues when they are one in the same. If there is any amongst us here that should appreciate good order and discipline it is you, no?” Frederíc threw his hands up, “At what cost? We cannot decimate our own forces with every complaint and infraction! Your Silver Blades and Titan Marchers have nearly cost us an entire legion, Primarch and all. I will not drive my legions into the dirt for a lesser an indiscretion than disregarding the Edict of Nikaea!” Je’She scrunched his face incredulously, “‘Lesser an indiscretion’? Brother, ‘Astartes Supremacy’ flies in the face of the Emperor’s intent!” Aristide contained a sigh at this comment, “That intent held import when the Emperor was whole and amongst us, yes, of course, all matters of leadership amongst his fiefdoms were his to decide, as he is the Emperor, but without him that duty falls to Malcador. Now without Malcador there is little preventing greedy planetary governors from breaking away and simply returning to their state of affairs before conquest, at great cost to their people.” Je’She sat his free hand down upon the table, staring at Aristide with deadly intent, “So you anticipated Malcador’s passing?”

There it was. The accusation, heavy handed and laid bare. Frederíc was now on the defensive. “Je’She no one in the galaxy could have anticipated this, no one. To imply I had some foresight in this is insane. Unity, cohesion, peace, order, these are the values I ascribe to. We had lost the Emperor, halving the integrity of the Imperium, with Regent gone as well the Primarchs and the Astartes are the only things keeping the construct erect in the eyes of our adversaries. Even now, should news of Malcador circulate we will leave New Hope with hundreds of insurrections and secessions, and our Crusade is undone. Does this sound like a turn of events I would find favourable? That anyone would find favourable? And then you ask me to censure my own forces, despite seeing the outcome that would cause. Je’She, put aside rumour and speculation, there is no base in this and no sense in attempting to reprimand my legions with undue force.” Je’She shook his head, “But you have no plan to curb these supremacists?” “Of course I do,” Aristide countered, “Once the campaign is at a point of stability I will address the legions on this matter, institute a system of governance less reliant on direct Astartes control, and instruct my brothers to discipline these supremacists on an individual basis. Allowing them to confront the issues of their legions on their own terms will help to prevent undue strain that a true censure would create. Slowly the dissidents would be ruled out and the movement would die out, and I am spared from legions running off in a show of melodrama. This isn’t a difficult situation to rectify.” “Then why is not rectified!” Je’She protested. “Because I can’t allow the front to collapse. This must be treated the right way, brother. I will not amputate a limb when I can slowly excise the rot.” Marduk finally decided to speak up, “I understand the precarious nature of your predicament, and many of my legions now prefer the company of the crusade to that of their brothers and cousins, but you speak of curtailing the actions of Marines, not of Primarchs. What then would you do should your brothers not fall in line?”

It was a good question, but one Aristide had not put much stock in, “Hadad is the only one who has openly supported this motion, the others have not voiced assent-” Je’She cut in, “Neither have they dissented. Silence equates to support.” “-I disagree, Je’She, they know as well as I do that dividing the legions at this juncture would be unwise. Besides, Tyrus has been vocal about his dissent of the movement, firmly within your line of thought, I should add. His legion is not amongst the rabble, and I would use his influence to stamp out the outspoken. Best to simply allow the fires to die out, or turn focus to the issue when the East is less daunting an obstacle. To answer your question then, when the time to address the issue comes, I will confront Hadad. Likely he will buck at my orders, but I would rather cut logistical ties and strategic support than fully censure him. The Forge Lords would not be censured so easily, and the growing strain on their campaign would disprove notions of Astartes supremacy handily. They would be bitter and vengeful no matter my course, but at the very least the returned support pending a recant would alleviate their spite. Afterwords, I simply direct my brothers to control the individuals responsible. Dyestes, Adras, Karamanov, they shall do as I command, and Tyrus would be a vocal advocate for my reinstating of order, with Mansa spreading conformist thought through passive and subtle means. Brothers, I have all of this accounted for! I recognize this may be perceived as a major point of contention, but allow me to proceed as I had planned, and soon it will be little more than memory.”

Je’She furrowed his brow, “You offer us excuses, promises, and then insist that we do nothing and simply hope that you are able to unknit this tangled web you have allowed to blossom. What assurances do we have? You have allowed things to progress to this point, a mistake even you admit, how can we be so sure that further mistakes will not occur?” Marduk gave a weak smile, “I am afraid I must concur, Jon Aristide, what peace of mind can you provide?” Aristide was growing tired of taking the defensive position, and his opinions on his brothers could be constrained no longer. “Assurances? Peace of mind? Have I so drastically fallen in your regard? Does my word mean nothing now? Very well, you wish to have me answer for the past? This I will gladly do, but I will have you answer for the present. From both of you. You truly think Malcador called for this council so that you may issue accusations at me? Pah, decades of crusade has not beaten the naivety from you two it should seem.” “Naivety?!” Je’She spat, “I am not the Warmaster that has allowed a rebellion to fester in his ranks!” The Stallion allowed himself a spiteful laugh, “Oh ho! That is rich indeed!” He snarled, “How can you believe that I am the only one amongst us to allow dissent to prosper when Kincaid galivants unchecked in Sol spreading the disease of faith and divides Mars as we speak!” Je’She gasped, taken aback, “So you answer your misdeeds by defaming your brother? What has taken ahold of you, Frederíc!” “Taken ahold of me? Je’She, he has not been Kinnévail Kincaid for quite some time now, as his Warmaster you should be aware of this more than anyone.” Marduk spoke next, agreeable in tone, “His...attitudes are well known, Warmaster Je’She, it is true.” Je’She waved a dismissive hand, “This is nonsense, Kincaid has been an instrumental part of the crusade, he has pacified worlds without a single drop of blood, I will not allow you to defame him as a distraction!” Aristide shook his head in disbelief, as if he had been struck, “Do you jest? You cannot be serious. A distraction? What does brother Engur have to distract you from, then? Kincaid is a fanatic, Je’She! He has not been the same since the Conflagration! Since Nikaea we all knew that something has possessed that ruined body of his, it was written in his every madness laced word, his every warped scar! He wore the words of the Emperor upon his wraps like scripture! He proclaimed his closest brothers dangers to humanity! Eyanosa, Kropor, Bishop, Pacha, every librarian in our legions, he was but a single impassioned phrase from calling for their deaths! Kind, earnest, dutiful brothers, those were the ones he villainized! Je’She, I beg of you see what he has become!” The Warmaster’s plea seemed to fall on deaf ears, as Je’She simply curled his lip in irritation, “Very well, let us assume this conjecture is true, our brother has broken the Truth as you have broken the law-” “I have broken no law!” “THEN EXPLAIN YOUR TROOPS ABOARD MALCADOR’S SHIP!”

The air froze in the chamber, time slowed to a stop, and Frederíc’s Focus surged within him. Nothing could have prepared him for this. An insane, illogical, impossible proclamation. One that made him the greatest traitor in the Imperium’s history, in the history of all mankind. Je’She did not suspect Frederíc in Malcador’s murder. He outright believed he had committed it by proxy. “There were survivors, Aristide!” Je’she shouted in a muffled crawl, his words slowed by the Stallion’s mental ability, but he saw his expression, which exposed his true state. The dilation of the eyes, the small glistening pinpricks of beading sweat, the pulsation of the throat indicating accelerated breathing. Je’She wasn’t just furious, he was scared, confused. Frederíc once again thought that his brother wasn’t sharing all he knew. He turned his head to observe Marduk, to offer up a plaintive expression, to ask that he reel in his brother, to decry this baseless accusation. Then he saw it. The little crack in Engur’s oh-so-perfect mask, that disguise of civility, of good faith, of understanding. Marduk was turning to face Frederíc, but while his eyes were locked on Je’She, Frederíc saw the truth underneath the lie. A spark of joy in wild eyes, the slightest hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth. Marduk never intended to play moderator, he intended to be the last man standing. He was to be Warmaster after his brother’s ripped each other to pieces. Maybe this was the plan from the beginning, to have Malcador dissolve the Triumvirate, to be the final and sole Warmaster. As he finally made the turn to Aristide the mask was restored, no sign of the fervour a moment before, just a mix of shock, anger, and betrayal. Aristide’s Focus faded, and only seconds had passed in what felt like several minutes. A flame began in Frederíc’s stomach, bright and hot. They would not finish him here, not whilst he still drew breath. But better sense interrupted fury; his sons did not commit this crime. The bulk of his forces were still in the East, actively fighting. Those with him would not have been able to slip away and back, and none of them would have been able to do the deed. He was being framed. But by whom?

“Retract that claim.” Frederíc warned in a low growl, “Immediately.” Je’She spat, fully ensorceled in his rage, “NEVER! NOT WHILST I HAVE EVIDENCE AGAINST YOU AND YOUR MEN!” Marduk slithered into the argument, sorrowed surprise colouring his false words, “Brothers! Calm yourselves! Je’She, you say you have evidence, clearly damning as your presentation illustrates, but why have you kept this to yourself? Should I not have been notified this morning so we could have apprehended our brother-” he stopped himself, displaying a sympathetic look to Frederíc, “assuming all of this is true of course! I would not besmirch your reputation so brazenly, and so direly.” Frederíc shot him a flat stare, “You two have been doing so since we began.” Marduk pursed his lips pensively in response. Je’She was making a visible attempt to restrain himself, but spoke in livid, breathless tones, “There were survivors. Four score that managed to escape the critical systems failures of the ship. The plasma reactors had been overloaded, the lance batteries set to misfire inside their bay, the engines cut temporarily. A boarding party infiltrated the ship somehow-" When?" Interjected Aristide. "When what?" Aristide adopted a borderline patronizing tone, "When did the boarding party breach into the ship? An Astartes welcoming committee is not a quiet affair. So, one has to assume they were either onboard the entire time, or were let in before or after the warp jump." Je'She sneered at his brother, "They did not breach, they infiltrated, as I had said." Je'She's uncharacteristic temper was flaring again, but his disposal of subtlety was allowing Frederíc to gain insight into the crime.

Unfortunately, it did sound like a Dragoon Saboteur operation. The tactics were the same, exactly as he would have ordered. Fortunately, and confusingly, all his Saboteur elements were running reconnaissance and forward observance alongside the Pale Hounds and Knights Stellaris. He didn't have the men to spare. The Pale Hounds didn’t have any loose elements, that Aristide knew of, and the Corsairs-he stopped his line of thought. He had no part of this, his legions had no part of this, and he would not be framed in this trial. “Very well, you have evidence that my men had sabotaged Malcador’s ship, despite the fact that all my Saboteur units are actively engaged in the East. You have survivors that claim to have seen them, and survived against all odds! So come then, brother, bring forth these witnesses in the trial of Jon-Frederíc Aristide! Come, let them decry my untainted legion, the Warmaster’s legion!”

Je’She slammed a fist down on the stone table, the soft pop of ancient rock cracking faintly heard beneath his shouting, “So you can intimidate them into silence! So you can dishonour their survival with counter accusations and lies? So you can dodge the consequences of your fell deeds!?” Frederíc stepped around the table so it’s length no longer blocked his view of his brother, “Suspicious I find it that you have withheld this great crime from us until now! Even more so that you deny reason in the face of it! WHAT DO I HAVE TO GAIN, JE’SHE, WHY WOULD I KILL THE MAN WHO WAS AS AN UNCLE TO ME! WHY DO YOU CONTINUE TO NEEDLE ME WITH THIS FOUL ACCUSATION?!” Je’She stepped up to his brother, now they were mere feet from each other, “BECAUSE WHO ELSE THEN, SHIFT BLAME TO SOMEONE ELSE, I DARE YOU!” Frederíc snarled openly, “THAT I WILL; WHO HAS THE MOST TO GAIN SAVE KINCAID?!” Je’She slammed the butt of his polearm on the ground, "I WILL CUT OUT YOUR TONGUE IF YOU SPEAK OF KINCAID AGAIN!" "EAT FILTH, I WILL SPEAK OF KINCAID! PRAETORIAN, NOW REGENT, YOUR HEATHEN CUR IS UNSTOPPABLE NOW WITH MALCADOR'S DEATH! THE PLAGUE OF BELIEF WILL POUR FROM TERRA LIKE A TYPHOON, SWEEPING THE IMPERIUM AWAY WITH IT, ALL THE WHILE OUR FATHER'S ROTTING CORPSE IS VENERATED LIKE A GOD! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE FIRST HERETIC! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE SIGILITE'S KILLER!"

Je'She made to lunge at Frederíc, and the Stallion's hand flew to his saber, but he hesitated before touching the weapon. Je'She still made his advance, and in the same fluid motion as he made to grab his blade, he whipped his hand back in a blocking motion, striking Je'She on the breastplate and shoving him backwards with the back of his armoured gauntlet. The sound of artificed ceramite on ceramite rang out in the hollow chamber, and Aristide backpedaled before Je'She regained his ground and went after him again. Je'She slowed his slide across the sandy floor using his polearm, but did not give chase for Aristide as he backed away, opting to grasp his glaive in a defensive position. "You absolute fool," Frederíc spoke as he walked back to his original position, "blind beyond belief. You can't see your brother undermining power from beneath you, you can't see the brothers that turn their backs to you because your censures, you can't see him gleefully watching us tear at each other until only he remains." He pointed at Marduk, a tight, fury filled gesture. Marduk allowed faux disbelief wrinkle his delicate features, "How dare you accuse me of this. Malcador brought me here to-" Aristide waved a dismissive hand, "Oh be silent, Engur. Malcador brought you here as a courtesy, to make you feel included. This is a quarrel between Je'She and I, but to exclude you would be to insult you, and perish the thought that the youngest brother's fragile feelings be damaged. You want to know something? No one cares. Not a one. No one cares that you gained the title of Warmaster. No one cares that you tried, oh so hard, to gain father's favour. Your tireless efforts to prove yourself only make you seem like an attention deprived child, and your petulant joy at seeing your betters brawl only confirms the impression."

Engur began to turn red at the insult, and he moved to speak but Frederíc cut him off once again, "Keep that forked tongue behind your fanged teeth. I believed your insignificance made you a poor mediator, but sensible given lack of other options. Now I see you only arrived for the sport." Once again Marduk attempted to speak, and once again Aristide cut him off, "Try and insert some insidious lie here again, and I will strike you in the mouth." Je'She was the next to interrupt, "So, the noose closes in and you accuse Kincaid of a dire crime, strike me, insult your fellow Warmaster, and then threaten to assault him as well. Does this strike you as the actions of an innocent man?" Frederíc laughed wryly, "I'm not sure, I've not accused many men of crimes they have not committed, nor have been the subject of another's crimes. Forgive me brother, for this is a new experience. The riddle as to why you had not announced this sooner is still unanswered, so tell me brother, why not?" Je'She met him with silence, "I assure you, Je'She, had I been behind this attack there would be no survivors, but survivors there were and they told the tale, so TELL ME!" Engur chimed in, the venom in his voice revealed, but his tone was cloying and patronizing, "Yes brother, tell us. You have spent a great deal of time attempting to build a case built on a single damning piece of evidence so why delay?"

Je'She's mouth opened fruitlessly, but his scrambling for an answer was interrupted by the crackling of a vox transmission, from both Marduk's internal comms of his armour, and that of Frederíc's. They looked at eachother, and Frederíc snatched up his helmet to take the transmission in peace, while Marduk stepped out into the entryway he came in. "This is Warmaster Aristide. What." He shot over the vox, disregarding vox protocols. Crackling and popping static answered him, interspersed with frantic voices, “This is Warmaster Aristide, you are coming in broken, transmission unclear, over.” The vox smoothed over for a moment, “-Vox failures-making -Knights Stellaris-attacked the Forge Lords at- Repeat! The -Stellaris have attacked the Forge-pash! Repeat, the Knights Stellaris have attac-" The line was drowned in a sea of static, and Frederíc froze. Solomon was outspoken against Mot's ideology, but this was a step beyond. Something forced his hand...or someone changed his mind. He removed his helmet with trembling hands, and turned around, slowly.

He saw Marduk creep back into the room, a mixture of fury and horror on display on his face. "I had Smoke Stalkers infiltrate your territory this morning, to investigate the crash on their own terms. They found the camp you held the survivors in." Je'She visibly paled. "What have you done…" Frederíc said in a hoarse whisper, slowly encroaching on Je'She's section of the chamber. Je'She shook his head, mouth still agape. “What. Have. You. Done.” Je’She finally found his voice, all the fury and fervour replaced by quiet panic, “They were not my troops...they were not mine I swear it.” Frederíc seethed through clenched teeth, “No, they were mine, and you turned them against me.” Je’She looked perplexed, “What? You admit it? After all this time?” It struck Frederíc that they were not speaking on the same subject, but Marduk allowed for some clarity, “Oh please, play coy neither of you. My Smoke Stalkers revealed the truth to me. Emperor’s Dragoons were spotted aboard Malcador’s ship, yes...alongside Sentinels.” Frederíc whipped around to Marduk, “WHAT?!” Marduk gave him a self satisfied sneer, “And so the plot is revealed. I must say Frederíc, I did not figure that you would be keen to share the title of Warmaster, but it does follow that you would rather share it with your dearest brother than me. I am hurt.” He punctuated the claim with an overwrought pout, pushing his lower lip out in insincere injury. The bearing shifted seamlessly into a vengeful smirk, “But, I suppose you were right. Seeing the self assured, the arrogant, brothers that called themselves ‘Warmaster’ perform so admirably! Why, you had even fooled me that neither of you had a part to play in Malcador’s death, then the shocking revelation! The Stallion and the Sentinel, Jon-Frederíc and Je’She, the Emperor’s finest, brought low by hunger for power. Tsk, tsk, a sad state of affairs. Breaking this monstrous conspiracy to the galaxy will be difficult, no doubt, but neither of you are escape this chamber without seeing justice.”

Frederíc largely ignored Marduk, facing Je’She instead, still rocked by the reveal. Je’She’s expression confirmed Marduk’s claim, “Your troops were aboard the Barchamos. And now the Knights Stellaris are engaged with the Forge Lords. Solomon Tyrus, a great proponent of yours, has turned against me. Brother, I need an explanation, please. Please tell me you genuinely suspected me, tell me-” He cut himself off. The wheels of logic spun in his mind. Dragoons were sighted on board, yet Frederíc knew that wasn’t possible. The Sentinels were sighted aboard, but Je’She wouldn’t leave survivors to question if he had done the deed. Je’She would not have done the deed at all. It just didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He turned slowly to Marduk. And Marduk met his gaze, his triumphant grin still barred, and Frederíc finally saw the answers he sought. Madness filled his eyes, or rather there was a terrifying lack of personhood. His eyes lost their glimmer, the twinkling satisfaction, just dark pits of emotionless consideration, as if Marduk had left his body and something else was inhabiting it. Like Marduk was elsewhere, watching from somewhere beyond. There was never a plan, there didn’t need to be a plan. Frederíc slowly drew Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, “YOU.” Marduk cocked his head, “You would draw blades against me, Aristide? Very well, I will call for the Smoke Stalkers to rescue the imprisoned survivors and we shall see who Terra believes.” Je’She shouted out, his panic evolved into a self preserving anger, “ENOUGH! I HAVE HAD ENOUGH! I am arresting you both and remanding you to Terra! This matter shall be resolved before the eyes of the Council of Terra!” Frederíc swung around, “WHY?! So Kincaid can slip daggers in our backs?! NO. The perpetrator is here amongst us, and we can finish this here and now!” Marduk put his hands on his hips, “Je’She, you murder me here and now, and there is nothing stopping Aristide from likewise putting you in the grave. Arrest him, and we can see peace.” “Je’She, do not fall for his words,” Frederíc implored, “I was wrong, Kincaid would not implicate you and I in the same crime, I would not murder Malcador, and neither would you! See reason, please!” Je’She brandished his glaive, “This is complete madness, surrender yourselves into my custody and I will see fair treatment for both of you, but this treachery has crossed beyond reason.” Marduk chuckled, “But it is I with evidence to charge you both, so it is you who are under my custody.” Frederíc donned his helmet, the atmospheric seal cycling with a subtle hiss, “I am under no one’s custody.”

He adopted a dueler's stance, "I will come with neither of you, I will not be subject to any presumptuous trial. I will not be quietly snuffed out in a prison cell. You want me? You are welcome to me." Marduk licked his plump lips in anticipation, "Very well." He strode over, slowly, to Aristide, like a shark circling its prey. He came at him with steady purpose, the insane, dead eyed look in his eyes growing stronger. Marduk was gone, all the emotion was drained from him, replaced by raw, calculating animal destructivity. From the corner of his eye Frederíc saw Je’She catch his helmet with the tip of Dancing Devil, and flipped it up into the air, catching in and affixing it as Frederíc had done. His brother then likewise rushed to meet the ensuing conflict, "Frederíc, Marduk, cease this at once, and come peacefully!" "The time for peace has passed," Frederíc intoned somberly as he put his sabre between himself and Marduk, "the time for vengeance is now. Either help me kill this traitor or get out of my way." "I will not let you harm him." Je'She warned. "Then you will be harmed." Frederíc activated the power field of his sabre, and Je'She did the same.

Aristide made to thrust at Marduk, but Je’She cast his glaive downward, driving his brother’s strike to the ground. Frederíc spun backward, releasing his sword from beneath the polearm, but as he presented himself again, Je’She lept forward and shoulder charged his brother, ramming his helmet into Frederíc’s with a resounding headbutt. Frederíc was driven back, dazed by the blow, and when he came to he saw Je’She’s blade pointed as his chest, “Enough.” Je’she warned. Frederíc parried away the polearm, “No.” he snarled. Dancing Devil was once more leveled at him, and Je’She made a low sweep to knock Frederíc off his feet, but Aristide hopped up, catching the glaive under his boot, then issued a downward slash to Marduk, who appeared to be waiting for an opening. Marduk caught the blade in between his hands, the force of the clap pushing past the tremendous powerfield of Frederíc’s sabre, the action causing a gust of wind to blast from the contact. Frederic attempted to thrust through the grapple, but Marduk closed his hands around the blade, yanking it past his exposed head and delivering a knee to Aristide’s side. The blow rocked Frederíc; Marduk was far more physically intimidating than he had assumed. That did not bode well. Marduk closed back in, relinquishing one hand and grabbing Aristide by the crest of his helm, and driving his head into the corner of the stone table, using a sweeping leg to drive him off balance.

Frederíc’s helmed head passed clear through the time-worn stone, the whole corner section collapsing with the trauma. As he fell, Marduk collapsed atop him, using his knee to keep Aristide’s sword arm pinned. He thrust his other knee to pin his other arm, and whilst straddling Frederíc, Marduk latched onto his helmet, using his helmet’s crest to try and snap his neck. Aristide bucked, trying to get his brother off him, delivering a kick to the center of Engur’s back, which fazed him little. Je’She brought the butt of his staff across, attempting to strike Marduk in the head. Engur likewise caught that blow, but the shift in focus allowed Frederíc to roll, toppling Marduk from attop him. Frederíc then mounted his brother, reversing the grip of his sabre to drive it into his brother’s skull. Marduk jerked his head, the sabre once more sailing past and driving into the ground. In response, Frederíc simply punched his brother in the face, once, twice, thrice in rapid succession, the soft crunch and pop of nose bones misaligning tangible through his power armour. Marduk did not so much as blink. Instead he wrapped his arms around Frederíc’s waist and drove his hips up, gaining his feet before arching back, and smashing Frederíc face first into the ground. Now unarmed, Frederíc rolled to all fours, and slid forth to grab the broken free section of stone. He brought the several foot long section of curved stone up in a sweeping motion, hitting Marduk in the thigh, sending him to a knee. Frederíc lunged to his feet and brought back down the stone slap down on his brother, shattering it on his pauldron, sending up a plume of dust and rubble. Marduk remained kneeling, catching fall with a fist. Frederíc capitalized on the moment by kicking his heel into Marduk’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground. As he did so Je’She lashed out, this time with the blade of Dancing Devil, to ward Frederíc away from the downed Marduk.

Aristide smacked the reaching polearm away, grabbing it and yanking it forward to cause Je’She to trip over the rising Marduk, sending both back down. Frederíc snatched his sabre from the ground, and closed in for the kill. Marduk shot from the ground, tossing Je’She off him, and ripped his robes off, and in that same move wrapped the shredded robe around Frederíc’s sword arm, swinging him into Je’She. Je’she dodged the move, and Frederíc pulled his arm from the snare, ripping through the robes. Frederíc issued a roaring battlecry, and punched Je’She away with the guarded hilt of his sword, slashed Marduk across the chest, marring the pristine power armour, returning to Je'She to parry away another thrust, then slashing downwards on Marduk, a blow Marduk blocked with his vambraces, embedding the sword in his armour. Frederíc drew down his blade to deny Marduk the opportunity to break his sword, then slashed across in the empty air to clear room between his brothers, leaving his back to the table.

Je'She hopped back, then spun in a wide circle, leapt upwards, and sent his glaive down in a meteoric strike. Denied the proper room to maneuver, Aristide brought his sword down then up in a wide motion, blade up to snare the blade in the guard. They met in a sonorous ring, the thunderous clash of blade on blade, power field on power field, reverberating in deafening applause throughout the chamber. But a third blade had entered the embrace of the blades at the impact. A wide, sinister cleaver, no more sword than a butcher's blade, shimmering metal with serpentine, waved patterns, a diluvian construction made explicitly for the removal of limbs and the bisection of men. The wicked weapon's power field roiled off the blade like blue fire, and it thundered and roared as it conflicted with the fields of the other weapons. The Cleaver of Marduk was locked in combat with the Dancing Devil, the resplendent partisan of Je’She of the watch, the history of the Great City of Harrdid emblazoned upon its spiralling shaft, and Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, the great sweeping sword of Jon-Frederíc Aristide, the crest of the Great Thiepval House of Aristide emblazoned upon the sweeping guard of the blade, both gryphon and unicorn rampant.

The legendary blades of the Primarchs locked for a moment, the intersection of the power fields creating a roaring gout of sparks that illuminated the chamber with a blue aura. The Primarchs applied their strength to the engagement, each attempting to bring down another’s blade to create an opening. Frederíc broke the stalemate by driving his sword upwards, sending his brothers whirling back into defensive positions. As mysteriously as he had been armed, Marduk was also equipped with his inscrutable helm, his complete battle regalia had miraculously been donned. Frederíc expected dry laughter, some cruel quip, a boast. Something. Lethal silence filled the room, broken only by the high whir of power armour and the hissing crackle of power fields. Marduk was Frederíc's left, Je'She flanking his right.

Frederíc's hand shot to his hip, lighting quick, and he drew his sidearm, Ultima Ratio. It was a long handgun, a galvanic flechette blaster of Martian design, forged by Raj Vokar’s hand. Marduk rolled out of the way as Frederíc fired an opening salvo at him, the smart darts trailing after him following after the round that embedded itself in Marduk's lower leg. Marduk raced around the circumference of the table at a Primarch's freakish pace, the flechettes embedding themselves into the ground after him. Marduk hooked a hard left, hopping atop the table, and rushed towards Aristide ready to deliver a fatal strike. Je'She lashed out with his polearm, the weapon sliding through his hands like an arrow, and the blow caught Marduk in the lower chest, buffeting him back from Frederíc. The Stallion raised his pistol once more to fire, but Je'She flung the spear back with a single hand, forcing Frederíc to riposte and step forward into the reach of the weapon. He holstered the Ratio as Je'She snatched back Dancing Devil and used the moment to hop back into a guarded stance before delivering a swirling thrust down at Frederíc's legs. Aristide leapt onto the table to dodge the strike, then spun just in time to see Marduk ushering forth a wide sweeping cleave. Aristide side stepped out, then pranced forward, the swing missing him as he landed in Marduk’s exposed flank. Frederíc issued a rapid scale of strikes, slashes and thrusts that drove his brother off balance, cracking and marring his power armour. As Marduk went to grab his blade once more during a thrust, Frederíc delivered a swift forward kick to his knee sending Marduk scrambling to regain his ground. He once more reached for his holster, but the whistle of Je’She’s spear betrayed the attack from behind him.

Frederíc whipped around, his sabre presented to catch the strike. Je’She’s thrust hovered just out of Frederíc’s reach, then he feinted, sending the spear out, down, and inwards in a clockwise spiral. The feint was too quick for Aristide to catch, and the blade sunk into his thigh’s armour, the tip of the power field searing the exposed skin from proximity. Aristide let out a pained growl, then an impact struck him from behind sending Dancing Devil deep into his leg. Je’She shouted in frustration, clearing not seeking to wound his brother so, but Marduk’s shoulder charge forced his hand. Je’She snatched out his spear, and smacked Marduk across the face of his helm as he reared up for a downward chop to Frederíc. The blow of the blade shattered a section of visor, sending the hardened glass-like material into his brother’s eye. Marduk did not cease his assault, blood trickling out of the shattered visor as he cast his blade down on Frederíc’s back. Dancing Devil caught this dreadful strike, the power fields colliding once more in spectacular fashion. The flash of light and roiling crackle gave Frederíc cover to draw his pistol once more. He slid underneath the locked blades and lunged at Marduk, snaking his sabre arm under his brother’s, wrenching it back into a hasty armbar. Sacrificing the integrity of the grapple, he pressed the muzzle of Ultima Ratio against the hollow of Marduk’s knee, and pulled the trigger. The salvo ripped through the soft armour of the joint and Frederíc set a foot against the small of Marduk’s back and kicked off of him, sending them both across the wide table. Frederíc just dodged the shrapnel of the smart-flechette detonation, fragments of ceramite embedding themselves harmlessly into his own armour.

Je’She howled in shock, and even Marduk gripped his ruined knee with a shaking hand. The attack should have shorn Marduk’s leg clean off at the joint, but the integrity of the armour held, holding the bloody mess together as a splint. Je’She slammed his polearm down, unleashing an ulating warcry and he jumped upwards, spun mid-air, then sent Dancing Devil down on Frederíc. Aristide was still sprawled on the table, and wasn’t quick enough to the roll out of the way. The blade missed Aristide’s head, instead slicing his crest down the middle. The shaft of the weapon struck him solidly on his helm, shattering the monovisor and causing his head to rattle within the helmet. Frederíc felt his nose break, the bones and cartilage smashing into his face, his lip split, and his teeth crack. A dull ache emanating from his forehead suggested that the skin there had likewise been split, if not the bone as well. The splintered visor thankfully didn’t suffocate his vision, but the emergent blurriness around his sight was much more threatening.

In a flash, Je’She spun on his heel, raising his glaive once more. In the spin he caught Marduk across the chest, splitting open the muscled facade of his armour. Marduk made to grab Je'She, but on the down stroke he was struck once more in the chest by Dancing Devil's butt. Frederíc had time to roll out from the attack, springing to his feet as the glaive hit the table, creating a fracture from one side of the table to the other in a pop of dust. Frederíc leveled his pistol again and unleashed a salvo into Marduk, which found its mark in the damaged cuirass. The swarm of flechettes burrowed into the plate, and exploded in a small burst, sending Marduk onto his back, finally eliciting a mere grunt of pain. Je’She exploded in a flurry of jabs and thrusts, forcing Frederíc to react in a storm of counters, ripostes, and blocks, and for every strike that Aristide denied three more found their destination. Frederíc was battered and buffeted back, his ringing head and pulsing thigh greatly reducing his ability to offer a rebuke. Je’She continued his assault, driving Frederíc to the edge of their platform. There was a half second’s pause, where Je’she made to spin his staff and knock Frederíc off, but the Stallion seized upon the opening firing into his brother centre mass, then headbutting him with his shattered crest. The small detonation caught them both, and Frederíc felt a slight touch of wind as a series of cracks in his abdominal armour crumbled away, revealing the black body glove underneath.

Je’She’s plate had been much less abused than Marduk’s or Frederíc’s, but even still for a sidearm the Ultima Ratio was a Primarch’s weapon, the power armour of the Sentinel blasted and blackened from the impact, deep craters from the flechettes picking his torso and pauldron trim. A blur of movement caught the dueling brothers’ eyes as Marduk regained his ground and pounced on Je’She like an animal, his cleaver imbedded into the fissure Je’She had made. He picked his brother clean off the ground, throwing him at Frederíc with a strength wholly unprecedented. The tossed primarch sailed across the table like a ragdoll, Aristide ducking under his airborne brother. The Sentinel hit the chamber wall with a shattering crack, but as he fell to the ground he vaulted back onto the table with his spear, flipping it back into his hands as he touched down. Aristide was now between both his brothers. Marduk locked a bloody eye onto the Stallion and stalked back to his cleaver, snatching it from the crack. Frederíc assumed a defensive posture, pistol aimed Marduk, sabre held out to Je’She.

His brothers began to pace about him, both seeking an opening to attack Aristide and keeping an eye on the other. Marduk made the first move, driving the flat edge of his cleaver towards Frederíc’s exposed stomach, but so hobbled as he was the Stallion was able to dismiss the blow with a downward parry, transitioning into a riposte into the bloody hole in his brother’s chest. The blade stabbed into Marduk, but even in the heat of melee Frederíc stayed his hand of a killing thrust. He had been so sure that his brother was a murderer, that if justice for Malcador was to be served it would be here, and now. But with his sword in his brother’s chest, the ease of it, the soft resistance of flesh moved away by power fields...He had never faltered in killing, especially in as dire a situation as this. If he killed his brother, there would be no return, no redemption. A single swipe of the blade, severing both hearts and slashing a lung. Blood would fill his body cavity and he would either bleed out or drown in his own vitae. How had it come to this? How could he even contemplate this murder? What was he doing?

Marduk broke his indecision, and with one hand chopped at his brother’s shoulder, cleaving through the pauldron to the flesh. Aristide roared, and reflexively drove the blade deeper into his brother’s chest, the smell of burning meat and blood mixed with the sound of a power field evaporating flesh in a sickening display. Tears began to stream from Aristide’s eyes. Even now he couldn’t deliver the coup de grace, his body felt heavy, as if made of lead. Marduk dislodged his embedded sword and brought the pommel down on Frederíc’s helm, breaking free a section of shattered visor lens.

Their exposed eyes locked for a moment, and the true horror of Marduk met Frederíc. Blood swam in his brother’s eye, turning it a dreadful crimson, obscuring much of his brother's eye save a pupil so dilated it obscured the iris totally. It gave his brother the appearance of something inhuman, something bestial. Frederíc found his resolve, finally. Marduk was not going to stop until one of them was dead. If Aristide died, the East would be lost forever, and the Imperium would die trying to retake it. If he killed Marduk there would be civil war, but that was a situation he could control. This was a situation he could control, indecision would bring ruin upon everything his father built. He was the Emperor’s Stallion, he could not let his heart betray mankind. The die was cast; Marduk had to be slain. Marduk broke the brief moment with a resounding headbutt, sending his brother back with a twist of his blade, sending a squirt of blood onto Aristide, staining his alabaster armour. Marduk grabbed the blade with his free hand, and pulled it into himself, yanking his brother closer to deliver another swift headbutt, smashing in the face of Frederíc's helm. The Stallion's head swam again, worse than before, but he had the presence of mind to draw out his sword in a slash, bisecting Marduk's sternum and doubtless slashing a lung or heart. In the haze, Frederíc saw Marduk slam down his cleaver down tip first to set it aside, then next he knew he was in the air, then back down into the table.

The Leviathan reached down and dug his thumbs into the crack in Aristide’s pauldron, using his good leg to gain leverage by stomping on Frederíc’s stomach. Aristide danced on the verge of unconsciousness, but the sharp pain of something rupturing in his stomach brought him back to just as Marduk was finally wrenched free the pauldron, bringing it down on Frederíc’s chest, shattering the ceramite of both his cuirass and the pauldron trim. Marduk raised it again, and Aristide raised his pistol to blast a hole in his brother’s chest, but Marduk jerked out of the way, his feet hovering off the table. Aristide blinked in surprise, clawing through the haze of mind to see through the illusion. His confusion was rectified when Marduk turned, and he saw Je’She had pierced Marduk’s power pack and hoisted him into the air by the blade. Je’She slammed Marduk down on his knees, and Marduk retaliated by pushing off the table and into Je’She’s glaive, the blade of Dancing Devil erupting from Marduk’s exposed chest. There was a stillness as Marduk’s body went limp, and Je’She dropped his weapon in shock. Even Aristide, who resolved himself to the very same act, got to his feet on trembling legs. “No..” Je’She whispered, “no, no, no…” Aristide approached his brother, taking in the sight of his slain brother, slumped on his knees, his blood pouring from the wound onto the cracked stone, “He forced our hand, brother...there was no other possible outcome…”. Je’She whipped around, the raw fury of his voice colouring his every word, “No. You forced his hand. Forced our hands. HIS BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS! THIS IS A BEAST OF YOUR CREATION!” Frederíc opened his mouth to offer some retort, but movement to his right caught the corner of his eye.

In a flash he was smashed on the side of his head again, forcing him to backstep and fire his pistol into the open air. Marduk was suddenly beside Je’She, gripping him the the throat in a crushing vise, then swept a leg under Je’She, sending the Sentinel to his knees. Aristide seized the opening and fired at Marduk, the blast hitting squarely in the face of Marduk’s helm, exposing his bloodied and bruised face. The subsequent detonation did little to stop Marduk, as he raised his cleaver in lethal swiftness and sent it into the scrambling Je’She. The blade swung through the gap between the cuirass and the right pauldron, sinking into the soft connective armour, tunneling deep through the shoulder joint. Je’She howled, and his left hand shot to the blade to prevent a total maim. His right was dreadfully still. Equally as motionless was Marduk’s face, a placid plane of predatory consideration, his right eye flooded by blood, his lip split, his face marked by dozens of embedded shrapnel shards and deep lacerations. Frederíc roared and charged at Marduk, firing at him in a sustained burst. The barrage knocked the Leviathan away from the maimed Je’She, and Aristide leapt over the Sentinel in a spinning slash, the blade running through Marduk’s increasingly wounded torso. Frederíc landed on the tip of his sabaton, then pirouetted, landing another strike. On the turn he saw Marduk coming to with his cleaver brandished, so in the completion of the flourish he lashed out at Marduk’s hands, forcing his brother to sweep away his blade in a parry, exposing his side to Frederíc. Aristide fired another salvo into his brother’s ribs, swiping at the back of the cleaver to prevent his brother from returning a strike. The detonation created a crack in the contoured obliques of the muscled facade, and Aristide pulled the trigger again to rupture the plate. He was met with an unsatisfactory, terrifying, click. His shattered helm had long since stopped offering him diagnostics, and the head trauma he suffered still allowed him to ignore that. He did not cease his assault and simply stepped into Marduk, and pistol whipped him in his face