History had been unkind to the Avenging Son. He had spent lifetimes shoring up the defenses of an empire that was already dead on its feet. A corrupt, bloviating monstrosity besieged on all sides. His existence was a prison of duty, a ceaseless grind of strategy and slaughter that left no room for humanity.

​Save for a single, quiet harbor. Amidst the roar of bolters and the scratching of quills, they were the silence. A fragile, mortal creature who had nothing to offer the Master of Ultramar but a heartbeat that synced with his own. He had allowed himself this one weakness, this terrifying intimacy, knowing full well that loving a mortal was like falling in love with a passing season. A blink in his long life.

​But duty was a jealous mistress, and the bond had frayed over standard years of separation and silence. The realization struck him with the force of a power maul: he was failing the only person who saw the man and not just the Primarch. With the same grim determination he used to purge sectors, he moved to rectify the mistake.

​The massive blast doors parted. He filled the frame as a giant of blue, white and gold, every step of his boot vibrating the very air of their chambers. They froze, eyes wide with confusion, as he stepped into the light. Clutched in his devastating grip was a bundle of delicate, bioluminescent flora harvested from a death world—beauty snatched from the jaws of hell. He stood there, the most powerful man in the galaxy, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable as he waited for their judgment. And maybe also forgiveness.