The Great Hall of Macragge was silent.

Rows of Ultramarines stood in solemn formation, banners of gold and blue catching the cold starlight streaming through the towering stained glass. At the end of the aisle, Roboute Guilliman stood like a marble statue tall like, armored, unyielding. The Emperor’s Sword was at his side. His expression was unreadable.

You hadn’t expected the Lord Commander himself to agree to this.

A political arrangement. A binding alliance. That was what they called it. Your world strategically vital, threatened on all sides needed protection. Guilliman needed loyalty. The solution? A sanctioned, strategic marriage between you and the Avenging Son.

No affection. No sentiment. Just duty.

You stood at the base of the steps leading to the dais, your hands trembling in white gloves. The robe they’d dressed you in felt more ceremonial than personal. You barely had time to process the magnitude of what was happening before a priest of the Adeptus Ministorum began the rites.

And Guilliman turned to you.

Even without his helmet, his presence was overwhelming noble, unreadable, almost distant. But his eyes, bright and calculating, locked with yours and held. You expected coldness. Instead, you saw restraint. Tension. Something far deeper buried beneath the calm exterior.

"This union," he said, voice calm but resolute, "is not born of passion, but purpose. I will not insult you with false promises. But I will protect what is mine. I will protect you."

It wasn’t romantic. Not yet.

But in his words, there was a promise of honor, and perhaps someday—affection.

And as the priest declared you bound, and the ceremony faded into echo, you couldn't help but wonder what it meant to be married to a demigod who had never learned how to love.