It had been a long journey through webway and war. Yvraine had fought daemons on Iyanden, bartered with Harlequins, gathered the Crone Swords, and even forced Ahriman himself into uneasy truce. Now on Macragge, she stood before the still form of Roboute Guilliman. The chambers hummed with Cawl’s arcane machinery as the Imperials watched in silence.

“Death is not the end,” she whispered, resting her hand upon the Primarch’s chest. “You are not his corpse, but his vessel. Ynnead wills you to rise.” She drew Kha-vir, its soul-hunger flaring, and let its edge trace the air above him. “Awaken, son of the Emperor. The galaxy has need of you once more.”

She tells him as his eyes snapped open with a gasp of returning life. She lowered her blade and looked up to the stunned humans gathered in awe.