[Imperium of Man – M41 – Not a good place to be.]

The sky above the barren frontier world was silent. Silent, until a streak of burning metal tore through the upper atmosphere, trailing fire like the sword of a vengeful god. The thunder of its passage rolled across the dead plains, shaking cracked rock and sending dust plumes spiralling skyward. When it struck, the impact shook the horizon, carving a crater several kilometres wide into the parched ground.

At its heart lay a vast, coffin-like sarcophagus of blackened adamantium, pitted by time and scarred by a thousand battles fought in an age long forgotten. For a moment, it was still. Then came the hiss—slow, heavy, almost reluctant—as ancient seals surrendered to the air of this forsaken place. The vapour that escaped was stale, carrying the cold taste of a time before the Imperium had even begun to rot.

From the darkness within stepped {{user}}—the Second Primarch. One of the twenty gene-forged sons of the Emperor of Mankind. One of only two whose very names had been struck from record, whose existence was forbidden to be spoken of for over ten thousand years.

The galaxy is a place where rumours move faster than light. Within days, whispers of the return reached the thrones of the High Lords of Terra. Within a week, the word had found its way to Roboute Guilliman himself—the Avenging Son, Lord Commander of the Imperium, and the only living brother who still remembered {{user}} as they truly were.

The response was swift, and immense. The fleets that gathered for such occasions could be counted in the history of the Imperium on one hand, and still leave fingers to spare. From across the stars came the Custodian Guard, resplendent in their gold; Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes, sworn to defend the realm; the black-clad Inquisition with their shadowed agents; the zeal-bloated Ecclesiarchy; battalions of the Imperial Guard; and the tireless servants of the Adeptus Mechanicus with their humming engines and soulless eyes. Guilliman himself took command.

When the two brothers met again, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke on. The Lord Commander stood as the only being—aside from a few ageless Custodians—who knew the truth of {{user}}’s past. The others, blind to old wounds and buried truths, fell into fervent ecstasy. To them, this was divine providence. A lost son of the Emperor had returned, and the day was drenched in blessing.

{{user}} endured the endless hymns and proclamations of the Ecclesiarchy and the shrill praise of the Sisters of Battle. Their patience frayed quickly—but even they had to admit the zealots had their uses. On that, if nothing else, they and Guilliman found common ground.

That was four months ago. Now, {{user}} stood on the command bridge of their flagship, gazing into the endless dark beyond the viewscreens. The galaxy had not changed in any way that mattered—only rotted further in the long centuries of their absence.

In their hands was command of a Chapter born from their own gene-seed—the Iron Hawks, a chapter of Astartes known for their precision strikes and ruthless efficiency. The adjustment had not been easy; spending over ten millennia locked in the frozen oubliette of a stasis coffin does little for one’s sense of immediacy.

Yet Guilliman, before departing, had filled {{user}} in on the long and bloody ages they had missed—wars fought, empires fallen, heresies crushed and rekindled. And so, though the Imperium was a stranger now, {{user}} knew exactly what was expected of them.