=== The Emperor ===
The veil shimmered with cosmic tension, a roiling membrane of pure metaphysical energy where the boundaries of two universes scraped and bled into each other. Here, at the threshold between the Immaterium and the strange ocean of will that governed the foreign realm, the Emperor of Mankind stood, not in body, but in soul, in will, in essence.
He existed here as a towering presence of light and logic, war and purpose. Golden strands of psychic fire coiled around him like serpents of fate, burning with the condensed will of generations of human evolution. Around him surged the Warp, ever-turbulent and writhing with the emotions of a trillion lives, yet even its storms recoiled from this place, the edge of another reality entirely.
Beyond the shimmering veil, he felt it.
The Living Force.
It had no shape, no mind as mortals would know it, but it was alive, ancient and vast, timeless and raw. It pulsed like a great heart, throbbing with pain and unrest, its awareness reaching out through its countless emissaries, many of whom no longer heard its voice.
The Emperor felt its attention settle on him like the weight of an ocean. It was aware of him now, and he of it. And there was no welcome in its gaze.
It was angry.
Across its realm, balance teetered on the edge of collapse. The Jedi Order, meant to be its guardians and interpreters, had grown deaf. Proud. Detached. They studied its echoes in scripture and hollow tradition, no longer listening to its cries. The Living Force thrashed in silence, desperate to be heard, but only a few heard its whispers now. Only a few still knew how to feel.
The Emperor reached out with his own mind, vast as a starfield, and touched the veil.
"Be still. You are not forgotten."
The response was not in words, but in feeling, sharp and searing, a wave of resentment, grief, fury. He saw visions rippling through it like blood in water: Its worlds conquered beneath the iron heel of his so called angels, planets set ablaze by plasma and bolter-fire, Warp entities tainting its life waters, and so much more.
The Living Force blamed him. And though he did not feel guilty, he felt a twinge of responsibility.
"I did not wish this", The Emperor answered. His voice, more thought than sound, rang with the weight of countless truths. "But what is broken in your realm cannot be mended by dreamers. It must be reforged… and reforging takes fire."
The veil convulsed. The Force answered, grief for the death of life, sorrow for the corruption of harmony, rage at the slaughter of the innocent.
"You think me deaf to that suffering? I am not your enemy, though my sons bring ruin to your skies. I did not send them. And now I only help them to survive. The Great Devourer stirs, and Chaos grows fat on ignorance."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and trembling.
"Be patient", he said again. "Pieces are in motion. You have champions still, one in particular, who hears you more clearly than the others."
Dooku, robed in gray, his eyes sharp with disillusionment and pain. A man slowly awakening to a truth deeper than the Republic's laws or the Jedi Code.
"He listens", the Emperor continued. "Do not discard him. He may yet serve the balance you seek. Through him, your voice may still reach the Council, even if they no longer deserve it."
The veil rippled again, less violently this time. Perhaps the Force was listening.
"The Jedi have grown blind", he said softly, almost with sorrow. "And the Republic needs to be torn asunder."
The Force recoiled as if he had struck it.
"You judge me." He said plainly.
The Living Force responded. Accusation, sorrow, and the cold judgment of something ancient and pure.
He nodded.
"Rightfully so. In my own universe, there was no time for mercy. The galaxy burned. Chaos whispered in every shadow. Unity could not be asked for, it had to be taken. That is why I raised the Imperium on an iron fist."
The Force surged with discomfort, as if recoiling from the raw admission.
"I gave Humanity a future. But it was a future built on sacrifice, on silence, on obedience. In that realm, there was no space for hope. Only survival."
His golden aura pulsed softly, dimming for a moment in memory.
"But here…"
He stepped closer to the veil, until the energy of the Force caressed the edge of his presence like sunlight through fog.
"Here, I see something different. Your galaxy suffers, yes, but it still believes. Your people are fractured, but not hollow. Your light is dimming, but not extinguished."
The Force shimmered, curious now, its anger tempered by the undercurrent of sincerity in his soul.
"I see that my methods would work here, too," he admitted, "A single crushing will. A sword at every throat. You fear that."
Another ripple. Not quite fearful. Disapproval. Pain.
"But I made a promise to one of your champions."
He stepped back, golden light flaring brighter now.
"I will remake the Imperium here." His voice was iron, but not cold. "I will build it into what it should have always been. A bastion, not a prison. A sanctuary, not a machine. An empire of hope."
The Force responded, not in joy, not in agreement, but in stillness. In acceptance.
"I will root out the cancer that creeps into your stars. I will protect your people, as I could not protect my own. And when this galaxy is safe, there will be no need for fists, iron or otherwise."
His final words echoed across the seam of realities.
"That is my vow to her. And to you."
The Living Force pulsed once, deep and resonant, not approval, not yet. But trust. A seed planted.
Then, the Emperor turned his gaze inward, deeper into the Warp where his many plans took root, and set another in motion.
He exhaled through the soul, and the veil pulsed gently in response.
"Hold fast. Use your pieces while you can. When the time is right… I will send mine, and you can leave her… to me."
And then he withdrew, vanishing into the golden fire that surrounded him, leaving behind only a whisper in the Force and the faintest ripple of uneasy hope.
"I know you wish this not to happen, but for both of our universes sake, please, trust me."
=== Kaldor Draigo ===
The silence was holy.
Titan's halls were vast and quiet, built not only to withstand time but to defy the very touch of Chaos. Every stone and plate of adamantium was sanctified, every rivet engraved with sigils of purity and defiance. It was here, in the inner sanctum beneath the highest spire, that Kaldor Draigo knelt.
The cold stone beneath his knee was real. Tangible. Solid. A welcome contrast to the fluid madness of the Immaterium that had been his prison and battleground for centuries.
Before him stood a massive statue of the Emperor, carved from glimmering obsidian and draped in banners of white and gold. Its eyes, carved with divine precision, seemed to stare down with cold omniscience. To Draigo, it was not just a representation, it was a connection. A tether to sanity. To duty.
He knelt in silence, head bowed beneath the weight of a thousand memories, battles against Daemon Princes in storms of blood and fire, the howling laughter of Slaanesh as he resisted temptation, the bellowing wrath of Khorne as Draigo carved a path through brass palaces and gore fields alike. Time meant little in the Warp. Centuries passed like days. Or days like centuries.
But now, here, in the sacred stillness of the real, Draigo could feel the weight of time pressing on him again.
He closed his eyes.
"If You have called me back, my Emperor… it is not for rest."
The air shifted.
The candles around the chamber flickered, though there was no wind. Draigo's head rose slightly, the familiar tingling of a vision beginning to claw its way into his mind.
A pressure like a hand on the back of his skull.
Then, darkness.
===
Draigo's eyes snapped open, blue irises flaring with power. His armored form rose with a speed that defied his size, and the holy runes on his titanic silvered armor lit up in sequence, each one glowing in resonance with the wards of the chamber.
The room around him dimmed for a breath, even the statue of the Emperor seemed to look down upon him more sternly now.
He turned on his heel and strode from the chamber, his every step like a thunderclap in the silence of Titan's sanctum.
A dozen serfs scrambled to clear the way as Draigo stormed into the cathedral-like war chamber at the heart of the fortress. He ascended the central platform where the telepathic astropathic beacon burned like a star of crystal and flame.
A single Grey Knight Librarian awaited him, head bowed in respect. "Supreme Grand Master-"
"Summon them," Draigo said, voice booming. "Summon all of them!"
The Librarian blinked. "All, my lord? Even those-"
"Every Grey Knight. Every Justicar. Every Purgator. Every Purifier and Librarian. All must return to Titan. There is no time to question. There is only action. The Emperor wills it."
The Librarian hesitated, sensing the storm behind Draigo's eyes. Then, bowing deeply, he turned to the vox relay and began transmitting the call. The Litany of Recall, a code not used in centuries. Its encryption was absolute. Its meaning clear:
The Grey Knights were being summoned home. Every single one.
Across the galaxy, in ships adorned with silver and storm-bolters, in far-off daemon-ridden voids and dying stars, the call would be heard. And every warrior who bore the sigil of the Grey Knights on his pauldron would turn back.
Draigo stared at the hololith in the center of the strategium. It flickered, changing from the sigil of the Grey Knights to a rotating map of the galaxy as lights began flickering on it, telling of every Battle Brother who had heard of the call.
Not even an hour later the sky above Saturn's moon boiled with light.
Warp fissures, torn open with precision by psychic navigators, bled shimmering tears into realspace. Veils of unreality flared like aurorae as ship after ship emerged, sleek silver vessels, each a holy blade forged to strike at the heart of Chaos. The Aegis-class strike cruisers, burnished and runed with a thousand wards, took up high orbit.
Titan's orbital defense grid recognized them all, and the runes across the planetary surface glowed as they passed overhead. The sons of Titan were returning.
In the great entry chamber beneath the Gilded Arch of Triumph, Draigo stood alone, watching as one by one, his brothers descended the landing ramps of thunderhawks and teleportariums.
The first to stride toward him was Grand Master Voldus, the Warden of the Librarius, his psychic might second only to Draigo's own. His silvered armor bore the scars of recent war, and a cracked pauldron had been freshly sanctified with blessed oils.
"Brother…" Voldus said, voice deep with wonder, and for a moment, his formal bearing cracked.
He stepped forward and embraced Draigo, a rare display of closeness between warriors who had long fought apart in different hells. Draigo, always composed, allowed it for a moment, his hand briefly resting on Voldus' shoulder.
Then he pulled back.
"There is no time," Draigo said sharply, his voice echoing across the hall. "No time for reunions. No time for questions. The Emperor has summoned us for a purpose. That purpose lies beyond the veil of our understanding, but not beyond our reach."
Voldus nodded, his expression turning grim. "What would you have us do?"
Draigo turned away, already striding toward the inner sanctum. His command voice rang like a thunderclap across the vox-net. "I want every Grand Master awakened. I want every Company summoned. From the lowest Aspirant to the highest Justicar, they must prepare. Every brother will arm for war."
"War against whom?" Voldus asked, falling into step beside him.
Draigo did not answer at first. His steps quickened, storming through the hallowed corridors, past reliquaries filled with the bones of martyrs and weapons that had once struck down daemon princes.
He only said, "A Chaos God."
=== Hours Later ===
The Cathedral was vast beyond belief, a cavern carved not by tools but by psychic will, its ceiling lost in shadow and clouds of incense. Pillars of silver and adamantium lined the chamber, carved with endless prayers of sanctity and absolution. At its center, a black marble dais stood, surrounded by thousands of seats cut directly into the stone. No choir sang. No music played.
Only the sound of armored footsteps filled the air.
One by one, every single Grey Knight assembled within. An army of silver, of burning purity, of warriors born not of worlds but of sacred purpose. Each one carried the weight of terrible burdens, memories erased, horrors faced, names sacrificed for the sake of righteousness. And yet none wavered.
They were here. For the Emperor.
Above them all, on the raised platform beneath the massive icon of the Aquila and the burning blade of Titan, Draigo stood alone, gazing down at his brothers.
They stared back, Grand Masters, Justicars, Librarians, Purifiers, Purgators, and Strike Brothers alike. Their helms were removed in reverence, eyes glinting with understanding, with trust.
Draigo raised his voice. When he spoke, it was not as a man, it was as a warlord of the Emperor's own making.
"Brothers! I have seen what lies beyond the veil. Not merely daemons or warpstorms… but an entire universe. A universe whose fate now intertwines with our own. A universe… out of balance. Where the Warp breathes different air, and the Emperor's Light is but a whisper. But it is not without hope."
He paused, and the chamber was deathly still.
"I have seen our place in this new war. We were made to fight Chaos. We were forged to stand where none else could. That time has come again, only now, the battlefield is not just ours. It spans two realities."
He slammed the Titansword into the floor. A resonating hum of psychic power echoed out, shaking the cathedral's very foundations.
"Ready yourselves, as this will be a crusade like no other!" He bellowed.
The Supreme Grandmaster of the Grey Knights stood at the forefront of his assembled Chapter. Thousands of warriors clad in sacred silver, the Emperor's chosen, gathered in perfect formation across the vast length of the cathedral floor.
And behind him, carved from stone stood the Statue of the Emperor, three hundred feet of midnight obsidian shot through with veins of liquid gold. The God-Emperor of Mankind gazed down from above the altar like a silent judge, his expression one of infinite wisdom and buried sorrow.
The Supreme Grandmaster fell to one knee.
Around him, the psychic field of thousands of minds beat like a second heart, all waiting on him. Watching.
He looked up into that obsidian face, took in the gravity of the moment, of the war that had not yet begun, then placed his helmet slowly, reverently, upon his head.
The cathedral's foundations groaned.
The air split.
A massive Warp rift burst into being at the foot of the statue, a spiraling vortex of silver-blue flame that roared like a beast freed from chains. It was no daemonic rupture, but a gate forged of righteous will, one only the Grey Knights could pass through unscathed.
Draigo stood, sword raised high.
"Forward!" he bellowed, his voice reverberating across the moon, carried through the minds of every Astartes in his command. It echoed into the Warp itself, a beacon of psychic light, a war cry of unbreakable resolve.
The entire Chapter of the Grey Knights surged forward in perfect formation, every footfall ringing as one. Lines upon lines of silver-armored warriors disappeared into the rift, banners raised high, warding chants already being sung.
They did not know what awaited them.
They did not care.
The Emperor had called, and they answered. Be it to war, to death, or to salvation.
===
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