Why has His Majesty rebelled?
The scene was too shocking for words. The open-air plaza fell into utter silence. Even Lion El'Jonson, the Emperor's firstborn, and Rogal Dorn, the Captain-General of the Custodes, stood frozen. Guilliman—who knew more than any of his brothers—was just as dumbfounded.
For two seconds, he stared blankly, his face alternating between pale and livid. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only managed a silent sigh.
All the careful rhetoric, all the negotiation tactics he had prepared on the way here—gone before he could even utter them.
With a resigned calm, the noble ruler of the Five Hundred Worlds betrayed no visible emotion. Drawing a long, steady breath, Guilliman stepped forward while his brothers remained motionless, crossing into the central plaza of the Pilgrims' Causeway. His face was solemn as he advanced.
"...Father, I hope you know what you're doing," he thought quietly.
According to his plan, Guilliman had rushed to Terra to meet the Emperor personally. With his unmatched administrative acumen, he intended to assist in formal negotiations between the Emperor and the Empress regarding the conditions of Terra's transition of power.
The deeper he had come to understand the situation, the more rational he had become.
Guilliman already recognized that the Imperium of Man had reached the end of its historical mandate. Destruction or assimilation into the Sacred Selene Empire was inevitable.
Yes, the outcome could not be changed—but the process still had room for maneuvering.
If the transfer of power was to happen, Guilliman was confident he could secure more favorable terms from Selene. He believed in his ability to do so.
But now... even the Emperor himself had knelt. Clearly, the matter had already been settled. To continue arguing would only make him seem ungrateful—or worse, offend Selene.
He exhaled softly. All the hours spent exchanging insights and preparations with Lorgar now felt completely wasted.
Your son stands ready for war, yet Father has already surrendered?
So it seems.
Guilliman's gaze swept over his father's back—the Emperor's pure white Roman toga gleaming faintly in the light—and then up the steps toward the figure with the crimson eyes, regal and unfathomable. Their gazes met. He lowered his proud head and, following the Emperor's example, knelt upon one knee, bowing deeply.
"Praise be to the Emperor of All Races, the Divine Empress, the Goddess of Finality, the Lord of Mankind!"
He too proclaimed the sacred words.
The Emperor cast him a subtle look of approval, a faint psychic pulse of satisfaction.
As expected of my finest creation—well, my last surviving finest creation—he understood my intent at once.
Guilliman closed his eyes, maintaining calm composure.
Selene raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And what about the rest of you?"
It had all happened in mere heartbeats. Only now did the onlookers stir from their shock. The great Emperor and one of his Primarchs had both knelt—and the realization struck them like thunder. And that woman on the steps, surrounded by bowing Custodes, with her white hair and crimson eyes—who was she?
Her form was not towering like the Primarchs', yet her presence radiated such oppressive majesty that it made their hearts tremble.
Especially when the mighty, godlike giants knelt before her—it was a sight of impossible contrast.
Fear spread among the gathered masses. The Emperor's return to walk among men could no longer soothe the panic rising within them.
From nobles and Ecclesiarchs robed in finery to humble pilgrims and hive-born citizens, the crowd collapsed as one, falling to their knees like wheat before the scythe.
Prayers, confessions, and sobbing echoed through the plaza.
Thud. Thud.
With skin like obsidian and eyes burning red like molten fire, Vulkan—the Lord of Nocturne—stepped forward. His immense frame loomed like a living mountain, casting Guilliman's kneeling form beneath the shadow of a molten dragon.
"Enough..."
The eighteenth son of the Emperor, Vulkan, growled lowly. "Enough. Father, you have done more than enough... It is our own weakness that has burdened you."
Those hellfire-red eyes glistened with tears. His monstrous visage was softened by the steady, almost gentle tone that followed.
"Chaos Gods... I do not know why Father has chosen to entrust the future to you, but please... do not betray his faith in you—nor our loyalty."
When his words ended, the towering figure sank to his knees like a great pillar of ivory, his sincerity echoing across the plaza.
"..."
The Emperor sighed faintly.
He knew. This was Vulkan's guilt—guilt for not having arrived in time to defend the Emperor during the fiercest moments of the Battle for Terra. Guilt for allowing the Imperium to fall so far that it now had to bend its knee to a Chaos God.
Thud... thud...
Silent as stone, Rogal Dorn, Captain-General of the Custodes, came to the Emperor's other side. Without a word, he knelt. Like a statue returned to stillness after being moved, he made no proclamation—only bowed his head in silence beside his father.
"Too slow."
Selene, now descending the steps, came to stand before the Emperor. Using the height difference, she met his gaze squarely.
And so began the unspoken exchange—words carried by eyes and psychic thought.
Selene: Adequate, I suppose. So this is your 'final gift'? Useful enough. Your sons are not all fools, at least. They still trust you implicitly—even with your... record. No questions, no hesitation. Blind loyalty. Except, of course, for this last stubborn one...
The Emperor: Please, understand—his flaw is temperamental. He doesn't argue, doesn't question, but once he sets his mind, he cannot bend. There's still a thorn in his heart, but I'll speak to him. My Majesty, give him a lesson, but... don't be too harsh.
Selene: Understood.
Without a change in expression, Selene extended her hand toward the Emperor's firstborn—the one who still stood, pride and doubt written across his face.
Clasp.
Vmm—!
A muffled grunt of pain burst from Jonson's throat.
His face, sharp as if carved from stone, flushed red. The air trembled with a sound like cracking glass. Thunder split the heavens. The marble beneath him fractured. His armor groaned beneath the invisible pressure, metal shrieking as if on the verge of collapse.
Damn it... So this is why Father entrusted humanity's fate to her? Is it truly just a matter of power?
He tried to roar, but found himself bound by invisible force. When his eyes met Selene's burning crimson gaze, all he could feel was suffocating pressure.
"Kneel," Selene said calmly, her finger flicking lightly.
Crack—crack—crack—
No smoke, no thunderous explosion—just the crisp sound of bones snapping, one by one. Selene methodically broke every bone and tendon in the Caliban-born's body... then instantly healed them, piece by piece, studying the physical limits of a Primarch before utterly subduing him.
Bang!
Even after forcing him to his knees, Selene did not withdraw the crushing weight pressing upon every cell and nerve of his body.
With a casual gesture, she dragged him beside the Emperor, forcing him to kneel in perfect alignment.
Much better, Selene thought. Symmetry is pleasing.
When all was done, she finally turned toward the Emperor, extending her hand to him.
In a voice that carried effortlessly through the plaza, she declared, "Congratulations, all of you. The Emperor's sincerity has moved me. I have decided to spare your lives—and allow you to serve my Empire."
Then she turned toward the Emperor, adopting the air of an amicable ruler sharing the stage with a loyal confidant. With a faintly teasing smile, she helped him to his feet. "My secretary, have you nothing to add regarding your sons?"
With perfect composure, the Emperor rose slowly. His vast, towering form seemed strangely frail despite its power. His hand trembled slightly as he sighed and turned back once more, his face a portrait of solemn resolve and regret.
"Everything... I leave in your hands," he said.
Even standing straight, his posture seemed bowed beneath unseen weight—his movements filled with quiet melancholy.
Selene caught his performance flawlessly.
"Of course."
She played her role as the victorious sovereign to perfection—half companion, half rival—embodying the weary satisfaction of an old ally who had won a long-standing wager.
Their exchange carried the air of old comrades turned estranged by ideology, masking genuine tension beneath carefully balanced decorum.
Selene's crimson eyes swept across the kneeling Primarchs, her tone laced with amused authority. "Since your father has nothing further to add, then as your new ruler, my first order is this—"
"Change your names."
"...What?"
"You don't understand?"
Crossing her arms, Selene looked down at the Primarchs, who seemed momentarily lost in thought at the strangely familiar ease between her and the Emperor. Then she smiled faintly and gave her answer.
"My legions also number twenty Astartes armies. As the ones who failed in practice, yet still my generals and commanders, you must be properly distinguished."
Selene explained calmly.
At those words, Guilliman showed an expression of quiet realization. "Connor," he said first. "Roboute Connor Guilliman. Your Majesty Selene, this should be sufficient to distinguish me from your Robert, should it not?"
Commemorating his foster father. "Approved," Selene nodded.
Glancing thoughtfully at Guilliman, the Primarch of the Imperial Fists then spoke: "Rogal Inwit Dorn."
Named for the icy world of his youth—Inwit. A fine choice.
"Approved."
"En'bel... Vulkan Bel Vokhan."
Selene nodded once more. "Approved."
Vulkan's choice was unsurprising. Despite his fearsome appearance, he was gentle by nature, and like Guilliman, he had chosen to bear the name of his mortal foster father—the blacksmith N'bel of Nocturne.
"You don't need to," Selene interrupted as the stubborn son of Caliban prepared to speak. "My First Legion's commander is named Alex."
With that, she descended from the dais, casting a brief, knowing glance toward the Emperor.
Selene: Remember, we are two sides of the same alliance. Explain little. Let them guess.
The Emperor: ...Understood.
"Rise."
At her command, a ripple of irresistible power swept through the masses. The countless Terrans kneeling along the Pilgrims' Causeway rose in perfect unison, eyes wide as they beheld their new sovereign walking toward them.
"Glory to Holy Terra."
When Selene extended her hand and touched that of a young boy standing near the railing, holding a small double-headed eagle banner, the entire crowd erupted. One by one, they bowed low, hands crossed over their hearts in the Aquila salute, voices shouting in reverent frenzy.
"Praise be to the Emperor of All Races, the Divine Empress, the Goddess of Finality, the Lord of Mankind!"
...
As Selene's figure receded into the distance, the Emperor turned his gaze from her and looked upon his sons, all of them wearing expressions of strained confusion.
"If there is something you wish to ask," he said softly, "ask it."
...
Soon, the banners of Terra had changed. The Imperium of Man was no more, replaced by the Sacred Selene Empire. A series of proclamations—each more earth-shaking than the last—spread like wildfire across the stars.
Through secure quantum broadcasts from the Sacred Selene Empire's netway, the planetary governors and sector lords of the former Imperium began to realize that the change on the Throne World was only the beginning.
From the ravaged Cadian Gate—once overrun by Chaos—to the Maelstrom's storm of heretics and traitors; from the Damocles Gulf besieged by alien swarms to the Ork-infested hell of Armageddon...
The warp rifts that had scarred the void began, one by one, to fade. The starry sea of reality shone once more with breathtaking serenity.
A being of unfathomable, divine magnitude swept through the galaxy like a supernova, scouring the stars of the Chaos taint, banishing the lurking filth of the void, and driving back the xenos who preyed upon humanity's borders.
In every corner of the galaxy once ruled by darkness—where Ork hordes slaughtered, Tau fleets advanced, and Necron harvests swept through worlds—the invasion ceased as if time itself had paused.
Though internal skirmishes persisted, the interstellar wars that spanned whole sectors abruptly vanished.
No one was foolish enough to miss the implication.
Especially in the eastern realms of the Imperium—near Macragge, near the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, near the Domain of the XIII Primarch—hope flared anew. The news of Guilliman's awakening was a rallying cry, inspiring waves of pilgrim fleets to set forth toward Holy Terra.
Yet word of Guilliman's actions soon followed: his reforms of governance, his efforts to improve living conditions, to rebuild healthcare, to expand preaching and education...
The reforms were praiseworthy—but the preaching? That was strange.
Whispers of blasphemy began to circulate: that the Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds had fallen—that alongside the 'Herald of Words,' he now spread heretical sermons, distorting the Emperor's image, and elevating a god even greater than the Emperor himself.
And then came reports from across the stars—of the Primarchs' return. The First, the Fifth, the Sixth, the Seventh... all had returned.
Terra Standard Year 999.M41—the final year of the End Millennium.
The Primarchs... all returning at once?
Rumors spread like wildfire, drowning the noosphere with confusion. Joy for the Primarchs' return became shadowed by dread.
Until, at last, an official proclamation—issued again and again from Holy Terra—reached every corner of the human galaxy. Its language was lawful, its evidence undeniable, its seals authentic, its process legitimate.
Every word testified to the transformation of Terra.
And one by one, the planetary governors and sector rulers of the former Imperium let their restless hearts finally settle.
Perhaps it was for the best.
Even if the "peaceful change of banners," the "Emperor's kneeling," and the "reformation of the Imperium" struck like thunder upon their ears—unbelievable as they seemed—it was still preferable to total annihilation by Chaos, xenos, or civil war.
As for what kind of being the Empress truly was...
Well, the grand temples and monuments of humanity would likely need redesigning soon.
Everyone with sense knew it then, without question.
The world had changed.
—
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