Seeing Alex's wounded expression, Blazkowicz relented and changed the subject.
Princess Sora and Marie entered the room, mother and daughter carrying fruit platters. They sat quietly, listening as the men spoke of distant wars and matters of state.
Blazkowicz told tales of the Great Crusade, the invisible parasitic worms, his brother Ferrus and his iron hands, the divine majesty of the C'tan Void Dragon, and the sacred beauty of Sanguinius.
He spoke vividly, painting each legend so clearly that his listeners seemed to stand among the stars themselves.
When he described the Ultramarines Legion's first meeting with their Gene-Father, how father and son had mistaken each other for enemies and clashed on the battlefield, the family exchanged uncertain smiles, torn between amusement and reverence for the King of Ultramar.
Alex listened with shining eyes, fists clenched with barely contained excitement.
Marie's own curiosity bloomed; she marveled at the wonders and flaws of the Imperium of Man and asked about the angelic face of Sanguinius.
Blazkowicz, unable to capture such beauty with words, called for a servant to bring a drawing board.
He sketched a likeness of Sanguinius on the spot.
Marie covered her mouth, astonished.
"He's... beautiful."
The two women admired the portrait in hushed voices until Flano, feeling a sting of jealousy, snatched it away.
He glanced at it and sighed, his wife and daughter had been restrained in their praise.
The family's laughter filled the room.
The young ones, inspired by tales of glory, urged Blazkowicz to tell more about the heroes of the Great Crusade.
He obliged, recounting one legend after another.
But as his words flowed, his gaze dimmed. He spoke of comrades who once shared his youth, some now surrounded by family warmth, others long since consumed by war.
Before their transformation, even the mighty Space Marines had been boys, children who should have grown up under their parents' care.
Instead, the Emperor had gathered them from countless worlds, reforged them into warriors, and hurled them into battle.
Their bodies became weapons, but their hearts remained forever young, angry, impulsive, and desperate for the approval of their Gene-Fathers.
The Slayer Legion was somewhat different. It valued will and soul over mere youth, recruiting men whose minds had already matured, even the middle-aged. For that reason, its warriors were steadier than most.
As Blazkowicz's memories darkened, his words slowed, the emotion fading from his voice.
Flano noticed his brother's distant eyes and quietly signaled his wife and children to leave. The family dinner had ended; what remained was a matter of blood and duty.
Flano's tone was low and serious. "Brother, why did you order Phoenix to gather the retired veterans?"
He had received the notice the moment Phoenix arrived in person. He already suspected his brother's intent, and it unsettled him deeply.
Those old soldiers had given their lives to the dynasty. Their bodies were failing; they had earned their peace. To summon them again, perhaps to battle, felt cruel.
Blazkowicz swallowed hard before replying, voice heavy with steel.
"To remake them."
Flano's gaze sharpened. Blazkowicz looked away.
"The cost is too great," Flano said quietly. "You may be stronger than me, but I see things clearly. Your Gene-sons are powerful, but such power demands a terrible price. This isn't as simple as implanting Gene-seeds.
You're turning Sentinels into Doom Slayers."
He fixed his brother with a piercing stare. "At least tell me, what is the cost?"
Blazkowicz's broad shoulders sagged. After a long silence, he whispered, "I don't know."
Flano froze, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You, don't know?"
Blazkowicz looked skyward, his voice trembling. "In the heart of the Imperium, Terra, ships once arrived endlessly, filled with the finest of humanity, chosen to become Doom Slayers.
I asked the Emperor himself, 'Is it worth it? To sacrifice millions, tens, even hundreds of millions, for the sake of a few warriors?'"
His voice dropped to a near whisper. "He answered me: 'It is a necessary sacrifice.'"
Flano felt the chill of those words deep in his chest. "Necessary sacrifice." In them, he heard the Emperor's unbreakable will.
Blazkowicz continued, eyes hollow with memory. "To fight Chaos, someone must pay the price. We are the blade, but the forge that made us burned countless lives to ash.
For every Doom Slayer, millions were lost, test subjects, conscripts, innocents, all gone."
He paused, voice thick with grief. "Obelisk once said he feels the eyes of the dead upon him, the ones who perished so that he might live.
Their souls are our armor, their blood our burden. We march carrying their silent prayers."
He turned back to Flano. "You ask the cost, brother? I truly don't know. But I do know this, "
His voice hardened, eyes blazing with conviction.
"IT is a necessary sacrifice."
"There's no perfect solution," he added softly. "Only a question of how much one is willing to pay."
Flano sighed, meeting his brother's unwavering gaze. The fire in Blazkowicz's eyes was both terrifying and noble.
"At least," Flano said finally, "you must not command it as King. Let every veteran choose for himself."
Blazkowicz did not argue. He simply nodded, accepting his brother's plea. The old warriors had earned their peace, none would be forced to fight again.
Flano stood, brushed the grass from his robes, and turned away. "Rest, brother."
"...Alright."
Blazkowicz lay back on the lawn, eyes fixed on the distant Nur Ring, where his fleet hung like stars in orbit.
He knew Flano's fear wasn't cowardice. It was pity, pity for those who would bear the curse of immortality through endless war. The gods do not die, and neither do their chosen.
When dawn's chill dew brushed his skin, Blazkowicz rose and walked toward the Royal Palace Boulevard.
Before the statue of King Nowick, he paused. The stone face was cold and silent. No answers came.
He turned away and continued toward the arena.
The Sentinels veterans were already assembled.
"My King!" they cried, kneeling as one when his tall figure appeared.
Blazkowicz stepped onto the dais, his shadow stretching over them.
"Please rise," he said.
They stood, gray-haired, scarred, their eyes still bright with the pride of old heroes.
Among them were masters, commanders, and sword-champions, legends of a hundred battles.
Blazkowicz looked upon them, voice ringing like thunder.
"Glorious warriors! Once again, the clouds of war gather over mankind!"