Chapter 116 - The Arrival of the Lamenters
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Sanguinius did not linger long on Baal.
Three days after the victory banquet, he gathered his sons once more and issued a new decree: the Edict of Sanguine Blood, accompanied by the official writ personally approved by the Regent of the Imperium, Roboute Guilliman.
The Great Angel's purpose was to restructure the Legion, gathering the scattered successor Chapters back beneath the banner of the Blood Angels.
His sons were more than willing. Edict or no edict, writ or no writ, they would have stood behind their father's effort to rebuild the Legion all the same.
A handful, Dante among them, the few Chapter Masters who still held to reason, insisted on reviewing the Regent's documents first. This was the political architecture of the Imperium itself. Procedure mattered.
But in the end, all of them came to the same conclusion. The Dark Imperium was bleeding from a thousand wounds, and only the Legion structure could concentrate enough strength to hold the line against the swarms and the daemons.
The Great Angel had also brought gifts: Archmagos Cawl's Primaris technology and a new generation of Astartes wargear.
But upgrading the Blood Angels into Primaris would take time, and time was the one luxury they did not have. The news of his return needed to reach every corner of the Dark Imperium. So, half a month later, the Great Angel set sail with one of Horus's fleets.
They would relieve the Imperial worlds at the critical junctions, and they would meet their newly awakened brother, Lion El'Jonson.
Half a month later.
The vast Imperial fleet pulled away from the Baal System and plunged headlong into the storm-wracked void.
Their next destination: the brother who had just surfaced in prophecy — the Lion of the First Legion, Lion El'Jonson.
---
Aboard the flagship Glory of Terra, in the high command's private quarters.
The room was spacious. Konrad Curze was curled deep into an oversized leather sofa so soft it nearly swallowed him whole.
He wore a comfortable black robe. A red-and-blue pen was pinched between his pale, slender fingers, and he was busy scrawling annotations across his copy of the Edict of Sanguine Blood.
Sanguinius sat across from him, a glass of water in hand, waiting patiently.
He had heard from Kaelen and Horus that Curze had, in recent weeks, devoured nearly every text on ancient law and political theory in the archives. The Lord of the Night, who once considered flaying his single greatest tool of statecraft, could now go toe-to-toe with the Ultramarines' senior jurists on points of legal theory.
"What in the void is this supposed to be?"
Curze flung the pen onto the table and jabbed an accusing finger at the document.
"From cover to cover, nothing but the absolute consolidation of command. Not one functioning mechanism for separation of powers. Not one check. Not one balance." His lip curled. "Arrogant little bird. I don't even need my wretched gift of prophecy to see what comes next. The text alone tells me how badly this is going to burn."
"You may as well carve Emperor Sanguinius across your forehead and be done with it."
Sanguinius let out a helpless laugh.
"The situation forces my hand. Separation of powers ensures long-term stability, yes, but in a war that grinds men down like meat, it only drags us backward."
The Great Angel's voice was patient.
"The Dark Imperium is already being torn open by tyranids and daemons. Unless authority is held in a single fist, we cannot bring our strength to bear."
Curze gave a soft snort through his nose.
He straightened lazily and pushed the document, now densely covered in his scrawl — back across the table.
"I patched the most fatal of your legal holes. Added a few accountability provisions for states of emergency. This is the best you'll get, given what you've written." He slumped back into the sofa. "It will prolong the lifespan of your military code. It will not save you from the recoil that absolute power always brings."
The Great Angel picked up the document and skimmed. The reasoning was clean. The logic was airtight. Every clumsy transition of authority had been smoothed into something seamless.
The work was, quite simply, flawless.
"Beautifully done, brother." Sanguinius's praise was unfeigned. "You are a genius in jurisprudence and institutional design. When the war is finished, you could sit as a High Lord Justice on Terra without breaking a sweat. Any difficult cases that come across my desk, they're yours."
Curze kept his face stony, but a flicker of pride betrayed itself across his pale features.
The proud Lord of the Night was, in truth, easy to handle. Engage him on his own logical terms, acknowledge his expertise, and he became remarkably cooperative.
No more wading through crime statistics. No more grappling with scum that bred faster than he could kill. Just a climate-controlled cabin, a stack of books, and the occasional favor for a brother he didn't mind.
Curze was getting quite fond of his new life.
The cabin door slid open.
Kaelen pushed in a metal cart loaded to capacity — stack upon stack of heavy physical books.
Curze, who had been sprawled across the cushions, snapped upright. His eyes locked onto the books.
The thousand volumes Kaelen had delivered a few days prior had already been read cover to cover. The Great Bat of Nostramo had evolved into the flagship's most ravenous knowledge-hound. Cutting off his book supply would be worse than putting a blade through him.
The Mad Bat of Nostramo had completed his transformation: gloomy, housebound, terminally bookish.
"Fresh shipment, Lord Konrad."
Kaelen patted the topmost volume, an Ancient Sector Maritime Commerce Code, and turned to the Great Angel.
"And a piece of news comes with it. Guess what."
Sanguinius set the document aside. He had known Kaelen long enough to know that when the man chose to draw out a moment, it was rarely for nothing worth hearing.
"Tell me, sir." The Great Angel's voice was warm.
"The fleet's comms array just picked up an extremely faint encrypted identification code." Kaelen cut to it. "We've made contact with the Lamenters."
Sanguinius's fingers tightened around the glass. Two thin cracks split across the crystal.
The Lamenters.
The Chapter that bore the deepest curse, and yet stood always at the front line, between the mortals and the dark. After his return, the Great Angel had read their service records, every page steeped in blood and tears.
"They... how are they?"
His voice trembled, just barely.
"As bad as it gets." Kaelen sighed. "The entire Chapter has one battle barge left to its name, and it's barely holding together."
"And the men?"
The Great Angel rose. His chair shrieked across the metal deck behind him.
"Tell me. How many of my sons are left?"
Kaelen met the Primarch's anguished gaze and gave him the brutal number.
"After a century of penitent crusade, and then a war of attrition against a tyranid tendril..."
"The whole Chapter, recruits included, numbers fewer than thirty."
"Chapter Master Malakim Phoros is still alive," Kaelen added quickly. "He's received word of your return. That broken barge of his is already moving toward our coordinates."
"That's good," Sanguinius breathed. "That's good..."
➤ Next: Handing the Warmaster Position Over to the Lion
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