The vermilion starships of the Blood Angels jostled for position with the fabulously ornamented vessels of the Emperor’s Children. Phalanx, the mighty golden fortress of the Imperial Fists, dominated its segment of the sky, defying the laws of nature by hanging immobile above the earth.

The battle-scarred flagships of the Khan, Angron, Lorgar and Mortarion flew above the mirrored ground alongside their brother primarch’s ships, yet supreme amongst them was a gilded warship that held anchor above the one element of the continent not planed flat by the industrial meltas of the Mechanicum.

This was the Vengeful Spirit, command ship of Horus Lupercal, second only to Phalanxin its savage power of destruction. Entire worlds had died by its lethal arsenal, and Horus Lupercal had shown no restraint in unleashing its full fury. Fourteen Legions had answered the Emperor’s summons, a hundred thousand of the greatest warriors in all human history, and nine of the primarchs were in attendance, the rest too scattered by the demands of the crusade to reach Ullanor in time.

Eight million soldiers of the Imperial Army had come, and a dizzying plethora of banners, battle flags, trophy standards and icon poles were rammed into the ground in the centre of each armed camp. They stood proud alongside thousands of armoured vehicles and hundreds of Titans of the Legio Titanicus. Towering above the mortal soldiers, the treads of the mighty battle engines were like a city of steel on the march.

The Thousand Sons were amongst the last Legion forces to make planetfall. The entire continent sweltered like a blacksmith’s forge, the hammer of history ready to beat the soft metal of existence into its new form.

Only an event of galaxy-changing magnitude could warrant such a spectacle.

Only the greatest being in the galaxy could inspire such devotion.

This was to be a gathering like no other.

AHRIMAN FIXED THE primarch’s cloak to the pauldrons of his armour, hooking the bone catches on a clasp in the form of an upthrust talon. He settled it around Magnus’ shoulders, letting the flowing lines of iridescent feathers mould to his frame.

Magnus stood at the centre of the spiral within his Sanctum, the glass pyramid brought in pieces from the Photepand rebuilt upon the perfectly flat surface of Ullanor. The crystalline panels shimmered orange in the light of the giant fires outside, but Magnus’ mastery of the arts of the Pavoni kept the temperature within perfectly cool.

Under normal circumstances, Amon would attend upon the primarch, but on this momentous day, Magnus had requested Ahriman prepare him, fastening the plates of his armour to his muscled frame and ensuring he was not outshone by his brothers.

“How do I look?” asked Magnus.

“You will certainly attract attention,” said Ahriman, stepping back from his primarch.

“And why should I not attract attention?” countered Magnus, throwing out his arms in an operatic gesture. “Am I not worthy of it? Fulgrim and his warriors may quest for perfection, but I embody it.”

The primarch was clad in all his finery, the gold of his armour shimmering bright in the flickering torchlight. His horned breastplate was thrusting and magnificent, his helmet barely able to contain his slicked crimson hair, which was bound in three long scalp-locks. He bore twin blades sheathed across his back and carried a heqa staff of gold and emerald, his chained grimoire partially concealed in a long kilt of leather and mail.

“It’s not the sort of attention I think you want,” said Ahriman. “I have seen the way the other Legions look at us.”

He hesitated before speaking again, giving voice to the fear that had plagued him in the two months since departing the Ark Reach Cluster, “Like they did when the flesh change was still rife.”

Magnus turned his gaze upon him, the emerald green of his eye matching the gemstones on his heqa staff.

“The Symbol of Thothmes holds within my Sanctum, so none may hear your words, but make no mention of the flesh change beyond these walls,” warned Magnus. “That curse is behind us. When the Emperor brought you all to Prospero I ended the degradation of the gene-seed and restored biological harmony to the Thousand Sons.”

Magnus reached down and placed a hand on Ahriman’s shoulder. “Too late for your brother, I know, but soon enough to save the Legion.”

“I know, but after seeing what happened to Hastar…”

“An aberrant mutation, a one in a billion fluke,” promised Magnus. “Trust me, my son, that can never happen again.”

Ahriman looked up into Magnus’ eye, seeing the power that lay in his heart.

“I do trust you, my lord,” he said at last.

“Good. Then we will speak no more of this,” said Magnus with finality.

WITH MAGNUS AT their centre, the Sekhmet marched across the mirror-smooth surface of the continent towards the one feature that stood proud of the landscape. The mountain had once served as the greenskin warlord’s lair, but it had been erased from the world, its flattened base a steel-skinned dais for the Emperor and his honoured sons.

Magnus would take his place alongside his gene-sire with his brothers: Dorn, the Khan, Angron, Sanguinius, Horus, Fulgrim, Mortarion and Lorgar. The warriors of the Thousand Sons had spent the entire voyage from the Ark Reach Cluster preparing for this moment, for none wished to be found wanting in the eyes of his brothers.

Ahriman had picked only the best and most learned of his Fellowship to accompany Magnus to the dais, and each had been honoured with a cartouche secured to his armour by a wax scarab. Auramagma had joked that they should all put out an eye to mark themselves as the chosen of Magnus. No one laughed, but that was Auramagma’s way, to carry the joke too far into tastelessness.

At the head of the thirty-six warriors of the Sekhmet were the captains of Fellowship, the senior warriors of the Pesedjetwho bore the title of Magister Templi. Only Phael Toron of the 7th was absent. His Fellowship remained on Prospero to protect its people and train the students who hoped, one day, to be counted amongst the Thousand Sons.

The flickering embers of the Tutelaries frolicked in the air above them, basking in the presence of so much raw aetheric energy. Some of that was the invisible aftertaste of the xenos species that had once called this rock home. It was as crude and powerful as a flamethrower, but its potency was equally short-lived. Aaetpio followed in Magnus’ aetheric slipstream, while Utipa prowled the edge of their group with Paeoc and Ephra, each one a shifting, formless mass of light and wings and eyes.

The air of Ullanor still bore traces of the greenskin, despite the seared reek of the promethium basins and the lingering aroma of gun oil and Astartes bio-chemicals. Exhaust fumes hung in low-lying smog banks, and the burnt metal taste of Mechanicum machines was a sour reek of exotic oils and unguents.

Thousands of Astartes filled the plain as far as the eye could see, preparing for their triumphal march. Though this was perhaps the most heavily-armed planet in the Imperium, there was tension in the air, a volatile mixture of martial pride and superiority, common among gatherings of fighting men of different origins. Each group of warriors measured the others, deciding which was the strongest, the proudest and the most courageous.

Ahriman marched alongside Magnus, feeling the wariness of his brother warriors as they stared at his magnificent primarch.

“I never thought to see so many Astartes gathered together,” Ahriman said to Magnus.

“Yes, it is impressive,” agreed Magnus. “My father always knew the value of the symbolic gesture. They won’t forget this. They’ll carry tales of it to the far corners of the galaxy.”

“But why now?” asked Ahriman. “When the Crusade is in its final stages.”