The Lion's warning was not baseless speculation.
The Alpha Legion has always been shrouded in uncertainty. Even after ten millennia, their true loyalties remain a mystery. Following the failure of Horus' heresy, they did not flee into the Eye of Terror like the other Traitor Legions. Instead, they vanished into the void, continuing to weave their cryptic agendas across the galaxy.
Time and again, the Inquisition declared them eradicated. Yet inevitably, the Alpha Legion would resurface—subverting worlds, manipulating events, always a step ahead of their hunters.
Alpharius, their Primarch, was a paradox incarnate. His appearance was unremarkable—deceptively so. He lacked the towering presence of Vulkan or the brutal elegance of Dukel, and was even more slender than Roboute Guilliman. Yet his mind was no less formidable than any of his brothers', and far more elusive.
The Lion stared at him—cold, calculating, probing for any sign, any twitch of the eye or curl of the lip that might betray intent. But trying to read Alpharius was like attempting to divine meaning from a blank slate.
Alpha Legionnaires were spies by birthright, masters of infiltration, deception, and duplicity. Alpharius was their exemplar.
The Lion waited for him to speak, his patience waning. Silence coiled between them, thick with tension. In the Calibanite's emerald eyes, a hunter's fury flickered—wounded, yes, but far from weak. Even now, the Lion could kill his brother where he stood, should he deem it necessary.
Finally, Alpharius broke the silence.
"Leon. I invite you to join me. We must observe Dukel carefully. His madness may yet lead to the galaxy's unmaking."
"I trust only the Emperor," the Lion replied without hesitation. "And He has placed His trust in Dukel."
"The Emperor once trusted Horus." Alpharius' voice was measured, soft. "And Horus failed Him. You and I both know how hollow trust can be. At every great turning point in the Imperium, a Warmaster rises. And at every turning point, that Warmaster makes the same choice."
"Enough!" the Lion's roar cut through the air like a blade. "You will not speak of this!"
"This is not a topic for idle musings!" the Lion growled, his tone an iron warning.
Alpharius merely sighed. "Even after ten thousand years, you've yet to learn how to adapt."
He turned, preparing to leave.
But then came the voice, calm yet coiled with restrained fury. "Brother... have you forgotten?"
"I've not given you leave to depart."
In the heart of the colossal warship, green leaves spiraled downward from nowhere. Shadows shifted. An illusory forest—the haunted groves of Caliban—spread through the corridor. The way forward was swallowed by mist.
Alpharius stopped.
The forest was not real, but it was potent. A manifestation of the Lion's will, born of ancient rites and psychic dominion. Step forward now, and Alpharius would be lost—trapped within the spectral woods, hunted by something far more primal than logic or reason.
"What is your true purpose?" the Lion's voice echoed from within the mist. "Will you seek out Horus? Will you bend the knee to the Son of Betrayal? Or will you redeem yourself by helping purge this madness from our Imperium?"
Alpharius stood still, scanning the fog. He could sense the presence of a predator—silent, patient, ready to strike.
One wrong word, and the Lion would unleash the full fury of Caliban upon him.
Yet Alpharius smiled—a faint, unfathomable thing.
The Lion's reaction had told him everything. Beneath that cold, knightly veneer, Leon El'Jonson was afraid. Not of Alpharius—but of what Dukel might become.
If Horus, reborn through the science of cloned Primarchs, succeeded in gathering a new Legion, the galaxy would burn anew. And that was the Lion's true fear.
He wanted Alpharius to pick a side. To use the Alpha Legion to snuff out rebellion before it began.
But Alpharius saw the ploy clearly. And he did not flinch.
"No, Leon," he said softly. "I choose neither. I will not serve, nor will I strike. I will remain vigilant—watching. If Dukel truly seeks to destroy me, then I will act. Not before."
"And if it comes to that... if he reveals his hand... then perhaps Horus will be the only counterbalance strong enough to preserve what remains."
His words hung in the air like a guillotine's fall. Honest. Blunt. Unapologetic.
Alpharius acted only in pursuit of his own endgame.
If that meant using Horus, so be it.
The Lion said nothing. Around him, the mist of Caliban shifted—swirling into strange, abstract forms. A reflection of his inner turmoil.
Alpharius waited.
"He is not Horus," the Lion finally said, voice lower now, weighted with conviction. "Not truly. The one who betrayed us was not the Warmaster I once followed. He was a vessel—twisted, enslaved by the Ruinous Powers."
He paused.
"Horus—whoever he is now—will bring ruin. Of that, I have no doubt."
There was no anger in his tone. Only certainty.
To Alpharius, this moment was unexpected. It seemed the Lion had grown over the millennia—hardened, but not blinded.
Still, Alpharius was unmoved.
"Right and wrong, brother, are merely angles of perception," he replied. "If Horus can help me fulfill my goal... then I care not who he is. All sacrifices are justified—if they serve the greater end."
The Lion's growl rumbled from the depths of the mist.
"There is no redemption in Chaos, Alpharius!"
"I was forged in its shadow," came the quiet reply.
And then, without another word, Alpharius stepped into the mist.
The Lion felt no warp disturbance. No trace of sorcery or teleportation. One moment Alpharius was there—the next, he was gone.
As if he had merged with the forest itself.
As if he had never been there at all.
The Lion stood alone. Watching.
Waiting.
Had it been ten thousand years ago, the Lion would have drawn his blade without hesitation. But now… he only wished to bring his brother back from the abyss.
Perhaps he had grown old.
"Why are you always so damn stubborn?" the Lion asked with a rare, weary smile.
"Because they are the Primarchs, my lord," replied an Angel of Absolution, standing at his side with solemn reverence.
The Lion's expression flattened.
Leon El'Jonson blinked, his earlier contemplations vanishing. He cast a sideways glance at the stalwart son beside him—stoic, sincere, and far too literal.
"Are you saying I am as stubborn as those bastards?" the Lion growled.
"You are always wise," the Angel replied, eyes flickering with diplomatic caution.
"Stop talking nonsense." The Lion snorted and turned away, his cloak swirling like a shadow across the deck.
Elsewhere—in the warp-shrouded depths of an undisclosed world...
In a hidden lab cloaked within the tides of the Immaterium, Horus stood once more beside his unlikely ally: Fabius Bile.
The failed prototypes—mutated wretches deemed unworthy—had already been purged from the chamber. Only the refined creations remained.
Before them stood seventeen bio-vats, glowing softly, each one cradling a figure suspended in life-giving fluid. And from within each vat, a pair of eyes peered outward—curious, vacant, and brimming with silent potential.
"They're ready," Fabius muttered, his voice low with restrained pride. "The gene-forms are complete. Now comes the memory seeding."
Until then, they were mere vessels—children with no past. But once the memory-encoding process began, they would awaken with knowledge, beliefs, and allegiances sculpted to Horus's design.
Innocent, yet brilliant. Curious, yet malleable.
With only minor alterations to key memories, Fabius could craft unwavering loyalty while preserving the intelligence and individuality that made the Primarchs so powerful.
Horus said nothing for a time. He simply stared at the tanks—each one representing a piece of what once was... and what might be again.
Were they—he and his brothers—programmed this way, he wondered? Did the Emperor embed within them a will that was not truly their own?
But in the end, the thought comforted him.
If loyalty could be engineered, then unity could be assured.
The Primarchs had always been disparate—creations scattered by the machinations of Chaos, separated before they could truly bond. They had grown up on alien worlds, in alien cultures, shaped by strife and contradiction.
Their reunion during the Great Crusade was not that of brothers, but strangers competing for a father's praise.
That fragmentation led to envy... to pride... to betrayal.
And to war.
But not this time.
This time, Horus would forge a different path. The mistakes of the past would not be repeated. The reborn sons of the Imperium would be raised together, molded with unity in mind.
This time, there would be no division.
Together, they would reclaim the galaxy—not in the Emperor's name, but in their own.
Horus placed a gauntleted hand on the glass of the nearest vat, gazing at the figure within.
"I swear to you," he murmured, "this time... we will not fall. We will not be torn apart by ambition and lies. This time, we stand united—shoulder to shoulder. We will build a new Imperium. One of our making."
Seventeen tanks hummed softly in the silence.
He had seen such machines before—visions whispered by Erebus in ancient, heretical dreams.
The Emperor had once stood before similar vats, deep beneath the Himalazian mountains, conjuring life from flesh and gene-code. But Chaos intervened. The Warp had scattered the Primarchs across time and space, severing the bonds of childhood, leaving only fractured men shaped by harsh worlds and harder wars.
The Lion. Guilliman. Angron. Mortarion. And himself.
All strangers. All pawns.
Horus clenched his jaw.
Was it fate? A cruel joke by the Ruinous Powers? Or something the Emperor had allowed?
He no longer cared.
This time, he would ensure those bonds were forged from the beginning—stronger than hate, stronger than Chaos.
An empire of eighteen brothers, united beneath one purpose.
Ruled by him.
Suddenly, Horus frowned.
"Where are Two and Eleven?" he asked. "And... what's wrong with Omega?"
Before him, the vats labeled II and XI stood empty.
And the figure marked XX—Omega—seemed subtly... wrong.
He turned to Fabius, eyes narrowing. "Explain."
Fabius was already consulting a dataslate, his brow furrowed with vague irritation.
"I told you from the start," the Chirurgeon muttered, "cloning all of them wasn't guaranteed. Some... are more resistant to resurrection than others."
Horus' gaze remained fixed on the silent vat marked Omega.
At Horus's question, Fabius fell silent.
"I... do not know how to face Number Eleven," he said finally, his voice low, almost reverent. "That is a dream no mortal should dare to reach."
Even the infamous Fabius Bile feared Eleven—not for their strength, but for something far more insidious.
He feared he would love them.
The charm. The presence. The unspeakable allure that seemed to bend even logic and reason. Fabius feared losing himself completely.
Horus's eyes narrowed as memories of the Eleventh surfaced—fragments from a past most had long chosen to forget. He gave a solemn nod, understanding all too well.
"And what of Number Two?" Horus asked, his tone sharpening. "I may reject Dukel's ideals, but I will never deny his brilliance. The absence of the Second Primarch... that would be our gravest loss."
He stared hard at Fabius, his gaze piercing—an ancient force behind it. As the Warmaster, his charisma could compel worlds to kneel. Lies did not survive long beneath his scrutiny.
Fabius looked away.
"Number Two is... uncontrollable," he finally confessed. "His rebirth would bring only ruin."
Even Bile's usual poise faltered as he spoke. The weight of memory settled over him, dragging his voice into a whisper.
He had tried. Emperor knows, he had tried.
But from the moment Number Two's clone had awakened, the signs of instability were unmistakable—genetic anomalies that defied comprehension. Rage twisted with brilliance, brilliance warped by decay.
Fabius had thrown every ounce of his bioengineering mastery into salvaging the clone's form and mind, but it was like trying to stop a collapsing star.
Number Two would destroy everything... until there was nothing left—including himself.
Fabius exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. He hadn't realized he was trembling.
Those memories were etched into his mind like claw-marks across parchment. They would never fade.
"Let us begin," Horus said at last, his voice rising with conviction. He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the entire galaxy. "Begin the memory seeding. Fill them with my brothers' legacies."
He stepped toward the vats, and his next words were quiet, yet thunderous in their meaning.
"Then I shall open that door again—the one only the Emperor and I ever dared to cross."
"I will claim the wealth within," he said, "and raise my brothers high once more."
Fabius nodded slowly, his voice reverent. "As you will it, Warmaster."
"We will begin anew. We will be bound by purpose, not divided by fate. We will save the stars from damnation. We will break the chains that once bound us."
A fire lit within Horus now—one that burned away doubt and pain. The old wound across his chest flared with agony as he moved, but he paid it no mind. He was caught in the tide of his vision, intoxicated by destiny.
As Fabius turned to his machines, thick bundles of steel cabling began to hum and shift, connecting the seventeen bio-vats to the memory-drives.
The process had begun.
Each tank lit faintly, as memory-feeds pulsed with encoded experience—tales of brotherhood, of loyalty, of a galaxy reborn.
Memories penned by Horus himself.
Designed to unify. To forge kinship. To erase the betrayals of the past.
A soft glow spread across the lab as one indicator light after another flickered to life. Inside the tanks, the new Primarchs stirred, twitching slightly in their amniotic suspension.
Horus stood silently before them, watching.
He smiled, not with arrogance, but with deep patience.
Even now, he mastered his expression, ensuring the first face they would see—the first truth they would know—was a father's calm, unwavering pride.
...
TN:
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