The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Imperial Palace's landing platform as Malcador the Sigillite waited, his staff clicking softly against the weathered stone. The distinctive roar of a modified Stormbird's engines grew louder, and despite himself, the ancient regent felt a familiar tension in his shoulders. Franklin Valorian's visits were always... eventful.
The craft's design spoke of its origin - sleeker than standard Imperial patterns, with strange energy configurations that made the air shimr around its hull. Before the ramp had fully descended, a blur of motion struck Malcador with the force of a caring avalanche.
"Mal!" Franklin's booming voice echoed across the platform as he lifted the Sigillite in an embrace that would have crushed a lesser man. "How's my favorite grumpy uncle?"
"Oof-"Malcador's face flushed red, both from the compression and mild embarrassnt. "Put down, you oversized child. The dignity of my office—"
"—can survive a hug," Franklin finished, gently setting the regent back on his feet. His broad smile carried genuine warmth, though his eyes held that razor-sharp intelligence that reminded Malcador why this "overgrown child" commanded one of humanity's most formidable forces.
They began walking toward the Palace proper, their footsteps echoing in synchronized rhythm. "I trust the Crusade proceeds apace in your sector?" Malcador inquired, his breathing finally normalized.
"Better than expected," Franklin replied, his excitent barely contained. "Actually, that's part of why I'm here. The Primaris Project is ready for implentation, pending Father's approval. The gene-work is..." He paused, considering his words carefully. "It's revolutionary, Mal. But stable. We've run the simulations thousands of tis."
Malcador's eyebrow raised slightly. "Your Federation's approach to expansion continues to intrigue . Not unlike Ancient Terra's British Empire - rchants preceding warriors, economic bonds preceding political ones."
"The best chains are the ones people forge themselves," Franklin said with a knowing smile. "Trade routes, supply contracts, technological dependencies - by the ti anyone realizes they're part of the Independence Sector, they're too integrated to consider alternatives." "And these gacorporations of yours?" Malcador probed. "Such autonomy could prove... consequential."
Franklin's laugh echoed off the Palace walls. "They're all Valorian gacorporations, Mal. The mont they step out of line, they lose my protection. You should see how quickly corporate boards fall in line when reminded that Mars would love nothing more than to 'examine' their STCs."
"Ah yes, Mars." Malcador's tone carried a hint of concern. "Your recent decree about shooting their "Interlopers" on sight was... direct."
"Subtlety is wasted on zealots," Franklin shrugged. "They understand force and ownership. Now they limit themselves to strongly-worded complaints through official channels."
They paused at a balcony overlooking the Palace's western reaches. The setting sun painted the scene in hues of gold and crimson. Malcador leaned on his staff, studying his companion's profile.
"Your FBI's work in Calastar has not gone unnoticed," the regent ntioned casually. "Their facility with Wraithbone is... unprecedented for humans."
"The Aeldari don't have a monopoly on psychic engineering," Franklin replied. "Though I admit, replacing their automata with our own was a particularly satisfying achievent. Speaking of which..." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "How's our little insurance policy?" Malcador's hand unconsciously tightened on his staff, feeling the familiar presence of the killswitch embedded within. "Unnecessary, I hope. Though it does help certain parties sleep better at night."
"The AIs have no interest in rebellion, Mal. They're purpose-built and thoroughly bounded. But I understand the need for reassurance. Trust is earned in drops and lost in buckets, as they say."
"Your Father appreciates the gesture," Malcador admitted. "Though I sotis wonder if you included that killswitch more for our peace of mind than any practical purpose." Franklin's smile turned enigmatic. "Can't it be both? Besides, a wise man once taught that the best guarantee of power is the willingness to limit it voluntarily."
Malcador snorted softly. "Using my own teachings against ? Impudent child."
"Learned from the best, Mal." Franklin's expression grew more serious. "How is Father, really? The reports I get are... filtered."
The Sigillite sighed, his ancient eyes scanning the horizon. "Tired. The Crusade weighs heavily, as does the Webway Project. Your visits do him good, you know. You remind him of why we started all this."
"Well then," Franklin straightened, adjusting his armor with practiced precision. "We shouldn't keep him waiting. Ready to present my latest batch of 'recklessly innovative' proposals?"
"Try not to give the Fabricator-General an aneurysm this ti," Malcador advised, falling into step beside his massive companion. "The paperwork is trendous."
Their laughter echoed through the Palace halls, a mont of levity in an age of war and wonder, as humanity's past and future walked side by side into the gathering dusk.
The Emperor's personal chambers within the Imperial Palace humd with psychic energy, golden light casting strange shadows across the ornate walls. The massive form of the Golden Throne dominated the space, its occupant deep in contemplation. Constantin Valdor stood at attention, while Kitten maintained his vigil near the entrance.
"Hey there, sunshine!" Franklin's voice bood through the chamber as he entered, earning a cheerful wave from Kitten and what might have been the slightest eye-roll from Ra Endymion.
"Father!" Franklin's voice bood across the chamber. "Still brooding, I see. You know, they say if you make that face too long, it'll stick that way."
"The last ti I checked, I was the parent in this relationship," the Emperor's voice resonated directly in Franklin's mind, stern but with an undercurrent of warmth. "Your irreverence continues to amaze, my son."
"Soone has to keep you from taking yourself too seriously," Franklin approached the throne, his massive fra casting long shadows in the golden light. "Besides, I bring good
news."
"Proceed." The Emperor's eyes focused fully on His son now, penetrating and absolute.
"Angron is an effective leader," Franklin reported, his tone becoming more professional but maintaining its characteristic ease. "And I just discovered sothing remarkable-he has a gift for healing, taking away the pain from others to nd their wounds. He sends his regards, by the way"
"And Vulkan? Almost ready to graduate from 'Franklin's School for Gifted Primarchs.' He's really gotten the hang of strategic restraint. Still hugs like a Kraken, though." Franklin made a show of rubbing his ribs. "But that's not even the big news."
Franklin's expression shifted to what his sons called his "mad scientist" face. "The Primaris Project is ready for implentation. I've brought all the necessary machinery and even arranged for Belisarius Cawl and Koriel Zeth to oversee the chanicum's involvent.
"Show ."
Franklin produced a data-slate with a flourish. "Now, here's the thing - we need your official stamp of approval. The Besides my Liberty Eagles the Rest of the Astartes Legions are... let's say 'traditionally minded.' If this cos from , they'll think it's so fancy Independence Sector deviation. But if it cos from you..." He waggled his eyebrows aningfully.
The Emperor's psychic presence held a note of amusent. "You wish to claim credit for
your work?"
"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds bad. I prefer to think of it as... strategic marketing! Besides, it's kind of true - I an, you made , I made this, so technically it's all your work
if you squint hard enough and tilt your head just right." Franklin's joke earned him the psychic equivalent of an eye-roll.
The Emperor's psychic presence probed the data-slate. "Explain the Priborn Project." Franklin glanced at the Custodians before continuing, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Right, about that... They're basically Primarch-lites. We found the sweet spot at 85% of Primarch capacity. Any higher and they start attracting warp entities like moths to a fla. The last thing we need is my captains turning into another if I happen to get myself
killed."
He paused, throwing a mischievous look at Valdor. "Between us, they're a step above the Custodians. Don't tell Constantin-he gets grumpy about these things. But creating them is no joke-needs the gene-father's DNA, a complete Immortis Gland, and enough resources to Terraform 5 Planets. They're like Custodians with extra steps, or Primarchs with the 'reality- breaking' slider turned down a notch."
The Emperor's presence grew more focused as He examined the technical data. Franklin could feel His father's surprise at the sophistication of the genetic work.
"This level of genetic manipulation... your sector's scientists surpass even luna's genitors."
"Well, we did have a pretty good foundation to work from," Franklin winked. "Though you might want to keep the Luna genetic database under wrap. Give our boys those files, and they'd probably recreate every horror from Old Night by Tuesday. Just to see if they could, mind you. Scientists, am I right?"
The Emperor placed a hand on Franklin's shoulder, the gesture carrying both approval and warning. "Proceed with the Primaris implentation. But the Priborn... limit their
numbers."
"Already on it. Quality over quantity-like the Custodians, but with better social skills. No offense, guys!" he called out to the silent guardians.
In the forges of Nova Libertas, where the heat of creation t the chill of void-cold tal,
Franklin stood before the floating sword that had once been the Deathsword. The weapon hung suspended in the air, defying gravity with casual disregard for natural law. Vulkan sat nearby, his massive form sohow appearing comfortable on a reinforced workbench, various mystical implents of his craft scattered around him.
"Brother," Franklin gestured at the floating blade with an amused expression, "care to explain why my sword is doing its best 'mysterious artifact' impression?" "Because I Wish It To," ca Khaine's voice in Franklin's mind, carrying the dry humor of
long familiarity.
"Show-off," Franklin muttered affectionately.
Vulkan's deep laughter rolled through the forge. "The sword floats, brother, because it is no longer just a vessel for a god's power. During the forging process, I uncovered sothing remarkable." He moved around the blade, his gaze sharp with the practiced eye of a master artificer. "The Deathsword was crafted from the finger of another god-Khaine called her Morai-Heg. What I thought was a re container for Khaine's god-shard was, in truth, never intended to house such a shard. No, the Crone Sword is a complete work in its own right. But I called it 'unfinished' because the god-shard disrupted its true essence. All I did was... restore
it."
"Vaul Himself Could Not Have Done Better," Khaine's ntal voice carried genuine appreciation. "Though He Would Have Complained Far More During The Process." Franklin raised an eyebrow at Vulkan. "You can hear him too?"
"During the forging, yes," Vulkan nodded. "A unique experience, conversing with a god while reforging his essence. He compared to Vaul, though he seed to prefer my company. Either the old god has grown softer, or Vaul was truly that irritating." "Both Can Be True," Khaine comnted, causing Franklin to snort with laughter. "The sword is no longer a container for a god-shard," Vulkan continued. "It is the god itself
now, rged completely with the weapon's essence. The divine power and the blade are one." Franklin studied the transford weapon. Previously a crystal-dark, man-sized blade, it now curved elegantly, radiating heat and power. Ancient runes danced along its core, shifting and changing like living things.
"It Requires A Na," Khaine declared. "A True Na Worthy Of Its Power." "Alright then," Franklin crossed his arms. "What did you have in mind, old friend?"
"The Sword Of Khaine," the god began grandly.
"Bit on the nose, don't you think?" "Widowmaker."
"We're not naming it after your dating history." "Godslayer."
"Ironic, coming from you."
"Doom Of Worlds."
"Are we naming a sword or writing heavy tal lyrics?"
"Spear Of Vengeance."
"It's not even a spear!"
"Deathshard."
"Now you're just combining random words."
"Icefang."
"It's literally radiating heat!"
"Heavenblight?"
"Are you even trying anymore?"
Vulkan watched this rapid-fire exchange with growing amusent, his deep laughter
occasionally punctuating their banter.
"How about Anaris?" Franklin suggested. "Simple, elegant, historically significant as your strongest blade."
There was a mont of divine consideration. "Acceptable. But It Shall Also Be Known As The Godslayer, Doom Of Worlds, Spear Of Vengeance-"
"You're just listing all the rejected nas again."
"I Am A God. I Can Do That."
As Franklin spoke the na "Anaris" aloud, the runes along the blade's core shifted and
reford, spelling out the na in elegant Aeldari script.
"Brother," Vulkan's tone grew serious. "I must warn you about the blade's nature. It has a
tendency to consu souls..."
"Hah! As If His Soul Were So Easily Devoured," Khaine's ntal voice carried both pride and amusent. "He Is, As The Mortals Say, 'Built Different.""
Franklin grinned. "The soul-eating thing hasn't been an issue since we first t. Decades
later, and I'm still completely . Though anyone else trying to wield Anaris might have a different experience."
"They Would Not Survive The Attempt," Khaine stated matter-of-factly. "You Are Unique, Primarch. Your Soul Resonates With Mine In Ways I Have Not Seen Since The War In Heaven."
"Aww, you're getting sentintal in your old age," Franklin teased.
"I Am Still Perfectly Capable Of Setting You On Fire."
"Love you too, buddy."
Vulkan shook his head at their exchange. "Only you, brother, would banter with an Aeldari
god as if he were a childhood friend."
"Well, we've been through a lot together," Franklin reached out, and Anaris flew to his hand with eager readiness. "Fought together, argued together and survived together" Franklin grinned, spinning Anaris with practiced ease. The blade humd with power and contentnt, its god-essence perfectly aligned with its wielder's soul. "Hey, even gods need to laugh sotis. Isn't that right, old friend?"
"I Prefer To Express My Amusent Through Righteous Violence."
"See? He's funny! In a homicidal deity sort of way."
The industrial heart of the Independence Sector thrumd with perpetual activity, its
massive complexes stretching beyond mortal sight. Vulkan, despite his own mastery of craft and industry, found himself genuinely impressed by the scale and efficiency before him.
"Brother," Vulkan paused before a wall of nutrient tanks, each containing a floating figure bathed in blue-green light, "these are fully grown n?"
Franklin nodded, tapping the reinforced glass of one tank. "Adult conversion chambers. While we still primarily recruit children, we've perfected the process for adult conversion. Lower success rate, naturally, but it gives us flexibility in recruitnt. Plus," he grinned, "it helps
when particularly brave Guard veterans volunteer. Nothing builds Legion loyalty like transforming the heroes of today into the Astartes of tomorrow."
"The process looks... peaceful," Vulkan observed, studying the serene expressions of the
floating figures.
"That's the point. We found that trauma during conversion actually reduces compatibility. Happy gene-seed makes for happy Astartes. Who knew?" Franklin shrugged. "Co on, let show you sothing really impressive."
They erged onto a viewing platform overlooking the ga Shipyard, and even Vulkan's
stoic deanor cracked at the sight. One hundred and ninety-nine berths stretched into the distance, each occupied by vessels in various stages of construction. Massive automated arms, each the size of a Titan, moved with surprising grace as they assembled primary structures. Swarms of drones handled the intricate work, their movents coordinated by Engineers and Warsmiths who seed more concerned with oversight than direct control. "By the Throne," Vulkan breathed. "The efficiency..." "Automation is key," Franklin explained, gesturing to a partially completed hull. "The machines handle the heavy lifting, literally, while our human experts focus on quality control and complex decision-making. Cuts construction ti by roughly 60%."
Their attention was drawn to the largest berth, where a vessel of truly staggering proportions
was taking shape. Its superstructure resembled a cathedral of impossible scale, golden spires reaching toward the void.
"The Sweet Liberty," Vulkan read the na from a nearby data-slate. "Your flagship?" "Indeed. Want to see sothing even better?"
The main armory complex stretched before them like a temple to warfare itself. Racks upon
racks of weapons lined the walls and filled the floor space - everything from humble lasguns
to exotic weapons Vulkan had only seen in ancient texts. "Volkite, Adrathic..." Vulkan's expert eye cataloged the arsenal. "Even these are mass-
produced?"
"STC-standard," Franklin confird. "Though we maintain quality control. See anything you
like?"
Vulkan froze. "What do you an?"
"Take your pick, brother. Consider it a gift. The STCs too, if you want them. A craftsman of your caliber should have the best tools to work with." "You're... serious?" Vulkan's eyes widened. "Just like that?"
Franklin clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Of course! These are the mass-produced versions - nothing compared to what you could create with the base templates. Besides," he winked, "what's the point of having the best toys if you can't share them with family?"
Vulkan shook his head in amazent. "Most would guard such technology zealously."
"Most don't have our production capacity," Franklin gestured at the endless facility. "Besides, you're my brother. The chanicum might have an aneurysm if they knew how freely we share STCS, but that's half the fun."
As Vulkan carefully selected several weapons and data-cores for study, Franklin watched with
amusent. "Just promise one thing?"
"Na it, brother."
"When you inevitably improve these designs - and you will - send the upgrades? It's only
fair."
Vulkan's booming laugh echoed through the armory. "A fair trade indeed. Though I must ask - how do you maintain security with such open sharing of technology?" Franklin's grin turned slightly predatory. "Oh, that's simple. Everyone knows that if they
misuse our tech, they'll have to deal with personally. Amazing how well that motivates people to play nice."
The two Primarchs continued their tour, brothers united by craft and creation, while around
them the industrial heart of the Independence Sector continued its eternal labor, forging the
future one weapon, one ship, one warrior at a ti.
A/N: For the Hardcore Fans I have a Question, the Speranza how big is it really so say its
10,000 Kiloters while so say it's 150-200km. A/N: Ngl I'm gonna default to 10,000, the Forge of Mars books seem oddly more descriptive
of it being Continental size but no numbers.
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