The Wolf Fang Fortress, perched atop Fenris' highest peak, constantly battered by howling blizzards and snow, boasts armored exterior plates and void shields superior to any Imperial warship.
Within the mountain, vast arsenals hide—enough to destroy the largest ships. Yet, the news delivered by retainers struck like thunder through every defense and gale.
The entire council chamber fell silent—the Emperor would descend upon Fenris again.
Great Wolf Logan Grimnar was first shocked, then skeptical. Every envoy, every gift from Guilliman had been coldly rejected. The pack would never bow to the Lord of Ultramar—this was a clear sign.
He'd already resolved to accept no more lobbying for Guilliman's changes. Fenris would defend its own traditions; their loyalty was only to the true Emperor and to Russ.
But now... the Emperor himself was coming.
This was beyond any scenario or contingency plan.
"Open the sky and permit their landing!" Logan commanded.
He summoned every warrior fit for battle, every Rune Priest, even the slumbering elders, to assemble.
As the orders reverberated, a cold, snake-like suspicion slithered through the halls. Heavy footsteps fell in the corridors, echoing with the storm.
"Great Wolf—"
Rune Priest Njal called, his tone tinged with uncertainty.
"Ought the Emperor—so long enthroned above, quelling the Webway and kindling the beacon—truly be walking on the surface? Why now, and why not in his own holy name, but in Guilliman's?"
A quiet debate stirred.
But Ulrik disagreed: "Perhaps this is but groundwork, to give Guilliman an undeniable legal foundation for control. Who could be more legitimate than the Emperor's hand-picked heir?"
After millennia of isolation and war, all were instinctively suspicious of Terra's politics.
Could this really be the Emperor himself, arriving at such a sensitive juncture? They preferred believing it a sophisticated illusion—or some unexplainable phenomenon.
Logan offered no answer, only hastening his march. He, too, doubted. But above all, the highest honor must be paid.
…
The Space Wolves mustered on the fortress' wind-blasted landing platform: the most massive and valiant Wolves standing at the rear. All gripped their weapons firmly, a ritual sign of readiness.
Down descended golden ships, escorted by fighters, landing upon the platform as roaring engines died away and golden light spilled from the hatchway.
The very instant the Emperor trod Fenris's soil—
—a miracle occurred.
As if invisible hands gentled Fenris' wrath, the eternal blizzard and winds that had shrieked for eons fell silent. Ominous iron-grey clouds split by pure, warm golden sunlight, the sky clearing for the first time in memory.
A blazing sun shone down, illuminating the fortress spires and the awestruck faces of all present.
Across Fenris, still more incredible scenes unfolded. After the Great Rift, Magnus the Red's demonic invasion had left deep and persistent warp-taint. But now, under the Emperor's influence, black and viscous foul smoke—as if seared by unseen fire—screamed and retreated, its cries audible only to psykers.
From the permafrost, from mountain splits, from even the ancient walls, corruption rose and fled.
Beneath the Emperor's radiant gaze, the psychic scars left by the Primarch's invasion visibly healed.
All of this happened in mere moments.
In the face of such a miracle, all suspicions and political schemes crumbled.
Rune Priest Njal's eyes widened, doubt extinguished by awe. Ulrik gaped, unable to speak; he could only watch sunlight slowly cleanse the land.
Even the most canny leaders stood in deathly silence, shocked, regretting their former doubts.
There was no trick, no illusion—the Emperor himself had come.
Logan Grimnar, Great Wolf, was the first to regain composure. Moving forward, he knelt and vowed eternal fealty.
"Great Emperor, praise be to you."
All behind him—Wolf Lords, Stormcallers, even Dreadnoughts—dropped to their knees, armored bodies thudding to the ground in unison, lowering their banners and weapons in the highest gesture of respect.
Vychellan, the Imperial envoy, witnessed this, mind racing: was this what the old Crusade must have looked like, as ancestors followed the Emperor, worshiped as living god?
Datch, from behind, shoved Castaller forward to begin the ritual negotiations.
Castaller, bewildered, checked his papers, finally realizing his role, and approached Logan:
"Logan Grimnar, you once said you'd only accept the Regent's gift if either Lord Leman Russ returned, or the Emperor descended in person. The Emperor has arrived—what say you now?"
Logan's answer, under the Emperor's radiance, was simple:
"We have nothing else to say. We obey the will of the Emperor."
At his signal, all other Space Wolf leaders dropped to their knees. Rare sunlight falling upon armored pelts, Rune Priest Njal looked up at the golden blur of the Emperor.
Despite all denials, one fact remained: the Emperor now possessed the same might as the Chaos Gods.
"Your Majesty…" Njal gasped, struggling against the immense presence.
"There is… something I must know…"
"My lord… Leman Russ…"
When that name escaped his lips, a nearly painful longing echoed among every Wolf—"Where… where is he now!?"
Silence. Even the sun seemed to pause.
The Emperor's gaze pierced Njal's body and soul, staring deep into the core of his longing.
Then, a voice—not transmitted by air, but erupting from the deepest roots of every Space Wolf's mind and soul—spoke.
It was not a single tone, but a chorus of countless billions: men, women, warriors, scholars, prayers, even stars.... All voices speaking at once, yet miraculously the same meaning, conveying directly to the soul.
"He will… return soon… and once more… lead the pack… to glory…"
This was not so much a phrase but a flood of concepts, impressions, and fragmentary images: Endless black void, frozen wilderness, howling wolves, roaring bonfires, and the blurry but powerful figure of a mighty warrior …
Datch heard this as clear whispers of grand designs.
But the Space Wolves were nearly destroyed by the experience.
"Arghhhh!!"
Their heads—on the verge of exploding!
The elder leaders crashed to their knees, clutching their heads and groaning.
Even the strongest power armor could not shield from the psychic onslaught of direct Imperial revelation.
The information and presence within that chorus was far beyond what any human soul could bear—a thousand burning brands searing the canvas of the mind.
It was as if millions of steel needles pricked every corner of their consciousness.
Njal, ever more sensitive as a psyker, endured the brunt of it, his vision awash with golden light as he desperately strove to cull meaning from the torrent. Pain only grew the more he tried.
He felt his brain boiling, soul kneaded and stretched by an invisible hand. Amid the flood, he grasped fragments—yet the noise and sheer weight pushed him to the brink of madness.
Others fared no better—brave old Bjorn roared in pain, Logan grimaced with closed eyes and white-knuckled fists.
Realizing they could bear no further strain, the Emperor desisted, glancing once more at Datch, who was busy kicking ice and muttering. He seemed to have failed some quest check and was oblivious to the drama around him.
The Emperor was suddenly reminded of Malcador; if only he were still alive, none of this would have happened.
"Hmph, fine—if you won't help, don't! When I return, I'll figure out a way to speak from the Golden Throne without you!"
…
The Emperor's appearance was more convincing than any doctrine or dictate.
Logan willingly accepted the Primaris reinforcements, the sons of Russ and their new brothers forging a pact.
Fenris' Wolves would fight until stars died and fangs broke.
Lieutenant Castaller sighed in relief, for this meant formal unification of the Wolves into the Indomitus Crusade, and recognition of Guilliman's authority—Fenris was once more tied back into the Imperial strategy.
A great feast was prepared—the grandest ever held—fires blazing in the halls, ancient mead poured out, and ancient war hymns sung in honor of the fallen.
But before the feast could begin, a long-robed servant rushed to Logan's side:
"Sir, something terrible has happened! The Gylfarheim—it's swelling, pulling off its orbit!!"
All eyes turned to him.
"Explain!" Logan demanded.
"Emergency reports from the watchtower! The derelict 'Gylfarheim'—warp-signals are spiking! It's not just energy—they say, something is dragging it, deeper into the warp! If we can't stop it in time, the ship will vanish into the abyss!"
Confused looks exchanged all around—the Gylfarheim was a vast, abandoned starship, occasionally slipping from the warp to circle the Fenris system. Recently, it had rematerialized.
Logan led elite Wolves to cleanse it of Orks who'd overrun it as a fortress. Though they hacked a bloody path through greenskins, the Torchbearer fleet's arrival cut their operation short—cleanup incomplete.
"Are they retreating?" Ulrik was suspicious. "Not like Orks, who live for battle."
"No..." Njal replied, ashen, "They're leaving to regroup and grow, and if the ship re-enters the warp, who knows what will emerge: not a derelict, but a monstrous Ork army."
Everyone understood—WAAAGH energy could birth a new warboss, threaten Fenris, even more.
"This ship must not escape," Logan decided grimly.
But war meant no time for feasting and welcoming new brothers. Yet, delay would permit tragedy.
At that moment, Datch saw a golden exclamation appear over Logan's head.
He skipped up, asking: "Anything I can help with, Logan Grimnar?"
Logan appraised Datch, then shook his head—"Fenris needs no outsider's aid."
"Skip dialogue!" Datch suddenly barked, startling Logan. "What can I do for you, Logan Grimnar?"
Logan: ...Does this man even speak human?
He tried to ignore him, looking to the other Wolf Lords—plan was to send them ahead to intercept the derelict, while Logan stayed as host for the Emperor.
Datch again dashed over, repeating—
"Anything I can help with, Logan Grimnar?"
Logan, exasperated, glared. If the Emperor wasn't present, he'd have chopped Datch in two by now.
Seeing this, Castaller quickly explained: "Lord, please, give any tough jobs to the Nameless One here."
Logan wanted to refuse, but, unable to act out (and knowing the Emperor watched), surrendered, "Fine, here's a task: the Gylfarheim is adrift—go clear it of Orks, if you can."
[Mission: Assist the Space Wolves in purging the derelict starship Gylfarheim]
As the rift grows, the cursed wreck reappears, infested with Orks—eliminate them before they cause disaster.
[Quest Rewards: 1500 XP, 1500 Points, 300 Renown, Resurrect Coin ×1]
Datch instantly checked the item:
[Item: Resurrection Coin]
[A simple gold piece infused with mysterious power. Place it upon a corpse's lips and they will be revived.]
"Once I have a Resurrect Coin, my servants won't have to fear death anymore," Datch noted with satisfaction.