The Saint, Heresy, and Marble
If Iax was a vat of moldy wine carefully fermented by Nurgle, then Macragge was a masterpiece carved from a single block of flawless white jade.
As the Stormbird Wrath of Hera tore through the atmosphere, rolling alabaster mountains and radiant cities unfolded beyond the porthole. Eileen pressed her face to the reinforced glass, her breath fogging it faintly as her wide brown eyes tried to drink in everything at once.
In her world, cities were gray. Black. Rusted.
They choked the sky with smog, leaked sewage from overhead pipes, and piled garbage like mountains.
But this—
This was blindingly white.
The colossal Hera Fortress crowned the mountain range like a marble diadem. Endless spires caught the twin suns, glowing gold, while vast avenues linked citadels like silver ribbons. No trash. No beggars. Even the air felt strange—so clean it left her lungs feeling hollow, missing the familiar sting of engine oil.
"So big… so white…" Eileen murmured. "Is the ground here made of those soft stones too?"
Roboute Guilliman sat opposite her, eyes closed. At her words, a faint smile touched his face.
"That is marble, Eileen," he said, opening his eyes. His gaze was gentle, far removed from the battlefield. "Macragge is the heart of Ultramar. A model of what the Imperium could be—if war had not scarred it so deeply."
[The Thirteenth is romanticizing again. Sure, this is the best-managed neighborhood in the galaxy—but shiny floors don't mean there are no cockroaches underneath.]
Eileen instinctively shrank back.
Old Huang's sarcastic voice always sounded unreliable, yet somehow comforting. She trusted that wary instinct more than this flawless, dazzling "paradise."
The Stormbird settled onto the immense landing platform known as the Hand of Vengeance.
The hatch opened.
Sound—not wind—flooded in.
"For Macragge!"
"For the Primarch!"
"For the Emperor!"
Tens of thousands filled the surrounding terraces. The roar hit like a tidal wave, rattling Eileen's bones.
Guilliman rose and adjusted his ceremonial robes. He wore no helmet; a golden laurel crowned his brow. Turning, he extended one massive hand.
"Come. Don't be afraid."
After a moment's hesitation, Eileen grasped one of his fingers—the only part she could manage. Her other hand stayed pressed to her waist, where the ceremonial short sword rested beneath her robes.
They stepped into the sunlight.
It was dazzling.
At the end of the red carpet stood the pillars of Ultramar's power.
Four Tetrarchs in ornate armor stood like iron towers.
Marneus Calgar, freshly returned from the front, wore new Terminator plate—his scarred face softened by an effort at welcome.
The Honor Guard formed twin ranks, shields and axes gleaming with restrained menace.
Eileen felt like a mouse among giants. She clutched Guilliman's leg, wishing she could vanish into his cloak.
Their gazes—curious, reverent, appraising—crawled over her skin.
In the hive, being stared at meant danger.
Sensing her fear, Guilliman slowed, angling his cloak to shield her slightly, an eagle guarding its chick.
Then—
Discord.
On the left emerged figures in deep red robes, adorned with skulls, hourglasses, and sigils of authority. They bowed shallowly, not reverently.
Their leader was tall and corpse-pale, eyes sunken. A black reinforced coat hung from his frame, and upon his chest gleamed a ruby-set "I."
An Inquisitor.
On the right came another disruption—worse in a different way. Ragged-robed zealots, incense smoking, some bearing bloodied scourges embedded in their own flesh.
At their head strode Frater Mathieu, eyes bloodshot, clutching a heavy copy of the Imperial Creed, vibrating with barely restrained ecstasy.
[Secret police on one side, lunatics on the other. Classic Imperium. Keep your hand on the hilt, kid—these are worse than daemons.]
Guilliman halted. The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by cold authority.
"Inquisitor Herman. Frater Mathieu," he said evenly. "I was under the impression this reception was limited to Ultramar's own."
"Your Highness," Herman replied, voice thin and venomous, "the Inquisition goes wherever danger manifests. Especially when… unverified warp phenomena arrive with your fleet."
His gaze slid past Guilliman and locked onto Eileen.
No awe. Only suspicion.
"That girl is an unregistered psyker," Herman said. "Possibly a daemonic vessel. The Inquisition demands her immediate transfer to a Black Ship for purification testing."
Eileen didn't know what Tzeentch was.
She didn't know what a Black Ship was.
She knew the tone.
"No…" she whispered, gripping Guilliman's leg.
"Blasphemy!" Mathieu screeched. "She is a saint! I saw the Emperor's radiance with my own eyes!"
He spun to his followers. "We will enthrone her! Anoint her! Let millions witness the Emperor's grace made flesh!"
"She is a child," Guilliman thundered at last. "Not a prisoner. Not an idol. She is my guest."
Herman stepped forward—too far.
"Even you are not above the Imperium's safety," he hissed. "If she is a host and erupts here, Macragge will burn."
Mathieu tried to force his way closer, reaching for her. "Faith belongs to all humanity—"
The crowd tensed. Weapons were readied.
Eileen trembled.
Demons wanted to eat her. That was simple.
These people wanted to use her.
Her fingers closed around the hilt.
Clang.
The sound of drawn metal cut through the chaos.
Eileen stepped forward, dagger raised, its tip trembling but steady.
"Back off!" she shouted, voice small but fierce. "This is Robert's place! I won't go with you! I'll stab anyone who comes closer!"
[…Good. Even a dinner knife beats kneeling.]
Guilliman turned, seeing her stance—like a frightened kitten with claws bared.
Something warm surged in his chest.
Then fury.
He stepped forward, eclipsing Herman and Mathieu in shadow.
"Enough."
The word crushed the air.
He placed a hand on Eileen's shoulder, guiding the blade down, then faced them fully.
"Her name is Eileen. She is not a witch, nor a relic. She is my ward—an honorary citizen of Macragge."
His gaze pinned Herman in place.
"The Inquisition's authority ends here. If you attempt to take her, your Black Ship will never leave orbit."
Then he turned to Mathieu.
"If you so much as wave incense at her again, I will personally launch you into the Warp to preach to daemons."
With a gesture, the Honor Guard advanced, shields slamming down, forcing both factions back.
"Come," Guilliman said gently. "Let's go, Eileen."
He took her hand and led her into Hera Fortress.
She glanced back once.
The Inquisitor's stare was venomous.
The priest knelt, sobbing incoherently.
"Robert…" she whispered. "Are they bad people?"
Guilliman paused.
"They believe they are right," he said quietly. "And that often makes them more dangerous than evil."
They passed beneath towering marble arches into cooler, quieter halls.
"You're safe here," Guilliman said. "You can put the sword away."
Eileen shook her head.
"I'll keep it. Too many stone people. What if they move at night?"
Guilliman laughed softly.
"Fair enough."
In halls of pristine marble, a Primarch and a wary child vanished into the depths of the fortress—
while beneath the beauty of Macragge, wolves waited patiently in the dark.