Chapter 11 – The Embers of Parmenio
The third reception chamber of Hera Fortress was not truly a reception room.
Its walls were layered with reinforced adamantine and ceramite composites. Behind the ornamental tapestries lay concealed firing ports for no fewer than twelve automated heavy bolter turrets. Miniature void-shield projectors were embedded in the corners, and the ceiling's lattice concealed gas dispersal vents capable of sterilizing all organic life within seconds.
For Roboute Guilliman, this was where he received guests who were too dangerous to ignore—yet too politically volatile to execute outright.
The air inside was taut as a drawn bowstring.
Guilliman sat at the head of a long marble table engraved with the sigil of Ultramar. He did not wear the Armour of Fate; instead, he was dressed in a practical robe of office. That did not mean he was unarmed. His right hand rested casually near the armrest—where a master-crafted bolt pistol lay within instant reach.
Behind him stood a Victrix Guard, halberd active, its power field humming at a lethal pitch.
Across the table sat one of the few mortals capable of exhausting a Primarch's patience:
Frater Mathieu.
The priest looked haggard. His robes were stained with dust and oil. Dark circles framed his fever-bright eyes. He clutched a thick copy of the Imperial Creed to his chest like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.
"Just one look, Lord Regent," Mathieu rasped. "I meant no offense. I brought… the relic of Parmenio. It was calling to her."
Guilliman's expression hardened.
Parmenio.
On that battlefield, a nameless girl had borne the Emperor's power long enough to immolate an entire daemonic host. She had turned to ash in the process.
The memory was a wound that never closed.
"She is a child, Mathieu," Guilliman said coldly. "Not a theological experiment. Not an icon for your Ecclesiarchy to parade."
"This is not theory!" Mathieu tried to rise, only to freeze as the Victrix Guard's halberd shifted an inch closer to his throat. "If the radiance she manifested comes from the same source—if there is resonance—then this concerns the faith of mankind!"
Guilliman fell silent.
If he refused outright, Mathieu would simply stir greater chaos elsewhere. Better to confront the madness under controlled conditions.
"One final warning," Guilliman said. "If you attempt even the slightest manipulation—verbal or otherwise—you will not leave this chamber intact."
"I understand," Mathieu whispered, though fanatic light burned in his eyes.
Guilliman nodded toward the door.
"Bring her in. And stay close."
---
The blast door opened with a hydraulic hiss.
Eileen stepped inside.
She wore a light blue velvet dress—an insistence from Captain Sicarius, who had declared it "appropriate for a lady of Macragge." Her boots had been replaced with soft leather shoes. Her hair was neatly combed.
Her eyes, however, remained sharp—instinctively mapping exits, cover, angles.
The moment she saw Guilliman, she relaxed and moved to his side, gripping the hem of his robe.
"Robert," she muttered, ignoring Mathieu entirely, "the pastries here are terrible. Too dry. I want the ship cook's ones."
A crack appeared in Guilliman's stern composure.
"For your health," he replied mildly. "After this, you may have one piece of the chocolate Sicarius smuggled to you."
A violent cough interrupted them.
Mathieu, trembling, produced a small black stone casket wrapped in sacred cloth. Its surface was etched with stasis-field runes.
Even from a distance, Eileen sensed something strange from within.
Not foul.
Burnt wood. Cold ash. And beneath it—
Heat.
Mathieu carefully disengaged the stasis seal.
Hiss.
A pale vapor curled upward.
Inside lay a small mound of gray-white ash… and a single half-burned finger bone.
The last relic of the girl who had perished at Parmenio.
Eileen wrinkled her nose.
"A dead person's bone?" she asked bluntly. "Do important people give each other these? Are you going to make soup?"
Guilliman's lips twitched despite himself.
Mathieu, however, looked ecstatic.
"This is no ordinary relic!" he breathed. "It bore divine grace! It is proof that a mortal can be sanctified by His light!"
He extended the box toward her, hands shaking.
"Please… just touch it."
Eileen glanced up at Guilliman.
His hand rested on his pistol—but he gave a small nod.
"If you dislike it, we discard it," he said calmly.
Encouraged, Eileen leaned closer.
She had seen many bones in the hive.
This one felt… different.
Not sinister.
Familiar.
Like golden wheat fields.
Like warm sunlight.
Like the hoodie-wearing man in her dreams who called himself Old Huang.
She inhaled slowly.
Her finger extended.
One centimeter away—
The lights flickered.
An invisible pressure swept the chamber. The air thickened. Even Guilliman's enhanced senses reacted instantly.
[System Notification: Warning. High-energy resonance detected.]
[Source comparison in progress…]