Inside the cold metal chamber of the training rig, Frix opened his eyes once more.
47th simulation.
He'd long since lost count of how many times he'd woken from this virtual battlefield, but the memory of dying remained terrifyingly vivid—torn apart by bolt rounds, beheaded by chain axes, vaporized by artillery, crushed beneath Titans, impaled through the heart by a rebel's power sword…
Each death was total annihilation.
Each awakening, a rebirth.
Frix scanned his surroundings and found himself standing in a vast arena. The stands around him were completely empty, rows upon rows of seats stretching endlessly into the distance.
The arena floor was laid with black stone, etched with intricate geometric patterns.
"Simulation 47: Engage two hundred renegade Astartes without support."
"Enemy force: Word Bearers traitor Astartes."
"Begin."
The moment the voice fell silent, the gates across the arena creaked open.
Two hundred Astartes in gray armor, defaced with blasphemous markings, marched out in formation.
Their armor was carved with cursed script, once-sacred inscriptions twisted into grotesque symbols. Their helmets had been reshaped into snarling visages, eyes glowing with an ominous red light.
At the front, nine of the Word Bearers had swollen to nearly eleven feet tall—no longer truly human, but warped things of corruption and malice.
The same enemies again.
Over the past weeks, Frix had fought these traitors hundreds of times. In nearly every large-scale simulation, he had crossed blades with every renegade Legion imaginable.
He knew their strengths.
He knew their weaknesses.
He knew them by heart.
Warp-touched warriors.
Formidable foes—each one the equal of a veteran Terminator from the Iron Warriors' elite ranks.
Frix drew a slow breath. He neither stepped back nor hesitated. Instead, he reached down and lifted his war hammer.
He still wore his custom-fitted Terminator armor—optimized by the Logic Engine through countless combat analyses.
This time, his heavy rotary bolter had been removed, but the massive power fist on his right arm—like a siege ram—was no less terrifying.
"Come on, traitors!"
The two hundred renegades roared and charged.
Frix met them head-on.
His hammer swung—one enemy's head shattered instantly.
His power fist struck—the next was blown apart at the torso.
With every arc of the hammer, bodies were hurled aside. Two warp-enhanced warriors failed to evade in time, their chests caved in as they were launched backward.
Every blow of the power fist crushed one—sometimes several—Word Bearers into ruin.
Enemies fell.
But more surged forward.
They knew no fear.
No pain.
They attacked with savage abandon—every weapon aimed for his vitals, every strike hammering against his armor.
Frix's Terminator plate began to crack. Blood poured from his wounds.
But he did not slow.
The furnace within him ignited on its own. His injuries began to knit, his movements growing faster, sharper.
One hour. Two hours… five hours passed.
When his hammer finally crushed the skull of the last warp-touched warrior, Frix was drenched in blood, barely able to stand.
His power fist was gone—his right arm severed at the shoulder. His twin hearts and triple lungs had been pierced. Even the furnace's regenerative surge was reaching its limit.
Frix collapsed to his knees at the center of the arena.
Blood streamed uncontrollably from his wounds, from his mouth and nose. His clotting systems had failed. His vision dimmed.
Two hundred renegade Astartes… all slain.
The cost—
Mutual destruction.
"Simulation complete."
The voice echoed in his mind as darkness consumed him once more.
---
Outside the training rig, Perturabo stood before a massive holographic display, studying the performance data of every Iron Warrior.
Ten thousand points of light flickered across the screen. Each one represented a soldier. Each line of data, a battle. Each fluctuation, a death.
Stephanie stood behind him. She could clearly sense the strain beneath his composed exterior—the worry in his eyes.
She felt for them… but she also understood what her brother was doing.
He was forging a true army of iron, in his own way.
"Perty…"
She called softly, but this time he didn't respond, fully absorbed in the projection.
Sighing, Stephanie stepped closer and placed a cup of hot coffee beside him.
Perturabo finally turned to look at her.
His eyes were still cold, still distant—but deep within them lay a trace of exhaustion.
"Do you know how many times they've died in training?" he asked, his voice rough.
Stephanie shook her head.
"An average of one hundred and twenty-three times."
His gaze returned to the display.
"The highest… Frix. He's died one hundred and ninety-seven times. Every death real. Every time, total destruction. And still, he keeps going."
"He's resilient," Stephanie said quietly, admiration in her voice.
"Like steel."
"He doesn't want to disappoint me."
Perturabo's tone carried something more complicated.
"Have I pushed them too hard, sister?"
There was doubt there—rare, and fleeting.
"They take my expectations seriously."
Stephanie placed her hand gently on the back of his massive one.
"That's because you've earned it. They believe in you."
Perturabo said nothing, his attention fixed once again on the hologram.
At that moment, the Logic Engine's voice cut in.
"My lord, Phase One of recruitment is complete. From twenty-two academies across the Olympia system, two hundred and twenty-one thousand three hundred candidates have been selected."
"Age range: ten to sixteen. Physical, cognitive, and psychological metrics meet optimal standards."
Perturabo's eyes sharpened.
"Gene-seed compatibility?"
"Preliminary testing indicates over 35% compatibility. Among them, six thousand four hundred individuals exceed 95% compatibility and are suitable for immediate augmentation. The rest will require further conditioning."
Perturabo nodded.
"Prepare them. The first round of procedures begins in three days. Training will proceed in parallel with the Iron Warriors."
"Yes, my lord."
The Logic Engine began issuing orders.
"Three days?" Stephanie frowned. "Perty, the oldest is sixteen… the youngest only ten. Can they survive something like that?"
She didn't fully understand Astartes augmentation—but she remembered what her brother had done to create his Iron Guard.
Perturabo looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
"Do you know how other Legions recruit?"
She shook her head.
"They take children from death worlds. From wastelands. From war-torn ruins. Even from noble courts."
"They choose those who've survived brutality—children who've already seen death and suffering."
"Some have killed by the age of five. Some have lost everything by twelve. They're stronger… but also colder. Twisted."
"I don't want that."
His voice hardened.
"I want warriors—not broken killing machines. I want them to understand why they fight. Who they fight for. What their sacrifice means."
"Since the age of four, I've sent them into academies—not to become killers, but to learn. To grow strong. To develop discipline. To understand honor, duty, sacrifice."
His gaze settled on the images of the selected youths.
"Fifty years later, they're everywhere across Olympia—serving in every role."
"They've received the best education. They're in peak physical condition. Their will is unshakable. They know what they're preparing for. They know their fate."
Stephanie looked at their faces.
So young. So full of life. Their eyes still carried that unmistakable spark of youth—confidence, ambition.
They didn't know what awaited them.
Not the pain of augmentation.
Not the horror of war.
Not the shadow of death.
But she also knew—
This was their path.
Even in the short time since returning to Olympia, she understood what it meant to become an Astartes.
It was a dream. An honor.
"They'll be proud," she said softly.
"To become Iron Warriors… to become your sons."
Perturabo didn't answer.
He simply kept watching the screen.
---
Three days later. Olympia. Central Academy Augmentation Facility.
A massive domed structure stood deep within the academy complex. Its exterior was plain, almost unremarkable—but inside lay the most advanced medical and genetic engineering technology in the entire Olympia system.
Ten thousand augmentation pods were arranged in perfect rows across the vast chamber.
Each one resembled a metal coffin, lined with soft bio-material. Above the head section hung dense clusters of neural interface probes. Along the torso and limbs, countless micro-injectors and monitoring devices were embedded.
The chamber looked like a field of sealed sarcophagi waiting to be opened.
Cassius stood among the recruits, staring up at the pods towering over him—each one several times his height.
Cassius was fifteen years old, a student from the Third Academy on Olympia Prime. Over the past decade, he had excelled in every evaluation—physical conditioning, tactical simulations, weapons handling, psychological assessment. His name had never left the top of the honors board.
But he had never been this nervous.
"You're shaking."
A calm voice came from beside him.
Cassius turned to see a boy about his age—black hair, gray eyes, a sharp, composed expression. He stood half a head taller, broader in the shoulders, his posture perfectly still, like a statue carved from stone.
"I'm not shaking."
Cassius answered instinctively—but then noticed his fingers were, in fact, trembling.
"You're just trying to control your fear," the boy said evenly.
"But fear isn't something you eliminate by control. You have to accept it."
Cassius paused, then asked, "What's your name?"
"Dantioch."
"The Fourth Academy."
Dantioch gave a small nod.
"Third Academy. Cassius."
Dantioch didn't reply further, only inclined his head slightly before returning his gaze to the augmentation pods ahead.
Cassius studied him. He remembered the Fourth Academy's records—Dantioch ranked first in physical tests, first in tactical simulations, first in weapons proficiency, first in psychological evaluation… first overall.
"Are you afraid?" Cassius asked.
Dantioch was silent for a moment.
"Yes."
The answer caught Cassius off guard.
"But fear is normal. If we weren't afraid, that would be strange."
"Our instructors told us—fear isn't weakness. Being ruled by it is. A true warrior isn't without fear… he moves forward with it."
Cassius looked at him, surprised.
"You've met him?"
Dantioch shook his head.
"No. That's what the instructors told us. They said it came from the Father himself."
Cassius fell quiet, then said softly, "I want to meet him."
Dantioch glanced at him.
"Then survive. Complete the augmentation. Pass the trials. Become a true Iron Warrior… and you'll have your chance."
At that moment, the doors at the front of the hall opened.
Ten thousand boys straightened instantly, their eyes snapping toward the entrance.
Perturabo strode in, Stephanie and Andos following behind him. His gaze swept across the sea of young faces.
"Do you know what awaits you today?"
His voice echoed through the chamber.
Ten thousand voices answered as one:
"Yes, my lord."
The sound was unified, like steel striking steel.
Perturabo nodded.
"You have spent no less than five years in the academies—learning, training, tempering your will."
"You understand honor. Duty. Sacrifice."
"But you do not yet understand what it means to become an Astartes… what you will face… or what you may lose."
His eyes hardened.
"You will no longer be human. You will possess bodies beyond mortal limits."
"You will fight for hours without rest. You will survive briefly in vacuum. You will endure wounds that would kill any normal man—and recover. You will wield weapons one-handed that once required two. You will charge into battle clad in armor weighing several tons."
"You will become part of the Fourth Legion."
"You will become steel—cast in fire, shaped beneath the hammer."
"The steel outside you—your armor, your bolters, your Titans, your fleets—that is what I give you."
"But the steel within you… that is will. Faith. The resolve to stand even in the face of death."
"The outer steel can break. It can be replaced. Improved."
"But the inner steel—once forged—will never yield."
His tone never wavered.
"There are twenty Legions in the Imperium. Some pursue glory. Some pursue perfection. Some seek knowledge. Others speed. Each has its pride."
"The Fourth does not."
"We will be humanity's strongest wall."
"The hammer at the front. The shield at the rear."
"To be an Iron Warrior is not a role. Not a title. It is a mission—one without end."
"When one war ends, another begins. When one line is held, another must be defended. When one world is saved, another will call."
"There is no final victory. No retirement. No peaceful end."
"You will fight… until the day you fall."
"No one will remember your names. No one will sing your deeds. No monuments will be raised."
"The only proof you existed… will be your identification tags."
"When you join the Fourth Legion, there will be two. One with you. One with me."
"That is all that will remain."
His words rang through the hall. In the boys' eyes, something ignited.
"This is the life of an Iron Warrior."
"No glory. No fame. No recognition."
"Only duty. Only conviction. Only loyalty… and the will to endure."
His voice lowered.
"And now… you will face your first trial of life and death."
"It will be pain beyond anything you have ever known. Worse than any training. Worse than any test."
"Your bodies will be opened. Organs implanted. Bones reshaped. Your very genes rewritten."
"You will experience all of it fully conscious."
"Every incision. Every insertion. Every fracture and reconstruction."
"This process will last two hundred and twenty hours."
"You will not lose consciousness. You will not escape it."
"You will endure every second."
Silence fell.
Ten thousand breaths grew shallow.
"But you must endure," Perturabo said, his voice heavy now.
"Because only then will you stand among us. Only then will you earn the right to fight beside your brothers—for humanity."
"If anyone wishes to withdraw, step forward now."
"You will remain citizens of Olympia. You will still serve humanity in other ways."
"No one will judge you. No one will look down on you."
He paused, scanning their faces.
"Does anyone wish to leave?"
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Ten thousand boys stood in silence—like ten thousand statues of iron.
A flicker of approval crossed Perturabo's eyes.
"Good."
He turned and walked toward the exit.
"Begin."
Stephanie followed him. As she stepped out, she glanced back at the young faces, her heart heavy with concern.
The doors slowly closed, sealing them inside.
The boys watched Perturabo's figure disappear.
Something stirred within them—something they couldn't quite name.
"Lie down."
A cold, mechanical voice spoke from nearby.
Dantioch turned and saw Cassius approaching one of the pods. His body trembled slightly.
Dantioch drew a breath and stepped toward his own.
Cold material pressed against his skin. He felt the probes pierce the back of his neck. His consciousness began to blur.
Then—
The pain began.
It defied description.
Dantioch felt his skull being opened. A needle drove into the base of his neck, reaching deep toward his brain. A cold, piercing sensation—then something foreign being inserted.
It wasn't just pain.
It was invasion.
His body was being changed.
The agony spread—down his spine, through every bone, like fire racing through his skeleton. Each bone burned, twisted, reshaped by unseen forces.
He heard it—bones creaking, muscles tearing and knitting back together.
He wanted to scream—but no sound came.
He wanted to struggle—but he couldn't move.
All he could do was endure—awake—every second of it.
Time lost meaning.
At some point, the pain eased… slightly.
"First procedure complete."
A cold synthetic voice echoed in his mind.
"Catalepsean node successfully implanted. Estimated recovery time: three hours. Secondary procedure commencing."
Before he could react, his chest was opened.
Cold air flooded his exposed organs. The sensation nearly broke him. Mechanical arms worked within his body, placing something new inside him.
…
Two hundred and twenty hours.
Less than ten days—yet it felt like a lifetime.
Dantioch didn't know how he survived.
He only remembered the endless pain. The cutting and stitching. The implantation and activation. The tearing and reshaping.
He remembered his mind breaking again and again—only to be dragged back by something deeper.
He remembered the cold voice repeating endlessly:
"Furnace activation countdown…"
"Tendon reinforcement linking with nervous system…"
"Black carapace implantation prepared…"
He didn't know how much time had passed.
When the final probe slid from the back of his neck, he had lost all sense of it.
"Augmentation complete."
The voice echoed.
Dantioch blacked out.
...
When he opened his eyes, the harsh surgical light greeted him. The mechanical arms had withdrawn into the ceiling. A medical servitor's lens focused on him.
He sat up slowly.
Everything felt… different.
His vision was higher. The pod seemed smaller. The ceiling closer.
He stood.
He had grown—from five-foot-seven to over nine feet tall.
His body was massive. Powerful. Muscles coiled with explosive strength.
He clenched his fist, feeling power surge through him—something entirely new.
Dantioch stood beside the pod, looking at the others still sealed.
Cassius was not far away—still inside his pod, eyes shut tight, brow furrowed, enduring the final waves of pain.
Dantioch said nothing. He simply stood there, waiting in silence.
Three hours later, Cassius opened his eyes.
He sat up inside the pod, his gaze immediately locking onto the towering figure beside him.
"You're awake."
His voice was heavy with exhaustion.
Dantioch nodded.
They studied each other in silence—their bodies now larger, broader, unmistakably transformed. In their eyes lingered something deeper… the mark of someone who had endured unbearable pain and survived it.
"How do you feel?" Dantioch asked.
Cassius paused for a second.
"Like I died once."
"Then it worked."
Cassius climbed out, flexing his limbs, testing the strength now coursing through him.
When they stepped outside the augmentation facility, they found two figures already waiting.
They dwarfed even the newly transformed recruits.
Both wore modified Terminator armor. The one in front was especially imposing—his armor massive and reinforced, his power fist nearly the size of a siege ram mounted on a Dreadnought.
Frix and Berossus stood before them, their gazes sweeping over the two new warriors. Then, both gave a small nod.
Dantioch and Cassius stood before them, unable to hide the surge of emotion in their chests as they faced their new brothers.
One by one, more recruits emerged, forming orderly ranks in silence.
Ten thousand candidates had entered the process—one that would normally take years.
Only two thousand two hundred had truly become Astartes.
"Welcome to the Fourth Legion."
Frix's voice was calm, but carried weight.
"I am Warsmith Frix of the First Grand Company. This is Warsmith Berossus of the Second."
"From this moment on, you will train with us."
"The training will be brutal—more brutal than the augmentation you just endured."
"You will die countless times. You will suffer. You will break."
"But you will endure."
"Because that is the only way to become true Iron Warriors."
"Now—follow the Iron Ring to the training terminals."
Dantioch and Cassius exchanged a glance, then moved forward with the formation.
---
They proved exceptional.
From their very first simulation, both displayed combat ability and battlefield command comparable to veteran Iron Warriors.
Dantioch, in particular, stood out—not just as a commander, but as a master of defensive warfare and siege tactics. In that domain, he was unmatched.
Outside the training terminals, Perturabo watched the incoming data streams, tracking every recruit.
Two hundred and twenty-one thousand candidates.
After 22 stages of genetic modification, only twenty-two thousand had succeeded.
The rest survived—but would undergo further conditioning before being assigned to auxiliary forces and support divisions.
And these twenty-two thousand…
Under his watchful eye, they were dying—again and again.
Frix and Berossus stood behind him, studying the data as well.
"Father, their performance exceeds expectations," Frix said, a hint of surprise in his voice.
"I expected them to take far longer to adapt. But some are already matching the veterans."
Berossus nodded.
"Especially Dantioch and Cassius. They were among the first to survive augmentation—and now they're among the best."
Perturabo inclined his head slightly.
"They began training at four years old. Their education was more complete, more structured than yours ever was."
"They understand discipline. Obedience. Sacrifice."
He paused, eyes fixed on the shifting data.
"But this is only the beginning."
"The real trials lie ahead."
Frix hesitated, then spoke.
"Father… do you truly intend to send them back into the Great Crusade in three months?"
Perturabo turned to him.
Frix faltered.
Once, he would not have questioned. Astartes did not hesitate.
But since Perturabo's return… something had changed within them.
"I'm concerned they're not ready…"
"You know better than anyone what awaits them," Perturabo replied.
Frix and Berossus lowered their heads.
It was the first time they had resisted him—even in silence.
"They will die," Perturabo continued. "War makes that inevitable."
"That is why I put them through this."
"Not to break them—but to make them stronger. Harder. More capable of surviving real war."
"Three months is enough. You had no preparation at all before your first battles."
"You had no choice then."
"But now… things are different."
"Frix. Berossus. Do not forget your duty."
"Humanity needs you."
They remained silent for a long moment.
Then they raised their heads, saluted, and turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" Perturabo asked.
Frix glanced back.
"Father, our rest period is over."
"We're returning to training."
"We don't intend to be outdone by recruits."
A faint smile touched Perturabo's lips.
Stephanie had rarely seen that expression on his face.
---
Training continued.
Veterans who had already endured two months of simulations now trained alongside the recruits.
Frix served as overall commander. Berossus as his second.
Their enemy—
Nineteen traitor Legions.
Three hundred and fifty thousand renegade Astartes, supported by heavy weapons, armored divisions, and Titan formations.
Against them—
Thirty-two thousand Iron Warriors, including the recruits. They too had heavy weapons, armor, and Titans… but far fewer.
They were preparing for a defensive campaign.
A brutal one.
Cassius and Dantioch were assigned to Frix's assault company.
"This campaign will be a hundred times harder than anything before," Frix said, standing in a makeshift command center, addressing twenty-two officers.
His gaze rested on the tactical display.
"Our advantage is knowledge—we understand their patterns, their weaknesses, how they attack."
"And we are on the defensive."
"But we must hold for three years."
"And relief may never come."
That was the truth.
This wasn't just difficult—it was nearly impossible.
They hadn't even had time to construct proper fortifications before the enemy encircled them.
Under these conditions, holding for a month would be a miracle.
Three years?
Unthinkable.
Frix issued his orders rapidly.
The 22 officers acknowledged in unison and moved out.
Cassius and Dantioch led their unit toward their assigned position.
"How do you feel?" Dantioch asked.
"Like I'm dreaming," Cassius replied.
"What kind of dream?"
"A real one."
His eyes darkened.
"I can't tell what's real anymore—these battles, these deaths, this pain… it all feels too real."
"Sometimes when I wake up, I wonder if I'm still in the simulation… if I've just died again and started over."
Dantioch said nothing.
Because he felt the same.
"Father said this would happen," he finally said.
"This is the point."
"To blur the line between real and simulated."
"To let us die a thousand times in training—so in reality, we value life more. Fear death more. Fight harder to survive."
Dantioch looked out across the battlefield, thick with smoke and fire. Then he glanced at Cassius, a faint smile forming.
"Maybe one day… we'll die on a battlefield like this."
Cassius nodded.
"Then let's make sure it means something."
—
The battle had been raging for 72 hours.
The assault company lost a third of its strength on the first day.
They struck deep behind enemy lines—destroying three artillery batteries, bringing down two Titans, killing over two thousand traitor Astartes.
But on the fourth day—
They were surrounded.
Five thousand renegade Astartes closed in from all directions, trapping them within a shattered ruin.
No reinforcements.
No supplies.
No escape.
Dantioch stood atop the highest point of the wreckage, watching the tide of enemies surge forward… watching his brothers fall one by one.
For the first time—
He felt something close to helplessness.
The five-hundred-strong assault company had been reduced to fewer than two hundred.
But Dantioch did not retreat.
"Brothers."
His voice carried across the comms, reaching every surviving warrior.
"This is our final stand."
"But we do not surrender. We do not run. We do not yield."
"We fight to the last moment—kill as many of them as we can."
"Make it count."
"We are Iron Warriors!"
Dantioch charged first, straight into the enemy.
"Iron within—iron without!"
The remaining warriors roared as one and hurled themselves into the oncoming tide.
Cassius fought at Dantioch's side.
Their bolters had long since run dry. Now they fought with power swords and axes, locked in brutal close combat. Their armor was shattered, blood pouring from countless wounds. Their bodies had already reached their limits—only the furnace within kept them moving.
Still—
They fought.
"Dantioch!"
Cassius shouted.
Dantioch turned just in time to see a warp-twisted giant bearing down on him—its bloated frame towering, its power axe raised high, radiating pure malice.
He didn't hesitate.
He lunged forward.
The axe crashed into his shoulder, nearly severing his arm—but at the same moment, his power sword drove straight through the creature's heart.
"Die, traitor!"
He twisted the blade, tearing the thing apart from within.
More enemies surged in.
Dantioch watched his brothers fall, one after another—
Then Cassius was torn apart in a storm of heavy gunfire.
A towering enemy commander smashed Dantioch to the ground with a crushing blow—but in his final moment, Dantioch drove his blade up into the warrior's chest.
He lay there, staring at the blood-red sky.
He could feel his life slipping away.
The furnace had gone silent.
Around him lay piles of enemy dead.
"Iron… within…"
The words came broken, unfinished—
Before the swarm descended.
Blows rained down.
And he was crushed into nothing.
---
When Dantioch opened his eyes again, he was back outside the training terminal.
A cold injector pierced the back of his neck, stabilizing him.
He rose slowly—and saw Cassius not far away, also just revived.
"Looks like we lost," Dantioch said.
Cassius shook his head.
"The commander's still fighting. That means it's not over."
"…Fair enough."
They looked at each other—
Then both laughed.
---
By the third month, training had entered its final phase.
This time, it wasn't just combat.
The simulations had grown more complex—covert operations, reconnaissance, decapitation strikes, defensive holds, tactical withdrawals.
Each recruit was given tailored scenarios, designed by the Logic Engine to push their strengths to the limit.
Perturabo stood before the holographic display, watching every data stream.
"My lord."
The Logic Engine spoke.
"Recruit Dantioch has completed his twenty-second simulation. His overall performance exceeds veteran averages. Recommendation: officer candidate."
Perturabo focused on the data.
22 simulations.
Average deaths per run: 3.5
Average kills: 147
Tactical accuracy: 93.5%
Command rating: S
Close combat rating: S
A natural commander.
"Recruit Cassius has completed his twenty-second simulation. Performance approaching veteran averages. Recommendation: assignment to Terminator assault specialization."
Perturabo reviewed further.
22 simulations.
Average deaths: 5.2
Average kills: 153
Tactical accuracy: 76%
Command rating: B+
Close combat rating: S
"Continue observation."
"Yes, my lord."
Stephanie stepped beside him.
"They're exceptional."
Perturabo nodded, his gaze distant.
"In two months, they will return to the Crusade."
"There, they will face real enemies. Real war."
"Some will die. Some will survive."
"Some will become heroes. Others… will be forgotten."
"But all of them—"
"Will fight in the name of the Iron Warriors."
"They will cross the stars… and fight for humanity."
Stephanie studied his face.
The lines of it were still hard—but softer than before.
"You've changed, Perty."
He turned slightly.
"The old you wouldn't have cared."
"You would've focused only on your work. Your designs. Your plans."
"You wouldn't have cared about their fear… or their deaths."
"Other than me and Andos… you barely cared about anyone."
She glanced at the streams of data.
"But now you do."
Perturabo was silent for a long moment.
"…I just don't want my Legion to fall behind in the Crusade," he said at last.
"I won't have my brothers look down on us."
"They are my sons."
"I don't tolerate failure."
Stephanie said nothing.
She simply reached out—and gently held his hand.
***************************
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