“We are pleased to receive you, Lord Melancthon,” said the duke. He sat upon a throne of beaten gold. A luminous white halo, built into the throne itself, arched over his tumbling locks of oaken hair. He wore blue robes that glistered with rare stones, chalcedonies and sapphires, that caught the light and spun it before flinging it back into the room. Muscular and tall, he resembled a noble Space Marine of the Blood Angels chapter, or else a princely demigod from the half-remembered legends of Old Earth. Statuesquely beautiful, his eyes burned with an intensity that suggested he might spring into fearful action at a moment’s notice.

  He was, in a word, Imperial. Looking upon Duke Colton Marius, the Space Marine felt hope and strength surge into his bones. Here sat a man who represented the best that the Imperium of Mankind had to offer. In a world named for light, this man was a shining sun.

  “You honor me, lord,” the angel replied. His own voice boomed in the vast hall, bouncing off the painted wooden murals that lined the stone walls. Those murals depicted Luce Prime’s storied history. Titanic figures in mauve battle plate, clearly Astartes, drove back jabbering hordes of nine-armed Xenos, laying the first stones of the world spanning city, and departing to continue the legendary conquests of the Great Crusade.

  Duke Marius inclined his head respectfully, “I ascribe honor only where it is due. Let us waste no further time upon pleasantries, however, Lord Melancthon. You come to our planet, not at the head of an Astartes fleet, but in a damaged drop pod. My heart guesses this arrival an ill portent. Illumine me further, that I might put my fears to rest.”

  Melancthon felt his own heart sink at the duke’s words. “You are not wrong, your grace, but it is a long tale to tell.”

  The duke raised a hand and said, “Tell me everything. It may be that even the smallest detail shall aid us in the days to come.”

  “As you wish, then,” replied the angel. “Cadia has fallen. The leaguer of Chaos stands broken, our hosts in disarray. Even now, the Despoiler sallies forth from the Eye of Terror, a Black Crusade following in his wake.”

  At the Space Marine’s declaration, the wing-helmed guards stationed by the hall’s high pillars tensed. They understood the weight of this news. Or they thought they did, at least. Melancthon wondered if the true extent of this disaster eluded all but those who had seen, firsthand, the might which Abaddon now commanded.

  “My own chapter,” he continued, “the venerable Storm Warriors, suffered badly in the battle. We withdrew in such order as the situation permitted. The Neverborn followed us through the Immaterium as we fled. Our Gellar field failed. We attempted to drop out of Warp-space, but the assault more than crippled us. Several sections of our battlecruiser broke away. I was in one such section at the time. Had I not been stationed near a deployment bay and been able to launch a drop pod, I should have perished,” he said, shaking his head. “I have no way of knowing what happened to my brethren. I must rejoin them, lord, if it is possible. Have your augurs detect their presence in orbit?”

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  Marius glanced past Melancthon to Derrida, who stood a few paces behind the Space Marine. The mustached man exchanged a significant glance with his duke but said nothing.

  Marius sighed, “Alas, no, Lord Melancthon. It should be impossible for such a vessel to enter the system without word reaching us, but our sensor arrays malfunction at a rate never before seen. Even as we speak, my tech adepts hasten to address ten-thousand such problems. Even so, I fear that your companions have already left the system. Where sensors fail, my voidcraft patrols remain. And they bring no word to me of any encounter with a foreign vessel.”

  The duke rose from his throne, his robes rippling and shimmering around him, and strode down towards the Space Marine. Only now did Melancthon notice the power-sword belted to the duke’s waist, its hilt as ornate as any which the angel had ever seen.

  “Whatever the case may be,” said the duke, “you bring us grave tidings. I must see that preparations are made for the defense of the city. Rest assured, if the Despoiler comes to Luce Prime, he shall find us ready for his arrival.”

  “I shall accompany you, then, and assist where I may.”

  Behind Melancthon, Derrida spoke up. “That would be invaluable, my lord duke. The aid of a Space Marine would be a priceless asset.”

  The duke favored Derrida with a broad smile. “Yes, I rather think it would. Be assured, Lord Melancthon, no matter how dark the news you carry may be, I consider your arrival a sacred and auspicious boon. Space Marines laid the foundations of the city in ages long past. It has been too long, a hundred lifetimes of men, since one has set foot in our halls. But we have tools for such an occasion.”

  “Your grace?” Melancthon asked, confused. For all his resplendent glory and noble mien, this duke spoke in circles.

  “Captain Derrida, my most trusted servant, shall show you,” Marius explained. “Captain, would you please introduce Lord Melancthon to the Reliquary? I think he shall find such an opportunity reassuring.”

  Derrida smiled, bowing low. “As you wish, my lord.”

  A moment later, they were leaving, departing the presence of the Golden Duke. Bound for the Reliquary, whatever that signified. As they left, Melancthon found his attention drawn once again to the wooden murals. Space Marines, armored in rich hues of purple and gold, their armor bereft of insignia. Those were old artworks very old. He wondered what chapter they depicted, what saga might be sung about the warriors who first brought the God-Emperor’s light to distant world.

  Derrida noticed the shift in the angel’s gaze. As they walked, he shrugged. “Perhaps, in the days ahead, they shall make images and ikons to celebrate your arrival on Luce Prime, lord.”

  Perhaps they would, but Melancthon doubted it. He could imagine no future in which the galaxy did not labor under a grim darkness, an eternal war. The time of the artist had come to an end. Once, men had written their histories with paint and brush. Now, they would forge their future with blood and steel.

  “Follow me please, lord.”