The Inner Fire, a Glorious Queen-class battleship stretching 28 kilometers in length, drifted solemnly in Terra's atmospheric orbit. A vessel once forgotten by history now bore the might and glory of the Imperium anew. She floated there with silent vigilance—calm, proud, and unshakably loyal.
Restored by the will of the returning Primarch, she had become the personal flagship of Dukel. This revered warship had risen alongside him, a witness to one victory after another. She pledged her undying loyalty and had, ever since, safeguarded every loyal servant of the Imperium within her steel-clad hull.
But now, the queen stirred.
Subtle vibrations rippled through her decks. Dampers jingled, and the sacred Machine Spirit sang softly—a hymn of joy thrumming through the walls. Those aboard the Soul Fire could feel it, a change in the air. An aura of quiet exultation permeated the vessel.
And then they understood.
Doom had returned.
The Inner Fire rejoiced for her long-lost warrior.
For five years, Doom had wandered the stars in the name of the Lord of Destruction. He fought hundreds of battles across distant systems, carrying the legend of his father—Dukel—across the stars.
Now, a single Fire Wing fighter descended from the void, cutting a line of fire through the atmosphere as it touched down on the hangar deck of the Soul Fire.
The boarding ramp hissed open. Doom emerged at the front, flanked by the Chosen of Krieg—his honor guard. Twenty-two Doom Slayers marched behind him, their power armor painted in the signature hues of black and green. Despite their efforts to clean the blood from their suits, the crimson stains still lingered in the crevices—unspoken symbols of the unrelenting war they had waged.
Their armor bore medals of honor, purity seals, and sanctified inscriptions chronicling their deeds. Upon their left pauldrons gleamed the golden sigil of the Second Legion. United in discipline and spirit, their synchronized footfalls resounded across the deck like a war drum—unyielding, ever-ready.
Even within the Primarch's flagship, they scanned their surroundings as if preparing for ambush. Each was a living weapon—an angel of death, a warlord in his own right.
"Make way for Commander Doom!" cried the herald, breathless and fervent. "Savior of the Southern Sector, Warden of the Eye of Terror, and Son of the Warmaster!"
The hangar buzzed with activity as officials, scribes, and nobles parted like a tide. The herald's declaration sent a ripple of astonishment through the crowd. Few of them had ever seen a Doom Slayer, let alone the famed commander himself.
Though unfamiliar, the awe of mortals was instinctive. They yielded humbly, their eyes filled with reverence.
The Doom Slayers advanced like predators, swift and silent despite their heavy armor. Their gait was practiced, confident. The banners of the Soul Fire flapped faintly as they passed, bearing the iconography of the Second Legion.
At the hangar's exit, a welcoming party awaited them—soldiers of the Heart Network, unmistakable to Doom. Though they wore standard armor, their discipline, formation, and posture marked them as elite.
From among them stepped a figure cloaked in blood-red.
She moved like a wraith, pale as moonlight with snow-white hair and a face as delicate as porcelain. Yet there was no trace of fragility—only silent strength. Her armor bore the sacred tricolor of black, gold, and crimson. Though she wielded no weapon, her presence alone could calm storms or stir them.
"Doom Slayer, welcome back to the Inner Fire."
Efilar's voice was melodic and composed. Her cloak shifted gently as she lifted it in formal greeting.
"And welcome home, Doom."
"Greetings, Lady Efilar," Doom replied, bowing his head with equal reverence.
To nearly all aboard the ship, this saint was untouchable. Even Doom—eldest son of Dukel—deferred to her grace.
"Your chambers have been restored," she said, her gaze falling briefly on the blood in his armor seams. "You've grown stronger through battle—but it has weathered you, too."
"I need no rest. My father's power sustains me." Doom's voice was resolute. "I must see him at once."
"Something has happened?" Efilar asked, already sensing the urgency.
"Near the Eye of Terror, a dark convergence gathers. The enemies of the Imperium stir in unison. I need my father's wisdom."
Efilar nodded. "Then come with me."
Led by the saint, the procession advanced toward the innermost sanctum of the ship—the Primarch's domain. They passed through the immense structure of the Soul Fire's mechanical foundry, the heart of its innovation and defense.
Doom knew this place well. During their long campaigns, he had often walked beside his father through these hallowed halls. Here was where Dukel spent most of his time—his workshop, his laboratory, his cathedral of reason.
The Doom Slayers took in the changed scenery with quiet nostalgia. Though familiar, the world had evolved in their absence.
The elevator bore them to the summit—the dome of the Dukel Mechanical Workshop. This was the crown jewel of the vessel: a massive, cogitator-laden laboratory enclosed beneath a domed steel sky. It was here that the Primarch's most daring designs were born, where Magos and adepts from across the Imperium toiled in pursuit of innovation.
They passed through grand archways and vaulted passages until they reached the great entrance to Dukel's personal sanctum.
But before they could enter, guards emerged—twenty-two in number.
Combat nuns in the livery of the Psychic Guard, each armed and armored, formed an unbreachable wall before the door.
One stepped forward.
She was different—her hair dark as midnight, her eyes sharp and inquisitive. Her black and crimson power armor gleamed with litanies of defiance. She stood at ease, a stark contrast to her sisters' solemnity.
"Efilar, why did you bring him so quickly? You were supposed to wait."
Shivara, Captain of the Psychic Guard, crossed her arms with a smirk.
Then her gaze shifted to Doom.
"Look at you, young one. Five years, and you've grown into your armor." She examined him more closely. When she spotted the Primarch effigy still hanging from his belt, her eyes softened.
She nodded approvingly.
Doom had been the first Slayer—the prototype of Dukel's vision. Shivara, in turn, had been the first nun entrusted with a Doom Puppet.
Though Shivara's demeanor was casual—sometimes more warrior than sister—her bond with the Slayers ran deep. And none more so than with Doom himself.
"Doom, I advise you to wait here a while."
"Lady Shivara, please—let me through. The matter is urgent," Doom said, his tone respectful, though edged with urgency.
At his words, Shivara clicked her tongue in exaggerated dismay, as if he'd grown two extra heads.
"Well, well. Five years away, and you've stopped listening to my advice already?" she teased, walking up to him with a knowing grin. Her gauntlet rose and tapped a medal affixed to his chestplate. She leaned in and read the inscription aloud with mock reverence:
"Lord Doom, Savior of the Southern Segmentum."
"Lady Shivara…" Doom smiled helplessly under his helm. "I truly do have pressing business."
Shivara gave a long sigh, then turned on her heel. "Fine. But mark my words—you'll regret it." She waved a hand, and the great doors of the laboratory creaked open with a resonant groan of ancient machinery.
The moment the metal parted, a cacophony assaulted them—shouting, arguing, the furious rustle of parchment—and the oily scent of ink and machine lubricant rolled out like fog.
Doom stepped in, his Slayers flanking him, their steps careful despite the strangeness of the scene. Among the clamor, they spotted familiar faces: Magos Cawl, Magos Visi, Magos Karen—high-ranking adepts of the Mechanicum, voices of reason and madness both.
They were locked in furious debate over a squat, humming engine. One group of white-haired engineers wrestled over blueprints like schoolchildren. The towering red-robed Magi, wrapped in steel tendrils and sensor arrays, whispered urgently over auspex displays and data-scrolls.
"Doom, you've returned," came a frigid mechanical voice from the crowd. Mars' current Fabricator General, Gris, stepped forward, servo-limbs clinking and sparking faintly as he gestured.
"Lord Dukel is in his sanctum. Down that corridor."
Doom bowed respectfully. "I thank you for the direction, Lord Gris."
"Hmph. Don't thank him," Shivara muttered beside him. "That one's full of ulterior motives." She crossed her arms, glaring at the retreating Magos. "All tech-priests have filthy minds."
Then she paused.
"...Except His Highness, of course. The Primarch's virtue remains as radiant as a supernova."
Doom wisely kept his silence, his face unreadable beneath his helm, and continued toward the corridor.
With each step forward, the air seemed to heat. Doom felt an old, familiar courage stir within his enhanced heart, a song of war and faith humming in his gene-seed.
The Father of Genes awaited him.
Yet, as they approached the end of the corridor, a thunderous voice exploded from the chamber beyond:
"Idiot! Fool! Trash!"
Doom flinched. Even encased in ceramite, the fury of the Primarch's voice landed like a blow.
"I don't know whether to be impressed or disgusted—who had the gall to put this design on my desk?!"
A crashing sound—paper tearing.
"Get it out of my sight and do it again. If I see anything this asinine one more time, I'll rip out your bio-neural cores and stuff them into your cogitator ports!"
Then came a second tirade:
"Who designed this one?! I explicitly said accuracy comes before firepower. And you give me a sniper rifle loaded with annihilation rounds? Effective kill radius: one hundred kilometers? One hundred?! That's not a sniper rifle—that's a goddamn planetary cleansing warhead! What, are we sniping continents now?"
A meek voice piped up: "It is meant to express the fury of the Omnissiah, my lord—"
"Fury of the Omnissiah, my ass!" Dukel bellowed. "If the Omnissiah saw this, He'd personally invert your implants!"
The crashing resumed. More paper shredded.
"Next! Oh, you're wondering if I think your design is trash too? No, no—you misunderstand. I think all of you are trash."
A pause.
"Thank you for your wisdom, my lord," someone said faintly.
The office doors swung open, and a stream of dejected Magos and sages filed out like scolded schoolchildren, ignoring Doom and his Slayers entirely.
Doom turned to Shivara, deadpan. "Lady Shivara, is it too late to return to my quarters?"
He gestured vaguely. "I'm starting to feel that... perhaps... this matter isn't as urgent as I thought."
Shivara smiled beatifically, clasping her hands like a preacher.
"What do you think?"
Doom said nothing, but the resigned look on his face spoke volumes.
The Sisters all but shoved him forward.
Now standing at the door to the Primarch's sanctum, Doom exhaled slowly and stepped inside.
Dukel sat behind an obsidian desk, quill in hand, sketching on a datasheet with the rapid precision of a master artisan. Surrounded by stacks of blueprints and tomes, the Primarch looked less like a warlord and more like a savant.
Even now, Doom marveled at how fluidly his father switched from general to scholar—both identities worn with effortless nobility.
Then Dukel glanced up.
"Doom," he said, the name rising like a prayer between manuscripts and machine spirits.
"I haven't seen you in five years, boy. It's good to see you."
Doom dropped to one knee in knightly salute, his armored form thudding softly against the steel floor.
"I beg forgiveness, my lord. I came unannounced, and with grim tidings besides."
Dukel's voice was calm, even amused. "Forgiveness? For what?"
"I've disturbed your work. And... I bring ill news."
"In the past five years, you've always brought me good news," Dukel said, his smile evident even in his voice. "Perhaps I never told you this—but sometimes, I wish you'd bring me bad news. As your father, I want to share your burdens. But you've always been too perfect—independent, proud—so I could only say this to you face-to-face, now."
Doom lifted his gaze, momentarily thrown off. He thought he understood Dukel—his gene-father, proud and invincible. Every Doom Slayer modeled himself after that image: the embodiment of strength and certainty. But now, Dukel's words ran counter to all expectations.
And yet, Doom didn't reject the sentiment. It was foreign—this warmth—but not unwelcome. Not something he'd ever known as a mortal, nor as a son of Krieg.
"Then, my lord, I ask for your help," he said. "Please grant me your wisdom."
Dukel looked at him from across the desk, the fondness in his gaze deepening.
"Stand up, boy. There's no need to kneel here."
Doom rose. The long campaign against the daemonic incursions had honed him further. Towering at over three meters, he stood taller than the palace guards. His armor shifted with weighty grace, the metallic clangs echoing like distant war drums.
"You look well—stronger," Dukel said, appraising him like a craftsman his finest blade. "The work of reconquering the galaxy suits you, my son. Now—tell me what weighs so heavily that even you hesitate to speak it."
Doom stood at attention, his voice clear and unembellished.
"We detected anomalous warp activity at the Vigilant Star outpost near the Eye of Terror. My brothers and I have spent a week investigating. Multiple tendrils of dark power are converging there. And recently… more signs have emerged. Old scars reopening."
He paused.
"You may speak freely here," Dukel said calmly, unfazed.
"I suspect…" Doom hesitated, then finished, "I suspect Horus has returned there."
A flicker of something—nostalgia, perhaps pain—crossed Dukel's eyes. He did not speak.
"And not just him," Doom continued. "I believe… others may be involved."
"You suspect more of my brothers," Dukel said, tone now like a blade drawn halfway. "Mortarion. Lorgar. Perturabo?"
"I can't be certain. Forgive me, my lord. When I recognized the threat, I ordered a full withdrawal. We returned directly to Terra."
Dukel rose from his desk, walked forward, and placed a firm hand on Doom's armored shoulder.
"You chose well. War is not fought with blind courage—it is fought by striking the enemy's weakness with your own unbreakable will. You didn't let pride lure you into a death trap. You gathered what you could, retreated wisely, and returned to warn the Imperium."
Doom lowered his head.
"Thank you for your grace, my lord. I claim no merit. I only did what was necessary."
...
T.N:
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