Chapter Text
The scent of incense hung heavy in the air of the Divinats Hall. The vast chamber had only stained glass windows in the ceiling, allowing a soft, muted sunlight to filter through. The floor was adorned with intricate patterns, depicting symbols of the sun, moon, and stars. Along the walls hung masterfully woven tapestries in shades of gold, silver, and blue. Yet all the hall’s grandeur was overshadowed by the three thrones standing against the wall, facing the gold-adorned entrance door.
Gold knelt beside the central throne, which was nearly entirely made of gold, resting on a cushion of deep crimson velvet. Encrusted with rubies and other gemstones, the Throne was a true masterpiece. The man seated upon it did not grant her even a glance. The Sun Divinat lounged comfortably in his cushioned seat, his chin resting casually on his hand. His golden robe and the tattoos adorning his muscular arms were proof of his divinity—one of the three Divinats, the Sun.
The Moon Divinat sat upright on her silver throne to his right, gazing down at the current petitioner with furrowed brows. The Star Divinat had laid himself back lazily, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Gold’s gaze returned to the Sun Divinat as he began to speak. His jet-black, intricately braided hair caught the light, giving him a faint halo. He leaned forward. The merchant they had received had been insolent—so insolent that the three gods had decreed his death. Yet they loved their games, loved to prolong the inevitable.
The merchant, dressed in vibrant fabrics, must have sensed the shift, for he bent even further forward in his kneeling position.
Gold’s stomach tightened as the Moon Divinat gave her “angel” a signal. The muscular man rose from his cushion, his silver hair falling in smooth strands over his shoulders. Like Gold, his clothing was more ornament than necessity. Where almost translucent, gold-red fabrics clung to her body, he wore loose, silver-blue silk trousers, and silver chains coiled tightly around his upper arms and neck.
Gold’s own chains jingled softly as she moved. They fell in slight, golden waves over her shoulders and arms. They sat loosely and were light, barely perceptible when worn—just like her earrings. Yet the collar around her neck felt much heavier, tightly pressed against her throat. Made of gold, of course.
The "angel" of the Moon Divinat drew his sword. Gold owned none, just like the angel of the Star Divinat. She was a chronicler, a translator, a biologist, and decoration. He was an executioner, an angel of death. The young woman seated beside the throne of the Star Divinat—just as muscular as the death angel—gave a thin smile.
The merchant made a sound that was half a laugh, half a choke. “Please…” he pleaded. He looked as though he might bolt from the room at any moment, but the countless guards in the hall would ensure he never made it far. Their golden armour was both a warning and a sign of to their privileges.
"You doubt the will of your gods?" The voice of the Moon Divinat was as quiet as ever, yet it carried an unmistakably dominant undertone. She was the Mistress of the Night, and the merchant—kneeling twenty meters away and three meters below her—was nothing more than a speck of dust beneath her silver boots. Gold lowered her head as her lord and master, the Sun Divinat, raised his hand. The sight of his ringed fingers silenced Moon.
Sun nodded to the Moon Angel, who stepped down from the platform where the thrones stood. He landed gracefully, absorbing the impact with practiced ease. The merchant lifted his gaze. The gathered nobles gasped. Gold whimpered softly. Did he dare to look the gods in the eyes? No. He was looking her in the eyes.
"Angel!" pleaded the merchant, throwing himself flat on the ground. "Please! Ask them for mercy for me, a lowly servant of the gods!" Gold lowered her head. Her golden hair, braided almost as intricately as that of the Sun Divinat, fell into her face. That was what she was to the "ordinary" people. An angel. A symbol of beauty, of intelligence. But she knew she was no better than the man begging her for mercy. She was a slave, an ornament. Perhaps even a pet.
The Sun Divinat laughed softly. "Do it," said the Moon Divinat coldly. She was not as cruel as Star. She merely wanted to set an example. The blood on the ground, which would not be wiped away until the end of the day, and the corpse, carried past the rows of waiting petitioners, were perfect for that.
A scream faded into the goddamn, incense-tainted air.
Gold lowered her head and bit her lip. Sun clicked his tongue as the guards let the next petitioner in. She immediately fell to her knees upon seeing the three "deities." Warm fingers grasped Gold’s chin, and she looked up. The Sun Divinat smiled as he held out a purple fruit, barely the size of his thumbnail. "The terror will pass." His deep voice filled the air, and Gold nodded silently. The chains on her shoulders clinked as she leaned forward to take the offered fruit with her lips.
Sun laughed again and ran his fingers through her hair before turning to the petitioner. Sweetness exploded in Gold’s mouth. She would never dare to reject a gift—never. Even though she hated it. The Sun Divinat’s fingers remained in her hair as he gently granted the nobleman, who stood high in his favor, permission to marry. Star scoffed as the woman left the hall. "You spoil her." He spoke in his quiet, intense voice. There was no doubt about what he thought of it.
Sun merely raised his eyebrows. A slave, dressed in white robes, placed the noblewoman’s offering on the pedestal. Gold, silver, sapphires. And a gift for the angel of the god she primarily worshipped. Gold wasn’t sure if she could stomach the honeycakes.
Before she could consider making a grave mistake and rejecting the food, the receiver in her ear crackled. She exchanged a glance with the Star Angel and gave a brief nod. The woman took a deep breath, then lowered her head so far that it touched the ground.
"Honored Divinat." She spoke as humbly as a woman of her stature could. The Sun Divinat removed his hand from Gold’s hair. Moon sighed in annoyance. "Luminous One." Now, she addressed Sun directly. "The Skywatcher has sent word. A fleet is approaching Volamene. They call themselves the ninth Legion." Her gaze shifted to Gold. "In Latin.", she said softly. Sun nodded. "Then let us hear what they have to say."
Sanguinius' eyebrows furrowed as he heard the words transmitted from the planet's surface to the Red Tear. It had taken some time to find the correct frequency for communication, and Raldoron wondered whether it had been the right decision to broadcast the message aloud on the bridge. "Repeat that." Sanguinius' melodic voice cut through the stunned silence that had gripped the crew. Buttons were pressed, dials adjusted. A gentle voice—neither distinctly male nor female—echoed across the deck. First in several unfamiliar languages. Then, in a heavily accented version of Low Gothic.
"In the name of the Holy Divinat, we welcome you to the Volamene System. The Triad of the Eternal Heavens—praised be their infinite names—has received the message you sent to our Skywatcher. Despite your..."
The voice hesitated for the briefest of moments.
"Despite your insolence, the gods have agreed to grant you an audience in their temple. Enclosed is a copy of the protocol for such an occasion, which we have recorded. We strongly recommend that you listen to it before entering the temple, for blasphemy is punishable by death."
Sanguinius let the message play a third time. Raldoron wondered why. He could have recited it flawlessly from memory after the first hearing. The crew grew restless. Sanguinius' wings drooped ever so slightly, and his flight feathers spread just a bit.
"Blasphemy..." murmured a member of the Sanguinary Guard, shaking his head. "They worship gods." "Xenos?" Raldoron mused aloud. Sanguinius turned to the gathered Astartes and officers. The Master of the Astropaths stood not far from Raldoron, alongside a member of the Mechanicum.
“No…” Sanguinius said softly, his magnificent voice laced with sorrow. “The bio-scans revealed nothing of the sort. They worship their own as gods. As harsh gods, or so the message seems to suggest.”
“Will we accept the audience, my Lord?” Raldoron asked, still unable to fully detach his thoughts from the words. Religion was something that mocked science and logic—a flaw they had encountered on so many worlds, rendering their inhabitants impervious to outside influence, even when such influence carried undeniable advantages.
Sanguinius’ features hardened. “We will. If there is a chance we can win them over through diplomacy, we will take it. The scans indicate that the palace of these ‘deities’”—he spoke the word with obvious hesitation—“spans the size of a city. Countless people could be harmed if we are not careful enough.”
He took a deep breath, as if he needed a moment to collect himself. In that instant, Raldoron wasn’t sure if he truly did.
The voice… the voice had done something to him. He had felt strangely soothed and comforted after hearing it, despite the fact that they were in a situation where the exact opposite should have been the case. It unsettled him deeply that his brothers—and even the Primarch—showed signs of the same effect. The planet’s inhabitants had likely chosen this speaker deliberately, someone who could influence people in such a way.
Because the only ones who should have been able to do such a thing were the Conveniens. And Sanguinius’ Conveniens was most likely dead—just like all the others. Unlike the Primarchs, they were too fragile to survive on their own, and without external aid—or even with it, on hostile worlds—they would perish, betrayed by their own bodies.
The train of thought pulled him back into a mindset more fitting for the moment. Sanguinius lifted his wings once more, and the faintest rustling drew the bridge’s attention. “Send a response,” he ordered curtly. Though it seemed to go against his instincts, he added, “A polite response.”
Immediately, the bridge sprang into motion. Raldoron approached the Primarch and Azkaellon, who turned to face him as soon as he was close enough. “The voice…” Raldoron began. Azkaellon nodded grimly.
Raldoron looked at Sanguinius—a task difficult enough on its own. “My Lord. Do you believe it to be a form of sorcery?” Sanguinius’ features hardened.
“We must consider every possibility. Sorcery, technology…” He hesitated.
“Conveniens,” Azkaellon finished. It pained Raldoron to see Sanguinius’ expression in that moment. The Primarch confirmed the statement—more a question than an assertion—with a brief nod.
“Everything,” he repeated, and the anguish in his voice was unmistakable. “That is why I ask you all to be especially cautious now. If my—if our Conveniens is down there on that planet and was the one who spoke this message, there is a strong chance that he sees himself as part of this system and believes in the divinity of these rulers. There is a possibility that he is one of them.”He took a step forward.
“Even if that is the case,” he continued, “nne of our soldiers—whether human or Astartes—will harm him.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Raldoron affirmed. The thought of having a Conveniens among them was a good one—a thought that gave him hope. „And you have seen… nothing?“
„No.“ A sigh.
“Nevertheless,” Sanguinius continued, his voice taking on a stern edge, “he will be held accountable for every crime he may have committed. Every single one. For his creation does not grant him—any more than it grants the Primarchs—the right to act against the moral code.”
For a brief moment, they were silent.
“I will relay the orders,” Raldoron was the one to break the silence. Sanguinius nodded absentmindedly. Raldoron knew how slim the chances were of ever finding his Conveniens. They did not draw as much attention as the Primarchs—they were gentle and… weak. But hope, as was well known, was the last feeling to die.
A dangerous thing.