'Let the galaxy burn.' It had become the war cry of our legion, dictated by the Warmistress herself; our genemother and primarch, Hora Lupercal. Our genemother had seen through the lies of the false Emperor, carving a purifying wound of liberation across his false empire, across the same worlds we'd brought into its fold. We were the Sons of Hora, sole inheritors of our mother's vision and an extension of her unyielding will; our armada would batter the very gates of Terra.
The Vengeful Spirit was astir with human slaves and astartes alike, frantic in preparation of another righteous crusade on an Imperial world: Cartas. The denizens of Cartas would be given a choice: Align with the Warmistress, or be crushed under the full might of her legion. Despite the infectious zeal spreading amongst my fellow astartes, there was an unusual coolness that crept into my bones, an unnatural giddiness I could not shake; Lady Hora wished to speak with me, privately. How had I garnered such favor? Her request had certainly roused jealousy amongst my brothers.
Our mother primarch often chose to self isolate, preferring to commune with the primordial powers and abdicating her responsibilities to Abaddon of all people. Though she had requested my audience specifically, a mere praetor!
I strode through the hissing halls of the warp-touched battleship, the heavy thud of ceramite boots trembling against its steely bowels. The sound of dozens of servitors carrying out their duties accompanied each step as well; the ship's decking hummed like an ancient engine. Even when it flew silent at the head of our fleet, the Vengeful Spirit felt alive beneath my feet. We were demigods, creatures far above those lesser mortals who sailed below us upon the surface of reality. Though every moment spent in my genemother's presence was a labor of the spirit, she had become a vortex of power, unnatural energies seeping from her pores and feeding into the very fabric of creation. Her soul blazed with life, bright enough to burn the eyes of even the most stalwart warriors.
"You may enter, praetor." Lady Hora's voice boomed with power, beckoning my consul.
I entered, my gaze wavering as it fell to the plated floors of her chamber. "I am your sword, my primarch. For what reason was this honor bestowed upon me?" The chamber was a dark, oppressive space, a place where even the shadows slunk into the blackness in reverence to their dark masters. I harkened back to the days of our subservience to the Emperor, to a time of gilded parades and polished panoplies. Lady Hora and her chambers were a far cry of what they had once been, she'd shed her bondage to the False Emperor and the blinding light of his guidance. In black whispers had the truth been bestowed to her; I could hear those whispers.
She raised her power-clawed hand and traced a pattern on the plasteel wall before me, gesturing towards her throne. It stood high atop a platform of blood-red metal, its carved face shaped into that of a wolf, baring vicious fangs that curved into a hungry snarl. "We are not bound by any master save for our own desires, my praetor. My will is absolute now, and you have been an exemplar of this."
"Me, my primarch." My heart thundered with pride. Even tainted, the inborn gift of Hora's charisma and her place as my genemother stirred a natural reaction in my breast.
Lady Hora nodded as she sat in her seat. The throne was made of bone-white material that seemed to emanate power like steam from a geyser. Her pale gauntleted hands rested upon either side of it, claws extended so they would pierce it's exterior she willed it. "I see all things. All the deeds of my sons. Though your purpose has yet to be fulfilled, your service in the first company is noted, and spoken of by your brothers." Glowering eyes shown like rubies, and upon Hora's typically impassive features, I found the beginnings of a smile.
The heavy plate of my terminator armor lost its weight at the caress of the Warmistress words. I felt invincible as I had never been. "I am your sword."
"You shall be more. The emperor created me and my sisters to fulfill his own perverse desires. We were bred to be tools. Weapons in his quest to subjugate humanity; he stole this power from the true Gods." Her nascent smile transformed into a snarl, "His love was a lie." Hora found her composure and flattened her affect once again, her voice once again a whispery rasp, "He bred you, my son, and your brothers, from our potent genes. You were my true inheritance. In you, I shall perfect the Emperor's flawed aspirations." She approached, every step a careful study of balance and poise, accompanied by an intoxicating aura of power.
Her presence seeped through my being, enlivening something primal within me as she stroked along the length of my body with an extended hand, drawing lines across my chestplate with adamantium claws. A shiver of electrified passion ran down my spine; with the slightest application, Hora could've skewered my heart.
"I am a primarch, yes, but I am also a woman, my son. I possess all the capabilities by father so pathetically attempted to imitate." Her free hand, unburdened by the weight of a powerclaw, reached up and gripped my head in her grasp, pulling it close. "The children I bear shall be stronger than any astartes, perhaps even stronger than my sisters; they will need a father." Elation singed my senses as if charred by plasma fire. My mother's words of encouragement swelled like thunder as the walls of the chamber rang in chorus with the echoing power of Hora's words.
"I am your sword," I repeated, breathless and delirious. "I am the blade that cuts through the flesh and bone of your enemies. I am the shield that shields your allies. I am your spear that pierces their hearts and minds, and your arm that holds them tight. For you, my primarch, I will do anything."
Hora's smile returned. "Then serve me." Her face descended until her mouth hovered inches away from mine. The stink of the warp rose to the surface of my nostrils; the dark, cloying smell of decay.