Guilliman passed the last podiums, where stood numerous iterations of Belisarius Cawl’s new Mark X power armour, all designed for differing combat roles. Between them stood more men from the Praecental Guard’s Naval Division, their energy pikes dipping in salute as he passed.

From the Grand Hall of Armament, Guilliman went into his personal arming rooms. Serfs and servitors stood waiting for him, a pair of tech-priests at their head. The pieces of the Armour of Fate were neatly arrayed upon a malachite slab covered with blue velvet. The suit was of Archmagos Cawl’s design, like so much else, and superior to the Armour of Reason Guilliman had worn in his previous life, and which now resided in the reliquaries of Macragge.

The Victrix Guard were there to greet him. Captain Cato Sicarius led them.

‘My lord,’ said Sicarius. The Victrix Guard got down on bended knee.

‘Rise,’ commanded the primarch. He entered an outsized arming frame and took off his robe. The man he handed it to was almost lost in its folds as he took it.

Guilliman already wore a dark grey bodyglove, its surface marked with the dull silver of inactive circuits. They gathered in complicated whorls where the metal interface ports that studded his body poked through the glove.

‘You are ready, my lord?’ asked the senior of the tech-priests, his voice emanating from voxmitters embedded in his back.

‘Arm me,’ commanded the primarch.

Guilliman held out his hands. At the orders of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the arming team began to assemble the armour around their lord. It was so massive that dedicated servitors equipped with industrial-grade augmetics were required to move each piece. The boots were brought forward first in soft-gripped cargo pincers. They alone weighed hundreds of kilograms.

‘Captain Sicarius, report to me,’ said Guilliman.

Sicarius approached the arming cage with the easy swagger of a master swordsman. Captain of the Second Company, Master of the Watch, Grand Duke of Talassar, Knight Champion of Macragge and High Suzerain of Ultramar, his titles fitted his ego.

As always, he rested his hand on the pommel of his sheathed broadsword. Guilliman only recalled seeing Sicarius’ right hand off the blade a couple of times. Despite his many honours, the captain had been headstrong. His stubbornness reminded Guilliman a little of Thiel, and the primarch had spent considerable time forming Sicarius into something other than merely an exemplary warrior.

‘My lord,’ said Sicarius. ‘The enemy is gathering in strength around the third planet of the system. Elements of the Word Bearers, Black Legion, Iron Warriors and various renegade forces act in concert. They noted our presence as soon as we departed the Mandeville point, but have not moved from the planet to intercept. The Word Bearers are the greatest contingent.’