Chapter 263: To Be Worthy of Sanguinius’ Blood (Patreon)

“Enough Tactical Dreadnought Armour, with arms and wargear, to equip three full Chapters of Astartes.”

"..."

Silence.

Chapter Master Malakim Phoros’ words echoed through the vaulted strategium chamber, their weight hanging like incense smoke over the assembled commanders.

Upon the Throne, Commander Dante straightened slightly, his ancient golden armour creaking with restrained motion. Beside him, Chief Librarian Mephiston’s crimson eyes widened slightly in disbelief. Around them, Chapter Masters and Captains of the Blood Angels’ successor Chapters murmured among themselves, the Flesh Tearers, the Angels Encarmine, the Angels Sanguine, and more.

The announcement was nothing short of astonishing.

Terminator armour, the sacred relics of the Adeptus Astartes, were among the rarest of the Imperium’s wargear. In most Chapters, only the veterans of the First Company were honoured to wear them, and even then, only a handful of suits might exist. Some poorer successor Chapters possessed none at all; their Chapter Masters might have considered themselves fortunate merely to wear a master-crafted suit of power armour.

Like the Lamenters before their near-ruin, many Chapters had lived in scarcity, guarding every relic and bolt round like a treasure. Now, they were offered abundance.

“The Talon Sector...” Dante’s mind sifted through old intelligence, trying to recall any reason that region could possess such bounty. “How many Forge Worlds lie within it?”

“None,” Phoros replied. “Yet their forges produce Terminator armour with ease.”

He did not elaborate, for even he scarcely understood how. The armour his warriors now bore came from the Talon manufactories. Vast, silent foundries said to be governed by cogitators more advanced than any known to the Adeptus Mechanicus. These printing forges, could fabricate any pattern for which they possessed the designs. Each suit was of the Indomitus pattern, perfectly reproduced from a single ancient relic once held by the Lamenters themselves.

Now, the Talon forges had reproduced it with uncanny perfection. The craftsmanship is... unconventional, but the results speak for themselves.

A ripple of disbelief coursed through the council. The Blood Angels and their kin knew well that the secrets of Tactical Dreadnought Armour were guarded jealously by the Adeptus Mechanicus, often lost to time and dogma. To create such relics freely was to defy the very boundaries of the Omnissiah’s mysteries.

“And the Lord of Talon?” Dante asked, his words steady but edged with curiosity and caution. “What does he seek in return for such… generosity?”

“Nothing,” Phoros said, sweeping his gaze over the gathered commanders. “He is... generous. A man with vision. He aids any who stand against Humanity’s foes. And that, my brothers, is precisely what we are.”

A murmur of cautious approval spread among the assembled commanders, impressed by this unseen benefactor’s apparent altruism. Yet not all were convinced. Some whispered that no mortal ruler gave gifts so freely. Others suspected treachery, perhaps the armour was tainted, set to betray its wearers in the heat of battle.

But the council hall was not filled solely with eager warriors. There were cynics among them, and survivors, hardened by millennia of treachery. They had lived through the machinations of High Lords, the false promises of Rogue Traders, and the lies of the Mechanicus.

At last, Dante spoke, his voice calm but resolute. “We shall accept the Lord of Talon’s generosity.”

The murmuring ceased, anticipation hanging heavy. All eyes turned toward the Lord of the Blood Angels, awaiting his decree of distribution.

The distant rumble of artillery from the Arx Angelicum echoed faintly through the fortress walls, a grim reminder that the Tyranid swarm drew ever closer. Even within the strategium, the war’s shadow could not be escaped.

Dante did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked to Mephiston. The Librarian met his gaze, understanding instantly the weight of Dante’s unspoken dilemma.

How to divide such a gift, without kindling resentment, jealousy, or the old rivalries that forever simmered between the sons of Sanguinius?

It was no simple matter. Even once distributed, the armour would not be instantly battle-ready. Terminator plate required training, discipline, and the spirit to bear its burden. And there was no time for such training now. The Tyranids advanced relentlessly toward the Arx Angelicum, indifferent to ceremony.

After long contemplation, Dante finally spoke. “Each Chapter shall grant its First Company and all commanding officers the honour of this armour.”

The words brought mixed reactions. For some Chapters, this was a blessing beyond imagining; for others, a cause for unease. A poorer Chapter could now field a company clad in Tactical Dreadnought Armour, a force of near-unstoppable veterans.

Yet whispers persisted. Some feared that certain lineages, such as the Flesh Tearers and Blood Drinkers, whose blood rage and the Black Rage claimed more sons each year, should not be entrusted with such devastating weaponry. What devastation might they wreak if they fell to the Red Thirst while encased in armour capable of tearing tanks apart with bare hands?

Yet Dante’s fairness was evident, he did not favour the Blood Angels above their kin.

Then, a voice rang out, “We will decline the gift.”

A Captain stepped forward, his scarred armour bearing the sigil of the Flesh Tearers. His tone was resolute, without bitterness.

Dante regarded him in silence. The Flesh Tearers fought even now upon Baal, their ranks dwindling as they held back the endless tide of Tyranids. The Captain’s words spoke not of pride, but of grim wisdom. He knew his warriors, knew the danger they posed to friend and foe alike.

It was a sentiment many in the chamber shared.

Rumours had long spread that the Flesh Tearers were nearing collapse into madness, their numbers dwindling as the curse of their gene-seed grew ever stronger. If any Chapter should be denied such relics, it would be them.

But Dante’s response defied their expectations.

“The Flesh Tearers shall receive fifty suits of Dreadnought Armour,” he declared. “Your Chapter Master will choose who among your number are of unbreakable will, they alone shall bear them.”

The Flesh Tearer captain bowed deeply and returned to his place. The decision, though surprising, was met with nods of approval. Even those who mistrusted the Flesh Tearers could not deny Dante’s fairness.

“Then it is decided,” Dante continued. “Each Chapter’s First Company shall receive its due. The remainder shall be placed in the Fortress Armoury, to replace losses as they come.”

That phrasing did not go unnoticed. The Blood Angels’ fortress-monastery housed the Vault of Angels, where relics of Sanguinius’ line were kept, yet Dante spoke of an armoury, not a vault. By doing so, he made clear that these suits would not be hoarded by the Blood Angels alone. They would remain available to all sons of Sanguinius, to draw upon when need arose.

The gesture was subtle but powerful, a message of unity to every successor Chapter, that the Blood Angels still saw them as kin, not subordinates.

“You are too cautious,” Mephiston said quietly, his thought brushing Dante’s mind through psychic communion.

“Perhaps,” Dante replied with a weary smile. Since the Defense of Baal, he had walked a careful path, balancing diplomacy and honour to keep the scattered bloodlines united.

Ever since the Codex Astartes had shattered the great Legions into independent Chapters, the Blood Angels had lost command over their descendants. The successor Chapters owed them respect, but not obedience.

Dante ruled by respect, not decree. And he knew how fragile that respect could be.

He could still recall the days when the sons of Sanguinius nearly turned on one another during the darkest wars of attrition. The Primarch’s shadow still bound them, but that bond was fragile.

“This council is concluded,” he announced.

In truth, it had never been meant as a council at all, merely a formal welcome for the newly arrived Lamenters. The other Chapters received the same treatment. Upon their arrival on Baal, Dante personally led a group to greet them, then led them into the Council Chamber to offer words of thanks and welcome. But the moment Phoros had revealed his generous gift, ceremony had turned into council.

The commanders rose, saluted, and departed, each to their own battlefront. The great chamber soon emptied, leaving only Dante and Phoros.

Phoros lingered, sensing Dante’s gaze upon him. The Lord of Angels approached, his face solemn beneath the weight of centuries.

“Three thousand suits of Terminator armour,” Dante said quietly. “It is a gift beyond measure... yet it does not change the truth. We are surrounded. The Tyranids are unending. Even now, victory lies beyond my sight.”

He paused, his tone softening. “You and your Chapter have a choice, Phoros. You came here of your own will, and you may yet leave, if you wish.”

It was not favoritism. Dante knew the Lamenters had endured more than most, and he suspected that any Chapter capable of crossing the void to Baal now might also be capable of escaping it.

But Phoros shook his head before Dante could finish.

“We will not flee,” he said firmly. “We will not dishonour the blood of Sanguinius. We stand, and we die, beside Baal.”

Dante regarded him for a long moment, then nodded solemnly.

“Then we are brothers indeed,” he said.

“We shall not fail the Blood of Sanguinius.”