Feather

by Norhem

Summary:

With the creation of the Primarchs, an additional twenty-one beings, known as Conveniens, were brought into existence. Each of them perfectly matches one of the Primarchs, from appearance to abilities. They were created to remind the Primarchs—the demigod-like sons of the Emperor—of their humanity and the cause they are truly fighting for. Physically designed to be weak, with primarily intelligence-based abilities, it remains unclear whether they will ever be found—and if so, whether they will survive.

The Blood Angels find Sanguinius' Conveniens on a recently discovered World, ruled by the so-called Divinat, worshipped as the Angel of those who claim to be gods.

Chapter 1: Golden

Notes:

I said around two weeks and I'm sorry. Updates on Friday, enjoy.

This will be told a lot from the Convenien's perspective, Gold.

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.

Chapter 2: Routine

Summary:

This chapter is only from Gold's perspective, showing the circumstances of her life.

Gold’s fingers clenched into the silken blanket she had loosely draped over herself that morning. A searing pain exploded in her back as soon as she turned onto her side. In that moment, she was grateful she hadn’t eaten dinner, as another wave of nausea crashed over her. With trembling limbs, she dragged herself out of bed and stumbled into the adjoining bathroom. She barely managed to pull the hair away from her face before foam and bile spilled onto the floor.

The pain in her back could mean only one thing—her wings were growing back. That dreadful mutation, the undeniable proof that she deserved everything that had been done to her—unlike the innocent people around her. Gold gagged again, her fingers searching for the raised formations just beneath her shoulder blades. When she found them and ran her hand over them, her fingertips came away sticky with blood.

Still trembling, she rose to her feet and staggered toward the wardrobe on unsteady legs. She had to inform the Sun Divinat. He needed to know that it was happening again—that the flaw was once more beginning to surface.

What time was it?

A glance at the colorful, elegantly designed device on the wall told her that he was likely in the bathhouse by now. Gold was not properly dressed to face him. She was not even close to it.

Frantically, she began searching the wardrobe for at least one robe she could put on by herself—without the help of the slaves who usually did it.

The slaves of a slave.

At first, she had refused their services. But after several of the humans, assigned to her had disappeared—never to be seen again—she had abandoned her futile resistance.

Enough people had already died for the lifestyle forced upon her, and she would do everything in her power to keep that number as small as possible.

At last, she found a deep red robe embroidered with golden suns and hastily pulled it over her head. With still-trembling fingers, she fumbled with the fastenings until the garment sat somewhat properly. Hopefully, the color of the robe would conceal the blood—thick and sluggish—that trickled steadily from the places where her wings emerged. Gold ran a shaky hand through her hair. It would have to do.

Barefoot, she opened the heavy door to her chambers, making sure to close it slowly behind her. The hallway was empty, save for the flower pots lining both sides beneath the windows. But as soon as she left the side corridor behind, the space grew more crowded. At the sight of her, servants dropped to their knees, their gazes lowered.

Gold held her head high. She could not afford to show weakness—not now. Every fleeting moment would be passed along eagerly, if only because she was the Angel of the Sun. She was the only one allowed to touch him—except, of course, for the women he took to his bed. Those “Chosen” were all killed after twenty years, once the Sun Divinat deemed them too old.

Gold could barely bring herself to meet the eyes of the people she passed. Even the highest-ranking nobles averted their gazes or nodded to her in reverence. They treated her as something she was not. An angel. Something divine.

Suddenly, something tugged at her robe. Gasps of shock and outrage filled the air. Gold stopped and turned back. Compassion clenched her heart. A young man knelt trembling on the ground, his fist clutching a corner of Gold’s robe as if it were the only thing in the world that still held meaning for him.

“Exalted One,” he began, his voice uneven. “Please forgive me, but my sister is pregnant. I don’t know… I don’t know if she will survive.” The man wore the white linen of a slave, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. Gold waited for him to continue.

“I have no offering to give you,” the man said softly, barely audible. Still, one of the nearby nobles scoffed in outrage. He stepped forward, reaching for the slave, intending to pull him away from Gold—as if he were something lesser.

Gold raised a hand to stop him.

It pained her to see the faith the palace’s inhabitants placed in her. But she had no divine abilities—not even magical ones. The noble opened his mouth to protest, but Gold silenced him with a cold stare. Slowly, she knelt before the man, who had released her robe.

“Your sister is Fay, isn’t she?” she asked quietly. “She works with me.”

“Yes, Angel of Mercy. She told me she was allowed to comb your hair.” Gold did her best to hide her shock. Allowed? To comb someone’s hair?

“Then you must be Aren. She told me about you.” The man’s face lit up with an emotion Gold couldn’t name.

“Angel…” he whispered. “Please, give her your blessing. I have no offering, but I’ll do anything.”

Gold placed her hand on his head—a gesture she had performed countless times before. The noble beside her was practically seething with rage.

“Aren. This is for Fay. May she live to see her child grow. She—and you—both have my blessing.” The man collapsed inward, overcome. Before he could thank her for mere words, Gold turned to the noble. It was time to wield her power at court.

“He is under my protection,” she said coldly. “Remember that when I am gone.”

With her head held high and far more confidence than she truly felt, she strode down the corridor. The guards before the bathhouse door did not so much as flinch as Gold reached for the handle. She opened it herself and stepped into the spacious room that served as a changing area. The floor was pleasantly warm beneath her bare feet, and the cream-colored tiles lent the space a welcoming atmosphere.

Yet nothing in the world could soothe Gold’s thoughts—not after this moment, nor with what lay ahead. Steam rose from the vast pool embedded in the center of the room. Surrounded by his slaves, the Sun Divinat lounged in the water, his naked body half-submerged.

A poem could have described him as perfect without exaggeration—healthy skin, sharply defined muscles, and long, jet-black hair that, for once, was not braided. With half-lidded eyes, the Sun Divinat gazed at Gold, a heavy smile spreading across his lips. His hand lifted elegantly from the water, and with a casual flick of his wrist, he dismissed his slaves from the room.

The servants left the room as quietly as possible, their eyes averted.

Gold stepped closer, her head bowed in respect, hands neatly folded before her.She knelt beside the pool, trying to suppress the trembling in her fingers.“Gold…” the Sun Divinat drawled, his dark eyes studying her. “I  hope you have a good reason for disturbing me here.”

Gold’s heartbeat quickened.

“Yes, Luminous One,” she said softly, squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as she could.

His nakedness didn‘t matter to her. She had already oiled, massaged, and dressed him. Her body, though beautiful, was equally indifferent to him. To him, she was not a woman who existed solely to satisfy him. In his eyes, she wasn‘t even a woman. She was a trophy to be admired, to be kept—especially if she could also be useful.

Gold exhaled shakily. "My wings... they are growing."

In the ensuing silence, Gold opened her eyes. The Sun Divinat looked at her, his lips twisted in unmistakable disappointment.

"Last time," he said coldly, "we cut down to the bone and completely removed the tissue." He furrowed his well-shaped eyebrows. "How can they grow back?" His voice grew louder, sharper at the end of the sentence.

Gold flinched. "I... I don't know. I'm sorry." She lowered her head even further.

Sun clicked his tongue. "Show me," he ordered.

Gold nodded and stood up. Carefully, she unfastened the clasps of her robe and let the fabric slide from her shoulders.

She had always been small, almost gaunt, no matter how much Sun had fed her during the council sessions. No matter how often she spent time in the training halls, she never gained muscle or fat on her bones. The absence of her breasts, of course, meant that Sun never saw her as a full woman. The lack of male genitalia ensured that she could not be considered a man either. She hated it—because at the end of the day, she still knew best who she truly was.

The fabric of her robe fell in elegant folds to the ground, and the damp air of the bathhouse brushed against her skin. She ignored the uncomfortable sensation and turned around to show the Sun Divinat her back.

The growths seemed to ache and tingle even more as Sun’s scrutinizing gaze passed over them.

"No feathers yet," the Sun Divinat observed. "Good."

Gold flinched inwardly but forced herself to silence her own thoughts. Her wings were nothing to mourn. They were unnatural—and if a god said so, then it had to be true.

"Kneel."

Gold obeyed immediately. Her loose hair—far too long for her to manage properly on her own—fell over her back at once. With still-trembling fingers, she parted the strands, letting them hang over her shoulders.

Her heartbeat grew louder, pounding more fiercely in her ears as the Sun Divinat lifted his hand from the water and touched the growths.

Pain shot up her back, and she flinched.

"Captain?"

The Sun Divinat’s voice was as cold as ice.

"Yes, Luminous One."

From the row of guards standing against the bathhouse wall, a figure stepped forward, clad in golden armor. Gold drew a sharp breath as she saw the sword at his side, and the pain in her back seemed to intensify.

"You know the routine, Captain. Remove her wings. As deep as possible." The man nodded.

Gold remembered his name again as he met her gaze. Alexander Denan. He had cut off her wings the first time she had set foot in the palace. He had done it countless times since. And he would do it again.

Denan stepped before Gold, and she let her hair fall over her face so he wouldn't see her trembling lips. She had always been bad at dealing with pain, no matter how much she had already endured.

A gloved hand grasped her shoulder with strong fingers, positioning her correctly. Gold did not resist but slid forward on her knees to make it easier for the captain. Once again, she squeezed her eyes shut as he drew the sword.

Gold had seen the weapon enough times in her life to know what it looked like, even with her eyes tightly shut. She also knew how sharp the blade was and how easily it could cut through flesh and bone.

Cold metal pressed against the growths, and Gold pursed her lips into a thin line, hoping it would be over quickly.

The blade pierced her skin, leaving behind a searing pain. Unintentionally, Gold whimpered softly and clenched her hands into fists. It was impossible to get used to the feeling of loss she endured whenever Denan prodded around her back.

One of the slaves returned with a piece of cloth in hand and pressed it against the wound as soon as the captain removed the sword. Gold screamed at the second cut. The sound echoed through the vast hall and the slave flinched.

This was a procedure that should have been performed in a medical station, not on the damp floor of a bathhouse. Panting and trembling, Gold collapsed in on herself as Denan stepped back.

The Sun Divinat looked satisfied as he waved the captain back to his place. Gold was sure the man had better things to do than stand around, but who would dare question the orders of a god? Clumsily, she pulled on her robe after the slave had applied a bandage and prepared to leave the bathhouse. The Sun Divinat raised a hand.

"Stay," he said. Gold obeyed.

"Funny, isn’t it?" asked the Divinat as his finger stirred the water. "That I am the only one here who owns a real angel."

Gold swallowed.

"That would suggest that I truly carry something divine within me, Luminous One," Gold said quietly. "I would never—"

"Presume such a thing, I know. But tell me, Gold, what about the slaves you have been feeding with your own food?" Gold froze.

"I didn't know that..." she tried to collect herself. "I didn’t know that was forbidden." Her voice grew smaller with each word. The Sun Divinat sighed.

"Of course you knew," he said with a thin smile. "We’ll discuss it later." Gold had never known a single person could feel so much fear. She nodded humbly.

As the Sun Divinat beckoned his slaves forward once again, the device in her ear crackled.

"Skywatcher," said a cold, female voice. "To the angel of the exalted Sun Divinat. The master of the fleet that lies in the orbit has agreed to an audience with our divine rulers."

Chapter 3: First Mistake

Summary:

The Sun Divinat being the Sun Divinat. Gold being Gold and me being late and sorry.

The Stormbird slowed as it approached the densely populated surface of Volamene. Elegantly crafted escort ships rose from the palace’s spaceport, positioning themselves around the imperial vessel. Raldoron wondered how these delicate machines managed to stay airborne at all.

The closer they came to the palace, the more its vast scale became apparent. Golden, silver, and blue towers rose from the sea of rooftops—elegantly designed, adorned with countless reliefs and embellishments on their walls. Raldoron had seen more impressive sights before, but in its entirety, the collection of buildings—interwoven with pathways and bridges—was unparalleled.

The Stormbird landed, and the ramp was lowered without much ceremony. Sanguinius, flanked by the Ikisat, personally stepped onto the bare ground of the spaceport. Raldoron had been among those who had spoken out against allowing Sanguinius to set foot on the surface at the first meeting, but something had caused the Primarch to forget all caution.

Was that the voice’s intention? To ensure they presented their leader on a silver platter? It had been clear how it had affected the Astartes and the human crew, and it filled Raldoron with worry upon worry—worries he would do well to forget now.

In front of the massive entrance gate, a small group of people awaited the delegation of the Imperium. Golden-armored soldiers stood behind three individuals clad in flowing robes, presumably dignitaries.

Two tall, undeniably handsome men stood slightly ahead, their faces as motionless as the marble beneath them. The one on the left wore a black robe adorned with silver beads, while the one on the right was dressed in the same style, but entirely in silver. A superior smile played on his lips.

Raldoron's gaze fell on the figure standing slightly behind them. She was noticeably smaller and draped in shimmering, elegantly arranged red fabric that covered her almost entirely. An orange cape hung over her shoulders, its hem fading into a bright yellow. Golden embroidery adorned her robe.

She raised her head slightly as she noticed Raldoron's gaze. A strange sense of calm spread through him. A psyker? Golden, tightly styled hair framed her astonishingly youthful face. Her features were so delicate that Raldoron had rarely seen anything like it. The gentle smell of old blood surrounded her like a second skin. Only when Sanguinius stepped forward did he realize that he had been staring.

The young woman did it too. But not towards Raldoron or the Sanguinary Guard, whose golden armor was far more impressive than that of her own companions. No. She stared at Sanguinius' wings, which he had slightly spread to maintain balance while walking. Not with fear, astonishment, or terror. But with undisguised desire. And then, seconds later, her eyebrows furrowed into... pity? Raldoron felt anger rise within him.

"Welcome to Volamene," said the man dressed in silver as he stepped forward, his arms outstretched in an inviting gesture. His voice was as smooth as velvet, yet it lacked the conviction of the one from the message.

Sanguinius looked down at the human, who showed neither dread nor admiration at his sight. At least not openly. Raldoron could smell the stench of fear that surrounded the small group.

"My name is Silver," the man added, bowing slightly. "Angel to the holy Moon Divinat."

Raldoron struggled to keep himself from openly scoffing. Angel? As far as Raldoron could judge such things, the man looked good, yes. But like an angel? Especially since good looks weren't the only qualities an angel should possess.

"Blue," the other man began, offering the same small bow. "Angel to the holy Star Divinat."

Raldoron looked at the woman. Her golden eyes held an emotion he couldn’t quite decipher. She took a tiny step forward, and her entire attire shifted. The gentle waves of the fabric played around her body as she curtsied.

"My name is Gold. Angel of the exalted and holy Sun Divinat."

Though her voice trembled, she was the only one to openly display a mixture of awe and fear. Yet it was clear that she was the one who had spoken the message. A wave of unease swept through the gathered Astartes. No mortals or Memorators who could have been harmed were present.

Sanguinius nodded as Gold straightened again. His face revealed nothing of the emotions he might have felt in response to this spectacle—only the barely perceptible crease on his brow and the shimmer in his eyes, which an untrained observer would never have noticed. Anger.

"I am Sanguinius," he said instead, his incredibly melodic voice carrying through the air. His gaze met Gold’s, and she noticeably stiffened, drawing in a sharp breath.

"Primarch of the Ninth Legion, the Blood Angels." No further titles followed.

Silver nodded respectfully. "The Divinat is already expecting you. Please follow me." He turned and walked between his companions, heading into the depths of the palace. Sanguinius moved after him, adjusting his stride to match that of the humans walking ahead.

"The architecture of your buildings is impressive," Sanguinius said to Gold. Did he feel the same thing Raldoron felt when looking at her?

Blue responded instead. "The first Divinat had it built as a sign of his divinity. It is both a visual marvel and a reminder of the humility we should feel in the presence of the divine," he said with a thin smile.

Sanguinius offered no further words and instead turned his attention back to the paintings on the walls.

Gold had lowered her head and said nothing. The corridor widened into a bustling street. Everything within Raldoron tightened as the first humans began to fall to their knees before the "angels." The soldiers walked a little taller. Blue and Star seemed to outright relish the attention. Gold's body stiffened, and she murmured quiet words to the people who reached for her robe with trembling fingers.

Raldoron cast a glance at Sanguinius, whose face had taken on a grim expression in response to such arrogance. A cold tension had crept around his mouth, hardening even further as he looked at Gold.

At the end of the corridor, two massive double doors, gilded with gold, swung open, revealing the interior of a magnificent hall. On a high podium stood three thrones, each so extravagantly and artistically adorned that the wealth used to craft them could likely have sustained entire continents. Disgust mingled with Raldoron's anger, intensifying as the three angels broke formation and ascended the podium.

Was it relief that he felt when the men merely positioned themselves behind the two side thrones? Was it truly pity when Gold settled onto the cushion beside the Golden Throne in the center? What made him feel this way? She could have chosen this existence herself.

His racing thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of a gong.

---

Gold looked down at the visitors. She had never felt such shame in her life—not even on her first day in the palace, when she had been welcomed with a complete and public humiliation. Of course, now, twelve years later, no one remembered what her eight-year-old self had endured back then, for she was no longer Tsyman. She was Gold. And now, as this magnificent, winged being stood before her, everything came rushing back.

The gong rang out, its tone loud and clear, echoing through the vast hall. Gold lowered her gaze, regretting that she was no longer allowed to look upon the Primarch, who seemed so strangely familiar. The holy Divinat moved in single file to their thrones, and the side door through which they had entered closed without another sound.

Next to the towering warriors standing in the center of the hall, they looked almost ridiculous. Their priceless robes seemed cheap against the deep red of the armor, and all their divine posturing became what it truly was in the presence of Sanguinius—a deception, a manipulation woven through generations of lies and suffering.

 Gold nearly flinched as she felt the fingers of the Sun Divinat in her elegantly braided hair. Of course, he would treat this audience like any other, clinging to his illusion of divinity, even though his hand trembled.

"Welcome," he said, with something in his voice that was presumably meant to be goodwill, as he leaned back on his throne. The smile on his lips never reached his eyes. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared when shocked gasps echoed from the ranks of nobles permitted to attend the audience.

Their guests did not kneel. They stood in a semicircle around their Primarch, unmoving. Gold held her breath, hoping the envoys would come to their senses. To commit such blasphemy was… it was unthinkable. The very notion of not kneeling before a god would never even cross the mind of a devout soul. Instinctively, Gold tried to make herself smaller. The mere thought of making eye contact was already the next level of sacrilege.

Yet she knew with absolute certainty that Sanguinius' eyes had met those of the Sun Divinat—because he had stopped moving his fingers and had gone rigid.

Fear. Gold realized. He is afraid.

"It is an honor for us to be welcomed by you." Gold was certain she was imagining it, yet her curse—the raging monster that slept within her stomach—began to stir as the Primarch's voice rang out. No matter how many times she had been sent to a doctor, the recurring waves of pain could not be healed. With effort, Gold suppressed a whimper.

The Sun Divinat moved, and Gold lifted her head just enough to see that he was angry. His next words were as cold as the snow spoken of in the old stories. The Primarch responded in the same manner. Gold wished she could sink into the ground and never, never emerge again.

At some point, her mind withdrew from the conversation. The Moon and Star Divinat had also joined in, but through the waves of pain, Gold could no longer understand a single word. She didn't notice that she was leaning forward, clutching her midsection. Her face twisted as another wave struck. The oppressive ringing in her head grew stronger.

"Your... companion does not seem to be feeling well." Gold stared straight ahead. Sanguinius had not just said that. He had not just drawn attention to her.

The head of the Sun Divinat slowly turned in her direction. He had become calmer and outwardly seemed to have accepted the power dynamics.

"Indeed," he said deliberately, looking down at Gold, who gazed up at him pleadingly. The flow of conversation had been disrupted, though one didn’t need to be an expert to see that it had been a disaster from the start. The arrogance of the rulers of Volamenes was unrivaled, and the envoys of the Imperium grew more impatient with each passing minute.

The Sun Divinat saw it as an act of infinite mercy that he had not yet had them executed for their disrespect. For a god, he was merciful. For a man, he was terribly cruel. The monster roared, and Gold squeezed her eyes shut once more.

"She will have to endure it." Gold could almost feel the atmosphere growing even colder. Was the Divinat truly unable to recognize the threat standing right before them? They had dealt with envoys from other planets before—some of which had been destroyed, others integrated, and in rare cases, simply left alone. But the Imperium was different.

From the moment Sanguinius had stepped through the golden gate, Gold had known: if it came to battle, they would lose. The only thing keeping the Divinat from seeing this truth was the unwavering belief that they were gods.

Gold opened her eyes again, only to find herself looking down at the Primarch’s disgusted expression. Automatically, her gaze drifted to the white wings on his back, slightly spread. At the sight of them, a familiar sensation joined the lingering pain—phantom pain. The places where her own wings would have been itched unbearably.

Sanguinius’ incredible eyes met hers, and she lowered her gaze to the red fabric of her robes.

"We will withdraw to orbit," the Primarch said calmly, "and reconsider what you have told us."

Gold stared blankly at her hands. How much of the conversation had she missed during her bout of pain? What important details had slipped past her?

Her fingers clenched into fists as she fought the urge to rise and ask Sanguinius if he would take her with him. Foolish. What did she expect from such a question—a romance? No, she realized as she searched within herself. Though Sanguinius was unnaturally beautiful, she felt nothing in that regard. As always. It was something far deeper, something that exceeded the boundaries of her understanding.

The Sun Divinat rose slowly, showing not the slightest sign of haste or discomfort.

Gold knew better what he truly felt. Anger—and above all, raw fear.

"We look forward to continuing negotiations with the Imperium," his voice was smooth as silk.

Gold scoffed inwardly. The Sun Divinat’s hand in her neck kept her from following the Blood Angels alongside Silver and Blue.

"Did you listen properly?" A cold shiver ran down Gold’s spine. She shook her head and felt his grip tighten.

"No, Luminous One," she whispered. "I was in pain."

The Moon Divinat cast her a look that could have frozen boiling water.

"It seems it's time for her to visit Lord Reya again, isn't it?"

The Sun Divinat nodded.

"She is faltering."

Gold lowered her head, too drained to plead. She still had to recover from the sudden attack and shake off the lingering effects the Primarch had left on her.

At least the pain to come would force her mind elsewhere.

Chapter 4: Second Mistake

Summary:

Don't make Sanguinius angry.

Sanguinius had made a deliberate effort to remain calm throughout the meeting—Raldoron knew that. Had the Primarch not possessed his iron self-control, things might have played out differently, and Volamene would have lost its chance at peaceful integration.

Raldoron still felt the lingering fury in his gut when he recalled the gazes of the nobles, scandal-hungry, as if politics were merely a game played for their amusement, a game they could end at any moment.

The Divinat had regarded the Imperium's envoys with an arrogance bordering on negligence.

With swift strides, Sanguinius descended the ramp of the Stormbird, which had landed in the bustling hangar of the Red Tear. Raldoron quickened his own pace to catch up with him.

"My Lord," he began. His ceremonial armor seemed to weigh heavier on his shoulders as he saw the expression on his Primarch’s face.

"You saw her, didn't you? Of course you did. She was displayed like a trophy!"

Raldoron didn’t need to ask whom Sanguinius meant. "She delivered the message," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yes." Sanguinius pressed a hand to his forehead. "Yes, she did." His voice faltered.

Raldoron could no longer hide his concern. Azkaellon, who had also caught up with them, gave Zuriel a subtle signal to remain behind. Sanguinius noticed, of course he did, but he made no comment.

"My Lord, if we are truly fortunate and she is Conveniens, how will we proceed?"

"I do not wish to jump to conclusions." Sanguinius halted and turned to the two warriors following him. "We have already discussed the matter."

"Do you think she is Conveniens, my Lord?" Azkaellon asked, his curiosity overriding his discretion.

Sanguinius' wings spread slightly. He stood in the middle of the corridor, and Legion warriors and Chapter serfs took wide detours around him, murmuring quiet words of recognition or awe.

"This is not the right place to discuss it," Sanguinius replied, his tone gentler this time. "I have my suspicions, and I have my hopes—but nothing more." He resumed his stride. "There are many questions to ask regarding her. Did she choose this life willingly?"

"It is likely, Lord," Raldoron admitted. "Living as an angel must come with privileges that would otherwise be unattainable in this society."

The door—or rather, the small gate—that separated the bridge from the rest of the ship slid open. Sanguinius, still clad in his armor, stepped through, the feathers of his wings trailing behind him.

"Perhaps she is simply a very gifted and subtle psyker," Azkaellon suggested. "The effect of her powers might be similar to those triggered by Conveniens. We cannot be certain how it truly feels, my Lord."

The bridge crew saluted or bowed, depending on what they were doing at the moment. "The fate of this individual is not important right now," Sanguinius reminded himself, though it seemed difficult for him. "We need to discuss our next steps. If Volamene does not accept the Emperor's message, there will be war. However..." The Primarch took a deep breath, aware of the many eyes watching him, though they could not hear his conversation with Raldoron and Azkaellon.

"Ensure that she does not die if combat breaks out. We will be able to resolve the matter through DNA tests."

"Yes, my Lord." Somewhere, within the vast palace buildings, a girl sat on a red cushion, too small for the robe she wore. The thought of the Sun Divinat’s fingers in her hair—any woman’s hair—made Raldoron sick.

---

Gold lowered her head respectfully as she left Lord Reya. "Thank you for your time, Sir," she said softly.

The nobleman had just finished washing his hands, cleansing them of Gold's blood. In addition to the fresh wounds on her back and thighs, all carefully disinfected and bandaged, he had once again examined the places where her wings should have grown. He smiled kindly, as he always did.

"It was my pleasure," he said, amused, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He had the kind of expression you would expect wrom a gentle father, not a torturer.

Gold gave a slight bow and closed the door behind her. Clenching her teeth, she walked down the corridor, her head held high to show the few passing people that she was fine. The places where entire patches of her skin had been removed still burned vicously.

Without limping, Gold managed to reach her chambers and allowed Fay—a tall, blonde girl, far too thin for her age—to help her dress and style her hair.

It was not yet fully visible that she was pregnant, but she kept placing a protective hand on her belly. Gold’s stomach tightened. Fay should at least have the option to terminate the pregnancy and not be forced to carry the child of a nobleman who had terribly mistreated her.

"You have to leave again soon, don't you, Angel?" Fay asked, looking Gold in the eyes. The title made Gold flinch inwardly. Even worse, had Fay spoken casually like that to another noble, she would have spent a long time with Lord Reya.

Gold nodded. "Unfortunately." She took a deep breath. She had spoken these words many times before. "You know that you can always come to me if anything happens, right?"

Fay's expression darkened and she lowered her head. "They will talk," she murmured, resigned. "Saying that I am wasting your time."

"My clothing wastes my time," Gold said, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. "As long as it doesn’t reflect negatively on you, you can always stay."

Fay did not smile but nodded.

With flowing robes, Gold left the room so that Fay wouldn’t see that she was on the verge of crying from pain and sorrow. She had work to do, countless duties to fulfill, and she needed to ensure that Kira—only twelve years old—could continue working with her. Mentally, she prepared herself for discussions with the authorities. Without the presence of the Divinat, she held power, great power.

Theoretically, she had the power of the entire planet at her disposal, as long as she followed values that were not her own. With each passing day, the guilt she carried grew larger, and with it, the shame. Alongside it, the desire to put an end to it all.

Responsibility, she reminded herself as she made her way to the chambers of the Sun Divinat. She bore responsibility for the young women whom she protected as best as she could from the harshest cruelties of palace life. She had the power to make decisions that could determine the fate of millions, and she could not afford to collapse under this burden now. Though… her current duties were as annoying as they were dangerous.

The guards at the door of the Sun Divinat let her through, just as they always did. All the power that Gold possessed was ground into ashes in the presence of the Divine and scattered to the winds. Here, she was valuable but held no meaning. The light was still out. Gold found the switch and bathed the luxurious room in a gentle glow that emanated from round lamps on the walls. The enormous bed at the center was not occupied by the Sun Divinat alone. No fewer than three women blinked drowsily as Gold stood beside the bed.

„Luminous One.“ The Sun Divinat had already sat up. He pulled one of the women, barely grown, against his chest. She lowered her head to avoid meeting Gold’s gaze and murmured a quiet prayer.

„My angel.“ His long hair was messy and tangled. He began to peel himself from the blankets and motioned to the women with a gesture, indicating they should leave the two alone. With bows and whispered prayers, they moved out of the room.

Gold watched them go. It was an honor to be chosen to serve a god—this was drilled into every child from an early age. Except if one grew up in the outskirts of Mangat, the northernmost city of the continent. Gold had the fortune, or the misfortune, as many would say, of doing exactly that.

"I will have to have them killed soon," said the Sun Divinat absentmindedly. He now stood naked before her, the lethargy of sleep forgotten. Gold’s head whipped around to face him.

"Luminous One." She sounded more horrified than she had intended. Sun laughed softly.

"They're approaching twenty. It's time for me to start looking for something new." The not-so-small, nasty monster began to stir in Gold, and she suppressed a groan.

"Of course, my Lord. I was just wondering if there might be another option? I could take them into my retinue." To demonstrate how important this was to her—an audacious move—she knelt on the ground.

"Why should I do you a favor, Gold?" asked the Sun Divinat. Gold couldn't see his face, but she was sure he was smiling. "You even had to go to Lord Reya. Are you asking for an advance in trust?"

Gold clenched her teeth. "The arrival of the Imperium has thrown me off balance, my lord," she said quietly. "I always strive to meet your expectations." The Sun Divinat sighed theatrically.

"Of course. Of course. I will consider leaving them to your grace. Isn't that what they call you? Angel of Grace? Angel of Mercy?" Gold lowered her head even further.

"I would not dare to place myself above you," she said as convincingly as she could. The Sun Divinat motioned for her to rise.

"As I said, I will consider it. Now, I have important work to do. Prepare me accordingly." Gold stood up. While assisting in washing and dressing the Sun Divinat, she had little time to dwell on the new problem.

Besides Kira, Fay, and the other three women whose names she did not know, today was also the day Sanguinius would come once more. Deep inside, along with the growing pain in her stomach, Gold felt that the meeting would not end well.

She braided the long hair of the Sun Divinat and fastened the last brooch on his golden robe. She had to reach higher than she would have liked to close the space beneath his throat.

"Let’s go." His mocking demeanor had been replaced by a facade of indifference. Gold swallowed hard and followed him. She paid no attention to the faces of the palace inhabitants, keeping her gaze fixed on the Sun Divinat’s back, careful not to step on his robe and disgrace both him and herself.

As close as she had to be, and as far away as she was allowed, she entered the audience hall behind him. The nobles had already gathered in the seats at the edges, eager to witness the spectacle of the second audience. Three days had passed since the last one.

The Sun Divinat must have noticed that Gold harbored certain sympathies for the envoys of the Empire, as he had barely involved her in the negotiations. Most of what Gold knew, she had learned from Blue, who kept her regularly informed. Lord Reya had also recounted much of the meeting she had missed due to pain, though Gold understood little of it. It was difficult to listen when one’s skin was being stripped away while still concious.

Automatically, Gold took her place beside the Sun Divinat’s throne and bowed once more before the Moon Divinat, showing that she had learned her lesson and would listen this time. The hollow pain in her back had subsided as Sanguinius and his warriors entered the room. The Sun Divinat grew nervous but did not rise to greet them. The Imperial delegation did not kneel, and Sanguinius dared to meet his gaze.

Gold held her breath. She wondered if arrogance granted the Divinates this shield—the shield that protected them from the presence of the Primarch. She herself was relieved, for the second time, to already be kneeling; otherwise, she would have fallen to her knees before a foreign ruler.

No feigned words of welcome were exchanged, and the atmosphere shifted within seconds into something cold, something hostile. Gold wished she could sink into the marble floor along with all her troubles, and when she came back, the world would be a better place.

The Star Divinat began speaking of essential traditions, just as Gold wondered how much of the negotiations she had actually missed. Plenty, that was certain.

"Slavery is not a tradition worth preserving," Sanguinius interrupted Star. "It is an evil that must be eradicated. There will be no discussions on this matter."

From the gathered ranks came gasps of outrage and shock. Gold scoffed inwardly. Of course. How else would they don their extravagant robes without the bony hands of their personal slaves—deemed too low to partake in the palace’s wealth, which could have easily accommodated five times as many people as those who actually lived there? Blasphemy, Gold reminded herself. Such thoughts were blasphemy of the highest order. Because of them, she missed the meeting and the conversation.

The Sun Divinat rose. Red blotches had appeared on his otherwise flawless face. "Our traditions and our way of life are sacred!" A murmur of agreement followed his words, and Gold pressed her lips together. She dared a glance at Sanguinius’ face, his features had hardened. The feathers of his wings trembled ever so slightly.

"Then we will reach no agreement here. We have entertained your arrogance long enough," his melodic voice was cold.

The Divinat’s guards raised their weapons. Gold squeezed her eyes shut. It looked as though the Sun Divinat was ready to have his guests executed in full view of everyone. Blindly, she reached for his leg and grasped it firmly as soon as she felt it. A silent plea—another mark on her long list of mistakes. A hush settled over the hall.

"Lower your weapons," the Sun Divinat commanded after a brief pause. "Leave our planet," he said, addressing the envoys of the Empire, "and thank my angel for her mercy."

The Primarch’s expression twisted into something that might have been amusement. Without a word, they left the hall. A single white feather remained on the floor, almost mocking in it‘s perfection.

Chapter 5: Last Mistake

Gold sat in the corner of the audience hall and prayed. She didn’t know to whom or why, but it helped, at least a little, against the indescribable fear she felt. The entire palace groaned and trembled. Gold clutched her knees tighter and whimpered.

The bombings had resumed shortly after midnight. After Sanguinius had left the palace, the Sun Divinat had immediately declared war. He would not let this attack on his oh-so-precious honor go unanswered. It had been a mistake, as soon became clear. The Imperial forces had taken six months to reach the capital and besiege the palace. Six months.

Reports detailed what the Astartes warriors, brought by the Primarch, had done to the defense of Volamene. They were a force of nature, clad in red, led by Sanguinius himself—who surpassed even them in courage, combat prowess, and speed.

Gold had never even tried to deny her fear. In truth, she was shaken to the bone. She didn't know what had happened to Fay or the other girls. At least the news of Lord Reya's death had been a small glimmer of relief. Once again, the palace trembled. Tonight, she would die.

In the middle of the hall stood the Sun Divinat, clad in his golden armor. He stood tall, surrounded by the faint scent of old incense. Resolute, yet powerless. The Moon and Star Divinat stood behind him, each with their angel.

One glance at Gold was enough to understand why she did not stand beside them, in red armor, ready to face her death. Too weak to hold a sword or a pistol and actually fight with it, she had been denied food as soon as supplies ran low. Her long hair was tied into a messy braid—an attempt to keep it from becoming matted.

The Sun Divinat turned to her. His gaze swept over the soldiers who were meant to protect her. The rest were scattered throughout the room. "Gold," he murmured softly, as if her presence gave him strength—something he himself did not understand. He had done it many times before.

Screams rang out beyond the golden gates. Gunfire, something shattered. With a single, mighty blow, the gate was torn from its hinges. Gold stood, only to press herself further against the wall. She felt the velvet fabric of the curtains beneath her fingers, hanging there purely for decoration. The Sun Divinat gestured to one of the soldiers.

The man seized Gold and dragged her forward. She was barefoot, as she always was. She would die that way too. The Sun Divinat grasped her arm and pulled her back against his chest.

"What—" The beginning of her confused question was cut off by the golden blade pressed against her throat. She held her breath, refusing to say even one more word. If she was going to die by his hands, then she would do so without begging.

From the dust stirred up by the destruction of the door, large silhouettes began to emerge. The Divinat’s soldiers opened fire. Gold trembled in Sun’s grip, he only waited and waited. Weakly, she began to struggle, her hand pressing against his arm that held her across the chest.

"Hold still," the Sun Divinat growled. Gold drew a shaky breath, inhaling the stench of blood. What was the point of this, what was the point?

With the mighty beat of two enormous wings, the dust settled. Sanguinius stood among his warriors, his fist clenched around a spear more than twice Gold’s height. He looked like the angels from the old stories—those who heralded the arrival of a new god.

Gold went limp in the Sun Divinat’s grasp. Moon and Star raised their own weapons. The soldiers around them had already been reduced to bloody pools of bone and flesh. Even through the swirling dust, the giants had struck with perfect precision.

Sanguinius held another weapon in his hand, something resembling a pistol. He aimed at the Sun Divinat’s heart, and thus at Gold’s head. He looked beautiful, despite the obvious threat he posed, and his golden curls fell perfectly around his regal face.

Gold was glad that it was him who would kill her. The click of a weapon being unlatched echoed through the breathless hall. A small, traitorous part of her regretted her imminent death. Something about it felt wrong—so terribly wrong. Her slender body trembled against the Sun Divinat.

Indignation surged within her. Some part of her had promised that Sanguinius would not harm her, that he would… protect her. The angel’s warriors grew restless. His brows were furrowed, his hand trembling. Something held him back from pulling the trigger. Gold saw the battle in his eyes, eyes she was too unworthy to meet.

"You deserve death for what you have done to your planet," Sanguinius said through clenched teeth. His fingers tightened around his weapon.

"Are you too weak to do it?" mocked the Sun Divinat. "Is my angel in your way?" He had grown bolder now that he seemingly held the upper hand. Gold felt like she might vomit.

One of the giants stepped forward, also holding one of the cumbersome pistols in his hands. "My Lord. Let me—" Sanguinius turned to him, holstered his weapon, and threw himself at the man, forgetting his spear. He slammed his own warrior to the ground, pressing his head against the shattered stone. Gold let out a surprised cry, twitching in the Divinat’s grip.

"You do not touch her!" His voice was raw, mixed with something primal, something powerful. Gold gasped. Chaos erupted among the enemy ranks—the giants were thrown off balance by their Primarch’s actions. Some formed a semicircle around their leader, while others tried to calm him and pull him off his own man.

A warrior clad in gold managed to grasp his arm. "That’s Raldoron!" he gasped, nearly desperate—something that did not suit his deep, commanding voice. "My Lord!"

Moon saw the opportunity and began firing, Star following her lead. The face of the Silver Divinat was twisted into a mask of rage. One of the warriors fell to the ground. Gold clasped the Sun Divinat’s arms and pushed them away from her. Her muscles burned with exertion as he resisted—he would kill her. Gold screamed and twisted as far as she could.

Her teeth, always sharp, found the vulnerable flesh of his throat.

---

Raldoron, confused, struggled to stop his own Primarch from tearing off his helmet and strangling him. He had only offered to kill the ruler—this couldn’t be the  Rage, could it?

"My Lord," he fought to regain control. "Sanguinius!" The pressure on his armor vanished, and Raldoron could see clearly again. Sanguinius looked down at him, pain and remorse in his eyes. Raldoron wanted to say something, but his throat was dry with fear. Only a Primarch could make an Astartes feel such a sensation.

A scream echoed through the hall—louder than those of the fighters.

---

Gold bit down. The taste of blood flooded her senses, and the Sun Divinat screamed. He shoved her away, pressing a hand against the bleeding wound. She stumbled, caught herself on her hands and knees, then rose again, hissing at him. She wished for her wings—to spread them in warning, to threaten.

The Divinat cast a brief, desperate glance at Sanguinius, who had released his warrior and was reaching for his spear. He lunged at Gold, who stumbled sideways, stepping into the remains of one of the soldiers. The Captain.

Gold’s hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide with horror and disgust. "Don’t shoot!" Sanguinius bellowed. Heavy footsteps moved toward Gold, who stood frozen in place.

The Sun Divinat tightened his grip on his sword, stepped forward, and swung it in a wide arc. His gaze held the indifference of a man with nothing left to lose. Searing pain exploded in Gold’s arms as she raised them in defense.

Something infinitely fast crashed into the Sun Divinat and sent him tumbling to the ground. Gold was hurled backward by a white wing and slammed against the wall with a dull thud. The air was forced from her lungs, and she could barely manage a whimper.

The Sun Divinat's sword lay beside her on the dirty floor. Her own red blood coated the blade; the rest was as clean as the moment it had been drawn. She reached for it.

A golden boot crushed it into scrap before her eyes.

---

Azkaellon looked down at the girl—no, the young woman, if one was generous—who regarded him with such a surprised expression that he could have laughed out loud. Then her already rapidly beating heart began to race, stumbling slightly. She pulled herself to her feet, using the curtain on the wall for support. The curtain, behind which there was no window.

Azkaellon was no opponent of art—quite the contrary. The palace had been wonderfully designed, adorned with all the beautiful paintings and reliefs, towers and corners. Yet he still wrinkled his nose at this particular detail. The fabric wasn't even well crafted.

His attention returned to the woman—the young woman. She stared at him in silence, her eyes wide with fear. She did not run, nor did she try to beg for her life. The cut on her arm was not deep, yet it still bled. Thin skin, poor regeneration.

Slowly, Azkaellon removed his helmet. He did not want to frighten the girl—the young woman. Blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders. The young woman—the girl? Gold. She stared at him, her lips trembling.

The hand she had reached for the sword with was now pressed against her chest with the other. She opened her mouth, only to close it again.

"Swallowed your tongue?" Azkaellon asked, extending his hand, unsure why. She belonged to the enemy and had ensured that Sanguinius had brutally attacked Raldoron. Gold bared her teeth and pressed herself against the wall, trembling in her thin garments.

Azkaellon sighed and reached for her arm. With astonishing speed, she evaded his grasp and managed to slip past him to the side. He almost warned her about the piece of rubble that broke the skin of her bare feet and made her cry out—almost.

The moment she felt Azkaellon's hand on the back of her neck, she fell silent.

---

Gold barely dared to breathe. She expected to be lifted off the ground like a beaten hound or for the giant’s fingers to close completely, turning her neck into bloody pulp.

Instinctively, her hands shot to her neck, the pounding of her heart in her ears nearly unbearable. "Let me go," she managed to gasp.

The warrior slowly turned his hand, forcing Gold to turn with it—to take in the ruined palace in its full destruction. Not a single soldier remained standing, no one left to guard the holiest chamber, the heart of the palace. Their bodies had been torn apart by the projectiles of the strange weapons. A fine mist of blood hung still in the air.

Gold felt the first tears on her cheeks as she discovered Blue beneath the dead. He had never taken sadistic pleasure in tormenting his subordinates, and though he did not share Gold's blasphemous views, he had been something of a friend to her. She had never even gotten the chance to learn his true name. How could the Three Divinats still dare to live when he lay there because of them—with a broken chest and lifeless eyes on the ground?

They were gods, Gold reminded herself sternly. Gods who had allowed her to exist beside them despite all her flaws, gods that had called her angel.

The weight of her own hypocrisy made her sick.

"Is she injured?" Gold's body seemed to have spontaneously decided to abandon the ability to move. Her muscles stiffened, and once again, her breath caught. Armored hands tightened their grip on her neck, and she flinched.

"Yes, my Lord. A cut wound, bruises. Nothing serious." Gold’s foot burned, but she said nothing. The dust on Sanguinius' boots was far more interesting right now, looking him in the eyes would have been impossible for her.

The Sun Divinat spat blood, and Sanguinius' boots shifted in his direction. Again, she flinched as the Primarch pulled the defeated man on the ground to his feet.

"I wonder," Sanguinius said quietly, his voice as beautiful as ever, "what your subjects will do when they see how mortal you truly are."

The Sun Divinat should have felt fear in the face of death—the winged angel standing before him. Yet the inevitability of his end only seemed to spur him on.

"After us... others will come. It is," he coughed harshly, shaking in Sanguinius' grip, "tradition." His blood stained the Primarch’s gauntlet.

Sanguinius face twisted into something that would have been ugly on anyone else—rage.

"You still believe you are in the right?" He sounded as if he could hardly trust his own ears.

The Moon Divinat stirred, one of her legs bent at a brutal angle, but Sanguinius' gaze alone made her close her mouth again and lower her head.

Azkaellon stepped forward, pulling Gold with him. "What about her, my Lord?"

The Sun Divinat’s face twisted in fury. "Traitor!" he hissed. Spittle ran from the corner of his mouth as he kicked against Sanguinius' armor, failing to elicit even the slightest reaction from the Primarch. "Blasphemer!"

Gold fought against the instinct to fall to her knees. Sanguinius' response made the blood in her veins freeze. "Take her to the Red Tear. She does not need to witness this."

Gold’s world stood still, her mind still working to comprehend what had just been said.

Azkaellon’s hand released her neck and settled on her shoulder. Automatically, she followed him, toward the hole in the wall where the golden gates had once stood.

Chapter 6

Summary:

Azkaellon out of character 👍

Azkaellon was careful with the mortal—at least careful enough not to injure her any further than she already was. Gold stumbled alongside him, her eyes watery and her breath too controlled to be natural. She had not spoken a single word since he had lifted her over the remnants of the shattered gate to spare her feet.

For not the first time, he wondered how she had ended up in this palace. She had resisted the Sun Divinat, allowing Sanguinius to regain his clarity of thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hesitate, her gaze fixed on a side corridor. With a sigh, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him.

The way she flinched made a faint pang of guilt stir within him. He ignored it, just as he ignored her startled gasp when he stopped and tore the golden jewelry from her neck and shoulders.

"Wha—" She cut herself off, hearing the broken sound ofs her own voice and squeezed her eyes shut, something she seemed to do often. His silence must have unsettled her more than he had expected.

Without hesitation, he freed the chains from the gemstones that hung from them and wrapped them around her slender wrists. He had seen how thin her skin was and tried to be careful, yet he still made sure she remembered, no matter what she attempted, she would not escape.

"You don't have to do this," she said, looking down at herself as if trying to prove that there was nothing threatening about her. Her voice was slightly stronger than her body, though still filled with fear. Like the rest of her, it trembled slightly.

Azkaellon tilted his head.

"That is for me to decide."

Her eyes noticeably widened, but now that she had started speaking, she did not stop.

"Why are you taking me with you?" she asked, planting her feet firmly on the ground when Azkaellon tried to pull her forward, her face twisting in pain. Azkaellon turned fully to face her.

"You will be fine," he answered calmly. "Even if you are not who we think you are." He did not want to damage her feet or frighten her, so he allowed her to remain where she was. Another might not have been so merciful.

"So you think... that I am someone." Her voice was small, fearful. "I know nothing," she quickly added, almost panicked.

"No? You lie poorly." She flinched. Azkaellon could read the woman before him like an open book. Despite how she had been treated, she must have held a high position at court.

"We are not taking you with us for information, little angel."

Again, she flinched.

"I am no—" She stopped speaking and did something with her mouth. Her jaw tensed, and when she opened it again to take a deep breath, Azkaellon smelled blood. It stirred unwanted desires in him, and he furrowed his brows sternly.

"Do not harm yourself," he ordered, tugging at the repurposed jewelry around her wrists.

For an Astartes, the chains would have been like paper. For her, with her strength, they must have felt like the strongest steel. Gold pressed her lips together.

"You haven’t answered me," she said defiantly, her face contorted into a mask of courage. She acted as poorly as she lied. Naturally, both were connected. Azkaellon took a deep breath.

"You haven’t answered me, my Lord," he repeated deliberately. "You are afraid. That, I understand. It lies in the nature of the Astartes to evoke such a feeling. But do not forget your position, and do not forget who you are speaking to."

He almost regretted his harsh words, almost. Gold's wide eyes stared up at him, something painfully resigned in her gaze.

"You are not my Lord," she answered quietly. "I only know your name because I heard another speak it."

Azkaellon tightened his grip on her golden chain.

"Gold." His voice was calm—not threatening, but clear in its intent. "The palace is not safe."

"Of course not! You are here!" Gold's cry ended in a desperate sob, echoing between the high walls of the corridor. Behind Azkaellon, soft footsteps sounded.

Something crashed violently against his back, forcing him to release Gold. Without effort, he grabbed the man, who wore the fine garments of a noble, and threw him to the ground before him. Like a madman, the noble kicked wildly.

"You dare!" he screeched. "She is an angel! What are you, devil?" Spittle ran down the side of his mouth. Gold whimpered a name Azkaellon did not understand. He drew his simple combat knife.

"An angel of death." It would have been an epic line to precede a killing—had Gold not reached for his vambrace with her bound wrists. Slightly annoyed, Azkaellon held the noble down with one hand and turned his attention to the young woman who was supposed to be Sanguinius' Conveniens.

"You can't kill him!"

Azkaellon's response was simple. "Yes, I can. He is mad."

Gold managed to look at him pleadingly. "Yes. That is why he does not understand what he is doing." She swallowed. "Please. Enough has been killed tonight."

"You plead for him? Why not for the precious Divinat?"

Gold released him, as if she had burned herself by touching him. Azkaellon raised his hand. The noble staggered to his feet.

"Angel," he said, his voice filled with almost desperate reverence. Azkaellon felt a surge of heated anger at that single word.

"You saved me." The man stumbled toward Gold, who recoiled, fear twisting her face.

Before he could reach her, Azkaellon's hand shot forward. He hurled the limp man against the wall, where he slid down unconscious. Blood trickled from his head, and a faint groan escaped his lips before he finally fell silent.

"Why?" Gold’s voice trembled as she regarded Azkaellon with something in her gaze that hadn’t been there before.

She did not resist as Azkaellon pulled her along.

"Your safety, little angel, is my highest priority right now."

---

Further from the heart of the palace, they started to see people again. Human soldiers saluted Azkaellon as he passed by with Gold, a heavy hand resting on her shoulders. She felt uneasy and kept her head lowered, even as he nodded at them.

Gratefully, she allowed the few strands of hair that had escaped her hairstyle to fall in front of her face. Everything that had happened in the past few days was too impossible to be true.

Sharp fear constricted her throat, and even if she had wanted to speak, not a single word would have escaped. Her resistance was completely depleted, buried under uncertainty and bound by her own jewelry.

And in the midst of this reality, in the heart of this chaos, her body dared to meet Azkaellon's gaze—the eyes of the warrior who was in the process of abducting her—and yet, she felt safe. Was she truly that desperate for warmth, for recognition, or even love?

He won’t hurt me, her gut whispered. But he will, countered the dull pain in her wrists. The links of the chain were smoothly polished, yet they had still chafed her skin raw. Gold's feet felt as if they were burning.

Azkaellon slowed his pace. "Little Angel."

Gold glared at him, furious.

"Don't call me that." After a brief pause, she added a soft, "My Lord."

He merely shrugged his massive shoulders, his entire golden armor protesting.

"Everyone here calls you that. Angel of Mercy, wasn't it?" Gold's face flushed as red as the chafed skin beneath the chains.

"That's not... not something I want."

Azkaellon frowned. "No?" Silence followed. "You're leaving bloody footprints."

Gold ducked her head. "I'm not injured."

"No," Azkaellon mocked. "It's not as if you reek of blood for miles." Gold took a step back as he advanced.

One of the soldiers standing at the door to a ballroom spoke: "Do you need assistance, my Lord?"

Gold shot him a panicked glance, silently pleading for him to help her, not Azkaellon.

"No. I'll handle this myself."

Gold went limp as soon as Azkaellon lifted her, but she couldn't suppress a gasp of surprise. She would do anything to avoid feeling his hand at her neck again, knowing how effortlessly he could crush her throat into bloody pulp.

The edges of his armor pressed through her thin robe. She was used to being pushed around, and although a normal human might have the strength for it, she had never been carried like a ragdoll before.

"I won't hurt you," Azkaellon promised, almost gently. Gold pressed her lips together.

---

Sanguinius straightened up. His wings were smeared with blood at the primary feathers. The hall had fallen silent, except for the occasional movement of a Blood Angel. The destruction was minimal and mainly limited to the entrance gate.

Raldoron looked at the three corpses, which stood out only because they were not completely torn apart like the others. A clean cut through the throat was more than they had deserved, but Sanguinius was not cruel. He had freed the fanatics from their delusions. Perhaps they would find peace in death.

In this war, it had once again become clear how much religion hindered the rise of humanity. The Emperor himself had realized that such fictional concepts only led to discord and conflict among like-minded individuals. Since Azkaellon had gone with Gold, Sanguinius had become noticeably calmer. The feverish gleam in his eyes had vanished, and Raldoron was certain that he would no longer attack him. His back still ached. The steps of the Primarch were astonishingly quiet as he approached Raldoron after the execution. As always, it was difficult to have his undivided attention, and the Captain lowered his head.

"I must apologize to you. I don’t know what came over me," Sanguinius admitted quietly. Raldoron looked up to see how the expressive eyes narrowed. So he hadn't been able to keep his doubts from his expression. "What else is on your mind?"

"If she is Conveniens, my Lord," Raldoron began hesitantly, "shouldn't she have a positive effect on you?"

"You think she could be a psyker?"

"Yes, my Lord. I am worried. Especially because you saw nothing..."

Sanguinius' wings shifted slightly, as if he wanted to pull them closer to his body, but he held back. "I felt no anger while I was attacking you. At least, no more than I already had in regard to the Divinat, no. I just wanted to protect her—with my entire being." He struggled with himself.

"I fear I would have killed you if you had fired."

Raldoron tensed noticeably. "My Lord... how can such an effect be created without using a psykers abilities?"

Sanguinius' gaze wandered past Raldoron's face, out through the shattered gates, to the wall beyond.

"My father must have known."

---

Azkaellon felt the fragile life in his arms, even through his armor. The too-rapid beating of Gold’s heart had become a constant rhythm against his steps. She had stopped struggling after they had passed through the last grand archway.

The palace was vast. Yet, among all the rooftops and the surprisingly small courtyards, there still wasn’t enough space to allow a proper number of Stormbirds to land, and the spaceport they were heading toward was on the outermost edge.

Gold stirred.

"Who do you think I am?" she asked quietly once more. "You could have taken Blue, or Silver."

Azkaellon wrinkled his nose at the names. Gold, Silver, Blue. The Divinat had been quite creative in its dehumanization.

"You no longer carry your own names?"

Gold looked away. "Gold is my name," she insisted.

Azkaellon gazed down at her thoughtfully. Did she truly believe that? Or was it simply what she had been taught to say? He didn’t press further and instead quickened his pace.

The officials of the Imperium were probably just now landing on the planet. They would begin dividing the people and transporting them to make space for the new settlers. Some of the former inhabitants would even serve the Legion.

Gold shifted cautiously, as if testing his boundaries. More irritated than he wanted to admit, Azkaellon tightened his grip. Again. He feared leaving bruises, and with Gold’s skin, he could never be sure.

At last, the portal leading out to the spaceport came into view. Warm night air brushed against his face and through his hair. For a brief moment, Azkaellon allowed himself to savor the heavy scent of the colorful blossoms growing along the walls.

Gold was completely still for a moment.

"Let me go," she whispered softly, barely audible to a human. "Please."

Azkaellon did not react. With surprising strength, Gold threw herself to the side. Lips pressed tightly together, she fought with all her might against the Astartes carrying her.

"What will happen to the others!?"

The Stormbird waited, a dark silhouette against the night sky. Azkaellon considered lying to Gold. No—this was war, and she would have to come to terms with a lot of war in the future.

"They will already be dead." He was aware of how heartless he sounded. Gold's breath caught.

"All of them. Not all of them, right? You don’t kill civilians, do you?"

Who exactly did she mean? "No, we do not." The ramp of the Stormbird lowered. Gold had begun moving her lips soundlessly.

"Are you praying?"

Azkaellon set her down, supporting her unsteady form. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. Wordlessly, she shook her head.

"Sir?"

An entire squad of Blood Angels stood inside the Stormbird. Their red armor gleamed dully in the transport chamber’s light. Azkaellon nodded to them as he led Gold to the seats. He had to shorten the belt so it would fit over her frail body.

She looked at him accusingly, golden hair falling into her narrow face. Blood clung to the corner of her mouth, the blood of her former master. Azkaellon simply raised an eyebrow. It had been a very, very long time since looks like that had intimidated him. Now, he found them amusing.

"We are ready," he relayed to the pilot.

On the Red Tear, Gold’s fate would be decided—whether she wanted it or not.

Chapter 7

Summary:

The Empire could technically ally with the Orks and make them believe that the Emperor is alive to revive him - is that the Inquisition?

I'll post the next chapter Sunday in a week.

Gold clutched the edges of her seat as if her life depended entirely on her ability to hold on.

She had never been in space before. The ship she was in trembled from time to time, and she always  squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the possibility of freezing to death in the void. Azkaellon had settled into the seat across from her, watching her intently. His gaze made Gold nervous, more nervous than she already was. The journey left too much room for her thoughts. Slowly but surely, she was beginning to realize the true nature of the situation she was in.

After a particularly violent jolt, the spaceship came to a halt. Azkaellon rose to free Gold from the straps that had kept her in her seat. The moment she felt even the faintest touch from him, she recoiled. Something unreadable flickered in his gaze, and Gold hoped it was guilt.

She prayed her girls were at least somewhat alright. Fay was pregnant. Even a warrior of the Astartes wouldn't harm a pregnant woman, would he? Gold was no longer sure what she could believe in. The worldview she had lived by had been twisted, but it had at least provided order. She had known how to act, whether as Tsyman or as Gold. Now, all that remained was uncertainty and the fear of death.

Azkaellon lifted her again, and Gold did not protest. He was too strong for her, just like everyone else. Navigating a world where everyone was physically stronger than she was required skill, not brute force. It demanded adaptability, in case someone tried to harm her, or in case her parents intended to sell her, which had happened. Unfortunately.

Azkaellon's steps were swift and determined. He carried her through wide, bustling corridors teeming with people and Astartes, so many that Gold felt dizzy. Some stared openly, others pretended to ignore the sight of her being carried through the halls or at least, acted like they did.

"I’m taking you to our Apothecarion," Azkaellon said quietly. "We are aboard the Red Tear, the flagship of this fleet."

Gold nodded automatically. Yes, she understood. She would be examined and humiliated just as it had always been. No problem, she could handle that. It was familiar to her. Seconds later, the light grew slightly brighter. Gold blinked. The hall they had stepped into was filled with medical tables, the scent of disinfectant lingering in the air. It smelled different from Volamene, she noted, not as sweet.

The hall was anything but empty. Humans and Astartes moved quickly and efficiently between the tables, engrossed in their respective tasks. Only a few of the cots were occupied, and Azkaellon placed Gold on one of them.

"Stay here." Azkaellon left her, and Gold cast shy glances around her surroundings. Two humans, blond and dressed in a simple uniform, began to draw a curtain around her table. She lowered her head.

After half a minute, the newly hung curtain was pushed aside.

"Chief Apothecary Vadriel," introduced the Astartes himself, who entered the small, shielded space before Azkaellon. His hair was cropped short, and his face bore a sharpness that was reflected in all its hard edges. Unlike Azkaellon, he wore no armor, only a white tunic with numerous pockets on his belt.

"Gold, my Lord," she whispered softly but did not lower her gaze. The man hummed in approval while simultaneously casting a reprimanding glance at Azkaellon's blood-, and dirt-stained armor.

"I’m staying," Azkaellon preempted the Apothecary's reprimand. Vadriel did not hide his displeasure but also did not protest the other Astartes' presence. Gold flinched as he stepped in front of her. He was smaller than Azkaellon, but still massive, an insurmountable mountain of muscle.

"I need to remove your clothing for the examination." Vadriel’s voice was calm. Not gentle or reassuring, but controlled and even. Gold was grateful for that, recognizing in his demeanor that he was genuinely only concerned with her injuries, not with what her body had to offer otherwise.

Carefully, so as not to damage the robe any further than it already was, Gold let the garment slide from her shoulders, the fabric pooling in her lap. The air was colder than she was used to, devoid of the stench of incense or scented candles. She summoned all her willpower to keep from flinching when she felt Vadriel’s fingers on her skin. The Apothecary cast a critical gaze at the hair-thin lines on Gold's stomach and chest.

"Where do they come from?" he asked, gesturing for her to remove the rest of her clothing. Gold's trembling fingers pulled the thin, red fabric over her legs. Azkaellon turned his head, likely more to grant her some dignity than out of any sense of shame. Vadriel’s expression remained impassive.

"Scalpel," Gold murmured, too exhausted to think about the consequences of her words.

"The scars have healed well." He examined Gold's back, and his eyes widened as his fingers brushed over the places where her wings would have been. With quick steps, he moved around the table.

"Emperor..." Azkaellon's gaze darted toward Gold. She lowered her head, trying to hide the flush creeping up her neck. She pretended not to know what had alarmed the Apothecary so much, but she fervently hoped they wouldn’t discover that she had once had wings.

"How many times has the skin here been broken?" His voice was quiet—quieter than Gold had ever heard an Astartes speak.

She desperately searched for an answer. Over ten years, about once or twice a month. She didn’t want to calculate it.

"I—I don't know exactly. More than fifty times, surely." Vadriel cursed in a language Gold didn’t understand.

"I don’t know what it looks like," she added softly. That part of her back was likely a battlefield of scars.

Azkaellon moved behind her, ignoring Vadriel’s warning glance, then returned to his place by the curtain. His lips were pressed into a thin line and something dark, very dark, shadowed his handsome face.

"He is healthy, except for the arm and the feet," Vadriel began. Something inside Gold twisted painfully, and she opened her mouth to speak. Azkaellon, with a sharp look at Vadriel, spoke first.

"She," he said with a slight nod in Gold's direction. Gratefully, Gold lifted her gaze.

"Yes. The wounds have healed well, but the scars on her back should be treated. She is close to being malnourished and, as far as I can judge in this short time, lacks sufficient muscle mass."

Gold absorbed the assessment in silence. She knew her body’s condition well enough, knew that sooner or later, her wings would return. Who would cut them off here? Azkaellon? Would she die for having them? Angry at her own weakness, Gold forced the painful memories rising within her back into the part of her mind she kept tightly locked away.

Azkaellon narrowed his eyes. "What about her shoulders?" he asked. Vadriel looked at him.

"As I said, we will need to treat the scars," he said, sounding irritated. Gold flinched as the fully armored Azkaellon stepped closer.

"That’s not what I mean." Silence fell over the small space. Gold shifted uneasily on the table. She was cold, and it wasn’t just from the unfamiliar temperature.

"We should move her to a room where she can recover after I have treated her," Vadriel broke the silence. Gold fought against the instinct to leap from the table and run somewhere far away, where no one could find her.

She felt safe, yet at the same time, she didn’t. It made her distrustful—especially because she knew she should be much more afraid than she actually was. Without resistance, she let him clean, disinfect, and bandage her arm. But as soon as Vadriel touched her feet, she flinched. The skin was open, weeping, and encrusted with dirt. Vadriel seemed to remember that Gold did not possess the pain tolerance of an Astartes and stood up.

„I'll be right back.“ Gold remained alone with Azkaellon, whose piercing gaze met hers. She hoped he wouldn’t make a remark about her insisting on walking herself. The massive warrior remained silent.

„What’s going to happen to me?“ Gold asked quietly. Azkaellon tilted his head questioningly.

"I mean—when the examination is over." She longed desperately for something to cover her lap and decided to loosely fold her hands in it.

"Your blood will be taken. Once we have the test results, further decisions will be made."

"And you have a preferred outcome." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes."

Gold swallowed. The question weighed heavily on her tongue, but she needed certainty. "What happens... if the results aren't the ones you want?"

A tiny part of Azkaellon's lips twitched, as if he were about to make a sarcastic remark, but he managed to stop himself just in time. "You will find a place on this ship. You're educated. Organizationally skilled, I believe."

Gold pressed her lips together. "So I was only spared because I might be someone who could be useful to you. Otherwise, you would’ve killed me too." Her voice trembled at the end of the sentence. Until recently, she had been convinced of her death, now she was simply glad to still be alive.

The thought that she would once again become a tool for someone else made her sick and caused the pain in her stomach to flare up once more. Maybe there really was something inside her—something that was slowly devouring and hollowing her out from within until nothing of her was left.

Someone outside her curtained space barked a command. The sounds of hurried movement followed. Gold looked at Azkaellon, who ran a hand over his jaw.

"You didn’t fight. If you hadn’t been killed by a stray shot, you most likely would’ve been spared." Gold felt cold.

"You killed Blue." Her tone was accusatory, and she immediately regretted it. The Sun Divinat would have sent her to Lord Reya for days because of that—and afterward, expected her to flinch whenever he touched any part of her body.

"Who?" Gold stared silently at Azkaellon. She was on the verge of breaking down in tears in front of the Astartes who had captured her.

The curtain rustled, and Vadriel came back into view. He carried a basin of water that Gold wouldn’t have been able to lift off the ground. Tucked under his arm were several packets of what were presumably rations. Azkaellon took them and tossed one into Gold’s lap. Gold simply stared at the crinkling wrapper, unable to bring herself to open it. Yes, she was so hungry it hurt—but her throat felt like something heavy was pressing down on it whenever she so much as thought of food. Azkaellon just shrugged it off.

"This is going to hurt a lot," Vadriel warned. Gold clenched her teeth. There were many things she could endure, but water and even the softest cloth on open flesh probably weren’t among them. Still, she gave a barely perceptible nod.

Vadriel immediately set to work. It was strangely humiliating to have her feet washed, and she flinched repeatedly, her hands digging into the table she was sitting on. Neither of the two Astartes present spoke, and they ignored her occasional whimpers. Slowly, the water turned a brownish-red.

The wound still burned, even after both feet had been bandaged. It wasn’t until Gold brushed a sweat-damp strand of golden hair from her eyes that she realized how wet her body was, soaked with sweat.

Vadriel prepared the blood draw. He briefly poked his head out through the curtain to give a softly spoken command, then returned to Gold.

"You’ll be getting new clothes soon. You won’t wear those dusty rags again." Gold thought of Fay, who had once called her robe a masterpiece and swallowed hard.

Without further comment, Vadriel cleaned and disinfected the skin in the crook of her arm and inserted the needle. She was used to it. Back in the days when the Sun Divinat had still been trying to find out where her wings came from, blood had been drawn from her nearly every day. Eventually, he had simply decided to cut them off. The familiarity of the sensation had never left her.

A human entered and, with a bow and a murmured “my Lords” in Vadriel’s and Azkaellon’s direction, placed a stack of clothes on the cot next to Gold. Vadriel quietly thanked him in his customary manner, and the man quickly hurried off.

Azkaellon reached for the clothing but was stopped by Vadriel. “Hygiene.” A single word. Azkaellon frowned.

“Whatever it is, it’ll be too big for her,” he said, but making no further attempt to inspect the garments. Vadriel ran a hand through his hair.

“That won’t change anytime soon. Gold?” Gold’s head snapped in his direction. The Apothecary tossed the bundle into her lap: underwear, a tunic, simple trousers. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn pants.

“Need help?” At Azkaellon’s question, Vadriel let out a desperate sigh.

“Not with these gloves. You just came off a battlefield, sir.”

“I’ll still be escorting her to her assigned quarters.” Gold hurried to dress herself as best she could. As soon as she had pulled the dull red tunic over her head, Azkaellon stepped forward. Gold opened her mouth.

“Don’t say,” Azkaellon cut her off, “that you can walk. You can’t.” Gold shut her mouth and said nothing more as armored hands reached for her.

Chapter 8

Summary:

In this chapter we have a *very* logical Gold and a Sanguinius jumpscare.

When Azkaellon lifted Gold, at first he felt nothing but fabric, until he enclosed her bony limbs. She didn’t look as fragile as she was, but her skin was alarmingly thin. For a brief moment, Azkaellon tried to imagine how she must see the world through her wide, tear-dampened eyes, and failed miserably. He wasn’t made for empathy, and that became all too apparent now, as he held a limp human being in his arms.

Gold trembled and clutched her own arms, completely relying on Azkaellon to carry her, or at least that’s how it would’ve looked to an outsider. Azkaellon suspected she simply didn’t want to touch him. Carefully, he shifted his position so she was seated in the crook of his left arm.

With a nod to Vadriel, accepting the salve he held out for Gold’s back, Azkaellon pushed the curtains aside. He still had only a vague notion of why exactly those parts of her body had been treated so cruelly, but he forced himself not to dwell on it. Heads turned in his direction as he stepped toward the exit. For him, that was nothing unusual but this time, the glances were not only directed at him.

Stubbornly, Gold kept her gaze fixed on her hands, surprisingly resistant to the attention. For some reason, Azkaellon felt the urge to shield her from the rest of the world, so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. Instead, he simply nodded to his brothers and the serfs and stepped into the corridor. Gold tensed but said nothing more and demanded no answers.

Azkaellon took his first steps into the crowded corridor and wondered if it was just his imagination that Gold leaned at him more tightly.

---

Raldoron flanked Sanguinius as they left the palace. The Primarch had delivered a thunderous victory speech to his soldiers, both human and Astartes. Now, he would return to the Red Tear to begin coordinating the planet’s reconstruction from there.

The religious fanaticism deeply rooted in the minds of Volamene’s inhabitants was beginning to turn into a surprisingly large problem. It could not be left unchecked, especially now that their “gods” were dead. If people came to believe that the Divinat had died a martyr's death, integration would become all the more difficult.

Just before they boarded the Stormbird, Sanguinius stopped. He tilted his head, his golden hair catching the first light of morning, and listened to the vox receiver in his ear. He responded with a curt “Understood, thank you,” before cutting the connection.

Curious, Raldoron tried to read his Primarch’s face for a clue as to what had happened, but Sanguinius’s natural presence made it hard to look at him long enough to read the emotions dancing across his features.

“My Lord.” As so often lately, it was Raldoron who hesitantly spoke first. Message or no message, behind the Blood Angels, human soldiers waited, none daring to push past the Astartes and the Primarch. Sanguinius stepped aside, his wings twitching.

“It’s her.” His eyes locked onto Raldoron with sudden intensity, nearly making him step back. “Three DNA tests have just confirmed it.”

Raldoron didn’t know what he felt. It wasn’t surprise, more like… concern. “What will you do with this information, my Lord?” he asked cautiously. “She may not have chosen her existence in this palace freely, but she’s been part of this society her entire life.”

Sanguinius absently studied the flowers along the walls. Though his focus had shifted from Raldoron, it was still present enough to catch the genuine concern in his words.

“I will have to speak with her. She’s been through quite a lot.” The response came slowly, almost hesitantly. Raldoron thought about the effect the Primarch had on him, and on the people under their protection. Gold would be terrified.

“Be careful.” The words hung heavily between them.

“Of course,” Sanguinius eventually replied. “She is no prisoner, only as long as she sees herself as one.” Raldoron nodded. Gold was safe with Sanguinius, that much was clear. But the memory of strong, armored fingers around his throat rose unbidden in his mind.

---

Azkaellon had set Gold down in one of the chairs and left. The seat was soft and warm, tempting Gold to simply fall asleep. She didn’t.

Slowly, holding her breath, she set her feet on the floor. While walking, while flying through the void, they hadn’t hurt this much—hadn’t felt this raw. She clenched her teeth. Like a mantra, she repeated in her head: you’ve been through worse. Others are going through worse right now. Others aren’t locked in a room that, on Volamene, would’ve been reserved for a high-ranking noble.

The floor was smooth and warm, made from a material Gold didn’t recognize. It felt pleasant as she crouched down and ran her fingertips over it.

The furniture was elegant and finely crafted, with cushions in soft hues. Much of it was in shades of red, but by no means all. A bookshelf stood behind a small round table, on which real, living flowers sat. Gold wondered where one would get flowers on a spaceship. An artificial garden, perhaps?

At the other end of the room stood a bed, large enough that Gold could have lain on it with her wings outstretched if she still had any.

“Don’t think about it,” she murmured softly. In the stillness of the room, she tried to reason with herself. Logic—that was what she needed now.

Sanguinius had wings. According to the Sun Divinat, that made him unnatural, since he existed outside the gods’ control. But the Sun Divinat was a liar, so that had probably been a lie too.

If Sanguinius was permitted to live despite the signs that spoke against it, then he must... Gold sank to the ground and stared at her own hands. Then he must stand above such judgments. And she knew there was only one way he could have achieved that: he was divine himself, a being who could rise above the law and shatter Volames defences as if they were nothing. Everything pointed to it, his wings, his presence. Wrong, whispered a small voice in Gold’s mind, but the rushing in her ears grew too loud. She should have known. Trembling all over, Gold curled up and whimpered softly.

She tried to imagine what words she would use to address him, should he see her again, and decided to base it on how she had spoken to the Sun Divinat. Sanguinius had likely kept her alive only to punish her himself later, to solidify his position, whatever that meant. Gold bared her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. That’s why he needed her in good condition: so she could feel more pain, or so he’d have a clean canvas. Was that why Azkaellon had been so upset when he’d seen her scars?

It took hours before she finally managed to fall asleep, tears crusted around her eyes, knees tucked to her chest, lying on the hard floor.

---

Sanguinius looked solemnly at the assembled Blood Angels and officers. “As I’ve already informed you, the Conveniens of the Blood Angels was found among the population of Volamene. The circumstances under which she lived there are still being investigated. Unfortunately, she was most likely a helper of the Divinat.” He had chosen the wording deliberately—it needed to be clear from the beginning that Gold belonged to all of them, not merely as an attachment to him.

A stir swept through the assembly.

“Although there is evidence suggesting she was not so willingly,” Sanguinius silenced them. “We are not here to discuss how she should be judged. We are here to discuss what role she is to assume within the Legion.”

“Are there no instructions for this, Lord Sanguinius?” one of the humans had spoken. It took Raldoron a moment to recall his name, Saraven Kane. An official of the Administratum. Raldoron always tried to treat high-ranking humans with respect. With ones like Kane, that was difficult.

The man, despite his well-kept figure, might as well have been a sack of slime, always in the way, always another obstacle. Whether he did it on purpose remained unclear. But even he, confident and proud as he was, trembled slightly under Sanguinius’s gaze. This time, he had merely tried to seek clarity and that, Raldoron understood.

“No.” The Primarch’s voice had softened. “She is the first Conveniens to be found. The likelihood is high that she will also be the last.”

“Her status and duties,” Azkaellon brought the conversation back to the core issue. “Perhaps something like a personal serf? She must remain close to you, mustn’t she, Lord?”

Sanguinius’s expression darkened. “The question of her status is simple to resolve. Conveniens—regardless of her profession.” He sounded contemplative.

“She’s been described as organizationally talented and fairly intelligent. She could take on tasks that make use of that, in addition to her duties with you, my Lord,” Raldoron heard himself say.

“It would be a compromise,” he added by way of explanation. “With all due respect, Lord, especially at first, she will find it difficult to bear your presence.”

“Can she be trusted?” asked Haratial quietly, a member of the Ikisat. Kane nodded in agreement, though he was sweating from nerves. Sanguinius’s brows drew together.

“We’ll have to find that out.” The words were simple, but they carried more weight than Raldoron liked.

“Lord Sanguinius.” One of the attending Iterators, Miranda Deghan, had spoken. All eyes turned to her, but the small, sturdy woman with the lively hazel eyes was used to that. “She will need an education.”

Sanguinius nodded, a small smile on his lips. “Indeed. I trust you’ll handle that—if she’s willing. One of your Iterators will have time for it.”

Deghan inclined her head. “Of course, my Lord.”

Azkaellon brought the discussion back once more to the subject of the Conveniens’s duties. Raldoron listened.

---

Gold woke up with a stiff neck and terrible pain in her chest. For a brief moment, she thought she was suffocating and gasped desperately for air. Her body curled and convulsed on the warm floor. As the pain subsided, Gold forced herself to take deep breaths, to calm her rapidly beating heart.

Slowly but surely, the pain returned, this time in her stomach. With a heavy sigh, Gold curled herself into a tight ball. She was alone, safe, and warm.

A single thought pushed its way through her sleep-fogged mind. Her girls. Fay. Guilt welled up inside her, and she didn’t even try to suppress it. She lay here in this room, among people with whom she felt strangely safe. And the others were probably dead.

Driven by herguilt, Gold pushed herself into a sitting position. The room was still gently lit and looked exactly the same as when she had fallen asleep. A sharp stabbing pain in her stomach forced her back down to the floor. The pain was worse than ever, and the monster raged and raged. Clutching her midsection with one hand, she stood up.

Stumbling, she made her way to the door, her thoughts a desperate storm of panic, hope, and the wish for it all to just stop. Before, the pain had always been bearable. Now it was so severe that Gold could barely focus on the control panel. Azkaellon had laid his finger on it. Then, there had been a code. Gold couldn’t remember it. At random, she pressed one of the buttons, the green one. The door didn’t open. Nothing happened.

Of course. She was a prisoner, no matter that they had given her this room. She had been taken—abducted—even if her life before had been miserable. Angry with herself, she pulled away from the door and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Her fingers brushed across the cool fabric of the blanket as she tried to resist the pull of the books on the shelves. This wasn’t the time to lose herself in fictional stories—it was the time to think. She had to remember the code, the damned code. Closing her eyes, she let herself fall backward onto the bed.

Azkaellon had carried her. Carried her with only a single arm. That—and the contact—had made her inattentive. Absentmindedly, she tugged the neckline of the tunic back up, where it had slipped off her shoulder—and caught on something.

Gold froze, the beginnings of the code forgotten.

Her wings. Too early, they were growing back far too early. Denan had only cut them off shortly before his death; it couldn’t be that they were already emerging again. A new kind of fear began to rise within her. Would she be worshipped again if it came to light? Or cast out? In the best case, she’d be executed, she never, ever wanted to go back to a laboratory.

Restlessly, she jumped up. That wasn’t her problem right now. The pain in her feet forced her back down again. Azkaellon had carried her. His armor had smelled of blood—there had been blood on the finger he used to enter the code.

The sequence of numbers surfaced in her mind, and she rushed to the door, uncaring of the consequences of her actions. With trembling fingers, she entered the code and pressed the green button. Slowly, with a soft hiss, the door slid open.

And she stared up into the face of Sanguinius, towering above her and visibly surprised, his hand outstretched toward the door. Gold recoiled violently, stumbling backward, a soft whimper caught in her throat.

No.

Chapter 9

Summary:

Gold is going through too many feelings.

Notes:

Sorry I'm late again. If there are any changes in the posting schedule, I'll put them in my profile description from now on.

Gold stumbled back, heart pounding in her chest. Her fingers found the edge of the table, which brought her hasty escape to an abrupt halt. Sanguinius' eyebrows were raised, his lips curved into an expression of surprise. Gold tore her eyes away from his face and fixed them on the floor.

Not a word passed her lips, even though she had so many questions and no answers. Only speculation and assumptions that were driving her mad. In the presence of the Primarch, she became all the more aware of her crumpled clothing and sleep-creased appearance. The silence was almost tangible, though for Sanguinius, with the way her heart was beating, it could hardly have been silent.

The Primarch ducked wordlessly to pass through the door, which closed behind him. He had to press his wings tightly against his body to avoid damaging the feathers. Straightening up, he smoothed down the robe he wore. It was white, with golden and red embroidery along the cuffs and the neckline.

“You figured out the code.” The statement came too suddenly, without any indication from Sanguinius’ body language, and Gold flinched. His voice filled the room with an intensity that took her breath away, even though he had spoken quietly.

“It was entered before my eyes, my Lord” she replied, her voice trembling. She had heard how Sanguinius had been addressed by his warriors. To call something divine merely 'Lord' seemed insufficient to her, yet she had to at least try.

Her knees trembled uncontrollably. That, combined with the pain in her stomach and feet, caused her to sink to the floor, pressed tightly against the warm ground. She pressed her forehead to the material, mumbling short prayers under her breath.

A soft sigh sounded above her, and she heard the rustling of feathers and fabric as the Primarch crouched down in front of her, wings slightly outstretched. The pitiful stubs on Gold’s back twitched at the sight.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” Sanguinius said gently. Gold pressed her lips together tightly. Of course she did. He could snap his fingers against her temple and she would be dead, her skull cracked open like… like a fragile egg. There were thousands of ways he could make sure she died, make her suffer. Gold saw little reason why he wouldn’t.

So you have nothing to lose. The thought shot through her mind, vanishing as quickly as it had come. With resolve, Gold clenched her hands into fists.

“You… you killed them, Lord.” she said accusingly, her voice quiet and forlorn.

Sanguinius shifted slightly, still sitting back on his heels. “The Divinat refused to acknowledge the vision of our true Emperor. They made that decision themselves.” Somehow, he managed to sound sorrowful, as though he truly regretted having taken their lives.

“Not them,” Gold managed to protest. “Blue. Or Silver.”

“The other angels?” Gold flinched involuntarily, a blush creeping up her neck.

“You can’t believe that they—” she broke off. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have questioned you, Lord. I’ll—I promise I’ll be more respectful.” Yes, indeed. Who was she to think herself a better judge than him?

She forced herself to lay her hands flat on the ground instead of clenching them into trembling fists.

“Gold, please calm yourself,” Sanguinius said, sounding almost noticeably distressed. He placed a hand on Gold’s shoulder.

Instantly, she went still. He touched her. He was touching her.

“Please…” she whispered. “That’s beneath you.”

“Gold, what am I?” Gold held her breath.

“You are divine, you have to be!” she blurted out.

Sanguinius took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her upright. Gold kept her head bowed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, recalling every word of praise and flattery she’d ever known. “I shouldn’t have—you shouldn’t have had to touch me, you’re too glorious—”

 “I am not,” Sanguinius interrupted firmly. Gold flinched. “I am human, just as you are. Please stop this.” Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself? There was a faint tremor in his voice.

“Then why am I still alive, and why am I here?” Gold lifted her head to look into those heavenly eyes, drawn together with worry—only for her heart to stop beating.

Sanguinius looked like a giant human, but he wasn’t one, that much was clear from his very presence. He was a force of nature, someone Gold wanted to curl away from into a dark corner, preferably with a warm blanket over her head.

“Because you were created to be here.” Cold crept up inside Gold. She sat perfectly still for a moment. Yes, she had been created by the gods…

“Created?” she repeated. “Why would you say something like that? Why are you here... personally?” Gold trembled again, though perhaps she had never really stopped. She had expected questions, pain, something other than... this. Her reckless side was taking over, the one that would surely have her killed soon.

“It’s going to sound like a hastily spun tale, the beginning of a bad romance novel. Before I begin to explain your nature to you, I want to make one thing clear: I’m not going to hurt you. I have no intention of pursuing a sexual relationship with you, do you understand that?” Gold didn’t understand anything. Of course he didn’t want that, he stood so far above her, even further than the Sun Divinat ever had. And she certainly didn’t want it too. She had always had the feeling, the need to preserve her energy for another, more important task. Whatever it was, she certainly didn’t know.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, Great Lord,” she admitted. It seemed impossible for a single human being to contain the desperation and helplessness she was feeling. “You’re telling me that I was created. That’s meant metaphorically, right? Some image to… integrate me. To try to make me understand that this abduction and the attack on our planet were justified, isn’t it?” In her own voice, Gold heard what she felt— fear, laid bare for Sanguinius, who surely had better things to do than sit here in front of her.

“We follow the will of the Emperor.” Sanguinius’ voice was warm, and Gold wondered what kind of game he was really playing. The Primarch’s wings spread even wider, in a gesture of welcome. Gold didn’t even try to shuffle back on her knees, fully aware of how pitiful she must have looked.

“The will of the Emperor—the one who created you.” A brief silence fell. Gold pressed her lips together to hold back the hysterical laughter threatening to escape.

“…What?” she gasped in disbelief, her hands falling limply to her sides. “That’s not possible… You’re lying!” she accused Sanguinius. “I had parents!”

Sanguinius extended a hand. “Gold,” he said gently, “listen to me. The Divinat who raised you—”

“I didn’t grow up with them.” Gold sounded more indignant than she had intended. The cold, painful sensation in her stomach threatened to overwhelm her completely.

“Gold.” This time Sanguinius sounded firmer, and Gold flinched. “You are what we call a Conveniens,” he said calmly. “You are the first of them to be found.”

“Why do we have to be found? If I was created, why wasn’t I with you all along?” Gold asked, slowly realizing there was no point in arguing with this man, who somehow made her feel both terrified and safe in equal measure. She would play his game, just as she had with the Sun Divinat.

“Because the Primarchs… and our Conveniens—we were stolen.” He withdrew his hand when Gold didn’t take it and instead placed it over his knee. “It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

Gold remained silent. Her heart was still pounding far too fast, far too loudly in her ears. She didn’t feel like a miracle. She felt unworthy, kneeling in front of this incredible being that was looking at her like she mattered.

“What does that mean for me?” The question came softly, hesitantly. “What will I have to do to… qualify as a Conveniens?” She feared the answer more than anything.

“Get well. Settle in.” Gold’s head snapped up. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a faint smile on his lips. “You have the privilege of time.”

At those words, anger flared up in Gold. Yes, she had it. Others didn’t. “That’s not an answer.” Her voice trembled. “What about—what about Fay? Or the others? Will they continue to be treated the way they were?”

Sanguinius’ wings rose briefly, as if in anger, before he slowly, deliberately lowered them again. “Please, inform me,” he said gently, with control. “Who are you speaking about, and what can I do to help?”

“I… I was given attendants. Slaves.” Gold forced her mouth to shape the words and speak the truth. “I didn’t want them.” she added, justifying herself to a man whose opinion shouldn’t matter to her. “I mean—I don’t mean I despised them as people, it’s just—” she stopped. Sanguinius stayed silent, listening.

“It was just hard for me to accept that people are being forced, you know? Then... then I realized it gave me a chance to help the girls, to make sure they had proper food, clothes, and a warm place to sleep. Now that I’m gone, I don’t know what will happen to them. If you see fault in my assumptions, I will of course…” change my whole view of the world.

Silence settled over the room. “So you’re not corrupted,” Sanguinius murmured absently. Gold flinched, again.

“What?” A flash of indignation rose in her, quickly smothered by growing fear. She managed to get to her feet and stumbled back. In his crouched position, Sanguinius was nearly at eye level with her. Her tunic hung loosely around her slender frame.

“You act so noble,” she sneered, knowing she was just signing her death sentence. “And now you let the survivors starve in the ruins of the palace, is that it?”

“No.” Sanguinius stood as well. “Gold, calm yourself. You’re not thinking clearly. I understand your fear, your confusion, your anger. The helplessness you feel.” He reached out a hand to Gold, fingers open and upward.

Gold let out a whimper and flinched back. The neckline of her tunic slipped to the side as she half turned to escape the approaching hand. “Don’t touch me!”

Sanguinius froze, his hand suspended in midair. “Gold…” he said, his voice low, in a dangerously quiet way that sent a shiver down her spine. There was something in his expression that Gold didn’t like at all.

Her anger evaporated, and she was once again painfully aware of who stood before her—and how vastly he towered over her in size alone. “Your back…” Gold stared at him. No, no, no, no.

Without paying heed to her frightened squeak, Sanguinius closed the space between them in a single step. He turned Gold onto her stomach and pressed her against the table. A stifled “No,” escaped her lips as she twisted away from the hands that, to her surprise, shifted her tunic aside with unexpected care.

“By the Emperor…” Sanguinius ran a hand over Gold’s growths, and she whimpered from the pain. “That’s why the scars… the Sun Divinat did this?” He sounded angry, horrified, and shocked all at once. Gold gasped and tried to twist away from him.

“You’re hurting me!” The pressure on her limbs vanished instantly. “Yes, he ordered it.” Gold quickly turned and hugged her arms around herself. “Because it’s unnatural,” she added. “Blasphemous.”

Sanguinius looked at her calmly, with a hint of fury in his eyes. Without a word, he went to the bed, retrieved a thin blanket, returned to Gold, and draped it over her shoulders. She flinched again. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “For what I just did. And for what was done to you.”

“Nothing was done to me,” Gold murmured uneasily. “I was made normal, and I’m ungrateful because I still long for my wings.”

“It’s okay to feel that way.” Sanguinius’ melodic voice was strangely soft. “Listen to me carefully, Gold. You’re allowed to grow them back.” His own wings twitched, and Gold felt an urge to bury her hands in the white feathers.

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered. At her question, Sanguinius stepped closer. One of his primary feathers brushed gently against her shoulder, and Gold shivered at the sensation.

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. I want you to feel at ease.” It sounded too good to be true.

“This thing about the Conveniens… you know how that sounds, right?” she asked shakily. “That can’t possibly be true, because—” Gold bit her lip. She was unworthy. Unatural. Beneath him. Sanguinius took her by the shoulder, and she let him guide her without resistance to the mirror mounted on one of the walls.

Gold looked up in confusion, only to gasp sharply. The first thing she noticed was the frightening resemblance. Mainly in their facial features, since Sanguinius’ robes draped elegantly over his almost exaggeratedly muscular body, while Gold’s blanket hung loosely from her narrow shoulders. The second was the size. She barely reached above Sanguinius’ waist—perhaps a little higher if she stood on tiptoe.

“Was I made this small on purpose?” she asked. Sanguinius smiled down at her.

“I’m afraid so,” he replied. “Does it bother you?”

“It hasn’t so far.” Gold took a step away from Sanguinius, who extended one of his wings, placing the tip gently on her shoulder again.

“You should get some food into your body,” he observed. “I’ll take care of it.” Coming from his lips, the statement sounded absurd. Gold simply nodded in silence.

“Please don’t treat the former palace servants the way you treated the Divinat,” she said quietly. “They were treated cruelly, considered less than nothing in the eyes of the nobility. That has to stop.”

Sanguinius inclined his head slightly, an emotion in his eyes that Gold couldn’t decipher. “Of course,” the Primarch promised. “This Fay… what is she to you?”

“She’s like a daughter,” Gold answered without hesitation, knowing the response was far too personal. “Even though I’m young.” Something in her stirred, and she lifted her chin defiantly. “She’s younger and has been through far more than I have.”

Sanguinius turned fully toward her. “Reflect on what you’ve learned,” he said gently. “Eat something. We’ll speak again later. Until then: rest, and take care of your wings.”

Gold nodded again, too tired to question the closeness with which the Primarch treated her. The thought of eating something felt terrible.

Chapter 10

Notes:

I hope you're all doing well, enjoy the chapter.

Gold had stopped refusing food the moment Sanguinius had visited her in person and asked her politely to behave like an adult and someone of her status. Conveniens. The word still left a bitter aftertaste on Gold’s tongue whenever she said it, it was hard for her to accept such a drastic shift in her life, especially since she barely saw Sanguinius. Of course, he surely had more important things to do, but then he shouldn’t have spoken so grandly about forging a connection.

She stayed in the room assigned to her as much and as long as she could, except when Illyde dragged her outside to look at a piece of art or one time even the command bridge. Illyde was what they called an Iterator, a tall, slender being with a wild mop of brown curls. Her laughter was infectious, and her movements had a certain fullness to them, it was hard for Gold to describe her any other way. Even if you didn’t know her, you would instantly sense: this woman is intelligent and articulate.

At the end of her first week aboard the Red Tear, she had appeared in Gold’s room with a stack of books under her arm and had simply started teaching her.

At first, Gold had been wary and timid. She had never resisted, she knew that could lead to pain, but now she looked forward to the hours with Illyde. They brought structure to her new, chaotic existence and helped her understand the strange world around her. She had indeed learned that Sanguinius was no god. Not at all. The Imperium refused to acknowledge any kind of religion, seeing it as a danger.

The people who had practically besieged her during her first outing were called Remembrancers. They were tasked with documenting the Great Crusade, through art, music, simple images, written records, and stories. Gold had found it uncomfortable to be the focus of their attention, so Illyde had led her away, away from the whispered, murmured, or plainly spoken remarks.

“Are those the beginnings of wings?”

“She’s so small...”

“Is Gold her real name?”

The wings... the wings were a whole different problem. Once the growth had started, it simply wouldn’t stop. They were still bony stumps, with the beginnings of soft downy feathers, but they kept growing and growing. As if it wasn’t already hard enough to get used to the new style of clothing, which now consisted more of heavy, uniform-like garments than the flowing robes or tunics she was used to, her clothes had to be specially made, with openings where her wings would one day be.

The openings on the back could often be cinched to the right size with beautiful ribbons, and Gold hated herself for daring to enjoy such luxury while Fay and the others were still on Volamene.

Now, in one of those pale red garments, she sat opposite Illyde, who—as always—greeted her with a gentle smile. Gold took a deep breath.

“The Emperor…” she began cautiously. “He’s not a god?”

“No,” Illyde confirmed.

“But he has godlike powers.” Gold sounded uncertain. Illyde tilted her head.

“Well… sort of. His goal with this crusade is to unite humanity. All human peoples can trace their origin back to Terra.”

Gold fidgeted with her sleeves. “Why?” she finally asked.

“Why what, Gold?” Thankfully, Illyde didn’t sound impatient, only curious.

“Why doesn’t the Emperor present himself as a god? Everyone would worship him.”

“Even more than they already do?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Gold had raised her voice without intending to. “I mean—” she broke off, unsure how to express herself. “What—what keeps him from becoming like the Divinat?” With that sentence, that small whisper, she had spoken, indirectly, all the fears she’d harbored since arriving on the Red Tear: what if she ended up living here the same way she had on Volamene, like a treasured… pet.

Illyde shook her head. “Religion is a cancer upon humanity. It causes discord, conflict, and war. Your Volamene is the perfect example. The Divinat acted cruelly, claiming to be cruel gods. Your people suffered under that, didn’t they?” Yes, they had. Terribly.

“So he only has the moral boundary,” Gold concluded. Illyde raised her eyebrows. “One of the serfs had a booklet,” Gold said, “about the Ninety-Nine Virtues of the Emperor.”

Illyde’s expression soured. “Oh really? That’s nonsense, Gold. Don’t dwell on it. The belief that the Emperor is a god is completely irrational.”

Gold thought about it. “But—”

“Gold!” Gold closed her mouth and lowered her head.

“Sorry,” she murmured softly. Illyde sighed.

“Are you still in pain?” she asked, changing the subject far less deftly than usual, but Gold didn’t hesitate to respond with a direct lie.

“My wings and I are fine.” She smiled. “Thanks for asking.” She didn’t mention that she lay awake at night, curled in agony from pains she couldn’t even locate.

Illyde nodded. “Shall we try drawing again?” Her voice softened. “The Lord Primarch expects you to master an art, just as all his Legion members do.”

Gold slumped in on herself. “I don’t know… I still don’t know anything about Fay and the others.”

“Is that an attempt to blackmail Sanguinius?” Illyde’s tone grew more serious, and Gold lowered her head in shame. No, she wasn’t.

“I—I’ve learned your notation system now, maybe you can teach me an instrument?” For a brief moment, there was silence.

“The notation system?” Illyde sounded incredulous.

“…Yes.” Gold looked up uncertainly. “It’s like a language.” She shrugged. “I’m good at learning languages.”

“Yes.” Gold’s eyes widened in surprise. She exhaled in relief.

“I hate—I don’t really enjoy drawing,” she admitted.

“I know.” Illyde shrugged. “I just thought it would be the easiest way to start. You were very…  skittish at first, if I may say so.”

Gold thought back to her time outside the room and felt almost sick with fear. She was still frightened—especially at the thought of seeing Sanguinius again. A thought that filled her with both joy and terror.

The stubs on her shoulders twitched. “Apothecary Vadriel asked if he could examine me,” Gold swallowed. “What happens if I refuse?”

“I’m not quite following you.” Illyde had begun packing up her notes, but she was still listening, or at least she gave the impression.

“What will the consequences be?”

“You’ll be at greater risk for health issues.” Gold simply stared at her, while a terrible sense of foreboding began to rise in her chest and her heartbeat sped up. Illyde looked up after finishing tidying, and her eyes widened noticeably. She immediately adopted the posture she used to calm Gold, careful, relaxed.

“That wasn’t meant as a threat, Gold. Listen, you understand what I meant, don’t you?” She walked around the table toward Gold. “If you don’t get checked, it’s just harder to detect illnesses early. That’s all I was trying to say.”

Her hand between Gold’s shoulder blades was warm and gentle. Gold nodded slowly. “Sorry…”

“You don’t have to apologize. Nothing’s going to happen to you. But if I were you, I’d accept—it’s a service only a small percentage of people aboard receive.” Without thinking, Gold leaned into the touch.

“Yeah. It’s okay. I’ll go. Thank you.” Illyde left half an hour later than she had planned.

---

Gold lay curled up on the bed, eyes tightly shut. Her arms loosely wrapped around her knees, pulled close to her chest. Again and again, she stifled a soft whimper, unable to do anything but rock back and forth.

To the pain in her stomach, a dreadful pulling in her back had joined. Blood ran down her bare skin. In moments when Gold could think clearly, she imagined she could hear the cracking of newly forming bones.

The pain pulsed through her entire body like a living creature, turning her into a helpless, trembling wreck, one that couldn’t even call for help. She whimpered again and tried to roll onto her back. The oversized, bony mesh of her wings prevented it, and with a frustrated groan, Gold curled up even tighter.

Only two days had passed since her conversation with Illyde, during which she had been examined, once physically, and once psychologically. She had been declared free, free of mutations, though her wings so clearly contradicted that.

Then, suddenly, it had begun. Gold had dared to leave her room, only to nearly collapse a few corridors later. At first, it had only been the pain in her wings; the monster had come only today.

The door slid open. “Gold!” Something within her tightened, warm and soothing, as she heard her name spoken that way: with fear, yes. But also with concern. With care.

With effort, she turned her head to look at Sanguinius, behind whom one of the serfs—Angeline—stood. Gold’s vision blurred briefly as another wave of pain shook her, and she let out a soft groan.

“Lord… Primarch,” she managed to whisper, curling her limbs closer to her body. Some high-ranking officers might have grown used to his presence if they saw him more often, but she hadn’t seen him in a week. Once again, she was grateful to be in a position that prevented her from collapsing to her knees, yet at the same time, she felt an overwhelming shame about her condition.

Sanguinius stepped into the room, and his eyes immediately took in everything. The carefully organized surfaces, the untouched food on the table in the corner, and the desk where, beside sheets of music, sat the case of an euphonium. Gold, trembling on the bed and barely able to move. With quick steps, he closed the distance between them and knelt beside her on one knee. His wings spread out behind him, a protective shield for them both.

She flinched as he reached out to her. “No,” she gasped softly, even though it broke many of the rules of courtesy Illyde had taught her. “It hurts.”

“I know, Gold. I can help you.” Gold shook her head and whimpered as the movement left her disoriented, her skull throbbing with a dull ache.

“How long have you been in pain?” he asked quietly, keeping his hands to himself. Gold squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to remember, but her mind was foggy, and it felt like something heavy was pressing against her forehead.

“Gold?” Sanguinius’ voice broke through her desperate, pain-filled thoughts like a warm beam of sunlight.

“Always… always,” her voice was hoarse. “It feels so empty.” She’d barely noticed, but her body had relaxed. She had slightly uncurled, and the bony growths, what would one day become wings, no longer twitched. She focused on the face before her, watching her with such deep concern.

“May I?” Sanguinius raised his hand again. Gold’s resistance crumbled. She gave a faint nod, closing her eyes as his warm fingers came to rest in the curve of her neck. She didn’t know what he intended, it would have been better to summon a Medicae, or bring her to one, rather than simply… touch her.

“My Lord,” she began to protest. Through her half-lidded eyes, she could see Sanguinius’ furrowed brow.

“The pain you feel is a mechanism of your body—or so I believe. It should ease through touch.”

Gold just stared at him. “That sounds absurd,” she murmured. As the next wave of pain shook her, she flinched violently and fought the urge to throw up on Sanguinius’ arm. “If touch could heal something like this, Lord Reya never would have laid a hand on me.”

Sanguinius seemed ready to ask who exactly Reya was, but then let it be, anger flashing in his eyes. Unintentionally, Gold leaned into the touch of his hand and laid her own, trembling, on top of it. Slowly, her breathing steadied, and the shaking lessened. The pulling in her shoulders remained.

“Not just any touch. Mine.” A shiver ran down Gold’s spine, and she awkwardly sat up, painfully aware of how disheveled she must look.

“Why?” The question was quiet, clearly laced with fear of the answer. Had he some kind of powers? Had Ilyde lied about the fact that he was not divine?

“Because you’re meant to have a positive influence on me. This pain is supposed to be a safety mechanism—that’s all I’ve learned so far. I’ll need to investigate further.” To hear Sanguinius, this divine being, so openly admit to not knowing something was almost uncanny to witness. At the same time, a fresh wave of shame washed over her.

“I don’t feel like I’m having a positive effect on you, Lord,” she said hesitantly. “Are you sure—”

“Gold.” Sanguinius cut her off, fixing her with a stern gaze. “You are the first Conveniens ever found. There’s still a lot we have to research. What’s certain is this: you were created to be human.” Immediately, Gold thought of her wings. As if to make themselves known, the structures on her back gave a twitch.

Sanguinius ran his hand along his jaw, the one Gold wasn’t still holding tightly. “I’m afraid I misspoke. You’re meant to remind us what it means to be human.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work.” The words had left Gold’s mouth before she could stop them. Sanguinius looked at her calmly. “You can’t change someone so completely at their core. I wasn’t raised in the Imperium. I don’t know if I can grow into that role,” she explained quickly.

“No? Don’t you feel the familiarity?” Gold lowered her head. “Of course…”

“But?”

“Listen—it’s—” Gold broke off, searching for the right words. “It’s very hard to stand in front of you and not feel unworthy!” she finally burst out. “Especially now,” she added softly. “Look at me.”

“You come from the outside,” Sanguinius said gently. “We won’t grow closer if we keep avoiding each other. I am sorry I did so.” Gold swallowed.

“It hurts.” Even she didn’t know whether she meant just her wings. Sanguinius stood.

“I’m taking you to Vadriel.”

Chapter 11

Gold awoke to the soft rustle of wings. Sanguinius sat beside her, surrounded by several dataslates and hololith projectors that had been brought into her room while she slept off the pain. He looked as majestic as ever, and when he lifted his head and a small smile played at the corners of his lips, Gold’s heart swelled.

What had she ever done to deserve the closeness of such a being?

She sat up and the rustling sounded again. She turned, and froze. Overnight, her pain numbed by medication, a thin layer of feathers had grown on her wings. Near the shoulders they were still soft, not yet hardened at the tips either. It was clear they would continue to grow, stronger, perhaps even capable of flight. In her sleep, they had been bent in several places, and they were crusted with the blood of their growth.

They were nothing like Sanguinius’s. They were brownish, tinged with amber where his feathers were black and white. His colors were so clearly defined—but hers bled into one another, merging into a small sunrise across her back. The tips of the flight feathers held an almost golden hue.

Carefully, she moved her muscles, then guilt caught up with her. “Lord Sanguinius?” she asked quietly. He had been watching her the entire time, seated cross-legged on the floor, ready to listen.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said. Stupid, Gold cursed herself. Of course he didn’t have to.

“Do you want me to leave?” Gold thought about it, then slowly shook her head. She didn’t want to lose the warmth he radiated.

“Good. I hear you’ve been up and about,” he smiled. “How do you like the ship?”

“To call it just a ship doesn’t feel… appropriate, I think, my Lord. It’s like its own world, its own cultural bubble within Imperial society.” Nervous and embarrassed to be sitting in nothing but a medical gown before the Primarch, she folded her hands in her lap.

“May I ask a question—a lot of questions, to be exact?”

As if he had truly been expecting her questions, Sanguinius leaned forward, setting his work aside for the moment. “Go on. I hope I can satisfy your curiosity.”

It was strange. Some part of Gold so desperately wanted her captor to like her—because in the end, wasn’t that what he was…? That question would come later. Later.

“The armor of your warriors—it’s art, isn’t it?” she asked instead, her voice small. “I’ve memorized many of the Legion’s insignia, but much of the decoration seems inspired by the Astartes who wear it. At least… that’s the impression I get.” She was talking too much. Again. Sanguinius nodded.

“Yes.” The answer was simple, too simple. “Art is a powerful tool,” he added, the being destined to move mountains.

“Do your warriors craft the decorations themselves?”

“Many of them do. Not all. Instead, some devote themselves to other forms of art—music, for example. You chose an euphonium. Why?”

Gold shrugged uncertainly. “The name sounded… how do you say it?” She snapped her fingers in frustration. “An-ghel? It sounded beautiful.”

A tiny crease had formed between Sanguinius’ brows, as if something was only just now catching his attention in the quiet.

“You speak fluent Gothic,” he observed.

Gold lowered her head, unsure if it was a compliment or a rebuke. “Yes. I was ordered to learn it in the hours before your arrival.”

“Hours?” The Primarch’s voice was controlled and gentle. Gold nodded.

“It was awful. I knew I had to do well or my girls and I would be hurt, but it’s hard—it hurts, even if not in the body.” Unconsciously, Gold’s fingers moved through her hair, matted and unwashed. It felt good to speak like this. Strangely liberating.

“Your girls were punished if you disobeyed,” Sanguinius stated. His lips were pressed into a tight line, and his fingers twitched.

Her gaze turned pleading. “I have to know how they are.”

Thoughtfully, Sanguinius tilted his head. “Normally, we would have wiped you out,” he stated—a fact laid bare, cold, cruel, merciless. “But those who led you into war were blinded. The population cannot be held accountable for that.” As he spoke, one of his wings lifted gently, a gesture that almost felt protective.

Gold merely nodded. She believed every word Sanguinius said; when his eyes turned cold, it was proof enough that he was capable of such violence.

“May I see them?” she asked.

Sanguinius tilted his head again, a slight furrow forming between his brows.

“I could arrange a meeting on the surface of Volamene.” Gold opened her mouth in surprise.

“There are conditions,” the Primarch continued immediately. “I will accompany you, along with my Sanguinary Guard. You will stay close to me and speak only to those you truly wish to see.”

Gold pressed her lips together. Safety—understandable.

“You don’t trust me, my Lord.”

The soft hum of machines filled the silence. Sanguinius exhaled through his nose and lowered his wing. “It’s my duty to ensure your safety,” he answered simply. “My men will see to it.”

Gold lowered her head. “Your wings…” she said awkwardly, shifting the subject, “do they feel right?”

Sanguinius stood at the question, moving his wings as if to demonstrate something. “They are a part of me. But they weren’t from the beginning. Why you share this trait with me is still unclear.”

Cautiously, Gold unfolded her own wings. She could move them well enough, but the added weight on her back wore on her. She’d need to build the necessary muscles—something her body had always resisted. Perhaps it would be best to continue the tradition of the Divinat and have them removed. She bit her lip hastily before she could say something foolish.

“When do we depart?” She asked it as though she weren’t just a little bit looking forward to it.

“The main part of the fleet will depart in three and a half weeks,” he said. “That includes the Red Tear.” Gold swallowed.

“What do you expect from me, my Lord?” she asked, licking her lips nervously. “I can’t just do nothing.”

Sanguinius smiled gently. “Once you’ve learned—and that won’t take long, I’m sure you can help. But trust must be earned.” He paused. “Some of my sons have asked about you. You could observe their training. I’ll be honest, most of them will find your presence bothersome at first. But you have the potential to win them over.”

“So… they don’t remember,” Gold said more than asked. “How they were before they became Astartes.”

Sanguinius didn’t reply. Instead, he gathered the dataslates and stacked them neatly on the round table, where the delicate flowers hung their heads. Gold immediately felt bad. She had been unable to care for even these few plants while writhing on the bed in pain. How could she presume to take responsibility for other human beings?

“I don’t have much time.” Sanguinius gestured meaningfully toward the large red cloak draped over one of the chairs. “But there’s something else you need to know.” A trace of humor crept into the urgency of his voice. “Your wings need maintenance.”

Gold nodded and cautiously moved her wings. Flecks of dried blood fell onto the linen of the bed, and she stopped, not wanting to make more of a mess than she already had.

Sanguinius moved through the room with an unpracticed elegance, placing fine cloths and a small bowl of water on the floor. From one of the drawers beneath the shelf, he retrieved an assortment of small bottles, arranging them carefully beside the bowl.

“Come here.” Gold’s head snapped in Sanguinius’ direction. Hesitantly, with heavy limbs, she pushed back the blanket and rose on unsteady legs. Instinctively, she pulled her wings close, wrapping herself in a protective cocoon of amber-colored feathers. Sanguinius sat cross-legged on the floor and gestured for Gold to sit in front of him.

“Our wings, technically speaking, aren’t truly part of our bodies,” he began. “That’s why we lack the tools to care for them—like preen glands, for instance, that birds have.” He placed a few bottles next to Gold’s legs.

“So you use oils from outside sources,” Gold said, eyeing the little bottles with suspicion. Behind her, Sanguinius chuckled softly.

“You’ll definitely like at least one of the scents,” he promised. “Yes, exactly. First, we should clean your wings. Be careful with water when you wash them, getting soap on the feathers isn’t ideal. The moisture itself is fine.” He picked up one of the cloths and dipped it into the bowl, wringing it out carefully above it.

“Always rub in the direction of growth, and always gently.”

Gold expected him to press the cloth into her hand. But instead, she felt the warm touch of damp fabric near her shoulder.

“My Lord—” She reached for the cloth. She couldn’t see Sanguinius’s face, but she knew he was frowning.

“It’s your first time,” he emphasized. “And I don’t think you need to be formal with me, at least not here.”

“Thank you,” Gold replied, forcing herself to relax. With gentle pressure, Sanguinius began washing the blood from her feathers, dipping the cloth into fresh water regularly. “How often?” Gold murmured, finding the sensation strangely soothing. Unconsciously, her posture sank, she quickly corrected it.

“Daily. I’ll show you how to apply the oil in a moment. If your wings get more heavily soiled, clean them as soon as possible.” He set the cloth aside and reached for one of the bottles.

Gold’s half-lidded eyes widened in surprise when she caught the scent. “What is that?” she asked, tilting her head back and upward so she could at least partly see Sanguinius’s face, and not just his chest.

“Orange.” He tilted the bottle slightly and let a small drop fall onto Gold’s palm. “Careful,” he murmured. “Caring for your wings is a slow process. You must be thorough. Watch me.” Gently, applying as little pressure as possible, he combed through her wings, taking individual feathers between his fingers and working in a tiny amount of oil.

Uncertain, Gold drew one of her wings forward and imitated him. The steady movements were soothing, and the soft scent of the oil began to drift through the room.

“If you prefer, we could use a scentless oil,” Sanguinius offered. “In case it makes you uncomfortable—my sons will certainly notice the scent.”

“It’s too late for that, Lord,” Gold replied. Sanguinius’s fingers paused for the briefest of moments.

“I’m in the middle of helping you clean your wings, Gold,” he said quietly. “I think you can set the titles aside for now.”

Gold lowered her head and gave a faint nod. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow offended—no, disappointed—the Primarch by clinging to her formality. But that was what Illyde had taught her. She had been chosen by Iterator Deghan himself for this task. Yet if Sanguinius didn’t want it… she would be much more discerning about what that woman told her in the future, at least in matters this personal.

When dealing with Astartes, especially those not of the Blood Angels, courtesy was far more important.

“Yes, Sanguinius,” she added. The name felt foreign on her tongue, but it also felt good to say it. Not that she trusted her captor.

“Of course I do,” she murmured under her breath. She let him touch her, right now.

“Fluff up your wings, please,” Sanguinius instructed, the warmth of another smile slipping into his voice. She followed the unfamiliar motion awkwardly—and managed to ruffle the hair near his forehead in the process.

“Careful. Now comb your fingers through. Look for bent feathers. The movement also helps reconnect the hooks at the tips of the feathers.”

Once again, Gold obeyed. Her restless sleep had left her wings worse for wear. One of the golden-brown feathers came loose as she gently tugged at it. Dreamily, she lifted it into the ceiling light.

“Will you leave the orange oil with me?” Gold stretched her wings and stood. Sanguinius mirrored her, returning the box of supplies to the drawer he’d taken it from.

“Try them all,” he encouraged his Conveniens, and Gold smiled.

“Thank you, my—Sanguinius.” She caught herself and looked up at the Primarch.

“I trust you’ll find your way to the gymnasia,” he said simply.

The corners of Gold’s eyes crinkled. “Yes.”

Chapter 12

The gymnasia where Gold found herself was only one of many aboard the Red Tear, and by far not the largest. After the long days of silence she had spent in her room, the lively sounds were almost overwhelming, though not loud. Warriors sparred across the room, either with one another or against servitors. Grunts and labored breaths filled the air, along with the thudding of bare feet striking the austere flooring. Even a space designed for training was decorated, the walls adorned with elegant patterns.

Gold stood at the edge, watching, wondering what exactly the purpose of her visit was.

Right. Sanguinius had asked her to drop by.

Most of the Fifth Company had returned from the surface of Volamene, and the Astartes were now doing what they apparently considered relaxing: friendly combat.

Dressed in what seemed like practical clothing for the occasion, Gold had made her way to the hall. Illyde had approved the outfit, and Gold trusted her only female, culturally savvy advisor far more in matters of appropriate fashion than any Astartes. Her wings twitched nervously. Sanguinius had recommended strengthening exercises for the necessary muscles, and to her surprise, they actually worked.

More than a few curious glances landed on Gold, and she was beginning to regret coming—at least when it came to the social side of things. But watching the Astartes fight… that was utterly mesmerizing. They moved with effortless grace, far too fast for beings of their size. Maybe she’d compose a piece of music about it. Or, if Illyde insisted, sketch something instead.

A shadow fell over her.

Gold looked up—looked higher—until she met the angular face of an Astartes, who regarded her with a half-smile on his lips.

“Gold, right?” His voice wasn’t as deep as Gold had come to expect from Astartes, but it carried undeniable warmth. She nodded.

“Here to pick up some new combat techniques?” he asked. Gold narrowed her eyes. Humor was a language she had only recently begun to speak. Helplessly, she lifted her thin, bony arms. The Astartes grinned and held out his hand to her.

“Temani.” He sounded almost delighted, perhaps even reverent. Gold placed her delicate hand into his rough, calloused one, which nearly enveloped hers entirely.

“Gold, Lord,” she introduced herself unnecessarily. Her voice trembled slightly.

Temani nodded toward her wings. “Orange?” Gold nodded. The Astartes didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he guided her toward the nearest weapon rack.

“What is this supposed to be?” Gold asked, offering absolutely no resistance. A heavily breathing Blood Angel, hair tied in a messy braid, stepped away from his opponent and cast Temani a warning glance.

“You’re responsible if she gets hurt, Sergeant,” the other Astartes warned, doing nothing to stop Temani from leading Gold away. Temani gave him a nod. “She’s safer with me than she’s ever been,” he replied, still grinning.

Two other Astartes threw them quick glances and then shook hands.

“Did they just make a bet?”

“I’m afraid so. We’re slowly but surely becoming the center of attention.”

Gold stopped in her tracks. “Maybe you enjoy that. I don’t.”

“Don’t worry,” Temani nudged her gently. “We Marines don’t stare. We’re usually the ones being stared at.” Gold snorted.

“You’re kind of hard to miss. What came first, your lot or the mountains?”

A heavy slap to her back, presumably meant as a friendly pat, nearly brought Gold to her knees. She coughed and looked up, face flushed, to find Temani giving her an unexpectedly apologetic look.

The Astartes from earlier called Temani’s name in warning and began moving toward the two of them.

“All… all good,” she panted. “That’s one of the reasons I shouldn’t be fighting. Besides the fact that you’re… huge.” It was so easy to speak in the presence of these warriors. As though she had always belonged among them.

Temani merely snorted and reached for the smallest combat knife on the rack, still almost as long as Gold’s arm. It was simple in design, with a short hilt that an Astartes could grip with ease.

He held it out to her and raised his brows. “Let’s see how you hold it.” Hesitantly, Gold took the blade. She could barely manage to grasp it properly. Instinctively, she shifted the heavy weapon into a reverse grip.

The blade was serrated, and it unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. The thought of driving the knife into a living body—feeling the heartbeat racing with fear or rage—made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

Uncertain, she looked up at Temani, who gazed at her as though she were a puppy taking its first stumbling steps before his eyes.

“Good,” he said, adjusting her grip slightly.

“I can barely hold it. That grip might work for a dagger, but not a sword,” Gold observed bluntly, though she couldn’t deny the small flicker of pride his approval sparked. Temani must have the patience of a saint to deal with her like this. At her remark, he only shrugged and grabbed his own blade.

He demonstrated how to stand and was about to show her the first movement when the Astartes from before interrupted them. He had left his sparring partner behind and now looked at Temani and Gold sternly.

“With all due respect, Sergeant, she’s going to disembowel herself.” His tone was deadly serious. Gold looked up at him, affronted. Not that he was wrong, but for a moment, she hadn’t felt out of place. The Astartes continued, a small grin now curling on his lips. “Shouldn’t you start with basic hand-to-hand techniques, if you’re really going through with this absurd idea?”

He lowered his voice. “She’s Conveniens.”

Temani looked at him calmly. “I’m aware, Arvarus. There’s no need for concern.”

The two giants turned to Gold. “Ever fought before?” Temani asked, needlessly. Obviously not. Gold held the knife loosely and shook her head.

Arvarus squinted. “Of course,” he muttered. “Look at her brother—skin and bones.”

Gold had heard such remarks a thousand times before. Her appearance often invited people to treat her kindly and gently. But some saw that as weakness. “Have you ever considered that a comment like that might be offensive?” she asked, though she knew better. Fear flared in her stomach.

Arvarus raised his eyebrows. “My apologies.” His voice carried something that sounded like remorse but Gold couldn’t quite grasp it. It made her nervous.

Cautiously, she handed the knife-sword back to Temani, who placed it back on the weapon rack.

“So,” Temani said brightly, “what would you like to start with?” He ran a hand through his short black hair, radiating energy and expectation. Arvarus cast him yet another warning glance; he seemed to have an infinite supply of those.

“She should at least warm up first. Stretch those wings—brother, she’s not an Astartes!” Arvarus stepped closer and placed a protective hand on Gold’s shoulder. She instinctively pulled her wings tighter to her body.

“Of course, of course. We can go for a run,” Temani said, rubbing his hands together, like a giant, very dangerous fly. Arvarus let out a sigh.

“Agreed?” Temani asked Gold, who nodded. She was eager, burning even, to try running with her new wings, and she couldn’t have cared less that she would be doing it with two near-strangers whose stamina was leagues beyond her own.

Despite his grumpy demeanor, Arvarus stayed with them as they stretched, and even joined in. Temani, meanwhile, hardly paid his brother’s mood any mind.

“You should see his compositions. Slow. Melancholic,” Temani remarked casually as Gold panted through her laps beside the two of them at the edge of the gymnasia.

“Slower,” he added. “Don’t overdo it.”

“You compose music?” Gold looked at Arvarus with delight. He jogged stoically at her right, powerful muscles shifting beneath his skin.

“Yes,” he said, glancing down at her and slowing his pace to let her keep up. “I play violin and compose my own pieces. Are you interested in music?”

“I love listening—and playing too, yes.” Gold came to a halt, glancing around the steadily filling hall. “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything important?”

Temani patted her shoulder again, this time more like a soft tap than a slap. “It’s a pleasure to train with you,” he said, pausing briefly. “Only Aspirants are still as fascinated as you are.”

“Still,” Gold repeated softly. When would this privileged life ever start to feel like routine?

---

“I would like to see her.” Nassir Amit, returned only hours ago from the last battle, stood before his Lord—his Primarch—and tried to imagine what a small version of Sanguinius might look like. Would she have his hair? The tilt of his brows? The regal eyes?

He found it impossible. Out of some strange feeling of… perhaps sentimentality, he hadn’t looked at any of the picts that had been sent to him. He had even refused to hear a description from Azkaellon, who had carried her in his own arms. Admittedly, the Captain of the Sanguinary Guard hadn’t offered one, either.

Sanguinius inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps you’d like to join your men in the Hall of the Sun Chalice.”

Surprised by the unusual suggestion, Amit narrowed his eyes. “My Lord, I prefer gymnasia with training cages.”

A faint smile touched the noble features of Sanguinius. “She should be there right now.”

Amit crossed his arms in surprise. “I hope she’s just watching. We can’t afford distractions.” Yes, he was speaking about the Conveniens of his Primarch. The concept had yet to prove itself useful and he owed her no respect.

“I don’t intend for her to participate in physical activities with my sons, Nassir,” Sanguinius reassured the captain. “The security risk is too great. She’ll soon have the opportunity to move about more freely once she visits Volamene.” He seemed quite certain on the matter.

Amit nodded. Sanguinius dismissed him, and the Astartes offered a proper farewell before setting off—to exchange his power armor for simpler training garments and, at last, to see the little angel in person.

---

“Yes, just like that, repeat!”

In the farthest corner of the training hall, Gold struck at Temani, who didn’t even flinch, instead encouraging her to hit again, and harder.

“Good. Don’t fully stretch your arm,” one of the onlookers commented. Arvarus leaned against the wall, rebraiding his hair, clearly content to watch his squadmate getting pummeled by a being who didn’t even reach his chest. Temani laughed, not mockingly, but with a fatherly tone, as Gold’s tiny fist landed once more.

“Starting to feel like a bit more than a delicate butterfly. You’re now at fly-level,” was his only remark on Gold’s doubled effort.

Breathing heavily and happier than she had been in a long time, Gold drew her aching hands to her chest. “The skin’s torn,” she murmured. “Too thin.”

Arvarus pushed off the wall and knelt before her, taking her delicate hands into his. “It’ll be fine,” he said gruffly, but there was warmth in his tone. “Need a break?” Gold looked to Temani, who met her gaze with a challenging smile.

“I’m not sure if I should leave fly-level behind just yet,” she mused aloud. “It’s not that bad.” It would get worse, of course, but none of the gathered, tough-as-bedrock Astartes needed to know that.

Most had abandoned their own sparring sessions to watch the spectacle. Some looked at Temani and Arvarus with something like envy. Others shook their heads repeatedly staying nonetheless.

Arvarus stepped back and Gold returned to the position she had been taught, taking heed of the scattered advice and readying herself to strike. Just as her arm was about to snap forward, a deep, authoritative, and unmistakably angry voice rang out:

“By the Emperor. What is going on here?”

---

Amit had almost found the scene before him amusing. Almost. If not for the surge of uncharacteristic concern—mingled with anger—that had risen within him. The Conveniens stood there in, to her credit, a perfect fighting stance, a spindly arm hanging midair from his words, mid-swing, about to strike one of his warriors. A dozen heads had turned to look at him. At least she had the decency to appear somewhat alarmed, lowering her arm and pressing it against her chest.

“Captain.” Temani stepped a little closer to Gold, a gesture that could be interpreted as protective, and inclined his head respectfully.

“I’m waiting,” Amit said calmly. With a curt motion, he signalled for the rest of the onlookers to resume their training. Only Arvarus and Temani remained.

Amit held out his hand to Gold. “Nassir Amit. Captain of the Fifth Company,” he introduced himself succinctly. “Explain yourself.” Gold took his hand with the expression of someone reaching into fire.

“Gold.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t know it was forbidden for me to be here—I mean—” She looked almost desperate. “I was assured I wouldn’t be disturbing anyone.” To his surprise, she sounded genuinely remorseful—like she’d truly done something deserving of punishment.

Amit shot a stern glance at Arvarus and Temani. “I was assured you wouldn’t be putting yourself at risk.” With a vague gesture, Amit indicated the two Astartes behind Gold. Next to her, they looked even larger than usual.

“Risk?” There it was. The faintest flicker of resistance—and the desire to protect her new friends.

Amit suspected she’d feel even more guilty if he chastised the Astartes. He also suspected it had been Temani who’d encouraged her, and Arvarus who—as ever—had tried to contain the damage. Temani had started to act strangely in the last weeks. There had never been an Astartes this cheerful. “I can assure you, I was in excellent hands, my Lord,” Gold said, taking a small step back. Her feathers puffed out ever so slightly.

This wasn’t at all how Amit had imagined his first meeting with the Conveniens. He had only heard stories of what it felt like to be in her presence, that strange compulsion Astartes supposedly felt not to disappoint her. “You’re uninjured?” he asked, still in the same stern tone. She nodded, and her expression relaxed, if only a fraction.

Amit pressed his lips into a thin line. “Report to Vadriel. If he confirms that you’re unharmed, you may return in due time. If not, I’m sorry—the risk is too great.”

“Yes… they were careful, Lord.”

“I don’t doubt it. I hope so.”

Temani crossed his arms. “Sir, we—” He began, but Amit cut him off.

“We’ll speak about this later. Return to your routines. I haven’t forgotten you.”

“They were kind,” came Gold’s gentle, insistent voice from below. Amit looked down at her sharply.

“Please.” He smiled, surprisingly free of anger. “Go to the Apothecarion. You weren’t forbidden from being here or from training. And you should consider it an honor that two of our warriors offered you their help.” With a sigh, he ran a hand over his chin. “Once it’s confirmed that you suffered no harm, you may return.”

Something stoic crept into the features of the frail figure. “Yes, my Lord.”

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of 40k Conveniens AU