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Chapter 172: Huron, Your Sins Have Found You Out
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 10:37:55 +0000 UTCChapter 172: Huron, Your Sins Have Found You Out
"Chapter Master Huron."
Inquisitor Aglaia inclined her head slightly, her gaze sweeping slowly across the bustling port as if she were assessing its worth. Then, she turned to Huron. With a slight lift of her chin, her posture neither deferential nor arrogant, she gave a simple, placid nod of acknowledgement.
She then took a single step back, decisively ceding the initiative in the conversation.
The gravity in Huron's eyes lessened fractionally, and the tense line of his pauldrons relaxed by an imperceptible degree. He said nothing more, simply striding forward to meet Romulus.
It was a meeting shaped by fate, in a way.
Before the call to Ultramar had come, Huron had been preparing for the first great Maelstrom Conquest of his tenure as Chapter Master. The Maelstrom Auxiliary Corps, assembled over fifty years of creatively reallocated tithes, stood ready alongside the full might of the Astral Claws Chapter. They had completed their purge of pirates and heretical elements within the Badab Sector, waiting only for reinforcements from the Black Templars to arrive before launching their grand campaign.
Unfortunately, before the war could even begin, the Black Templar fleet that had pledged its aid received an urgent summons. Without so much as a word of explanation, they plunged directly into the Immaterium and vanished.
The act left Huron seething, but considering the forces at his disposal, he had no choice but to order the Guardians of the Maelstrom to withdraw to their strongholds and await another opportunity, no matter how frustrated he was. He remained on Badab, privately cursing the sons of Dorn for their lack of brotherhood, their ignorance of honour and sworn oaths.
But then, word came of the Dawn Crusade. When he heard how the four lords had gathered the might of the Imperium at Baal and launched a campaign that still had the High Lords of Terra talking, the knot of resentment in his chest finally dissolved.
Huron's fingers unconsciously traced the lines of his inactive power claw. His gaze passed through the observation window, piercing the depths of the void. Out there, the Nemesis Chapter's Gloriana-class battleship hung in silent majesty, its adamantium hull gleaming with a cold lustre under the starlight.
An indescribable, sour feeling welled up within him—not jealousy, but something deeper, an emotion closer to profound regret.
Now, only one thing angered him:
When the Black Templars left, why in the name of the Throne didn't they take the Astral Claws with them?!
Three years.
In just three short years, that crusade fleet had swept from the galactic north, driving ever southward. They had reclaimed nearly a thousand fallen worlds and annihilated countless heretics and xenos. They had re-established ancient trade routes and restored the awe of human dominion.
Whenever a scrap of a war report reached the Macragge Sector, Huron would study it for hours in his strategium, as if trying to witness the epic campaign firsthand through the cold, printed text.
He knew of Karna's bravery and charisma—a dazzling presence, like the sun itself, impossible to ignore whether on a corpse-strewn battlefield or in a gilded council hall.
As for the other two, even Marneus Calgar knew little more than their names. Now, seeing them in person, Huron could feel the pressure they exuded from their very cores.
One was calm and silent, utterly flawless, like an observer watching from ten thousand miles away, yet possessing the contradictory feeling of a blade pressed against one's neck.
The other was cynical, treating the world as his playground, seemingly indifferent to mortal affairs. Yet, the currents swirling in the depths of his eyes betrayed a profound lethality.
They are all my superiors, Huron thought. Men I should aspire to learn from.
But—
As Huron came to a stop before Romulus, his respiration hitched, the servos of his armour whining almost inaudibly.
Romulus Quirinus.
Master strategist, deciding battles from a thousand light-years away.
Lord of the stars, with limitless authority in his grasp.
In that instant, what ignited in Huron's eyes was not just respect, but a burning, scorching ambition that threatened to overwhelm his reason.
A man of destiny should be thus!
"My Lord Romulus, I offer you my respects," he declared, executing a formal salute. His posture was reverent, yet held no trace of subservience.
'Born to do great things,' Romulus remarked internally.
Ramesses's voice echoed in his mind. 'A pity his ambition outstrips his ability.'
'He has a talent for logistics, but his handling of interpersonal relations is a catastrophe. It's a special kind of skill to make an enemy of every Imperial institution besides the Astartes.'
Romulus's gaze drifted past the port to where a pack of Space Wolves were already hassling a tech-priest. A vague plan began to form in his mind. He truly ought to let those belligerent pups take a tour of the Silent Vow. The reaction from the Dark Angels would surely be interesting.
Simultaneously, a projection of Huron's future scrolled through his mind like a stream of data:
Huron. Lord of the Maelstrom, vanguard of tax resistance, master of illicit recruitment.
Without intervention, history would repeat itself. In M41.903, a hundred and fifty years from now, an Imperial audit would dig deep into the Badab Sector, and Huron's enterprise would be exposed.
The members of the audit committee would uncover the first discrepancy from mountains of data, then a second, and a third... First, they would discover his tithe evasion. Following that thread, they would find the disgraced Tiger Claws Chapter. While investigating the issue of harbouring a renegade chapter, they would accidentally uncover his flagrantly over-strength legion of Space Marines. And when they dug deeper into the source of his recruits, the darkest, most blasphemous evidence would finally surface.
In his quest for rapid recruitment, Huron had 'slightly' tampered with his gene-seed using Warp-craft.
And then, there was no 'then'.
A new star of Chaos, second only to Abaddon the Despoiler, would rise. In a mere century, he would build his Red Corsairs into the second-largest Chaos Astartes warband in the galaxy, surpassed only by the Black Legion.
'Yes, a classic Astartes-supremacist,' Romulus replied. 'He trusts no one but his own kind.'
It was too early to execute the Chapter Master now. Men could change. He couldn't be judged for crimes he had yet to commit.
Erebus excluded, of course.
"Chapter Master Huron," Romulus finally acknowledged, his gaze steady on the warrior before him. There was a great deal of room to manoeuvre in Huron's case. It didn't even need to be solved, merely delayed for a century or so, and that would be a victory. Ramesses had recently begun researching the powers of Ynnead; as soon as they "grew" a legion, they would head straight for the Eye of Terror at Cadia to seize the Crone Sword. With luck, Guilliman might even wake up a little earlier.
"We require all relevant data-slates," Romulus stated, his eyes looking past Huron toward the fortress-monastery. "Specifically, the refugee logs from every sector."
"Of course, my Lord. Our staff has already processed them. Please, follow me," Huron responded immediately, gesturing with a standard guiding motion of his right hand.
He paid no mind to the endless stream of vehicles and wargear being offloaded from the transports. He didn't spare them a single glance, even though a fraction of that equipment would have been enough to launch a war of glory for his entire Chapter. Forging a good relationship with the four lords was more important than anything.
The group followed, the rhythmic clang of their ceramite boots on the adamantium floor echoing down the long corridor.
Romulus's eyes slowly scanned the defensive arrangements along the way. The route Huron had chosen was perfect, showcasing everything from the deployment arrays of the orbital defence platforms to the firing arcs of the surface-to-air batteries. Every strategic node was clearly visible. The fortifications displayed the meticulous rigour of a commander accustomed to repelling void-based assaults; there were no blind spots in the fields of fire.
The refugee processing, however, was deeply unsatisfactory.
It was visibly slow. The bloated, inefficient queues of people waiting for clearance stood in stark contrast to the small streams of those who had been efficiently processed, reassigned to transports, and sent to sanctuary worlds in the rear.
"Full of schemes," he chuckled under his breath, then spoke aloud. "Chapter Master Huron, is your administration facing certain difficulties with the population dispersal?"
A flicker of triumph sparked in Huron's heart. It was just as he predicted. Leaders who pursued perfection could not tolerate such waste and inefficiency.
"Yes, my Lord. Due to the threat of Genestealer infiltration, we must conduct genetic screening on every arriving refugee," Huron said, his voice deep through his helmet's vox-emitter. He deliberately slowed his speech, lending a calculated weight to each syllable. "However, the Adeptus Mechanicus monopolizes the creation and use of the diagnostic cogitators, and they are using that leverage to control a portion of the system's logistical network..."
Control the port for what purpose?
Romulus's gaze shot through the observation window towards the distant, bustling loading zones. Red-robed figures scurried across the freight platforms, their servo-skulls circling every docked transport like greedy vultures.
The answer was obvious.
They were taking advantage of the sector's chaos to dispatch explorator fleets to every struggling world, fishing in troubled waters. Finding an STC fragment would be a massive gain. Even if they found nothing, the turmoil provided perfect cover for advancing their own clandestine projects.
Romulus stared into the void for two seconds, then simply waved his hand, his expression unreadable.
Arthur silently turned and departed.
If you won't deal with them, someone else will.
Seeing this, Huron couldn't help but clench his fist in excitement.
But that excitement was short-lived.
SMACK—!
The adamantium conference table boomed under the heavy impact. A parchment document, sealed with the wax sigil of the High Lords of Terra, slid halfway across its surface.
Aglaia was still in the process of raising a hand to intervene, but Ramesses had already slammed the file down directly in front of Huron.
"Chapter Master Huron—"
Ramesses drew out the words, his fingertip tapping rhythmically on the prominent tax audit stamp on the document. He leaned forward slightly, his shadow falling across Huron's suddenly tense face.
"Your sins have found you out."
In the conference hall, Aglaia stared directly into Huron's eyes. An unspoken threat hung heavy in the air.
"Chapter Master Huron, according to known Imperial records, the Tiger Claws Chapter has been declared Excommunicate Traitoris. I must confirm one thing: does your loyalty still lie with the Imperium?"
After Huron had personally handed command of the Astral Claws over to Romulus and Ramesses had slapped the document on the table, the atmosphere in the hall had become dangerously taut.
Whirrr~
A servo-skull hummed anxiously in the corner. The scratching of its quill-pen across parchment sounded exceptionally harsh in the silence.
"Of course," Huron nodded with perfect frankness, allowing the Inquisitor to see every minute shift in his expression.
Lord Ramesses's sudden attack was startling, but the Crusade Fleet's position was already clear: they were backing him. This questioning was a good thing. Questions raised here meant there was still room to negotiate.
"The Maelstrom is a galactic nexus, but it also borders a warp rift. We, the Guardians of the Maelstrom, have stood watch here for centuries. No one can question our loyalty." His power fist tightened unconsciously as he recalled the endless days and nights fighting Chaos warbands. The flash of lance-strikes illuminating the void, the sight of ships corrupted by the warp disintegrating before his eyes... The thought that he could one day become like them sent a cold revulsion crawling up his spine.
Without the supplies and recruits provided by Imperial worlds, his grand ambition of conquering the Maelstrom would forever remain a pipe dream.
"Your promises must be proven by time, Chapter Master Huron," Aglaia acknowledged with a slight nod. Her peripheral vision caught the sudden appearance of a Callidus Assassin beside her; the killer, clad in a synskin suit, seemed to coalesce from thin air. The silent exchange between the two seemed to drop the room's temperature by several degrees.
After a moment, the Inquisitor spoke again. "Your tax evasion is no secret to the High Lords."
"I am aware," Huron replied coolly. He had been withholding the Imperial Tithe for fifty years. The merchant guilds in the neighbouring Karis Cephalon sector had screamed bloody murder, but the sector's own Lord Procurator had remained silent. That implied the Imperium's tacit approval, which was why he had dared to continue.
The Adeptus Arbites was terrifyingly effective; many Slaaneshi cults across the sectors were caught not for heresy, but for tax fraud. It would have been a miracle if he hadn't been investigated after decades of non-payment.
Genestealer Cults, however, were never caught that way. They were always model taxpayers.
The Callidus Assassin glanced furtively at Romulus. The Crusade's commander was flipping through documents at an astonishing speed. The rustle of parchment under his fingertips was like a rapid drumbeat. He spent barely enough time on each page for a normal person to read the title, yet his sharp eyes were clearly burning every word into his memory.
"The Imperium's command was for you to guard the Maelstrom sector, not to conquer it," Aglaia recited, each word stressed perfectly, as if the Grand Master of Assassins himself were speaking through her lips. "The Imperium does not wish for another Lord Solar Macharius. At the same time, it expects a sector to fulfill its necessary duties."
The candlelight cast flickering shadows in her bright eyes, making the unstated implications all the more obvious.
"I understand," Huron replied instantly.
"Furthermore, for reasons we are all aware of, you must support mortal representatives in government. You are forbidden from directly interfering in the planetary politics of any world."
"Agreed."
The answer was again crisp and without hesitation. A muscle twitched at the corner of Huron's mouth. He had waited far too long for a negotiation like this. He could accept compromise, he could accept Imperial oversight, he could accept red lines being drawn. In truth, he had never intended to rebel.
He just wanted to conquer the Maelstrom and fulfill his personal ambition.
But the Imperium had always ignored him.
His eyes downcast, Huron recalled the lonely war games played out in the Badab fortress, the endless calculations of force dispositions before the star-charts. Now, all of that finally had a chance of becoming reality.
"The Imperium will sanction the re-founding of the Tiger Claws," she continued, "but they must use gene-seed tithed from the Ultramarines, and the process must take place on Macragge, under Ultramarine supervision." This was a demand clearly aimed at the Crusade Fleet.
A Space Marine standing behind Huron, one Captain Androcles, clenched his fists. Unsteady white vapour plumed from his respirator grille, and his armour's servos whined unnaturally. The exact date of his induction into the Astral Claws was a mystery, but it was certain he had not participated in the Tiger Claws' original penitent crusade.
Ramesses, who had just ensnared one of the Space Wolf pups in a Thousand Sons psychic illusion, glanced over at him. He is the last of the Tiger Claws, he thought, and he will be the last of the Astral Claws.
"The Imperium can accept that the Tiger Claws are loyal," Aglaia continued, seeing that the point was conceded. "But due to the origin of their gene-seed, we require a complete list of all surviving Tiger Claws warriors. Their gene-seed must be reclaimed via the gene-tithe."
A conflicted look crossed Huron's face. His instinctual sense of brotherhood made him unwilling to see his brethren's lineage extinguished, but the Tiger Claws did indeed originate from an infamous founding.
The Cursed 21st Founding.
The Astartes Chapters born from it were, to varying degrees, afflicted by gene-seed mutation. This included physical mutations, like the sharp bone spurs that grew from the bodies of the Black Dragons, as well as mental instability. A significant number of the Cursed Founding Chapters had fallen to Chaos. As a result, the surviving chapters endured not only the relentless, high-intensity surveillance of the Inquisition, but also the cold stares of their battle-brothers.
The Lamenters, another one of the Guardians of the Maelstrom, were also members of the Cursed Founding. However, because their gene-seed was unexpectedly stable and their public demeanor was open and compassionate, they had managed to fare relatively well. In fact, one could argue the Lamenters' mutation was the most severe of all: they had mutated a conscience.
"History has proven that the vast majority of Chapters from the 21st Founding were a mistake," the Inquisitor's voice fell like a judge's gavel. She deliberately slowed her speech, driving each syllable into the air like a nail. "Their gene-seed is too unstable. They no longer possess the right to be preserved."
The data-serfs in the room stopped their work in unison, their mechanical arms hovering in mid-air, all waiting for Huron's reaction. This was the red line for the Officio Assassinorum. Due to the nature of his position, there was no one, save perhaps the silent Custodes, who knew more secrets than the Grand Master. The Officio could tolerate losses in mortal affairs, but they would never accept the existence of an unstable element. If they could have found a legitimate excuse to censure the Black Dragons, they would have made the Chapter disappear long ago.
Hearing this, Romulus couldn't help but shake his head. The source of this tragedy was clearly the Magos Biologis who had recklessly tampered with the gene-sequence and the High Lords who had blindly approved the founding. Yet the ones who bore the bitter consequences were these Astartes, who had fought on for centuries under a curse. In the noble mausoleums of Terra, the High Lords who made those decisions were likely nothing more than stone tablets engraved with false eulogies, receiving offerings no one cared to give.
"...I wish for the brothers of the Tiger Claws to be able to participate in the Chapter's reconstruction," Huron finally said after a long silence.
"Permitted."
The psychic glow in Aglaia's eyes abruptly vanished, and the invisible link between her and the Callidus was severed like a cut thread. The assassin's form dissolved back into the shadows, leaving only a few dissipating motes of light where its synskin had been.
"The above are the Imperium's demands and its bottom line," the Inquisitor stated, adjusting the seal-chains on her cuffs, the metal links clinking crisply. She paused, allowing the hall's auto-recorders to complete their final data-log entry before continuing.
"What follows is a personal request."
"Please, speak."
Compared to the beginning of their meeting, Huron's tone was considerably more courteous. Some matters were better once they were out in the open. Of course, the main reason for his compliance was the presence of the Crusade Fleet. He cast a grateful look at Romulus, who had made this meeting possible.
His own minor infractions were nothing compared to the issues surrounding the Crusade Fleet itself. Romulus was already remotely directing sector politics, appointing personnel to various departments, and engaging in blatant cronyism with the members of his fleet. What he planned to do next was something Huron dared not even imagine.
The High Lords were already screaming bloody murder, cursing the fact that it was the Black Templars and not the Ultramarines who had first run into these 'Primarchs'. The way things were going in Ultramar, it was hard to say who the realm would belong to in the future. It was a strange chemical reaction between rebels.
Fortunately, in Aglaia, both sides had a channel they could accept. And Romulus clearly understood the High Lords' limits. Otherwise, a conflict would be inevitable. For now, the High Lords were resolved: as long as these upstarts didn't openly secede from the Imperium, and as long as they kept their fleet away from the Sol System, they could do whatever they wanted. They had fought from the galactic north to the south in three years; fighting from east to west probably wouldn't take them much longer.
"..."
The air in the hall seemed to solidify. Only the Inquisitor's suppressed breathing echoed off the adamantium walls, the controlled rhythm still containing a noticeable tremor.
[ESTELIA, AGRI-WORLD. ASSAULTED BY HIVE FLEET 192 DAYS AGO. DEPARTMENTO MUNITORUM AND VARIOUS NOBLE HOUSES DISPATCHED SIGNIFICANT FORCES TO DEFEND THE JEWEL OF EASTERN ULTRAMAR. PROGNOSIS IS NOT OPTIMISTIC.]
[LAST CONTACT WITH ESTELIA WAS 32 DAYS AGO. LOGS INDICATE LOCAL TYRANID BIOFORMS NUMBER IN THE HUNDREDS OF BILLIONS, WITH TENS OF THOUSANDS OF TYRANID BIO-SHIPS STILL IN ORBITAL ASSAULT.]
[THREE WEEKS AGO, A JOINT FORCE CONSISTING OF ULTRAMARINES STRIKE FORCE TALASSAR, THE MORTIFACTORS, AND THE LAMENTERS WAS DISPATCHED TO AGRI-WORLD ESTELIA. EXTERMINATUS IS AUTHORIZED IF NECESSARY.]
[CURRENTLY, NO REFUGEE FLEETS FROM ESTELIA HAVE BEEN RECEIVED.]
"My Lord, I request permission to go to Estelia," Aglaia said at once, her voice taut with grim formality.
"We will go together."
Romulus flicked a finger, closing the yellowed parchment file. The Invictarus Suzerains immediately began clearing the table, silently placing the documents into encrypted containers. The crisp click of the metal cases closing was sharp in the quiet hall.
"Huron, you are in full command of all evacuation affairs. You have the authority to act first and report later. But remember to write the reports."
"Yes, my Lord!" Huron hammered a fist against his chest in salute.
The group rose swiftly and began moving towards the waiting Stormbirds. Aglaia's pupils dilated slightly as she watched the backs of the Dawnbreakers, momentarily at a loss for words. In that single moment, the exhaustion from her constant reports to the High Lords, the high-pressure anxiety that had long plagued her, seemed to diminish significantly.
Her efforts had, after all, been rewarded.
And now, fate had made its choice.
The Inquisitor's luck was good.
"...Yes," was all she managed, a low utterance, before hurrying to catch up, the sound of her long boots on the adamantium floor slightly uneven.
Of course, Romulus was not acting on a whim to win a fair lady's smile. He found Aglaia agreeable, and out of the camaraderie between allies, he was willing to provide her with materiel and manpower support. He would never be stingy with aid he could offer. But no matter how agreeable she was, he would not alter tactical deployments on her behalf and gamble with the lives of countless warriors.
The key was that the Lamenters were there.
The data Huron provided was extremely detailed, and Romulus had felt that any of the active warzones would be a valid starting point. Hive Fleet Behemoth was currently scattered, its strategy likely focused on gathering biomass before punching through defensive lines with overwhelming force.
But the presence of the Lamenters immediately gave Romulus a clear direction, one that also happened to align with his comrade's emotional needs. It was a perfect solution.
Remember how the Cursed Founding chapters each had their own flaws?
The Lamenters were no exception.
Their warriors possessed robust physiques and an abnormally high gene-seed compatibility rate. They suffered neither from the Red Thirst that plagued the sons of Sanguinius, nor had they experienced more than a handful of Black Rage incidents in their history. These traits were enough to make any Blood Angels Apothecary green with envy.
So, their defect was not a physical one.
Romulus suddenly looked up at the observation window. Through the reinforced plasteel, he could see the Lamenters' banner in the docking bay. The battle-worn standard fluttered gently in the blue glow of the void shields.
They were unlucky.
Profoundly, cosmically unlucky.
