Bookwyrm Writes in Darknes

Lion El'Jonson Lion is pleased. His dynasty is growing, and each of his children is an apple of his eye. Not that he will ever admit it openly. Yet, in private, he actually likes to lie with all of the kids nestled on his chest while he goes over some documents. Yes, they are indeed his pride and joy.

Fulgrim Fulgrim is beyond ecstatic. His beautiful, magnificent, perfect bloodline grows with another addition. And he is here to spend the first few days with just you and the new baby. Yes, the siblings may grow jealous, but he loves those moments of uninterrupted intimacy, the moment when he can gaze upon new perfection joining this world. How beautiful they are, the offspring of your line and his.

Perturabo You know, Perturabo actually prefers that. He knows that his blood is the only thing that will be reliable in this world. So when you present him with another child, he presents you with another perfect invention. So far, you have six weird contraptions, and he has six perfectly adequate kids who he himself can shape and mold and teach in all the ways of the world.

Jaghatai Khan It is expected for a khan to have multiple children, though usually not by the same wife, but Jaghatai is ever a rebel. Each time you gift him a child, he gives you a pelt, a weapon, or some other trinket snatched from a distant world as he travels. He gets those early, because the closer you are to delivery the less he is willing to leave your side.

Leman Russ Hell yeah! Another one! Another pup joined the pack, and he is here with your previous one so they can welcome their new sibling. Leman is beyond pleased, beyond ecstatic. His mate is strong, his seed is strong, and he hopes that you will be amenable to adding at least two more to your ever-growing pack of little ankle-biters. Yes, they do bite for real.

Rogal Dorn Dorn is actually stressing about it. Because your children are so close together, he prefers to keep them in the same room, and each new addition requires him to rearrange all the defense points and reinforce what was already already outliving itself. Of course, he is pleased that you and the baby are all right, but pleased and stressed can, in fact, exist in a single man at the same time.

Konrad Curze He is conflicted, because on one hand, children are proof that something in him can still create life instead of only fear and ruin. On the other hand, he cannot stop thinking about what sort of world they will inherit, and whether they will one day become like him. He is not openly affectionate about it, but he does hover. A lot. The children are his little night things, and he is weirdly protective in the most ominous way possible. If one of them cries, he appears in the doorway like a bad omen, but with blankets.

Sanguinius Sanguinius is radiant about it in a way that is almost unfair. He is gentle, attentive, and deeply moved by each new child, as though every birth is a small miracle he gets to witness. He is the sort to cradle the baby with reverence and then immediately be distracted by the older ones trying to climb all over him. He absolutely adores the family dynamic, especially when all the children are curled up around him and you can see the whole household settle into peace. He calls them his little angels, and somehow, somehow, he means it without irony.

Ferrus Manus Ferrus is awkward at first, because he is not naturally good at softness, but once he settles into fatherhood, he becomes intensely steady. He likes that children are direct, honest, and hard to fool, which makes them one of the few things he trusts easily. He will build them things. He will also probably make them sturdy little tools, toys, and training implements that are somehow all equally dangerous and practical.

Angron Angron is apprehensive. He was forced to kill a person he counted as his father, and he is not above a fatalistic view of fate, so maybe one day one of his children will be forced to do such a thing. But whatever it is, it is in the future. Currently, they are small, nestled in his arms, and, for some reason, he goes just a little bit quiet. Just do not let him hear screaming children, for his peace of mind.

Roboute Guilliman Guilliman does not specifically want a dynasty, but he would like some legacy, and you are ever so agreeable in providing him with each new piece every few years. His children are close in age and look almost exactly like carbon copies of himself, except for your youngest daughter, who, to his delight, looks almost exactly like you, but with his eyes. Finally. Do you think it was his entire goal to have at least one who looks like you?

Mortarion Mortarion is horrified. This was never supposed to happen. He was, well, not exactly the most lively person in the room. So for him to produce so much life, it honestly breaks him a little. He is initially apprehensive and very cautious toward children, but around the fourth one, he warms up and starts teaching them things he knows about: poisons, plagues, fumes, and other not-so-child-appropriate stuff. But this is his way to bond with his ever-growing family, and you are not going to deny it to him, are you?

Magnus the Red Magnus is delighted at his new army of young scholars, and he considers them scholars even if the children themselves are not yet old enough to read, and those who are do not exactly share his passion for warp and sorcery. But he is content that this is just growing pains and one day they will see the world the way he does. Until then, you can add to the number of his future scholarly brigade.

Horus Lupercal This is Horus's ultimate goal: an entire company of his children, all as magnificent as his, sharing his ideals, his spirit. Ideally, your eyes, but his are also accepted. So, how about once your body rests and recovers, you try for twins?

Lorgar Aurelian Lorgar is overwhelmed in the most reverent way possible. He sees every child as a sign, a blessing, a living testament to love and meaning, and he is almost absurdly emotional about it. He likes to hold the baby and speak softly as if the child can already understand the sacred importance of being here. He is also very likely to get misty-eyed over family moments and turn ordinary things into spiritual ones. To him, each child is proof that devotion can become flesh.

Vulkan Vulkan is the warmest, most openly paternal of the whole lot. He is the Primarch most likely to play with the children on the floor, carry all of them at once, and somehow make every single one feel like the most important person in the room. He is patient, soft-spoken, and completely melted by tiny hands grabbing at him. He loves the noise, the mess, the laughter, all of it. If one of the children gets hurt, he is instantly there, and if one of them calls for him in the night, he would move mountains to reach them.

Corvus Corax Corvus is quieter about it than most, but no less devoted. He is the one who watches from the side until one of the children wanders over and crawls into his lap, at which point he is finished for the evening. He likes the small, private moments more than the grand ones, and he has a very soft spot for the child who sits with him while he works. He may not be loud about it, but the children know he is there, and that matters more.

Alpharius Omegon Each time a new one is born, Alpharius and Omegon argue over who is the father, and since neither can decide, they decide that you need to have an even number of children, starting with 8. Can you get to 16? At least the do not insist on naming them all Alpharius.

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Hey! I now have more here! (and here)

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Tallis stared at himself in the mirror, struggling desperately to keep himself from panicking. From everything he knew - which wasn't much - of the cursed affliction that plagued his Legion - and had turned so many of his surviving brothers into twisted monsters who did not remember clearly who they were from what he had seen of some of them... He needed to stay calm. This cursed gene-seed defect fed on heightened emotions as much as it affected his ability to use the warp and cast spells, so he had to stay calm. He had woken up this morning with awful, crawling abdominal pain that had been terrifyingly familiar.

He had stumbled to the full-length mirror. He was still trying hard not to panic... He's not sure how long it's been as he watches something writhe and squirm beneath his skin, each movement almost enough agony to bring him to his knees and howl in pain. It was only through sheer force of will that he stayed upright and quiet as he shook, silently trying to decide what to do. In the far future, his Lord Father had ordered that all of the thousand sons who were afflicted by the flesh change to be placed in stasis until a cure could be found. 

Tallis had gone into stasis, promising his personal serf that, should it be possible, he would seek them out once again, though his hearts ached at the possibility of her passing before a cure could be found. He had awoken on Ancient Terra, what had felt like a hearts-beat later. But he had no idea as to how long he had been in stasis. Why the tides of the warp or the whims of... Whatever it was that was sending them to this time and place had brought him onto these ancient shores, he could not say. He'd been awake for a handful of weeks, and the warp was so much harder to reach through... He had hoped that whatever warp-borne affliction or curse that had plagued him in the far future had gone away.

But... Well. He had his answer. His horrible, painful, twisting answer.

What was he going to do? Where was he to find treatment? There must be a treatment of some kind, he had met brothers who claimed to have been from much farther in the future than the date that he had been interred within a stasis chamber... Most of them had been Chaos Marines, and served gods - which Tallis had been told and believed to not be real. Whatever they worshipped had clearly been real, from the twisted, awful echoes of the brothers he had once knew were, but-

This did not mean they were true gods. Horribly powerful warp entities - perhaps much more powerful entities that were similar to the familiars that some of his brothers had taken on. Not that Tallis had ever trusted the giggling pink creatures that whispered promises of power and knowledge. There had been a mocking, vicious air to them that he hadn't trusted. Which... From what he had heard in small bits and pieces, that decision had been a good one. He'd made many mistakes, but had avoided that particular one. 

"Tal, what's going on? I woke up and you weren't in bed with me." You, his precious bonded called out, yawning and shuffling over to him, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. 

Panic hit him hard and he re-tied his sleeping robe, as he didn't want you to see what was happening to him. There were many things that he hadn't told you - wasn't supposed to by the rules of the alliance, and he did his best to do that. He did not want you to run screaming from him - or to have your mind crack into madness from the wild, fantastic and terrible things that he had seen. And he had apparently been spared from the worst of what had happened to his legion. To Lord Father. "I... Ahhh... I was feeling a bit under the weather, and wanted to see what was going on."

"Are you worried about complications from waking up from that pod? Mmm, I do remember finding you in that weird metal pod thing. I'd peered into your pod and realized that you were probable an astartes of some kind and called the nearest base. They'd brought me with you 'cause the librarian of the group said we were already bonding and it would be for the best if I was there when you woke up." You responded "The Astartes doc said that there might be some complications that might pop up weeks to even months after you woke up. Let's go to the doctor's, then."

How could he possibly explain to you in a way that didn't break the treaty terms, or possibly your mind what was going on? His mind churned anxiously, and seemingly in response to his fears and concerns, the thing roiling around inside his guts pushed hard and fast, causing Tallis to gasp and crumple to the ground, his knees treacherously giving out from under him "Sounds... Good... Fuck! That hurts..."

The sleep instantly faded from your eyes and you rushed over to his side, gently but urgently pulling him up onto his feet "Up we go, love. You're going to be okay. We'll get you to the clinic, and they'll help you sort out whatever's going on with you. Even if it's a chronic thing, I'm sure they've got something to help you."

Tallis tried and mostly succeeded to send you a confident smile that he did not at all feel. Unless they had figured out how to fix the flesh change in the time that he'd been put in stasis and whatever had caused the heel-turn his legion took from the Imperium "Yeah, love. Let's hope so." He groans a little as the thing pressed hard against his diaphragm, trying to steal the air from his lungs by force. It seemed to react to all swings of emotion, not just negative ones.

Tallis stared at himself in the mirror, struggling desperately to keep himself from panicking. From everything he knew - which wasn't much - of the cursed affliction that plagued his Legion - and had turned so many of his surviving brothers into twisted monsters who did not remember clearly who they were from what he had seen of some of them... He needed to stay calm. This cursed gene-seed defect fed on heightened emotions as much as it affected his ability to use the warp and cast spells, so he had to stay calm. He had woken up this morning with awful, crawling abdominal pain that had been terrifyingly familiar.

He had stumbled to the full-length mirror. He was still trying hard not to panic... He's not sure how long it's been as he watches something writhe and squirm beneath his skin, each movement almost enough agony to bring him to his knees and howl in pain. It was only through sheer force of will that he stayed upright and quiet as he shook, silently trying to decide what to do. In the far future, his Lord Father had ordered that all of the thousand sons who were afflicted by the flesh change to be placed in stasis until a cure could be found. 

Tallis had gone into stasis, promising his personal serf that, should it be possible, he would seek them out once again, though his hearts ached at the possibility of her passing before a cure could be found. He had awoken on Ancient Terra, what had felt like a hearts-beat later. But he had no idea as to how long he had been in stasis. Why the tides of the warp or the whims of... Whatever it was that was sending them to this time and place had brought him onto these ancient shores, he could not say. He'd been awake for a handful of weeks, and the warp was so much harder to reach through... He had hoped that whatever warp-borne affliction or curse that had plagued him in the far future had gone away.

But... Well. He had his answer. His horrible, painful, twisting answer.

What was he going to do? Where was he to find treatment? There must be a treatment of some kind, he had met brothers who claimed to have been from much farther in the future than the date that he had been interred within a stasis chamber... Most of them had been Chaos Marines, and served gods - which Tallis had been told and believed to not be real. Whatever they worshipped had clearly been real, from the twisted, awful echoes of the brothers he had once knew were, but-

This did not mean they were true gods. Horribly powerful warp entities - perhaps much more powerful entities that were similar to the familiars that some of his brothers had taken on. Not that Tallis had ever trusted the giggling pink creatures that whispered promises of power and knowledge. There had been a mocking, vicious air to them that he hadn't trusted. Which... From what he had heard in small bits and pieces, that decision had been a good one. He'd made many mistakes, but had avoided that particular one. 

"Tal, what's going on? I woke up and you weren't in bed with me." You, his precious bonded called out, yawning and shuffling over to him, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. 

Panic hit him hard and he re-tied his sleeping robe, as he didn't want you to see what was happening to him. There were many things that he hadn't told you - wasn't supposed to by the rules of the alliance, and he did his best to do that. He did not want you to run screaming from him - or to have your mind crack into madness from the wild, fantastic and terrible things that he had seen. And he had apparently been spared from the worst of what had happened to his legion. To Lord Father. "I... Ahhh... I was feeling a bit under the weather, and wanted to see what was going on."

"Are you worried about complications from waking up from that pod? Mmm, I do remember finding you in that weird metal pod thing. I'd peered into your pod and realized that you were probable an astartes of some kind and called the nearest base. They'd brought me with you 'cause the librarian of the group said we were already bonding and it would be for the best if I was there when you woke up." You responded "The Astartes doc said that there might be some complications that might pop up weeks to even months after you woke up. Let's go to the doctor's, then."

How could he possibly explain to you in a way that didn't break the treaty terms, or possibly your mind what was going on? His mind churned anxiously, and seemingly in response to his fears and concerns, the thing roiling around inside his guts pushed hard and fast, causing Tallis to gasp and crumple to the ground, his knees treacherously giving out from under him "Sounds... Good... Fuck! That hurts..."

The sleep instantly faded from your eyes and you rushed over to his side, gently but urgently pulling him up onto his feet "Up we go, love. You're going to be okay. We'll get you to the clinic, and they'll help you sort out whatever's going on with you. Even if it's a chronic thing, I'm sure they've got something to help you."

Tallis tried and mostly succeeded to send you a confident smile that he did not at all feel. Unless they had figured out how to fix the flesh change in the time that he'd been put in stasis and whatever had caused the heel-turn his legion took from the Imperium "Yeah, love. Let's hope so." He groans a little as the thing pressed hard against his diaphragm, trying to steal the air from his lungs by force. It seemed to react to all swings of emotion, not just negative ones.

Malchior lingered beyond the last rows of vines, unseen, the warp bond- that slowly growing garden is reaching subtly into her awareness. Each step she took down the aisle felt guided by a force she could neither name nor resist, her rational mind struggling to assert control.

Julien’s gaze followed her with disciplined intensity, yet there was a flicker of something he could not place: unease, fascination, dread. He shifted slightly, tightening his hands on the carved altar rail. Althan, silent and patient at the edge of the estate, observed every micro-expression, every pulse of Julien’s heartbeat. The subtle tug—the Bond—pulled at Julien as inexorably as Malchior’s tug pulled at Clara, though the human could not yet recognize the source.

The guests murmured in approval as Clara approached, her movements graceful, composed, flawless. Each step threaded her closer to Malchior’s unseen influence, the Warp’s subtle hum brushing against her awareness. She caught Julien’s gaze briefly, and a wave of tension passed between them—not suspicion exactly, but a sense of restrained urgency, a faint prickling that something unseen watched, guided, and waited.

Althan’s presence was almost imperceptible, yet Julien felt it—a strange weight in his mind, a pull he could not name. His chest tightened, his rational mind rebelling against the fascination he could not explain. He shifted, trying to maintain the poise expected of a Montferrand, yet each step Clara took toward him seemed to echo through the unseen threads.

Malchior moved silently among the shadows, observing the small shifts in Clara’s expression—the tremble of her fingers, the subtle catch in her breath. The bond strengthened with every step she took, weaving patience and inevitability into her awareness. At the same time, Althan mirrored him, reading Julien’s every micro-expression, guiding him gently with the Bond he could not see, planting curiosity and caution in equal measure.

As the officiant began the vows, Clara lifted her eyes to Julien, a measured smile on her lips. Yet her pulse betrayed the dual awareness of duty and the strange, magnetic pull toward the grove where Malchior waited. Julien responded in kind, voice steady, yet internally fraying as Althan’s threads nudged and teased at his attention. Every “I do” and promise carried the weight of invisible hands weaving around their hearts, a silent lattice of fate that the humans could not fully perceive.

When the couple exchanged rings, the warmth of the metals against their skin was mirrored by the subtle, insistent tug of their respective Bonds. Clara’s fingers brushed Julien’s briefly; she felt a faint shiver that had nothing to do with him. Julien’s gaze caught her hand, and he felt the unnameable pull—a mixture of fascination, fear, and something deeply instinctive. He did not understand why his chest ached, why his mind flitted toward the edges of the estate, but the threads were already there, entwining his attention.

The ceremony concluded in polite applause. Guests murmured congratulations, champagne flutes clinked, and flowers were tossed in the sunlight. Clara and Julien moved through the crowd, smiling, nodding, performing the rituals of propriety flawlessly. And yet, the unseen lattice of threads remained taut: Malchior and Althan patient, watchful, subtly guiding, ensuring that the first steps into the Bonds were taken without immediate revelation.

As they descended the grove, Clara felt the warmth and pull deepen, her rational mind warning her of the impropriety, the danger, the impossibility of what stirred in her chest. Julien, glancing toward the far trellises, sensed a presence he could not name, a fascination and dread that both drew him forward and repelled him.

The first dance awaited, and with it, the subtle dance of invisible threads, the mirrored Bonds, and the weaving of fates that no human guest would ever perceive.

The vineyard glowed beneath the late-summer sun, the trellised rows alive with the murmur of guests and the golden shimmer of wine in crystal. Clara stood at Julien’s side, her hand resting in his, the weight of his grip a quiet manacle. The officiant’s words droned, sanctifying vows Clara heard as if through glass.

She thought of her mother’s admonitions, her father’s pride, the family’s legacy stitched into every embroidered thread of her gown. The words spoken were not her own, yet they pressed upon her like chains tightening link by link.

Then the air shifted.

The doors of the estate hall opened. Whispers rippled through the congregation like wind stirring the vines.

Evangeline entered, radiant, her chin held high, her smile sly and deliberate—as if daring anyone to bar her way. The silk of her gown caught the light, a color too bold for the occasion, a declaration in itself.

Behind her lingered a shadow that did not belong to polite society. The Ultramarine stood at the threshold, armor muted by a cloak yet unmistakable in its bulk and poise. His helm was clipped to his belt, his gaze a calm, merciless survey of the room. The weight of his presence fell over the assembly, silencing whispers into sharp, nervous breaths.

Julien’s jaw tensed beneath his mask of civility. His hand closed harder over Clara’s. She felt the bite of his nails against her skin.

But Evangeline only smiled at her, eyes alight with fierce affection. She walked forward as though she were the honored guest of honor, not the scandal whispered of in parlors and drawing rooms. When she reached Clara, she bent her head close, her perfume a defiant sweetness.

“Breathe, darling,” she murmured, just for Clara. “Do not let them bury you alive.”

Clara has tears in her eyes- she’s so happy that her friend came- despite how… foolish it was. She had missed her dearest, and oldest friend. Practically sisters, in all the ways that mattered at least.

Malchior stirred. From the corner of her eye, in the shadows of the hall, she thought she glimpsed the faint silhouette of a towering figure, eyes burning with patient certainty. The vines carved into the beams above seemed to twist, alive, reaching.

Julien said nothing, but she felt the iron fury radiating from him. Evangeline leaves- amidst the whispers and stares of everyone else. But Clara does find her after the part and hugs her friend tightly.

“If you ever need anything- send me a message, and I’ll come as swift as I can.” Evageline says hugging her tightly.

The moon had climbed higher, silvering the vineyard in a quiet, almost sacred light. The guests had drifted toward the reception tent, their laughter and clinking glasses carrying faintly through the rows of vines. In the shadows, Malchior and Althan observed, silent sentinels in crimson and black.

Malchior’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing as he watched Julien moving among the guests, polite smiles masking a restless tension. “He… shifts beneath your presence,” Malchior said quietly, his voice low, more a rumble of observation than a question. “There is a pull. Subtle, but there. He does not yet comprehend it. Nor does he know what stirs him, though his chest betrays him.”

Althan’s helm turned slightly, following Julien as he laughed quietly at some minor comment from a cousin. “Yes,” he said, voice measured, almost reluctant. “He is… strong. A human not easily guided. Yet this blessed War Bond wrap around him, just as they do her. He is… significant. More than I anticipated.”

Malchior’s gauntleted fingers tapped lightly against the trellis. “More than you anticipated?” His tone sharpened, curiosity mingling with something darker. “Explain.”

Althan hesitated, then lowered his voice further, the words almost stolen by the night. “He is… my Bonded.”

The statement hung between them like a blade. Malchior’s gaze swept over Julien, noting the subtle tension in the young man’s shoulders, the way his eyes darted to shadows he could not name. “Your… Bonded?” His voice was calm, but the quiet hum of the Warp around him sharpened. “You do not say this lightly. Are you certain?”

“You are both cowards, and vile heretics,” The Ultramarine growls out- glaring at the two Word Bearers. The betrayal at Calth. The way they watch and try to twist the baselines.

“You,” Althan and Malchior growl. “This is the place of our Bonded dwelling begone or die by our hands.”

“Hmph! Even with the two of you and me half blind I could kill you both.” He snarls in response.

“Darling.” Evangeline calls out, “I won’t have you make a scene at my friend’s wedding. Let us go.”

The Ultramarine glowers at the pair of Word Bearers, but he nods to her, “Very well darling.”

Althan inclined his head slowly, the faintest trace of… reverence, or perhaps conflict, in his tone. “I am. I did not anticipate encountering him here. Not now. Not so… entwined with hers. Yet the currents are undeniable. I would not interfere with her—Malchior’s Bonded—but… he is mine. And he does not know it.”

Malchior studied Althan, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his helm. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “The Massive oaks spread their roots deep into the vineyard, their limbs branching outward, steady and broad. Grapevines climbed along the trunks, heavy with clusters of ripening fruit, weaving a network of legacy and productivity. Boxwood hedges framed the whole, geometric and deliberate, keeping everything orderly and contained. The combined growth was both a scaffold and a spine, a visible pattern of endurance, discipline, and measured patience. Any disturbance in this weave immediately caught the eye, corrected by the living architecture of vigilance…. Not just that- but also Tall, rigid cypress spires shot upward, silhouettes dark against dawn. Hellebore clustered at their base, tough and unyielding, nodding slightly in the wind as if testing intruders’ resolve. Ivy wound its way over both, climbing, twisting, binding them into a continuous wall of presence. Its deep green tended to the soil, reaching toward anything that threatened those it guarded. The ensemble exuded strength and immovability: seen, known, felt—an invisible hand of authority wrapping the land… It twists tighter than I imagined. Your Bonded human moves among guests, caught between your subtle pull and the lure of my own. This… complication is rare, but not impossible. Tell me… do you intend to remain hidden?”

Althan’s helm dipped slightly. “For now. His awareness must be guided delicately. He is… drawn to me, though confused, repulsed even. That duality is natural. It will serve the weaving. But if he falters—if he tests the edge too soon—I must be present. Invisible, yes—but prepared.”

Malchior’s fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm. “And Julien himself… does he sense anything yet?”

Althan’s voice was almost a whisper, carrying the weight of inevitability. “Not consciously. But the warp bond does tug at him, tug at his instincts. He is aware of something unnameable. He feels the tension, the subtle presence that is… mine. He may fight it, or he may yield. Either way, the weave begins here. The first steps are his, but the path is already… set.”

Malchior allowed a faint nod, the faintest trace of anticipation threading his words. “Then we wait, as always. Patience. Observation. Guidance. And… amusement. This unexpected complication… it pleases me.”

Althan inclined his helm once more, the faintest hint of a smile—or the suggestion of one in the gleam of his armor. “It is… necessary. The lattice is more intricate than I imagined. And yet, it will hold. Julien… and Clara. Both will walk the threads, unaware of the other’s influence. And we…” He paused, voice low, resolute. “…we will see who falters first.”

Malchior’s gaze returned to the distant figures moving among the moonlit vines. “Then let the dance begin. And let the Bond tighten.”

The two Word Bearers melted further into the shadows, silent and patient, the unseen lattice of Bonds stretching taut between human and Astartes alike, each unaware of just how intricately their fates were entwined.

The music swelled softly under the white-and-gold canopy of the reception tent. Lanterns swung gently above, casting pools of warm light that glimmered against the polished wood floor. The world of guests, wine, and laughter pressed in from the edges, but Julien and Clara found themselves suspended in their own orbit.

Julien’s hand rested on Clara’s waist, fingers tightening just enough to anchor himself, while her hand rested lightly in his. They moved together in the slow rhythm of the first dance, neither entirely graceful, yet wholly attuned to one another.

“You’re not looking at me,” Clara said softly, tilting her head up, her tone teasing yet honest.

“I am,” Julien replied, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “Just… trying to keep us from spinning into the orchestra.” His jaw flexed; he caught himself, exhaling a soft laugh. “Though I suppose you’d forgive me if we did.”

Clara smiled, letting her hand brush against his chest. “Maybe,” she murmured, “but only because you’re being honest. You’re always… a little tempestuous, aren’t you?”

Julien’s lips twitched at the corner, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Perhaps,” he admitted, “but you know me. And I know you. That counts for something.”

It did. She agreed with Julien it did matter.

Clara’s gaze softened, warmth spreading through her chest. They swayed together, a private rhythm that no guest, no chatter, no subtle tug of unseen forces could break.

Yet even as Julien relaxed into the moment, the corner of his eye caught a shadow among the vines beyond the tent. A figure moved with silent precision, observing, watching. His hand twitched instinctively, the faintest flicker of irritation passing through him.

“Julien?” Clara’s voice, gentle, grounded, drew him back. His eyes softened, and he offered a small, almost sheepish grin. “Sorry. Just… imagining I’m responsible for keeping everything in order,” he admitted.

Clara laughed quietly, leaning closer. “You are responsible for nothing but your own temper,” she said, teasing again, “and even that, I rather like.”

He shook his head, a rueful smile spreading. “Don’t encourage me.”

“And yet,” she said softly, resting her head briefly against his shoulder, “you’ve always got this… protective streak. You care, even if it flares up in inconvenient ways.”

Julien’s eyes softened further. “I do. I care for you,” he said simply, the words carrying more weight than any flourish of speech. “Even when I lose my temper. Even when… everything else seems impossible.”

Clara’s hand squeezed his, firm and reassuring. “I care for you too,” she whispered. “Even with everything else, we made this day ours. That… matters.”

For a moment, the world contracted to just the two of them: the warmth of lantern light, the rhythm of music, and the quiet certainty of mutual devotion. Despite the strains, the unseen Bond tugging at shadows beyond the tent, and Julien’s occasional stormy temperament, the two of them were—undeniably—together.

And for the first time that evening, the lingering presence of the Word Bearers, the tension of the Bond, and the weight of destiny seemed… distant, insignificant, compared to the simple, human act of holding one another close and dancing.

The grand hall shimmered under the warm glow of chandeliers, crystal reflecting the golden light across polished wood and silken gowns. Guests mingled, laughter rising in soft waves, while the Montferrand and Julien families kept up the practiced etiquette of civility. Clara, radiant in her white gown, moved gracefully among them, hands gliding over the edges of her dress, exchanging polite words, offering soft smiles.

Julien appeared at her side, dark suit impeccable, eyes bright with restrained excitement. “Shall we?” he murmured, gesturing toward the dance floor.

She nodded, letting him lead her into the center, the orchestra swelling into the first notes of a slow waltz. Julien’s hand was firm yet gentle on her waist, guiding her through the steps with practiced elegance. For a brief moment, the world narrowed to the warmth of each other’s presence, the rhythm of the music, and the shared space between them.

And yet, at the edge of his awareness, Julien felt something else—an almost imperceptible pull, a whisper brushing his mind. He frowned slightly, shaking it off. Too many people, too many eyes… nerves, he told himself. But even as he focused on Clara, the sensation lingered—a distant tug, like a current he could not name, threading through him unseen.

Unseen, Althan lingered at the far side of the estate, shrouded in shadows, watching Julien with quiet focus. Not a movement, not a word—merely presence. The Word Bearer traced the invisible garden that grows, he tends to it as he can, with the little knowledge on how, attuned to the subtle currents that human senses could not perceive. Julien could not feel the depth of the Bond, yet it hummed faintly around him, brushing against instinct, stirring subtle tension he could not explain.

Clara glanced up at Julien, noticing the slight furrow in his brow, the tension in his hand. “You’re distracted,” she whispered softly.

“I… hmm? No,” he said quickly, forcing a smile, smoothing the crease in his suit. “Just… taking it all in. It’s… a lot.”

The dance continued, slow and measured, each step a careful negotiation between joy and decorum. Julien’s dark eyes softened as he looked at her, the moments of unease fading under the warmth of shared laughter, whispered jokes, and private smiles. Despite the shadowed currents tugging at them—hidden, unfathomable—there was genuine care here, a bond formed through years of companionship, arguments, reconciliations, and mutual respect.

In the shadows of the orchard beyond the hall, Malchior moved silently among the misted vines, watching Clara with unwavering patience. Each small gesture, each laugh or glance, threaded her closer to him, even as she remained oblivious to the invisible weave shaping her fate.

Althan, likewise, observed Julien from a distant trellis, silent, precise. The pull of the Warp between them was subtle, nearly imperceptible to the human, yet Althan noted every microsecond, every heartbeat, every slight instinctive hesitation. Julien’s hand brushed Clara’s just a touch tighter than necessary, his pulse flickering—not from fear or anger, but because of the invisible current threading through him.

Julien swallowed, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features. “It’s… nothing,” he muttered under his breath.

Althan’s eyes narrowed slightly, aware of the human’s denial, aware of the tension that ran beneath the surface. Not yet understood, not yet acknowledged—but present.

Clara, sensing only the joy and rhythm of the dance, leaned closer to Julien. “You’re frowning,” she teased, resting her head lightly against his shoulder for a moment.

He exhaled, forcing the edges of his temper and unease into a soft laugh. “I suppose I am,” he admitted. “But not at you.”

The music swelled into a gentle crescendo, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the world seemed to pause—the hall, the guests, the polished floors—everything narrowed to the warmth between them, the shared glance, the careful steps in sync. Outside, unseen by human eyes, the threads of Bond and Warp pulsed quietly, patient and inexorable.

As the dance ended, Julien bowed slightly, offering Clara his hand. “May I have the honor of another?” he asked, the faint edge of his usual intensity softened by affection and genuine care.

She smiled, accepting, and as they moved again into the rhythm of the night, the invisible currents hummed around them. Bonds unseen, yet unrecognized, but present—intertwining joy, fear, duty, and desire into a tapestry that neither human could fully perceive, yet both would feel, however unknowingly, for the rest of their lives.

The grand hall was alive with motion. Guests moved between tables, champagne flutes clinking lightly, laughter rising in clusters. Servants weaved through the crowd, balancing platters of delicate pastries and trays of glinting hors d’oeuvres. Music swelled from the orchestra pit, a gentle undercurrent to the hum of conversation.

Lady Montferrand floated through the crowd with the serene composure expected of her, whispering polite reassurances to nervous relatives and beaming at the younger guests. “Isn’t it splendid?” she murmured to a cousin, whose wide eyes darted between the chandeliers and the dance floor. “A match most… advantageous. And such a respectable union for Julien, too. Finally, a suitable heiress for him to tether himself to.”

Nearby, a group of younger cousins whispered behind gloved hands, the words carrying just loud enough to tease nearby listeners. “Did you see the way he looked at her?” one murmured. “I’ve never seen him so… so tethered, almost… overwhelmed.”

“And yet,” another added, a sly grin tugging at her lips, “there’s talk that some gentlemen—more than one—have been lingering near the estate grounds. One might say… unusually attentive. I hear whispers of strange, towering men roaming the vines at night. Ghost stories, perhaps—or… something else entirely.”

The guests exchanged glances, polite smiles masking faint intrigue. Rumors, after all, were an invisible garnish at any event of this magnitude. Some were harmless; some, if believed, could unsettle even the most composed.

Julien, circulating among relatives, caught snippets of the chatter. He frowned at first, brushing off the uneasy prickling at the base of his neck. But as he noticed a few curious stares—some glancing toward the shadowed edges of the estate grounds—his frown deepened. I cannot let them know… cannot risk scandal. Not tonight.

Clara, meanwhile, was being gently cornered by relatives eager to congratulate her. “Do tell us how you met the young man,” one aunt pressed. “Such a handsome match! And he seems… spirited, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Clara replied, smiling, careful not to overshare. “He is… spirited, indeed.” She felt the faint tug of Malchior’s … something, a gentle guiding pull nudging her posture, her expressions, even the warmth of her voice. Not yet, not too much, the silent whisper seemed to say.

Across the hall, Julien’s father leaned toward a close friend, voice low and measured. “I worry about the… unusual security arrangements this estate maintains. There are whispers of men—outsized, vigilant—who appear and vanish as they please. For Clara, perhaps harmless. For Julien… well, it raises questions. Loyalty is one thing, but theft… or worse, scandal… we must be careful.”

Julien’s grip on his champagne flute tightened. He could almost feel the distant pull of Althan’s awareness—watching him, threading around him, subtle and imperceptible. He forced himself to take a sip, engaging in polite conversation, letting the humor and ease of his usual charm cover the tension he felt.

The children of the families chased one another between tables, giggling as they dodged under chairs, their carefree presence a sharp contrast to the subtle anxieties and whispered rumors among the adults. Even as laughter rang out, the invisible currents hummed quietly beneath the polished surfaces of etiquette.

“Do you think they will last?” a young cousin asked, curiosity outweighing decorum. “Some matches… they start with passion but… fizzle.”

“Passion,” a slightly older cousin replied, “is one thing. Influence… power… those currents are harder to resist. Let us see if they both have good weather.”

And so the night moved on, a careful choreography of laughter, clinking glasses, whispered gossip, and cautious glances toward the edges of the estate. Unseen, Malchior and Althan observed the guests as well as the pair at the center, ensuring that no Bond was broken, no unwanted hand laid upon their charges.

The guests danced, dined, and speculated, all unaware of the invisible lattice of guardianship and control threading the night, weaving subtle tension beneath the bright, glittering surface of celebration.

The hall hummed with music and polite laughter, but Julien could feel the shift before the words even reached his ears—a subtle tightening of the conversations, a staccato rhythm of hushed tones behind gloved hands.

“They say… you know Clara’s siblings?” a well-dressed matron whispered to a neighbor, voice deliberately low. “Not all of them… perished as the family claimed. Some… vanished. Taken, perhaps. By… well, by men of strange… stature and influence.”

The neighbor’s eyes widened, a delicate gasp escaping her lips. “Taken? By whom? Surely you do not mean…” Her words faltered, but the implication was clear.

“They do not speak of it openly,” the matron continued, savoring the slight shiver she induced, “but the servants whisper… about shadows on the estate, of visitors who come in the night. Not ordinary men. Towering, armored… almost… inhuman. Some say they are… Astartes.”

Julien’s grip on his glass tightened so hard his knuckles whitened. The heat of anger and protectiveness flared, mingling with a fear he didn’t dare voice. His gaze flicked to Clara, laughing softly as she danced with a distant cousin, unaware of the dark currents swirling in whispered words around her.

Stolen… by Astartes? The very idea made his blood boil, yet a part of him—dread and fascination intertwined—could not deny the instinctual truth in the rumor. He had felt their presence. The faint tug, the invisible threads, the awareness that Malchior and… someone else were always near.

Nearby guests continued to murmur, though unaware of the truth. “Such a tragedy, if it is true,” one said, carefully sipping wine. “To lose children… but not to illness or war. To… to… something else entirely.”

Julien’s jaw tightened. He forced himself to move, to smile at passing relatives and engage in small talk, but every laugh felt hollow. Every toast, every clink of a glass, reverberated against a growing tension in his chest.

And then, almost imperceptibly, a shadow shifted near the edge of the hall. Julien’s eyes flicked to it—a figure poised, silent, observing. He could not see the subtle undulation of the warp around them, could not feel the faint pull of vigilance threading through the air, yet his instincts screamed caution.

Althan. Julien did not know it—could not know it—but the presence was unmistakable. Watching him, threading around him, subtle and exacting. His temper rose, flickering alongside a pulse of curiosity he could neither quell nor ignore.

The whispers grew bolder, small tendrils of rumor curling through the air like smoke. “It is said that the family has… unusual allies,” someone murmured, their tone laced with both fear and intrigue. “Guardians, perhaps. Men who are… larger than life. Stronger than any human. And loyal, oh, immensely loyal… to certain members of the family.”

Julien’s stomach tightened. Every polite smile, every gentle laugh from Clara, felt fragile, as though it could shatter under the weight of the speculation. He moved to her side, voice low and measured, though the tremor he could not fully suppress betrayed him.

“Are you… alright?” she asked, glancing at him with concern. Her hand brushed his arm lightly, grounding him, but it did not quiet the storm of protective fury and unease roiling within him.

“Yes,” he said, forcing the words out, “I’m… fine. Just… enjoying the evening.” His eyes flicked toward the far corner, toward the shadowed edge where Althan lingered, and a cold realization sank in: the rumors might hold more truth than anyone dared speak aloud.

And in that moment, Julien understood—whatever forces were weaving around Clara, some were also threading around him, unseen, inscrutable, and inexorably drawn to the currents of bond and loyalty he did not yet fully comprehend.

The music swelled, the guests danced, and the whispers curled in the corners, but Julien could no longer fully partake in the celebration. His gaze kept drifting, haunted and wary, toward the edge of the estate—and toward the invisible Bond that were pulling tighter than he could yet name.

The lanterns along the garden paths cast a golden shimmer over the estate, but inside, the hall had surrendered to candlelight and music that swelled and ebbed like a living thing. Clara and Julien moved through the crowd, smiles bright, hands intertwined, but the moments between dances were heavy with unspoken tension.

Julien’s temper flared quietly whenever someone lingered too long with Clara—an aunt with pointed curiosity, a cousin with a penchant for gossip—but he forced himself into smiles and polite conversation, grounding his frustration with her subtle, grounding presence. Clara, radiant in her gown, seemed blissfully unaware of the weight pressing around them, laughing lightly at whispered jokes and occasionally brushing her fingers against his arm in reassurance.

They danced at the center of the hall, moving with the rhythm of the music, yet Julien’s mind constantly flickered toward the shadows along the edges. Those who whispered about vanished siblings… those murmurs that hinted at unspeakable truths. He caught glimpses of figures too tall, too still, watching from the dark corners.

Althan, poised and precise, lingered near the outer edge, silent and immovable, eyes faintly gleaming beneath the helm. Julien did not know him, could not sense the subtle pull of the bond threading between them—but instinct, prickling at the edge of his awareness, whispered caution.

Even so, when Clara pressed closer, resting her head lightly against his shoulder during a slower dance, Julien let himself breathe. Their care for each other, their quiet, genuine affection, radiated in the space between the music and the murmurs. For a moment, the hall, the whispers, the shadows—all of it—fell away, leaving just the warmth of her hand in his.

And yet, even in that fragile haven, the Bond of the unseen tugged at him, and a shadow of inevitability clung to the edges of the celebration.

Dawn crept over the estate in muted pinks and silvers, washing over the vineyard with a soft, deceptive tranquility. Clara moved quietly through the breakfast hall, adjusting flowers on tables, the remnants of the celebration scattered like confetti. Julien followed, less graceful in the morning light, dark circles under his eyes belying the tension of the previous night.

Guests drifted slowly from their rooms, polite smiles masking lingering curiosity—or, in some cases, judgment. The whispers had not faded; if anything, they had grown bolder, curling through the hallways in subtle, insinuating patterns. Some dared to speculate openly: the missing siblings, the unusual “allies” of the family, the rumors of disappearance and power that danced just beyond explanation.

Julien’s gaze was restless, moving from guest to guest, noting their sly glances and careful phrasing. He caught a snippet of conversation that made his stomach clench:

“They say the estate’s protectors… aren’t all human,” a young lord murmured, voice low, as he polished a silver goblet. “And that those who vanish… may not be lost at all, but… taken.”

Julien ground his jaw but did not respond. Clara, busy with arrangements, seemed unaware—or willfully oblivious—to the undercurrents.

He lingered near a window, watching the mist curl over the vineyard, catching the glint of lanterns from the night before still burning faintly in the shadows. And then, just beyond the garden wall, he noticed a figure standing perfectly still, observing—not moving, not speaking, only watching.

Althan. Julien could not know his purpose, could not sense the invisible Bond connecting him to the giant warrior, but something primal in him flared: suspicion, wariness, a mix of curiosity and instinctual unease.

Clara approached, hand brushing his arm lightly. “Julien,” she said softly, “you’re tense. You slept poorly?”

He exhaled, forcing calm into his voice. “Just… a lot to think about. Last night was… intense.”

Her laugh, soft and unburdened, eased him for a fraction. “It was a beautiful night. We are married. Let’s not lose sight of that.”

He looked at her, truly looked, and felt the fierce, inexplicable protectiveness rise. Despite the whispers, the rumors, the invisible eyes tracking them, he understood something in that moment: whatever the bond was pulling, whatever forces lingered in the shadows, he and Clara—together—had a tether stronger than gossip, stronger than fear.

And yet, Julien could not fully shake the sense that the morning light had not lifted all shadows—only revealed them in sharper relief.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and disturbed soil from the vineyard. Clara and Julien had finally slipped away from the breakfast hall, winding through a quiet corridor lined with tapestries and muted portraits. Their hands intertwined, faces flushed from last night’s revelry, they sought a moment untouched by whispers or shadows.

“Finally,” Julien muttered, tugging her gently toward a small, sunlit balcony overlooking the eastern gardens. He leaned against the railing, glancing over the estate. “I swear, if another guest dares—” He broke off, exhaling sharply, “—if anyone tries to drag us into gossip or speculation, I will personally—”

Clara laughed softly, cutting him off with a finger to his lips. “Julien,” she said, her voice warm, teasing, “breathe. The morning is ours. Let them chatter. Let the shadows linger elsewhere.”

For a moment, they leaned into each other, the quiet between them punctuated only by distant birdsong. The sunlight struck her hair, catching gold and copper in the strands, and Julien’s hands flexed, the urge to protect almost palpable.

And then— A subtle ripple, barely perceptible, touched Julien’s chest. His eyes flicked instinctively toward the garden wall. A figure shifted in the shadows, motionless yet impossibly aware. Althan.

Julien’s jaw clenched. “Not again,” he muttered under his breath, voice tight. The presence was familiar now—not in face, but in weight, in the way it pressed against the edges of perception, impossible to ignore.

Clara noticed his tension. “Julien?” she asked, concern threading her tone.

He shook his head. “No… it’s… just someone being… overbearing. Leave us alone.”

Another movement—a shift of shadow from a distant terrace. Malchior’s presence, subtle but undeniable, brushing at the edges of her awareness. Clara froze, sensing the warp tingle, the faint tug of unseen something threading the morning air.

“Julien,” she said softly, her hand gripping his arm, “I… I feel it too. They’re… here.”

“Yes,” he muttered, jaw tight. “They’re always… here. Watching.” His voice dropped, almost a growl. “Althan… Malchior… go away. Leave us alone!”

The shadow at the terrace did not move, but the subtle warp that radiated from it seemed to quiver, a silent acknowledgment, as if the giant figures understood but did not yet relent. Julien’s shoulders squared, protective and unyielding, and Clara pressed closer, grounding herself against him.

“I know,” she said softly. “We’re married. We’ll manage. Together.”

The figures at the edges of the estate lingered, silent and patient, invisible threads taut but restrained, as if testing the limits of human frustration without breaking it. Julien’s hands clenched hers, their warmth grounding him against the alien, pressing presence that refused to vanish.

The morning light cast a gentle clarity over the terrace, but the tension lingered like a shadow that refused to fade. Julien’s muscles remained taut, coiled with that subtle, instinctive protectiveness that Clara had learned to feel like both a comfort and a weight. He could sense the faint undulations of the warp, the imperceptible tug of the Bond that whispered danger and anticipation in equal measure.

Clara, sensing the same currents brushing at her awareness, did not pull away. Instead, she pressed closer, letting the warmth of their joined hands anchor her to the moment. The sunlight danced across her hair, catching strands of gold and copper, but her eyes remained locked on Julien, steady and grounding, even as the invisible lattice around them throbbed in quiet patience.

Malchior’s presence lingered at the terrace’s edge, subtle as smoke yet undeniable, a measured tension in the air that drew at Clara’s awareness without demanding it. Althan, watching Julien from a distance, mirrored the restraint, his every movement precise, measured, anticipating the moment when the human might test the invisible bounds of his patience.

Julien’s jaw tightened as he exhaled through his nose, shoulders squared, fingers brushing against Clara’s in a silent vow of protection. “They won’t interfere,” he muttered, voice low but edged with a quiet ferocity. “Not while I—while we—are here.”

Clara’s thumb traced the back of his hand, a soft, grounding gesture. “We will manage,” she said quietly. “Together. No matter what lingers at the edges.”

Malchior’s gaze shifted slightly, noting the subtle tightening of Julien’s posture, the way the human’s instincts flared in response to something he could not yet perceive. He did not move closer—not yet—but the warp shimmered faintly around his presence, an imperceptible pressure designed to guide without revealing. Althan, likewise, remained poised at the periphery, aware that Julien’s Bonded nature had already begun to respond, the weave of fate tightening even as the humans remained blissfully—or dangerously—unaware.

The terrace felt suspended, a fragile pocket of quiet in a world alive with unseen currents. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew-laden earth and flowering vines, but even nature seemed to bow around the weight of silent observation.

Clara tilted her head slightly, sensing the dual pressures—Malchior and Althan, the invisible tug of Bond around both her and Julien. She breathed through it, leaning into the warmth of his presence. “We’re stronger than this,” she murmured. “Let them watch. Let them wait. They cannot break us, not together.”

Julien’s lips pressed to the crown of her hair in a brief, fierce kiss, grounding himself in her, in their shared tether. “No one will,” he promised, voice low, almost a growl. “Not while I’m here. Not while we’re together.”

And in that quiet defiance, a subtle shift rippled through the edges of the terrace—the Warp acknowledging the strength of their bond, the invisible Bond is taut yet yielding, waiting for the inevitable first step, knowing the dance had only just begun.

The morning sun climbed higher, gilding the mist over the vineyard, but in the delicate interplay of light, shadow, and unseen currents, Clara and Julien stood together, tethered, resilient, and unyielding—a quiet, human defiance against the patient, inexorable pull of the Bond that watched and waited.

And for that brief, precious stretch of morning, despite the whispers, despite the weight of the Bonds and unseen watchers, the two humans existed in their own small, defiant orbit—married, alive, and stubbornly unyielding to forces they could not yet name.

By late morning, the estate had begun to stir with full activity again—servants scurrying between tables, musicians tuning their instruments for a brunch concert, guests laughing softly in corners, still murmuring about last night’s gossip. But in a small, secluded wing, Clara and Julien found a quiet room with tall windows letting in the warming sunlight.

Julien closed the door behind them and leaned against it with a long exhale. “Finally. Just… us. No whispers. No shadows. No… giant, overbearing eyes peeking from the trees.”

Clara laughed, pressing herself against him. “Even if the shadows linger, we have this—right now.”

For a while, the subtle tug of the Bonds and the ever-present warp presence receded. Malchior and Althan had backed off, reading Julien’s tension, their patience tempered with the understanding that even the most resilient humans needed moments of… normalcy. The air was still warm, still heavy with unseen something, but they let it recede to the edges, giving space.

Julien shifted, almost reluctantly, his protective posture softening. “I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think they… cared about letting us be human for a while.” He chuckled dryly, then leaned in, voice dropping. “Even if I hate it. Even if I—ugh—they’re impossible.”

Clara tilted her head, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Impossible?” she teased. “You mean… irresistibly protective?”

He groaned, half embarrassed, half amused. “I mean… yes. That too. But seriously, I… I need this. Need you. And—” He trailed off, hands finding her waist, the unspoken tension of the Bond pressing faintly against him.

Clara’s pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the subtle pull of the Bond that she, too, could sense. It was neither pleasant nor threatening, just… persistent, like a tide brushing at the edges of awareness. She leaned closer, brushing her lips across his temple, letting the moment exist in the quiet before it became a storm again.

Hours passed with stolen touches, quiet laughter, and the gradual building of intimacy—human, fragile, urgent. Their whispered words, the careful closeness, even the flush of warmth spreading across their skin reminded them of what the Word Bearers allowed: a rare, fleeting reprieve. The hidden giants lingered just far enough away to remain unseen, the invisible Bonds stretched but slackened, permitting the humans to claim the room—and each other—without interference.

And yes, the natural human needs were eventually… met, with awkward fumbling, nervous laughter, and whispered reassurances. Julien growled softly at the stubbornness of his own body, Clara giggled at his embarrassment, and the morning sunlight watched silently as the human couple navigated what it meant to be newly married, tenderly, desperately, fully alive.

Even with the subtle, ever-present awareness of the Word Bearers, the humans—blind, unaware of the full scope of the Bonds—claimed a tiny realm of private reality, stubborn and defiant in its humanity.

The vineyard glimmered beneath the soft, golden sun of early September. Rows of grapevines stretched toward the horizon, leaves rustling in a gentle breeze that carried the scent of ripening fruit. Clara and Julien walked side by side along the dirt path, their fingers brushing occasionally, each touch sending a spark neither wanted to name aloud.

Julien laughed at something Clara murmured—a teasing remark about the stubbornness of the soil—and she found herself laughing in return, the sound lighter than it had been in years. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and practical, yet there was a warmth in his eyes when he looked at her that made the vineyard seem like a private kingdom, theirs alone.

Malchior lingered just beyond the edge of her perception, a shadow in the sunlight, while Althan’s presence hovered faintly near Julien, unnoticed but undeniable. Neither moved closer; the couple’s peace was theirs to claim tonight, and the Word Bearers respected that boundary, for now.

Inside the small cottage that marked the start of their shared life, the couple lit candles that flickered against the walls and ceiling. Julien fussed with the arrangement of chairs and plates, lining the cutlery with meticulous care. Clara smiled quietly, allowing him the ritual. She had learned to let him take these small dominions of control, while she tended the unseen currents that whispered along the edges of the house.

“This corner feels cramped,” Julien muttered, moving a chair. “Better here… yes, yes, much better.”

Clara placed her hand over his, halting him gently. “It’s fine, Julien. It’s our home. Let it be a little imperfect.”

He looked down at her, exasperated yet tender. “Imperfection is an invitation to chaos,” he said, half-joking, half-serious.

Clara leaned closer, brushing her lips against his temple. “Then let us invite a little chaos,” she whispered, letting the warmth of her presence calm his slight edge. Julien’s jaw relaxed, and for a heartbeat, the world outside—the vineyard, the shadows, the ever-present whispers of the Word Bearers—vanished.

Dinner was quiet but intimate, the clinking of cutlery punctuating soft conversation. They spoke of the vineyard, of small plans for harvest and household arrangements. Julien admitted, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that he had feared this life might be too much: a bride who fascinated him yet remained untouchably strange, a legacy of vines that demanded constant care.

Clara, smiling softly, reached across the table and held his hand. “We will learn together. The vineyard, the family… us. Step by step.”

Night fell, and the moon cast silver light across the cultivated soil. They wandered outside again, hand in hand, letting the vines sway around them. Julien stumbled once over a loose stone, and Clara caught him, laughter bubbling between them. In the quiet of the night, he was no longer the meticulous, sometimes sharp-tempered man of the day—he was hers, entirely, for these stolen moments.

In the periphery, Malchior observed from the vineyard’s edge, noting the delicate weaving of their lives, threads pulling at Clara’s essence even in these early hours of marriage. Althan lingered nearby, an unspoken presence to Julien, feeling the faint pull of bond energy he could neither name nor claim openly. Both Word Bearers knew their roles: to watch, to guide, to wait. To let human love bloom in the shadow of powers too vast to be spoken aloud.

Later, in the quiet of their bedroom, they spoke in whispers, sharing confessions too delicate for daylight. Julien admitted his fear of failing her, of failing the family. Clara spoke of the strange, weightless tug she sometimes felt, a sense of being pulled along currents invisible. Neither fully understood the other’s world, yet trust took root in the spaces between words.

Their honeymoon was not marked by extravagant travel or fanfare, but by the small victories of intimacy: learning each other’s rhythms, discovering how to comfort without smothering, teasing without wounding. Julien’s practical nature met Clara’s curious spirit, and in that meeting, the foundation of their life together solidified.

Outside, the vineyard rested under the watchful gaze of two silent sentinels. Malchior’s shadow shifted, noting the growth of the bond he had initiated long ago. Althan’s eyes, ever attentive, flicked toward Julien, sensing the faint echo of something yet unnamed. The night stretched, and with it, the fragile beginnings of a marriage that would endure storms, whispers, and the slow pull of destiny itself.

The vineyard had settled into the rhythm of early life with Clara and Julien at its heart. The first harvest after their marriage brought long days and quiet evenings, the sun casting warm gold over the rows of grapes, the soil dark and rich beneath their boots. Julien took to supervising the work with the same meticulous care he applied to their home, while Clara moved among the vines with an ease that made her seem almost part of the land itself.

The first child arrived in the spring—a son, with Julien’s sharp eyes and Clara’s restless energy contained in a tiny, wriggling bundle. The joy of his birth was tempered by whispers beyond the estate walls. Neighbors muttered about the “strange woman” who seemed untouched by time, the child who arrived so quickly after the wedding, and the fleeting figure glimpsed at the vineyard’s edge, whose presence never drew comment but carried weight nonetheless.

Malchior watched from the treeline, silent and careful, threads of the warp subtly weaving around the boy, binding him to a future he could not yet comprehend. Althan linger near Julien, drawn to the man with a quiet intensity, sensing yet unable to name the bond forming. Neither Word Bearer interfered, letting life progress, their vigilance measured and restrained.

The first year was a delicate dance of discovery. Julien, who had once been so rigid, learned patience—holding a wailing infant, understanding that some things could not be solved with precision. Clara, ever curious, discovered the thrill and exhaustion of motherhood, the strange balance of nurturing life while keeping the threads of destiny from snapping too tight. Together, they formed a tentative harmony, each compensating for the other’s blind spots.

The room smelled of lavender and soft blankets. Gabriel lay swaddled, tiny fists curling and uncurling, eyes half-closed as he blinked at the flickering candlelight.

Julien hovered, jaw tight, uncertain, while Clara cradled him, humming a quiet lullaby.

From the doorway, a shadow shifted. Malchior entered first, silent and immense, armor dark but gleaming faintly in the candlelight. Julien tensed.

“He is fragile,” Malchior said, voice low, reverberating in the warmth of the room. “Yet the Warp surrounds him already. They are weak, but will grow.”

Althan followed, kneeling at a careful distance, almost imperceptible. “I sense curiosity even in sleep,” he murmured, “a Bond that calls to unseen currents. We will guide it, subtly.”

Gabriel cooed, and for a heartbeat, his tiny fingers brushed the edge of Malchior’s shadow. The Word Bearer did not move closer, yet the infant shivered as if touched by a warm breeze, a first, unknowable connection.

Clara glanced at Julien. “Do you feel it?”

Julien swallowed, nodding. “Yes… like protection I can’t see.”

Malchior inclined his head once, acknowledging the bond forming silently in the night.

By the second year, the middle daughter arrived—rebellious, bright-eyed, and impossibly stubborn. She challenged both her parents, daring to push boundaries and test limits. Clara found herself drawn to the girl’s spirit, seeing echoes of her own youthful curiosity and restlessness. Julien, meanwhile, struggled to temper the child’s defiance, his temper flaring more than once. Yet even in his exasperation, there was a deep, unspoken love, a willingness to endure frustration for the sake of family.

The air was warm with the scent of fresh linen. Élodie yawned, eyes wide and curious, small fists clutching at the air.

Malchior crouched near the window, shadow stretching long across the floorboards. Althan remained near the door, observing quietly, his presence gentle yet deliberate.

“She is cautious,” Althan whispered, “but will seek more than safety. The Bond will pull her toward discovery early.”

Clara set the baby down, brushing Élodie’s hair back. “Do you feel them, too?” she asked Julien.

Julien’s gaze flicked to the shadows. “I… think so. Like a presence keeping watch, without touching.”

Élodie’s tiny hand reached out, fingers brushing near Althan’s subtle shimmer. She giggled, startled, then babbled happily, sensing the unseen touch as comforting rather than frightening. Malchior and Althan shared a brief glance, understanding that their guardianship had quietly begun, shaping the boundaries of curiosity and danger before the child could ever name them.

Pallius groaned quietly as he sat down on the floor, carefully stretching his legs in the way that the written instructions that he’d been given him was telling him to do so. The physical therapist he saw once a week as his body recovered from the brutal beating that had ended his life in M42 had assigned him a series of exercises that would help him recover some of the flexibility and strength his body once had. It was arduous and frustrating, but the God-Emperor had seen fit to spare his life after the reclusiarch of his crusade had decided that he should die, so Pallius was doing all he could to prove that mercy had been extended to him would not be squandered. The encouragement from his brothers - and Olivar working through very similar exercises, often right alongside him, was very helpful.

Currently, Vie was getting a scan of the bones in his chest, as the apothecaries were concerned that one of them was healing improperly - and Pallius silently hoped that it wasn’t true- as there was a good chance that the only way to correct a bone starting to heal in an incorrect spot was to re-break the bone and then reset it. Which would put Olivvar’s recovery back by several weeks. Pallius yawned again and slowly eased out of the latest stretch, and contemplated getting up. His legs felt wobbly, so he decided to allow himself some time to relax, rather than to try and push himself to get up immediately.

He was still marveling silently at the fact that he was being given the time to heal. That he wasn’t being cast aside or culled because of the extent of his injuries and not being of sufficient rank and distinction to qualify for dreadnaught internment… Although Pallius was uncertain as to whether or not there were any spare dreadnaught frames in this time and place. Considering the technology level of the baselines, and the fact that dreadnaught frames were difficult to make in the far future… He rather suspected that there weren’t any. 

“-is why I came here with my bonded today. Now if I could please get some assistance in this matter, I would be grateful.” An unpleasantly familiar voice rang out as the owner passed by the partially open door in the hallway attached to the room that Pallius was in. 

Why was he here?  

Pallius stood up with a low groan and slowly made his way over to the door, using his crutches to move a little bit faster than he would be able to do safely on his own. Perhaps it was someone else, and they just sounded similar? Pallius stuck his head out of the door and looked both ways up and down the hall. 

Sure enough, there was the bastard, here to plague them once more with his terrible decisions as they got killed off one by one due to his shitty leadership. If they were placed under his command once again, which. Pallius was going to refuse. He’d demand to be placed under that over0worked Witch Sargent, than have to deal with this bastard as a direct superior again. “Oh fuck no.” Left his lips, loud enough that the bastard and the apothecary he was speaking to - the Not-Ultramarine - stopped. He knew that Ramiel and Cedric planned on asking Brothers Arnault and Roland if they would consider becoming the squad leaders for the small group of Black Templar primaris scouts, in part because all of them, Pallius included, trusted these two firstborn brothers not to fuck them over, and also because being able to present the fact that yes, they did have a specific couple of older brothers that they reported to would prevent them from being assigned a Sargent by the officers of Stoneflame base. 

Both of the older Marines turned, and Apothecary Zariel tilted his head a little “Are you alright, Pallius? How have your solo stretches been going?” 

“My stretches have been going well, I think. I’m sore from them, and still in pain from the injuries I sustained that sent me to this time period and world.” Pallius answered, briefly glancing over at Zariel, though his gaze was primarily fixated on The Bastard next to the apothecary. 

Sargent Jerhamiel. One of the banes of the existence of Primaris marines everywhere, especially those unfortunate enough to be assigned under his command. The other stared at him, as if seeing a ghost or a daemon. “You…. How… Why? When? I thought you were dead!”

“Well you see. I did die in M42. You know to who, and I do hope you remember why?” Pallius answered, his voice bitter and cold. “The God Emperor saw fit to spare me from the mistakes and cruelties of my superior officers and sent me to Ancient Holy Terra. My wounds healed just enough for me to survive long enough to get medical attention, rather than bleeding out both externally and internally on the floor of the reclusiam. Or the forest floor, as that was where I was transported to.” 

Jerhamiel’s face twisted into a complicated expression that the young Black Templar did not have the energy nor emotional bandwidth to try and parse at the moment. “Watch your tone, scout. I am still of higher rank than you are.”

“Go fuck yourself. You proved repeatedly in M42 that you are no brother of mine. Of any Primaris unfortunate enough to be assigned to the Black Templars. You have no authority over me, and I would rather live at Rotbone base full time than ever be placed under your command again, and I know the others feel the same.” Pallius snarled, eyes flashing with fury.

“Why am I not surprised that you decry me as a villain? None of you so much as tried to -“ Jerhamiel cut himself off, swallowing down whatever grow-shit he was about to spew, shaking his head a little. “You know what? I don’t want to get into this in a public hallway. What others do you speak of?”

“The other Black Templar Primaris who currently live on this base.” Pallius retorted, as his glare at the Sargent intensified further. They would probably try to make a run for one of the bases that their cousins who live in the woods most of the time before resorting to asking for shelter from heretics, but Pallius had no desire to let Jerhamiel know that he and his brothers had multiple options. 

“Of course there are more of you running around. It’s probably just my terrible luck that murderous oversized bastard of a half-trained apothecary, Cedric, is one of them, isn’t he?” Jerhamiel groused, eyes narrowing a little. 

“He, like you, me and the… Ultramarine… Over there are all astartes. Of course we’re killers. I’m not sure why you’d decry him as murderer, when your hands drip with the blood of my brothers that your… Leadership… and tactics got killed.” Pallius growled back. He’s not sold on the alpha legionnaire’s true intentions or motives or loyalties are, and if he was less pissed off, he might not be shouting this in front of the other in a public hallway… But all of his frustration and bitterness towards everything that this Sargent had done - and failed to do - repeatedly all came rushing back to him in a hateful tidal wave of past resentment. “… You know what? I’m done with this conversation, and if I ever see you again, it will be too soon. I hope your day is shit and your week is ruinously awful.”

Pallius would spit in the other’s direction, but knows he would be ordered to clean up the spittle if it landed on the ground, walls, or ceiling. Instead he limped and crutches his way down the hall, in the opposite direction that Jerhamiel had been going in. 

“You disrespectful, ungrateful bastard! I did what I could and -“ Jerhamiel growled after him, clearly lying through his rotten teeth. 

Pallius paused at the turn in the hallway that would carry him out of the firstborn marine’s sight, balancing on one crutch, and send a one-handed and deeply insulting gesture at the firstborn Black Templar, before continuing to hobble his way to the room he was taking his rest in while he recovered. No one else he shared this room with was currently in, which was just as well. He’s still angry enough that he might say something that he’d regret if he saw or spoke with anyone else at the moment. He flopped down into his assigned bed, grabbed his pillow, and wordlessly screamed into it until his voice went hoarse. 

Pallius groaned quietly as he sat down on the floor, carefully stretching his legs in the way that the written instructions that he’d been given him was telling him to do so. The physical therapist he saw once a week as his body recovered from the brutal beating that had ended his life in M42 had assigned him a series of exercises that would help him recover some of the flexibility and strength his body once had. It was arduous and frustrating, but the God-Emperor had seen fit to spare his life after the reclusiarch of his crusade had decided that he should die, so Pallius was doing all he could to prove that mercy had been extended to him would not be squandered. The encouragement from his brothers - and Olivar working through very similar exercises, often right alongside him, was very helpful.

Currently, Vie was getting a scan of the bones in his chest, as the apothecaries were concerned that one of them was healing improperly - and Pallius silently hoped that it wasn’t true- as there was a good chance that the only way to correct a bone starting to heal in an incorrect spot was to re-break the bone and then reset it. Which would put Olivvar’s recovery back by several weeks. Pallius yawned again and slowly eased out of the latest stretch, and contemplated getting up. His legs felt wobbly, so he decided to allow himself some time to relax, rather than to try and push himself to get up immediately.

He was still marveling silently at the fact that he was being given the time to heal. That he wasn’t being cast aside or culled because of the extent of his injuries and not being of sufficient rank and distinction to qualify for dreadnaught internment… Although Pallius was uncertain as to whether or not there were any spare dreadnaught frames in this time and place. Considering the technology level of the baselines, and the fact that dreadnaught frames were difficult to make in the far future… He rather suspected that there weren’t any. 

“-is why I came here with my bonded today. Now if I could please get some assistance in this matter, I would be grateful.” An unpleasantly familiar voice rang out as the owner passed by the partially open door in the hallway attached to the room that Pallius was in. 

Why was he here?  

Pallius stood up with a low groan and slowly made his way over to the door, using his crutches to move a little bit faster than he would be able to do safely on his own. Perhaps it was someone else, and they just sounded similar? Pallius stuck his head out of the door and looked both ways up and down the hall. 

Sure enough, there was the bastard, here to plague them once more with his terrible decisions as they got killed off one by one due to his shitty leadership. If they were placed under his command once again, which. Pallius was going to refuse. He’d demand to be placed under that over0worked Witch Sargent, than have to deal with this bastard as a direct superior again. “Oh fuck no.” Left his lips, loud enough that the bastard and the apothecary he was speaking to - the Not-Ultramarine - stopped. He knew that Ramiel and Cedric planned on asking Brothers Arnault and Roland if they would consider becoming the squad leaders for the small group of Black Templar primaris scouts, in part because all of them, Pallius included, trusted these two firstborn brothers not to fuck them over, and also because being able to present the fact that yes, they did have a specific couple of older brothers that they reported to would prevent them from being assigned a Sargent by the officers of Stoneflame base. 

Both of the older Marines turned, and Apothecary Zariel tilted his head a little “Are you alright, Pallius? How have your solo stretches been going?” 

“My stretches have been going well, I think. I’m sore from them, and still in pain from the injuries I sustained that sent me to this time period and world.” Pallius answered, briefly glancing over at Zariel, though his gaze was primarily fixated on The Bastard next to the apothecary. 

Sargent Jerhamiel. One of the banes of the existence of Primaris marines everywhere, especially those unfortunate enough to be assigned under his command. The other stared at him, as if seeing a ghost or a daemon. “You…. How… Why? When? I thought you were dead!”

“Well you see. I did die in M42. You know to who, and I do hope you remember why?” Pallius answered, his voice bitter and cold. “The God Emperor saw fit to spare me from the mistakes and cruelties of my superior officers and sent me to Ancient Holy Terra. My wounds healed just enough for me to survive long enough to get medical attention, rather than bleeding out both externally and internally on the floor of the reclusiam. Or the forest floor, as that was where I was transported to.” 

Jerhamiel’s face twisted into a complicated expression that the young Black Templar did not have the energy nor emotional bandwidth to try and parse at the moment. “Watch your tone, scout. I am still of higher rank than you are.”

“Go fuck yourself. You proved repeatedly in M42 that you are no brother of mine. Of any Primaris unfortunate enough to be assigned to the Black Templars. You have no authority over me, and I would rather live at Rotbone base full time than ever be placed under your command again, and I know the others feel the same.” Pallius snarled, eyes flashing with fury.

“Why am I not surprised that you decry me as a villain? None of you so much as tried to -“ Jerhamiel cut himself off, swallowing down whatever grow-shit he was about to spew, shaking his head a little. “You know what? I don’t want to get into this in a public hallway. What others do you speak of?”

“The other Black Templar Primaris who currently live on this base.” Pallius retorted, as his glare at the Sargent intensified further. They would probably try to make a run for one of the bases that their cousins who live in the woods most of the time before resorting to asking for shelter from heretics, but Pallius had no desire to let Jerhamiel know that he and his brothers had multiple options. 

“Of course there are more of you running around. It’s probably just my terrible luck that murderous oversized bastard of a half-trained apothecary, Cedric, is one of them, isn’t he?” Jerhamiel groused, eyes narrowing a little. 

“He, like you, me and the… Ultramarine… Over there are all astartes. Of course we’re killers. I’m not sure why you’d decry him as murderer, when your hands drip with the blood of my brothers that your… Leadership… and tactics got killed.” Pallius growled back. He’s not sold on the alpha legionnaire’s true intentions or motives or loyalties are, and if he was less pissed off, he might not be shouting this in front of the other in a public hallway… But all of his frustration and bitterness towards everything that this Sargent had done - and failed to do - repeatedly all came rushing back to him in a hateful tidal wave of past resentment. “… You know what? I’m done with this conversation, and if I ever see you again, it will be too soon. I hope your day is shit and your week is ruinously awful.”

Pallius would spit in the other’s direction, but knows he would be ordered to clean up the spittle if it landed on the ground, walls, or ceiling. Instead he limped and crutches his way down the hall, in the opposite direction that Jerhamiel had been going in. 

“You disrespectful, ungrateful bastard! I did what I could and -“ Jerhamiel growled after him, clearly lying through his rotten teeth. 

Pallius paused at the turn in the hallway that would carry him out of the firstborn marine’s sight, balancing on one crutch, and send a one-handed and deeply insulting gesture at the firstborn Black Templar, before continuing to hobble his way to the room he was taking his rest in while he recovered. No one else he shared this room with was currently in, which was just as well. He’s still angry enough that he might say something that he’d regret if he saw or spoke with anyone else at the moment. He flopped down into his assigned bed, grabbed his pillow, and wordlessly screamed into it until his voice went hoarse.