A lot of stuff....

You roll out of bed with the grace of a badly unfolding camping chair and shuffle toward the bathroom. The mirror gives you back a woman who has technically slept and emotionally been chased through a hedge maze by the interaction with two different men, both of whom appear so diametrically opposite to each other and yet somehow feel eerily similar… like sister fonts! Like Garamond and Georgia.

You chuckle as you think of Alexis being Georgia. That man is clearly Pacifico in a sentient body.

“So stupid,” you mutter at your reflection. “You’re comparing men to fonts now. On theme, my dear!”

The shower helps clear your mind a little, the hot water loosens the stiffness in your shoulders and sends steam crawling up the glass. You stand under it longer than necessary while your mind sorts the images into piles.

Work pile: Dorn belongs there with his crisp shirts, exacting comments, and his redlines that look like battlefield casualties. The Wall.

Then, another image slips into the wrong stack: Dorn across from you in a small warm café, gaze lowered so he does not look at you too hard while you try not to cry over a man he does not know.

Except he knows enough now. You told him the outline of the wound, about how reality did not match the person you had built in your head. How you missed someone who was still there.

Stoneheart pile: that should be safer. A username, a voice through headphones, dry humor, Paladin’s orders to drink water and take long rests. The steady weight of his typed concern at the end of a day.

Now Alexis’ face keeps entering that room uninvited. Tall, golden, warm. Lovely. Wrong.

By the time you dress, you have chosen the safest office version of yourself: dark trousers, a soft blouse, cardigan, hair clipped back with enough force to suggest discipline. Small earrings. Concealer applied with the reverence of a restorer repairing a damaged fresco.

Your phone sits on the desk beside your bag, dark and far too conspicuous; you have not opened the chat since last night.

Well… that is a lie. You opened it twice after climbing into bed, read the last messages, typed nothing, then closed it again like someone shutting a cupboard on a ghost.

Stoneheart’s final message still waits in memory.

Tomorrow, then.

I’ll be here.

At the time, it had made something in you loosen, just enough for sleep to find you. This morning, the tenderness of it sits uneasily beneath your ribs. He is still there, and that is the problem! He hasn’t done anything overtly terrible enough to justify your retreat. He is still himself in all the ways that matter through a screen.

“We are going to work,” you announce to the apartment. “We are going to be normal.”

The plant in the corner drops one exhausted leaf.

You point at it. “Don’t you start.”

Outside, the city is already in motion. Morning light lies pale across the pavement, too bright for your amount of unresolved emotional admin. Commuters move with Monday faces on, clipped steps and sealed mouths, clutching coffee cups like ritual objects. The air smells faintly of rain, damp concrete, and bakery exhaust from the shop near the station.

At the platform, the train arrives with that familiar shriek that announces the start of yet another work week. You board, find a place near the door, and hold the pole while the carriage rocks into motion. The window catches your reflection whenever the train dives into the tunnel: face composed, eyes too alert, mouth set in a line that suggests a woman carefully negotiating with herself.

Then, as if on cue, your phone buzzes once in your bag.

You ignore it for exactly eight seconds. Then you pull it out.

Stoneheart007 - 7:42 AM Morning. Did daylight improve the situation, or is the situation still under review?

You stare at the message.

It is so him. Dry. Careful. Offering conversation while pretending to offer a procedural status check.

A tiny smile threatens the corner of your mouth before you can stop it.

That irritates you. Affection is deeply inconvenient when one is trying to be dignified in withdrawal.

You type:

Troublemaker2301 - 7:44 AM Still under review. Committee is tired and has requested coffee.

You hover over the screen, then add nothing else; no raccoon joke, no heart update, no little string of emojis meant to soften the restraint.

Once you click ‘Send’, the reply comes after a minute.

Stoneheart007 - 7:45 AM Reasonable. Do not let the committee make major rulings before breakfast.

Your smile happens despite you.

Then the train pulls into your stop, and the doors open with a sigh.

You tuck the phone away before your traitorous thumbs can respond warmly.

Phalanx Structural Design, the firm rises from its block like a verdict. The building has always looked severe from the outside, a clean grid of glass and stone with the company name fixed above the entrance in brushed steel letters. Today, it looks almost theatrical, as if it knows you spent the weekend accidentally humanising the man who controls half its internal weather.

The lobby smells of floor polish, coffee from the staff kiosk, and expensive air conditioning. Security nods you through. Your ID card taps against your chest as you step into the elevator with three other employees, all of whom look spiritually unprepared for Monday.

The ride up is silent except for the soft whirr of machinery.

You watch the numbers climb with an inexplicable anxiety typical of Mondays the world over.

By the time the doors open on the drafting floor, your face is as passably neutral as ever. The office beyond greets you in its usual language: fluorescent brightness, muted conversations, keyboards tapping in nervous bursts, the distant cough and whine of the plotter warming up for war. Rows of desks hold their careful chaos, mugs, printouts, cables, marked plans, desk plants, figurines, snack wrappers hidden behind monitors.

You reach your desk and find three sticky notes waiting on your monitor.

‘CHECK ROOF DRAINAGE DETAIL’

ASK ME ABOUT REVISION CLOUDS, with a tiny thundercloud drawn beside it.

MEETING 10:30? BIG ONE? from Rena two desks down, who has underlined BIG twice and drawn eyes beside it.

“Big one?” you mutter, and as if on cue, Rena’s chair swivels with the speed of gossip powered by caffeine. She is already holding a mug with both hands, hair twisted up in a pencil-assisted bun, eyeliner sharp enough to draft with.

“You didn’t see the email?”

“What email?”

Her eyes widen with theatrical pity. “Oh, honey. Never begin Monday with that sentence.”

You drop into your chair and wake your monitor. Your inbox loads with the sluggish menace of a beast digesting the corpses of the vanquished brave. And then, sure enough, there it is, near the top.

From: Rogal Dorn Subject: Department Coordination Meeting, 10:30 AM Location: Main Conference Room Attendance required. All drafting leads, senior coordinators, and relevant junior staff are to attend a coordination meeting at 10:30 regarding upcoming municipal work and resource allocation. Bring current workload summaries. R. Dorn

A sensible person would see this and think, meeting. You see it and think, public buildings, scrutiny, budget pressure, late nights, and the particular expression Dorn gets when someone uses “approximately” where a number belongs.

Rena leans closer. “Do you know what it is?”

“No.”

“Rumour says the firm landed something big from the city.”

“Rumour says a lot of things.”

“True. Last month rumour said the archive team had a ghost.”

“The archive team does have a ghost. It’s called outdated filing practice.”

Rena snorts into her coffee. “Oh, you’re alive after all. You looked like a Victorian widow when you came in.”

“I had a long weekend.”

“Fun long or spiritually educational long?”

“The kind that should have come with a diagram.” You sigh, suddenly tired.

“Ominous.”

“Very.”

She opens her mouth, clearly ready to pry, but a shift in the room stops her.

It is subtle the way the office adjusts to the change; conversations lower by half a register, backs straighten, and someone near the printer stops laughing mid-syllable.

For Rogal Dorn has entered the drafting floor.

He comes through the glass doors from the executive corridor with a folder tucked under one arm and a takeaway coffee in the other hand. His coat is gone, suit jacket immaculate, pale hair brushed back, shirt collar perfectly aligned. The weekend has been erased from him with almost insulting efficiency. He is once again Director Dorn, the Wall, the man whose presence makes interns remember they have spines only because he is inspecting whether they are properly installed.

And yet…

Amber light on the severe line of his cheek. His coat folded before he sat. Napkins set beside your hand. The brief warmth of his full smile. The careful pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades at the station.

He is walking down the central aisle, speaking briefly to a senior engineer, glancing at a marked printout someone hands him, making a note with his pen directly on the page. Efficient. Remote. Untouchable.

Then his gaze lifts. It finds you.

The contact lasts perhaps one second.

To you, the office narrows around the moment.

Of course, he looks the same. And he does not. Because now, you know the exact shade of his eyes in warm café light. You know that when he is unsure how to comfort someone, he says so. You know he can be funny on purpose, though he would risk perjury in court denying that. You know that when he holds someone, he does it as if the act has weight.

Then, just as quickly as it landed on you, his gaze moves on.

Rena’s voice comes from beside you, much too interested. “Did he just look at you?”

“He looks at everyone, Rena. It’s how he maintains office discipline and seasonal dread.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Do not ‘mm-hmm’ me before nine.”

Across the floor, Dorn continues toward his office.

He wants to.

He entered the building with an exact plan for the day. Review municipal briefing. Confirm resource map. Speak with Roboute before finance sign-off. Announce the internal team. Begin structural coordination. Maintain boundaries. Avoid unnecessary contact. Avoid looking at you in a way that someone with eyes and a functioning sense of human behaviour might interpret correctly.

He saw you at your desk in the greenish glow of your monitor, cardigan soft at your shoulders, hair clipped back. Composed at first glance. Tired at the second. Mouth held too carefully, posture guarded, as if you have placed several emotional objects on high shelves and do not intend to discuss them.

His phone sits in his pocket, heavier than it should be. He knows the latest exchange by heart already. Still under review. Committee is tired and has requested coffee. Even in distance, you cannot help being yourself. And he has no right to take comfort from that.

He reaches his office, steps inside, and closes the door.

The glass wall gives him a view of the drafting floor. It also gives the drafting floor a view of him, so he does not stand there looking at your desk. Instead, he places the folder on his blotter, aligns it with the edge, sets his coffee beside the lamp, and removes his notebook from the top drawer.

The first page for the day contains the list he wrote before leaving for home on Friday.

Municipal project launch… Staffing structure… Conflict review… Direct report issue unresolved… Do not overcorrect……. Do not avoid necessary professional development because of personal discomfort.

He knows what must happen today.

You are the right person for the assignment. And that makes this so much more difficult! For if you were unsuitable, he could remove the problem cleanly. If another employee were better positioned, he could reassign the task and call it prudence. If his judgment were obviously compromised, he could walk into Roboute’s office and restructure with a clear operational reason.

You are not the most senior drafter. You are not the loudest. You do not push yourself forward when credit is being distributed. You worry too much, second guess, overwork, apologize when you should ask, and assume competence in others before you grant it to yourself.

But you also notice things… Small things. Inconsistencies. Misalignments. The way a section line cuts through an assumption nobody has questioned. The way a dimension fails to match the elevation by just enough to matter. When frightened by failure, you return to the task at hand more carefully. You do not make the same mistake twice unless the system itself pushes you into it.

The Bastion Civic Centre requires exactly that kind of eye.

His phone vibrates. It is Roboute.

Roboute Guilliman - 8:31 Confirming 10:30 attendance. Finance package is complete. I’ll take the first twenty minutes to cover municipal oversight, conflict requirements, and public reporting obligations.

Dorn exhales through his nose.

R.D. - 8:32 Confirmed. I’ll handle staffing.

Roboute Guilliman - 8:33 Good. Also, sleep at some point this week. That is a management instruction, not a wellness suggestion.

Dorn looks at the message for a long moment. Then, he locks the phone without replying.

Across the floor, your morning begins to accumulate weight.

A revised lintel detail needs checking. Someone has mislabelled gridlines on a shared background file. The roof drainage note turns out to be attached to a section from two revisions ago, which inspires several uncharitable thoughts about document version control. Email threads multiply. You open your workload summary and try to make it look like a document prepared by a calm professional rather than a hostage note assembled under pressure.

You try not to think about Dorn being in the room. Impossible, because Dorn is frequently in rooms. He is one of the great room-altering forces of modern civilisation. You cannot blame yourself for noticing.

Work-Dorn, you understand. Stand straight. Answer clearly. Do not say “about” when you mean a number. Do not hand him anything you have not checked twice. Accept that he was forged in some ancient workshop where mercy was optional and chair alignment was law.

“Nope,” you whisper. “Absolutely not.”

Rena’s voice floats over from two desks down. “Are you praying?”

“More like filing a complaint with the gods.”

“About?” she quips, interested.

“Men.” You deadpan.

“Valid. Want me to co-sign?”

“Always.”

At 9:12, Stoneheart messages again.

Stoneheart007 - 9:12 AM How severe is Monday?

For a moment you want to click it. You want to tell him about the big meeting, about how the office feels as though it has inhaled and is waiting to speak. You want to say your boss looked at you once and your brain dropped a stack of files. You want to say you are angry with Stoneheart for being kind, sorry for being angry, and still unsure what to do with Alexis’ face attached to the steadiness you thought you knew.

You open your phone under the desk like a teenager hiding contraband.

Troublemaker2301 - 9:15 AM Standard Monday severity. Coffee recommended. Possible casualties by lunch.

You pause. Then, because distance feels cruel and warmth feels dangerous, you add the smallest offering.

Troublemaker2301 - 9:15 AM You?

His reply comes quickly.

Stoneheart007 - 9:16 AM High variable load. No casualties yet.

That makes you smile before you can stop yourself.

Damn him!!

Troublemaker2301 - 9:17 AM Tragic. I was hoping for drama.

Stoneheart007 - 9:17 AM You are drama enough for one server.

The laugh that escapes you is tiny, but real.

Inside his office, Dorn reads your last message and allows himself exactly one breath of relief.

You answered…

A foolish man would build hope from that. A responsible man would record it as data and proceed cautiously.

He sets the phone down and picks up the municipal folder.

The first page bears the city seal and the working title in clean official type.

BASTION CIVIC CENTRE Public Library, Community Hall, Municipal Archive, and Emergency Resilience Shelter Phase One Structural Coordination and Drafting Integration

Bastion: a building meant to shelter people in flood, heatwave, power outage. A place where children will read after school. A place elderly residents will come for city services. A hall where citizens will argue, celebrate, wait out storms. A building that must endure, not merely impress.

He turns the page.

Project deliverables. Schematic integration. Structural grid coordination. Public accessibility compliance. Fire egress. Archive load requirements. Mechanical plant zones. Flood resilience systems. Community-use flexibility.

At 10:15, the office gathers toward the meeting point.

People print summaries. Someone swears softly at the stapler. Rena appears at your desk with two mints and the look of a soldier passing ammunition in a trench.

“For courage,” she says.

“Is it that bad?”

“No idea. That’s why courage.”

You take one. “Thank you.”

She lowers her voice. “Your workload summary?”

“Mostly honest.”

“That means terrifying?”

“That means legally defensible.” You grin, feeling some of the anxiety leave your system as the mint blooms in your tongue.

“Excellent. Very Phalanx.”

You stand, smoothing your cardigan. Your stomach does something unhelpful. The mint continues to sit sharp on your tongue.

Across the floor, Dorn emerges from his office with the municipal folder in hand. The movement of the room changes at once. Chairs push back. Conversations taper. People gather tablets, notebooks, coffee cups. The main conference room waits with its long table, glass walls, wall-mounted screen, and the faint institutional smell of dry-erase markers and ambition.

For one moment, as you approach the doorway, Dorn stands just inside, speaking quietly with Roboute Guilliman.

You have seen Guilliman before, of course. Everyone has. Director of HR and Finance, calm as an ocean seen from orbit, tall and composed, with a face that suggests he knows where every budget line has been buried. He holds a tablet in one hand and listens to Dorn with the grave attention of a man who can turn policy into weather.

Guilliman’s gaze shifts toward the entering staff. It passes over you without lingering, though you get the distinct impression of being noticed anyway. Then he replies to Dorn, equally quiet.

You slip inside and take a seat halfway down the table, close enough to see the screen, far enough from the head of the table that your nervous system does not immediately perish.

Rena sits beside you. She opens her notebook and writes:

BIG MYSTERY MEETING????

She writes beneath it: If I die, clear my browser history.

You bite the inside of your cheek to avoid laughing.

But then, Dorn moves to the head of the table.

He does not need to call for silence. He simply stands there until silence becomes the only reasonable architectural outcome.

Your gaze drops to the folder in his hand.

The municipal seal gleams on the cover and underneath it is typed in bold letters:

Bastion Civic Centre.

Dorn places the folder on the table. His hands rest on either side of it, broad, steady, exact.

“Good morning,” he says, and the whole room sharpens with attention.

“We have received formal confirmation from the city,” he says, “that Phalanx Structural Design has been awarded phase one structural coordination and drafting integration for the Bastion Civic Centre.”

A ripple moves through the room.

A few people sit straighter. Someone near the end exhales softly. Rena’s pen freezes over the word MYSTERY.

Public building, your mind supplies, immediate and cold. Public use. Public safety. Public scrutiny.

“This will be a demanding project,” Dorn says, drawing you out of your thoughts.

“It is also exactly the sort of project this firm exists to deliver. It must be durable, accessible, adaptable, and exact. It will be used by people who will never know our names and who will trust the work regardless.”

A building, people will trust.

Guilliman steps forward, tablet in hand, his tone smoother than Dorn’s, though no less commanding.

He speaks of municipal oversight, public accountability, reporting requirements, ethics, documentation discipline, conflict procedures, budget transparency. The words should be dull. And yet, when he says them, they are not. They sketch the project as something larger than drawings and deadlines. This is not a private client’s vanity tower. This is a civic promise made in concrete, steel, glass, and compliance forms.

Dorn watches the room while Guilliman speaks. He watches who leans forward at complexity and who leans back from it. He watches who is calculating hours, who is thinking about reputation, who is thinking about the public good. His gaze passes you once and finds your hands folded tightly around your pen.

You’re afraid, he thinks. Good. Fear, properly understood, is respect for consequence. The trick will be teaching you the rest.

Guilliman finishes with a final reminder that all project communications are auditable and that public-sector work requires standards of transparency beyond ordinary private contracts. He says this in a calm voice that makes several people immediately rethink every casual email they have ever sent.

“Thank you, Roboute.”

Dorn opens the folder.

“We will review workstreams first,” he says. “Then assignments.”

Beside you, Rena writes in her notebook:

‘Oh no’

The morning, which began with a ceiling, a plant, and a promise to be normal, narrows to the sound of paper turning beneath his hand.

And at the head of the table, Rogal Dorn begins, and he begins with the scope.

No dramatic preamble. No inspirational little speech about civic duty wrapped in corporate softness. No PowerPoint slide with smiling stock-photo citizens standing beneath fake sunlight in a suspiciously clean public atrium.

He turns one page in the municipal folder, looks over the assembled staff with those sharp, assessing eyes, and says, “The Bastion Civic Centre is not one building in function. It is five structures wearing one envelope.”

The wall-mounted screen wakes from corporate-blue idleness into a site plan marked with municipal boundaries, setbacks, flood-risk overlays, and the early footprint of the proposed centre. You have seen hundreds of preliminary plans. Usually, they are abstractions at this stage: lines and shaded boxes, labelled zones, aspirational geometry. This one already feels heavier.

Public Library.

Community Hall.

Municipal Archive.

Emergency Resilience Shelter.

Administrative Services.

Shared Public Plaza.

The labels sit on the plan like obligations.

“The library and archive wings have different structural demands,” Dorn says. “The community hall requires clear-span flexibility. The shelter must function independently during service interruptions for up to seventy-two hours. Administrative services must remain publicly accessible without compromising secure zones. Flood resilience is of fundamental priority, since the site is on along the river bank.”

You sit very still, workload summary open before you and already useless. You had written active tasks, pending deadlines, capacity estimates. Neat rows. Sensible boxes. Now, it looks inconsequential in front of what you would most likely be a miniscule part of.

Dorn turns toward the screen as the next slide appears: a section sketch through the main public atrium. It is early, diagrammatic, stripped of polish. Even so, there is ambition in it. A broad central volume with terraces stepping upward, public reading decks, suspended walkways, a tall, glazed wall facing the plaza, roof trusses drawn as clean black strokes above a forest of preliminary columns.

Instead, all you can think about is how people will stand there, how children will run across that floor. Someone’s grandmother will wait beneath that roof during a heatwave. City employees will trust the egress routes. Books and archives will sit on shelves whose loads need to be calculated without romance. In a storm, when lights fail elsewhere and roads flood and phones blink low battery warnings, people may come to this building because some official pamphlet promised them it would hold.

It must hold.

“The architectural concept has been accepted in principle by the city. Our responsibility in phase one is to coordinate structural grids, primary framing logic, foundation strategy, flood resilience interfaces, archive loading provisions, egress conflicts, and drafting integration across disciplines.”

Dorn clicks again.

A responsibility matrix appears.

You recognise the format at once: workstreams divided by discipline, names listed in preliminary slots. Different strands that will braid together the rope that becomes the final structure.

Senior Structural Lead: Marcus Hale.

Civil Drainage and Flood Interface: Livia Chen.

MEP Coordination: Dev Malhotra.

Fire and Life Safety Liaison: Johanna Weiss.

Accessibility Review: Rena Malis.

Municipal Reporting: Roboute Guilliman’s office, with project admin support.

Workstream Integration Lead: TBA.

You stare at TBA, and it stares back with the blank malice of a trapdoor.

“Marcus,” he says.

Marcus Hale, seated three chairs down from Guilliman, straightens. He is one of the senior engineers everyone knows by surname first, calm, silvering at the temples, with the permanent expression of a man who has once found a structural flaw in a dream and woken up annoyed.

“You will coordinate the primary structural scheme with my office. Initial grid rationalisation by Thursday. Foundation strategy options by next Monday.”

Marcus nods. “Understood.”

“Livia. Flood interface.”

“Already reviewing the survey data,” Livia says, straightening her glasses. “The site drainage report has gaps. I’ll request the city’s supplemental modelling.”

“Do it today. If they delay, escalate to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

The assignments continue.

Dev receives mechanical coordination with the grim resignation of a man being handed a live octopus and told to make it code-compliant. Johanna asks one concise question about staged occupancy. Rena inhales sharply when her name comes up for accessibility review, then nods with a seriousness that makes you abruptly proud of her.

By the time Dorn reaches the final workstream, the room has settled into the rhythm of taking orders from a man who turns uncertainty into tasks. You know that rhythm; everyone here does. It is one reason people tolerate his severity. Dorn never pretends a problem is smaller than it is. By naming each piece with enough precision, he makes the terrible thing seem capable of being approached.

Then he looks down at the matrix.

“Workstream integration,” he says, and your heart leaps for some inexplicable reason.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself and to convince your silly brain that it is simply another workstream. Someone will be assigned. Probably a senior coordinator. Someone who has done three public-sector projects and speaks fluent consultant-ese. Someone who knows how to make architects, structural engineers, MEP consultants, fire code reviewers, city officials, and document controllers all stand in a line and behave like citizens.

Someone else.

“This workstream will control drawing consistency across all disciplines received by our department,” Dorn says. “It will track revisions, coordinate background updates, flag discrepancies between consultant packages, maintain drawing issue schedules, and prepare weekly coordination reports for review.”

“It will also require early detection of conflicts between structural logic, public circulation, accessibility compliance, life safety, and archive loading. Small errors in this package will become expensive if missed, disastrous if left to remain.”

Your heart gives one hard, unpleasant thud.

Small errors… disastrous… A memory opens beneath your ribs before you can stop it.

“If this were an actual construction, people would die.”

His voice from weeks ago, sharp enough to leave a scar.

Your pen presses into the paper until the tip nearly tears through.

Dorn’s gaze moves around the room, once.

Then it lands on you.

No.

No, no, no.

Absolutely not.

This is a clerical error. A hallucination. The result of low blood sugar, emotional confusion, and insufficient coffee. Perhaps your soul has temporarily left your body and is watching from the ceiling, wearing a high-visibility vest and screaming into a clipboard.

Dorn says your name.

“You will lead workstream integration.”

The words strike with such clean force that for a second everything becomes unbearably clear: the grain of the table beneath your fingers, Rena’s pen frozen beside yours, the hum of the airconditioner in the room, the tiny omega shaped lapel pin on Guilliman’s blazer, Dorn standing at the head of the room, folder open, expression unreadable.

Your mouth goes dry.

Several people turn their heads. Some do it politely. Some only with their eyes. One junior drafter near the end looks openly surprised before rearranging his face into something less suicidal. Marcus Hale’s brows lift by half a millimetre. Johanna Weiss looks from you to Dorn as though evaluating whether a hidden argument occurred before the meeting.

Rena, beside you, becomes impossibly still.

For a moment, the silence lengthens. Then,

“Yes, sir,” you say.

Dorn nods once, as if there could have been no other response.

“You will report initial drawing structure, revision-control protocol, and consultant-background status by Friday. You will work with Rena on accessibility overlays, Johanna on egress pathways, and Marcus on grid alignment. I will review your first coordination log directly.”

Directly.

Wonderful. Excellent. Splendid. Your bones are chalk now!

“Yes, sir,” you say again.

Dorn’s gaze remains on you for one more second.

He does not soften. You find the same astute sharpness in his gaze that you’re used to. Yet something in his attention changes. It holds you with the same precision as before, but without the old lash of contempt you remember from that first report submission fiasco. There is no challenge in it, now. No public test designed to humiliate you. No faint narrowing of the eyes that says he expects failure and waits only to catalogue the form.

Judgment you can resent. His trust is harder to defend against.

He looks away before you can decode anything further.

“Questions regarding workstream integration will go through her first,” Dorn says to the room. “Escalate unresolved conflicts to me. Do not bypass the coordination chain because you dislike waiting forty minutes for an answer. If an issue is urgent, mark it as ‘urgent’ and justify why. If everything is urgent, nothing is.”

A few people look chastened in advance.

You stare at your notes.

Drafting integration lead…Lead… you…!!

Your hand moves by habit, writing the words down as if they belong to another person and you are merely taking minutes of her execution.

Friday: drawing structure.

Revision protocol.

Consultant backgrounds.

Coordination log.

Report to Dorn.

The last sentence sits there on the page like a weight, a verdict.

“Daily internal stand-up at nine for core workstream leads. Twice-weekly coordination review with my office. Formal city-facing report every Friday by four p.m. No drawing is issued externally without document-control verification. No consultant background is used without date stamp confirmation. If a revision is received informally, it does not exist until logged.”

Guilliman steps forward again, picking up the thread with immaculate timing.

“I’ll add one point,” he says. His voice is smoother than Dorn’s, nearly warm, though firm enough that nobody mistakes him for gentle. “This is a public-sector project. The city’s procurement office will audit process as much as outcome. Keep communication clear. Keep records complete. Do not make promises outside your authority. Do not hide delays in vague language. If you are uncertain, say so early enough that it can be managed.”

“Public trust,” Guilliman continues, “is not built only in the finished structure. It is built in the record of how decisions were made. Assume every email may be read by someone who was not present when you wrote it.”

Rena’s pen resumes motion beside you. She writes: ‘Every email is evidence. Cool cool cool.’

Dorn returns to the screen. The next slide shows the project schedule.

You can feel heartrates rise as a collective around the room.

Milestone dates march across the screen with all the compassion of a firing squad. Several deadlines cluster together so tightly they look like they are plotting murder.

“Phase one is compressed,” Dorn says.

Someone at the far end coughs in a way that sounds suspiciously like a laugh strangled to death.

Dorn looks in that direction, and the cough dies a silent death.

“The schedule is aggressive,” he continues. “It is not impossible. It will require discipline, accuracy, and early escalation. Heroics at the end of a failed process are expensive. Avoid needing them.”

Heroics.

Stoneheart flickers through your mind with painful suddenness.

‘Then I’ll be up too.’

‘If you won’t join the raid, I’ll help you slay this evil project instead.’

Your chest twinges.

That had been heroics, hadn’t it? Kind ones. Sweet ones. Improper ones, though you had not known the full shape of that at the time. He had fixed what you could not fix alone. He had stayed up and carried part of the load, and you had woken at two in the morning with gratitude blooming like a stupid flower in the dark.

Now Dorn is putting you somewhere no invisible paladin can rescue you without crossing every line in the known professional universe.

A stupid thought comes, uninvited and sharp: Stoneheart cannot help you lead a project.

Another follows, quieter: Dorn can.

You hate both thoughts on sight and push them away.

Dorn continues to speak, “Workload adjustments will follow this meeting. Existing assignments will be redistributed where necessary. No one is to pretend they can maintain full existing output while absorbing Bastion responsibilities. I want you fully present. And I can’t have you losing efficiency because you’re overworked.”

The screen changes to meeting cadence.

“Core team remains after this meeting for fifteen minutes,” he says. “Everyone else returns to current deliverables. Updated assignments will be circulated by end of day.”

He names them: Marcus, Livia, Dev, Johanna, Rena, you, and project administration from Guilliman’s office. Each name lands with its own little vibration in the room.

When he says yours again, you feel several sets of eyes return.

Her?

Isn’t she junior for that?

Didn’t Dorn tear apart one of her reports last month?

Maybe she’s better than she looks.

Maybe this is punishment.

Maybe this is favouritism.

Maybe this is a mistake.

The last one lodges because it sounds too much like your own voice. You lower your gaze to the table before anyone can read your face.

Dorn sees the instant your shoulders narrow inward, the way your chin dips by a degree, the way you place your pen down with care, so your fingers have something precise to do. It is a familiar movement now: you make yourself smaller when you think the room is questioning your right to occupy space.

This is the part of the assignment he cannot solve for you.

He can give you authority. He can define the chain of command in front of witnesses. He can make bypassing you inconvenient enough that even the impatient will think twice. He can review your work, correct your errors, and teach where teaching is possible. He cannot walk across the room and place his hand over the private wound where your self-confidence bleeds.

“Authority for workstream coordination is not ceremonial,” he says.

The room stills.

Your head lifts before you can stop it.

Dorn is looking at the group, which makes the words a little easier to bear.

“When she requests revised backgrounds, you provide them. When she flags an inconsistency, you answer it. When she asks for a decision record, you send it. If you disagree with the coordination call, you document the reason and escalate. You do not ignore it.”

It is ridiculous. He is simply clarifying process. A project needs defined authority. A workstream lead needs support. This is professional.

Yet your heart hears something else beneath it: You will not be left to fail because people refused to listen.

Dorn turns a page in the folder. “Questions.”

Livia asks about flood modelling. Dev asks about mechanical plant placement, and Dorn’s answer is so precise that it suggests he has already had a private argument with the preliminary plan and won. Johanna asks whether the shelter designation triggers additional emergency egress requirements under the latest city guidance. Guilliman answers part of that, Dorn answers the rest.

Then Rena raises her pen.

“Accessibility overlays,” she says. “Do we have community consultation notes yet? If the centre is serving as emergency shelter and administrative services, user profiles matter. Mobility, age, sensory needs, language access. The code minimums won’t be enough.”

For the first time in the meeting, Dorn’s expression shifts toward approval in a way almost visible.

“Correct,” he says. “Request the notes through Guilliman’s office. If the city has not provided them, ask why.”

Then Dorn looks at you.

“Workstream integration.”

Your soul leaves the building, files a formal complaint, and returns because your rent is due and depends on you having this job.

“Yes, sir?”

“What do you need first?”

No one has asked you that in a meeting like this. Usually, instructions fall from above and you scramble to implement them, no questions asked. Usually, you discover what you need at midnight while staring at a drawing that hates you. Usually, you are grateful for whatever scraps of context land in your inbox and then apologise for needing clarification.

Dorn however, waits.

You swallow as you reply meekly,

“I need the latest architectural background files with revision dates confirmed,” your voice is quieter than you would like, though steady enough to live. “Not screenshots, not PDFs only. Model files where available and issued drawing sets where models aren’t authorized.”

Dorn nods as he silently urges you to continue. And you do, your voice steadying a little when nobody scolds you for your presumption at authority.

“I need a single source for naming conventions and issue status. If teams are saving local copies with informal labels, we’ll lose track by Wednesday. I need consultant contacts for drawing queries, one person per discipline if possible, so questions don’t scatter across five threads. And I need the existing title block and revision protocol checked against city requirements before anyone starts building sheets.”

There is a moment of unbearable silence as those around you take in what you’ve just requested of them.

Have you said too much? Too little? Was that obvious? Did you sound like you were pretending to lead before the authority had settled? Does everyone think you are merely repeating things from a project management article you once read at one in the morning while eating cereal from a mug?

Dorn looks at you.

“Good,” he says.

One word.

He turns to Guilliman. “Can your office provide city document requirements and consultant contact confirmations by noon?”

Guilliman is already making a note. “Yes.”

“Dev, Livia, Johanna, Marcus,” Dorn continues. “Send her your current file locations and latest received backgrounds by two. Include date received, source, and whether you consider the file reliable. If the answer is ‘probably’, explain why it is not ‘yes’.”

Rena leans slightly toward you without looking away from her notebook and whispers, barely audible, “Look at you, terrifying already.”

You nearly choke.

By the time Dorn says, “Core team remain. Everyone else is dismissed,” your notebook is a disaster of arrows, boxes, circled deadlines, and one tiny drawing Rena has made in the corner of a person being crushed under a stack of plans.

Chairs scrape back. People stand, gather tablets, murmur. The general staff file out carrying fresh assignments and the haunted expression of people who have glimpsed the next two months and found them suddenly devoid of PTOs.

Some nod at you. Some do not. One junior drafter, Elias, gives you a quick, awkward thumbs-up that looks as though he regrets it halfway through. You appreciate it anyway.

You sit with Marcus, Livia, Dev, Johanna, Rena, Dorn, Guilliman, and Nisha Varma from project administration, who has the terrifyingly serene expression of someone who can find any email ever sent by any human being since the dawn of electricity.

“Now,” he says. “The less comfortable part.”

Dev mutters, “Excellent,” under his breath, earning a nudge aimed at his ribs from Livia.

Dorn ignores both, though you suspect he hears everything. Possibly including thoughts.

“This project will attract attention,” Dorn says. “From the city, from the press eventually, from other firms that wanted the contract, and from internal leadership. That means mistakes will travel faster than corrections. We do not feed that process by being careless with communication.”

“No speculation in written threads. No blame assignment in email. No informal commitments on schedule. No undocumented verbal instructions. If the city asks for a change, it goes into the log. If a consultant issues a revised background, it goes into the log. If someone says, ‘quick update’ in a corridor, you send a summary afterwards and ask them to confirm.”

Dorn’s gaze comes to you.

“Your coordination log is the spine. If it is weak, the rest of the body will not stand.”

Wonderful. Your spreadsheet will now make or break this project!

You nod. “Understood.”

“Do you have a template?”

“I can build one from the Eastbank School project log and modify the categories for multi-use public requirements.”

Marcus looks over. “Eastbank log was solid.”

“It was,” Dorn says. “Use it as a base. Improve it.”

Guilliman speaks then. “I’ll have my office share public reporting fields with you as well. The city will require traceability on major decisions. If your log tracks the decision chain clearly, we can use it to support Friday reporting without duplicating work.”

You look at him. “That would help.”

“Good,” Guilliman says. “Nisha will coordinate with you.”

Nisha gives you a crisp smile. “I’ll send you the fields after this.”

“Thank you,” you say, and write NISHA, REPORTING FIELDS in a box so heavily outlined it looks like a bunker.

The core discussion moves quickly after that. It is more practical than the larger meeting, more dangerous too, because the general shape has given way to actual details on who needs what, by when. What is needed and where… the minutiae that make up your days.

You listen, write, and ask two more questions when terror temporarily fails to strangle you. Both of which earn you surprised glances from the more senior people around you.

Finally, Dorn closes the folder.

“Initial actions are clear. You have until Friday to establish the coordination framework. I do not expect perfection by Friday. But I will need honest effort.”

Chairs scrape again. Tablets lock. Marcus is already speaking quietly to Livia about survey control. Dev and Johanna begin debating plant-room adjacency before they have fully stood. Rena squeezes your shoulder once as she rises, quick and fierce, then releases before anyone can make it sentimental.

“You’re going to be okay,” she murmurs.

Your mouth says, “Sure,” because your mouth is a liar with office-appropriate training.

Nisha pauses beside you. “I’ll send those fields in ten minutes. Also, congratulations.”

“Thanks,” you manage.

Guilliman remains near the screen, speaking softly with Dorn. Their voices are too low to catch. You gather your notebook slowly because your hands need the extra time. The room feels too bright now, too glass-walled, too visible. Through the transparent partitions, the drafting floor moves in its usual patterns, though you can sense the news spreading already. Heads tilt together. Screens are glanced at. Someone points toward the conference room and then pretends he has not.

You are halfway to the door when Dorn says your name.

“Yes, sir?”

Guilliman’s gaze shifts between the two of you with calm, unreadable attention. Then he looks back to his tablet, giving the illusion of privacy while remaining very much in the room. HR and Finance, you think faintly, must be an excellent training ground for appearing absent while recording everything with frightening accuracy.

Dorn stands behind the conference table, one hand resting on the closed municipal folder.

“I will speak with you at two,” he says. “Bring your preliminary thoughts on the log structure. Rough is acceptable.”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

“And your current workload summary.”

“Yes, sir.”

You expect him to dismiss you. But instead, he says, “Do not spend the next three hours trying to solve the entire project.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you say, feeling a little called out.

Dorn’s brow lifts slightly.

Guilliman, traitorously, looks back down at his tablet with the faintest suggestion of amusement near his mouth.

Dorn says, “Good.”

The word is dry enough to be dust.

Heat creeps up your neck.

“I’ll... organise my notes,” you say, because that sounds more reasonable than ‘I will now go spiral in a controlled professional manner.’

“That would be a better use of time,” he says.

You nod once more, then escape the conference room before your face can do something career-limiting.

You return to your desk through a corridor of half-hidden glances. Nobody says anything immediately. That is almost worse. Silence can be polite. It can also have teeth.

When you sit, your chair feels different. Your desk feels different. The sticky notes on your monitor remain absurdly normal.

CHECK ROOF DRAINAGE DETAIL.

ASK ME ABOUT REVISION CLOUDS.

MEETING 10:30? BIG ONE?

You pick up the last one and stare at it.

Yes, Rena. Big one.

You turn it over and write on the back:

‘Bastion Civic Centre.’

‘Workstream Integration Lead.’

‘Friday.’

‘Do not die.’

Then you stick it to the bottom of your monitor where only you can see it.

Soon, your inbox begins to bloom: Marcus Hale has shared a folder. Livia Chen has forwarded survey files. Nisha Varma has sent reporting fields. Dev Malhotra has sent a message with the subject line: MEP BACKGROUNDS, MAY GOD HAVE MERCY. Rena has sent only: breathe, menace.

Across the floor, Dorn exits the conference room with Guilliman at his side. They pause outside the glass doors, speaking quietly. Guilliman says something with that calm, measured expression of his. Dorn listens, folder tucked under one arm, face severe enough to make even the municipal seal look nervous.

Then Guilliman departs toward the executive corridor.

Dorn stands there for half a second longer, looking down at the folder in his hand. After that, he turns and walks back to his office.

You only happen to glance up at exactly the moment he closes his office door behind him and sets the Bastion folder on his desk with careful precision.

Then your phone buzzes.

Stoneheart007 - 11:47 AM Casualty report?

You look at the message.

For a moment, the whole morning tips toward him. Toward the old reflex. Open the door. Tell him everything. Let Stoneheart make a joke about municipal bosses and evil scheduling goblins. Let him say he has your back. Let that invisible steadiness take some of the load before you even learn where to set it down.

Your thumb hovers as you contemplate a response. Then, you look across the floor.

Dorn is in his office now, seated behind his desk, the municipal folder open before him. He looks severe, remote, exactly as he should. One hand rests beside the folder. The other is out of sight below the desk line, perhaps reaching for a pen, perhaps nothing at all.

Yet you can still hear his voice from ten minutes ago.

‘What do you need first?’

Not a rescue. A question.

You type slowly.

Troublemaker2301 - 11:49 AM Promoted? Drafted? Sacrificed? Unclear. Work just handed me a public building and a shovel.

Stoneheart007 - 11:50 AM That sounds severe.

Troublemaker2301 - 11:50 AM It is. I’m trying not to panic.

Across the office, Dorn reads the words beneath the edge of the municipal folder and feels them land with more force than they should.

He looks through the glass.

You sit at your desk, shoulders held carefully, phone low in your hands, and your face turned slightly away from the room. From anyone else, the posture might look like texting. To him, it reads as bracing against a wall while pretending to not crumble into a nervous heap.

Stoneheart cannot say ‘I assigned it because I believe you can do it.’

Stoneheart cannot say ‘The shovel is not for your grave. It is for the foundation.’

Stoneheart cannot say ‘I will meet you at two and we will begin.’

And so, he types what he can.

Stoneheart007 - 11:52 AM Panic doesn’t mean you’re not capable. It just means that you understand the size of what you have been handed.

You want to believe it with the sudden hungry ache of someone who has spent too long confusing fear with fraudulence.

When you open your eyes, your screen is still full of new emails. The Bastion folder waits. The sticky note at the bottom of your monitor says ‘Do not die.’

Across the floor, Dorn’s office door opens again.

You hear him, though. The measured steps. The tiny recalibration of the office air. The way people around you become a little more focused, a little more upright.

He passes behind your row.

For a moment, his shadow crosses the edge of your desk.

Your phone buzzes once more.

Stoneheart007 - 11:53 AM Start with what you need first. Then the next thing. No heroic last stands before lunch.

Dorn is at the far end of the aisle now, speaking to Marcus, municipal folder under one arm, expression stern enough to frighten reinforced concrete into confessing its weaknesses. His other hand holds his phone, likely to call some poor contractor and scare his soul into compliance.

Start with what you need first.

The coincidence is small. Reasonable. The kind of practical advice two competent men might both give. There is no reason for it to catch in your mind like a thread snagged on a nail.

You look back down at your phone.

Troublemaker2301 - 11:55 AM Boss said something similar.

You send it before you can think too much.

Across the floor, Dorn stops speaking for half a beat.

Marcus pauses. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” Dorn says.

It is an answer to several questions at once and a lie to most of them.

Later, Dorn stands behind his desk, one hand resting on the back of his chair, and feels the first thin crackle of danger move through the morning.

You are noticing echoes.

Not clearly yet. Not consciously. You are too overwhelmed by the project to follow that path fully. But the echo has sounded.

He types with care.

Stoneheart007 - 11:59 AM Then he may be correct for once.

Rena, passing behind you with a stack of folders, looks down. “Did you just laugh at your phone?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Go away.”

“Proud of you, lead.”

Rena says it lightly, affectionately, like a tease. Yet it lands with weight. Real weight.

You look at the project folder on your screen.

Bastion Civic Centre… Workstream Coordination… Your initials beside the workstream.

For a moment, your fear is still there, large and breathing.

Start with what you need first.

You open a blank coordination log.

You type the title anyway.

BASTION CIVIC CENTRE Workstream Integration Log Phase One

Then, you start typing. And little by little, the work begins to take shape.

It does not feel heroic. It feels like laying the first brick in an empty field where Dorn sees a wall in the making. It still looks like an empty field to you.

Still, you lay it.

And in his glass office across the floor, Rogal Dorn watches you begin, realizing he has now set into motion, events that may change both your worlds.

I swear the plot thickens, my friends! I'll be getting to the juicy "burn" of this infernal "Slow Burn" soon!!

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter that almost did me in!!

As always, thank you for all the support you show me and for taking the time to read this and express your comments and reblogs! I love you all!!

Those who celebrate are Leman Russ, Jaghatai Khan, and Vulkan.

Leman Russ calls a feast unlike any Fenris has ever seen, for he is to be with his heir, birthed by you and you alone. So all must celebrate this, all must bow their heads and bring gifts. For this is the truth of the prophecy, your blood and his to be shared in a child who soon will greet this world with the first cry.

Jaghatai Khan calls for the gathering of the clans. A child is to come. Something shared between you and him. Something that will, when the time comes, inherit his wildness and, well, everything else.

Vulkan calls for celebration across his whole world. A child. A child is to be the proof of yours and his love. A proof that life does, in fact, find a way. And that the way can be both joyful and beautiful for both you and him, and then for the child who comes to be in this world.

The hesitant ones are Konrad Curze, Mortarion, Angron, Alpharius, and Omegon.

Konrad Curze knows his fate, and it is one painted in blood and darkness. So having another of his bloodline in this world speaks to the darkest recesses of his soul. He is unsure, yet also hopeful. Maybe, just maybe, this will bring something better to the world he is in.

Mortarion is understandably apprehensive. A child is something to be cherished, yet all he knows in this world is pain and struggle. So he does not trust his own hand to help with this. Yet he will try. For your sake.

Angron never trusted himself around any other living being, let alone something so small and helpless as a child. Yet he would still strive for your sake. They are both above and below such things as shared kinship of blood. Yet maybe, just maybe, this one will work out. This one will be theirs, Alpharius and Omegon’s own heir.

The elation is almost palpable for Fulgrim, Lorgar Aurelian, and Horus Lupercal. For Fulgrim, it is a sight of great love. Yours and his shared blood will make an appearance in this world. The masterpiece that the two of you painted together. The most perfect being that could ever be in this world will come to draw breath and cry into this world. This is a sign, a sign of his and your greatness in this world.

Lorgar Aurelian wants for nothing more than for your shared genetics to be born into this world, to bless it with their cries and breath, so he can shape their mind into the ways his was shaped once. So please, oh please, dear one, be safe during your pregnancy and delivery, for he is here to bring the fruit of your shared union into the world as it was always meant to be.

How could Horus Lupercal be anything less than elated? You are now heavy with his child, a proof of his superiority, a proof that yours and his love can create something greater than the moment of pleasure. Oh, dearest one, you are now holy and divine. You are a vessel that will bear his heirs into the world, and he will stop at nothing to make sure that you are both safe and happy. For this is how things should be.

For the accepting ones there are  Lion El’Jonson, Perturabo, Roboute Guilliman, Ferrus Manus, Magnus the Red, Corvus Corax, and Rogal Dorn and Sanguinius

Sanguinius is of two minds: on one hand he is apprehensive, on the other he ready to accept that your union will become a child in this world. He is still, however, a little worried about how this new life will develop in your womb. Will it drain you of life? Will it not? He does not know, and his future sight is useless in this time. He only hopes that they will be born soon, and that you will be free from carrying them, free

Lion El’Jonson is not the sort to make a song and dance over it, but he understands what this means. A child is a child, and if they are yours and his, then they are to be guarded, trained, and cherished with all the seriousness such a thing deserves. Lion does not need the bloodline to feel the weight of it. He will simply accept the child as his own and make sure they are raised to stand in a world that is always trying to bite first and ask questions later.

Perturabo would be surprisingly matter-of-fact about it. Yes, the child is not born of easy circumstances, yes, the world is cruel, yes, there are complications. And yet, if they are to be yours and his, then they are his responsibility as well. Perturabo would accept them with the grim certainty of a man who knows that something valuable must be built carefully, or it will break. He will not be sentimental, but he will be there, and that counts for more than he would ever say out loud. Of course he accepts it. Guilliman is not one to place unnecessary weight on blood alone when there is already so much meaning in the act of raising a child together. He would see the child as a future, a duty, and a blessing all at once. If the child is yours, then they are his by every measure that matters. And he will make certain they are given structure, love, and the very best chance to become something extraordinary.

Ferrus Manus would accept the child with the straightforward certainty. No complicated speeches, no fuss, no hesitation. He would see the child as something to protect and shape with care. He is not soft about it, but he is steady, and that steadiness is its own kind of love.

Magnus the Red would accept your shared child with a strange and luminous kind of wonder. He would not care whether the path was simple or conventional, only that the child is real and that they are to be shared between you. To him, the child is an unfolding mystery, a bright and living proof that the future can still surprise him. He would be fascinated, devoted, and already thinking too many thoughts about what this new life might become.

Corvus Corax would accept it quietly, without fanfare. Corvus is not one to make a grand declaration when a softer truth will do. If the child is yours and his, then they are his to protect, his to raise, and his to watch over from the edges until they are ready to stand in the light. He would not ask for more than that. He would simply be there, steady and watchful, as though he had always known this was coming.

Rogal Dorn would accept it as a fact of duty and love both. There would be no uncertainty in him once the decision is made. If the child is yours and his, then they are to be protected, taught, and given every chance to become strong. He would not be overly expressive about it, but that does not mean he feels it any less. Dorn loves in the form of walls, structure, and endurance, and he would build all three around this child without hesitation. to nurture them. And he will be there for whatever is required.

-----------

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

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Sun lights the ruins in such an odd way, with the way it rises behind it casting the front of the castle into deep shadow devoid of all light - but the crumbling sections and gaps in masonry allowed for starkly contrasting rays of light to burst through and highlight the swathes of decrepit stone and the growing shrubbery that supported it. 

When the sun reached the zenith of midday it was far more visible, but the scorching heat rising off the wasteland made the whole horizon blurry with wavy mirage. 

It made the whole thing far more mysterious and terrifying, to never have truly seen the place up close, and only now in the eleventh hour would you fulfil your curiosity. Hardly the reward you wanted, but a reward nonetheless.

You could at least admit to yourself that underneath the grumbling swell of emotions: of shock and sadness and pain and fear - there was a curiosity that had gnawed at you for years.

The elusive dragon who you had over ever really heard, aside from the occasional sliver of wing or horn - a great and mighty beast who’s very presence completely dominated your life, the lives of everyone you knew - and yet seemed oh so disconnected from daily life. A waking terror that haunted the minds of every man woman and child to know that a painful and horrific death was always close at hand, always needed satisfying, but functionally didn’t truly exist.

A lord to be satiated and pray never looked down to see the peasants lay at his feet lest he finds himself wanting.

And you had known, or course, that other kingdoms and towns offered up ‘pretty young things’ as you had heard it so neatly summarised - but never understood why. The offering of gold and heirlooms and other treasures and tithes made sense, everyone knew dragons kept mighty hoards. 

You supposed it was to instill terror. 

The people would have to turn on each other to decide whose child would be sent unto their own death and breed a resentment between them. They could not rise up and fight against him if they were too busy fighting amongst each other to survive, to appease. 

And that was your role now, to appease, in whatever delightful death awaited you at the end of this long, dusty road at the hands of the Pale One.

“Don’t think too hard, ‘s not worth the pain.”

His voice is gruff, hard from years of little use and age combined, but there's an underlying sorrow to it, a hint that betrays him more than his actions have damned him.

You want to protest that it’s all you can do now, but the words rise up your throat and die there. He was trying to be kind, to soothe you in his own way. 

There was no need to create more pain to leave behind you with cutting words.

You would find comfort in the solitude - focus on the way the dust kicked up from the back wheels and created swirling patterns in the early light still rising.

The ride continues in silence, which would have been comfortable if not for the cycling of thoughts and emotions that washed over you with each turn of the wheel. You tried not to think too hard - really tried, 

It was just then, as your stared out that the clouds shift, the ground now more mottled and dappled with light, which was odd - you’d never seen such a patter in the dust cracked earth before. Then again, you’ve never been so close to the castle either, now closer to its towering form that home.

Closer than ever before you can see what must have been the initial grandeur of the place, with crumbling facades and fascias giving way to roughly hewn stone. 

Everything so was so much more starkly lit now, but all it reminded you of was the constant onslaught of time working against you. 

The continual clip of the mare’s hooves, the turning of the wheel, the rising sun casting shorter and shorter shadows - and the thump of your heart, gradually beating faster and faster.

Everything blurs. Nothing changes.

Closer and closer the shadows grow.

This close and the plains begin to give way to sparse forests, untouched by the town for how close they sit to the dragons domain. You’d never seen trees loom over you like this.

Bittersweet. New emotions and an escape from the life of old. Everything you’d ever hoped for but not in the way you’d planned.

And then you arrived. Hooves clattered to a stop on the dusty road and wheels stopped creaking. The old man went still above you.

Your time was up.

“…Alright. We’re here,” his voice is weary, resigned to both your fates. 

There is no great rush for him to dismount, every step drawn out, even though you knew him to be deceptively spry for his age. You weren’t sure if it was a blessing or a mercy, if you wanted every second you could grasp or for it to just be over.

Still, time marched on and soon enough he stood at the back, only just taller than you with the level back of the carriage. 

His hands are rough with old callouses and weathered from years in the harsh sun, but he uses them with a betraying gentleness as he helps you sit up and swing your legs over the back.

The world sways as his hands steady you into standing. A long time spent on your side over uneven terrain and your own spinning head contributing into making sure you could barely support your own weight as everything threatened to topple.

“That’s it lass, here, here,”

Before you can process anything, cool water is tipping down your throat, relieving the ache you didn’t even realise had built. 

It was a great kindness, water was a precious resource to waste, especially on a dead woman.

Still, kindness only extended so far, and the sun was more than halfway down now, well into the early afternoon where you had set off just before the dawn. He would leave you here before long, it was a fools errand to leave late and risk the horrors night alone would bring, and even more foolish to stick around a dragon’s sacrifice to wait for it.

So he helps you sit, back to a small boulder and propped in the shade of a wizened white oak. 

You look up at the last face you’ll ever see.

There are pricks of tears in his eyes where yours have run freely, wrinkles where your face is smooth and wisps of white where your hair will never grey. So much unfairness, so much difference, yet in the moment your eyes meet you’d never felt so close to another, such understanding to his agony and him yours.

Kinship where there should have been none, connection in the end.

There was not another in all of Barbarus who had been here besides him, and now you, and it was surprisingly peaceful. 

The kiss placed on your head invokes a familiar emotion, something buried deep - perhaps from old memories in long forgotten dreams where your father tucks you into bed and tells you of all the treasures he’ll bring you back from his travels. But its warm, and sweet, and brings you a sort of peace that you were looking for.

Your mouth moves before your mind, impulsive thoughts that might as well be spoken, “S-stay? Just for a moment?”

His eyes and hands tighten in synchronisation as he peers up at the sun, then slowly releases you with a sigh. You didn't actually expect him to say yes, but still part of you had hoped.

“I’m sorry.”

You know.

He leaves, old mare trotting off with little care for its cargo left behind. If he turns back you don’t see between the blurring of the world from more unshed tears.

You stare for a long time.

Nothing feels real anymore. 

Half formed and fleeting thoughts of running, exploring and the unfulfilled dream you had come and go while your body buzzes beneath your skin.

Everything aches.

Neither your body or mind knows what to do with itself, physical strain and emotional exhaustion combining into a malaise that drags you down into the depths of something.

Instead you focus on the ground in front of you, tuning out how your ankles are wrapped with tight rope you can't relieve and looking out at how the sunlight falls so softly here. Such a change from the harsh desert sun, from cracked and droughted ground.

There's more rocks here, not yet taken for construction, more vegetation too, not dared to be picked even in famine. A clearing at the base of that colossal wreck untouched by humanity.

And then mottled sunlight descends.

The shadows grow darker and spots of sunlight wider, and your head snaps up in confusion.

Wings.

Tattered wings, holes ripped through that let sunlight pass through and camouflages him amongst the skies.

You have no time to process your demise, and just barely enough air in your lungs to scream as a gigantic claws thicker than tree saplings grasp around you into the ground, bringing up your prone form along with the cracked earth beneath you. 

You’re scooped up at the lowest point in the dive, with the ground now rapidly escaping your reach as wind rushes around you, disguising your screams amongst it. Clumps of rock and dirt tumble out of the Pale One’s claws at the edge, crumbling away where you remained firmly trapped in the centre.

You can’t even tell how high up you are, faced to the sky as you are, expect for the fact that the clouds are too close for comfort and despite the bright sunlight contracting so starkly against the dark silhouette engulfing you, darkness swallows your mind whole.

You don’t expect to wake, not truly, but when you do, it’s to a deep ache through your whole body, sharp shooting pains throughout your back where rubble digs in, and a pounding headache to match. Your limbs are weak, trembling and barely able to support yourself as you try and raise your torso up - spurred on by intense thirst and immeasurably dry mouth, lips chapped and throat raw and parched for a drop of moisture.

Maybe if your head hadn’t hurt so much you’d have thought this through, took a second to recover or even tried to crack open a scrunched up eye.

Maybe you wouldn’t have pushed yourself up, soft palm of your hand being stabbed by rock and earth as you shudder and wobble.

Maybe you wouldn’t have let out a deep, shaky exhale and feel a huff of hot air wash back over you in response, blowing back your hair.

There are those who are content with adoption. Those are Lion El’Jonson, Mortarion, Roboute Guilliman, Vulkan, Rogal Dorn, and Jaghatai Khan.

Lion knew from the start that he was adopted, so having another child is simply adding one more to the family. He will make sure to be a good father.

Roboute Guilliman knew from the start that he was adopted, and he turned out just fine. So he seeks to prove that to be the case. Let the two of you adopt a child, and he will prove that with the right upbringing, any bloodline can become perfection.

Vulkan simply cherishes the chance to raise a child with you. It does not matter what blood they have, as long as you and he pour your love into their being. They will be absolutely magnificent.

Mortarion wants to prove that his original father was wrong, that you do not need a blood connection to treat a child as a person and to treat them with love. So he strives for a connection that is not bound by DNA, but one that can be built by spirit alone.

Dorn did not know he was adopted until the moment the Emperor told him, but he still believes that, by virtue of his own upbringing, he can bring anyone up to his standard. He will be ever so kind and patient in doing so.

Khan will accept any blood as long as you are willing. You are his focus, and he is always ready to raise children with you, no matter the DNA.

Then there are those who require the DNA to be shared. Those are Perturabo, Lorgar Aurelian, Horus Lupercal, Alpharius and Omegon, and Fulgrim.

Fulgrim yearns to see what the union of you and him can bring into this world. It will be an epic perfection, and whatever he must do to bring this to life, he will do.

Perturabo believes himself superior, but you are his complement, so whatever comes into this world must be a mix of the two of you. If an artificial womb is required, then so be it. But he will still expect you to carry your shared masterpiece to term.

Lorgar sees your union as divine, and so it shall be. He will exhaust himself trying to make this happen. If all else fails, then a handmaid will be brought into the matter, and she will bear a true son to you and him.

It is a matter of ego with Horus. He wants your shared blood to run the galaxy long after you and he are retired to a paradise world. He will spare no expense to make sure this can, in fact, happen. He would use Dark Age technology or forbidden xenos technology just to see you heavy with his child and hear the first cry as they leave your womb.

It is a matter of practicality for Alpharius and Omegon. They know that the only thing they can truly trust in this world is their DNA, especially if it is mixed with yours. So they will employ whatever tricks, technology, or cheat is available to make sure the next generation is shared between you and them.

Then there are those who are sort of ambivalent about where the child comes from, whether from your shared DNA or someone else entirely, as long as it is the child you agree to raise. Those are Sanguinius, Konrad Curze, Leman Russ, Ferrus Manus, Magnus the Red and Angron.

On one hand, Sanguinius wants a shared child with you just to prove his own origin. On the other, he is afraid there may be a deeper mutation. So whichever option is available, he will take it. His future sight be damned.

Konrad would prefer a child from a bloodline unrelated to you, but if you should ever conceive, he will still be amenable to the fruit of your shared union. He will, however, watch them far more closely than he would any other child.

Angron, in fact, prefers a child not related to either of you, but he will be amenable to one you share. It stirs something deep in him, something he thought was buried, yet it rises again when the infant cries.

Magnus is keen on molding your minds together, bloodlines be damned. So this is what he focuses on. He will prepare a teaching plan in order to shape this young one. Genetics are completely secondary to him.

Leman wants a whole litter of pups. If you and he cannot produce one, he will collect through a wide variety of means, for there is no shortage of it. As long as they are raised under his and your tutelage, he is content, if not ecstatic, because he knows that the truth lies not in blood, but in spirit.

Ferrus is ecstatic if you can conceive, but he will manage if you cannot. He will find children who are sturdy enough to bear his philosophy, and he will trust you to raise them well.

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

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Lion El'Johnson : what he catches forst is not the sound, but the smell. Clearly something is off with you, aonprepare yourself to be jousted around like a cat in an exhibition. Once he realize that not only the smell but even the sounds inside of you are odds, he'll take you to his apothecaries. Did he got the fact that you're pregnant? Nope, but surely he'll have an hell of a surprise once he find out. Prepare to be secured and always controlled by the Watchers and his sons, the heirs of the Lion will be safe and sound.

Fulgrim: he was just holding you close after a long campain and then...something....strange...and his blood run cold.

"My dear...when did your cycle was last time?"

He'll faint so hard that his captains will have to take him in his chambers. As soonas he'll wake up the first face he'll see is Julius.

"Oh father, you gave us a shock before!"

"Oh Julius...I had the most strange-"

"The apothecaries said that our Legion mother is almost three month old. Would you like me to ask Fabius for supplements and vitamins?"

HE'll faint again. After the terrible start, he'll rejoice with you and he's already planning the nursery.

Perturabo: He's not stupid, he know exactely what's going on and...he's afraid. He had learn many thing on Olympia and one is that children are never safe untill they cannot defend themself. Hre have no time to spent in celebrating his heirs in your womb, he had to make sure that theyììll be secuitred, protected, ready. A safe nursery, structured to sustain even a nuke, the best of his sons will be chosen to protect his love and his offsprings. Nothing will harm his family.

Only when he know everything is ready and safe he'll allow his ears to finally enjoy those small heartbeat, the small kicks and the sweet and kind caress from your hands against his head.

Jaghatai Khan: H'll stop for a second, wait, listen again...

Wha a delightfull surprise you had gifted him little cloud! And look! Your womb is not just full of one but THREE!

This is perfect! He have plans already! He want to build the perfect Iurta for you, his children and...what? No more horse ride? Not even on his bike?!

The old ladies that had rised him will step in and will scold him, teach him and make sure you're safe and sound, especially with such a reckless husband as yours!

Leman Russ: He'll laugh so hard that the walls are shaking. He'll hold you on his shoulder and parade you like the greatest conquest, showing off the great gift you could ever deliver him! People will joke that his seed was far more than effective, that three children is quite the surprise and he'll just remind everyone that he's now a proud future father of TRIPLETS!

The party will go on for DAYS.

Rogal Dorn: in the moment he can hear those beat he froze. He know what they are and be know what is going on, what you see is now a statue of a man walking at you like creating holes in you with his eyes. He's not angry, he's not scare, he's calculating. He'll immediately task Sigismund to guard you and protect you, because he had big work to do. Nursery? Tes of course, in a new total different bastion in the most secured and protected planet his legion could even posses. The Phalanx is secure, yes, but now is not suitable for this kind of task. A castle will be your new home, for you ,the live of his life, and his children, a nest and a fortress to pretect his most precious treasure in tbe galaxies. When you realize what he's doing you sigh in relief, he's also making several toys, they will love the small wooden seals he's making.

Konrad Curze: his ears are already on your womb, his breath stuck in his lungs. The silence of frightening, his breath deep and shallow, his nails digging innyour soft flesh.

"...what...have I done?"

He think of this as curse for you, tainted tk hold his genes in your delicate and fragile body. You'll have to reassure him that is fine, you want this, and you want this with him, caressing his face and remembering him that this is a gift and not a curse. He want to cry, he's happy, he's scared, he's angry...and he's worried. His sons are not the best in this delicate matters, he'll transform into a feral beast. He'll guard your room days and night, case away whoever roam too close to your chambers, to where he's protecting his light and future. This is right, he said caressing and kissing your belly, this is the right choice.

Sanguinius: he had saw something like this, what he didn't saw was that there was suppose more than one. He cry, he's so happy, butbhe's so damn worried. What if they are like him? What if they hurt even now that they're inside of you? What if something happen to you or to them?

As far as his apothecaries say the pregnancy will be difficult for his genes and yoir baseline body, and the factvthat he's transforming himself into a feral predator is not helping. He'll prepare a nest for you, he'll bring you food and give you all his love and attention. He just want his babies and his live to be okay.

Ferrus manus: he trust his senses, yet he want more confermation. When the apothevary confermed that you were carrying his children, hia blood children, he immediately stated just the obvious for him.

"Gestate pod."

You tryed to convince him that it wasn't necessary, that maybe you would be ablento carry them without worries, but be stay unmoved. It's not that he doesn't trust your flesh, he doesn't trust he genes. He's too much, the fact that you were able yet to be close to him was still a surprise and a mistery to him, but he refused the chamce for you to get hurt by delivering his sons and daughters. He'll stay close to you as much as is needed, he won't leave you, just trust him on this.

Angron: you expect him to scream, to break everything around him, that he will juat start a tantrum that it will need moee rhan Kharn to stop him. Instead his arms collapse down like heavy weights, his gaze stuck on a wall, his mouth half opened. He just freeze.

He cannot process what's happening neither he understand how it could had happen and yet it did. You're carrying his children, his REAL children, not those blood thirsty warrior that claim to be his sons. He can feel them, hear them!

He can feel the deep connection with you, their love and...and he feel their love when hia hand touch you womb. Is too much, too much and too perfect.

He'll send yoi somewhere safe, where he or his men cannot harm you. He'll come back, he want to see what a monster like him can really create, the most precious and sacred miracle he could witness.

Roboute Guilliman: there's thia moment that you fear he may collapse on the groung or just disappear like mist in front of you. Roboute Guilliman is now utterly and absolutely broke . He needs time to process the entire information and, when is settle in stone, he'll start planning.

You're carrying his children, his flesh and blood, and this means that nothing he had predicted for you and him is sufficient enough. He need to recalibrate, fix mistakes, make sure there's no way thing could go wrong.

He will call upon the best midwives and peditrician on Macrage, he will select the sons he found capable enough to protect your and his children lives, a new house, safer, crontolled, everything to make sure his family can come in thos universe safe and sound.

When everything is set, when finally he know everything is back in place, he'll allow himself to listen to those heartbeat and smile.

Mortarion: ....he did what?....he is...you are....you both will be...

Cogs are turning, something is shifting, colors are appearing and the only sounds he can hear are those hearts beats.

And Mortarion, uncaring if everyone is watching, fall down on his knees,hold you close and..cry.

He cry so hard that he had to rip off his breather from his face. He's having children, him, of everyone, he's having a family. He thought he didn't deserved one , that he wasn't even good enough to have you at his side and now this.

He'll do everything in his power to make sure his children,his abbies, came to a world were nothing can harm them. He fear he may not be a good father, yet the fact that he's doubting himself means he's already a step ahead.

Magnus: he knew everything. Even before the hearts could be formed, even before their first beating, even before the bump could start to be showed he knew. Those small sparka like stars inside of you, connected to your soul, he knew what those was and he was thrilled. He wanted to tell you, really!...but then he wondered what if he just allowed you to tell him?

So he did something he had never done before: he shutted up.

He looked with a contented smile, admiring the blissfull ignoprance that you had upon your own body and the change. When you find out but decided still to make a surprise for him and he genuinely loved how much you cared to let him know this incredible news with enthusiasm and joy. He couldn't ruined to you, so he waited for you to tell him, all while he planned to fake his surprise!

Of course while this game of his goes on, he's preparing what must be done. His children will be like him, they'll be wonders and psykers like him! He'll teach them everything, but he needs to prepare them on how hard the mankind can be.

Horus Lupercal: It's an immediate festiovity, the entire Legion, the fleet, each member of that spedition will know what's happening and everyone will joy and take respect.

Horus is having children, the Lupercal is having heirs, more than two!

He's overjoy, he'll spin you in the room even when you still need to figure out what's going on inside of you. His dream is happening, he's having his children, from his own blood and from your womb!

If anyone had ever saw the Warmaster happy, then it was a shadow of the happyness he's feeling now. He have a future, a real one, and it's with his wife and children!

Prepation needs to be made, he have to inform his father that his beloved is carrying his heirs, that the line of the Lupercal will continue on! The Sons of Horus will witness the birth of their princes or princess, they will be their protector and family, that's why now you have two member of the Mournival following you like shadows. If not them, Horus's captains are ready to take their place and make sure that their mother and queen is always protected.

Horus is planning to find a fitting planet for his family, somewhere nice, somewhere good enough.

Lorgar Aurelian: he cry. he start to cry in the instant he realize what's going on and what's happening. He's holding, looking at the sacred image of his father the Emperor, thanking him for this gift. Always so harsh on him, always pictured like the weaker of his brothers, always the least and now this.

Is a sign that he was meant for so much more , that nothing is meant for nothing!

The heir of the Emperor! By him the line of his father the god of mankind will continue! Him, his prophet, had made happen a miracle! And you, a sacred wife and apostle, has been tasked to bring it to the world!

The entire legion will rejoy for the news! New sacred tests will be made top tell the story! Nothing will be forgotten because this is the beginning of a new era! The birth will be witness by everyone, you must agree to this, please!

Vulkan: as soon as he's sure of what's happening inside of you, you're not leaving your chambers at ALL. Nope, no duties for the mothers of his children, nope, you stay in bed! The medicae said you don't need it? Well, it's just for measure then!

Vulkan is ESTATIC! Everyday you get showered in gifts and trinkets of rthe future babies not only by him but by his sons too! Jewels, toys, small clothes, cribs, everything is prepared for thsi beautyfull gift that you are allowing him to have.

His captains are even able to convince him to leave early just to stay close to you, so he can hear those little dragons growing and kicking! He's such a proud dad, he's writing everything and he had brought a pictocamera just for this occasion!

Corvus Corax: he think of a malady, something wrong that may had happen when you visited the cities? Maybe something you ate?

....Oh...oh wait it come from...oh...

Like Fulgrim, instant faint, but no son to hold him, just a loud SPLAT on the ground and a Primarch completely gone from the news.

When he'll woke you are close to him and you apologize, worrying that this may be a mistake, that maybe you're not ready to be parents, that this may be an inconvenience and-he'll sush you out with a kiss.

Is not an inconvenience, is not a burde and is an amazing news! Just...unexpected.

He's not a perfect man, he know that, and he know that these children won't be normal, but they are his own and that's what matter. His sons already love you, this event only will bring them closer and they will literally move the sun and the stars just to make sure their Legion Mother and future sibling are safe. They'll even make small toys and gifts, not good like the one that the sons of Vulkan would do but still good!

Alpharius/Omegon: surprised, they did not think anythig less, yet surprised. They surely did not planned this and it may become a situation in the future.

They will do things you may not like, but they want to keep you out from every dangerous event. Having children mean that they may be open to future attacks and threats, to they'lll act in advance when you're still unaware. That means they'll make their apothecaries transfers the still forming babies in genepods and making them grow away from anyone. No one will know...even you.