“I know you are there,” the Lion called out, his helmet slowly panning around as he searched for his invisible foe. He found nothing, but he knew. “I feel your presence, your attention, your feelers poking at my mind. This won’t end well for you.”

That was the interesting part. He could feel that something was prodding at his mind, he could feel someone watching — more than one someone, but only one made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end — and unlike the weak beasts around him, that distant, hidden presence taking potshots at his mind felt hints of danger he hadn’t experienced since his return. 

The forest was weird, and he would have suspected the whole of it to be under the sway of some psychic beast or Xeno, were it not for the force mentally poking him feeling so distinct from the surrounding forest.

The Lion was no Psyker, he never had been. He was a warrior through and through, but he supposed if he had Forestwalking, there had to be something inherently psychic in him. He was the First, after all, the template from which all other Primarchs were derived. The original.

If some of them had clear psyker abilities, like Magnus, he supposed he too must have had it in him, buried deep. 

So he trusted his instincts, even if it had led him astray before. Well, not in a combat situation, but his gut feelings didn’t seem to be similarly infallible in social situations.

“You felt that?” A feminine voice tinged with surprise echoed around him, coming from everywhere and nowhere. He stayed still, not feeling even a hint of a presence. His quarry was not nearby, just projecting her voice. “Apologies are in order then, I’ve never seen a mind as … robust as yours before, I just had to see whether I could poke through its defences.”

She had poked through his defences, not that they were all that impressive, but that was by design. His mind was a trap, one laid for arrogant psykers who sought to exploit that weakness. Not a single psyker had escaped the confines of his mind once they dared poke their noses inside it to date. 

But this one refrained from actually entering his mind, apparently satisfied with merely poking at his defences. It was … mildly irritating, but nothing he couldn’t deal with. 

This foe either had no self-control or treated him as nothing more than a source of amusement. Her words, the lilt of her voice and her actions thus far gave him some idea of her personality. Catty, playful, maybe malicious and perhaps sadistic, but more than anything, arrogant. 

Or was she? 

No Psyker he knew would dare just poke him in the brain if they weren’t assured of their own safety. He didn’t tend to take such attacks as anything less than a personal offence, which usually didn’t end well for the psyker in question.

“Who are you?” He asked, frowning under his helm. The only Psykers who had ever made him feel this level of danger were Magnus and the Sigilite. Though those two had felt more … refined, while this one felt more strange than anything. Like there was an ocean of danger slumbering under the surface, but only a tiny part of it was awake and above the surface. The thought of waking that slumbering beast even gave him a sense of wariness. 

“Any name I could give you would mean little to you, I’d wager,” the feminine voice said after a moment. “But I’ve come to refer to myself as ‘Echidna’ these days.”

That name prickled the Lion’s memories, something deep and almost forgotten. What was it? He frowned and turned his focus inward, digging up the ancient memory.

A book. Ancient beyond belief, from the Sigillite’s library, and from ancient Terra before that. ‘The Polytheistic Religions of Old Earth’, written in the fifth millennium, about forgotten religions that were considered nothing more than history even by then. 

He finally remembered the passage that mentioned the name. He doubted this woman knew, but then again, maybe she did. Echidna was not a common name, and it was a bit too specific to be a mistake … probably. Stranger things have happened.

“A dark name,” he said, no judgement in his voice, but a question. Did she know about ancient Terra somehow? He never had much interest in ancient history, not unless they held some lesson for warfare within. Still, that would be interesting nonetheless.

“I know,” she said, a chuckle echoing around him. “You’re well-read. I would have expected your brother to recognise it, and maybe he did, just never mentioned it. Hmmm. But it fits. The Mother of Monsters. Quite the title … but it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as ‘Lord of the First’, does it?”

She knew. She knew who he was, and she had met Roboute. Or maybe it was a lie to throw him off? 

And still, she attacked his mind, something she should have known not to do to someone like him. His temper had dimmed since his awakening, but it had been legendary during the Heresy and the Crusades before. 

Arrogance. Or perhaps not. If she could wake up the danger that lurked beneath the surface and call on it, he might have to get serious. She certainly felt more powerful than anything he had faced since his awakening, even just as she was. 

And that included the Warmaster of a Chaos war band, one of his Fallen sons who had turned into a Chaos Sorcerer over the years. 

… who had almost killed him. Were it not for his Risen sons’ timely rescue, he would now be in a flesh suit worn by that deranged son of his as he tried to assassinate the Emperor. 

He never would have considered it before, but perhaps prudence would be more advisable than instant violence here. Imperium Nihilus needed him, the Dark Angels needed him, humanity needed him. He couldn’t die here, there was no point in attacking this psyker, not yet. Wasn’t worth the risk. 

Especially with his weakened body. Maybe in his heyday, he would have been confident enough to disregard the risk, ignore the lack of benefits and forget the greater mission in favour of removing a possible enemy. 

She spoke to Roboute, and she is alive. The Lion mused. His brother was not a mighty warrior, not compared to him, Kurze or Angron, but he was strong, and he was smart. 

He avoided fighting her or perhaps spared her. Roboute always did advocate for making better use of Xeno races, instead of merely exterminating them. In this day and age, that idea might hold even more weight.

Humanity was alone among the stars. No allies in sight.

But he was no negotiator, he was a warrior, a protector. He would leave implementing ideas like that to his brother if he saw it fit. 

“You’ve met my brother?” He asked. Hundreds of thoughts had gone through his head, but only a second of silence passed between them. 

“Yep,” the disembodied voice replied. “Found myself on Baal a while back and was there when he arrived with his Crusade. We fought a nasty Tyrannid together. Hmmmmm. I can feel Dante’s smell on you, you’ve met. He didn’t talk about me? … I’m hurt.”

‘A Rogue Psyker killed the Swarmlord, stable enough to converse with and yet powerful enough to give pause to the Chapter’s Librarian, Mephiston. Lord Guilliman allowed them to assist in the ensuing assault on the final Tyrannid stronghold … ‘

A snippet of Chapter Master Dante’s report surged to the forefront of his mind. Rogue Psyker? The Lion had seen rogue psykers and killed plenty. They were all unhinged, dangerous to themselves and everyone around them. Without education, tools, suppressants and the Imperium’s help, they never had the ability to hold the Warp at bay. 

“He talked of a Rogue Psyker,” the Lion said. “One just barely on the right side of sanity to prove useful in repelling the Tyrannid onslaught on his homeworld.”

“Rude,” she sniffed, then snorted in amusement. The air before him shimmered, then coalesced into a humanoid form. An Illusion, he knew, his other senses told him there was no one there and yet his eyes were fooled. “That’s what I get for saving his Chapter from annihilation. Oh well, your brother repaid me for my troubles … mostly.”

He eyed her for a moment, evaluating everything she was showing with the eye of a warrior. Sure, it was just an illusion, and everything could be false, but even that would grant him some insight into her personality by analysing what she was

showing.

Normal human-sized body, no apparent cybernetics or other enhancements. She wore armour from the neck down that reminded him of Eldar battle gear, but with a more organic twist. From the backup, she seemed normal enough, though he recognised artificial perfection when he saw it. Smooth skin without pores, a perfectly symmetrical face, a pair of emerald eyes that glowed and long silver-blonde hair that swayed in the wind, despite the air being still in the forest.

Not that a breeze would have any effect on an illusion. 

Those eyes, too, seemed like she plucked them out of an Eldar’s face and implanted them in her own eye sockets. That gem-like quality and vivid colouration were unmistakable. 

He mentally added ‘vain’ among her descriptors in his mind, and noted that no human from today’s imperium, or even from the Imperium he knew, would ever even want to share a single visual trait with a Xeno. That made him suspect this woman, if she even was one, or a human at all — who knew what lay behind those Illusions, after all? — lacked the Xenophobia that was so widespread in the Imperium. 

Or perhaps she was a Xeno, maybe even an Eldar, and those eyes were a subtle taunt.

“Mostly?” He asked to keep her speaking. She seemed to like hearing the sound of her own voice, every word was another brushstroke, painting a clearer and clearer picture. 

“Well, I’m something of a … post-cognitive,” she said, tilting her head like she wasn’t sure that was the right word. “I can kinda browse through the past. We made a deal, I answered questions and he gave me fun bio-samples for my collection. Unfortunately, my bait wasn’t good enough, so he refused to pay the price for my juiciest piece of information.”

Bio-samples? Then perhaps the armour truly was organic, and the illusion might have truly shown her real form. A biomancer, then. And an illusionist, obviously. Reasonably powerful in both if she could battle a Swarmlord and project an image from beyond the reach of his senses. 

“What price?” The Lion asked, consciously keeping his grip on his sword relaxed. 

“A single hair,” she said, huffing, then gave him a thoughtful look. “But perhaps you would like to make the deal instead? Unfortunately, Dante spoiled that your brother is alive and active already, so my second juiciest bit of information is gone. But the first remains. The two of you aren’t alone, someone else you knew during the Crusade and the Heresy remains active to this day. I’ll tell you who, what name they go by, and even give you a clue to catching their trail for a single lock of your hair … or you can spit on me instead if that’s what you’re into.”

He just stared at her for a moment. The shock and relief weren’t as great as the first time, but it still hit him with a strength that would have made a lesser man collapse. He wasn’t alone; he knew that already; he had Roboute also working towards a better future on the other end of the galaxy, but another person he knew? 

A large part of him wanted to grab the woman and shake her until she coughed up the information. But she was an illusion, and he doubted Roboute wouldn’t have tried to keep her locked up if she wasn’t especially slippery, or powerful enough to at least escape containment.

His armour held psychic shielding and would protect him from attacks, but it did little to stop a Psyker from fleeing if he couldn’t grab them physically.

Still. His own genes and DNA, the personal work of his Father, ending up in a Rogue Biomancer’s hands? Not worth the risk. If there was another who remained, they would make contact when they felt the time was right. The ripples were spreading, and the Imperium would know of his return in time. Any who wanted to meet him would know, though tracking him down might give them some headaches. 

Once I have the Dark Angels rebuilt and unified, they can just reach me through them.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse,” the Lion said. “I have seen what a rogue scientist can do with even a fraction of the Emperor’s work at their disposal.”

“Unfortunate,” she said, clicking her tongue as she squinted at him. “What if I spice up the deal? Throw in a little extra.”

“What?” He asked, only not shutting down her suggestion instantly out of curiosity. What could a rogue psyker offer him beyond information that she thought would tempt him?

“You have an ailment plaguing you,” she said. “One that has drained your strength, leaving the limits of your capabilities reduced. I can fix that.”

He growled, brows furrowing in irritation as a memory played out in his mind. 

‘What have you done to me? Remove this curse at once?’ He had asked the defeated Chaos Marine. 

‘What curse?’ The man choked, confusion evident.

‘My strength! What have you done to me!?’

The defeated Marine stared, then let out a throaty chuckle. ‘Me? I’ve done nothing, My Lord Lion. It is time that plagues you, it has finally come for you too, after ten millennia. You simply … got old.’

“I am one of the best biomancers in the galaxy at the moment,” the woman continued, her previous catty playfulness gone in favour of grave professionalism. Good, she took it seriously. Very good. The Liona doubted his temper would bear it if she dared to mock his age. “Perhaps a homunculi, Fabius Bile or Illuminor Szeras could rival or eclipse me, but none of them is the sort you’d dare place yourself under the care of, are they?”

“Neither are you,” he said irritably. “Nor do I trust you or any other Xeno to be able to do what you claim.”

The woman stared at him for a moment, then a slow, devious smile with a hint of malice spread on her lips. 

“Then let me prove you wrong,” she said lightly, her voice dancing with amused expectation. “Your hair wouldn’t be the first Primarch sample I got. So let me demonstrate what I can do with what I have.”

The illusion stepped back and held out its hand, above it a tiny rip in space formed and out came a tiny, pebble-sized bundle of alabaster white tendrils. 

The Lion stiffened, his face paling slightly in horror under his helmet. He recognised those tendrils, he knew exactly what they were. 

The Emperor’s personal bio-engineering artifact. The thing he had used to make and build his Custodes, and if his suspicion was correct, his brothers and himself too. 

What was that doing in a rogue psyker’s hands? 

His spiralling train of thought suddenly halted as the writhing tendrils seemed to surge, making him take a step back and raise his shield. This was … not good. 

He doubted this psyker had even a fraction of his Father’s understanding of genetics and biology, and knew she didn’t have his incredible psychic might, but with that tool in her hands, she could make an army that would be unrivalled outside the Ten Thousand. 

Given enough time.

The tendrils grew, jumping from her palm onto the dirt before him, landing on a pair of feet. It now had a humanoid form that grew to match him in size, though perhaps it was marginally more slender.

The form coalesced, white flesh turning pink as skin grew over it. A silken purple cloak covered the form, and finally, the head started clearing up. Elegant, graceful features were drawn across a blank face as a mane of long white hair grew and cascaded down the being's shoulders.

The Lion almost gasped, but that was instantly replaced by liquid fury. He knew that face, of course, he did. Even if he had seen it twist and get warped into something horrendous during the Crusade, how could he forget the face of one of his brothers?

How could he forget the face of-

“Fulgrim,” the Lion growled as the replica opened his eyes and stared at him. It was not the prideful arrogance of the Phoenician that shone within, but the gleeful amusement of the psyker he had been talking to. 

“What is healing old age when I can build an entire body worthy of a Primarch from nothing?” She spoke with Fulgrim’s voice, though the tone and lilt would have given her away instantly, even if he wasn’t already aware.

Then, before his eyes, Fulgrim started changing just as his anger was about to drive him into attacking. 

He grew … younger. Then started shrinking, like someone was turning back the clock, playing a holo-recording on reverse. Quicker and quicker, each year flaking away from the visage of his loathesome brother faster and faster. In just a few seconds, a baby Fulgrim sat in the undergrowth before him.