Shrouded in Silence pt 18
Relationship: Magnus the Red x assassin!afab!reader
Word Count: 1041
Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz
Requested Tags: @creativebeansofchaos
Masterlist
pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7 | pt 8 | pt 9 | pt 10 | pt 11 | pt 12 | pt 13 | pt 14 | pt 15 | pt 16 | pt 17 | pt 18
The translation from the warp is almost imperceptible. One heartbeat, the universe beyond the observation ports is an impossible sea of shifting color and impossible geometries. The next, reality reasserts itself with quiet certainty. Stars return to their proper places. Auspex arrays hum as they reacquire familiar constellations. Machine spirits murmur their satisfaction through the ship's systems. A calm settles across the fleet. Then comes the announcement.
"Translation complete. Prospero system confirmed."
The words ripple from deck to deck. Crewmen who had served aboard the flagship for decades exchange relieved glances. Prosperine-born serfs bow their heads in brief thanks. Even the Legionaries seem to stand a fraction taller. They are home.
The crimson jewel of Prospero hangs before them. Its ochre deserts and sapphire seas glow beneath the light of its sun, while great white cities shimmer against the landscape like carefully placed gemstones. Even from orbit, Tizca dominates the northern hemisphere, impossibly elegant, its pyramids and towers catching the sunlight until the city seems forged from polished crystal and gold.
_____ steps beside Magnus at the bridge viewport. She had seen Prospero before. Yet after Terra, it looks different. Not because the world has changed but because she has. Magnus watches his home in silence.
"There." His voice is almost lost beneath the steady hum of the bridge, "It still stands."
She follows his gaze. The Pyramid of Photep rises above the city like a mountain carved into perfect geometry. Libraries. Observatories. Gardens. Knowledge given physical form.
"So it does," she says quietly.
He doesn't miss the meaning. Not my home. Not yet. Just there. He offers no correction. Orders begin flowing immediately. The bridge transforms from contemplative silence into controlled efficiency.
"Signal orbital dockyards."
"Astropathic confirmation received."
"Station-keeping achieved."
"Orbital traffic requesting priority assignments."
Servitors move briskly between command stations carrying data-scrolls and crystalline storage slates. Captain Ahriman steps forward.
"My lord."
Magnus turns.
"The fleet requires replenishment after the extended voyage. Warp shielding inspections are overdue on three escort vessels. The Photep herself should undergo maintenance while we're planetside."
Magnus nods.
"Proceed."
"The librarius inventories?"
"Remain aboard."
"The xenological collections?"
"Seal them."
"The restricted vaults?"
His eye narrows slightly.
"Double the warding."
Ahriman inclines his head.
"As you command."
Across the fleet, activity blossoms. Massive cargo haulers detach from Tizca's orbital docks like industrious insects, guided by precise bursts from maneuvering thrusters. The flagship's enormous docking clamps engage with practiced certainty. Deep within the vessel, engineering crews begin shutting down plasma conduits section by section. Techmarines chant binharic hymns over exposed reactor housings. Mechanicum adepts crawl through maintenance arteries that had remained inaccessible during warp travel.
Gigantic loading cranes descend into cavernous hangar bays. Pallet after pallet of supplies begins its measured journey aboard. Fresh nutrient stores. Purified water reserves. Replacement machine components. Refined promethium cells. Scroll cases from Tizca's great scriptoria. Newly copied grimoires requested months before departure. Delicate astronomical instruments commissioned from Prosperine artisans.
The flagship breathes. Repairs that could never be attempted while underway now begin in earnest. Entire maintenance crews disappear into the ship's labyrinthine interior, inspecting bulkheads stressed by warp transition and recalibrating thousands upon thousands of microscopic systems. Nothing is left to chance. Not on a Thousand Sons vessel.
At the embarkation hangar, Stormbirds stand ready. Their engines idle with restrained power while Legion serfs secure the last cargo restraints. Honor guards assemble. No ceremony has been planned. None is needed. This is simply the Primarch returning home. Magnus pauses at the threshold of the boarding ramp. For just a moment, he turns to look back through the immense hangar. The flagship stretches away into shadow and light, countless decks alive with maintenance crews already at work. His Legion moves with familiar confidence once more. Not prisoners. Not watched. Simply Thousand Sons. Home. She comes to stand beside him.
"They've relaxed," she observes.
"They're among their own again."
"No."
She watches a group of Prosperine laborers laughing quietly as they guide supply servitors across the deck.
"The crew."
Magnus follows her gaze. She is right. Since leaving Terra, shoulders have lowered. Conversations have resumed. Laughter, rare though it is aboard a Legion flagship, has returned in quiet measure. The invisible weight of the Throneworld has finally begun to lift.
"It is easier," Magnus admits, "to breathe here."
She glances at him.
"And you?"
He considers the question longer than expected.
"I left Terra carrying my father's judgment."
His eyes drift toward Prospero below.
"I return carrying my people's trust."
A faint breeze slips through the open hangar as atmospheric systems adjust for shuttle launch.
"It is the lighter burden."
The Stormbird descends through Prospero's atmosphere. Golden clouds drift beneath them. The city of Tizca rises steadily to meet them. From above, its impossible architecture spreads outward in concentric circles, elegant avenues intersecting gardens that bloom even in the desert climate through careful psychic cultivation. Towering libraries rise beside academies whose domes gleam like polished ivory, while reflecting pools mirror the sky with uncanny perfection. Unlike Terra's overwhelming grandeur, Prospero welcomes rather than intimidates. It is beautiful because it was built to inspire learning.
As the Stormbird banks toward the Pyramid of Photep, Magnus watches the city with quiet affection. Beside him, ___ watches something else. The people. Scholars crossing marble courtyards beneath floating script-lanterns. Children racing through colonnades, laughing as tiny psychic constructs of birds dart playfully overhead under the watchful eyes of their tutors. Remembrancers sketching monuments in shaded plazas. Artisans carefully restoring ancient mosaics.
No one looks upward in fear. No one expects judgment to descend from the sky. Prospero feels... Alive. The Stormbird settles onto its landing platform with a muted thrum. As the ramp begins to lower, warm desert air flows into the cabin carrying the scents of sun-warmed stone, flowering citrus, parchment, and distant incense. ____ inhales unconsciously. Magnus notices. A small smile touches his face.
"Welcome back," he says quietly.
She looks at him, then out toward the gleaming city stretching beyond the landing platform. For the first time since they had left for Terra, she finds herself answering without hesitation.
"...It's good to be here."
And Magnus, hearing not Prospero but here, allows himself to believe that perhaps, in time, the distinction may disappear altogether.
