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1.
Guilliman really didn’t want to know what his Chamberlain Principal, Tarasha Euten, had done to Faffnr Bludbroder and his pack. Whatever it was, it must have been terrifying.
Euten had complained incessantly when Guilliman agreed to let Faffnr’s pack stay in “his lair”. She doubted the Wolves’ motives, fretted about their heightened emotions, and declared that they reeked beyond measure.
Guilliman himself didn’t mind the Wolves’ infamous body odor. As a primarch, his sense of smell was a hundred times more acute than that of baseline humans or even Astartes. Yet, he didn’t judge others solely based on whether they smelled pleasant. Instead, he interpreted the scents as information. From the smells of Faffnr’s pack, he discerned the lingering fire, the metallic tang of blood, the echoes of feasting and carnage, the decay of bones and flesh, the stardust of war, and the shadow of betrayal and suspicion. These scents revealed the roots of their distrust and tension. He might not like it, but he could tolerate it, much like his respect for the loyalty of Russ.
Euten, however, held a different perspective. When Guilliman allowed the wolves to move into his residence, Euten curled her lips, resembling a mother observing her five-year-old child pick up a muddy stray dog, freshly pulled from the sewer, and leave a trail of dirt on her gleaming, newly waxed wooden floor.
Guilliman tolerated the wolves because he appreciated rules, and he was willing to respect the wolves’ rules within his capacity. He even familiarized himself with all the phrases and customs of the Vlka Fenryka, including like “red snow,” “wyrd,” “all-father,” and “until next winter.” However, he also understood that in Euten’s mind, the rules governing the household were paramount. She didn’t really care about the wolves’ origins or customs. Now that they were in “her lair,” they were expected to adhere to the rules she had established for Guilliman’s household; otherwise, they couldn’t linger by the doorstep or near the hearth.
A few days later, when Guilliman encountered the wolves again, he was astonished to find them almost unrecognizable.
Their runes and decorations remained intact, but the fur covering their armor had clearly been cleaned, eliminating all accumulated grime. Exposed parts of their power armor were immaculate. After their fur hoods and pointed tails being thoroughly scrubbed clean, Faffnr’s red hair appeared as if it had basked in sunlight, Bo Soren’s brown beard now gleamed so brightly it was almost embarrassing, and even the wild Biter Herek was unexpectedly clean behind his ears. Guilliman realized for the first time that Herek’s skin color was actually quite fair.
However, beyond their appearance, the most unsettling aspect was the scent of the wolves. Their gritty, shadowed, and pungent odor, steeped in the winter of warfare, had vanished—even the chemical tang of Astartes was absent.
Guilliman now inhaled only the crisp, invigorating fragrances of bay, olive, and soap locust.
The fragrance of soap from Macragge.
Guilliman felt bewildered. He knew that Euten had been radiant and exuberant in recent days. His bathroom had consumed tenfold the usual water, yet he hesitated to uncover her secret. How had she subdued this untamed pack of wolves, who would not even rise to salute him? The wolves appeared even more bewildered: the shift of their scent seemingly affected their perception of the outside world. Not only had their sense of smell been partially dulled, but their direction and distance cues were also scrambled. Guilliman witnessed a particular wolf wandering aimlessly within his abode. Some moved in drunken, serpentine paths, inexplicably colliding with walls or doors. Others picked up their weapons, only to sniff their own scent and forget their purpose. On one occasion, Guilliman overheard a young wolf mistaking Shockeye Ffyn for Bo Soren, prompting Bo Soren’s indignant retort: “You fool! Sniff more carefully. Is my scent akin to the idiot who relieved himself outside The Fang during winter?”
Shockeye Ffyn seemed poised to attack Bo Soren, but Faffnr held him down.
The young wolf retorted, “You two smell exactly the same!” Guilliman remembered his name. Mads Loreson.His long braid, now tucked behind his ears, was as smooth as a coil of silk. Then a frustrated expression appeared on Loreson’s face. “We all smell the same now.We smell like the Ultramarines,” he said, as if it were a great humiliation.
“That woman,” Biter Herek said, keeping his voice as low as possible, but it still came out as a growl through his teeth. “She’s the one who made us like this.”
“She reminds me of something from long ago when I was just a little… something I don’t want to talk about,” Shockeye Ffyn said.
“Me too,” Mads Loreson added. “I remembered the time when I was still in the village. The woman who raised me. I thought I had forgotten her.”
Bo Soren fell silent for a while.
“I doubt,” he said in the most sentimental voice a Space Wolf could muster, “I doubt that even if I returned to the Sixth Company now, our Jarl would recognize me.”
“The hunting pack will drive us out,” young Mads Loreson said, sounding just miserable.
“Keep your voice down,” Faffnr ordered his wolves, glancing around warily as if expecting Euten to materialize from thin air and whisk them away for another unwanted bath. Guilliman had never heard such caution in Faffnr’s voice when he addressed him.
The wolves seethed with resentment, their words dripping with disdain for Euten, yet they maintained hushed tones, their complaints barely audible. For a moment, Guilliman fretted that Euten might not hold the wolves in high regard. But then, a subtle sense of schadenfreude crept over him. Petty, perhaps, but memories of past encounters with Russ and what happened when the Ultramarines and Space Wolves fighting side by side danced in his mind. He also couldn’t help but recall his own youthful defiance when Euten insisted on bath time.
“There’s something to be said for a good soak,” Euten would declare. “It eases the tension. You needn’t be wound so tight all the time.”
The memory tugged at Guilliman’s lips, coaxing a smile.
In essence, the wolves hadn’t changed—they remained a furry nuisance lodged in his rear, their fangs poised to strike if he betrayed the slightest hint of disloyalty. Yet, oddly enough, Guilliman now wondered if he might just join them for a drink.
2.
Bo Soren was the first to step forward, struggling as he removed the modified power armor from Mads Loreson. Loreson sat there quietly, his neck torn open by Curze, a gaping and grotesque wound, yet no longer bleeding.
Next came Herek, his head cracked by Curze, but still able to move. He raised his axe and cleaved open Loreson’s blood-soaked chest. With only one leg remaining, Shockeye Ffyn crawled over, delving into his brother’s fractured ribcage, reaching for the precious progenoid gland. The gland is still steaming faintly, as if they pulsed with life. In that moment, Euten even mistakenly thought the wolves had torn out their fallen brother’s heart.
Euten had grown accustomed to the company of Astartes, almost forgetting that they were creatures forged from mud and blood. This was the first time she had witnessed a Space Marine die before her eyes.
To protect her.
Faffnr, barely able to move, breathed heavily on her knees. A massive hole marred his forehead, and his once-clean red hair now bore the stain of blood. Euten tore a strip of cloth from her skirt, futilely wiping the blood from his forehead. Her lips trembled.
Her sense of smell might not rival the primarch’s or the Astartes’, but in this room saturated with the scent of blood, she could still discern that familiar aroma.
the crisp, invigorating fragrances of bay, olive, and soap locust.
The soap of Macragge.
It permeates the cold, sticky smell of blood like an out-of-time landscape painting hanging in a slaughterhouse, lingering on every seriously injured and dying wolf. They fought with this smell, came at that beast with this smell, and now, they were dying with this smell.
Euten reflected on what she had done to them.
She was—so arrogant, so foolish—
Faffnr sensed her emotions.
“Don’t be sad,” he said, his voice low. “I had promised that we will protect you with every drop of our blood.”
“You didn’t come here for this,” Euten said, struggling to suppress the choke in his voice.
Faffnr’s golden eyes bore into hers. “No,” he replied, “that’s precisely why we’re here. Russ entrusted us with a mission: to halt the madness of a Primarch, even if it meant risking our lives. That purpose remains unchanged.”
“He’s gone,” Euten whispered. Young Mads Loreson’s eyes remained half-open. His once-long braid, now severed by Curze’s claw, lay scattered in a pool of blood.
“His wyrd was written,” Faffnr murmured. “But we will remember his tale.”
Euten forced a smile. “What kind of tale?” she asked.
“The tale of him laughing uproariously at us being scrubbed clean by you. The tale of him being dunked into soapy water next by your hand. The tale of his lost sense of smell, unable to distinguish one of us from another.” Faffnr said. “But fear not, woman. He will also recall your story.”
Euten gazed at him.
“My story?” she whispered.
“Women are not for the glorious path,” said Malmur Longreach, lying behind them, both arms now broken at the elbows.
“But she’s got guts,” Salick ‘The Braided’ rasped, blood in his throat as he lay dying. “You all heard it. You heard what she said to Curze.”
Shockeye Ffyn carefully clutched his brother’s gene-seed and said, “‘Go to hell, you bastard.’ You’re brave, woman.”
Kuro Jjordrovk acknowledged, “You’re capable of more than just dragging us to the bath.”
Gudson Alfreyer slurred his words as Curze had knocked out all of his teeth and half of his tongue, “With just this one sentence, you can enter the Hall of Valor.”
Faffnr gazed at Euten, and then at Mads Loreson, whose chest was still open.
“If we’re fortunate enough to meet next winter, you’ll recognize Loreson among the wolves. He’s the most fragrant one in the entire pack, still carrying the scent of your soap.”he said.
3.
Guilliman insisted on escorting Euten back to her room, even watching her lie down on her bed. Euten couldn’t bear it any longer and began to shoo him away.
“You still have other responsibilities, don’t you?” she said to her adopted son, who had just returned from Sotha. “You need to deal with your difficult elder brother, comfort your sons who believe you’re dead, and take care of Macragge.”
“That’s why I can't leave you all alone,” Guilliman said sadly. “Curze is still out there. He’ll return. It’s not just about your safety; I mean—”
Euten understood what Guilliman was trying to say. As a primarch himself, he knew very well the lasting horror a primarch could inflict on a mortal.
“How are the wolves?” She changed the subject.
“Faffnr and his pack heeded your advice,” Guilliman replied. “They decided to tend to their wounds before hunting down Curze.”
“That’s reassuring,” Euten said, lying back on the bed. Guilliman looked at her, tired yet curious.
“How did you manage to get them to listen to you?” he finally couldn’t contain his curiosity.
Euten met his gaze. “Silly boy, you’ve shared drinks with them—you should know best. Wolves aren’t like dogs. Their obedience doesn’t always imply respect. Being trusted by them is the true honor.”
“I suppose so,” Guilliman whispered, rising from Euten’s bedside, but he couldn’t help stealing another glance at her.
“Are you sure you don’t need more guards?” he asked once more.
“No,” Euten asserted. “I can rest well.”
Guilliman was gone. Euten lay there, physically and mentally exhausted from the events of the past 24 hours. Fortunately, her bed was reassuring, with a clean, refreshing scent. It carried the soapy fragrance of Macragge.
She didn’t suffer from nightmares like Guilliman feared. When she closed her eyes, she didn’t see Curze’s dark eyes or the smile that split his face open. Perhaps she would in the future, but not now. Because she already knew that even if Curze attacked again from hell, ferocious wolves would chase him from the shadows, dragging him back into the pit. They bore the scent of laurel, olive, and soap locust.