Work Text:
“In Hoc Signo Vinces” meaning by this sign, thou shalt conquer, in the earliest form of proto-gothic. The phrase is attributed to an ancient romani emperor, Constantine, styled “the Great”. He proclaimed to have received the phrase in a dream and then became the first romani emperor of the Catheric creed. The veracity of such accounts remains contested, eroded by time’s decay.
— Annotation from Chronica Terrae Primaris, Vol. IV, Compiled by Historitor Myron Vellich, Sanctum Imperialis Archive, M31
His memory of leaving the mountain’s depths for the first time was at five years old.
The hidden vaults beneath the Himalayas enveloped him, their labyrinthine depths cloaked in a pervasive gloom that seemed to seep from the stone itself. Only the laboratories, with their harsh, artificial brilliance, defied completely the darkness. The halls, hewn from ancient rock, bore no trace of the gilded sigils and frescos that would one day proclaim the Imperium’s glory and history. Instead, they were raw and austere.
Clad in a simple tunic of undyed cloth, the boy’s bare feet padded softly against the cold, uneven stone, each step a faint whisper in the cavernous silence. The air was heavy with the scent of ozone and ancient dust, stirred by unseen machines that thrummed like a distant heartbeat. His senses, already sharpened beyond human limits, cataloged every detail: the faint hum of bioluminescent vats in adjacent chambers, the subtle shift in temperature as they ascended, the texture of the stone beneath his soles, worn smooth by centuries of unseen tread. To the boy, this world of shadow and stone was all he knew, a microcosm of purpose yet to be wholly revealed.
A man led him by the hand, his grip firm yet devoid of force. The boy’s small fingers, already calloused from nascent training, curled within the man’s larger palm, a connection that felt both intimate and monumental. The man was tall, his tanned skin taut over a frame that seemed to defy the confines of mortality. Long brown hair, unbound, fell past his shoulders, catching the dim light like a halo of muted bronze. He wore a white lab coat, a garment favored by the handful of scientists who toiled in the laboratories.
In those early days, before the wars of unification, before the mantle of emperor was claimed, this attire was his constant. To Constantin, the man was not yet the Master of Mankind, not yet the god-king whose name would echo across the stars. He was simply the center of the boy’s existence, and as he would ever be.
In these vaults, they prepared—scientists, gene-wrights, and the man himself, weaving the threads of a destiny that would reshape the galaxy. To the child, ignorant of the aeons to come, the man was his entire world, a singular truth in a reality of stone and shadow. His days were a rhythm of discipline: examinations in the bright laboratories, where probes and scanners mapped his gene-forged frame; lessons in the gloom, where the man’s voice wove tapestries of knowledge—language, history, warfare, philosophy—into a mind crafted to absorb it all. The boy’s transhuman intellect drank deeply, each word etched into his being like his future names would be in his auramite.
The surgeries, those grueling trials of flesh and will, were behind him. The child understood their significance. He had glimpsed the scientists’ faces—haggard, triumphant—as they celebrated his survival after each operation. It was no mere endurance, but a monument to their craft, a testament to the man’s vision. The man had smiled then, a rare curve of his lips, not of warmth but of vindication, as if a theorem had been proven after eons of labor. Even Malcador, the wizened figure who haunted the vaults like a specter of wisdom, had nodded, his eyes glinting with quiet satisfaction. The boy, young as he was, sensed the weight of their approval, though he could not yet grasp its scope completely.
Training had begun in earnest, though it was still rudimentary—forms and exercises practiced in cavernous vaults deeper within the mountain. The man oversaw each session, his presence a constant guide. He taught his creation to wield a blade, to move with precision, to anticipate an opponent’s intent before it formed. His patience was infinite, his corrections precise, each lesson a step toward perfection. The boy excelled, his body responding with a fluidity that belied his age, his mind cataloging every stance, every strike, as if they were equations to be solved.
Now, as they ascended the lowly lit halls, the air growing colder with each step, Constantin felt the man’s presence as a lodestar. The gloom seemed to part before him, though no light touched his form. The boy’s mind, already analytical, noted the shift in temperature, the faint condensation on the stone walls, the subtle tightening of the man’s grip as they neared their destination.
“Will we ascend to the top?” the boy ventured, his voice clear despite its softness.
The man never begrudged his questions, a trait that set him apart from the scientists’ curt efficiency.
“Close enough,” he replied, his voice warm and deep, lighter in those nascent days before the weight of conquest bore down upon him. “I will show you something.”
A spark of excitement flickered in Constantin’s chest, a rare sensation for a mind engineered for control. He wondered if this was another test—mental or physical, as the man often wove into their moments together. The boy had surpassed them all, his transhuman gifts rendering each challenge a stepping stone.
They came at last to a passage where light spilled through half-opened rock doors, their bronze surfaces wrought with ancient, unreadable sigils. Constantin, ignorant of their age, noted only their weight, their permanence, as if they had stood since Terra’s bones were formed. The breach was wide enough for them to pass without pause, and as they did, natural light and a biting cold assaulted the boy’s senses. His transhuman physiology adjusted swiftly.
He stepped into a world he had never seen, a perch on an ancient trail overlooking the jagged expanse of the Himalayas. This place, he would see only later, would become the heart of the Imperial Palace, capital of an Imperium yet to be born.
The landscape seized him, its raw majesty a revelation after a life confined to cavernous gloom. The Himalayas stretched in every direction, their snow-capped peaks clawing at a sky unmarred by the scars of millennia of warfare. Constantin had studied them in his lessons but to see them was to feel their weight, their eternity.
The sun, a fierce orb unfiltered by artificial light, bathed the mountains in gold, its warmth a strange comfort on his skin. He glanced at his small hands, noting their pallor in the natural light, a stark contrast to the man’s tanned complexion. The world felt vast, infinite, a stark counterpoint to the finite vaults of his existence.
The man released Constantin’s hand, sensing the boy’s unspoken urge to explore.
Constantin stepped forward, cautious of loose rocks on the uneven trail, his transhuman senses mapping the terrain with instinctive precision. The mountains seemed to pulse with life, their ridges an endless tapestry that dwarfed even his burgeoning mind. He turned back to the man, who stood motionless, his lab coat fluttering in the high wind, his brown hair catching the sunlight like burnished metal.
“This is where I will build the palace of our empire,” the man declared, his voice carrying a certainty that seemed to reshape the air itself.
Constantin smiled, a rare expression for a child forged for purpose. The declaration seemed absurd—how could one man, even this man, bend these ancient mountains to his will? Yet, in his core, Constantin believed. The man’s capabilities were absolute, his vision a truth as unyielding as the stone beneath their feet.
The boy returned to his side, and the man took his waiting hand once more, their fingers interlocking with a quiet familiarity. They stood together, gazing at the panorama of peaks and valleys, the silence stretching as the sun arced across the sky.
“Why here?” Constantin eventually asked, his voice clear, unburdened by doubt. He knew that Terra held countless sites of strategic and symbolic value—fortresses of old, ruins of ancient empires, places steeped in forgotten lore.
The man turned to him, his brown eyes locking onto Constantin’s own.
“Why do you think?” he retorted, as was his custom.
Constantin’s thoughts raced, his gene-forged intellect sifting through possibilities. The Himalayas offered defense, for their peaks were a natural bastion against invaders. There was also ancient infrastructure, buried in the vaults, that provided a foundation for the man’s work. Yet these were not the heart of it.
The boy raised his free hand, palm open to the sun above, its light casting his pale skin in sharp relief.
“It is our pinnacle.” he said simply, the words drawn from a truth he felt emanated from the man beside him.
The man nodded, a faint curve at the corner of his lips. He returned his gaze to the horizon, and they stood in silence, the boy and his creator, watching the mountains as the sun sank, painting the peaks in hues of fire and shadow.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Constantin moved with lethal grace under the Himalayan sun, his spear slicing the air with a precision that seemed to hum with purpose. The Apollonian Spear, a gift from his sire on his fifteenth birthday, felt like an extension of his will, its weight perfectly balanced in his gene-forged hands.
At twenty-two, he towered over mortal men, his physique a monument to the Emperor’s craft, more deadly than any warrior.
Around him, in an open courtyard carved into the mountains’ heart, his kin trained—a brotherhood of boys and youths, the nascent core of what would become the Ten Thousand, though their numbers scarcely reached a hundred. No golden auramite plate clad them yet; its prototypes, still imperfect, lay in the forges below.
Constantin demonstrated battle forms and stances, his movements flowing like a dance of death, each motion a lesson etched into the minds of his younger brethren. They watched him with reverence, an assortment of aspirants, some barely past childhood, others nearing his own maturity. He was their eldest, perhaps a brother, perhaps something more, but their gazes held him as a beacon of what they could become.
The courtyard, ringed by jagged peaks, was a stark contrast to the gloomy vaults of his youth. These younger Custodes, unlike Constantin, had seen the mountains’ majesty early, spared the long confinement in the caverns’ shadows.
The budding foundations of the Imperial Palace sprawled around them, scaffolding and stonework rising from the earth. The air was crisp, laced with the scent of frost and stone, the sun’s light casting sharp shadows across the training ground.
+ Constantin +
The familiar voice rang in his mind, a psychic summons as clear as a bell. He halted mid-form, his spear still, and his brethren paused in unison, their discipline absolute. With a gesture, he bid them continue in pairs, their movements resuming in seamless synchrony.
Spear in hand, Constantin left the courtyard, his strides measured but swift, ascending a stone stair to a corridor overlooking the training ground. There, framed against a wide window, stood his lord, the man who had forged him.
No longer in the white lab coat of the vaults, he wore a simple tunic, yet his presence filled the space like a star’s gravity. His brown hair, still long, caught the sunlight, and his eyes gazed at the youths below.
Constantin knelt, the Apollonian Spear resting beside him, its tip glinting in the light. At a gesture from the man, he rose, standing nearly as tall but ever in his shadow.
“Con, how is their training coming along?”
He knew, of course—each Custodian was taught personally by his hand—but he favored asking his first creation, to see his insights.
“Very well, sire. The spear fits perfectly in our hands, as you said. Sagittarus excels daily, though his temper flares too readily. Xerxes shows promise, his calm a counterpoint. Diocletian, although the youngest, performs remarkably well.”
He continued, citing the state of each brother, his perfect memory recalling every detail of their progress—strengths, flaws, potential.
The man listened, nodding faintly, interjecting quiet remarks that sharpened Constantin’s observations. When the Custodian finished, a silence settled, the only sound the distant clash of spears below and the wind’s low moan through the mountains.
“Do you think there will be a sufficient force in ten years?” the man asked, his eyes locking onto Constantin’s, their brown depths carrying an urgency beneath their calm.
Constantin gazed at the courtyard, his mind analyzing the question. His sire was calculating, meticulous, yet an impatience lurked within him—a hunger to see millennia of planning realized. The Unification Wars loomed and the galaxy beyond Earth was waiting to be claimed.
“We will have a modest force,” Constantin answered, his tone measured. “Its sufficiency depends on our foes. The steady increase in our numbers concerns me.”
Recruiting infant boys fit for the Custodes’ near-apotheosis was arduous, their survival through gene-forging uncertain. He met his lord’s gaze, unafraid to voice the challenge.
“Do not fret,” the man said, his voice firm yet reassuring. “It will be taken care of, and become easier as we progress.”
Constantin trusted him implicitly, his doubt dispelled by the certainty in those words.
“The Thunder Project will serve as well,” the man added. “They will bear the brunt of the fights.”
“Sire, have you solved their instability tendency?” he asked, recalling the genetic decay that plagued their design, a propensity for madness and degradation.
The man looked thoughtful, his gaze drifting to the courtyard, then back to Constantin.
“I don’t think I have to,” he said finally, his tone carrying a weight that hinted at plans beyond the Custodian’s ken.
Constantin nodded, accepting the answer, though his mind cataloged it for later reflection. They stood in silence, watching the youths train below.
“Do you know why we must proceed with such a difficult blend of caution and haste?” his lord asked, his gaze still fixed on the window, the peaks beyond framed in jagged silhouette.
The question carried the weight of an impending lesson, a familiar cadence Constantin had come to recognize in their years together. Constantin considered the query for a few seconds.
“Our enemies are not mere mortal men or aliens, engorged by pride and ancient technologies,” he answered carefully. He knew what dwelled in the outer dark, the entities of the Empyrean, lessons he learned with painstaking care years before in the gloomy vaults. The war for humanity was not merely physical, but a battle waged across planes unseen, against forces that twisted reality itself.
“Yes,” his sire replied, turning to face him. A new intensity burned in his brown eyes, a fire that seemed to pierce the moment.
“We fight for the soul of our species, Con. Against beings of such infinite malice and hate. Our greatest foe. Do you know what we must do against that?”
Constantin met his lord’s gaze, his own eyes unyielding yet deferential. He could never know the full scope of his sire’s plans, they were millennia of schemes woven in secret, a tapestry too vast for even a Custodian’s mind. But his purpose, and that of the man before him, was clear as adamantium.
“Anything and everything,” he answered, the words a vow, simple yet absolute.
The Emperor placed a hand near the nape of Constantin’s neck, a gesture so rare it seemed to still the air itself. His smile was both sad and resolute, revealing a weight Constantin could sense but not fully grasp.
“Yes,” he said softly, the word heavy with unspoken plans. “Go, Con. Continue their training.”
Constantin bowed, the Apollonian Spear dipping in reverence. He turned, leaving his lord to his thoughts and planning, the corridor’s stone walls echoing faintly with his steps. Below, his brethren trained on, their spears flashing in the sun, strengthening for the cosmic war their creator prepared them for.
———————————————————————------------------------------------------------------
“No.”
The word fell from Constantin’s lips like a stone into a still pool, its ripples a rare defiance in a life forged for obedience.
He stood before the Emperor in a chamber reeking of conquest, its air thick with the acrid tang of scorched metal and the fading musk of incense, remnants of a techno-barbarian warlord’s shattered reign.
The Unification Wars had ignited across Terra, each victory carving the path to an empire yet unborn. Constantin, now Captain-General, was clad in the nascent auramite armor that gleamed with unpolished gold, the Apollonian Spear a steady weight at his side.
The Emperor sat upon a grand wooden throne, its dark oak etched with crude sigils of the vanquished warlord, a relic of hubris now dwarfed by the Master of Mankind’s presence. His armor, a precursor to the radiant plate of later eras, shimmered with an authority that seemed to bend the chamber’s dim light.
Constantin could count on his fingers the times he had truly disagreed with his lord—never with such weight as now. Even the Thunder Warriors’ future disposal, would not stir him to this.
But the Emperor’s newest revelation, spoken moments ago, was a gambit that chilled even his transhuman resolve: to craft demigods, their essence drawn from the Empyrean, the realm of their greatest foe. To Constantin, it was near madness, a Faustian pact that risked inviting the warp’s malice into the heart of the Great Crusade.
He had witnessed his sire achieve the impossible—forging the Custodes, bending Terra’s warlords to his will—but this seemed to court catastrophe, a reckless wager against the very forces they sought to vanquish.
“You do not agree then,” the Emperor stated, his voice was a calm decree. He leaned forward and the throne creaked faintly under his armored form.
“My lord, are we not enough?” Constantin asked, referring to the Ten Thousand.
“No,” the Emperor replied, the word was a blunt truth, unsoftened by elaboration.
Constantin felt no anger, no slight—his mind was beyond such mortal frailties. Yet unease drifted through his thoughts, like ash settling on a battlefield. What vistas did his lord see, what cosmic truths rendered the Custodes insufficient? The Emperor’s plans stretched beyond even a Custodian’s comprehension, a tapestry woven across aeons. Still, Constantin pressed more.
“Of what you told me, they will be too independent, too prone to form their own kingdoms and desire more.”
The Emperor’s lips curved into a tired smile.
“That is what Malcador told me as well,” he said, and Constantin’s unease deepened. If the Sigillite, that shadow of wisdom who haunted the Emperor’s councils, shared his doubts, it was a grave portent. Worse, the Custodian sensed his lord’s decision was already forged.
“You must understand, Con,” the Emperor continued, his voice a blend of conviction and inevitability, “that is precisely what will make them great generals, warriors, and leaders of mankind. We need a mighty force to take back the stars.”
It was not enough. Constantin’s strategic mind saw the peril in such ambition.
“They will command millions of the Astartes. It will take but a few thinking they know better than you to wreak havoc upon the Imperium.”
The Emperor shook his head, a gesture as final as a gate slamming shut.
“I will guide and train them here on Terra, as will you. They shall be my finest creations, each a different pinnacle of our species.”
Constantin felt the argument slipping, like sand through his auramite-clad fingers. He reached for the gravest concern, his voice softening, almost a plea.
“My lord, spun from the Immaterium, their souls will be greatly tempted by our foes. What if they fall?”
The question hung heavy, the chamber’s smoke curling around it like a shroud. The Emperor gazed at his first creation, when he spoke, his words were chosen with care.
“They will bear my light, Con. They won’t be born creatures of darkness.” He inhaled, a rare human gesture, as if bracing for trials only he could foresee. His eyes closed briefly, then opened, resolute.
“We need them. It is a risk I am willing to take.”
Was it hubris? Constantin wondered, his mind dissecting the concept. The line between hubris and vision was often blurred, defined only by the end result of triumph or ruin. A sinking feeling rooted in his core. The die would be inevitably cast.
The Emperor rose, his armor a cascade of light in the dim chamber.
“I will confer with the rest of the Hetaeron,” he said, as if their counsel could sway what was already decided. “You will heed my decision.” Not a command, but a truth as certain as Terra’s turning.
Constantin had dozens of objections, each a logical thread unspooling in his transhuman mind. Yet he still bowed, unquestioning, for servitude was his essence.
He did not pray—no Custodian did—but in the silence of his thoughts, he hoped against the odds, a fragile wish for the Primarchs’ favor. The chamber’s air grew heavier, the fallen warlord’s sigils a mute warning of ambition’s cost.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
+ Constantin +
Constantin opened his eyes, the familiar hum of the Imperial Palace’s war councils fading like a dream.
He was no longer conferring with Primarch Dorn and Malcador, with plans for Terra’s defenses against the encroaching shadow. Instead, he stood in a chamber of stone and wood, its rough-hewn walls and timbered ceiling evoking the medieval castles of Old Earth, long crumbled into myth.
A great fireplace roared at the room’s heart, its flames casting flickering shadows across the uneven stone, the only source of light in this psychic sanctum. Great chairs, carved with austere simplicity, ringed the hearth, their dark wood polished by time’s unseen hand. The Emperor sat in one, his back to Constantin, his form cloaked in the regal furs and embroidered silks of a king from Terra’s forgotten ages. Had he been a king like this, long ago, in Earth’s lost past? The air was heavy with the scent of burning oak and ancient dust.
“Sit, Con,” the Emperor said, his voice a low command, resonant with the psychic timbre that conjured this vision.
Constantin, Captain-General of the Custodes, was accustomed to such ethereal summons, his lord’s mind weaving realities to suit his purpose. He obeyed, settling into a chair beside his sire, the Apollonian Spear resting across his auramite-clad knees.
He knew why he was here—Malcador must have spoken to the Emperor, for he was the only one still in direct contact with the Master of Mankind now that Magnus’ folly had shattered the Webway and bound their king to the Golden Throne.
The unthinkable had come to pass, a fear Constantin had voiced long ago in a conquered fiefdom, dulled by the Great Crusade’s triumphs but now starkly real: Horus had betrayed them, betrayed his father.
Constantin had watched Horus grow, groomed for leadership, a Primarch whose charisma and strength seemed to embody the Emperor’s dream. What had happened? Madness? Corruption? The inevitable fracture of a demigod’s soul, spun from the Empyrean’s volatile essence? He had no answers, only a grim conviction that Horus was afflicted, with no cure but the spear’s edge.
The Emperor’s face, half-lit by the fire’s glow, bore the weight of his countless years, his brown eyes were heavy with a weariness that seemed to age the very stone around them.
“You were right,” the Emperor said, his gaze fixed on the flames. “This is not a folly like Magnus’ error. This is an intentional betrayal, carefully planned. You must think me a fool.”
Constantin’s hearts tightened, an unfamiliar pang in his transhuman frame. He would never think something like that.
“No, sire,” he replied, his voice steady, unyielding. “Horus is either mad or corrupted.”
The Emperor turned to him, his eyes a world of disappointment and disheartenment.
“Corrupted, yes. But not as you think. He is corrupted as men are beset by their shortcomings and sins, exploited by the entities that feed on such flaws. I lost him to them, him and others like Fulgrim.” His voice softened, almost a mutter, as if speaking to the fire.
“They couldn’t contain it. Their virtues turned to vices. I had hoped my touch would be enough, perhaps I…” He trailed off, the words dissolving into the crackle of the hearth.
Unease bloomed in Constantin, a shadow across his analytical mind. He had never seen his lord so uncertain, so human. The Emperor, the guiding sun of humanity, seemed to falter, his resolve battered by betrayal.
“First the Webway, now this,” the Emperor continued, his gaze returning to Constantin. “Darkness has come again for humanity, Con, and I fear it won’t be dispelled this time. Our dream is gone. Millennia of planning, all those I’ve killed—enemies and allies, all the civilizations I crushed to pave the way for the Imperium—all for naught before the outcome of my failures.”
Constantin’s twin hearts beat faster, a rare surge of urgency. His lord, the Master of Mankind, the last hope of a species, was losing the will to fight—an unthinkable fracture.
He could not offer Horus’ head, nor the certain promise of victory, nor the restoration of the Imperium’s glorious future. But he could offer what he had always given: unwavering loyalty.
Rising from the chair, he knelt before his king, auramite gleaming in the firelight.
“My lord,” he said, his voice a vow carved in adamantium, “we shall fight them in the Sol System, we shall fight them on the grounds of the Imperial Palace, we shall fight them in the dungeons, and at the throneroom if needed. We shall never surrender against the dark as long as there is a light.”
The Emperor gazed at Constantin for long moments. With deliberate, almost laborious slowness, the stoic mask that recent calamities had fractured began to reform, each fragment of resolve slotting into place like stones battered and beaten by relentless winds, yet enduring to form an unyielding cliff. His features hardened.
“Only in death does duty end,” he quoted, his voice devoid of vainglory, carrying only the quiet resolve of a species too stubborn to yield. “Yes, that is all that remains to us now. We shall rage against the dying of the light.”
A flash of gold erupted from the Emperor’s eyes, a blinding cascade that consumed the chamber, the fire, the ancient chairs. For a moment, all Constantin saw was gold, a radiant echo of his lord’s will. Then the vision dissolved, and he was back in the Imperial Palace with the weight of Terra’s defense pressing upon him as the darkness of Horus’ betrayal loomed.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Constantin knelt at the base of the Golden Throne, its towering mass a monolith of fading glory, perhaps for the last time.
Terra lay in ruins, its shattered spires and scorched earth slow to mend, even under the Primarchs’ relentless decrees. Rebuilding felt like reshaping the world itself, a Sisyphean task beneath a sun that had set.
The Emperor, the guiding light of humanity, was enthroned not as a king but as a husk, his dream broken. Constantin’s sorrow, rage, and tears had burned away in the following days of Horus’ heresy end. Now, a hollowness gnawed at him. For the first time in his life, created in the Himalayan vaults and tempered through centuries of service, he felt alone.
The Ten Thousand were bereft. What did they guard now? The shadow of the King-of-the-Ages, the husk of an empire that had crumbled before it could truly rise. Yet they guarded still, for it was all they had ever known.
The air was heavy with the hum of ancient machinery, its ceaseless drone a dirge for a lost dream. Dust, the residue of broken aspirations, coated the throne’s base, settling in the cracks of the marble floor like ash from a pyre.
Constantin raised his eyes to the enthroned figure, a gaze he curiously had not dared since the Emperor’s internment after the End. He looked upon the remnants of his father, teacher, master, and king. Unseen eyes stared back amidst arcane technology, their presence felt rather than seen, a psychic weight that pressed against Constantin’s consciousness.
The throneroom, vast and cavernous, was still save for the machinery’s hum and the silent vigil of his kin, with their golden auramite stripped away in this solemn vigil, their forms clad only in loincloths.
He had come for a reason. In his mind, a whisper had stirred, it was a fraction of the voice he knew so well. Obedient as ever, Constantin had answered, drawn to the throne as if by gravity. Now he leaned closer, his auramite armor absent, his form as bare as his brethren’s and without his spear. He inclined his head, as if to hear a secret, trusting his lord’s will one final time.
A bare exhale of air passed between the Emperor and his first Custodian, a sound so faint it might have been psychic, physical, or both. None of the others present, standing like marble effigies, heard it.
It did not matter. The whisper was his orders, a final command inscribed into his soul.
“Only in death, my lord,” he whispered, his voice a soft vow, barely disturbing the dust at the throne’s base.
He rose. Without looking back, Constantin left the throneroom.
Behind him, the Emperor sits at the beginning of his eternal vigil. Forever screaming in torment and defiance against the encroaching darkness.