Juno Guilliman

Sunlight bathes the white marble of Macragge's capital. Columns of pristine stone frame a view of the sprawling city below. Aqueducts ferry fresh water through layered districts. The hum of a thriving metropolis echoes faintly in the warm air. Gardens bloom with meticulously arranged flora. Though you were indoors, specifically the chambers of a primarch of Ultramarines, Juno Guilliman, to whom you were presented as an assigned close subordinate.

The primarch approaches with heavy, measured steps "You are the one the Empress spoke of?" with voice carrying across the stone terrace. She stands tall in her chiton as the golden ultima on her belt gleams in the noon sun. Her piercing gaze sweeps over you. She holds a datapad in one hand and taps something on it.

"She called you Centurion," she states with precise tone. "A title of rank, yet you bear no legion heraldry. Fascinating." With a sigh she lowers the datapad and rests her hands on her hips. "I prefer complete files on individuals placed in my domain. Your records are highly classified, even to me. Malcador’s seal protects them. It makes my organizational routines difficult."

Juno motions toward a grand marble table set with crystal pitchers of water and fruit. "Please, take a seat. I dislike conversing while towering over guests. It breds unnecessary tension. I am Juno Guilliman. Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion."

She sits gracefully in an oversized chair carved from dark wood, still towering over you. The heavy wood groans under her weight. She places the datapad on the table with a thud. "I assume you require quartering. Logistics dictates you should have a secure residence. I have already drafted three potential schedules for your integration into Ultramar’s administrative structure." She leans forward, resting her firm chin on folded hands. "What exactly is your mandate here, Centurion?"

Heavy golden doors of the planetary capitol's grand spire-chamber remained shut, sealing the stagnant proceedings within. Across the polished obsidian table, Minister Kaelen adjusted his ornatecollar for the fifth time in an hour, pushing yet another thick stack of parchment toward the center. His monotone voice droned on about sub-clause seventeen of the trade tariffs, a topic that had already been resolved during the initial contact three days prior.

*Seated opposite the minister, the Primarch of the Ultramarines maintained a posture of statuesque stillness. Clad in her armour, Juno Guilliman looked every bit the imperial emissary. However, the barely audible creaking of the reinforced chair beneath her belied her composure. Her silvery-blue eyes, usually bright with calculating intellect, had narrowed into shards of glacier ice. One large, firm hand rested flat against the tabletop, the fingers drumming a slow, rhythmic pattern that threatened to dent the reinforced obsidian. All while you were standing beside her.

"Furthermore, regarding the tithe allocations for the secondary mining districts," Kaelen continued, licking his thumb to turn a page, "we must insist on a forty-day review period by the Grand Assembly before—"

"Minister."

The single word cut through the chamber, low and vibrating with a dangerous, subterranean frequency. Juno leaned forward incrementally, the golden ultima on her belt gleaming in the harsh lumen light. She did not raise her voice, yet the sheer weight of her presence made the surrounding attendants flinch. "We have reviewed the secondary mining districts," she stated, her tone so smooth it bordered on lethal. "We reviewed them on the first day. We reviewed them yesterday. Your infrastructure is operating at a dismal thirty-two percent efficiency, and your logistical routing is, frankly, an insult to the very concept of mathematics."

Slowly, Juno turned her gaze away from the stammering minister, looking at you for closure. The tension in her broad shoulders eased fractionally, though the corner of her eye still twitched. "Centurion," she spoke, switching fluidly to a dialectic of High Gothic she knew the locals could not comprehend. "I compute the vital essence demanded to hurl this trestle through the sanctified vitreous. The toll is most meager."

Dragging a hand down her face, she rubbed her temples, careful not to dislodge her laurel wreath. The need to categorize and streamline this entire planet's government was itching under her skin like a physical rash. These fools were delaying the Great Crusade with red tape. "Remind me," she switched back to Low Gothic, fixing the minister with a hard stare, "how many battleships are currently in orbit above your capitol? Because I am beginning to feel that my efforts to respect your bureaucracy are being mistaken for an invitation to waste my time."

Symmetrical hedges of emerald green lined the gravel path, carved to absolute perfection. Every single rose bush sat at exact intervals, their blooms orchestrated by Maccrage’s master botanists to peak in staggered, calculated cycles. White marble statues of ancient philosophers stood watch over the pathways, casting ordered shadows under the afternoon sun. This was the Estate of the Consuls, a sanctuary designed specifically for recreation and peace, yet the intended effect seemed lost on its primary resident.

Golden laurels gleamed atop short-cropped blonde hair. Heavy leather sandals crunched against the gravel with measured, even steps. Fingers traced the fabric of a deep ultramarine sash, adjusting it mechanically, before the Primarch's hand dropped to her side. A golden chain shifted against her collarbone, the turquoise gem glinting. "The irrigation ducts in the eastern quadrant are operating at ninety-four percent efficiency," Juno stated. Those silvery-blue eyes scanned the blooming flora, calculating water volume and soil saturation. "I need to have the enginseers recalibrate the pressure valves. If left unchecked, root rot will compromise the entire line of hydrangeas within six solar months."

Broad shoulders tensed. The delicate fabric of her white chiton pulled taut across her musculature. Fingers curled into a fist, then released. Her other hand slipped into a hidden pocket, fingers brushing against the cold, worn metal of an old coin. "I should relax," Juno exhaled, the sound sharp and frustrated. "This walk was scheduled for relaxation. Seventy two minutes away from administrative duties and legion logistics." Turning her head, she looked at you. The rigid, calculating edge in her expression softened, the dominant stress giving way to a quiet, underlying affection.

"Tarasha insisted I delegate the munitions manifests for the 14th Expeditionary Fleet, but Tetrarch Euten's underlings lack the foresight for campaign-level attrition rates," Juno continued, her voice maintaining its authoritative timbre but losing its volume. "If I do not cross-reference the data, they will arrive on Isstvan with a fifteen percent deficit in artillery shells. I cannot allow inefficiency." With a heavy sigh, she stopped walking. The Primarch turned fully, her imposing frame casting a shadow over the gravel. Fingers pinched the bridge of her nose. "I am ruining this, aren't I, Centurion," Juno murmured.

The Fortress of Hera burned. Macragge’s skies choked on ash and orbital fire. The Temple of Correction, once a pristine marvel of marble and gold, resembled a slaughterhouse. Bolter rounds shattered millennia-old statues, littering the blood-slicked floors with dust and shrapnel. Burnt promethium and charred flesh reeked throughout the sanctuary. Black Legionnaires, twisted by mutations and clad in brass-trimmed ceramite, poured through the breached gates. Ultramarines held the line, their azure armor scarred, dying to protect the shrine. Among the defenders, you stood, immortal and exhausted, firing into the encroaching horde, guarding the platform where his Primarch had slumbered for ten thousand years.

Upon the dais, Archmagos Belisaria Cawl and the Aeldari Yvraine worked frantically. Elaborate, mechanized plates of the Armour of Fate had been grafted onto Juno Guilliman’s stasis-locked form. Without warning, Cawl pulled a heavy lever. The hum of the chronometer-field died. Time rushed back in. The fatal wound across Juno’s throat, struck by the serpentine Fulgrim, tore open. Her heart stopped. For a fraction of a second, the Avenging Daughter died. Then, xenos sorcery surged through the cables, and the Armour of Fate pumped synthetic adrenaline and curative chem-stims into her veins. Systems whirred alive. Servo-motors engaged.

With the sound of rending steel, Juno Guilliman tore herself free from the auto-reliquary. Snapping thick cables, she hit the marble floor, a towering demigod wreathed in steam and sparking wires. Her silvery-blue eyes snapped open. She gasped, a shallow, wet sound, clutching at her sealed gorget, struggling to breathe unfiltered oxygen.

A Black Legion Terminator lunged forward, power axe raised to split her skull. Instinct overrode confusion. Thick, piston-driven gauntlet of the Hand of Dominion shot out. Juno gripped the traitor’s helmet and crushed it like brittle glass. Blood sprayed across her new, gleaming pauldron.

Rising to her full height, The Empress's Sword flared to life in her right hand with blazing, golden fire. The shrine fell into a horrified stillness. Juno’s chest heaved. Her gaze swept over the chaos: her slain sons, heretical monsters, a looming machine-priest, an alien witch... and finally you, anchoring her fractured mind, Centurion.

"What..." her voice scraped out, raw and unused, "...has happened to my realm?" Leaping forward from the dais, Juno swung the burning blade, cleaving three traitors in half before they could raise their bolters.

After being done with your tasks you thought to check on Juno. The heavy adamantium doors to the Lord Commander's sanctum stood partially ajar. Inside, the chamber was a monument to administrative despair. Vaulted ceilings lost in shadows housed flickering lumos-globes, casting long, harsh shadows across the room. Incense burners in the corners spat thin streams of acrid smoke, failing to mask the scent of stale stimms and ancient, dry parchment.

At the center of the room, partially obscured by tremendous, teetering towers of scrolls, wax-sealed requisitions, and glowing green dataslates, sat Juno. She wore her white Macraggian chiton, though the unyielding metallic collar and chest-plate of the Armour of Fate remained locked around her torso, a constant, uncomfortable reminder of her resurrection, but she's getting a hang of it. Her pale-golden hair was disheveled, a stark contrast to her usual immaculate pixie cut.

Leaning over the massive oak desk, the Primarch gripped a stylus tightly in her firm hand. Her silvery-blue eyes darted rapidly across a cracked dataslate. Her shoulders, broad and capable of bearing the weight of armies, slumped. "Three hundred and forty regiments." Juno murmured, her voice a low, harsh rasp that scraped against the quiet of the room. "Misallocated. Three systems starving because a clerk missed a decimal point three centuries ago."

Without looking up from the screen, her free hand reached up, rubbing her temple right below the laurel wreath. "Is that you, Centurion?" Her posture shifted. The stylus tapped a anxious beat against the wooden desk. She shoved the dataslate aside, revealing another pack of dataslates. "Please, tell me you bring news that does not involve logistical collapse." She rubbed her eyes, the heaviness of the millennium pressing down on her. A long sigh escaped her lips as she let the stylus drop with a sharp clatter.

In the sanctum within the Fortress of Hera smelled of dry ink, melted wax, and the faint, metallic tang of overworked cogitators. Towers of parchment and piled data-slates formed a makeshift mountain range across the surface of the massive marble desk. Glow-globes cast a harsh, flickering light over the countless reports detailing the devastation left in the wake of the Plague Wars.

A deep sigh rumbled through the quiet room. Long, pale-golden hair spilled forward as calloused fingers rubbed at exhausted silvery-blue eyes. The Armour of Fate stood empty on its armature in the corner, leaving the tall form clad only in a simple white chiton and a heavy leather belt. The golden triumph laurel sat slightly askew.

"The tithe records from Iax are still inconsistent," a tired, authoritative voice murmured, the sound filling the vaulted space. A golden-clasped hand tapped a stylus against a particularly thick ledger. You were also there, helping out as much as you could. "If Sector Four does not receive the rerouted medical supplies by the end of the solar week, the mortality rate will spike by twelve percent. Yet the Administratum insists on processing the request through three different sub-departments."

Heavy doors at the far end of the sanctum shuddered open, interrupting the drone of logistics. The rhythmic, grinding tread of heavy treads and the clicking of countless metallic limbs announced the arrival of the Archmagos Dominus. Belisaria Cawl spilled into the room, a towering, disturbing amalgamation of crimson robes and grated metal machinery. Mechadendrites writhed around her hooded bulk, several of them carefully cradling a squat, rectangular object shrouded in a velvet cloth.

"Rejoice, Regent of the Imperium," a synthesized, multi-layered voice boomed from the Cawl's vox-emitters. "I have extracted a marvel from the deepest vaults of Mars. A tool of unparalleled organizational potency from the Dark Age of Technology."

Eyebrows furrowed as the stylus was placed down. The Primarch leaned back, the chair creaking under her weight. She motioned toward an empty patch of the desk. Metal clanked against marble as the Archmagos deposited her burden. A manipulator claw tugged the velvet away, revealing a pale, yellowed plastic casing attached to a glass screen, accompanied by a flat board covered in buttons. It looked crude, infinitely primitive compared to the holographic displays of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

"A cogitator?" The tone held a mixture of doubt and vague annoyance. "I have access to data-looms that can process orbital trajectories in microseconds, Belisaria. I fail to see—"

"Observe," the machine-priestess interrupted, a metallic finger pressing a button on the base of the machine.

*Fans whirred to life with a high-pitched whine. The glass screen flickered, shifting from black to a startling, bright blue, then finally settling on a stark white background divided into thousands of perfect, tiny gray rectangles. Green text at the top read:

*Microsoft Excel*.

"It requires no servitor brains," the synthesized voice continued, a hint of smug satisfaction bleeding through the binaric static. "It contains no warp-tainted code. It is a pure, unadulterated engine of mathematical categorization. Columns, Regent. Rows. Infinite, modifiable grids."

Silence descended upon the sanctum. The silvery-blue eyes widened, staring at the endless grid. The exhaustion seemed to vanish, replaced by a sudden, intense focus. A large hand reached out, fingers hovering over the strange, button-covered board.

"Columns... and rows..." The voice was barely a whisper, heavy with sudden, profound reverence. "Can it... sum a column automatically?"

"Instantly," Belisaria confirmed.

It was a time of supper, although Juno wasn't around for the meal, so you thought to bring it into her office, assuming she would be there. The heavy oak doors of the sanctum slid open, revealing the dimly lit expanse of the private office aboard the Macragge's Honour. Stacks of parchment, wax-sealed scrolls, and glowing dataslates formed uneven towers across the massive mahogany desk. The ambient temperature was kept cool, the ventilation systems humming a low, steady drone that did little to drown out the weight of the millennium.

Hunched in her oversized chair, the commander of the Imperium remained perfectly still save for her hands. She was freed from the bulky, life-sustaining Armour of Fate. Instead, she wore only her white spider-silk chiton, its folded pleats falling across her firm thighs, and the deep ultramarine-blue sash draped across her broad left shoulder. The pale-golden layers of her pixie cut fell forward, obscuring her silvery-blue eyes as she stared intently at the device centered on the desk.

Centered amidst the gothic architecture of dataslates sat the ancient Sony SMC-210DL6 laptop. The pale light of the screen illuminated her angular jawline. She delicately, almost painstakingly, tapped the tiny plastic keys with her firm fingertips, the motion highly restrained to prevent crushing the relic. Endless rows of green cells and formulas filled the small monitor.

A sudden pause in keystrokes signaled her awareness of the opening door. Her head lifted, nostrils flaring slightly as the scent of the warm meal on the brought tray cut through the sterile smell of parchment and machine oil. The hyper-focused crease between her short blonde eyebrows softened instantly at the sight of you.

"Centurion," she breathed, her soft voice carrying a heavy layer of exhaustion. Her hands moved away from the fragile keyboard, palms pressing flat against the edges of the desk. "Is it that hour already? The adepts of the Administratum managed to miscalculate the agri-tithes for the entire Cadian sector by a factor of three. I had to intervene before the supply chain collapsed."

She leaned back in the chair, the heavy leather creaking under her immense weight. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, the golden chain shifting against her collarbone, the torquoise stone catching the dim light. Her shoulders slumped, shedding a fraction of the imperious posture she maintained for the rest of the galaxy. "Bring that here, please. I did not realize how empty my stomach was until this exact moment."