So yeah, Daemon basically confirmed that next turn Vulkan and Konrad were secceding. So I decided to write that up.
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Freedom or Fire
A harsh, blistering wind swept across Konrad Curze's brow as he walked through the halls of Prometheus. The heat was unrelenting, a byproduct of the forge-like sanctum of the Lord of the Salamanders. But now, the inferno had reached new extremes—the planet was amid the Time of Trials. The gravitational shifts had awakened its wrath, forcing thousands of volcanoes to erupt and sending its seas surging in great tidal waves.
For an average human, it would be a vision of hell. For any Astartes not of the Salamanders, a brutal test of endurance. But for Konrad, it was little more than an overlong stay in a sauna with his armor still on. He would need to bathe later, something Vulkan had all but insisted upon after noticing Konrad's tendency to go weeks without one, seemingly for no reason.
The thought brought a small smirk to his lips. Little moments like that made the coming storm feel less… inevitable. His visions of the future were still clouded, but within them, he was no longer trapped in isolation, drowning in the abyss. Instead, he saw shadows moving alongside him—armies of darkness and flame marching together.
Perhaps, for the first time, the future did not feel so lonely.
Such thoughts aside, Konrad was here for a reason. Vulkan had summoned him with a simple message, asking for his presence to "finalize" their declaration of independence and demands for reintegration. In other words, they needed to settle their intentions once and for all.
Breaking away from the Imperium had been easy in principle, but the reality had been far messier. Both Primarchs had spent countless hours reviewing the state of their dominions, only to find that while they weren't lacking in strength, they had no shortage of obstacles, logistical nightmares, and political entanglements that needed sorting.
Konrad almost hoped the Imperium would simply cave to their demands—if only to spare him from another round of trade negotiations or resource allocation reports. Joking aside, this entire ordeal had been a rather enlightening, if frustrating, learning experience.
Before long, he reached the innermost sanctum of Vulkan. The oppressive heat here was even more suffocating, thick with the scent of molten metal and the deep, rhythmic hum of machinery. Rivers of magma flowed in controlled channels, while the engines of creation and destruction worked in tandem. The only living souls present were the Pyre Guard, their watchful gazes impassive. None made a move to stop or even question Konrad as he strode forward.
Inside, Vulkan was easy to spot. The massive figure of the Salamander Primarch stood before an imposing slab of what appeared to be adamantium, utterly focused on his work. He didn't turn at Konrad's approach—he didn't need to.
"The act of carving words into stone—or, in this case, metal—makes me wonder if ancient humanity ever did the same," Vulkan mused aloud, running a custom-forged chisel along the slab's surface. He etched the words
Unrestrained Determination into the alloy with precise, deliberate movements.
Konrad studied the inscription for a moment before replying. "I think the better question is—why did they ever stop?"
"I suppose it's more practical to store a planetary constitution on parchment or a cogitator," Vulkan mused, stepping back to examine his work. "Though I should probably cut down on the fire-related idioms and analogies."
Konrad raised an eyebrow. "Difficult for you?"
"Extremely." Vulkan turned to him with a wry smile. "I already had to remove 'set ablaze with the spirit of liberation' because I'd used both 'the fires of freedom' and 'the fire in the hearts of men.' At this rate, I'll be accused of making puns."
Konrad smirked. "And would they be wrong?"
Vulkan let out a deep chuckle before turning back to his work. "If only Fulgrim were here—his prose is astonishing. He'd have half a mind to rewrite this entire thing just to make it art."
"Yes," Konrad said, dry as the air in the sanctum, "and the other half would be busy admiring his reflection while doing it."
Vulkan chuckled, his chisel striking against the metal with rhythmic precision. "And yet, I'd still take his flamboyance over Dorn's insistence on absolute precision. I can already hear him telling me that the structure of my words must be as unyielding as the walls of any fortress."
Konrad tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening. "And Guilliman would insist on drafting a hundred-page codex on the proper wording of a planetary constitution, complete with footnotes."
Vulkan let out a hearty laugh, pausing in his work for a brief moment. "A grim thought indeed. Perhaps I should simply declare our independence in the form of a great device being built upon a capital world, one that sends forth our declaration across the stars."
"Poetic," Konrad mused, "but impractical."
Vulkan studied Konrad for a moment before speaking. "Sometimes, an impractical gesture lends more weight to an idea." He set down his chisel and dusted off the slab, the engraved words gleaming in the firelight. "Colonel Fury has told me much about the nature of democracy and legitimacy—how, above all, they must be backed by sufficient power. Power from both authority and the people."
He turned back to his work, running a hand over the lettering. "Without that foundation, laws and ideals are just words on stone—or, in this case, adamantium."
Konrad folded his arms, watching his brother with a measured expression. "And yet, if the words are forged by someone like you, they carry far more weight," he argued. "The people won't be so afraid when they hear that the Salamander himself leads them to liberation."
Vulkan didn't answer immediately, his chisel striking the metal with deliberate precision. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but firm. "But it must be they, the people, who give us power. If they do, then our authority is not just imposed—it is earned. You and I could seize control whenever we wished, brother, but what good would that do us in the long run?"
Setting down his tools, Vulkan turned, a thoughtful smile tugging at his lips. "Ferrus and his iron communes have given me a few ideas. For all his bluster about strength ruling over all, he ensured that even the weakest had the means to grow stronger. And in doing so, they have proven even to him that they are capable, that they are ready to shape their own futures—no matter how difficult the path ahead."
Konrad tilted his head slightly. "And yet?"
"And yet…" Vulkan exhaled, the heat in the chamber seeming to breathe alongside him. "We must remain unified in purpose. If we are to survive and choose our own destinies, we must lead them—for now. But the choice must be theirs. Only then will the path ahead be called their own to walk."
Konrad frowned, skepticism evident in his expression. "Are you seriously suggesting we put everything to an actual vote?" It wasn't just that he doubted people would vote with true conscience—he knew well how fickle the masses could be. It could turn into a mess, a chaotic display of indecision. "What happens if they choose to remain loyal to the Emperor?"
"Then they will." Vulkan's shrug was almost nonchalant. "But I don't believe that will happen. The people—including the highest echelons of our domains—have seen firsthand that Father does not tolerate even the whisper of rebellion, regardless of whether it was born from pragmatism or passion. Anyone who truly wished to remain loyal would have fought harder years ago to stay within the Imperium."
Konrad let out a short breath, shaking his head. "We intimidate people, Vulkan. I instill fear—through history, through purpose. Fear keeps the rats in line, those masquerading as men. That is what I care about."
Vulkan nodded, acknowledging the truth in his brother's words. "True. But we've also given them hope. Fear has its place, but it shouldn't be fear of the whip—it should be the fear of what defeat would cost them. This entire… experiment—our independence—is built on the belief that we can offer something better. Choice, Konrad. We can't afford to let everyone vote, not yet, but we can give them a voice. The courage to choose. And I know—" his eyes burned with conviction, "—that most will stand with us."
Konrad folded his arms, watching his brother work. "So what exactly are you suggesting?"
Vulkan didn't look up as he resumed chiseling into the slab. "A great convention. The leaders of our worlds—highborn and low alike—will either come in person, send their representatives, or submit their decision in writing. And when they arrive, we will lay everything bare before them—the truth of our situation, the reality of what lies ahead."
Konrad arched a brow. "And you think that will be enough?"
Vulkan's chisel paused for a fraction of a second before he resumed. "I think it will be necessary."
A convention. That was the official term for it—a gathering of representatives to determine the future of the Primarchs' domains and their people. But in truth, it was a test, a reckoning. Vulkan and Konrad needed to know where their key figures stood and, more importantly, what it would take to bring them in line. They were asking their worlds to commit to what was, in no uncertain terms, treason against the Imperium of Man.
Organizing such a momentous gathering was no small feat, made even more difficult by the escalating border skirmishes between their forces and the Imperium.
War was no longer a distant possibility; it loomed on the horizon, inevitable and unrelenting. If there was ever a time to unify, to solidify their purpose, it was now. Messages were sent across their domains, summoning leaders, governors, merchant lords, and keyholders of entire sectors. Each was given the option—accept safe passage under the escort of Salamander or Night Lord detachments, or risk being left behind in a future they had no hand in shaping.
It took a year to bring everything together, a year of delicate maneuvering and quiet negotiations. But now, at last, the convention was set. It would not be held on any planet or station where the threat of attack could sway decisions.
Instead, it would take place aboard a vessel designed in secret, built over the course of a decade—a ship that embodied both the vision and resolve of its creator.
The Anvil of Dawn.
While Vulkan was no master of voidcraft design—certainly not on the level of Perturabo—he was still an extraordinary craftsman. He compensated for what he lacked in intricate shipwright expertise with ingenuity, resilience, and an unyielding sense of purpose in his designs.
The Anvil of Dawn was not a warship in the traditional sense but a vessel of diplomacy, a ship built to host the most critical discussions of their age.
That said, it was far from defenseless. Its sleek, reinforced hull of black adamantium was veined with silver in intricate geometric patterns, evoking the image of a dragon resting in the cold void. It carried itself with quiet strength, its armored plating capable of withstanding hostile fire, and its gun batteries positioned not for aggression but deterrence. A broadside from Anvil could tear most ships apart, but it was not meant for war.
Nowhere was its purpose clearer than in its interior. The vessel offered comfort without indulgence, luxury without decadence. Every necessity for the attending delegations had been accounted for, but there were no excesses or distractions that might encourage complacency. This was a place of deliberation, not leisure.
Private quarters lined the outer sections of the ship, each carefully placed to prevent unnecessary tensions between rival factions. Vulkan had no patience for petty duels or whispered vendettas distracting from the true goal—building a future. If they wanted to draw blades, they could do it elsewhere. Here, they would work for the good of their people.
At the heart of the ship lay its grand central chamber, where the convention itself would take place. Designed like an ancient forum, the vast circular hall featured tiered seating rising high above a central speaking platform, ensuring that no voice would be lost. The walls bore murals depicting Vulkan's philosophy—scenes of craftsmanship, self-sacrifice, and the forging of bonds between people. It was a testament to a leader who did not rule from above but stood among those he sought to uplift.
Above, an immense holo-array adorned the domed ceiling, capable of displaying everything from tactical projections to a breathtaking, unobstructed view of the stars beyond. Here, amidst the cold abyss of space, Vulkan and Konrad would present their vision. They would make their case—not as conquerors or usurpers, but as leaders offering a new path forward.
Observers from other Space Marine Legions had also arrived, summoned by invitation but drawn by curiosity and concern. They had not been informed of the convention's true purpose, only that Vulkan and Konrad had summoned leaders from across their domains for a momentous gathering. Speculation ran rampant, but the truth would soon be laid bare.
The grand central chamber of
The Anvil of Dawn was filled to capacity, every tiered seat occupied by delegates, commanders, and dignitaries. Among them stood a dozen Remembrancers, poised to document history in the making. The weight of the moment pressed upon the chamber, an unspoken tension lingering in the air.
Then, the doors opened.
Vulkan entered first, his presence commanding even without words. He was clad in D
raken Scale, his masterfully wrought artificer armor gleaming in the dim chamber light, the deep green polished to an almost liquid sheen. In his hand, he carried
Dawnbringer, his immense warhammer, the weapon's golden head catching the glow of the overhead holo-array. As he reached the center of the hall, he brought the hammer down upon the chamber's deck with a resounding boom—a sound like the roar of a dragon breaking through the heavens.
Beside him strode Konrad Curze, a stark contrast to his brother in both form and bearing. He was clad in The Mantle of Dusk, a suit of artificer armor so dark it seemed to swallow the surrounding light, its void-black plating broken only by the occasional glint of silver filigree. His infamous lightning claws, Mercy and Forgiveness, had been polished to a mirror shine, their edges whispering of death with every slight movement. He stood tall, his presence an eerie mix of regal poise and barely restrained menace—a shadow cast beside Vulkan's fire.
As silence fell over the assembly, Vulkan raised his voice, deep and resolute.
"The hour has come. Let this great convention be called to order."
When the true purpose of the gathering was revealed, it was as if Vulkan had hurled an active warhead into the heart of the chamber. The declaration sent ripples of shock and unease through the assembled delegates and guests. Vulkan and Konrad Kurze intended to lead their domains in secession from the Imperium of Man unless the Emperor met their demands.
These demands were as audacious as they were uncompromising. Vulkan called for the full implementation of the reforms he had long championed, reforms that had been repeatedly dismissed or ignored. He demanded the reinstatement and recognition of treaties the Imperium had broken—agreements whose violations had led to the Imperial Army slaughtering entire peoples to serve the interests of select, powerful entities.
And perhaps most damning of all, he condemned the growing dehumanization of the Imperium's people, a steady erosion of dignity and autonomy imposed by the bureaucracy of Terra.
The room erupted. Most delegations had already suspected something would be announced, but not secession. Some voices cheered excitedly, others spoke to each other quietly, and many more engaged in open, frantic debate. It was the moment Vulkan and Konrad had been preparing for, forcing all present to confront a stark reality: the Imperium they once swore allegiance to was no longer the one they had fought to build.
The convention's first day stretched into a grueling sixteen hours—sixteen hours of impassioned arguments, heated debates, and relentless back-and-forth discourse that pushed mortal men to their limits. The chamber swelled with voices clashing over the fate of their worlds, torn between immediate secession and the cautious hope that the Imperium might yet heed their demands.
Then, as the din reached its fever pitch, Konrad Kurze, who had remained silent throughout the proceedings, finally spoke. His voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
"A tirade of debates and arguments, fueled by fear and uncertainty, will leave this convention paralyzed when it should be forging the path forward. With all witnesses present, I call for a vote—here and now—to decide our collective fate. No more delay. No more empty rhetoric. We act."
A hush fell over the chamber. The motion had been made. It was time.
Within twenty minutes, the votes were cast and tallied. What followed stunned even the most seasoned among them. The result was overwhelming, undeniable.
Completely unanimous.
Regardless of faction or agenda, every delegate had voted in favor of secession from the Imperium of Man.
With the vote cast and the fate of their domains decided, Vulkan dismissed the delegates, allowing them much-needed rest. He and Konrad had played a ruthless hand, forcing the decision after an exhausting sixteen-hour debate—but even they had been surprised by the unanimous result. It seemed their people were eager to decide their own fates after all.
Yet, a new issue now loomed before them.
The observers from the other Legions sat in stunned silence, reeling from what they had just witnessed. Many had assumed this was a grand military council, a strategic summit, or perhaps even a political maneuver to pressure the Imperium into reforms. Instead, they had watched as two of their brother-Primarchs openly declared secession.
Now, with the mortals dismissed, it was time for the Astartes to demand answers.
A few, such as the Iron Warrior and White Scar, regarded the development with curiosity and intrigue. They saw the logic in breaking away but also recognized the danger that came with such a bold move. By contrast, the Ultramarines and Raven Guard seemed exasperated, and Guilliman's representative, in particular, muttered about the instability this would bring.
A member of the Luna Wolves, surprisingly, voiced open support. "The Imperium was always meant to serve humanity, not the other way around. Horus has come to recognize the flaws."
Not all took the news as well. The Imperial Fists observer clenched his jaw, his disapproval written across his face. The Dark Angels representative, ever silent and unreadable, simply stared at Vulkan and Konrad as if trying to divine their true intentions. The Space Wolf scoffed outright, arms crossed, shaking his head.
The room grew tense as some observers prepared to leave, eager to bring word of this heresy to their Primarchs. Others remained behind, choosing instead to watch, to listen—to measure the storm before deciding their own course.
Some attempted to argue against the decision, to warn Vulkan and Konrad of what they were unleashing. But it was clear: the two Primarchs had already committed to this path. And, more importantly, their people had chosen to follow.
For better or worse, history had just been made.
Now came the hard part…
As with all things, the tribes soon took root within the convention.
Drakes, Dragons, and Wyverns—these were the names of the three dominant factions that emerged within the delegation a week after the vote for secession. With independence now secured in principle, the next battle was upon them: determining the shape of their new government.
Naturally, everyone had an opinion on specific matters, especially the decision that their new government would be a constitutional dictatorship. This was the first step, and it was already controversial. This point set the stage for the three largest factions to emerge, although there were a few minor ones.
First were the Drakes. The loudest and most fervent of the pro-secessionists, the Drakes were driven by a singular creed: "Freedom or Fire." Composed of militarists, revolutionaries, and those who had suffered firsthand under the Imperium, they viewed the war for independence as something that had already begun years ago. To them, this was not a matter of governance—it was survival.
At the forefront of their ranks stood Lord-General Ratibor Osmion, a battle-hardened supporter of Vulkan's reforms and a man unafraid to position himself as a potential leader of this new nation, even if he knew he would not win. He embodied the Drakes' ethos: decisive, uncompromising, and utterly convinced that only through strength could their fledgling nation endure.
Next were the Dragons. Where the Drakes saw only the inevitable war and revolution, the Dragons saw the need for structure, stability, and careful preparation. Composed of bureaucrats, pragmatists, sector administrators, and military officers, this faction favored independence but rejected reckless haste. Without economic stability, diplomatic maneuvering, and extensive defensive preparations, their new nation would collapse under its own weight.
For the Dragons, war was, indeed, inevitable, but there was no need to accelerate its arrival. Some bridges could still be salvaged—at least long enough for them to consolidate power.
Their de facto leader was Nelda Ohmnob, a former radical political philosopher imprisoned for six years in a labor camp before being freed by the Night Lords. A fierce critic of the Imperium, Nelda understood its dangers but knew that rushing headlong into anarchy would be just as fatal.
Finally, there was the Wvyerns.
The most ideologically distinct of the factions, the Wyverns rejected the notion of replacing one tyrant with another. Scholars, guild leaders, planetary representatives, and those wary of autocracy gathered under their banner. To them, true independence was not about trading Terra's rule for that of the Primarchs, but about ensuring that power was distributed among elected officials rather than concentrated in a single supreme ruler.
Their goal was ambitious—perhaps even naive. They sought to craft a system where no individual could dictate the course of an entire civilization alone, no matter how powerful. Their selection of a leader shocked many and disgusted some: Lord Prefect Y'shoa of the Telepathica, a psyker and political strategist. The choice was controversial—few trusted psykers, especially in positions of governance—but it also gave the Wyverns a powerful voice.
The convention quickly became a whirlwind of negotiations, political maneuvering, and vote after vote. Crafting a new nation—even with the possibility of rejoining the Imperium if their demands were miraculously met—was a daunting, intricate process.
When the time came to vote for the Supreme Leader, the results reflected both expected outcomes and surprising undercurrents. Vulkan, the architect of this movement, secured a near-landslide victory with almost 90% of the vote. His tireless efforts to improve the lives of his people, combined with his sheer popularity, made him the natural choice. However, what caught many—Konrad Kurze especially—off guard was that the Night Haunter himself received nearly 7% of the vote.
For most, such a lopsided result would have been a humiliating defeat. But Vulkan was not a man of prideful vanity. He had never sought power for its own sake, only to guide humanity toward a better future. The people had spoken, and he would serve them as he had always intended.
With his authority now solidified, Vulkan wasted no time in enacting sweeping reforms. His first proclamation was as bold as it was historic:
"Slavery is abolished. Effective immediately, all enslaved peoples were granted emancipation."
This decision sent ripples through the gathered delegations, but before dissent could form, he revealed the true foundation of their new nation.
Before the assembly, Vulkan unveiled their constitution—not merely in written form but engraved upon an adamantium slab, symbolizing its permanence and unyielding commitment. Written copies were distributed to the delegations, detailing the fundamental rights and reforms that would define their new government:
- Universal Human Rights enshrined into law.
- The immediate suspension of servitorization, except in the case of voluntary submission.
- A ban on unlawful conscription, ensuring no one would be forcibly drafted into war without due cause.
- The right to a fair trial and due process, replacing the Imperium's often arbitrary and brutal justice system.
While the delegations had varying opinions on these sweeping changes, few openly voiced opposition—especially after Vulkan sweetened the deal. Key figures were promised ministerial positions in the new government, ensuring their influence remained intact.
Most significantly, their worlds would no longer be required to pay Imperial tithes, a burden that had long drained their economies. A new tax code would eventually be established, but the days of planetary rulers fearing Imperial Army occupation or replacement would soon be gone.
Several more weeks of rigorous debate and refinement followed before the
new constitution was finalized and formally codified. When it was finally complete, Vulkan and Konrad agreed that the time had come for the delegates to return to their worlds, bearing the news that would shape the fate of countless lives.
The constitutional convention was far from over—in truth, it had only just begun. More gatherings would follow, more decisions to be made, and more challenges to overcome. But the first and most crucial step had been taken, and with it came the formal declaration of their new government:
The Anvil Concord.
Word spread swiftly. Within a year, the people of the seceding worlds learned of their newfound independence. For many, it was a moment of unrestrained joy. The dream of self-determination, of governing their own fate free from the yoke of Terra, was now a reality.
Yet, beneath the celebration, there was also
an undercurrent of unease. The Imperium had never tolerated defiance before, and few believed it would start now. Some braced for the inevitable retaliation, whispering of retribution and war.
But hope had still taken root, stronger than fear. For the first time in generations, the people of the Anvil Concord held their own destiny in their hands—and that, in itself, was worth fighting for.
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@Daemon Hunter
