In the darkest hour, when the Great Rift had cut the Imperium's heart from its body, a dead son rose to save his father's realm. The Terran Crusade was the perilous voyage of Roboute Guilliman, newly returned to life, driving a fleet of the faithful from Ultramar toward distant Terra through a galaxy gone mad. The Space Marines of a dozen Chapters rallied to the resurrected primarch, and with them rode the golden warriors of the Adeptus Custodes, abroad from the Throneworld for the first time in living memory.
The crossing was a nightmare without equal. With the Astronomican guttering and the warp boiling with fury, the crusade was hurled into hell and beyond, beset by the Chaos Daemons that swarmed the torn empyrean like sharks to a bleeding thing. Guilliman fought his way through impossibility, his fleet dwindling, his purpose unbending, carrying the last best hope of a dying Imperium in the hull of a single scarred flagship.
When at last the crusade broke into the Sol System and the primarch knelt before the Golden Throne, the galaxy shifted upon its axis. Guilliman took up the mantle of Lord Commander, and from his return would flow the Indomitus Crusade and the desperate rebirth of the Imperium's war. The Terran Crusade was the hinge upon which the age turned, the voyage that transformed certain extinction into merely endless, grinding survival.
The chronicle continues
