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Warhammer 40K

Throneworld

Terra

Cradle of humanity and beating heart of the Imperium, where the Emperor endures in eternal agony as ten thousand years of pilgrims pass beneath His walls.

Astrography

AgripinaaAlaitocArmageddonBaalBaal SecundusBakkaBarbarusBiel-TanBor'kanCadiaCalibanCalthCatachanCharadonChemosChogorisColchisCommorraghCretaciaCypra MundiDal'ythDamnosDeimosDimmamarDulanEspandorFenrisGathalamorGraiaHonourumHydra CordatusHydraphurIaxInwitIyandenKar DuniashKonorKriegKronusLuciusLunaMacraggeMandragoraMarsMedrengardMedusaMetalicaNecromundaNocturneNostramoOlympiaOphelia VIIParmenioPavonisPhalanxPiscina IVProsperoRynn's WorldRyzaSa'ceaSaim-HannSanctuary 101SavlarScintillaSepheris SecundusSicarusSolemnaceSortiarius (the Planet of the Sorcerers)SothaStygies VIIITallarnTanithTarosTerraThe Eye of TerrorThe Plague PlanetThe RockTigrusTitanTsagualsaUllanorUlthwéValhallaVigilusVior'laVraksZhur

Terra is the cradle of humanity and the sacred heart of the Imperium, a world so ancient and so utterly consumed by its own significance that its natural face has been lost entirely. Where oceans once rolled and forests once grew there now stretches an unbroken crust of adamantium and stone, a planet-wide sprawl of cathedral-spires, fortress-districts, and pilgrim-cities heaped atop the bones of ages. Every handful of its dust is counted holy, for this is Holy Terra, the throneworld from which a million worlds are ruled.

At its centre rises the Imperial Palace, a continent of walls and shrines vast enough to be seen from orbit, and beneath its highest vaults sits the Golden Throne. There the Emperor of Mankind endures in ceaseless agony, a withered near-corpse kept from death by arcane machineries older than the Imperium itself. From His shattered mind pours the psychic beacon that guides the Imperium's ships through the warp, and by His silent will the faith of untold trillions is sustained.

Terra is governed not by one hand but by many. The High Lords issue their edicts from its gilded halls, the vast bureaucracy of the Adeptus Terra shuffles the endless paperwork of empire, and golden guardians keep tireless watch over the Throneroom. Around them swarm pilgrims beyond counting, the sick and the devout who cross the galaxy simply to die within sight of the Palace gates.

Once, this world nearly fell. In the closing days of the Horus Heresy the traitor host broke upon its walls, and the scars of that siege are graven into Terra still. Today it stands secure behind fleets and fortifications without number, yet its truest defence remains the frail thing upon the Throne. Should the Emperor's light ever gutter out, the Imperium would lose not merely its capital, but its very soul.