Brother Time
"How does it feel, my brother?" Horus asked cheerfully.
Having finally escaped that mysterious dinner, fraught with endless dangers and turbulent undercurrents, Horus's relaxation showed in every aspect of his body language and speech—though the hand lingering at the edge of the door as he watched the Emperor and Mors remain behind alone fully proved his unspoken reluctance to leave.
"Which part?" Peturabo replied.
"Oh, all of it." Horus spread his palms and swept them through the air, encompassing both Bucephalus and the endless cosmos beyond the portholes. "The Emperor's fleet, leaving Olympia, hanging in orbit, meeting the Emperor. If you truly have nothing to say, criticizing me a little would be fine too."
"Would praising you be better?"
"Then I'll have to find a way to live up to your praise." Horus answered wryly, and Peturabo smiled.
The young giant surveyed the golden gallery through which they walked, as well as the hall below it. The air carried a faint fragrance of precisely the right intensity, a scent capable of intoxicating even a Primarch's discerning senses.
Every structural line balanced aesthetics and practicality. If one absolutely had to favor one over the other, the design here leaned more toward aesthetics. The masterful use of light and shadow in every detail, along with the ever-present intricate patterns guiding the eye, turned the ship's interior into a distant dream of gold and splendor, and one of countless footnotes to the Emperor's sacred radiance.
Peturabo could not help comparing the interior decoration here to the designs he had created himself. In truth, his mind had already supplied the answer before he consciously decided to make the comparison.
On Bucephalus, where the wisdom of countless human artisans converged, the splendor and dreamlike beauty they instinctively offered up to the Emperor when