Trazyn should not have been called Trazyn the Infinite. He should have been called the Mother of Ultra wholesaler. He had opened with a trump card so outrageous it was hard not to suspect he had done it on purpose.
But actions mattered more than intentions. Whatever else could be said, Trazyn had preserved three people of great importance to the Primarchs in this chaotic galaxy.
Inviting them in was easy; getting them to leave would be hard. A library this large was bound to hold stolen goods. There was no need to search carefully: that Adeptus Custodes Dreadnought alone was dazzling enough to land Trazyn in serious trouble.
Yet Trazyn had survived and thrived despite being despised by everyone. His greatest talent was knowing how to handle different people—or, to put it another way, a smoothness other Necrons lacked.
His reputation as the galaxy's greatest thief sounded impressive, but Trazyn did not steal just anything. He certainly would not touch the treasures of his own dynasty's ruler. Or if he did, he would make sure nobody found out.
After all, dead men told no tales!
Inside the Abomination, the mourning period for Azrael was not even over when Atlas hauled in armfuls of supplies and set up the banquet tables they had only just cleared away. They even reused the banner, adding enormous red letters welcoming Lady Yuton.
But the cheerful-looking banner left Guilliman struggling to breathe. Mordred had signed it, with a smaller line beneath: "Your proudest son."
"Mother, look at him. He keeps bullying me."
"I know, I know. Mordred was withdrawn as a child, he still has some growing up to do, and he had a hard upbringing. What's wrong with you giving your brother a little leeway?"
What's wrong? Guilliman thought. *Ever since you took