This should have been an exceedingly good moment to laugh, but Perturabo could not laugh.
He did not know why, but it was certainly not empathy. He had no reason to empathize with the man in the projection, and he had never defended his Scions like that in public. If anything, he was more like the Dorn in the image.
He was the one who punished his Scions with harsh discipline.
Decimation, flogging, demotion, humiliation, beatings—he had even once lost control and beaten someone into a Dreadnought.
Of course he knew what was right and what was wrong. But his emotions had never been his to control. It sounded pathetic, perhaps, but that was the truth.
If he had learned to control them sooner—
If he could have.
Then she would not have died.
Yes. She would not have died.
What have I done?
When he recalled it again, he still found the pain almost unbearable. But he did not show it. He was iron, and iron did not waver.
The Lord of Iron stood with his arms folded, his face like cold stone, without the slightest emotional fluctuation anyone could see.
Aside from Angron, not a single person discovered the complex emotions in his heart at that moment. Not even Jaghatai noticed; those hawk-like eyes of his could not, in the end, see through steel that held no warmth.
Iron itself had no warmth.
The silence did not last too long. After several minutes, Rogal Dorn broke the almost suffocating quiet.
"I should not have had any reaction to this matter," Dorn said slowly. "But I must admit one thing. When I saw a man with the same face as mine say such words, I felt shame."
He looked at Perturabo.
"...Profound shame, and I do not even know