"Isstvan."
The Word Bearer gently breathed out those four syllables, and his words made all the Primarchs look over. They knew very well what that place-name represented.
How did that saying go? Things had no meaning in themselves. Some things only seemed special because people had given them special meaning. Sometimes even mentioning them was enough to make one shudder.
Horus offered no comment on that. He did not want to say a word.
Everything that had happened on Isstvan was connected to him. Every blood debt had to be laid at his feet. Every sword that had slain a brother, every Bolter whose trigger had been pulled at a brother's back—they were all his sins.
Unforgivable.
The Wolf-Master clenched his right hand. Radiance bloomed from his palm and spread into the gaps between his fingers. Now, he possessed the power to save. And yet salvation worked only on the living.
The dead had already stepped into the paradise of souls. Beyond that, there was nothing else. And he did not even have anyone to repent to. He looked toward his father, who was calmly reading his book, a blue radiance blooming ever brighter in his eyes.
For some reason, Horus suddenly felt an eerie familiarity slowly unfurling.
"Forgive my presumption, but you seem to know this part of history very well?" Konrad Curze asked.
At this moment, he was being exceedingly polite.
And his gaze was quite interesting as well. The Word Bearer remained unmoved by that stare, which was searching yet edged with sharpness, and merely nodded calmly.
He said slowly, "In fact, I could even recount this history to you with my own mouth. I spent a great deal of effort on it."
Angron sighed. "You don't need to keep brooding over these things, Lorgar. They've already