Rogal Dorn pondered.
He thought, as he always did.
He was a thinker. He had done this countless times.
Looking back, when he was still on Inwit, he had had to learn how to survive. An old man had taught him all the knowledge he needed, and had given him something else besides.
Those were very good, very precious things—such as the ability to think independently.
If a person could not learn that, he was no different from a stone. He might be as hard as bedrock, but he was by no means a stupid stone.
Complex thoughts flowed quietly past like a river, and a doubt began to grow in his mind. It was not a thought he should have had as a Primarch, nor one he should have had as a member of the Crusade.
But he had indeed begun to doubt.
The object of that doubt was He Shenyan.
He began to fall, falling into a gentle spiderweb. The details of memory snared his hands and feet, covered his ears, nose, eyes, and throat. Rogal Dorn accepted it all, and then kept falling.
Endlessly.
He had to dig deeply into his own memories—he had to, or he would never find what he wanted.
The details of that meeting began to surface in his mind again and again. He closed his eyes, carefully carrying out deductions within his head, reviewing it all.
Just as he had once done during the Siege of Terra, he could not have been more serious; otherwise, he feared he might forget to breathe.
Seriousness brought its reward, and his mind did not fail him.
He began to smell again the particular scent inside the Captain's Quarters caused by dense magic, and the soft blue light of the Central Hub began to spin above