When the doors opened, the first emotion that came was awe. After that, nothing remained. Sicarius did not sense the arrival of any other emotion. That ability had been utterly destroyed by the horrific, wretched sight before him. His knees began to tremble; if not for the artificial muscle fibers of the Walking Titan, he might already have fallen to the ground.
"My lord," a psyker half-kneeling beside the throne said slowly. "The men have been brought here."
The man on the throne did not move.
His withered fingers rested steadily on either side of that chair, which could only be called an instrument of torture. Intricate, densely packed cables pierced through his body and wound between his ribs. A heart beat feebly. There was nothing in his empty eye sockets. He made no movement, yet the psyker put on the appearance of listening intently.
"Yes, my lord. I understand. Yes."
He answered in a low voice, the face beneath his hood solemn and broken, his features completely ruined by dense scars. After a while, he spoke. "Welcome, loyal ones who have come from afar. My lord has ordered me to greet you on his behalf. He cannot truly converse with you, and he is sorry for that."
Sorry.
None of the four knew how to respond to that. Before they came, certain pieces of information had been vaguely revealed to them, and Mephisto knew the most, but even to him, Sanguinius had not said in advance that there was an Emperor here in an even worse state.
That was The Emperor. The Emperor of Mankind—there could be no mistake about that. His psionics, his talent, his soul, and even every minute perception were all telling him this. Mephisto lowered his head and began to do his utmost to remain