Lorgar looked at that line again.
"Lorgar. Keep an eye on that idiot bald bastard. Don't let him die all the way."
Don't let him die all the way.
His old man had always spoken strangely. Work points, short selling, all the good news priced in—he had every kind of term in his mouth, and Lorgar had long gotten used to it.
But this line was different.
It wasn't "don't let him die." It was "don't let him die all the way."
As though death, to him, could be discounted, negotiated, or—reversed.
It felt a little strange.
Lorgar shut off the terminal and leaned against the bridge's observation window.
Outside was Ullanor's night. Gray-yellow clouds filtered the starlight until only a dull glow remained. Every so often, a Macro-cannon fired in orbit, white light flashing past and cutting a cold line across his cheek before vanishing.
He remembered many years ago.
Colchis. The day Perfect City fell.
That day, his old man died before his eyes. A daemon's claw pierced through his back and emerged from his chest, lifting his old man like an old coat hung on a hook. When he fell, his eyes were still open, looking at Lorgar. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
When black fire surged from Lorgar's body, he heard something inside his own mind shatter with it.
Then—
Then he woke up in bed again, and his old man was still alive. The sunlight was lead-gray. Other than him, Magnus, and his old man, no one remembered anything had happened.
His old man had said a whole lot back then, but the final meaning could be summed up as:
"The Emperor is awesome."
And Lorgar believed him.
Not because he believed in the Emperor. He had never believed in the Emperor.