Cassian's adjutant stood in the command bunker, staring at the crisscrossing red and blue lines on the holographic star map, his back molars aching faintly.
He was an officer born and bred within the Imperial Apostles Legion. From recruit to squad leader to adjutant, he had climbed step by step. Twenty-seven years of service, and every scar on his body belonged to the XVII Legion.
Everyone knew the Legion was divided into two factions.
One consisted of veterans from Colchis. They had followed their primarch from his homeworld, speaking of "the Son of God," "holy miracles," and "prophecies," worshipping Lorgar as a demigod. Official Legion documents called this phenomenon "homeworld cultural residue," classifying it as a form of backwardness, but the Colchisians did not care.
The other faction consisted of officers like Cassian. They had emerged from the new training system established under Lorgar's own guidance. They believed in the Imperial Truth. They believed every problem could be solved with data and logic. The primarch was great, but greatness did not make him a god. Genetic modification, tactical talent, strategic vision—those could all be explained.
Prophecy?
Foresight?
That was feudal superstition.
This was a deified expression of backward local culture. Everything was to be judged by the Imperial Truth.
Cassian had thought so too.
Until he stood here, on the soil of Ullanor, behind the XVII Legion's primarch.
"The next wave will come from the northwest," Lorgar said.
Cassian lowered his head to check the data. Scout reports, statistics on Ork movements, terrain analysis—all of it pointed northeast. The northeast held open ground, suitable for a large-scale Ork charge. The northwest was a belt of ruins. Orks did not seem like the sort to come through there.
"Primarch, the data indicates—"
"I know what the data indicates." Lorgar's gaze remained