Stone

After three rounds of drinking, Tarasha started talking more.

She looked at Sanguinius, her eyes full of surprise. "Are you an angel?

I have never seen such a good-looking person."

A trace of blush appeared on Sanguinius's face, which was the reaction Primarch shouldn't have. "Madam, I'm just... an ordinary Primarch."

Tarasha shook his head. "No, you are an angel.

It must be Emperor who created you according to your most perfect appearance."

Sanguinius lowered his head, with a hint of shyness in his smile.

Lion watched from the side, the corners of his mouth twitching even more.

He couldn't help but interrupt, "Madam, what about me?"

Tarasha turned his head, looked at him, and looked at him carefully. "You look very majestic and imposing.

Like a real lion."

Lion nodded with satisfaction.

Tarasha continued, "But you also look tired.

Take a good rest and don't work too hard."

Lion's expression froze.

He is a lion, he doesn't need rest.

But he looked at Tarasha's concerned eyes and nodded. "Thank you, madam."

Magnus came over. "Madam, what about me?"

Tarasha looked at him, with a hint of distress in his eyes. "You look very worried.

Are there any worries?"

Magnus's smile solidified.

Is he worried?

Of course there is.

Ten thousand years of betrayal, ten thousand years of regret, ten thousand years of loneliness.

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

Tarasha stretched out his hand and patted the back of his hand gently. "It's okay.

It's all over.

You are home now."

Magnus's eyes were a little moist.

Angron sat next to him, eating the food on his plate in silence.

Tarasha turned his head and looked at him. "You look very peaceful.

You must have been through a lot."

Angron raised his head, his eyes that were once full of madness were now as calm as water. "Yes, madam.

I've been through a lot.

But now, I have found myself."

Tarasha smiled, "That's good.

Finding yourself is more important than anything else."

The dinner ended with laughter.

Guilliman stood up and supported Tarasha.

He looked at the brothers with a proud smile on his face, "Everyone, I'm looking for my mother.

You guys talk slowly."

Lion's mouth twitched.

Sanguinius shook his head helplessly.

Magnus looked envious.

Angron's face was expressionless, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Dorn sat there, looking at the back of Guilliman supporting Tarasha as he left, with the corners of his mouth raised slightly.

"This boy."

Lion murmured.

Sanguinius smiled, "As long as he is happy."

Magnus sighed, "A mother's child is like a treasure."

Angron glanced at him. "You can also call."

Magnus's face turned red again.

Everyone laughed.

Late at night.

Imperial Palace's dungeon.

The deepest cell.

Perturabo sat on a cold metal chair, staring at the wall in silence.

There was no anger or madness in his eyes, only endless boredom.

For ten thousand years, he fought countless battles, attacked countless cities, and killed countless people.

What then?

Then he was defeated by Lion, imprisoned by Guilliman, and locked in this dark dungeon.

He didn't know what else he could do, or what he wanted to do.

Maybe just sit down like this, sit until the end of time, sit until the universe is destroyed, sit until everything turns into nothingness.

Behind him, there was the sound of heavy footsteps.

Perturabo There is no looking back.

The footsteps are getting closer and closer, becoming clearer and clearer.

Then, it stopped behind him.

Silence.

A long silence.

Then, a voice sounded.

The voice was low, steady, like a rock. "Perturabo."

Perturabo's fingers trembled slightly.

He knew this voice.

Ten thousand years have passed and he has never forgotten this voice.

That was his nemesis, his enemy, his brother.

He slowly turned his head.

Roge·Dorn stood at the door of the cell, looking at him silently.

There was hatred, hostility, and a trace of complex emotions in those eyes.

Perturabo looked at him and remained silent.

Two Primarch looked at each other across the iron fence.

Ten thousand years of grudges, ten thousand years of war, ten thousand years of loneliness.

At this moment, we are all in silence.

Imperial Palace's dungeon, no one ever thought there would be any warm scenes here.

Traitors have been imprisoned here, heretics have been imprisoned, and demons have been suppressed. Every inch of the walls is permeated with fear and despair.

But at this moment, a small round table was placed in the deepest cell.

The table is covered with a white tablecloth, with two exquisite porcelain cups and a pot of steaming black tea.

That black tea is a specialty of Terra, produced in Garden of Nurgle on the east side of the palace. The tea trees there are said to have been planted by Emperor himself.

Only less than one kilogram of tea can be harvested each year, and each leaf is priceless.

At this moment, this precious black tea was poured into two ordinary porcelain cups and served in front of the two Primarch.

The person serving tea is a Black Templars warrior.

He wears the iconic black Power Armour, with the Imperial Fists emblem on the chest, and a white cross robe on his shoulders.

His movements were stiff and mechanical, like a programmed servitor.

Put down the tea cup, take a step back, stand upright, and look straight ahead, as if the two Primarch in front of you are just two statues.

Perturabo picked up the teacup and took a sip.

The temperature of the black tea is just right, neither hot nor cold, with a light fruity aroma.

He was silent for a moment, then said, "The tea is good."

Dorn also picked up the teacup and took a sip as well. "Yeah."

Silence.

There was another long silence.

The two Primarch were each drinking tea across the small round table, and neither of them spoke.

In the dungeon there was only the faint sound of tea and the almost inaudible breathing of soldier Black Templars.

Perturabo Put down the tea cup, the movement was very light, but it was particularly clear in the silence.

He looked at Dorn, and there was scrutiny, hostility, and a hint of complexity in his eyes. "Aren't you going to say something?"

Dorn put down the teacup, raised his head, and looked at him. "What do you want me to say?"

Perturabo's mouth twitched slightly. "For example, persuade me to surrender."

Dorn was silent for a moment. "Will you surrender?"

Perturabo smiled, and the smile was full of sarcasm, "What do you think?"

Dorn has no answer.

He just picked up the teacup and took another sip.

Perturabo Looking at his calm expression, an unknown fire surged in his heart.

Ten thousand years later, this guy is still like this.

Always calm, always steady, always like a smelly and hard stone.

No matter how hard you hit him, how much you mock him, or how much you anger him, he won't be moved at all.

He hated this look.

I have hated it since ten thousand years ago.

"You are still the same." Perturabo's voice was low, "You will always have that dead face."

Always have a face of 'I am right, you are wrong'.

Forever--" He paused, "Never look down on me."

Dorn frowned slightly. "I look down on you?"

Perturabo snorted, "Isn't it? Ten thousand years ago, you were like this."

Do you think your Imperial Fists is the real warrior, your fortress is the real defense, and your way is the right way.

And I am a destroyer who can only demolish but not build, a barbarian who can only attack cities but not defend them, a--"

His voice trembled slightly, "I will never be as good as your trash."