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"Do you not believe we will win?"

Kirkland said. The Magos bent at the waist, its mechanical head twisting forty-five degrees as it regarded Malcador, who sat before it with his eyes closed in rest.

"You are accelerating your fleet, Lord Malcador. Your fleet has already overtaken Death's force—are you in such a hurry?"

Kirkland pointed out the fact. Malcador's eyelids twitched, and then the old man opened his eyes, murderous impatience filling them.

Kirkland pretended not to see it and twisted its head forty-five degrees in another direction.

"The Eldar fleet will not be easy to deal with."

Malcador's voice was hoarse. The previous battle had made the Imperial Regent realize how nimble Eldar warships were, and he did indeed need to reach the battlefield as quickly as possible—Malcador did not want Lion El'Jonson to reunite with the Imperial forces before him.

"I am merely one step faster than him. Heh, the Death Guard are always slow, are they not?"

"Then you will be disappointed this time,"

Kirkland said.

"When we arrive at the battlefield, we will see the wreckage of Eldar warships floating in space—such is the Underking's might."

Malcador sneered, as though he had heard some amusing joke.

Kirkland changed the subject again.

"And why are you in such a hurry? Is there someone on the Eldar battlefield whom you care about?"

Kirkland stepped closer. The Magos directly grabbed the back of Malcador's chair. It was clearly being excessively rude and unruly, but Kirkland had never cared—it would not die for it.

"What is it..."

the Magos murmured,

"that makes you so urgent... Could it possess the power to defeat the Underking?"

"Let me guess. Is it in Commorragh right now? Is it Slaanesh? Or something else?"

Malcador closed his eyes and ignored Kirkland's questions.

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