Roboute Guilliman fell silent.
The newly appointed ruler of the Imperium was now so bewildered and shocked that people could see both emotions on the face he had always been so good at concealing.
His azure eyes trembled faintly within the sockets that spent day and night staring at official documents.
Looking back over Roboute Guilliman's magnificent life, he had endured the hardships of brothers turning against one another, witnessed the curtain fall and the glory of turning the tide, seen Sanguinius fall and Malcador betray him; he had seized power amid the fall of gods, and had even checkmated the Emperor at the dinner table.
In short, as Roboute Guilliman, lord of the Imperium, lord of Macragge's Five Hundred Worlds, father of the Ultramarines Legion, and the Imperium's biggest nuclear-powered workhorse, what had Guilliman not seen?
Sorry, Guilliman really had never seen this.
Even though he had heard of that absurd fate from Rogal Dorn, even though Guilliman had hypothesized countless times in his heart, when that Roboute stood before him, Guilliman realized blankly that all his prior mental preparations had been empty.
That Roboute Guilliman stood there.
Standing before him.
He... looked more like an emperor.
Roboute Guilliman wore no armor.
The night had grown deep, and scattered glimmers streaked across black silk.
A broad dark-blue cloak draped behind him, like the trailing tail feathers of a black phoenix upon the ground. Gilded patterns on white enamel leather opened their eyes, reflecting different light with every movement of the primarch.
The Imperium's proper colors were gold, white, and red.
But that Imperium clearly was not.
The Emperor had redefined its proper colors, established its rites, set its measures, and ordered heaven and earth—black was supreme, blue foremost.
The victor possessed the right to decide.
Amid gilded patterns, medals,