Light flowed over Purple-Gold metal panels inside the spacious bridge of the Pride of the Emperor.
A faint scent of incense filled the air, mingling with the low hum of engines deep within the bridge to create a strange, decadent atmosphere.
Fulgrim stood before the star chart. Its ghostly blue light shone on his flawless face, tracing the exquisite, cold lines of his features.
He wore Purple-Gold armor over his perfectly proportioned, sculptural body. Ornate scrollwork adorned his pauldrons, their edges inlaid with fine gold filigree.
That armor had transcended its function as mere protection. It resembled a robe painstakingly crafted for some ritual, its mesmerizing luster shifting beneath the lights.
His gaze rested on a region of the star chart marked with countless points of light, and his fingertip slowly traced a shipping route.
The slaughter on Olympia was over. As he recalled the burning cities and collapsing towers, the smoke and screams that filled the air stirred nothing in his heart. It was like a thought he had chewed over so many times that it had lost all flavor.
He had left enough Space Marines in orbit above Olympia to blockade the planet, ensuring that nothing could escape that dying world and that its punishment would be driven like a nail deep into the memories of every survivor.
He himself had already turned his attention to his next target.
An assault on the War Hounds.
For Fulgrim, this was an easy assignment, one that would let him display the Emperor's Children's art of war to the fullest.
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, his smile carrying the pleasure of savoring fine wine.
The War Hounds, warriors who had yet to shed all traces of barbarism, were nothing more than disciplined gladiators.
Of course, Fulgrim preferred to call