The bridge of the Pride of the Emperor was like a silent sanctuary.
Under the lights, the vast interior of the Primarch's flagship seemed empty and austere, with scarcely an unnecessary sound to be heard.
Only the Emperor's Children officers at the distant consoles occasionally exchanged brief, quiet orders. They deliberately lowered their voices, afraid of disturbing the man standing at the center of the light.
Fulgrim stood before an oil painting.
It was a masterpiece that occupied an entire wall, set in a gilded frame, its colors still as vivid as new.
His painted self was so elegant, so perfect.
His gold-and-purple armor had flowing lines, his long hair cascaded down like a waterfall, his cloak billowed in the wind, and a composed smile rested on his lips.
Warriors of the Emperor's Children Legion crowded around him, every face filled with pride and reverence.
The civilians he had saved cheered around them. Old people and children gazed up at him, their eyes filled with heartfelt gratitude and hope.
Everything was steeped in honor, as though the Emperor's Children Legion's most glorious moment in the Great Crusade had been frozen on canvas.
Yet that perfect painting was unbearably jarring to Fulgrim's eyes.
He stood motionless before it, staring at the man he had once been, without the slightest glimmer of warmth in his eyes.
His fingers brushed the edge of the frame. When his fingertips touched the cold gold paint, he involuntarily drew his hand back, as though burned.
He felt sick, a powerful nausea surging from the pit of his stomach.
His past glory sickened him.
That Fulgrim in the painting, smiling as he accepted the civilians' gratitude; that Fulgrim who had led his Legion in swearing loyalty at the Emperor's feet; that man who had sincerely believed he