Inside the council chamber of the Fortress of Hera, lamps high in the vaulted ceiling cast cold white beams across the walls. The beams crisscrossed the floor, throwing the enormous tactical map on the central command table into sharp relief.
Guilliman stood beside the map, both hands braced against the edge of the command table, his gaze fixed on the highlighted region marking Ultramar's border.
Sanguinius sat in a metal chair to one side, his wings folded behind him, his fingertips tapping absently against the armrest.
Angron stood shirtless and silent in the shadows at the rear of the hall.
Three faces, three frozen expressions.
Guilliman's brow was deeply furrowed, a lingering storm lay hidden in Sanguinius's eyes, and two fires of anger smoldered in Angron's pupils.
Only minutes earlier, they had heard the report Lion El'Jonson had sent back. The First Legion had failed to catch the White Scars fleet, and the enemy had vanished into the seething warp storm.
Just then, heavy footsteps sounded from the end of the corridor. The council chamber's massive doors slowly swung open, and a tall, broad figure stepped into the light.
Lion El'Jonson stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping from the darkness into the chamber with the supreme sharpness of a lion.
Without looking at anyone, he walked straight to the other side of the tactical map and folded his arms across his chest. His proud face showed no weariness from battle, but a thin layer of frost seemed to lie over it.
With Lion El'Jonson's return, the council chamber's three dumbfounded faces became four.
Guilliman raised his head to look at Lion El'Jonson, Sanguinius straightened in his chair, and Angron slowly turned toward the figure who had just entered the chamber.
The four Primarchs stood beneath the same light, yet