The Vengeful Spirit.
Lupercal's court.
Its dome rose so high it seemed about to burst through the bounds of reality. The pillars supporting it were entwined with the heraldry of worlds the Warmaster had conquered, every line reflecting a deep glow in the candlelight.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of incense and rust, the fragrance of war, the lingering traces of countless burning worlds.
Horus stood on a dais at the center of the court. Behind him, a vast star chart covered an entire wall. Along its edges, newly darkened crimson regions slowly spread outward like ink dropped into clear water.
He wore black power armour, its inlaid red ornaments gleaming in the wavering light. Countless pupils within those dark crimson decorations peered through the armour, silently watching the entire hall.
He stood before the star chart, his gaze fixed for a long time on the dense network of fortresses in Segmentum Tempestus.
Bakka.
In his eyes, the planet's coordinates were no longer a point of light, but a door.
A door into Segmentum Solar.
Once Bakka fell, the Imperial Fleet's anchor point in Segmentum Tempestus would be uprooted, and the entire segmentum's defensive system would rapidly wither like a great tree with its taproot severed.
Then the routes into Segmentum Solar would lie unobstructed, and Terra would expose its vulnerable throat to his advancing fleet.
"Our next target is Bakka," Horus announced from the center of the court.
The members of the Four Kings Council standing below him raised their heads together, their gazes converging on the position marked in red on the star chart.
"Send Mortarion to Bakka," Horus continued.
As he spoke, the gleam in his eyes swept across the star chart like a blade.
Choosing Mortarion had been a carefully considered decision.
Mortarion