The heavy doors of the Meditation Chamber closed silently behind him, shutting out the last trace of light and sound from the outside world.
Takidin and the guards stood watch outside like silent statues, separating the two worlds.
Inside, there was only eternal, artificial gloom and the stagnant scent of ashes left by burned incense.
There were no windows, no unnecessary decorations, only bare metal walls, a meditation cushion, and an extinguished incense burner.
This was the sanctuary where Saladin sought inner peace and communion with the essence of psychic energy. Now, it had become a cage imprisoning his soul.
With his back against the cold wall, he slowly slid down until he curled up in the shadows of the corner.
His towering body folded in on itself. Both arms clutched his head, his fingers buried deep in his loose hair, gripping so hard that his knuckles turned white.
His head hung low, his face buried between his knees. Only the violent heaving of his shoulders and back betrayed the storm raging within him.
Quiet.
Dead silence.
Yet that silence seemed to take on a life of its own. It twisted and swelled, becoming countless faint, vicious sounds that burrowed into his ears from every direction and seeped into his marrow.
Was it those attendants? Those shattered masses of flesh, forever silent?
No, it wasn't them.
It was the room itself.
The walls whispered, the floor snickered, and invisible mockery swirled through the air.
They sneered at his weakness and mocked his loss of control, treating him as a pitiable monster consumed by his own power.
*Look at him, the great Primarch, the Lord of the Yellow Sands, the leader of a Legion. After slaughtering loyal servants who had no power to resist, all he could do was hide here