Just then, the door to the reception room slid open without a sound. A scent mingling stale spices, a faint trace of blood, and some indescribable odor like treated old leather quietly seeped in, instantly putting everyone on alert before they had fully recovered from the "dragging incident."
A tall, pale figure appeared in the doorway.
Konrad Curze, Primarch of the Night Lords Legion, entered with an elegant gait utterly unlike his brother's.
He wore a striking cloak, made neither from the hide of any known animal nor from ordinary fabric.
In the dim light, its surface showed a faint, unnatural grayish white, marked with fine textures. Along its edges lingered carefully preserved traces of its "raw material."
Those with experience, especially those who had fought on certain battlefields or heard of the "traditions" of the Night Lords Legion's homeworld, could recognize its source from that excessively fine texture, which even revealed tiny pores and patterns of scars.
Curze wore a smile.
On his pale, gaunt face, it looked somewhat stiff, yet unusually bright, filled with the sincere eagerness of a child showing his companions a beloved toy.
Yet deep within his sunken eyes flickered an elusive, unsettling light, as though he could see through appearances and gaze straight into the deepest folds of the soul.
"My dear brothers," Curze said softly, his voice carrying a lilting, chantlike rhythm. His gaze drifted over Angron and Rockefeller before searching the crowd for something, his smile growing more pronounced.
"It has been years since we last met. Those were truly days to cherish. I have missed you every moment, and of course, most of all, I have missed my dear brother Lorgar."
He turned slightly to display his shocking cloak, his tone brimming with undisguised pride and anticipation.
"I came this time