The heavy doors of the Primarch's Meditation Chamber closed silently behind Craston, shutting out every sound from outside.
The room was dim, with only a few light-guiding crystals set into the corners casting a spectral blue glow, barely outlining the towering figure at its center.
A faint scent of incense hung in the air, along with an even subtler tang of metal mingled with energy fields.
Saladin stood in the center of the room with his back to the entrance, facing the meditation wall, its surface smooth as a mirror, seemingly capable of reflecting the user's innermost thoughts.
He did not turn until Craston's footsteps stopped at a suitable distance and his steady voice rang out.
"Father."
Saladin slowly turned.
He had changed into a more formal ceremonial robe adorned with desert heraldry, his long golden hair meticulously tied back.
His features looked somewhat indistinct in the spectral blue light, but his eyes were unusually clear, like an ancient well deep in the desert, untouched by windblown sand, reflecting Craston's figure.
"Kras," Saladin said, his voice level and unreadable. "Come closer."
Kras obeyed, taking a few steps forward, his sand-colored and black Power Armour catching the dim light with a cold, hard gleam.
He stopped and lowered his head slightly, his bearing respectful but his back straight.
Unlike the other sons, he did not rush to profess his loyalty. He merely waited in silence for the Primarch's instructions, his black eyes still and untroubled, like the purest obsidian.
Saladin's gaze settled on him, scrutinizing him as though weighing a weapon's heft and reliability.
After a moment of silence, he asked his first question. His voice remained steady, yet carried an indefinable weight. "Kras, do you think... I can trust you?"
Kras raised his head and met Saladin's gaze.
His expression