Perturabo finally put down the broken pen in his hand. Though he still held himself ramrod straight, the oppressive air around him, cold enough to freeze the room, noticeably eased.
Beside him, Calliphone's perpetually furrowed brow relaxed, and a faint but genuine smile appeared on her face.
She said nothing, merely taking a quiet half step back to leave the two Primarchs some space.
Under Lorgar's calm gaze and his sister's silent, hopeful attention, Perturabo reached out somewhat stiffly and picked up the cup of tea on the table, which was no longer scalding hot.
He took a sip with the mechanical air of someone completing an assignment, then set the cup down again, as though its contents were no different from plain water.
Yet that brief pause seemed to soften his tightly clenched jaw by the tiniest degree.
Just then, Lorgar's gaze drifted, seemingly by chance, toward the doorway, where an unobtrusive metal sculpture stood, its lines stark and fluid.
"That's a fine sculpture by the door," Lorgar said. "Did you make it?"
At those words, Perturabo's fingers stopped their absentminded stroking of the cup.
He froze for a moment, apparently not expecting Lorgar to notice it, much less mention it.
Then an almost imperceptible expression flashed across his habitually stern face, as though he had been caught off guard, or something buried deep within him had suddenly been unearthed.
He quickly lowered his eyes to his teacup and answered in a voice that mingled stiffness and reluctance with a faint, touched excitement that was almost childlike:
"Yes. I... made it in my spare time. Nothing impressive. Highly inefficient, with no practical military value."
"I think it looks quite good." Lorgar's tone remained even, without any hint of calculated flattery. It was simply a statement.
"It has a certain...