Turing's gaze slowly swept over the space below the dais. Thousands of warriors clad in Power Armour stood in silence like a forest cast from steel, their eyes beneath their helmets fixed on him alone.
The low hum of their Power Armour's Servo Systems was the only background sound in that vast space, uniform and rhythmic, carrying a sense of mechanical discipline.
He did not speak immediately. He simply stood there, letting the silence spread, letting every gaze upon him feel the invisible weight of a Primarch.
Then he moved.
There were no extravagant gestures, no impassioned tones. He merely raised his chin slightly and let his voice carry steadily and clearly into every corner of the assembly Hall.
Processed through the precisely calibrated vocal unit in his throat, his voice had a strange texture, blending an organic resonance with electronic amplification. It possessed both human warmth and an inhuman power to carry.
"Members of the Legion. My sons."
"Since my return, since I once again set foot aboard this warship of ours, I have been observing and assessing."
"I have seen scars, casualty lists, and empty spaces in the armoury. I have heard the battle records of the Great Crusade, of the Rangdan Xenos. I have heard the two thousand names that will never again answer the call."
"The losses are real. The sacrifices are grievous. Any words that seek to diminish this are a desecration of the blood of the fallen." His tone remained calm, but every word seemed carefully weighed.
"You have endured all of this. You have borne the grief of fallen comrades and the pressure of our Legion's diminished strength. In the vast, brutal gladiatorial arena of the galaxy, you have continued to fulfil the duties entrusted to you by the Emperor and kept the