They passed through corridor after corridor filled with golden giants and icy silence. The rhythmic, hollow clack of boot soles against polished stone echoed through the unnaturally quiet surroundings, swelling before it was swiftly swallowed by the opening of another, heavier door.
The atmosphere felt like a deep sea under ever-increasing pressure, each breath meeting a thick, clinging resistance.
Lorgar, Leman Russ, and Turing—the three Primarchs—were in different states of mind, yet all clearly sensed the weight permeating the air, almost solid enough to touch.
This was not the solemnity of a welcome for honored guests. It was the absolute silence before a net closed, the final taut note of a string before a blade left its sheath.
"Lorgar," Turing suddenly turned toward the brother beside him, who had remained silent, his eyes fixed ahead.
His voice was quiet, yet unusually clear in the empty corridor. It even carried a faint, almost imperceptible hope, like a child seeking reassurance.
"Do you think... this can work? Is the Emperor... really willing to talk?"
By "this," he meant the approaching "meeting" over the fate of Silverheart and Novalors.
As he understood it, this was still a "discussion" that offered room for negotiation, persuasion, and perhaps even a chance to win approval.
Lorgar did not turn his head. Even the rhythm of his steps remained unchanged.
His gaze stayed level, fixed on the far end of the deep corridor, where another door, taller and heavier still, was slowly sliding open.
His voice was calm and flat, as though describing weather that had long since been foretold:
"It won't work."
Blunt. Clean. Without embellishment or explanation.
It was neither reassurance nor intimidation, merely a statement of a fact that, to him and to those who had laid this plan, was already clear.
Turing's expression