"Primarch! Urgent military intelligence!"
The heavy office hatch was shoved open without ceremony, and the towering figure of First Company Captain Rockefeller rushed in with a gust of air, fine dust from the corridors still clinging to his dark gray Power Armour.
Rare urgency had replaced his usual composure. Before he could even come to a proper halt and salute, he blurted out:
"We just received a highest-priority distress signal from the Eighty-Third Expedition Fleet! Chapter Master Klas Noda sent it personally! Their fleet has come under attack along its planned route by an Ork fleet of unprecedented size! Enemy numbers are difficult to estimate, but there are at least a million vessels, including an Ork scrap fortress larger than a star! Kras reports that they're doing everything they can to hold the enemy back, but they're under enormous pressure and urgently need reinforcements!"
Behind his desk, Lorgar was buried in Dataslates, parchment dossiers, and flickering holographic reports that had all but swallowed him.
The custom-made pen in his hand swept across document after document so quickly it almost left afterimages. His brow was furrowed, and an almost visible cloud of gloom hung around him, worn into him by endless administrative minutiae.
At first, he seemed not to fully register Rockefeller's report, his pen still moving mechanically.
But a second later, the furiously scribbling pen stopped dead.
Lorgar slowly, ever so slowly, raised his head.
Rockefeller saw the Primarch's eyes, usually as still as deep pools, suddenly flare like a dry well touched by a spark the instant he heard "Ork attack" and "urgently need reinforcements."
The fatigue, irritation, and pent-up fury that paperwork had forced upon him receded like the tide. In their place came a blazing light Rockefeller knew all too well, a mixture of sharp focus, excitement,