"Lorgar."
Rogal Dorn's voice came through the communications screen, steady and deep, like a precisely calibrated heavy forging hammer striking an anvil. Every syllable carried its own weight and an unshakable solidity.
His face seemed to have been carved from a single block of the hardest granite, its lines as stern as a fortress bastion, its expression solemn to the point of coldness. Through the screen, his gaze fixed directly on Lorgar without wavering.
His short white hair lay close to his scalp, immaculately neat, as though every strand obeyed some tactical formation.
On that resolute face, his eyes were sharp as a hawk's and bright as searchlights. They now held an undisguised, almost exacting scrutiny, as though he were inspecting a potentially defective stretch of wall or assessing a battle plan fraught with uncertainties.
"Although I..." Dorn paused briefly, seemingly choosing the most precise words, though his tone remained as steady as before.
"Do not wish to judge my brothers through the lens of the most evil, most contemptible intentions."
"However," he continued, his voice dropping a fraction, like a fortress gate slowly closing, "I am even less willing to see the worst happen within the Imperium."
"Especially," he added, his gaze like two invisible probes that seemed poised to pierce the screen and bore into Lorgar's eyes, "when the first signs of certain 'things' have already begun to emerge."
On his side of the screen, Lorgar leaned back slightly against the soft, high-backed cushion of the Command Throne.
Dorn's almost accusatory opening did not make him look uncomfortable or displeased. Instead, the faintest curve of interest lifted the corner of his mouth. He shifted into a more comfortable position, then tilted his head slightly, regarding his solemn brother on the other side of the screen with a look