"Heh."
A short, sharp snort, undisguised in its contempt and mockery, came from behind Perturabo's hard, angular features.
He did not even spare Dorn another glance. His gray eyes remained fixed on Lorgar, but his words struck Dorn like an armor-piercing shell, precise and without warning:
"Whatever business I have... is none of yours, Dorn."
A challenge.
An outright provocation.
He completely disregarded Dorn's entire logic, built upon "rules," "procedure," and "the interests of the Imperium."
For Perturabo, relationships and allegiances carried more immediate weight than any written regulation.
He turned his face slightly, bringing Dorn's stern image in the split-screen into the corner of his vision. His voice was low, but carried a certainty cast in iron:
"Lorgar... is one of mine."
"He's... under my protection."
"And as for that," Perturabo's voice suddenly rose, a cold gleam flashing through his gray eyes. Like a Power Hammer striking an anvil, he drove straight at the heart of Dorn's accusation:
"You dare say Lorgar is disloyal?"
"If Lorgar is disloyal..."
"Then there isn't a single person in the entire Imperium... who would dare call himself... loyal."
"Including you..."
"Rogal Dorn."
Silence.
Only the faint hiss of electrical interference remained in the channel.
Dorn's face, as unyielding as the hardest fortress wall, showed not the slightest change.
There was no anger at the insult, no embarrassment at being contradicted, not even a flicker in his eyes.
He simply received Perturabo's words in silence, as though those impassioned declarations of allegiance were nothing more than an inconsequential breeze brushing against stone.
"Whether someone is loyal," Dorn finally spoke again, his voice still frighteningly steady, entirely unaffected by Perturabo's vehement declaration, "is not for you, or me, to decide."
"I will attempt to speak with Father."
"Then I will judge your loyalty."
He would