Terra.
The heart of the Imperium of Man, the seat of the Golden Throne, whose light should have shone across the Galaxy.
Yet in the deepest, most secret reaches of the Imperial Palace, light was scarce.
This was not physical darkness, but a palpable gloom distilled from timeless silence, crushing responsibility, and endless calculation.
The magnificent hall faded into shadow at the edge of sight, its towering vault lost in unseen void. Only the faintest pulses of light from distant ancient machinery or psychic devices, some rhythmic and others irregular, occasionally traced the cold outlines of colossal pillars or fragments of the intricate patterns on the floor.
At the heart of this silence, which seemed to absorb every stray sound, the Emperor sat upon a stone chair that was no throne, its lines stark and austere.
His immense frame was draped in a plain, even slightly worn white robe. He did not wear the magnificent golden armor in which he had waged war across the Galaxy.
His head was bowed, his face indistinct where the faint light radiating from within him met the deep surrounding shadows.
Only his eyes, even in this dimness, seemed to hold two unwavering, all-seeing cold flames. They gazed into the empty darkness before him as he sank into an eternal contemplation beyond any mortal measure of time.
He calculated and projected, seeking to seize the fleeting, crucial threads among countless possibilities and strands of fate.
A little behind him and to one side, Malcador stood silently, like a shadow frozen in time.
The Imperium's Sigillite, the Emperor's oldest and most trusted adviser.
He wore the plain gray robe he seemed never to change, his frame stooped, his face carved into countless deep furrows by age and unimaginable burdens.
His hands rested one over the other