As Horus pushed open the heavy doors of the conference hall, the scene within came into view.
Even "resplendent" scarcely began to describe it, but more striking still was the enormous table stretching across the hall, and the scattered figures seated beside it.
Holographic projections hovered above its mirror-smooth surface, clearly marking the Legion number assigned to each seat.
At that moment, only a handful of Primarchs had taken their places.
At the First Legion's seat sat Lion El'Jonson, lord of the Dark Angels, upright as a drawn sword. The winged ornaments on his deep green Power Armour gleamed coldly beneath the vaulted ceiling's lights.
He was quietly reading the Dataslate before him, his expression solemn.
At the ninth seat sat Sanguinius, lord of the Ninth Legion, the Blood Angels—the perfect archangel.
Simply sitting there, he formed a living portrait. His peerlessly handsome face held a faint, compassionate serenity, his pure white wings folded behind him, as though he radiated a light of his own.
At the eighteenth seat sat Vulkan, lord of the Salamanders.
Even seated, his mountainous frame was imposing. His black skin almost blended into his green armour, and his gaze was gentle yet unfathomable. His thick fingers tapped lightly against the tabletop in a steady rhythm.
The hall was spacious, an invisible pressure suffusing its silence.
Beside the long table, the second and eleventh seats stood empty. Their polished backs seemed almost glaring beneath the lights, like two silent absences no one acknowledged.
"Take a seat, Brother Lorgar." Horus's voice came from beside him, as warm and approachable as ever.
Then he led the way to the table, stopped before the sixteenth seat marked with the Roman numeral "XVI," and sat down gracefully. He patted the armrest of seat seventeen immediately to his left, which should