The Emperor's gaze swept over both ends of the long table like a silent star.
There was no searing intensity to it, yet it extinguished the last faint sound in the hall.
Whatever they had been doing before, every Primarch involuntarily adjusted his posture and turned his full attention toward the head of the table.
The air stood still. Only the soft glow of the lights flowed quietly across the polished tabletop.
"Everyone."
The Emperor spoke slowly.
His voice was not loud, but it possessed a peculiar penetrating power, as though it sounded directly in the depths of every mind, clear, steady, and devoid of any unnecessary emotion.
He offered no lengthy speech.
For the Primarchs, the circumstances and reasons had long since become clear through their respective channels.
Malcador the Sigillite stepped half a pace forward at the appropriate moment.
The gaunt old man held his staff, his aged voice sharp as a blade as he continued the Emperor's opening:
"Primarchs, the Emperor has decided that, before long, he will temporarily withdraw from commanding the front lines of the Great Crusade. Full responsibility for the future command of the expeditionary fleets will be entrusted to those present, and to the 'Warmaster' you jointly elect to serve as the Imperium's supreme frontline commander."
His pale gray eyes slowly passed over every face before settling on the slowly rotating projection of the Aquila emblem hovering above the center of the table.
"Now, in accordance with tradition and the Emperor's will, we shall proceed with nominations. Primarchs—"
Malcador paused briefly, ensuring that every word reached its listeners precisely.
"—who wishes to stand as a candidate for Warmaster of the Imperium?"
"I do."
The voices sounded almost simultaneously from opposite sides of the long table.
On the left, in the sixteenth seat, sat