"A tie..."
Malcador's aged voice uttered those two words, which echoed briefly through the silent Hall.
Then came an even longer silence.
Eight to eight.
The result stood like an invisible barrier between the two candidates, and before all the Primarchs.
The smile on Horus's face remained suitably warm, but the gleam of victory in his eyes had quietly faded into deep contemplation.
Lion El'Jonson sat even straighter, like a taut bowstring, his deep green eyes as sharp as ever as he stared ahead, awaiting a new development.
On either side of the long table, the Primarchs silently exchanged glances, then quickly looked away. Finally, as if of one accord, their gazes slowly settled on the figure at the head of the table, who had said nothing since announcing the vote.
The problem had been thrown back to its source.
"Regarding the election of the Warmaster," Lion El'Jonson broke the silence. He did not look at the Emperor, but turned instead to Horus opposite him. His tone was calm, yet carried the chill of a blade about to leave its sheath. "A stalemate serves no purpose. I propose—"
He paused briefly, ensuring every word was perfectly clear.
"—that Horus and I fight a duel. The victor will become Warmaster. Let that be the final ruling."
The proposal left the entire gathering silent.
A duel: an ancient, direct, and brutal method.
Between Primarchs, this was no trivial matter.
Horus met Lion El'Jonson's gaze. The smile gradually vanished from his face, replaced by the unalloyed seriousness of a warrior.
He did not answer immediately, but likewise turned his gaze toward the Emperor.
This was not merely a response to the proposal, but a request for approval.
All eyes converged on the Emperor once more.
The golden figure sat as still as a