Late at night.
The silence deep within the Imperial Palace was utterly unlike the solemn bustle of the day.
Thick walls shut out the wind and the low hum of machinery, leaving only near-absolute stillness, a quiet that belonged to ancient stone and profound power.
The guest room prepared especially for a Primarch was spacious to the point of emptiness, its furnishings simple yet magnificent, suited to a giant's proportions and an eternal aesthetic.
The lamps had been dimmed to their lowest setting, casting only hazy pools of light in the corners.
Lorgar Aurelian had finally been able to shed his ornate golden Power Armour and ceremonial robes.
He wore only a soft, loose white silk night robe, its sash casually tied, revealing the flowing contours of his chest and arms, covered in firm, bronze muscles.
His long black hair fell loose like a waterfall, its lack of the day's meticulous grooming lending him a languid air.
Barefoot on the cool, smooth black jade floor, he savored that brief moment of "relaxation," far from the fleet, far from war, far from endless prayers and schemes.
Since the Great Crusade had entered its middle and later stages, the swelling ranks of his Legion, the rapid increase in conquered star clusters, and the simultaneous intensification of internal consolidation and external threats had kept him running at full speed like a precision machine that never stopped.
On average, the time he could truly close his eyes and rest each week had been reduced to fewer than five standard Terran hours. It was not that his body could not withstand it; the superhuman endurance of the Primarchs allowed them to fight continuously under extreme conditions for decades or even centuries and feel only fatigue.
But it was a drain all the same, on his