Just as those six wings of light unfurled, their splendor and crushing divine majesty awing the entire battlefield, just as Lorgar gave Horus that calm smile—
A voice only he could "hear" sounded without warning in the deepest recesses of his mind. Its bluntness, almost resigned, was utterly at odds with the sacred atmosphere:
"Could you stop showing off? Horus is about to die."
It was the Emperor.
There was no reproach in his tone. He sounded more like an old father watching his child show off for strangers, obliged to remind him of what actually mattered.
Lorgar's hovering body faltered almost imperceptibly, a crack appearing in his perfect pose of divine arrival that only he knew was there.
He shot back without restraint, his thoughts surging fiercely: "Shut up, old man! He's my brother. How could he die? Right under my nose?"
"Ah, suit yourself."
The reply carried a hint of someone all but washing his hands of the matter.
The Emperor had already given up arguing about "presentation" with this son, whose mind worked so differently from his own.
Whatever happened, as long as Lorgar achieved the ultimate objective and rescued Horus and the others trapped on Ullanor, the process could apparently be tolerated.
At that moment, a thought crossed the Master of Mankind's mind, as vast as a sea of stars.
As long as he gets it done, let the brat show off. Give him whatever he wants.
Lorgar seemed to catch that subtle shift in attitude.
He immediately seized the opportunity, making his demand with perfect confidence: "Give me more power. Let me show off."
"Will you die if you don't show off?" The resignation in the Emperor's "voice" grew more pronounced.
"Shut up, you old geezer." In his mind, Lorgar unceremoniously "rolled his eyes" at