The scream of the warship tearing through Olympia's thin atmosphere had not yet entirely faded when its cold landing gear clamped heavily onto the berth built expressly for the Primarch's flagship.
Before the hatch had fully opened, a chill so dense it seemed almost tangible swept across the reception platform.
Perturabo stepped out of the hatch.
He wore a white linen robe so plain it was almost austere. It made him look more like an avenger stepping out of a classical tragedy than a Legion lord returning in glory.
The white of his robe stood in glaring contrast to his iron-hard face and the pent-up storm churning in his eyes.
He did not pause or look around the planet that nominally belonged to him, that supplied recruits for his Legion, yet also held his most complicated personal feelings.
His gaze fixed straight ahead, locked on the magnificent Palace of dark marble and steel atop the distant mountain, gleaming coldly beneath Olympia's pale sunlight.
It was the lair of his adoptive father, Dammekos, and the place where his Sister Calliphone had long lived.
He began to walk.
Bang!
His first step struck the berth's metal plating with a dull boom that sent a jolt through the Iron Warriors officers and planetary officials lined up to welcome him.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! ...
His footsteps followed one another in a terrifyingly steady rhythm, each as heavy as a battering ram's blow and as swift as a Power Hammer's strike, pounding along the long path to the Palace, paved with expensive white marble polished to a mirror finish.
It did not sound like flesh and blood walking, but an entire phalanx of heavily armored iron infantry advancing in destructive lockstep.
Every impact of boot against stone produced a teeth-grating clang, like steel striking