The Imperial Palace.
The long corridor stretched into the endless distance beneath golden lights. Ancient reliefs and sacred inscriptions adorned the walls on either side, every carved line recounting the epic rise of the Imperium of Man, every scene recording a chapter of conquest and sacrifice.
The figures in those reliefs charged with swords in hand, bowed their heads in prayer, or gazed up at the stars. Their eyes reached across millennia to watch everyone who passed through this corridor.
The Emperor emerged from the depths of the Webway. His steady, powerful footsteps echoed through the empty corridor like the low chime of ancient bells, or some age-old rhythm buried deep underground, resonating with the heartbeat of Terra itself.
He stretched his shoulders, the movement carrying a rare, almost human ease.
His golden armor reflected a cold gleam beneath the lights, faint glimmers of psychic energy flowing through the engravings along its edges.
Yet his face showed no trace of weariness.
He never tired—or rather, he never allowed himself to show it.
That face was an eternal mask, etched with a serenity and majesty beyond human comprehension.
At some point, Malcador had caught up with him.
Like a shade emerging from the shadows, he appeared silently half a step behind the Emperor's side, matching his pace without the slightest deviation.
His heavy cloak enveloped his entire frame, revealing only an aged, sharply defined jaw and a pair of eyes that seemed capable of seeing through time itself.
He said nothing, merely walking in silence, waiting.
"How goes the work on the Webway?" Malcador finally asked. His low voice sounded like ancient parchment rubbing together in dry air, carrying a composure that only long years could temper.
"All is well, Malcador," the Emperor said slowly. His voice was as steady as