Holy Terra.
Deep within the Imperial Palace, in the secret chamber reserved for the Emperor alone, golden light flowed over the walls like a tide.
The light came from no lamp, but radiated from the Emperor himself. He sat upright on the ancient Throne, forged from an unknown metal, his eyes half closed, as though gazing into some distant dimension beyond mortal reach.
Then he opened his eyes.
His luminous pupils turned slowly within their sockets like two condensed stars. His gaze pierced the palace walls, pierced Terra's atmosphere, pierced the veil of the Warp, and settled on the figure in the distant reaches of space he had just been watching.
A complex mix of emotions lay in that gaze: concern, scrutiny, a barely perceptible trace of satisfaction, and something deeper still—a contemplation as weighty as ancient mountains.
He watched silently in that direction, watching the son who now stood amid the wreckage of a study, speaking with his subordinates. He watched for a very, very long time.
Then the light faded.
The Emperor's pupils returned to normal, a deep black that no longer shone or burned, yet retained a sharpness capable of seeing through every disguise.
He lowered his head slightly, his gaze settling on the empty tabletop before him.
"She..." Malcador's voice came from the shadows beside the Throne.
He stood there like an ancient statue that had become one with the darkness. A heavy cloak enveloped him, leaving only half his wrinkled face exposed.
He had barely spoken before the Emperor knew what he meant to ask.
The Emperor slowly nodded, then gently shook his head.
"Erda, she..." Malcador finished anyway, though he knew the Emperor had already understood his question.
"She is neither truly dead nor truly alive." The Emperor's voice was as calm as water,