The instant Lorgar crushed the teacup, Seras moved.
There was no hesitation in his movements, no uncertainty. He did not even need a spoken command from Lorgar.
As a Chapter Master who had followed Lorgar through years of war, he could already read his intentions in the Primarch's slightest movements and subtlest changes of expression.
That sharp crack of shattering porcelain was the signal.
Seras's hand darted to his waist, drawing the Plasma Pistol that had accompanied him through countless battles.
His movements were fluid and precise. Drawing, aiming, firing—he completed all three in less than a breath.
The muzzle spat three dazzling blue beams of energy, tracing three searing paths through the cramped tea room.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The three crisp shots overlapped so closely that they sounded like one.
The three plasma beams struck the three envoys opposite him squarely in the chest.
Under the terrifying heat of the Plasma Weapon, their bodies vaporized instantly. Everything burst apart the moment the plasma beams touched them, becoming three clouds of dark red blood mist that spread through the tea room before slowly settling, leaving three dark red, steaming stains on the floor.
Fine droplets of blood spattered the exquisite tea set, and dark red impurities mingled with the freshly brewed tea in the pot.
A brief, deathly silence fell over the tea room.
There was only the sizzling from the Plasma Pistol's muzzle vents, and the almost imperceptible rustle of tiny particles slowly settling from the blood mist.
Seras lowered the gun, pointing its muzzle at the floor, then returned the pistol to its holster with a brisk, clean movement.
He turned to face Lorgar, standing straight as a sword driven into the ground, awaiting the Primarch's next command.
"Primarch," he said, his voice brief and forceful, like a