Malcador reclined in a wicker rocking chair shaped by psychic power, cradling a cup of clear tea in his hands. He closed his eyes contentedly, savoring this long-lost peace.
Only when the old man completely relaxed and revealed his true appearance before them did Lox realize that Malcador seemed far older than when they had last met.
The skin exposed on his face and neck was looser and more withered, with patches of pigmentation resembling age spots beginning to emerge.
Those unfathomable eyes had sunk deeply into their sockets, making him look more like a refugee on the verge of death during some age of famine.
Though Malcador had looked weary and dispirited while governing Terra, he had at least possessed the majesty of the Sigillite then. No one had dared underestimate the Empire's true regent.
"What... exactly have you gone through in the past century?"
"Don't tell me you were sent somewhere to perform hard labor."
Lox's lips moved, but he still could not suppress his curiosity as he quietly asked Malcador.
The calmed Guilliman sat silently nearby. He was indeed furious over Malcador's actions, but that did not mean he would remain irrational forever.
Rationality was Guilliman's normal state most of the time.
"A century? No, I do not know how many years I truly endured."
"There was no concept of time in the Warp, but by my own perception, that period lasted far longer than a century."
Malcador exhaled a foul breath and slowly opened his eyes. Fire seemed to burn within those clouded pupils.
"After the Emperor took his seat upon the Golden Throne, Valdor, the others, and I received exclusive missions from him."
"Everyone knew only their own mission, and none of us could reveal its contents to any other executor. Not even the Primarchs