Lox naturally had no way of knowing that a ghost from the second millennium had revived in the thirty-first millennium and possessed the battlefield commander Auguston.
More often than not, he felt that Auguston "Fat Tiger" was not much like Guilliman's son, but rather shared some of the unruly temperament of the sons of Leman Russ.
At that moment, he was in Guilliman's private banquet hall. The lord of the Five Hundred Worlds intended to meet with those Space Wolves there.
Besides the primarch's mortal adviser, Draku Glod, leader of the Victorious Army, and Chief Librarian Titus Praetor stood at his side.
A group of Space Wolves shattered the quiet, private atmosphere of the banquet hall. They followed behind their wolf lord in a loose, scattered formation, the beast pelts draped over them giving off a powerful stench. Yet a closer look revealed that every Space Wolf maintained a guarded stance, ready to strike at any moment.
Their sloppiness and disorder were merely a disguise. If an enemy truly believed these wolves were unguarded, the only outcome would be having their throat torn out.
Fafnir Bloodbond crossed the steps at the entrance and entered the primarch's banquet hall.
"Chief Guilliman, your choice of venue is far too formal. Just like your pups—serious and dull."
The Space Wolf showed little respect, and his brazen words displeased Glod, leader of the Victorious Army.
"Hounds may only wait outside the door. Unless their master permits otherwise, good hounds eat the scraps and shattered bones their master leaves behind, then wait for the next command."
The wolves burst into laughter. Fafnir's rough guffaw even echoed through the spacious banquet hall.
Then his savage eyes locked onto Glod, his wolfish fangs bared in a menacing grin.
These Space Wolves had already changed into adamantine battleplate.