Every word and deed of the Wolf Lord possessed an extraordinary, transcendent charisma. He seemed like a sun, able to warm everyone with his own light and heat.
But upon closer scrutiny, one would discover that this sun named Lupercal had begun to rot from within. Like a towering tree that appeared lush and flourishing on the outside, while its core had long since decayed beyond repair.
After the impassioned speech, the others in the throne hall departed one after another and returned to their respective duties.
Only Horus's first son, Ezekyle Abaddon, remained standing at his father's side. Beneath the reverence in his eyes lay a trace of worry. He felt that his father had become somewhat different from before.
Abaddon was not skilled in the art of words. Even compared to his other brothers, he was a thoroughbred brute.
Yet it was precisely because he was a brute that his instincts were especially sharp.
The first captain of the Sons of Horus could sense through his keen intuition that his father's warmth no longer brought the natural pleasure it once had. Instead, it provoked an intense urge to abase oneself.
The Horus of the past had not been like this. He had sincerely wished others well, like a warm sun nourishing all things without seeking anything in return.
"Ezekyle, go and invite my Word Bearers brother. I have matters to discuss with him."
Horus spoke pleasantly, but when his gaze met that of his son, Abaddon saw not the slightest trace of sincerity. He saw only endless emptiness.
The Wolf Lord's pupils were voids, darkness churning within them without a glimmer of light.
"Yes, Father. I'll go at once."
Among the many primarchs pursuing Horus's great cause, only the great Word Bearer Lorgar currently lingered at the Wolf