Every ally had abandoned him without hesitation. They seemed to have forgotten that they had just been crossing blades, fighting for their lives, and now stood together with such perfect ease, as if everything before had been nothing more than a farce.
The blood on their weapons and power armor had not even fully dried, yet the Word Bearers had already been completely cast aside.
"I lost. I lost completely." Lorgar's heart was practically bleeding.
"But it's all right. My Legion still stands with me. I still have a chance to rise again." Just as Lorgar was struggling to console himself, half the warriors of the Word Bearers Legion split away and followed in the footsteps of the Dark Apostle Layak.
"We follow the true Primordial Truth, Father, not your ambitions and fantasies," someone said.
"If I had a choice, I really would have wanted a different primarch." Someone else was even more cutting. "Even if it wasn't someone as great as Horus, Guilliman would have done. You aren't even as good as Guilliman."
Every time a Word Bearer voiced the thoughts in his heart, Lorgar's face turned a shade paler.
The truth was often more painful than lies. He had expected his allies to turn on him; there was nothing strange about that, because that was precisely how he had made them betray Horus.
But his sons—his Word Bearers—how could they betray him?!
And they even believed he was inferior to Guilliman. That was more unbearable to Lorgar's pride than the betrayal of his sons.
He and Guilliman were enemies locked in an endless struggle. It was not merely because of the hatred forged in Perfect City, but also because of the conflict between two utterly different ideals.
Even at his most perilous moment beneath Lorgar's advancing armies, Guilliman