On the third day after the expeditionary fleet departed, on Zelanis's primary world, in the Governor's Palace.
Before an enormous floor-to-ceiling window, the young Primarch whom the youthful Warmaster had personally appointed "Imperial Regent" stared in despair at the mountain of administrative paperwork before him.
"I don't understand."
Fulgrim's long hair, like flowing mercury, was somewhat disheveled. His violet eyes, once filled with an artist's melancholy, now said only one thing-I want to die.
He gripped an expensive data stylus, his knuckles white from the pressure.
"I don't understand. How did my brother manage it? Fighting wars while also dealing with all this nonsense about... export tariffs on Zelanis scallions, gang wars sparked by clogged toilets in the lower Hive City, and whether the Adeptus Mechanicus has stolen the defense force's Power Armour again to turn it into toasters?"
Standing across the desk was Oli, the current chief Commissar of the Zelanis Defense Force. Under the influence of some mysterious power, the formerly middle-aged Commissar's receding hairline had actually, miraculously, grown back a little.
Oli adjusted the monocle on his nose. He was not shortsighted, but he felt it gave him more of an "Imperial bureaucrat" air.
"Your Highness, the Warmaster once taught us that governing the Imperium is like carving flowers into a gigantic pile of Squig droppings. Not only must you endure the stench, you must also make sure it looks like a work of art. That is the price of rulership."
Fulgrim groaned in agony and buried his face in the pile of Dataslates about "scallion tariffs."
"Where's Chapter Master Letorion?" the young Primarch asked in a muffled voice. "Have him take me to inspect the defenses. Even clearing Nurglings out of the sewers would be better than reading reports here."
"Chapter Master Letorion is at the