Guilliman had not arrived with an army at his back.
He had brought only a small contingent of the Glory Guard aboard a Thunderhawk Gunship, landing directly on the pad at the Governor's Palace on Zelanis.
The hatch opened.
Guilliman stepped out.
What greeted him was not a grand welcoming ceremony, but a solemnity that bordered on a funeral.
Astartes in black-and-gold armour lined both sides of the landing pad-warriors of the Imperial Fists, the Blood Angels, and the Redeemers Legions. Black mourning bands wrapped their arms, and their helmeted heads were bowed.
At the end of the ranks stood two people.
One was Oli, the once middle-aged Commissar. He had aged considerably, but his back remained straight.
The other was a boy.
His long hair flowed like liquid mercury, Fulgrim's unmistakable hallmark. He wore a suit of finely crafted purple-and-gold Power Armour, but no helmet. His exquisite, almost perfect face was expressionless, and his violet eyes held none of the fear or fanaticism Guilliman had expected.
There was only a deep sorrow and calm utterly at odds with his age.
He was like a lake that had just weathered a storm and finally fallen still.
Guilliman strode forward.
Commissar Oli was about to salute, but Guilliman raised a hand to stop him.
Guilliman walked straight up to the boy.
Their eyes met.
Standing three metres tall, Guilliman looked down at the young Primarch, who had yet to reach his full stature. That oppressive presence would have left any mortal struggling to breathe.
But the young Fulgrim did not retreat. His gaze did not even waver.
"Are you Fulgrim?" Guilliman asked, his voice ringing like a bell.
"I am." The boy's voice was clear, neither servile nor arrogant. "Your Highness, Lord Regent."
"Do you know who I am?"
"Roboute Guilliman.