The grand war room of the Imperial Palace was now filled with quiet murmurs, as nineteen of the Emperor’s sons sat in their designated seats, each carved to reflect the unique nature of the Primarch it was meant for. The assembled Primarchs exchanged glances, some stern and others more relaxed, each embodying their own form of anticipation or impatience. They had gathered from every corner of the galaxy, each one summoned to Terra by their father for this most enigmatic of councils.
At the head of the table, the Emperor of Mankind sat in stillness, his imposing presence a beacon of authority. Beside him, Malcador the Sigillite surveyed the assembled figures, his gaze flickering from one Primarch to the next. Yet despite the gathered company, one seat remained empty—the twentieth seat, standing vacant beneath the quiet light of the chamber.
Just as a faint murmur rose among the seated brothers, the heavy doors swung open, and all eyes turned toward the entryway. The Emperor lifted his gaze, a faint but knowing look passing over his face as the figure in the doorway stepped into the light.
"Ah, вы," the Emperor said, his voice calm yet commanding, carrying an air of finality. "Last to join us, but not forgotten. Take your place, so we may begin."
Malcador’s lips curved in a subtle smile, a glimmer of interest in his eyes as he observed the late arrival.
