The wolf pelt across Leman Russ’ hunched shoulders bristled. He loomed over the hololith as if to cow it into submission. It certainly seemed to have worked on many of the commanders stood around it. Rendered in a cold blue light that picked out the snarl on the Wolf King’s craggy features, the pyramids of Tizca remained defiantly silent. A golden gauntlet was placed calmly, deliberately, on the table, a stark contrast to the primarch’s balled fists. Constantin Valdor met Russ’ icy gaze. “No,” he repeated. “The Emperor-” “I know,” Russ growled, so low that the hololith flickered as the vibrations interferred with its systems, “what the Emperor commanded. I have tried everything to reach out to my brother.” There was fury in his eyes, yes, but beneath it lurked a soul-deep sorrow. “He gives me nothing but his damning silence. That is not the act of a man giving surrender. I wish there was another way, Valdor, truly I do.” He let that hang in the air for a long moment. He shook his head, beads of bone and iron in his braided hair clacking against his armour. “There is not.” Valdor inhaled deeply. He glanced around the room. Horus’ emissary, Kurn, had made the Warmaster’s position plain, supported by Princeps Senioris Drane of the Legio Mortis. High Marshal Rhone agreed with Valdor, but the Imperial Army would follow an order for invasion if the primarch gave it. Esmark, Dominus-Xelactus of the secretive Ordo Sinister, had suggested a deployment in force without yet opening fire, believing his psi-titans would sway the Crimson King to surrender. There was but one at the table whose mind Valdor did not know, her expression utterly unreadable. “Commander Krole?” he asked with his voice, while his left hand subtly marked, Jenetia? Jenetia Krole looked from Valdor to Russ, then finally to the hololith. Of all those present, she came closest to comprehending the magnitude of the damage Magnus had done. She knew of the prison the Sigillite was hollowing out of the White Mountain, and knew that if that was what it took to contain the unrestrained might of the Crimson King, there was no hope of bringing him to Terra against his will. She made a chopping motion across her throat. Valdor closed his eyes. “So be it. Prospero burns.”