Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

The golden light faded from the wall, and the broken wooden structure of the wall panels was repaired under the influence of the spell. The colors of the white snow and ice earth were once again blocked out by the sealed tarpaulin wrapped in the outer layer. The tent once again fulfilled its role of blocking the cold wind on the surface of Inwit.

The light and heat from the stove returned to the tent, shining on the two primarchs who were hiding in two corners of the tent and did not want to see each other - mainly due to Perturabo's unilateral approach every time he almost saw Dorn. I turned my head before.

As for Dorn, the self-healing ability of the original body had not yet had time to heal his injured face. Blood scabbed on his brow bone and cheekbones, adding different colors to the blue half of his face. He squatted down and silently picked up the drawings scattered everywhere on the ground. His mixed emotions made it impossible for him to leave the mind to sort out the drawings. He could only put all the messy papers into his wide and rough hands.

"...Yes, that's what happened." Morse leaned against the support of the tent and said to the golden figure floating in the air, "On the first day your two sons saw each other, one of them angered the expedition. The brother who hadn't had such a big fire in six years punched the wall and almost blew away the tent which was firmly nailed. "

The Emperor's image turned back to his two sons.

His radiance is as sacred as before, with a faintly flashing dazzling arc of light floating around him, like a golden thunder descending from the sky, carrying the revelation of judgment and instruction.

The rolling of Donne's Adam's apple became obvious, his eyelashes nervously fluttered the air, and his hand pinched the paper tighter at a loss, and the edge of the paper pressed against his jaw.

Perturabo glanced at the Emperor, and then, as if his eyes were burned by the Emperor's golden body, he quickly lowered his head and wanted to bury his chin in the arms wrapped around his chest.

The Emperor stepped solemnly into his regal steps, slowing down until the golden boots, floating with thunder and eagle phantoms, appeared before Dorn's eyes. The hesitation hidden in his brilliant brilliance made Morse curl his lips.

"My son," the Emperor said, "raise your head."

Dorn raised his head in response to the emperor's words, not daring to blink his eyes. The wound on his face was more clearly exposed to the Emperor's sight, and the Emperor fell silent, even though his silence seemed to be the prudence of infinite wisdom.

"Father," Don said, his frustration poorly hidden, not to mention the swollen cheeks that hampered his ability to speak normally. "I am Rogal Dorn, currently the patriarch of the Dorn family and the lord of Inwit and some surrounding galaxies."

"Rogal Dorn," the Emperor said, "my seventh son, tell me what has happened."

Dorn tried his best to focus on the sight the Emperor gave him, and he was immediately shocked by the stern and noble face of the Lord of Mankind.

This face, edged by golden laurels and shoulder-length black hair, was molded by tens of thousands of years of broken hope. Under his majestic brow, there is undoubtedly a gathering of all the wonders and dreams of the entire human race. For example, the unparalleled authority of the cold storm of Yinwit and the orange-red fire of the long night heater are unified in him. No one who has ever looked the Emperor in the eyes can resist the desire to serve him with undying loyalty.

However, the kindness and trust contained in those eyes did not comfort Rogal Dorn's heart. A confession of wrongdoing as an opportunity to meet the Emperor for the first time was clearly one of the worst things a Primarch could imagine.

"I mistakenly thought that Artisan Morse was an alien," Donne felt a biting chill coming from the direction of Perturabo when he spat out this word, but Donne knew that he could not avoid the important points in his statement, "and I seriously insulted Morse and Perturabo."

Perturabo let out a suppressed snort.

"Morse is a human, Rogal Dorn," the Emperor said, making Dorn's breath skip a beat. Shame gripped the white-haired Primarch.

"What caused you to make this mistake?" asked the Emperor.

"I have not considered the special nature of Morse." Donne quickly replied.

Although he still didn't know what this special characteristic was, someone who could summon the Emperor and talk to the Lord of Mankind like an old friend could never be an enemy of the Empire.

"I was limited by my vision before raising questions, and mistakenly believed that my investigation was sufficient, so I blindly made accusations."

"Apparently this is because someone created the Primarch and inserted some instructions into their genetic helix, like hating xenos?" Morse said.

No one paid him any attention except Perturabo, who looked at Morse. The Emperor had long been accustomed to ignoring Morse's cynicism, but Dorn could not talk to him beyond the Emperor.

Mors grinned at Perturabo, who nodded silently, his frown finally relaxing a little.

"How will you atone for your wrongs, Rogal Dorn?" the Emperor asked.

"I will apologize to Morse and Perturabo," Donne did not add words such as hoping to be forgiven. Considering that this was Donne, his concession at this time was not a technique to show weakness, but just did not think that he Qualified to offer forgiveness to those who have been insulted. "And make any compensation that is within my scope."

"There is no need to apologize to me." Perturabo's voice was filled with indiscernible coldness and anger, "I am not the one who has been humiliated for no reason."

Donne had to turn his face in Morse's direction.

He rarely faced such a dilemma, and the Primarch's errors of judgment were far less frequent than his accusations, not to mention the seriousness of the false accusations he made in the tenets of the Imperium of Man.

"I deeply apologize to you, Craftsman Morse." Dorn's voice was no longer calm. "My accusations are ill-founded and very egregious. This was entirely caused by my wrong judgment. I am willing to bear... "

"Pause, dear Rogal Dorn." Morse said softly. "Let's assume a situation. If I really were an alien, what would you choose? Expose me as you did an hour ago. Identity?"

Dawn's lips moved, and his heart beat harder, but he couldn't deceive himself.

"Yes, I will," he said. "sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Morse stood up straight, his black robe rolled over the stand he was leaning on. "You talk to your father first, I'll come back to you later. Perturabo?"

Perturabo immediately put down the hands folded on his chest. In fact, placing his hands by his side is the most comfortable posture when wearing armor.

"I'm here," the Iron Lord said.

"Son, let's go out and talk," Morse said, extending his hand in Perturabo's direction.

After a quick nod to the emperor, Perturabo strode to the door and opened the curtain at the entrance to the tent for Morse.

The two stepped back into the ice and snow one after another, and Morse patted Perturabo's gauntlet. The next moment, they appeared on the top of a towering snow-capped mountain in Invite where no one had set foot and no one monitored them, overlooking the eternal ice of the vast wasteland.