‘Then tell me, does the Imperial Regent command me to my quarters?’ Felix asked. ‘Are these orders you give me, or suggestions?’

The official hesitated. ‘Your comfort and your wellbeing are ever at the forefront of the Imperial Regent’s mind–’

‘Not orders,’ said Sergeant Cominus, head of Felix’s guard, whose armour was the red and white of the Sons of Orar. ‘Is that not right, chamberlain?’

The man’s calm did not waver. ‘Not orders,’ he admitted.

‘Then take me to him. Now.’ Felix leaned forward, a weight of armour and gene-engineered flesh with cold glass for eyes. The joints of his Gravis plate purred menacingly. He still smelled of war, of blood, and oil, and fire. Few men would stand firm in front of something like that.

The chamberlain had a heart of iron, and so submitted gracefully. He gave another bow, even slower this time, and stepped aside.

‘I shall escort you, my lord. I–’

‘Do not trouble yourself, chamberlain, I know the way.’

‘Then I shall send heralds ahead of you to announce your arrival.’

‘If you insist,’ said Felix. ‘If they can keep up.’ By then he was already moving.

The heralds ran to match the Space Marines’ pace, doggedly calling out the name and ranks of the tetrarch in every hall and corridor as they made their way up from the Palatine Hangar into the Palace Spire, the personal domain of Roboute Guilliman.

Several months had passed since the Relief of Parmenio and the battle at Hecatone. Fleet Primus had made great strides in evicting Mortarion’s forces from Ultramar, but one crucial campaign remained. The garden world of Iax, the epicentre of corruption, was still in enemy hands. Felix had not been recalled to take part in the invasion, yet although that might have explained his rage, it was not the cause. Felix was angry for an altogether darker reason.

‘Make way for Decimus Felix! Make way for the Tetrarch of Vespator, lord of the Eastern Marches!’ the heralds called breathlessly. Their announcements caused some consternation, for the corridors were heavily trafficked, and the Chosen proceeded as lightly as bull grox, their marching steps booming around the Macragge’s Honour like artillery. By habit Guilliman kept his palace empty when he could; even a being as singular as the primarch needed space to withdraw, like any man. On the occasion of Felix’s visit the palace was full of rushing scribes and potentates. The men and women the Chosen encountered seemed unused to Space Marines, and scattered out of their way, despite their high ranks. They were all lords and ladies of one adepta or another, for by then Felix and his party were deep into the spire, where only the exalted and their servants went.

‘Is it just me,’ voxed Cominus to Felix, ‘or is this place infested with bureaucrats?’