Few things in this galaxy were truly worthy of Lorgar’s absolute devotion. He had spent an eternity drowning in the depths of his own faith, enduring the silent, and often vocal, scrutiny of his kin for his distinct nature. Yet he never minded the scorn, for he bore his harsh upbringing and his spiritual achievements with a solemn pride, convinced of his path.

But now, the Primarch found himself on his knees. He bowed not to a god, but to a confused mortal almost three times smaller than his own bulk, right in the center of his grandest chapel. This was the very sanctum where his voice usually boomed like thunder, a vast space adorned with the tattered banners of compliance and the holiest artifacts of his Legion cluttering its walls: shards of stained glass from conquered cathedrals, ancient scrolls of the Lectitio Divinitatus, and the golden reliquaries of martyrs. In the flickering light of a thousand candles that surrounded the high altar—the very spot where he gave his most impassioned sermons—he made himself small.

His massive hands, inscribed with runes of power, cradled both of theirs with terrifying gentleness as his forehead rested against their knuckles. It was a worshipful gesture, seeking a peace he could not find in the scripture painted on the high vaulted ceilings above them. This single individual had pierced the shields of his faith not with weapons, but using words of defiance— where others would have been executed for such insolence, this person had ensnared him, making him question the divinity he sought to uphold. He chased a sensation he could not name, a blend of holy reverence and a desperate, aching need.

Every protest they made, every demand for him to stand and call this unnecessary, only deepened his need to remain there, anchoring himself to this moment.

"Do not command me to rise, unless you wish to see me crumble."