The landing gear hissed, gouts of steam flaring out dramatically, clouding the small bay of the station. The clack of hardened leather struck the bulkhead, heavy bootfalls from within the cloud as he stepped off of the transport. The guardsmen watched as the shadow within the cloud grew more and more solid, driven forward with purpose.
Their nods were all but imperceptible upon recognizing him. They kept their vigil, unflinching as he moved through the door between them, measured clacks of footsteps keeping time as a metronome as he made his way to the Consul's chambers.
Few would stand between him and his prey.
He turned one corner, then another, the wind from his motion causing the edges of his cloak, of his hood to flare, little daggers of light cascading across his face. The whispers of journeymen rose and fell in his wake, hushed wonderings as to what would happen when he reached his goal.
He came to a stop in front of the heavy blast door of the Conclave Hall. The reticule symbol of the clan, pierced through with the thorned tattoo of the ancient Sith Lord it took the name from stared at him. Through him.
It burned him in places he could not touch. That the Heirs of the Empire, the sons of the Great Sith Lord would allow such a thing was anathema. Poison. Treachery. He fumed, feeling the rage build within his chest as the symbol bled into his eyes. Fingers twitched, feeling along the threads of the force to where his weapons were. His palms ached, wishing to be filled with their cold comfort, a bulwark against the fury that took root and burned his tongue with hate.
The symbol pushed forward toward him for a moment, and the doors slid apart, exposing the inner darkness of the chamber to the pale light behind him. It crept along the row of antique thrones, exposing the summit members, and their guards. And then him.
Sanguinius.
The coward shifted in his chair, eyes locking with his as he stepped through, the door slowly sealing behind him. Sanguinius kept his gaze up, analytic eyes trying to divulge some course of action from the man's demeanor, from his body language. That he was hated came as no surprise, yet still he had not lived so long by being careless.
"You fools bring our enemy to our conclave, invite a Jedi to sit among us?" He spat. "Have you all forgotten so soon what comes from trusting them?"
"Sanguinius is here by the wishes of the Consul." Cethgus spoke with almost a reserved tone. "You know this."
It was true. He had been there, heard it before. Yet images flashed before his eyes, the ghost of the Horned helmet snarling at the sacrilege of it all, the disapproving glare of Sadow himself looking down on them for their weakness, for their folly. It would destroy them from within, just as had happened all too many times before. How could this pandering to their enemies be wise, or even come close to honoring Sadow's name? He looked out across the chairs, seeing nothing but complacency.
If none else had the nerve to act, then it would be he who would be their salvation.
The saber erupted to life almost before it was even in his hand, the cauterizing hum screaming its death chant as it drove toward the Peacekeeper's heart.
Sanguinius froze, his mind stalling as it dissected the situation, his mind torn between options, even as he pushed himself and the heavy throne back, casual inches between sure death and his heart, narrowing by the nano-second. It was too late.
His head rang, and the taste of copper bloomed in his nose, the world going grey for a moment. Memories came unbidden, his mind recalling the Lancer Class "Grendel', long nights with old friends Vorn and Mograine, the smell of carbon scoring during the Jedi War. It was a good life, he thought to himself. He could feel the Force coming for him, to reclaim him.
Color returned to his eyes, and the thorned crimson of the saber was frozen, hovering still a few inches from his heart. He could feel the heat from the supercharged adegan, see the fabric darken nearest the tip. Eyes traced the weapon back to the strained sneer of his assassin. Sweat poured from his brow, vanishing into the dark brown beard of the Equite. A few paces behind, another newcomer stood, wreathed in darkness, two fingers pointing at the blade.
There weren't any words, just a gesture.
Maelous struggled to drive the blade forward before he realized, his mind screaming at him what was wrong. A moment later, and the blade spun away from them both, the blade slurping back into itself as it flew to the newcomer's hand.
Maelous turned, fury in his eyes, his hood sliding back across his head.
The Lion tilted his head, expressionless black eyes looking right through him. Maelous froze in his step, a heartbeat passing before dropping his fist to the floor in salute.
"What is thy will, my Master?"
Muz stepped forward past the Sith, eyes focusing on the Jedi. Sanguinius felt his heart leap into his throat, watching the Lord move toward him. He brought his eyes up to meet his, trying with some difficulty to meet the intensity there.
The Dark Lord stopped midstride. "None understand hate more than the hated." He turned, letting his eyes slide across Maelous, his mind reaching out to touch his, words flowing between them in a pulse of understanding. Maelous nodded, but could not keep the corner of his lip from curling in disgust.
Cethgus stood, his hand gesturing to an open seat. "Lord Keibatsu, welcome to the..."
The throb of underpressure popped their ears and rattled their senses, shaking teeth and foisting headaches upon them. Maelous stood slowly, finding his saber safely back in his holster. He debated for a moment completing his plan, the blade able to take the Jedi's head from his neck in one step. Yet somehow he knew that he would not succeed. He stepped backwards a pace, watching the Jedi as he found his own seat. Maelous let a smile creep up his face, watching the discomfort bloom behind Sanguinius's laconic grin at the sight of it.
As the Lion taught him in that moment: Beware the fury of a patient man.