A chapel of silence, Sisters nearby. The Butcher's Nails were not silent; they never were. But Aurelia's presence made the storm stumble. The smell of oil and iron receded enough to hear heartbeats.
"If a blade can sleep," she said, "so can a man."
"I am not a man," he snarled. But he sat. For the breadth of a dozen heartbeats, the Nails dulled. His hands shook as if remembering a weight they had once set down.
"I hate what Father made of you," she said then, voice low. "If I had stood on Nuceria, I would not have left your brothers to die. I would have stood with you."
"You are the Heiress," Angron answered, harsh and uncertain. "Daughter of the Emperor. I am his son. I do not believe you."
"Then believe this," she said. "I hate what they made of you—the masters, the Nails, and our father's choice. If ever my rule asks you to be less than a man, refuse me. If I become what you were born to kill, stop me."
Something inside him flinched, and the Nails stuttered like a storm losing breath. "You make me weak," he growled.
"No," she said. "I make you see."
When he rose, rage returned, furious at the theft—and jealous that she could make it go. He left a dent in the door by accident. A Sister touched it once on her rounds, the way some touch holy things. Later, in her gardens, she planted a flower for each of his fallen brothers and wept—not only for them, but for him. Angron hated that he resented her for it, and hated worse the truth that, of all the Imperium, only she had ever wept for him.