Planetary Surface.
"So, my newly rediscovered kinsman, Perturabo Rurik Kislevsky of Kislev, and his Fourth Legion have come to our aid?"
The Seventh Primarch spoke in a measured tone as he questioned the Imperial Fists officer kneeling before him.
"Yes, Lord Dorn. Lord Perturabo and his Legion have transitioned from the Mandeville point of this system. In a few hours, he and his forces will descend from the heavens."
The officer hurried to supplement his report, anxious to ensure his gene-father understood the situation correctly.
"Indeed, My Lord. They are here."
Sigismund, standing guard at Dorn's side, looked up at the sky and added his confirmation.
Following Sigismund's gaze, Dorn looked toward the firmament. In the distance, they saw a massive swarm of Stormbirds and Thunderhawk gunships descending. The craft were painted in the unadorned, utilitarian iron-grey livery of the Fourth Legion.
"It seems I shall finally meet this brother of mine," Rogal Dorn said with a slow nod, his mind already weighing the encounter.
"Notify Perturabo that his brother will greet him upon his arrival," Dorn added.
A Landing Pad at the Seventh Legion Camp.
After a brief exchange, the Primarch of the Fourth Legion agreed to land at a temporarily cleared pad. Dorn personally led a guard detail to welcome his kinsman.
Soon, under the watchful eyes of Dorn and his Imperial Fists, the Stormbird carrying Perturabo made its final descent. After touching down firmly on the pad, the transport's ramp lowered slowly.
The Primarch of the Fourth Legion, the Supreme Tsar and Autocrat of Kislev, Perturabo Rurik Kislevsky, stepped down from the craft. He walked with a steady stride, flanked by a retinue of Iron Warrior legionaries.
"My brother, I am pleased that a Primarch and his Legion have come to assist me, rather than a Magos of the Mechanicus or a commander of the Imperial Army."
"The full support of an Astartes Legion is exactly what we require at this moment."
Upon meeting Perturabo, Dorn spoke with polite dignity, greeting his brother in a formal, matter-of-fact manner.
"I have heard you are a stone, while I am iron. Both of us are substances of great hardness. Perhaps we shall get along famously—or perhaps terribly," Perturabo remarked, offering a sharp critique as he sized up his brother.
To the surprise of those watching, Dorn merely raised an eyebrow at Perturabo's words, offering no retort. Perhaps the Master of the Seventh Legion was well aware of his reputation among others and simply didn't care to address it.
"In that case, allow me to welcome you plainly, my brother. My Seventh Legion has yet to eliminate the final stronghold of the resistance on this planet. Consequently, I cannot host a grand ceremony in your honor; I must keep every hand deployed at the front."
After a moment of silence, the Master of the Seventh explained the situation to Perturabo, extending a hand to lead the way.
"I am aware of the situation, brother."
"That is precisely why I have brought the warriors of the Fourth. I shall apply my intellect and the siege-craft of the Fourth Legion to break these nameless rebels for you and bring them into the Imperial Truth."
Perturabo gave a short snort, his voice carrying a touch of arrogance.
"If that is the case, it is for the best. My brother, I am glad to have another Astartes Legion take over the duties of my scarred and weary sons."
"They are fine warriors who have done their duty. But they are in dire need of rest and resupply."
Dorn did not reply immediately to Perturabo's ambitious claim. Instead, he looked at his brother meaningfully before speaking in a slow, deliberate tone.
As the two Primarchs walked and talked, Sigismund and Forrix—the respective First Captains—followed silently behind their gene-fathers.
"Your sons are weary. Good. My Legion will take over your front lines."
"In doing so, I shall demonstrate to you the fire saturation and siege-craft of the Fourth Legion. I can break this fortress that has stymied you in less than twenty-four Terran hours."
A hint of disdain colored Perturabo's features as he spoke, his voice brimming with pride and self-assurance.
"Perturabo, my brother, if you intend to sacrifice your warriors merely to win such an honor, then regardless of how fast you strike or how brilliant the victory, I will not grant you my respect."
Dorn spoke with a calm expression, seemingly having deduced that Perturabo intended to launch a brute-force assault regardless of the cost.
"You—!"
"I did not expect you to be a man of such 'womanly' compassion! Since when has war ever been won without sacrifice?"
Stunned by Dorn's blunt warning, the Iron Tsar found himself momentarily speechless before retorting with indignant anger.
"Yes, Perturabo, my brother. War cannot exist without sacrifice. I do not deny this."
"But I do not accept massive casualties resulting from a commander's vanity, or from forcing unprepared soldiers onto the front lines. In my eyes, that is a crime—an act of irresponsibility toward human life."
"My ideal of war is one where the commander is thoughtful and the plan is meticulous. The soldiers are fully equipped and launched at the most opportune moment. Only then is the sacrifice of a soldier acceptable, for they have done their part, and the rest is left to fate."
Facing the visibly angered Perturabo, Rogal Dorn remained unhurried, calmly explaining his philosophy of war to his brother.