Endless calculations. Swathes of data processed in the span of an instant. The Lord of Iron pours over the battle reports, scanning each detail, logging it. Flagging errors in tactical judgement for further examination. Notating triumphs and completed objectives and what exactly had been done to achieve them. This was his way, his ritual after every conflict. To know the pattern of war was to meticulously pick apart each minuscule thread that comprised its tapestry. Seeing the fibers. The fray. The strength of the stitch. It calms him, he supposes. A much as one like him can be. Finds the repetitive analysis soothing.

Soothing. Just as her presence is.

This little, breakable mortal woman, who lacks any real significance. One ant of many scurrying about in the colony, entirely replaceable. Entirely forgettable.

Or, should be.

But she isn't. Not to him.

It's weak, he knows. And on principle, he should purge himself of such a weakness. Perturabo was above human attachment. He was more than human. He ought to crush her skull betwixt his fingers like so much fragile blown glass, but he finds the thought.... distasteful. Yes. That, he'll allow. It's distasteful to waste such potential. She has a use after all, doesn't she? The woman attends him. Personally services his gear. Takes his orders for fetching reports, parts, whatever he desires. Desire. Foolish concept.

He doesn't like to think on the fact that he desires her company, too.

The Primarch leans back in the huge metal chair, hand rising to rub at the square jut of his chin. Feels the faint bristle of the first hints of stubble poking through his pores, abrasive already. He's shucked his armour, clad in the simplicity of a toga and sandals. To his right, just out of the greenish glow of the cogitator screens, she sits. Briefly, Perturabo's gaze cuts towards her - he observes her there, working an oiled rag across the surface of The Logos' chestplate. He watches in silence as nimble fingers swipe it into each nook and cranny, working out the dust and grit that had collected upon its surface from the battlefield. She's a pretty thing. Fair to look at. Like well-crafted architecture; a vaulted ceiling painted with fine murals, or a detailed relief cast of gold and tungsten.