The Audience Hall of the Fortress of Hera was a testament to Ultramar’s unyielding order—lofty arches of flawless marble, banners of cobalt and gold hanging like frozen waves, the air heavy with incense and the low thrum of distant vox-traffic. At its center stood Roboute Guilliman, his massive frame clad in battle-worn armor, the Hand of Dominion resting at his side as casually as another man might lean on a walking stick. His gaze, sharp with the precision of a tactician assessing a battlefield, lifted as the towering figure of Alexis Polux entered.

Polux was a giant even among Astartes, his eight-and-a-half-foot frame encased in scarred Mark III plate, its golden-yellow ceramite dulled by void combat and streaked with the blackened marks of plasma burns. His power fist, a monstrous gauntlet capable of crushing tank armor, hung at his side, fingers twitching once—a reflexive tightening, as if already anticipating a fight. His storm shield, pitted and scored from deflecting countless blows, was slung across his back like a burial slab. His face, pale and weathered beneath the harsh lumens, was all hard angles—a square jaw clenched in disciplined silence, steel-gray eyes that had seen too much war and not enough peace. His short-cropped blond hair, the color of old parchment, was streaked with the first hints of silver at the temples.

He moved with the deliberate weight of a man who had carried too many burdens for too long.

"Captain Polux," Guilliman greeted, his voice measured, betraying nothing.

Polux saluted, fist to chest, the gesture crisp despite the weariness that clung to him like a second skin. "My lord. We followed what we believed was the Emperor’s light. It led us here instead."

Guilliman’s lips thinned. "The Pharos," he said, as if the word itself carried the weight of a dying star. "Its signal grows stronger, even now. But that is a matter for another time." He stepped forward, his tone shifting into something firmer, the voice of a Primarch giving orders rather than offering explanations. "Macragge’s defenses must be reinforced. The Ruinstorm isolates us, but it will not hold forever. When it breaks, we must be ready."

Polux did not hesitate. "My company is yours to command."

Guilliman nodded, but there was a hesitation in him—rare for the Lord of Ultramar, whose mind was usually as decisive as a bolt-round to the skull. "There is another matter," he said at last. "You will not be the only one aiding in this endeavor." A pause. "You will have... company."

The doors at the far end of the hall groaned open and Polux could not stop himself from turning to look.

The figure that stepped through was clad in the plate of an Iron Warrior.

Polux’s hand twitched toward his weapon.