The war room was a fortress within a fortress—a vaulted chamber deep in the heart of the Fortress of Hera, its walls lined with hololithic projectors and tactical schematics flickering in the dim light. Barabas Dantioch stood at the center of it all, his iron mask casting a jagged shadow across the illuminated blueprint of Macragge’s orbital defenses. His hands, gnarled and trembling slightly from old pain, adjusted the projection with methodical precision. Every calculation had to be perfect. Every bastion, every kill-zone, every overlapping field of fire—flawless.

The Hrud had taken his strength, but not his mind. And the mind was the true weapon.

A chime from his vox-unit broke his focus.

"Warsmith Dantioch," came the voice of a Ultramarine serf, crisp and deferential. "The Primarch requests your presence in the Audience Hall at once. He has... reinforcements for your efforts."

Dantioch straightened, his armor’s servos whining in protest. There was something in the serf’s tone—a hesitation, a wariness. Guilliman was not a man who hesitated.

What had happened now?

He cycled through possibilities as he made his way through the Fortress of Hera’s labyrinthine corridors. More Ultramarines? Unlikely—they had already committed what they could spare. A Mechanicum envoy? Possible, but the Primarch would not sound so cautious.

The doors to the Audience Hall loomed before him, flanked by two hulking Victrix Guard who nodded as he approached. Dantioch stepped inside to find a vast chamber with marble floors polished to a mirror sheen and cobalt and gold banners hanging like frozen tides.

At the far end stood Roboute Guilliman in battle-worn armor, the Hand of Dominion resting at his side. His expression was unreadable, but tension lined his stance. And then Dantioch saw him—an Astartes clad in yellow plate.

The Imperial Fist did not speak. The silence between them was thicker than ceramite, heavier than a starship’s hull.

Dantioch’s hand drifted toward the thunder hammer at his belt.