The air in the private office within the Fortress of Hera was still and cool, carrying the faint, ever-present scent of ozone, ceramite polish, and something ancient—stone and resolve. Maylone Jean stood near the center of the spartan room, her shoulder-length blond hair meticulously slicked back and tucked behind her ears, not a strand out of place. Her bright blue eyes scanned the oversized furnishings with a practiced, quiet skepticism. The monolithic desk could have served as a bunker; the reinforced chair behind it looked capable of supporting a Dreadnought. It seemed comedically oversized even for an Astartes. Had she ever seen furniture so absurdly large? she mused, the corner of her mouth twitching downward almost imperceptibly.

She shifted her weight subtly, the soft scuff of her black boots on the polished stone floor the only sound breaking the silence. Her athletic frame, shaped by years of traversing the vast decks of Legion vessels, felt oddly dwarfed in the cavernous space built for transhuman giants. Her standard-issue blue serf’s coat was buttoned neatly, its tailored edges a stark contrast to the utilitarian brown trousers beneath. Absently, her fingers brushed the small, cool silver stud in her left ear—a nervous habit she'd never fully shed.

But her focus, as always, remained on the large data-slate clutched in her hands. Its screen glowed softly, casting pale light across her fair features. Private Testimony. Location: Fortress of Hera, Office Sigma-7. Subject: Classified. Time: TBD. Her frown deepened, drawing faint lines between her brows. Vague. Intentionally vague. Names withheld were standard procedure, a necessity in the layered calculus of Legion intelligence. But an unspecified time? That smacked less of protocol, and more of... disregard. Or worse—evaluation.