"Santar..."
A name slipped unbidden from Ferrus Manus's tightly pressed, bloodless lips, like a cold scrap of iron forgotten in a corner.
His voice was low, rasping with dryness, yet it rang with unusual clarity through the empty, silent Meditation Chamber.
Gabriel Santar.
That name meant so much more.
One of the Sons of Medusa, among the first warriors to follow their Primarch away from their homeworld in the age of the Great Crusade.
Commander of "Morok," the X Legion Primarch's honor guard. First Captain of the Avini Clan's strongest company.
One of the most renowned and revered warriors in the X Legion, a living monument to iron will and fearless courage.
And one of Ferrus Manus's most trusted, most beloved sons, one in whom he took the greatest pride.
And now, Santar was dead.
Like most members of the "Morok" guard, he had remained forever on that cold planet stained with filthy Xenos blood, alongside twenty thousand Iron Hands warriors.
They had been the strongest shield, the sharpest spear, the most direct extension of their Primarch's will.
Now the shield was shattered, the spear broken.
Ferrus Manus slowly lowered his head, his gaze settling on his hands, fashioned from living metal and gleaming with a cold light.
The metal was cold, hard, eternal.
The intricate patterns around his knuckles glimmered beneath the dim blue lighting, as though they possessed lives of their own.
Just then, a thought crept uncontrollably and stubbornly into his mind, confused by pain and self-reproach, like a poisonous vine quietly sprouting in darkness. It began circling wildly, repeating itself:
If... every Legion warrior, their bodies, their flesh and blood... could be like this steel...
Ferrus Manus's pupils contracted slightly, reflecting the cold gleam of his metal palms.
*Resilient, immortal, untouched by pain, beyond the ravages