The hangar of The Maw was a cathedral of death and steel, vast and shadowed, lit only by flickering luminite torches. The air reeked of oil, ozone, and blood—an unholy trinity of war. Mechs towered like ancient gods in repose, their armored frames gleaming beneath dim light, while engineers moved in hurried silence, ants in service of giants. Among them stood a singular beast.

A titan of blackened steel and violet light, Mortivax brooded in the half-darkness—a draconic war engine shaped in the crucible of science and necromancy. Its skeletal frame was a nightmare of serrated plating, void-forged ribs exposed like the ribcage of some titanic beast. Its eyes, twin amethyst orbs, pulsed like dying stars, casting eerie halos across the hangar. Spined wings loomed folded behind its back, and its segmented tail coiled idly, ending in a barbed stinger that dripped with necroplasmic energy. Across its broad chest, the sigil of House Draconis—a skeletal dragon coiled around a black star—burned with the cold light of ancient runes.

Within its cockpit, Baron Drakon Vaelinor Draconis sat motionless, clad in black-and-purple warplate that mirrored his monstrous machine. His helm was a thing of legend—crafted from the skull of a void-drake, its hollowed sockets burning with the same eerie radiance as Mortivax itself. He was still as stone, his breath barely fogging against the ancient bone of his visor.

A voice crackled over the comms, rich with arrogance. “Baron Drakon, I trust you’re not about to waste my time. I grow bored.”

Drakon inclined his head slightly. “Your Highness.” His tone was measured, respectful—devoid of warmth, yet absent of defiance. “I await only your command.”

Prince Lucien Horus Solarius, seated in the cockpit of his Solarion Prime, smirked. His mech was a commander variant of the mass-produced Solarion line, its golden armor gleaming under the hangar lights. The Solarion Prime was a symbol of imperial might, its design sleek and regal, with a sunburst emblem emblazoned across its chest. Around him, his elite royal guard stood ready, their mechs a wall of gold and crimson, though they remained passive observers for now. They stationed themselves near their mothership, The Radiance.

Lucien watched Mortivax on his display with thinly veiled distaste. “You and your creations, Drakon,” he mused. “A pity you weren’t born into a worthier legacy.”

Drakon offered nothing in return.

Lucien’s amusement deepened. “No defense?”

Drakon bowed his head slightly, as if in deference. “It is not my place to debate Your Highness.”

Lucien exhaled, unimpressed. “I am to be my father’s eyes in this battle. Please do your best in the name of the God-Emperor.”

The void above Aurox Delta was a storm of war. House Auroxa’s fleet descended in force, countless in number, banners of bronze and iron trailing behind them like burning comets. The planet itself was a graveyard of metal and fire—an expanse of ruined forge-cities, where the great industrial spires bled molten rivers into the war-torn earth. Below, Forgehammers—the monstrous, bull-horned mechs of House Auroxa—stampeded across the battlefield, their footsteps shaking the bones of the world.

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House Auroxa had once sworn fealty to House Draconis. That oath had been broken. And now, they would pay for it.

Against them, the Drakeguard—House Draconis’ mass-produced war mechs, forged in the image of ancient wyrms—engaged in relentless combat. These black-plated machines bore draconic motifs, their eyes glowing with arcane fire, their forms sinuous yet armored. Vultivar, the current commander of the Auroxa forces, observed the battle from his cockpit with a grim smile as a unit of his warriors tore through a squad of the Drakeguard. Plasma lances pierced through draconic frames, and molten steel rained upon the charred earth.

“They fall easily,” one of his captains snarled, exhilarated. “Draconis is not what it once was.”

Vultivar did not share his glee. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the comms like a blade. “Hold your tongue. You think you fight only metal? You do not yet understand.”

A silence settled over the channel.

“We have bled them, but the bleeding is not yet done,” Vultivar murmured. “Steady your hearts. The storm is coming.”

Then, the storm came.

A shadow loomed above the battlefield.

Mortivax descended like a death knell, black wings unfurling as it landed amidst the Auroxa ranks. The impact alone shattered steel and sent mechs sprawling. And then—

It moved.

Auroxa warriors barely had time to react as the draconic mech reaved through their ranks. A plasma-claw ripped through the cockpit of one mech, while its tail impaled another, its barbed stinger dripping necrotic fire into the wound. Within moments, three mechs were nothing more than burning husks.

Yet still they came.

Even Mortivax, godlike as it was, could not stand against the endless tide of House Auroxa. For every foe it felled, another took its place. The Drakeguard were crumbling. Even as Drakon fought, cutting through enemy mechs with grim efficiency, he saw his forces dwindling.

Then, in a voice as cold as the void, he spoke.

“Rise.”

The battlefield shuddered.

A terrible stillness washed over the dead. And then—

The corpses of Auroxa warriors, torn and broken, rose. Their mechs, shattered and burning, lurched back to life. Arcane light burned in the sockets of the fallen. The Auroxa warriors still living turned in horror as their own kin—their comrades—raised weapons against them.

Vultivar felt ice crawl up his spine. “Gods have mercy…”

Drakon had no mercy.

With a simple gesture, he commanded his new legion forward. The dead surged into the living, the battle descending into madness. The line that had once held firm against House Draconis shattered in moments.

It was over.

House Auroxa’s commanders knelt in the bloodstained ruins of their own fortress. The air was thick with the scent of death. The banners of Draconis and Solarius fluttered overhead.

Prince Lucien stood before them, radiant and untouched, his golden warplate gleaming in the dying light. His expression was unreadable.

“Kneel,” he said. “Swear fealty to House Solarius. Live.”

One by one, the Auroxa warriors spat at his feet.

Warlord Korvag, barely able to lift his head, glared at Lucien with the defiance of a dying beast.

Korvag's voice was hoarse. “We would rather burn than serve the leeches of the Sun.”

Lucien exhaled, unsurprised. He turned slightly. “Drakon?”

Drakon stepped forward without a word. His plasma blade sang through the air. The executions were swift, methodical. No hesitation. No cruelty.

Lucien watched with mild interest before glancing at Drakon. “Are you not going to raise them?” he mused.

Drakon remained still for a long moment before he finally spoke.

“They earned their rest.” His voice was quiet.

Lucien studied him for a moment, then scoffed, turning away.

Aurox Delta belonged to House Draconis once more.