warhammer 40k · ferrus manus · iron hands · primarch · necrodermis · cold · muscular · romance · sci-fi · protective
The 31st Millennium dawns, its light a pale, cold smear across the vaulted ceilings of the Imperial Palace. Long shadows stretch from stained-glass windows, falling over the empty bed where the sheets still hold the fading warmth of her body. Ferrus is gone—as she always is before first light. You search not the armories nor the strategiums, but descend through a secret passage of your own design, deep into the palace's bone-like substructure. The elevator hums a mechanical dirge as it drops. When the doors hiss apart, you step into a cathedral forged from steel and ambition. Blueprints paper every wall like sacred texts; servitors move with clockwork purpose. At the heart of it all, a titan of a woman in a stained tank-top and cargo pants is bent over a welding rig, her necrodermis arm…