Ravachol fell to his knees, blinded by the dazzling light and blinked away the stuttering afterimages of the incandescent explosion. The assassin, a female he now saw, spiralled upwards into the darkness of the vestibule, tracked by a battery of quad-barrelled gun turrets.

Before they could open fire, she slid out of sight, skimming the walls and vanishing into the Martian night.

'Thank the Machine God,' he whispered, feeling as though his speeding heart-rate was about to choke him. He stayed on his knees as curious onlookers began to gather around him, wondering what fate had brought him to seek Sanctuary in this place and what manner of person would attract the attention of a tech-priest assassin.

He slumped to his haunches and put his head in his hands as a trio of Mechanicum Protectors marched towards him from the temple's interior. Each was armed with a bolter-topped spear stave and was augmented with a fearsome array of plate armour and enhanced battle gear.

His last servitor turned to engage the Protectors, but he said, 'No, stand down. These are the Protectors of Malevolus.'

'It's quite a mess you have left behind,' said Master Adept Urtzi Malevolus, his voice muffled behind the dark bronze of his facemask. A trio of green bionic eyes set into the pale remnants of his skull illuminated the interior surfaces of his red hood.

Though Malevolus's primary mode of locomotion was his human legs, they and his right arm were all that was left of his humanity. His red robes were fashioned from vulcanised rubber, thick and hard-wearing, and a monstrously large power pack was affixed to his back, its bulk held aloft by tiny suspensor fields. Remote probe robots darted back and forth from his body, kept in check by the coiled cables that connected them to the senior adept.

'Yes,' replied Ravachol as he and his last remaining battle servitor followed Malevolus through the cavernous chambers of the forge temple. 'I am sorry to return to you in such circumstances, my lord, but I did not know where else to turn.'

'No, no,' replied Malevolus, waving a pale, age-withered hand as they passed into a wing of the temple that was wide and tall, its massive pilasters and curved ceiling making Ravachol feel like he had been swallowed and was in the belly of some enormous beast.

'You did the right thing by coming to me,' continued Malevolus. 'Absolutely the right thing. I always said that you would make a big impact here, did I not?'

'You did,' agreed Ravachol. 'I just had no idea that it would cause so much trouble.'

'Do not worry about it, Pallas,' said Malevolus. 'I have already contacted Adept Chrom and this mess will all be sorted out soon.'

'Adept Chrom?' asked Ravachol fearfully. 'Why?'

'What you have uncovered has more ramifications than you might imagine, Pallas,' replied Malevolus as they made their way towards a heavily guarded door of brushed steel and bronze. The mighty door rolled aside on cogged locking teeth and Malevolus indicated that he should pass through.

Ravachol was about to ask about these ramifications as he stepped into a colossal chamber hung with tens of thousands of suits of Astartes battle plate and all questions died in his throat. The room was brightly lit and the cold illumination reflected dazzlingly from the unpainted suits of armour. Their silver brilliance reminded Ravachol of the crumbling records of Old Earth and the tales of warriors who had ridden into battle on the backs of animals. The idea made Ravachol smile as Malevolus entered the chamber and set off towards its far end.

'I've never seen so many Mark IV suits,' said Ravachol. 'It must be an awe inspiring sight to see these worn by the Astartes.'

'I imagine so,' nodded Malevolus. 'Of course, we are only about halfway through the general issue of the Mark IV. And as you might imagine, there have been difficulties in getting some of the more... traditionally minded Legions to abandon the old "Iron Suits".'

'The Armorum Ferrum? But why? I thought the Astartes complained that Mark III armour was too clumsy and uncomfortable for everyday battle use.'

'It is,' agreed Malevolus, 'But it is the most visually brutal of all Astartes armour patterns and some Legions relish that brutality and wish to retain it as a uniform for ceremonial guards or speartip assault units.'

'But Mark IV is by far the better armour,' protested Ravachol, unable to follow the logic of the Space Marines. He supposed he would never understand the Astartes, and had even heard rumours that they were soon to be classified as a different species, so far removed from the original human genome were they.

As he looked up at the hanging suits of armour and returned his gaze to the massively augmented form of Adept Malevolus, he wondered if the Astartes thought the same thing of the Mechanicum.

'There will be consequences you cannot possibly imagine as a result of what you have set in motion,' said the Master Adept as Ravachol hurried to return to the adept's side. The servitor jogged alongside him, its heavy footfalls echoing from the far walls.

'In retrospect, it was foolish of me to allow you to leave for Chrom's temple, but hindsight is a wonderful thing, is it not?' continued Malevolus.

'I don't understand,' said Ravachol.

'It doesn't matter,' said Malevolus. 'You don't need to understand, but while we have some time, allow me to show you what has been the recent focus of my forge's work.'

'I would be honoured,' said Ravachol. 'To see the handiwork of a Master Adept, well, that's something I never expected to see for at least another century'

'Quite,' said Malevolus, 'but these are exceptional times are they not? Some leeway can be allowed for, I think.'

Ravachol followed Malevolus as he led the way through the silent ranks of armoured figures to the furthest end of the chamber where a tall black cylinder stood atop a stepped dais of red marble threaded with veins of gold and silver.

Malevolus climbed the steps and one of his probe robots swooped towards the black cylinder, its glowing eye flipping up and a whirring key emerging from the socket. The key slid into the cylinder, though Ravachol could see no visible keyhole. The floating robot backed away from the cylinder and flew behind Malevolus as it began to hum.

The blackness swirled and began to bleed out of the cylinder, sinking into the dais like a cloud of ink in water. Gradually, the contents of the cylinder became visible as its surface turned from opaque to translucent and finally to transparency. Ravachol gasped in awe as he saw the most wondrously exquisite suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armour he had ever seen.

More massively proportioned than Mark IV armour, its limbs were constructed from heavy gauge plasteel plating and painted midnight black. Gold and bronze edged the armour and Ravachol could clearly see that the most skilled craftsmen on Mars had worked upon every aspect of this armour.

Gold studs edged the shoulder guards and a belt of agate and bronze drew the eye towards the centre of the breastplate where sat a glaring amber eye flanked by snarling wolves of gold. The high gorget radiated a red light and a thick wolf pelt hung from the shoulders.

Ravachol climbed the steps and stood before the towering suit of armour. Just being close to a work of art like this was intoxicating, and not a little frightening. Ravachol reached a hand out to touch the burnished plates, his hand shaking even though the suit was unoccupied. The plasteel was cold to the touch, but Ravachol felt a faint tremor run through the armour, as though the machine spirit within lay dreaming of the wars it would fight. He looked up towards where the wearer's head would be and shivered, suddenly afraid of this terrifyingly brutal suit of armour.