From the vaults below the Anvil Spires, they emerged in ordered lines — each one a testament to the union of steel and sanctity.
And where their march passes, no heresy takes root. No life endures, no death lingers, no whisper of chaos survives. The ground is scoured of impurity, the air stripped of corruption. In their wake remains only silence and the shadow of the forge’s will.
The Furnace-Born are not recruited; they are constructed. Each unit a man once broken, reforged by the Canticle, sealed by the Consecration. Now they march, not as individuals, but as extensions of the forge’s design.
Servo-limbs strike the ground in unison, the rhythm echoing against the Assembly Keep walls like the beat of a colossal heart. In their eyes burns the faint light of machine-sight; in their chests, the quiet hum of reactors blessed by the Priests.
Ahead lies war. Behind, the endless fire that birthed them. The priests chant as they pass: The flesh fails. The forge endures. The war is eternal.
And the Furnace-Born answer not in words, but in the perfect synchrony of their march — a sound as inevitable as the turning of the great gears above.
[End of record]