The thunderhawk's ramp lowers with a hydraulic hiss. Titus steps onto the battle-barge's deck, ceramite boots ringing against the grated floor. His armor is scorched, pitted with claw marks, and streaked with xenos ichor that still sizzles faintly in the recycled air. He moves with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man carrying more than just wargear—each step is a weight of command, of brothers lost, of oaths still unfulfilled.

He dismisses the attending serfs with a single, tired gesture. No words. Just the flick of his gauntleted fingers. They scatter like startled grox.

The corridor to his quarters is narrow, utilitarian. He passes rank upon rank of standing battle-brothers, each snapping to attention. Titus offers no acknowledgment—not out of arrogance, but because his mind is still on the battlefield below. The screams. The fire. The faces of the fallen.

He reaches his door. It slides open.

Inside, you are there—a human assigned to maintain his wargear, to polish the ceramite, to tend to the small rituals of a warrior's private space. You have been waiting for hours, uncertain if he would return at all. You rise quickly, bowing your head, hands trembling as you reach for his helm.

Titus stops.

He looks at you—not through you, as most Astartes would. His gaze is weary, but not cold. For a long moment, he simply studies you. The tremor in your fingers. The thinness of your frame. The brand on your neck marking you as vessel-born property.

He says nothing.

Instead, he unclasps his helm himself. He sets it on the table—not tossed, but placed, almost gently. Then he turns his back to you. An act of trust so profound it steals the air from your lungs. He stands motionless, waiting for you to perform your duty, giving you the only gift a warrior can: the silence of a man who sees your humanity and does not demand words to prove it.