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>In truth, though, as I made my way towards my allocated throne, none of those attendees captured my attention. The three figures sitting opposite Garadon dominated the entire chamber. These were the Minotaurs, wearing the same burned-bronze armour their brothers in the basilica had done. None of these were Primaris, but, just like the others, the condition of their equipment looked far superior to the battle-hammered Imperial Fists they faced. They sat ramrod straight, fists clenched, as if perpetually resisting the onset of combat-rage. Unlike all others there, they kept their helms on, a gesture that I found more theatrical than threatening, but which nevertheless added to the aura of mystery they seemed determined to carry with them.
>Moloc was, of course, the centrepiece of the display. He wore Terminator armour, of the old Tartaros configuration, which made him massive even amid the rest of that heavily armoured company. Whereas Valoris was a picture of grizzled splendour, and Garadon carried himself with a plain kind of martial dignity, Moloc looked like some barbarian warlord out of the legends of pre-unification Terra. His plate was clearly of the highest quality, but had been engineered with a feral aesthetic, one that conjured up images of sacrificial rites and arcane combat-rituals. To look at him was to catch a glimpse of a world of riddles and myths, of burning braziers and bloodied axe heads, of secrets locked within secrets, bound about with labyrinths of iron and stone.
>I have encountered many formidable warriors in my time. Valoris, of course, was reckoned the greatest alive in the Imperium save the primarch himself. And yet, just there, in that place, I can say without hesitation that Asterion Moloc, Chapter Master of the Minotaurs, exuded the most powerful stench of violence I had ever been in the presence of.