The dust had not yet fully settled when the officer strode forward, his boots crunching over the fallen rubble. He was a broad-shouldered man with a hard-set jaw, his uniform stained with sweat and sand. Despite the years of quiet subjugation, the vestiges of military discipline clung to him like an ill-fitting coat. He turned and barked an order, his voice sharp against the thick silence.

"Get those lamps in here! Engineers, with me!"

The beams of portable floodlights cut through the lingering haze, revealing the relic entombed within. A tank, massive and slumbering beneath centuries of dust, its hull encrusted with rust and time-worn insignias. The Malcador. Brutus. A war machine of another age, waiting for its second birth. The engineers hesitated, whispering among themselves as they took in the sight. Some muttered low words, barely audible beneath their breath, hands brushing reverently over the reinforced plating. A prayer? A plea? They thought they were quiet enough, subtle enough.

The officer scowled. "Enough gawking. Check the structural integrity. I want an assessment in ten minutes. If it can move, it will move." He glanced towards the detonated doorway, where Jagiełło stood watching in silence. "We have our orders. This relic is to be recovered, no matter what it takes."

One of the engineers, a wiry man with a scar running from brow to cheek, wiped a hand across the treads and grimaced. "Power systems will be dead, sir. We’ll need external fuel and a way to coax the..." He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "We’ll need that to get it started."

"Then find a way," the officer snapped. "No excuses."

Jagiełło stepped forward then, his presence shifting the air in the chamber. The engineers stiffened. Even the officer, so firm in his commands, hesitated as the Primus loomed beside him.

"It will move," Jagiełło said, quiet but certain. "And you will make it so."

The officer met his gaze, nodded once, and turned back to his unit. "You heard him. Move!"
 

The Malcador rumbled, a guttural roar shaking the chamber as its ancient engine fired into life. Dust and smoke billowed from its exhausts, the scent of burning promethium thick in the air. The engineers stepped back, shielding their eyes as the beast groaned into motion, its immense treads grinding against the stone floor. The driver, seated in the forward compartment, let out an exhilarated laugh, his hands gripping the controls as the tank responded to his touch. "She's alive! Emperor's bones, she's alive!"

Jagiełło stood in silence, watching as the Malcador heaved forward, its weighty presence undeniable. He did not smile, but the subtle shift in his stance spoke volumes. This was a victory, a step closer to what lay ahead.

Mona, standing beside him, exhaled in satisfaction. "This is more than just a weapon," she murmured. "This is a symbol. A relic reborn by our hands. Our people will see it and know that we are strong."