The forge echoed with a haunting rhythm, relentless pistons and molten metal's eerie hum creating a somber symphony. Magos Ianthe, an orchestrator of doom, moved with calculated dread. Silica dust glimmered like malevolent stardust in the harsh glare on her augmetic mask—a faceless visage framed by ominous blue circuits.

Phoenix-like, Magos Ianthe rose from mortal ashes, concealing scars beneath layers of ceramite. Today, not timid Anya but a daughter of the Omnissiah, sculpting with sweat and oil. Her chrome fingers danced on a Skitarii's skeletal chassis, veins of wires, nerves of circuits. A servo-skull fused into its vacant cranial cavity, its skeletal face aglow with artificial vitality.

"Rise, warrior of Mars," she intoned, a modulated dirge resonating. The Skitarii twitched, gears whining. A surge of dark energy coursed through, and its plasma orbs blinked open, fixating on her with an unsettling intensity—a harbinger of a future cloaked in shadows.