Shadowed Return Kronos dug his heel into the lunar soil, his Geomag Stabilizers crackling and searing the ground as the arc flowed through him. He’d known that he would have to come back someday, and he’d prepared. Everything about Kronos was dark. His armor, gifts from Calus, was painted black where it wasn’t gold-plated. His fist clenched Thorn at the ready, its hunger nearly deafening in the face of the cruel expanse that lay before him. He’d prepared for this, flinging himself and his fireteam into whatever new challenge was presented to them, powering up and training. For what? For the next threat. There was always another threat. A new army breaking down the walls, an unburied force beyond reckoning, a new god come to claim his own, a Dragon. Kronos and his fireteam had bested these, and they had prepared to best the next. Whatever stirred on the moon, he would put down. Even if his power, his armor, his fated weapon, gave out, he would fight on. He would find a way to beat back the darkness once again. Artemis stood beside him, thumbing her knife, tapping her finger against the barrel of her holstered hand cannon, ready at any moment to flare with the heat of a thousand suns. She’d been to the moon as a tourist once, but hadn’t gotten to take in the sights. This time, she’d leave with a few souvenirs. Everything she wore rusted. It functioned fine, she’d scrounged the best armor and weapons she could from golden-age staches, Spider’s bounties, and even a bit of work for Petra. Then, she’d honed it through match after match of Gambit, scratching, denting, and sharpening herself in the process. Only one thing she had was clear from rust; she had upgraded Crimson, giving it a silver inlay, and made sure to clean the blood off and polish it after every battle. They called her the Hell-Hawk, with vision and ferocity to match. What could stand against her, who had bested guardians? Atlas cracked his knuckles, the shielding void around him warning him of the danger to come. He knew. He didn’t have to have ever been to the moon to know of the evil that lurked there, it was the stuff of nightmares. Atlas’ armor shone, reflecting the scant light of the moon so much that it seemed no darkness could withstand his presence. His suit had been made piecemeal, rewards for helping the Awoken with their lost war, kept shining by his own diligence. He had claimed the helm of Saint-14 and his weapon: Perfect Paradox. Atlas saw it fitting that these would continue to serve the city long after the hero’s death. Hardened by the tests of strength and will he had already passed through, Atlas was ready. Whatever monstrous horde rose from the moon, ready to devour his fireteam, the City, the Light, they would not pass him. Atlas drew no line in the lunar dust. He was the line. Despite their knowledge, their tenacity, their will, the red fortress loomed over them, mocking their power, their accomplishments, their Light. ‘Come in.’ it seemed to say. ‘Find out what lies within my walls. Come and see your truest Nightmares come back to life.’ They did not falter. Alone, they were powerful. Together, they were unstoppable. Together, they marched forward, towards Shadowkeep.