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Zenos is sixteen when he first dons a proper imperial suit of armour. They're expensive to manufacture, and there is little reason to fit a suit on a still-growing boy who won't see he frontlines for some time yet. But now, his first deployment is near.
The armour feels solid. It will protect him from both conventional weapons and magic alike; a fact Zenos has mixed feelings about, but he does not wish to be felled by a random stray shot on the battlefield either.
And so he wears it. Lives his life encased in steel and spun ceruleum fibres.
Many years later, Zenos lies beneath an endless expanse of stars and finds himself happy that he ditched his armour. It was a spur of the moment decision, at the time; after killing his father, why not drop the pretense that he still had a legatus' standing?
The gloves he now wears leave his fingertips free, and that allows him to feel Sorkhatu's callused hand against his skin. Has there ever been a feeling as transcendent as this? It's doubtful.
He will treasure these moments before the teleporter's beeping speeds up and whisks them both away until his dying day.