Chapter Master Allteranius sat in his ornate chair at the heart of the Black Citadel, the highest tower that overlooked the frozen plains of Bitterhold. Before him, a bank of luminescent screens displayed the live feeds from the Proving Grounds: Alpha, Beta, and Gamma.
Each was an expanse of treacherous terrain, filled with jagged rocks, snow-laden ruins, and the skeletal remains of old battles—once the sites of knightly orders, now the testing grounds for the future of the Cardinal Phoenixes. The faint glow of the screens bathed Allteranius’s stern face in a cold light, the flicker of battle reflecting in his deep, piercing eyes.
Knuckles rapped on the iron door to his chamber, followed by a muffled call. “Chapter Master.”
Without turning from the screens, Alltearnius nodded toward the serf standing by the door. The figure bowed deeply and pulled the heavy door open. Captain Tytus, Commander of the 5th Battle Company, entered first, his armor gleaming under the chamber’s dim lights, the black and gold edges catching the subtle reflections from the screens. His presence was commanding, even in silence. Behind him, Captain Gaven Acastus of the 10th followed, his expression as measured as always. Gaven’s armor was scarred from countless battles at his side, a mark of his time spent in guiding and training the young initiates.
“Chapter Master,” Tytus greeted Allteranius with a slight bow, his voice deep and respectful, yet there was always an edge of challenge to it—befitting a warrior of his rank.
“Brother,” Gaven echoed, his tone more neutral, though the weight of his years in the 10th, overseeing the recruitment of future brothers, added a quiet intensity to his words.
Allteranius gestured for them to approach, eyes still fixed on the screens. “Captains,” he acknowledged, his voice a gravelly rumble that carried with it the authority of centuries of leadership. “The Aspirants are in their final hour of trial. What do you see?”
Tytus took a step forward, his sharp gaze sweeping over the displays. “Alpha group,” he began, “strong, but reckless. They storm the ruins with ferocity, but their coordination falters under pressure. Look here.” He pointed to one of the screens showing a skirmish in Proving Ground Alpha, where two teams of Aspirants had collided in a brutal melee. One group had broken ranks, leaving a gap in their defense. “They fight like lone wolves when they should be a pack. Bold, but undisciplined.”
“Yes,” Allteranius agreed, watching the battle unfold. “They forget that we fight not only for glory but to serve the emperor’s will. In war, such disunity is death.”
Gaven, standing slightly behind, let his eyes drift to the Beta screen. “Beta is more promising,” he said quietly, but with conviction. “They move with precision. No wasted energy. Every action measured, calculated.” His eyes lingered on a small group of Aspirants moving through the ruins, communicating silently as they set traps for an advancing servitor patrol. “They think ahead, not just of the immediate threat, but of the next five moves. A rare quality in ones so young.”
“Perhaps,” Tytus cut in, his tone thoughtful but unconvinced. “But they lack the fire of Alpha. Discipline is good, but war is chaos. A balance of both is required. When the line cracks, when the enemy howls at the gate, it is fire and fury that will turn the tide, not always measured tactics.”
Allteranius leaned back in his chair, his gauntleted fingers steepling beneath his chin. “The 5th has always thrived on that fire, Tytus. And it has served you well. But Gaven has a point. Discipline tempers fire into a weapon we can wield. Without it, the flame consumes the wielder as easily as the enemy.”
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Tytus grunted in acknowledgment, though his eyes flicked back to the Alpha screen, where the Aspirants had rallied after their mistake, cutting down the last of their rivals with brutal efficiency. “They’ll learn,” he said, almost to himself.
Allteranius shifted his gaze to the third screen, showing the Aspirants in Proving Ground Gamma. This group was faring the worst. Fragmented, and scattered, their attempts at strategy disintegrated into panic as they faced waves of drones and servitors. “And Gamma?” he asked, his voice betraying no emotion, though the sight before him displeased him.
Gaven’s expression darkened slightly. “Gamma is… a disappointment,” he admitted. “Too many weak links. Their leaders have failed to maintain control. They’re reacting instead of acting, waiting for the next blow instead of striking first. The drones are driving them into corners they should have seen coming.”
Tytus folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes narrowing as he studied the struggling Aspirants. “They are not fit for the Chapter,” he said bluntly. “Only the strong survive these trials. Mercy has no place in our ranks. If they fall here, they are not worthy to wear the blood-red armor of the Cardinal Phoenixes.”
Allternius nodded slowly, his gaze unflinching. “Indeed,” he said quietly. “It is the way of things. Bitterhold has no mercy to give. The Emperor has no mercy for the weak. Nor do we.” He allowed the silence to linger for a moment, watching as the Gamma group was cut down, one by one, until only a few stragglers remained.
“They will be purged,” he said, his voice cold and final. “Those that fall will be forgotten, their names erased from the rolls. Those who survive, if they survive, will be reassigned to servitude, if they prove useful. Otherwise, they will be returned to the snow.”
Tytus and Gaven said nothing, both understanding the harsh truth of the Chapter’s path. There was no place for weakness, no room for sentiment.
After a moment, Gaven broke the silence. “And what of Beta, Chapter Master?” he asked, his tone respectful but probing. “They show promise. But do they have the fire you speak of?”
Allteranius leaned forward, his gaze once more on the Beta screen. The group had successfully infiltrated the heart of the ruins and now faced the final challenge—a heavily armored servitor, flanked by two drones. The Aspirants were working in perfect unison, their movements almost choreographed. But as Tytus had observed, there was a coldness to their precision. No flare, no fire—just efficiency.
“They are promising,” Allteranius said slowly, “but promise is not enough. They must prove that they can adapt when the fire rises around them.” He watched as one of the drones unleashed a burst of suppressing fire, pinning the group down. The Aspirants hesitated, regrouping, waiting for an opening.
“There,” Tytus muttered, his eyes narrowing. “They hesitate. In battle, hesitation is a death sentence.”
Allteranius nodded grimly. “Indeed. We shall see if they can break through. Or if the fire will consume them as well.”
He turned his attention to the final group—Alpha. They were deep in the heart of their ruins now, pushing forward with relentless aggression. One Aspirant, in particular, caught his eye: a short, broad-shouldered youth who fought with a brutal grace, his blade cutting down a servitor in one of the ruin's allies after he had dispatched a rival. Cassius. He moved with purpose, with fire in his eyes.
“Watch him,” Allteranius said softly, pointing to the screen where Cassius had allied with a fellow aspirant. Forward they cut through their enemies back to back and shoulder next to the other without pause. “He has the fire and the discipline. He fights with more than strength. He fights with a mind sharpened by purpose.”
Tytus nodded approvingly. “A worthy candidate for chapter .”
Gaven, however, raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. But his mind is still clouded, We in the 10th have heard where he hails from brothers, He’s of Bitter Holds old blood”.
Allteranius smiled faintly, the first hint of emotion breaking through his stern demeanor. “Perhaps but I have faith in the priest and Magos to clean his mind for the imperium. The weight of his blood may also be his greatest strength. So we shall see.”
As the screens flickered, the trial approaching its climax, Allteranius stood, his cape flowing behind him as he turned to face his Captains. “Prepare the rites. By the end of this day, we will know who among them is worthy of the blood of Sanguinius.”
Both Tytus and Gaven bowed their heads in acknowledgment, their eyes already on the next battle, the next test of those who sought to join their hallowed ranks.
The door to the chamber closed behind them, and Allteranius turned back to the screens, his dark eyes watching the Aspirants fight for survival. “Only the worthy will rise,” he murmured to himself. “The rest will be ashes in the wind.”