Daedren wiped the sweat from his brow, the oppressive heat of the forge making the air thick and heavy. His bare arms were slick with a mixture of sweat and soot, a testament to hours of hammering molten metal into shape. The sounds of the village outside the forge were distant, muted by the constant crackle of the forge fire. To him, the world outside rarely existed beyond the boundaries of his father’s shop, just the hiss of steam, the clang of steel, and the searing heat.
In the dim light of the forge, Daedren worked beside his father, a seasoned blacksmith with muscles carved from years of wielding a hammer. His father’s face was as weathered as the tools they used, skin tanned from exposure to Nocturne's harsh volcanic environment. They lived in the shadows of great mountains, jagged and black from the ever-present threat of eruptions. Their village clung to the ridges of these molten ranges like an ember that refused to be extinguished.
Daedren had spent all sixteen of his years here, learning to shape the same obsidian-like metals that Vulkan, the great Primarch of the Salamanders, once touched with his own hands. The Salamanders valued endurance and craftsmanship, and Daedren's village, nestled amidst the tectonic violence of Nocturne, embodied these traits.
He had been a blacksmithing apprentice for three years now. Every blow of the hammer, every piece of metal shaped, felt like a tribute to the values the Salamanders stood for: strength, endurance, loyalty. The heat didn’t bother him anymore. It was as much a part of him as the flesh on his bones. He thought about how much pride his father took in their work and the honor in being a part of something greater, something lasting.
Nocturne’s sky burned a constant orange-red hue, a reflection of the endless volcanic activity that dominated the planet. Massive drake lizards could be seen in the distance, their scales shimmering in the glowing light. These beasts, iconic of Nocturne, were both a symbol of the planet’s ferocity and a source of strength for the Salamanders. Daedren had never fought one, his world was the forge, and his battles were waged against the stubbornness of metal, not the living creatures of the wild.
At the edge of the forge, in the corner of the shop, sat a large, beaten anvil. It had belonged to Daedren's grandfather and his father before him. The tools hanging on the wall had the same history, handed down through generations. His father believed in tradition, in honoring their ancestors through their craft. Daedren’s own hands ached from the hours spent honing his skills, and though his father was proud of his progress, Daedren couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.
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It was during the quieter moments of the day that his thoughts wandered beyond the forge, to the stories his family would tell about Invictar Sagorr’kyt. A Salamander Space Marine, Sagorr’kyt had become a legend in their village. The tales of his deeds, of how he once saved them all during a catastrophic volcanic eruption, were woven into the very fabric of their lives. Daedren could picture the man as clearly as if he were standing in front of him, towering in his black and green armor, wreathed in the flames of Nocturne itself, a symbol of duty and courage.
The hearth in their home was often the center of these stories, with his father and uncles retelling the moment Sagorr’kyt had stood alone against the onslaught of lava, holding the line until the village could be evacuated. The admiration in their voices, the pride that shone in their eyes, had planted the seed of hero worship in Daedren long ago. Sagorr’kyt was more than a hero to him, he was the embodiment of everything the Salamanders represented.
Yet for all that, Daedren had never seen the galaxy beyond the mountains of his home. His knowledge of the wider Imperium was limited to the tales told around the forge and the few passing traders who spoke of distant wars and worlds. The names of far-off planets like Macragge or Baal meant little to him. The forge was his world, and his dreams, though noble, didn’t stretch far beyond it. He wanted to be a master smith one day, like his father, and maybe forge something worthy of the Salamanders' gaze.
The idea of war, of battle on distant stars, seemed so distant, so alien. He had heard of the horrors of the galaxy, the xenos, the traitors, the constant fight for survival. But those were the tales of others. Here, in the heart of Nocturne, the battles were against nature itself. His father once said, “On Nocturne, the war is against the elements, and we win every day we survive.”
Still, deep down, Daedren couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to fight alongside the Salamanders, to become something more than just a blacksmith. It was a thought that filled him with both awe and fear. The armor, the weapons, the towering presence of the Space Marines seemed so far beyond anything he could imagine.
But such thoughts were fleeting. The hammer called for his attention once more. The anvil awaited its next blow, and his father’s steady gaze reminded him of the life he had chosen. Here, in the forge, he was at home. And that was enough.
As the day drew to a close and the sun began to sink behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the village, Daedren looked out across the horizon. The village was quiet, save for the occasional rumble of distant eruptions. His father was packing up the tools, his work done for the day.