Daedren stepped into the dark, cold hallways of Prometheus, the fortress monastery that stood on the barren moon. As the Apothecary led him deeper into the heart of the stronghold, the weight of his new reality settled in more fully. This would be his home for the foreseeable future, its stone walls, its flickering torches, and the distant hum of forges forging weapons of war.
The Apothecary turned down a narrow passage, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the obsidian-like floors. “You’ll be assigned quarters here,” he said, motioning to a door at the end of the corridor. “This dormitory is where you will rest between your surgeries and training.”
Daedren followed him inside, the door hissing open to reveal a small but functional room. A single bed, bare except for a coarse blanket, was pushed against the far wall. A small steel locker stood at the foot of the bed, presumably for Daedren’s few belongings. The rest of the room was Spartan, no decorations, no personal touches, just stone and steel.
“It’s not much, but you’ll find it adequate,” the Apothecary said. “You won’t be spending much time here except to sleep and recover between your implantations.”
Daedren nodded silently, taking in the simple surroundings. The room was a far cry from the barracks on Nocturne, where he and his fellow aspirants had shared space and camaraderie. Here, it was clear that solitude would be part of the process. This was a place of transformation, where distractions were minimal and the focus was singular: becoming a Salamander.
“The showers are down the hall,” the Apothecary continued, pointing to another door in the hallway. “You’ll need to keep clean, especially after each surgery. Infection is a risk, even here. And your body will need time to heal properly.”
Daedren glanced down the hall where the showers were located. He could already imagine the cold water running over his bruised and battered skin after a long day of surgeries or training. It would be a welcome reprieve from the sterile, painful world of the Apothecarion.
With that, the Apothecary motioned for Daedren to follow him again, and they moved back into the main hallways of the fortress. “I’ll show you the essential parts of Prometheus for your time here. There is much you won’t need to worry about yet, but there are places you must know.”
The first stop was the Apothecarion, a place that Daedren knew would soon become very familiar to him. The doors were large and unadorned, clinical in their appearance. Inside, the sterile smell of disinfectant and chemicals greeted them, along with the soft hum of medical machinery.
“This is where the gene-seed implantations will take place,” the Apothecary explained, his voice a touch more reverent. “The surgeries will be done in stages, and you will remain awake for many of them. We’ll be monitoring your body’s response closely, ensuring that each organ is accepted without complication.”
Daedren looked around the room, noting the rows of surgical beds, each flanked by machinery that hummed with a quiet intensity. The sterile atmosphere felt oppressive, but Daedren steeled himself for what was to come. He had been told it would be painful, worse than anything he had ever experienced, but it was a necessary step in becoming a true Astartes.
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“Your first surgery will take place tomorrow morning,” the Apothecary added, breaking the silence. “You’ll be implanted with the first three gene-seed organs: the secondary heart, the ossmodula, and the biscopea. After that, your body will need time to adjust before we move to the next phase.”
Daedren nodded, his stomach tightening at the thought of the procedures ahead. There was no turning back now.
After leaving the Apothecarion, they moved to the forges, a place Daedren found both familiar and comforting. The air here was thick with the smell of molten metal, and the clanging of hammers on anvils reverberated through the stone walls. Massive forges lined the room, manned by the Chapter’s skilled Artificers and Techmarines, each one working tirelessly to create the weapons and armor that would be used by the Salamanders in battle.
“These forges are sacred to us,” the Apothecary said, his tone one of quiet reverence. “Each Salamander must master the forge. After your implantations, you’ll be trained here, honing your craft as Vulkan did. But that will come in time.”
Daedren looked around the forge, his mind wandering to his years as a blacksmith’s apprentice. Though these forges were far more advanced than the one back in his village, the principles were the same. He could feel the connection to his past, to his father’s teachings, and to the legacy of Vulkan himself.
Next, they passed through the armory, a cavernous space filled with racks upon racks of weapons and armor. Bolters, swords, hammers, every kind of wargear an Astartes could need was meticulously maintained and stored here. The sight of it all made Daedren’s pulse quicken. Soon, he would be wielding these tools of war, not just for training, but in battle.
“The armory will be a place you visit often,” the Apothecary explained. “You will be fitted with your first set of armor after your surgeries, though it will be some time before you don a full power armor. For now, you will be trained with standard-issue weapons and gear.”
Daedren’s fingers itched with anticipation as he walked through the armory, his eyes lingering on a gleaming black blade that hung on the wall. Soon, he would prove himself worthy to carry such a weapon.
The Apothecary led him deeper into the fortress, showing him the cells where prisoners were held for interrogation, the dormitories for other neophytes, and finally, the great hall. The hall was vast, its high ceilings supported by immense stone pillars carved with the symbols of the Salamanders. Long tables stretched across the floor, where Astartes and neophytes alike would gather to eat, to plan, and to celebrate victories.
“This is where the Chapter assembles,” the Apothecary said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Here, you will break bread with your brothers, share in their triumphs and hardships. The great hall is more than just a place to eat; it is the heart of our brotherhood.”
Daedren stood in awe of the hall’s grandeur, feeling a deep sense of belonging. He could already imagine the day he would stand among the fully-fledged Salamanders, his body transformed, his spirit forged in the fires of Prometheus.
The tour ended back at Daedren’s dormitory, where the Apothecary left him to prepare for the next day’s surgery. “Rest tonight, neophyte,” the Apothecary said as he turned to leave.
Daedren watched him go, the door hissing shut behind him. He sat on the edge of his bed, his mind swirling with everything he had seen and learned. The forges, the armory, the great hall, all of it felt both overwhelming and exhilarating.
But the Apothecarion... that would be his first challenge. The surgeries. The gene-seed implantations. The pain.
Daedren lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as his muscles ached from the trials he had already faced. Tomorrow, his body would begin the process of becoming something more than human, something stronger. He was ready, or at least, he hoped he was.
As he drifted into a restless sleep, his mind replayed the words the Apothecary had spoken: Rest tonight, neophyte. Daedren knew that this would be his last good rest before some time, and when he woke, everything would be different.