Daedren lay on his cot in the dimly lit recovery chamber, his body heavy and sore, the aftermath of the previous day’s implantations still reverberating through him. Time passed in a blur of pain and fitful rest. His muscles ached as though they had been stretched and torn, while his chest felt weighed down by the presence of the new organs, particularly the Biscopea and Secondary Heart. Every breath was shallow, but as the hours crawled by, the searing agony gradually dulled into a deep, throbbing discomfort that became his new normal.

The day slipped away in relative silence. No one disturbed him as his body rested, adjusting to the alien changes forced upon it. The sterile scent of the room, the occasional beep of a medical monitor, and the distant hum of machines were his only companions. Daedren’s mind drifted between consciousness and fevered dreams, the faces of his fellow aspirants and the distant memories of the forge on Nocturne mingling with the burning sensation in his muscles.

As the hours ticked by, the sharp edge of the pain began to dull, settling into a constant ache. Daedren could feel the transformation happening inside him, the slow strengthening of his bones, the subtle expansion of his chest, the pulsing of two hearts now beating in unison. He wasn’t fully recovered, far from it, but a new energy stirred within him. Eventually, he realized he needed to move.

It started as a simple urge, but soon, it became a necessity. He had been lying still for too long. His muscles twitched, demanding motion, and his mind, though foggy, yearned for something to distract from the constant discomfort. Groaning softly, Daedren shifted on the cot, his body protesting the movement with sharp stabs of pain. His legs felt like they were made of lead, and his arms were weak, but he braced himself and slowly pushed up into a sitting position.

His head spun, the room tilting slightly as he steadied himself. Sweat clung to his skin, a cold reminder of the surgeries. The ache in his chest pulsed with each breath, but the need to move was stronger. He couldn’t lie here forever.

I need a shower, Daedren thought. The idea of cleansing the sweat and grime from his body, of feeling the cold water against his skin, was irresistible.

Swinging his legs off the edge of the cot, he planted his feet on the cool stone floor. His muscles screamed in protest, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand. His balance wavered for a moment, but he steadied himself against the wall, breathing deeply as his body adjusted to being upright.

The recovery chamber was dim, its lights casting a muted glow over the stone walls. A narrow hallway led out to the showers, and with slow, deliberate steps, Daedren made his way there. Each step was an effort, his legs shaking slightly beneath him, but he pushed through the pain. He was no longer just an aspirant; he had to prove his resilience.

The hallway was cold, the air sharp with the sterile smell of the Apothecarion, a reminder of the clinical nature of this place. His bare feet slapped softly against the stone, each footstep echoing in the quiet corridor. The door to the showers slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a small, spartan room lined with individual shower stalls.

Daedren moved to one of the stalls, his hands trembling as he stripped off the loose garments he had been wearing since the surgery. His skin was slick with sweat, his muscles aching beneath the surface. He caught a glimpse of himself in a small, fogged mirror on the wall. His reflection was a stranger’s, his face was gaunt, eyes hollow, and his chest bore faint scars where the incision had been made. The sight of it was unsettling, a reminder of the transformations happening within him.

Shaking his head, he stepped into the stall and turned the valve. Cold water burst from the showerhead, hitting his skin like a shock. For a moment, the chill sent a jolt through his body, but soon, the cold became soothing, washing away the sweat and grime. Daedren stood under the spray, his hands bracing against the wall as the water cascaded over him. The cold numbed the ache in his muscles, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to simply exist, letting the water cleanse him both physically and mentally.

Minutes passed, and Daedren finally turned off the water, feeling slightly more human, though his body still ached in ways that felt alien. He stepped out of the stall and quickly dried himself off, donning a fresh set of loose robes left in the corner of the room. His movements were slower than usual, his muscles still stiff and uncooperative, but the simple act of cleaning himself had restored some clarity to his thoughts.

As he stepped out of the shower room, Daedren felt a tug of curiosity. His body still hurt, but he needed to distract himself. The ache was something he’d have to grow accustomed to, and there was no sense in lying down again so soon. His thoughts turned to the forges.

The idea of watching the artisans at work sparked a flicker of excitement. The forge had always been a place of comfort, a reminder of the life he’d left behind on Nocturne. Here, on Prometheus, the forges were legendary, where weapons for the Chapter were forged in sacred rituals, where the heat and fire shaped metal into the tools of war. If nothing else, perhaps watching the forgers at work would help settle his mind.

Daedren made his way toward the forge, following the familiar pathways through the fortress. The corridors were long and winding, the stone walls etched with the symbols of the Salamanders, flames, hammers, and the ever-present sigil of Vulkan. The air grew warmer as he neared the forge, the faint smell of molten metal and burning coals filling his lungs. The scent was comforting, familiar.

As Daedren entered the forge chamber, he was greeted by the soft glow of the fires. The room was vast, a cavernous space filled with the rhythmic clang of hammers striking anvils, the hiss of steam as molten metal met water. Dozens of artisans, both neophytes and fully-fledged Techmarines, were scattered across the room, each one focused intently on their work. The forges themselves glowed a fierce orange, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

The atmosphere in the forge was intense but oddly serene, the constant clanging of metal and the roar of the fires creating a sense of order amidst the chaos. The heat was palpable, a steady warmth that seeped into Daedren’s skin, but it was a welcome change from the cold sterility of the recovery chambers.

He found a quiet corner near one of the forges and leaned against the wall, watching the artisans at work. Each one moved with precision and purpose, their hands deftly shaping molten metal into swords, hammers, and bolter components. The clang of metal against metal was almost rhythmic, a constant symphony of creation and destruction.

Daedren’s eyes drifted to one of the master forgers, a Techmarine clad in dark green armor, his face hidden beneath a blacksmith’s mask. The Techmarine’s movements were methodical, almost ritualistic, as he heated a blade in the forge before carefully shaping it with a hammer. Every strike of the hammer was deliberate, sending sparks flying in a brilliant display of light and heat.

The forge master quenched the blade in a trough of water, the metal hissing violently as steam rose from the surface. The process was mesmerizing, watching raw, unshaped metal transformed into a weapon of war was both beautiful and terrifying. It reminded Daedren of his own transformation, his body slowly being reshaped into something far stronger, far deadlier.

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For a long while, Daedren stood in silence, the warmth of the forge seeping into his bones, the rhythmic sounds of metalwork filling his mind. He watched as the artisans moved from station to station, each one contributing to the creation of the Chapter’s weapons. It was a dance, a harmony between man and machine, between fire and steel.

As he watched, Daedren felt a deep sense of connection to the forge. This was where he had come from, his father’s forge on Nocturne, the countless hours spent shaping metal with his hands. And now, here he was, on Prometheus, witnessing the creation of weapons that would one day be wielded by his brothers in battle.

His body still ached, but for the first time since the surgery, Daedren felt at peace. The fire of the forge, the sound of metal being shaped, it was a reminder that transformation, whether of metal or flesh, was always painful, but necessary. The forge did not create without breaking, without burning away the impurities.

_____

The next morning... Daedren stretched his limbs gingerly, testing the limits of his body. The soreness was still present, but the fiery edge of pain had dulled. He knew he couldn't waste this time recuperating indefinitely. The thought of doing nothing while his body adjusted felt intolerable. He needed to focus his mind, to push forward. And there was only one place that felt right to him: the forge.

The decision was made before he’d even fully woken up. Though it wasn’t exactly early, the sun still low on the horizon, Daedren dressed and made his way through the familiar corridors of the fortress monastery. The winding stone pathways were cool beneath his feet, the air filled with the distant hum of machines and the soft murmurs of the Chapter’s daily activities. He felt more like himself today, the fog of post-surgery exhaustion lifting as the thought of returning to the forges energized him.

The forges of Prometheus were not far from the dormitories. As Daedren approached the grand entrance, the heavy scent of molten metal and the clang of hammers on anvils filled the air, drawing him in like a comforting embrace. The towering doors opened before him, revealing the cavernous forge chamber, alive with heat, fire, and the symphony of creation.

As before, the forge was a bustling hive of activity. Artisans and Techmarines moved with purpose, each one focused on their task. The roar of the fires echoed through the chamber, their orange glow casting long shadows on the stone floor. Molten metal was poured into molds, hammers struck steel with rhythmic precision, and sparks flew in brilliant arcs, creating an almost ethereal light.

Daedren’s heart quickened at the sight. This was where he belonged, among the fire and metal. He hadn’t come just to watch this time. He wanted to learn, to immerse himself in the ancient craft that had been passed down through generations of Salamanders. His hands itched to feel the heat of the forge again, to shape raw metal into something worthy of the Chapter.

After a moment of hesitation, Daedren approached one of the blacksmiths, a large figure clad in dark green armor, his face obscured by a blacksmith’s mask. The smith’s movements were slow but deliberate as he worked a piece of molten metal, his hands deftly manipulating the metal with the kind of practiced ease that only came from decades of experience.

Daedren cleared his throat, gathering his courage. “Excuse me, brother. May I watch you work? I... I wish to learn.”

The blacksmith paused, the hammer raised above the glowing metal. For a moment, Daedren feared he had overstepped, but then the blacksmith lowered the tool and turned to him. His face, though mostly hidden by the mask, held a glint of curiosity.

“You wish to learn the craft of the forge?” the blacksmith asked, his voice a low rumble, almost lost beneath the roar of the fires.

Daedren nodded. “Yes, brother. I have some experience from my time on Nocturne, but I want to understand more... how everything works, how we make weapons for the Chapter.”

The blacksmith considered him for a long moment before nodding slowly. “You may watch for now. Observe carefully. The forge is more than just fire and metal, it is a place of transformation, just as the trials you have endured.”

With that, the blacksmith turned back to his work, and Daedren moved closer, standing just a few paces behind him. The heat from the forge washed over him, the fire licking at the air with an intensity that made his skin prickle. The blacksmith’s movements were slow and deliberate, his hands moving with practiced precision as he manipulated the piece of steel before him.

“Each piece of metal,” the blacksmith began, his voice steady as he worked, “has its own character. This here is adamantium alloy, incredibly strong but brittle if mishandled.”

Daedren leaned in slightly, his eyes fixed on the glowing metal in the forge. The blacksmith dipped the glowing steel into the coals, the flames flaring brighter as they consumed the oxygen and heated the alloy. The metal glowed a deep orange, almost white-hot at its core.

“Heat and timing is key,” the blacksmith continued. “At this stage, the metal’s crystalline structure is changing. The atoms inside are becoming more malleable, more willing to be shaped. But too much heat, and you risk the weakening and disassociation of the crystallin structure within. Too little, and the metal won’t bend.”

Daedren listened intently, his eyes following the blacksmith’s hands as he pulled the steel from the fire and began to hammer it into shape. Each strike of the hammer was precise, controlled, sending sparks flying into the air. The sound echoed through the chamber, a steady rhythm that Daedren found almost hypnotic.

“When you strike the metal,” the blacksmith explained, “you are not just shaping its surface. You are aligning the grains within, pushing them to form tighter bonds. The crystalline structure inside the metal is being refined with every blow, becoming stronger, more durable, but adamantium especially is very tricky, if you hit too hard, you risk making irreversible damage to it's core crystallin and atomic structure.”

Daedren nodded, his mind racing to absorb the information. He had never thought of metal in such a way, living, in a sense, with its own structure and character. It wasn’t just about hitting it until it was flat or sharp. There was an art, a science behind every movement, every decision.

As the blacksmith continued to work, he began to explain more about the process. “This alloy needs to be quenched at the right moment, quite like steel alloys. The rapid cooling will lock the crystalline structure in place, making it stronger. But quenching too soon will make it brittle, and too late will weaken the bonds we’ve worked so hard to create. Unlike steel alloys, you won't necessarily need to temper it afterwards, it depends on the process of forging done beforhand”

Daedren watched as the blacksmith plunged the glowing steel into a trough of water, the metal hissing violently as steam billowed into the air. The sudden cooling sent a shiver through Daedren, as if he could feel the transformation happening within the metal itself.

Hours passed, with the blacksmith explaining each step in detail. Daedren absorbed every word, fascinated by the depth of knowledge and the precision required in the process. The blacksmith was not just a craftsman; he was an artist, shaping raw material into something beautiful, something deadly.

Finally, the blacksmith finished the blade, now fully polished. The adamantium gleamed in the firelight, its edges sharp and deadly. The blacksmith handed it to Daedren, who took it gingerly, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hands.

“Feel the balance,” the blacksmith instructed. “A well-made weapon is not just about strength. It must flow with the wielder, become an extension of their body.”

Daedren swung the blade lightly, testing its weight. It felt perfect in his hands, as though it were a part of him. The craftsmanship was impeccable, every detail carefully considered, every step of the process deliberate and meaningful.

The blacksmith crossed his arms and studied Daedren for a moment before speaking again. “If you truly wish to learn, come back each day. I will teach you more, but you must do your own work as well. Go to the Librarium. There, you will find books on metallurgy, crystal structure, and the properties of various alloys. Study them, and when you return, we will discuss what you’ve learned.”

Daedren nodded, a sense of excitement bubbling inside him. This was what he had been searching for, a way to immerse himself in the craft, to understand not just the physical aspect of forging, but the deeper science behind it.

With a final nod, Daedren left the forge, his mind already racing with thoughts of crystalline structures, heat treatment, and metal properties. He would return to the Librarium, as instructed, to study the tomes of knowledge held there. And when he returned to the forge, he would be ready to absorb even more.

As he walked through the halls of Prometheus, the weight of the sword in his hands felt lighter, not because of its craftsmanship, but because Daedren understood that his own transformation, much like the sword’s, would be a process of shaping, refining, and tempering.

And he was ready for it.