The village was alive with a buzz that Daedren had never felt before. Whispers and murmurs passed from household to household, excitement mixed with a touch of awe. Word had spread fast, Invictar Sagorr'kyt was returning to the village, one of the heroes who had saved them from the wrath of the planet’s molten fury all those years ago. For Daedren, it felt like a dream, like the legends he had grown up hearing were coming to life before his eyes.

He had always envisioned Sagorr’kyt as an invincible figure, a towering giant clad in the black and green armor of the Salamanders, standing as an indomitable force against the harshness of both Nocturne and the enemies of the Imperium. His mind replayed the stories of Sagorr’kyt holding back the tide of molten lava with nothing but his sheer will and fortitude, ensuring the survival of their village. But when Daedren saw him walk through the village gates that day, the image he had built up for years was shattered.

Sagorr’kyt’s armor, though still imposing, was worn and battered, the countless battles and wars it had endured etched into its surface like scars. The once proud warrior now moved with a slow, deliberate pace, his body betraying a heaviness that had nothing to do with the weight of his ceramite armor. The poison that had infected him on his last mission had seeped deep into his flesh, ravaging him from the inside out.

Daedren stood at the entrance to the forge with his father, watching the Astartes approach. The entire village had come out to greet their hero, but the air was thick with an uneasiness that no one dared to voice. This was not the triumphant return they had expected. Sagorr'kyt, though still a giant among men, had become a grim reflection of the galaxy’s cruelty. His skin, usually dark like obsidian, was pale and sickly, his movements slow and labored. Each step seemed to cost him an effort, as though the very ground beneath him fought to pull him down.

When he finally reached them, Daedren’s father stepped forward, eyes wide with a mix of admiration and shock. “Invictar,” he said softly, bowing his head in respect. Sagorr’kyt looked down at him.

“Garran,” Sagorr’kyt’s voice rumbled, though it lacked the fire Daedren had expected. The poison had taken its toll on him, and though he still retained the formidable presence of an Astartes, his mortality had never been more apparent.

Daedren stared, unable to speak. This was the man he had idolized his entire life, the hero who had been spoken of in hushed tones around the hearth. But seeing him like this, broken, worn, and nearing the end of his life, was like watching a star dim and fade into the void. The Salamanders were known for their strength, endurance, and loyalty, yet here was one of their greatest warriors brought low by the endless cruelty of war.

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Sagorr’kyt met Daedren’s gaze and smiled, though it was a tired and pained smile. “You must be Daedren,” he said. His voice was still deep, still carrying the weight of his legend, but now there was something softer in it, something resigned. “I’ve heard much about you.”

Daedren swallowed, trying to find his voice. “Y-yes, sir,” he managed, bowing his head quickly. He didn’t know what else to say. What could he say to a man like Sagorr’kyt?

The Salamander gave a slow nod before turning back to Garran. “I won’t stay long,” he said quietly. “There’s something I must discuss with you, and your son.”

Daedren’s heart raced at those words. What could Sagorr’kyt possibly want with him? He was just a blacksmithing apprentice, a boy with no grand ambitions beyond the forge. The idea that the legendary Salamander had come back to their village with a purpose involving him felt surreal, impossible.

_____

That evening, after the villagers had paid their respects and returned to their homes, Sagorr’kyt sat by the hearth in Daedren’s family home, the flames casting long shadows over his worn face. His father had cooked a meal, though the Astartes did not eat. He was beyond such needs now, the poison in his body having ravaged his system to the point where food and drink brought him no comfort.

“We fought on a world far from here,” Sagorr’kyt began, his voice low and gravelly, as though the memories weighed as much as the battles themselves. “A hellscape of poisoned air and twisted xenos. It was during that mission that I was struck down, not by blade or bolt, but by a poison unlike any I’ve ever encountered. It burns in my veins, and no apothecary can cure it.”

Daedren listened in silence, his hands gripping the edges of his seat. This was not the story of glory and victory he had imagined.

“The Salamanders have given me leave to return home,” Sagorr’kyt continued. “To spend my final days here, among my people, before the poison takes its final toll.”

There was a heavy pause, the weight of those words sinking in. Daedren felt a cold dread creeping over him.

“But I did not come here merely to die,” Sagorr’kyt said, his eyes shifting to Daedren. “I came here to ask something of you.”

Daedren’s heart skipped a beat. “Me?” he whispered, unable to believe that the great Invictar Sagorr’kyt was addressing him directly.

Sagorr’kyt nodded. “I have no children, no direct bloodline to continue my legacy. But your family... our blood is shared. You, Daedren, have the strength, the endurance. You have the fire of Nocturne in you. I would see you become what I can no longer be.”

Daedren blinked, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

The Salamander leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Daedren’s. “I want you to take my place. To become an Astartes. To carry the flame of our bloodline into the stars.”