He blinked slowly, sitting up on the cold, hard cot. His muscles ached faintly, but it was a distant, muted sensation, more like an old memory of pain than something real. He was changed again. His body, already powerful and resilient, had adapted once more. He ran a hand over his scalp, feeling the faint scar at the base of his skull where the node had been implanted. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had lain on that operating table, his mind split open and reshaped. And yet, it had only been a matter of days.
The door to the recovery room slid open with a soft hiss, and Brother Harvath entered, his green power armor gleaming dully in the low light. The Apothecary’s gaze was calm and steady as he approached, his helmet mag-locked to his belt, allowing his stern face to be visible. He studied Daedren for a long moment, his eyes unreadable.
“Neophyte,” Harvath greeted, his voice low and even. “How do you feel?”
Daedren stretched cautiously, testing his limbs. “Stronger,” he murmured, his voice sounding strange in the quiet room. “Clearer. I can feel the node working.”
Harvath nodded, his expression neutral. “The Catalepsean Node is functioning within optimal parameters. Your body has accepted the implant with remarkable efficiency, especially given your advanced age for such a procedure. Your recovery has been swift, faster than we anticipated.”
Daedren looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. There was no trembling, no lingering weakness. His muscles felt coiled and ready, the fatigue of the past days burned away. “How long was I out?”
“Three days,” Harvath replied. “Your birthday passed while you were still recovering. You are now seventeen Terran years of age.”
Daedren blinked in surprise. His birthday. It had come and gone, marked not by celebration, but by yet another step in his transformation into a warrior of the Salamanders. There was no cake, no gathering, no shared moment with his family or the friends he had known on Nocturne. Only silence, pain, and change. But that was the nature of the path he had chosen. He was no longer just a boy from a small village on a volcanic world. He was becoming something far greater.
“Seventeen,” he murmured softly, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. It felt as if he had aged decades in the few short months since leaving Nocturne. The trials, the surgeries, the brutal training, it had all carved away at him, reshaping him into something new.
“Your body has changed,” Harvath continued, his gaze sharp. “You are stronger now. Faster. Your endurance and mental acuity are far beyond what they were before. But you are not yet complete. The final stages of your transformation still await.”
Daedren nodded slowly. He knew what Harvath meant. There were still several more gene-seed organs to be implanted, each one a step closer to becoming a true Astartes, a fully-fledged Space Marine. But the next phase would be different. It was not just his body that would be tested, but his mind and spirit.
Harvath’s gaze softened slightly, a rare expression of something like approval flickering in his eyes. “You have endured much, Daedren. You have proven yourself time and again. That is why I am here today, to offer you a choice.”
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Daedren looked up sharply, his brow furrowing. “A choice?”
The Apothecary nodded. “Yes. You have proven your worth, not just in combat, but in the forge as well. Your aptitude for metalwork, your ability to grasp complex theoretical concepts, your fast recovery rate, these are skills that are not common among the neophytes. The Salamanders value more than just martial prowess. We value craftsmanship, mastery of the forge, and the ability to create as well as destroy. That is why I am giving you an opportunity that few receive, especially since you are already a special case.”
He took a step closer, his gaze intense. “You may choose to remain here, on Prometheus, and continue your training as a forgemaster. You will study under the master artisans of our Chapter, honing your skills in metallurgy and forging, learning the secrets of creating the weapons and armor that make the Salamanders what they are. Your combat training will continue as well, but your focus will be on becoming a true master of the forge. Creating the best weapons and tools and learn to wield them the most efficiently.”
Daedren’s heart leapt in his chest. The forge… It was where he had begun, where his journey had truly started. The heat of the flames, the rhythm of the hammer, the song of the steel, it was a part of him, as much as the blood in his veins. The idea of learning from the greatest forgemasters in the Chapter, of becoming something more than just a warrior, was intoxicating.
But Harvath’s expression darkened slightly. “Or, you may return to Nocturne and join the scout neophyte group. There, you will be trained alongside your brothers, learning the arts of war, honing your skills in real combat situations. You will fight, bleed, and suffer beside those who have shared your trials. It will be a path of blood and fire, but it will forge you into a true warrior of Vulkan.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Daedren stared at Harvath, his mind racing. The choice was stark. The forge or the battlefield. Mastery of creation or the crucible of combat.
“If you remain here,” Harvath continued quietly, “you will have time to master your craft. You will become an artisan, a smith of weapons that will be wielded by the greatest warriors in the galaxy. But you will be alone. The bond you share with your brothers will weaken. You will not fight beside them, and when you are finally called to battle, you may find yourself a stranger among your own kind.”
He paused, his gaze piercing. “But if you return to Nocturne, you will become a warrior first and foremost. Your skills in the forge will not be forgotten, but they will be secondary to your role as a fighter. You will learn to kill, to survive, to lead. You will become a son of Vulkan in the truest sense, a brother of the flame.”
Daedren’s heart pounded in his chest. He thought of Sargo, Akeel, Thane, and the others, the boys who had stood beside him, who had fought with him, bled with him. They were on Nocturne now, training as scouts, preparing to take their first steps into battle. They were his brothers, the ones who had shared his trials, his pain, his triumphs. Could he really leave them behind?
But then he thought of the forge, the feel of the hammer in his hand, the glow of the molten metal, the joy of shaping raw materials into something beautiful, something powerful. It was a part of him, a fire that burned deep within his soul. Could he really turn his back on that, on the chance to become a true master of his craft?
Harvath watched him silently, his expression unreadable.
“It is your choice, Daedren,” he said softly. “No matter what you decide, you will have a place among the Salamanders. But know this, whatever path you choose, you must walk it fully. There can be no hesitation, no regrets. Choose, and make your choice with the fire of conviction in your heart.”
Daedren closed his eyes, his mind churning. The forge or the battlefield. Creation or destruction. Mastery or brotherhood.
After a long moment, he opened his eyes, his gaze steady.
“I…” he began, his voice quiet but filled with determination. “I choose…”