The morning came too soon for Daedren. His muscles ached from the previous day, but there was no room for rest. The sound of a horn blared through the barracks, shaking the aspirants awake. Around him, the other young men scrambled out of their beds, quickly pulling on their gear. Daedren, though still weary from the trek from Mount Deathfire, followed suit, pulling on his tunic and boots with a newfound sense of purpose. Daedren then fought, At least I got picked up at the bottom of Mount Deathfire, walking all the way would have killed me. Though, I don't know if I should say I am lucky or unlucky that my village is located near the barracks.
The training grounds of the 7th Company were not far from the barracks. As the aspirants marched out, Daedren’s eyes widened at the sight before him. A vast field stretched out in front of them, filled with every kind of training apparatus imaginable. Sparring rings, obstacle courses, firing ranges, and massive weights, each designed to push their bodies and minds to the absolute limit.
At the head of the training grounds stood the Salamander who had addressed them the previous night. He was flanked by two other Astartes, both clad in dark green power armor adorned with the emblems of the Salamanders. Their faces were stern, expressions like stone as they observed the young aspirants approaching.
“Fall in!” the commanding Salamander barked, his voice carrying across the grounds.
The aspirants quickly formed a line, their movements hurried but controlled. Daedren fell into place beside Sargo, who gave him a quick, knowing glance. The intensity of the day ahead was already palpable, and Daedren could feel the weight of the expectations bearing down on him. This wasn’t just training; this was the crucible in which they would be judged.
The commanding Salamander stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the line of aspirants. His eyes were hard, his presence commanding. “You are here to prove yourselves,” he said, his voice booming. “You have become aspirants. You will be broken down here, tested beyond anything you have known. You will either rise as brothers, or you will fail.”
His words hung heavy in the air as the other two Salamanders stepped forward, each taking a section of the line to inspect the aspirants. One of them, a massive Astartes with a scar running down his cheek, stopped in front of Daedren and Sargo. His eyes were like molten coals, burning with a fire that seemed to pierce through Daedren’s very soul.
“You,” the Salamander growled, pointing a gauntleted finger at Daedren. “What is your name?”
“Daedren, sir,” he responded, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart.
The Salamander’s gaze lingered for a moment before he gave a curt nod. “We’ll see if that name will be remembered.”
The command was simple: follow or fall. With the sun barely breaking over the horizon, the Salamanders led the aspirants to their first task of the day, physical conditioning. The aspirants were split into small groups, and Daedren found himself alongside Sargo and two others, Ral and Akeel, boys from other villages. Together, they faced the first challenge: an endurance run around the perimeter of the training grounds.
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It wasn’t just a run, it was a grueling test of will. The path wound through rocky terrain, loose gravel and sharp stones biting into their boots. The heat of Nocturne pressed down on them, making every breath feel like inhaling smoke. The other aspirants struggled, their faces red with exertion, but Daedren felt a familiar fire burn within him, he often felt this when forging with his father.
Still, it was no easy task. By the time they completed the circuit, Daedren’s legs were shaking, his lungs burning from the effort. Sargo panted beside him, but the boy’s determined grin showed he wasn’t about to give up.
“You call that a warm-up?” Sargo muttered, his tone somewhere between a joke and exhaustion.
Daedren grinned through his fatigue, though he couldn’t help but feel the same. The Salamanders were relentless, pushing them from one trial to the next without pause. After the run, they were handed heavy iron rods, weights meant to strengthen their arms and shoulders. The rods were deceptively simple, but after holding them above their heads for what felt like hours, the strain became unbearable. Every fiber of Daedren’s being screamed to drop the weight, but he forced himself to keep going. He had to. This was only the beginning.
The next exercise brought them to the sparring rings, where the aspirants were handed wooden practice swords and instructed to face off against each other. Daedren squared off against Ral, a wiry boy with quick reflexes and an intense focus in his eyes. They were both given simple instructions, disarm or disable the opponent without inflicting serious injury.
Ral was fast, darting forward with a quick series of strikes, his wooden blade moving like lightning. Daedren barely had time to react, his own sword coming up just in time to parry the blows. Sweat poured down his brow as he struggled to match Ral’s speed, his arms still aching from the earlier exercises.
But Daedren wasn’t just fast, he was strong. Years of working the forge had given him powerful arms, and as Ral came at him again, Daedren stepped forward, using his strength to overpower the smaller boy. With a single swing, Daedren knocked the sword from Ral’s hand, sending it clattering to the ground.
Ral stumbled back, breathing heavily, but there was no anger in his eyes, only respect. He nodded to Daedren, acknowledging the victory.
“Well done,” Ral said, panting. “I’ll be quicker next time.”
Daedren smiled, though the exhaustion was starting to creep in. “I’ll be ready.”
As the day dragged on, the drills became more intense. They moved to combat training, where they were taught the basics of hand-to-hand combat. The Salamanders demonstrated with brutal efficiency, showing them how to disarm, disable, and kill with nothing but their bare hands. Daedren struggled to keep up, his body already pushed to its limits, but he forced himself to memorize every move, every technique. There was no room for failure here.
By the time the sun began to set, the aspirants were drenched in sweat, their bodies aching from head to toe. But there was a sense of camaraderie among them, a bond forged in the fires of shared hardship. Daedren could feel it growing, he was no longer just an apprentice blacksmith from a remote village. He was part of something greater now, something that demanded more of him than he had ever thought possible.
As they returned to the barracks, the commanding Salamander once again addressed them. His voice, though firm, carried a note of satisfaction.
“You have survived today’s training. But know this, it will only get harder from here. You will be tested, broken, and reforged. Those who endure will stand as brothers, sons of Vulkan. The rest will fall by the wayside.”
The words were a stark reminder of the road ahead. As Daedren collapsed onto his bed that night, every muscle in his body screaming in pain, he knew the next day would be even more difficult. But there was a fire inside him now, a burning determination to prove himself worthy of the Salamanders.
He had taken the first steps on the path of the Astartes. There was no turning back.