The days in the barracks blurred together, a relentless cycle of training, drills, and pain. Daedren’s body quickly adapted to the punishing schedule, though each morning still greeted him with stiff muscles and the familiar sting of exhaustion. There was no mercy in the routine, no reprieve from the constant demands of becoming an Astartes.

Every dawn, the horn would sound, jerking the aspirants from their bunks and into the freezing predawn air. The coolness was a brief relief before the training began anew. The first task each day was always the same: endurance runs across Nocturne’s jagged, blackened landscape. Daedren ran with the others, his breaths coming in sharp, measured gasps as they navigated the rough terrain. The uneven ground became a familiar enemy, the volcanic rocks underfoot threatening to trip them at any moment. But there was no slowing down, no stopping. Stumbling or falling meant failure, and failure had no place in the Salamanders’ ranks.

Day after day, they ran. The burning heat of Nocturne baked their skin, while the smoke from distant eruptions filled the air with a bitter, acrid tang. But Daedren’s legs grew stronger, his lungs more efficient. He no longer fought against the fatigue; he embraced it, letting it fuel his determination.

After the runs, the real tests began. They were pitted against one another in sparring matches, brutal, unyielding contests of strength and skill. Swords, axes, fists, anything that could be used to strike, to maim, to dominate. There was no pretense of mercy in the ring.

Sargo was a constant sparring partner for Daedren, and their matches became infamous among the aspirants. Sargo was fast, unpredictable, his wiry frame darting in and out with a speed that caught many off guard. But Daedren had power and resilience, his hammer-like blows sending shockwaves through his opponents. Each match left them both bruised and battered, but neither ever backed down.

One afternoon, after a particularly brutal bout, Sargo wiped the blood from his split lip and grinned through the pain. "You hit like an anvil, Daedren," he gasped. "But one of these days, I’m going to take you down."

Daedren, panting and drenched in sweat, grinned back. "I’ll be ready."

But it wasn’t just the physical tests that wore them down. There were weapons drills, endless in their repetition. Rifles, bolters, blades, each weapon was an extension of the self, and they were taught to master them all. Daedren spent hours at the firing range, the weight of the bolter growing more familiar in his hands. The kick of the weapon, the controlled burst of fire, it all became second nature, though the demands of precision weighed heavily on every trigger pull.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

The Salamander drill instructors, towering in their dark green armor, watched over them with cold, calculating eyes. Mistakes were punished swiftly. If an aspirant’s aim wavered or their footwork faltered, they were sent back to the start of the drill, again and again until perfection was achieved. There was no praise for getting it right, only the silent expectation that it was what they should have done all along.

Each night, when they returned to the barracks, their bodies were pushed beyond the limits of what any normal human could endure. Daedren would collapse onto his bunk, his muscles screaming in protest. But his mind was sharper now. The exhaustion had become a background hum, replaced by a clarity that only came from surviving day after day of relentless trial.

Weeks passed in this way, each day merging into the next. The aspirants grew leaner, harder, more focused. Daedren could see the changes in the others as well. Ral, once thin and wiry, now moved with a lethal grace, his eyes hard with determination. Akeel, quiet and methodical, had become a force in the sparring rings, his movements calculated, his strikes precise.

But not all of them adapted. Daedren saw some falter, their bodies unable to keep pace with the grueling demands. They were taken from the barracks without ceremony, sent back to their villages or, worse, simply disappearing into the shadows of the fortress. There was no room for weakness here. Only those who could endure would be allowed to continue.

One evening, as Daedren and Sargo lay on their bunks, their bodies sore from another day of unrelenting training, Sargo spoke quietly into the dim light.

"Do you ever think about what happens if we don’t make it?" Sargo’s voice was steady, but there was an edge of doubt, a rare crack in his usual confidence.

Daedren stared up at the ceiling, the flickering glow of the braziers casting shifting shadows. "I try not to," he replied after a moment. "But I know we will. We have to."

Sargo was silent for a moment, then chuckled softly. "You’re right. One day at a time."

The days continued, the training intensifying with each passing week. The runs grew longer, the sparring more brutal, the weapons drills more exacting. The Salamanders pushed them to their breaking point, and then beyond it.

But Daedren thrived in the challenge. Each day felt like he was being forged anew, his weaknesses burned away in the fires of training. He wasn’t the same boy who had climbed Mount Deathfire. He was becoming something more, something stronger. His movements were faster, more deliberate. His mind was sharper, his instincts honed. He could feel it in every strike, every step, every breath. He was being shaped into a warrior, a son of Vulkan.

And though the pain and exhaustion never left him, Daedren knew that he was closer than ever to achieving what he had once thought impossible. The fires of Nocturne burned within him now, and there was no turning back.

He was no longer a boy in a forge. He was being forged into something far greater...