The Salamanders’ days passed in a monotony of patrols and routine drills. A week had come and gone since the Drukhari ambush, and the once-tense atmosphere among the Astartes had begun to soften into impatience. The guardsmen they had saved had proven cooperative and stoic, carrying out their duties with an unassuming efficiency. Yet the Salamanders couldn’t shake the sense that something was… off. The air felt heavier than it should, the shadows cast by the sun stretched too far, and every so often, a faint, discordant whisper would brush at the edge of their minds, vanishing before it could be fully grasped.

Daedren, restless from the inactivity, had spent most of his time maintaining his weapons and armor. His shields, still marked with the scars of the Drukhari assault, gleamed with fresh polish as he worked methodically in the dim light of their makeshift armory. Around him, his squad moved with similar purpose, their camaraderie easing the weight of boredom.

Caldon stretched his legs out, leaning against a stack of supply crates. “Do you think Command just forgot about us here?” he mused, his voice tinged with frustration. “Or do they think Chaos cultists hide better than ghosts?”

Thran shot him a look as he cleaned his chainsword. “If you’re so eager for action, Caldon, I can arrange for you to stand watch tonight. The shadows might put up more of a fight than you think.”

Laughter rippled through the squad, but Daedren barely heard it. He couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at the edge of his consciousness. The Guardsmen were diligent, yes, but too much so. Their movements were almost mechanical, their expressions devoid of the relief or gratitude one would expect after surviving an alien ambush.

It wasn’t until the eighth day that the first crack in the illusion appeared.

The shift came slowly at first. Daedren was on patrol with Thran and Garron, their route taking them along the perimeter of the outpost. The sun hung low in the sky, its light casting the walls in warm, golden hues. But as they walked, Daedren noticed that the shadows stretched unnaturally long, crawling up the walls as though alive. He blinked, thinking it a trick of the light, but when he turned back, the shadows had moved again, curling like grasping fingers.

“Do you see that?” he asked, his voice low.

Thran glanced at him, frowning. “See what?”

Before Daedren could respond, a low, rumbling groan echoed through the air. The ground beneath their feet trembled, and the sky above seemed to darken, the golden hues fading into an oppressive gray. Garron raised his flamer instinctively, his posture tense.

The outpost began to shift.

The walls, once solid and unyielding, rippled like liquid, their surfaces twisting and bending into grotesque shapes. The pristine structures of the Imperial architecture became jagged and distorted, their once-angular lines warping into impossible curves. The air itself seemed to thicken, the faint whispers growing louder, merging into a cacophony of malevolent voices that clawed at the edges of the Salamanders’ minds.

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“What in Vulkan’s name is happening?” Garron growled, his flamer’s pilot light sputtering in the oppressive atmosphere.

Before anyone could answer, a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the center of the outpost. The three Salamanders broke into a sprint, their bolters drawn and ready as they pushed through the shifting corridors. The scene that awaited them was a nightmare.

The Guardsmen they had been protecting were no longer human. Their bodies twisted and convulsed, bones snapping and reforming as their flesh warped into unnatural shapes. Some grew multiple limbs, claws sprouting from their fingers, while others became bloated masses of writhing flesh, their faces frozen in expressions of agony. The air was thick with the stench of corruption, a sickly-sweet odor that made Daedren’s stomach churn.

One of the creatures turned toward them, its once-human eyes now glowing with an unnatural, sickly green light. It let out a guttural roar and lunged forward, its claws raking the air.

“Chaos spawn!” Thran barked, firing his bolter. The explosive round struck the creature in the chest, tearing it apart in a shower of gore. “Defensive positions! They’re everywhere!”

Daedren planted his shields into the ground, creating a barrier as the Chaos spawn swarmed toward them. Bolter fire roared around him as the Salamanders fought to hold their ground. The creatures were relentless, their grotesque forms moving with a horrifying blend of speed and strength.

“Fall back to the rally point!” Thran ordered, his chainsword revving to life as he cleaved through a group of spawn. “We need to regroup with the others!”

Daedren nodded, his shields slamming into a charging creature and sending it sprawling. He fired his bolt rifle over the top, the explosive rounds tearing through the Chaos-spawned abominations with precision. The squad moved as one, their training and discipline shining through as they fought their way back to the command post.

The command post was no longer the safe haven it had been. The walls pulsed with a sickly light, and the air was thick with the warp’s taint. The rest of the Salamanders were already engaged in a brutal fight, their bolters barking as they held off the tide of Chaos spawn.

Caldon spotted them first, relief flashing across his face. “About time you showed up! These things don’t die easily!”

Thran took command immediately, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Form a perimeter! Use the choke points to our advantage!”

Daedren joined Caldon at the front line, his shields locking together to create a barrier. The Chaos spawn crashed against it, their claws raking the adamantium with a shriek. Caldon fired over the top, his bolter rounds finding their marks with deadly efficiency.

“They were never Guardsmen,” Daedren said through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible over the din of battle. “This whole outpost—it’s a trap.”

Thran’s voice came over the vox. “It’s worse than that. Look around you, the walls, the air. We’re in the warp’s grip now. This isn’t just a trap. It’s a stronghold.”

The realization hit Daedren like a blow. The Drukhari ambush, the week of quiet, they had been bait, distractions to lull the Salamanders into a false sense of security. And now, they were surrounded, the full weight of the warp pressing down on them.

But they were Salamanders. They would not falter.

“We hold the line!” Thran roared, his chainsword tearing through another spawn. “For Vulkan and the Imperium!”

The battle raged on, the Salamanders’ faith and fury the only bulwark against the encroaching tide of Chaos. They fought as brothers, their strength and resolve unyielding even in the face of the warp’s horrors. And though the odds were against them, Daedren felt the fire of Nocturne burning within him...