Daedren sat on the edge of his bunk, his fingers gripping the edge so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The rhythmic hum of the barracks, so familiar and ordinary, surrounded him, mechanical servitors moving supplies, the occasional murmur of his brothers talking outside. Everything felt so real, yet it didn’t match the chaos he had just left behind.

Had it been real? The suffocating darkness of the warp, the endless assault of abominations, the haunting howls of Chaos, they had consumed him for what felt like weeks. His body still ached, phantom pains from battles fought against the horrors of the warp. His mind recoiled from the memories: the desperate cries of his brothers, the screeching laughter of daemons, and that abomination’s shifting, incomprehensible form. He had felt the heat of every slash, the weight of every shield blow. He had tasted the acrid air of despair and inhaled the stink of rotting corruption.

And yet, here he was.

The barracks were calm. His armor stood on its rack, the shields leaning against the wall like silent sentinels. The sheets on his bed were crisp and unrumpled, as if they had been waiting for his return. His brothers, Thran, Caldon, Erath, they were sparring outside, alive and whole. The memories of seeing them die still seared his mind, but the laughter he heard now was undeniably real. Wasn’t it?

He glanced at his gauntleted hands, flexing his fingers as if to confirm their existence. His breathing quickened, and a chill ran down his spine as the question formed unbidden: Was this real, or was it yet another illusion?

The events replayed in his mind, over and over. The warp. The abomination. The shattering of reality as it lunged at him. And then Vulkan, his Primarch, the father of their Chapter, appearing in a vision. That vision had felt so vivid, more real than anything he had ever known, as if Vulkan had stepped through the layers of time and space to reach him. And yet, the memory of Vulkan crumbling to dust and uttering those haunting words, Help me. Find me, left a hollowness in his chest.

Daedren leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. What had happened?

Had the warp been defeated somehow? Could his killing of the chaos horror have shattered the illusion and sent him back? Or had an outside force intervened, plucking him from the depths of despair? He couldn’t shake the feeling that Vulkan had been more than just a vision. The Primarch’s presence had felt tangible, powerful, like a guiding flame piercing the darkness.

But the questions didn’t stop there. A darker thought gnawed at the edges of his mind, growing with every passing second. What if this wasn’t over?

The eerie calm of the barracks began to feel oppressive. The walls, once a comforting sanctuary, seemed to loom closer, and the hum of servitors became a droning monotony. He stood abruptly, pacing the room as his thoughts spiraled.

What if the Chaos gods were more cunning than they appeared? What if this was their plan all along, to break him not with pain but with false hope? His brothers were alive, weren’t they? Or were they fabrications, puppets created by the warp to lull him into complacency? Daedren’s gaze darted to the door, where the muffled sound of sparring reached his ears. For a brief, horrifying moment, he hesitated. What would he see if he stepped outside? His brothers? Or another trap?

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He shook his head, trying to dispel the paranoia. This was madness. Chaos thrived on doubt, on turning strength into weakness. He had to think clearly, rationally. He clenched his fists, the familiar motion grounding him.

Could Vulkan have saved them? His vision of the Primarch had been so profound, so unlike anything Daedren had ever experienced. Perhaps Vulkan, even after millennia of absence, had reached out from wherever he was to pull them back from the brink. The Salamanders’ faith in their Primarch was unwavering, their belief in his eventual return a cornerstone of their identity. But why him? Why would Vulkan appear to a newly minted battle-brother, unproven and without reputation?

Unless… unless Vulkan was still trapped somewhere. Perhaps the Primarch’s plea, Help me. Find me, was not just for Daedren. Maybe it was a message to the Chapter, a call to action for all Salamanders to rally together. But then again, Daedren had been alone in that vision. Alone in the depths of despair when Vulkan appeared.

The thought brought him no solace. If Vulkan had saved them, it wasn’t without cost. The Primarch had disintegrated before his eyes, turning to ash like a fading memory. The scene replayed in Daedren’s mind, his hand unconsciously gripping the hilt of his sword. The words Vulkan had spoken carried an unmistakable weight. They weren’t the words of a savior; they were the words of a soul in need.

Daedren’s pacing brought him to the small window in the barracks. The familiar sight of the training grounds and the distant volcanic peaks of Nocturne filled his view. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus on the tangible, on the present. He could see Thran and Caldon sparring, their movements deliberate and precise. The sound of their blades clashing rang through the air, grounding Daedren in its simplicity.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, letting the steady rhythm of the training ground soothe his racing thoughts. If this was an illusion, it was a flawless one. The details were too vivid, too perfect. But that only made the dread grow deeper. If Chaos had constructed this reality, then escaping it would be nearly impossible.

A small, bitter smile crossed his lips. Would it matter if it was an illusion?

Even if he was trapped in some fabricated world, Daedren knew his duty. He would train. He would fight. He would serve Vulkan’s will, even if the Vulkan he served existed only in his memory. Chaos could twist his surroundings, but it could not break his resolve.

As the day stretched on, Daedren resolved to confront his fears. He stepped outside, the crisp volcanic air filling his lungs. His brothers greeted him with the casual camaraderie that had developed during their time together, their laughter ringing out as Caldon was knocked off balance by one of Thran’s clever maneuvers.

“Daedren!” Thran called, waving him over. “You’ve been hiding in the barracks too long. Come join us!”

For a moment, Daedren hesitated, his mind still wrestling with doubts. But then he saw Caldon’s grin, the way Erath leaned against a wall, chuckling at their antics. It was real. Or at least, it felt real. And for now, that was enough.

Daedren nodded, a small smile breaking through his brooding expression. He tightened his grip on his shield and sword, stepping into the training ring. Whatever lay ahead, illusion or reality, he would face it with his brothers, with the strength of Vulkan in his heart. For now, he would fight. And perhaps, in fighting, he would find answers.