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of this. Unlike Ba’ken, he was not so well liked. In many respects he was the outcast that Tsu’gan described.

He could inspire his men, lead them into battle, and they would die for him as he would for them. But he

lacked Ba’ken’s common touch, his broad empathy with the warriors of 3rd Company. Sometimes that left

him on the periphery where internal politicking was concerned.

Dak’ir felt his ire for the sergeant anew, his burning eyes echoing his belligerent mood. Tsu’gan caught his

gaze and returned it, proud and imperious standing amongst the Firedrakes and Tu’Shan himself.

Something sharp and insistent pricked at Dak’ir’s senses and he averted his attention from Tsu’gan to search

for its source.

Clutching the hilt of his sheathed force sword, Librarian Pyriel regarded Dak’ir intently. A student of Master

Vel’cona, Pyriel was an accomplished Epistolary-level psyker. Arcane power armour, accented by green

robes and esoteric sigils, encased his body. The circlet of a psychic hood arced around the back of his skull.

Tomes and scrolls were chained to his battle-plate, which was deep blue in the manner of the Librarium, and

he wore a long drakescale cape. A faint trace of psychic resonance crackled cerulean blue across his eyes as

Pyriel’s gaze narrowed.

Whatever his interest in him, Dak’ir found the examination unsettling. Perhaps Pyriel had taken up Fugis’

mantle as watcher, given the distraction of the Apothecary’s grief. Determined he would not be cowed,

Dak’ir stared back, inwardly squirming beneath the Librarian’s intensity. In the end it was Pyriel who

relented, smiling thinly first before looking away.

Dak’ir followed his eye to a long narrow walkway above the ridge of stone where he and his brothers now

stood. A robed figure was standing in the centre of the dais at the end of the walkway, his features shadowed

by a heavy cowl. Only the fire in his eyes was visible. From the darkness behind him, a pair of branderpriests

emerged silently. As one, they gripped the rough fabric of his apparel and pulled it to the ground.

Veteran Brother N’keln stood before them, head upraised. He was naked apart from the tribal sash

preserving his dignity. Fresh scars were burned into his bare skin; they were the marks of a captain, seared

onto his chest and right shoulder by the brander-priests.

The dais was not merely as it appeared. A disc was sunken into the rock, the internal circuitry within it

concealed behind stark grey metal. As the serfs retreated, a pillar of fire erupted from the dais, engulfing the

ascendant completely. The inferno lasted seconds, and as the flames died away N’keln was crouched on one

knee with his head bowed. Smoke rose from his coal-black body but he was not burned, rather he shimmered

with inner strength.

Chapter Master Tu’Shan stirred from his throne and stood.

“Through elemental fire is our mettle gauged and our devotion measured,” he declared. His voice was deep

and resonant, as if it had come from the soul of the earth. It held a molten core of inspirational passion, and

carried such power and authority that all who heard it were instantly humbled. “Endurance and fortitude are

the tenets of our lore and creed. Sacrifice and honour are the virtues we Fire-born uphold. With humility do

we guard against hubris and our own vainglory.” Tu’Shan focused all of his attention on N’keln, who had

yet to lift his gaze.

“Vulkan’s fire beats in my breast…” the Chapter Master began, thumping his plastron with a gauntleted fist

and making the sign for the hammer.

N’keln looked up for the first time since his fiery baptism.

“With it, I shall smite the foes of the Emperor,” he concluded.

Tu’Shan smiled broadly, and its warmth spread to his blazing eyes.

“Brother-sergeant no longer…” he intoned, brandishing a massive thunder hammer in one huge fist. “Rise,

brother-captain.”

The Vault of Remembrance was all but empty. Echoing footsteps reverberated off the walls from solitary

Salamanders going about their rituals or serfs performing chores. From the catacombs below came the sound

of forges, as anvils were struck and metals honed, travelling through the rocky core of Hesiod’s Chapter

Bastion as a dulcet ring.

Hesiod was amongst the seven Sanctuary Cities of Nocturne. These great colonies, their foundations bored

deep into the earth and rooted in the hardest bedrock of the planet, were based on the seven settlements of

Nocturne’s tribal kings.

Each of the seven Salamander Chapter Bastions resided in one of these cities. Devoted to the seven noble

companies, they were austere and hollow places.

Gymnasia provided for the rigours of the Astartes’ daily training regimen, and a Reclusium, presided over

by the company’s Chaplain, saw to their spiritual needs. In the lower levels were the solitoriums, little more

than stark oubliettes used for battle-mediation and honour-scarring. Dormitories were sparse and mainly

inhabited by serfs. Armouries held weapons and other war materiel, though these were mainly for neophytes

— seasoned battle-brothers often maintained their own arsenals, situated at private domiciles amongst the

populace of Nocturne where they could better act as their custodians and protectors. Refectories provided

repast, and in the great halls rare gatherings could be held. An Apothecarion saw to the wounded.

Oratoriums and Librariums were the seats of knowledge and learning, though the culture of Nocturne

stressed greater importance on the experience and the tempering fire of the battlefield.

Catacombs ran through a vast undercroft where the emanating swelter of the forges could be felt, the soot of

foundries and the hard metal stench of smelteries absorbed into every pore. The great forges, temples of iron

and steel, where an anvil not an altar was the pillar of worship, were ubiquitous across all of Nocturne. The

hours of devotion spent in the cloying heat, through the lathered sweat and thickening smoke, were as crucial

to a Salamander as any battle-rite.

It was in the highest echelon of the Chapter Bastion that two warriors in green battle-plate chose to reflect

and offer supplication, in the Vault of Remembrance, in memoriam for their slain captain.

The temple was a vast, echoing space. The harmonies of phonolite-chimes echoed off its darkened walls.

Hewn from volcanic aphanite, they rose up like geodesic intrusions and tapered off into a craterous aperture

that lay open to Nocturne’s fiery-orange sky. Black and fathomless obsidian formed a hexagonal expanse,

serving as the massive chamber’s floor. Stout columns of deep red felsite buttressed the half-ceiling, shot

through with veins of fluorescent adamite.

The rare volcanic rocks and minerals used to fashion the magnificent temple were harvested after the Time

of Trial, and the stark and frigid winter that followed in its wake. Such artefacts of geological beauty could

be found throughout Nocturne. The most precious were protected within the stout walls of the Sanctuary

Cities and their void shield generators.

Iron braziers around the chamber’s edge gave it a fiery cast, flickering in the lustrous faces of the polished

rock. It appeared luminous and abyssal in the light’s reflection — a diabolic temple raised from the bowels

of the world. At its nexus a giant pillar of fire roared, tendrils of flame spilling and lashing from a core of

white heat. The two warriors knelt at it, insignificant before the conflagration.

“As Kadai passes, so does N’keln ascend,” Dak’ir uttered solemnly, his onyx skin tinged in dark amber by

the memorial flame. In his gauntleted fist he clutched a votive offering that he threw into the fire. It ignited

quickly, and he felt the heat of its immolation briefly against his downcast face.

“History will remember him,” Ba’ken replied in a reverent voice, burning his own tribute.

The ceremony of Interment and Ascension had ended with N’keln accepting his captain’s battle-plate.

Tradition held that whenever an old captain died and another took his mantle, the ascendant would wear the

previous incumbent’s armour. Ordinarily, the slain Salamander would be incinerated in the pyreum, a

massive crematoria forge beneath the mountain. According to Promethean lore, the essence of the departed

would be passed on into the armour when his ashen remains were offered up on the pyre-slab and he was

returned to the mountain. Ko’tan Kadai had met his end before a traitor’s multi-melta. There had been little

left of him to salvage, so his armour was given unto the mountain instead. It seemed a fitting offering.

N’keln’s armour then was forged anew, an artificer suit fashioned by Brother Argos, Master of the Forge.

After N’keln had been reborn from fire as captain and clad in his battle-plate, the congregation of

Salamanders had disbanded. Tu’Shan and the few Firedrakes that had been present for the ritual boarded

Thunderhawk gun-ships idling on the Scorian Plain beyond the mountain. Tearing into the sky, they were

bound for Prometheus and the fortress monastery stationed upon Nocturne’s sister moon where the greater

matters of Chapter and galaxy were Tu’Shan’s chief concern.

For the others there was the slow pilgrimage back to Hesiod and a return to their duties.

3rd Company had earned a brief respite from campaign until their next mustering. Tempering of spirit and

the remoulding of purpose was needed in the battle-cages, chapels and at anvils. Before the resumption of

their training routines, Dak’ir and Ba’ken had come to the Vault of Remembrance. Like many others of 3rd

Company, they did so to pay their respects and honour the dead.

“These are grave times.” Ba’ken appeared morose. It was unlike him.

A hot wind was blowing off the northern Acerbian Sea, bringing with it the stench of burning ash and the

acrid tang of sulphur. Eddies swirled the blackening parchment Ba’ken had placed before the flame, slowly

pulling it apart and turning it into ash. It reminded him of the deep fractures within their company left in the

wake of Kadai’s death.

“As one life ends, another begins. As it is before the forge flame, metamorphosis is existence in

transformation,” a calm and thoughtful voice answered. “Where is your Nocturnean pragmatism, Sol? You

led me to believe you hailed from Themis.”

Ba’ken smirked away his melancholy.

“Pragmatism, maybe, but the sons of Themis are no philosophers, brother,” he offered dryly, a flash of fire

lighting his eyes as he craned his neck to acknowledge Emek. “We are warriors,” he added, clenching his fist

in mock machismo. Themis was another of the Sanctuary Cities, well-known for its warrior-tribes and the

tall, wide stock of men it produced, a trait augmented through the genetic process of becoming a Space

Marine.

Emek smiled broadly showing his teeth, stark white against his onyx skin, and knelt down beside his

brothers.

“Would you prefer a verse from the Promethean Opus, instead?” he countered.

Brother Emek, like his late captain, hailed from Hesiod. He had a noble, slightly studious bearing. His hair

was carmine red and shaved into thin chevrons that extended across his entire skull and arrowed down to his

forehead. Younger than Ba’ken — who had served almost a century in the Chapter but had no ambition for

advancement — and even Dak’ir, Emek had an eternal look of curiosity in his eyes. Certainly, he possessed

an impressive capacity for learning and an even greater desire. His knowledge of Promethean lore, its

philosophy and history, and the culture of Nocturne, was lauded even by the Chapter’s Chaplains.

“As worthy an account as that is, brother,” replied Dak’ir, “I think that now is not the time for a recitation.”

Chastened, Emek lowered his head.

“My apologies, brother-sergeant.”

“None are necessary, Emek.”

Adopting an attitude of penitence, Emek nodded and cast his own offering into the fire. For a few moment s,

the three were joined in silent reverie, the crackling of the votive flame a chorus to their solitude.

“My brothers, I…” Emek began, but whatever he was about to say caught in his throat when he looked past

the flame to the figure standing beyond it.

“Kadai’s death has hit us all hard, brother,” Dak’ir told him, having followed Emek’s gaze, “Even him.”

“I thought his heart was cut from stone.”

“It would seem not,” offered Ba’ken, mouthing a silent litany before rising to his feet.

“This enmity with the renegades has exacted a heavy toll. Do you think this is an end to it?”

Dak’ir was interrupted before he could reply.

“Not for us,” snarled Tsu’gan, his belligerence unmistakable.

Dak’ir got to his feet to face his fellow sergeant, who was stalking towards them across the obsidian plaza.

“Or for them,” Dak’ir added, eyes narrowing when he saw Iagon following behind, the ever faithful lackey.

Iagon was gaunt and slight, his face etched with a perpetual sneer. He blamed this affectation on an

encounter during the Gehemnat Uprising on Kryon IV when, during the cleansing of a genestealer

infestation, a brood creature’s bio-acid had severed some of the muscles in his face, leaving his mouth

permanently down-turned.

Dak’ir thought it appropriate for one such as Iagon. He kept his gaze on the two approaching Salamanders ,

vaguely aware of the immense presence of Ba’ken at his back.

“This retribution is old, Emek,” Dak’ir told the other battle-brother. “It goes back to Moribar when Ushorak

died. I don’t think Nihilan or the Dragon Warriors will easily lay the death of their captain to rest. I doubt

even Kadai’s destruction would have slaked their thirst for vengeance. No,” he decided, “this will end when

one of us is dead.”

“Annihilated,” added Tsu’gan unnecessarily, by way of elaboration for Emek’s benefit. “The entire Chapter

— them or us.”

“Are you expecting a long war of attrition then, Brother Tsu’gan?” Dak’ir asked.

Tsu’gan’s lip curled in distaste.

“War is eternal, Ignean. Though, I would expect no less from one of your craven ancestry to desire eventual

peace.”

“There are many upon this planet and others across the Imperium who would welcome it,” Dak’ir returned,

his ire rising.

Tsu’gan sniffed his contempt.

“They are not warriors, brother, like us. Without war, we are obsolete. War is my clenched fist, the burning

in my marrow. It is glory and renown. It gives us purpose. I embrace it! What would we do if all the wars

were to end? What use are we to peace?” He spat the last word, as if it stuck in his mouth, and paused.