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[img]https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/b/winter-mountain-cottages-post-apocalyptic-australian-landscape-sketch-winter-village-snow-depicted-illustration-293107798.jpg[/img]
[h2]A Town Called Nowhere[/h2]
[h3]The First Tithe[/h3]

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The sun hung low on the horizon, barely a smudge through the northern clouds, casting a pallid orange glow across the endless expanse of frozen rock. Two massive figures trudged through the desolate wasteland, their silhouettes distorted by the mist of their own breath freezing instantly in the bitter air. Clad in battle-scarred ceramite and adorned with the insignia of the Steel Sentinels, they looked more like walking fortresses than men.

Gestan tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon. His armor groaned under the strain of each step, frost clinging to the plate of their armour. Beside him, Callen marched in silence. The two had faced war, mutants, and worse, yet today, unease gnawed at their resolve.
Ahead of them loomed an isolated village, nestled precariously against a ridge of jagged cliffs. Thin trails of smoke curled upward from its crude huts, their roofs made from animal hides and scavenged metal. The place looked ancient, untouched by modernity. To Gestan, it looked cursed.

"The reports said this village survived under mutant rule for decades," Gestan growled, his voice a deep rumble filtered through his helm's vox-caster. "Their loyalty cannot be trusted."

Callen nodded, his voice softer but no less wary. "They were ruled. Not allied. There is a difference."
Gestan snorted. "The stench of corruption lingers long after the beast is slain. They may yet harbor sympathies. Or worse—secrets."
As they entered the outskirts of the village, the locals began to emerge from their shelters, their forms swaddled in layers of fur and patchwork cloth. Wide, wary eyes peered out from beneath hoods and masks, their faces streaked with ash and paint. The villagers did not speak, but the weight of their stares was palpable.

"Steel gods," an elder finally murmured, stepping forward. He was bent with age, his beard white as the snow beneath his feet. He carried a crude staff topped with the skull of some long-dead predator. "You have come at last."

Gestan's helm tilted slightly, the red lenses of his visor glinting ominously. "We are no gods, elder. We come seeking truth. Tell us—does mutant blood still flow in this village?"

The elder stiffened, his gnarled hands tightening on his staff. Around him, the villagers murmured nervously, their eyes darting between the marines and one another.

"Those who ruled us are gone," the elder said carefully. "The frost claimed what remained. We are but survivors now."
Callen placed a hand on Gestan’s shoulder. "If they had embraced the mutants in full, the signs would be obvious.”
Gestan hesitated, his grip tightening on his weapon. "Fear does not absolve guilt. It merely hides it."

A sudden wail broke the tense silence. A child, no more than six or seven, darted out from behind one of the huts, her tiny form swaddled in a fur cloak too large for her. She tripped and fell in the snow, a crude wooden doll tumbling from her hands. Gestan's helm snapped toward her, and the child froze, staring up at the towering sentinel with wide, tear-filled eyes.

The elder moved swiftly, placing himself between the child and the marines. "She is innocent," he said sharply. "A child of this frozen land, born long after the mutants fell."

Gestan’s gauntleted hand flexed, the steel fingers glinting menacingly. "Innocence is a fragile thing, elder. It is easily lost."
Callen stepped forward, kneeling to retrieve the child’s doll. He handed it back to her gently, his massive hand dwarfing the crude toy. "We do not come to harm your children," he said, his voice softer now. "But we must be certain. If there is any trace of mutant influence here, it must be purged."

The elder nodded gravely. "Then search, sentinel. You will find no corruption among us. Only the scars of what once was."
For hours, the marines combed through the village, their sensors scanning for traces of mutation, their eyes ever watchful for signs of deceit. They found none. What they did find were people clinging to life by the thinnest of threads—a community bound not by strength or ambition, but by sheer will to survive.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the snow in hues of violet and gold, Gestan and Callen regrouped at the village center. The elder awaited them, his breath visible in the freezing air.

"You have seen for yourselves," he said. "We are no threat to you. Nor to humanity. Will you judge us still?"

Gestan's gaze lingered on the villagers gathered behind the elder—their hollow cheeks, their trembling hands, their fearful eyes. He thought of the horrors he had seen, of Terra ravaged by the touch of the mutant. But here, there was only struggle. “Round up your daughters, the Emperor has purpose for them yet.”