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Daniel Astier blinked several times, confused and disoriented. He was sitting on his couch just then, browsing internet forums on his smartphone and having dinner. Now he stood in the middle of nowhere, a strange vastness shrouded by a white mist. When he turned around, he felt his skin crawl and stumbled backward as he faced... himself. Only it wasn't really Daniel. Same clothes, same hair... but the thing in front of him had a disturbing grin, distorting its face and wider than what should be possible with a normal mouth. "Wh... What the fuck is that?"

"Rude." The thing cackled. "Besides, you already know, don't you?" It stepped forward. "The voice that murmured to you all this time. The voice that you chose to ignore because you're afraid of the truth."

"You're... you're not real. You're not." Daniel was sweating. Was that it? Was he finally going insane, as he feared he would?

"Not real?" The other Daniel growled, his body bulging and convulsing as it morphed into a larger, bestial form, with arched legs and long arms ending with claws. The face was worse, a mockery of human features with a mouth stretching from ear to ear and full of sharp fangs. But the worst part was that the thing spoke again. "I am the only real one! You are a fake person. Nothing more than a shell full of lies. Lies to yourself, to others... But I know. I know your dreams, your deepest secrets." The hulking beast took another step towards a Daniel too paralyzed by shock and fear to even try to run away. "You're nothing but a coward. Too cowardly to be yourself, to act as you really want to."

Daniel breathed heavily as he struggled to keep his wits about him. He couldn't bear to hear this maddening voice that was so like his own. "Sh-shut up! You don't-"

Before he could say another word, the thing grabbed his face with its massive clawed hand and lifted him up, leaving him to helplessly kick the empty air. "You shut up. You don't deserve to live. You don't deserve to have ever existed. But I'm going to change that." The beast then effortlessly threw Daniel away like a cloth doll, sending him sprawling to the floor and screaming in pain when his left femur broke and perforated his skin. Daniel's head was spinning, and the pain was excruciating. "I don't want to die. I'm not going to die..." he thought as he got up on one knee, grunting with pain as the beast snarled and walked towards him, clicking its claws with a sickening laugh. "...but how?"


Interesting, I'll check this out.
"Just a final verification." The recruitment officer pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced up from his desk at the young man standing in front of him. "Rodrigo Lagos, born in 1920 in Soría. Single, no children, two brothers and one sister. One recorded infraction for... 'disruption of the peace under the influence of alcohol'. Is that correct?"

"Yes mister, that's uh, that's correct." The farm boy nervously chewed his lip and fiddled with the fedora hat in his hands as the clerk scribbled on a sheet of paper. Rodrigo wore his nicest clothes, as did the other men who came to the vast city of Santania by the thousands, all of them for the same reason. His late father's grey wool jacket, waxed brogue shoes, black cotton pants and a striped shirt that his sister had sewn for him on his eighteenth birthday.

"Very well, Mr. Lagos. Medical exams are favorable, you seem to be in perfect health. You are approved for active duty." The clerk turned a file towards him along with a pen. "Please put your signature at the bottom of every paper." The officer handed a copy of the contract to Rodrigo after he was done. "This one is for you. Don't lose it. You will receive your enlistment notice at the post office in three days; in the meantime, I suggest you find somewhere to stay in town. And, that should go without saying, stay out of trouble. Congratulations, Mr. Lagos." The officer glanced towards the queue stretching well into the street and gave a tired sigh. "Next!"

Rodrigo stepped outside, clutching the precious piece of paper in his hand. He had never seen so many people before, Santiana was a busy enough place during peaceful times and now it was more active than ever. Trucks and trains flowed in and out, men wearing flat caps and shirts with rolled up sleeves patrolled the streets looking for potential workers for the naval yards, and Guardia Nacional personel on horseback did the same looking for troublemakers and drunkards. All the while, newspaper boys cried out the front page titles, suddenly hard-pressed to satisfy the Castillians' newfound hunger for world news.

Hotels all over the city were booked full, while a number of locals offered spare rooms and sofas to the gathering numbers flooding the city. Some had to sleep on the streets while they waited to be enlisted, given blankets and hot cups of tea, coffee and whatever comfort the city folk could provide them with.

---

Later

"Too slow! Again, second platoon!" The instructor's voice snapped like a whip, thick with a foreign accent. Rodrigo turned around and jumped into the meter-and-a-half-deep water-filled moat along with the rest of his thirty-five comrades in the second platoon, ninth company, fourth instruction regiment at the Torez Army School, fifteen kilometers away from Santiana. For two months now, he had been learning the myriad of things a soldier needs to know, things he never knew existed. Military jargon, ranks, types of ammunition, how and where to dig a foxhole, cleaning and operating weapons. The rifle he knew, thanks to the countless times he went hunting with his uncle and brother. Mines, machine guns, grenades, those were something else entirely.

It took two more laps of running, jumping, climbing and crawling through the obstacle course before the physical instruction corporal was satisfied and gave the soaked and exhausted recruits ten minutes to put on dry fatigues and hurry to their tactical instruction session. The classroom they sat in was not much different from the one in the small school back in Soría. Except instead of spelling and basic mathematics, they learned concepts such as spacing, suppressing fire and anti-tank combat.

And singing as well. Each company was expected to march and sing in unison wherever they went. Even as a fresh recruit, the steady rhythm of boots on the ground along with military songs gave Rodrigo pride, a feeling of belonging and brotherhood with his fellow recruits. Some were impatient to get in combat and bemoaned the government's decision to not declare war yet. Others boasted that they would personally put down any Alfheich stupid enough to set foot on Castillian soil. Some others wanted to be the first to take the white-and-blue banner to one of the Alfheichen cities.

---

Elsewhere

Marcos Lérida massaged his temple with two fingers, reclining in his leather armchair. The office of the 26th President of Castillia was occupied by a dozen officials for an extraordinary meeting. The Minister of Defense continued: "...In addition to the aforementioned ongoing naval refits, ammunition stockpiles are still too low to allow for large-scale operations for prolonged periods of time. Fuel stocks fare better, still inadequate. Small arms can be expected to be fully replaced in two years, whereas armored vehicles-"

"In short, Mr. President, we're not ready," the Chief of Staff of the Army interrupted. "And while the production reports are accurate, we have bigger issues. The Alfheiches Reiyk has been fighting in escalating conflicts for decades, while our most competent soldiers are hunters and mountain shepherds. We do not have a professional force, not anymore." The general leaned forward on the large dark oak table. "We need experienced troops. Otherwise, no matter how well equipped, we'll be fighting a war with armies of paper."

"And what do you propose we do then? Throw our men at the enemy and hope to salvage a handful of veterans among the survivors?" The Minister waved his hand broadly across the room. "You forget that we know full well what we need, thanks to reports from the front in Akiya and Longguo. We still have some time to prepare, and we surely can compensate or at least mitigate any experience deficiency with proper support, once the production of aircraft and heavy artillery..."

Lérida raised a hand. "So, you are saying that our greatest advantage is that we are fully aware of how weak we are?"

The room fell into an uneasy silence.

"General Abarquero is correct. We need experienced soldiers." The President rested his elbows on the table and joined hands. "But I will not have us engage in a foolish offensive while as unprepared as we are. We're not alone in this. Akiyans and Longguans are engaged on their own soil as we speak, and there's apparently heavy fighting going on in the Scorched Lands. That's where we need to go."

There was a pause as the various officials looked at one another, some pensive, others nodding in agreement.

The Minister of Foreign Affairs cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "We will have to consult with the other governments, sort through the details et caetera... Given the circumstances, I assume we can expect a response shortly. But ultimately, the decision of where to send our troops will be yours, Mr. President."

Marcos Lérida nodded. "General Abarquero. You may begin preparations to organize an expeditionary force immediately."
The sound of clashing steel echoed across the open ground on the flattened top of one of the mountainous peaks that harbored the Astartes Fortress-Monastery. Seeing little point in training and testing each other's strength in a controlled environment, the Black Swords had built their arena to be exposed to the elements; thunderstorms, blizzards, and hailstorms regularly swept the bare stone. Those were the best times for combat, but on this day the sun shone brightly and made Parions' sweat glisten on his body, only covered by a loincloth as he sat on a stone bench and gulped some water down from a terracotta jug. Drops of blood stained his pale skin; some of his, and some of another.

"At least you're easy to find. Esklados is going to have you thrown in a cell for a few weeks if you keep avoiding the chapel so much."

Another had spoken, clad in a grey tunic and approaching from behind. He looked similar, with long red braided hair that fell to his shoulders and black eyes with no white.

"Our dear Chaplain would tell you that the only prayer worthy of the Emperor is a battle. This is the next best thing." The gladiator answered, gesturing towards two other Astartes who were linked together by a chain wrapped around their left arm as their blades impacted upon each other. "Are you here for a rematch, Orsa?"

The sergeant shook his head. He looked more serious now.

"Not today, Parion. The old man wants to see you." Orsa turned around and started walking towards the stairs that led down into the fortress. He stopped after a few steps, looking over his shoulder. "You'd better hurry and clean yourself up. I wouldn't make him wait if I were you."
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Light from burning braziers reflected on the smooth black stone walls and bronze pillars of the throne room, in which three figures stood immobile. Chapter Master Sagramor Kohr gave off an aura of savage strength and power, clad in a dark Terminator armour that was worn by all of his predecessors. If one was to get close enough to the golden engravings that covered the armored plates, one could see minuscule letters: the written names and deeds of all the Chapter Masters who walked these ancient halls. Even for an Astartes, his weathered and scar-ridden face told a story of many centuries of war.

To his right, a skull-faced Chaplain looked like he was a shadow emerged from the darkest corner of the room, his facial features concealed behind his helmet's skeletal grin. The one to his left had a distinctive psychic hood over his head, and the scarlet robes he wore over his blue armor marked him as the Chapter's Chief Librarian.

Parion could not help but wonder what such an assembly wanted with him as he opened the large bronze door and walked into the throne room, a place usually reserved for the greatest honors and harshest punishments, as well as welcoming the rare guests who ever deigned to visit in person. Even as one of the Angels of Death wearing his ancient suit of power armour, he felt like he was a mere man in the presence of giants as he lowered himself to one knee before his master and bowed his head.

"I come to your summoning, my lord."

"Rise, Parion Sharratar of the Fourth Company." Sagramor's voice was deep and rumbling. "You have been summoned for a matter of importance, and a mission for you to accomplish."

Parion stood up and removed his helmet, keeping it under his arm. Chaplain Esklados' words echoed in the chamber with his usual unflinching tone.

"His Majesty's Holy Inquisition has come knocking at our door once again. As always, we answer. We have spoken with your captain and have found you worthy of being sent to accomplish a vigil in the Deathwatch."

"Deathwatch?" This came as a bit of a shock to the young Space Marine. "You honour me, and I mean not to question your judgement, my masters, but it seems to me that those who are usually selected are quite older than I am." Parion did not hide his surprise, like most of his brothers he rarely made an effort to conceal his emotions.

"You are young, yes. You are also a great warrior already, the suit of armour that you are wearing is proof of that." Mirish, the Chief Librarian, was a soft-spoken and eerily gentle man. "We have agreed that your youth will not prevent you from accomplishing this mission we give to you. Maybe, will it even turn out to be an advantage? This vigil is not merely a service to the Inquisition."

Sagramor spoke up again. "We have little favours within the Imperium, you know this. By binding ourselves to the Ordo Xenos, we gain much-needed allies, as fickle as they may be. You will not only fight for them. You will learn, learn everything you can. Those of our brothers who returned from the Deathwatch came back with invaluable skills and expertise, and now your turn has come." The Chapter Master stepped forward and placed his hand on Parion's shoulder. "Represent our Chapter, show that we are mighty and valuable allies. And return to us when your vigil is over, to share your knowledge."

"So shall it be, my lord." Parion felt both pride and a hint of disquiet swell in his chest. "I will not disappoint you."

Sagramor nodded with an approving grunt, a faint smile showing through his red beard.

Mirish stepped to the young Marine's side, speaking quietly without looking at him as if nobody else was meant to hear. "Take great care, Parion. You may uncover secrets that best remain buried. I cannot say what may happen or what truths remain to be seen, as I dread to gaze too far back. Do not allow yourself to be changed by whispers from the past. Remember who you are, no matter what."

The Librarian then smiled amicably, as if they had just been discussing the lightest of matters.

"Go now. Say your farewells to your brothers. You are leaving tomorrow."
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_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Check."

The trooper grinned and laid the cards that he had onto the table.

"Tough luck, Space Marine. Imperial flush."

Parion's own cards seemed minuscule in his armored hand as he made a disappointed face. "You are good, Armsman. I couldn't read you at all." He said, letting the cards fall on top of the others.

"I've been on this ship for three decades. Ain't too many things to do during Warp travel, you know." The man laid back on his chair. "Suffice to say, I have more training than you do in this domain."

The Astartes chuckled. It took weeks for the ship's crew to stop avoiding him whenever they could, even longer for them to stop calling him 'lord'. In time, the mortals got used to the sight of the Black Sword exercising in the hallways or walking around in his dark armour, even if the grinning skull hanging from his belt, the chains wrapped around his arms and the strange gem strapped onto his right shoulder pad still made them somewhat uneasy. Still, the Imperial Navy soldiers on board eventually made for decent companionship for the remaining travel time.

His vox earpiece came to life as he heard the voice of the ship's captain. "Sir? We have arrived at your destination. Your shuttle and compartment for your equipment are ready, entering low orbit in thirty minutes."

"On my way, captain." The Black Sword rose to his feet and lowered his gaze towards the small mortal. "This is my cue. Safe travels, Armsman."

The trooper stood up and offered his hand. "I wish you better fortune in war than in gambling, Angel of Death."

Human and Astartes shook hands before parting ways, never to see each other again.
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_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hours later, Parion found himself in his assigned chamber, where his guide left him to wait until initial training. What he had seen of the Watch-Fortress was impressive indeed, a feat emphasized by the fact that it was built into the dead planet itself. A work befitting of the secrecy and paranoia of an Inquisitorial organisation, and evidently a powerful stronghold capable of serving as headquarters for considerable force projection.

But the Watch-Fortress itself had little presence in Parion's mind at the moment. Instead, the words of his masters rang in his head, along with newfound loneliness. He didn't like it. He didn't like having words dancing around in his mind either.

The Black Sword took a deep breath and assumed a fighting stance, starting a warrior's ritual. An arm thrusts forward. Muscles that bend steel. A kick is thrown, swift as lightning, and severs a spine. Fingers grab and rip through flesh, crush bones to dust. Each part of the body accomplishes its duty as a soldier in a war against the enemy's. Punches weaken his defenses. A feint goads him into an ambush, and the killing blow comes unseen. The ritual of war cleanses the mind and brings peace as doubt is washed away by blood.
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