#horror-ween

The crimson sun dipped low over the plains surrounding the Blood Angel bastion. Vandros’ squad moved in silence, armor streaked with the dust and blood of the desert plains.

Faeron whispered, “I don’t like this place. Something… wrong about it.”

Vandros tightened his gauntlets. “All of it is wrong. We’ve learned that. Keep moving.”

The bastion loomed ahead, painted in deep reds and golds. From within, they could hear chanting, rhythmic and sharp, a cadence that seemed to pulse with the heartbeats of the unfortunate.

At the center of the courtyard stood High Chaplain Sor Talon, robes soaked with ritual oils, bolter in one hand, ceremonial blade in the other. His eyes glowed faintly, a predator that considered the young Primaris less as brothers and more as sacrificial instruments.

“Primaris Initiates,” Talon intoned, voice calm yet horrifying in its certainty. “Your blood must be proven. Only through suffering can purity endure. Only through pain can the Emperor’s sons be forged.”

The courtyard erupted in chaos as Talon’s ritual acolytes began herding the squad into the trials. Vandros felt the familiar weight pressing on him — fear, anger, and the memory of Stone Flame, Prenumbra, and Resolute Light.

A young Blood Angel recruit, barely older than Corvin, screamed as a ceremonial blade nicked his gauntlets. He dropped, shaking, while Talon’s acolytes chanted louder.

Vandros grabbed the recruit, pulling him behind a shattered wall. “Stay down!” he hissed. “We will not let him take you.”

Faeron and Snowskin fired suppressive bursts at the acolytes. Tavian dragged another injured Primaris to cover, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

The courtyard became a battlefield of ritual and survival. Talon moved like a shadow, impossibly fast, catching nearly every move, testing the squad’s endurance. He slammed the ceremonial blade against a pillar, sending shards flying toward Vandros and his group.

“We can’t hold him off forever!” Faeron shouted, adrenaline and terror coiling tight.

Vandros scanned the chaos, calculating. The young recruit was still pinned near the ceremonial platform. “Go! I’ll cover him!” Corvin protested, but Vandros’ nod was firm.

With Snowskin and Tavian providing covering fire, Vandros surged forward, dragging the recruit to safety just as Talon’s bolter barked beside him. Each breath burned, each movement a fight against exhaustion, terror, and instinct screaming to run.

By the time the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, the squad had staggered into the shadowed perimeter of the fortress. The recruit, gasping and wide-eyed, was their sixth survivor — a reminder that some could still be saved.

Vandros sank to one knee. His gauntlets were slick with blood — theirs and their enemies’. “We’re alive… barely,” he rasped.

Faeron pressed a hand to his shoulder. “And another life saved.”

Snowskin nodded silently, while Tavian crouched, scanning the horizon. Even in the dim light, Vandros could see the shadows of Talon’s followers watching, patient and unyielding.

Vandros looked at the recruit, at the four of them together. “One more. We survive one more time. But this… this is only the beginning.”

Above, the sky of Ancient Terra stretched dark and endless. Somewhere, Darros, Yure, Dren, Kyros, Morthus, and now Talon, waited in the shadows.

The ruins of Ancient Terra stretched like a fractured cathedral, every shadow a potential threat. Vandros moved with quiet deliberation, limbs screaming with exhaustion, bolter pressed tight against his chest. Behind the jagged walls, in the faint wind, he could almost feel the apex Hunters calculating.

Above, they waited. Darros, Morthus, Talon, Vane, Dren, and Kyros — the perfect predators, each a master of precision and patience. They had let him live this long, and in doing so had marked him. The spark. The flame.

But Vandros had learned. Every lesson, every trap avoided, every brother lost — it had been training in disguise. He could almost anticipate the Hunters’ calculus.

Cedric’s hand brushed his shoulder. “Here. Low. Left flank. Darros’ line of sight—blocked by the rubble. Move fast.”

Nanael’s wings glimmered faintly in the debris, guiding, silent. Kerubiel’s voice whispered through the vox: “Channel ahead. It’s tight. The apex won’t expect—”

Vandros ducked, rolled, and fired a suppressive burst into the air ahead. The noise was a feint, drawing shadows toward the wrong path. A faint hiss answered from above — Darros’ turret adjusting, calculating. He had baited them.

Step by step, breath by breath, Vandros turned the calculus against the hunters. He moved not just to survive, but to shape perception, to manipulate the apex’s expectation. Every false step, every drag of rubble, every flash of fire from his bolter — a calculated misdirection.

From above, Darros tilted his helm, golden lenses narrowing. Fascinating. They attempt deception. Observe.

Morthus’ crimson blade traced arcs in the air, ceremonial precision. The flame adapts. Will it endure?

Talon crouched, sigils of blood dust marking the floor beneath him. Clever, but the lesson is not complete.

Vane melted along a shadow, monofilament humming faintly. Almost… but not yet.

Dren’s visor flickered with probability matrices. Survival variables shifting.

Kyros’s hoverbike muscles tensed. Patience. Let the spark taste its own cunning.

Vandros pressed on, feeling the protection of his unseen allies tighten around him like a living shield. The channel narrowed; the ruins funneled him toward the courtyard exit. He glimpsed it ahead: jagged walls, broken spires, scorched stone — and beyond, light.

A sudden movement — a flash from the shadows — a suppressive volley. Vandros dropped behind a toppled arch. The apex had predicted his feint, or so it seemed.

“Not yet,” Vandros whispered, teeth gritted. “I control the spark now.”

Cedric shifted, Nanael glimmering in motion. “Through the corridor. Left wall. I’ll block Vane’s line.”

Vandros obeyed, sprinting low, every step rehearsed instinctively. And then — the trap revealed itself: a volley of micro-bolts from above. He dove, rolling into the narrow corridor. The sound of metal striking stone rang out like a bell.

From the rubble, he raised his bolter and fired blind. Explosions of dust and sparks scattered the apex’s sensors, momentarily blinding them. One hesitation. That was all he needed.

The corridor opened onto a collapsed plaza. Vandros scanned rapidly. His brothers had fallen, their memory heavy on his shoulders, but the protected Primaris were there. Shadows moved — shields, barriers, guiding hands.

Darros’ golden visor gleamed, Morthus’ crimson blade traced the air, Talon’s sigils marked the ground, Vane’s monofilament shivered in anticipation, Dren’s calculations raced, Kyros’ hoverbike hummed — the apex converged.

Vandros exhaled, and for the first time in days, the terror sharpened into clarity. Every lesson burned inside him. Fear was no longer a chain; it was a weapon. Discipline was no longer a burden; it was instinct. And inevitability… could be bent.

A suppressed line of fire hissed past his shoulder. Vandros ducked, pivoted, and charged toward a narrow shadowed path. Nanael and Cedric flanked him, Kerubiel covering the rear. The apex recalculated — too late.

Step, roll, dive. Flash, fire, misdirection. The spark leapt across the plaza like a living thing, and for the first time, he sensed it: the apex hunters were learning from him. Every calculated move he made forced them to adapt, reconsider, hesitate. The hunters, masters of inevitability, were caught in a moment of doubt.

And then he broke through.

The open air stretched before him. Light, wind, the faint scent of ash. One step, and he would be free of the apex’s immediate line of sight.

Vandros raised his bolter, voice low but certain, “I survived. I endure. And I will make you remember this spark.”

Cedric, Nanael, Kerubiel — unseen, silent, perfect — closed the formation around him. The apex Hunters observed from the heights, calculating, patient. But Vandros was no longer simply prey.

He was the flame.

The wind tore across the broken plaza, carrying the scent of scorched stone, iron, and something sharper — intent. Vandros crouched behind a toppled spire, bolter raised, chest heaving. Above, the apex Hunters had calculated everything — every escape route, every shadow, every feint. Every variable… except one.

Vandros himself.

Cedric, Nanael, Kerubiel flanked him, silent guardians, guiding, shielding, giving him the fraction of space he needed to think, to act. The protected Primaris were precise, their coordination invisible yet absolute.

Darros’ golden visor tracked him, calculating. A spark moves differently than predicted. Fascinating.

Morthus’ crimson blade traced arcs, ceremonial and precise. Adaptation observed.

Talon crouched low, sigils etched in dust beneath him. Calculation… incomplete.

Vane shifted through shadows, monofilament blades humming faintly. Patience. Wait.

Dren’s visor spun matrices, probability matrices adapting in real-time. Nonzero outcomes emerging.

Kyros’ hoverbike flexed along the ridge. Speed versus cunning. Which prevails?

Vandros exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the apex Hunters’ observation sink into him. Every lesson, every death, every expectation — he had learned them all. Now, it was time to apply them.

He fired first — a series of precise, blinding shots into the upper windows of a collapsed structure. Sparks flew, dust erupted. Not to kill, but to create a reaction. A misstep. A hesitation.

Darros’ pulse remained steady, the golden lens narrowing. Interesting.

Vandros rolled, bolter swinging, and sprinted toward a shattered archway. Nanael and Cedric mirrored him, shadows moving as one. Kerubiel’s hand brushed his shoulder — a signal, a reminder. The apex Hunters had to adapt to him now.

Morthus shifted, blade arcing, anticipating. Vandros pivoted again, using a narrow wall as cover. Talon’s sigils flickered in the dust. Vane’s shadow pulsed closer. Dren recalculated. Kyros accelerated.

But Vandros had changed the calculus. He moved unpredictably, exploiting micro-delays, feeding false variables. Every shot fired into rubble, every feint, every drag of debris was a calculated misdirection.

A suppressed bolt zipped past his ear — Darros’ turret adjusting — but Vandros was already gone, rolling into a shadowed corridor. Nanael blocked sightlines, Cedric drew attention, Kerubiel guided the exit. The hunters recalculated, but the flame had already moved.

From above, Dren’s visor flickered. The probability matrix… shifting. Nonzero variables growing.

Vandros reached the edge of the plaza, eyes scanning rapidly. One final obstacle: a collapsed overhang that would force the apex into a single line if they pursued directly. He gritted his teeth, heart hammering.

“Now,” he whispered.

He sprinted, low, toward the overhang. Nanael and Cedric mirrored him, and Kerubiel signaled subtly.

Darros tilted his head. Predictable. He moves to the expected path.

Morthus’ blade arced. Talon’s sigils flared faintly. Vane adjusted position. Dren recalculated. Kyros flexed.

And Vandros did the unpredicted. He vaulted over rubble to the flank, not the corridor. The apex were caught in micro-adjustments, their timing disrupted by a single spark’s audacity.

Vandros’ bolter barked, suppressive fire scattered sensors, and a volley of dust, debris, and false targets threw the apex Hunters’ perfect calculations into disarray.

Darros’ golden fingers flexed. Impressive. Yet temporary.

Vandros ducked into a shadowed alcove, heart pounding. The hunters circled, unsure, their precision tested by unpredictability. For the first time, Vandros had shifted from prey to variable. The flame was no longer simply surviving — it was shaping the equation.

Cedric whispered: “We’ve broken their rhythm. Push forward.”

Vandros nodded, teeth clenched. Every step now was an assertion. Every breath is a declaration: I am the spark. I am the flame. I will endure.

Above, the apex Hunters paused, golden, crimson, shadowed, calculating eyes narrowing. The lesson had evolved. Vandros was no longer just to be observed. He was to be countered. And that made him dangerous.

The chase had entered a new phase. The spark had become rebellion.

Vandros’ breath came in sharp, controlled bursts. Every step through the ruins of Ancient Terra was measured, precisely, a dance of survival honed by the apex Hunters themselves. But now, the roles are shifting. The spark was no longer just prey — it was predator in thought, in strategy, in spirit.

Cedric and Nanael flanked him silently, guiding from the shadows. Kerubiel hovered above, wings flickering faintly, tracking every motion. The protected Primaris were his shield — subtle, invisible, perfect.

Above, the apex Hunters observed, golden, crimson, shadowed, calculating — unaware that the calculus had already shifted.

Darros’ golden visor flared as he scanned the corridors. Timing, spacing, angles… all previously predictable, now defied. Fascinating.

Morthus’ crimson blade cut the air in ritual arcs. Discipline challenged. Curiosity… tinged with irritation.

Talon’s crimson eyes narrowed. Pain instructs, fear guides… but this spark is… bold. Too bold.

Vane moved through shadows, monofilament humming softly. Patience… tested.

Dren recalculated probabilities at unprecedented speed. Variable… highly anomalous.

Kyros flexed, hoverbike coiled, ready to intercept.

Vandros struck first. Not with brute force, but with cunning. A controlled volley of bolt rounds ricocheted from fractured walls, forcing Darros and Morthus to reposition. Suppressive fire, yes — but each shot had been calculated to mislead, to manipulate, to create opportunity.

He darted into a narrow alley, dragging debris and triggering minor collapses behind him. Suppression became obstruction, fear became confusion.

Talon’s eyes flared crimson. Calculated terror… redirected. Unexpectedly.

Vandros pressed forward, weaving through shattered corridors with Cedric and Nanael silently guiding him. He reached an elevated position, a vantage point the Hunters had overlooked. From here, the tables turned.

Vane appeared in shadow below, ready to strike — and Vandros was ready. A trap set: a cable snapped, a beam dropped, narrowly missing the monofilament blade and forcing Vane into retreat.

Dren’s visor flickered. Probability… reduced. Error margins expanding.

Kyros surged along the ridge, chainblade humming — only to find his path blocked by a collapsed arch Vandros had rigged. The spark anticipated every angle, every approach.

Darros’ golden fingers flexed. Patience. Observation continues. Yet the spark… adapts. Adjusts. Learns.

Morthus’ blade cut the air in frustration, ceremonial arcs now disrupted by the spark’s improvisation. Discipline is tested, fire flickers.

Talon murmured, voice low, almost reverent: “The lesson… resists.”

Vandros exhaled, chest heaving, bolter steady, eyes blazing. One spark — yes, he was alone, but now, he was initiative. He had learned the calculus. And he was beginning to write his own equations.

Cedric whispered: “Now. We’ve guided him this far. Now he takes the first real strike.”

With a swift motion, Vandros triggered a series of minor traps along the corridor — suppressive, blinding, disorienting — each designed to target the apex Hunters’ expectations. Darros recalculated. Morthus adjusted. Vane shifted. Kyros twisted along the ridge. Dren spun probability matrices faster than ever. Talon… simply watched, intrigued.

The spark had become fire.

And now, it was beginning to burn back.

“Killing us would mark you as traitors,” Dren said coldly, “We are of the Alliance.”

Vandros’ eyes narrowed beneath his visor. “I am no traitor. I am the spark you failed to extinguish.”

Cedric’s hand flicked toward a shadowed pillar, signaling caution. Nanael’s wings shimmered faintly, ready to shield. Kerubiel hovered closer, scanning from above.

Dren’s voice was precise, clinical, but there was a hint of unease beneath it. “Your actions defy protocol. Your survival is… anomalous.”

“Anomalous,” Vandros repeated, teeth gritted. “Maybe. But right now, I dictate the variables.”

He stepped forward, bolter aimed at a weak point in Kyros’ line. Sparks flew from an overhead cable as a trap triggered, forcing the hoverbike to swerve violently. Kyros cursed under his breath, recalculating, slowing his advance.

Talon’s crimson eyes followed Vandros’ motion like a hawk, but the sigils beneath him flickered uncertainly. Every feint, every drag of debris, every suppressed shot was a misdirection — a challenge he hadn’t anticipated.

Morthus’ blade cut the air in frustration. “You twist the lessons we gave you,” he hissed. “Discipline… is everything!”

“And yet,” Vandros said, rolling to the side, “discipline without adaptation dies in the fire.”

Vane hissed, lunging from shadow with the monofilament. Vandros dropped behind a fallen spire, dragging it into the blade’s path. Sparks flew. Vane faltered, misjudged, and stumbled — a split-second opening Vandros exploited instantly.

Darros’ golden visor flared, analyzing. “Impressive. Dangerous. Yet temporary.”

Vandros smirked under his helmet, bolter thumping rhythmically. “Temporary? Maybe. But right now, it’s enough to survive. To fight. To burn.”

Cedric and Nanael mirrored him, silent and lethal, guiding every step, covering every angle. Kerubiel’s presence above was a whisper of control, unseen but undeniable. The apex Hunters had trained him to fear every shadow. Now he used that fear as a weapon against them.

The plaza shook with small collapses, dust spiraling into the air. Vandros pivoted, fired, and the hunters’ carefully measured rhythm fractured. Darros, Morthus, Talon, Vane, Dren, and Kyros — apex predators — were reacting to the spark, not the other way around.

And Vandros knew it.

He exhaled slowly. I am the flame now.

Every miscalculation they made fed his momentum. Every hesitation gave him room to advance. Every carefully predicted strike he deflected, ignored, or baited became an opportunity.

And the first real strike — the one Cedric had promised — was coming.

The twin banners of Ultramarine blue snapped in the wind as the vehicle disgorged its wounded passengers. Vandros stepped onto the stone concourse, Faeron half-dragged at his side. The chill of the air cut through them more sharply than any wound or exhaustion.

The bastion loomed, a fortress of reason and discipline. Resolute Light was a place where chaos could not penetrate, where the Codex was law. Or so Vandros thought.

“Keep moving,” he muttered to Faeron, though the words felt hollow. Both knew the truth: the Codex had not saved them before, and it might not save them now.

A squad of Ultramarines greeted them, nods perfunctory. They barely glanced at Vandros’ bloodied armor or Faeron’ trembling form. Discipline was everything here — even empathy was a distraction.

Then came the man who would redefine terror for them. Veteran Sergeant Pallas Dren.

He approached, armor gleaming in the light of the bastion, steps measured, eyes cold. Vandros sensed the predator immediately. Dren did not need to strike to intimidate — his aura calculated death like a chessboard, counting pieces before the game began.

“New arrivals,” Dren said, voice steady, flat. “I am your point of contact. You will follow my orders without hesitation. Understand?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Vandros said, voice tight.

Faeron shivered, silent.

They were led to the training grounds, a sunken courtyard with mock enemy fortifications. Dren surveyed the area with quiet satisfaction.

“Your mission: a sweep of the outer perimeter. Engage targets as they appear. Extraction will follow standard procedure.”

Vandros felt a flicker of unease. Something about the calm certainty in Dren’s tone made his skin crawl.

The squad moved out. At first, it seemed routine — a standard exercise. But as the walls closed around them, the “targets” became clear: friendly Primaris units waiting in ambush.

“Sergeant?” Vandros murmured over vox. “Are these… our own?”

Dren’s voice cut through the channel, cold and precise. “Sacrifice is necessary. You will learn from the losses of your brothers. Move forward.”

And then he pulled the extraction.

Vandros watched in horror as squad after squad — allies, not enemies — fell under fire. He tried to respond, tried to redirect Faeron, but the exits were sealed. Every move had been anticipated. Every choice calculated.

Hours blurred. Bullets tore through armor. Explosions shook the ground. Vandros and Faeron pressed themselves against shattered walls, every heartbeat a reminder of how carefully Dren had engineered this massacre.

Vandros dragged Faeron forward, dodging another volley of gunfire meant to cut them off. The screams of dying Primaris echoed in the courtyard, drowned by the explosion of a nearby mock turret.

“We can’t save them all,” Vandros whispered, voice trembling. “Just… just survive. Please.”

Faeron clung to him, nodding, eyes wide with terror. The horrors of Stone Flame and Prenumbra were alive again in their minds, amplified by the knowledge that this time, the enemy was their own.

By the end, only Vandros and Faeron stumbled through the shattered barricades, crawling into the night. Behind them, Dren’s calm voice echoed through the comms: “Learn from what remains. That is the Broken Code.”

They collapsed at the fortress’s edge, soaked in blood, breaths ragged. Vandros looked at his gauntlets, still streaked with the evidence of sacrifice.

Faeron panted beside him. “We… we survived… together.”

Corvin, the youngest, leaned heavily against them, eyes wide. “But… all the others…”

Vandros shook his head, bitter. “We live to fight another day. That is all we can do.”

Three survivors. One more than last time. But the weight of responsibility pressed down on Vandros’ shoulders like a boulder.

Above, the fortress loomed, a monument to order. Yet the lessons of Darros, Yure, and now Dren lingered, proving that no bastion, no Codex, no command could protect the Primaris from calculated cruelty.

Somewhere, the predators waited.

The ruined fortress on Ancient Terra groaned under the wind, dust and ash swirling over shattered battlements, this one was from before the Alliance between those Loyal to the Emperor and those Traitors had been agreed, a battle was fought here, before an agreement was struck. The Hunters circled silently, eyes sweeping the courtyard, every shadow, every fallen pillar, every faint movement accounted for.

Darros, golden armor gleaming in the dim sun, observed the small figures far below — Primaris soldiers, battered and terrified, moving with desperate coordination. Morthus, ceremonial blade in hand, stepped to the edge of a collapsed arch, scanning with ritualized precision. Talon’s robes fluttered faintly as he knelt, tracing sigils in the dust with his bolter. Vane melted through the shadows like a living stain, monofilament blade humming faintly. Dren’s visor tracked, recorded, calculated.

They had converged here, on Ancient Terra, not by chance. Supplies were sparse, lines tenuous, and yet the alliance — unlikely, tenuous, chaotic — had bound them together: Loyalist and former Chaos hunters, united only by the art of the hunt, the thrill of precision, and the certainty of their craft.

Darros’ golden hand rose, a silent signal. One by one, the others mirrored him. They were silent, but their intent was unanimous: the hunt was coordinated.

Below, Vandros and his small band moved through the ruins, carrying wounded and exhausted brothers. Each step, each stumble, each hesitant breath was being observed. The Hunters watched, assessing, measuring, determining not just who would fall, but who would endure.

Minutes stretched like centuries. Then, without a word, they began their unspoken vote — not by voice, but by glance, subtle gestures, the smallest tilt of a helm or shift of a gauntlet. Each hunter identified the one spark they deemed worthy: the one Primaris who had survived every previous engagement, who had shown courage, cunning, and stubborn endurance.

Every vote converged silently, unanimously. Vandros.

Darros’ gauntlet swept the air in a near-imperceptible nod. Morthus’ crimson lenses lingered on him, measuring, approving. Talon’s hand hovered over his ceremonial blade, then relaxed. Vane’s shadowed form shifted ever so slightly, acknowledging the choice. Dren’s visor glimmered, a quiet, mechanical confirmation of probability: Vandros alone would survive this convergence.

The decision was not mercy. It was calculus, a lesson, and inevitability. Vandros would carry the memory of the hunt — of what it meant to face perfection, discipline, and death — forward. The others would fall, but one flame would remain. One would remember.

Below, Vandros’ eyes scanned the ruins, unknowing. Petyr, Ryn, Vexeth, Lyren — all had been tested, all battered, but none had the spark the Hunters sought. Vandros dragged the injured, adjusted armor, counted steps — and in doing so, became the singular focus of every predator watching from above.

Darros smiled beneath his helm, a rare flicker of warmth for the inevitability of the hunt. “Let him carry the lesson,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Morthus raised his blade, a ceremonial gesture, tracing the air with centuries of ritualized intent. “One survives. One remembers. One will, to honor discipline, fire, and the Emperor.”

Talon’s crimson eyes scanned the courtyard, then softened slightly as they fell upon Vandros. “And the flame endures,” he murmured, voice barely audible, yet carrying across the stone and shadow.

“He has survived, where others have fallen before.” Vane whispers.

Vane shifted, ghostlike, closer to the edge, and allowed his monofilament blade to hum softly — not to kill, but to mark, to honor. Dren adjusted his visor, recording every movement, every heartbeat, every breath of the survivor.

Together, the five Hunters receded to their observation points, shadows among ruins, united in silent agreement. Vandros would live, but he would carry the lesson: the knowledge that perfection is absolute, the weight of fear, and the inevitability of hunters who never rest.

The wind tore across Ancient Terra, carrying the scent of scorched stone, ash, and incense. Somewhere far below, Vandros paused, unaware that the very hands of fate — five apex predators — had chosen him.

And as the Hunters vanished into the ruins, silent, patient, inevitable, the message was clear: one Primaris would survive… to remember, to endure, to teach.

The hunt was not over.

Vandros crouched behind a fractured wall, chest heaving, fingers digging into the scorched stone. The wind stung his face, carrying the scent of ash, iron, and something more — the subtle, oppressive presence of predators. His gut told him, even without seeing them: they were here. All of them.

Every step he had taken across Terra, every injured brother he had carried, every trap avoided — it had led to this moment. He felt it in the tautness of the air, the silence in the ruins. Eyes that were not his own traced him, calculated him. The Hunters. Five of them. And for some unfathomable reason, they had chosen him.

Alone, surrounded by the bodies of those who had fallen, Vandros’ mind raced. Relief flickered — he was alive — but it was laced with terror. He was the spark they had left unextinguished, the one flame meant to carry the lesson forward. The weight of their observation pressed against him, a silent verdict.

He glanced at Petyr, Lyren, Ryn, and Vexeth. All had survived, yet somehow, their presence felt secondary. He was the target, the lesson bearer. Every instinct screamed caution, every nerve screamed exhaustion, and yet he could not stop moving. Could not stop thinking. Could not allow the Hunters’ judgment to be realized in his failure.

A soft hiss of displaced air reached him — faint, imperceptible, but enough to make him stiffen. Somewhere in the ruins, shadows shifted. The Hunters were patient. The hunt never ended. And now, the calculus included him alone.

Vandros exhaled slowly, forcing his heart to settle. The weight of survival was not freedom; it was responsibility. One step, one breath, one decision at a time. That was all he could control. And if he endured, if he survived… he would carry their lesson and turn it back into strength.

He tightened his grip on his bolter, adjusted his cracked visor, and whispered to himself, a vow that echoed through the silent ruin:

“I will survive. I will endure. I will be the lesson they cannot forget.” He glowers, “I will do my best to ensure the others survive as well.”

Somewhere above, the Hunters waited. And Vandros, alone but unbroken, moved again.

Vandros pressed himself against the crumbling wall, heart hammering, eyes scanning the ruins above. Every instinct screamed caution, every nerve was raw with the awareness of the Hunters’ silent calculus. 

He knew the weight he carried was more than memory — it was responsibility. Petyr, Ryn, Vexeth, Lyren… they were vulnerable, wounded, exhausted. One misstep, one hesitation, and the apex predators watching from the shadows would strike. His mind raced, plotting routes, contingencies, and distractions. 

He tried not to look at the others. Twenty had entered the pool. One had walked out.

Every ripple of the vehicle’s motion reminded him of drowning. Every breath reminded him of the last breath Reman or Tarkel had taken beneath the water.

Belon’s voice whispered in his memory: Stay with me! Move! Then silence.

Vandros tightened his grip on the worn leather strap of his seat. His eyes burned. Not from tears — Astartes did not weep. But from something heavier. A weight that gnawed at his soul.

The vehicle’s motions stopped on black basalt stone. Towering walls loomed ahead, carved with winged swords and shrouded angels. Fort Prenumbra. The bastion of the Unforgiven.

The escorting Chaplain intoned, “Your next crucible awaits. You will be remade.”

The chamber they were marched into was nothing like the halls of Stone Flame. Here there was no fire, no banners, no warmth. The walls were slabs of obsidian, veined with faint green light that seemed to pulse like veins beneath skin.

At the far end, a figure stood. Tall, robed, armored in bone and midnight. His psychic hood crowned his skull like a halo of shadow. His eyes burned faintly green.

Chief Librarian Kalthan Yure.

Vandros felt the psychic pressure before Yure spoke — a weight pressing down on his thoughts, a hand closing over the shape of his very self.

“Primaris,” Yure said softly. His voice was velvet, but beneath it, there was iron and razors. “You carry fear. Doubt. Fracture. You were born imperfect, engineered by Guilliman’s haste and Cawl’s arrogance.”

He stepped forward. His gaze locked onto Vandros, and the world seemed to tilt.

“You survived the fire. You survived stone. But survival is not clarity. Survival is… noise.”

Vandros staggered back half a step, helm clattering from his hands to the floor. His teeth clenched against the pressure in his mind. Do not yield. Do not break.

The other Primaris recruits — some fresh from other trials, some pale survivors like him — began to cry out. One dropped to his knees, clawing at his helm as though trying to tear it off. Another stood stock still, eyes glassy, lips moving without sound.

Yure extended his hand. The kneeling Primaris went silent. His eyes turned dull. He rose to his feet, posture perfect, expression blank. His personality — gone. A shell remained.

Yure smiled faintly. “See how clarity is achieved? No more fear. No more doubt. No more noise.”

The next hours blurred into nightmare. Vandros fought to hold himself together as Yure moved among them, peeling away layers of mind like a butcher slicing flesh from bone.

Memories flickered — his home world, his brothers, the pool, Reman’s laughter — all clawed at by invisible fingers.

At times he screamed, though he tried not to. At times he found himself praying, though he had never been pious. At times he heard his squad’s voices whispering: Join us. It’s easier.

But every time, he clenched his teeth until his jaw ached and whispered the same word into the void: “No.”

One by one, his fellows fell. Some stood like statues, blank-eyed and obedient. Others writhed until their minds simply… stopped.

In the end, only Vandros and a younger Primaris named Faeron remained. Faeron was trembling, blood leaking from his nose, his eyes rolling as Yure pressed against his mind.

“Your dreams are weakness,” Yure whispered, almost kindly. “I can take them. Leave you clean. Leave you quiet.”

“No!” Faeron gasped, clutching his head. “I—I don’t want to forget—”

Vandros lunged, grabbing Faeron’ arm, hauling him back. “Stay with me! Fight him!”

Yure tilted his head. He regarded Vandros almost with curiosity. “You would defy me? Even after I have stripped the others?”

Vandros snarled, “Better to die whole than live hollow.”

For the first time, Yure’s smile faltered. A flicker of annoyance — perhaps even surprise — crossed his face.

The psychic pressure wavered, just for a heartbeat. Enough for Vandros to drag Faeron out of the chamber, his body half-dead from strain.

Behind them, Yure’s voice echoed, soft as silk and sharp as knives: “You will not escape clarity forever, Vandros. I will find you again. And when I do, I will peel you open, layer by layer, until you beg me for silence.”

The gates of Fort Prenumbra slammed shut behind them. Vandros staggered into the cold air, Faeron collapsing at his side, half-conscious but alive.

One survivor. Out of dozens. Again.

Vandros stared at his blood-streaked gauntlets, trembling. First the pool, now the shadows. How many more would he lose?

Faeron stirred, whispering brokenly. “You… you saved me.”

Vandros shook his head, bitter. “No. I just refused to let him take us both.”

Above, the night sky of Ancient Terra stretched black and endless. Somewhere, Darros’ golden smile still lingered. Somewhere, Yure waited in the dark, patient as a spider.