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Prologue
3 237 336.M41
Aeolus Majoris
Theseus Nebula, Ultima Segmentum
Classification: Death World
Bones break. Spittle flies. Blood drips. Icy gale laps up rolling sweat as it howls through bare branches. Bonfires circling the clearing burn brightly, illuminating gnarled trees against the dark backdrop of a vast forest. Underneath the flickering flames, tattoos adorning the natives' leathery skin squirm and dance on their own accord. The illusory motion adds to the cacophony of whooping and chanting ringing from a thousand throats. A dozen different accents, speaking half a dozen words for the same hue of shadow—but tonight, all lips cry out in shared excitement and joy.
Underneath the tree line, the savage denizens of Aeolus Majoris have gathered for the moot. Hundreds have come from all directions—the fur-wearing hill clans, lithe forest-tribesmen cloaked in spider silk, even shaven islanders who had sailed for months across the ice-bound ocean. They are no friendship or alliances among them. The tribes of Aeolus see each other as enemies and rivals who had been fighting for uncounted millennia. Such has been the way, for Aeolus' storm-stricken skies and dark forests with its nightmarish beasts have made resources scarce. Even now, dozens of spear-wielding sentries stand guard around the perimeter, anxiously squinting into the night sky for the telling sound of flapping wings. They had been handpicked from among the bravest warriors, each one a veteran of several hunts and tribal raids. Even a child knows that a man is as good as dead as soon as he hears the omen. A blood-talon can snatch and carry off its screaming prey in a blink of an eye.
But on this very night, even their bravery pales next to the tributes'.
Howling natives focus their attention to the center of the lit clearing, where more than a dozen youths are fighting tooth and nail. None has seen more than thirteen summers. Their bodies are already beginning to harden with muscles, their limbs lean and scarred by rough living. Bereft of weapons, these boys nevertheless make good use of martial skills every hunter must learn should he wish to survive into adulthood. Lightning jabs dislocate joints. Open-palmed blows paralyze windpipes. Carefully placed kicks to the groin send youths rolling on the ground in agony. A moment of inattention costs many, momentary arrogance in victories swiftly turning into ignominious defeats. The tributes give no quarter, utterly caught up in the savagery of the melee. Dozens of boys already lie sprawled on the ground unconscious, moaning, bleeding. Some of them do not move at all.
None of them flees. None of them begs for mercy. Boys scream in pain, but never in fear. To fear is to admit weakness, and every single one of these youths is determined not to desecrate this sacred moment with cravenness. Such has been the way, as it will be for centuries to come.
Time passes. Only a dozen youths remain unbowed, their bodies tough and minds cunning enough to survive the culling. Ten of them stand apart from one another, fists clenched and eyes roving about for any sudden movements. They are of diverse backgrounds, the toughest scions that Aeolus has to offer. Covered head to toe with bruises and swellings, the youths look grimmer and deadlier than most tribesmen in the audience. They are tired, but adrenaline-fueled blood keeps them alert and active. Many spit out broken teeth and bite their tongues to remain focused. No one shows any sign of giving up, despite their urge to collapse and let the darkness take them, just like dozens of their unfortunate fellow tributes.
Not especially before the dark-fathers.
The gathered tribesmen cheer for two remaining youths still locked in combat. Even the dullest can see it is painfully one-sided. One of the boys, a prematurely large brute whose shaven scalp marks him as an island-folk, relentlessly pummels his opponent with his bare fists. The boy's arms pump up and down with mechanical regularity. Half a dozen tributes had been defeated by his prodigious strength, with one sent into the afterlife. Trapped beneath his massive bulk, the opponent struggles valiantly even as rock-like knuckles reduce his visage into an almost unrecognizable mess. There is no escape. The islander is all muscle and mass, built up over years of rowing oars and throwing harpoons into murky waters. His opponent is a forest dweller whose lithe build might have served him in dense woods, but helps little in close combat. The young forest dweller retaliates with counterblows from his knees and elbows, but is slowing, the pain seemingly becoming too much to handle.
Inevitably, the young tribesman no longer stirs. After delivering two more blows to his prone enemy, the islander rises up and faces the crowd. The firelight reveals a long jagged scar running across his face, a product of a nearly fatal encounter with an iron-crab. With a feral grin, the youth pumps his fist into the sky and ululates a wordless cry. All along the margins, his clan-kin gleefully roars their approval, stamping feet and banging harpoons.
"Haakon! Haakon! Haakon!" The islanders shout.
Haakon laughs as he boisterously paces around the clearing, brandishing his wounds to all as if they were trophies. Other surviving tributes eye him warily, preparing themselves should this unruly islander decide to take on one of them for sport next.
Through the uproarious celebration, a quiet voice pierces through like a honed harpoon.
"I'm not finished yet, you stinking animal."
The crowd falls silent, their cheers rendered numb with surprise and disbelief. Haakon turns. His triumphant smile fades as he sees the young tribesman slowly rising back to his feet. He sports a bad limp, and fully half of his face is swollen. He is bruised and cut, with at least two broken ribs. For all his injuries, the young forest-folk stares at Haakon without fear. His eyes, the most brilliant shade of cerulean, glimmer in the dark.
With a savage roar, Haakon launches himself at his opponent and floors him with a right hook. The blow would have been enough to give a fully grown warrior something to think about. The youth rises back to his feet after a short pause, laboriously propping himself with his elbows before pushing himself up. Tottering, nearly at the end of his wits, and yet his eyes are defiant as ever.
Haakon growls in frustration, and lashes out two successive punches to the gut and to the head. This time, the force behind the attack is such that the youth's feet are swept out from under him. Haakon follows up with a brutal kick to the broken ribs, eliciting an agonized scream. Horrified gasps are heard from the crowd, watching and waiting with bated breath.
It takes a little longer for the young forest-folk to stop convulsing in pain. Just as before, he slowly rises back to his feet, inch by inch. Battered, bruised, but indomitable. Despite pain, the youth straightens himself before the incredulous islander. From the gathered audience, the forest tribesmen begin to sing. Uproarious merrymaking is not their way. Their hauntingly eerie songs, filled with soft vowels and melodies as sharp as wind, both serve to frighten their enemies in battle and invigorate their own warriors.
From the center, the young forest-folk dimly recognizes the tune as a line from the saga of their legendary chieftain, Agravaine. A traditional tribute to victorious warriors. Or to the bravest. Or those about to die in battle.
"Is that all you got?" His raspy voice is tired, yet full of spite.
"You must have a death wish, tree-humper," Haakon snarls, his accent as rocky and sharp as the island he was raised on. His fist draws back once more, eager to put down this upstart for good. "When you find yourself before the Sky-King, tell him it was Haakon, son of Jorundur, who sent you there!"
The youth closes his eyes. In truth, the darkness has never seemed so sweeter.
"Stop"
The voice is deep, so impossibly deep that it almost sounds like a rolling thunder, or a roaring ocean. The single word, merely with its authority and majesty, instantly paralyzes every man, woman, and child in the clearing. The youth opens his eyes. Haakon has frozen, his fist hanging impotently in the air. His anger is quickly ebbing away, comically replaced by terror.
From the edge of the clearing, a piece of shadow detaches itself and becomes a man. More than a man. Taller than the tallest barbarian, impossibly broad, clad in a suit of armor fit for a mythical hero. A long sword not even four men could lift is sheathed at his waist. Draped around his shoulders is a cloak fashioned from the leather of the biggest blood-talon anyone has ever seen. His visage is hidden behind a monstrous helm, its eye lenses glowing bright crimson. Any tribesman who stares into them would find himself suffering nightmares for months, his helpless soul haunted by a red-eyed deity.
Some wiser men who live beyond the skies of Aeolus would recognize the giant for who he really is. A scion of the so-called Sky-King. The ultimate warrior. The last bastion of humanity against the darker forces arrayed against it.
To the barbarians of Aeolus, the giant is a demigod, a brother amongst many demigods who protect them and keep order on this dangerous world.
He is a dark-father.
The giant strides into the clearing, impossibly fast for a being his size. No one, not even the sentries, had known he was watching. In a flurry of activity, the audience and the tributes fall to their knees, their heads bowed for the fear of meeting that terrible gaze. Haakon and the youth both follow suit.
"All of you," the dark-father speaks again in his metallic voice "Rise."
The barbarians obediently and cautiously scramble to their feet, many taking care to stare at their feet. The youth, gritting his teeth to brave the pain, suddenly realizes the dark-father standing in front of him. Staring at him.
"You."
Slowly, the youth cranes his neck to meet the giant's gaze. Far above him, the twin crimson lenses bore into eyes—perhaps into his soul even, judging his worth, weighing all his sins. Up close, the dark-father is even more frightening. His armor is the color of the blackest black, so dark that it seems to suck up all the light around him. The only exception are the large pauldrons, its rims colored crimson. Painted against the dark surface of his right pauldron is the ornate stylization of the world's apex predator, the blood-talon. For a brief moment, the youth forgets to breathe.
"You," the giant continues, "You have been beaten. You have lost, and you are in no condition to put up a fight. There is no hope of earning a victory here. And yet you continue to persist. Why?"
The silence is profound. Not even a creature is stirring, nor a wisp of wind. Even the fire seems to have forgotten how to crackle. The youth stares into those terrible crimson eyes, and finds his answer there.
"I wasn't finished yet, milord," he whispers.
For what it feels like eternity, the dark-father holds his gaze before finally turning away to face the awaiting crowd.
"All of you," the giant booms, "have once again proven your loyalty and dedication to the Imperium and to the Sky-King. The Crimson Wyverns are pleased by the strength and the spirit you have displayed here today! The bloodline of Aeolus' sons remains strong."
Relief rears its head from among the crowd. Tribal elders, having witnessed many of such a ritual in their lifetime, smile joyously, knowing what is to come.
"As of now, I call an end to this trial and accept these twelve tributes remaining standing. In time, if they be proven worthy, they shall join our ranks and aspire to the greatness of our primarch."
It takes time for the words to sink in. Slowly, the low murmuring builds into a raucous cheer, until the entire sky is ringing with cries of jubilation. The barbarians mingle freely, laughing and shouting—glad of having won approval before the dark-fathers. The tributes, wary and alert until the very end, finally give themselves into celebration or fall into deep sleep amongst their joyous kin. Drums and flutes are brought out, as are roasted meats and ales reserved for such an occasion.
The youth sags, his strength drained utterly. He does not register excitement or even apprehension. Perhaps in coming days, when his injuries have healed and his thoughts are coherent once more, will he revisit those sentiments properly.
From the throng, he catches sight of Haakon. The burly islander smirks, and gives him a loaded look before turning away to join his island clan. The youth nods, knowing full well what he means. There would be a reckoning between the two. A showdown to finish the fight started here. But not tonight, when both youths are in the thresholds of triumph. Perhaps someday in the future, if they finally secure their place amongst the dark-fathers in the stars beyond.
The youth already knows he will relish that second encounter.
Turning back, the youth realizes the giant is still looking at him.
"What is your name, aspirant?" he asks.
The youth stands tall, his brilliant cerulean eyes meeting that crimson gaze. There is no fear to be had in those eyes now. The dark-father sees only determination, hope, and a trace of uncertainty that will eventually be uprooted in training. The youth smiles faintly, knowing that he is ready to embrace his destiny.
"My name is Asahel."
