17

Scato could barely breathe. His skin was on fire, crawling, itching and damp. His palms were clammy and his mouth was dry. He gripped the cracked and faded leather padding of the seat he'd been ordered to remain in. Valoran, the towering warrior who had conveyed them to this giant star spanning fortress had gone, deep into the depths of the vaulted archways and hissing corridors. The room the young men had been deposited in was huge, bigger than any state chamber back on Athena, not even Ser Bardus, who over ruled Trojas in the Astartes stead, owned such a room. His strained eyes took in the deep shadows pooling at the apex of the archways lining the room at regular intervals. The shadows seemed to squirm and move and more than once his frightened brain convinced him that tiny red eyes were watching him. His once small mind had been rudely and instantly broadened to the fact he was very insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. He could see similarities in the architecture of the room to the bastion he had served his squire-hood in back on his home world below. It felt oddly familiar yet entirely alien.

Mikahil was scowling again, it seemed to be a permanent fixture upon his heavy brow. His small eyes held a cruel glint as he scanned the room and the others around him. They had been conveyed from the gargantuan bulk of the Thunder Hawk to this holding area. The men they had passed were either barded in red trimmed black body suits and strange visors, shouting and bawling in a strange tongue at each other, going about things Mikahil had no understanding of. He passed the hulking, silent knights of the Astartes, stomping their armoured forms down twists and turns in the mind numbingly vast hallways. Creatures, half man and half made of steel and brass seemed to glide along the floor, robed in deep crimson hoods, long snakes of iron snapping and clicking at the young men. Valoran had said something in his strange language and the creatures shambled on, casting longing gazes at the youths with cold, glittering eyes.

Mikahil shuddered at the recent memory, his scalp crawled under his hair and he scratched at it profusely. His eyes tracked back along the room, pulled from the deep shadows above him by motion to his right. Drummel Viskos, a low born, peasant, scum. The boy, skinny and gaunt compared to his perfect breeding was ungainly to his eyes and shouldn't even be speaking in his presence. He couldn't help the grunt that escaped his long thin lips as the boy came past, he curled his lip in a smirk as he thrust his supple booted foot forward, tripping the peon in a tangle of limbs.

Drummel wouldn't let the highborn scorn detract from the utter and overwhelming excitement and elation he felt. He could trip him all day, pummel him, whip him and bash his head in, it mattered not. This place, these people, he was among the stars! In the night sky, beside the glowing orb of the Great Fathers eye upon a floating city made of metal. His breathing came light and fast as he scrambled back into a standing position, he simply grinned in response to the nobles scowls, drawing a hiss of insults from the larger boy. He was touching everything, be it a chipped floor tile or a stained leather chair, one of four rows along the walls. He came past one of the two highborn and placed his hands against the cool metal of the wall, leaning forward to push his face against it. He grinned with a slack jaw and made a happy sigh as closed his eyes, this place, it felt beyond amazing.

"Nothing on Athena can compare to this, good riddance I say." He mumbled along the cold steel.

"Hold your filth, peasant."

There was a touch of breeze against his neck, the very faintest of feelings.

He spun, ducking low as the brutes fist crashed into the metal where his face had been pressed. The strike exacted a yowl of pain from the larger boy but Drummel was trusting his instincts from this point on. His hand jabbed out, extended fingers catching the other in the hollow of his throat. Mikahil reeled backwards, clutching at his throat as he sucked in air. The other highborn, the one with the injured arm was up out of his seat and shouting, pleading with them. The sand dweller just simply watched from his solitary corner of the room. Drummel flicked his hand down to a familiar spot upon his ankle, feeling his fingers curl tightly around the slim wrapped handle of a stiletto. It came free from his boot, metal flashing almost as much as the intent in the lowborn's eyes.

"Enough."

The voice boomed around the room, crashing between the archways and stopping them all in their motions. Mikahil glared about him with a strained face, rubbing his throat. Scato checked himself, turning in shock to face the speaker. Drummel kept himself low, his fingers flexing around the knife. Srala, the sand dweller simply watched, a tight small smile playing his dark lips.

"There will be none of this under my tutelage. The blade, now."

The voice suddenly became stark reality as a figure detached itself from the deep shadows in the corner of the wide room. The man they now looked at was different to the handsome might of Valoran, the Astartes they liaised with back upon the planet. Where Valoran was broad and powerful this man was sleek and ghostly, like a phantom. His body was snug within a skin tight black body glove, it highlighted the curves and ripples of his body beneath. Plating his shoulders and chest were interlocking plates of crimson armour, scorched and gouged along the shoulders, a small chipped crater above where the youth's presumed his heart would be. His features were dagger sharp, his eyes two slits of red, missing nothing. His hair was a ragged mop of black strands, a thick black leather strap with strange viewing glasses pushing the mane of hair up from his face. The man held out an arm, the muscles under his skin moving like pistons, his gloved fingers came forward, palm up.

Drummel flickered his quick eyes from this phantom to the highborn staring hatred right into him. He made his choice and surrendered the thin blade into the others hand. As he stood, he came to fully appreciate just how talented this new comer was. Drummel had grown up in the under city of Trojas, in the dark alleys and stinking meat houses away from the protected boulevards of the highborn. Down there, men made their own laws and every day was a blessing if you awoke still breathing. His ability to notice the unnoticeable had been shaken. This man, bigger than all of them and wearing armour at that, had managed to evade their senses entirely.

The man curled his fingers around the dagger, stowing it within one of the many large black boxes secured to his wide kidney belt. He passed his blood red eyes over the assembled boys and gestured to the row of seating directly opposite him. Drummel and Srala moved quick, Scato hesitated and Mikahil glared.

"Sit."

The phantom insisted. So did the hand he laid upon gnarled wood carved grip extending from one of the odd shaped boxes upon his belt. Mikahil considered his options and chose to seat himself away from the others. Scato let out a held breathe and eased himself alongside the low born. The phantom before them nodded and placed both hands upon his strong hips.

" I am Squire Gellus, tasked by Master Tiberius to put you in your place. I am now in command of you and all of your thoughts and actions. For all intent and purpose, you are mine. "

The boys kept silent, all except Mikahil, who stood, defiance in his eyes.

"I am of house Kanatch, I demand to be afforded station above such...lesser people."

He turned to gesture towards the others and when he looked back, all he saw was red. The Squire, this Gellus, had crossed the space between them in the blink of an eye, Mikahil could feel the skin of the man's nose pressing against his own. His voice was low, dangerous.

"You will sit, child and you will know your place amongst the equals beside you."

Mikahil opened his mouth, the words never came. He was suddenly twisted, finding himself facing the floor, his arms hauled up behind his back, pulled into an unnatural position. The pain was blinding and he struggled to breathe. In the space of second he had been completely disabled.

"This is not Athena, boy. You are lower than the warp rats infesting the engineering deck, boy. I afford them more credit than you. It seems even after enduring the trials set before you, you cannot count these boys as your brothers. I pity you, shitling. I pity you. "

He was released, crashing into the black and white checker tiles beneath him. His head reeling.

Squire Gellus stood before them as Mikahil peeled himself from the floor and threw himself down once more into his seat, sucking breath into his punished lungs. The man's eyes were hard, calculating and full of contempt.

"You are no longer highborn, you are no longer lowborn, nor a sand rat. You are all aspirants, chosen by Lord Valoran for the chance to become something more than a mere Athenian. You have the chance to become as mighty as those you honour and worship. You have the chance, to become Astartes."

That held them, sure enough. Valoran had only ever taught them they would become warriors to serve the Knights Vermillion. They assumed they would travel with the Knights, helping them vanquish their mythical enemies. To be appraised that they would in fact become Astartes, become like Valoran, silenced them and entirely chilled them to their soul.

Gellus curled his lip at their collective faces, revealing sharp, ivory fangs. His voice was little more than a savage growl.

"Yet first, you have to prove your worthy to pick the Ork shit from my boot."