Peter and Anthony stood on the beach, watching the time displayed inside their helmets as they waited for the final candidates to arrive.
It was already dusk on the last day, and he wouldn't accept anyone who was late. That was why this trial was so bloody and strict. The War Band had very few gene-seed, so they had to be rigorously selective.
Even after multiple rounds of screening, over a hundred people had still come to the island, where the Fortress Monastery was under construction. But they had only forty gene-seed, which meant that more than half of them were destined never to become Space Marines. The Apothecary brothers would screen them. The best option for those who failed was to become senior servants of the War Band; a worse fate was to be turned into Servitors.
Now he was waiting on the beach for the final group who could make it to the island—the only group to survive the storm.
Anthony couldn't help but marvel.
"Captain, this is incredible. With a population of fewer than three hundred thousand, the Lasidream City-State has contributed more than a third of the Neophytes. And their people make up only three percent of the total population, even counting the slaves."
Peter replied calmly.
"That's no surprise. Their excellent training and loyalty to one another helped them endure. How many people on the way here argued over how to divide water and food? How many fell back during fights because they were afraid of getting hurt, or turned back because they lacked the resolve and unity to press on? Almost none of the Lasidream people did that."
Just then, Peter finally spotted the raft far in the distance. He could see it thanks to one of the Astartes' modified organs: the occulobe.
This organ enhanced an Astartes' eyesight, allowing him to see farther and more clearly. It also let him see in dim light and made him more resistant to bright light, so he could recover quickly even after being hit by a flashbang. Peter, for instance, was staring straight at the setting sun, and its light didn't bother him at all.
Anthony spotted the three Neophytes too.
"Captain, there's only half an hour left. Unless they reach the beach before then, they'll be late. Those three have had it rough, getting caught in a storm—or maybe they're lucky to have survived one."
Peter replied:
"It doesn't matter. There's still time."
Though barely.
The two of them watched the distance as the three boys rowed desperately, fighting against the waves. With every effort, the raft drew a little closer to the beach.
They rowed frantically. Only twenty minutes remained. Their hands ached terribly. Then only ten minutes remained, and their arm muscles felt as though they were on fire. With just one minute left, they finally dragged themselves onto the sand, their limbs numb and weak, and gasped for breath. Then came the sound of heavy footsteps.
Peter looked at the three boys before him. His vox grille gave his voice a deep, altered timbre.
"You're late. Two minutes late."
The three looked up and saw a towering Iron Angel. His silver-gray armor gleamed in the golden light of the setting sun, making him look like a giant cast in pale gold.
Alexios used his oar to prop himself up and tried to explain.
"Lord Angel, we ran into a storm..."
"That's no excuse."
Peter cut him off.
Gorgias asked hesitantly, his voice trembling a little.
"Does that mean we've lost our chance?"
Peter looked at the three boys. He thought of the Primarch, and of Captain Crassus. In truth, they were only a minute and thirty-one seconds late. If they had jumped into the water and walked along the seabed, they would have counted as having reached the island.
Peter made his decision.
"I can give you a chance. The price is a corpse, a life. If two of you kill the third, the two survivors will get the places."
The three boys were stunned. But soon the two brothers exchanged glances. They were blood brothers; given any choice, they could never bring themselves to kill each other.
Gorgias, lying on the ground, quietly put his hand on the small knife at his waist, the one he used to clean fish. He knew he had little chance. They were all in the same condition, and the two facing him were Lasidream warriors. He had to protect himself.
Alexios challenged the Angel.
"We're comrades, brothers who have entrusted our lives to one another. How could we kill him?"
Peter answered without mercy.
"You're late. There has to be a punishment, doesn't there?"
"It shouldn't be like this! It shouldn't! The Angels I know are honorable, proud warriors—not traitors who stab their comrades in the back."
Alexios shouted at him. His parents and elders hadn't taught him this. You could be merciless to your enemies, but you must never betray your comrades.
That was why the Lasidream people, despite following a foreign faith, had stood for thousands of years on this land, with its most fertile fields and its mightiest city-state.
Peter could see that the two brothers had received much the same education and shared the same values. The only uncertainty left was the small, fair-haired boy.
"And what about you? What will you choose?"
Gorgias had already taken his hand away from the knife. He replied calmly.
"The priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus said they wanted to build ships of iron. Since I've already failed, I choose to become a sailor on an iron ship."
Peter nodded. The young man was very methodical. Whether it was his choice to enter the trial, his preparations beforehand, joining another group after his teammates died, or finding a fallback plan now that he'd failed at the final hurdle—he was at least more shrewd than that hunter with the axe.
"Good. You've passed the trial."
"What!"
The three of them were stunned.
"Our War Band is called the Forged Steel Brethren, and our battle cry is 'Into the Furnace, All Forged into Steel.' I don't want our commanders to treat our brothers as tools. I want us all to enter the furnace like ore, melt together, and emerge as forged steel. We have no fleet and no supplies. All we have is one another—all we have is our brothers."
"That's why we will never accept anyone into the War Band who is willing to abandon a comrade. Countless warriors in the Legion died because of that."
Alexios was astonished by what he heard.
"The Legion? Countless warriors? You mean there are many more warriors like you—hundreds, thousands of them?"
He couldn't even begin to imagine what it would look like to see hundreds or thousands of warriors clad in armor like that, fighting on a battlefield.
Peter replied:
"Hundreds of thousands, even millions. Countless Astartes died that way. Many of them had earned great honors, yet died without recognition."
Gorgias was captivated too. He asked, fascinated:
"What kind of war would need a million warriors like you?"
"Battles among the stars. A game played by the Four Chaos Gods. A war that will decide the fate of all humanity."
Lycurgus and Gorgias blurted out in unison:
"By Athena's owl!"
"My Emperor!"
Before you continue