Chapter : Whispered Miracles
Mud clung to his boots like wet cement as Lucien Artor Vale crouched in the shattered remains of an outpost wall. Rain had turned the field into a mire, and the air was thick with the tang of promethium and blood. Around him, the 87th Vendrian Infantry Regiment held a ragged line against a horde of heretic raiders—renegades from some distant forge world, armored in scrap-metal mockeries of Imperial design.
Lucien gripped his lasgun tighter. Thunder rolled above, but he felt it—that hum again, deep in his bones. That eerie vibration that wasn't sound, but presence. His luck had awakened.
The sergeant barked orders. "Vale! Flank left with Fireteam Marga. That cannon emplacement has to go quiet!"
"Aye," Lucien replied, heart hammering. He wasn't the fastest or strongest, but he had survived where others had fallen. People started to whisper. "Luck Vale," some called him. "Storm's Shadow," others murmured. But no one knew what he really was—not even Lucien.
As he moved with the fireteam through the ruins, the enemy autocannon ahead spat death. But something odd happened—again.
A shell meant to obliterate their cover struck a wall a meter above, embedding without detonation. Another round veered just enough to clip an empty barrel instead of Marga's head. The others chalked it up to nerves, misfires, and sheer chance. Lucien knew better.
His luck wasn't just saving him—it was eating theirs.
The gunner across the way suddenly jammed his belt-feed. Panicked, the heretic yanked too hard. The mechanism tore free and wrapped around his neck like a noose. He fell, kicking, then still.
Lucien froze. He hadn't aimed, hadn't even fired. Yet again… fate twisted.
Marga stared. "Throne… you see that?"
Lucien nodded grimly. "Yeah. Come on. We push now."
They stormed the position. Lucien barely aimed—his shots found gaps in armor, dropped targets who had the drop on others. One traitor charged him with a roaring chainblade. Lucien stumbled, slipped on wet stone—and the traitor tripped over his fallen comrade's arm, impaling himself on his own weapon.
By the time the emplacement fell, Lucien was panting, soaked in grime, but unharmed.
And people looked at him differently.
---
Back at camp, the medicae tents overflowed. Dozens wounded, but Lucien was untouched—again. He sat alone, rain washing the blood from his coat. The ring on his finger, unseen by others, pulsed faintly beneath the glove. It wasn't gold or silver, but a tarnished iron band, etched in alien sigils he could never fully understand.
You are growing, it seemed to whisper.
He remembered dying—headphones on, music blaring, unaware of the truck that crushed him. He remembered darkness… then waking in this cursed universe, in a child's body, on a harsh world ruled by the Emperor's silence. Born as Lucien Artor Vale, fourth son of a lesser noble house, obligated to serve but destined for death… or something stranger.
Now, his power—the ring's gift—had mutated. The more dangerous the enemy, the stronger his survival instinct. But it wasn't random. It was theft. Their bad luck fed him. Their missteps became his miracles.
But it scared him.
---
Later that night, Commander Selvan called him to the command tent. Tactical maps covered the tables, lit by dim lumen-strips.
"You've got a record, Vale," Selvan said, not looking up. "No wounds. High efficiency. Near-perfect survivability in meatgrinder deployments."
Lucien stood still. "I serve the Emperor, sir."
Selvan eyed him. "Don't be modest. Men talk. Some think you're charmed. Others think you're just damn good. But I'm watching, Vale."
A pause.
"Keep this up, and you'll rise. Fail me, and you'll burn with the rest."
Lucien saluted and left. His heart pounded. He didn't want fame. He didn't want command. He just wanted to live. But the galaxy didn't care what he wanted. It only gave chances to those who took them—or those who bent the odds.
---
In the dark of his bunk, Lucien stared at the ceiling. The others were asleep. He turned the ring beneath his glove, feeling it hum softly.
You are the shadow on the dice, it whispered in memory.
For now, his secret was safe. But with every battle, every close call, his legend grew.
And someday, someone would come to find the truth behind the whispered name: Luck's Shadow.