Chapter 25: Whispers in the Smoke
The air stank of ozone and blood.
Lucien Artor Vale stood at the edge of a smoking trench, the sky above painted in streaks of orange and black. The battlefield groaned like a wounded beast, filled with dying men and sputtering engines. His lasgun, still hot from firing, hummed softly in his hands. The broken world of Calthis Minor writhed under the thunder of war, a doomed planet caught in the teeth of an Ork Waaagh!
Lucien wiped blood from his brow. Some of it wasn't his. Most of it, in fact. His squad—what was left of it—had retreated to a ridgeline east of the ruins, using the broken bones of a manufactorum for cover. The Orks had overrun the trenches at dawn, their guttural roars pounding louder than the artillery.
Yet he was still alive.
That was starting to draw attention.
"Vale!" Sergeant Brennek shouted from below, waving him down. "Move your arse before they spot you again!"
Lucien ducked and slid down the embankment, joining the survivors. Brennek was bleeding from a torn shoulder pauldron, but still barked like a Cadian hound. Six others huddled in the ruins, some too wounded to shoot, others wide-eyed with the dazed stare of men who had stared at the Abyss and blinked first.
He wasn't sure if they noticed yet. How the bullets seemed to miss him. How the Orks charging his position slipped on loose rock or suddenly took a stray shell to the face. He didn't talk about it. Not even to the Commissar who had passed through three days earlier and lingered just a little too long near him.
The ring on his finger—still dull, still silent—thrummed ever so faintly, like a second heartbeat.
Another artillery shell howled overhead, landing far too close.
Everyone ducked. Shrapnel bit the ground.
Except Lucien, who had stood to look for their next fallback point. When the dust cleared, he remained untouched, the blast cratering the dirt a meter from his boots.
They all stared at him.
Corporal Jaro was the first to speak. "That... that should have killed you."
Lucien shrugged. "Guess it wasn't my time."
Someone laughed. It sounded hysterical.
But in the back of their minds, they started whispering. Not aloud. Not yet. But the whispers would come.
---
Two hours later, Lucien sat alone atop the manufactorum ruins, watching the Ork lines shift in the valley. The greenskins were gathering again, prepping for another charge. A real one this time. Enough bodies to drown them all.
He gripped the ring and whispered low. "If you have any more miracles, now's the time."
As if in answer, an Ork Trukk hit a buried landmine, exploding in a gout of green flame and shrieking metal. It took two Nobz with it. Lucien didn't smile. Not anymore. He just took it as another tally.
Below, Brennek and the others readied weapons. The fallback line was gone. No more tricks. No more chances.
He climbed down, speaking calmly. "Hold your fire until they cross the wire. Then aim for the Nobz. We break their momentum, we might just make it."
Brennek nodded grimly. "Luck better be with us."
Lucien didn't reply. He simply looked out across the field as the Orks screamed and charged, a tidal wave of green death.
He breathed in, heart calm, focus sharp.
Then the ring pulsed.
The world seemed to slow.
A Nob tripped on a discarded helmet and was trampled by its own Boyz.
A stray round sparked an Ork ammo dump, turning a flank into a firestorm.
A collapsing tower fell at just the right moment to break the enemy line.
And Lucien ran forward, blade drawn, lasgun slung, roaring a cry of defiance.
Behind him, the squad followed.
In that moment, they didn't see a frightened noble son, or a lucky survivor.
They saw a warrior.
A legend beginning.
The whispers were no longer whispers.
They had a name now:
The Shadow of Luck.
And it had just stepped into the fire.