Chapter 26: Threads of Fate
The aftermath of the skirmish still lingered in the air—smoke curling into the blood-red sky, the scent of scorched ceramite and burnt flesh clinging to every breath. Lucien Artor Vale stood among the rubble, his lasgun slung loosely in one hand, eyes scanning the horizon where the last xenos had fallen.
The soldiers around him—ragged, limping, wounded—were alive. That fact alone defied every statistical projection, every field manual, and every grim tale passed through the barracks of the Astra Militarum.
"Sir…" one of his men, Corporal Demos, approached him, limping with a bloodied bandage over his thigh. "Permission to speak freely?"
Lucien gave a short nod, brushing soot off his coat.
"We should all be dead. That ambush… it was a slaughter line. And yet… half of First Squad made it out. I saw Laslo catch a grenade to the chest. It didn't even detonate. Just… rolled off. And Jens lost his hand—should've bled out—but he's still breathing. That's not normal."
Lucien met Demos's gaze, steady and unreadable. Inside, he knew the truth. His luck—his cursed and blessed gift—was growing stronger.
What had once been subtle nudges of fortune had become rippling waves. Las-rounds missed him more often now, enemy guns jammed, mines failed to detonate. But it wasn't just about him anymore. His proximity now seemed to ripple out to those around him—men who should have died instead survived, miraculously spared by improbable outcomes. Meanwhile, the enemy suffered freak malfunctions, miscommunications, and sudden collapses of morale.
The tides of fate themselves were bending around him.
They called him the "Ghost Captain" now—not officially, of course, but whispered in foxholes and behind flakboard barricades. Rumors said he'd made a deal with the Emperor. Others said he carried a fragment of a Saint's soul. A few more, mostly guardsmen with dead eyes and trembling hands, muttered that he wasn't entirely human.
Lucien didn't correct any of them. Let the myths grow. In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, hope was rarer than ammunition.
That night, the commanding officer of the regiment—Colonel Dreyvus—called him into the command tent. The flap was drawn tight, guards posted at the entrance. Lucien ducked inside, greeted by the familiar scent of stale recaf and the hiss of a holo-map flickering with campaign zones.
"You made quite the miracle out there, Vale," Dreyvus grunted. "Not just yours. Third platoon survived where they shouldn't. Even that damned Ogryn survived a direct rocket."
Lucien kept his voice level. "We had good positioning, sir. Flanking maneuvers. Tight formations."
Dreyvus snorted. "And Throne bless your modesty, but that doesn't explain the reports. Even the medicae staff are calling it divine intervention."
He walked around the table and peered at Lucien with sharp eyes.
"Here's the thing, son. The men follow you. Not just because you get results. It's the way you carry yourself. Calm. Resolved. You look like a man who knows something they don't—and that makes people believe. I want that belief spread. I'm promoting you to Captain, effective immediately. You'll lead a full company next campaign."
Lucien blinked. "Sir… I'm honored, but…"
"But you're only nineteen, yes," Dreyvus cut him off. "And? You're already doing the job. Might as well give you the stripes to match."
That night, under a fractured moon, Lucien stood on the bluff overlooking the encampment. Wind stirred his coat, and the mysterious ring on his hand pulsed faintly against his skin—warm and ancient.
He had no grand ambition for glory. No lust for war. He wanted peace, still—the quiet life of a scholar, a farmer, a dreamer. But fate had woven a different path for him. In this galaxy of war and madness, he had been granted something rare: the power to survive.
No, not just to survive.
To lead.
In the days that followed, Lucien's company became something of a legend. Nicknamed "The Emperor's Fortune," his men survived against odds that broke hardened regiments. Their equipment failed less. Their morale soared. Even their wounded often stabilized from otherwise mortal injuries. Wherever Lucien led, death hesitated.
But so too did the enemy suffer.
A T'au sniper's scope cracked at the moment of firing. A Necron Phalanx stumbled over terrain and exposed a flank. Ork nobz tripped and crushed their own grots. These weren't coincidences—they were fractures in causality, wounds in reality itself.
Lucien knew. His power had grown. It wasn't luck anymore.
It was control.
And yet, even as his legend spread, so did whispers. Whispers that reached beyond the battlefield. Eyes in the Inquisition had taken notice. Some saw in him a saint. Others saw a heretic with powers unnatural.
Lucien remained unaware—for now.
But in the dark corridors of a distant Inquisitorial citadel, robed figures debated over a flickering image of the young noble-turned-savior. A file marked "Lucien Artor Vale – Designation: Subject Aurelius" lay open.
"Is he touched by the Emperor," one voice asked, "or is something darker guiding his fate?"
And as the flames of war grew brighter across the stars, Lucien stood at the edge of legend.
Unwilling hero.
Reluctant weapon.
Commander of the impossible.