Chapter 34: Whispers of the Unseen
The dust from the last skirmish had not yet settled when the regiment began moving again. Lucien Artor Vale, now called "Captain" more often than his name, rode at the front of the column atop a rugged Chimera, his once-pristine flak cloak stained with blood, dirt, and something far stranger. The soldiers behind him whispered tales not only of victory but of miracles.
It was not that they hadn't lost men. They had. But again and again, improbable things happened. Mortar shells misfired before landing. Lasblasts missed their marks by inches. Grenades rolled harmlessly away from squads. When Lucien entered a firefight, chaos unfolded for the enemy. Weapons jammed. Vox-casters failed. Enemy commanders were struck by stray shrapnel or spooked into retreats.
The men noticed. So did the officers.
Major Cassaris had called him in earlier that day, a gruff veteran with augmetic eyes and a tone like steel. "They say you walk with ghosts, Vale. That you're blessed or cursed. Which is it?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately. He merely offered a half-smile and said, "I just do my duty, sir."
It was a rehearsed line. One he'd learned to say instead of confessing that sometimes he, too, was unsure. The ring—always warm against his chest—seemed to pulse more often now. It had never spoken, never glowed, but in battle, he felt it: a subtle shift in the world, like threads tugging in his favor.
Still, not all eyes were trusting. Some men feared him. They called him "Luck's Shadow" when they thought he couldn't hear—an omen that death followed him but never claimed him.
Tonight, they camped near the ruins of a once-lofty hab block, now a collapsed jungle of steel and concrete. Fires crackled in the gloom. Lucien sat apart, cleaning his weapon and staring into the darkness. His mind wandered.
"You okay, Captain?" asked Jano, a young trooper with a missing ear and bandaged fingers.
Lucien nodded. "How's the hand?"
"Still attached. Guess that's lucky. Heh."
Lucien almost laughed. "Guess so."
Jano lingered, eyes darting nervously. "Sir, they say... some say we survive because of you. That the Emperor watches you. That He sends your luck to protect us."
Lucien looked at the boy—no, the soldier—and thought carefully. "If the Emperor is watching, then let's not disappoint Him."
It was the right thing to say. Jano smiled, nodded, and left with a little more hope in his step.
In truth, Lucien wasn't so sure it was the Emperor. He believed—tried to believe—but whatever force bent the odds in his favor, it didn't feel holy. It felt... personal. Like something had chosen him. Or bound itself to him.
Later that night, an agent arrived—no name, no rank, just a rosette and a sharp gaze. The regiment's officers met in hushed conversation.
Lucien was summoned.
Inside the command tent, the shadows deepened around the stranger's face. "Captain Vale," the voice was dry and measured, "we've reviewed the pattern of your deployments. Your survival record. Your... influence."
Lucien stood still. "Yes, sir."
"Do you believe yourself touched by the divine?"
A dangerous question. Lucien's heart pounded. "I believe in the Emperor."
The agent didn't blink. "Many do. Few leave such footprints in the fabric of fate."
Lucien said nothing.
"You're being watched," the agent said, then turned and vanished into the tent's shadows as if never there.
The following day, the march resumed. Lucien said nothing to the others. But inside, he felt it too. The weight. The eyes. The burden.
Yet with every step, the legend grew. And in the dying light, as they neared the next battlefield, his men whispered again:
The Captain is with us. The Emperor is with us.
Only Lucien knew how uncertain that truly was.