Chapter 4: The Lesser Blade
A boy of ten summers could never truly know what it meant to be a noble, much less a noble's fourth son. In the frozen fortress-spires of House Vaelix, Lucien's life was a dance of half-privilege and quiet neglect. He was nobility—but only just. He wore fine clothes, ate warm food, studied from ancient cogitators, and sparred in heated training chambers. But unlike his elder brothers, no one expected greatness from him.
That was a strange kind of freedom—and a strange kind of curse.
His father, Baron Orlec Vaelix, was a grim man of iron principle and iron eyebrows. His mother, Lady Revina, had died giving birth to Lucien—another reason his father seldom looked at him. The heir, Lord Edron, was everything Lucien was not: bold, ruthless, and already leading a PDF regiment by fifteen. The second son, Varik, trained for command. The third, Cyran, studied law and logistics. Lucien? He was the extra, the fourth blade in a three-sword set.
And yet, he survived. No, more than that—he thrived in silence.
Because, by now, Lucien had begun to notice things.
It wasn't the memories of his past life—those came and went like fog, shadows of a brighter world with cleaner air, glowing screens, and soft music in his ears. He remembered dying with music playing. The moment the truck hit. The mist. The cold. The ring, glowing faintly.
And then—rebirth.
But it wasn't just memory. It was instinct. And luck.
He could count the number of times he'd nearly fallen to injury—and hadn't. A wooden spar snapped the wrong way and missed his eye by a whisper. An old servitor trainer short-circuited just after he'd stepped away. A duel where his opponent slipped on a puddle of oil no one else had noticed.
By ten, Lucien had stopped doubting. Something was wrong—or right—with him.
Something watched over him. Or perhaps... cursed those who challenged him.
---
His swordmaster, old Ser Halgar, didn't care for oddities.
"You think luck will save you, boy?" he barked, hammering down a wooden blade on Lucien's guard. "Luck is the liar's god. Win with your hands, or don't bother winning!"
Lucien gasped, sweat running down his back as he parried—barely.
"I am trying!" he snapped, frustrated.
"Try harder. You're Vaelix blood. Even the fourth sons don't die crawling."
The words stung, but they were true. Lucien was growing stronger. His muscles ached less with each session. His footwork improved. He didn't have the raw power of Edron or the speed of Cyran, but he lasted—he adapted.
And when he made mistakes, fate seemed to bend. It wasn't obvious. But Ser Halgar's foot did slip just a little when he lunged too hard. Lucien's blade did find a seam in armor no one told him about. During an advanced mock battle, when Lucien was cornered by three elder students, a boltgun dummy misfired on their side. He wasn't hit. They were stunned.
He didn't understand it, but it felt like the world itself conspired to let him live. To let him win, barely.
But only when it mattered.
Only when danger was real.
---
At thirteen, the nobles of Vaelix began whispering of paths for the fourth son. A retainer in another house. A servant in the Officio Munitorum. Perhaps even a missionary acolyte.
But Lucien had already heard the call that all fourth sons dreaded and fathers loved to say:
"The Emperor needs bodies. You'll serve the Guard."
Lucien hadn't slept that night.
He stared at the glow-lamps above his bed. His breathing steady, but his mind in riot. He knew—even with faint memories from Earth, and what little scraps he'd gleaned from dataslates and idle conversations—how nightmarish the galaxy truly was.
The Imperium of Man was not a place of heroism. It was a furnace of suffering.
Millions died daily. Guardsmen were little more than meat for the grinder. To go to war was to accept death. It was no wonder his luck, his cheat, had been muted here. Warhammer was a death sentence to all but the chosen few.
And Lucien? He was no Space Marine. He was flesh and blood. A child in a galaxy of monsters.
But…
He was not alone.
When he whispered to the air, the ring glowed on his finger. Barely visible, hidden beneath skin. Its shimmer flared faintly in darkness.
Not a weapon. Not power. Not yet.
But something whispered back.
"Survive."
And Lucien knew then: he might not win. But he might not die. That was enough.
For now.