The forest was silent except for the soft clink of metal dragging over stone and root.

Twelve-year-old Luthar walked alone under the twisted trees, his crimson apprentice robes brushing against bark and ash-flecked ferns. In his small hands—or rather, trailing behind him—was a weapon almost his own size: a long-handled chain-axe, its serrated teeth idle but heavy, leaving small gouges in the soil as he dragged it.

A faint hum of binaric prayer left his lips, the kind of tune a Tech-Priest might use to soothe a restless machine-spirit. To anyone else, the sight of a child wandering the deep forest with a weapon meant for war would have been unsettling. For Luthar, it was simply logical procedure.

That morning, someone have told him "Something's wrong in the forest. Investigate, and be rewarded."

Luthar didn't need more. Machine-spirits in the local outpost had also reported minor anomalies in signal patterns. It was enough to warrant inspection.

He walked deeper into the forest, his remaining eye scanning the path ahead. He didn't notice the subtle etchings on the trees, or the rust-colored stains on the ground, or the way the air vibrated with a faint wrongness that would have made a senior acolyte vomit.

The system that shielded him from corruption—the "gift" that kept the warp at bay—also blinded him to it.

To Luthar, the forest was simply quiet. Empty. Peaceful.

The chain-axe clinked behind him.

A branch snapped to his left. He paused, tilting his head, seeing nothing unusual. He continued walking.

Above him, something watched.

A low whine broke the stillness—not an animal, not the wind. Mechanical, thin and distorted, like a cog scraping against an unaligned gear. His mechadendrite twitched instinctively, scanning for source signals.

No return.

He lifted his chain-axe, the teeth rattling softly, eager.

Another sound followed. A whisper—too soft to understand—slid through the trees. Then another. And another.

To any other initiate of the Mechanicus, the forest would have been screaming. Faint sigils of the Dark Mechanicum glimmered on tree trunks. Oily shadows slid out of sight. Reality warped at the edges.

To Luthar, it was just… quiet.

He took one more step—

CLANG.

The ground snapped open beneath him. A crude pitfall yawned at his feet, lined with jagged metal debris and half-buried spikes.

Luthar reacted instantly. His chain-axe hooked the pit's edge, and with a grunt, he swung his small frame onto the other side. His mechadendrite scraped sparks as it braced against a tree.

The forest erupted.

A figure stepped from behind the trees—tall, cloaked, face hidden by a welded mask of brass and bone. Jagged tubing pulsed across its arms like veins, feeding a humming weapon clutched in one hand.

Luthar tilted his head, voice soft with curiosity.

"Unregistered pattern…"

The weapon screeched. A lance of green energy tore through the air. Which He never saw it. Pain exploded in his left eye, warm blood running down his cheek.

He staggered but didn't scream, blinking through the blur as his fingers tightened on the chain-axe.

The heretek raised its weapon again.

Luthar moved.

The chain-axe roared to life, teeth spinning with a vicious vrrrrrr, sparks flying as they bit into a nearby tree. He swung in a brutal arc, forcing the heretek back a step.

Movement to his flank. Two… three… maybe four silhouettes.

Luthar's single eye darted through the treeline. His armour's sensors flickered, struggling to track the corrupted machine-spirits. His "gift" that shielded his soul now left him blind.

Four hereteks emerged. Bent, augmented, and wrong. Rusted tubes pumped foul liquids through scarred flesh. Servo-limbs twitched in erratic patterns. Masks of bone and copper wire hid their faces, eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.

The first lunged.

Luthar swung. The chain-axe snarled, teeth catching on the heretek's shoulder. Sparks and ichor showered the ground as metal bit flesh. The machine howled in distorted feedback.

Another beam hissed past his ear, searing a tree. He dropped to the ground and rolled, mechadendrite lashing out to hurl a metal rod at the shooter. The impact staggered it just enough.

He charged. The chain-axe chewed through tubing and wire. Hot fluids sprayed across his robe, sizzling against protective oils.

The third came from behind.

A heavy blow smashed into his shoulder, sending him sprawling. His head rang. His injured eye throbbed like a burning coal.

A shadow loomed, blade descending—

CLANG!

A mechadendrite intercepted, barely deflecting the strike. Luthar twisted and swung upward in desperation.

VrrrrRRR!

The teeth bit into the heretek's torso. Sparks and viscera burst as corrupted implants failed. It collapsed in a hissing heap.

The last two hesitated only for a heartbeat. Then their bodies shuddered. Symbols across their torsos glowed faintly—a sick light Luthar couldn't see.

His auspex pinged a sudden power spike.

"…Self-destruct," he muttered.

The first explosion thudded rather than boomed, designed to shred without igniting the forest. The shockwave lifted him and flung him into a tree. His chain-axe tumbled away.

The second went off a heartbeat later.

He was glad he have been always cautious and wearing Flame-proof robes and the armor inside his robes but it was not enough because he was not smart enough to realise it was a trap for him. 

Within the few seconds of explosion Darkness took him.

When Luthar awoke, he smelled antiseptic and oil. Comforting. Familiar.

The ceiling above was ribbed metal—an Imperial field medicae tent.

"—he's awake."

Boots approached. "Stay still. Eye trauma, fractured shoulder, multiple lacerations. It's a blessing you're still breathing."

A figure in officer's carapace leaned over him, white cloak bearing the crest of House Veylan—his family.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Dravik," the man said grimly. "Your father ordered a full search when your signal went dark. Half the local PDF is still sweeping that forest."

Luthar's throat rasped. A medicae offered water. After a long sip, he spoke.

"…just few weird peoples."

Dravik's jaw tightened. "Three bodies, barely recognizable. Devices we've never seen. The area is… corrupted. Tech-priests said surviving that without turning…" He hesitated. "…unnatural."

If not for the family background instead of rescuing Luther he would have burn him down by now as the corruption in the local area was too much.

In truth, had Luthar been any other child—any nameless initiate without the weight of House Veylan behind him—protocol would have demanded immediate purging. A search party would not have been sent; a flamer team would. The forest itself would already be ash, and his body burned alongside it, a precaution against taint.

Luthar stayed silent. He had no intention of explaining his secret.

"…I require my chain-axe," he said finally.

A crate opened. The weapon lay beneath a white cloth, teeth caked in black ichor, motor scorched but intact. His hand twitched faintly as he grabbed for extra comfort.

"You'll can have it," Dravik said. "But I need you to go home. Your father is… concerned."

Luthar stared at the strip above, listening to the hum of generators and quiet medicae prayers.

After a long pause, he whispered the only thing on his mind:

"…My beautiful face is gone."

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