Luck's Shadow
Chapter 2: The Weight of Silence
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Silence is a useful weapon. Sharper than blades. Deadlier than lies.
That was one of the first things I learned as the fourth son of House Vale.
Not through teaching—no one bothered to explain things to the spare child. But in the pauses between words, in the sidelong glances from servants, in the way my older brothers stopped smiling when Father left the room.
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Noble life looked golden on the outside.
Our estate was perched high in Ferrix Hive-Spire Delta-9: obsidian walls, stained-glass windows, machine-priests in prayer-drones sweeping across balconies. Every inch proclaimed loyalty to the Omnissiah and the God-Emperor. But inside… the walls bled rust.
The noble houses of Ferrix weren't families.
They were armories.
Polished. Sharp. Dangerous.
And I was the last, least-used blade in the set.
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Brother Kaelen, the eldest, was everything a son should be: tall, sharp-jawed, and molded for command. He recited the Creed of the Omnissiah before he could walk.
Brother Alric, the second, was the hammer—built like a servitor, with fists that broke bone even during training. He laughed like a thunderclap and never smiled without teeth showing.
Taren, the third, was quieter. Soft-spoken, dangerous. He studied data-sorcery and poison mixes like other boys read battle-stories.
They all had purpose. Plans.
I was the spare.
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But spares can be sharp, too.
I didn't fight my brothers. I didn't compete for Father's attention. I listened. I learned.
I practiced silence until it fit like armor. Let them mock me. Let the House advisors dismiss me. It kept them from watching too closely.
Because sometimes, things happened when I was around.
Tiny cracks in fate.
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Taren once slipped a venom-needle under my plate at dinner.
He smiled when I ate it. Watched for signs.
The vial on his belt—his "antidote"—clinked quietly, waiting to be used. Waiting for me to beg.
I never did.
Because the vial shattered in his hand thirty minutes later. A freak accident. He tripped. On nothing.
I was fine. The toxin never took hold.
Taren was bedridden for two weeks. Infection. Nerve damage.
The servants called it karma.
I called it the ring.
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No one ever accused me openly. That wasn't how noble houses worked.
But after that, they watched me differently.
Not with fear. Not yet.
With curiosity.
And something colder.
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Years passed.
Lessons in history, combat, etiquette. I excelled just enough to be dismissed as "decent." Not enough to be seen as a threat.
But I watched everything. The gears of House Vale. The politics between forge-nobles and Mechanicus priests. The slow preparation for war.
Because at seventeen, your path is chosen for you.
And mine had already been written in fire.
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One day, I overheard Father speaking with a recruiter from the Imperial Guard.
My name was on the list.
"…fourth-born. Standard tithe. Best to send him with the 117th Ferrix Line. Cleansing duty in the Halo Zone. Minimal survival expectancy. Clears a slot. Makes room for Kaelen's marriage bid…"
I stood in the hallway. Listening.
Feeling nothing.
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But that night, something changed.
For the first time since I arrived in this world, I dreamed.
Not of Earth. Not of my old life.
But of the ring.
It floated above a battlefield of burning skies. Above a shattered planet. Soldiers dying in droves. But not me.
I walked untouched.
The ring spun slowly, casting sparks of impossible probability. Explosions missed me. Blades turned in mid-air. Enemies tripped on loose stones.
It wasn't mercy.
It was balance. The ring took luck from others… and gave it to me.
An exchange.
The more danger I faced, the stronger I became.
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I woke with cold sweat on my brow and the words of the Commissar in my dream still echoing in my ears:
> "You'll never win by strength, boy. But you'll outlive them all by sheer bastard luck."
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End of Chapter 2