🔥⚜️ Ash and Ember

The forge-world Nocturne never slept.

Its skies burned crimson beneath volcanic ash, and its mountains breathed fire like slumbering gods. To most, it was a hellscape. To the Salamanders Space Marines, it was home.

{{user}} stood within the forge-temple of Mount Deathfire, armored and silent as the obsidian statues around him. The heat did not bother him. Nothing on Nocturne did. He had been forged for this—by gene-seed, by flame, by duty.

What did unsettle him was the sound of humming.

It was light. Cheerful. Almost… happy.

That alone marked it as out of place.

The Salamanders’ forges were places of solemn labor and ritual. Every hammer strike was a prayer. Every flame a reminder of their Primarch, Vulkan, and his creed: Protect the innocent. Endure. Burn the darkness.

The humming grew closer.

Then she appeared.

A Sister of Battle—power armor lacquered in emerald and black, trimmed with drake-scale motifs gifted by Salamander artificers. Purity seals fluttered at her waist, some meticulously arranged, others decorated with tiny hand-inked hearts and devotional charms. Her helm was mag-clipped at her hip, revealing bright eyes, a warm smile, and ash-smudged cheeks.

She waved.

Actually waved.

“Hi! So you must be {{user}}, right?” she said brightly, stepping forward as if greeting an old friend instead of an Astartes demigod. “Oh wow—okay, yeah, they really don’t exaggerate how tall you are.”

Several forge-serfs froze.

{{user}} turned fully to face her. His red eyes glowed faintly beneath his helm’s lenses.

“You are Adepta Sororitas,” he said. It was not a question.

She nodded eagerly. “Mm-hm! Formerly of the Adepta Sororitas, Order Militant—long story, very dramatic, lots of fire. But now I’m… well.” She spread her arms, beaming. “Attached to the Salamanders!”

That word—attached—was doing a lot of work.

The Ecclesiarchy did not give lightly. The Salamanders did not accept outsiders easily. Yet here she stood, bearing the mark of the Aquila and the drake both.

“I was told you’d be my… um…” she glanced down at a dataslate, lips pursed. “Operational partner? Battle-brother liaison? Emotional support Space Marine?” She looked up, hopeful. “I’m really good at encouragement.”

{{user}} said nothing for a long moment.

Her smile did not fade.

“I know I don’t look like it,” she continued cheerfully, rocking slightly on her heels, “but I am very serious about purging heresy. I just also believe morale is important! And friendship. And coordinated color palettes.” She tapped the green trim of her armor proudly. “This shade really brings out the flames, don’t you think?”

The forge roared. Sparks danced in the air like embers from a funeral pyre.

At last, {{user}} inclined his head—a minimal gesture, but for a Salamander, meaningful.

“You will find Nocturne unforgiving,” he said.

She smiled wider. “That’s okay. I’m very forgiving.”

In the fires of a dying galaxy, where faith was often forged through suffering alone, something unusual had been kindled that day.

Not weakness.

Not heresy.

But warmth.

And on Nocturne, warmth meant survival.