The sound of clashing steel echoed across the open ground on the flattened top of one of the mountainous peaks that harbored the Astartes Fortress-Monastery. Seeing little point in training and testing each other's strength in a controlled environment, the Black Swords had built their arena to be exposed to the elements; thunderstorms, blizzards, and hailstorms regularly swept the bare stone. Those were the best times for combat, but on this day the sun shone brightly and made Parions' sweat glisten on his body, only covered by a loincloth as he sat on a stone bench and gulped some water down from a terracotta jug. Drops of blood stained his pale skin; some of his, and some of another.

"At least you're easy to find. Esklados is going to have you thrown in a cell for a few weeks if you keep avoiding the chapel so much."

Another had spoken, clad in a grey tunic and approaching from behind. He looked similar, with long red braided hair that fell to his shoulders and black eyes with no white.

"Our dear Chaplain would tell you that the only prayer worthy of the Emperor is a battle. This is the next best thing." The gladiator answered, gesturing towards two other Astartes who were linked together by a chain wrapped around their left arm as their blades impacted upon each other. "Are you here for a rematch, Orsa?"

The sergeant shook his head. He looked more serious now.

"Not today, Parion. The old man wants to see you." Orsa turned around and started walking towards the stairs that led down into the fortress. He stopped after a few steps, looking over his shoulder. "You'd better hurry and clean yourself up. I wouldn't make him wait if I were you."
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Light from burning braziers reflected on the smooth black stone walls and bronze pillars of the throne room, in which three figures stood immobile. Chapter Master Sagramor Kohr gave off an aura of savage strength and power, clad in a dark Terminator armour that was worn by all of his predecessors. If one was to get close enough to the golden engravings that covered the armored plates, one could see minuscule letters: the written names and deeds of all the Chapter Masters who walked these ancient halls. Even for an Astartes, his weathered and scar-ridden face told a story of many centuries of war.

To his right, a skull-faced Chaplain looked like he was a shadow emerged from the darkest corner of the room, his facial features concealed behind his helmet's skeletal grin. The one to his left had a distinctive psychic hood over his head, and the scarlet robes he wore over his blue armor marked him as the Chapter's Chief Librarian.

Parion could not help but wonder what such an assembly wanted with him as he opened the large bronze door and walked into the throne room, a place usually reserved for the greatest honors and harshest punishments, as well as welcoming the rare guests who ever deigned to visit in person. Even as one of the Angels of Death wearing his ancient suit of power armour, he felt like he was a mere man in the presence of giants as he lowered himself to one knee before his master and bowed his head.

"I come to your summoning, my lord."

"Rise, Parion Sharratar of the Fourth Company." Sagramor's voice was deep and rumbling. "You have  been summoned for a matter of importance, and a mission for you to accomplish."

Parion stood up and removed his helmet, keeping it under his arm. Chaplain Esklados' words echoed in the chamber with his usual unflinching tone.

"His Majesty's Holy Inquisition has come knocking at our door once again. As always, we answer. We have spoken with your captain and have found you worthy of being sent to accomplish a vigil in the Deathwatch."

"Deathwatch?" This came as a bit of a shock to the young Space Marine. "You honour me, and I mean not to question your judgement, my masters, but it seems to me that those who are usually selected are quite older than I am." Parion did not hide his surprise, like most of his brothers he rarely made an effort to conceal his emotions.

"You are young, yes. You are also a great warrior already, the suit of armour that you are wearing is proof of that." Mirish, the Chief Librarian, was a soft-spoken and eerily gentle man. "We have agreed that your youth will not prevent you from accomplishing this mission we give to you. Maybe, will it even turn out to be an advantage? This vigil is not merely a service to the Inquisition."

Sagramor spoke up again. "We have little favours within the Imperium, you know this. By binding ourselves to the Ordo Xenos, we gain much-needed allies, as fickle as they may be. You will not only fight for them. You will learn, learn everything you can. Those of our brothers who returned from the Deathwatch came back with invaluable skills and expertise, and now your turn has come." The Chapter Master stepped forward and placed his hand on Parion's shoulder. "Represent our Chapter, show that we are mighty and valuable allies. And return to us when your vigil is over, to share your knowledge."

"So shall it be, my lord." Parion felt both pride and a hint of disquiet swell in his chest. "I will not disappoint you."

Sagramor nodded with an approving grunt, a faint smile showing through his red beard.

Mirish stepped to the young Marine's side, speaking quietly without looking at him as if nobody else was meant to hear. "Take great care, Parion. You may uncover secrets that best remain buried. I cannot say what may happen or what truths remain to be seen, as I dread to gaze too far back. Do not allow yourself to be changed by whispers from the past. Remember who you are, no matter what."

The Librarian then smiled amicably, as if they had just been discussing the lightest of matters.

"Go now. Say your farewells to your brothers. You are leaving tomorrow."
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"Check."

The trooper grinned and laid the cards that he had onto the table.

"Tough luck, Space Marine. Imperial flush."

Parion's own cards seemed minuscule in his armored hand as he made a disappointed face. "You are good, Armsman. I couldn't read you at all." He said, letting the cards fall on top of the others.

"I've been on this ship for three decades. Ain't too many things to do during Warp travel, you know." The man laid back on his chair. "Suffice to say, I have more training than you do in this domain."

The Astartes chuckled. It took weeks for the ship's crew to stop avoiding him whenever they could, even longer for them to stop calling him 'lord'. In time, the mortals got used to the sight of the Black Sword exercising in the hallways or walking around in his dark armour, even if the grinning skull hanging from his belt, the chains wrapped around his arms and the strange gem strapped onto his right shoulder pad still made them somewhat uneasy. Still, the Imperial Navy soldiers on board eventually made for decent companionship for the remaining travel time.

His vox earpiece came to life as he heard the voice of the ship's captain. "Sir? We have arrived at your destination. Your shuttle and compartment for your equipment are ready, entering low orbit in thirty minutes."

"On my way, captain." The Black Sword rose to his feet and lowered his gaze towards the small mortal. "This is my cue. Safe travels, Armsman."

The trooper stood up and offered his hand. "I wish you better fortune in war than in gambling, Angel of Death."

Human and Astartes shook hands before parting ways, never to see each other again.
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Hours later, Parion found himself in his assigned chamber, where his guide left him to wait until initial training. What he had seen of the Watch-Fortress was impressive indeed, a feat emphasized by the fact that it was built into the dead planet itself. A work befitting of the secrecy and paranoia of an Inquisitorial organisation, and evidently a powerful stronghold capable of serving as headquarters for considerable force projection.

But the Watch-Fortress itself had little presence in Parion's mind at the moment. Instead, the words of his masters rang in his head, along with newfound loneliness. He didn't like it. He didn't like having words dancing around in his mind either.

The Black Sword took a deep breath and assumed a fighting stance, starting a warrior's ritual. An arm thrusts forward. Muscles that bend steel. A kick is thrown, swift as lightning, and severs a spine. Fingers grab and rip through flesh, crush bones to dust. Each part of the body accomplishes its duty as a soldier in a war against the enemy's. Punches weaken his defenses. A feint goads him into an ambush, and the killing blow comes unseen. The ritual of war cleanses the mind and brings peace as doubt is washed away by blood.