Daedren had died.

  That truth stood before him, undeniable, unshakable. The weight of reality itself had collapsed upon him like an iron sarcophagus.

  He had died in the rift-world.

  He had never returned.

  Everything after that moment, the barracks, the battles, the camaraderie of his brothers, had been an illusion.

  The realization was like a cold blade driven into his very essence. It was not only his life that had been a lie, but also his afterlife. The war against the Tyranids, the quiet moments of forging, the sense of normality creeping back into his life… all of it was nothing more than a prison crafted of dreams.

  And at its heart stood Invictar.

  Invictar Sagorr'kyt. The veteran Salamander. The towering, scarred warrior who had brought Daedren into the fold, who had overseen his induction into the Chapter, who had guided his first steps upon the path of an Astartes.

  A brother, a mentor, a legend.

  But none of it was real.

  Invictar had never been an Astartes of the Salamanders. He had never fought in a hundred battles, had never earned the respect of his brothers, had never stood among the ranks of Nocturne’s finest.

  Because he had been created.

  A fabrication of Tzeentch.

  Daedren had never been plucked from obscurity by a revered hero of the Chapter. He had been selected, shaped, and planted by the Great Conspirator itself, placed within the Imperium as a seed of corruption, a weapon meant to infiltrate the ranks of the Emperor’s chosen and twist them from within.

  But something had gone wrong.

  Daedren had never fallen. Never strayed. Never cracked under the weight of temptation. His will had remained unyielding, his soul impervious to corruption.

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  And so, when he had fought on the rift-world, Tzeentch had undone him.

  They had killed him, wiped him from the material realm, removed the failure from the board.

  And yet… Daedren had still resisted. Even in death, his soul had refused to yield.

  That was when the true deception had begun.

  His return to the Salamanders, his life after the rift-world, it had all been an illusion.

  Tzeentch had ensnared him within a fabricated existence, a last desperate effort to break him. The god of change had woven a world so perfect, so seamless, that Daedren himself had believed in it.

  Fought in its battles. Forged in its flames. Laughed with his brothers.

  But the illusion had failed.

  Daedren had seen the flickers in reality. Had meditated upon them, questioned them, unraveled them.

  And now, he had broken free.

  He was no longer flesh.

  His body was gone, lost to the rift-world, a corpse rotted away in the depths of Chaos.

  But he still existed.

  His soul remained.

  And it was unshackled.

  Freed from the illusion, Daedren could now see reality for what it truly was. He could see the fabric of existence, the way it shifted and rippled, the lines between the material and the immaterial.

  He stood in the void, no armor, no ceramite, no chains of mortality binding him.

  And for the first time, he understood.

  The flesh of a Space Marine was powerful. Enhanced. Unstoppable. But it was limited. Bound by the laws of physics, by the constraints of time and space.

  But Daedren?

  He was beyond that now.

  He was something new.

  Something Chaos had never foreseen.

  A Soul Marine.

  A presence loomed over him.

  It was vast. Impossible. A being that existed in countless forms across countless realities, shifting between them with a thought.

  The gaze of Tzeentch fell upon Daedren, and for the first time, the god of change saw something it had not expected.

  "You were never meant to be this"

  It was not a voice. It was many voices, all speaking in unison, weaving truths and lies into one seamless thread.

  "You were designed to change. To bend, to shift, to become what was needed."

  "But you have not changed. You have broken free."

  Tzeentch had laid its final trap, had stacked the deck in its favor, and yet Daedren had escaped.

  He was a creation that refused to be controlled.

  "You are an aberration," the voices said, reverberating through the void.

  Daedren stood firm. His soul did not waver.

  "I am my own."

  The void trembled.

  "You are unshackled," the voices murmured.

  There was no rage. No fury.

  Only curiosity.

  "You do not belong to the Imperium. You do not belong to Chaos. You do not belong anywhere."

  Daedren’s soul burned like a beacon in the abyss.

  "I belong to myself."

  The presence lingered, as if considering.

  Then, with a final whisper, it faded.

  "Then let us see… how long you survive."

  And then, Tzeentch was gone.

  For the first time, Daedren was truly alone.

  No brothers. No Imperium. No Chaos.

  Just him.

  But in that moment, he felt no fear.