Summary: A wounded Space Wolves Rune Priest is forced into reluctant training under a loyalist Thousand Sons psyker-apothecary, setting the stage for a tense clash of instinct, discipline, and ancient Warp resonance.
Warning: Graphic medical/war injuries, Body horror (surgical scars, psyker damage), Psychological distress & coercive authority, Intense hostility between characters. LMK if I need to add anything.
Not because he feared it — Wolves feared nothing worth naming — but because stillness noticed him. Every ache, every lingering echo of Warp backlash, every place where his body and soul had not quite agreed to be whole again rose to the surface when he was forced to sit.
The medbay lights were low, deliberately so. Apothecaries knew better than to flood a recovering psyker with glare. Incense hung faintly in the air, threaded with antiseptic and machine oil. Thressl sat bare-armed on the edge of a plasteel cot, fingers flexing, braid beads clicking softly as he rolled his shoulders.
“Depth perception?” Cedric asked, slate in hand.
“Still off,” Thressl replied. “Only when I’m tired. Or annoyed.”
Cedric snorted. “So constantly.”
Thressl grinned, sharp and feral. “You wound me.”
Cedric didn’t rise to it. He stepped closer instead, peering into Thressl’s eyes as a scanner hummed softly. The Rune Priest resisted the urge to bare his teeth — reflex more than intent — and held still.
The machine chimed.
Cedric exhaled. “Your optic nerves are regenerating cleanly. No hemorrhaging. No Warp bleed.”
“That’s good,” Thressl said.
“It is,” Cedric agreed. Then, after a beat, “You’re still grounded from unsupervised projection.”
Thressl’s jaw tightened. “For how long.”
Cedric met his gaze evenly. “As long as it takes.”
Silence stretched between them. Thressl looked away first, nostrils flaring as he breathed through irritation that had nowhere useful to go.
“And duty?” he asked.
Cedric tapped the slate. “Limited. Apothecary shifts only. You assist. You do not lead.”
A pause.
“And my training,” Thressl said carefully.
Cedric hesitated — just a fraction too long.
Thressl’s eyes snapped back. “Ced.”
“You need control,” Cedric said. “Not belief. Not instinct. Control.”
“I have control.” He responds bristling a little bit.
“You had control,” Cedric corrected. “And then you nearly cooked your own brain trying to punch a Thousand Son through the Immaterium.”
Thressl opened his mouth, then closed it again. His headache throbbed in distant agreement.
Cedric continued, gentler now. “There are not enough Rune Priests on base. The ones we have are deployed or overwhelmed.”
“So I wait.” Thressl says jutting his chin out and narrowing his eyes.
“No.” Cedric replies with a shake of his head.
Thressl stiffened. “Then what.”
Cedric set the slate aside. “You train.”
The words should have been reassuring. They weren’t.
“With who,” Thressl asked. “Karlsor? He’s been training a whole bunch of firstborns and Primaris Marines Warp powers.”
Cedric held his gaze. Did not flinch.
“A good guess. But Karlsor has enough students. He’s not able to take on more. Also- he’s not trained in Biomancy. Or Apothecarium duties. However, there is a Librarius-adjacent specialist,” he said. “Psyker-apothecary. Loyalist. Pre-Heresy lineage.”
The medbay seemed to narrow a bit as his clever mind darts to who it could be.
Thressl’s lip curled. “You can’t be serious.”
“It is practical.” Cedric respond calmly.
“It is grox-shite.” Thressl barks out his teeth baring for a moment.
Cedric sighed. “You need instruction. He has space. End of equation.”
“Thousand Son,” Thressl growled, the word a challenge.
“Yes.” Cedric respond. “Loyalist. Pre-Heresy.”
The silence that followed was not explosive. It was heavy. Pressed down on Thressl’s shoulders, his chest, the place behind his eyes where memory and instinct tangled. He thought of the psy-wound. Of the calm, precise hands that had closed it. Of the way the Warp had listened.
“No,” Thressl said at last.
Cedric waited, tilting his head as he looks at Thressl. He understand the struggle Thressl is going through. About why he doesn’t want to work with a First Born Thousand son. Loyalist though he is.
Thressl clenched his fists, then forced them open again. “I’ll do the shifts,” he said. “I’ll follow the restrictions. But I will not be turned into—”
“You won’t be turned into anything,” Cedric interrupted. “You will be trained.”
Thressl searched his face for doubt. Found none.
“How long,” he asked.
Cedric’s voice softened. “As long as it takes.”
That again. Thressl looked down at his hands — scarred, steady, capable of healing and killing in equal measure. He exhaled through his teeth. He rubs at his gut- the scars there- from surgeries and battles he’s fought in the past.
“…Fine,” he said. “Temporary.”
Cedric nodded. “Temporary.”
As if summoned by the word, the medbay door slid open. The temperature shifted — not colder, but cleaner. Ordered. Thressl’s senses prickled before the man even spoke. If he had fur his hackles would rise. Oh- he really doesn’t like this at all, and just barely stops himself from baring his fangs and growling. Barely.
“I was told my presence was required,” came a calm, measured voice. Cultured. Ancient. “A Primaris Rune Priest requiring oversight.”
Thressl’s head snapped up.
The Thousand Son stood just inside the threshold, crimson and gold muted by the medbay’s light. His helm was mag-locked at his belt, revealing a face composed like carved stone — eyes dark, assessing, not unkind.
And in the Warp— Thressl sucked in a sharp breath. The resonance hit him like a struck bell. Not intrusion. Not dominance. Recognition. The Thousand Son paused. For the first time, something flickered across his expression. Even on Ancient Terra- where the Warp was trapped behind thick ice, slow as cold molasses. He can feel the other. And he doesn’t like it.
“…Ah,” he said quietly.
Cedric cleared his throat. “Thressl,” he said, “this is Apothecary Amonhep Rhan.”
Amonhep inclined his head. “Rune Priest.”
Thressl’s hackles rose. His teeth bared before he could stop them. He does not growl. Because of the look- mild though it would seem from others that Cedric is giving him. The flash of warning- something that could be jabbed into his veins to calm him down if he decides to cause a ruckus. Amonhep studied him — not as an enemy, not as a curiosity, but as a problem that deserved precision.
“This will be… educational,” the Thousand Son said at last.
Thressl snarled softly.
“Like hell it will,” he muttered.
Amonhep’s lips twitched — not quite a smile.
“We shall see,” he replied.
And somewhere, deep in the Warp, something old and patient stirred — not in hunger, but in recognition of a lesson that had not yet finished being taught.
