They were handed over to a new instructor team. One, so the rumours went, that had trained Whiteshields before. On Cadia. The instructors that arrived that morning did so in the back of a Centaur. The first thing Yedrin noted was their age. Each one was greying or bald, and their faces were masks of scar tissue and grim looks. The second thing he noticed was that each of them was wounded. A missing finger. A limp. Metal plates drilled over holes in their skulls.

Last came their leader, a major, with one augmetic leg. He stepped forward to introduce himself.

‘My name is Major Luka. I served with the Cadian Eighth. I knew Ursarkar E. Creed when he was just your age. I have trained thousands of Whiteshields. You have almost reached the culmination of your training. I have been following your progress.’

There was a long pause as he seemed to look at each of them in turn. ‘Emperor willing, you will all make fine additions to the Cadian Shock Troop.’ In his hand was a Cadian tridome helmet. He held it up in the air for them all to see. It had the distinctive white stripe from forehead to neck. ‘There is another test awaiting you, the deadliest you will face. Pass this third and last phase of training and you will be honoured with one of these.’

Yedrin felt his eyes suddenly start to water. He could not believe that he had got so far. He imagined his mother’s reaction. The joy. The pride. The immense sense of achievement.

He turned to the cadet next to him. It was Zweden. They’d known each other long before they’d been inducted into the Whiteshield programme. They’d shared many things. Zweden’s mother was also Cadian, though he’d already been orphaned by the time Yedrin had met him.

‘Think your mother is watching?’ Yedrin asked.

Zweden had a thoughtful look. At last he said, ‘No. I do not think so.’

‘No?’

Zweden shook his head. ‘I wish she was. But I cannot feel her. When I try to remember her I cannot even see her face.’ He paused. ‘But I do remember the scent of her webbing as she held me. I do remember that.’

Yedrin nodded. He thought of his own mother. Last time he had seen her, two years ago, she already had shots of grey in her hair. Her regiment – the Cadian 1123rd – was being broken up and reassigned to others.

Throne-knew where she had ended up. Throne-knew if she was still alive. And if she was dead, if her soul was with the Emperor, would He pass on the news?

Yedrin strove to impress Major Luka as the old man supervised the last phase of training. Luka was not the same kind of barrel-chested, vox-horn voiced drill sergeant he had become used to. He was, if anything, a little indulgent.