The sun was setting. It sank inexorably below the distant horizon. From her elevated position, standing upon Justice Point, Ophelia could see how the sky changed from blue, to orange, to blood-red, and how it seeped out over the world and tinted the streaks of cloud.
She saw how it stained the heavens.
The wind tugged at Ophelia's ragged cloak. The voices whispered to her. They told her that the end was close. They told her that her ascension was at hand. There was only one more soul she was required to take. So many had been claimed already, but this last soul was the key to unlock the final seal.
Memories sifted through her mind. Ophelia saw an altar in the chapel. Lightning flashed outside, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Slumped at the altar steps, was a body clad in the ornate black and silver armour of an Adeptus Sororitas canoness . Looming above the altar was the defiled statue of the Corpse God. Thunder boomed. Looking down at her own hand, Ophelia saw the power sword clasped in it. The blade was slick with the blood of Canoness Sofia, who lay slain at the foot of the altar.
The recollection of the events in the convent's chapel stirred a sense of accomplishment within her dark soul. It had been the definitive first step. Her death had been a gift. Now, Ophelia was free. The shackles had been thrown off. She was no longer a slave, and now her allegiance was sworn to a far greater power.
She remembered the riot of violence and bloodshed that had followed. The heavy staccato chatter of bolter-fire. The crackle of energised blades. Monuments to the saints were torn down. Scripture bearing the word of the False Emperor was burnt. Members of the sisterhood were nailed to the hallowed walls. Stained glass windows were broken and defaced. Warp portals had yawned open, and daemons had poured forth.
Such glorious slaughter!
Expunging the taint of ignorance and unbelief had been truly liberating. To run her sword through the weakling lapdogs of the corrupt and decadent Ecclesiarchy had given Ophelia much pleasure and satisfaction. It sickened her to think that she had been so blind, so accepting of servitude.
Ophelia half-turned away from the sea as it raged relentlessly against the cliff. Her baleful eyes instead gazed upon the city below as it burned. The clamour of warfare echoed all around. Her sisters were still battling furiously with the hated foe. They were performing their task of delaying the Imperials admirably, and if any survived Ophelia would see them rewarded for their loyalty to her.
Away from the city, and at the foot of Justice Point, Ophelia could see a swarm of figures thrashing frantically. They are here already, she thought. A smile creased her pale features. It was just as she had foreseen. The moment was nearly upon her, when the fates of their intertwined destinies would finally be decided.
It would take place here, at Justice Point.
A smear of pink attracted Ophelia's attention, and she looked down to see a small flower fluttering in the wind. It had an array of large, pink petals that curled up towards the sky, and at once Ophelia recognised it as the region's iconic rose. It was the same flower often seen on statues and in artwork dedicated to Saint Joan, clasped in one of her hands. It was widely seen as a symbol of peace. Of the few places it grew, Justice Point was one of them.
Ophelia knelt down in the dusty brown grass, tilting her head to one side as she stared at the pink rose. All the vegetation around it, sparse though it was, had succumbed to the autumn season so it seemed and yet there was a defiant burst of colour, holding on to life, standing alone.
Slowly, Ophelia reached out and took the rose gently in her gauntleted hand, her fingertips just below its petals. The wind returned, renewed, and tore one of the pink petals loose. It was carried away, twisting in the air, and out of sight. At the same time, the green stem began to shrivel in Ophelia's grasp. The other petals withered and decayed. The bright, vibrant colour faded.. The rose hung limply in her fingers.
So fragile, Ophelia thought as she rose to her feet. Claimed by death at the slightest touch. Just like the weak and feeble Imperium Ophelia had once sworn to serve.
According to legend, this was the last city to be liberated by Saint Joan's crusade all those years ago. It was said that at this very point, over-looking the endless ocean, Saint Joan clashed with the Chaos warlord in a final duel. Although she was mortally wounded, Saint Joan drove her blessed sword through her adversary's evil heart and cast his body into the unforgiving grey waves below.
The irony of dispensing her own justice here at this very place was not lost on Ophelia. She hoped the saint was looking down on her now, despairing to see Ophelia desecrate this holy ground where she had triumphed, years past, over the Arch-Enemy. It wouldn't be the first time Ophelia had defiled something dedicated to the saint, and she vowed it most certainly would not be the last.
The fighting below had intensified. Ophelia could feel it.
The moment was nearly upon them.
Seraphim Superior Isabel slashed left and right with her holy power sword. Heretics screamed and howled. Blood gushed freely from open wounds. Bodies staggered and stumbled, and were trampled underfoot. Isabel's bolt pistol barked again and again, kicking against her wrist. Men and women, corrupted by Chaos, spun away from her.
'With me, my sisters!' she cried, rallying her seraphim warriors around her.
They pushed on through the throng of Chaos worshippers, as if hacking their way through the dense foliage. The leering face-masks worn by the cultists blurred past her, and she cut them down with powerful strokes of her blade, which crackled without powerful energies as it cleaved through armour, cloth, flesh and bone.
The wrath of the Immortal God-Emperor burned in Isabel's heart. Nothing could stand before her. None of these wretches could touch her. Without giving a thought to her own defence, she carved a bloody path of red ruin through the swarm of warp-scum.
Isabel's power sword whirled in her hand, a sliver of light that struck like lightning. With it, she purged the heretics and scoured their foul taint. She let the vile obscenities that they preached wash over her, for Isabel's faith was in the Emperor alone and nothing could shake that.
For a brief moment, she caught a glimpse of the figure standing atop Justice Point, silhouetted against the bloody sky. Isabel saw the warp-sword glowing in the evening light. It was the same blade that had taken the life of Canoness Sofia.
The memory of that heinous act filled Isabel with utter contempt for the foul servants of Chaos, and drove her on harder. It was not only rage, but a deep sadness that kept her going, a sense of loss.
The loss of a friend.
The Ruinous Powers had stolen away a beloved companion, with whom Isabel had braved the fires of hell in the name of the Emperor. She had been taken to a dark place, from which none ever returned. Isabel would mourn when this was over, for she had been a friend and comrade.
But now, Isabel must focus. The monster awaited her.
More cultists came at Isabel, screeching profanities and waving their weapons. Taking up her power sword with both hands, she met their charge. The earth was stained red with their blood as she danced amongst them, her blade flashing through the seething mass of bodies.
Isabel glimpsed Sister Mina through the anarchy, blowing out the back of a cultist's skull with a round from one of her bolt pistols. She twisted around and hurled another foe back into the press of figures with a trio of shots. Snapping an arm out sideways, she blasted a third cultist through the face. Then she noticed Isabel.
'Sister superior!' she said, raising her voice to be heard over the din.
With a snarl, Isabel felled a heretic who had blocked her path with a two-handed stroke of her sword and pressed forward to join Mina. The two seraphim sisters fought side-by-side, piling up enemy corpses around them.
'You must push on ahead, sister,' said Mina, 'we will punish this warp-scum.'
Isabel nodded her thanks. 'The Emperor protects, Mina.'
'Good luck,' said the younger sister, but her words were lost as she ducked under a swinging cultist blade. She fired her twin bolt pistols simultaneously and threw the cultist onto his back.
A prayer to the blessed Saint Joan and the Immortal Emperor on her lips, she ignited the thrusters of her jump-pack and roared into the air, borne on wings of fire.