Book Three: The Heart of Yang Xiao Long

Chapter 88: Dawn of the New Millennium

"We all knew, in one way or another. I knew she didn't like it, so I kept my mouth shut. Pretty easy for me back then." - Mael Ufgarsson

But the task was not yet done. From on high, Yang surveyed the battlefield, saw Corruption's End straining to reach the Chariot, heard her name on their lips. Thousands upon thousands crawled over the coal-black sand, the frozen bodies of the fallen, through barbed wire and sandbags and impact craters and scattered starship debris. Wave after wave of heretics collapsed upon her as well, a powerful grief and bloodthirst upon them.

The new Saint descended, wings of flame flaring violently as she sank back to the surface of White Horses. To Josephus' corpse. Her hand landed on Mael's shoulder and her boots touched sand, baking them into glass.

"Yang…" Mael said. His voice was so much different than she'd expected. It was nasal and harsh, like wind through a sieve. His expression wavered between adoration and bewilderment, his hand clutching Rhain's necklace.

"Hope you enjoyed the breather," Yang said, shooting him a grin. "We've got incoming."

"Y-yes," Mael said, tasting the word on his new tongue, relishing the sound it made. "Thank you."

"No problem, dude. Sorry I couldn't make it happen sooner."

Her Woadians held each other, chanted along with the rest of Corruption's End, their adoration finally realized in flesh and blood, in faith and worship. Yang heard their prayers, their gratitude, each word shining clear and bright within her.

"Emperor help me," Commissar Neuhoff whispered. Painted in a violent pastiche of blood and grime, Yang could barely tell him apart from a trooper. "I had no idea," he said.

"Galaxy's a funny place," Yang said. She handed him a Maccabian lasgun, borrowed from the righteous dead. "Still got a job to do. Keep everyone's head on straight, okay? Wouldn't want someone to catch a lasbolt in the face because they were too busy gaping at me," she said, rolling her shoulders. Her wings rolled with them, gentle flames of molten gold lazily unfurling, welcoming all into her embrace.

The Commissar saluted, his once-pristine gloves now She returned the gesture.

"Eyes out!" The Commissar barked, checking the battery on his lasgun. With a firm nod to Yang, he collected Lorl, instructed him to hold the banner high. Josephus had fallen - it was time to hold the ground they'd seized.

Yang made her way over to Sister Eleven's corpse -just beside the massive, rank remains of Josephus' oversized crow. Clutched in the Sister's hands was her heavy bolter. Unto her dying breath, she'd held it close. Her unseeing eyes were full of fear and agony. But she'd held.

"Sorry Sister," Yang said. She closed the woman's eyes. The image of Sanguinius etched upon on her face settled. "You've earned your rest."

"Yang." Caolin.

"That name's going around a lot isn't it?" Yang asked. Gently, she pried Sister Eleven's heavy bolter from her hands. She turned to face her friend, who was wearing his usual grin.

"Is it?" He replied. "News to me."

She returned his broad smile, pointed to the halo that shone above her head. "Careful now, don't be snarky to the saint."

He shook his head, still smiling. He wiped his eyes, sucked in a frozen breath. "Emperor, Yang, you just can't turn it off, can you?"

"Just be thankful I can't think of a pun right now." she replied, earning her a chuckle.

"Thank the Throne. Also, Emperor-botherers incoming," he said, frantically gesturing behind her.

"I know. Let's talk later. Once everything… settles down."

Coalin nodded and went to join their comrades.

"Your Holiness," a sister said, kneeling before her. Sister Katarina, the Lector Superior. Having lost her signature flame pistols in the chaos of Thanatos' descent, her arms were soaked in blood up to the elbow - she'd torn her way through Josephus' most loyal completely unarmed. A troupe of Sisters joined her, knees bent, heads bowed. Love for their Emperor, loyalty to His cause.

"Your Holiness," Katarina pleaded. "Forgive us our ignorance - we knew not of your divinity. We made harsh judgements, we reveled in ignorance. Forgive us, we unworthy sinners."

"Nothing to forgive," Yang said. She punched the Lector Superior's pauldron. "Now, up and at 'em."

"Your Holiness-" Katarina whispered.

"Hold the Chariot," Yang said. "We're about to be swarmed. Pick out any hard targets - my Guard has the rest. We can't waste your sisters' sacrifices."

"Your will be done, Holiness," Katarina said.

"You'll need this," Yang said, handing her Eleven's heavy bolter. Katarina took it as one would an infant. Her bloodstained fingers ran the length of the barrel, her eyes met Yang's.

Thank you.

Yang nodded.

Katarina hauled the bolter into firing position and cranked the rack. "Thanatos!" She called, vox-speakers booming. "Rejoice! Today is a most blessed day!"

"Rejoice!" Came the choral call. "Rejoice!"

"Today," Katarina cried, "we shall write new hymns! All hail the Living Saint, Yang Xiao Long!"

"All hail!" They replied, weapons thrust skyward, towards the debris shower that glimmered in the atmosphere. "All hail the Living Saint Yang Xiao Long!" The Sisters of Battle set about their task, earlier grief forgotten.

Once, Yang would have found their worship disconcerting. No longer. Maybe it was because she didn't know them personally. Maybe it wasn't really her they were praising. Maybe it was because she knew now, she realized, she felt the thrumming in her soul, a fragment of something far greater than she could ever be.

Now she knew her purpose.

"To me!" She cried, her voice booming across the quarry. A wordless roar was her answer. Snapping reports of autoguns told her that the heretics were nearing. It was time. A towering monstrosity of twisted metal and moldering flesh smashed into the Imperial lines, roaring as pearlescent tears of oil streamed down its mutilated face.

Yang burst forward, an explosion of speed and sanctified power. Her fist met the creature's jaw, vaporizing everything above its neck. Kicking off its shoulders, she landed amidst a platoon of Silverhearts.

"Miss me, boys?"

They blinked, their faces blank. Katarina raked them with heavy bolter fire, ripping them to pieces. Yang went to work among those left untouched, her fists two streaks of golden flame. They couldn't face her. They didn't care. One leapt atop her, his chest rig overflowing with explosives.

Digging her fist into his collar, Yang hurled him into a pack of heretics, a single shell from Ember Celica consuming them all in a maelstrom of shrapnel, fire, and a red, red mist. Their deaths spelled the end of the nearest threats, yet countless more were descending.

Lightning-white tracers arced over the battlefield as Katarina continued her barrage, the bolt rounds snapping over the heads of Corruption's End. They followed her fire, turned to face the oncoming horde. The roar of the heavy bolter met their prayers, answered their cries.

"Gamma!" Yang called to her friends. "Hold the Chariot! No one gets in!"

"You got it, Sarge!" Asgeg answered.

Yang marched onwards, flanked by her faithful. On a distant ridge, she saw the Elodian armor approaching. Battle-scarred and with blackened hulls, they ground heretic corpses into paste, weathered lasbolts by the hundreds.

"Hail!" Cried the chemdogs, their voices scarred and brutalized.

"Hail!" Cried the Janissaries, muffled behind their masks.

"Hail!" Cried the Woadians, weeping with joy.

Yang simply smiled as hundreds of rounds erupted from behind her. The Sisters followed, cutting a bloody swath through the heaviest heretics, their hymns audible over the din of roaring chainswords, the dragon-roar of purifying flamers, the clattering of a dozen bolters.

"Rejoice in His glory, in the sight of His grace!" They sang. "Rejoice in his pride for the human race!"

"Kalla!" Caolin called over the bellow of the Sister's bolter. "Get those mortars back online!" The bulk of the cultists were nearing, streaming towards Yang carelessly. They ignored withering firepower, charged through walls of flame, hurled themselves upon waiting bayonets.

They died as bravely as guardsmen.

Their minds were twisted, their souls colored by chaos, their bodies decrepit and abused. But Yang knew they were still human. Garnet's words came back to her, ruthlessly ringing in her ears. Only now did she truly feel their weight.

"I'm sorry," she said. Their fate was sealed, and it weighed upon her like the boot of a traitor marine.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a triumphant blast of heat and pressure - Shellwaker. Yang's watched the carnage before her, the spectacle of war, the horror, the bravery, the cowardice, the smell of blood and steel and shit. She heard the screams, the exultations, she heard her name over and over again.

She watched as more plumes of dirt reached into the sky, as the cultists died in their thousands. She watched Katarina's squad rip into the heretic lines, she watched the Janissaries' ruthless firing drills cut down hundreds.

It was no longer a battle - it was a massacre, and endless roar of rippers, autoguns, and lasbolts. The fervor that had seized Corruption's End slowly gave way to duty, to work, a long and bloody affair. Yang joined them. Calling those nearest to her side, she flew to where the fighting was thickest, where monstrosities threatened to crush entire platoons, where hulking war machines ground the loyal into the sand.

She tore their treads off, she ripped her way through Josephus' faithful, she broke them over her knee. She did her duty. Her semblance fed on the damage sustained, turned it back on her attackers. No longer did her teeth worry on an imagined bit as her soul boiled, no longer did she hide her truest self from her friends and comrades. Yang felt free.

It was a false freedom. She knew that. In her realization, she had committed. She was now the Living Saint Yang Xiao Long, and her life was inextricably tied to the Imperium, to the quintillion souls within it.

And Yang would not shirk that duty.

Weiss' lander descended along with the wreckage, one more streak of gold in the sky. It would touch down soon, and Yang didn't know what would happen when it did. What could she say to her? What was there to say?

"Your Holiness," a Janissary croaked, bringing Yang back to the present. He was bleeding out, a dozen rusted bayonets buried in his gut. His life was now measured in moments.

"Thank you," Yang said, holding his hand. "Go to His side. I'll see you there."

The guardsmen nodded weakly. He lost consciousness a second later. In another, he was dead. There was nothing Yang could do - it seemed as though she had spent her miracles for the day.

The Battle for the Chariot of Salvation was over. There was little more than scattered resistance now, distant elements of Josephus' devoted cut off and surrounded. Picked apart and put down. Not one heretic surrendered.

Yang had expected to be swarmed by her faithful, but few came forward. Exhaustion was rife amongst the spearhead of Corruption's End, so she went to them instead, offering comfort and a smile where she could. They held her hands, matched her grin, wept with exultant joy.

Such a simple thing, faith.

Weiss' lander touched down. The Inquisitor herself emerged a moment later, haggard and worn, leaning on a crutch. It looked like she'd lost a dozen pounds she couldn't afford to lose. Yang shot her a wave and a impish grin.

Weiss was impossible to read. Flickering between disbelief, rapturous awe, and terrible grief, her face was unreadable. She took a few hesitant steps forward, arm outstretched. She dropped her crutch.

"Yang…"

"Heya, Weiss. You look like shit."

"You…" Weiss said. She stumbled forwards, reaching out for her friend. "You're… real."

"I would hope so."

Weiss knelt. She hung her head, her ice-white spilling over her face. "Yang, I'm… I don't know what to say."

"'Thanks for killing Josephus' wouldn't be a bad start," Yang said. "Now come on, Ice Queen," she muttered out of the side of her mouth. "People are staring. You're embarrassing me."

Weiss looked up at her, a lost soul found. Yang offered a hand, which the Inquisitor took. Yang hauled her to her feet, embraced her in a crushing hug. Wings of fire enveloped them, glowing with warmth.

"I didn't know," Weiss whispered. "I'm so sorry, I tried to make you a saint, but you were the real thing the whole time, I… I didn't know, I thought, I prayed… Emperor be praised."

"You're babbling, Weiss," Yang said, holding her friend close.

They pulled apart a moment later, hands intertwined. Yang looked around, saw the assembled guardsmen, the Sisters of Battle, the faces of Corruption's End, faces from across the Imperium.

"Victory!" Yang bellowed, raising Weiss' hand high.

A resounding cheer went up across the quarry, ragged and hoarse, but deafening all the same. She raised her first, shook it in solidarity with her friend, her comrades, her fellow guardsmen.

"You did good, Weiss," Yang said softly. "Look at 'em."

Weiss couldn't reply - she was too busy sobbing. Yang laughed, pulled her into another hug. Despite everything, it felt natural. Facing Amat would be a much greater challenge, but this… this felt right.

The Inquisitor - Weiss - looked up at her friend, saw her beaming smile.

"Yang, you jackass," Weiss whispered, digging an elbow into her ribs.

"You know me," Yang said.

"You're the real thing," Weiss said.

"I am," Yang replied, waving to her Woadian friends. Caolin gave her the two-fingered salute, which she returned joyously. "I don't know how, but I know why. And that'll be enough for now."

"This changes everything," Weiss murmured, wiping her eyes. "Holy Terra."

"Digging the halo and wings?" Yang asked. "I think they're a nice touch."

"You can't be so flippant about this," Weiss hissed, grinning as she wiped at her cheeks.

"Says who?" Yang asked jovially. "I have it on good authority that I can be as flippant as I want."

Weiss just shook her head.

A lone Preacher Militant stumbled towards them, pict-stealer in hand. The skin on the left side of his face had been burnt away by a lasbolt, the wound hastily covered with a stretch of gauze.

"Your Holiness!" He exclaimed, brandishing his instrument. "I got a pict! Your ascension! It's glorious! There's so much to discuss!"

"Of course!" Yang said, waving to the man.

"You're going to have to put up with a lot of this," Weiss warned her.

"Look at that stupid grin he's got," Yang countered. "I'm happy to do it. Now, why don't you check on what we came here for?" She said, jerking her thumb at the entrance to the Chariot. "I've told my Woadians to keep anyone from entering, but they'll know I sent you. And make it fast," she said, eyes darting over to a gathering hoard of skitarii. "I think they're starting to salivate. The ones that can, at least." She winked.

"I… yes. Of course, Your Holiness," Weiss added after a second. She sniffled, wiped her nose.

"Thanks," Yang said, clapping her shoulder, careful not to knock her over entirely. She wanted to correct her, tell her not to call her that. But she didn't. Sighing, she turned to the incoming Preacher Militant.

"Laurentius," she said, his name coming to her from the ether. "I'm sure the Ecclesiarchy has a bunch of questions for me. I'm afraid they'll have to wait," she said said, gesturing at the wounded and adoring. "Unless you walk and talk at the same time?"

"Of course," Laurentius said.

"Happy to hear it," Yang replied, wearing a beatific smile.

Weiss stood before the entrance to the Chariot of Salvation, its bulk heavy and obdurate. Humble despite its significance, smaller than she thought it'd be. She didn't know what to make of it. Of anything. The hellscape of White Horses seemed ethereal, formless, a nebulous psyker-dream that carried her along from vision to stupefying vision.

The Living Saint Yang Xiao Long.

The words filled her mind as much as they rang across the battlefield. How could I have been so blind? She'd seen her light on Elodia after all. Was that not enough proof? Was Yang's endless smirks and spirited cursing and half-buried bloodlust really enough to shake her faith in her friend? To the point where she could miss… this?

It couldn't be right, but the reality of it stared her in the face - literally. Yang mouthed the word 'go', nodding at the Chariot. Her halo - her halo! - bobbed along with the gesture, gleaming and bright.

When Weiss was a young woman for the first time, she fished that same face out of a gutter, her thanks a rough shove and slurred admonishments. A rambling scroll call, a shitty, worthless, half-remembered apology. She saw that same neck split open, weeping red. She closed the coffin lid on that face, buried it. Said goodbye to it, and everything else that tied her to her life at Beacon.

The Living Saint Yang Xiao Long.

An avatar of the Emperor that lived and breathed, that channeled His Power and breathed His Word, a manifestation of all that was good and holy. Were she young once more, Weiss might have felt a sting of envy. Had she not served Him for decades? Had she not sold her soul, embroiled herself in endless plotting, had she not sacrificed Ira to her hubris, to her unattainable mission?

But Weiss would never be young again. She was an old woman, older than she had any right to be. Now, something else welled in her breast, something she'd cast aside out of a misguided, slavish adherence to her duty. Weiss didn't have a name for it yet, but it was certainly warm.

She watched Yang interact with her soldiers, accost them, cajole them, comfort them. Always the extrovert. Certainly the most outgoing of team RWBY. The thought brought a broad, honest smile to Weiss' face.

This was Yang's fate, her blessed purpose. The one she'd been brought to the Imperium to fulfill. The one she delighted in pursuing. No matter what came next, Yang would face it down. It was just who she was.

"My Lady," a voice said. Katarina, the Lector Superior. "Are you unwell?" She asked, extending her gauntleted hand.

"Tired is all. Clearing the storm exhausted me." It nearly killed her, but the Sister didn't need to know that. "The Saint shan't be resting, and neither shall we. The Chariot awaits."

"Yes," Katarina said, hesitation dancing across her voice.

"The Palatine," Weiss realized. "Sister Eleven. I understand," she said. "Fetch Sister Mwatabu. Tend to their bodies. I'll be fine on my own."

"Thank you," Katarina whispered.

"You've sacrificed too much for me," Weiss continued. "And today is a glorious day. Our thoughts should be on the fallen as much as the future."

"Yes," Katarina said, head bowed. "My thanks, Lady."

"Thank the Emperor for His help," she said, glancing at Yang. And thank you, Yang.

The Chariot stood before her now, its yawning mouth about to swallow her. Magos Tyrham needs to be here. She made the call, watched Chung's valkyrie soar back into the heavens. I trust him more than I do his superiors that are undoubtedly chomping at the bit to make planetfall.

Weiss took a deep breath, centered herself. She stared up at the stars, as the pale-blue gas giant that had cast its light on the battle. At the long, gentle trails of gold that burnt away and faded in the atmosphere.

Everything was different now. Everything would change. For the better? It remained to be seen. For now, she was happy for Yang. Her friend. She rejoiced that the Emperor had graced them all with such a clear sign of favor, but Weiss knew that He wouldn't want her to stand around and ponder her navel.

There is plenty to do, after all.

"My Lady," one of the Woadians said as she approached the Chariot. The trooper's hands were folded around a beaded necklace, a ring of polluted gold around his finger.

"The Chariot," Weiss said. "I must enter."

"Of course," the Woadian said. "Would you like us to attend you? It's really no problem, we'd be happy to help. Yang was pretty clear that no one should be inside, but I saw her point you this way, so-"

"Mael," one of the guardswomen said, the one the Lady Inquisitor had allowed an aug. A chirurgeon attended her, holding her still as he spread a salve over a weeping lasburn. "I apologize for his overeagerness, My Lady."

"Look what Yang did!" Mael exclaimed, opening his mouth to point at a bright pink tongue. "How long was she hiding this from us?"

"I don't think she knew herself," Weiss answered. "Not really in her nature."

"Too right, Lady." Another Woadian said, one with a long scar that ran down his nose and over his lip. "Sure you don't want us with you? Yang'll be pissed if we lose you down there."

"I'll be fine. Thank you."

They saluted her. Some struggled to do so, their arms in slings, padded with gauze and matted with dried blood.

"Yang be with you," Nose-scar said, earning him a slap on the back of the head. He laughed. Weiss let them be.

She descended into the Chariot, marveling at the sleek interior. She'd seen archival footage of Necron tombs, and while their starkness was similar, it was of undeniably human make. The steps were perfectly suited for the average human build, and the ceiling was lined with a gentle orange light that illuminated her path.

The metal steps creaked under her fragile weight - this was truly an ancient place. Etched upon the walls were masterful bas-reliefs, abstract humanoid figures posed in impossibly intricate scenes. Weiss ran her fingers along the sleek metal, her fingers instantly accruing a thick coating of dust. She recognized a wedding scene, a hunting scene, friendship, betrayal.

What manner of STC is this?

An eerie feeling settled within her, a creeping black mote that danced across the fringes of her witchsight.

Perhaps I should wait for Tyrham.

She sat down on a step, more heavily than she intended. A dull pain shot through her. Emperor, I'm tired. The Emperor wouldn't want her to wait, but she was only human. Drawing Myrtenaster, she laid the blade across her knees, studied its edge in the soft orange light. Studied the scar etched into her palm.

What would Ruby have to say about all this? Her sister a Saint, her partner an Inquisitor. An STC covered in abstract mechanical art. She'd probably just shrug and grin, brace Crescent Rose for whatever came next.

Digging into her breast pocket, she retrieved her relic, unwrapped the red silk cover. It stared at her, warm and resonant. In the end, she was no better than Ezzelino. He'd worn it around his neck like a prize, and she kept it close to her breast. When she'd prised it from his hands, she thought to leave it in a reliquary, but she'd held onto it. Cherished it. A fragment of something pure, a reminder of her mission. Did that make her a hypocrite, or simply a fool? Both?

Her thoughts turned to Holy Terra, to her sanctioning. She remembered little of the ordeal besides the pain, but afterwards… a golden blur, a renewed sense of purpose. A spark of the divine. Myrtenaster and the relic sat in her lap. One black and silver, the other pure, untarnished gold. Weiss took a deep breath, filled her lungs with the dry, dust-choked air.

The Emperor has chosen Yang, and she will carve her way into history with two bloody fists and a resplendent, decadent laugh. The thought brought a smirk to her face. The Imperium wouldn't know what hit it.

The only question is my place in it. If I'll live to see it.

A jolt of electricity shot through the stairway. Lights flickered on, shooting down into the depths of the STC. Around her, the reliefs came to life, whirring and clicking as they shook the dust from their shoulders, settled into routines programmed millennia ago.

"Magos," Weiss said. Back to plotting.

"This is a holy place," Tyrham said, his long, loping mechanical legs lighting gently upon the steps. A cloud of incense preceded him, spilling out from a censer he swung about with a mechadendrite. The hiss of his robes against the metal was the only sound that echoed into the depths. "The Omnissiah has blessed us." In his primary arms, he carried his power axe, mechanical digits rapping along its heft.

Weiss didn't say anything. She marveled at the relief-figures go about their routes, at their nigh-inhuman craftsmanship.

"Machine spirits here are… vibrating?" Tyrham said. "Odd. Very Odd."

"Shall we progress?" Weiss asked.

"Yes. By the grace of the Omnissiah, this place is clear of heretek taint."

They trudged down together. The time came to make her play.

"Congratulations, Magos."

He cocked his head.

"Your discovery."

He stopped immediately. "You are offering me discovery rights."

"Yes."

A pause. "Processing."

Weiss continued on - Tyrham would catch up. "It would do me no good to hold them myself," she explained, her voice echoing down, down, down. "I would simply be painting a… another target on my back. Corruption's End was my work, but without you we never would have gotten here. This is your relic," she said. "This is your glory. I can only hope it is of use to the Mechanicus."

"An exchange," Tyrham realized.

"Yes," Weiss repeated. "One that lies entirely in your favor. I am aware that Mars is undergoing civil war," she said, not bothering to wait for Tyrham's affirmation. "It will be quick and quiet, but far from bloodless. The result will change the Mechanicus for the coming millennia, and I trust that you are supporting the forward-looking side. This," she said, gesturing at the automated art, "This will be your war contribution. A divine sign from the Omnissiah that your cause is right and just. This will bring about the end of the war. Decisively."

"And in return?" The Magos asked, his bitcrushed voice not betraying a hint of emotion.

"An… alliance between the Mechanicus and the Inquisition," Weiss explained. "The Holy Orders are about to undergo changes as well," she said, her thoughts touching upon Lord Torquemada's summons. She stopped her descent to face the Magos. "And though our respective organizations have remained entirely separate for millenia, I think that with a degree of cooperation, we can do boundless good for the Imperium."

"Fabricator-General Raskian will never allow it," Tyrham said, reaching her. He towered over her, his six cobalt-blue eyes glowing bright in the darkness below his gilded hood. "Presents an opportunity for…" His processors whirred. "Unwelcome oversight. Our organizations are not equal in the minds of the High Lords."

"I am aware," Weiss said, standing her ground. Standing this close to him, he seemed to fill the entire stairway, the scent of incense and holy unguent scorching her nostrils. "But given his voting record, it stands to reason that Lord Raskian is not on the right side of this civil war. And there might be others with more… inventive minds. Minds that could conceive of an agreement that would satisfy both parties. We aren't in this fight alone," she reasoned. "We aren't the only ones who want change," she added softly.

"Cawl," Tyrham said. Weiss didn't know the name, but the way the Magos spoke it said enough - a mixture of fear, awe, and dread respect packed into a single word, into a voice that she once thought stripped of emotion.

"With the Chariot behind you," Weiss said, "millions will follow."

They resumed their descent. As they progressed, the walls grew tighter and tighter, the bas reliefs taller and taller. But then they stopped abruptly - in their place stood automated statues built into alcoves that lined the stairs, soared towards the swelling ceiling. There were hundreds, each covered in dust-drenched synthskin and scraps of faded polymer cloth.

On a silent signal, they moved, watched the pair descend.

"Odd," Tyrham repeated, his grip tightening.

They reached the bottom a minute later.

A simple sealed bulkhead stood in the center of a massive wall covered in interlaced cogs, pistons, and piping. The door itself was small and plain, hardly benefiting a relic so priceless.

"Before we enter," Weiss said, halting the Magos, "we need to be in agreement. Whatever we find, the course ahead needs to be clear." She extended her hand. "The Inquisition and the Mechanicus. Together against ignorance. Together for a brighter future."

Once more, Tyrham towered over her. Gently, a mechadendrite reached for his mask, removed it. His hood fell back, revealing a skull-shaped mass of wires and machinery. His face had been stripped of skin, and his mass of eyes jutted out from empty, black sockets.

"On the sacred nature of the metal we tread," he said.

"On the avatar of glory above us," Weiss agreed. On Yang, and whatever future lies before us.

They shook.

AN: And we're back! Welcome to Book Three: The Heart of Yang Xiao Long!

Sorry in advance for the extended hiatus. Things have been crazier than usual IRL, but we're back on schedule. Well… I can't ensure weekly updates, but I'll certainly be trying to make them.

I really hope you all enjoyed the chapter! I'm sorry to delay the reveal of the Chariot for yet another chapter, but my reasoning will make sense next week. Promise. This chapter was really focused on Yang and Weiss, so cramming what's coming up next into this chapter did not fit at all.

Next chapter, we'll finally enter the Chariot. See you there!