The cell that lay beneath the central chapel was not what one may have expected. Its walls were only recently painted with a champagne-beige; there were no visible cracks and no peeling away of wallpaper along the walls as with other prisons. In front of the cross-legged woman, sat in an old and worn rocking chair, there was a china board lavished with blue and purple flowers, on which sat the remains of a meal which she didn't deserve. The whole thing seemed so unlike a prison, as if the facility had never had to be used before.
The other woman, stood on the other side of the cell bars with crossed arms was following Sofie's gaze as she surveyed her new abode. She nodded as if she knew what Sofie was thinking, and given how well the Sister-Superior knew her, that wasn't entirely impossible.
"You are the first prisoner, little Sofie." She spoke with a kindness which sent Sofie aback. She hadn't questioned why she'd been interred, not so much out of politeness as out of a desire to remain blissfully ignorant, and the other Sisters garrisoned here watched her with fear and spite when she had first been taken back here. But Ventra remained as she always had, cool and collected and with a face and tone which could pacify an orc.
"I have done no wrong." She felt anger bubble inside of her, but she knew that the woman in front of her, who had raised her so well, didn't deserve to feel the brunt of it. She forced her voice to sound as humble as expected.
"It is not a matter of what you have done, Sof. It is a matter of what you are." Ventra's voice soothed Sofie to the point where she didn't object. "Michael told us of your feat. Of how you took down one of the Empire's knightly order with no effort."
"I do not understand." She seethed.
"That is perhaps for the better." Ventra declared with a sadness. "You know the story told to you as a girl, of the Sister and the Babe?"
Sofie recalled the story with precision. She had been told it many times; the tale of the Sister who displayed the endless virtue and determination which the Sisters of this region had been built upon. The sister who displayed determination in the slaying of the cursed child of Sylvania, who brought with it the stench of corruption. The sister who, in her virtue and guilt, gave the grieving mother her first-born child without hesitation. The sister who embodied the perfection which Sigmar sought in everyone who called themselves one of his Sisterhood. At least, that's a story that Ventra had told. When asked if it were real or symbolic, she would always tut and say something like; 'It is what your heart and soul translates it to be'.
"You told me that tale many times." Sofie spoke quietly. The memories brought about a cheeky smile. "You were told to discipline me, to lash me. Instead you sat me down and told me your stories."
"Some would say that's an even worse punishment." Ventra spoke, smiling with warmth. Her head sank, and when it rose again that smile and warmth had made way for a shaking lip perched from a frown and a cold stillness that set about the room. "But this is not a history lesson, Sof. That story is relevant to you…" Sofie could see her eyes before; beautiful in light of her years, but she brought her hood down further over her head and masked them from the prisoner's sight. Sofie thought she saw a tear. She could, to her surprise, smell the salt in it quite easily.
"Is that so, dear Sister?" She was curious. Some would call it naïve.
"My dear, just as the Sister slew the Baby – for its own sake as well as for those around it – so must we slay you."
It was spoken with the same velvet voice, but the words still hit Sofie like a brick. She was left agape and alone behind her cell when Ventra stood quickly and left, nodding weakly to the guard outside in passing.
The next few weeks were filled with a resigned expectation. Sofie had, since that meeting, agreed with the order for execution entirely; this was the first time she considered that something was wrong with her. That she was corrupt. Given what she had done to the knight of Altdorf, she decided that such accusations. So, each day she would wake up when the Sister battered her cell-bars with a mitten fist and be served some luxurious meal; a well-cooked salmon on one day, a bowl of what looked like caviar the next.
On the second night she requested a parchment, a clay jug full of black ink and a quill. Every day she would sit and write the oaths and prayers of the Sisterhood, from memory, and bore holes out of the wall with a finger to place them in. She would then ask for a nail, and the Sisters – being suspicious – would always request either Michael or Ventra to be present when she put them up. She wanted to show her faith, even in death. She felt entirely at peace.
This continued for a week-or-so, until she woke late at night with a wretched sickness in her stomach. She felt the seeds of doubt when she slept, the desire to break free of her cage – she knew full-well she could do so – and run as far away as she could, into the darkness where she would now fit more comfortably. She imagined it, too, and it gave her guilty pleasure; the cries from behind her, of "Get that girl!" and "Foul beast!", the surge of adrenaline. The blood. Oh, the blood.
It was tearing away at her. She couldn't resist the evil, base urge any-longer.
Luckily, she didn't have to; for on the 9th day of her internment, before the sun had even thought about rising, Ventra walked in blank-faced and a woman in red robes followed, trailing a great sword behind her.