Having survived the Inquisition and Anya, Roger tries to get some rest. But outside forces, Eldar and Imperial, mean little relaxation is in his future. Lord D'Uxford summons him for a new mission even more dangerous than before. Edmund and the Third Corps prepare to move and face the oncoming threat marching their way, while Sister Evita tries to find out what her next move is. But just as things seem to be moving forward, an unwelcome figure from Rogers past comes his way...
Roger would have three types of dream he never really understood: normally ones where he was in battle, sometimes ones where he was in a castle or some village on the edge of mountains or forests, watching over what he felt was his domain. But the rarest of the dreams perplexed him the most. He was in what seemed to be a forest, but as he walked through the trees past the branches, he did not feel a fear or wariness that it normally brought. Through the thicket, he could hear singing, laughter even. It reminded him of the glade where he would meet his Eldari comrades. Maybe that was why he enjoyed it. But then came the mystery. He would finally reach a clearing, and every time, without fail, he would arrive at a collection of rocks. But the noise would suddenly cease, and all that could be heard was the whistle of the wind through the trees and his armor clanking as he walked.
And she would be there. Every time.
A beautiful woman, milky skin, silvery hair. The moon was always behind her, impossibly so. He would kneel before her, never knowing why. No response would come from her, then he would look up into her eyes, which seemed to drag one into them and never release. She would motion for him to rise, holding a mirror, or some similar object, and he would stand there, waiting for her to answer. He received the same one as every time before.
"Not yet, dear knight."
Then all would go white and he would awaken.
XXXXXX
Roger shuddered and opened his eyes, confused and feeling… saddened, at the mystery figure's response. He had been having all his confusing dreams for years, and he suddenly felt dread. Every time he had that specific dream, it never boded well. He first had it before his mother left to rejoin the Fae, before the battle at Sanctuary, when the order to invade Haikk Four was given, and times before that. Something bad was coming his way, and he needed to be ready. But later, he thought. He had few things to enjoy, and sleep was one of them. He looked at the bunks, seeing Davies empty, the others present and accounted for. He closed his eyes and shifted a bit, but felt something large and warm behind him. He rolled over to figure out what was going on, and found himself face to face with someone quite familiar. He blinked before he spoke.
"Anya," he slurred, too tired to think.
"Good morning Roger."
"Morning," he mumbled before wrapping his arm around the Rangers armored body and pulling towards her, nuzzling between the chestplate and her neck.
He made a slight sigh of satisfaction and started drifting back to sleep. He was tired of the dreams. Of the fighting. Of the-
"Wait, what?"
He pulled his arm back and sat up, now realizing what was going on.
"Anya, what the hell are you-"
Her hand quickly went over his mouth before she jerked her head towards his comrades.
"Do not wake them."
He nodded, and she let her hand go.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was feeling somewhat solitary, and I was not needed. I decided to come and join you."
"How did you even get in here?"
"You left that window open."
Roger looked at the open window frame and blinked again. They were at least six or seven yards above the ground, but what was a simple obstacle like that for Eldar?
"You shouldn't be here, if they found out-"
"They will not. I have done it before."
"Not in the Cathedral. You need to be more careful, we could be-"
The door to the room opened slowly, and Roger could feel his blood turn cold as he turned his head to her.
"Get under the covers."
"I do not need-"
"Do it!"
The light from the hallway filled the room, Davie stumbling inside.
"Hey Rog," he said with a pained grunt.
"Well, how did it go?"
He held up an object the size of a pebble.
"Throne, look how small it is. Felt like a brick when it was coming out. Everything still works, thank the Emperor."
"I thought beer and cider got rid of kidney stones?"
"This is the third one I've shot out in my life, so obviously somethings wrong."
"Are you going back to sleep? I thought doing that hurts like hell."
"It does, but Evita got me a hookup in the Hospitallers. I'm on enough pain meds to knock out a horse. I feel fucking awesome. And tired. And I can't feel my hands."
He blinked and looked at his bed.
"Night."
He flopped down, nearly breaking the bed frame as he did so. Moments later, Davies snoring filled the room. Roger nudged Anya, who pulled the sheets off of herself.
"Is Davie alright?"
"Not most ways. But health wise? Decent now. Kidney stones are a bastard, and I pray to never have them."
"I do not understand. Eldar anatomy is vastly different to your species."
"Maybe internally. You proved to me that on the outside we aren't all that different."
Roger braced for a punch or slap that to his surprise never came. She seemed to be just watching him, and despite their rather unorthodox relationship, he realized he had no nightshirt on. He at least had boxers on, but he felt naked. Of course, they had seen each other naked, but-
"Is something wrong Roger?" she whispered close to his ear.
He hated to admit it, but when she did that, it sent a shiver up his spine.
"Nothing, I was just thinking I should get a shirt on."
"You can do so if you wish."
Roger slid out from the bed and quietly pulled a drawer open, finding a standard issue white t-shirt, emblazoned with an Aquila. Throwing it on, he looked back to Anya, who was focused on something else. He was about to ask when he grimaced as she was looking towards his desk.
"Where did you get… that."
"Kallen gave it to me by accident. I've been trying to get rid of it ever since."
"You… realize what it is, correct?"
"Yes, and it has been nothing but trouble since I got it. Tell me you aren't getting all funny looking at it."
"I would be lying if I denied it."
"Bloody hell."
He hid the haunted thing under his desk and was about to crawl back into bed before he thought of something.
"Hey Anya, can I ask you something?"
"Certainly."
"Do you remember that book I found that pict in? The one I showed you back in the ruins? The one with the uh, couple?"
"I did not read it, no."
"It was a journal that belonged to the man in that pict. Do you… want to read it?"
She looked at him with a curious glance but nodded.
"I do not see why it would be problematic. Do you not need sleep? You seemed to be quite exhausted when I arrived. You did not even stir when I joined you."
"How long have you been here?"
"That time device on the side of your bed seemed to read two digits, but I am not sure which. Forgive me, I can speak and understand your kinds language, even read it, but your numerals befuddle me."
Roger looked at the chronometer and frowned. It was four in the morning, so she had been here at least four to six hours. So much for his squad being aware and alert at all times. He unlocked the drawer he kept the journal and pulled it out, then crawled back into bed, flipping to the front pages and holding it so Anya could see.
"Can you read this?"
"It is…" she focused on the page for a few seconds before blinking. "Difficult."
"It is for me too. We'll have to make do though. Here. Try reading this."
She looked at the introduction that the long dead bookseller made for his journal. At first she seemed to not understand much, but she started tracing her finger along the words, and seemed to crack the code. She looked back to Roger and smiled.
"This Aric seemed to have an understanding of preserving the past."
"I thought he was a bit too wordy," Roger said with a yawn.
"Shall I read for you?"
"If you can."
"Very well."
She placed a finger along the first entry and began to quietly read.
"April Seventh-"
"20,141."
"Thank you. "I have decided to begin a journal to record my experiences on Haikour. The Aeldari Empire, who rule the galaxy at the time of writing, has set up a trading post here and invited any human willing to work with them a place of work. Given my background, I made a rather frivolous offer that was accepted, much to my surprise. The Aeldari are quite polite and welcoming-" How times have changed, correct?"
"Yeah," he said as he started to fade out.
"Craftworlds pass by here occasionally, and the local human trading lanes have given me plenty of opportunities. The shop is now ready for customers. I'm not expecting to be wildly successful, but I am optimistic."
"Hm."
"April 8th. I was able to not only get a few customers, but I got one Eldari as well! She was fascinated with our older offerings, Beowulf and King Arthur, that sort of thing. She is some kind of scholar, and was quite approachable. Her name is Gelayne, and is coming back tomorrow to look at some of my backroom stock. I've never met an Eldar, let alone a female one, so I don't know what to expect."
Anya stopped reading and thought this over for a minute.
"One must wonder what you thought upon your first encounter with my kind. Do you remember your experience Roger?"
She received no response and looked at him. She realized he had fallen asleep, and was about to chastise him but decided to let him rest. She ran a hand through his hair and rested her head on his shoulder. The humans normally awoke around sunrise, and that would not be for a little while longer.
"Rest, my love," she whispered in Eldari.
XXXXXX
Roger seemed to have gotten a decent night's rest, all things considered. When he awoke, Anya had vanished, probably heading back to her comrades near the glade. He was now fully dressed and armed, his sword at his side. Having eaten breakfast and exercised a little bit, he was ready for whatever disaster that he knew was inevitably about to fall onto his lap. He was no pessimist by any means, but realism and fatalism had a very close trajectory in his experience. He was about to head back to the barracks room when he was stopped by a man at arms wearing the all too familiar heraldry of a gold cross on black.
"Lord D'Uxford needs me?"
"Yes serjeant."
"Very well."
In no time at all, he was facing the Lord of Clavham in his office, staring blankly from behind his large desk, probably filled with hundreds of documents that recorded secrets, bribes, and more. He motioned for Roger to sit down, which he accepted.
"Serjeant Wessyng. I must say, I was expecting for you not to have survived your interview with Inquisitor Rosencruz. He didn't even torture you. I am curious how you accomplished that."
"I'm as baffled as you are, my lord. I was fully expecting to get the… full hospitality of the Holy Inquisition."
"Well, I am glad you came out alright. I understand our relationship is entirely professional, and will stay as such, but if you are worried about saying the wrong thing about their organization, you will find a willing ear to any complaints or disapproval."
Roger was surprised at this. D'Uxford seemed the exact type that would approve of, or even be a member of, the Inquisiton.
"If such a need arises, I will let you know my lord. Some say that even slight questioning of the Inquisition is tantamount to heresy."
"I have…" For the first time since Roger had met the man, he saw a flash of anger, maybe even rage in the nobles eyes. "Personal history with their ilk. There is no love lost."
D'Uxford returned to his stoic calm and sniffed.
"Anyways, I have good and bad news. I will tell you the good first: we have a chance of winning the coming battle. The bad news, we are still facing a close fight. We're relying on luck for it."
"I don't think Alwyn will accept sending some of the Leopards into the fray. I am lucky to have commanded them, but only at the pleasure of both our forces commanders. I think it will be a hard sell."
"Well, good. Because we're not asking you to send them forward. Doing so might be a political nightmare as well. I have brought you here because I have another piece of news. That being, worse."
He passed a folder to Roger, who opened it and looked within. Vigilant picts, all showing the massive army near Al-Madin. Then there were images specifically focusing on what seemed to be vehicles and smaller tents.
"Before I ask, how is that crewman that I recovered?"
"He's being sent back to the fleet today. He's being assigned an administrative position until a new craft arrives."
"I see. Now, what are these?"
"Mobile artillery pieces. Basilisks, Medusas, maybe some locally designed vehicles, along with trucks carrying their ammunition."
"Throne."
"Instead of a stand up fight, Emir Sal-Hadin will use those to pound away at us and charge through us. And if you look at the last of those picts…"
He flipped to the ones in question and raised his eyebrows. The tents were all gone, and huge amounts of dots were headed west.
"They're moving."
"That was taken a few hours ago. At their current movement rate, we have a week until they arrive here. Edmund wants to meet them halfway."
"He doesn't want to stay here and defend?"
"He wants to fight, and he wants to give them a good thrashing on his own terms. He's found a few places that will give him perfect fighting ground. We're already ordering tents to be taken down and to move as we speak."
"But what about Borricelli-"
"Edmund is not that fond of what the Lord-General Militant thinks. He said something along the lines of… "I don't give a damn what the fucktard wants." Not entirely accurate, but I understand the feeling."
"What do you need us to do?"
"That artillery needs to go. In two days time. He wants a battle to his advantage. We have less artillery, no rounds, and the counterbattery support they could provide would be negligible. You have that Cadian, she is a qualified artilleryman, or woman in this case. Necessary before one of their members become vox-trained. You have a quick strike force we can use, so Edmund and I want you to even our odds. Destroy the artillery or knock it out of commission."
Roger nodded before D'Uxford turned unbelievably cold.
"The gloves are off, Roger. Edmund is tired of this game, and I am as well. The crew are targets as well. No more of this re-integrate prisoners nonsense. No quarter."
His eyes hardened.
"No mercy. Make them regret the day they thought they could trick an army of the Imperium of Man."
The serjeant swallowed nervously before he nodded.
"And when our mission is complete?"
D'Uxford liked the answer, none of that "If" rubbish.
"Rejoin our forces and get ready for the hardest fight of your life."
"Very well."
"Two days starting now serjeant. Godspeed. And should the worst happen, Edmund has informed his Astropath to Anglerre that your family will be compensated for your loss."
An odd gesture, but still appreciated. He bowed and was about to leave when D'Uxford stood. To Rogers surprise, the Lord of Clavham extended a hand.
"For what it is worth, Roger Wessyng, I sincerely hope you survive all this. You're the best asset I've ever had."
The hand was reciprocated with a firm shake.
"And you're the best commander I've had."
"Try to live Roger."
"No guarantees in this line of work, my lord."
With a final bow, Roger left the office. He took a tortured breath as he realized what this all meant.
The end was near. But was it "The" end?
XXXXXX
"Bloody hell. It's finally happened," Davie said, leaning on the platform's stone wall.
The eight thousand or so Anglois that made up Third Corps were pulling down tents, finding food, and preparing to move for the first time in nearly a year. The banners of the regiments commanding knights were now lifted high, being the rally point for each unit. The red and yellow checkerboard of the First Regiment, Lundon gutter trash given training and weapons, the two Gasceaux regiments, three Avalonians, one Vretand, and even the one from the Western Isles.
"Hey Rog, I have a question."
"Yes Davie?"
"Isn't Lord D'Uxford the highest lord from the West? Why isn't he in command of the Fifth?"
"Because he is too busy with spywork. Lord Clare is in charge."
"Killer Clare. What a choice," Hawke said with a bit of disgust. "Mans a butcher. Treats the people of the Isles like trash, treats his enemies even worse."
"Makes the Fourths job a little easier," Parky said meekly.
"Aye," Bob said.
The five were watching the spectacle of an army on the move from a platform above the massive stained glass centerpiece on the front façade of the Cathedral. Roger had decided, with permission from Edmund and D'Uxford, to move once Third Corps had fully left. Half of the Krieg regiment stayed behind to defend the Cathedral should the worst happen, and the Cadian artillery would be preparing to use the little ammunition they had left to hold off the possible onslaught. The rest of the Death Korps would join the Anglois regiments to entrench or assist them in any way the Prince would see fit.
"Fucking Munitorum," Helene said as she walked towards the group. "Even before I joined you all, we'd been begging the higher ups for more rounds and never got them, and now while your friends get clobbered, we're going to sit here with our thumbs up our asses. If they're willing to treat Cadians like shit, what hope do the rest of you have?"
"That report didn't hold back. We'll get those rounds here in about two weeks, far too many, far too late. But you know enough about those guns you'll be on the firing line anyway."
Helene snorted derisively.
"Yeah, instead of hiding here while everything goes to hell, I get thrown into the thick of it. I'm honored."
"Don't try to lose fingers or blow yourself to pieces girlie," Davie giggled. "Once we find those cannons, you'll be wishing you'd be only swinging a sword or running around with that Lasgun."
"You piss that stone out Davie?"
"Just did last night."
"Well you shouldn't stress about me not doing my job. Don't want you getting another one."
Roger sighed and shook his head.
"Let's try to get everything ready. We're on a deadline now, so I'm not going to fail because you all couldn't get out the door when we were supposed to."
The squad agreed, but seemed to not move.
"Mind if we watch the army a little longer Rog? May be the last time I see it, or something this big."
"Fine. I'm going to get myself packed. Don't take too long."
"Aye," Bob answered for the group.
Stepping into the hallway, Roger started moving at a brisk walk, not wanting to take too long trying to get back to the barracks. But between those praying for safety before their new campaign and those trying to get their last orders from the command staff flooded the Cathedral. Roger was still listed as missing in action, so he tried to keep a low and forgettable profile. Thankfully getting through the massive nave with little issue, Roger was almost in the clear when a group of four Kriegers passed him. He tried to continue being incognito and moved to the side, going down on a knee to retie one of his boot straps.
"Guardsmen," Roger said as he looked down.
But instead of hearing the tramp of their boots as they moved away, they seemed to stop. Continuing to tie his boots, he tried to ignore the Kriegers, getting more and more suspicious before he began to get nervous. He was about to ask why they stopped when one of the group spoke.
"So many good Guardsmen, and yet you live, serjeant," it said, dripping with pure hatred.
Even without the anger, Roger could never forget the voice, his body tensing up and his teeth clenched tighter than ever. He slowly raised his head to look at the figure looming above him, praying he was wrong, but he knew who it was. How could he forget? For he was staring at the bloodshot, fury filled eyes of a red uniformed commissar.
Commissar Dmitry Lucan.
XXXXXX
"Yes, pack that. Wine is a quite important thing for prayer. And for myself, but don't go telling anyone that. Of course you won't, blessed servitor."
Sister Evita was trying to get the Bishop of Chelmsters attention, but having been asked to join the Prince and his armies to face the rebels, His Grace was far too busy with getting his affairs in order.
"Damn thing can't remember its name, do you think it can remember to pack all my things, Sister?"
"I am not sure Your Grace. But I wanted to have a definite answer from you about-"
"Technically speaking Evita, you should be asking your Palatine."
"I was unable to find her, my apologies for going over the standard chain of command, but I need an answer as soon as possible."
"That's because Jessamine is off at some missionary synod being held on an Ecclesiarchy above orbit. I apologize that no one informed you, but in the grand scheme of things, I really have no command over you. Did you talk to Sister Superior Amaris?"
"She told me to…"
"Talk to me or Jessamine. It's bad enough the Holy Church is a bureaucratic nightmare as is, then we throw in who's in charge of you and your Sisters, the fleets, the moneymen… makes my head hurt just thinking about it."
He held up his mace, clean, but still bearing the damage of battles before King Edward was coronated, a few of the spiked blunted by the armor and bone of heretics, rebels, and a fellow priest who had fallen. He looked it over, thinking both about Evita's problem and thoughts of mortality, his victims and his own. He lowered it and turned back to her.
"Go with Roger. I don't understand why Edmund doesn't want to bring members of your Order with him, but I suspect that his supplies are stretched thin as is, and defending this holy site is more important than trying to fight a larger army to a standstill and die for nothing."
"The Prince has you at his side. His faith is ensured and protected."
"If you say so."
He blinked as Evita gasped at the doubt coming from the Bishop.
"Reality is coming to hit me harder than a warhorse through a stained glass window. Besides, we gave you to Roger, so why not?"
He checked his powered armor for the hundredth time, inspecting the plasteel mitre, a personal gift given at his ordination to the office. He could feel the Sister still have more to say and decided to humor her.
"Is there anything else you need of me, Sister?"
She nervously bowed her head before speaking.
"What did you think of my report?"
He nodded slowly and waved her over to his desk. She sat in the chair across from his as he joined her.
"The fact a priest of the Church attacked you is beyond concerning. That we were unable to interrogate and get an answer from him is beyond suspicious. But I find many things odd about your attack. At first, I suspected a traitor amongst us supporting the great enemy. But other than a few small unassociated cults in a few rural areas of this system, there are no signs of corruption. Even the rebels are loyal sons of the Emperor. They accept our parlays and the ability to move priests through the battlegrounds are remarkably polite for such a situation. And before you say that they are playing us or masking their true intentions, we have had enough contact with priests who were born and raised here. They assure the Cardinal that there is nothing but loyalty."
"Then why did he attack me?" she said, more than a little frustrated by the answer, or lack thereof.
"I do not know. Maybe he overreacted. Maybe there is something deeper going on. But I'm afraid we cannot dwell on such things. I have suggested that your incident report is taken to… higher powers."
Evita's skin cooled as she realized what he meant.
"And of the Xenos I wrote of in that same report?"
"Redacted in certain parts. The important bits were emphasized. It may be a while before someone arrives. There are only so many agents, especially in this backwater of a place."
"Understood, Your Grace."
"You have my blessing," he said as he made the sign of the Aquila, Evita responding in kind. "Now let this old Bishop be. I have to finish packing."
"Your Grace."
She had nearly left when he stopped her.
"Good luck. To you and Roger."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Closing the door behind her, Evita headed to the nave. She wanted to pray to the Emperor, that He would give her wisdom, protect her, or at least ensure the safety of her soul. On the one hand, she was torn between standing with her Sisters, but she felt a certain loyalty to Roger. She had even started to tolerate the Eldar. Well, at least as far as someone in her position could. It helped that the females no longer seemed to fawn over Parky, the thought of whom facing death or lying dead on a far off field filled her with anxiety. She would have to pray for him too, pray he would survive the coming onslaught and-
"I'm going to finish what I started, sergeant. It's been delayed long enough."
She frowned slightly, recognizing Dmitry Lucans voice from around a corner. Some poor Guardsman must have finally ran out of what little luck they possessed or whatever tolerance the commissar had. A shame, but to enforce the will of the Emperor was-
"You'll have to go through the Prince and Lord D'Uxford first, commissar," a familiar voice hissed in response.
Roger, she thought. She had heard he was meant to be executed, but that was months ago, and even besides, he was under the protection of-
"Well they aren't here. So I'll ask my loyal friends from Krieg, who know how to act as true Guardsmen may I add, to take you away and see that justice, which has been delayed for far, far too long, is dealt."
Yes, he was an enforcer, but Roger was… but in the eyes of the Emperor, was Roger really deserving of leniency?
"Get bent, you sniveling cunt!"
She heard the scuffle of boots, a sickening crunch, and a scream of pain. She thought to not get involved, that it was not her duty, that the Emperor would-
What would Parky think? Of losing Roger? More importantly, if he knew she did nothing when he was in need of aid? Her eye twitched and she swung around the corner to find Rogers arms being held by two Kriegers, one bending over a red coated figure on the floor, who was reeling as he held his hands over his nose.
"You fucking traitor!" Lucan roared, his voice sounding nasally and wet.
"In the name of the Ecclesiarchy, what is going on here!" she yelled, the five stopping to look up at her. Even in her rather form fitting holy robes, Evitas frame and height cut an intimidating figure. Her nickname "The Amazon", much as she hated it, was well-earned.
"Sister! This Guardsman must be detained and prepared for execution for associating with Xenos and for assaulting a commissar!"
She looked at Roger, who had specks of blood on his cheeks and was smiling as he realized who she was.
"Evita."
"Roger. Commissar, this man is under the protection of Prince Edmund and the Bishop of Chelmster as well. You two, release him."
The Kriegers did so instantly, for as much as they obeyed the wills of commissars, Sororitas were higher on the pure and noble food chain of respectability.
"Sister, this heretic is-"
"No heretic, and my commander! Commissar Lucan, your nose is broken. I am going to order your Krieg comrades to help you to the Hospitaller station down the hall. Speak to Sister Carol, she will treat you as well as any of my Sisters. And when you are healed, you will forget this ever happened, lest I inform the Prince or His Grace that you attempted to murder one of their premier agents."
Lucan blubbered, either from pain, or the sheer outrage at being told this, but before he could stand or protest, two of the Kriegers grabbed his arms, lifted him up, and whisked him away to get help. The lone man looked back at Roger, his emotions unknown under the gas mask and the dark lenses it bore. He too followed the commissar, and the two were quickly alone.
"Thank you Evita."
"I am thankful I arrived as soon as I did, though I wish I arrived-" she pulled a handkerchief and wiped the blood off his cheeks, much to Rogers amusement. "Before you drove your head into Lucan's nose."
"I should have done it a long time ago. Head hurts a little bit, mans nose is as thick as his skull."
"Yes, yes. Were you heading back to your barracks?"
"Aye. The others are coming down in a little bit, we were watching everyone get ready to move. Did anything change since last night?"
The dinner the Leopards had the night before went well, but the announcement that she was unsure if she could join them had put a slight damper on the festive atmosphere, especially for Parky. Poor boy couldn't hide his disappointment.
"I will be joining you, but I wanted to pray before I would ready my equipment."
"Excellent! We'll appreciate your assistance. Parky especially. Don't tell anyone that just happened, by the way. I'm in deep enough nonsense as it is."
"That what happened?"
"You know, Lucan and… ah! I get it."
"Edmund will hear about it eventually."
"And Lucan will get no sympathy. But by the time he can say anything, Edmund will be out of here, and we'll be moving shortly after that. We're hoping for a few hours after the main army's departure. Is that achievable for you?"
"I could be ready in half an hour from now."
"Good! Well, I'll get down to my stuff and-"
He heard another group moving towards them and went on guard, then slackened as he recognized his squad mates.
"Lads."
"Eve!" Parky said in surprise. "What're you doing here?"
"I wanted Roger to know that I have been placed under his command again."
Davie and the others showed their appreciation with nods, grunts, or whistles. Having a Heavy Bolter in their squad, especially for their mission, could be a life saver.
"Fantastic," Helene said. "I was worried it would be a goddamn sausage fest again."
"I look forward to working with you as well, Helene. But I must leave you all, I must pray for our success."
"Good luck," Hawke snorted. "Place is packed like a port bordello on payday."
Evita ignored the blasphemy and bowed in farewell.
"Eve, can I join you?" Parky asked.
She almost wanted to yell out acceptance, but kept her cool and simply nodded. While the rest of the squad walked away, the odd couple moved towards the end of a massive line to kneel before the altar and receive blessings. Evita knew they all would need it, but guiltily prayed especially for Parky's well being. The Leopards were once again together, and they were preparing to march to war. But in the Hospitallers clinic, as his nose was being repaired, Dmitry Lucans hatred of their commander burned brighter than ever. And now that even a noble Sororitas was protecting him, along with the highest commanders in Third Corps…
He would have to take matters into his own hands.