Chapter 1: Trial of Faith
The cold of the barracks floor seeps through the thin soles of my feet as I slip from the narrow bunk, my movement as quiet as the darkness that still clings to the corners of the room. Around me, the other bunks hold their silent occupants, their breaths shallow in the early morning chill. I pause, my hand finding the small, worn figure of the Broken Guardian in my pocket. The one-winged Aquila is a small comfort, a reminder of... something. Something warm in the cold, dark places of my past.
I climb. It takes an hour, my legs burn, but the journey is worth missing sleep and burning muscles.
I pad softly to the small space fifty stories above my bunk where the top of the building touches the outside of the tower and the horizon is more than just the nearest wall or building or hive spire.
I've claimed the little-used stairwell as my own for morning devotions, a corner where the light from the rising sun, hidden behind untold layers of pollution and industry but still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, touches the barracks. Here, I kneel, the cold stone of the floor biting into my knees, but I barely notice. My hands fold before me, the figure of the Broken Guardian and it's single wing clasped tightly between them.
"Emperor above," I begin signing as I speak, my voice a whisper, barely stirring the air. "Thank you for this new day. For letting me wake. For the breath in my lungs and the strength in my limbs." My words are a quiet, steady stream, a mantra against the darkness that lingers from my dreams, the memories of yesterday's torment, the anticipation of the torment to come.
I squeeze the figure tighter, my thoughts turning to the mother whose face is now a blur of memories that feel less solid each day. "Watch over her, wherever she is. She saved me, once, for five years. And then... then you sent the light woman." The memory of that encounter, so vivid even after two years and yet so strange, warms me from within, a beacon in the persistent shadow.
"Give me courage today," I continue, my voice steadier now. "Help me be brave, like the light woman. Like you." The words feel like a shield, warding off the unease that awaits with the day. These are my words, intimate words, for me and the Emperor alone. After them I begin whatever litany comes to mind and continue until I hear the sound of the bells that signal change of shift in the processing plant across from the Schola, miles of empty air carry the sound of relief that signals the end of toil for millions of men and woman, and the beginning of my torments…
Finishing my prayers, I carefully stand, my body stiff from the cold and the hard floor. By the time I make it back down, the barracks begin to stir, the dawn whispering through windows lit with false sunlight, urging the world to wake. I slip the Broken Guardian back into my pocket, its presence a silent promise.
Today, like every day, will be a challenge. But the Emperor watches over me. He has to. The thought is a small light as I ready myself for the day, for the trials and the sneers and the loneliness that await beyond the safety of this quiet corner.
It's in these moments, alone with my prayers and the burgeoning, red light of dawn, that I feel closest to something like peace. A fleeting, fragile thing, but mine all the same.
As I move to join the line for morning ablutions, I steel myself. Today, like every day, I will need to be brave. For the Emperor watches over all His children, even those born in shadow.
It's in these moments, amongst my peers and the synthetic dawn, that I feel a fragile connection to something greater. But that peace is always too fleeting.
I gather the large sack of clothes from the upper classmen as I've been tasked, a duty that sets my arms aching before the day has truly begun. These older girls, already walking their chosen paths towards greatness in His service, rarely acknowledge my existence beyond their expectations of servitude. To them, I am little more than a shadow, a part of the Schola's unseen machinery.
"The Emperor watches over all His children, even those born in shadow," I whisper.
The washroom is bustling with activity, the air thick with steam and the scent of lye soap. I join the other young females at the great basins, our hands plunging into the scalding water as we scrub and chant. The abbesses move among us like specters, their eyes sharp for any sign of faltering faith or flagging effort. We sing the hymns of battle and devotion, our voices rising in a cacophony of piety and pain.
My hands are red and raw by the time the task is done; the heavy sack now filled with clean, damp uniforms. The return to the barracks is a quiet trek, my thoughts preoccupied with the day's remaining duties and the dread of what new torments might await.
The horror strikes as I reach my bunk. The pocket where the Broken Guardian should be safe and secure is dreadfully, terrifyingly empty. Panic seizes me, a cold vice around my heart. I tear through my meager possessions, hope dying with each passing second. The Broken Guardian, my only connection to my mother, my faith, and my past, is gone.
Desperation lends speed to my search, but the barracks reveal nothing of the lost treasure. My chest tightens, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The idea of facing the day without it, without that small piece of security and memory, is unbearable.
It's more than the loss of a possession; it's as if a piece of my soul has been torn away. The Broken Guardian wasn't just a symbol of my faith; it was a beacon in the darkness, a reminder that even in the deepest shadows, the Emperor's light could find me. Without it, I feel untethered, adrift in a sea of uncertainty and fear.
The realization that it didn't simply fall or get misplaced dawns slowly, a sickening understanding that curdles in my stomach. There's only one way the Guardian could have vanished. Theft. And in the heart of the Schola, amongst the children of the Imperium's finest, there is one who would stoop to such cruelty for the sheer malice of it.
Lucius.
The bell tolls, a harsh, clanging monster that devours the last of my hope. Breakfast. The others begin to stir, a mass of limbs and muttered curses as the day grabs us by the scruff. I feel nothing but the burning anger and a terrible numbness, a paradox that makes my steps heavy and my heart light. I am a creature of dualities now, fueled by loss and the burning need for retribution.
The dining facility is a cacophony of voices, the clatter of utensils, and the smell of reconstituted protein. I scan the room with a predator's focus, and there he is—Lucius, the bane of my existence, the thief of my solace. He's laughing, surrounded by his usual retinue of sycophants and lackeys, basking in the dim glow of his own perceived superiority. My fingers clench into fists, nails digging into palms, a physical reminder of the pain I intend to inflict.
But before I can move, he's up and leaving, his gang trailing behind like the tail of a comet. I follow, a shadow fueled by vengeance. The garden of the scrum-ball pitch is their destination, a place of open skies and the illusion of freedom. They cluster together, a herd of Grox, unaware of the Rathenon stalking them.
As I step into the open, Lucius turns, a smirk playing on his lips. "Look, lads, it's the Emperor's little gutter rat. Come to pray at our feet, have you, little rat?" The others laugh, a chorus of mockery that grates against my resolve.
I feel the fury within me, a tempest built over years of abuses, spittings, beatings, slanders, that now threatens to break free. I am small, yes. I am young, true. But in this moment, I am the incarnation of the Emperor's wrath, and I will have my guardian back or die upon this field of battle. The concept of murder has failed utterly to forestall the purity of my focus.
They've gone too far this time, this time there is no silent endurance in the surety of His will, this time there is only His wrath!
Lucius seems to sense the change in me, the shift from the usual stoic timidity to a creature forged in the fires of absolute fury. He raises a hand, and the laughter dies. "Easy there, rat. Wouldn't want to scurry off too soon. Your precious little idol, it's up there." He gestures lazily to the ledge surrounding the pitch, fifty feet in the air. My heart lurches. The Broken Guardian, a silver glint against a poison sky, an aquila with one-wing, perched precariously, a victim of their cruel sport.
It's a ploy, clear as the Emperor's light. He seeks to disarm me, to distract from my murderous intent with the fear of losing the Guardian forever. And it works. The fury remains, but it's now laced with desperation verging on terror. I can't let it be lost. Not now. Not after everything.
"Emperor curse you, Lucius. Even for a dungheap-born cretin like you, this is low," I spit out, my voice, something I seldom use, a blade honed on the whetstone of hatred. But the reality of the situation and disuse of Lucious own weapon of choice leaves the words blunt and tepid in my ears.
"Ah, but what will you do, little rat? Climb up and get it? Or would you rather we knock it down, see if it can fly?" His tone is honeyed poison, his eyes alight with the thrill of the torment. He throws a stone which impacts the wall a scant meter from the Broken Guardian.
My eyes bulge in sudden panic and I rush forward without conscious thought. I glance up from the base of the wall. The climb is daunting, dangerous. The rock is rough-cut, pitted with age, but without obvious handholds. It's certain to be my own death this time, but the alternative is unthinkable. I don't turn to the jeers and hoots of Lucious and his pack. My eyes squeeze shut and I sign 'The Emperor protects all His children, even those born in shadow.' Then I throw myself at the wall.
Each grasp is a prayer, each breath a litany of courage. I begin to climb, not just for the Broken Guardian, but for myself. For my mother. For the light that refuses to be extinguished, no matter how deep the shadows. This will be the end, one way or another, I'll gouge out Lucious eyes with the Broken Guardian's one good wing and that will be the end of two years of torment or I will fall and that will be the end of seven years of suffering.
As I ascend, my fingers find holds in the smallest of crevices, my bare feet pushing off with a strength I didn't know I possessed. Blood runs down my arms as soft, red skin loosened by hours in the basins breaks and fingernails crack. Lucius's voice fades, replaced by the pounding of my heart and the whisper of a breeze that smells faintly of redemption or my own doom.
The ledge looms closer, and with it, the promise of reclaiming what was lost. I will not falter. I cannot.
My hand stretches, fingertips brushing a cold, unyielding surface, the lip of the ledge! Victory is a whisper away, a silent promise in the chill morning air. Then comes the shock—a harsh, biting sting as the first rock smashes into the wall beside me and shatters into a million tiny shards. My heart hammers, a wild drumbeat of panic and surprise, and my grip loosens, betrayal by my own body in the face of sudden assault.
Another rock, then another, a cruel volley from below, pummeling my feet, my legs, my back. Pain explodes in bright, stark flashes, driving my limbs from their precarious purchase. I'm left dangling, a puppet with its strings cut, suspended by a single hand whose fingers scream in agony, clinging to the last vestige of hope.
Below, Lucius stands, a triumphant grin splitting his face, a final stone cradled like a dark promise in his hand. Above, the Broken Guardian teeters on the edge of oblivion. The choice is a cruel one: reach for safety or for salvation.
Time stretches, a thin, taut line between moments. No visions grace my eyes, no ethereal whispers or comforting memories. There's only the cold, hard reality of choice and consequence. The Broken Guardian or myself. Faith or flesh. I choose the Guardian. In that choice, I embrace the fall.
My hand releases, stretching out with a faith born of desperation and love—a love for what the Guardian represents, for what I've lost, for what I refuse to lose again. My fingers close around the artifact, an instant of triumph, a fleeting touch of victory amidst the certainty of defeat.
And then, the fall. Time resumes its merciless march, gravity its inexorable pull. The ground rushes up to meet me, an unwelcome embrace. No divine intervention comes, no spectral hand to break my fall. There is only the ground, hard and unyielding, waiting to greet me with the finality of its embrace.
In that moment, suspended between sky and stone, I find a clarity. A peace. Not in the promise of salvation, but in the acceptance of sacrifice. For the Guardian. For my mother. For myself. I chose, and in choosing, I have lived a truth that burns brighter than the pain, more resolute than the darkness.
The impact is a silent explosion, a burst of light behind closed eyes, a final breath exhaled into the cold morning air. I have fallen, but not without cause. Not without faith. The Broken Guardian clutched in my hand, a pyrrhic victory, a testament to a belief stronger than fear, more enduring than flesh.
Lucius's laughter, the jeers of the others, fade into nothingness. There is only the silence, the stillness of a sacrifice made, a choice embraced. In the end, it's not the ground that greets me, but the conviction of my own heart, unbroken, even as the darkness claims me.