Chapter 10: The Impossible Weight of Hope

The lamplight flickers, casting long shadows over the scattered parchment and faded tomes sprawled across the ancient desk. I rub my tired eyes, feeling the grit of exhaustion settling in.

I've learned of my mother's reason for abandoning me, seen her murder, confronted her killers, and become their saint… it's been a busy day. Soon, I'll have to let it come to an end, and with it, endure another night of Jessamine's incessant dreams.

The faint hum of machinery pulses through the walls—a distant heartbeat reminding me of the silent presence below. Jessamine's dwindling power keeps the lights on, but my mind is heavy with the weight of her lingering shadow.

I sift through the brittle pages of my mother's journal, the ink faded but the meticulous script still legible. Each entry is a testament to her dedication, her sacrifice. Yet, nowhere—nowhere—is there a mention of me. Not a single word. It's as if I never existed in her world beyond the shadows.

My fingers trace over a delicate map etched on translucent paper. Lines crisscross like veins, marking territories and pathways through Sector Sigma. Notes in the margins detail guard rotations, supply caches, secret tunnels. Symbols denote the domains of three gangs: Gnarl's Crimson Fangs, Lutefisk's Blue Shadows, and Trebor's Yellow Dead.

I find lists of passcodes—codes that have changed over the years but follow patterns, rhythms. There's an entry about the Crimson Fangs' ritual hunts, their penchant for blood sport under the veil of darkness. Notes on the Blue Shadows' smuggling routes, the times they change shifts, the names of key lieutenants who favor bribes over bloodshed. Trebor's Yellow Dead, with their macabre fascination for the toxic wastes, their hideouts mapped with precision.

Flipping to similar pages in Riley's journal, I read her precise handwriting:

"Crimson Fangs control the geothermal power plant. Patrols increase during the third shift. Passcode for main gate entry updated monthly—current code: Iron Blood."

In another entry, she outlines the hierarchy within the Blue Shadows:

"Lutefisk remains unchallenged as leader. His lieutenants—Marrow, Slink, and Dove—manage distinct sectors which align with water distribution and pumping substations. Internal strife observed between Marrow and Slink; potential leverage point."

I shake my head in disbelief. The depth of information is staggering. Routes, habits, weaknesses—all meticulously recorded. There are even notes on inter-gang alliances, betrayals documented like entries in a ledger.

A soft creak draws my attention. Riley stands in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim glow of the lamppack. Her eyes reflect a weariness that mirrors my own.

"The others have left to gather the tribes as you ordered, my sai— Aurora. Still at it?" she asks gently.

I shrug, gesturing to the mountain of information. "There's a lot to get through."

She steps inside, the door closing behind her with a whispered sigh. "Those journals hold the legacy of our people."

I fix her with a curious gaze. "The detail is... incredible. You know more about the gangs than they probably know about themselves."

A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Knowledge is survival down here."

I glance back at the pages. "Passcodes, rituals, even the names of their ranking members. How did you gather all this?"

Riley moves closer, pulling up a rickety stool beside me. "Our sisters are resourceful. With no men among us, we have to... improvise."

I arch an eyebrow. "Improvise?"

She meets my gaze steadily. "One of our duties is to ensure the continuation of our lineage. The gangs provide... opportunities."

Understanding dawns, a mixture of shock and unease knotting in my stomach. "You send your sisters to... infiltrate the gangs?"

She nods slowly. "Our women are educated, skilled. We pose as drifters, workers seeking refuge. It's not difficult to catch the eye of a ganger looking for eager companionship."

I swallow hard, the implications settling over me like a shroud. "You infiltrate gangs, deceive them, just to... breed?"

"Once a sister is with child," Riley continues, "she returns to us. The men rarely notice when someone disappears in the underhive. Lives are transient here. So it has been for centuries."

I lean back, absorbing the revelation. "So that's how you maintain your numbers?"

Riley's gaze hardens slightly. "It's more than that. We gather intelligence, resources. Our sisters ensure we stay informed. Without them, we'd be blind down here. Pillow talk can be quite illuminating."

A flush creeps up my neck. "And the children?"

"The girls, raised among us," she says softly. "Taught the ways of our order, the traditions passed down through generations. Hospitallers, Battle Sisters, Dialogus, all the traditions remain alive, but dimmed, knowledge without implement, training but precious few weapons to wield, teaching but without the tools to perform proper medical care."

A bitter taste fills my mouth. I swallow hard. "And... me? Was I...?"

Her expression softens. "You are the daughter of Hannah, high priestess before me. Your lineage is most pure."

"But my father?"

She hesitates. "He was... one of them. As are all fathers among us. It's the way we've survived."

I stop, facing her. "And the women who join you? They're all...?"

"Most are born into our order," she explains. "Others are drifters seeking refuge. We don't turn away those in need, provided they are female and free of mutation."

I think back to the maps, the detailed notes. "That's how you know so much. Your sisters live among them."

"Yes," she says simply "for a time."

I rub my temples, a dull ache forming. "But isn't that dangerous? What if they're discovered?"

She smiles wryly. "They are trained well. And the gangs are not known for their suspicion when offered skilled help, much less, willing lovers."

A thought strikes me. "Your journal mentions that only those with pure bloodlines are allowed to... seek out the gangs."

She nods. "We trace our lineage back to the original survivors of the Inquisition's purges. Jessamine's faithful flock. It's a matter of preserving our heritage."

I feel a chill run through me. "So some are deemed unworthy?"

"It's not about worth," she insists. "It's about maintaining the integrity of our order, of Jessamine's line. Drifters, anyone who can't trace their line back to the Sororitas of the Order of the Sanctified Shield under Jessamine are not allowed to bear children among us."

I look away, staring at the flickering lamplight. The thought twists uncomfortably inside me, but I can't deny the practicality. In a world as harsh as this, survival demands sacrifice.

"We've had to adapt," Riley continues. "With limited resources, no support from the world above, we've become self-reliant. Our sisters are trained in combat, medicine, and the teachings of the Adepta Sororitas. Skills that make us valuable—and dangerous."

I nod slowly, my fingers tracing the edge of a worn map. "But the basilica can't support everyone."

"Exactly," she sighs. "We once tried to keep all our sisters here, but the lack of food made it impossible. Water and power we have, thanks to Jessamine, but sustenance is another matter."

"That's why you dispersed into the twelve tribes," I murmur, piecing together the fragments. "To spread out, find resources elsewhere."

"Yes," Riley confirms. "Only the main tribe remained here, under your mother... and then me."

I shake my head, frustration bubbling up. "This is all so... calculated."

"We do what we must," she repeats, a hint of steel in her voice.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "And now you expect me to lead this... cult?"

She tilts her head slightly. "You are our saint reborn. It's only fitting."

"I'm eleven," I snap. "I didn't ask for any of this."

Riley steps closer, her gaze intent. "Age does not diminish your significance. You have seen the truth, shown it to us. You carry Jessamine's legacy."

I hold up a hand. "Stop. Just stop. I don't have the energy for this conversation right now. I just want to understand what's happening."

She studies me for a moment before nodding. "Very well."

Silence settles between us, filled only by the distant hum of machinery. I sift through the thoughts swirling in my mind, trying to reconcile the revelations with the reality before me.

"These journals," I say, changing the subject, "they hold decades of knowledge. Strategies, secrets. We could use this."

Riley tilts her head. "What are you thinking?"

I exhale slowly, the weight of authority settling uncomfortably on my shoulders. "This cult—your sisters—" I let out an exhausted breath, "my sisters, they're hungry, desperate. You have weapons but no ammunition, no fuel, armor but no supplies, and three chimeras parked in the sanctuary with no idea how to operate them."

"We have our training," Riley replies, her tone sounding mildly offended at my stark but accurate assessment, "it's been enough for the past fourteen hundred years. We don't need to wage war with the gangs to get enough to survive, to maintain our numbers, to gather intelligence we need for minor raids always calculated to appear as one of the other gangs' doing."

"But not anymore," I point out, quoting her, "now whole communities are vanishing, plague strikes without warning, and things… are encroaching on each of your tribes except here in quadrant D. You're being culled!"

Riley nods, "there is… there was," she corrects herself, "significant support for the idea of joining the gangs, perhaps even assassinating their leadership and absorbing them into us. Something has to be done to survive the malevolence, the culling, and only the basilica and the grounds patrolled by Jessamine's spirit are safe to us. But then you came along, and now we have our Saint again."

I let out a bitter laugh and slump back in the creaking chair, the weight of it all pressing down like a slab of stone. "I'm eleven, Riley. Eleven. Technically a Sister Repentia, exiled for doubting the very faith you're asking me to embody." I gesture around at the scattered tomes and maps. "How am I supposed to tip the balance in any of this? I can't even reach the top shelves without a stool."

Riley leans forward, her eyes gleaming with unwavering conviction. "The Emperor will guide you. He chose you for this purpose. Besides, age is irrelevant when the Emperor's light shines upon you. Jessamine was but a girl when she first took up arms."

I glare at her. "Jessamine had an army, as I recall. All I have is a cult that can't feed itself, weapons with no power packs, flamers and chainswords with no fuel, and armored vehicles currently in use as really massive paperweights."

Riley's gaze doesn't waver. "You have the reliquary. You touched it and lived. More than lived—you command it."

"Jessamine Reborn didn't come with an instruction manual on how to use her magic faith rock or the ring inside it," I mutter, rubbing my temples. I glance at the amber pendant resting on the desk, its dull glow casting eerie patterns on the parchment. "This… thing…" I pick it up gingerly. "All it does is bring me nightmares."

"Nightmares or visions?" she counters.

"What's the difference?" I snap, but the question hangs in the air, heavier than I intended. Images flash unbidden—Mama's face, the cold touch of the Light Woman, the decaying throne of Jessamine.

Riley stands, moving to the narrow window that overlooks the vast darkness of Quadrant D. "With the reliquary, you can harness Jessamine's power. The histories say she could drain the souls of her foes from across the battlefield."

I rise to join her, the cold air seeping through the cracks. Below, the shadows shift with unseen movements—things lurking just beyond sight. "Even if that's true, I don't know how. There's no instruction manual, no sacred text titled 'Soul-Draining for Beginners.'"

She chuckles softly. "Faith is your guide."

I roll my eyes. "Blind faith isn't a strategy."

"Perhaps not, but it's a start," she says, turning to face me. "The Emperor works in mysterious ways. He has brought you here at our darkest hour. He must have a plan for you."

I cross my arms, the fabric of my robe rough against my skin. "You keep saying that, but have you considered that maybe I'm not interested in being your savior?"

She tilts her head, studying me. "Doubt is natural, but the signs are clear. You survived the reliquary's touch. Jessamine's spirit resides within you."

"Or maybe I'm just too stubborn to die," I mutter.

Riley places a hand on my shoulder, her grip firm. "Aurora, you are more than you realize. With you leading us, we can reclaim what we've lost."

I pull away, pacing the small room. "Even if I wanted to help and Emperor take me… I do. We can't feed the sisters we have now, let alone the forty thousand more of the other eleven tribes already on their way. Or do you expect me to conjure food out of thin air?"

She smiles enigmatically. "The corpse-starch processing plant in Trebor's territory."

"Right, just stroll into the Yellow Dead's playground and ask politely for a share?" I scoff. "He's a psyker, Riley. Unstable, dangerous."

"Not if we catch them unawares. With the reliquary—"

I cut her off. "You keep bringing that up like it's a magic wand! I touched it, frack all! I can't just wave it around and make enemies drop dead."

"Perhaps not yet," she concedes. "But with training, practice—"

"Training?" I throw up my hands, "Practice?" spittle flies from the corners of my mouth as words seem inadequate to express the depths of frustration I'm currently plumbing. "From whom!? Jessamine herself? She's a bit preoccupied being a desiccated corpse on a throne. Oh right, and getting into my head!"

Riley's eyes harden. "Calm yourself, Aurora."

"Or what?" I challenge.

She takes a deep breath, regaining her composure. "Fine, you're right, we don't have the luxury of time regardless. The other tribes will be here within days. We need a plan."

I sigh, slumping against the wall. "I agree. But charging headfirst into enemy territory isn't a plan; it's suicide."

"Then what do you suggest?" she asks, her tone edged with impatience. Clearly finding the saint was supposed to be the hard part, in her mind, magically fixing everything and going on a crusade was just supposed to happen naturally all on its own.

Frack me.

I stare out into the abyss of Quadrant D, the darkness pressing in like a living thing. "We need allies. Maybe strike a deal with one of the gangs, just temporarily."

She shakes her head. "The gangs cannot be trusted. They're heretics and scum."

"And we're saints?" I shoot back. "We've been infiltrating them for years, apparently, using them for our own ends."

"That's different."

"How?"

She hesitates. "We serve a higher purpose."

I let out a hollow laugh. "Is that what you tell the girls when they come of age and get sent to seduce their first gangers for scraps of intel, just to get pregnant and disappear? Is that the higher purpose we're discussing right now?"

Riley's jaw tightens. "You don't understand."

"No, I think I understand perfectly," I say, meeting her gaze. "We're just as manipulative as they are. Your just as manipulative as my own mother, to say nothing of manipulation I've grown up with under the Sororitas, the Schola, even my brainwashed best friend…" My voice trails off to nothing and suddenly I feel very, very small, and desperately homesick for the schola, for Valeria, even Helena.

Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. "What happened to you, Aurora? You carry so much anger."

I look away. "Maybe I'm just good and tired of being a pawn in everyone else's game."

She steps closer. "You're not a pawn. You're the key to our salvation."

"If I had a throne for every time one of you said that..." I mutter, "I could go up to the upper hive and buy us all the food we'd ever need."

She almost smiles. "We can figure this out together."

I shake my head. "Fine. Suppose I am Jessamine reborn. Suppose I can wield her power. What good is it if we starve before I learn how to use it? We can't make a temporary alliance, so what does that leave us?"

She considers this. "Perhaps we focus on immediate needs. Small raids, gathering supplies, weapons, ammunition, power packs, enough to pull off something bigger."

I arch an eyebrow. "You mean murder and stealing," I point out, "because we're right, and they're wrong."

"Survival," she corrects, "cleansing."

I sigh, biting back my response. "Fine, whatever, they're filthy gangers and we're holy cultists." I roll my eyes, "It's still risky. Any misstep could bring them down on us."

"Not if we're careful," she insists. "Our sisters are skilled."

"Skilled, but not invincible," I point out. "And what happens when we leave a body behind and suddenly the gangs all know there's a new player on the scrum pitch? Trebor or Gnarl or Lutefisk retaliate, they have numbers, weapons. Even if they don't, they arm and prepare themselves to defend against us."

Riley glances at the reliquary in my hand. "With you leading, we can do it, we will succeed."

I scoff. "An eleven-year-old girl leading a band of half-starved women against armed gangers? Sounds like a great propaganda piece."

"A legend in the making," she counters.

I pause, my jaw hanging slightly open, then I throw up my hands. "You're impossible."

She smiles softly. "Perhaps. But I, we, have faith in you."

I groan, rubbing my face. "Fine. Say we try a small raid. What's the target?"

She steps back, considering. "There's a number of power nodes, even a few pumping stations along our border, lightly guarded and not by their best. Hit a dozen of them and maybe come up with twice that many functional las or hard round weapons plus any number of blades and clubs."

I nod slowly. "Alright. Minimal risk, potentially high reward."

"And if you bring the reliquary," she adds, "it might bolster our chances."

I hold up the pendant, its weight suddenly heavier. "I'll bring it. But no promises on any soul-draining miracles."

"Understood," she says, a hint of satisfaction in her voice.

I push off from the wall. "Fine, I'll think about it. I assume you have these sorts of things already planned out." She nods, "when do we leave for this supposed holy mission?"

"At dawn," she replies, nodding at the fading lumen strips which, I've noticed, seem to dim or brighten with some pseudo sense of time. Whether or not it's still synced with the planet's rotation after fourteen hundred years is anyone's guess. "Now you should go rest. You'll need your strength."

I glance around the dim room, the shadows lengthening. "Rest. Right." The anger drains out of me and along with it, all my remaining energy.

She moves toward the door, pausing to look back at me. "Thank you, Aurora. For stepping up."

I shrug. "Don't thank me yet, I'm still thinking it through."

She nods and gives a knowing smile, "I have faith that you'll see things in a new light very soon," and slips out, the door closing softly behind her.

Alone, I sink back into the chair, the reliquary cold against my palm. I stare into the amber depths, the finger bone and ring encased within. No lights, no divine visitation, even the Light Woman hasn't been around since I touched it. I sigh, too tired to probe the divine, and move to the door of the office. Just three flights of stairs and a nice, locked door between me and bed.

Hmph.

Maybe the reliquary will mean I don't need to be tied up anymore, if I'm lucky maybe the dreams will be better too.

I open the door.

The corridor beyond is awash with a soft glow—lamps held aloft by countless hands, their flickering lumens casting wavering halos upon the stone walls. My breath catches in my throat. From wall to wall, as far as the eye can see, the hallway is filled with women.

I freeze on the threshold, my hand still gripping the door handle. Hundreds of eyes are fixed on me—wide, expectant, reverent. Old women with lined faces and weary eyes; young girls clutching tattered dolls; mothers holding infants swaddled in threadbare cloth. Even toddlers stand clinging to skirts, their tiny faces peering up at me with innocent curiosity.

My heart lurches, a mix of panic and bewilderment knotting in my chest. The air is thick with unspoken words, a collective breath held tight. I swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement. The door behind me shuts with a click that echoes in the sudden, pregnant silence.

From the front of the crowd, a girl steps forward. She's barely older than me—maybe thirteen or fourteen—with straw-colored hair pulled back in a loose braid. Her hands rest gently on the swell of her belly, visibly heavy with child. Her cheeks are hollow, eyes rimmed with dark circles, but they shine with a fierce, unwavering hope.

She stops a pace before me and bows her head deeply. When she looks up, her voice is barely above a whisper. "Saint... would you bless my child?"

Her words hang in the air, and I feel the weight of them settle upon my shoulders. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. What do I say? That she's mistaken? That I'm no saint, just a girl thrust into a role I never asked for and can't possibly fill?

But then I see the flicker of fear behind her eyes—the same fear I've seen in my own reflection. The desperate clinging to something, anything, that might offer hope in this forsaken place, the fear of doubt, of failure. I imagine the perilous journey she must have endured: infiltrating the gangs, enduring their world, risking everything to return here with new life growing inside her.

My gaze drifts to her rounded belly. The fabric barely conceals the subtle movements beneath—a tiny foot pressing outward, the shift of new life eager to join the Imperium. An innocent soul, untainted by the darkness that surrounds us.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. "I... I don't…," I begin, but the words falter. The weight of their gazes presses in, a tidal force of belief and desperation. These women—they see me as their savior, their saint. The one who will deliver them from the shadows that have been the sum total of their lives for untold generations.

Her expression falters for a moment, but she quickly masks it with a hopeful smile. "Just your touch would be more than I deserve."

Around us, the crowd seems to lean in, breaths held in unison. I can feel their collective anticipation, a tangible force pressing in.

My mouth has gone completely dry. I take a shaky breath, lifting my hand slowly. My fingers hover inches above her abdomen, and for a second, I hesitate.

Who am I to offer blessings? What power do I truly hold?

But as I look into her eyes—eyes that mirror my own yearning for something better—I know I can't refuse. Gently, I rest my hand upon her belly. The warmth surprises me, a soft reminder of the life stirring beneath.

I trace the sign of the Aquila over her unborn child, the gesture coming almost instinctively. "Emperor bless you," I whisper, the words barely audible.

A sigh ripples through the gathered women, a wave of relief and quiet joy. The girl's face is awash with relief, tears glistening as they spill down her cheeks. "Thank you," she breathes, clutching her hands to her chest. "Thank you, my lady."

I nod, pulling my hand back. The air feels thicker now, heavy with emotions I can't begin to name. Gratitude? Hope?

The crushing weight of expectations I fear I can't fulfill…

A murmur ripples through the assembly—a soft susurration of awe and gratitude. Others begin to step forward, tentative, their hands outstretched. A little girl with tangled curls offers me a wilted fungus. An elderly woman kneels, her arthritic fingers reaching to touch the hem of my robe.

Overwhelmed, I take a step back, my pulse pounding in my ears. "Please," I manage, my voice shaking. "You don't have to—"

But they press closer, not aggressively, but with a palpable yearning I can feel as surely as my own breath.

Another woman steps forward—a mother clutching a wide-eyed toddler. "Please, bless my daughter," she implores.

Then another. "Saint, a blessing for my sick mother."

And another. "Bless my sister, she's to leave for the gangs soon."

Voices rise softly around me, each plea more earnest than the last. Faces blur together—lines of hardship etched deep, but eyes alight with newfound hope.

I feel my heart pounding in my chest, each beat echoing like a drum. "I... I'll try," I stammer, extending my hands.

One by one, they come forward. I touch calloused hands, fevered brows, tiny fingers that curl around my own. Each blessing whispered feels like a promise—a promise I'm terrified I can't keep.

"Emperor bless you."

"The Emperor's light guide you."

"His blessings upon you."

The words spill from my lips, a litany both comforting and hollow. Who am I to invoke the Emperor's favor? An imposter clad in borrowed faith, the blind faith of others, undeserved, unearned, a hypocrite.

Yet, as I continue, something shifts. The weariness doesn't fade, but a warmth kindles within me—a small flame pushing back against the doubt. Perhaps it's their belief seeping into me, or perhaps it's something else entirely.

A little girl, no more than five, reaches up on tiptoes. Her eyes are wide, a gap-toothed smile stretching across her grime-smudged face. "Will you bless dolly?" she asks, holding up a ragged bundle of cloth.

I can't help but smile softly. "Of course." I place a hand on the makeshift toy and her forehead. "May the Emperor watch over you both."

She giggles, darting back into the crowd, clutching the doll tightly.

A mother holds out her infant, the baby swaddled tightly, eyes closed in sleep. "May the Emperor watch over you," I whisper, my fingertips brushing the soft downy hair.

An older girl, perhaps sixteen, stands before me with tears streaming down her face. "Give me strength," she pleads, her features hard with trials I can only imagine.

I place a hand on her shoulder. "You are stronger than you know," I tell her, meeting her gaze. A sob escapes her lips and suddenly I'm hugging her as she shakes in my arms. Two others her own age gently pull her out of my embrace as more step forward.

Time seems to blur as the process repeats and repeats and repeats. Each face carries its own story of sorrow and resilience. I move through them like a specter, offering what little I can—a touch, a word, a fleeting connection.

Exhaustion tugs at me, a heavy cloak settling over my shoulders. My legs tremble, but I force myself to stand tall. They need this. They need... me.

A tiny girl with wide, solemn eyes says nothing, simply holds up a small, battered charm—a crude carving of the Aquila.

I kneel to her level, taking the charm gently. "Did you make this?" I ask.

She nods silently.

"It's beautiful," I say, handing it back. "Keep it close. It will protect you."

She offers a shy smile before darting back into the folds of the crowd.

I straighten up, swaying slightly.

Another woman steps forward—a middle-aged sister with a scar running down her cheek. She holds out a worn pendant shaped like an aquila. "It was my mother's," she says, her voice rough but edged with vulnerability. "Bless it, so I may carry her memory into the battles ahead."

I take the pendant gently, its metal warm from her touch. "Your mother watches over you," I say, closing my fingers around it. "May the Emperor grant you strength in her honor." I hand it back, and she nods deeply, eyes glistening.

An elderly woman, her back hunched with age, reaches out a trembling hand. Her eyes are milky, clouded with blindness. "I cannot see you, child," she whispers. "But I feel your light. Bless these old bones, that I might serve a little longer."

I clasp her hands between mine, the skin thin like parchment. "Your service is a beacon to us all," I tell her. "May the Emperor's light continue to guide your steps." She smiles, a toothless grin that warms something deep inside me.

A young girl with a shaved head steps forward next. Tattoos coil around her neck—scriptures in High Gothic. "I leave for the gangs tomorrow," she says, her voice steady but eyes betraying a flicker of fear. "Bless me, that I may return safely with knowledge and... and a child."

My throat tightens. So young, and already bearing such burdens. I place a hand on her forehead. "May the Emperor shield you from harm," I say. "And may you find the strength to fulfill your purpose." She closes her eyes, breathing deeply as if drawing courage from my words.

A pair of twins approach, their hands clasped tightly together. They're barely ten, their identical faces smudged with grime. "We help in the kitchens," one says.

"But food is scarce," the other finishes.

"Can you bless the pantry?" they ask in unison, hope lighting up their eyes.

I reach out and take a shoulder in each hand, giving them a gentle squeeze. "I will do what I can," I promise. "Keep faith, and together we'll find a way." They smile, a small flicker of joy in the darkness.

As I rise, a woman cradling a sickly infant steps forward. The baby's skin is pallid, breaths shallow. "She's all I have left," she murmurs, tears streaking down her face. "Please, Saint, save her."

A pang of helplessness grips me. I touch the baby's forehead, feeling the fever burning beneath the skin. Tears spill onto her tiny cheeks, mine, I realize as my exhausted body bends and buckles under the sway of such emotion. "May the Emperor's healing light surround this precious soul," I whisper, fighting back the choking sensation in my throat. The mother presses her lips to the baby's head, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

An older sister with a stern gaze approaches, holding out a chipped but well maintained shortsword. "Bless my blade," she says. "That it may strike true against those who threaten us."

I hesitate for a moment, then grasp the blade with my augmetic hand. The metal is cold, heavy with the weight of her intent. "May it serve justice and strike as true as your faith," I say, returning it to her. She nods sharply, conviction etched into her features.

A girl not much younger than me steps forward, her eyes downcast. "I... I struggle with nightmares," she admits softly. "I fear it means I'm not worthy."

I reach out, lifting her chin so our eyes meet. "We all carry doubts and fears, even me," I tell her. "Courage is not the absence of fear, but the will to go on despite it. The Emperor sees your heart."

She bites her lip, nodding slowly. "Thank you."

Another woman, her arm wrapped in a makeshift sling, asks for strength to heal quickly. A mother pleads for her daughter's safe return from scavenging. A grandmother seeks blessings for her entire lineage.

Each request is a thread, weaving into an intricate tapestry that connects us all. Words spill from my mouth, seeming to bypass any need to think about them beforehand as soul after soul passes before me.

With each interaction, I feel a strange duality—exhaustion pulling me down, yet an inexplicable energy buoying me up. Their faith pours into me, filling spaces I didn't know were empty. The doubts that have gnawed at me begin to wane, replaced by a burgeoning resolve.

A young novice with ink-stained fingers offers me a thick book. "It's the newest copy of our hymns," she says. "Bless it, so our voices may reach the Emperor."

I run my fingers over the cover, the pages frayed at the edges, torn, not cut. "Words sung from the heart will always find their way," I assure her. "Guard it well."

She clutches the book to her chest. "I will."

Hours pass, thousands of faces, requests, whispers, hymns, prayers. As the line dwindles, a final figure steps forward—a tall woman with eyes like steel. She wears the remnants of old scrap armor, dents and scratches telling tales of battles long past. "I've fought for years," she says, her voice steady. "But I fear my spirit wanes. Bless me with renewed purpose that I might feel faith as I once did."

I meet her gaze, seeing reflections of my own weariness and determination. "Your fight inspires us all," I say. "May the Emperor renew your spirit as you have renewed mine."

She inclines her head, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Thank you, Saint."

I lean against the cold stone wall, closing my eyes. Images swirl behind my lids—the hopeful faces, the trembling hands, the whispered prayers. Their voices echo in my mind, a chorus of need and faith intertwining.

All my life, I've clung to the idea of carving my own path, resisting the roles others tried to impose upon me. But standing here, I realize that perhaps it's not about me at all. It's about them—the countless souls looking to me not just for miracles, but for the simple assurance that they're not alone.

Who am I to deny them that?

I think of the little girl in the pipe—myself, years ago—waiting for Mama to return. The fear, the loneliness. If someone had reached out to me then, found me, offered me a glimmer of hope, would my path have been different? But someone did find me, the Saint, her shade, for good or ill, and gave me hope no less real than that which these here have taken from me.

A warmth spreads through my chest, the reliquary pulsing softly against my skin. Maybe this is what the Emperor feels—a connection to every beating heart, every whispered plea. A responsibility vast and daunting, yet filled with profound purpose, a boundless love for those who look to Him, a desire to shield and guide them. The thought sends a warmth coursing through me, filling the hollow spaces left by doubt.

I push off the wall, standing taller than I have in days. The exhaustion remains, but it's overshadowed by a newfound determination. Whether I'm truly Jessamine reborn or simply a girl thrust into extraordinary circumstances, these people believe in me. They've given me their faith, their hopes, their dreams.

I can't turn away from that.

No more wallowing in uncertainty or resentment. No more questioning my worthiness. If they see a saint in me, then perhaps it's time I rise to meet that expectation—not for myself, but for them.

I open my eyes to find Riley standing a few steps away, watching me with a mixture of respect and something else—pride, perhaps.

She steps forward. "They're ready to follow you," she says quietly.

I nod slowly. "Then I must not fail them."

A flicker of surprise crosses her face, quickly replaced by a determined smile. "You won't."

Riley turns to the whispering masses. "Go, the saint must rest." Her voice carries down the corridor.

They begin to disperse, murmuring amongst themselves. As they pass, many offer grateful smiles or nods of respect, many more reach out to touch the hem of my robe as they pass. The little girl with the doll waves enthusiastically before being guided away by her mother.

The hallway empties gradually, the soft echoes of their footsteps fading into silence. I feel a calm settle over me—a quiet before the storm.

Riley touches my arm gently. "You should rest too."

I turn to her, the reliquary warm against my chest, its subtle pulse matching the steady beat of my heart. "Rest won't change what's coming," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. "There's something I must do."