Chapter 22: Should I Die… - Part 2: Before I Sleep… (Tully's Perspective)

The combat stim hits like a freight train. My breath hitches as the pain dulls to a distant throb, and the world sharpens into brutal clarity. Blood still pools under me, sticky and warm, but the makeshift sling holds. Two empty bolter magazines, a length of tubing, and a prayer are all that keep my shattered arm from dangling uselessly. I don't look at it. No time for self-pity. No time for anything but the next minute.

The shield wall looms ahead, a jagged line of black ceramite and battered flesh. My Arbites hold it, barely, their riot shields interlocked against the press of the horde.

The sound is deafening—screams, the roar of lasguns, the wet crunch of bodies slamming into shields. And suddenly, behind it all, the rising whistle of the enemy's mortar rounds cutting through the chaos like a surgeon's blade.

The first shell lands twenty meters to my left, vaporizing a section of the enemy ramp. Heretics are flung skyward, flailing like broken marionettes. For a heartbeat, I think it's a lucky break—then the second mortar hits.

The world goes white.

The blast slams into me like a battering ram, my ears ringing as shrapnel pelts my armor. I hit the ground hard, choking on dust and the acrid stink of burning flesh. When the ringing subsides, the screaming begins.

I shove myself up, stumbling toward the crater where the mortar struck. Bodies are scattered like discarded toys, their broken forms draped over what remains of the shield wall. My Arbites, my troopers, are dragging themselves to their feet, shields forgotten as panic ripples through the line.

A voice crackles in my helmet, barely audible over the din. "Sarge… they're breaking through…"

I spin toward the line, shotgun clenched in my good hand. "Lock those shields! Stand your ground!" My voice is raw, barely human, but it cuts through the chaos.

The Arbites snap back into formation, shields locking with mechanical precision, but it's like trying to patch a sinking ship with paper. The gap in our wall yawns like an open wound, a pulsing, bleeding gash that spills chaos into our line. Heretics pour through by the dozen, clawing and screaming, their faces twisted in zeal and madness.

I'm moving before I think. The shotgun bucks against my shoulder as I fire into the mass. The first heretic drops, his head disintegrating in a spray of red mist and splintered bone. The second is on me in an instant, a jagged blade in his hand, his eyes wild and glassy. I sidestep his lunge, the stench of rot and madness clinging to him like a cloak, and bring the stock of my shotgun down on his face. His teeth shatter, a grotesque crunch that vibrates up my arm.

"Plug that hole!" I bellow, grabbing a trooper by the collar and shoving him forward.

He hesitates—just for a second—but I see the fear in his eyes.

We all feel it.

The front of the shield wall is a meat grinder, bodies pressing so close that there's no room to maneuver, no space to breathe. Riot shields groan under the weight of heretics slamming into them, the Arbites behind them digging in their heels to hold the line. Blood pools at their feet, seeping into the cracks between the stones, thick and dark and viscous. It smells of copper and despair.

A mortar lands ten meters to my left, close enough that the shockwave knocks me off balance. The explosion rips through the press of bodies, heretics and Arbites alike, flinging limbs and shattered shields into the air. My ears ring, the world spinning as I stagger upright.

"Sergeant!" someone screams, their voice distant and muffled, as if I'm underwater.

I turn toward the gap and see it for what it is: a death sentence.

The Arbites in the front are no longer a wall—they're a knot of desperate fighters, shields discarded or splintered, shotguns firing point-blank into the tide. Heretics climb over the bodies of their fallen, a writhing wave of blood and filth, their hands clawing at anything that moves.

A trooper to my left takes a cleaver to the neck, his head lolling grotesquely before he crumples. Another Arbite screams as he's dragged into the press, his shield wrenched from his grasp and his armor torn open by clawed hands. The line is collapsing, crumbling like wet paper under the relentless surge.

"Form up, damn you!" I roar, my voice raw as I shove another trooper into the fray. He lasts three seconds before a heretic with a rusted pipe crushes his helmet, the sound a sickening crunch.

Another mortar falls, closer this time. The blast sends me sprawling, the heat of it washing over me like a furnace. Shrapnel bites into my armor, and I feel the impact as something heavy slams into my shoulder. The world narrows to a tunnel, the edges black and closing in.

I push myself upright, my vision swimming. Around me, the wall is a vision of hell. Bodies are piled two, three deep, Arbites and heretics tangled in grotesque embrace. The stone beneath them is slick with blood, and the air is thick with the screams of the dying and the relentless roar of combat.

I see their faces, my troopers, the men and women who've followed me into this nightmare. They're terrified, desperate, fighting like cornered animals. Their shotguns bark, their shields splinter, and still, they hold—for now.

No.

They're not holding.

They're being cut off, surrounded, dragged down.

The realization hits me like a sledgehammer, a cold weight settling in my chest. For the first time in decades, I stare my own death in the face and see its inevitability. It's there, waiting for me in the eyes of the horde, in the jagged knives and screaming mouths, in the mortars that fall like judgment from the heavens.

"Fall back!" I scream into my vox, my voice cracking. "To the courtyard! Fall back now!"

There's hesitation, confusion, what's left of the line faltering as my troopers look to me for confirmation.

"Abandon the wall!" I bellow again over the open channel, slamming fresh shells into my shotgun awkwardly with one hand. "That's an order! Move!"

The Arbites begin to retreat, their movements shaky and disjointed. Shields are raised as they backpedal, firing into the advancing tide. The heretics press harder, sensing the shift, their screeches rising to a fever pitch.

We've lost the wall.

It's not a thought; it's a certainty, cold and absolute.

Then line breaks fully, Arbites falling back in disarray, shields half-raised, shotguns firing sporadically. The gatehouse ahead is a shattered ruin, a skeletal mockery of defense, its stone and steel gutted by the plasma strikes of those damnable Tech Abominations still grinding forward outside the wall. There's no cover, no sanctuary—just the ruined steps leading down, five meters wide, three hundred of them, disappearing into the smoke of the courtyard below.

"Move!" I bellow, my voice tearing through the panic. "To the stairs! Fall back in order, damn you!"

But there's no order now. It's chaos, raw and animal, the kind that makes men forget their training and their oaths. The Arbites are running, slipping on the blood-slicked stone, their riot shields abandoned, their weapons firing blindly over their shoulders.

I know it in my gut—we're not going to make it.

Not all of us.

Not most of us.

Maybe not any of us.

The horde is too fast, too relentless, and we're too slow, too broken. The distance to the courtyard might as well be a thousand kilometers.

Then, a flash of light through the gloom, a figure in white power armor streaks past me, her power sword blazing.

Another follows, then another.

Dozens of Sisters of Battle charge forward, their voices raised in hymns that cut through the cacophony like a blade.

They plunge into the horde with fury unmatched, their swords carving arcs of light through the darkness, their bolters firing at point-blank range, smashing heretics into pulped ruin.

They don't hesitate, don't falter. The Sisters fight like a storm, driving forward into the tide with savage precision. Blood sprays, black and red, as limbs and torsos are sundered, heretics collapsing under the relentless onslaught.

For a moment, I falter, watching them. They must be all that remains of nearly two-thousand that once stood along this half of the wall.

I want to stand with them.

Emperor knows I want to.

But then a trooper falls beside me, his scream cutting through my thoughts like a blade. I glance down to see him clutching his leg, the limb mangled and shredded by shrapnel. Blood pools around him, bright and vivid against the blackened stone.

I sling my shotgun over my shoulder and grab him by the collar with my one good arm, the pain in my shattered left arm flaring as I move. "On your feet!" I bark, but he just groans, his head lolling.

"Damn it," I mutter, hoisting him up as best I can. He's heavy, dead weight dragging against me, but I grit my teeth and start toward the stairs.

The Sisters are still fighting, their ranks thinning as more throw themselves into the breach. Maybe sixty remain, their white armor splattered with gore, their movements swift and precise. But they're being swallowed by the tide, overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Behind them, militia—old women and barely-grown girls clutching lasguns—quickly fall into ragged firing lines. Their shots are disciplined, their faces grim, their eyes lit with an unnatural glow.

I see it, even through the chaos.

That light.

Golden.

Burning.

It's not madness, not like the heretics, but something worse. The madness of faith, the blind, stupid courage of zealots. It's the Saint—Aurora. They're bolstered by her presence, by her power. And they're going to die for it.

I stop, my boots skidding on the blood-slick stone, and turn toward them.

The militia line is firing volley after volley into anything that gets past the desperate charge of their sisters, and in the midst of the chaos, I see her—a girl, no older than thirteen, if that. She's rail-thin, her malnourished frame swallowed by a patched uniform that doesn't fit, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her arms tremble with exhaustion, her frail body clearly at its limit, but her hands—Emperor's mercy—her hands are steady as she grips a lasrifle almost as long as she is tall.

Her face is pale, smudged with grime and blood, and her eyes… those damnable eyes. They glow faintly, lit by a golden light that doesn't belong in a child's face. Her lips move in silent prayer, her voice lost in the din of battle, but the fervor is unmistakable.

She's not afraid.

She's not anything.

She's… gone.

Behind her, more children kneel in a loose line, their lasrifles snapping off shots into the oncoming horde. Some are younger than her, while others are little more than teens, their faces hollowed by hunger and fear buried under the weight of something they can't understand. Among them are women with grey in their hair and weariness etched into their faces, clutching weapons with trembling hands. All of them have that same light in their eyes, that same unshakable faith burning away the exhaustion, the fear, the pain.

"Retreat!" I bellow, my voice raw and cracking. "Fall back to the courtyard! You're going to get butchered here!"

The girl doesn't even flinch.

Her eyes stay locked on the horde, her hands steady as she sights down the barrel of her lasrifle and fires. The shot finds its mark—a heretic's chest blooms red as he collapses, his body trampled by those behind him.

The girl doesn't react, doesn't even blink.

She just fires again.

"Damn it, listen to me!" I shout, stepping closer. I grab her shoulder, trying to wrench her attention away from the fight.

Her head turns slightly, her wide, glowing eyes meeting mine for the briefest of moments. But there's nothing there—no recognition, no understanding. It's like looking into the eyes of a statue, something carved from faith and duty, utterly devoid of self.

"You're going to die here!" I growl, shaking her. "You're just a kid! Fall back before it's too late!"

Her lips keep moving, her voice a faint whisper I can't hear.

A prayer.

It's always a prayer.

She shrugs off my grip with surprising strength and begins walking forward, towards the horde, her lasrifle firing again and again. Another heretic drops, another moment stolen from the tide.

It's hopeless.

All of it.

But she doesn't care.

She doesn't even see it.

Behind her, an old woman—her hair stark white, her face a mask of grim determination—fires her lasrifle in short, precise bursts. She glances at me, her expression unreadable, and then looks back at the horde. She doesn't speak, doesn't argue, doesn't acknowledge me beyond that brief glance.

They're all the same.

Blind.

Deaf.

Unreachable.

I slam my vox bead, desperation clawing at my throat. "Riley! High Priestess, respond! Order your Sisters to retreat! The wall is lost!"

Nothing. Just static.

"Riley, damn you, answer me!" I roar, my voice cracking with the force of it.

Still nothing.

My hand tightens on the collar of the wounded trooper I'm dragging, my teeth grinding as I close the channel. "Aurora! Saint or whatever you are, call them off! You're sending them to their deaths!"

Silence.

I look back at the girl, her thin frame silhouetted against the flames and smoke. She's still firing, still walking, her hands steady, her lips moving in prayer.

She's going to die here, and nothing I say or do will change that.

None of them will retreat.

None of them will listen.

They're lost—consumed by a faith so blind, so absolute, that it has reduced them to mere rounding error on Emperor's butcher's bill.

I curse under my breath, pulling the trooper toward the stairs. "Damn fools," I mutter, the words bitter on my tongue. "Blind, stupid fools."

The horde surges forward, overwhelming the line of sisters. I hear the screams, the wet sounds of flesh being torn, the crack of lasrifles falling silent one by one.

I don't look back.

I can't.

My boots hit the stairs, the trooper groaning as I half-drag, half-carry him down the narrow stone steps. Around me, the Arbites are retreating, their formation shattered, their shields abandoned. The Sisters above are still fighting, their white armor gleaming like beacons in the chaos, but they're being overrun.

I feel something tear inside me—not flesh, but spirit. The weight of it presses down, crushing and unrelenting.

I can't save them.

I can't save any of them.

I grit my teeth, the words spilling out of me like poison. "Damn you, Aurora," I mutter, my voice low and venomous. "Damn you for what you've done to them. For what you've turned them into."

Another mortar round explodes somewhere behind and above me, the shockwave nearly knocking me off my feet. I tighten my grip on the trooper, my arm screaming with the effort.

"And damn me," I whisper, the words bitter and final. "Damn me for bringing us here. For thinking we could make a difference. For thinking this wasn't already hopeless."

The stairs stretch on endlessly, each step a reminder of the lives being extinguished above, of the voices I'll never hear again, of the faith I'll never understand. The courtyard looms ahead, the makeshift barricades bristling with weapons and desperation.

My world is alive with noise—the distant boom of mortars, the staccato bark of heavy stubbers, and the shouted orders of desperate defenders—but it feels muted, muffled, as if I'm moving through a world wrapped in gauze. Each step is leaden, dragging me closer to a scene I already know I'll regret witnessing. The first barricade looms ahead, pieced together by bloodied hands and bolstered by grim determination.

The defenders of Barricade One, if you can call them that, are a wretched mix.

The wounded, the dying, still clutching weapons, likely not to expire before the enemy is on them.

Children, prepubescent waifs, stand among shattered pews and gilded statues, their tiny frames holding lasguns meant for full-grown soldiers. Some grip homemade weapons—scrap iron sharpened into crude blades or pipes fitted with jury-rigged triggers.

They're still, unnaturally so, their glowing golden eyes locked on the distant gate, waiting for the inevitable.

There's no fear in them, just a terrible serenity that sends a chill crawling down my spine.

Briggs is the first to reach me, his broad shoulders heaving as he takes the weight of the trooper I'm dragging.

"Sarge," he says, his voice rough with exhaustion. "I've got him."

I let the trooper go, my good arm falling limply to my side. My own exhaustion is a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under.

"Get him behind the barricade," I mutter, not even looking at Briggs. "Make sure he gets a gun."

The words are automatic and taste bitter.

A gun for what?

A last stand?

A futile gesture against an unstoppable tide?

Briggs doesn't argue. He nods, his face set in grim lines, and hauls the wounded Arbite toward the nearest line of defenders. The children part around him like reeds bending to the wind, their expressions blank, their glowing eyes unblinking.

Then Diaz appears, sprinting toward me, and my breath catches in my throat. Her carapace armor is gone, stripped away by what looks like a point-blank explosion, and her chest is a mass of crimson.

For a moment, my heart stops.

But she's still moving, helmetless, dark hair flying around her with the wind of her sprint, and the blood… the blood must not be hers.

"Sarge!" she calls, her voice sharp and clear despite the chaos. "I got sixty from my side off the damned wall. I've sent them to rest and reload behind Barricade Two. What's the plan?"

She stops in front of me, her bolter slung low, her face smeared with soot and blood. She's alive, but no more alive than any of us are, not really, and I feel something crack inside me. The weight of it all—the dead, the dying, the madness of it—finally drives its claws into my chest.

I stagger, my knees buckling as the tears come, hot and unbidden. I drop to the ground, my good hand clutching at the aquila pendant around my neck as if it might anchor me. "Throne help me," I choke out, the words raw and broken. "Throne I… I can't… I can't… I can't… I can't…"

Briggs is there in an instant, pulling me up and ushering me toward the edge of the barricades, out of sight of the others. Diaz follows, her expression a mix of concern and confusion. "Sarge, what's—"

"Not here," Briggs snaps, cutting her off. His voice is firm but not unkind, and he helps me sit on a pile of shattered pews.

I look at Diaz, at the blood-soaked miracle she represents, and the bitterness rises again. That tiny life inside her, that impossible, fragile spark of hope… it's never going to see the light of day.

Not here.

Not like this.

And that's what breaks me.

That's what tears me apart.

Diaz kneels beside me, her hand on my shoulder. "Sarge, we're not done yet. The Saint—"

"No," I growl, my voice low and venomous. "We are done." I spit, bitterly, "This place… it's done."

The anger comes then, a rising tide that drowns the grief.

I stand, my gaze locking onto Briggs. "You," I bark, my voice like a whip crack. "Swear to me. Swear before the Golden Throne that you'll follow my next order without question. Without a damned question!"

Briggs blinks, startled. "Sarge, what—"

"Swear it!" I roar, grabbing him by the collar and shaking him one-handed with a strength I draw from somewhere deep down inside the darkness filling my guts. "Swear it, Trooper Briggs, or Throne help me, I'll find someone who will!"

Briggs hesitates for a heartbeat, then nods. "I swear," he says, his voice steady. "By the Golden Throne! Emperor's blood, Sarge, I swear! Ok?"

I release him, my hand trembling as I pull my badge from my belt. The metal is pitted and scarred, the surface marred by what must have been a near-fatal hit. I press it into Briggs' hand, my grip firm. "Take this. Show it to the tank crew. They'll know it means they're under your command."

"Sarge, what are you—"

I don't answer him. Instead, I turn to Diaz. She's watching me, confused, her brow furrowed. She doesn't see it coming when I snap out my hand and cuff her across the temple. Her head jerks to the side, and she crumples, unconscious, into Briggs' arms.

Briggs stares at me, his mouth open in shock. "Sarge, what the frak—"

"She wouldn't go," I say, my voice cold and flat. "Not on her own. Not with these, her sisters, her family, fighting to the last. But I can't live with myself making her stay. Not with what's coming. And that little life inside her… it doesn't deserve to die here."

Briggs looks down at Diaz, then back at me. "You're serious."

"Damn right I am," I snap. "Take her. Take the tank. Get out through the side gate, circumvent the enemy lines. Get out of Quardant D. Head for the precinct. Call for reinforcements. Stay there until they arrive."

Briggs shakes his head, disbelief etched into every line of his face. "And you? What about you?"

I grip his shoulder, meeting his eyes. "I stay. Someone has to be here to open the main gates for you when reinforcements arrive. Do you understand me, Trooper Briggs?"

He nods slowly, his expression grim.

He understands perfectly.

"Understood, Sarge." His voice cracks and I see him swallow hard.

"Good lad," I say, stepping back. "Now go!"

Briggs hesitates for a moment longer, then hoists Diaz into his arms and starts toward the tank. I watch them go, my chest heavy with a weight I know I'll carry to my grave.

The Leman Russ roars to life, the deep rumble of its engines vibrating through the ground as Briggs and Diaz climb aboard. I watch as Briggs hands my badge to the tank commander, pointing toward the side gate with urgent gestures. The hatch slams shut, and for a moment, the tank is still, its stubbers falling silent as the crew shifts their attention to navigation. Then it lurches forward, its treads grinding against the rubble-strewn ground, and it begins its slow, deliberate retreat toward the side gate.

The moment stretches, my eyes locked on the tank until it disappears into the shadows beyond the gate. A voice crackles over the vox, sharp and accusatory. "Sarge, what the frak is going on? We needed that tank here!"

I snap my comm-bead on. "Belay that whining! That tank's gone to deal with the mortar positions, you hear me? If those guns keep pounding us, we're finished. They're taking the fight to the bastards behind the lines. Now focus on your Emperor-damned job and hold that line!"

There's silence on the vox for a beat, then a few grumbled acknowledgments.

Good.

I don't have time to deal with dissent. I turn my attention back to the barricades.

"Arbites! If you haven't taken your stims yet, now's the time!" My voice cuts through the din like a whip. I see them respond, shaking vials loose from their belts and jabbing them into veins and muscle. Some of them wince as the stimulants flood their systems, but most just set their jaws and get back to their firing positions.

"Chimera crews!" I bellow, pointing toward the ends of the barricades. "I want those multilasers focused on the stairs. No mercy. That's our choke point. They get through there, we're all dead!"

The two Chimeras growl as their crews adjust their positions. The twin beams of the multilasers light up the smoke-choked courtyard, cutting through the oncoming tide like blades of incandescent fire. The effect is immediate. Cultists attempting to pour down the stairs are ripped apart or explode as the water in the bodies turns to vapor and boils outwards, their bodies reduced to steaming chunks.

The Arbites cheer at the sudden effect, a ragged sound full of desperation and defiance.

I glance at the Sisters and militia, at the children standing shoulder-to-shoulder with them.

They don't cheer.

Their glowing golden eyes are fixed on the enemy, their faces blank, their movements almost mechanical.

It chills me more than the sight of the horde.

A hospitaller, her eyes glowing faintly just like the others, approaches me. "Your arm," she says, her voice soft and distant, as though she's speaking from a dream. I don't argue. I let her unwrap the makeshift bandage and apply a real one, her touch unnaturally gentle, her eyes never meeting mine.

A small hand tugs at my sleeve. I look down to see a girl, no older than ten, holding out a cup of water. Her face is streaked with grime, her hands trembling slightly, but her golden eyes are steady.

I take the cup and nod, forcing a smile I don't feel. "Thanks, kid."

The water is lukewarm and metallic, but it steadies me. I set the cup down and stand, surveying the scene. The Chimeras' multilasers are tearing into the horde with relentless precision, and for a brief moment, it feels like we might actually hold.

For a moment, there's nothing more to do, my mind wanders.

My thoughts lock on the kid's golden eyes.

I turn back to face the child.

Her eyes seem brighter than those of the girl on the wall, as if someone turned up the glow inside her. For a moment, I think it's a trick of the light—smoke and flames playing havoc with my vision—but then I notice the same brightness in the others. The women and girls lined up along the barricades, their weapons steady, their faces pale but calm. Their eyes shimmer with the same golden hue, more intense than when I first saw in in them on the wall.

It feels wrong.

Not warp-tainted wrong, but unsettling in a way I can't place. Like staring at something too perfect, too deliberate, to be natural. I push the thought away, chalking it up to my rattled nerves.

There are more pressing things to worry about.

Then I realize something else. The Basilica's lights are gone—snuffed out at some point during the chaos, total power failure then—but the chapel behind us is still glowing. Its massive bronze doors, shut tight against the carnage outside, shimmer faintly at the edges. Golden light spills from the cracks, soft and steady, bathing the chapel steps in an ethereal glow.

And it's not just the chapel.

The courtyard itself seems brighter, lit by more than the fires and burning corpses. The stone beneath my boots glows faintly, as though light is seeping up from deep within the ground. It's subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but once I notice it, I can't unsee it. It's everywhere—threads of golden light weaving through the carnage, barely strong enough to cast shadows.

I kneel, almost without thinking, wiping at the grime beneath me.

The soot smears away to reveal deep grooves etched into the stone, lines and symbols carved with precision. I don't remember seeing them yesterday, or ever before. They're recent, intricate, far too precise to be the work of any human craftsman.

And they're glowing.

Faintly, yes, but the light is there, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

"What the hell is this?" I mutter, running my fingers along the grooves.

The stone is warm to the touch, unnervingly so, like it's alive. The patterns are too complex for my tired mind to make sense of, twisting and turning in ways filled with terrifying purpose. I swear the glow grows stronger as I watch, the faint pulses quickening ever so slightly.

A shiver runs through me.

I glance up, scanning the courtyard for Riley, for anyone who might have answers. But there's no sign of the High Priestess. Just the Sisters and militia, their glowing eyes locked on the enemy, and the Arbites, grim-faced and resolute, their weapons aimed at the stairs.

I look back down at the lines, the faint light seeping from the grooves. My mind races, trying to make sense of it.

This wasn't here before.

It couldn't have been.

I would have noticed.

The Basilica's been standing for centuries, and I've walked this courtyard a dozen times since we arrived. These markings—this light—are new.

And they're growing brighter.

Before I can act, a shout pierces the air. "Sarge, look!" Someone nearby is pointing, their voice thick with panic.

I turn, and my stomach drops. The wall, a towering bastion of stone and steel, is alive with movement. Cultists are hurling themselves over the edge, a rain of bodies plummeting a hundred meters into the courtyard. They hit the ground with sickening splats, their broken forms littering the stone like discarded rags. But more and more follow, a grotesque waterfall of flesh and madness.

The first one to survive the fall drags itself forward, its limbs twisted at unnatural angles. It crawls toward us, its eyes wild with rage and pain, its mouth foaming as it snarls. Behind it, others begin to rise, their broken bodies moving with impossible determination.

"They're not waiting for the stairs," I whisper, the realization hitting me like a hammer. "They're making a second damn ramp!"

The Chimeras swivel their turrets, their multilasers slicing into the growing pile of bodies, but it's not enough. The horde keeps coming, throwing itself into the abyss without hesitation. The mound of corpses grows, the number of heretics who survive the fall grows with it.

I grip my shotgun tighter, my knuckles white. "Chimeras, back the frack to those stairs! Keep the ones in one piece from waltzing up to us! Everyone else, hold your fire until they're within fifty meters!"

The glowing lines beneath my feet pulse brighter, the light creeping up the walls of the courtyard. I don't know what's happening, but I can feel it—a shift, a weight, a presence pressing down on us. The horde is relentless, but something worse is brewing.

I don't know if it's salvation or damnation.

All I know is this.

It's coming.

I resign myself to the first barricade. Why put off the inevitable? No more orders need to be given.

Kill, or be killed.

Nothing else need be said.

I'm just settling into a position in which I feel confident is comfortable enough to die in when Quadrant D beyond the gate blossoms into sheets of flame rising above even the wall.

The fireballs erupt beyond the walls, vast plumes of orange and red flame that flare against the distant ceiling of the lower hive, casting jagged shadows across the battlefield below.

For a moment, the relentless din of the horde falters, their maddened screams replaced by an eerie hush. The blossoms of fire ripple outward, illuminating the ruins, the wreckage, and the creeping chaos. I squint, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing and failing.

That wasn't us…

"What in the Emperor's name..." I mutter, my voice trailing off. My grip tightens on the shotgun, the worn leather of the grip creaking under the strain.

Then, from the far side of the courtyard, the ground heaves as if something massive stirs beneath it. A loud, grinding sound of stone and metal colliding fills the air, and a section of floor slews away.

Then I see it.

A figure hauls itself up from the earth, its immense frame swathed in tattered crimson robes. Servo-arms and mechadendrites bristle from its back like a grotesque crown, their clawed tips clicking and whirring with mechanical precision. A dozen or more servoskulls orbit the hulking form, their optics glowing a baleful red.

The figure stands fully, towering over the battlefield like some mechanical colossus. The robes shift, revealing gleaming metal limbs ending in talons that dig into the stone with each step. It's a tech-priest—no, not just any tech-priest.

"Magos Harspes?" I breathe, not sure if I should be terrified or comforted by the presence of the machine-man tasked with coordinating the basilica's many automated defense systems, systems now silent.

The Magos turns its head toward me, the motion disturbingly smooth, as if the neck beneath the crimson cowl isn't constrained by flesh or bone. Its voice grates out, a metallic rasp that cuts through the chaos.

"Reinforcements have arrived."

I can only gape, caught between the unreal sight of the fireballs in the distance and the hulking monstrosity before me. The words barely register until Harspes speaks again.

"Saint Jessamine is dead," the Magos announces, the tone flat and devoid of reverence. "Her duty fulfilled. The defense will succeed. Do not interfere."

"Wait—what?" I manage, my voice cracking under the weight of everything that's happening. I take a step forward, shotgun raised slightly, unsure if I should be speaking or shooting. "Don't interfere!? Is that what you think we're bloody well doing up here? Interfering!?"

But Harspes doesn't wait for a response. He, or it, scuttles forward with alarming speed, dozens of spider-like limbs extending from beneath its robes to carry it across the ground. It doesn't spare me another glance as it climbs over the barricades, the servoskulls following in a synchronized swarm.

"Magos!" I shout, my voice desperate. "What are you—"

The Magos reaches the chapel steps, its limbs clicking against the stone as it ascends. Without breaking stride, it scurries up the side of the chapel itself, the golden light from the shattered stained glass window bathing it in an unholy glow. Then, with a final burst of speed, it vanishes into the light, leaving me staring in stunned silence.

I turn back to the barricades, blinking against the golden haze that lingers in my vision. My gaze drifts up the stairs, past the lines of defenders, to the great bronze doors of the chapel.

And that's where I see her.

A figure stands before the doors, her robes torn and bloodied, her fists pounding against the bronze with desperate urgency. Her voice is hoarse, the words lost in the chaos, but her body language screams of anguish and desperation.

The gilded honor guard stands before her and the doors, ten Sisters resplendent in ancient ceramite, their helms faceless and their weapons at rest but ready.

They do not move.

They do not react.

The figure beats against the door again, her fists leaving streaks of blood on the polished surface. The figure collapses against the bronze gates, her shoulders shaking as she pounds at them with bloody fists.

The sound is small against the scale of the doors, a hollow echo swallowed by the oppressive silence that has descended on the courtyard. The honor guard, resplendent and terrible in their ceramite armor, remain unmoving. They form a wall of gilded menace, their visors faceless, their presence unyielding.

I force myself to move, each step up the stairs heavier than the last. The golden glow beneath my boots pulses brighter, the lines crawling up the walls like veins, spilling faint light into the shadows. My gut churns with something primal, some deep, instinctive warning.

I shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't be walking toward this.

But my feet keep moving.

Closer now, I see her more clearly. The torn remnants of her ceremonial robes cling to her like tattered banners, streaked with dirt and blood. Her power armor is gone, the ornate symbols of her station stripped away or discarded. She's bare, vulnerable. Wrong.

Then I notice her eyes.

Or rather, where her eyes should be.

The hollow, bloody sockets weep crimson tears down her pale, gaunt cheeks. Claw marks rake the flesh around them, raw and jagged, the work of desperate hands.

Her hands.

The realization hits like a bolter round, the weight of it exploding agianst my chest until I can barely breathe.

She turns toward me as I mount the final step, sensing my presence rather than seeing me. Her head tilts, her face streaked with tears and blood, her mouth trembling as if forming words she cannot bring herself to say.

The golden light spilling across the courtyard dances around her but does not touch her.

It leaves her in shadow, isolated, alien.

Her lips part, and a hoarse whisper escapes. "Tully..." The word is broken, a fragment of a plea, barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

I take a step closer, my shotgun trembling in my grip. "Riley..." My voice is barely my own. "What... what have you done?"

Her bloody hands reach out, not toward me but toward the doors, pressing against their cold, unyielding surface. "It's not her," she rasps, the words trembling with pain, with desperation. "It's not the Saint. It's not... Jessamine."

The air freezes in my lungs, the weight of her words striking me harder than any blast or blow I've ever endured.

She slams her fists against the doors again, weaker now, her strength fading. "We have to stop it," she whispers, her voice raw, broken. "We have to... stop her. Before it's too late."

The honor guard doesn't move. They don't even seem to register her presence. Their golden visors reflect the light of the chapel, their power swords and a single power hammer held at rest but ready. They are immovable, eternal, a living barrier between Riley and whatever waits beyond those gates.

And then it dawns on me like ice water poured through every vein in my body.

This isn't the influence of the arch enemy.

Riley isn't mad.

She's not a heretic.

She's worse.

She's powerless.

Riley, the High Priestess, the voice of the Saint, the one meant to guide and command us all in this defense, has clawed out her own eyes to rid herself of the golden light that has consumed her flock.

She's clawed herself free from the influence that has overtaken her Sisters, her faithful, her children.

And now she's trying, desperately, futilely, to stop it… to stop… I swallow, my head shaking on its own. To stop whatever's happening.

"The Saint, the false saint, Aurora… she isn't saving us." Riley turns back to the gates and slams the flesh of her hands into them again, and again, a terrible mad desperation on her face, "She's consuming us."

My legs go weak, the weight of the truth threatening to drag me to my knees and I know with utter, terrible certainty that we're already too far gone to stop her.