Chapter 4: Plans, Plots, and Faith, Abbess Gloriana's POV
The first light of the artificial dawn seeps through the stained-glass windows of my chambers, casting fragmented hues of crimson and gold across the polished marble floor. I open my eyes to the familiar mosaic of Saint Jessamine Hallas gazing down upon me from the ceiling—a daily reminder of the legacy I am sworn to uphold.
The lingering ache in my hip greets me as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. A small penance, I suppose, for the years of service and the weight of the mantle I bear. The soft rustle of my robes accompanies me as I move toward the prayer alcove, each step measured, deliberate. The scent of incense from last night's vigil still hangs in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of aged parchment and sanctified oils.
Kneeling before the gilded effigy of the Emperor, I begin my morning devotions. The litany flows from my lips with practiced ease, yet each word is laden with earnest supplication.
"Almighty Emperor, guide my thoughts, steel my resolve, and grant me the wisdom to shepherd Your flock through these trying times."
As I recite the sacred texts, my mind cannot help but wander to the turmoil besieging the schola. The recent warp incursion has left a stain not easily cleansed, both on our halls and our reputation. Whispers of doubt have begun to permeate the upper echelons of the Ecclesiarchy, questioning our ability to safeguard the very principles we are entrusted to instill.
And at the heart of this maelstrom is Aurora.
The girl has been a curious case from the moment she appeared in Chapel 74—a starving waif claiming divine guidance by a figure she calls the "Light Woman." I took it as a sign—a test of our faith and an opportunity to mold a soul touched by the Emperor's grace. Assigning Sister Helena as her mentor seemed prudent at the time; Helena's fervor and martial prowess could temper Aurora's raw potential.
Yet, here we stand. Aurora's reckless flight from the safety of the camp led her straight into the clutches of heresy. Branded with the marks of Chaos, she has brought suspicion and scorn upon us all. Perhaps I was naïve to see providence where there was only chance.
"Emperor, illuminate the path I must tread," I whisper, pressing my forehead against clasped hands. The cold bite of the aquila pendant between my fingers anchors me.
Rising slowly, I make my way to the antechamber where Sister Tabitha has laid out my vestments for the day. The ceremonial robes are heavy with intricate embroidery—each stitch a verse from the Holy Scriptures, each thread a vow taken. As Tabitha assists me, her eyes avoid mine, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of today's meeting.
"Thank you, child," I say softly. She bows and exits without a word.
The mirror reflects a visage both austere and worn. Lines etched by decades of duty crisscross my face, but my eyes remain sharp, resolute. The three black bands on my sleeve denote my final juvenat treatments—a stark reminder that my time is waning. The thought kindles a flicker of irritation. The Council's hushed deliberations about my successor are premature. I am not yet a relic to be archived!
Adjusting the mantle on my shoulder, I contemplate the unfolding game before me. Sister Helena—brilliant, headstrong Helena—believes she moves unseen, that her schemes remain veiled from my sight. Her plan to elevate Aurora to a full Sister and then immediately declare her Repentia borders on madness. It is a reckless gambit, an affront to tradition that threatens to undermine the sanctity of our Order.
She underestimates me.
The letter from High Dialogus Erin Explendia rests atop my desk, its contents laying bare Helena's machinations. Erin, ever dutiful, felt compelled to inform me of this... plot? Plan? It reeks of desperation or perhaps… passion. Helena has leveraged the debts of five ranking Sisters and a Dialogus, Erin herself, to circumvent established protocol. Technically, she has not broken any rules, but the spirit of her actions is a blatant challenge to our Order's traditions.
Does she not grasp the precarious position we are in?
The schola teeters under scrutiny; the authorities' gazes are unforgiving. With the warp incursion still fresh and whispers of internal failings spreading, we can ill afford another scandal. Executing Aurora would be a mercy—a swift end to a potential threat and a demonstration of our unwavering commitment to purity. Commitment that we now, more than ever, need to demonstrate openly.
Then there is Interrogator Faust. A man of cold logic and unflinching calculations, who believes his intentions opaque. Yet the letter from Inquisitor Angstrom arrived this morning, detailing Faust's findings and his inclination toward Aurora's execution.
He underestimates the breadth of my connections within the Ordo Malleus and thinks his opinions are merely his own.
His recommendation aligns with my own thoughts, yet I cannot shake a sense of unease. His kind sees the world in probabilities, devoid of the spiritual nuances that guide us.
They both think me unaware, that I am an old relic lost in the dogma of yesteryears.
But I see the battlefield clearly, every piece in play. Helena, wielding favors and life debts like weapons, seeks to force my hand with legalities and technicalities. Faust, with his cold arithmetic, assumes to carry out his intent without challenge.
I will play coy, let them reveal their hands fully.
The letters are ammunition, should I need them. For now, I will observe and steer this discourse toward the outcome that best serves the Emperor's will—or at least, my interpretation of it.
"Emperor, grant me wisdom," I whisper aloud, a subtle smile touching my lips as blood quickens in my veins, anticipating the upcoming battle. The game is afoot, and I am far from an unwitting participant.
I move toward the grand doors leading to the audience chamber, my cane tapping lightly against the marble. The doors swing open effortlessly, revealing the expanse of the hall beyond. Sunlight—or rather, its simulated equivalent—pours in through towering windows of stained glass, each pane depicting pivotal moments from our Order's illustrious history.
The room is a testament to the glory of the Ecclesiarchy. Ornate pillars line the sides, carved with passages from the Rule of the Sororitas. Tapestries hang between them, illustrating the deeds of past Abbesses who have shaped our legacy. At the far end stands the judgment seat—a formidable throne of gold and onyx, inlaid with relics said to have belonged to Saint Jessamine herself.
As I approach the throne, my gaze lingers on a particular tapestry depicting the saint's martyrdom. Her serene expression amidst the chaos of battle is a poignant reminder of the virtues we aspire to embody: faith, sacrifice, obedience.
"Obedience," I mutter, the word tasting bitter. How far Helena seems to have strayed from this principle. Her defiance is becoming a thorn that needs to be addressed. Youngsters, always champing at the bit, always pushing back against the chains of tradition. Little do they know. Little do they understand. It is the chain of tradition that binds us to the sure ground as all we know teeters on the edge of heresy and collapse.
"She is young," I admit, "a mere sixty years has she had to see the Imperium and most of that only through the visor of her helmet, only seeing what the machine spirit targets and tallies through crimson lenses." The Imperium is more vast, more complex than any battlefield. Perhaps all of this time recovering here is the best thing that could have happened to her… and yet, has she learned wisdom? Have I instilled nothing that has penetrated her armor of self-righteous pragmatism?
We shall see.
I seat myself, the weight of the throne pressing against me as much as I press into it. The cool metal is both comforting and imposing. From this vantage point, I can see the entire chamber—a metaphor, perhaps, for the oversight expected of my station.
A discreet cough draws my attention. Sister Tabitha stands at the doorway.
"Revered Mother, Sister Helena and Interrogator Faust have arrived and await your summons," she informs me.
"Very well. Send them in," I reply, my voice echoing slightly in the vast space.
She bows and retreats, leaving me alone once more.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. This meeting will require tact and firmness. I need to steer Helena back onto the path of His righteousness and ensure that Faust's pragmatic approach does not overshadow the spiritual considerations at stake.
I find myself mentally reciting a hymn of protection. It makes me smile, yes, this is my battlefield now and woe to any who think me a toothless old grox.
As the doors open, I observe them both. Faust enters with measured steps, his eyes calculating even in their neutrality. His presence is austere, almost skeletal, as if he is a manifestation of the Emperor's judgment wrapped in a thin sheet of skin and nothing more.
Helena follows, her posture erect, eyes forward. There is a fire in her gaze—a stubborn determination that both impresses and vexes me. She has removed her ceremonial gauntlets, a gesture of respect perhaps, revealing the augmetic arms that are a testament to her own sacrifices. Her stride is purposeful, as if to war, and yet, even without her power armor, when is it not?
"Interrogator Faust, Sister Helena," I greet them, my tone formal. "Thank you for attending on such short notice."
They bow in unison, responding with the appropriate honorifics.
"Please, be seated," I gesture to the chairs set before the raised dais of the throne.
As they settle, I allow a moment of silence to envelop us, the weight of the chamber amplifying the gravity of the situation.
"We are here to discuss the matter of Aurora," I begin, folding my hands in my lap. "A matter that bears significant consequences for us all."
Helena meets my gaze directly, unflinching. Faust inclines his head slightly, indicating his readiness to proceed.
"Before we delve into recommendations, I would hear your assessments," I continue. "Interrogator, you may begin."
Faust adjusts his collar with a precise tug, a subtle gesture that seems more about alignment than comfort. His eyes meet mine briefly before he begins, voice steady and devoid of inflection.
"Revered Mother, Sister Helena," he nods to each of us in turn. "I have spent the last ninety days conducting a comprehensive evaluation of the subject known as Aurora."
He produces a dataslate from the folds of his robe, its surface flickering to life with scrolling text and arcane symbols. "During her isolation, she was provided with an unredacted copy of the Rule of the Sororitas: Order of the Sanctified Shield edition. My intention was to observe her reactions to specific passages—names, doctrines, and litanies that typically elicit a measurable response in those touched by the Warp."
I watch him carefully. His every word is measured, calculated. There's a cold efficiency to him that I find both reassuring and disquieting.
"Notably," he continues, "Aurora exhibited no such reactions. Positive or negative. She approached the text analytically, as one might study a treatise on higher mathematics. The subject additionally displayed no observable reaction to certain names or titles which, even to write out one letter at a time would cause most scribes to take extended holiday and spend most of it with incessant migraines and ill palate. While this is unusual, it neither confirms nor refutes potential taint as either an incredible strength of faith or a passing familiarity with such abominations as mentioned could account for lack of observable reaction."
He pauses, allowing that to settle. I sense Helena before me, a coiled spring of barely restrained tension.
"Her actions, however," Faust resumes, "have shown a consistent pattern of distrust toward authority figures. She displays a proclivity to rely on her own experiences and perceptions over established doctrine. While this may be indicative of youthful defiance, in Aurora's case, it is pronounced enough to warrant concern."
He taps the dataslate, bringing up a specific entry. "In her third journal entry, she openly questions the teachings of Canoness Jessamine Hallas regarding the value of blind faith."
He begins to read:
" 'What if faith isn't about being blind? What if the Emperor wants us to seek, to understand? If His light is so strong, shouldn't it shine even brighter when we ask questions, not dim?' "
The words hang in the air, echoing softly against the chamber's vaulted ceiling. I feel a flicker of something—disappointment? Perhaps. But also a pang of empathy and understanding.
"Such statements," Faust says, "illustrate a dangerous inclination toward independent thought in matters where absolute obedience is paramount."
Helena shifts slightly, but remains silent.
"Furthermore," he continues, his gaze steady, "given the ongoing investigation into the warp incursion and the attacks on the schola, her presence poses a significant risk."
He scrolls through his dataslate, bringing up detailed reports. "As you are aware, Revered Mother, several incidents occurred concurrently with the warp breach. The hanging of Senior Administrator Katoa in the administrative wing—an event staged to resemble suicide but clearly orchestrated to sow confusion. The improvised explosive device detonated in the Libra Primus, resulting in the loss of irreplaceable sacred texts. And the catastrophic fire that consumed a significant portion of the local PDF barracks, crippling our immediate military response."
He looks up, meeting my gaze. "These events were not isolated. My analysis indicates they were meticulously planned distractions, designed to divert attention from the true objective: the warp incursion in the underhive, precisely where Sister Helena was engaged in combat."
I nod slowly, the weight of his words settling upon me. The loss of the texts from the Libra Primus is a wound that will scar our institution for generations.
"Through cross-referencing timing, resource allocation, and enemy movements," Faust continues, "it becomes evident that these distractions were intended to delay or prevent reinforcement of our forces at the freight elevator. It was only through calculated assessment and, admittedly, a measure of intuition that I premptively dispatched my team to support Sister Helena, thus averting a greater catastrophe."
He pauses briefly. "I must commend the schola, particularly the ecclesiarchal quarters under your purview. Our investigations have revealed nothing but exemplary order and discipline among the initiates and staff within the Adepta Sororitas' domain. There is no evidence of internal corruption or complicity in these events."
"That is reassuring," I say softly, a measure of pride welling within me despite the gravity of the situation.
"However," he presses on, "Aurora's continued presence here could jeopardize this stability. Should she remain, my calculations indicate a probability exceeding fifty percent that she may become susceptible to the temptations of Chaos, especially given her tendencies toward questioning established doctrines."
He allows a measured pause, letting the gravity of his words settle before continuing. "Revered Mother," he begins with a formal nod, "it is out of profound respect for your centuries of exemplary service and your pivotal role in Aurora's admission to the schola that I, that the Ordo Malleus," he corrects himself, though I suspect he does so only to highlight the gravity of the situation. A man like Faust makes no idle mistakes in word choice, "brings this matter to you at all."
His eyes meet mine, steady and unblinking. "As you are aware, Aurora is presently under the jurisdiction of the Ordo Malleus. The authority vested in me grants final say over her disposition—be it execution, continued custody, or release. While the Inquisition operates independently, I believe in extending courtesies where they are due."
He glances briefly at his dataslate before returning his gaze to me. "You were instrumental in admitting Aurora, despite her not meeting the standard entrance criteria. Her arrival here, guided—as she claims—by a 'Light Woman,' is statistically improbable given the data we possess. Such an occurrence, while extraordinary, is more plausibly attributed to gaps in our information rather than divine intervention."
He pauses, allowing the implication to linger. "In these uncertain times, unexplained anomalies demand scrutiny. Aurora's unexplained presence, coupled with her recent actions, elevates the risk she poses—not just to herself but to the schola and, by extension, the imperium."
"In light of these factors," he continues, his tone unwavering, "I intend to proceed with her execution. This course of action is the most prudent means to prevent any potential taint from manifesting and to ensure the purity of the schola remains unblemished. Unless you have a formal objection—which, as you are aware, is a courtesy extended due to your esteemed position—I will enact this decision promptly."
He inclines his head slightly, a gesture that is both respectful and final. The room seems to constrict around us, the air heavy with unspoken tensions. I feel the weight of his words pressing upon me—a mixture of deference and assertion that leaves little room for compromise. Execution—a final solution, one that aligns with my initial inclination. Yet, hearing it spoken so plainly stirs a conflict within me as does his casual dismissal of divine action, though it is expected of a man such as Faust.
"Interrogator Faust," I say slowly, my voice measured, "your candidness is greatly appreciated as is your thoroughness in this matter. However, I must ask—do your calculations account for the possibility of redemption? Of guidance steering a wayward soul back onto the Emperor's path? The intervention of the Emperor through his saints in ways we are neither made privy to or have any say in?"
He blinks, considering. "Redemption is statistically rare in cases exhibiting her behavioral patterns. The potential risks outweigh the benefits. As to the divine, I meant no respect in what I stated—"
"None taken," I assure him.
He nods and continues, "but statistics, numbers, probabilities, these can be harnessed, these can be controlled, used, acted upon. I dare not say the miraculous does not occur, only that what appears miraculous to us must, if given all possible information, be utterly mundane in the eyes of the Emperor."
"Statistics," I muse aloud. "Numbers and probabilities. But we deal in faith, here, interrogator, in the immeasurable spirit of humanity."
Silence settles over us like a shroud.
Helena takes a breath, her eyes resolute. I can see behind them the whole of the coming battle. She'll begin with a charge directly into the heart of the issue, Faust, and the Ordo Malleus. She'll pin them as overstepping, playing on the tradition that we execute or rehabilitate our own, while at the same time planning to throw tradition into the proverbial incinerator when she reveals her own plan to save Aurora. She'll leverage her passing acquaintance with Inquisitor Angstrom, Faust's' boss to downplay his authority and call into question his jurisdiction. She will appeal to the Saint and Aurora's miraculous arrival and use the knife of reason Faust just handed her to denounce his statement against the miraculous as hypocrisy…
I give her a cold stare as she opens her mouth, no, Helena, you won't be the first one to strike a blow in this battle. I will beat you into the ground and leave you with one, single chance, to redeem yourself and leave the battlefield with honor… God-Emperor protect you if you don't take it!
"Revered Mother, if I may—"
I cut her off sharply. "No, Sister Helena, you may not!"
Her eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. Faust's gaze shifts between us, but he remains silent.
"I am well aware of your intentions," I continue, my voice cold as the marble walls surrounding us. "Did you truly believe I would remain oblivious to your machinations? That I would not notice your clandestine efforts to circumvent protocol and tradition?"
"Revered Mother, I—" she begins, but I raise a hand to silence her.
"Do not interrupt me, child," I snap. "You have taken it upon yourself to exploit life debts, to gather signatures from five Canonesses and a Sister Dialogus, all to force through your reckless plan without proper authorization. Such audacity is not only disrespectful to the traditions of our order and a personal attack on my own authority but also dangerously irresponsible. Your blind flailing in this attempt demonstrates a total lack of awareness to the current threats to our order, to this schola, threats you would feed and allow to fester by your ignorant acions."
She blinks, the initial surprise giving way to a tightness around her eyes. "My intent was to—"
"Your intent?" I interject. "Your intent was to undermine the very foundations of our Order for the sake of a single girl—a girl who has shown herself to be a liability, a potential threat to the schola and the Imperium itself."
"Revered Mother, Aurora is my tithe," she insists, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. "Her life is mine to—."
"Your tithe?" I echo, my tone laced with disdain. "You wield that term as if it grants you absolute authority. But with that responsibility comes the obligation to act in the best interests of the Order, not your personal crusade. Not to mention what it says about you, Sister, that a tithe of yours is under the executioner's blade of the Ordo Malleus!?"
Her jaw tightens, a flush rising in her cheeks. "I believe saving her is in the best interest—"
"You believe?" I interrupt harshly. "Your belief does not supersede centuries of doctrine and tradition. You presume to know better than the collective wisdom of our Order, to place your judgment above all others."
She clenches her fists at her sides, her mechanical fingers whirring softly. "I am acting out of faith, Revered Mother."
"Faith?" I scoff. "Or arrogance? You dare to defy protocol, to manipulate sacred bonds, all in pursuit of a misguided notion of redemption. Do you not see how your actions could be perceived? How they could be twisted by those eager to find fault within our ranks?"
Her eyes flash with a mix of anger and hurt. "I only seek to prevent further loss."
"Further loss?" I fix her with a penetrating stare. "Tell me, Sister Helena, who bore the consequences of your last deviation from protocol? Who paid the price for your inability to follow tradition?"
She hesitates, confusion mingling with apprehension. "I don't understand."
"Three Constantia," I state sharply. "Three loyal sisters lost in the underhive because of a spur-of-the-moment decision on your part to ignore the tactical necessity of an orderly retreat, the traditional method of not getting slaughtered by an oncoming mob, and instead embrace the suicidal notion of a heroic last stand. Your sisters' blood on your hands and your hands alone, Helena."
A shadow crosses her face, the color draining from her cheeks. "Revered Mother, I fought alongside them. I did everything in my power to save them!"
"Did you?" I press, my voice rising. "Or were they casualties of your recklessness? Your penchant for disregarding doctrine and acting on impulse?" The accusation is false. I've read the reports. Helena acquitted herself well, heroically even. Her actions and those of her constantia were what turned the tide and saved potentially countless lives. But that's not the point, and not the message she needs to hear right now.
These are the words that will be thrown in her face when the board of inquiry finishes with me and she stands before judgement. These are the interpretations that her plan to save Aurora will lend credence to! How can she not see that!?
Her eyes glisten with a mix of sorrow and mounting fury. "That is unjust," Helena declares, her voice strained. "They fell in battle against overwhelming odds! I led them with honor."
"Honor?" I snap, my tone cutting like a blade. "What honor is there in leading sisters to their deaths because of your inability to adhere to the most basic battlefield doctrines? Your actions have consequences, Helena—consequences that extend beyond your personal ego!"
Something fractures within her composure. In a flash, she surges forward, ascending the steps to the judgment seat like a hotshot lasbolt. She slams her augmetic fists onto the onyx armrests beside me, the impact reverberating through the chamber like a tolling bell. The stone doesn't yield, nor do her metal hands.
"How dare you! You weren't there! You don't know! How dare you use the deaths of my sisters against me!" she shouts, her face inches from mine, eyes blazing with a tempest of emotion.
I remain seated, my expression unaltered, meeting her glare with unflinching calm. "Rebecca. Challa. Haley," I say softly, each name a deliberate invocation.
Her breath catches, and for a heartbeat, the fury in her eyes wavers. With a guttural cry, she rips off her robe, the fabric tearing as she hurls it onto my lap. Beneath, her battle-worn armor is absent, revealing a lithe form marked by scars and ink. On her thigh, the names—Challa, Rebecca, Haley—are tattooed in elegant script, each letter entwined with tiny living thorns embedded in the flesh. Crimson beads of blood seep from the wounds, a perpetual penance etched into her very being.
"No one mourns them more than I!" she cries, her voice raw. "No one! Not even you have the right to speak their names against me!"
The air in the chamber thickens, tension coiling like a serpent ready to strike. From the corner of my eye, I see Faust move with practiced swiftness, his sidearm drawn and aimed with unerring precision at the side of Helena's head. His gaze is steady, finger poised on the trigger.
I raise a hand slowly, a silent command for restraint. He hesitates, then lowers the weapon slightly, though his posture remains alert.
"Helena, come back to yourself," I say quietly, my voice carrying the weight of authority tempered with a touch of compassion.
She blinks, the storm in her eyes flickering as realization dawns. Her gaze shifts to Faust, then back to me. The enormity of her actions settles upon her shoulders, and she steps back, trembling.
"I..." she stammers, her anger giving way to a flood of anguish. Tears well in her eyes, tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Her mouth opens and shuts in a silent sob. "I didn't mean... I just can't bear to lose another."
I stand slowly, picking up her discarded robe and laying it gently over her shoulders. Reaching out, I place a gentle hand on her forehead. The gesture seems almost foreign, a stark contrast to the harshness of our prior exchange.
"Helena," I murmur, "we all carry burdens that threaten to break us. But we must not let them drive us to destruction."
She bows her head, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "I don't want to lose Aurora too," she whispers, her tears falling freely. "Not after everything, not when I could save her."
I nod slowly. "Your pain is real, and your devotion to your tithe, to your sisters, is admirable. What I have said I have said to arouse your passions, to pierce your heart and see what it is that you bleed. But the path you choose now must be guided by wisdom, not merely passion."
She looks up at me, eyes red and raw with pain, searching my own with her gaze. "What would you have me do?"
I offer a faint smile. "Trust."
Behind us, Faust holsters his weapon, the tension in his stance easing. He watches silently, perhaps recognizing that this moment transcends protocol.
"Revered Mother," Helena says, her voice steadier now, though I can feel the tremble in her shoulders. "I am sorry for my outburst. My actions were disrespectful and unworthy."
I squeeze her shoulder gently. "Yes, they were. But acknowledging our faults is the first step toward redemption. We all falter, but it is how we rise that defines us."
She nods, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. The blood from the thorns mingles with the moisture in the air, leaving faint crimson streaks across her exposed skin beneath the tear of her robe.
I release her shoulder and gesture for her to step back. "Compose yourself, Sister," I say softly. "Let us speak as servants of the Emperor should."
Helena nods, a flicker of shame crossing her features. She descends the steps of the dais, returning to her place before me. Her head bows low, and slowly, she sinks to her knees, the fabric of her robe pooling around her like spilled ink.
I take a deep breath, allowing the silence to settle. The weight of the chamber seems to press down upon us, the distant hum of the schola's mechanisms the only sound.
"Helena," I begin, my tone measured and calm. "Your passion is undeniable, and your dedication to those you hold dear is admirable. But passion without wisdom is a blade without a hilt—dangerous to all, including the one who wields it."
She keeps her gaze fixed on the polished marble floor, her hands clasped tightly before her.
"You must understand that our Order thrives on discipline, on adherence to traditions that have guided us for millennia. These protocols are not mere formalities; they are the bedrock upon which our unity and strength are built."
"I understand, Revered Mother," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
"Do you?" I ask gently. "Your actions suggest otherwise. By circumventing proper channels, you not only jeopardize your own standing but cast shadows upon the integrity of us all. In times as precarious as these, we cannot afford even the slightest hint of discord. These words of mine, weapons you feel thrust into your heart, are not mine and my voice will not be the last to use them against you. Better they be used by a friend in just chastisement than by an official in mere punativity."
She exhales shakily. "I see that now."
"Good," I continue. "Consider the scrutiny we are under. The eyes of the Ecclesiarchy, the Ordo Malleus, and countless others are upon us, watching for any sign of weakness. Your plan, though born of noble intent, could be misconstrued as insubordination or, worse, complicity in the very heresies we strive to eradicate."
Her shoulders slump further, the reality of my words sinking in.
"I only wanted to save her," she murmurs.
"I know," I reply softly. "But sometimes, the hardest lesson is accepting that not all can be saved. We must place our trust in the Emperor's will, even when it leads us down paths of sorrow."
A tear escapes her closed eyes, tracing a path down her cheek. "Yes, Revered Mother."
I study her for a moment, the fierce warrior now humbled and contrite. This is the balance I had hoped to see—the fire of conviction tempered by the steel of discipline.
"Rise, Sister Helena," I instruct.
She hesitates before pushing herself to her feet, her gaze still lowered.
"Look at me," I say.
She raises her eyes, meeting mine with a mixture of resignation and lingering hope.
"You are a valuable member of our Order," I tell her. "Your courage and skills are assets we cannot afford to lose. But you must learn to channel your strengths within the boundaries that govern us."
"I will strive to do so," she promises.
"I believe you will," I say with a slight nod. "As for Aurora, the matter is resolved."
Her face pales, and I see the realization settle in. Her eyes glisten anew, but she remains silent, accepting what she believes is my decision.
I let the silence linger for a moment, then turn my attention back to Interrogator Faust. His expression is inscrutable, but I sense a hint of curiosity behind his measured gaze.
"Interrogator," I begin thoughtfully, "perhaps there is another path we might consider—one that addresses your concerns while honoring, if not the spirit, then at least the written letter of our sacred traditions."
Faust raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "I am open to alternatives, Revered Mother, provided they mitigate the risks we've discussed."
I nod slowly. "Indeed. Sister Helena's proposal, though unorthodox, is not without merit. The elevation of Aurora to Sisterhood followed by her immediate declaration as a Repentia is, in fact, permissible within our laws and traditions—as they are written, if not as they are practiced."
Helena's head snaps up, disbelief and a flicker of hope mingling in her eyes. She remains silent, perhaps fearing that any interruption might shatter this unexpected turn.
"By proceeding in this manner," I continue, "we effectively remove Aurora from the schola, thus eliminating the immediate risk of her presence here during your investigation. At the same time, we offer her life to the Emperor's judgment—entrusting her fate to His will, whether through divine intervention or the inexorable workings of chance."
Faust considers this, his analytical mind undoubtedly weighing probabilities and potential outcomes. "You propose to exile her as Repentia, then?"
"Precisely," I affirm. "Under three conditions. First, Sister Helena herself must conduct the Repentia ceremony. She will speak the sacred words and perform the rites, fully acknowledging the gravity of this act. She will renounce Aurora as her tithe and be the first to turn her back as we all must."
Helena nods solemnly, her lip quivers ever so slightly but her eyes remain steadfast, fixed on me.
"Second," I continue, "Aurora's isolation must be absolute. She will have no contact with the schola or any of its members. No support, no resources beyond what she carries with her. Her journey will be hers alone."
"Acceptable," Faust replies. "And the third condition?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "You must officially declare Aurora deceased. For all intents and purposes, she will be considered dead—a truth, in a manner of speaking, as one who is declared Repentia dies to her former life and to our Order. This will satisfy any administrative or legal concerns within the schola and the Inquisition."
Faust rocks back on his heels slightly, digesting the proposal. "An elegant solution. It removes her from any records that might draw scrutiny and aligns with both our objectives."
"Do you find these terms agreeable?" I inquire.
A smile graces Faust's lips, the first full expression I've seen from the man, and I don't find it a pleasant experience. "This course of action minimizes risk and satisfies the requirements of my mandate. I have a strong notion which probability supports that you've already secured the indulgence of my master, though, if I am correct, you supported my assessment and judgement when first we began this dance?"
I do not reply to the assumptions but merely offer, "you will make an excellent Inquisitor one day, Faust."
He nods, as if this is a readily apparent fact. Arrogance? Or merely calculation? "I look forward to reading all the details."
"Excellent," I say softly. "Then we are in agreement."
Helena's eyes shimmer with a mixture of relief and gratitude. She seems almost hesitant to speak, as if fearing the moment might dissolve.
I turn to her, allowing a small, almost mischievous smile to touch my lips. "Sister Helena, I trust you already have a penance in mind for Aurora—one that, given your remarkable aptitude for reinterpreting our sacred traditions, does not involve handing her an eviscerator she can hardly lift and sending her to perish on some forsaken battlefield?"
A hint of a blush colors her cheeks. "Yes, Revered Mother. I have a penance that adheres to the letter of the Rule of the Sororitas and offers a path for her redemption."
"Very well," I acknowledge. "You will proceed with the necessary preparations. Ensure that all protocols are meticulously followed. This may be unorthodox, but its execution must be beyond reproach."
"I will," she promises, her voice steady but edged with emotion. "Thank you, Revered Mother."
"Do not thank me," I reply gently. "Thank the Emperor for His guidance."
Faust rises from his seat. "With your blessing I take my leave. I will update my records and inform my superiors of this resolution."
"Be blessed in His name and go," I say. "And, Interrogator, I appreciate your willingness to find a mutually acceptable solution."
He offers a slight bow. "Our goals align more often than not it would seem. I now see why my master esteems you so highly, Revered Mother. You are not an opponent I would seek to cross lightly."
"Indeed," I agree. "May the Emperor illuminate your path."
He exits the chamber, his footsteps echoing down the grand hall. Once I am certain that Faust has left the premises—I hear the distant echo of the outer doors closing—I turn back to Helena. "There is something I must say," I begin softly.
She looks at me quizzically. "Yes, Revered Mother?"
"I owe you an apology, my Sister," I admit. "For using the holy sacrifice of our fallen Constantia against you earlier. Rebecca, Challa, Haley—their names should never be wielded as weapons against you."
She blinks in surprise, pain flashing over her features which she hides with a quick bow of her head. "You did what you felt was necessary."
"I did," I acknowledge. "But that does not lessen the sting, nor was it entirely fair. My words were a tonic to cure you but in the mouths of others you may find them to be a poison. They were, are, false, not representative of how I view you or your actions. But, I needed to reach you, to break through the armor you've so carefully constructed around your heart."
She remains silent, her gaze fixed on the floor.
"Helena," I continue gently, "you are a warrior of unparalleled skill, no one can question your record, your deeds. But you have become so acclimated to battle, so oriented toward conflict, that you've forgotten how to be vulnerable, how to share your burdens. Faith is not an individual endeavor; it thrives within the community, nourished by our shared experiences and support."
She lifts her eyes to meet mine. "I... I've always believed that bearing my struggles alone was a form of strength."
"In a commander, alone, without a peer to stand shoulder to shoulder with and only the more fragile faith of her subordinates to inspire, perhaps it could be. But this, here, is not that. Strength is most powerfully found in unity," I counter. "In the past seven years, not once have you come to me for confession or counsel. You have been transcribing your confessions, sending them to your former commander, keeping yourself isolated from those who stand ready to support you in the here and now."
She sighs softly. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."
"I understand how hard it must be to lay aside your traditions," I say with only the slightest hint of sarcastic humor. "But isolation breeds misunderstanding and clouds judgment. It was necessary for me to push you in such a raw and painful way because you refuse to open up and share your soul otherwise."
A flicker of realization crosses her face. "You wanted me to see beyond my own perspective."
"And I wanted to see your own perspective laid bare," I affirm. "You needed to recognize that faith is sustained by the collective, by trusting and leaning on others. Your willingness to humble yourself, to submit to the needs of the whole above your own passions, showed me that you are capable of this growth."
She nods slowly, absorbing my words.
"Because of that," I continue, "and only because of that, I am willing to consider your plan—unorthodox and audacious as it may be. I am choosing to trust in your faith, just as I hope you will learn to trust in mine. Just as we both must trust in Aurora's."
"Thank you, Revered Mother," she whispers. "I will strive to be worthy of that trust."
"I believe you will," I reply gently. "Now, let us speak of Aurora's penance. She cannot seek redemption through combat; it wouldn't fit the nature of her transgressions. She stands at the precipice of a path that could lead to darkness, but she hasn't crossed that threshold yet. Her absolution should be a crucible that tests her faith—a penance that requires more than just a stubborn heart and shrewd mind to overcome, more than just probabilities and quantitatives that Faust can measure and predict success by. Faith, the divine, the miraculous, nothing short will suffice."
She tells me.
I fold my hands thoughtfully. "You seek to test not only Aurora but also the presence and intent of Saint Jessamine herself."
"Yes," Helena admits. "It is a question that weighs heavily upon us. If the Saint guided Aurora to us, why has she faltered so? Why does she lack any outward sign of divine favor? This penance may reveal the answers we seek."
I feel a subtle unease stir within me. "There is a fine line, Sister, between testing one's faith and testing the divine. To set such a task could be seen as presumptuous, even impious towards the saint."
Helena gazes up at the stained-glass depiction of Saint Jessamine's martyrdom, the vibrant colors casting ethereal patterns across her face. A wry smile touches her lips. "Revered Mother, if Jessamine cannot handle a bit of lip from two old women seeking clarity, then perhaps she is not the formidable saint we believe her to be."
I can't help but chuckle softly at her audacity. "Careful, Helena. Such words tread dangerously close to censure, if not heresy."
She meets my eyes, sincerity evident. "I mean no disrespect. But our faith must be robust enough to withstand scrutiny, must it not? To question is not to doubt but to seek deeper understanding."
"Your words? or those of your tithe?" I question.
"If the words are true, does it matter? Must we not be careful, if Aurora is a divine instrument must we not be willing and prepared to be the ones learning from her, and through her, from the saint herself?"
I consider her perspective, the tension easing. "Perhaps there is wisdom in that. Very well. We will proceed as planned, but with the utmost reverence. Let us not forget the sanctity of the forces we are seeking to engage."
"Agreed," she responds earnestly. "I will ensure that every step is undertaken with the deepest respect and piety."
"See that you do," I affirm. "And keep me informed of her progress—discreetly, of course."
"Of course, Revered Mother."
A comfortable silence settles between us. For the first time in a long while, I feel a genuine connection with Helena—a mutual understanding forged through honesty and shared purpose.
"Now, we both have much to attend to. Go in faith, Sister Helena."
She bows deeply. "By your leave."
As she exits the chamber, I return my gaze to the mosaic of Saint Jessamine above. The artificial dawn casts a radiant glow upon her visage, the interplay of light and shadow lending an almost living quality to the artwork.
"Emperor," I whisper, "we place our trust in Your infinite wisdom. Guide our actions, flawed though they may be, toward the fulfillment of Your grand design."
A sense of calm washes over me, the weight of uncertainty lifting just enough to breathe freely. Perhaps this unorthodox path is precisely what is needed—a catalyst for growth, understanding, and, ultimately, faith.
"Let us see what the future holds," I murmur, before turning to attend to the myriad duties awaiting my attention.