Chapter 11: Light Woman

The echoes of their whispers linger in the vastness of the corridor, a haunting hymn reverberating off the cold stone walls. Faces blur together in my mind—women and children with eyes alight with desperate hope, hands reaching out in unwavering faith. Their belief is a tangible weight pressing upon my shoulders, a mantle I never sought but cannot cast aside.

Riley stands beside me, her gaze heavy with concern. "You should rest," she says softly, her voice barely cutting through the haze of exhaustion that wraps around me like a shroud.

I shake my head, the reliquary cold against my skin. "There's no time for rest."

She frowns, her eyes searching mine. "Aurora, you've given them so much tonight. You're exhausted. Pushing yourself won't help anyone."

I turn away, starting down the dimly lit corridor. Flickering lumen strips cast elongated shadows, warping the features of ancient statues that line the passage—saints and martyrs whose eyes seem to follow me with silent judgment.

"I need to go to the mausoleum," I state, my voice steadier than I feel.

Her expression shifts to alarm. "No. Not now. Jessamine's influence is strongest when you're vulnerable."

I take a step closer, the soft light casting long shadows across the stone walls. "Perhaps that's exactly why it has to be now. Isn't it when we're at our weakest, when illusions of self-sufficiency have been stripped away, that we can truly see ourselves? See our own hypocrisy?"

She grips my arm firmly. "This is madness. Just hours ago, you refused to accept even the idea that you might be the saint!"

"And maybe I'm not," I snap, meeting her gaze with a fierceness that surprises even me. "But what I believe doesn't matter anymore. What matters is them—their hopes, their lives. If I have to become the saint to save them, then that's what I'll do."

Her eyes widen, a mix of fear and confusion flickering across her face. "Jessamine will consume you. If you go down there now, exhausted and unprepared, she'll take over. You'll be lost to us."

A bitter laugh escapes me, echoing down the corridor. Riley stares as though I've lost my mind. Perhaps I have, but in madness, there's a certain clarity. For the first time, I see myself without the distortions of fear and doubt.

"Consumed? By Jessamine?" I shake my head slowly. "What Jessamine does or doesn't do is between her and the Emperor. I'm not going down there to confront her."

"You're... not?" she asks, confusion knitting her brow.

"No, Riley, I'm not. Jessamine's time came and went a millennium ago. I'm going down there because I am a fool—a blind, hypocritical child."

I pause, steadying myself before my own fear can dissuade me. "I don't expect you to understand," I continue. "It's like contempt—what we've been taught, isn't it? 'Contempt is the unyielding armor that guards the soul from the insidious touch of corruption.' Jessamine's own words."

Riley nods cautiously. "It's a cornerstone of our faith. A shield against darkness."

"Yes," I agree. "A shield. But shields can become walls. They protect, but they also confine. Through everything—Mama, the Schola, Lucius, Helena, Valeria..." I choke on her name, a sudden, wrenching sadness tearing at me as I realize I'll never see her again, at least… not as she remembers, if at all.

I shake my head hard, unwilling to numb myself against the truth, even at the cost of my only friend. "Through it all, I thought it was my unshakable faith that kept me safe, kept me in the Emperor's will. But it wasn't faith—it was contempt masquerading as faith. Contempt for the blind belief of others, contempt as my fortress. It's why I never fit in, why I questioned when others obeyed without thought. And it's why I have to do this now."

She studies me, her expression unreadable. "Sometimes walls are necessary for survival."

"You're not hearing me!" I clench my fists, steadying myself against the self-deception I've clung to all my life. "Underhive rat, student, menial, Sister of Battle, Repentia, saint—it didn't matter, as long as I was Aurora, untouched by what others wanted me to be, immune to change. A hypocrite, living in sin by condemning others for their inability to progress in faith, while I clung desperately to who I thought I was. Little me... always me."

"What are you talking about?" Riley's face pales, a shadow of fear passing over her features.

"I'm not planning on coming back, Riley. In fact, I know I'm not coming back. The Emperor, in His mercy, has allowed me to see my fate clearly. My penance is to walk toward it willingly, knowing I'll lose myself—my Aurora, the one thing I've never given up."

I make the sign of the Aquila, closing my eyes as the weight of the moment nearly topples me. When I open them, Riley is staring at me, incomprehension and horror etched across her face.

"Only the Emperor knows what will emerge from that pit," I say softly, "but it won't be me—not the me you see now." Tears blur my vision. "And that's the point. The girl I am isn't enough. This terrified, doubting child can't save them." I motion to the retreating forms of thousands as the halls finally empty. "She'll let them starve, let the encroaching darkness consume them."

I swallow hard. "Aurora needs to die, so I can become something more, no matter the cost."

"At what cost?" she demands, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Your soul? Your very essence? You can't mean that."

"I do," I whisper, my voice trembling. "And that... that bitch!" The word burns on my tongue as tears stream down my cheeks. "That arrogant, self-righteous bitch and her book of stagnant, empty words. If it weren't for her failure, I could have remained Aurora—a student, myself, standing side by side with Valeria as sisters in arms. And if darkness came for us all, I could have died happily alongside her, and Helena, in peace... Now I have to become what she failed to be, and in doing so…"

Exhaustion and raw emotion blur the edges of my vision. For a fleeting moment, I see that future—us together, friends, sisters, perhaps more. The image vanishes, swallowed by a surge of anger.

"She's stealing it from me—my whole life, myself, my friends, the family I had, the second family I found—all of it." I lock eyes with Riley, and she recoils at whatever she sees in my gaze. My scars burn like white-hot brands. "Well, frack her! If she thinks she can take my soul while she's at it, she has another thing coming!"

The silence between Riley and me stretches like a chasm as we make our way to the mausoleum entrance. The corridor is a labyrinth of shadows, the flickering lumen globes casting ghostly shapes on the ancient stone walls. Riley walks beside me, her footsteps hesitant yet steady. She doesn't try to stop me; perhaps she knows it's futile, or perhaps she senses that this is a path I must walk alone. The weight of the reliquary against my chest is a constant reminder of the burden I carry.

We reach the massive door, its surface etched with symbols long forgotten by the world above, worn smooth by the tread of a billion feet. Without a word, I lower the reliquary. Its amber glow intensifies, casting a warm light that dances across the cold metal. The door responds to its touch, mechanisms groaning to life as it slowly slides open. No light woman appears this time; I am alone with my resolve.

I cast a final glance at Riley. Her eyes glisten in the dim light, a mixture of hope and sorrow.

"May the Emperor be with you," she whispers.

"And with you," I reply, my voice barely more than a breath.

I step across the threshold, and the door closes behind me with a resounding thud, sealing me into the silence of the abyss. The only light comes from the faint glow of the reliquary, casting long shadows on the stone steps that spiral downward. Each footfall echoes, a steady rhythm that matches the beating of my heart.

As I descend, the weight of everything I've held inside begins to press upon me. The walls seem to close in, the air growing colder with each step. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the distant drip of water seeping through ancient cracks.

"Emperor," I begin, my voice wavering in the emptiness. "Hear me."

Words spill forth unbidden, a torrent of thoughts and confessions I've kept locked away. "I've been blind," I whisper. "So consumed with myself, with my fears, my doubts. I clung to contempt, to pride, thinking it made me strong. But it was a crutch—a way to shield myself from the truth."

The steps continue downward, each one bringing me deeper into the earth and deeper into my own reflections. "Valeria," I murmur, her name a balm and a wound all at once. "I was never the friend you deserved." The memories come flooding back—her laughter, her kindness, the countless times she reached out to me. "I was selfish," I admit. "Always leaning on you, taking your strength when I should have offered my own in return."

I can almost see her smile, that unwavering confidence she carried like a shield. "You stood by me when no one else would. I never told you how much that meant, how much you mean to me, even now. I've been too wrapped up in my own doubts, my own fears. When I die here, literally, figuratively, or am consumed by Jessamine, my only regret will be that I never thanked you enough for being the sister I never had."

My footsteps echo softly, a lonely rhythm in the subterranean stillness. Tears blur my vision, but I don't wipe them away. "Emperor, forgive me for my lack of faith," I continue. "I held onto this idea of myself, this fragile construct of who I thought I was. I never trusted You with my true self, never let go of my own control, never let you mold me except by the crucible and fire."

The weight of my confession presses down, but with it comes a strange sense of relief. "I thought I was strong because I questioned, because I refused to bend and I was right to do so... But now I see that although I was right, I didn't do it out of faith. I was just afraid—afraid to let You change me, afraid of what You might ask me to become. Afraid of failure, of becoming something less than my own selfish, impossible ideal. Afraid that blind faith is what you wanted of me."

I pause for a moment, resting a hand against the cool stone wall. The texture is rough under my fingertips, grounding me. "When I was a child, alone in that pipe, starving and waiting for a mother who would never return, You had mercy on me. You sent the Light Woman to bring me to the Schola, to set me on a path I didn't understand."

The memories are sharp—Lucius's sneer as he tormented me, the searing pain of losing my arm, the living torture of the chaos marks, the torment of the inquisition, the crushing weight of isolation. "You put me through the crucible," I acknowledge. "Bullying, loss, betrayal—all to strip away the layers of who I thought I was, to reveal who I could become, and to give me the strength for this journey."

I pause on a landing, gazing into the void below. The silence is profound, but it's no longer suffocating. "I was angry," I admit, "in that cage they put me in. Angry at You, at the imperium, at myself. I couldn't see the purpose in my suffering. I thought You were indifferent, I doubted, I thought maybe you didn't see…."

A sob escapes me, raw and unbidden. "I see it now. I see my own hypocrisy, my own failings. And I am sorry. Sorry for not trusting You, for not giving myself over completely."

I take a deep breath, the air cold but invigorating. "I ask for Your forgiveness," I say, my voice steadier now. "For my lack of faith, for my stubbornness. For the pain I've caused others and myself."

A sense of peace begins to settle over me, like a gentle embrace. "I know You forgive me," I whisper. "You always have, even when I was just a little girl in a pipe with nothing but a rumbling stomach and ignorant, blind faith."

The reliquary pulses gently, its glow seeming just a bit brighter. I place my hand over it, feeling the steady rhythm as if it were a heartbeat. "I give myself to You," I vow. "Completely. Whoever You need me to be, whatever path You set before me, I will walk it."

The darkness around me feels less suffocating, the air less frigid. "Valeria, I hope someday I'll see you again. I hope you'll forgive me for leaving without a word. You are the best part of my life, and I will always carry your friendship as my greatest treasure."

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "Emperor, guide my steps. Let me be an instrument of Your will. I lay down who I was, I put this Aurora to death, so that I might become who You need me to be, who they need me to be, whatever that might mean for me in these next few moments."

The stairs finally level out, and I find myself at the base of the thousand steps. The air here is still, almost expectant. Shadows stretch out before me, but they no longer seem threatening.

I pause, taking a moment to gather myself. "I'm ready," I declare quietly.

Ahead lies whatever fate the Emperor has in store for me. I don't know what awaits, but for the first time in my short life, I feel truly unafraid.

The air grows colder as I step deeper into the labyrinth beneath the basilica. The flickering lumen globes cast long, wavering shadows that dance along the walls, walls adorned with faded frescoes of saints and martyrs whose eyes seem to follow me with silent judgment. Each footfall echoes in the hollow silence, a steady cadence that matches the relentless pounding of my heart.

The silence is thick, almost palpable, broken only by the distant drip of unseen water seeping through ancient stone. The scent of dust and decay fills my lungs, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that lingers like the ghosts of prayers long since uttered.

I pass through the antechamber where towering statues of Jessamine loom on either side, their features worn smooth by time yet still exuding an aura of solemn reverence. The murals that line the walls depict a story I now know all too well—the hive's descent into darkness, the failing geothermal core, the desperate faces of those who sought salvation. Jessamine stands at the center of it all, her arms outstretched, a beacon of hope turned harbinger of despair.

As I move forward, the temperature drops further, my breath fogging in the air before me. The reliquary pulses gently against my chest, its glow a constant reminder of the path I've chosen. But with each step, another presence presses against the edges of my mind—a cold, insistent whisper that tugs at my thoughts like fingers tracing the contours of my consciousness.

Jessamine.

Her essence swirls around me, a maelstrom of fragmented emotions and half-formed words. It's as if she's been dreaming all this time, and my approach has stirred her from a centuries-long slumber. The whispers grow louder, coalescing into echoes of language just beyond comprehension. Snatches of thought brush against my mind: desperation, fury, an insatiable longing that chills me more than the frigid air ever could.

I reach the massive door adorned with the ancient purity seal, its wax cracked and crumbling with age. The parchment is brittle beneath my fingers as I press the reliquary to it. The seal disintegrates, falling away like ash caught in a phantom breeze. Mechanisms hidden within the door groan to life, gears turning after lifetimes of inertia, and the door shudders open to reveal the passage beyond.

The corridor ahead is bathed in a dim, sickly light that seeps from lumen strips struggling to maintain their glow. The walls here are different—adorned not with holy images but with the austere symbols of the Mechanicus, their cogs and skulls interwoven with intricate circuitry that hums with dormant power.

As I proceed, the whispers intensify. Jessamine's presence is no longer at the periphery of my mind; it's pressing inward, testing the boundaries, searching for a way in. I can feel her will brushing against mine, a cold tide lapping at the shores of my consciousness. The words become clearer, fragments of sentences that fade before I can grasp their meaning.

A doorway looms ahead, framed by arching supports that disappear into the darkness above. I step through and find myself in a vast chamber—the tomb of saints, its ceiling lost to shadows. Rows of sarcophagi stretch into the gloom, each one draped in the tattered remnants of banners bearing heraldry I don't recognize. The air is thick with the weight of history, of lives dedicated and lost.

To my right, a line of armor stands on silent vigil—battle-plate worn by sisters long since turned to dust. Their helmets stare blankly ahead, eye slits dark and empty. Weapons rest at their sides, blades dulled by time, boltguns silent and cold.

I walk among them, feeling like an intruder in a place not meant for the living. The reliquary's glow casts elongated shadows that flicker and twist, playing tricks on my weary mind. The whispers are insistent now, Jessamine's will pushing harder, the words almost forming in the air around me.

"Come... forth... vessel..."

I shudder, clutching the reliquary tighter. "I am not your puppet," I murmur, more to myself than in answer to her. But even as I say it, I feel the weight of her gaze, though her eyes are unseen.

At the far end of the chamber stands another door, this one bearing the cog and skull emblem more prominently, surrounded by a halo of inscrutable glyphs. The metal is cold under my hand, a chill that seeps into my bones. I hesitate, a flicker of doubt gnawing at the edges of my resolve.

"Your strength... is mine..."

The words slip into my mind like a blade between ribs, sharp and invasive. I grit my teeth, pushing back against the intrusion. "My strength is the Emperor's," I whisper fiercely.

I press the reliquary against the door, and with a reluctant groan, it swings open. A rush of icy air greets me, carrying with it the scent of decay and something else—an undercurrent of ozone, like the aftermath of a lightning strike.

The mausoleum lies before me, a cavernous space where shadows writhe and the very air seems to vibrate with latent energy. Ancient lumens flicker to life along the walls, their light feeble and uneven, casting the chamber in a pale, otherworldly glow.

At the center, raised upon a dais of tarnished metal and cracked marble, sits the throne. It is a grotesque amalgamation of machinery and flesh, tubes and wires snaking from its base into the darkness above and burrowing into the withered form that occupies it.

Saint Jessamine Hallas.

Her body is a husk, a mockery of the sanctified images preserved in frescoes and statues. Skin stretched thin over bone, eyes sunken into shadowed hollows, lips drawn back to reveal teeth that are little more than brittle stumps. Yet despite her decrepitude, there is a palpable force emanating from her—a malignant will that reaches out like grasping tendrils.

The whispers crescendo, flooding my mind with a cacophony of voices, her voice, layering over itself in a maddening chorus.

"Join... with me... fulfill... destiny..."

I stagger under the onslaught, dropping to one knee as I clutch my head. The reliquary pulses wildly against my chest, its light flaring in response to Jessamine's encroaching presence.

"No," I gasp, standing, forcing the word past clenched teeth. "I am not yours to command."

She stirs on the throne, a twitch of desiccated fingers, a tilt of the gaunt head. Her eyes snap open—milky orbs that fix upon me with unnerving intensity.

The air thickens, pressure building as if the very atmosphere is closing in. The machinery connected to her whirs to life, gears grinding and pistons hissing, the sound echoing like the death throes of some ancient beast.

"Child... of faith... you cannot resist..."

Her voice is inside me now, reverberating through my skull. Images flash before my eyes—wars fought in her name, sacrifices made, lives extinguished to prolong her unnatural existence.

"Come… Submit... Become!"

Her will crashes against mine, a tidal wave of intent that threatens to drown out my own thoughts. I stagger, gripping the doorframe to steady myself. Images flicker at the edges of my vision—memories not my own. Battlefields drenched in blood, hymns sung by voices long silenced, flames consuming heretics and innocents alike. Past, present, future, there's no way to tell what I'm seeing, no way to shut it out of my mind—nor do I intend to.

Jessamine's will crashes against mine like a tidal wave, cold and relentless. I feel her icy talons gripping the corners of my mind, prying, tearing, seeking to cast me into oblivion. Instead of resisting, I do the unthinkable—I step aside, opening the door to my soul. Her consciousness floods in, a torrent of rage and centuries-old despair threatening to drown me.

But as she tries to seize control, to slam shut the door and lock me away in the dark recesses of my own mind, I surge forward. "No!" I scream, both aloud and within the psychic battleground of our shared consciousness. I wedge myself against the closing door, straining every fiber of my being to keep it ajar.

Through my own eyes, I see the mausoleum's cold, dim expanse. The twisted throne looms before me, and beside it stands the Light Woman—Jessamine's ethereal echo. She watches impassively, neither aiding nor hindering, a silent sentinel to our struggle.

"Go back!" I plead, my voice raw. "Go back, you selfish crone! You false beacon, you delusional relic!" My words echo in the chamber, but it's within the realm of thought where the true battle rages. "Look at what you've become!"

The Light Woman's eyes remain distant, staring into nothing, looking but not focusing, seeing but not seeing.

The pressure on the door intensifies. Jessamine's fury is a storm, her screams a cacophony in my mind. My fingers dig into the ethereal threshold, knuckles white, tendons burning.

"You refuse to see!" I hurl my memories at her—visions of her cult, her daughters, starving and dying, shadows creeping at the edges of their sanctuaries. I show her the sickness, the despair, the dwindling numbers Riley spoke of, the nameless darkness culling and vanishing whole communities. "They're dying out there!" I shout into the void of our shared psyche. "Your faithful, your daughters—they perish for you, for a lie!"

Her rage falters, if only for a heartbeat. The crushing weight lessens as surprise ripples through her consciousness. Sensing the momentary weakness, I press on. "Search my mind!" I challenge. "See that I haven't come to destroy you, you pathetic shadow of a saint!"

The onslaught resumes, fiercer than before. Jessamine's voice cuts through me like shattered glass. "I will set things right!" she declares, her thoughts sharpening into coherence. "I will lead my faithful to purge the heretics, to cleanse those who wronged me! How dare you presume to end me!?"

Pain lances through my skull as she redoubles her efforts. My grip slips, the door inching closer to sealing me away forever. The reliquary's light flickers, its warmth waning.

Desperation fuels me. "Yes! They need you, they need your help!" I cry out. "They need you to power the basilica, to give them fresh water, warmth, hope. I've not come to end you!"

Her assault hesitates, uncertainty seeping into her wrath. "You... speak truth?" she whispers, doubt threading through her consciousness.

"Search me!" I urge again, seizing the chance. "Know my intent is not destruction but salvation—for them, and perhaps even for you."

She pauses, and the overwhelming pressure eases just enough for me to catch my breath. My mind races, seeking any foothold to turn the tide.

"If not for them," I press on, "then for the Emperor, whom you swore to serve!" I glance at the Light Woman, still standing motionless beside the throne. Her eyes meet mine, fathomless and distant and unfocussed.

"You remained when you could have ascended to His side," I say, my voice softer yet edged with steel. "You endured the pain, the isolation, to keep them safe, to protect your daughters. Emperor damn you! You patrol the whole quadrant, taking lives, to keep them safe, but look around you! Can't you see the corruption seeping into everything you've fought for, can't you see how you're twisting everything?"

I stagger toward the Sanctified Plate—the once-holy armor now tarnished, its emblems twisted into grotesque parodies of their former glory. I slam my fist against the chestplate, the clang echoing through the chamber. "Does this look like the Aquila to you?" I demand. "Look at what you've become—a carrion bird feasting on the souls of the innocent!"

Her silence is palpable, a void where her fury once roared. The Light Woman's gaze shifts to the armor, a flicker of recognition—or perhaps regret—crossing her ethereal features.

"You claim to protect them from darkness," I continue, my voice rising. "Yet you are the darkness consuming them! Open your eyes, Jessamine! See the monster you've allowed yourself to become!"

A tremor runs through the chamber. The machinery connected to the throne groans, gears grinding in protest. Jessamine's presence wavers, her hold on my mind slips by a mere fraction.

"You would dare judge me?" Her voice quavers, no longer the unassailable force it was moments ago. "I did what was necessary—what no one else would."

"You clung to life when you should have let go," I retort. "Your sacrifice was meant to save them, but your refusal to move on will damn them!"

The Light Woman steps forward, her form shimmering. "She speaks the truth," she whispers, her voice like the rustle of forgotten pages. "We have lingered too long."

Jessamine's rage flares anew. "Silence!" she screams, both in the physical realm and within our shared mind. "I am their savior!"

"Yes, you are their savior!" I declare, my voice ringing out in the cold expanse of the mausoleum. "You saved them! You continue to save them every day you defend this place—you keep them warm, you give them water. But you are not enough!"

Jessamine's will slams into me like a hammer, and I feel my heart stutter, missing a beat. The door in my mind quivers under the renewed assault, swinging perilously close to shutting me out forever.

"I will be enough! Submit!" she thunders, her voice a tempest in my skull. "I will save them through you, my vessel—prepared for my return by your own mother!"

A shock of final betrayal runs through me at her words. Before I can process, a firm presence materializes at my side. "No!" the Light Woman states, her voice cutting through the chaos. She places her hands alongside mine against the door, her touch infusing me with a strange warmth. "Warded against you, against your power!"

Jessamine screams—a sound of pure rage and frustration—and a force hurls me backward. I crash to the stone floor, the impact jarring every bone. The chain of the reliquary snaps, and it flies from my grasp. I watch in dismay as it skitters across the ground, the amber casing fracturing upon impact. The saint's finger bone within leaps upward, drawn like iron to a lodestone, and comes to rest upon Jessamine's desiccated hand.

My eyes widen as the ring—the ring—lifts from the shattered reliquary, hovering in the air. Instinct drives me; I reach out, my fingers grasping at empty space as the ring speeds toward Jessamine's husk. It halts abruptly, suspended between us, caught in a tug-of-war of wills.

"You can't save them!" Jessamine screams, her voice a jagged edge. I can't tell if she's speaking to me or to the Light Woman—perhaps to both of us.

"No, I can't," I admit, my vision narrowing as darkness encroaches, tunneling my world to the single point of the ring suspended before me. It glints dully in the feeble light, a simple band carrying so much weight. "But we can—together. Not as possessor and vessel, but as the saint!"

"You are no saint!" Jessamine roars, and the door in my mind shudders under the force of her renewed assault. My vision dims further, shadows swallowing the periphery. I feel warmth trickling from my eyes, my ears, my nose—blood. The coppery taste fills my mouth as it wells up, but I cling to consciousness, to purpose.

"No, I'm not!" I cry out, my voice raw. "I'm not you! I'm not a saint—but neither are you! We don't need each other to be whole. You could kill me and remain a wraith chained to this throne. I could have fled and left you to your decay. But they need us—both of us!"

I reach out toward the Light Woman, her form shimmering like a mirage. "They need you," I plead, "to be more than you were. And I need you to make me more than I am! Without both of us, there's only death and slaughter. We are not enemies!"

My soul feels as though it's freezing, the cold seeping in as Jessamine's will pushes me to the brink. "Our enemies lie in wait," I whisper, my strength waning. "In this moment of our greatest weakness—yours and mine—neither of us true saints. They'll see us die or worse, twist us to their ways. Have you not seen them?"

Desperation drives me to unlock the darkest corner of my mind—the memories I've buried deep for months. I let them surface: Lucius finding me in the underhive's abyss, the gleam of the blade as he carved the profane symbols into my flesh—my forehead, my shoulder, the back of my right hand. The searing pain, the taint of corruption etched into my very skin.

As the memory floods my consciousness, the chaos symbol burns brightly in my mind's eye, a brand of the heresy that haunts me still.

Jessamine's presence recoils, a hiss of revulsion echoing through the psychic space between us. The overwhelming pressure eases, her grip loosening as the full weight of my past—and the threat it represents—strikes her.

I collapse to the floor, my body betraying me. The world spins—a whirl of shadows and distant, flickering lights. Blood pools beneath me, sticky and warm, seeping from my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Each ragged breath is a battle; my lungs feel heavy, my heartbeat erratic.

But within the physical agony, my soul finds sudden, startling clarity. Jessamine's presence has retreated, her will no longer suffocating mine. The door in my mind hangs ajar, unguarded.

I lie there, gasping, as the echoes of our confrontation fade. For long minutes, all I can do is breathe, the thunder of blood rushing behind my ears deafening me to all else.

Forcing myself upright, every movement a struggle, I meet her gaze. "They are coming," I warn, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Not just them—something worse, far bigger and more terrible than anyone can imagine. I saw things in your mind—memories of visions you've had while sleeping, dreaming of the terrible wars to come."

Jessamine's milky eyes lock onto mine, and for the first time, I sense not a conqueror but a weary soul seeking redemption. "What would you have me do?" she asks, her voice a fragile rasp.

"Unite," I say simply. "You two must not remain separate." I turn my head slightly to face the Light Woman. "You must give up your vigil over your daughters and leave their fate to me." Turning back to the husk on the throne, I add, "And you must put aside your shame and self-loathing. Let the good back in. Stop blinding yourself to your own corruption and undo what you've twisted."

She hesitates, the weight of centuries of pride and stubbornness holding her back. The Light Woman extends her hand—a silent offering.

I watch as black, ichorous tears form at the corners of the husk's eyes, running like oil down her withered face. "I... can't... can't go back to that chair..." It's the Light Woman speaking, I realize, weeping tears of black blood.

The ring still hangs suspended in the air between us. Slowly, I push myself to my feet, stumbling forward. My hand trembles as I reach out. I grasp the ring from the air, and immediately, my body steadies. My heart returns to a healthy rhythm; my mind begins to heal from the psychic onslaught it just endured.

"I know you're afraid," I say quietly, turning the ring over in my hand—the physical manifestation of the Light Woman, of everything good that once was Jessamine Hallas. "You've been afraid your whole life. You thought that writing all those beautiful words in your book would make them true for you, but it didn't. And when it came time to die, you couldn't."

A whimper escapes me as I feel the lingering psychic connection between us—the shame, regret, and terror pouring from Jessamine's mind into mine. Empathy floods me like never before.

"I know because I've been afraid too—my whole life," I continue. "Afraid of failure, of not living up to everyone's expectations." I turn the ring over again. "And I realize now that's because of you—a gift from my mother. Your memories in my dreams all those nights as an uncomprehending child, digging deep, pushing that fear of not being enough into my soul until it shaped everything I was, everything I became. I grew into the reincarnation of your fear."

I feel her recoil, sensing her as she replays the memory of my conversation with Riley, my prayer, feeling the burning anger of my loss and my decision to give up myself and step out in faith to become.

"You did... what I could not," the crone on the throne rasps.

"I did," I nod. "And that's how I know you can as well. Unite, please." I reach out, memories flooding me—thousands of faces pressing toward me in the hallway, a child asking me to bless her dolly, twins begging me to bless meager cupboards, a veteran warrior seeking to renew her faith. "Please don't let their faith be in vain. Give up yourself, Jessamine. Stop being the saint of legend and become the savior these poor souls desperately need."

Silence stretches between us, but I feel the ring pulse in my hand, its need to return to its owner fading.

"Put it on..." she says softly. "Put it on, and I will show you how to use it—to take what you need from me and become what they need from us..."