Chapter 12: Quadrant D (Valeria's POV)
The tunnel yawns before us like the maw of some ancient beast, swallowing the feeble light of our lumen strips. Each step echoes off damp stone and corroded metal, a hollow sound that seems to mock our advance. The air is thick with the stench of decay and forgotten things best left undisturbed. I adjust the grip on my bolter, the weight of my power armor both a comfort and a burden in this oppressive darkness.
"Bee," I murmur, my voice tinny through the vox. "How much farther?"
"Forty meters to maintenance shaft terminus," Bee replies, his monotone cutting through the silence. "Corpse starch residue remains consistent."
"Good," Tully grunts ahead of me, shotgun at the ready. His shoulders are tense beneath his worn carapace armor, a lifetime of scars etched into his posture. "Let's keep moving. Eyes open."
I glance back at the squad—Briggs, Diaz, Keller, Sykes—all hardened enforcers, all terrified, masking it beneath faces set in grim determination. Trebor trails behind, his cuffs clinking softly, a mad gleam in his eyes that makes my skin crawl.
"The veil thins," he whispers, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "She awaits."
"Shut it," Tully snaps without turning. "One more word and I'll gag you."
Trebor chuckles, unfazed. I can't shake the unease that coils in my gut. His ravings have grown more frequent the deeper we delve, and part of me wonders if there's truth buried in his madness.
The tunnel begins to slope upward, and Bee halts before a corroded hatch embedded in the ceiling. "Maintenance shaft ends here," he states. "Access panel is unresponsive. Power levels insufficient."
"Can you get it open?" I ask.
"External power input required."
Without hesitation, I detach a casing from my armor's power pack. Bee extends a mechadendrite, connecting to it. The servo-skull hums softly as energy flows through him into the ancient mechanisms. The hatch groans in protest, gears grinding after centuries of disuse, and slowly creaks open.
"Nicely done," Briggs mutters, a hint of relief in his voice.
"Let's move," Tully orders. "No telling how long it'll stay open."
We climb the rungs, rust flaking under our gloves, and emerge into a vast, echoing chamber. My breath catches at the sight.
The abandoned mag-lev station stretches out in all directions, a cathedral of steel and stone. Arched ceilings soar overhead, adorned with faded frescoes of saints and warriors. Platforms and rails crisscross the floor below, disappearing into shadows. But what draws the eye is the barricade—a towering wall of derelict train cars and twisted metal, welded together in a haphazard fortress.
"This is where your territory ends," Tully says flatly, glancing at Trebor.
He nods, a solemn expression momentarily sobering his features. "Beyond lies the abyss. Quadrant D."
I scan the surroundings, auspex readings scrolling across my visor. "No signs of life, or heat," I report.
"Doesn't mean it's safe," Tully replies. He taps his vox bead. "Jaquelin, do you copy?" Static hisses in response. "Frak. No signal."
"Local vox channels are still operational," I note. "That's unexpected. Weren't we anticipating total vox failure in Quadrant D?"
"Supposedly," he grumbles. "Maybe we're not deep enough yet."
"Bee, any anomalous readings?"
"Negative," Bee replies. "All systems functioning within normal parameters."
"Well, that's reassuring," Diaz mutters, shotgun pulled into her shoulder, sweeping the vast darkness with her stablight.
Tully eyes the barricade warily. "Alright. We move forward. Stay sharp. Weapons ready."
We skirt the barricade through a gap where metal has corroded away, stepping into Quadrant D. The air changes—cooler, cleaner, devoid of the usual miasma of the underhive. The silence here is different, a heavy stillness that presses on the senses.
"Emperor's mercy," Sykes breathes.
Before us stretches a grand avenue, wide enough for a regiment to march down. Towering statues line the boulevard—effigies of saints and Imperial heroes, their stone faces stern and unyielding. Buildings rise on either side, gothic spires reaching toward the unseen roof of the hive, adorned with gargoyles and stained glass windows that glimmer faintly in the darkness.
"This can't be real," Keller whispers.
"It's like we stepped back in time," Briggs adds.
"Stay focused," Tully snaps, but I catch the edge in his voice. He's unsettled. We all are.
"Look," I point ahead. In the distance, five or six kilometers away, stands a massive basilica fortress. Its silhouette is outlined by a soft, ethereal glow that bathes the surrounding structures in muted light.
"That shouldn't be possible," Tully says, narrowing his eyes. "There's no power grid here. No geothermal lines."
"Yet there it is," I reply. "An independent energy source?"
"Maybe it's the Heart of the Sacred Lady," Sykes suggests.
"Legends and fairy tales," Tully scoffs. "But this place... It's untouched."
"No debris, no scavengers," I observe. "No signs of looting or habitation."
"That's not normal, frack that, it's damn impossible!" Briggs says. "Not down here, not in the underhive."
Diaz remains uncharacteristically silent, a look of stoic resignation on her face.
"Bee, any life signs?" Tully asks.
"Minimal biological traces," Bee reports. "Small vermin. No significant threats detected, however, auspex is limited by distance and many deadzones exist due to the surrounded statuary and architecture."
"Too quiet, too clean," Tully mutters. "I don't like it."
Trebor smiles faintly. "She keeps her domain pristine. The masked lady protects."
"Stow it," Tully growls, but his gaze keeps darting to the shadows.
We proceed cautiously down the avenue, the sound of our footsteps absorbed by the vastness. My senses are on high alert, every shadow a potential threat. The architecture here is grand, majestic even, but there's an underlying sense of desolation.
"Feels like a tomb," Briggs says.
"An entire district, abandoned," Sykes muses. "Untouched by scavengers, untouched by looters, untouched by all but time… But why?"
"Something drove them out?" Tully suggests. "Or worse."
"Definitely worse..." Diaz remarks.
The silence settles over us like a shroud. I feel the weight of the emptiness pressing in, the vastness of Quadrant D swallowing us whole. The air is cooler here, almost fresh—a stark contrast to the fetid miasma of the underhive. It's unsettling.
Bee hovers beside me, his optics flickering as he scans the surroundings. "Corpse starch residue continues directly down the main avenue," he intones. "High probability the trail leads to the basilica ahead."
I nod, gazing down the grand boulevard. The avenue stretches out, straight as a las-beam, flanked by towering statues of saints—all women, I notice. Each one is carved from stone, their features serene yet resolute, eyes cast toward the heavens or gazing sternly upon the path we tread. They stand vigil, guardians of a forgotten time.
"Emperor's grace," Briggs mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've never seen anything like this."
"Feels wrong," Keller replies, her grip tightening on her shotgun. "Too open. We're exposed out here."
She's right. The road is devoid of the usual detritus—no rusted vehicles, no piles of scrap, no signs of habitation or decay. Just smooth, worn stone stretching into the distance. The only sound is the echo of our footsteps and the faint hum of Bee's servos.
Tully's gaze sweeps the buildings lining the avenue—tall, gothic structures with stained glass windows depicting scenes of martyrdom and triumph. The colors are dulled by time, but they catch the light from the distant basilica, casting ghostly hues across the street.
"Keep alert," he orders. "This place is too clean. Doesn't make sense."
Trebor trails behind us, his movements erratic. He mutters under his breath, a stream of incoherent words and half-formed sentences. I catch fragments—"the masked lady," "unworthy," "the veil"—but they slip away like shadows.
"Bee," I say quietly, "any life signs?"
"Negative significant readings," he replies. "Ambient scans detect minor vermin activity. No immediate threats detected within a 500-meter radius."
"Still doesn't feel right," Sykes grumbles. "I'd rather face a horde of gangers than this silence."
We press on, the basilica drawing nearer. Its massive doors are framed by statues of winged angels, swords raised in defiance. Above them, the facade is adorned with the Imperial aquila, wings spread wide, talons clutching the skull of a heretic.
I feel a chill run down my spine. There's a reverence here, a sense of sanctity preserved against all odds. But beneath it lies something else—a tension, a waiting.
"Hold up," Tully says abruptly, raising a fist. We come to an immediate halt.
"What is it?" I ask.
He scans the rooftops, the shadows between the buildings. "Thought I saw movement."
My heart quickens. I switch my visor to thermal imaging, but the displays show nothing unusual.
"Bee?" I prompt.
"No anomalous movement detected," he replies. "Deviation—correction. Multiple contacts now detected at extreme range."
"Where?" Tully demands.
"Positions obscured by architectural structures. Probability of ambush increasing."
"Frak," Briggs hisses. "I knew this was a bad idea."
Before we can react further, Trebor suddenly lurches forward, throwing himself onto his hands and knees. He begins to laugh—a high-pitched, manic sound that echoes off the stone facades.
"She comes! She comes!" he cries, clawing at the ground. "The masked lady beckons! I am unworthy! Take what you require, release me from this burden!"
"Get up!" Tully barks, but Trebor is beyond hearing.
At that moment, Bee's optics flare. "Immediate threat detected. Multiple humanoid figures converging on our position."
"Positions!" Tully snaps. "Take cover!"
We scramble to the nearest statue—a towering figure of a saint clad in power armor, a two-handed sword in one hand, a shield in the other. Her gaze is fixed skyward as an aquila descends upon her from above. I crouch at the base, allowing Tully and the others to use my armored form as additional cover.
Figures emerge from the shadows—dozens of them, slipping out from behind statues, doorways, and alcoves. They move with silent purpose, forming a loose circle around us, their movements synchronized like a well-drilled unit.
"Emperor's blood," Briggs whispers. "Where did they all come from?"
They're all female, I realize—clad in white robes stained with age and wear, scraps of armor strapped over the fabric. Some hold blades, ancient and silver in the light, others wield identical pipe staves. A few carry lasguns and autoguns, their barrels trained on us with unwavering precision.
"Bee," I murmur, "analysis."
"Weapons match those reported stolen from gang affiliates," he replies. "Probable source of armaments confirmed."
"Looks like we found our thieves," Briggs says through gritted teeth.
"Hold fire," Tully orders. "Don't provoke them, don't start anything we can't finish."
The tension is palpable. My visor displays flicker with targeting reticules, but I hold steady. These women—they don't bear the markings of any gang. Their eyes are hard, faces smeared with ash or paint in crude symbols I don't recognize.
"Any ideas?" Sykes asks, his voice strained.
"Stay calm," Tully replies. "We need to find a way to communicate."
Trebor remains prostrate in the open, his arms stretched forward toward the basilica. The women pay him no mind, their focus entirely on us.
One steps forward—a tall woman with a scar running down the side of her face, her hair cropped short. She carries herself with authority, a gleaming shortsword resting on her shoulder with the nonchalance of someone who knows the battle is already won.
"I am Riley," she declares, voice carrying across the still air. "High Priestess of Saint Jessamine Hallas. Long may she endure."
I blink, the name hitting me like a bolt of lightning. "Saint Jessamine?" I whisper. The founder of the Order of the Sanctified Shield. Her image is etched into every chapel, every shrine I've ever known—a paragon of faith and valor, martyred a millennium ago.
"Long may she endure," Riley repeats, her eyes cold and unwavering.
"Endure?" Tully echoes, confusion creasing his brow. "Saint Jessamine fell a millennia ago."
Riley's gaze snaps to him, sharp as a blade. "You trespass on hallowed ground, Arbites. This place is not for the likes of you."
Tully steps forward, shotgun held low but ready. "Under authority of the Emperor, we're investigating—"
His words are sliced short as Riley flicks her sword through the air, the gesture so precise it feels like it cuts the sound itself. The squad tenses, fingers hovering over triggers.
"I know who you are, Sergeant Tully," she says, her voice dripping with contempt. "A jaded enforcer clinging to the tattered remnants of authority in a precinct riddled with vice. You turn a blind eye to the gangs' transgressions to keep your fragile peace." She spits on the ground between them with a sneer.
Tully's jaw tightens, a muscle feathering beneath his stubble. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
She tilts her head, a predatory smile playing on her lips. "Oh, but I do. You favor Sanguine Reserve amasec, the cheap kind that burns your throat. You smoke Gemini lho-sticks, one after every patrol, as if routine can mask your complacency. You trim your beard every third day but never on saints' days, as if that token gesture absolves you."
A chill slithers down my spine as Tully is struck speechless. How could she possibly know such intimate details?
Riley's gaze shifts, landing on Diaz. "And you, Sister Diaz—or should I say, traitor? You've been away a long time."
Diaz stiffens beside me. The squad exchanges bewildered glances.
"What is she talking about?" Briggs demands, eyes darting between Diaz and Riley.
Before anyone can stop her, Diaz steps out from cover. Briggs reaches for her arm. "Don't be foolish," he hisses. "Get back here."
She turns to him, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice cracking. Leaning in, she presses her lips to his—a brief, desperate kiss. Then she pushes him back toward the statue, her touch lingering for just a moment.
"Diaz!" Tully snaps. "Stand down!"
Ignoring him, she shrugs off her shotgun, letting it clatter to the ground. Grenades and knives follow, a cascade of weaponry shed like old skin. She strips off her gloves, raising her empty hands in a gesture of surrender.
"High Priestess now, Riley?" Diaz addresses Riley, bitterness seeping into every syllable. "So, the blood of my son stains your hands now?"
A ripple of tension passes through the assembled women. Riley steps forward, lowering her sword but not sheathing it. "Your son?" she echoes, a sneer twisting her features. "The child you concealed from us? The one you bore in secret?"
"Enough," Diaz spits, her voice raw. "If you're here to pass judgment, then do it. But spare them. They came to prevent a war—a war you're fueling for reasons I cannot fathom."
Riley studies her, eyes hard as flint. "Was he?" She nods toward Briggs, her tone laced with derision.
Diaz glances back at him, pain etched deep in her expression. "Yes," she admits softly. "He's the father."
Riley's gaze locks onto Briggs. "You. Step forward."
Briggs looks to Tully, conflict warring on his face.
"Don't," Tully warns, but his voice lacks conviction.
Briggs squares his shoulders, casting aside his shotgun. He strides out to stand beside Diaz, wrapping an arm protectively around her.
"What in the Emperor's name is going on?" he whispers, eyes searching hers.
Diaz squeezes his hand, her composure fracturing. "I wanted to tell you," she says, voice trembling. "God Emperor I wanted to tell you..."
Riley regards them with a mixture of disdain and something else—something like regret. "Sister Diaz is not who you thought she was," she declares, addressing the squad. "Five years ago, she infiltrated your precinct under false pretenses, forged paperwork, stolen armor."
Shock ripples through the group. Sykes swears under his breath. Keller looks like he's seen a ghost.
"She was sent to conceive a child, gather intelligence, and return," Riley continues, each word falling like a hammer blow. "But when that child was born male, he was destined for sacrifice to the Sacred Lady. Diaz defied us, tried to hide him. An act of heresy."
Briggs pales, his grip on Diaz tightening. "We had a son?" he chokes out.
Tears spill down Diaz's cheeks. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. "They took him from me. I couldn't stop them."
Riley's expression softens imperceptibly, a shadow of guilt flickering in her eyes. "We believed we were serving a higher purpose," she says quietly. "But we were deceived. For that… I am truly sorry, Diaz."
Diaz's gaze snaps back to her, confusion giving way to igniting fury. "Deceived? Sorry!? You murdered my child!"
"Yes," Riley whispers, her voice weighted with remorse. "We did. Yours and countless others. All to sustain a lie."
Diaz staggers as if struck, her face a mask of disbelief. "A... lie?" she utters, the word barely more than a breath. The realization seems to sap the strength from her limbs.
Riley meets her gaze, eyes haunted. "Yes, a lie revealed by the Saint reborn. When she took up her mantle, she unveiled the falsehoods we've been shackled to. For generations, we have borne the stain of innocent blood—the lives of our sons and brothers sacrificed for nothing. But the Saint has returned, dissolving the old ways and offering us a path to absolution."
Diaz straightens, fury igniting in her eyes. "Empty words!" she spits, tears carving paths down her cheeks. "I will hear no more unless it comes from this so-called Saint herself, groveling at my feet, begging for forgiveness. I do not believe you!"
Her voice breaks with the raw anguish only a mother robbed of her child can know. She collapses into Briggs's arms, sobs wracking her body. Briggs holds her tightly, his own face a canvas of confusion and pain. The squad stands frozen, the weight of the revelation pressing down like a physical force.
Riley turns away, her expression a mix of guilt and resignation. Seizing the moment, I step forward.
"High Priestess," I begin cautiously.
Before I can continue, a piercing scream shatters the heavy silence. Trebor lurches to his feet, eyes wide with manic fervor. "The harbinger!" he howls, sprinting toward Riley with wild abandon.
Riley reacts swiftly, drawing her blade and pressing the tip against his chest to halt his advance. "Stay back," she commands, but Trebor seems oblivious.
"She is the harbinger!" he screeches, eyes blazing. "Come to unite with the masked lady, to carry the light forward! Quickly, quickly! The darkness approaches, so soon! We cannot tarry here—the deceiver walks among us!"
Blood wells where the blade bites into his flesh, but he leans into it, a grotesque smile twisting his features. Without hesitation, I move behind him, retrieving a syringe from my belt. With practiced precision, I inject the sedative into his neck. His ranting falters, eyes rolling back as he collapses like a marionette with its strings cut.
An uneasy hush settles over the plaza. Riley's gaze shifts to me, a mixture of surprise and suspicion flickering in her eyes. "You act decisively, Sister," she remarks.
I meet her gaze steadily. "I prefer to prevent unnecessary bloodshed."
Tully steps forward, tension radiating from his stance. "Enough of these games," he growls. "We came here for answers, not cryptic nonsense and madness."
Riley regards him coolly. "And answers you shall have, fallen arbite, but only if you lay down your arms and submit to the Saint's judgment."
"Not a chance," Tully retorts. "We don't answer to heretics and cultists."
A murmur ripples through the assembled women, their grips tightening on weapons. The air thickens with the promise of violence.
"Wait," I interject, raising a gauntleted hand. "If Saint Jessamine has truly returned, allow me to speak with her. As a Sister of her Order, it is my right."
"Of her order?" High Priestess Riley sneers, her voice dripping with contempt. Before I can react, she spits onto the emblem of Saint Jessamine engraved on my ceramite pauldron. The blasphemous act sends a shock coursing through me, a mix of outrage and disbelief knotting in my gut.
"You," she continues, eyes blazing with scorn. "You, from the false sisterhood—the descendants of betrayers who butchered our mothers and conspired with the Inquisition to erase us from history?"
"I don't understand," I reply, striving to keep my tone measured despite the turmoil within. "I have no knowledge of such events."
Up close, I notice the markings adorning the women's skin—tattoos of High Gothic script, verses from the Rule of the Sororitas. But the words are different, not very, but just enough to unsettle me. My armor's autosenses catalog the discrepancies, but offer no clarity.
"Of course you don't," Riley scoffs, taking a deep, steadying breath. "You've been fed lies for over a millennium. Expecting you to know the truth would make me the hypocrite." She hesitates, a flicker of something—regret?—crossing her features. "Come. The Saint will reveal all. Tell your Arbites to slink back to their cesspit of vice and debauchery."
I glance at Tully, anticipating a surge of indignation. Instead, I see a flicker of relief pass over his weathered face.
"Keller, Sykes, grab Trebor," Tully begins, his voice gruff.
"I'm not leaving without Diaz," Briggs interjects firmly, stepping forward.
Riley's gaze narrows. "If he stays, he submits to the Saint's mercy," she warns, her tone icy.
Diaz looks at Briggs, a mixture of fear and resignation in her eyes. "She means you might die," she murmurs. "I won't be able to protect you."
Briggs meets her gaze steadily. Gone is the jovial braggart; in his place stands a man of unflinching resolve. "I'm staying," he declares.
Tully hesitates, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Right," he mutters at last. "You have some leave saved up." It's as if fabricating a plausible excuse is second nature to him. "Keller, Sykes, get Trebor and let's move."
Riley shakes her head slowly. "The mad prophet stays," she states.
A spark ignites in Tully's eyes. He breaks cover, leveling his shotgun at Riley. "You're starting a war!" he bellows, his voice echoing off the silent edifices. "Stirring up the gangs will destroy Sigma Sector, the precinct—everything. And if you think Quadrant D will remain untouched, you're as mad as he is!"
In a heartbeat, a blade glints at the corner of my vision. A sister materializes behind Tully, her knife pressing against the nape of his neck with lethal intent. He freezes, the weight of his miscalculation palpable. Slowly, he lowers his weapon, anger giving way to grim acceptance.
"You're going to get us all killed," he says hoarsely.
Riley remains unmoved, her expression carved from stone. "The war has already begun," she replies coldly. "Leave our sacred ground. Inform Lutefisk, Gnarl, and the remnants of Trebor's followers that the Saint approaches. She expects to be received with humility, reverence, and tribute. Fail in this, and she will unleash the Emperor's wrath upon them—a fury beyond anything they've known."
Tully swallows hard, the tendons in his neck taut. "I'll tell them," he concedes, defeat shadowing his features. He turns abruptly, gesturing for Keller and Sykes to follow. "Maybe that'll keep the peace for a few more days," he mutters under his breath, the words meant more for himself than anyone else.
As they move to depart, I catch Tully's eye. A silent understanding passes between us—a promise that this isn't over.
Riley leads us through the silent streets, her steps sure and unhesitating. The avenue stretches ahead, lined with towering statues of saints whose stone gazes seem to follow our every move. The air is cooler here, almost clean—a stark contrast to the fetid miasma of the underhive. My boots tread on smooth, ancient stone, the echoes swallowed by the oppressive stillness.
"Stay close and do not wander," Riley says over her shoulder, her voice barely more than a whisper. The scar on her cheek catches the dim light, a stark line against her pale skin, "the saint's light has been withdrawn to more important tasks and the shadows are no longer safe, even here."
Beside me, Briggs and Diaz exchange uneasy glances. Trebor trails behind, his eyes vacant, lips moving soundlessly. The madness that once consumed him seems to have receded, leaving a hollow shell in its wake, filled with the linger effects of sedative.
I'm so preoccupied with recording and cataloguing the statues, plinths, and reading the inscriptions along the avenue that it takes me a moment to realize we've stepped into a deep shadow.
The basilica looms before us.
My breath catches.
It's a fortress as much as a place of worship—a colossus of stone and steel that defies the underhive surrounding it. If Quadrant D seemed totally alien in its preservation compared to the rest of Sector Sigma, then the basilica seems more alien still, standing with a shimmering glow that makes every surface seem newly fashioned, wrought and built only moments ago, not many hundreds of years.
Massive walls rise from the ground, studded with buttresses and adorned with bas-reliefs of armored warriors and weeping angels. Gun emplacements, empty like honeycombs with no honey, and battlements line the ramparts, a silent warning to any who might think to trespass.
"Emperor's mercy," Briggs mutters. "It's... it must reach up to the lower hive above us."
The gates ahead are monstrous slabs of adamantium, wrought with intricate carvings of The Emperor and His saints vanquishing demons. They look as if they could withstand the fury of a Titan, unyielding, eternal, and completely out of place down here in the dark, forgotten by the hive for so many centuries.
"How could record of something like this just… vanish?" Briggs whispers, awe mingling with fear.
Riley approaches the gates, placing a hand against the cold metal. Without a sound, they begin to open, the mechanisms hidden yet flawless. A deep thrum vibrates through the ground as the gates part, revealing the outer courtyard.
We step inside, and I feel a shiver crawl up my spine.
The courtyard is vast beyond reason, a cavernous space that stretches into the shadows. Spires and towers reach upward, disappearing into the darkness above—perhaps touching the very ceiling of Sigma Sector, the floor of the lower hive. The architecture is gothic and grand, every surface adorned with statues, gargoyles, and stained-glass windows that depict scenes of martyrdom and triumph.
But it's the people who draw my eye.
Tens of thousands of women fill the courtyard—infants cradled in arms, children clutching mothers' skirts, elders with lined faces and weary eyes. They sit in concentric circles around a central altar, a silent congregation awaiting benediction. Despite their numbers, there's an uncanny stillness. No murmurs, no cries—just a profound, unnatural quiet.
At the heart of it all, atop an altar of tarnished gold, she stands.
Aurora.
My breath catches, heart pounding against the confines of my armor. She is both achingly familiar and utterly transformed. Taller than I remember, she holds herself with a serene grace that borders on the divine. Simple white robes drape her form, shimmering with an inner light—a halo that bathes her in a soft glow, casting ethereal shadows across her features.
"Aurora..." I whisper, the name barely escaping my lips.
A silken blindfold veils her eyes, yet beneath it, I catch the faint glimmer of golden light—twin stars piercing through the fabric. Her left arm remains the crafted augmetic I remember, but now it gleams with an otherworldly perfection, the intricate mechanisms humming with quiet power.
"Wait," her voice murmurs through my vox—impossibly intimate, as if she's beside me. "Please, Valeria. Be patient. Our time will come."
I glance around, but no one else reacts. Did they hear her? My helm's comms are encrypted beyond standard protocol.
"Did you—?" I begin.
Briggs shakes his head, concern etched on his face. "What is it?"
"Nothing," I mutter, uncertainty gnawing at me.
We move to the shadows, finding a vantage point amidst the towering columns. The procession unfolds before us—a line of women advancing toward Aurora with reverent steps. Each approaches in turn, and she raises her hands to rest upon them. As she does, a pulse of light washes over both—a gentle wave that radiates outward before fading.
Through my visor's enhanced optics, I witness the impossible.
An elderly woman shuffles forward, back bent with age, eyes clouded by cataracts. My armor's auspex registers fused vertebrae, signs of severe malnutrition, bone deformities verging on mutation. Aurora touches her, and the light envelops them. When it recedes, the woman's spine straightens. She blinks rapidly, eyes clearing to reveal irises bright with newfound clarity. She walks away unaided, leaving her cane discarded in a small mountain with hundreds of other such devices—a look of wonder transforming her features.
"God-Emperor!" Briggs exclaims, "it's like she's rejuvanting them or something."
"Emperor preserve us," Diaz breathes beside him. "It really is The Saint reborn..."
I swallow hard, words failing me.
Diaz steps forward, as if drawn by an unseen force, and Briggs follows, unable or unwilling to resist. No one moves to stop them.
Another approaches—a young girl clutching a withered arm to her chest. Aurora's blessing passes over her, and she gasps, fingers unfurling where moments before they were twisted and lifeless. Tears stream down her cheeks as she gazes up at Aurora, who smiles gently.
"How is this possible?" I murmur. My helm's sensors detect nothing—no energy spikes, no atmospheric anomalies. The light isn't on any spectrum I can identify, yet I see it, feel its warmth seeping through layers of ceramite and plasteel. It's like sunlight on my skin, a sensation I've only ever imagined. Aurora's presence washes over me—comforting, familiar, dangerously soothing.
I turn to Riley, this mysterious high-priestess I had only moments ago considered a likely cultist but one who claims to be of a branch of my own order long extinct. She watches with stoic composure. Can I trust her? All of this seemed so easy moments ago before Aurora was revealed to be… to be the idol all these women are… worshipping?
"What is she doing?" I ask quietly.
"She grants them the Saint's blessing," Riley replies, her gaze never leaving Aurora. "Healing their wounds, easing their burdens—restoring what has been stolen from them for generations. Baptizing them in new faith... preparing us for war."
"How long has she been here, doing this?"
"Twelve days since she arrived. Six days without rest, sharing her grace with all who come as our furthest tribes and the most feeble and vulnerable of the faithful risk all to make this pilgrimage." Riley's voice carries a note of concern. "These are the last of our number. When they have received her blessing, she will rest."
"Six days without rest?" I echo. "That's... impossible."
"She refuses to sleep," Riley says, a shadow crossing her face. "She barely pauses to eat or drink. It's the guilt of the Saint, you see. The guilt weighs mightily upon her. She seeks to atone, to give back to us a portion of what was taken."
Riley's words only deepen my confusion. My mind reels. How could Aurora have changed so drastically? Last I knew, she was...
"She was declared a heretic," I whisper, more to myself than anyone.
Riley's eyes flicker with disapproval. "Then she was misjudged. The Saint has returned through her. We are redeemed in the Emperor's eyes, justified in our purpose—perhaps even forgiven for our generational sins."
I watch as another woman limps to the altar. The ritual repeats, and she departs with steady strides, joy illuminating her face. My thoughts churn, struggling to reconcile the reality before me with everything I know—everything I've been taught.
"Aurora," I whisper again, emotions roiling within me. Relief, fear, hope, and something deeper—a forbidden yearning I dare not name. "You're so... changed."
"She is blessed," Riley corrects, a hint of admonishment in her tone.
A soothing calm washes over me, the golden light caressing my senses. My vitals display shows a drop in heart rate, blood pressure stabilizing—signs of relaxation I didn't permit. Panic flickers. I grit my teeth, silently reciting the Litany Against Witchery, a mental bulwark against the psyker.
"I need to speak with her," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.
"She asked you to wait," Riley reminds me.
"How did you...?" I falter. Questions swirl—how did Aurora access my private vox? How is she performing miracles? Why is she blindfolded? Why do these women gaze upon her with such reverence?
I focus my visor on her, enhancing the image. The golden light beneath her blindfold isn't a trick of the eye—it pulses, radiant and pure. There's no record of psyker abilities in her—she was baseline human. I've seen all her charts for years. Unless...
"Riley," I say carefully. "Has she spoken of how she came to be here?"
"She has spoken what was necessary, explained in brief her exile by the false sisters from which you yourself have come, declared repentia." Riley spits, as though ejecting the very word from her mouth. "We need not know more, the truth will soon be manifest to all. She is the fulfillment of all our prophecies; her communion with the Saint is absolute."
"Communion?"
"Saint Jessamine guides her, teaches her, prepares her for the battle to come," Riley says, as if explaining the obvious. "Through her, the Saint is reborn, manifest in our very midst."
A chill grips me.
Saint Jessamine Hallas—the founder of our Order, martyred a millennium ago. I try to recall the details, a cult, a great war that ravaged the primary hive and indeed much of Gilead itself. The idea of her guiding Aurora from beyond the veil edges into heresy. Communion with the dead is forbidden—only the Emperor bridges life and death.
I glance back at the altar. The line dwindles, only a few dozen supplicants remaining, Dias and Trebor amongst them. Aurora moves with unnatural grace, every gesture measured. She seems at peace—a stark contrast to the storm inside me. Nothing about this aligns with doctrine. Miracles are from the Emperor, administered in times of great need by the most holy and devout sisters, the highest echelons of the ecclesiarchy and then only in ceremony, in sanction, with the proper liturgies and offerings... This… this is the underhive… this is… a cult…
I spot Trebor at the end of the procession, his usual mania replaced by serene focus. He walks as if in a trance, drawn inexorably toward her, no trace of the sedative seems to linger with him.
"Valeria," Aurora's voice resonates in my mind, bypassing even my vox. "It's time."
My feet move of their own accord, stepping into the open without my approval. The crowd parts, eyes turning toward me. I feel exposed, vulnerable under their gaze despite my armor, but I can't stop. My goal was to find her—but now, what am I to do?
Have I truly found Aurora… or something else entirely…
An insidious calm seeps in, the golden light wrapping around me like a warm embrace. My doubts waver, the edges blurring. This is Aurora—my closest friend, the one I've risked everything to find. Could she truly be a vessel of corruption?
No. Of course not. How could I even consider—
A hand, trembling against the pull of golden calm, fueled by the fading voice of panic reaches out a trembling finger and triggers the combat stim, auto injectors pump the sacred, holy fluid, a defense in and of itself, into my system.
The chemical surge hits me like a shockwave, heart rate spiking, adrenaline flooding my body. I stumble, the calming haze melts away like fog, replaced by heightened alertness. I grit my teeth, focusing on the familiar hum of my armor, the weight of the bolt pistol at my side.
I scan the crowd automatically—no weapons seem present, but thousands of potential hostiles if this turns poorly. The machine spirit of the chainblade mounted to my right gauntlet stirs, readying itself. My visor darkens, filters adjusting to red, combat lighting. The golden light persists, undimmed.
I trigger another stim, the burn coursing through me. My emotions churn—duty battling affection, faith clashing with doubt. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away. I cannot afford weakness.
"Emperor, grant me strength," I whisper, invoking the sacred words as blood thunders in my ears.
I recall the teachings—the only true light is the Emperor's. All others are false, lures cast by the Darkness to snare the unwary. If Aurora has fallen, it is my duty to stop her.
Even if it destroys me.