Chapter 16: Council (Abbess Gloriana's POV)

The cold air bites at my skin as I oversee the flurry of activity. Menials scurry like shadows, hefting heavy vox dampeners into position, their footsteps muffled against the stone floor. Sisters of the Sacristy move with purpose, draping thick tapestries emblazoned with the Aquila over the bare walls to deaden any stray sound. The privacy field generators hum softly, their sigils flickering as they power up, casting brief, sharp glows across the dim space.

"Mind the alignment," I call out to a group struggling with a cumbersome auspex jammer. They nod hastily, adjusting their grip. My gaze drifts, unbidden, to the center of the room.

Valeria stands there, an island of stillness amid the chaos. The ancient power armor envelops her slight form, plates etched with symbols long forgotten by all but the most devoted scholars of our Order. The armor emits a subtle luminescence—a soft halo that seems to breathe, waxing and waning with an inner pulse. It's not the harsh glare of lum-globes or the cold sheen of polished ceramite; it's a gentle, almost sacred light that tugs at something deep within me.

Her helmet rests at her side, cradled under one arm. Without it, she looks impossibly young—too young to bear the weight of such relics. Dark hair frames a face that should belong to a child worried about her next recitation, not a messenger bearing tidings that could shake the foundations of Gilead. Her eyes are fixed ahead, steady and unflinching, as if she sees something beyond these walls, beyond us all.

A thud draws my attention back. A sister has dropped a coil of cabling, her eyes locked on Valeria. Awe, fear, and something else play across her face.

"Sister Miriam," I snap, sharper than intended. "Your duty does not lie in gawking."

She starts, cheeks flushing beneath her wimple. "Apologies, Reverend Mother." She hurriedly gathers the cables, fingers fumbling.

I take a measured breath. This is no time for distractions. "Focus on your tasks, all of you," I command, letting my gaze sweep over the assembled. "We have little time."

They return to their work, but whispers ripple just beneath the surface—a current of unease and wonder. I catch stolen glances cast toward Valeria. Even the menials, usually so adept at making themselves unseen, are drawn in, their eyes darting before they remember themselves and bow their heads.

"Eyes on your work," I remind them, my tone brooking no argument.

The privacy fields begin to shimmer as they activate, layers of light bending and folding until the room takes on an otherworldly aspect. The sigils inscribed upon the generators flare briefly, sealing us off from any prying eyes or ears.

I move toward Valeria, each step measured. Up close, the details of the armor are even more striking—the filigree of saints and martyrs, inscriptions in High Gothic that speak of sacrifice and redemption. My fingers itch to trace them, to confirm they are real, but I restrain myself.

"Are you well?" I ask her softly, unsure of what else to say. It's not what I want to ask, I want to demand to know what's going on. I want to slap her face for the way she barged into my chambers and ordered me, ordered me to call a meeting of the lords of the schola and on the authority of Saint Jessamine herself. I don't remember agreeing, or even the thoughts that surely raced through my mind. All I remember, all I can think about are those dark brown eyes of hers, boring into my own with a faith and intent so powerful that I folded at the knees like a warp-damned menial.

She turns her gaze to me, and for a moment, I feel laid bare. "Yes, Reverend Mother," she replies. Her voice is calm, but there's an undercurrent—something resolute, forged in a crucible I cannot begin to fathom.

I study her face, searching for signs of... what? Fear? Doubt? Instead, I find only a steely determination that seems out of place on someone so young.

Before I can press further, the heavy doors at the far end groan open. Lord Commandant Draven Stahl strides in, his augmetic arm gleaming even in the muted light. His eyes sweep the room—a perpetual scowl etched into his features. Behind him follows a retinue of stern-faced aides, their uniforms crisp, movements precise.

Close on his heels is Lord Admiral Regis Valdus. He moves with deliberate grace, his gaze contemplative beneath silvered brows. There's a softness to his eyes that belies the razor-sharp mind I know lies beneath. He offers a polite nod in my direction.

Trailing them, almost ghost-like, is Magos Harspes. His mechanical form clicks and whirs with each movement, robes shifting to reveal glimpses of intricate machinery beneath. He acknowledges no one, his focus seemingly elsewhere—perhaps on calculations only he can comprehend.

"Welcome," I say, inclining my head.

They each offer their greetings—Stahl with a curt nod, Valdus with a slight smile, Harspes with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

"Please, be seated," I gesture toward the long table now set at the room's center, heavy with the weight of what must be discussed.

As they take their places, I catch Stahl's gaze lingering on Valeria. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly—a flicker of curiosity, or suspicion? Valdus, too, observes her with measured interest, his fingers steepling as he settles into his chair. Harspes appears indifferent, but with the Mechanicus, it's hard to tell.

I remain standing for a moment, drawing in a breath. The privacy field settles around us like a shroud. Outside, the preparations continue, but in here, time feels suspended.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," I begin. "I have—"

"Abbess," Stahl interrupts, his voice edged with irritation. "I trust this summons is of utmost importance. Being pulled away from an audience with the planetary governor himself is no trivial matter."

I meet his stare evenly. "Your presence here is essential, Lord Commandant. Events have transpired that require the attention of us all."

Before I can elaborate, Valdus lets out a soft chuckle. "Well, this is a first," he muses, leaning back in his chair. "Never thought I'd find myself holding council in a scrum pitch. Tell me, Stahl, is this your way of finally settling our scrummage rivalry? Couldn't wait for the next official match?"

Stahl's scowl deepens—a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. "Hardly the time for jest, Valdus."

"On the contrary," Valdus replies, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "A touch of levity might do us all some good. The air in here is thicker than an Ogryn's skull."

I suppress a sigh. Valdus always did have a knack for diffusing tension, whether appropriate or not.

Magos Harspes stands rather than sits, silently near the end of the table. The glow of his ocular implants casts a cold light over the intricate machinery adorning his robes. Stahl's gaze shifts to him, suspicion evident.

"Speaking of unexpected attendees," Stahl says pointedly, "I see we have the pleasure of Magos Harspes's company. I was under the impression that Magos Dominus Ixlan was still in charge."

Harspes turns his head slowly, servos emitting a faint whir. "Magos Ixlan remains Tech-Priest Dominus and is currently engaged in addressing the matters this assembly seeks to discuss," he replies in a voice devoid of emotion. "He deems vocal discourse an inefficient allocation of his time. I have been dispatched in his stead."

Stahl bristles, jaw tightening. "So, the Mechanicus is already privy to information the rest of us are not? Information pressing enough to warrant immediate action?"

He swivels his glare back to me. "Abbess, is this how we conduct affairs now? Allowing one faction to act unilaterally while the rest of us are kept in the dark?"

I open my mouth to respond, but a clear, firm voice cuts through the tension.

"I am the one who informed the Mechanicus," Valeria says, her tone steady.

All eyes turn to her. She stands tall, the ancient armor lending her an imposing presence that belies her youth. The glow emanating from her seems to intensify, casting elongated shadows across the table.

Stahl's eyes narrow. "You? And you are—"

"I am Novitiate Valeria, aspirant to the Sisters Hospitaller of the Order of the Sanctified Shield," she continues, unflinching under his scrutiny. "And yes, I provided them with the information before anyone else. Even the Abbess was unaware. I did so to ensure that what I have to say cannot be ignored—not even by someone as powerful as you, Lord Commandant."

A murmur ripples around the table. Valdus raises an eyebrow, intrigue flickering across his face. Harspes remains inscrutable, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point.

Shock courses through me. Valeria went to the Mechanicus before coming to me? A breach of protocol so severe—what could compel her to such actions?

Stahl rises from his seat, augmetic arm clenching into a fist. "This is insubordination of the highest order," he declares, voice cold. "A novitiate overstepping her bounds, meddling in affairs beyond her station. You should be removed from this chamber immediately, stripped of that armor you have no right to wear, and flogged for your insolence. And you, Abbess, I don't know what kind of game you're playing here, but I won't waste another moment of my time with it!"

The room holds its breath.

Valeria steps forward, and with a swift motion, brings her armored fist down upon the table. The impact resonates through the chamber, silencing all but the hum of the privacy field. Wood splinters beneath her hand—a stark testament to the power she now wields.

"I answer to a higher authority," she says, voice ringing clear. "Higher than you, Lord Commandant. Higher than the planetary governor. I stand here as the herald of Saint Jessamine Hallas herself, alive, reborn in power, and you will hear what I have to say!"

My heart skips a beat. Saint Jessamine Hallas—our Order's founder, martyred a millennium ago. The mere mention of her name in such a context borders insanity, perhaps even heresy.

Silence descends, heavy and absolute. The statement hangs in the air like the tolling of a funeral bell.

Stahl's expression shifts from anger to disbelief. "What... what nonsense is this?"

Valdus leans forward, eyes keen. "Saint Jessamine... reborn? These are not claims to be made lightly, child."

"I am no child," Valeria retorts, gaze fierce. "I have seen her with my own eyes. She has returned, and she is preparing for a battle that will decide the fate of us all. A daemonic incursion is imminent, and we must act."

My mind races. Could this be true? A living saint among us? But why would Valeria—of all people—be chosen as her herald? Doubt and hope war within me.

Harspes inclines his head slightly. "The data corroborates her assertions," he interjects.

I turn to him sharply. "You have evidence of this?"

He nods mechanically. "Visual and analytical data collected confirms the presence of anomalous phenomena consistent with saintly manifestations."

Stahl shakes his head vehemently. "This is absurd! A novitiate making wild claims, the Mechanicus backing her up—it's a coordinated deception!"

Valdus strokes his chin thoughtfully. "If there's even a grain of truth in this, we cannot afford to dismiss it out of hand, Darius."

I look back at Valeria. The light around her seems brighter now, almost blinding. There's a conviction in her eyes I've never seen before.

"Valeria," I say cautiously, "do you understand the gravity of what you're claiming?"

She meets my gaze unflinchingly. "I do, Reverend Mother. But the truth remains, regardless of your readiness to accept it."

A chill runs down my spine. The weight of centuries of doctrine presses upon me, yet something in her demeanor stirs a deep unease—and a flicker of something else. Is it possible? Could the Saint truly have returned?

Stahl's voice cuts through my thoughts. "This is heresy, pure and simple! We should detain her for questioning and purge this nonsense before it spreads."

Valdus raises a hand. "Hold, Stahl. We must proceed with caution. If there's any validity to her claims, we cannot act rashly."

I nod slowly. "Agreed. We must verify this information."

Valeria steps back, her expression unwavering. "Then let me show you," she says. "Let the evidence speak for itself."

Harspes activates a device embedded in his wrist. "I have prepared a recording that may provide clarity."

I exchange a glance with Valdus. He nods. "Very well. Let's see what this is all about."

The lumen strips dim as a holo-projection flickers to life above the table. The air grows heavy with anticipation.

As the images begin to play, I brace myself, uncertain of what revelations await.

"We have acquired visual and auditory data pertinent to the matter at hand," Harspes intones, his voice a mechanical rasp.

All eyes turn to the swirling images coalescing into focus. I steel myself, folding my hands tightly before me, knuckles whitening beneath the taut skin.

The pict shows a desolate underhive avenue, lined with statues that loom like silent sentinels. The camera perspective is low and fluid—a servo skull's eye-level view, I realize. Valeria's voice filters through, cataloging details with the clinical precision I've come to expect from her scholastic record.

As the servo-skull glides forward, the basilica emerges—a monolith of ancient architecture, impossibly preserved amidst the decay. Gasps ripple around the table. Valdus leans in, eyebrows raised. Stahl's scowl deepens, skepticism warring with intrigue.

"Sigma Sector?" Valdus reads off the data scrolling beneath the image.

"How is this possible?" Stahl murmurs. "A structure of that magnitude, undocumented?"

I remain silent, eyes fixed on the unfolding scene.

The gates open soundlessly, revealing a vast courtyard teeming with women—thousands of them, arranged in concentric circles around a central altar. The silence is palpable, even through the recording. The atmosphere is thick with an unnameable weight.

Then she appears.

Aurora!?

My breath catches, a knot tightening in my chest. She stands atop the altar, draped in simple white robes that shimmer with an inner luminescence. A blindfold covers her eyes, but beneath the fabric, a golden light pulses softly. Her augmetic arm gleams with a perfection far beyond Mechanicus craftsmanship.

"Who… is that...?" Valdus begins, glancing at me and picking up on my shocked recognition.

"Aurora," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper, my lips moving without thought as the words tumble out "a child, a sister of our order, one we declared repentia and exiled to the underhive for… penance…"

Stahl scoffs. "This child is the so-called saint? Preposterous."

"Observe," Harspes interjects, gesturing with a metallic finger.

The footage zooms in as Aurora places her hands upon a stooped, elderly woman. A wave of light emanates from the point of contact, washing over both of them. When it fades, the woman stands straighter, eyes clear, the years seemingly erased from her face.

The silence in the chamber is profound.

Valdus exhales slowly. "By the Throne..."

Stahl shifts uncomfortably, his augmetic arm twitching. "Some kind of trickery. Illusion or psychosomatic response."

"Sensor readings indicate no known energy signatures consistent with holo-projections. Observed biological responses exceed normal tolerance but remain non-indicative of mass hypnosis," Harspes comments without inflection.

The pict continues—Aurora healing a young girl, twisted limb restored to full function. The discarded crutches and canes piled high bear silent testament to the sheer scale of these acts.

I feel a cold sweat prickling at the base of my neck. This cannot be. Miracles on such a scale are unheard of outside the most sacred grounds, administered by the most fervent hands, bestowed upon those greatest of faith! To see them occur over and over en-masse is beyond belief—heretical in any other context.

"Abbess," Valdus says quietly, "what do you make of this?"

I struggle to find words. "I... I do not know. This defies all liturgy, all sanctioned protocol, all doctrine."

Stahl slams a fist onto the table. "It's an abomination! Unauthorized manifestations, unsanctioned miracles—this reeks of witchcraft!"

"Perhaps we should watch further before drawing conclusions," Valdus suggests, his gaze never leaving the projection.

The scene shifts as Diaz and Briggs step forward, their interactions with Aurora laden with personal revelations and profound emotional weight. Then Trebor appears.

My heart nearly stops.

"Is that... Arch-Cardinal Gabriel Mossad?" I whisper.

Stahl jerks upright. "Impossible! Mossad perished years ago!"

Harspes adjusts the playback, enhancing the image. The once dignified Arch-Cardinal is barely recognizable beneath grime and scars, but as Aurora lays her hands upon him, a transformation occurs. His features soften, the wildness in his eyes replaced by clarity.

"Emperor's mercy," Valdus breathes. "He lives."

Stahl's face contorts with a mix of rage and disbelief. "This is heresy of the highest order! Consorting with a psyker—performing forbidden rites! Even if that is the Arch-Cardinal, and I'm not saying it is, he's been out of touch for over a decade, presumed dead, an unsanctioned psyker! Worse, hiding from his own order in the underhive and performing who knows what Emperor-damned rites!"

"Arch-Cardinal Mossad was a revered leader, an incredible orator," Valdus retorts. "Did you know he spoke at my retirement banquet? If he's been in the underhive all this time..."

"Then why did he not reveal himself?" Stahl snaps. "Why engage in this charade? Why allow reports of his demise to persist if his intentions were anything remotely honorable?"

"Perhaps because of the very reaction you're displaying now," I say sharply, surprising even myself.

Stahl glares at me, but I press on. "If the Arch-Cardinal deemed it necessary to hide, perhaps there are truths we've been blind to."

The projection continues. Aurora's confrontation with Valeria unfolds, the tension between them palpable even through the recording. Valeria's anguish, her conflicted loyalties laid bare—I see my own failings reflected in her turmoil.

"She's manipulating them," Stahl insists. "Twisting their minds with sorcery."

Harspes emits a soft whirr. "The energies displayed are anomalous, defying traditional methods of data collection, inconsistent with warp manifestation."

"Anomalous?" Valdus echoes. "That's one way to put it."

I watch as Aurora collapses onto the altar, exhaustion overtaking her. Valeria rushes to her side, their exchange intimate and raw. The words are muffled, but the emotion is unmistakable.

"She speaks of being afraid," Valdus notes softly. "She does not bear the demeanor of a deceiver; I've seen it—my share of things that dwell in the warp and those who become twisted by them. That little girl isn't it."

"Fear can be feigned," Stahl growls. "This could all be an elaborate ploy—an insurrection brewing in the depths."

"Against what?" I challenge. "Against the neglect we've shown the underhive? Against the ignorance we've willfully maintained? Against the apathy of everyone at this table?"

He rounds on me. "Mind your tongue, Abbess. You're treading dangerous ground."

"Am I?" I rise from my seat, palms flat on the table. "Or have we all been complacent, blind to the suffering beneath our feet?"

A tense silence follows.

Valdus clears his throat. "Regardless of personal interpretations, the evidence suggests we cannot ignore this. A potential daemonic incursion, a figure performing genuine miracles—sanctioned or not—and the return of a high-ranking ecclesiarch. Action must be taken."

Stahl grits his teeth. "I agree—swift action to purge this heresy before it spreads."

"Blind extermination is not the answer," Valdus counters. "We must investigate thoroughly."

I turn to Harspes. "Magos, you said that Tech Priest Dominus Ixlan is already addressing this situation. What is the Mechanicus's position on this?"

All eyes turn to Harspes.

Magos Harspes regards me with his unblinking, mechanical gaze. The faint whir of servos accompanies his every movement, but his voice remains flat, devoid of any inflection that might hint at emotion.

"Approximately 1.223 hours prior," he begins, "Magos Dominus Ixlan dispatched a priority Gemini transmission to Forge World Avachrus ordering requisition for immediate deployment of three Skitarii legions: Legio Solaris, Cohort Aegis, and the Iron Phalanx."

A murmur ripples through the chamber. Valdus's eyes widen slightly, his usual composure faltering. Stahl's expression darkens, a vein pulsing at his temple.

"Three legions?" Valdus echoes. "That's enough firepower to siege a hive!"

Harspes continues, undeterred. He extends a mechadendrite toward the holo-projector embedded in the table. The device hums to life, casting a soft glow as a detailed blueprint materializes above us—a three-dimensional rendering of the basilica, every spire and arch meticulously outlined. The image expands, encompassing the entirety of Sector Sigma in stark relief.

"This structure's age and preservation," Harspes intones, "indicates a high probability of containing significant archeotech assets of incalculable value. The securement of such assets against any hostilities—daemonic or Imperial—is now designated as Directive Prime."

Stahl surges to his feet, fists clenched. "You overstep your bounds, Magos! Are you declaring that the Mechanicus intends to seize control of the basilica, regardless of Imperial authority?"

Harspes turns his head slowly to face him. "Affirmative."

The single word hangs in the air like a death knell.

Valdus leans forward, disbelief etched across his features. "This is unprecedented. You would act unilaterally, without consultation, in a matter that affects the entire system?"

"The preservation of sacred technology is paramount," Harspes replies. "Delay increases the risk of loss or contamination."

I narrow my eyes, suspicion gnawing at me. The Mechanicus is protective of their relics, but this level of aggression is unusual—even for them.

"Magos Harspes," I say, keeping my voice measured, "surely you understand the gravity of such a decision. Even for archeotech, circumventing protocol and the authority of the planetary governor is... extreme. There must be another reason for this urgency."

He regards me impassively. "The reasoning behind Magos Dominus Ixlan's decision is inconsequential to this assembly."

"On the contrary," I press, "it is entirely consequential. We are all stakeholders in the fate of Gilead Primus. Transparency is essential if we are to navigate this crisis effectively."

A moment of silence stretches thin. Harspes's ocular implants whir softly as if focusing.

"Your collective ability to make a decisive action within the required timeframe is statistically improbable," he states. "External factors will impede your efforts."

Stahl's eyes flash with anger. "And what 'external factors' might those be?"

Harspes is silent for a beat. "In approximately 4.7 minutes, representatives of the Inquisition will arrive to assert jurisdiction over the matter at hand."

A cold chill grips the room.

Valeria steps forward, her face pale. "What do you mean? How could you possibly know that?"

Harspes does not turn to her. "Analysis of communication patterns and standard Inquisitorial protocols suggest a 97.6% probability of their intervention at this juncture."

Valdus rises slowly. "You're saying the Inquisition is on their way here? Now?"

"Affirmative."

I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. Inquisitor Angstrom—the Lord Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus in this system—is not a man to be trifled with. His methods are thorough, his reach extensive.

"Why would they intervene now?" I ask, though the answer begins to form unbidden in my mind.

"Monitoring of transmissions between Mechanicus facilities, the Schola, and the underhive has likely alerted them to anomalous activities," Harspes explains. "Their mandate requires them to investigate potential heresy and daemonic threats."

Stahl slams a palm on the table. "This is outrageous! You've brought the Inquisition down upon us with your clandestine transmissions!"

Harspes finally turns his gaze to Stahl. "Incorrect. The Inquisition operates independently. Their arrival is a variable beyond my control."

Valeria's eyes dart between us, fear evident. "If the Inquisition takes over, they'll declare jurisdiction over everything—including the Saint."

I meet her gaze, the weight of realization settling upon me. "Which means any action we wish to take will be subject to their approval."

"Precisely," Harspes confirms. "Given their standard operational procedures, any decisive action from this assembly will be delayed beyond the 48-hour window required for Skitarii deployment."

Stahl's face flushes with fury. "So, you plan to act while we're entangled in Inquisitorial red tape?"

Harspes inclines his head slightly. "Affirmative."

Valdus shakes his head, disbelief mingling with frustration. "This is madness. We cannot allow the Mechanicus to unilaterally seize control."

I step forward, my voice cutting through the rising tension. "Magos Harspes, this is not just about archeotech or procedural delays. There is more you're not telling us."

Harspes is silent.

"Magos," Valdus presses, "if there is any hope of addressing these claims as system we must have all the information. The Navis Nobilite will not stand by idly and allow the mechanicus to land what could only be considered an invasion force on the system's capital world!"

"Valeria," I begin, but she meets my gaze with unwavering determination.

"Reverend Mother," she says, her voice cutting through the tumult like a blade honed on faith. "You will go. Gather whatever aid you can muster and send it to the Saint immediately. Time is a luxury we no longer possess."

Her words hang in the air, crystallizing the chaos around us into a moment of stark clarity. She's giving me an order—a novitiate directing the Abbess. My instinct is to rebuke her insolence, to remind her of her place. But something in her eyes stills my tongue. It is not arrogance I see, but purpose—a purpose that transcends rank and protocol.

I feel the weight of decades pressing upon me, the accumulated certainty of my judgments now cast into doubt. Aurora—could she truly be a living saint? The girl I deemed unworthy, whose perceived failings I cataloged with a meticulous hand. I recall her quiet defiance, the way she clung to compassion like a lifeline in the grim austerity of the Schola. I saw it as weakness, a flaw to be excised. Was I blind to the Emperor's light flickering within her all along?

Doubt coils in my chest like a serpent. If Aurora is the Saint reborn, then my exile of her was not just an error—it was a sin of hubris. I, who thought myself a vessel of the Emperor's will, may have stood in opposition to His divine plan. The realization is a bitter draught to swallow.

"Reverend Mother," Valeria urges, her gaze piercing. "Please."

I glance at Stahl and Valdus. They watch us with incredulity, the weight of my impending choice evident on their faces. To submit to the directive of a novitiate on the basis of an unconfirmed miracle borders on madness—or perhaps on faith.

I straighten my spine, the decision crystallizing within me. "Very well," I declare, voice firm. "I will heed the Saint's command."

Stahl's jaw drops, his augmetic arm momentarily stalling in its whirring.

Valdus's eyes widen, a flicker of shock breaking through his composed facade. "Abbess Gloriana," he begins, "are you certain—"

"I am," I cut him off. "The Emperor's Will is not ours to question."

Without another word, I turn and stride toward the exit. Pain lances through my hip with each step, but I force myself onward. The doors part before me, and then I'm in the corridor, gathering speed. Servitors and sisters alike halt in their tracks as I pass, their expressions a mix of confusion and awe.

I must be quite a sight—rushing about at speeds I haven't reached in decades, robes of office billowing behind me like the wings of some great, ungainly bird. The thought almost draws a wry smile to my lips.

My breath comes in sharp bursts as I navigate the familiar hallways, muscles protesting the sudden exertion. Memories of younger days flash by—training drills, sacred rites, moments of quiet contemplation now lost to time.

At last, I reach my sanctum. The door slides open, and I move directly to the communication terminal. My fingers dance over the runes, initiating an encrypted channel to the Prioress, Sister Domina.

But before the connection can establish, the screen flickers and goes dark. Then, ominously, the stylized "I" of the Inquisition fills the display. A cold dread settles in my stomach as the entire office shudders, heavy blast shields sealing over windows and doors. They've locked me out, and in.

"Emperor preserve us," I mutter with mountain frustration at my own helplessness.

No, not helpless!

Not so easily deterred, I retrieve my comm bead from a small compartment within my desk. Activating it, I tune to a local frequency.

"Sister Helena," I voxcaster, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.

A brief pause, then a crisp reply crackles through, the shouts and battle cries echo in the background. Good, they're in the middle of class.

"Reverend Mother?"

"Gather whatever class of Constantia you have under your command," I instruct. "Arm yourselves in full battle regalia and proceed immediately to Sector Sigma in the underhive. There you will find the basilica of Saint Jessamine. I will transmit the coordinates."

"Understood," she responds, though a hint of curiosity edges her tone.

"You are to render any and all aid to the living Saint you will find there," I continue. "This mission is classified under authority level Demos. It is to be countermanded only by myself. Anyone who attempts to impede you—regardless of their allegiance—is to be dealt with swiftly and without mercy. The Emperor's wrath guide your hand."

A brief silence follows. Then, "By your command, Abbess. We depart immediately."

I exhale slowly, relief mingling with the ever-present tension. Helena is unwavering; she will execute the orders without question.

Setting the comm bead aside, I sink into my chair. The room feels colder now, the hum of the lockdown systems a constant reminder of my isolation. Frustration gnaws at me—I have done so little against the tide of events sweeping over us. Yet perhaps it's enough.

I close my eyes, letting the fatigue wash over me. But a nagging thought tugs at the corners of my mind.

Once, long ago as a mischievous novitiate, and I sneaked into these very chambers after curfew. There was a hidden access panel—an old ventilation shaft no longer on any schematics.

My eyes snap open.

Could it still be there?

Pushing myself to my feet, I begin to search the dim corners of the room, fingers trailing along the cold stone walls. The weight of years seems to lift slightly as I recall the thrill of that youthful escapade.

"Come now," I whisper to myself. "Where was it?"

My hand brushes against a subtle indentation—a nearly invisible seam in the wall's surface. Hope sparks within me.

Perhaps the Emperor isn't done with me yet.