Chapter 18: The Creator (Magos Harspes POV)

The underhive stretches out beneath Hive Primus like the rotted viscera of a once-proud leviathan, a labyrinthine abyss of decay and forgotten purpose. My approach to Sector Sigma is silent, undisturbed by the chaos below. Cloaked in the subtle folds of ancient technology—phase-disruptors, an optical shroud, and an active stummer field—I am, for all intents and purposes, a shadow without substance.

I ascend the outer walls of the Basilica of Saint Jessamine like an insect, my mechadendrites extending and retracting in a precise, mechanical rhythm. Each limb finds purchase on the crumbling stone, their tips embedding themselves with exacting delicacy to avoid further damage. The structure towers above the surrounding desolation, a monolith of piety long abandoned by its architects. Yet, as I climb, I catalog the armored figures arrayed around its perimeter.

The Sisters of the Cult of Jessamine stand as sentinels, clad in ancient power armor that glimmers faintly even in the gloom of the underhive. Each suit, marked by the passage of millennia, is a masterpiece of design and craftsmanship. My augur arrays and scanning fields hum with quiet precision, recording and cross-referencing each plate, servo, and inscription. Pattern Ceramite Aegis-231; high-gothic inlay denotes purity seals circa M38. Slight degradation to shoulder servos; acceptable tolerances maintained.

Hundreds of such observations flow into my internal cogitators as I ascend. The armor is well-maintained, though clearly repurposed for those less versed in its full capabilities. A shame, though not unexpected. The Cult thrives on the vestiges of what was; function is secondary to symbolism here.

I reach the apex and transition to the basilica's upper surface with practiced fluidity. My mechadendrites contract beneath my robes, the faint clink of metal muffled entirely. I move toward the door set into the floor—a mechanism of significant age and importance. As my optical arrays sweep the engravings around its perimeter, fragments of memory surface, unwanted but tolerated.

Fourteen hundred years. I remember the last time I stood here, watching this very threshold being sealed. The artisans of the Mechanicus, overseen by my younger self, labored to ensure its sanctity. The glyphs etched into its frame gleamed then, unmarred by the slow erosion of time. My input was instrumental—both in design and in execution. As it should be.

I turn my attention to the portal itself. Its surface is etched with the binary canticles of activation, a dialect long out of use. I emit a burst of binharic code—a concise sequence of initiation phrases and authorization glyphs. The ancient mechanisms respond with gratifying alacrity, internal cogworks stirring as locks disengage. The hatch lifts with a groan that I register as operating within acceptable decibel thresholds.

"As expected," I murmur, my vox-synthesizer rendering the words in a toneless monotone. The systems remember me. They should—I was instrumental in their design and implementation.

I slip into the aperture, the hatch closing seamlessly above me. The descent begins—a thousand steps hewn into the living rock of the hive's foundation. I eschew the traditional method of traversal; instead, my mechadendrites affix to the vaulted ceiling, and I proceed inverted, a metal shadow passing silently overhead.

The stummer field ensures no Sister below hears the faint scrape of my passage above them. Occasionally, one crosses beneath me, their armor reflecting faint motes of lumen light. None detect me. None would dare.

My auspex notes their biometric readings—elevated stress levels, minor malnutrition, traces of incense and promethium in their vestments. Irrelevant data. They pose no threat to my mission.

The antechamber unfolds below—a vast space illuminated by flickering lumens that cast erratic shadows across murals of faded splendor. I pause to capture the environment in multi-spectrum imaging, archiving structural integrity readings and atmospheric conditions. Degradation is minimal—within projected tolerances given the elapsed time. The frescoes, though diminished, retain enough detail to warrant further study upon my return.

The door to the burial chamber looms ahead, open as if awaiting me. I glide through without hesitation, the stummer deadening my presence to any sensors or life forms in the vicinity. Beyond lies the mausoleum proper, the heart of the saint, the center of this sanctified crypt.

The door to the inner sanctum rises before me, the inscription above catching my optics.

Lex Sacramenti ad Aeternitatem—The Law of Sacrifice to Eternity.

The words remain sharp, their engraving untouched by entropy. I pause only to input my access code, a string of binaric blessed by my rank and history. The mechanism accepts it, the massive portal groaning open on ancient servos.

The chamber beyond is vast, a cathedral of somber light and oppressive stillness. My sensors sweep the room, identifying no life forms beyond the faint, flickering presence of Jessamine herself.

There she is—Jessamine Hallas, the Saint of an age long past. Her corporeal form is a desiccated husk, entwined with the life-sustaining apparatus of the throne—a marvel of Mechanicus ingenuity if I may permit a moment of professional acknowledgement. Tubes and conduits weave into her flesh, the faint pulses of nutrient flow and synaptic stimuli maintaining the barest whisper of life.

"Fourteen hundred thirty-two years, twelve days, eighteen hours, nine minutes, three, four, five seconds…" I calculate aloud, the vocalization serving as both observation and a timestamp for my internal logs. "Subject remains viable."

I advance toward the throne, each step measured, my sensors attuned to any fluctuation in the surrounding systems. The cogitator arrays hum with dormant potential, their interfaces awaiting input. The machinery responds to my presence, recognizing command subroutines embedded millennia ago.

I halt before Jessamine, observing the minute twitches of her eyelids, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. The golden tendrils of the throne's interface glint softly, their connections burrowed deep into her spine and limbs—a symbiosis of flesh and machine.

"Initiate diagnostic protocols," I intone, and the systems comply, data streams cascading across my visual field. All is as it should be.

I have arrived.

Without warning, the door seals behind me with a soundless finality, the maglocks engaging in a sequence I did not initiate.

The atmosphere shifts—a subtle change in pressure detectable by my internal sensors. Curious. I dispatch a binaric command to the door's machine-spirit, a terse inquiry demanding compliance. Silence. The system fails to acknowledge my authority, an anomaly in a construct I helped create.

Unperturbed, I retract my proximity to Jessamine's emaciated form, her skeletal frame entwined with the throne's conduits and life-sustaining apparatus. Her existence is a testament to endurance beyond natural parameters—a project of significant interest, now overshadowed by unforeseen variables.

Calculations unfold within my cortex: probabilities, potential threats, the likelihood of an intentional interference. I conclude an 87.56% chance of an incoming presence responsible for the door's closure.

I wait.

From behind the throne emerges a figure clad in resplendent power armor—the Sanctified Plate of Saint Jessamine. The armor radiates a golden luminescence, the eyeslits of the helm aglow with ethereal light. My auspex readings remain unchanged: no additional bio-signatures, no fluctuations in thermal output. An illusion? A psychic projection? Data suggests a non-corporeal manifestation—a communication rather than a confrontation.

"Magos Harspes," a voice intones, not from the figure's helm but from the vox-casters embedded within the armor itself. It reverberates with both familiarity and accusation. "I greet you not as Aurora, but as Saint Jessamine. Does the memory of my voice linger in your circuits, creator of my torment?"

I observe her without emotion. "Saint Jessamine Hallas," I reply, my vocalizer rendering my words in precise modulation. "It has been fourteen hundred and thirty-two standard years since our last encounter.

The chamber grows warmer, the pressure around me intensifies. My external casings register the temperature spike, a significant but measurable rise that falls below dangerous thresholds. Jessamine's anger is palpable, almost tactile, but it does not concern me.

I weather the onslaught as one would a gust of wind—an inconvenience, not a hazard.

"You built this hell!" Jessamine's voice continues, her words layered with venom and anguish. "You sealed me into this throne. You left me to languish for centuries, to endure this abomination, this mockery of life. You erased all account of your work, abandoned your own mechanicus faction, erased yourself too, or so you hoped. Heretek! Do you not hear their screams, Magos? The echoes of those sacrificed to sustain me? Their voices are as constant as my hatred."

I wait for the storm of her fury to subside, as all storms must. There is no urgency in my response, only precision. "Your designation of me as Heretek," I state calmly, "is noted but no longer actionable. The Mechanicus does not dwell on accusations deleted and passed out of all memory for thirteen hundred years. Neither, it would seem, should you."

The temperature dips slightly, the heat of her wrath momentarily checked. The voice from the Sanctified Plate changes, though only slightly—enough to suggest another presence within her words. "Jessamine's rage is not yours to dismiss so lightly, Magos," the voice states. Aurora. The child. The dichotomy between them is clear now, a duality tethered uneasily.

Her voice is younger, calmer, measured. "That said, the label of Heretek is not my concern. Past judgments bear little consequence in this pivotal moment."

"I concur," I reply. "Current objectives supersede historical designations."

She steps forward. "I am Aurora," she states. "My priority is the throne's function. Jessamine must remain upon it to power the basilica and its defenses for the battle to come."

"Analysis indicates a suboptimal probability of success," I inform her. "Automated defensive systems have a 1.84% chance of achieving full operational capacity due to extensive periods of disuse and inadequate maintenance."

Her helm tilts—a gesture of consideration or perhaps frustration. "We have no alternative. The defenses must be activated at whatever capacity they may."

"Additional diagnostics reveal Jessamine's biological form is deteriorating," I continue. "Despite stasis and the absorption of souls—a non-standard energy intake—the integrity of her physiology is compromised. Activation of the void shield may accelerate her expiration to within hours."

She remains silent for 2.3 seconds before responding. "We are aware of the risks."

"Moreover," I add, "the deployment of a void shield of this magnitude within the underhive's confines presents unpredictable variables. Atmospheric displacement and electromagnetic interference could induce structural failures in hive levels above Sector Sigma."

"The potential consequences are acceptable," she asserts. "The incursion we face leaves no room for hesitation."

I process her stance. "Your acceptance of collateral damage is noted."

Jessamine's voice surges forth again, laced with bitterness. "You speak of calculations and probabilities, yet you understand nothing of sacrifice."

"On the contrary," I reply. "Sacrifice is a quantifiable variable. My objective remains—the retrieval of the throne device to the caretaking of the adeptus—."

Aurora's gaze pierces through the visor of the Sanctified Plate, the ethereal glow of the helm's eyeslits intensifying as she cuts off my vocalization. "You are a liar, Magos Harspes," she declares, her voice resonating with a blend of youthful conviction and ancient ire. "You care nothing for the Mechanicus. You serve only the Omnissiah, so long as His will serves your goals, Heretek. Your calculations fail to account for faith, for the power of a mind like Jessamine's—one torn between life and death, barely tethered to the temporal realm. You, Magos, speak of probabilities and certainties, but I know the truth. The real truth."

I observe her silently, my cognitive processors parsing her words, analyzing the improbable data she presents. The probability that she has discerned my true objectives is statistically negligible. Yet, here she stands, articulating variables that should be beyond her scope.

My mechadendrites shift imperceptibly, curling inward like a predator assessing its prey. "Specify the nature of this 'truth,'" I reply, my vox-synthesizer steady, cold.

"You aren't here merely for the throne," she declares, her voice resonant, almost imperious. "Or you would have let your surrogate, Harspes-1b do more than retrieve data. Bee could have scavenged the essential components and left the rest to rot. But you didn't. You came yourself, cloaked in secrets and shadow. You came for Jessamine. You need her, Magos, as much as you need the throne."

For a fraction of a second, my internal processors falter, a cascade of calculations re-align themselves against the infinitesimal probability that her statement holds verifiable merit. "Intriguing," I murmur, allowing the faintest inflection to seep into my monotone. "By what quantifiable means have you arrived at this conclusion?"

Her helm tilts slightly, the motion faintly mocking. "You already know the answer, Magos. You've calculated it. You're merely testing to see if I understand what I claim to know."

"Are you the sole participant in this discourse?" I inquire, my vocalizers lowering to an almost conspiratorial murmur. "Or does Jessamine's wrath hover just beyond your restraint?"

"Jessamine sleeps," the girl replies, simply. "Her consciousness is but a thread, one I tap into as needed. Her anger is mine to wield or deny."

I nod fractionally, processing her statement. "If that is true, then you understand your position here. You cannot prevent me from taking both the throne and Jessamine. Nor will you summon others to intervene. Your strategic options are, therefore, null."

Aurora's armor gleams faintly brighter, but her voice is calm. "If you were so certain of that, Magos, you would not waste your breath stating it."

Her candor is striking. My processors hesitate briefly, then resume their calculations. "Speak plainly," I say. "What leverage do you claim, child?"

"I have no leverage," Aurora admits, surprising me. "And I will not stop you. I will not alert anyone to your presence. I will not raise my blade against you, not even to prevent you from leaving with the throne or with Jessamine herself."

I pause, calculating probabilities anew. Her words carry no overt duplicity. "Why admit this?" I ask. "Why relinquish your position entirely if, as you claim, the throne's function is paramount?"

"Because your work must continue," Aurora says softly. "The great work. Heretical though it is, even you cannot deny the necessity. The darkness rises, and what you do—what makes you Heretek—is what must be done. Just as I, too, must soon commit unspeakable evil for the sake of the Emperor's light. We all play our part, Magos, no matter the cost."

Her words, so unflinching, resonate against the cold machinery of my logic. Yet there is something concealed beneath them, something unspoken. "If you truly grasp the stakes," I say, "why request that I leave Jessamine and the throne intact? You would not make such an appeal without purpose. Probability dictates that you possess additional data, withheld for leverage."

Aurora does not deny it. She stands silent for a moment before speaking again. "I've removed Valeria from your reach," she says finally, the words deliberate, pointed. "She's in the hands of the Inquisition now."

A flicker of consideration passes through my mind. "An action of minimal consequence and of which I am already aware," I reply. "Developing circumstances will necessitate her release. Unless you have revealed her true nature, Valeria is irrelevant to the Inquisition."

"No," Aurora says, her tone sharp. "Her nature remains hidden. For now. But it will not stay that way. What she is—what she was created to be—will come to light. And when it does, she will no longer be yours. She will become something else, something beyond your grasp. And with her, the data you seek, the data you've already begun to harvest without even realizing it, will be lost to you."

My mechadendrites curl tighter, processing her words. "The probability of such an outcome is negligible," I say, though the faintest ripple of uncertainty pulses through my circuits. "Subject J-13 is—"

"Negligible, but not impossible," Aurora replies. "And without that data, your great work will falter. Thirteen hundred years, thirteen failed experiments and with darkness encroaching upon this sector how many more can you afford?"

I process her words, evaluating the veracity and implications. The loss of Valeria represents a significant setback. "You underestimate my resources," I state. "Contingencies are in place."

"Perhaps," she echoes. "But time is a finite commodity, even for one such as you. How long, truly before that cloned brain of yours succumbs to the inevitable weakness of the flesh? The walls are closing in, Magos. Choices must be made."

The chamber seems to constrict, the weight of her words pressing against the silence. Calculations adjust, priorities realign. "What is it you propose?" I ask.

"I require the throne to remain," she replies. "Jessamine must stay here to power the defenses. In exchange, I offer you a path to preserve your work and—"

The light bleeding from the faint cracks in the mausoleum's walls flickers as Aurora speaks, her voice an amalgam of weary conviction and raw anguish. My mechadendrites coil and uncoil in slow, deliberate motions as her words pour out, each syllable a challenge to reason, to probability.

"Mere preservation," I state, cutting her off before she can continue, "is insufficient justification to risk the throne and Jessamine's biological integrity. The probability of losing both in the forthcoming conflict is unacceptable, no matter how dismissively low you claim it to be."

Her armor seems to brighten in response, the Sanctified Plate exuding a radiance that momentarily distorts my optical readings. But her reply surprises me.

"You're right," she says, her tone sharp, definitive. "Preservation alone is not enough. But I'm not asking you to risk anything for that reason. I am offering you more than preservation, Magos. I'm offering you success."

My cogitators churn through her words, dissecting their implications. "Clarify," I demand. "Success is an abstraction in this context. Define your terms."

She takes a step forward, her boots ringing softly against the stone floor, the sound reverberating in the cold air. "I'm offering you a single, successful experiment," she says. "The culmination of your work. Not fragments, not iterations, but a complete and undeniable result. And with it, all the data you need to ensure the rest of your work succeeds. All at once. All in your hands."

My mechadendrites stiffen, and I adjust my stance fractionally, recalculating her probability of sincerity. "Improbable. Impossible," I reply. "The scope of my work is beyond your comprehension. It encompasses over a millennium of data—data you could not possibly access, much less understand."

Aurora tilts her helm slightly, and her voice carries a strange, weary amusement. "You're right again. I can't comprehend it. But understanding isn't my role here. That's your job. I don't need to understand, Magos, because I can see it. The path forward. The way this all unfolds if you help me. We all have our parts to play."

Her words carry no hesitation, only certainty. Yet her next phrase sends a cold jolt through my logic circuits.

"I can see the light at the end of this darkness," she says softly. "A light only reached if you assist me. A light born from the burning pyre of Valeria."

I pause, my mechadendrites stilling as her words reverberate through the chamber. Calculations spike, probabilities readjust, the mention of subject J-13 throwing new variables into play. "Explain," I command, my tone sharper now, edged with the faintest note of suspicion. "Your statement introduces inconsistencies. Your reference to Valeria is... incongruous."

Aurora's voice hardens. "I'm being honest, Magos. It's more than I can say for you. But I'll let you ask your question."

My mechadendrites flicker, curling into contemplative positions. "You claim insight into the future, unquantifiable, mere data noise. However, you claim all hinges on your willingness to sacrifice the one you call Valeria," I begin, "yet my own observations suggest emotional bias contrary to your stated conviction. Valeria has detailed your close friendship in extensive terms. Through Harspes-1b, I have further observed interactions that indicate more than simple camaraderie. Her biological responses indicate—"

"Stop." Her voice cuts through mine like a blade, trembling at the edges, raw with pain. Thin streams of golden light bleed from the Sanctified Plate's eyeslits, spilling into the dim chamber like tears. "Just... stop."

I register the tremor in her tone, pausing as my systems analyze the shift. "I already know," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "Better than you ever could, how she feels about me. I've dreamed it, Magos. I've seen the paths where Valeria and I are more than friends—where we're bound together in ways even faith cannot describe. I've seen us share a fleshbond. I've seen the purity of the Emperor's light distilled into love so unshakable, so true, it could redeem the galaxy itself."

She pauses, struggling visibly to control her voice. The golden light spilling from her visor dims slightly, trembling like the wavering flame of a dying candle.

"And yet," she continues, her voice quieter now, "those paths all come at the cost of trillions of lives. Every one of them. Every joy I might find with her, every moment of happiness, is paid for in blood—trillions of souls extinguished for my selfishness."

She steps closer, her armored form towering despite her youth, her voice steady now but suffused with sorrow. "You're not the only one who must make terrible choices, Magos. Cold logic demands it of me as much as it does you. But unlike you, I can't turn off my shame. I can't delete my guilt or suppress the pain of what I've chosen. All I can do is carry it. And I will carry it. Or do you think I don't see that path too? The path of pain and endless loss… victory… if I have the faith to bear it."

She stops directly before me, her hands at her sides, the glow of her armor casting long shadows across the chamber. "So don't question whether I'm willing to betray my best and only friend. Don't doubt my resolve to burn what I love most in service to the Emperor's light. You started a civil war which killed billions and caused the very circumstances we must now mitigate. This is your fault, your sins that have finally found you out. But you don't care, you won't care, you will carry on because you can. Well… I can too. I will. And you—" her voice drops to a whisper, yet it feels deafening in the stillness, "you will help me, whether you want to or not."

The chamber falls into silence, her words echoing in the hollow expanse. My cogitators spin wildly, recalculating the implications of her speech, her certainty, her pain. For the first time in centuries, I hesitate to respond.

The silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of the cogitator array and the rhythmic pulse of Jessamine's life-support conduits. My mechadendrites shift slightly, an unconscious ripple of thought manifesting in motion. I process her words, dissecting them for hidden variables, incongruities, patterns.

"Aurora," I say finally, my voice low and deliberate, each syllable resonating in the still air. "Your statements imply a degree of foresight so profound as to make this interaction itself preordained. You posit that you have acted with intention to provoke a specific response from me. This presumes precision in your actions and the outcomes they elicit, a precision that I cannot accept as valid."

She remains silent, the golden glow of her armor flickering faintly, as if waiting for me to continue. I oblige.

"If such prescience existed," I say, "whether within Jessamine, within the God-Emperor Himself, or within the Omnissiah—" I pause, allowing the name of my god to reverberate in the chamber, "then surely the perfection of the galaxy would have been achieved long ago. The Mechanicus would have no need of my work, of my failures. Data, however, dictates otherwise. Imperfection remains rampant. Your implication is therefore flawed."

Her helm tilts slightly, her voice soft when it comes. "You're right again, Magos," she says, the words carrying a strange mix of sorrow and resolve. "I cannot see the future as you see schematics, as equations to solve and variables to balance. What I see are shadows—dreams that have plagued me my whole life, whispers that shape my waking actions. My mind… my soul… was molded by Jessamine's presence before I even knew my own name. And yet, despite her touch, I am not her. I am not a saint. I am something else, something that doesn't fit neatly into any category."

I analyze her words, noting the psychological implications, the potential for instability. Yet, there is a consistency in her narrative that cannot be dismissed outright.

She steps forward, the Sanctified Plate glowing brighter with every step. " "I cannot manipulate events like cogs in a machine, not with any certainty. But I can understand the hearts of others, influence them—even if such manipulation skirts the edge of morality. I can feed souls to the flame, one by one, in the hope that it will be enough to stem the tide of darkness. I act without certainty, Magos, I act with faith."

The words "act with faith" linger in the air, grating against my logic circuits like sand in a cogwheel. My mechadendrites curl, calculating and recalculating probabilities, testing the validity of her claims. And then she surprises me.

She steps closer, her incorporeal form shimmering, and extends her hand—no, not just her hand. She plunges it through my chest. For an instant, every alarm in my systems blares, every mechadendrite unfurling in instinctive defense. But there is no damage, no intrusion I can measure. And yet—impossible though it is—I feel her touch.

Her hand presses against the heart I have long stored within my body. My original heart, reduced to a sentimental artifact, a relic of the organic weakness I transcended long ago. Her touch is impossibly warm, radiating through my entire frame in a way my sensors cannot explain.

"This is illogical," I murmur, subroutines scrambling to make sense of the sensory data. "You cannot—"

"But I can," she whispers. "And you feel it, don't you? The remnants of your humanity, still beating away in that mechanical shell, the pain you hide, the memories you bury. You keep it there, don't you? Not because you need it, but because some part of you still clings to what it meant to feel."

An anomaly. A paradox. I should not be able to experience this. Yet, the tactile feedback is undeniable. I cannot speak. My vocalizer stutters as I attempt to process the sensation, the implications.

"We all cling to something, Magos. Even you." She withdraws her hand, the ethereal limb passing back through solid matter as if it were mist. "You see, Magos, there are things beyond calculation."

Her incorporeal form wavers as she moves away, the golden light around her dimming. I recalibrate, systems returning to nominal function. "Based on current data," I say carefully, "an alliance between us presents the highest probability for the success and advancement of my work."

She nods, her form flickering slightly. "Then we have an understanding."

"However," I continue, "you have provided ample dialogue but no specific directives. You orchestrated this encounter for a purpose. You allowed your high priestess—Riley—to observe Harspes-1b extracting data from Jessamine's throne, yet you did not intervene or raise an alarm. This suggests premeditation."

"You're astute," she acknowledges. "I require your unique expertise, Magos. Your mind is unmatched in its precision."

Her form begins to waver, the glow diminishing. "Time grows short," she says. "You know what I ask of you."

I do.

The realization crystallizes within my cortex, a series of commands and ethical subroutines colliding in conflict.

"They will burn you for this," I state, the words emerging with unfiltered bluntness.

She nods. "They will. But at least that means there will be someone left to care. Someone still willing to burn another human for the sake of the Emperor's light. Blind though their faith may be."

Her image flickers one last time before dissipating entirely, leaving me alone in the silent chamber. The only sounds are the hum of ancient machinery and the faint, rhythmic pulse of Jessamine's life support.

I stand motionless, processing the myriad variables that now demand my attention. The directive she has imparted is audacious, perilous—heretical by any conventional definition. Yet, the potential benefits to the Great Work are substantial. What she has given me as feeling I see as equations, variables, the very ones that will lead to the success of the great work.

The probabilities do not lie, though much remains unaccounted for…

Calculations conclude. Decisions are made.

I turn back to the throne, approaching the desiccated form of Saint Jessamine. My mechadendrites extend, interfacing with the cogitator arrays and life-sustaining apparatus. Data streams flood my consciousness, and I begin the intricate process of reconfiguration.

"Initiate protocol Theta-Seven," I command softly "set conditions for sustained siege. Activate all external defenses, prepare void shield awakening..." The machine-spirits respond, compliant to my authority. My mechadendrites spread, plugging into every console, every interface. I feel the drain on my mental capacity like submerging my mind in liquid nitrogen.

This work will test the limits of the machine as much as it tests Aurora's limits of the flesh. I cannot be in multiple places at once, and yet I must… I send out the clarion call. It is time to risk everything but the most basic contingency of self-preservation. 1.84% is an insufficient margin of success. Estimated likelihood of basilica defenses holding for an additional 1.77 days solar until Skitarii deployment—not enough data.

I must render what aid I can to these dormant machine spirits, they serve a greater purpose now than mere defense. They serve the great work. The work must continue…

As I toil, I consider the path ahead—a path illuminated by the cold logic of necessity. Aurora believes she manipulates hearts and souls for a greater good. I navigate circuits and code, flesh and steel, for a purpose she cannot fully comprehend.

We are, each in our own way, servants to a cause that eclipses individual morality or bonds of faction or even matters of loyalty. Yes, they will burn her, as they attempted once to burn me, as they will do so again.

"Let them burn her," I murmur, almost absently. "So long as the Work endures."

The chamber echoes with the sounds of machinery awakening from millennia of dormancy. In the distance, I can hear the stirrings of a war yet to come.

I continue my task, undeterred.