Chapter 19: Sixty Minutes (Multiple POVs)
Part 1: The Burden (Aurora's Perspective)

The air in the chapel is heavy with fear. It clings to the mothers nursing their infants, to the toddlers who cling to the hems of tattered robes, and to the silence of 8,000 lives too young or fragile to fight. Their eyes follow me as I step into the sacred space. A child wails, piercing the stillness, the sound raw and desperate. The echoes ripple through the vaulted hall, but the walls do not offer comfort. The stained-glass saints stare down, their glass eyes unfeeling, their sanctity indifferent.

I kneel by the child, brushing her cheek with a hand not much larger than her own. My voice is gentle, almost too soft to hear above the restless murmurs. "Hush, little one. The Emperor watches over you."

Her crying slows, her tiny fists clutching at the edge of her mother's shawl as though it might tether her to safety. The mother nods her gratitude, her lips trembling as silent tears streak her cheeks. Around us, the room begins to settle. The sobs fade to sniffles, the murmurs to whispered prayers. I rise, the motion slow and deliberate, the weight of their trust threatening to pull me back down.

"It will be okay," I say, letting the words echo across the chapel. My voice is steady, as it must be, carrying a lie so profound that it hollows me as I speak it. The mothers believe me. They need to believe me. But I know their faith is misplaced.

I move to the altar, each step deliberate, every breath a silent war against the truth clawing at my resolve. The stone is cold beneath me as I climb onto it and sit, legs dangling over the edge like the child I still am. The image is perfect, almost cruel in its simplicity—a child saint, their beacon of hope. One by one, they kneel before me, their faces etched with exhaustion, desperation, and unwavering belief. Then, like a wave cresting and breaking, the room fills with prayer. It begins as a murmur but rises, a swelling tide of supplication to me, to Jessamine, to the Emperor. For their sisters, mothers, and daughters outside, they pray for deliverance. For victory.

They pray to a lie.

I am no saint. I am not Jessamine. I am not their savior. I am their executioner and all of them, even Jessamine herself, are the unsuspecting victims of terrible purpose.

The weight of their trust crushes me, heavier than the mantle of Jessamine, heavier than the unrelenting pressure of knowing I must betray them all. The plan is set; the moment they die is the moment we have a chance to win. I tell myself there is no other way. This path—the one I never chose, the one Jessamine forced upon me, the one the Emperor silently allows—is the only one left to tread. The truth burns like a brand in my mind, searing away any comfort their prayers might offer.

They believe they will win because I let them believe it. They believe I am with them, leading them into light, because I let them. They believe their sacrifice, should it come, will be for glory and honor and the Emperor's divine will. But it will be for me. For my plan. For a death so vast, so complete, that it will drag Jessamine herself screaming back into the light to save them all.

Every whispered prayer, every tear-streaked face, every clasped hand drives the knife deeper into my soul. It cuts at my faith—not in the Emperor, but in myself. Am I strong enough to carry this? To sacrifice thousands of innocents who kneel in trust before me, believing I am the saint who will guide them to salvation? Is my faith strong enough to justify this horror? Or am I simply a liar, a coward hiding behind the light of the Emperor to justify my sins?

The prayers grow louder, fervent. Mothers clutch their children. Infants sleep, their tiny chests rising and falling, unaware of the doom creeping closer. I close my eyes, letting the sound wash over me. My hands clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I want to scream, to tell them the truth. I want to weep, to beg for forgiveness—for a choice I was never allowed to make, for a burden I cannot bear. I want to hate them for trusting me, hate Jessamine for forcing me into this, hate the Emperor for watching from His golden throne as I damn myself in His name.

But I won't.

You can't.

Instead, I steady my breath and let their prayers shield me. Their faith must be stronger than mine because mine wavers now, on the edge of breaking. Their faith is what will fuel the last defense, the final sacrifice. It must be. If I falter, if I hesitate, the tide will overtake us all.

I draw strength not from the lie of their hope but from the truth of their devotion. They would die for me—whether they knew the truth or not—and I will make that death matter. I will make every one of their souls count. Even if it crushes me, even if I can never forgive myself, even if the Emperor Himself turns His face away from what I do here today.

The prayers rise and fall, a chorus of faith. My chest feels tight, my hands trembling as I press them to the stone beneath me. I don't allow myself to look at the mothers, the children. If I do, I won't be able to keep the mask in place.

"It will be okay," I murmur again, though no one can hear it now.

It has to be. It Will be.

They continue to pray, their voices melding into a haunting hymn that echoes off the ancient walls. I sit atop the cold altar, a solitary figure cloaked in the mantle of sainthood, unworthy of their devotion yet accepting it all the same.

The irony is not lost on me.

I inhale slowly, steadying myself. The plan is in motion. The servo-skulls etch their intricate patterns into stone and steel, unheeded by those who believe they are marking out hexagrammic wards. Each rune, each line, each equation, brings us closer to the moment of reckoning.

I open my eyes and look upon them one last time, committing each face to memory. If this is the price of victory, then I will pay it alongside them. Their sacrifice will not be in vain.

"It will be okay," I repeat softly, the lie hanging in the air like a whispered curse.

And I pray that someday, somehow, I might find the forgiveness I know I do not deserve.

I let the murmurs wash over me, and I close my eyes. I can force the emotion away but the tears seem to run freely down my face despite my best efforts. I let them and exhale, casting my mind out and away, walking these halls as the Light Woman once walked them.

The chapel fades. The soft, rhythmic sound of whispered litanies recedes until all that remains is the distant hum of the void shield above, the heartbeat of the basilica. I cast my mind outward.

The courtyard spreads before me, vast and bleak under the failing lumens. At its center, the gate towers like a monolith, its adamantine surface etched with ancient wards. Beyond it, the walls rise a hundred meters high, their tops bristling with defenders. Sisters of Battle stand shoulder to shoulder, bolters cradled in gauntleted hands. The air around them shimmers faintly, the light of the Emperor glinting off their power armor. Below them, Arbites enforcers reinforce the gate, their Chimeras rumbling softly in readiness.

My mind drifts higher, carried on unseen wings. From the walls, I see the streets stretching out in all directions, desolate avenues lined with statues of Jessamine. Each effigy is a silent sentinel, half-shrouded in the encroaching mist that rolls toward us like a living thing. Beyond it, the enemy waits—faceless, numberless, a tide of chaos pressing against the edge of my awareness.

I feel the fear in the defenders, buried beneath their prayers and duty. My power touches them, each soul a flickering light. A sister whispers a prayer, her hands trembling as they reload her bolter. I steady them. An Arbites trooper grips his riot shield, his pulse hammering in his ears. I slow it. A ganger tightens her grip on a makeshift blade, doubt gnawing at her resolve. I harden her heart.

They do not feel me, not directly, but they sense the change. Fear melts into grim determination. Weakness hardens into resolve. I spread through them, stilling their doubts, quieting their hearts.

For a moment, they are unshakable.

But you know the truth.

I draw back from their minds, the weight of their devotion pressing against my own. They will die. Every one of them. Their sacrifice is necessary. It is inevitable. Their lives are the kindling for the light we must ignite, a light that might burn brighter than the darkness threatening to consume us all.

My thoughts brush past Magos Harspes' servo skulls, their laser torches carving glyphs into the inner walls and the courtyard's stone floor. They work tirelessly, inscribing equations older than this hive itself. I feel a faint ripple of satisfaction at their precision, their efficiency. Every mark is a piece of the puzzle, a thread in the tapestry of sacrifice.

The sound of the prayers rises again, louder now, more fervent. My body remains seated on the altar, a child among mothers and infants, but my mind soars above the walls, the gate, the defenders.

The basilica is a fortress against the dark, its light flickering but unbroken. And for now, that light is enough.