Part 2: Repentia I Repent (Helena's Perspective)

The elevator shaft groans open, and darkness spills in like a living thing. Not darkness—corruption. It crawls, oily and thick, clinging to the walls and the air. Even through my helmet's filtration systems, I can taste it, acrid and metallic, like blood and burning copper. The purity seals affixed to my armor flicker faintly with warding light, warning me that this is no natural fog.

Behind me, the Constantia stir uneasily. Someone coughs—a wet, hacking sound—and another retches, the harsh noise swallowed almost immediately by the oppressive gloom. I turn sharply, vox open. "Hold formation!" My voice cuts through the suffocating stillness, hard and unyielding. "Out. Now."

The hesitation lasts less than a second. Good. They are learning. One by one, the twenty-four follow me out of the elevator, their Zephyr jump packs igniting with sharp bursts of light and ozone. The black fog curls and recoils, its tendrils reluctant to release us. My auspex flares uselessly, the data polluted with phantom readings—too many life signs, far too close.

It's a lie. It must be.

"We ascend!" I bark, triggering my jump pack. I rocket upwards, trusting in the Emperor and auspex alike to guide me through the murk. My senses strain, fighting the blindness, the weight of the fog pressing against my armor. The Constantia follow, their ignition bursts forming brief, ghostly silhouettes in the black. My auspex shrieks warnings of proximity—living bodies—but there is nothing, no sound, no movement, no warmth.

Just the endless black.

We break through the fog like swimmers breaching a frozen sea. The air above is no cleaner, but at least here there is clarity. Below us, the black tide rolls outward like a slow wave, its edges hungrily devouring the ruins of Sector Sigma. My purity seals flutter in the updraft, and for a moment I wonder how long their meager light will hold against such an ocean of sin.

A glimmer catches my eye in the distance. A beacon, defiant and unyielding. I feel its warmth even through the armor. It burns with a light I know—faith given form. The basilica. It must be.

I glance back, the auspex confirming what my eyes cannot. "Count off!" I demand, my vox crackling as the Constantia respond in rapid succession. All twenty-four reply. None lost. Relief tempers the tightness in my chest.

"Samara," I call, locking my gaze onto my senior Constantia. She is a headstrong one—too eager to prove herself—but capable. I have beaten worse tendencies out of my novices before.

"Yes, Canoness!" Her reply is crisp, her posture perfect even in mid-air.

"Lead them to the basilica. Quickly and quietly. No engagements, no detours. Is that clear?"

She hesitates. Barely. "Clear, Canoness."

"Good," I snap, angling my trajectory toward the beacon. "I go ahead. See that you follow."

Before she can respond, I push the jump pack to its limits, its calibrated thrust hurling me forward in a streak of righteous fire. The Constantia vanish behind me as I descend, my mind racing with the implications.

The Abbess said the living saint waits here. The saint. Jessamine herself? Reborn? Returned? The possibilities strike me like bolter fire. A thrill courses through my veins, an old, dangerous yearning I thought I had crushed long ago. To see my faith realized in flesh and fire. To stand before a true manifestation of the Emperor's will.

The light grows closer, stronger. The beacon sharpens into the unmistakable form of a fortress-basilica, its ancient spires defiant against the surrounding decay. My breath catches at the sight. This is no crumbling relic. No chapel or monastery swallowed by time. This is a bastion. Its walls are impenetrable, its presence an act of defiance against the ages.

The auspex screams again, a dozen target locks registering in quick succession. My HUD flashes crimson warnings, and my hand instinctively tightens on the grip of my bolt pistol. Then the secondary alert pings: IFF positive. Friendly targeting. I exhale, tension ebbing only slightly.

The basilica is alive. Powered. Operational.

How?

I arc toward the main gate, the vast adamantine monolith a testament to faith made steel. Above it, the battlements bristle with activity—defenders moving with purpose and precision, their movements framed by the faint shimmer of a void shield. A figure in armor gilded with white and gold stands near the edge, her bearing unmistakable even from this distance. Authority. Command.

I land with a crunch of ceramite against stone, rising to my full height as the figure turns to meet me. She is older than I expected, but no less commanding. Her armor bears the sigils of Jessamine's Order, though time and wear have dulled its once-pristine sheen.

"I am High Priestess Riley, commanding the defense," she says, bowing low in a gesture of respect that catches me off guard. "Welcome, Canoness. When you have time I would greatly appreciate the application of your expertise, Sister Helena. However, the Saint awaits you."

I open my mouth to reply, to demand answers, but the words die unspoken as she steps aside. My gaze falls on the figure standing just behind her, and for a moment, the world narrows to a singular, blinding focus.

Aurora.

She stands barefoot on the stone, clad in nothing but a simple white robe, her eyes hidden behind a silk blindfold that glows faintly with an unearthly light. Her left arm—no, her augmetic—shimmers with intricate gold filigree, the strands seeming to pulse with life. The golden ring on her hand radiates with an energy I cannot describe, its brilliance a stark contrast to the simplicity of her attire.

My breath catches, a tangle of shame, awe, and disbelief choking the words in my throat.

Aurora. The girl I mentored. The girl I struck down. The girl I banished. Repentia.

And now, a saint.

Her gaze—or what feels like her gaze—locks onto me. My armor feels heavier, as though the weight of my own sins bears down upon me, pinning me to the stone. She steps forward, and I fall to one knee without thought, my gauntleted fist slamming against the ground in an instinctive act of supplication. My lips move, but no words come.

Aurora's gaze meets mine, and before I can find words—any words—she speaks.

"You are forgiven," she says softly, her voice carrying a weight that belies her years.

Forgiven. The word slices through me, a double-edged blade. Before I can protest, she shakes her head, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. "No," she corrects herself. "There is nothing to forgive."

I open my mouth, but she places a finger to her lips, silencing me with a gesture so gentle it feels like a benediction. "Walk with me," she says. Aurora walks at my side, small and barefoot, the silk blindfold over her glowing eyes somehow making her presence even more daunting. I feel her power like a weight pressing against my soul, suffocating in its enormity, but not malevolent. Never malevolent. Just… overwhelming. Her steps are light on the ancient stone of the battlements, while mine feel heavy, clumsy. She moves like the faith she now embodies—quiet, purposeful. I move like a failure.

The High Priestess called her a saint. The Saint. Saint Jessamine, reborn. But Aurora… Aurora. How can this be? How can the girl I exiled, the girl I cast into the underhive with a task so impossible it bordered on cruelty, now stand here with a power that burns brighter than anything I've ever seen?

The weight of her forgiveness clings to me like the fog below. "There is nothing to forgive," she had said as if it were a fact, immutable and unquestionable. But it doesn't feel true. Not to me. Not when I look at her now.

The silence stretches, her presence leaving no room for the voice in my head that wants to scream. Instead, I force my focus outward. The battlements are alive with preparation—Sisters clad in ancient power armor stand ready, their bolters glinting under the flicker of lumen strips. The white-robed militia forms lines, passing crates of ammunition, reciting litanies with fervent devotion. Servo-skulls flit along the walls, laser torches etching sigils that I can't quite make out. Everything here moves with purpose, unity.

And yet, beneath it all, I can feel it: fear. A quiet, hidden thread beneath the surface. They are ready, but they are afraid.

I glance down at Aurora, walking quietly beside me, hands clasped behind her back. Her face is serene, yet every step she takes feels like a plea.

I can't hold it in anymore. "This…" I wave a gauntleted hand toward the soldiers and walls as we walk. "When I exiled you, I didn't mean for… for all this. I didn't expect you to restore the basilica, let alone turn it into a fortress. A few thousand sisters in power armor ready for a siege? What—how—?"

Aurora stops, the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips. She turns and sits on the thick stone parapet, her legs dangling over the edge as if there isn't a sea of darkness approaching only kilometers away. "You were prophesying, Helena," she says, voice soft but with a faint touch of amusement. "Without even realizing it."

I pause, her words catching me off guard. "Prophesying? Don't mock me, Aurora."

"I'm not." Her voice loses the faint humor, her glow dimming slightly. "You knew what I needed to do before I did. You saw it when I didn't. That's why you sent me here. What you meant for my chastening the Emperor used for my ascension."

I cross my arms, trying to regain some sense of composure. But she looks at me with those eyes—not her eyes, but theirs. Jessamine's. The Emperor's. The galaxy's.

"And now?" I ask quietly. "What are you?"

Her smile fades, and for a moment, she looks impossibly weary. Before I can react, she crumples, tears spilling down her cheeks as she rushes into my arms. She clings to me with a desperation that pierces straight through my armor, both literal and figurative.

I stand there, stunned. The weight of her small form presses against the ceramite plates, her sobs muffled against my chest. She's trembling—she's a child. A child bearing burdens that would crush even the most hardened veteran. My arms encircle her almost of their own accord, holding her gently. The scent of her—a mix of sanctified oils and something uniquely her—fills the space between us.

I swallow hard, a lump forming in my throat. Guilt gnaws at me, sharp and unforgiving. Where was I when she faced whatever horrors brought her to this moment? How could I have left her to bear this alone?

After a time, her sobs subside. She pulls back slightly, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "That's not very saintly of me."

I shake my head. "You have nothing to apologize for."

She offers a wan smile. "You're the only one I can be myself around anymore. The only one who might understand."

I grip her shoulders, my gauntlets heavy against her. "Whatever you need of me, Aurora, I'll do it. Anything."

"Just… be yourself," she pleads, the weariness in her voice cutting through me. "And treat me like you used to. Like I'm… me. Not her."

I open my mouth to protest, but the desperate loneliness in her tone stills my tongue. How isolating it must be—to be a saint. To be alone even in a sea of devoted faith. I nod. "I'll try."

We stand there for a time, the silence heavy but somehow comforting. Then, quietly, I ask, "What did you mean? That I could understand?"

Her response comes slow, measured, each word a deliberate weight. "You still carry them with you, don't you? Their names, their faces?"

I freeze as though struck by a bolter round. The breath I take is shallow, sharp, my lungs unable to find their rhythm. Before I can stop her, Aurora begins to speak.

"Sister Silvia. Sister Benedette. Sister Julianna. Sister Chamilla…"

Each name strikes me like a chain blade to the chest. Memories surge forward, unbidden and unwanted. Silvia's laughter during evening prayers. Benedette's fierce grin in the heat of battle. Julianna's quiet counsel. Camilla's defiant last stand.

"...Sister Lycia. Sister Kaelina. Sister Miradelle…"

I can see them—their faces vivid in my mind's eye. The day we faced the ork warboss on Vorsk Prime. The thunder of gunfire, the stench of promethium and blood. I remember charging ahead, zealous and unafraid.

Her voice does not falter, but mine does, cracking as I whisper, "Stop…"

She doesn't. She can't.

"Sister Janella. Sister Corvith. Sister Mae…"

I feel the phantom pain of my arms being severed, the searing agony as I fell. The world had gone dark, my consciousness slipping away. I hadn't seen what happened next, but now—now I see it through Aurora's eyes, as if she were there.

"Sister Clara. Sister Isolde. Sister Maeve."

I watch as my Seraphim squad breaks formation, defying protocol and orders. Six of them rush back into the fray, forming a protective circle around my broken body. They unleash screaming fury upon the orks, their jump packs flaring as they weave and dodge, but the enemy is overwhelming.

"Sister Dorothea. Sister Miriam. Sister Lynette."

One by one, they fall. Silvia takes a slug to the chest, her armor cracking under the impact. Maris is torn apart by a knobb's klaw as she tries to draw its attention away from me. Thalia shields my body with her own, her blood pooling around us.

"Sister Helena," Aurora says softly, and I realize she's speaking my name now. My knees give way, and I collapse onto the cold stone of the battlements. My breath comes in ragged gasps. I feel the sting of tears, hot and unwelcome, trailing down my cheeks beneath the helm.

"They died for you," she continues. "And others—Sister Lisette—died to bring you back. Miriam carried you through enemy lines, half-flying, half-dragging your shattered body while the world burned around her."

Visions assault me—Miriam taking a bullet to the leg but pressing on, Lisette covering our retreat with her last magazine. I hadn't known. I was unconscious, lost in the void between life and death.

"Stop," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Please."

She closes her eyes, and suddenly, I am no longer on the battlements. I am there, on Vorsk Prime, but seeing it through her mind's eye. I witness the chaos—the flames consuming the horizon, the sky lit with tracer fire. I see my sisters fighting with a ferocity born of desperation and unshakable devotion… devotion to me.

I watch as Sister Miriam, my second, wounded and bleeding, refuses to leave my side. She hoists me onto her shoulders, staggering under the weight but determined. Sister Lisette covers us, her bolter singing hymns of destruction until she's overrun.

I see the sheer impossibility of her task, the broken lines, the tide of greenskins surging after us. Ingrid falls, they all do, one by one, until only Mirriam remains. One wounded warrior, half-dragging, half-flying, her jump pack sputtering as she claws through no-man's-land with my bleeding, unconscious form in her arms. She collapses at the edge of friendly territory, screaming for the hospitaller.

I feel the grit of ash between my teeth, the heat of nearby explosions. The agony of my ruined arms is distant, overshadowed by the overwhelming sense of camaraderie, of purpose. They fought for me—not out of obligation, but out of love, of sisterhood.

The vision fades, and I'm back on the battlements, tears streaming freely now. Aurora is still beside me, her expression one of deep sorrow. She wraps her arms around me, and for once, I let myself be held.

Aurora's voice is quiet now, her tone a gentle pouring of warm water down my back, no judgement, just quiet calm. "I give you these seventeen names," she says, her words deliberate, piercing, "and the pain of their memory brings you to your knees. It exposes a hatred for yourself, an anger at your own failure that you can't let go of. And yet…" Her voice softens even further. "It would be hypocritical of me to tell you to let it go. To tell you to stop punishing yourself for that day."

I feel her small hands on my pauldrons, the touch light but grounding. When my sobs subside into shallow breaths, she loosens her hold and pulls back. Her voice is quiet, trembling. "Look."

I lift my head, following her gaze. Below us, the courtyard teems with life. Ten thousand Sisters in power armor stand resolute, twenty thousand in robes and armed with whatever weapons could be salvaged. Arbites ready their vehicles, and gangers in patchwork armor exchange hurried words, preparing for a fight they know they may not survive. Small children dart between them, carrying ammunition and supplies with a determination that breaks my heart.

Aurora's voice quavers, her composure wavering. "If you can barely hold seventeen, Helena," she whispers, "how can I hold all of these? How can I hold all these names and see them all die?"

The enormity of it crashes over me. My grief, my guilt—they are but a fraction of what she bears. A child, expected to lead thousands, likely to their deaths. Expected to shoulder the hopes and faith of so many, all while knowing the inevitable cost of those heroes who don't live to see the dawn of the Emperor's light or the banners of victory.

I reach out, taking her hand in mine. "You don't have to hold it alone," I tell her.

Aurora shakes her head, slow and deliberate. The motion is small, but its weight feels like a dismissal. My hand hovers in the air between us, empty now as she pulls away.

"No," she says quietly, her voice cutting through me. "I do have to hold it alone. I alone will bear the guilt for what is to come."

There is no room for argument in her tone, no space for comfort. Her words are final, unyielding. They settle over the moment like ash, choking the air between us. I clench my jaw, swallowing the retort I want to make.

"Aurora," I begin, my words faltering. "Victory often comes at a cost," I continue, my voice hoarse from the sobbing. The weight of my armor feels unbearable now, the ceramite dragging at my shoulders. "You can't know how this will end. None of us can. I can help you carry this I…"

Aurora doesn't respond. She just stands there, silent and unyielding, as though the conversation is already over. Her silence feels like a door slamming shut, and I'm left on the other side, cold and unwelcome. I feel the distance grow between us, the small, fragile bridge we'd built in the moments prior crumbling into the abyss.

She turns her head slightly, just enough for me to see the sharp line of her profile, her expression unreadable beneath the blindfold. I trail off, silenced by the palpable distance she's placed between us. The air feels heavier now, the raw vulnerability of moments ago replaced by something far colder.

Her silence is a rebuke more powerful than any word, and I feel the sting of it in my chest. For the first time since we started this conversation, I feel as though I've been shut out—not just by Aurora, but by the saint she is trying to become.

She turns to me then, her small hands rising to the blindfold that shields her eyes. "Then look," she whispers, "if you can."

Time freezes. For a single, terrible instant, I meet her naked gaze.

Her eyes—if they can even be called that—lock onto mine.

They are not human.

They are not even mortal.

They are twin vortexes of light and anguish, swirling with a power so ancient and raw that I feel as though the Emperor Himself is staring into my soul. Every moment of doubt, every failure, every sin I've buried screams to the surface under her gaze. I see myself reflected in them, not as I am but as I could be—what I've gained, what I've lost, what I've thrown away in service to duty.

It is agony.

It's like staring into the raw, molten core of a sun. My thoughts scatter, my lungs seize, and I feel the ground tilt beneath me.

Then the fear hits.

It is unlike anything I have ever felt—a nameless terror that claws at the edges of my mind, primal and unrelenting. The pain is a dagger twisting in my temples, driving me to my knees. My body reacts before I can think, convulsing as bile rises in my throat. I twist my head to the side and vomit, retching violently onto the stone battlement. My hands claw at the ground, searching for purchase against the vertigo.

The world is a blur of nausea and shame. I can feel her watching me, though I cannot bear to look up. My breathing is shallow, ragged, and my thoughts are a jumbled mess of disjointed words.

By the time I regain control, the blindfold is back in place. She is staring out over the battlements, her small frame silhouetted against the distant light of the basilica.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my gauntlet, the acidic taste of failure burning my throat. My body trembles as I force myself upright, still kneeling but steady enough to meet her turned back. The truth of what I saw lingers, etched into my memory with a clarity I wish I could erase.

But I can't forget it and I know I never will.

I see it now—truly see it.

Aurora is not a saint. Not Jessamine. She is a child, a terrified little girl trying to wear a mantle that doesn't fit, trying to hold a power that is tearing her apart. Something dark, something vast and merciless, is gnawing at her from within, and no one—not me, not the Abess, perhaps not even the Emperor Himself—can help her.

She turns away, her back to me. Her white robe seems impossibly small against the vastness of the battlements, the weight of her burden too great for any mortal to bear. She takes a step forward, and then another, before stopping. Her shoulders slump, just slightly, and for a moment, she looks so frail I wonder if she might break.

When she turns back to me, her face is pale, drawn. Her voice is a mere tremor, almost pleading. "Promise me something."

I wipe at my mouth with a trembling hand, still on my knees, still choking on the bile and horror of what I've seen. "Anything," I rasp, my voice raw with desperation. "Please, Aurora, let me help you. Let me do something."

Her lips tremble, but she doesn't move closer. The distance between us feels infinite. "Promise me you won't die."

I feel the desperation in her words, the quiet plea beneath the command. I push myself up, still on my knees, my armor scraping against the stone. "What?" I croak

"Promise me," she repeats, her voice steady now, but her eyes—hidden though they are—seem to pierce me all the same. "Promise me you'll live. No matter what happens."

I shake my head, confused, trying to find some meaning in her words. "Aurora, I—"

"Helena," she speaks my name with the same solemn finality with which she spoke the names of my fallen sisters. "Helena is a name I cannot carry," she says, and her voice breaks on the last word. "Not yours. Not you too."

I feel the weight of her plea, the desperation beneath it. I see the tears wetting the blindfold and running down her cheeks. And in that moment, I know there is nothing I can say, nothing I can do, to take this from her. She is truly alone.

My head bows, and my voice trembles as I whisper, "I promise."

For a moment, neither of us moves. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, until she nods once—barely perceptible—and like a specter, she vanishes in a gust of warm wind that I somehow feel even through my armor.