Part 3: Old Grievances, New Ideas (Riley's Perspective)
The void shield hums above us, a low, resonant thrum that buzzes against the edge of thought. It feels too steady, too constant, as though daring me to believe in its permanence. The air is electric beneath it, the faint shimmer of its protective energy casting an eerie light over the defenders on the wall. Bolters are cradled tightly in nervous hands, their wearers glancing at me, at Tully, at each other. They're waiting—for orders, for reassurance, for salvation I'm not sure I can provide.
Chief Enforcer Sergeant Tully spits a wad of something dark onto the stone floor, his scarred face twisted in skepticism. His single magnocular whirs softly as it adjusts focus, the red lens reflecting the ghostly light. "So, High Priestess," he growls, "you've gone and lit up the big shield already. Care to enlighten me as to why we're showing our hand before the enemy's even at our doorstep?"
I fix my gaze on the churning black mist that creeps ever closer, swallowing the avenues lined with statues of Saint Jessamine. "Magos Harspes calculated that immediate activation would force the enemy's hand," I reply, keeping my voice steady. "If they believe our defenses are fully operational, they'll feel compelled to attack swiftly rather than risk a prolonged siege."
"So that's it?" he mutters, nodding toward the glowing shield. "The big gamble? Hoping the fancy light show scares them into running right into our kill zones?"
"It's not a gamble," I snap, though my words come faster than I'd like. I steel myself, forcing my tone to calm. "It's strategy."
"Strategy," Tully repeats, as though tasting the word and finding it bitter. He spits on the stone at his feet. "The problem with strategy, Priestess, is it assumes the enemy's dumber than you."
"They'll see the shield," I say, ignoring the jab. "They'll think we have the power to maintain it indefinitely. That will force them into an immediate assault. A prolonged siege is unwinnable. We don't have the ammunition or the supplies."
"And if the shield gives out?" His words cut through my explanation like a scalpel. "What then? What do we tell all these Sisters with their shiny, never-fired bolters when we've got four undefended walls to worry about instead of one?"
"It won't fail," I say, sharper this time.
"Good to know," he spits again.
His tone isn't malevolent, not afraid, it's worse, resigned. He's a man with decades of experience staring death in the face and today he fully believes it's time to punch his ticket. And yet he stands as resolutely, even far less nervously, than most of my own sisters. I don't know whether to admire or despise him for that.
"So, now that our fancy shield is keeping them off everything but our fancy gate, what do we do when the gate falls?" He asks next, idly tossing a bit of stone over the edge and watching it fall the hundred meters to the ground below, pinging noiselessly off the gate itself.
"They gate won't fall," I insist, trying not to allow his resigned tone to stoke the flames of my own doubt, "A Warlord Titan would be hard pressed to defeat this gate even given hours of open bombardment."
"Maybe they've got one tucked away," he growls, his tone mocking. "Or something worse."
I grit my teeth, the weight of my armor pressing against my shoulders like a silent accusation. My Sisters are watching. I can't falter now. "Magos Harspes calculated this plan. His logic is flawless."
"Logic doesn't stop a power axe," Tully says. His tone isn't cruel, but it isn't kind, either. Just practical. "You should've left the shield off and kept 'em guessing."
"And if they waited us out?" I demand, stepping closer to him. "If they let Jessamine's spirit fail and watched the shield flicker out on its own? We'd be dead before we fired a shot."
Tully stares at me, and I hate the pity I see in his eyes. "We'll be dead anyway," he says softly.
I'm about to reply when a shadow passes over the wall. The roar of a jump pack tears through the hum of the shield as a figure lands in a controlled burst of fire and ceramite. I don't need to see her face to know who it is. The saint mentioned her impending arrival and now it seems the saint is done speaking with her.
Canoness Helena.
She strides toward us, her presence commanding and unshakable. Her armor gleams with the heraldry of the Order of the Sanctified Shield, the symbol of an order that once cast us out, condemned us to the darkness of the underhive and slaughtered our mothers of old. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, but I force the anger down. Now isn't the time, she is doubtless unaware that such acts even took place.
"Canoness Helena," I say, inclining my head. My voice is steady, but the weight of my Sisters' gazes, the other eleven priestesses, burns against my back. They feel it too, the weight of history between us. "Welcome to the defense."
Helena's face is hard, her eyes scanning the wall, the shield, the defenders below. She spares Tully a glance, her expression neutral. "And you are?"
"Chief Enforcer Tully," he says, his voice as gruff as ever. "I'm the one who tells you when things are about to get worse." He shrugs, "But I've got two thousand enforcers and a few toys to at least keep things interesting."
Helena's lips twitch, not quite a smile. "Good. I'll probably be enjoying myself so much I'll fail to notice when things are about to go ploin shaped."
She turns her gaze to me, sharp and appraising. I resist the urge to flinch. "You've activated the void shield."
"It was necessary," I say quickly. Too quickly. "The enemy needs to believe it's our strength, not our weakness."
Helena nods slowly, though her expression remains unreadable. "And if it fails?"
"It won't," I say, my voice rising. I feel my Sisters watching, their faith fragile, tenuous. I can't let them see doubt. Not now. "Not before we've broken them at the gate."
Helena studies me for a moment, and I hate how exposed I feel under her gaze. Finally, she speaks, her tone softer than I expect. "It's a sound strategy."
The words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I don't know how to respond. She turns her attention to the other priestesses gathered nearby, their expressions wary, distrustful. She doesn't seem to notice, or perhaps she does and simply doesn't care.
"I've defended monasteries before," Helena says, her voice steady. "Not anything as big as this, but similar. Your Sisters are disciplined, even if their lack of experience is obvious." I bristle again but she says it without malice, merely the trained eyes of a woman who, unlike me, has seen a real battlefield, and probably a thousand times over. "They're stiff, a few look like they think their own bolters might bite them, but they're also resolved. They'll hold."
"They will," I say, more to myself than to her.
Helena adjusts her stance, her posture unnervingly calm. The ceramite plates of her armor catch the faint glow of the void shield above, her polished Aquila reflecting muted light as though defying the grime and darkness of the underhive itself. Her eyes—sharp, appraising—settle on me with an unsettling intensity.
"What's the plan for when the gate falls?" she asks, her tone neutral but her words cutting.
I stiffen, the heat rising to my cheeks. The eleven priestesses around me bristle visibly, their armor creaking softly as they shift. I see it in their expressions—anger, indignation, distrust. They're waiting for me to answer, but my tongue sticks against the roof of my mouth.
Tully raises an eyebrow but says nothing, his silence as sharp as a blade.
"The gate won't fall," I snap, louder than I intended. My voice rings out over the wall, drawing the attention of a few nearby Sisters. I clench my fists, forcing my tone to even out. "It was designed to withstand the wrath of titans. No enemy will breach it, not with anything which could possibly mustered in this cursed underhive."
Helena doesn't flinch. Her expression is calm, almost patient, as though she's heard this protest before from a dozen leaders just like me. "I don't mean that literally," she says, her voice measured, her words precise. "When I say the gate falls, I mean the moment the defense of it is no longer tenable. Breached or not, there must be a plan for when this wall is no longer the center of the battle."
"Then what do you mean?" I demand, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. My Sisters watch, their unease a palpable weight. Even Tully crosses his arms, watching the exchange like a veteran soldier entertained by the naivety of a young officer.
Her tone isn't mocking, but it still grates, and I hear the shift in the stance of the priestess at my side, Sister Sarai. She bristles visibly, the air around her practically vibrating with restrained fury. I ignore her, focusing on Helena. "The wall and the defense are one and the same," I say sharply. "If the wall falls, everything falls."
Helena tilts her head slightly, her brow lifting just enough to make her skepticism plain. "And if that happens?" she presses. "Do we lie down and die? Or perhaps we shoot ourselves to save the enemy the effort?"
The words strike like a slap, and I see Sarai's hands tighten into fists. "The true daughters of Jessamine," she snaps, her voice laced with venom, "do not lay down and die. Nor do we betray our Sisters like your Order did to us."
Helena turns to Sarai, her expression calm but with a dangerous edge. "Then you'll need a plan, won't you, sister?" she says. Her tone isn't sharp, but it carries a weight that cuts through Sarai's anger like a scalpel. "Because if you're not planning to die, what precisely are you planning to do instead."
Sarai's mouth opens, but I lift a hand to silence her. She stiffens, but obeys, the tension in her stance palpable. I take a slow breath, forcing the anger back down. She's right, I think, though admitting it feels like swallowing broken glass. Helena's right. I hadn't thought past the wall. I hadn't let myself. I've avoided thinking about failure because failure isn't an option.
But war doesn't care about options.
I force a breath, steadying my voice. "Clearly, Canoness, your experience in these matters surpasses that of my Sisters combined. So, without further outbursts or insults, tell me: what do you propose?"
Helena's gaze doesn't waver, and for a moment, I see the faintest flicker of something in her eyes. Not pity—no, something harder, more resolute. "We fight," she says simply. "And we prepare to fight beyond the gate, beyond the wall, in the courtyard, before the chapel gates, within the chapel, down every hall and corridor, every nook, cranny, and alcove until all our blood is spent in the effort to purge one more heretic."
The fervor in her voice is, admittedly, infectious. She says it as though she can see it happen, dying to the last, a score of heretics felled for every drop of our blood spilt. Infectious because she can see it, and in her words, so can I, so can we all.
"Do not underestimate your foe, ever. No matter how strong a defense is, the enemy isn't attacking without every conviction they can and will certainly break it." Her words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. The silence that follows is filled only with the hum of the shield and the faint murmurs of the Sisters below. I feel the weight of her experience pressing against the brittle shell of my authority, and for the first time, I understand just how much I don't know.
But I also feel something else. Resolve.
"Then tell me, tell us," I say, my voice firm now. "What would you do, Canoness, if you were standing in my place?"
I force my face to remain neutral, my body rigid and composed in the armor that marks me as High Priestess. But inside, I feel like a novice all over again, overwhelmed by the sheer practicality of Helena's approach. This isn't theory or ritual. It's brutal, bloody reality.
"Funnel and focus," Helena says again, her voice steady and authoritative. She strides along the battlements, her ceramite boots ringing against the ancient stone, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade. "It's all that matters in defense. Funnel your enemy into the tightest kill zone possible. Focus your firepower into that kill zone. Everything else is just noise."
I catch myself frowning, my mind racing. Funnel and focus. It sounds... simplistic. The kind of thing that doesn't belong in the meticulous, ritualized tactics drilled into me for decades. Helena catches the look but doesn't falter, doesn't soften. She presses on.
"Defense," she continues, gesturing to the gate far below, "is nothing more than a numbers game. You're always outnumbered in some way, whether by bodies, firepower, or time. But the math changes if you can control the fight. Ten enemies funneled into a corridor narrow enough that only one can fight at a time? No different than one enemy. A thousand forced ten abreast and a hundred deep? That's just ten to you if you've got heavy ordnance covering the line."
Her words draw my Sisters closer, their curiosity warring with their wariness. I see the conflict in their eyes—the same conflict I feel. Her confidence draws them like moths to flame, but they remember, as I do, that she represents, knowingly or not, the same Sisters who betrayed our mothers.
"And what about when the enemy adapts?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intend. "When they break out of the funnel? When they flank your focus?"
Helena smiles faintly, a grim expression that holds no humor. "That's foresight," she says. "Funnel, focus, and foresight. The enemy isn't stupid. The bodies in the kill zone will pile up, and they'll see the weakness in the strategy. They'll scale your walls, burrow beneath, or send forces that make focusing fire impossible—artillery, armor, psykers, gods forbid a daemon."
The mention of deamons makes me flinch. My Sisters shift uneasily, murmurs rising like a tide. I see the fear in their eyes, hear it in their whispers. What if she's right? What if they have something we can't see coming? Something that makes the void shield and the adamantine gate as meaningless as paper?
Helena doesn't miss a beat. "That's where I come in," she says.
As if on cue, the roar of jump packs drowns the hum of the void shield. The Constantia land in a controlled burst of light and ozone, twenty-four Sisters of the Sanctified Shield trailing smoke as their Zephyr packs cool.
They're young, their movements precise but stiff with the rigidity of fresh training. I watch them with a twinge of bitterness. Even they look more prepared than my own Sisters do, clad in relic armor too ancient for me to see as anything but ceremonial until now.
"I'll lead these Sisters beyond the wall," Helena continues, gesturing to her Constantia. "We'll take the fight to the flanks, to anything that falls outside the scope of your funnel and focus. Artillery, armor, psykers—whatever breaks the math."
"And what if the gate falls?" I ask again, the words tighter, my throat constricting around them.
Helena turns to face me fully, her gaze direct, piercing. "If the gate falls," she says, her voice steady, "then every sister here needs to know exactly what to do. Defense isn't about holding a single point. It's about layers. If the gate is no longer defensible, you retreat. You create a corridor of safety and fall back to the next defensible structure."
I bristle at the suggestion, the implication that we could abandon the wall. My Sisters feel it too; I see it in the hardening of Sarai's expression. "The only other defensible structure is the chapel," I say, my tone clipped. "And it's surrounded by a thinner wall with a smaller gate. If we fall back there—"
"Then you make it your last stand," Helena interrupts, her tone cutting but not cruel. "The chapel gate becomes the second kill zone. Your Arbites are suited for it—long-range fire from the Chimeras, close-quarters riot suppression when the line collapses. Prepare for that now. If the second gate is breached, you seal the chapel. Anyone outside fights to the death."
Her words hang in the air like a death sentence. I feel the weight of them, the finality. She doesn't stop.
"And if the chapel falls," she says, "you fight deeper into the basilica. Every corridor, every stairwell, every chamber becomes a new battlefield. You keep retreating, collapsing your lines until there's nowhere left to go. And when that happens, you die on your feet, back against the wall, tearing out their throats with your bare hands if that's what you have left."
The silence that follows is suffocating. My Sisters stare at her, their faces pale beneath their helmets. Even Tully looks grim, his cynicism muted by the sheer pragmatism of her words. I want to argue, to challenge her, to say there's another way. But I know there isn't. Not really.
"Trust the Emperor," Helena says finally, her voice softer now, almost gentle. "Trust each other. Keep them off the wall, keep them out, and you'll win. Every one of you is worth a hundred, a thousand of them. But act. Think. Always be thinking. When you start fighting the enemy right in front of you and forget the ones beyond your reach, that's when everything falls apart."
I swallow hard, nodding despite myself. "And you'll handle the foresight?"
Helena nods, her confidence unshakable. "I'll handle it. You handle the focus and the funnel."
Her gaze holds mine, steady and unyielding. And for the first time, I see not a rival, not an outsider, but an ally. A veteran. Someone who's fought and bled for this Imperium, just as we will now.
I take a breath, steadying myself. "Very well," I say. "We'll prepare the chapel as the second kill zone. But we won't fall back unless we have to."
Helena smiles faintly. "That's the spirit."