Chapter 20: The First Six hours - Part 1: The First Shot (Samara's Perspective)

The air tastes of iron and ozone, a bitter tang that clings to the back of my throat. I stand atop the ancient battlements of the basilica, my boots planted on stone worn smooth by millennia of neglect. Ahead, the dark mist roils like a living thing, a churning sea of shadows that swallows the horizon. The void shield hums above us, a barely perceptible vibration that sets my teeth on edge. It casts a faint glow, but it does little to pierce the unnatural darkness beyond.

I tighten my grip on the hilt of my power sword, feeling the familiar weight, the reassuring balance. Around me, the so-called Sisters of Battle shuffle in their ill-fitting power armor, movements awkward and hesitant. They clutch their bolters as if afraid the weapons might bite, fingers twitching nervously over triggers they have never pulled in anger. Their posture is all wrong—backs hunched, shoulders slumped. There's no discipline here, no unity. Just a gaggle of frightened women playing at war.

Disgraceful.

"Steady your stance," I snap at the nearest one, a woman with lines of age etched into her face. She blinks at me from behind her helm's visor, confusion evident even through the tinted plastek. "Your recoil will have you on your backside before the enemy's even in range."

She nods mutely, attempting to adjust her footing, but it's hopeless. I turn away, disgust curling in my stomach. These aren't warriors. They're relics clinging to scraps of glory long tarnished.

Beyond them, clusters of militia huddle together, their tattered robes whipping in the chill air. They clutch lasguns and stubbers, weapons so poorly maintained I wonder if they'll fire at all. Old women and underhive scum, their eyes wide with a fanaticism that borders on lunacy. They murmur litanies under their breath, stolen prayers twisted by ignorance.

These are the allies Sister Helena has led us to join. Fanatics and fools, cultists masquerading as Sisters. It's heresy by another name.

I cast a sidelong glance at Helena. She stands a few meters away, gaze fixed on the darkness ahead. Her armor bears the marks of countless battles, purity seals fluttering in the breeze. Once, I admired her. Respected her. She was a paragon of what a Sister of Battle should be—a living weapon honed by faith and fire.

But now? Now she leads us into the abyss on the word of a supposed saint—a girl named Aurora. A novice who bypassed trials and traditions, elevated without earning it, without sacrifice. Rumors say she was made Repentia, but even that reeks of deception. And Helena accepts this? Follows her blindly?

I grit my teeth. It's unthinkable.

A murmur ripples through the ranks. I follow their gazes back to the mist. Shapes move within it—shadows shifting against shadows. The enemy is out there, cloaked by darkness deeper than any natural night. I feel a thrill of... is it admiration? Yes. Their strategy is sound. Use the environment to their advantage. Sow confusion and fear before the first shot is fired.

Clever.

"Hold the line!" Helena's voice rings out, firm and commanding. The sisters straighten—well, they try. Weapons are raised, hesitance clear in every movement.

Pathetic.

I step forward. "Maintain your spacing! Eyes ahead!" I bark. Some of them flinch at my tone, but they obey. At least they can follow orders when shouted at.

The mist seems to pulse, tendrils of shadow creeping forward. I wonder what lurks within. Heretics, surely. Mutants and worse. But they show tactical acumen, a grasp of psychological warfare that these so-called sisters lack.

"Samara," Helena calls, turning to me. "Stay close."

I nod, but say nothing. She watches me for a moment, perhaps sensing my disdain, but then returns her focus to the fore. I suppress a sneer. She's lost her edge, distracted by false prophets and underhive superstition.

A rustle to my left draws my attention. One of the armored sisters is fumbling with her bolter, trying to check the magazine with trembling hands.

"Do you even know how to operate that?" I ask coldly.

She looks up, fear evident in her eyes. "I... I've trained, but not—"

"Not in real combat," I finish for her. "This isn't a drill. When the enemy comes, they won't wait for you to remember which end fires."

She swallows hard, nodding. "Yes, Sister."

"I'm not your sister," I snap. "I'm a Constantia of the Schola Progenium. And you are in my way."

I turn sharply, dismissing her. Behind us, the militia whisper prayers, their voices rising in a discordant hymn. It's grating, like the buzzing of insects.

Ahead, the mist swirls, and for a moment I think I see movement—something large shifting within the darkness. The enemy approaches, shrouded and unseen. They wield fear like a weapon, and it's working. I can almost taste the terror radiating from the women around me.

I close my eyes briefly, centering myself. The enemy may be cunning, but they are heretics all the same. They will fall before the Emperor's justice.

If only we had real warriors here.

I open my eyes, scanning the line. The sisters fidget, their inexperience glaring. The militia clutch their weapons like talismans, eyes squeezed shut in fervent prayer. And Helena stands at the center, oblivious to the rot festering under her command.

This is a farce.

"Samara," Helena calls again, more insistently.

I step over to her. "Yes, Sister?"

She studies me, her gaze piercing. "Watch your tone with the others. They need our guidance, not scorn."

"With respect, my canoness," I reply, keeping my voice level, "they need training. Discipline. They are unprepared for what's coming."

"That's why we're here," she says, her tone firm. "To stand with them. To lead the faithful by example."

I bite back a retort. Lead the faithful? These are zealots, not soldiers. And Aurora—a saint? It's laughable.

"How can you truly believe she's a saint?" I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice and unwilling to bite back the question.

Helena's eyes harden. "Faith is our shield, Samara. Doubt is the enemy's weapon."

"Doubt—" She cuts me off with a gesture.

Helena motions me away from the others, and I follow reluctantly, keeping my face impassive despite the boiling contempt within. She wants to talk, to correct me, but I can see it already—that doubt lingering behind her stoic façade. She knows I'm right, even if she won't admit it.

I slap my helmet to the maglock on my hip, letting the cool underhive air sting my face. Helena hesitates for a fraction of a second before doing the same, her movements sharp with irritation.

I spit to the side, a sharp, wet sound that draws a few furtive glances from the so-called Sisters nearby.

"Samara," she begins, voice low but firm, "now is not the time for this."

I grind my teeth. "Not the time!?" The words come out in a hiss. "Canoness, these women—" I jab a finger toward the line of power-armored figures behind us, "—are not Sisters of Battle. Look at them! Do they follow the Rule of the Sororitas? Have you read their doctrine? Where is the ecclesiarch who validated their order?"

Helena's expression hardens, but I press on, my voice rising despite myself. "These are cultists, Canoness. They've twisted the Emperor's will into some bastardized worship of Aurora! Aurora!" Her name tastes like bile. "A girl who bypassed every tradition we hold sacred. No trials. No Constantia. She was made full Sister by fiat and then cast out as a Repentia. Or do you think everything you and the Abbess did was done somehow in secret!? And now we're expected to fight and die alongside her fan club? Blindly? Without question? This is heresy!"

She sighs, a hint of exasperation seeping through her composure. "You didn't walk with her on the battlements. You didn't feel the touch of her power."

"Power?" I scoff. "Witchcraft more likely."

"Enough!" Helena's voice cracks like a whip. "Your points may have merit, but the battlefield is not the place for this debate. Your concern can wait, the enemy is at our doorstep!"

"No, it cannot!" I snap, slamming the tip of my power sword into the stone at my feet, the blade sparking as it meets the ancient surface, biting into it with a crack like a gunshot, drawing even more eyes to us. "You're leading us into damnation. Fighting alongside women who worship an unverified, unsanctioned, unsealed saint instead of the Emperor Himself. Have you heard how they pray? Aurora might as well be the Emperor to them. These cultists of Saint Jessamine believe she's somehow one and the same with Aurora. It's heresy, plain and simple! You're asking us, you're ordering us, to fight and die alongside heretics!"

Helena's jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she might draw her own blade. "Silence," she says, her tone edged with steel. "You're not wrong to have questions, Samara. But this—" she gestures to the mist-shrouded battlefield, the quivering line of defenders, the ancient walls that feel as fragile as glass "—this is not the time. Hold the line. Follow orders. We'll address your concerns after this is over. That will be all."

"And what if there's no 'after,' Canoness?" I spit back. "What if we all die here, defending a lie!?"

Before she can respond, a murmur ripples through the defenders. Gasps. Exclamations. Helena and I turn as one, our argument forgotten, and I slam my helmet back on, engaging the zoom function of my visor.

The mist ahead parts like a curtain, and they come into view. Huddled, bent forms dressed in rags.

Civilians.

Thousands of them.

Men, women, even children, stumbling forward in bedraggled clumps. Their faces are gaunt, eyes wide with terror, clothes hanging in tatters. They look like corpses already, shambling toward us with the slow inevitability of a tide.

"Emperor, preserve us," someone whispers over the vox.

"They're unarmed," comes Riley's voice, high-pitched and trembling. "Hold fast. Hold fire. Civilians approaching! Prepare to unseal the gate!"

A pit forms in my stomach, not from the sight of the civilians but from the sheer stupidity of that order. My gaze flicks to the mist behind them, where shadows shift and coalesce. The enemy hides there, using these poor fools as a shield. It's brilliant, really. Cruel, but effective. They'll force us to choose: slaughter the innocent or let the heretics advance unimpeded. The correct answer is obvious to anyone who isn't a heretic themselves. And if the enemy isn't stupid, and clearly they're a lot smarter than our own vaunted Priestess, they'll be soldiers mixed in, blending with the civilians. Suicide bombers, reavers, shock troopers, ready to burst forth into our lines.

So why hasn't Helena countermanded that order!?

The sister next to me lowers her bolter, her hands trembling. "They're just… people," she murmurs.

"They're heretics," I bark, my voice cutting through the vox like a whip, ignoring protocol and broadcasting to the main channel. "They've turned from the Emperor's light. If they had any faith, they'd resist unto death. Instead, they serve the enemy's purpose and share their guilt! Now make them share their fate! Open fire!"

She hesitates, her grip faltering, they all do. The rage bubbling within me spills over. I move before I can think, wrenching the bolter from her hands and flipping the selector to full-auto.

"Samara!" Helena's voice roars over our private vox, but I ignore her.

The bolter kicks against my shoulder as I unleash a stream of explosive rounds into the oncoming crowd. The first ranks collapse in a spray of blood and viscera, bodies shredded by the fury of the Emperor's wrath. The civilians scream, their formation breaking as they try to scatter. But there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide in the vast open space, nearly a thousand meters, between our gate and the edge of the mist.

The defenders around me react, their hesitation shattered by the violence. Bolters fire, the staccato bursts echoing off the ancient stone walls. The militia joins in, their lasguns adding to the cacophony. The line becomes a frenzy of indiscriminate slaughter, the ground below turning red as bodies pile high.

"Cease fire!" Riley shouts, her voice desperate, but it's too late. The sisters are fully engaged now, the chaos feeding itself. I slap the empty bolter back into the arms of its stunned owner, breathing hard, and turn to see Helena rushing towards me.

She's on me in an instant, slamming me against the battlements with a force that rattles my teeth. "What have you done?" she demands, her voice a snarl.

"What you should have done," I snap back. "They were aiding the enemy. You failed to countermand Riley's idiotic order, so I took action."

Her grip tightens, her gauntleted fingers digging into my armor. "You've undermined her authority and broken the chain of command. This is not how we operate!"

"And you've abdicated your responsibility as a commander!" I shout into her face, meeting her glare visor to visor. "Would you have let them reach the wall? Let the enemy use them to breach our defenses? Let that idiot priestess OPEN THE GATE!? Madness!"

For a moment, she doesn't respond. The anger in her eyes is tempered by something else—reluctant understanding, agreement perhaps. She lets go of me, stepping back and turning to survey the carnage.

The mist shifts again, and the true enemy emerges at last. Heretics, mutants, and worse, charging over the bodies of the fallen. Their screams of rage and zeal fill the air, drowning out the hum of the void shield.

Helena lifts me back to my feet and holds me there, shaking me slightly as she lets me go. "Next time," she says with a deadly quiet, "you bring your concerns to me first."

But her voice lacks conviction. We both know I made the right call, the necessary one.

I turn away from her, unslinging my heavy flamer and quickly coming to the realization that this won't likely be the last time I have to act where she falters.