Sister Bulpen had been the one to suggest they meet in secret, in one of the dilapidated Docksflow warehouses. There were several such hulks slumped shoulder-to-shoulder along the Highwharf Road, abandoned since the canal was redirected to better serve Pipers two decades ago and the business went with it. Krysthenna had been surprised that no one had ever torn the structures down or repurposed them, but the thought that Sigmar provided for his chosen soon dispelled such concerns. She had purposely chosen the dampest, most rat-infested of all the warehouses, reasoning that such surroundings would keep their faith keenest. They had re-established the Shrine there, had circulated word to all the chosen brothers and sisters, and for three full turnings they had been able to practise their faith in peace.

‘Not for much longer though, praise Sigmar,’ murmured Krysthenna, feeling her heart flutter at the thought. ‘The Return is nigh.’

The movement at the end of the street came again, and she relaxed as she saw several furtive figures break away from the deeper shadows and hurry down the street. There were only a couple of functioning spark-lamps along Highwharf Road, and as the figures flittered through their light she caught glimpses of nervous, soot-smudged faces.

Krysthenna stepped back from the doorway and ushered them through, three big, rain-slicked figures breathing hard from their dash through the city’s shadows. She closed the door and turned a gentle smile upon the new arrivals as they stopped in the entrance chamber to peel off sodden cloaks and shake away stinging rainwater.

‘Welcome, Chosen,’ she said, raising her hands to them with her fingers interlocked then untwining like an opening gate. It was the sign of their Shrine, the Opening Gates, and the three factory workers returned the gesture.

‘Were you seen on your way here?’ asked Krysthenna. They shook their heads.

‘No, Lantern Bearer. We were careful like you said,’ replied one of them.

‘Well done, Chosen,’ she said. ‘Now, hasten within. You are the last, I think.’

The factory-men hurried through a set of rotting wooden double doors that led into what had once been the warehouse proper. The doors had been hung on their inner faces with heavy black velvet, and as they parted candlelight spilled out, bearing with it the scent of incense and the loud murmur of prayer. Krysthenna followed the Chosen into her shrine, ensuring that the doors were properly closed behind her, then turned to survey They Who Heard the Warnings. Dozens of Chosen thronged the centre of the empty warehouse, stood in a great huddle of praying, swaying figures clad in the garb of labourers, clerks, butchers, artisans, alchemists and countless other occupations. The Shrine made no distinction between rich or poor, erudite or ignorant; they cared only that their Chosen believed, and that they proselytised their belief to others.