Some resist the mercy we bring. Those for whom the line was already drawn, who gave in willingly at the sight of devils from the abyss. They fight and claw, their eyes rolled back to white and their jaws slack and unhinged. But they are the minority. Most of those who failed do not resist. Instead they plead for death, pressing their bloodied hands to my armour. They weep and they speak my name, though I have not given it to them. They thank me. With each utterance and with each kill I feel that same ugly envy I felt over Calyth’s death, and the beatific look on her face. I grow more empty with it. Hollow, like the halls of the ship without the crew to fill them.

Qi-Oh does not return, and I do not vox for her. I tell myself it is because I am allowing her temper to cool, but in truth I am just unsure what I would say to her if I did hail her. In the wake of the battle, I am unsure of everything. The decisions I made during the fight. The blade in my hand. My purpose, and my destiny. But I can speak of this to no one. To doubt is to sin. So I do not speak. I do not stop. I do what I have been bidden, leading my Sisters as we cut and kill and burn what is left until we finally reach the ship’s stern, and the armourers’ workhall.

Inside, the workhall is dark. There are no candles. No lumens. Particles of ice turn and glitter under our stablight beams. Save for that, it is still as the grave.

‘I hear no screaming,’ Ashava says. ‘No blasphemous words.’

I listen a moment, my sword held in guard. Ashava is right. There are no screams, but there is another sound carrying on the air.

Sobbing.

‘With me,’ I say, and I follow the sound past the hollow, half-built armour suits, and the racks and racks of weapons. My breathing mists the air, and my boots crush the rough, heavy frost that has formed underfoot.

There are bodies here, too. Stories told in bloody handprints that streak along the walls and the edges of workstations. My heart sinks at the sight of it, and only sinks further still when I finally come upon the source of the sobbing. A woman sitting with her shoulders hunched, cross-legged on the floor. She is void-born thin, with long, augmetic fingers. Another woman lies sprawled out on the deck in front of her, her limbs bent in ways they shouldn’t, a pool of blood slowly painting itself wider around her.

‘Wait here,’ I say to the others.

My Sisters hold position as I approach the two women. One sobbing, and one still.

‘Wyllo,’ I say.