The words belong to Silvera. The Master of Trails is standing beside me, his face upturned to take in the height of the spire. Rainwater settles in the creases of his aged face.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘It is. Though it seems as though it has suffered.’

‘Everything has, since the opening of the dread scar,’ Silvera says. ‘There have been a thousand blades aimed at the world’s heart. Evil creatures came to test us, again and again. Xenos, and heretics. Servants of darkness in ships of black iron.’

‘But you withstood them,’ I say. ‘You turned them away.’

Silvera blinks rainwater from his eyes.

‘Humanity is possessed of a will to survive like that of no other,’ he says. ‘We fight, tooth and nail. We bleed, and die. We make sacrifices.’

He lowers his eyes from the spire and fixes them on the floor once again.

‘The cost to keep our world safe has been great,’ he says. ‘But keep it safe we did. And now you are here, blessed Sister.’

Silvera passes his hand over his aged face to push away the rainwater.

‘Perhaps you can save us all over again.’

I frown at the words. I am about to ask Silvera what they mean when I am interrupted by a voice, calling my name.

‘Eva.’

I turn my head to see Ashava approaching me through the rain. My Sisters are with her, their weapons slung and their black armour pearled with water droplets.

‘I thought you were proceeding to the billets with the rest of the commandery,’ I say.

Ashava shakes her head. ‘We are Sisters, Eva,’ she says. ‘We are stronger together.’

‘Our place is with you,’ Qi-Oh says. ‘Come what may.’

I smile before I can think twice about it. It is not a hollow smile. It is not tinged with guilt. It is just a smile.

‘Thank you,’ I tell them.

Ashava puts her hand to my shoulder a moment. ‘We shall await you inside,’ she says, then she performs a shallow bow, and my Sisters troop away into the spire. I turn back to speak with Silvera, meaning to ask him what it is he needs saving from, but the Master of Trails is gone, leaving me alone in the avenue save for the rain and the calling of birds.

In order to be permitted access to the Archivia Primus, we must first divest ourselves of our armour, and the dirt of the road. The task is undertaken in a series of small, spare purification chambers that are tiled with white ceramic, like a hospitaller’s ward. Two attendants await me in my designated cubicle. Both are female, with dark hair and pale skin. They are clad in robes as white as the ceramic walls, stooped yet strong from years of service. At the sight of them I cannot help but think of Wyllo and Dallia. Of sobbing.

‘Shall we begin, my lady?’ they ask, as one.

‘Yes,’ I reply.