At his words, lightning arcs upwards from Sofika, tearing a new gateway far above the dais that grows wider by the moment. Dread swells inside me as my nose starts to bleed. I strain against the bonds that the sorcerer has placed on me, my bones creaking and my eyes streaming.

‘First, the Conduit,’ Amenthas says, and then he lowers his gaze to look at me. ‘And now for the blood.’

He lifts his hand, and all of the silent warriors save for Ishilan move as one, as if they are impelled by the sorcerer’s will. They raise their ancient weapons, but before they can fire, a boom splits the air. Blood gouts upwards and Amenthas reels. His silent brothers falter and stall, and the sorcerer’s hold on me fails. I look back to see Sister Evangeline getting to her feet, her bolter in one hand, her sword in the other. She is no longer glowing like coals. Nor is she merely ablaze. The Battle Sister is a conflagration. Brighter than the dawnrise. She spits blood onto the stone floor of the chamber. She speaks, without raising her voice. It carries easily anyway, light and clear.

‘I deny you,’ she says between breaths. ‘Witch.’

On the dais, Amenthas straightens, leaning on his staff to do it. He pulls away his shattered mask, revealing his face. The sorcerer’s skin is crystalline and faintly reflective, like the dais around him.

‘Time to meet your destiny,’ he snarls.

He crashes his staff against the dais, and the stone begins to bubble and shift and change. Amenthas arcs his staff through the air as Sister Evangeline fires on him again. He conjures a stormfront in an instant that catches every bolter round and detonates it. All the while, the dais resculpts itself around the sorcerer to become a jagged ziggurat of marble and mirrors and blinking eyes. Massive shards of glass thrust upwards from it, curving around Sofika and the two Heretic Astartes like claws. The conjured storm grows larger and darker, cutting me off from the steps. From Sofika. Even then, I somehow still catch sight of the sorcerer’s eyes as he looks down from his altar of mirrors. As he speaks with the voice of a storm.

‘Kill them,’ he says.

My threat-sense flares as the Thousand Sons start forward, firing their boltguns. Warpfire bolts cook the air by my head as I throw myself to one side, into the shadow of one of the chamber’s marble pillars. I draw my pistol and fire around the pillar even as several of Canoness Elivia’s Battle Sisters are immolated by enemy bolter fire.

But Amenthas’ hold on the commandery is broken, now, and the Sisters will not die quietly. The Sisters rouse themselves, and the air fills with the deafening roar of guns as they pace backwards, forming ranks as the Canoness bellows orders.