‘The God-Emperor expects,’ she says. ‘Let us not keep Him waiting.’

After the briefing, I speak to no one. Not Elivia, nor Ashava, nor the squad I have been given. For three days, while the Unbroken Vow makes preparations to sail the sea of storms, I seclude myself in prayer, first in my chambers, and then in the chapel. I kneel for hours in the cold, listening to the ship’s engines burning and the cherubim singing, and ask the God-Emperor for guidance. Ask Him what He intends for me and what the mark I am left with means. Ask Him where I will find the shield. But my mind is unquiet and unstable, and His answers are not easy to hear over the noise. Frustrated, I find myself needing to act. To fight. So I leave the chapel behind and go down to the training halls to worship through blades instead of words.

The sword Elivia gave me is lighter weight and longer than any other I have ever used. It doesn’t have the heft of a chainsword, or the hollow feel of a training blade. It crackles instead of churning, and it is perfectly balanced, despite the length of the blade. It is this latter thing that makes it so hard to use, because the sword might be perfectly balanced, but I am not. My long sleep has made me slow and unsteady, and my muscles tire easily. My lungs feel shallow. Despite this I still set the training servitors to draw blood. To test me. I set them to come in groups of three, on random attack patterns. I fight without pause, sweat soaking through my tunic and robes and my heart hammering in my ears. The air in the training hall is cold and stale and feels as though it clings to me. My ragged breathing mists the air. Far above, cherubim flutter artificial wings and chant as I disable, despatch and destroy.

Through trials, may the God-Emperor make me resolute, they intone.

Three more servitors come. One bears a shock-mace, one a hook-blade and one a polearm. My sword shatters the polearm easily, and kills the servitor wielding it in three cuts. They are not artful, or deft. The polearm-servitor dies messily, because I am putting too much weight behind the blade. It causes me to overstep and overbalance, which lets the servitor with the hook-blade catch me across my ribs. Blood mingles with my sweat and I stagger. The shock-mace connects, too, sending a jolt of numbing pain through my body. My hand wants to spasm open and release the sword.

Through suffering, may the God-Emperor make me strong, the cherubim say.

I refuse to let my hand open. Instead I force myself to turn and clash my sword against the shock-mace, pushing the servitor back on its spidery replacement limbs. I follow up by punching the hilt into the iron mask of the mace-servitor’s face, denting the metal inwards. It staggers now, mutely juddering. The blade-servitor sees this as an opening to attack. I duck the hook-blade this time, feeling the air shift as it rushes by my ear, then cut the servitor’s lumpen head from its shoulders. This time it takes only one strike, though the death is no less messy. Oil and blood spray the deck and spray me too.