I lurch through the oil-blood rain to where the mace-servitor is juddering and twitching with its faceplate crumpled. It is the only kill with any grace. A heartstrike, straight through the necrotised skin and metal plating. A mercy. I let the servitor’s remains fall clear of my blade, and stand for a moment, just breathing.

Through pain, may the God-Emperor make me worthy, the cherubim say.

My bones are aching, and the cut across my ribs burns. My arm throbs from the touch of the shock-mace and from swinging the sword. Sweat stings my eyes, and my heartbeat is louder than the Vow’s engines. All of these things are blessings, just as the cherubim say. Pain, after all, is honest. Suffering is to be celebrated. But today I find no peace in it, because despite fighting for hours and hours, I am still unbalanced. Not just because of the blade, or my injuries, but because of what lies ahead. Before the Last of Days I would have entered into any battle or trial without hesitation, but now? Now, I am not so sure.

And that in itself is a sin.

I hear the sound of footsteps and turn from the mess that remains of the servitors to see Ashava approaching across the training hall. My Sister is back in her black armour plate and crimson vestments.

‘No more crutches,’ I say, stepping out of the training circle. The bell rings to end the fight-cycle. ‘Then you are healed?’

‘They have removed the cages,’ she says, as if that is the same thing. ‘I will never be what I was, but I can stand. I can fight.’ Ashava looks around at the ruin I have made. ‘As can you, it seems.’

‘I will not be found wanting a second time,’ I say, putting my hand to the wound at my side. It comes away bloody.

Ashava’s eyes narrow at the sight of it.

‘I know,’ I say, though she has not said anything. ‘I must be swifter.’

She chuckles. ‘I am hardly the one to speak to you of speed now, Eva.’

My face must betray my discomfort, because she tuts at me.

‘Come now,’ she says. ‘If we cannot laugh at cruelty, then it has already bested us.’

‘Is that another of Triumph’s creeds?’ I ask.

‘No,’ she says. ‘It is just common sense.’

That does make me smile, despite everything.

‘And besides,’ Ashava says, ‘it is not swiftness you are missing with a blade such as that.’

‘Then what?’

‘It is certainty you lack,’ she says. ‘Self-assurance. It is not in the hand that you hold the sword. It is the heart. The blade is a part of you now, as much as any other.’

‘As much as the mark,’ I say.

Ashava is quiet for a moment. The fight-cycle might have stopped, but the cherubim never do.

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

‘It is a gift, Eva,’ she says. ‘The God-Emperor has chosen to spare you for a greater purpose.’