‘But I do not know how to find the Shield,’ I say.

Ashava’s face does not change. ‘You will,’ she says, just as Elivia did.

‘You make it sound so simple,’ I say, before I can stop myself. ‘But this feels anything but. Everything has changed, Ashava. I have changed.’

She shakes her head and shifts her weight on her injured legs, just a little. ‘We all have,’ she says. ‘But we cannot go back. Only onwards.’

Shame pulls at me, looking at my Sister who has lost so much, but accepts it so readily. I look down at the sword in my hand.

‘Perhaps I lack certainty because I should never have been given the blade,’ I say, then I look up at her. ‘It should have been you.’

‘Adelynn chose you,’ she says simply.

I blink. ‘What?’

‘She told us each in turn, long before the opening of the Rift. If she were to fall, the sword and the title were to come to you.’

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

‘She never told me,’ I say. ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’

Ashava shrugs. ‘That, I do not know, but I do know this. Adelynn never doubted you, Evangeline, so you had better find that certainty, and find a way to take that blade and what it stands for into your heart. To do anything else is to dishonour her.’

I feel as though she has struck me. As though I would deserve it if she did.

‘I will not dishonour her,’ I say, firmly. ‘I cannot.’

‘I know,’ Ashava says. ‘So tell me what you want me to do.’

I glance down at the sword once more. My sword.

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

I exhale, slowly.

‘Call for the others,’ I say. ‘The survivors of Helia’s Mission, and Elivia’s few. We will be amongst the tides soon, and it is time that I spoke with my squad.’

Ashava nods, and half bows.

‘Aye, Sister Superior,’ she says.

My armour awaits me in my quarters. It hangs from a stand, rebuilt and reconsecrated. Relacquered, in void-black and arterial red. My two armoury vassals await me too. Wyllo and Dallia are both void-born slender, with eyes that are dark to the edges. They keep those eyes downcast as I secure my sword on the rack on the far wall, shed my tunic and robes and step down into the armoury circle in the middle of the small, spare room. Only then do my vassals look up and see the marks left on me by Ophelia VII. I wait for them to say something, to mutter a prayer, or a catechism, but they remain silent and begin the armouring as they always do.

For that, I will always be grateful.

Wyllo and Dallia move around me in perfect, silent synchronicity. They wash me clean of blood and sweat and dress the wounds I took in the training halls, before blowing coils of scented smoke and scattering blessed ashes over my body. When that is done, Wyllo steps forward and I close my eyes so that she can pass her blackened thumbs over them gently.