The tertiary worship hall of the Convent Prioris is a vast space. So tall that I cannot catch sight of the ceiling. Far above us, cherubim drift in circles, singing their songs and carrying lit candles that cast light and shadow around the chamber. It gives the vaulted space a peculiar sense of constant motion. The walls are age-stained marble and flaking gold, lined with statues not unlike those that I saw in my dream. Saints and saviours, clad in robes and armour, that watch over us in silence as together we are given our holy duty by a high priest clad in red and white. An arch-cardinal of the Holy Synod, who calls himself DiCrimio. He is flanked by a group of devotees in the same white and crimson robes, some laden with strips of parchment, others with high, iron collars that obscure their scarified faces. All are weighed down with reliquary cases, and the weighted pewter trinkets of the penitent.

All except DiCrimio. His trinkets are gold and cut stones. Bits of sanctified bone. Precious, not penitent. The cardinal’s aged voice carries easily across the vastness of the worship hall, amplified by the circling cherubim as he tells the gathered strength of the commandery what I told Elivia aboard the Unbroken Vow.

‘The Shield of Saint Katherine awaits on Dimmamar,’ he says. ‘On the very birth world of Sebastian Thor.’

DiCrimio opens his arms wide, as if to embrace us all.

‘Dimmamar lies in darkness,’ he says. ‘Beyond the abyss. An abyss which only those of faith could hope to cross, which is why this task falls to you.’

Just as with the briefing on board the Vow, I feel as though I am being spoken to specifically. My scars prickle.

‘This undertaking will require blood,’ he says.

Blood, say the devotees in beautiful, perfectly pitched voices.

‘It will require suffering.’

Suffering.

DiCrimio looks around the hall until I am certain that his bionic brass-and-silver stare lands upon me.

‘It will require sacrifice,’ he says.

Sacrifice, echo the devotees, as one, and then my Sisters and I answer in kind, bellowing the word in reply. Our voices are not perfectly pitched, but they are beautiful in unison. A thundered chorus, like the tolling of the convent’s bells. In the wake of it, we make the sign of the aquila as one. I notice that some amongst the commandery are crying silent tears of fervour. My burn-scarred hands are hot and stinging under my armour, and they only sting more as the devotees begin to sing a hymnal in those pitch-perfect voices. I recognise it from the opening notes alone. The Words of the God-Emperor. My Sisters pick up the hymnal around me, but I find that I cannot sing with them. All I can do is remember.

O God-Emperor, who is strength. I devote this life to you.