She stands, and the room’s center of gravity shifts, the weight of all their expectations tilting toward her. Misery spreads her hands, welcoming light into her arms. “The archangel mech was not presented to us as a gift. It is a tool, made to carry out the Forge’s will. We are not to use it to settle human vendettas. We follow Hir guidance and none other.”

The Archbishop frowns, unsettled. “What, then, is the Demiurge’s guidance?”

At the far end of the room Ruin pendulums across the vast, curved viewport, a shining blade drifting among the stars. Zie shrugs as Misery silently casts hir a questing look. “You were chosen, were you not? I am merely an observer. My message has been delivered; now you act upon your own instincts. It is as it is.”

Her first instinct is anger. She lets it wash through her and fade away unseen. The archangel tests her. She cannot allow base emotion to dictate what she does. She’s better than that. “All will be revealed in time. You insist on a timeline that suits your human sensibility. But the universe existed for billions of years before we did, and will continue to exist for billions of years after we have gone. Patience. Nothing revolves around us.”

Unease seeps into their expressions; these are people not used to thinking that they are not, in fact, at the center of it all. She leans forward. “This is a test of faith,” she says. “Will you wait? Or will you plunge forward to satisfy your impatience?”

Murmured uncertainty. The General folds their arms. “Of course not. No, these decisions should not be made rashly. Not over the course of breakfast. Let’s look at the situation surrounding Monkglass in depth. Tactically. And perhaps a briefing about the situation on the Capital. What does the Throne know? How long can we hold them off?”

Pyrex Imogen nods. They can’t afford to be squabbling at this point; it benefits no one. They look almost grateful to Misery for stepping in and reminding them of the fact. “Those sound like prudent steps to take. Without doubt, the will of the Larex Forge will make itself known soon enough.”

Triumphant, Misery says: “For now we eat. Afterward, I should like to speak to the Archbishop, alone.”

Misery lied about that last part; it’s not just the Archbishop she wants to see, but the princess also. Lightning trails behind as Misery walks elbow to elbow with Pyrex Imogen through the hallways of the command module. The floors here swallow their footsteps with carpet. The placid blue stretches before and behind them, flecked with gold; on the left acrylglass forms a curved wall, open to the soft light of space. Despite her exalted status, Misery has spent little to no time in this officers’ domain, and its silence surprises her.