Somehow, she ends up next to her captain, their hips bumping bone to bone. Diamond’s eyes are dark with cremoline and a childlike energy blazes from her. She burns with more hope and ecstasy than she’s felt since the incident. Tomorrow she gets to close the loop of her tragedy, and she knows that it is only through the Grace of the Forge that she has been given a second chance to take out her foe. She will not waste it. Diamond spins on a heel and seizes Misery’s hands in hers. “Thank you for all this. Know that no matter what happens, you will always have my gratitude.”

Misery grins, baring her teeth to the void. Hunger boils in her veins. “To destiny,” she says.

Diamond roars back. “To destiny!”

Pyrex Imogen leaves before the banquet sets out the next morning. It can’t be helped: their unexplained absence is already noticed upon the Capital, and a simple search would expose the trail leading them to Angelsteeth in a minute. They cannot stay to watch the triumph to come; they must return to the orbit of Emperor and Throne to provide cover for their holy sedition. Misery goes to see them in the slumber hours, meeting them in the exit bays before they leave. In the cold strength of the bay lights the Archbishop looks paler and more washed-out than ever. Sounds echo, bouncing off the huge dark walls of the bay, the metal struts and harsh surfaces. “Oh, child,” Pyrex Imogen says, at Misery’s approach. “You should be resting for the fight.”

“I don’t need rest,” she says, and it’s true: Hir Grace gives her all the verve she needs. “I wanted to see you before you left.”

The Archbishop smiles and the lines around their eyes deepen. “If it’s my blessing you seek, you hardly need it. You have all the gifts you require from the Forge.”

“I was not seeking benediction.” The idea is absurd: what could the Archbishop offer her that she does not already have? “I wanted to tell you that I will do everything in my power to make sure your sister makes it out safely.”

“Oh, child.” Pyrex Imogen clasps her hands, holding them tightly as though in prayer. Their knuckles shine as they lower their head, brow heavy with curious thought. Misery is patient. She waits. Something weighs upon the Archbishop’s conscience, and it will dislodge itself soon enough.