SAINT
What had he witnessed?
Dagover walked slowly down the hill from the gaping ruins of the cathedral. His optics still pulsed uncertainly from the aftermath of the nova-sear of light that had silenced Severitas and ended the tremors. The Battle Sisters of the Order of Our Martyred Lady marched together. Less than a third of the commandry had survived. They descended the hill in tight formation, their tattered banners flying in the ash-strewn breeze.
He held back from them, keeping his distance.
The landscape was utterly transformed. The cathedral’s hill was riven by crevasses and rockfalls, but its changes were minor compared to what lay beyond. The globe-spanning city on Severitas had fallen. Saint Thecla’s was split open, but most of its walls still stood. Everything else, from horizon to horizon, was destroyed. It looked as if giant hands had seized the earth, down to the bedrock, and twisted it up, dragging it high and then hurling it down. The plateau where the fortress had been was a smashed bowl, crumbling cliffs to the north and south the gravestones to mark where it had been.
Stern had done this. Dagover tried to process that reality. He stared at the levelled city. The air was grey with ash from the millions of shrivelled bodies. Stern had fought a being who had the power to change the shape of a world, and she had destroyed him.
That light, the light that had ended the tremors and brought the deafening silence that comes with the end of war. That awful, terrifying light.
Dagover wrestled with his own awe. His thoughts of controlling such a being seemed like a drunkard’s folly. What was she? She was Adepta Sororitas. And she was what should be anathema to the orders. And yet… and yet… and yet…
Perhaps she truly was a saint. Perhaps he had done nothing but urge her towards the truth.
For the first time in his life, he experienced the full, soul-deep paralysis of holy terror.
He turned away from the Sisters. He would not wait for Stern’s return. He could no longer conceive of controlling such a being. If he stayed in her orbit, his destiny would be swallowed by the immense gravity of hers. He had to pull away, for his own sake. Perhaps for his sanity.
He walked faster. Vox traffic with the Iudex Ferox had resumed with the destruction of the Master of Possession. He would call for another Valkyrie to retrieve him.
Faster. He left the Sisters of Battle behind. He did not look back.
Klavia rushed to the front of her sisters as Ephrael Stern staggered slowly towards them through the rubble. Stern’s gaze was solemn with gratitude. Her armour was battered. It looked as if it had been gouged open by giant claws. The wounds inflicted by the returned Sisters, the wounds that had no chance to heal, bled freely. Her face was scorched with unnatural burns. She stumbled, pain shivering through her frame.
‘Sister!’ Klavia ran forward. She embraced Stern, and then dropped to her knees in front of her. So did most of the commandry.
‘No,’ said Stern, her voice weak. ‘No, sisters, my sisters, you must not. Please stand.’
When they would not, she kneeled herself before Macrina. Klavia watched, holding her breath. The Canoness hesitated, uncertain. It was not suspicion that held her back, though. Klavia could read her face plainly enough. It was awe. Then, tentatively, she asked Stern to rise, and embraced her too.
Stern wept.
And then she fell.
And she did not move.