Back on the surface.
Near the perimeter around the gaping maw where Renoir had descended, two figures stood conversing: Father Grigori and Sister Legatine Thessia.
The wind whipped around them, kicking up dust and ash from the ruined plains, carrying the distant, muted sounds of ongoing conflict.
The massive, ragged wound in the earth, the collapsed greenhouse, lay at their feet, a stark reminder of the horrors lurking below.
"Let's get started," Sister Thessia said, her voice stern.
She turned from the gaping maw, her gaze sweeping over the gathered forces—Sisters of Battle, Ogryns, Priests who had been rallied to their position.
Father Grigori stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Thessia.
"Are you certain, Thessia? This course... it is fraught with peril, not just for the boy, but for all of us."
"Peril is a constant in this war, Father," Thessia replied, her voice unwavering.
"And certainty is a luxury we cannot afford. This is our best chance to end this corruption here, now, before it consumes everything."
She gestured towards the Samaritan transport, where Cilicia watched over the still-unconscious Kochav.
"Bring him out. Prepare the rites."
Almost immediately, the rear ramp of the Samaritan lowered. Several Sisters, under Cilicia's wary supervision, carefully wheeled out a medical cot.
Upon it lay Kochav, still unnaturally still, wrapped in thermals, his skin faintly glowing. They positioned the cot in the open air, amidst the swirling dust and the muted echoes of distant combat.
Cilicia, her hands hovering protectively over Kochav, stepped in front of the cot, her eyes pleading with Thessia.
"Thessia, what is the meaning of this? What are you trying to do?" Her voice trembled, a clearly distressed mother.
Even as Cilicia spoke, Sister Meredith, Thessia's tactical aide, moved forward, her face etched with a different kind of concern.
"Legatine," Meredith began, her voice measured but firm,
"the Warp signature here is immense. Bringing a nascent psychic into this saturation, the risks are unprecedented."
"He could become a conduit, or worse, succumb to maddening visions before we even begin the rite."
"What is she talking about, Thessia?" Cilicia grunted, visibly opposed.
"What are you going to do to my child?"
Thessia's gaze, usually unyielding, softened for a fleeting moment as it met Cilicia's desperate eyes, but her resolve did not waver.
"Cilicia, listen to me," she said, her voice dropping to a low, firm tone.
"That Daemon is the source of all this, and we can use Ko as bait."
She took a step closer, her voice carrying absolute conviction despite the rising wind.
"But we will do it on our terms, under the Emperor's light, surrounded by His faithful, so we can banish it from this world. This is the only way to truly protect him."
Cilicia's face twisted, a raw, wordless cry building in her throat as she seemed about to lunge forward, her protective fury reaching its breaking point.
But before her protest could escalate, Thessia gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod towards Sister Lance.
Who had been standing ready, moved with practiced efficiency. In one swift motion, she produced a hypodermic, its contents a clear, viscous liquid, and deftly administered the sleep-inducing drug into Cilicia's neck.
Cilicia's eyes widened in surprise, her body stiffening for a moment, before her rage drained away, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming lethargy.
Her muscles relaxed, and she sagged forward, caught by Sister Lance and another Sister before she could collapse.
As they carefully laid Cilicia down near the Samaritan, out of the immediate chaos, Thessia watched, her jaw tight. She barely audible, her voice a rough whisper carried away by the wind, Thessia muttered to herself,
"I'm sorry, Cilicia. Forgive me."
Father Grigori let out a long, weary sigh. He looked from the unconscious Cilicia to the glowing form of Kochav, then finally to Thessia, his gaze filled with sorrow but devoid of judgment.
"May the Emperor have mercy on us all, Thessia,"
he murmured, his voice low, a quiet reaffirmation of her grim decision.
With Cilicia removed from the immediate area, the air, though still charged with tension, became marginally clearer.
Thessia turned her gaze back to Kochav's cot, where the boy lay still, his form faintly luminous.
"Get him in the vat," she commanded, her voice cutting through the wind.
Several Sisters, their faces set in grim lines, stepped forward. With practiced care, they lifted Kochav's cot, then gently, almost reverently, slid his small, fragile body from the bedding.
He was still wrapped in his thermals, Thessia's Rosarius still resting on his chest, shimmering faintly.
Together, they carried him the short distance to the horizontal gene-vat that rested on its low pedestal, the vat was similar to the ones Xarcarions used on Veridian's Fall.
The glass of the vat felt cold, even through his clothing. With a final, precise motion, they lowered Kochav into the chamber, laying him prone upon the consecrated pallet within.
The vat was then sealed with a heavy, hydraulic hiss, the wards etched into its glass now containing the boy in a transparent, unsettling prison.
Directly above his torso, fixed to the vat's exterior, the Hallowed Brazier remained unlit, its presence ominous.
As Kochav was settled within the vat, Father Grigori gave a solemn nod to the waiting Priests.
Immediately, the twenty Ministorum Priests began their work, swiftly inscribing complex patterns of purity runes and Imperial wards onto the earth around the vat with ash and sanctified oils, forming the ritual circle that would radiate with sacred light.
The twenty Sisters of Battle then moved into their designated locations, taking their positions beside the kneeling priests.
Their power armor served as a physical and spiritual bulwark, bolters held ready, their focus primarily on maintaining the integrity of the ward.
Then, four hulking Ogryns, their immense forms a testament to brute loyalty, took their positions.
They stood like immovable bulwarks within the inner ritual circle, flanking both Father Grigori and Sister Thessia, their massive bodies forming a living wall around the gene-vat.
With every Sister, Priest and Ogryn in their designated position, every piece on the board meticulously set, Father Grigori moved towards the very center of the ritual.
He knelt beside the horizontal gene-vat, his face grim, his eyes fixed on Kochav within. He then looked across the circle at Thessia, who mirrored his stance, her gaze equally resolute.
For a long, silent second, their eyes locked, a shared understanding of the terrible burden they bore passing between them.
Finally,
Thessia gave a sharp, resolute nod to the waiting Sister Lance.
Lance, her expression grim but determined, moved to a port on the side of the horizontal gene-vat.
She connected a specialized injector, its attached canister hissing softly. With a decisive push, she released its contents.
A pale, ethereal mist began to unfurl within the clear confines of the vat, swirling around Kochav's prone form.
As the chemical gas filled the chamber, Kochav's body shuddered.
His limbs twitched violently, and his eyes, previously closed in unconsciousness, snapped open.
They were wide, unfocused, and though his mouth stretched in a silent, desperate scream, no sound escaped the thick glass walls.
Instead, from his confined form, a raw, piercing purple-blue light shot upward, a silent warp cry that tore through the air.
His awakening was instant, brutal, and horrifyingly potent.
As Kochav's fear and sudden, unrestrained psychic presence flared, an invisible ripple spread across the consecrated ground.
Without needing a command, the twenty Ministorum Priests around the circle dropped to one knee, their voices rising in a thunderous, ancient litany of abjuration.
Their chants, guttural and resonant, pulsed with unyielding faith, creating a vibrating shield of sound and spiritual energy.
Simultaneously, the twenty Sisters of Battle tightened their formation, bolters raised, their collective belief hardening the very air.
The rite had begun, catalyzed by Kochav's agonizing, forced awakening and his silent, luminous scream.
The trap was sprung.
As Kochav's silent warp cry echoed across the plains, the distant sounds of battle did not merely cease; they seemed to be ripped away from the perception of every Priest and Sister within the ritual site.
Their ears, though physically intact, became deaf to their surroundings, overwhelmed by an insidious, internal cacophony.
Their eyes remained fixed on their positions, yet their gazes grew distant, glazed over as if lost in a waking nightmare.
Their minds no longer hear their own thoughts, flooded with whispers of secret desire and the mocking laughter of unseen entities.
This psychic assault, silent but devastating, sought to shatter their unity and turn their prayers into despair, making them vulnerable even before the daemon showed itself.
The Priests, unable to hear their own voices, their communal litanies silenced by the mental assault, instinctively looked to Father Grigori.
His face, though strained, was a rock of grim resolve. He didn't speak, for his own ears were likewise assaulted, but he made a firm, sweeping hand signal, a clear command to persist.
Obeying his unspoken order, their bodies rigid with effort, the Priests continued their voiceless chants.
A faint, steady glow emanated from the purity runes and wards inscribed on the earth , marking the success of their collective will.
A wave of relief, sharp and desperate, seemed to pass through them all, an invisible exhalation, as they held fast, maintaining the integrity of the ward against the unheard assault.
Just beyond the consecrated perimeter, where the air shimmered with unholy energies, horrors began to materialize with sickening suddenness. These were not the usual daemons of pink and blue or the shambling mutants, but ephemeral, mocking constructs born of the Warp's deceit.
They took on the forms of fallen comrades, twisted loved ones, or revered figures. Their spectral visages screamed silent, insidious lies, specifically crafted to deceive the perceptions of the faithful and make them doubt the abilities and loyalty of their comrades.
Each spectral form radiated despair, its presence a focused psychic weapon meant to amplify the mental assault already underway, to sow discord and suspicion within the very heart of the Artinites.
Despite the profound internal silence, the falsehood emanating from the apparitions was crystal clear to them.
It was a lie that bypassed their ears and pierced directly into their hearts. Instinctively, without a spoken command, the Sisters of Battle opened fire.
Bolters roared, but the sound was absent; they could only perceive the fine sand kicked up by the concussive force of their weapons and the rippling heat escaping from the barrels.
The spectral figures shimmered and recoiled under the barrage, but did not disperse, their silent, mocking forms continuing their torment.
Then,
with uncanny synchronization, the Sisters all instinctively dropped their bolters to the consecrated ground.
Without breaking their unwavering gaze, their gloved hands plunged into the sand directly in front of their positions, emerging with flamers that had been cunningly hidden and primed beneath the surface.
With a silent, deadly purpose, they unleashed scorching torrents of fire. The area beyond the perimeter erupted into a sudden, blinding inferno, revealing the deliberate presence of promethium mixed within the sand.
The spectral apparitions, caught within the sacred, cleansing flames, shrieked a silent, unholy agony as they swiftly dematerialized, banished back to the Warp's depths.
And though their ears remained deafened to the world beyond, the Sisters could feel the fire burning, a roaring inferno that resonated deep within their chests.
It was a resonating assurance, a truth burning in lies, a tactile and internal victory against the daemon's insidious deceptions.
But the victory was fleeting. The flames on the ground, moments ago a cleansing inferno, began to flicker and twist, their vibrant orange and red consuming themselves, until they burned with an unnatural, chilling blue light.
The psychic whispers intensified, clawing deeper into their minds, weaving new patterns of despair. And as their minds reeled, the Sisters and Priests started seeing them: fleeting, shadowy forms of daemons at the corners of their eyes, twisting just beyond their direct gaze, ephemeral yet terrifyingly real, designed to erode their sanity through constant, peripheral terror.
Then,
nearby, the Samaritan vehicle suddenly shuddered. Its heavy chassis began to convulse, twisted by an unseen, abominable force, and its internal lights flared with a sick, sickly green glow.
Its engine, previously silent, roared to life with an impossible, bestial sound. The vehicle, now a possessed daemon-engine, lurched forward, its reinforced frame straining as it sought to ram through the flickering blue flames and shatter the ritual wards at the perimeter of the inner circle.
But with a primal, unwavering loyalty, the Ogryns stationed at the very heart of the ritual reacted instantly.
Their immense, rock-solid bodies flung themselves forward, their massive hands slamming against the possessed machine's armored plating, attempting to halt its destructive, daemon-driven charge with sheer, brute force.
Even through the pervasive internal static of the psychic assault, Thessia, along with a handful of Sisters, noticed this new, physical threat.
Their reactions were honed by countless battles; without a word, they raised their bolters and aimed with grim precision.
A flurry of heavy caliber rounds, though silent to their ears, hammered against the Samaritan's tracks, aiming to cripple its advance and buy the Ogryns time.
The vehicle, its tracks mangled, screeched to a halt, no longer able to advance.
With its forward momentum broken, the Ogryns, pushing with all their might, began to heave the possessed Samaritan backward, driving it into the churning, azure flames that still defined the outer perimeter.
The vehicle's possessed engine shrieked in silent agony as the Warp-tainted flames consumed its metal chassis.
Just as a flicker of grim hope might have ignited in the hearts of the embattled Imperial forces, it happened.
Amidst the swirling blue flames, the psychic torment, and the straining groans of the Ogryns pushing the daemon-engine, one of the Sisters, in a moment of sheer, agonizing carelessness or perhaps an insidious nudge from the Artificer itself, shifted her weight clumsily.
Her armored boot, meant to hold a sacred position, landed squarely on one of the glowing purity runes inscribed upon the earth.
Thessia instinctively shouted, a wordless, guttural warning torn from her throat, only to grip her own neck in a stark, horrifying realization: they were still deaf.
Her warning was unheard, swallowed by the internal psychic storm. It was too late.
From the very spot right underneath the compromised ward, a hideous, clawed hand, shimmering with Warp energy, erupted from the ground.
It seized the unfortunate Sister by her ankle with impossible speed and strength, wrenching her downwards.
Her form, still holding steadfast to her bolter, was dragged violently underground, disappearing beneath the consecrated earth in an instant, leaving behind only a faint tremor and a gaping, temporary hole where the ward had been.
Immediately,
a forceful wind exploded from the newly formed rupture, a silent gale that tried to buffet everyone back from the ritual circle, carrying with it the sickening tang of ozone and betrayal.
Then,
from the widening maw of the hole, a pair of immense, multi-jointed wings, covered in iridescent feathers that shifted through impossible colours, slowly, majestically emerged.
Thessia's eyes widened, a cold dread seizing her very soul.
It was unmistakable. This colossal, terrifying form, already partially manifested, was the same daemon from the house.
The Paradeigma Artificer had finally made its horrific entrance.
With a powerful beat of its monstrous, iridescent wings, The Paradeigma Artificer tore itself fully free from the earth, ascending rapidly into the sky above the ritual site.
It hovered there, a colossal, avian-like horror, its vast, iridescent wings shimmering with impossible hues as they caught the light.
A multitude of faceted eyes gleamed with ancient malice from its beaked, serpentine head, silently assessing its prey.
It was pure, unfathomable change made manifest, poised to descend.
In a unified, desperate act of defiance, all the Sisters and Ogryns immediately opened fire.
Bolters roared unseen, flamers spat silent streams of azure fire, and the Ogryns' stubbers belched bursts of heavy slugs.
It was a hellfire barrage, a storm of righteous fury aimed at the monstrous form hovering above them.
Though they heard nothing but the cacophony within their own minds, they saw the streaks of tracer fire converging, the silent explosions of krak grenades, and the blistering heat-haze of promethium licking towards the daemon, a desperate, valiant attempt to strike down the creature that had so expertly orchestrated their torment.
But the daemon was not deterred. As the holy ordnance detonated harmlessly against its shimmering form, The Paradeigma Artificer shrieked in retaliation.
It was a sound not of this reality, a cacophony of twisted logic and maddening truths that somehow pierced through everyone's deafened ears.
It bypassed their psychic affliction entirely, slamming into their minds directly.
It was a sound that made their teeth ache and their bones vibrate, a blast of pure, unholy psychic force that threatened to shatter their very sanity.
Each reverberation was a hammer blow against their faith, demanding subservience to chaos and despair.
Amidst the mind-shattering shriek, the colossal daemon descended, its immense form hurtling towards the central vat where Kochav lay.
It sought to seize the boy, to tear its prize from the heart of the ritual. Its taloned claws extended, shimmering with warp energy, ready to shatter the glass and claim its victim.
But just as the Daemon's clawed foot made contact with the cold, war-etched surface of the gene-vat, the trap activated.
A blinding, agonizing flash of pure, consecrated light erupted from the previously unlit Hallowed Brazier mounted within the vat. The light was not mere illumination; it was a concentrated, searing blast of raw holy energy, amplified by the ritual, specifically designed to overwhelm and blind the daemon at the critical moment of its perceived triumph.
The Artificer recoiled, a silent spasm wracking its colossal form as its myriad of faceted eyes were momentarily seared by the unbearable radiance.
Immediately, the four Ogryns, their loyalty absolute, clenched their eyes shut against the blinding holy light.
They rushed toward the thrashing, disoriented form of the now-blinded daemon, their massive hands reaching, grappling, seizing its colossal limbs and iridescent feathers.
With a synchronized roar of effort that echoed only in their own minds, they pulled it down from its perch upon the vat, forcing its monstrous weight to crash onto the consecrated earth.
The daemon writhed, its colossal wings flapping uselessly in its momentary blindness, as the Ogryns, relentless and unyielding, began to bludgeon its downed form with their massive power clubs, each impact a silent, brutal testament to their unyielding faith and brute strength.
Then,
with a terrifying, calculated response, the blinded Paradeigma Artificer suddenly began to spin violently on its horizontal axis.
Its vast, iridescent wings, previously a source of flight, became bladed weapons of impossible sharpness.
The feathers, razor-edged and imbued with Warp energy, sliced through the Ogryns' massive bodies as if they were made of paper.
A horrific, silent spray of viscera and ceramite fragments erupted as each of the loyal brutes was horrifically cut in half, their powerful forms toppling to the sand in gruesome ruin.
Their final, unspoken sacrifice was made more terrible by the fact that the Ogryns, having sustained themselves with promethium throughout their long vigil, spilled forth not blood, but highly flammable internal fluids upon the consecrated ground.
Thessia, witnessing the horrific demise of her stalwart comrades, reacted instantly.
Her eyes, wide with grim determination, flickered towards the pooling, oily fluids around the daemon's thrashing form.
Without a moment's hesitation, she roughly shoved Father Grigori away from the immediate vicinity of the central vat, a silent, urgent command in her brutal action to protect the crucial Priest.
Then,
with a cold, desperate resolve, she lowered her flamer and unleashed a torrent of sacred fire onto the fallen, bisected bodies of the Ogryns.
The promethium-saturated remains of the Ogryns exploded immediately and violently, directly before the gene-vat.
The concussive force, amplified by the concentrated fuel, was immense, a silent, sickening shockwave that sent Thessia reeling backward through the air, her power armor grating against the sand as she skidded several meters away from the epicenter of the blast.
The Paradeigma Artificer, still thrashing in its blindness, was engulfed in the sudden, searing inferno of promethium's flame.
Its impossible form writhed violently, a colossal, burning silhouette, and the air was filled not just with the stench of ozone, but now the overwhelming scent of superheated oil and the daemon's agonizing, mind-rending wails, a true testament to the pain it now endured.
As the thunderous explosion finally subsided, a profound, disorienting ringing filled Thessia's ears. It was a raw, aching sound, yet amidst the pain, it was a miracle: the psychic deafness was gone.
The world, suddenly, was loud again, Thessia pushed herself up, her focus instantly snapping back to the writhing daemon.
Recognizing the fleeting window of opportunity, her voice raw but clear, she screamed, "Begin the binding rite!"
Her words, sharp and audible, cut through the din.
Father Grigori, having been shoved clear, stumbled but regained his footing. His eyes, though still reflecting the holy glare of the Brazier, snapped to Thessia.
Without hesitation, he knelt beside the gene-vat, snatching up the still-blazing Hallowed Brazier that had just blinded the daemon.
With a guttural roar, filled with righteous fury and the return of his own voice, he thrust the incandescent Brazier directly into the daemon's burning chest, a sickening hiss of superheated Warp-flesh filling the air.
As he did so, his voice, now booming with renewed power, began to chant the litany of binding, the ancient words of abjuration and containment echoing clearly across the ritual site.
All the other Priests, their faces grim but resolute, followed suit. One by one, they circled the thrashing, burning daemon.
Each Priest, guided by Grigori's lead and their reawakened senses, joined their voices in the thundering chorus of the binding litany.
The air crackled with their faith, the holy words a visible force against the daemon's chaotic essence.
The Paradeigma Artificer, consumed by holy fire and pierced by the searing touch of the Brazier, responded with a continuous, truly helpless wail.
Its cries were no longer a shriek of defiance, but a guttural expression of pure, unadulterated torment.
Its thrashing weakened, its immense form slowly beginning to solidify and lose the impossible, shifting patterns that defined its Tzeentchian nature.
This was the true terror of the binding rite for a creature of the Warp: its soul was being irrevocably anchored to realspace, a cage from which there was no escape.
Unlike a mere banishment back to the Immaterium, this ritual sought to utterly destroy its very essence, severing its connection to Tzeentch forever, denying its patron god even the memory of its existence.
It thrashed not to attack, but to escape an annihilation more profound than death itself.
As the Priests knelt down, each one simultaneously sliced their own palms with ritual knives, the sharp pain a deliberate sacrifice.
Their loyal blood, warm and steaming in the unnatural heat, streamed freely, arcing through the air.
With precise, practiced movements, they then used their bleeding hands to draw a perfect, glowing circle of crimson around the daemon's tormented form on the consecrated ground.
The blood sizzled on the hot earth, tracing the final, inescapable boundary that would seal the Artificer's fate—
Then, the very ground near the ritual perimeter shimmered, not with the heat of promethium, but with a sudden, sick green light.
The sand rippled, almost like water, and from it, a figure clad in archaic, cerulean power armor phased silently upwards.
It was a Thousand Sons Sorcerer, his ornate, dust-shrouded helmet tilted, a cold, calculating malevolence emanating from him.
His presence was an immediate, crushing blow. He had arrived after leaving Renoir's group half-dead.
He levitated silently into the air above the ritual circle, a shimmering, ethereal presence.
With a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture of his gauntleted hand, a crushing psychic force emanated from him.
It was a raw, unholy pressure that bore down on every Sister and Priest. Their muscles seized, their bones screamed in protest, and with agonizing slowness, they were forced to their knees, then flat onto the ground, prone and helpless.
The litanies died in their throats, the sacred Brazier clattered to the earth still burning, and the binding ritual shuddered to a terrifying halt, incomplete.
The Sorcerer, his helmeted gaze fixed on the wailing, burning daemon, then extended a hand, a gesture of cold command.
The colossal form of The Paradeigma Artificer, still thrashing weakly in the promethium flames, was telekinetically yanked through the air towards him.
The daemon's tortured form was brought within inches of the Sorcerer's helmet, its multifaceted eyes still seared from the holy light, its wails now a desperate, guttural gurgle.
Without a word, the Sorcerer's outstretched hand closed, an invisible force crushing. With a sickening, resonant crack that echoed psychically in the newly un-deafened ears of the Imperial forces, he crushed the daemon's neck, utterly annihilating its physical manifestation.
The burning form flickered, then rapidly dissolved into nothingness, a final, despairing shriek cut short as its essence was forcibly ejected back into the Immaterium.
Its soul was saved from oblivion, merely banished, able to eventually return to Tzeentch.
The Sorcerer then shifted his gaze. His helmet, devoid of expression, seemed to linger for a moment on Kochav's unconscious body in the gene-vat.
A silent, calculating assessment, a flicker of something unknown in the warp energies swirling around him.
Then, without a sound, the psychic pressure lifted, and he simply dissolved into the air, vanishing as abruptly as he had arrived.
Presumably, he had returned to the Warp, his mission complete, the binding rite thwarted.
The crushing psychic force that had held them pinned vanished as abruptly as the sorcerer himself.
Thessia, still prone from the telekinetic assault, scrambled up in a renewed fit of raw, unbridled rage.
Her power armor shrieked in protest as she lurched to her feet, ignoring the ache in her bones and the burning agony of her recent impact.
Her eyes, narrowed slits of fury, fixed on the shimmering, empty air where the sorcerer had last been.
With a guttural snarl, she snatched up her bolter from the consecrated sand, the weapon feeling heavy and familiar in her hands.
Ignoring everything around her, Thessia unleashed her fury.
The bolter roared, its familiar, deafening staccato now blessedly audible, spitting a stream of mass-reactive rounds into the empty space.
She kept firing, the smell of cordite mixing with the lingering ozone and promethium.
Each round was a futile, desperate curse, a frustrated scream made manifest by hot metal, until the magazine clicked empty.
—CLICK....CLICK.
The silence that followed was broken only by her ragged breathing, a stark contrast to her internal storm.
As Thessia's last furious shot echoed, she slumped slightly, her shoulders heaving.
She let out a desperate, irritated cry, a sound torn from the deepest parts of her soul, a raw lament for the stolen victory.
It was then, through her blurring vision, that she saw her.
Cilicia stood directly before her, having risen from her drugged slumber as the psychic suppression lifted.
Her face was a mask of grim anguish, but beneath it, a furious anger simmered, mirroring Thessia's own but directed with cold precision.
Without a word, without a moment of hesitation, Cilicia's arm snapped out. The flat of her palm connected with Thessia's cheek with a resounding smack, a sharp, painful crack that echoed in the sudden quiet.
She didn't retaliate, merely stared, her own fury momentarily stunned.
Cilicia paid her no further mind. Her eyes, filled with a mother's fierce, desperate love, immediately locked onto the unconscious form of her son.
She turned, her every movement now purposeful and swift, and walked over to Kochav's gene-vat, her gaze never leaving the boy within.
An hour passed, Thessia had not moved far. She had limped to the nearest patch of undisturbed sand, her power armor groaning softly with each shift of her weight, a dull ache now settling deep in her bones.
She sat down heavily, leaning back against the cold, inert metal of a collapsed support strut. Her bolter lay beside her, still empty.
Her gaze was fixed on the grimy, blood-streaked sand before her, her mind a maelstrom of recrimination and bitter reflection. The victory had been within their grasp, and it had been wrenched away.
The sacrifices of the Ogryns, the Sister dragged into the earth – all for naught, the daemon merely banished, not destroyed.
A shadow fell over her.
Before she could react, a blunt, boot kicked her side, a sharp, painful jolt that sent a fresh wave of agony through her already aching ribs. Thessia grunted, flinching.
She looked up, her vision still slightly blurred, to see a grim, exhausted face looking down at her.
It was Renoir, his face streaked with grime and dried blood. He had returned from the rescue mission, or what was left of it.
Passed Renoir, the sun was slowly descending, a bruised purple and orange bleeding into the deepening indigo of the sky, marking the definitive end of their long, brutal day.
The last rays caught the lingering dust stirred by the battle, painting the scene in hues of despair.
"We will talk tomorrow." Renoir said. Exhausted.