I am in that accursed dark again, alone. Unlike in my memories, however, I am on my feet, and clad in an exoskeleton. A Bolt weapon rests in my hands, and I clearly know how to use it. As the gnawing hordes encroach upon me, it roars with the Emperor’s fury. But they are too many, and while not fast, their numbers allow them to near. In time, I must replace the Bolt weapon with that of the powered Chainsword upon my back. As large as a man though it may be, I find myself able to wield it with some grace without sacrificing anything from its killing power.

  In drawing the weapon I find that no, I am not truly alone. My shadow is with me, only it could hardly be said to be mine. My shadow takes the form of a man, smaller in stature than myself but nevertheless potent and lethal just like me. He is a textureless shadow, but he fights against the hungering void the same as I do. We are allies—no, closer than that. My shadow takes fights for me to ease my burden out of care and consideration, not merely to work in tandem with my own abilities. It is clear there is passion in his strikes, passion for what his does, and for me. We are partners, in every sense. We fight back-to-back, as ever we have, though I do not know how I know that.

  The hordes fall in droves to us, but they are without number, and we are but two. Eventually, something will slip by. He and I know that, but it does nothing to dampen our morale, or more to the point, our ferocity. But when it comes, it comes for me but he intercepts the strike, and a bone-like appendage punctures him back-to-front. He lurches forward away from the killing blow, and falls into my desperate arms, where I cradle him, my beloved shadow, as he bleeds red, colored, textured blood onto my hands. He is dying. It’ll be OK, he says.

  No, it won’t be. Not without him. I open my mouth to tell him that, but I have no mouth behind the helmet I wear.

  Nevertheless, he hears my words, and replies: Never stop being who you are. He ends the phrase by saying a name, but it is not mine. This is all we get together before the hordes return, and I must rest my shadow on the ground, on his own, while I fend them off. As my shadow bleeds, I am Wrath, and the darkness learns it. I will never stop being Wrath.

  I headbutt a daemon of darkness so hard my helmet cracks while the daemon’s head explodes. I doff my helmet quick as I can, as with it my vision is broken, but without it I can see, and with it then in my hands, I use it as a blunt instrument with which to bludgeon another daemon to the ground. It cries in beautiful agony of its own, as though repelled by my very touch. In my Wrath, I relish its pain before killing it on the spot with my helmet, shattering my former protection in the process.

  I turn back to my shadow to find him in a pool of his own blood, and I see the daemonic hordes still encircling him. Even in his weakened state, he is their target, and always has been, so why was he protecting me? I intercept his assailants and lash out against them, like a mother bear protecting its cubs. I am Horror, and the darkness learns it. I will never stop being Horror. Yet the dark faces its fears all the same, and the hordes keep coming. For all eternity, they will come, and for all eternity, I will meet them.

  And then the doors open, those great, brass doors against which my shadow and I made our stand. I look to him, and I see he is gone, lifeless, motionless. Cold. He died on his own, beyond my embrace, and there was nothing I could do for him. Now I, indeed, was on my own, alone, as further daemonic monstrosities spill forth from the creased opening between the doors. I may not have been able to do anything for my shadow in life, but I can keep his remains safe and consecrated, where these monsters might seek to defile him yet.

  And so I fight on. With every advance against my foes, my fighting prowess accelerates. With every blow I land, the heat of my fury ignites anew, until I am burning all but the most terrible of daemons with my very presence—and those I wrestle to their knees and kill all the same. But with a gaze of gold, I see that I make no lasting difference; the hordes only ever grow in size and strength, and they only ever have something worse to throw at me.

  I do not care, because all I need to do is keep fighting.

  Keep killing.

  I am the undying horror of mankind’s eternal wrath.

  I am the golden flame that ruptures through the dark.

  I am Hope, and though my shadow has fallen, I know there are other lives to live.

  I will see him yet.

  I need only break the infinite legions of the archenemy. And I shall, for I am a daughter of the Beneficent Emperor, and soon His Benediction will find me and set me free, to carry Hope’s crusade amongst the stars. Perhaps there, my shadow awaits.

  ***

  As Katabasis sailed away from the Imperial bombardment, Luciene’s crew brought her body out of the pool of its own blood and laid her to rest atop a plinth of cold Necron metal. When it was clear that she was gone—and that clarity arrived swiftly—Zaer covered her limp body in the same crimson cloth she usually wore, though it was heavier now, wettened with blood. It was by that time Zet rejoined the crew from the command deck, and he and Myr looked on at Luciene’s body with silent horror and disbelief. Kor’Kassan and Kane, meanwhile, broke with guilt; the former from his slowness in boarding Katabasis, the latter from some intangible notion of being followed by death everywhere he went. “We should never have let her return here,” Kane said to his palms, which held his face.

  Zaer shook his head. “If you truly think you held any possibility of dictating her actions, Mon’keigh, then you did not know her well enough,” Zaer replied, voice soft, but stern. “Which is understandable—you’ve barely had the time to know her at all. But there is no changing her path once she sets herself upon it.” Zaer looked up from Luciene’s pale face and lifeless eyes, to look upon the similarly-dead visage of the Necron that had joined them, and now stood over Luciene with Warscythe in hand, like a timely—if out-of-species—depiction of the Grim Reaper. “Does the Inquisition pursue us?”

  Zet paused a moment, taken aback by Zaer’s apparent emotionless sense of duty, then shook his head. “They do not—they continue their bombardment of Merkalla, though what they intend to do once they’ve finished—”

  “We will be gone by then,” Zaer declared, shrugging to dismiss the notion.

  “You are…,” Zet began, looking for a word that would not incite conflict between them.

  Myr found it. “Oddly calm, given your closeness with her,” she said, moving to and taking one of Luciene’s hands in hers.

  Zaer looked back to Luciene and shrugged again. “When you spend a short time with someone, you think, in na?veté, that such times may never end. But when you know someone for centuries, as I have, you live aware that ends are inevitable. You make your peace with that early, or it crushes your relationship instead,” he explained, again looking at Luciene’s eyes, devoid of golden glimmer though they were. “If you have gods, I’d ask you pray to them now, for her.”

  You think we haven’t been? Kane thought to himself, but kept his mouth shut. No one had a reply, in fact; silence gripped the room, accentuated by the fact that the Necron vessel made no ambient noise despite its intricate workings, and further exemplified still by the emptiness of the void beyond its hull. One could have heard a pin drop, as low, empty breathing was the only source of sound among the group. Finally, it was Kor’Kassan, after a minute or two of deathly stillness, that broke the quiet, still gripped by his own sense of guilt though he was. “How—and where—are we to bury her? And with what rites?”

  “Amongst the shadows of stars,” Zaer answered with a nod, patting the crown of her head. “It is what she has wanted. Can that be arranged, Necron?”

  “It can, Ael…err…Zaer, as soon you’d like,” Zet replied, stifling an urge to poke fun at the Eldar’s continued refusal to address him properly. “I can teleport her out when ready.”

  But you couldn’t have teleported her in? Kane thought, but declined to say as much. Zaer scanned the room; save for Myr, who continued to tightly grip Luciene’s hand with her own, it seemed as though there was no immediate obstacle or objection. Zaer looked to Myr, who, without turning to face him, was aware of his gaze. “As you say, Zaer, I must have been na?ve,” she said, still looking at Luciene’s face. “I never thought her capable of dying.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “She’s capable of much, Lady Nessa,” Zaer said softly, and put a hand atop hers. Myr had never been called a ‘Lady’ before, either, yet now, in the company of the Necron and Eldar, she had been addressed as such and as ‘master.’ She was neither a Master nor a Lady, but the compliments still sufficed to make her blush, and she eased and released her grasp of Luciene’s hand as a result. “Do it, Zet,” Zaer commanded, returning his focus to the Necron, who started at the utterance of his name from Eldar lips for the first time in millions of years.

  After his hesitation, Zet turned his scythe within his grip ever so slightly, and hammered the pommel of the weapon into the ground once. Green, fraying lights overtook Luciene’s form, and after a few moments of particle deconstruction, her body and its wrappings vanished from the plinth upon which she had laid. Zet then tilted his scythe to its side, after which an intangible projection of the void beyond his vessel formed within the room, showing Luciene’s body drift off between the twin prongs at the front of crescent-shaped Katabasis, Merkalla’s star hanging far in the background. He nodded toward this projection, and most turned to look at it, but not Zaer.

  Zaer hoped he did not need to turn to see what was going to happen. Which is to say, he hoped something other than nothing would occur, and soon at that.

  His hopes strained as moments passed and sorrowful gazes turned away from the view of Luciene’s drifting body. In time, only Zet remained an onlooker of her slow progress away from Katabasis, and even he started to move to dismiss the projection of the exterior void thereof, until Zaer held up a hand, palm forward, toward the Necron. “Wait, Zet.” And Zet did, though his gaze fell upon Zaer. That meant, then, that none were looking outside when the void beyond filled with gold, which was probably for the best, as it would have been a blinding sight to behold. Zaer could see the glow of light upon the faces before him, and witnessed the arrival of hope inside their bearers. A smile crept upon his own face, too, even if he still had yet to turn to face the exterior display.

  “Impossible,” Myr muttered at the same time that Kane gave a “It cannot be.” Both humans then fell to their knees in awe of the sight before them, winged as she was, and thereafter prostrated themselves and began praying to her.

  “You’ve known,” Zet asserted of Zaer, who continued to grin irrepressibly.

  “I get the sense you’ve suspected, too,” Zaer replied. “Open a bay for her to board to.”

  “How long? I have never seen this, and I have known her for—” Kor’Kassan protested in awe, but Zaer shook his head and interrupted him.

  “I have seen her through two deaths before. Her last was long before any of you—save the Nemesor—would have been born,” Zaer explained.

  “She’s a Living Saint,” Myr claimed as she rose from the floor, though kept to her knees. “As the Emperor Wills, how can that be? Especially in times as dark as these?”

  “It may be that for dark times as these, the Emperor Wills,” Kane explained, also rising to his knees. “Why is she here, with us, with so small a group? The Imperium would do anything for her, nearly. Legions, nay, whole Sectors would back her if they knew.”

  Zaer grunted and shrugged. “That is why she is here with us. Luciene does not want such vast forces behind her. She does not want a holy crusade in her name, and she knows that might well follow from knowledge of her existence. Let us pray, then, that those Inquisition forces that slew her once remain unaware of her rebirth.” Then, at last, Zaer turned to face his winged partner as she came better into focus of Zet’s displayed projection. Gold light streaked out from her in every direction, as though she were ablaze with her own stellar corona. “Luciene believes she is made only to bring light to the dark. She wields colossal power, more than any I have seen among my kind or from any other, but only ever turns it against the Neverborn. Petty interspecies rivalries concern her none,” Zaer explained, and then looked over the group, focusing particularly on Zet. “Just as they ought not weigh upon any of us.”

  Then, after a pause, Zaer added, “She will be cold when she boards from the void beyond. You will have questions for her. I implore you to give her some space, as returning from death is a taxing task. And above all, know that this is a secret you must take to your own graves. In time, the galaxy will know of her; but let us keep that responsibility from weighing upon her shoulders today.”

  ***

  Luciene sat within the cold, cramped confines of her personal quarters aboard Katabasis, still glimmering in a visible aura of gold across her form. To distract herself of her own death and rebirth, she sat and thought for a time on how she might furnish her quarters up, if given the opportunity. Anything to make the dead ship around her feel more alive.

  A knock, then, at the portal to her room, stirred her from such ruminations. “Enter,” she called, and thereafter her eyes fell to confused slits as she looked upon Zet, who entered her room following Zaer.

  “Zaer asked I join him,” Zet explained, observing Luciene’s apparent confusion.

  “That’s…character growth,” Luciene offered, turning to Zaer.

  Zaer shrugged. “Of our current crew, he and I are the only ones capable of matching a lifespan such as yours. Zet deserves to know what I do, if he’s to be with you long,” he said, then took a seat upon a stool at Luciene’s ten o’clock. Zet remained standing, though was without the balancing support of his Warscythe.

  “Glad to see you two are getting along,” Luciene smiled, and then turned back to Zet. “I cannot know what you may have already learned, so ask, instead, and I shall answer what I can.”

  Zet nodded, but otherwise only looked over Luciene for a few moments, silently staring at the Saint before his unsocketed eyes. Eventually, his unmoving mouth glimmered with green light again, and he asked, “Zaer had me jettison you into space; was that a functional decision, or—”

  “I am not solar-powered,” Luciene answered with a laugh. “Though I cannot speak to the effects the explosion of my rebirth may have had on your vessel or the crew within. No, I imagine Zaer’s wishes were of my own; if one day I do not return to the realm of the living, I do wish to be buried amongst the stars.”

  “The shadows thereof, I believe you once told me,” Zaer corrected her, and she nodded in agreement. “How long was it this time, Luciene?”

  “How long?” Zet asked.

  Luciene nodded. “When I die, Zet, I find myself on…ah, it’s a more complicated story than that,” she sighed.

  Zaer took up the reigns of the background on her behalf. “Luciene’s earliest memories are of being rescued from what I assume to be a Space Hulk,” he explained. “There was almost assuredly a presence of the Neverborn upon the Hulk in question.”

  “And when I die, I find myself fighting against such foes aboard that vessel,” Luciene explained. “I am there for an ever-increasing span of time, with each subsequent death. Mayhaps one day, they shall overwhelm me and I shall not return. This time, I was there…for perhaps a whole day. I feel as though I should feel exhausted,” she began, and then sat up straight and stretched her arms. “But I don’t. I’m not proud to say it, but I am most certainly in my element when fighting against the daemonic.”

  “Do you have some notion about the effects of your aura?” Zet asked her when she finished stretching.

  “Somewhat. I know it heals people’s flesh. I also know, from experience, that it allows their blows to harm beings of the Empyrean, as I do. And I can see the truth of anything that I set eyes upon; it’s how I knew I could trust you, Zet, and how I knew to recruit Ishmael Kane and all the others,” Luciene explained.

  Zet started, and then gestured as though clearing his throat, despite not having a throat to clear. “Your aura, Luciene, also makes me feel alive. Which I am not, or at least, have not thought I was. Your power is…unimaginable. It could give my species hope. Which to you might seem something worth aspiring to, but please heed my nihilistic warnings: my kind must not have what you are capable of giving them. All others would suffer if you did.”

  “Are there not others like you among your kind, Zet?” Luciene wondered.

  “There may be,” he admitted, shrugging. “But the Dynasties have gone to great lengths to assert the will of a few over those of the many. And those few possess scarcely fewer redeemable traits. You are far better than them—than us. Anyways, questions, questions. The murals on the surface of Merkalla,” Zet began, but Luciene shook her head.

  “Am I the Angel? Are you the Machine? We certainly look the part,” Luciene understood, and Zet nodded. “I don’t know. But where were the rest of our crew upon that plaque, and who were those others depicted?” Luciene asked, rhetorically, and then shook her head in dismissal. “I do not subscribe to portents of long-forgotten civilizations. I believe in making my own fate. I will tell you this, though,” she began, and then actually cleared her throat, unlike Zet’s attempts to. “I lied in dictating the Star. That was not as the mural define that being; they knew to call her Veralith, and that is a name I am most familiar with. It is she that rescued me from the Space Hulk, long ago.”

  “I have no records of an entity by the name of ‘Veralith’ within my data-crypts,” Zet noted, eyes scanning upwards, not unlike others would recall their own memories.

  “Nor was I familiar with the name when I first heard it,” Zaer admitted, agreeing with Zet.

  “Regardless, I can assure you that she is very real, and I believe she is still out there. I pray to her, and on occasion receive guidance from her,” Luciene insisted.

  “Well, I should like to meet her one day, if so,” Zet decided, returning his gaze to Luciene. “But does that imply, then, that you do not believe yourself an agent of the human God-Emperor?”

  Luciene shook her head. “No, I believe that I am, as I believe Veralith is too. It is His power that courses through me, as He is Anathema to the Neverborn. I believe He wants for me to shape the galaxy into what it could have been, had such great shadows never been cast upon it.”

  Zaer grunted, then cautioned her, “He was quite Xenophobic, in His time. Ripples of which are still very much felt and enforced today, such as via the Imperium’s Inquisition.”

  “Well, I hope you will note that I am not,” Luciene said, and accompanied her retort with a small smile. “That Inquisition…you were right, Zaer.”

  “I often am.”

  “I would be wise to stay away from them,” Luciene nodded. “And yet, just as my calling brought me here to set my eyes upon what they were looking at, I cannot help but feel I will be called to intercept them again. Surely everyone on the crew did notice my being unnerved by the Inquisition’s first appearance before me, and the name of Zha Trantos. Whatever my connection to them, I am certain this is not the last time I—or we—will cross paths with the Inquisition.”

  “Then we should strive to be better prepared, and equipped, for such occurrences,” Zet declared, and was met with a grunt of assent from Zaer. “What of your calling here? Is there a follow-up you have in mind?”

  Luciene shook her head. “Not at this time, though I am positive that will come. I was called to see, and I saw. When I am called to respond, I shall. For now, I think it best if we put Merkalla behind us, and return to the familiar hunting grounds of Eutophoria.”