Elizabeth k alone in the quiet chapel, her head bowed in prayer before the Emperolden statue. Her heart was heavy with doubt, an unusual state for someone as resolute as she. She desperately sought guidance from the Emperor, her thoughts a chaoti.
For an Inquisitor, such doubt was almost heretical. The Inquisition demanded unyielding resolve, and its operatives were taught to trust no o even themselves. Their faith y solely in the Emperor. Suspi was their greatest on, and ruthlessheir shield. This relentless vigince was the foundation of their work, and failure to meet these standards ofteed in swift and brutal judgment.
Elizabeth had earned her position through decades of service. She had purged heretics, destroyed xenos, aed the temptations of Chaos. Her decisions carried unimaginable weight, for her authority could override pary governors, military leaders, and even Astartes. She could order the Exterminatus of a world, extinguishing billions of lives if deemed necessary. Yet now, as she k in the silence of the chapel, uainty g her—a shadow she couldn’t escape.
As Elizabeth k before the t statue of the Emperor, her head bowed in silent prayer, the sound of heavy wooden doors creaking open broke the stillness of the sanctum. The faint echo of footsteps followed, precise and orderly. She opened her eyes, her thoughts snapping back to the present, and turo see rows of young girls entering the sacred hall in disciplined liheir movements synized like a ceremonial march.
This was not Elizabeth’s personal sanctuary. Even her esteemed position as an Inquisitor did not grant her authority over such a pce. Churches on Terra were sacred ground, trolled by the Ecclesiarchy and maintained by the Adepta Sororitas—the Sisters of Battle. These militant warriors were the armed force of the Imperial Creed, bound by the Decree Passive to be exclusively female. This decree, a relic of the Age of Apostasy, forbade the Ecclesiarchy from maintaining men under arms, f them to create a force of warrior women instead. Thus, the Sisters of Battle were born—a symbol of unshakable faith and martial devotion.
The Sisters of Battle recruited young girls from the Schenium, taking them in at a young age and raising them uhe strict does of the Ecclesiarchy. These children received what the Sisters proudly called “the most orthodox education.” Outsiders might whisper their doubts in private, beling it indoation or brainwashing, but none dared voice such opinions openly. To the Sisters, it was no lie—they were zealots, utterly devoted to the Emperor. To them, no a his name was too extreme.
Every Sister was a fervent believer. Their faith was absolute, their loyalty unwavering, their dedication unmatched. Uhe guidance of an older Sister, the girls ehe hall and k before the golden statue in perfeison. Their soft voices rose in a hymn, filling the church with a hauntingly pure melody. It was a song Elizabeth knew well, often sung by the Sisters as they marched into battle. For a moment, the tender, ear voices stirred something deep within her heart. Almost unsciously, she found herself humming along to the familiar lyrics:
"A spiritu dominatus, Domine, libra nos, From the lightning and the tempest, Our Emperor, deliver us. From pgue, temptation and war, Our Emperor, deliver us. From the sce of the Kraken, Our Emperor, deliver us. From the bsphemy of the Fallen, Our Emperor, deliver us. From the begetting of daemons, Our Emperor, deliver us. From the curse of the mutant, Our Emperor, deliver us. A morte perpetua, Domine, libra nos. That thou wouldst bring them only death, That thou shouldst spare hat thou shouldst pardon none, We beseech thee, destroy them."
The hymn carried Elizabeth back to a distant memory, to her earliest days in the Schenium. It was the first song she had ever learned, sung alongside her fellow initiates as they trained. For Elizabeth, those days felt like salvation.
The training was strict, but she remembered waking each m to sunlight streaming through barred windows. The walls shielded her from the biting wind, and the roof kept out the relentless rain. She had a cot, simple bs, and a meal waiting for her. h. No hunger. ings. No cruel words or kicks to endure. For an orphan who had survived by sging scraps oreets, this life felt like a blessing. Praying to the Emperor each day gradually repced her fear with purpose.
Most of the girls in the Scho had simir stories. They were orphans, abandoned or left destitute by war, famine, or the tless tragedies that pgued the Imperium. The Sisters gave them shelter, food, and a cause. Elizabeth cherished this life and worked tirelessly, excelling in every lesson and task. Her dedication to the Emperor steeled her resolve and honed her skills. She passed the grueling trials to bee a Sister of Battle and fought in tless wars, her faith unyielding.
Elizabeth thought her life would tihis way—burning with the Emperor’s righteous fury until her iable fall otlefield. But one mission ged everything.
It erilous assig, her unit tasked with purging a daemonicursion. The Sisters fought with unwavering faith, their prayers rising in defiance of the ’s corruptiohe daemon was too powerful. One by one, her Sisters fell, their screams eg in Elizabeth’s ears. She pressed forward, her voice trembling as she recited the Emperor’s holy verses, her faith unbroken even as despair gripped her.
Elizabeth would never fet that moment. As she faced certaih, she cried out to the Emperor, her voice trembling with desperation. The daemon closed in, its cruel ughter eg in the shattered ruins. Then, something inexplicable happened. It was as though her prayers had been answered directly. The world around her seemed to ripple, and the daemon was torn apart, its form disiing as if struck by invisible forces.
Psykers are rare in the Imperium. Their powers stem from the , a dimension of chaotiergy that exists parallel to reality. What humans call "psychic power" is the ability to el the into the material world. But the is not ay void; it teems with predatory entities—daemons and worse. Psykers shine like beas in the Immaterium, their presence impossible to hide.
The most powerful psykers, known as Alpha-level, are said to burn like stars in the . For daemons, they are irresistible prey. If a psyker succumbs to possession or is overwhelmed by a daemon, their body bees a gateway, allowing the to bleed into reality and granting the daemon a foothold ierial world.
Warnings about the dangers of psychic power were as old as humanity itself. The Imperium’s teags echoed those a fears: "The is no gift from the Emperor, but a realm of Chaos. Unchecked, it invites destru." These warnings were no fi. tless worlds had been ed by the ’s horrors, leaving the Imperium no choice but to enforce strict regutions. The rule was clear: if psychic power could not be trolled, it must be destroyed.
