Across the trench, Deputy ander Marlbh stared wide-eyed at the stunning figure that had materialized before him. The soldiers, already shaken by the earlier appearance of the now-vanished Chaos Gate, stood sck-jawed, their morale crushed. Without the issar present to execute deserters and enforce disciplihe ranks had devolved into fearful disarray. Marlbh himself struggled to process what he was seeing: a woman of uhly beauty, dressed as though she were attending a grand ball, standing amid the dust and ruin of a battlefield.

  It was absurd. The juxtaposition was s it felt like seeing a penguin strut across the Afri savannah. For a moment, even the grizzled deputy ander could do nothing but gape.

  But Marlbh’s instincts as a soldier kicked in. Shaking himself free of his stupor, he barked an order. “What are you all standing there for? Shoot! Shoot her now! She’s a daemon!” He didn’t know for sure if she was, but it didn’t matter. On a battlefield, beauty could be just as deadly as a bolter. If she wasn’t human, she was a threat. And if she was? Better a tragic mistake than the loss of his entire unit.

  A soldier fired first, the green beam of a srifle ng out and striking the witch squarely on her dress. The bck silk shimmered momentarily as the fabric absorbed the energy, leaving only a faint trail of smoke.

  The witch let out a soft, melodious moan. “Ah…” The sound was quiet but unmistakably alluring. It carried through the trench like a whispered promise, ing itself around the ears and minds of every ma. The moa shivers down spines, and some soldiers felt a sudden weakness in their knees. Others found themselves trembling untrolbly, their thoughts clouded by an inexplicable desire.

  “Please,” the witch said, her voice smooth and honeyed. “Don’t attack me. I only wish to pass. The war has hurt us all—our bodies, our hearts, our souls. Don’t we all deserve rest? To put down our ons and go home?”

  Her words struck like a psychic hammer. The soldiers’ eyes gzed over, their resolve crumbling as her voice resonated in their minds. Rifles cttered to the ground as men dropped their ons, overe by waves of longing and despair.

  “Mom! I miss you!” one soldier sobbed, colpsing to his knees.

  “My wife… is she still alive? My boy… I haven’t seen him in three years…” another murmured, clutg his helmet.

  “We just want to go home…” whispered a third, his tears soaking into the dust.

  Even Marlbh, who prided himself on his discipline, found himself faltering. His grip on his srifle sed as he grappled with a sudden, overwhelming fatigue. His mind was a battlefield of flig thoughts: duty to the Emperor versus a desperate, bone-deep weariness.

  The Red-haired Witch observed the humans’ dest into despair with cold amusement. Their colpse, both mental aional, redictable. She sneered, her crimson lips curling into a ptuous smile as she stepped forward. Her heels clicked against the stone as she passed through the trench, unchallehe soldiers who moments ago had been prepared to fight now k, sobbing or staring bnkly ahead, ed by her psychifluence.

  “Pitiful,” she muttered under her breath, her voice ced with disdain. “This is what the Emperor’s servants have bee.”

  The trench, once a bastion of resistance, was now a graveyard of broken spirits. The witch strode leisurely through the fallen line, her silk dress swaying as she moved. Her every step exuded dominand power, a stark remihat in the face of Chaos, even the most steadfast defenses could crumble.

  “Rest? Rest your mother!” Marlbh roared, his voice cutting through the haze of despair. With defiance burning in his eyes, the deputy ander pulled his pistol from its holster and fired at the red-haired witch.

  The witch didn’t flinch. With a zy wave of her hand, an invisible force sent Marlbh hurtling backwards. His shots missed entirely, the bullets dissolving into harmless sparks as they neared her. Marlbh hit the ground hard, groaning, but the witch paid him no further attention.

  Her attention shifted to a trembling soldier. She raised her hand, pointing at him as she began to t in the vile, guttural tongue of daemons. The words, soaked in corruption, hung heavy in the air, sending a shiver down the spines of all who heard them.

  The chosen soldier froze as though paralyzed. The witch strode up to him, a faint smile pying on her lips. She reached out, cupping his head, and leaned in. Her lips brushed against his in a light kiss that seemed to linger far too long. Pulling back, she sneered. “Have fun,” she said simply.

  The soldier’s body vulsed violently, twisting and ing in grotesque ways. Crimson fmes ignited from his flesh, and his anguished screams filled the air as his transformation took hold. Within moments, he was no longer a man but a monstrous, half-daemoniination, his body engulfed in the fires of Chaos.

  The newly formed daemon roared, its burning form lunging at the soldiers. Chaos erupted withirench as the moore through its former rades. ons fired, men shouted, and panic spread like wildfire. The defensive line desded into chaos.

  The red-haired witch didn’t spare a sed g the havoc she had unleashed. Her focus was singur. The ay gnawing at her mind pushed her forward. She had no time to indulge in the age. The mission—her mission—had to succeed.

  She stepped into the entrance of the a underground city, her steps measured but unyielding. Gathering her psychic power, she initiated another spatial jump. The fabric of reality twisted a, and with a siride, she reappeared at her destination.

  She now stood in a sealed chamber. Beh her feet sychic array, its intricate runes glowing faintly, guidio her target. Her servants had prepared everything in advance, carving the array to ensure her arrival recise.

  At the ter of the room hovered a sphere, pulsating with an otherworldly blue light. Surrounding it were swirling runes of power, their movements faintly hypnotic. The sphere radiated immense psychiergy, its preseh awe-inspiring and oppressive. This was it—the artifact Sanesh desired, the core the daemons sought to cim.

  The witch let out a soft sigh of relief. The tension in her shoulders eased as she realized the object remained untouched. “A false arm,” she muttered, a smirk tugging at her lips.

  Before she could take aep, a figure materialized before her. A woman a crimson trench coat and wide-brimmed hat emerged from the void, her presence sudden and uling. The figure, Seraphea, k before the witch, her expression one of desperation.

  “Please,” Seraphea cried, her voice trembling. “I beg you, have mercy! Don’t take the core. Without it, we ot survive!”

  The witch tilted her head, her fiery hair casg over one shoulder. Her crimson eyes narrowed in irritation. “Get out of my way,” she spat. “You’re nothing more than a wandering soul. How dare you try to interfere?”

  With a flick of her wrist, the witch’s psychic power shed out, swatting Seraphea away like smoke. The ghostly figure tumbled backward but quickly reformed, her hands csped as she pleaded again. “No, please! You don’t uand! There are 3.4 million souls bound to this core. It sustains them all! Without it, they’ll be destroyed. The ey will perish!”

  The witch froze momentarily, her lips curling into an amused grin. “Three million souls?” she mused aloud, her tone mog. “How delightful. I thought this mission was going to be b, but this… this is iing.”