The Thousand Son's arm began to rise, his hand coalescing with crackling azure lightning. He was preparing a major psychic attack, one that would likely obliterate them.
Ulysses knew they were out of time.
A silent, shimmering wave of raw psychic force slammed into the greenhouse, a silent scream of reality tearing itself apart.
It wasn't an explosion, but a wave of pure, concentrated will that sought to crush and distort.
Ulysses, still partially exposed, felt it hit him like an invisible fist. His breath was driven from his lungs, and a searing pain erupted across his ribs. He instinctively crumpled, coughing violently, a metallic taste in his mouth.
"Philos?" Ulysses wheezed, blood on his tongue, one arm trembling beneath him. "Report."
The tank's vox-grille crackled, Philos's voice coming through warped—static-laced, but clear enough to be terrifying.
"Partial signal... Environmental integrity compromised... Elevated warp radiation"
"Anything else?" Ulysses asked again, his voice raw but insistent. He desperately needed something, anything, to turn the tide.
Then, Philos's voice cleared, an almost triumphant clarity cutting through the static despite the dire circumstances.
"New data acquired. Unanticipated descent yielded optimal positional exposure. Geometry projection now complete—100%. Target located. Warp Gate central nexus confirmed."
Ulysses froze, the pain in his ribs momentarily forgotten. The sheer audacity of it. They'd stumbled into the prize through sheer, desperate luck. The gate, the very heart of this invasion, was now mapped. But what good was the knowledge if they couldn't survive to use it?
Above them, the Thousand Son's psychic assault intensified, a roaring storm of blue fire and crackling energy beginning to descend.
"Regroup!" Ulysses barked, pushing himself fully upright despite the throbbing agony in his ribs. He gripped Philos's tank tightly.
Aurora, who had been hacking furiously at the glow-vines, instantly disengaged, her chainsword still whining as she moved. She reached them in a few swift strides, her medicae pack jostling.
"We need a plan," Aurora stated, her voice tight but composed, her eyes darting between the descending sorcerer and the unstable greenhouse around them.
"He'll atomize us if we stay here."
"Affirmative, Sister Medicae," Philos stated, his voice resonating from the tank.
"Optimal strategy: immediate egress towards the Warp Gate's central nexus. My data confirms a direct conduit from this position."
"Continued engagement with hostile is non-viable. Evasion is statistically improbable."
"Direct advance into primary anomaly offers highest probability of mission completion and survival."
Aurora's head snapped towards Philos's tank.
"Madness, Enginseer!" Aurora snapped, eyes blazing.
"You want us to walk into the Warp's throat? The deeper we go, the stronger it gets—it'll flay us apart, mind and soul."
Her hand instinctively went to the crossguard of her chainsword, but her gaze was fixed on Ulysses, seeking his decision.
Ulysses looked up at the looming form of the Thousand Son, whose hands were now blazing with arcane fire, ready to unleash untold devastation.
He felt the insidious psychic pressure building, the very air beginning to hum with malevolent power.
Aurora was right; it was madness. But she was also wrong; there was no way they could win, not here, not like this. Stalling in place would only delay their annihilation.
"Philos is correct," Ulysses said, his voice grim and resolute, his gaze unwavering from the descending sorcerer.
"There's no way we win this fight. We stall for what we need, not for what we wish. Our only path is forward. We take the information to a place where it can be used, or we die trying."
He took a deep, shaky breath. "We go to the center."
Aurora swore under her breath, a low, guttural sound that was pure frustration, but she didn't argue further. She moved with practiced urgency, quickly unlatching her medicae pack.
Her hands flew, rummaging through sterile bandages, diagnostic tools, and vials of potent stimulants.
In moments, she retrieved a censer, its silver chains glinting even in the dim, warped light, and a small, sealed pouch of blessed incense.
Beside it, a stout bottle of holy water, meticulously sealed with a wax purity seal, emerged.
"Quickly," she urged, her voice brusque, stripping off her gauntlets. She tore open the incense pouch, dumping the fragrant granules into the censer, then splashing a generous amount of holy water onto the charcoal within.
A wisp of pure white smoke, surprisingly thick, immediately curled upwards, hissing faintly as it met the oppressive blue-purple haze of the Warp.
The effect was immediate, if subtle; the air around them seemed to momentarily clear, feeling colder, purer.
Aurora then splashed holy water over Ulysses and herself, liberally dousing their armor and even rubbing it onto their exposed faces and hands.
The cold liquid felt like ice against their skin, a jarring but welcome sensation against the burning presence of the Warp.
She poured the last few drops onto Philos's tank, the liquid sizzling faintly on the metallic surface.
As she did this, a new sound filled the air, rising from Philos's tank. A deep, resonant hum, amplified through the vox-grille, not unlike a Ministorum chant, but overlaid with the dry, crisp static of binary code.
It was Philos, actively intoning a protective ward of the Omnissiah, his mechanical voice booming louder than normal, the litany of sacred circuits and machine spirits a defiant counterpoint to the sorcerer's building psychic storm.
The very air around the tank seemed to vibrate with pure, unyielding logic, pushing back the chaotic influence.
"Move!" Ulysses commanded, gripping Philos's tank and gesturing to the nearest tunnel entrance revealed by the recent collapse.
The air shimmered around them, the scent of burning incense and static electricity battling the putrid decay of the Warp as they plunged into the unknown depths, the roar of the Thousand Son's rising power echoing behind them.
Aurora, her censer swinging, its white smoke coiling defiantly against the blue-tinged miasma, entered the tunnel first.
Ulysses halted just before following her in.
With a desperate, calculated gamble, he raised his laspistol and unleashed a flurry of pinpoint shots at the support beams near the levitating sorcerer.
The already compromised rock and metal groaned, then tore free, collapsing with a deafening roar. Tons of earth, twisted rebar, and chunks of shattered greenhouse structure rained down, engulfing the Thousand Son in a fresh, localized avalanche of debris.
The last thing Ulysses saw before the tunnel mouth was sealed by the collapse was a brief, furious flash of azure psychic energy as the sorcerer fought to avert being buried.
Then, Ulysses plunged into the darkness, following Aurora into the uncertain depths of the tunnel.
Within the corrupted tunnel, the air pulsed with warped life. Glowing flora clung to every surface—vines and fronds breathing in sync with their steps, their phosphorescent patterns mimicking the rhythm of hearts under strain. Every breath drawn felt watched.
Yet the censer still worked.
Each swing from Aurora pushed back the corrupted growth. The incense smoke formed a buffer, momentarily parting the invasive atmosphere. The words echoing from Philos's tank—each syllable layered with binaric chant and machine-litany—cut through the madness like a blade.
Ulysses felt his thoughts realign every time the vox crackled.
"How long have we been in here, Philos?" he asked, rubbing his temples with one hand, the pressure behind his eyes growing worse with every step.
"Temporal variance likely," Philos replied flatly.
"However, local chronometry indicates it has been forty-five minutes since descent."
"Only that much?" Ulysses muttered, brow furrowing. "I'll be damned… feels like hours."
"The holy water will evaporate soon," Aurora said, her voice tight.
She opened the censer and scraped out some of the scorched charcoal.
"I'll use this next. I don't know if it'll be as potent."
She rubbed the ashes into her palms and forearms, muttering a prayer under her breath, then handed half of it to Ulysses.
He didn't hesitate. He smeared the grit across his face and neck, feeling the sting of open cuts.
Philos remained steady, unwavering. In this nightmare place, he was the one constant.
Ulysses glanced back at the tank on his back.
"Either you've got the most fortified cogitator this side of Mars… or you're just too logical for the Warp to comprehend."
"Both may be true," Philos responded, with something almost resembling dry humor.
In the corner of his vision, something moved. A silhouette—, human-shaped, wrong.
Ulysses snapped his head toward it, heart skipping. But there was nothing. Just warped vines and walls that shimmered faintly in the glow of Aurora's censer.
He exhaled, slowly. Of course it wasn't real. Just the Warp gnawing at the edges of his mind again.
But… hallucination or not, it had felt deliberate. Almost purposeful. He didn't tell the others. He just muttered under his breath,
"I'll take it. Even a ghost's better than no way out."
"Enginseer, any possibility of vox-contact from down here?"
Ulysses asked, knowing how futile it likely was. The deep earth, combined with the intense Warp interference, would turn any signal to static. But they had the data; they had to get it out.
Philos's mechanical hum wavered slightly.
"Signal integrity: Zero percent. Standard vox-channels impossible. Warp-interference at critical levels. Alternative communication highly improbable."
Ulysses frowned, then a grim idea began to form.
"Improbable. What about a focused burst? Something to cut through this static, even for a moment?"
He pictured Renoir above, fighting his own battles, and Thessia, hopefully on her way to the medical tent.
"We need to get this data to the surface. Or at least let them know where we are."
Philos the said.
"Probability of external detection—high. Our sanctified presence creates contrast. Intermittent voids in local geometry are visible from above."
Ulysses raised a brow, confirming.
"You're saying... we're visible? Just not constantly?"
Philos clarified.
"Correct. Anti-Warp properties create anomalous clarity within surrounding corruption. Data interpretation possible—by those who know what to look for."
The tunnel ahead twisted sharply, its walls seemingly breathing, and the glow-vines pulsed with an almost hypnotic rhythm, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to twist into skeletal forms.
The pressure from the pursuing Sorcerer intensified for a moment, a cold spike of malice that threatened to buckle Ulysses's knees. He pushed through it, refusing to break.
They were deep now, truly within the earth's corrupted veins. The air grew heavier, thick with unseen energies.
The promise of the Warp Gate's center lay ahead, but so did something far worse if they couldn't find a way to escape this terrifying game of cat and mouse.
—
Far above the tortured earth, under the same harsh, alien sun, Sister Legatine Thessia moved with relentless purpose. The last vestiges of the spectral tentacles had vanished, recoiling from the combined might of her Hallowed Brazier and the flaming shields of her Ogryns.
The air still hung heavy with the acrid scent of incinerated Warp-stuff and the lingering sweetness of vanquished malevolence.
Inside the Samaritan, Cilicia watched Kochav, still unconscious but glowing faintly. The psychic barrier had pulsed weakly for a moment, then settled back into its passive shimmer now that the threat was gone.
Thessia swept her gaze across the battlefield. The remaining Sisters and Ogryns, their shields still smoldering, regrouped around the Samaritan. The immediate threat was gone, but a new, unsettling quiet had descended. This was a lull, not an end.
She tapped her vox bead. "Report status."
Static snarled back at her, harsher than before. She tried again.
"Commissar, Seneschal. Respond." Nothing but a high-pitched whine that grated on the ears, a dead silence, broken only by interference.
"Vox comms are down, Sister Legatine," one of her Sisters reported, her voice laced with concern.
Meredith jolted back up, her eyes wide with a sudden, new dread.
She scrambled to the open hatch of the Samaritan and looked down, her gaze frantically sweeping the command console for the tactical display. It was usually a hive of real-time geomapping data, fed directly from Philos's ongoing projections.
"Legatine," Meredith called, her voice tight.
"The geometry map… it's frozen. No updates for the last two hours."
"Something is wrong," Thessia stated, her voice low, "something happened to Ulysses, Philos and Aurora."
She looked towards the distant, hazy horizon where Ulysses's mission had taken him, and where Renoir still waged his solitary war. A new layer of grim resolve settled on her features.
"Can you trace where the data was last transmitted?" She ordered.
Meredith's fingers flew across the console, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. The screen flickered, resisting her attempts to retrieve the last known coordinates.
The raw data was corrupted and distorted by the pervasive Warp interference, yielding no coherent information. She bit her lip, muttering prayers under her breath.
"Nothing, Legatine," Meredith reported, her voice laced with frustration.
"The data is too corrupted. I can't get a fix on their last transmission point."
Thessia's face remained grim, but her gaze flickered to a Servitor tending to the Samaritan's engine. Its multi-socketed optical implants whirred, processing ambient data.
"Servitor!" Thessia commanded, her voice sharp.
"Engage Noosphere trace. Seek residual energy signatures. Identify unique, sanctified emanations that deviate from local Warp corruption."
The Servitor's head tilted, a faint whirring sound emanating from its bionic cranium. Its optical lenses focused, not on the corrupted console, but on the very air, reading the subtle, unseen currents of information that permeated the battlefield. The Noosphere, the ubiquitous data-ether of the Mechanicus, registered the faint, lingering imprint of their passage.
A moment passed, then the Servitor's synthesized voice crackled, devoid of inflection.
"Trace successful. Anomalous clarity signatures detected. Trajectory indicates horizontal progression. Suggest following signature path to origin point."
She looked at the Servitor with a grim determination then said, "lead the way."
The Servitor pivoted, its heavy bionic feet thudding against the hull, and began to move, its optical sensors sweeping the air ahead of it. Thessia gave the order, and the Sisters and Ogryns fell in behind, their formation tight and disciplined. The Samaritan's engines rumbled to life, prepared for quick deployment once the trail was confirmed.
Meredith rushed to Thessia's side, then hesitantly asked,
"Is it alright to bring Cilicia and The Child with us, Sister Legatine?"
Thessia did not stop marching, eyes forward.
"You said it yourself, Psychic maybe the key, and with this, it is easier to protect them."
She held the Hallowed Brazier up, no longer lit but still smoking.
They marched across the ravaged landscape, the Servitor's methodical pace unwavering. Its bionic eye-lenses glowed faintly as it read the imperceptible disruptions in the Noosphere – ghost-like mechanical trails left behind by Philos.
To the others, there was nothing but scorched earth, shattered ruins, and the lingering stink of corruption. But the Servitor was following a map of a different kind,
footprints left behind by those who called themselves machine.
They passed the smoldering remains of trench lines, shattered vehicles, and the liquid remains of mutants and daemons alike. The air grew steadily colder, heavier, even as the distant sun bore down.
The Servitor led them on a winding path, seemingly aimless to the uninitiated, but purposeful to its internal logic. They seemed to be walking in a slow circular pattern, but nobody wanted to question.
The Ogryns' heavy boots crunched on splintered plasteel and shattered rock. The Sisters moved with a grim silence, bolters held ready, their faith a tangible shield against the creeping sense of wrongness that permeated the air.
The faint, high-pitched whine of the vox-static was their only constant companion now, a reminder of their isolation.
Finally, after what felt like an age of traversing the desolate, war-torn landscape, the Servitor stopped. Its optical sensors settled on a sight that sent a chill down Thessia's spine:
a massive, ragged maw torn into the earth. It was the collapsed greenhouse, now a gaping, raw wound in the planet's surface, its edges still smoking, remnants of twisted, unnatural flora clinging to impossible angles of rock.
It looked like something had exploded outwards from its depths, or plunged inwards with devastating force.
"So they fell, but how?" Thessia crouched down, investigating the area.
This was no warp-tunnel; the collapse was man-made. Her eyes fixed on something amidst the pulverized rock and twisted rebar.
"A fragment?" She whispered, picking it up.
It was a scorched, jagged piece of ceramite – clearly from a grenade.
Whatever caused them to escape downward was no mere daemon. Could it be the greater daemon that Thessia faced in the house? She could only guess.
But now their mission was clear:
They needed to descend and rescue their comrades.
She walked over to the Samaritan, its engine still humming. She got to the back and entered. She sat down across from Cilicia and let out a satisfying sigh, one she needed after the last few restless nights.
"Is there anything I can help, Thessia?" Cilicia asked worriedly.
"A cup of recaf, please?" Thessia said, her voice rough with weariness, as she began to pull off her heavy gauntlets, setting them aside with a clank.
"I'm very tired, Cilicia."
"That, I can do." Cilicia let out a small, gentle smile, patting Thessia's hand before she got up and exited the vehicle.
After Cilicia left, Thessia turned to the Samaritan's driver, a weary-looking Guardsman whose knuckles were white on the steering controls.
"You as well. Get some air. Take a breather."
With the driver gone, Thessia was alone inside the Samaritan, save for the unconscious form of Kochav, who lay still on the cot, his skin glowing faintly.
Thessia gazed at him, her thoughts conflicting. Kochav's psychic presence was a shield, but to fully utilize him, she would need to wake him.
Doing so, however, might put everything at risk if he couldn't control his burgeoning power, or if the exertion proved too much for his fragile body.
This was not something she could decide alone.
Her decision made, she pushed herself up and walked back outside. The raw wound of the collapsed greenhouse yawned before her, beckoning with its foul promise.
She swept her gaze across her Sisters and Ogryns.
"Listen closely," Thessia ordered, her voice cutting through the ambient hum of the Samaritan's engines and the distant sounds of war.
"Two of you, locate Commissar Renoir. Two more, find Father Grigori. Inform them to drop whatever they are doing and get here immediately." Her gaze hardened, unwavering.
"Tell them: Seneschal Ulysses and Enginseer Philos need rescuing."
—
Elsewhere on the field, amidst burning trenches and the stench of ash,
Commissar Renoir reloaded his bolt pistol with a practiced snap. His uniform was singed, streaked with blood—both human and inhuman. Around him, a knot of exhausted militia survivors knelt behind a broken earthwork, too scared to advance, too terrified to retreat.
"On your feet," Renoir barked. His voice cut through the battlefield haze like a power saber.
"Cowardice is just treason in slow motion."
The militia scrambled up, rallying more out of reflex than resolve. Renoir didn't need them to fight—not anymore. He just needed them to move. To not get in the way.
That's when he saw the two Sisters approaching at full sprint. Their armor was scratched, shields scorched, but they moved with purpose.
Renoir turned to meet them, bolter half-raised.
"Report."
One saluted crisply, out of breath but composed.
"Commissar. Orders from Legatine Thessia: drop all operations. Join her immediately."
"Seneschal Ulysses and Enginseer Philos are alive—but trapped beneath the greenhouse collapse. Rescue is underway."
Renoir's eye twitched. "Alive? In that hell?"
"Yes, sir. Geometry projection ceased two hours ago."
"Noosphere trace found sanctified voids. The Legatine believes they descended under duress."
The Commissar was silent for a long moment. Then he holstered his sidearm and muttered,
"Alright."
He turned back to the shaken militia and pointed west.
"Fall back to checkpoint two. Regroup with the Samaritan convoy."
They hesitated.
"Or stay here and fight the horrors. Your choice."
They moved.
Renoir adjusted the strap of his coat, took one last look at the scorched battlefield—and followed the Sisters into the smoke.
Not far away, in the shattered remains of a half-destroyed shrine,
Father Grigori knelt before a crude altar.
Around him were all the Ministorum priests who had been evacuated earlier that morning. They were deep in prayer. Smoke still wafted from the incense burner, its sacred scent clashing with the copper stink of blood.
Two Ogryns stood nearby—looming sentinels. One of them scratched his head and asked:
"Boss priest… that boom gone now?"
The Ogryn was referring to the massive detonations caused by Renoir and Thessia earlier when they collapsed the ruptures.
Grigori opened his eyes and stood slowly, his joints cracking.
"It is for now, Roy. But darkness never sleeps. It just waits."
Just then, two more Sisters approached, breathless and solemn.
"Father Grigori," one said."By order of Sister Legatine Thessia, you are summoned."
The old priest's brow furrowed. "Something happened?"
"Yes, Seneschal, Enginseer along with Sister Medicae-fell down the rupture" she confirmed.
Grigori closed his eyes and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"I see."
He turned to the Ogryns, who straightened up like loyal hounds awaiting command.
"Come. We go to retrieve our lost sheep."
Roy grinned, pumping his fist. "Understood."
Grigori chuckled, and for a moment, his weathered face looked almost young again.
—
By the time Renoir and Grigori arrived, the wind had picked up.
Dust and ash danced in angry spirals across the ruined plains, the great gaping maw of the collapsed greenhouse at its center. Around it, a ring of tents had been hastily erected, forming a crude command post.
Most of the remaining combat personnel were already present—Sisters, Ogryns, Guardmen, all grim-faced, all waiting for the next move.
Inside one of the central tents, Thessia sat calmly, her armored gauntlets resting beside her as she sipped from a steaming cup of recaf. Her face was unreadable, eyes shadowed under her helmless brow.
Cilicia sat nearby, watching over the still-unconscious Kochav, who lay on a medical cot, wrapped in thermals, still glowing faintly from within. The child's breathing was steady, but something in the air around him made every candle flicker strangely.
The tent flap flew open, wind howling behind it—Renoir stormed in, coat streaked with soot and blood, bolt pistol still holstered but his expression like a thunderhead. Grigori followed, slower, but with purpose.
Renoir took one look at Thessia's posture—relaxed, sipping recaf—and something in him snapped.
"What in the Emperor's name is this?" he barked, striding forward.
Thessia raised an eyebrow, but didn't move. "Commissar—"
But Renoir was already grabbing her by the collar, yanking her upright.
"Why are we still sitting here?" he growled through gritted teeth.
"You said they're alive. Then why in Holy Terra aren't we pulling them out?"
Thessia didn't resist, but her eyes narrowed.
"Because charging blindly into a Warp-tainted abyss without a plan is how you lose more lives."
Renoir didn't let go. "And them?" he snapped, jerking his head past her.
His gaze locked on Cilicia and the boy.
"Why are they even here? This is a warzone!"
Cilicia stiffened but said nothing. She simply placed a gentle hand over Kochav's brow, shielding him from the violence in Renoir's voice.
Thessia's tone dropped to ice.
"Because the boy is the eye of this storm—and you damn well know it."
Grigori stepped forward and laid a firm hand on Renoir's shoulder.
"Commissar. Enough." His voice was low, but iron-clad."Faith must be measured… not flung like a grenade."
Renoir's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching at his temple. Slowly, his grip loosened.
"You let them go down there," he muttered. "And now we're all just… waiting?"
Thessia brushed his hand off her collar and stood tall, her voice like steel wrapped in silk.
"We're preparing. You know how time works in the Warp, Commissar—For them, it could already be decades… or if we're lucky, less than we argue."
Grigori chuckled softly.
"You two argue like fire and ash." He glanced at Kochav. "But perhaps it takes both to forge something holy."
Renoir shook his head, scowling as he turned away.
"Just make the call when we move. I'll be ready."
As Renoir stepped out into the swirling wind, his boots crunching against gravel and ash, Grigori remained behind. The tent flap swayed shut behind the Commissar, but the echo of his fury still lingered in the air.
Thessia let out a slow breath and returned to her cup, the heat of the recaf grounding her in the silence that followed.
Grigori glanced sideways at her, then eased down onto the bench beside her, his joints groaning louder than the cot. He said nothing for a moment, simply watching the boy sleep as the censer smoke curled lazily toward the roof.
Then, quietly asked. "Is this how you want it to be?"
Thessia didn't deny it. She tilted her cup thoughtfully, then nodded once.
"Yes, Father."
Grigori gave her a look—mild, questioning.
Thessia's tone remained calm, but there was a steel edge behind her words.
"Because what we are about to discuss would disturb him more than his anger can contain."
"Let him focus his fire on me. It's better that way."
Grigori fell silent, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. Then he gave a quiet nod and whispered, "So. Tell me."
She set the recaf down.
"In the house… I encountered something. A greater daemon."
Thessia said. "I know. It is the architect of this corruption. The Gate is its channel, the conduit its anchor—but it is the soul. If we destroy the Gate without banishing it, it will find another way."
Grigori's brow tightened. "You think it commands the others?"
"And your plan… is to banish it?"
She nodded. "Here. Above ground. Where we control the field."
Grigori's eyes narrowed. "And how do we draw such a thing out?"
Thessia didn't answer immediately.
She looked toward the sleeping form of Kochav—small, wrapped in thermals, his breath steady, his brow glowing faintly.
When she finally spoke, her voice was heavy.
"We wake the boy."
Grigori stiffened. "No."
"We wake him," she repeated. "And we push him. Emotionally, spiritually—psychically. We break the calm. Let his fear bleed through into the Warp."
"You would torment him?" Grigori hissed, nearly rising from his chair.
"After everything? After all we have done to shield him?"
"We haven't shielded him," Thessia said, her voice sharp now.
"We've hidden him. From the truth. From the very thing that's hunting him."
She looked back toward the center of the tent, where the incense brazier sat dormant beside the cot.
"If we wake him and let him scream, the daemon will come. It won't resist the pull. It sees him as a vessel. A prize. A key."
"And then what?" Grigori asked, eyes flaring.
"You hope it walks into our little trap and allows us to banish it with a prayer and some fire?"
"No," Thessia said coldly. "I make it walk into our trap."
She held up the brazier.
"We sanctify this ground. You lead the rite. I hold it in place and burn it into the world."
Grigori stared at her. "And the boy?"
"If we succeed, he lives. If we fail…" She paused, then added with quiet conviction:
"Then he'll fall anyway, in time. Better to risk him now, when we have a chance—than watch him consumed later when there's nothing left to stop it."
Grigori lowered his head, fists clenched in his lap.
"All this time, I believed we were fighting to give him a future," he said.
"Not sacrificing him for our own redemption."
Thessia placed her fist on the table.
"We are still giving him a future," she said softly.
"But only if we make sure this thing cannot haunt it."
He didn't move, didn't speak.
Only the wind filled the silence, hissing like a whispered warning.
At last, Grigori exhaled.
"If this goes wrong, Thessia…"
She nodded. "Then we all die."