Angar knelt in the shadowed confessional, a cramped booth of scarred metal and ripped padding, its walls etched with the Trey and worn Holy runes.

He pressed his fingers to his brow, then his right and left shoulders. "In the name of the Father, God above, the Mother, blessed Mi, and Theosis, the Divine System. Bless me, Sister, for I have sinned. It's been about four days since my last confession."

The sister-confessor, her face obscured behind the confessional grille, sighed wearily.

"Given I've seen your face, Child, I'm lowering the grille," she said, sliding the metal screen down with a grating clank. "Now, what sin is so urgent that you drag me from my bed at this hour?"

"May I ask a question first, Presbyter Prostasia?" Angar asked, his bandaged jaw throbbing with each word.

She nodded. "Of course, Child."

"You'd agree, just as the smallest of sparks, rightly placed, can ignite a conflagration, an eruption large enough to purge every hint of the profane, the smallest of Heresies, unpurged, festers like a cancer, spreading, infecting everything, endangering trillions and trillions of souls across the Holy Empire?"

"Certainly, Child," she replied, her voice firm despite her fatigue. "Hence the Church mandating the Hymn of Holy Vengeance at every service."

"You'd agree," he asked, "it's the sworn duty of my estate to purge Heretics with righteous wrath and prejudice?"

Another nod from her. "It is, Child. Does guilt weigh on your soul? It's common among Knights fulfilling their sacred purpose on Heretical citizens."

"No, Sister," Angar said. "I killed enemies after they tried to kill me. Holy Theosis believes some innocents may have been caught in the slaughter."

"Start from the beginning, Child," she urged, leaning closer. Angar recounted his fragmented memories, the haze of battle clouded by his poisoning. The sister listened intently, staring at her penitent.

When he finished, she said, "I see. Many smuggled onto this station labor in such factories, the price of passage, or those with debts to criminal syndicates or houses of inequity. Those unfit for the Imperial Military, or discharged as cripples, often take guard jobs at such places, as the pay outstrips other options.

"I believe this is what Holy Theosis meant. You didn't attempt to leave peacefully but attacked the guards, assuming them Heretics, yet spared the workers?"

"Yes," Angar confirmed, "for the most part."

"How many did you kill, Child?"

"I'm unsure."

"For your eternal soul's purification, we must estimate liberally," said the sister. "You're a Knight, but low of Tier, and only one man. It couldn't have been more than ten guards, correct?"

"Probably more, if we're not separating innocents from Heretics," he admitted.

"Based on Holy Theosis' message, we consider all victims beyond the first four innocent."

"That's statistically improbable," Angar replied.

"Nevertheless, we'll consider them all innocent," the sister insisted. "So, fifteen as our highest estimate?"

Angar sighed. "No, Sister. Double that, at least." Even that number would be a very conservative estimate, the blood-soaked floors of the factory and warehouse levels blurring and unclear in his mind.

"Double!" she exclaimed, her voice rising in shock. "Thirty? Truly?"

Angar remained silent.

"Very well. Thirty," she said, regaining her composure.

Angar bowed his head for the Act of Contrition. "Oh Lord, I regret any innocent blood I may be thought to have shed, and I vow to continue serving you zealously and with great fervor, upholding my Knightly oath to the best of my ability, shielding all worthy Children of God with my faith, my fury, my life."

The sister nodded, intoning, "God, the Father of mercies, through the blessed sacrifice and martyrdom of Mother Mi, has redeemed humanity and this realm to the sacred stewardship of Holy Theosis. Through the Church's ministry, may God grant you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Mother, and of Divine Theosis."

Angar performed the sign of the trey, his fingers tracing the sacred gesture. "Amen."

"For your penance," the sister continued, "you must perform this good work – save twice as many souls as your hand has taken in innocent blood. That's sixty in total. Additionally, perform one hour of prayer or scripture reading daily for a year while genuflecting. Go forth in peace and sin no more."

Angar choked down a curse. As this sister had only imposed a mere monetary tithe on the shop owner for his terrible Heretical sins, Angar had expected the same for himself, or less, as he'd done nothing wrong. He already prayed for over an hour daily while genuflecting, but saving sixty souls was a ridiculously heavy penance.

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"Thanks be to God, our wrathful Master," he said through a clenched jaw, causing the damaged side to throb. "Amen."

As the sister rose, sending her robes rustling, Angar spoke quickly. "One moment, Sister."

She knelt again, her loud sigh meant to be audible. "What is it, Child? I'm tired, and want some sleep before I must wake and prepare for the Sunday Masses."

"I must ask for guidance on a grave issue," Angar said. "A vile Heretical vendor in the bazaar desecrated the sacred image of our blessed Mother, selling salacious and profane images of her."

"This is a military station, Child," she said, her tone softening. "Our brave sailors and marines find solace in such mementos. If they confess and purge their souls after using such images for relief, little harm is done."

"I'd wager," Angar's voice roughened, "you're of the Alcyonic faction?"

"I am, Child," she admitted. "Each year, on my ordination's anniversary, Holy Theosis blesses me with a Voluvicas Credit. I've never used one, as we consider ourselves betrothed to God. What faction do you favor?"

"None I know of, Sister," Angar replied. "If a faction called the Oath-Bound forms, I'd favor them, as few seem interested in upholding what they've sworn to."

He adjusted how he knelt before continuing. "As you agreed, Heretics need purging, and it's my sworn duty to slay them. This is your lucky day, Sister. I meant to purge you after confession, but I've recently been given a penance demanding I save sixty souls. You'll be the fifth."

The sister's face crinkled in anger. "What…," she began, but Angar reached through the grille and grabbed her by the throat, ending her words.

"The shop owner you permitted to spread that unholy filth," he said, "that blasphemy, profaning our blessed Mother, waits outside with his three workers.

"As only cathedrals are open at this hour, we're all going to the nearest. You'll confess to your sins of Heresy and simony. I'll ensure you're soundly contrite, express genuine regret, and receive appropriate penance for these dark acts and unholy beliefs."

The bastion of the Wardens of the Ashen Veil was a sight to behold, a fortress of blackened stone and consecrated iron.

Three jagged spires clawed at the station's dome, the tallest crowned with the Trey's sacred pyramid, its Eye of Providence glowing menacingly. The two others peaked with the chapter's sigil of a lone sentry, his helm shrouded in swirling ash, clutching a spear upright.

The structure's sharp angles and reinforced bulwarks radiated unyielding martial might. Turrets studded with auto-cannons, auto-turrets, and plasma batteries jutted from its battlements, manned by Lay guardsmen, ever-vigilant.

The bastion's gates, massive slabs of steel inscribed with litanies and Holy runes, stood flanked by towering statues of armored Crusaders, storied heroes of the chapter, with blasters raised in eternal defiance of the unholy.

Within the outer walls, the courtyard was a training ground where a half dozen new Wardens drilled in lockstep, their power-armored forms clanking like war machines, each movement precise and imbued with zealous fury. This bastion's training master watched them with a critical eye, his helm rising as Angar passed.

Spread throughout, seven sanctified braziers burned ceaselessly with a bright blue flame, casting strangely flickering shadows across the courtyard in the artificial light.

In an open chapel sat a massive altar, hewn from a single slab of black stone, bearing a luminous Trey, the floor pitted and scarred from centuries of ritual purifications and honor duels.

The air was filled with the comforting scent of oil, incense, and scorched metal, mingling with the grunts of training.

Etchings of war flanked the bastion's entrance, and above, a scene of Mi Alcyone's martyrdom during the Holy Joining, her radiant form vanquishing Mammon and his infernal hordes as Divine Theosis was born.

More Lay guardsmen patrolled the perimeter, well-armed and armored, and two stood before the entrance.

The guardsmen gave a curt nod to Angar as he passed, entering into the grand foyer of the bastion proper.

If this were Bloodspike Redoubt, the Wardens' chapter hall, there'd be golden walls etched with the names of the chapter's glorious martyrs. That hall was in the Outer Arm, an extension of the Scutum-Centaurus Arm, the only chapter hall there.

This foyer, though small, still carried an impressiveness. Stark and unadorned, it held only a towering desk, built for standing, not sitting.

Flanking the desk, two staircases curled upward, one marked with an 'M' above, the other with an 'F,' leading to upper levels.

Between the desk and staircases, two heavy doors stood, set against a vast mural dominating the rest of the rear wall.

The mural depicted the Wardens' leader, the fabled Grand Marshal Voker, the Pale Executioner, locked in combat with the Demon Lady Onoskelis, a clash from a thousand years ago.

Though the battle was lost, and the planet became the Hellworld Abyssalhome, it carved Voker's name in the annals of legend.

There was no bell or way to announce his presence, so Angar waited, eyes fixed on the vivid mural, still angered at the Church's uppishness.

The overnight confessor held the same rank as the Heretical Presbyter Prostasia, and couldn't take her confession, so a Praesul was awoken.

And the filthy Praesul wouldn't confirm if Prostasia confessed to the correct sins, nor here penance, bound by the sacramental seal's silence.

He had no idea if she was paying the appropriate price for her dark sins. That's why it was better to kill people. It brought certainty and finality.

He planned on attending her daily service, to let her know she was being watched. If her sermons contained a hint of the Heretical, he'd sink his maul deep into her skull.

The whole infuriating affair, ensuring all profane images of the blessed Mother were purged, had almost made him late accompanying Simo and his family to Sunday Mass.

The door opening snapped Angar from his musing. The giant training master entered, his steps uneven from a pronounced limp. He was clad in an Armiger set, but far heavier and bulkier than first Realm armor, marking him as a Saint, perhaps even a Seraph.

"God and Empire, Saint," Angar greeted, bowing slightly. "I'm Angar, sent here for lodging and an earpiece."

"You're late," the Saint growled. "Your bandages are bleeding through. If you get blood on my floor, you'll scrub it spotless, then polish it twice."

He reached beneath the desk, retrieving a small earpiece, and handed it to Angar. "The male guesthouse is outside, to the right, around the back. First room's yours. No women allowed. Keep it clean, leave it as you found it. All companies are deployed, so only a few of us are here, and we expect guests to be quiet and mannerly. Oh, and tell Hidetada he's a prick. Always was, always will be."

Angar nodded. "May I make use of the training ground and other facilities, Saint?"

Even through the man's helm, Angar could feel hate-filled eyes boring into him.

The man just stared, saying nothing for long moments. "No," he finally said. "Those are for Wardens."

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