Chapter 313: The Day Lady Cyrene Visited the Walkway of the Word Bearers
Argel Tal found her upon a field of ashes.
At first, he thought she was dead. He could not understand why anyone would still be here, not yet evacuated—but then he saw the faint tremor in that "corpse's" hand.
She was still alive.
Without a second thought (a rare thing for Argel Tal), he carried her into the medical room of the Word Bearers. On the way there, the woman in his arms naturally drew the eyes of every other Astartes they passed.
There was something about her—something impossible to describe—that exerted a strange pull upon the Word Bearers. Her thin, ash-covered face carried an unearthly serenity that made those who looked upon her feel… calm.
The grey-armored giants gathered outside the medical room. More came with every passing moment. The Word Bearers had been abandoned—by the Emperor, by their Primarch. No one explained why, no one issued orders. Only the insufferable Ultramarines continued to call for them to assist in refugee transport. Most of the Word Bearers now stood idle…
…And restless.
Ordinarily, wavering faith within the Legion would be corrected by the chaplains—but in the face of such absurd reality, even the chaplains themselves were lost for words. Their First Chaplain, Erebus, had already been executed. The others had long since lost credibility in the eyes of their battle-brothers.
The Astartes wished to pray, yet they feared that their previous prayers had been misguided. If their faith had been in error, what were they to do now?
They needed someone to tell them what to believe, what to do—whether to accept punishment or seek redemption—but no one came to guide them. Their Primarch was consumed by his own ruin, unable even to save himself.
In such chaos and fear, someone had to stand up. Though Argel Tal had no desire to lead, fate decreed otherwise—for he was the first to rise, and now every brother's gaze fell upon him.
Beneath his helmet, Argel Tal allowed himself a bitter smile. He could almost feel the weight of their stares piercing through him.
He knelt beside the medicae pod and removed his helmet—the apothecary had told him the woman would soon awaken.
Cyrene's eyelashes quivered. Then, she opened her eyes.
She rose slowly, confusion clouding her face as she tried to take in her surroundings. Argel Tal suddenly realized—her eyes were not focusing. A layer of white distortion veiled her sight.
She was blind.
But considering what she must have endured, blindness alone was a mercy.
"Is someone there? Where am I?"
Cyrene asked in a daze. She realized that beneath her was not charred earth, but fabric.
A rough voice answered her from the darkness surrounding her:
"Lady, you are safe now. You are in the medical room of the Word Bearers, receiving treatment. It seems, however, that you are blind. What is your name?"
Word Bearers?
Cyrene hesitated, then asked, trying to fix her unfocused gaze in the direction of the voice.
"My name is Cyrene. Angel—what color are your armors?"
"Grey."
Grey angels. Cyrene pressed her cracked lips together and smiled faintly.
"I have waited for you, angels."
Argel Tal fell silent for a moment before asking cautiously,
"My name is Argel Tal, Cyrene. You said you were waiting for us—not far from the Perfect City. Why?"
Cyrene felt her heart pounding violently. Trembling, she forced the words out, hoping the angel would believe her.
"I… I…"
Her voice shook.
"I saw Him. He wished for the brave to witness all of this. The burning of the Perfect City needed a witness—and I was the one chosen."
Silence followed. Only breathing reached her ears.
"You witnessed it," Argel Tal said at last, calm and measured. "And then? If He truly wished for you to speak, what will you say now?"
Argel Tal's tone was level—he was loyal to his father, yet his feelings toward religion, or toward the Emperor, carried a certain dullness of faith. It was for that very reason the chaplain-brothers had so often reprimanded him.
Cyrene parted her lips.
She could feel the words swirling upon her tongue—Truth itself tore at her, wounding her soul and promising her sufferings yet to come.
Argel Tal's eyes widened. He still knelt upon one knee, but Cyrene stumbled to her feet before the assembled Word Bearers. From her pale, sightless eyes, tears began to flow.
"I have seen the truth… He still—He still allows you to believe."
She spoke, remembering the sorrow that had lain in His eyes.
It was a strange, half-formed statement—but somehow, Argel Tal felt a quiet relief unfurl deep within his chest.
. . .
The Emperor's hand froze above the game board. Across from him, Malcador looked on with concern, while on the other side, Hades leaned forward curiously.
"What is it, Neoth?"
Hades asked gruffly, ignoring Malcador's warning glance.
The Emperor calmly moved his next piece.
"Nothing," He said. "A trick of spirits and faith."
. . .
"Are you sad?"
The blind woman walked with careful, uncertain steps through the long corridors of the Word Bearers' ship. She could feel many presences around her—many eyes watching. They seemed ready to assist her, but she insisted on walking unaided.
Her hand brushed against the rounded, cold curve of an angel's pauldron. They were waiting—waiting for her to speak. So she did.
Silence answered her. None wished to break it.
Cyrene hesitated, then began again—speaking to the darkness before her. She was suddenly reminded of another darkness she had once faced, where pale green tears had shimmered in the void.
"Truth is… I was never particularly interested in the proclamations made in the squares."
Her voice trembled.
"I wasn't one of the fervent believers."
Cyrene gave a faint, self-mocking smile.
"Perhaps you'll find that answer unacceptable. After all, truth is always the opposite of what people wish to hear."
"When I first heard the news, I was angry—angry at why He would do such a thing. Even if I wasn't devout, I had given Him my trust and my loyalty. And there were so many faithful souls in that city—why would He do that to them?"
She shook her head lightly.
"I had dark, blasphemous thoughts. I desperately wanted to know why. Maybe my thoughts were too strong—so He…"
Cyrene swallowed.
"He came to me in a dream. And when I awoke, it was already the seventh day."
Argel Tal followed her in silence. His brothers lined the edges of the corridor—standing, kneeling—all watching her.
Did Cyrene know that a faint golden light surrounded her?
If the blind woman was unaware of the halo that shone upon her, and still had the courage to speak such words…
Then only faith itself could answer why.
"I saw the truth in my dream," Cyrene said softly.
"He is not… not as the proclamations describe Him. It's hard to explain—He simply is. When I saw Him, He looked weary and sorrowful."
"At that moment, I understood everything. He is a god—there is no question, that is an objective truth. But… something has gone wrong. Something must be corrected."
She fell silent, groping through the darkness of her own thoughts.
"The rain of fire," she said suddenly, "burned away the error in its flames. And the true believers… will be remade upon the imperfect ashes."
Argel Tal paused. Cyrene had somehow walked all the way to the threshold of the Primarch's meditation chamber.
He did not believe it was coincidence.
The Word Bearers standing guard exchanged uneasy glances—then silently stepped aside.
The golden light about Cyrene dimmed and vanished.
The door to the meditation chamber was already ajar. It creaked open slowly.
From within came the heavy, suffocating scent of blood.
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