Sister Felicia felt hopeless for the first time in her life. Reinforcements were not coming. Faith would not save them this time. The monastery at Kautheria III would fall.

She could hear the singing. It pierced her head, drilling deep into the skull. A hymn, sung in a language older than humanity itself.

Around her, sisters were dying in agony, blue flame burning from their eyes and mouths. With all her resolve she raised her holy bolter, aiming at the golden Norn Emissary standing before her. Yet, as she pulled the trigger, each of her bullets was stopped mid-air by a shimmering veil of light.

Two explosions cracked behind her, and she felt a rush of air as the implosion ruptured a Castigator tank, its armour crumbling inward like a piece of paper.

The swarm bore down on her position. Bolter rounds tore through chitin and flesh alike, and still the beasts came on, indifferent to their dead. A fleshborer round tore through her shoulder guard, biting deep into muscle, the pain paralysing her hand. She had no choice but to fall back.

Her vox-cast cracked: “They’re already here! We’re surroun—”

Static. No one called back.

She reached the cathedral doors. There was nowhere left to fall back to.

A tide of gold-chitined horrors swallowed the procession stairs. Three monsters ascended, impossibly quick for their size. A Hive Tyrant, flanked by two golden figures, towering over the chapels around them. Its swords, sentient blades from another galaxy, dripped with blood.

It, this thing that they called the Four Armed Emperor. The blasphemy filled her with fury. She revved her chainsword, and the sound of it was the last human thing left on Kautheria III.

+++ THOUGHT OF THE DAY: HOPE DIES. FAITH NEVER DOES +++