**Chapter 5: The Echo of Prayer**
The journey through the Maelstrom was, for the first time, peaceful.
Likas spent most of it in the medicae bay, his body slowly knitting itself back together under the care of Elara's impassive chirurgeons. Without the constant, grating whispers of the Abyss scratching at his mind, the chaotic tides of the Immaterium were just a cascade of silent, impossible colors viewed through the armored portholes of the *Sword of Retribution*. He watched nebulae of pure emotion boil and churn in the void, saw fleets of spectral ghost-ships sail on currents of forgotten memory, and felt nothing. The deafness was absolute. It gave him a terrifying clarity. He was an observer, no longer a participant.
The ANITO Protocol used this downtime to perform a full system diagnostic, a deep defragmentation of his soul-engine. It was like a machine finally given the silence to hear its own broken gears. The conclusion it presented was chilling: his connection to the Aethel wasn't just damaged; a fundamental "protocol" had been erased, as if a line of essential code had been wiped from his very being. The potential for a "volatile, uncontrolled reconnection" was not a risk; it was a near-certainty.
Elara visited him daily. Their conversations were brief, professional, and danced around the immense, unspoken contract that now existed between them. She brought him tactical readouts on the Tyrant of Chains' encroaching fleets, historical data-slates on the Saints of the Argent Shroud, and nutrient paste that tasted vaguely of nutrient paste. They never spoke of Baal-Secundus. They never spoke of the child that might be. They were two consummate professionals discussing a high-stakes project, the raw materials of which were their own bodies and souls.
It was during one of these visits that the ship transitioned back into realspace. The lurch from the Maelstrom's un-reality was jarring, but what appeared on the main viewscreen of the medicae bay was breathtaking.
Aethelgard-Prime.
It was a world of impossible, sculpted beauty. From orbit, it looked less like a planet and more like a master artisan's jewel. Continents were wrapped in vibrant green, oceans were a deep, sapphire blue, and a single, perfect ring of silver—a flotilla of orbital defense platforms and celestial chapels—glittered around its equator. There was no sign of the industrial scars or sprawling hive-cities that plagued most of the Concordat's worlds. This was a planet preserved, sanctified.
The *Sword of Retribution* descended through an atmosphere that felt, even through layers of hull plating, clean and pure. The destination was a vast, snow-capped mountain that dominated the largest continent, a peak so tall its summit was wreathed in a permanent crown of ice and clouds. Carved into the very heart of this mountain was the Convent of the Argent Shroud.
It was a fortress-monastery on a scale that defied reason. Towers of white marble and silvered adamantium scraped the sky, connected by soaring archways and delicate-looking bridges that must have been held aloft by faith as much as by structural engineering. Waterfalls cascaded from impossible heights, feeding lush, terraced gardens where figures in white and silver robes moved in silent contemplation. The entire structure hummed with a palpable energy, a low, resonant thrum of pure, concentrated belief.
Even in his deafened state, Likas felt it. It was a pressure against his skin, a static charge in the air. It was the polar opposite of the Maelstrom's chaotic hum. This was ordered, focused, and overwhelming.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Elara stood beside him, her gaze fixed on the approaching Convent. "The faith of trillions, focused into a single point for ten thousand years. It has… an effect on the local reality."
"It feels… heavy," Likas said, his voice now a strong, steady baritone, his body almost fully healed. He was dressed in a simple black jumpsuit, the first time he had worn unarmored clothing since his creation. He felt naked, exposed.
"It is the weight of devotion," Elara said. "You will get used to it."
Likas wasn't so sure. The silence in his mind remained, but this new, external pressure felt just as invasive. It was a clean, orderly noise, but it was still noise.
Their lander, a sleek, silver craft, set down on a vast landing platform cantilevered over a chasm thousands of feet deep. The air that greeted them was thin, cold, and so pure it felt like inhaling liquid crystal. The welcoming party was not what Likas had expected. There were no honor guards, no trumpets. Just a single, ancient woman, flanked by two towering Sisters of Battle in full, ornate power armor, their helmets shaped like weeping saints.
The woman was the Abbess-Sanctorum of the Argent Shroud, named Mireia. She was impossibly old, her face a mask of fine, parchment-like wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp and clear, burning with a fierce, intelligent light. She was stooped, leaning heavily on a staff of polished, bone-white wood, yet she radiated an aura of absolute authority that dwarfed even Elara's.
"Sister-Sergeant Elara," the Abbess's voice was like the crackle of old parchment, yet it carried across the platform with ease. "You have returned. And you have brought… the asset."
Her piercing gaze fell upon Likas. It was not a look of awe or reverence. It was the look of a master craftsman examining a flawed, dangerous, but potentially useful tool. She saw everything—his power, his damage, the ghost of the other man that haunted his eyes.
"Abbess-Sanctorum Mireia," Elara said, executing a perfect, formal bow. "I have come as the Inquisitor instructed. The asset requires recalibration."
"So I have been told," Mireia said, her eyes never leaving Likas. "He feels… hollow. A wound in the Great Tapestry. A silent scream. Most unusual." She took a slow, shuffling step closer. "Tell me, asset, what do you hear when you pray?"
The question was a scalpel, aimed at a precise point. Likas met her gaze. "I don't pray, Abbess."
A thin, dry smile touched her lips. "Honest. A rare and dangerous quality. Come. The Inquisitor awaits you in the Chamber of Echoes. He is… eager to begin his work."
She turned and began to shuffle towards a towering set of silver doors, her two guards falling into step behind her. Likas and Elara followed, their footsteps echoing in the vast, silent space.
The interior of the Convent was a breathtaking display of Gothic architecture and sacred art. Halls wide enough to march a tank regiment through were lined with colossal statues of saints and martyrs. The vaulted ceilings were covered in frescoes depicting epic battles against daemonic hordes, the light from high, stained-glass windows painting the marble floors in shifting patterns of ruby and sapphire. The air was thick with the scent of incense and cold stone. And everywhere, there was the pressure, the constant, psychic hum of unwavering faith.
But as they went deeper, Likas felt something else beneath the surface. A subtle dissonance. The ANITO Protocol, even in its damaged state, was a master of pattern recognition. It detected things his conscious mind could not. The way the shadows in the corners seemed just a little too deep. The way the eyes of the statues seemed to follow them, their serene, painted expressions holding a hint of sorrow, of warning. The echoes of their footsteps sounded subtly wrong, as if another, unseen set of feet were walking with them.
It was the horror of a holy place that feels haunted. A sanctuary that holds a secret sickness in its heart.
They arrived at a circular chamber deep within the mountain. The walls were unadorned, made of a strange, black, non-reflective stone that seemed to drink the light. In the center of the room, suspended in a crackling, golden field of energy, was a human heart.
It was the Heart of Saint Celestine, the Order's most sacred relic. It was a deep, healthy red, and it was beating. A slow, powerful, metronomic rhythm—*thump-thump*—that matched the beeping from Likas's medicae monitor. Each beat sent a visible ripple through the golden energy field, a wave of pure Aethel that washed through the room.
The pressure here was immense. It felt like being at the bottom of a psychic ocean. The silence in Likas's mind began to fray at the edges, replaced by a faint, high-pitched ringing.
A man stood before the beating heart, his back to them. He was tall and skeletally thin, dressed in the black robes and crimson sash of an Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus.
"Ah, he is here," the Inquisitor said, without turning around. His voice was a cultured, academic tenor, but with an undercurrent of something sharp and dangerous, like a razor blade hidden in velvet. "The miracle of Baal-Secundus. The man who tore a hole in the universe to swat a fly."
He turned, and Likas felt a jolt of surprise. Inquisitor Valerius was young, perhaps no older than thirty standard years, with a handsome, aristocratic face, a neatly trimmed goatee, and intelligent, dark eyes that burned with a frightening intensity. This was not some ancient, grizzled daemon-hunter. This was a scholar, a theorist, a radical.
"Inquisitor Valerius," Elara said, her tone respectful but wary.
"Sister-Sergeant," Valerius acknowledged with a curt nod, before his full attention snapped back to Likas. "Project LIKAS. A fascinating confluence of the archaic and the arcane. The brute force of genetic augmentation married to the subtle blade of Aethel-sensitivity. And now… a blank page. A unique opportunity to rewrite a flawed text."
He began to circle Likas slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. "You see, your creators were clumsy. They took an archaic hominid template, fused it with a modern soul, and then simply… branded it. They opened a door to the Maelstrom and hoped the man standing in the doorway was strong enough not to be pulled through. It was crude. Powerful, yes, but unstable. Prone to… burnout."
He gestured to Likas's chest. "What happened on Baal-Secundus was inevitable. You poured too much raw power through too narrow a focus. You blew the fuse. What I propose is not simply to replace the fuse. I intend to rewire the entire house."
Likas felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air. This man's ambition was terrifying.
"The heart of a Saint," Valerius continued, his eyes gleaming with intellectual fervor as he gazed at the relic. "It is a perfect Aethel-resonator. It does not touch the Maelstrom. It generates its own pure, ordered frequency, shaped by centuries of belief. It is the keynote of this entire world."
He turned back to Likas. "Your Stigmata is a wound. A chaotic void. Nature abhors a vacuum. If we place you within the relic's energy field, the pure Aethel will rush to fill the void within you. It will not just restart your connection; it will reshape it. It will rebuild it, using the Saint's holy resonance as a blueprint. You will no longer be a crude gateway to the Maelstrom. You will become a self-contained reactor of holy energy. A true living Saint."
The plan was elegant, audacious, and utterly insane.
"And the risks you mentioned to Elara?" Likas asked, his voice steady.
"Are significant," Valerius admitted without hesitation. "Your void could prove too greedy. It could drain the relic dry, destroying a priceless artifact and plunging this world into psychic darkness. Or, your system could fail to regulate the influx. The power would overwhelm you, and you would detonate with the force of a small star. The Abbess is… concerned about her mountain."
His casual dismissal of the potential consequences was more frightening than any threat. To Valerius, they were all just variables in the most fascinating experiment of his lifetime.
"So I'm a guinea pig," Likas stated flatly.
"You are the key to a new age for humanity!" Valerius countered, his voice rising with passion. "A future where our champions are not just tainted conduits for chaotic power, but pure vessels of the Emperor's light! Imagine it, man! An army of you!"
Likas looked from the mad Inquisitor to the impassive face of Elara. He saw the deal laid bare. Valerius wanted his perfect soldier of light. Elara wanted her sword and her legacy. And the Abbess… the Abbess just wanted to protect her Convent. He was the pawn in the center of their board.
And beneath it all, the subtle, wrong feeling of the Convent persisted. The deep shadows, the sorrowful eyes of the statues, the faint, high-pitched ringing that was slowly growing louder in his mind. Something was here. Something ancient and patient, hiding behind the incense and the prayers.
"When do we begin?" Likas asked, his decision already made. There was no other path. The only way out was through.
Valerius smiled, a wide, brilliant, terrifying smile. "Immediately. The celestial alignment is perfect. The Heart's rhythm is at its strongest." He gestured to the empty space before the relic. "Please. Step into the light, Stigmator. It is time for your rebirth."
Likas took a deep breath of the cold, heavy air. He gave Elara one last look. Her face was a marble mask, but he could see the tension in her jaw, the desperate hope warring with cold dread in her eyes. He gave her a slow, almost imperceptible nod. A promise.
Then, he turned and walked towards the golden, pulsing light of the dead Saint's heart. He was a man with two souls walking to his third execution, praying to a god he didn't believe in that this one would finally stick.
The ringing in his mind sharpened, and for the first time since Baal-Secundus, a voice whispered from the silence. It was not the guttural rasp of a daemon or the gurgling hunger of the Carrion-Kind. It was a soft, sad, female voice, and it said only one word.
*…betrayal…*