**Chapter 7: The Echo of War**
The world outside the Chamber of Echoes was a portrait of pandemonium painted in shades of fire and faith. The serene, ordered halls of the Convent of the Argent Shroud were now a warren of chaos. The mountain's death throes sent violent tremors through the marble floors, cracking priceless mosaics and sending statues of long-dead martyrs toppling from their alcoves like fallen gods. Emergency klaxons shrieked a discordant hymn, a counterpoint to the desperate, chanted litanies of the Sisters of Battle as they scrambled to their defensive positions.
Likas, with Elara in his arms, did not run through the collapsing corridors. He flew. The wings of silver-gold light on his back were not physical appendages; they were expressions of his will, propelling him through the air with silent, impossible speed. He moved like a phantom, a blur of controlled energy, the ANITO Protocol now operating at a level that was light-years beyond its original design. It was no longer just a computational engine; it was a divine co-processor, processing the chaos of the battle, the structural instabilities of the mountain, and the swirling currents of the Aethel with sublime, instantaneous clarity.
Elara was rigid in his arms, her mind struggling to reconcile the reality of the situation. She was a woman of logic, faith, and bolter-fire. The man holding her, who she had viewed as a broken but manageable asset, had just held a conversation with a vengeful ten-thousand-year-old skeleton, manifested wings of pure energy, and was now flying through solid rock as if it were smoke. Her entire understanding of the universe had been shattered and remade in the last ten minutes.
"Where are we going?" she managed to ask, her voice tight with controlled shock.
"The Grand Bulwark," Likas replied, his voice calm and resonant, echoing with the dual frequencies of his new power. "The main defensive line at the mountain's peak. It's where the enemy will concentrate their main assault. It's where we can do the most damage."
The ANITO Protocol was feeding him a constant, three-dimensional schematic of the fortress-monastery, highlighting structural stress points to avoid and tactical nexuses to exploit. He wasn't just flying; he was navigating a collapsing, four-dimensional battlespace. He burst through a vaulted ceiling into a massive, open-air cloister high up the mountainside. The sight that greeted them was apocalyptic.
The sky, once a pure, crystalline blue, was now a bruised, sickly purple-grey, choked with the exhaust of daemonic war engines. The silver ring of orbital defenses was a broken necklace, its chapels and platforms burning as they fell from the sky like vengeful comets. Thousands of Chaos drop pods, ugly, rust-colored things shaped like iron coffins, were streaking through the atmosphere, their retro-thrusters burning with hellish green fire as they slammed into the Convent's outer defenses. The disciplined ranks of the Tyrant of Chains' mortal legions were already pouring from the pods, their corrupt banners held high, their war cries a blasphemous chorus that echoed across the peaks.
And high above it all, a silver streak of pure light was wreaking havoc among the invaders. The Echo of Bone, a being of pure, righteous fury, was a one-woman apocalypse. She moved with the speed of thought, a skeletal wraith wreathed in holy fire. Beams of silver energy shot from her hands, vaporizing squads of traitor guardsmen. She phased through the hulls of Chaos assault landers, the vehicles imploding from the inside out as she unleashed her power. She was magnificent, terrible, and utterly untamed.
"By the Throne…" Elara breathed, witnessing the true, raw power of the Saint her order had unwittingly worshipped.
"She's a nova," Likas observed, his glowing eyes tracking the Echo's movements. "Burning bright and hot. But she's unfocused. All rage. She's wasting energy, striking targets of opportunity instead of strategic objectives."
He landed softly on the edge of the Grand Bulwark, a massive wall of silvered adamantium and reinforced rockcrete that formed the final line of defense for the mountain's summit. The Bulwark was already a scene of frantic, disciplined activity. Sisters of Battle in gleaming silver and white power armor were manning heavy bolter emplacements. Priests in flowing robes were blessing munitions, their hands glowing with faint, golden light. In the center of the wall, a Canoness, her armor adorned with golden filigree and a flowing white cloak, was directing the defense, her voice sharp and clear over the din of battle.
Likas setting Elara down on her feet caused an immediate stir. A dozen bolters were instantly leveled at him. The Sisters saw not a man, but a terrifying apparition of unknown origin, wreathed in an unholy-looking light, his very presence a violation of their sacred ground.
"Hold your fire!" Elara commanded, stepping in front of him, her authority absolute. "This is… an ally."
The Canoness, a stern, hard-faced woman named Isolde, strode towards them, her power sword crackling with energy. "Sister-Sergeant Elara. What is the meaning of this? And what is that… thing?" she demanded, her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she looked at Likas.
"That 'thing,' Canoness, is the reason we are still alive," Elara retorted, her composure returning as she fell back into the familiar role of a soldier in wartime. "The Inquisitor's project was… unexpectedly successful. He is Stigmator Aki Likas Reyes."
Isolde's eyes widened slightly. She had heard the whispers from the lower ranks, the tales of the demigod who had held the line on Baal-Secundus. But the stories did not do justice to the being standing before her. He was a giant, radiating an aura of power so immense it made the air hum. The dual-colored light of his aura was unlike anything she had ever seen—it held the purity of a Saint and the raw, untamed power of a storm.
"The mountain is falling, Canoness," Likas said, his voice cutting through the formalities. He pointed a glowing hand towards the sky, where a trio of massive Chaos landers were beginning their descent towards the Bulwark. These were not simple troop transports. They were Helltalon-class siege craft, designed to deliver daemon-engines to the battlefield. "Their primary assault is coming. Your heavy bolters will scratch their armor. Your faith is strong, but their numbers are stronger. You cannot hold this position for more than thirty minutes."
His assessment was blunt, cold, and, as Isolde knew in her heart, utterly true. "We are the Argent Shroud, Stigmator. We will die at our posts, if we must."
"You'll do more than die," Likas countered. "You'll help me win." He turned his gaze to the sky. The wings of light unfurled from his back again, more brilliant than before. "Elara. Coordinate with the Canoness. I need you to concentrate all heavy weapons fire on the central Helltalon, on my mark. Ignore the other two. Focus everything on the one."
"What are you going to do?" Elara asked, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her bolt pistol.
A grim smile touched Likas's lips. "I'm going to draw their fire."
With that, he launched himself into the air, a comet of silver and gold light ascending to meet the invading fleet. He was a single, defiant figure against a sky filled with enemies.
The effect was instantaneous. The Chaos forces, both on the ground and in the air, were creatures drawn to psychic power. The Echo of Bone was a brilliant, chaotic beacon. But Likas… Likas was a lighthouse. A steady, immense, and focused source of power that drew their attention like moths to a celestial flame. The gun-turrets on the Helltalons, which had been preparing to strafe the Bulwark, swiveled to track him. The air around him began to hiss as their targeting cogitators locked on.
*…foolish little godling…* a new voice, vast and imperious, echoed in his mind. It was the voice of the Chaos Lord commanding this invasion, a being of immense psychic stature who watched from the bridge of his flagship in orbit. *…you make yourself a target… a grand, futile gesture…*
"A gesture?" Likas said aloud, his voice booming across the sky, amplified by his own power. "No. This is a lesson."
He flew higher, positioning himself directly between the sun and the central Helltalon. The ANITO Protocol was a blur of activity, calculating trajectories, energy signatures, atmospheric densities. It was performing a level of environmental and tactical analysis that would have required a fleet of cogitator-banks.
He brought his hands together, and the Aethel answered his call. The silver and gold energy swirling around him began to coalesce, drawn into a single, blinding point between his palms. It was not a chaotic torrent like the one that had destroyed Valerius's chamber. This was focused, compressed, controlled. He was gathering the ambient light of the system's star, pulling it through the lens of his own power, shaping it into a weapon.
The Helltalons opened fire. A storm of incandescent energy bolts and heavy projectiles tore through the air, all aimed at the single, glowing man in the sky.
Likas didn't dodge. He simply created a small, shimmering shield of pure will in front of him. Most of the shots went wide, unable to track his impossible speed. The few that did hit splashed harmlessly against the shield, their energy dissipated by his control. He was an insect dancing in a hurricane, untouched.
"Now, Elara!" he roared, his voice a psychic command that lanced directly into her mind.
On the Bulwark, Elara relayed the order. "FIRE!"
Every heavy bolter, every multi-melta, every las-cannon on the wall roared to life, unleashing a concentrated storm of firepower at the central Helltalon. The void shields of the Chaos craft shimmered and buckled under the focused assault. Armor plates were blasted away. One of its engines sputtered, trailing black, oily smoke. The craft listed, its descent becoming unstable. It was wounded, vulnerable.
And Likas unleashed his attack.
He thrust his hands forward, and the compressed star-fire he had gathered shot out in a beam of pure, white-hot brilliance. It was a lance of solidified sunlight, a weapon of celestial fury. It struck the wounded Helltalon directly in its armored prow.
There was no explosion. The beam simply… pierced. It went through the front of the craft and out the back, melting a perfectly round, ten-meter-wide tunnel through the entire length of the ship, flash-vaporizing everything in its path—crew, daemon-engines, power conduits. For a moment, the Helltalon hung in the air, a silent, hollowed-out shell. Then, its internal structure failed, and it folded in on itself, crumpling like a can before blossoming into a massive, silent fireball in the sky.
The shockwave washed over the Bulwark, a hot wind that made banners snap and sent loose debris skittering across the adamantium plating. The Sisters of Battle and the priests stared up at the sky in stunned, reverent silence. They had just witnessed a miracle.
The other two Helltalons, their escort destroyed, faltered. Their commanders, faced with a being who could seemingly wield the sun as a weapon, made a tactical decision. They broke off their attack run, veering away to begin a wider, circling approach.
Likas did not pursue. He hung in the air, a glowing sentinel, his wings of light beating slowly. He had not just destroyed a siege craft. He had broken the momentum of their assault. He had sown fear and confusion in their ranks. He had bought time.
But the battle was far from over. On the ground, the legion of the Damned was advancing, a tide of rusted iron and corrupted flesh surging towards the lower gates of the Convent. They were led by Chaos Space Marines of the Iron Warriors legion, masters of siege craft, their armor a grim, burnished steel, adorned with chevrons of black and yellow. They were methodical, relentless, and they were bringing up heavy ordnance.
The voice of the Chaos Lord returned, its tone no longer amused, but filled with a cold, grudging respect. *…a clever trick, little godling. You have won the opening gambit. But this mountain is a tomb, and I have all the time in the world to bury you in it.*
Likas descended, landing softly back on the Grand Bulwark. The Sisters no longer aimed their weapons at him. They stared with a mixture of fear and profound awe. He was no longer just an asset. He was their salvation.
"Report," he said, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield below.
Canoness Isolde, her face pale but her eyes burning with a new, fervent light, stepped forward. "The lower bastions are reporting heavy fighting. The enemy is deploying Obliterators and Mutilators. They are tearing through the gates."
Likas knew those names. They were grotesque fusions of Chaos Marine, daemon, and weaponry. Living siege engines that could morph their limbs into a variety of devastating weapons.
"And what of the Echo?" Elara asked, scanning the sky.
As if summoned, the streak of silver light descended, landing a short distance away from them. The Echo of Bone stood there, its skeletal frame radiating a cold, intense fury. It had single-handedly destroyed dozens of smaller craft and hundreds of traitor soldiers, but its movements were becoming slower, its light slightly dimmer.
*…they are endless…* the Saint's voice echoed in their minds, laced with a weary frustration. *…a tide of filth… they defile my sacred ground with their very presence…*
"You can't fight a tide one drop at a time," Likas said, turning to face the ancient spirit. "You are rage. I am tactics. We need to work together."
The Echo's burning eyes narrowed. *…I need no one. I am the righteous hand of vengeance…*
"And you'll burn yourself out in an hour," Likas stated bluntly. "Your power is immense, but it is finite. You are a battery that has been charging for ten thousand years. Once it's spent, it's spent. My power," he held up a hand, and the silver-gold light swirled around it, "is different. I am a reactor. I draw from the world around me. From faith. From rage. From the very light of the star. I can help you regulate your power. Focus it. Together, we can break them. Apart, we will both eventually be overwhelmed."
The logic was sound, irrefutable. The Echo looked from the relentless tide of Chaos forces below to the calm, powerful figure of Likas. For the first time, the ancient Saint considered the possibility that its ten-thousand-year-old rage was not enough.
*…what do you propose, reactor?*
A plan, born from the divine calculus of the ANITO Protocol, bloomed in Likas's mind. It was audacious, incredibly dangerous, and relied on perfect timing.
"The enemy's strength is their numbers and their siege engines. They believe they can grind this mountain down. We will use that belief against them. We are going to abandon the outer defenses."
The Canoness gasped. "Abandon the bastions? That is unthinkable! It is sacred ground!"
"Sacred ground is worthless if everyone standing on it is dead," Likas countered. "We are going to let them in. Funnel them into the chokepoints of the lower cloisters. The Path of Sorrows. The Martyr's Ascent. Places where their numbers count for nothing."
He turned to Elara. "I need you and the Canoness to coordinate a fighting withdrawal. Give them ground, but make them pay for every inch in blood. I need you to lead them into a trap."
"And what will be the jaws of this trap?" Elara asked, her mind already racing, processing the tactical implications.
Likas looked at the Echo of Bone. A grim understanding passed between them. "We will."
His gaze then swept over the Sisters of Battle on the wall. They were brave, resolute, but he could see the fear behind their helmets. They needed more than tactics. They needed a miracle to hold onto.
He raised his voice, and it boomed across the entire Bulwark, resonating with a power that was both holy and martial. "Sisters of the Argent Shroud! You have prayed to your Saint for ten thousand years! You have guarded her relics and sung her praises! Today, your faith is answered! For your Saint has returned to fight alongside you!"
He gestured to the Echo of Bone. The skeletal Saint, caught in the tide of his powerful rhetoric, drew itself up to its full height, its silver aura flaring brightly, a terrifying and inspiring sight.
Likas continued, his voice a clarion call of hope against the tide of despair. "And I am with you! The enemy believes this mountain is your tomb! We will make it their grave! We will show them the fire of human faith and the fury of a human soul! We will show them that this is our ground, and they are not welcome here!"
A roar went up from the Sisters. It was a sound of renewed, fanatical faith. Fear was burned away, replaced by righteous fury. They were no longer just soldiers defending a fortress. They were crusaders, fighting alongside their returned Saint and a new, unknown demigod. Their belief, their faith, surged outwards, a palpable wave of psychic energy.
Likas felt it wash over him. And he smiled. His internal reserves, which had been depleted by the solar lance attack, began to replenish. This was the second part of his power. He was a reactor fueled by the Aethel around him, and nothing generated more potent, ordered Aethel than the focused faith of the Adepta Sororitas. They were his power source.
*…you are a manipulator, reactor…* the Echo's voice noted in his mind, though it held a note of grudging admiration.
*…I am a leader, spirit…* Likas replied mentally. *…and our army is ready. Now, let's go set our trap.*
He turned to the Echo. "The Obliterators. They are the key to their siege. We need to eliminate them before they can breach the inner sanctum. I will draw their attention. When they reveal their positions, you will unmake them from existence. Precision strikes. No wasted energy."
The Echo nodded its skeletal head once. A pact was sealed.
With another beat of his luminous wings, Likas launched himself from the wall, a descending star plunging into the heart of the battle below. The Echo of Bone dissolved into a streak of silver light, vanishing into the shadows of the mountain, a ghost waiting for its moment to strike.
On the wall, Elara watched Likas go, her heart pounding in her chest. The project she had set in motion to secure the future of her House had just become the fulcrum upon which the fate of this entire world, and perhaps the sector, now rested. She looked at the determined, newly-inspired faces of the Sisters around her. She looked at the advancing tide of Chaos. She keyed her command-vox.
"All units," she commanded, her voice as hard and clear as diamond. "Initiate strategic withdrawal protocol 'Scorched Saint.' Make the heretics bleed for every single step. For the Emperor, for the Shroud… and for the future."
The war for Aethelgard-Prime had begun in earnest. And its soul would be forged, or broken, in the fire and echo of this single, desperate day.