It had been a chaotic hour on the front. Artillery shook the earth, dust fell like dying snow, and vox-lines screamed for replacement parts the forge had long since run out of. Lyria-9 stepped down into the mud of the trench, robe hems immediately soaking through. The Guardsmen stared—no one expected the Priesthood to walk toward the bombardment.

A damaged lascannon crew waved her over. She did not look at them, only the half-melted power couplings.

“Suboptimal maintenance detected,” she said, crouching as her mechadendrites uncoiled. “Stand by. Enginseer correction cycle commencing.”

A shell exploded nearby; dirt rained on her hood. She didn’t flinch, only pushed a drenched strand of white hair back under her mask.

One of the Guardsmen tried to explain what happened to the weapon, but she held up a hand. “Verbal report unnecessary. Machine-spirit already complaining louder than you.”

Sparks snapped as she tore out a ruined cable and forced a new one in, muttering binharic blessings under her breath. The lascannon hummed back to life, its spirit purring in renewed function.

She rose, brushing mud from her robes.

“Operational status: restored. Attempt not to break it again. Probability of repeated failure exceeds tolerance.”