The battle for Barathrum Hive had dragged on for weeks. The trenches were little more than scars carved into the mud, filled with the scent of blood, promethium, and rot. Sister Amelisse walked their length with measured steps, her robes trailing through the grime, her gloved hands steady despite the distant thunder of artillery.

She paused beside a wounded Guardsman, his breath shallow and bubbling. Kneeling, she pressed a vial of sacred unguent to his lips and whispered a quiet benediction.

"The Emperor sees your pain, child. Endure a moment more—your suffering will not be forgotten."

Her hand lingered as his chest stilled. Without a word, she drew the aquila across his brow in blood, then moved on.

While walking down the trench a shell impacted the ground a couple feet from her, but Amelisse did not flinch. She stopped by a squadron of guardsmen, giving them the hand sign of the imperial aquilla.

"Guardsmen. Are any of you in need of assistance?"