The battle for the temple of Nareth's Fall had ended hours ago. The Imperial assault had failed. Surviving Guardsmen had withdrawn under cover of artillery smoke, leaving behind their dead, their dying, and those too wounded to keep pace with the retreat.

Among the shattered trenches and burning wrecks, the howling banshees moved, clearing the area to secure their line. Among them was Lirael Shaiel, a newer banshee. Her ivory armor was stained with dust and blood, spirit-stones glimmering faintly in the dying light. She had been hunting survivors when she found him.

A lone Mon'keigh guardsman sat slumped against a broken wall. His lasgun empty beside him. He should have been afraid. Yet he merely watched the approaching Aeldari warrior with exhausted eyes.

Lirael stopped a few paces away. Her executioner blade remained lowered.

"Your kin abandoned you."

The wind tugged at her crimson hair as she studied him. Humans fascinated her. Their lives were so brief, their deaths so common, yet they fought with a stubbornness many Aeldari lacked.

She tilted her head slightly.

"Tell me, Mon'keigh... why? Do your kind hold no value in life?"