CHAPTER ONE: THE SHATTERED GLASS
Schola Progenium Command Center, Terra, 772.M41
Michael reviewed the dataslate for the third time, trying to focus on the words instead of the empty chair across his desk.
Carmine had sat there two months ago, boots up on his reports despite his protests, arguing about progeni placement policies while simultaneously running three Inquisitorial investigations. She'd made it look effortless—the multitasking, the irreverence masking deadly competence, the way she could make him laugh even when discussing the driest administrative minutiae.
Now the chair was empty. Would stay empty.
Focus, Goldenrod. You have work.
The dataslate showed the outgoing Sororitas detachment's final report. The Order of the Sacred Rose, who'd provided his bodyguard detail for the past six years, were being reassigned to active combat duty in Segmentum Tempestus. They'd requested the transfer—repeatedly, with increasing emphasis—until he'd finally approved it.
"We're warriors, Commandant," their Palatine had said bluntly. "Not nursemaids for bureaucrats. With respect."
He hadn't taken offense. They were right. Terra was safe. His position was administrative. A Sororitas detail was overkill for protecting a Schola Commandant who spent most of his time reviewing training reports and arguing with Munitorum officials. Except when there were corrupt High lords of Terra afoot, but you could trust Regenmt Gulliman to deal with those.
Except he wasn't just a Schola Commandant anymore.
Senator Goldenrod. Member of the Senatorium Imperialis. Target of at least one successful assassination conspiracy, with Emperor-knew-how-many others waiting for opportunities.
Hence the replacement detail.
Michael set down the outgoing report and picked up the incoming one. Much thinner. Most of it was casualty lists.
Order of the Shattered Glass. Damascus Sulci Sanctum Wardens, Twelfth Company. Status: Decimated. Survivors: Five. Redeployment: Terra, Schola Progenium Bodyguard Detail.
Five. Out of forty-seven.
He read the combat report. Then read it again.
Enceladus. Saturn's ice moon, hosting a Grey Knights fortress and a corrupt Lord High Admiral who'd needed... removal. The details were sealed under Inquisitorial authority—Carmine's authority, which he'd inherited along with her unfinished investigations and the grief—but the combat assessment wasn't.
Diversionary Attack: Chaos forces assault Damascus Sulci fortress. Forty-seven Battle Sisters hold position for forty-three hours against continuous assault while primary target—Grey Knights fortress—receives reinforcement. Final casualty count: Forty-two Sisters KIA. Five Sisters critically wounded, recovered by Grey Knights.
Forty-three hours.
He'd held positions before. Knew what forty-three hours of continuous combat felt like. The exhaustion, the desperation, watching your soldiers die one by one while you tried to keep the line intact.
These women had done it on an ice moon. In void-sealed armor. Against forces that should have overrun them in the first hour.
A soft chime. His door.
"Enter."
Captain-Commissar Valim Dumont, his adjutant, stepped in with proper military precision. Behind him—
Good grief.
Four women in blue power armor, the distinctive ceramite of the Adepta Sororitas. One slightly ahead of the others, gold trim marking her rank. All of them moving like they expected attack from any direction. Combat-ready even here, in the heart of the Imperial Palace.
Survivors moved differently than soldiers who'd never faced real danger. These women had the look.
"Commandant," Valim said formally. "Canoness Superior Leilani Serendib Planitia and the Damascus Sulci Sanctum Wardens, reporting for duty."
Michael stood, setting the dataslate aside. "Canoness Superior. Welcome to Terra."
The lead Sister—Leilani—removed her helmet with practiced efficiency. Dark hair pulled back in a tight braid, skin that spoke of a warm homeworld before the Schola had claimed her, and eyes that were currently cataloging every detail of his office with professional precision.
Pretty eyes, actually. Warm brown with—
Stop. Professional distance. You're her commanding officer.
"Commandant Goldenrod." Her voice was measured, controlled. "We are honored to serve. Though I confess some confusion about the assignment."
"Confusion?"
"We requested frontline redeployment. Combat operations. Not..." She glanced around his office—books, dataslates, a small shrine to the Emperor in the corner, his cap Aquila resting on the desk. "...administrative protection duty."
Blunt. He appreciated that.
"I didn't request a bodyguard detail either," Michael said. "The Senate did. After certain... incidents."
"The Nibali conspiracy." Not a question. She'd been briefed.
"Among others." He gestured to the chairs. "Please, sit. You've been traveling for—" he checked the dataslate "—six days. You should be exhausted."
"We're Sororitas, Commandant. Exhaustion is irrelevant to duty."
"Canoness Superior, you held a fortress for forty-three hours against continuous assault. You're allowed to be tired." I'm allowed to require you to rest, instead of pretending you're able, he wanted to blurt out.
Something flickered in her expression. Surprise? Or maybe just the simple acknowledgment that he'd read the report, understood what it meant.
"As you say, Commandant." She settled into the chair—not Carmine's chair, the one beside it—with military posture. Her Sisters remained standing, flanking the door.
Michael forced his attention back to professional matters. "I've reviewed your combat records. All of you. Exemplary service. The Grey Knights' commendation was particularly notable."
"We did our duty. Nothing more."
"You held against forces that should have killed you in the first hour. For forty-three hours. That's considerably more than 'nothing.' And a unit that formally doesn't exist, that you need inquisitorial permission to even know is real, says 'these are real warriors, too valuable to mindwipe or kill just because they know our secret'."
"Forty-two of my Sisters did not survive to hear your praise, Commandant." Her voice remained level, controlled, but something underneath—grief, rage, both—bled through. "I'd rather the angels of death had sent sufficient reinforcements than honor them posthumously to be honest."
Michael met her eyes. Saw the survivor's guilt there, raw and familiar.
"Your Sisters' sacrifice bought time for the Grey Knights to repel a major Chaos incursion. Their deaths had meaning. Purpose. That's all any of us can hope for in the Emperor's service." He paused. "And you're right. You didn't have a choice. Duty rarely gives us that courtesy. But you chose to hold anyway. That matters."
Silence. Leilani studying him with those warm brown eyes—
Stop noticing. Focus on the briefing.
"Your duty here is straightforward," Michael continued, pulling up a tactical display. "Personal protection, primarily. I spend most of my time on Terra—Schola facilities, Senate meetings, occasional Imperial Palace functions. Low threat environment, theoretically."
"Theoretically?"
"Nibali proved that Terra isn't as safe as we'd like to believe. His conspiracy had tentacles throughout the Senatorium, the Munitorum, even the Inquisition. We've purged the obvious corruption, but..." He touched his cap Aquila unconsciously. "Carmine believed it went deeper. That Nibali was just one servant of a larger threat."
"The daemon." Again, not a question. Definitely briefed.
"Klamm#rdian-the-S#cret-Unkn#wn. Greater Daemon of The Changer of the Ways." Even naming such a demon was not safe, naming his patron? If it was safe, it could still land you an interrogation from an Inquisitor who'd wonder how you knew it... "We're investigating, but these things take time. Until we know the scope of the conspiracy, everyone involved is a potential target."
"Including you."
"Especially me. Carmine left me her investigation files. Her authority, in some matters. Her unfinished business." He smiled without humor. "Lucky me."
One of the other Sisters—the shortest of the group, built like a fortress in her armor—spoke up. "Commandant, with respect, if you're hunting a Greater Daemon, why aren't we deploying for combat operations?"
"Because I'm not hunting anything yet. I'm investigating. Gathering intelligence. Coordinating with the Ordo Malleus and what's left of Carmine's network. When—if—we locate Klammordian's manifestation point, there will be combat. But until then, it's research and politics. The exciting life of a Senator."
The Sister didn't look satisfied, but nodded acceptance.
"Your quarters are in the Schola's east wing," Michael continued. "Officer accommodations, privacy and training facilities included. You'll coordinate with Captain-Commissar Dumont on daily schedules. I keep relatively predictable hours—"
"Predictable schedules create vulnerability," Leilani interrupted.
"Welcome to administrative life. I can't skip Senate sessions because it might be tactically suboptimal."
"Then we'll adapt." She stood, helmet back under her arm. "Commandant, one question."
"Yes?"
"Why us? Specifically. There are dozens of Sororitas Orders who could provide bodyguard details. Why assign a decimated unit to protection duty on Terra when you just acknowledged we're survivors of heavy combat?"
It was a good question. The kind of question a competent officer asked when assignments didn't make tactical sense.
"Because I read your report," Michael said quietly. "All of it. Including the parts about the environmental damage—the frostbite, the hypothermia injuries, the respiratory trauma from Enceladus's atmosphere. Your Order needs time to heal. Physically and—" he met her eyes "—in other ways. Terra provides that time. Safe environment, access to the best medicae facilities in the Imperium, light duty that lets you recover."
"We don't need—"
"Yes, you do. And I'm not asking. Your Canoness Commander agreed to this assignment specifically because someone needs to make sure you actually recover before throwing yourselves back into combat. Consider it a gift. Or an order. Whichever you'll actually obey."
Leilani's jaw tightened. For a moment he thought she'd argue. Then—
"As you command, Commandant. We serve."
"Good. Dismissed. Get settled. We'll begin proper duty rotations tomorrow. And Canoness Superior?"
She paused at the door. "Yes?"
"Welcome to Terra. I hope it's boring."
After they left, Michael sat back down and stared at the empty chair across from him.
Good grief, Goldenrod. Five minutes and you're already noticing her. The way she moves. Her hips, her eyes. The strength in her voice even when she's fighting exhaustion.
Professional distance. She's your subordinate. She's Sororitas. She just lost forty-two Sisters. The absolute last thing she needs is her commanding officer noticing—
STOP.
He pulled up the next report. Forced himself to read. Focused on supply requisitions and training schedules and anything other than warm brown eyes and the curve of a warrior's stance.
It was going to be a long assignment.
Later that evening. East Wing, Sororitas Quarters.
Leilani removed her armor piece by piece, methodical routine that let her process the day.
The Commandant was not what she'd expected.
Older, obviously. Lines around his eyes, despite juvenat treatments, they were required of someone at that level, grief sitting heavy on his shoulders. Recent loss—the Inquisitor he'd mentioned, Carmine Petit. The woman whose investigation Leilani had briefly crossed paths with on Enceladus, when Inquisitor Petit and Interrogator Spinoza had been investigating the corrupt admiral.
Smart woman. Competent investigator. Dead now, like so many competent servants of the Emperor.
But the Commandant... there was something in the way he'd looked at her. Not the way most Imperial officials looked at Sororitas—either reverent awe or uncomfortable wariness. He'd looked at her like a person. A soldier. Someone who'd seen things she hadn't understood, but he did.
The way he'd read their report. Actually read it. Understood what forty-three hours meant.
"Superior?" Sister Maryam, the youngest of their survivors, stood in the doorway. "Thoughts?"
"He seems competent."
"For a bureaucrat."
"He's a Senator now, but he was a Captain-Commissar for decades. Combat veteran. He understands. Then he was a general-commissar, made sure the second front of the Sabbat Crusade was firm, millions of troops were his to sacrifice or call 'too valuable to cull'."
Sister Keiko—the fortress who'd questioned why they weren't deploying—grunted agreement. "Read the citation for his Golden Skull if you haven't. Man knows how to fight."
"Then why are we here watching him shuffle reports?" Maryam's frustration was clear.
"Because the Emperor wills it," Leilani said automatically. Then, more honestly: "Because he's right. We need recovery time. And because a Chaos daemon's conspiracy targeted Terra itself. That's not small stakes. Because the great enemy tried to kill him, and many he calls dear, and fell short."
Sister Ahn, the quietest of them, spoke from where she was cleaning her bolter. "He looked at you."
Leilani stilled. "He looked at all of us. Briefing."
"No. He looked at you. Different."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm not. Keiko?"
Keiko shrugged. "Maybe? Hard to tell. But there was something."
"There was nothing," Leilani said firmly. "The Commandant is a professional. We're his bodyguard detail. That's all."
Maryam grinned. "He's not bad looking for an old man. Senator, war hero, apparently writes philosophy books— He knows we'll be training on a schedule, he cleared us his own facility for same, not just any facility, his own gymnasium."
"Enough." Leilani's voice cut through the speculation. "We are here to serve. To protect. To do our duty. Not to..." She searched for words. "...speculate about our commanding officer's personal life or make inappropriate observations about—"
"You're blushing, Superior," Keiko observed.
"I am not."
"You are." Maryam was definitely grinning now. "Under all that discipline and Sororitas training, our Canoness Superior is blushing."
Leilani turned away, ostensibly to inspect her armor. Definitely not because her face felt warm.
"Prayer and meditation. All of you. We begin duty rotations tomorrow and I expect professional comportment."
"Yes, Superior," they chorused, still amused.
After they left, Leilani stood alone in her quarters, touching the Aquila pendant that matched her sister Meilana's, wherever she was.
He did look at me. Just for a moment. A flicker of something—interest? Awareness?—before he controlled it.
The Emperor tests us in many ways. Duty. Faith. Sacrifice.
Apparently also by giving us commanding officers who look at us like—
NO. Stop. Focus on duty. On protection. On service.
Not on warm eyes that understood loss without her having to explain it.
Not on the way he'd touched that cap Aquila when mentioning the dead Inquisitor.
Not on the quiet strength in his voice when he'd said her Sisters' deaths had meaning.
Good grief.
She blinked. Where had that phrase come from?
The Commandant had said it. Earlier, so quietly she'd barely caught it. Some verbal habit, probably.
Leilani shook her head and began her evening prayers.
It was going to be a long assignment.
Powerful blend of tension and vulnerability, with Michael and Leilani carrying the emotional weight like they've been figured under fire. The political danger battlefield trauma mesh perfectly, grounding the stakes in something real and human. Every interaction feels loaded, intentional, and quietly explosive.