"You are staying here," Miles said, his voice cracking slightly as he stood by the front door. He was clutching a reusable shopping bag like a shield. "I'm serious, Danica. You can't go out like that."
Danica, who was currently attempting to recalibrate the arm-bracer of her matte-black Sabbat-pattern armor, looked up with a glare that could have pinned a heretic to a wall. The obsidian plating of her suit seemed to drink the morning light, leaving her a silhouette of jagged shadows.
"I do not trust you, Miles Halloway," she rasped, her hand moving to the hilt of the combat knife at her hip. "This 'Sanctum' is too quiet—it smells of the stagnant peace before a slaughter. I will not hide in the dark while the Master of the House handles 'logistics.' Who is to say you are not a thrall of the Metal Giants, departing to whisper our coordinates into the void?"
"I'm going to buy orange Fanta and a roll of duct tape!" Miles pleaded, his yellow ducky slippers squeaking as he shifted his weight. "Look at me. Do I look like a servant of ancient robots? If I were a warp-illusion, I would've given myself a six-pack and better hair. Stay here. Protect the house. If you go out there, you'll trigger a national emergency."
Danica stepped forward, her physical presence alone forcing Miles back against the door. She stared into his eyes, searching for the tell-tale flicker of a mind-shackle or the shimmer of a daemon.
"I will remain," she said finally, her voice like grinding stone. "Not because of your counsel, but because this armor is currently compromised. But mark my words, Halloway: if you return with the stench of the xenos upon you, I will carve the truth from your throat before the darkness takes us both."
An hour later, Miles kicked the front door open, his arms full of heavy paper bags and a plastic toolbox. The trip had been a gauntlet of anxiety. Every curious glance from a neighbor felt like a sniper's laser-sight.
"Danica? I'm back," he called out, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I got... supplies. And some stuff to fix the floor."
There was no answer. He heard a metallic scrape from the laundry room at the end of the hall. The Hum was pulsing in his ears, rhythmic and insistent, like a warning light. He set the bags on the kitchen counter and followed the sound.
He found her in the cramped laundry room. She had stripped off the upper plates of her black armor to inspect her torso. Under the "Sanctum's" influence, the horrific, soul-scarring wounds from the Nexus had vanished. Her skin was smooth and whole, a miracle of biology that Danica clearly viewed with profound suspicion—she was convinced it was a trick of the Warp.
"Danica? You okay? I got the stuff—"
Miles pushed the door open.
To a Sister of Battle, a sudden noise in a confined space is not an interruption; it is a combat cue. Her reflexes, honed by a decade of holy slaughter, fired before her conscious mind could register his face.
"Heresy!" she roared.
Her combat knife, which she had been using to check the seals on her greaves, flashed through the air in a silver arc.
"Wait!" Miles shrieked, throwing up his arm in a desperate, clumsy guard.
The blade hissed across his forearm. Even with Danica pulling her strike at the last microsecond, the Imperial steel was absolute. A line of hot, bright red blossomed across Miles's skin. He stumbled back, his blood splashing directly onto the matte-black chest-plate Danica was holding.
The moment the blood touched the black ceramite, the Hum didn't just buzz—it screamed.
The laundry room dissolved. The smell of detergent was replaced by the suffocating stench of burning ozone and the psychic "Stillness" of the Nexus. Through the blood-link, Miles wasn't just seeing Danica's memory; he was drowning in it.
He felt the soul-crushing despair of Paradyce. He saw the gray, ash-choked ruins of the convent. He saw the priest, his face a mask of gaunt terror, clutching a brass eagle. He saw the children—three small, huddled shadows—staring at the spot where Danica had vanished.
And then, burned into his mind like a glowing brand, a set of emerald-green gothic numerals appeared:
COORDINATES LOCKED: PARADYCE - SECTOR 0-0-1 / GRID 99-X
It wasn't just data. It was an anchor. He could feel the direction of the world they had left behind.
"Miles..."
The voice was soft, almost horrified.
The vision snapped. Miles hit the laundry room floor, gasping for air. His arm was throbbing, the blood still dripping onto the tiles. Danica was on her knees, her knife clattering to the floor. She stared at the red smear on her black armor, then at Miles, her eyes wide with a sudden, jarring realization.
"I saw them," Miles croaked, clutching his arm. "The priest. The kids. I know where they are, Danica. I can feel the coordinates."
Danica looked at him—not as a suspect, but as something far more complicated. "You... you have tasted the Stillness and survived? You possess the map of that cursed place?"
"The house knows," Miles said, his voice steadier than he felt. "And if I can see them... that means they're still alive. We have to go back."