We arrived at Xylathene Spire, harried and looking like beggars. I took in the sight of opulence, of no cost spared, of good resources wasted on pointless luxury.
We chose a shop to provide us with a disguise for our entry to house Corrida. The shopkeeper judged us by our appearance. The temptation to familarise him with the arsenal hidden under our grubby cloaks was tempered only by the number of unnecessary deaths already in our wake.
They came for us as we sought to rejoin with the priest, his search for a disguise taking him down a different path. They came for us in this tower of glass, where there is no place to hide. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.
They tried to take out our most potent weapon by shooting him in the head. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same. I, however, would have made sure not to fail.
They tried taking the very ground from under our feet, in their efforts to hunt, to kill, to stop us from delivering the message. They underestimated the fury driving us, and so, in that, too, they failed.
We underestimated the heresy driving them. The last of their number chose to end her own life rather than facing our wrath. I can’t blame her. I can and will blame her for the thing that came in her place, using her body to come into this world. I have no name for it, it grew until the glass underneath shattered, letting it fall towards the unseen depths of the hive.
“Millions will die,” the messenger told us. Whatever doubts we may have had, they are gone now. We are delivering this message, and may the Emperor have mercy on anyone standing in our way.