Atonement is your duty.

Retribution is your path.

He hurried. Fumbling in his robe and pushing aside slack servants, the Confessor hastened along the endless gallery. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows depicting saints and martyrs, heroes and Primarchs, painting the corridor with every color of the rainbow. Ferdinand never ceased to marvel at the skill of the masters. They created these windows two thousand years ago. It seemed like Saint Zafar was about to step from painting. The terrifying suffering of the martyrs was almost tangible.

Stretched eight times around the cathedral, the Gallery of Retribution was almost two miles long, its floors tiled with black and white mosaics. The floor of the gallery displayed the tenets of faith in black and white as one ascended. And went back, they could read the deeds of the God-Emperor and his sons, the Primarchs. There is no other way to the Cardinal’s chamber. At least for a servant of his rank.

Having served nearly 30 years in the Imperial Guard with the 22nd Elrin Jaegers, he endured any physical exertion with ease. Walking merely two miles at a brisk pace across the excellent floor. It was no more difficult than breathing. It was a glorious regiment. Brave. True believers. A rare thing, as he later learned. In the regiment’s ultimate battle, defending the Temple of the Holy Martyr Sakham, where the laity had taken refuge, only three of the regiment remained. Captain Schwaarz, commander of the 8th Company, with his beloved plasma pistol, his uniform in tatters, and completely covered in Tyranid ichor and his own blood. He rarely attended sermons and never went to confession. Sergeant Vakhit. In the end, he stood in the light of the rising sun on a pile of torn Tyranids, his power fist shattered and his banner raised. And he himself, then a simple preacher, Joachim Ferdinand. He had recited prayers and sung hymns to the Emperor and the Saints throughout the battle. By the end of the battle, he was so hoarse he could barely speak. His chain axe had only four teeth left.

The Bell of Forgiveness had continued to ring for an hour. Whoever rang it had no right to do so. Usually, the bell rang only on the greatest religious holidays: Sanguine, Vulcan’s Day, Guiliman’s Rebirth Day. At the appointment of a new cardinal. The bell’s low, vibrating ringing reached for miles around.

Ahead, the Gates of Dawn appeared, revealing the chambers of the Planet’s Ecclesiarch. A guard stood at the entrance, recruited only from the Emperor’s most loyal servants. Or, as the Confessor suspected, from families whose money had found its way into the pockets of the deacons. It was the deacons who decided such matters.

“I have an urgent message for the Ecclesiarch!” he shouted as he ran, giving the guards time to react.

To their credit, they had already contacted command and were now slowly, with great effort, opening the gates. Almost running through the gates, he found himself in a vast hall, occupying half the floor.

Wherever he looked, display cases lined the walls. Some held ancient manuscripts and parchment scrolls, protected by stasis fields. Others held relics and artifacts. Ferdinand had visited this place once before when he received his promotion from preacher to confessor. Since then, the hall had been embellished further with treasures, and was now even more decorated. Perhaps his memory was failing him. But he was certain there wasn’t that much gold.

A procession was moving toward him along the central aisle, covered with a thick red carpet. A detachment of Zealots, pikes in hand, marched ahead, followed by Cardinal Veilman, surrounded by deacons. Scribes, servitors, and advisers brought up the rear.

Ferdinand bowed low, the hood of his cassock falling from his back onto his head. Without waiting for his subordinate to rise, the cardinal spoke. His voice was low and pleasant, but now it trembled, either from anger or tension.

“Who ordered the bell to ring? Why can’t we contact anyone? Neither in the temple nor beyond.”

Straightening up, the confessor, out of habit, reported briefly and clearly: “Your Grace, approximately three hours ago, preachers began calling people. I am certain they are not our priests. Crowds have gathered on the streets, and most of the manufactorums have stopped. People are flocking to the Plaza of the Ascended Emperor.” He was catching his breath.

Tension grew on the deacons’ faces. Such a thing had never happened before. At least not in their lifetimes. Some immediately recalled descriptions of heretical uprisings.

“About an hour ago,” he glanced at the ancient clockwork on the far wall, “a dropship landed.”

“Someone dared to land in the square?” The Cardinal’s eyes narrowed.

“They are Astartes, my lord.” Three advanced to the podium and began preaching, while several dozen more cordoned off the perimeter. They met no opposition from our troops.

A deathly silence fell. It seemed as if even the hum of the stasis fields had died down.

The Cardinal’s face turned completely red, then turned pale and unhealthy.

“What of the Sororitas?” asked the deacon to the Cardinal’s left. “They should have intervened!”

“They help maintain order among the faithful. And assist the Astartes in cordoning off the area,” the Confessor replied.

The tension escalated further.

The Cardinal was stunned. Raising his hand to his face, he covered one eye. The jewelry on it would have been enough for the parish for several months, perhaps even a year. The deacons, having consulted among themselves, turned back to Weilman.

“Your Grace, you need to come out to the faithful. If word spreads that these”—he looked sheepishly at the other deacons—"unauthorized servants of the God-Emperor" are holding services in your diocese, right in the center of the cardinal’s world, it might raise questions with the bishop.

The confessor’s eyes widened in surprise. But the Cardinal nodded hesitantly. He was sweating profusely. All the confidence he usually exuded was gone.

“We’ll leave on the graving platform from my halls,” he said. “Ferdinand, I believe? You’ll come with us.”

The entourage slowly and awkwardly turned around. Getting in each other’s way and tangling in their robes and cassocks. Colliding with servitors, no one had bothered to issue new orders for them. Joachim unconsciously frowned. He remembered Sergeant Volka, who had spent hours chasing him and his platoon through the hold of their transport, reconfigured to resemble a battlefield. Until they moved like fluid, without interfering with one another and continuing to fire as they moved, dodging any obstacles without losing their aim.

They moved deeper into the halls. Heading toward the northern wall of the cathedral, where the cardinal’s balcony overlooked, they passed through hall after hall. Each one richer and more dazzling than the last. Gold and precious stones seemed like paltry trinkets compared to what was here. A 30-meter-wide mosaic of phase crystals. It depicted the life of Cardinal George. A living wall, woven by the master of evergreens. The resulting painting depicted the Fall of Saint Maximus.

In the next room, the Confessor winced. He would never mistake it for anything else. Horns, claws, and tyranid’s chitin depict the Most Precious Icon of confession. He stared at the mosaic in horror. The God-Emperor depicted in xenos flesh. Heresy.

“Isn’t it impressive?” asked the deacon, who, like him, had fallen behind the procession. “It took considerable influence to gather the materials.”

By strain of will, Joachim tore his gaze away from the blasphemous mosaic and looked at the deacon with disdain.

“The artisans worked for years to create this,” he continued.

“Vincenzo,” the Cardinal’s voice rang out.

The deacon glanced at the piece of art again, inspired, and followed the procession. Still stunned by the disgusting art, the confessor followed. They stepped out onto the balcony. Three yards deep and seven yards wide, the entire structure was a gravitational platform. Adorned on the front with an Aquila of gold and gems, they use the platform for sermons. It usually hovered above the square, and the Pontiff, though less frequently, the Cardinal, would preach from it. Refractor field and several heavy bolters mounted on the bottom of the platform. The Cardinal, Pontiff Alexius, a deacon unfamiliar to Ferdinand, and he himself entered the platform.

The grav thrusters engaged. Magnetic grips released the platform, and it descended smoothly toward the center of the four-kilometer wide square, where the podium was located. From a height of a mile, the square looked like a huge nonagon. In the center was a stylized “I” with a ring and a skull—the symbol of the Ecclesiarchy. Concentric circles radiated from it, alternating black and white. The dogmas of the faith engraved on each of them .

People crowded the plaza. From all the surrounding streets, worshippers were trying to get into the square. Sororitas squads were organizing the crowds to prevent a jam.

The platform slowed as it approached the ground.

Three Astartes stood on the dais. Their dark turquoise armor seemed to glow like aquamarine in the sun. Over their armor were surplices the color of ochre or sand. On their left shoulder pads was an open book, with a stylized “I” over it, similar to the Ministorum symbol, though with wings. Chains hold the symbol on the shoulder pad at its upper and lower edges. Even from a distance, Joachim saw that the books on pauldrons were of varying thickness. The Space Marine currently preaching had a huge tome; the Confessor estimated it to be at least a thousand pages long. The other two had tomes significantly smaller. Half that size at best. The platform touched down at a designated station on the platform behind the Space Marines. Four clerics moved forward hesitantly.

The two Astartes standing behind them stepped aside and bowed slightly to the Cardinal. He casually returned the Aquila sign. Without looking back, the senior Marine beckoned the Cardinal with a gesture and stepped aside. Engraving “Namathula” was on his pauldron beneath a book. Ferdinand saw an enormous book lying on the lectern. From his position, its contents were invisible.

The Cardinal stepped forward.

“...by His wrath boiling in your blood, will find you salvation. By becoming His weapon,” the Astartes abruptly fell silent. He raised his empty hand. The faithful in the square paused in their prayers. All eyes turned to him and Cardinal Veilman.

“Read on,” thundered the giant’s voice over the platform, low and humming, leaving no doubt who held power here. The repeaters installed along the perimeter carried it across the entire square.

The Cardinal trembled violently. His glance moved from the Space Marine to the crowd, then to the book in front of him. Seconds are passing.

“Read,” Namathula repeated.

Crowds around whispered. The Astartes on the left grabbed the Cardinal by the shoulder and forced him to his knees. The second, with force, brought Pontiff Alexius to the book.

“Keep reading,” the senior Space Marine repeated. He pulled his volkite pistol out of holster. The Pontiff looked at the book. He turned to Namathula in bewilderment.

“But there’s noth…” he didn’t have time to finish. Marine forcibly lowered him to the floor.

Crowds swam openly. The Cardinal and his subordinate muttered something about who they are and what consequences would follow if something happened to them. The Astartes commander raised his pistol and pointed it at the Cardinal’s head.

“For ignorance of the doctrines of the faith, for breaking vows, for transgressions against the God-Emperor...” he read the sentence.

The Confessor couldn’t understand what was happening. Why couldn’t they read the sermon in the book? It was the Sermon of Saint Albert, which he had preached before the battle with the invading forces of the Archenemy. There was even a temple dedicated to him on the planet.

The pistol’s reels hummed.

“... By giving your entire soul, entire life, you will achieve the salvation of mankind. He is flame and light. He is life and death. And to Him alone belongs the soul of every man. We will not allow the eternal enemy to pass; every foot and every inch they will pay with their blood. And with the blood of holy martyrs, we will wash their filth back into the abyss.” Still reciting loudly from memory, the Confessor went to the book. The Astartes kicked the Cardinal aside, letting Joachim pass. He wanted to laugh. “And in your last hour, beneath the Golden Throne, you will take your place, for Our Father will know that you have done all you shall,” he finished, smiling. The book was completely blank.

He was gently pulled aside by the arm. The Astartes took his place at the book and began running his finger over the non-existent lines, reciting the next litany. Joachim turned. A weary man of indeterminate age stood before him.

“Come,” he said calmly. “It seems you will no longer be welcome here.” He glanced sideways at the Cardinal, who was still standing at the sight of Astartes’ bolt pistol, glaring with hatred on Ferdinand and the Astartes. The Confessor had only ever seen such a look on the faces of crazed cultists. “You noticed yourself,” said the stranger; “We should go. I imagine you have many questions.”

He glanced again at the crowds of believers, and at the disgraced cardinal, seething with anger,

and followed his new companion to the landing craft.