"The trench rumbles. The horns wail. Something bigger than hope is coming." — Aleric, Scribe of the Ashborn
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Aaron was just beginning to understand what a "quiet" moment meant in the trenches when the first horn sounded.
It started as a murmur in the boots. A tremble in the ribs. And then—
Bwooooooooom!
Aleric stopped mid-sentence. Holwen froze with a half-chewed trench ration bar dangling from his lips. Someone nearby dropped a canteen and immediately crossed themselves. And then—again, the horn moaned. Low. Hollow.
"They're here," Holwen muttered behind him, adjusting his coat like a man dressing for a trial.
Aaron glanced around. "Did the sky just blow a whale?" he asked, voice cracking. No one answered. Because that wasn't the sky.
"That," Holwen muttered, "is a bone-horn. Sanctified. War-forged. Probably from a martyr's femur. Or a really unlucky beast." He squinted into the mist. "Means someone's coming."
That someone, as it turned out, was a lot of someones.
From the haze emerged shapes, silhouettes marching two abreast down the ruined spine of the trench road, boots sloshing in churned blood and ankle-deep mire. At the head marched banner-bearers, their flags stitched with flame-etched prayerlines, flapping in a wind that hadn't existed five seconds ago.
Behind them, a phalanx of new Redemption troops, fresh uniforms, freshly blessed rifles, and faces that still thought war was something you came back from. The expressions on the old soldiers watching them varied—some scoffed, some whispered blessings, a few just stared like ghosts seeing replacements for the first time.
Trailing them were the Trench Pilgrims, heads bowed, dragging relic carts filled with statues, bones, and scripture-wrapped weapons. Their feet left no sound in the mud, like they were walking on memory. A thousand more soldiers, all hardened by prayer or purpose, arrived in a tide of faded color and heavy silence, broken only by the periodic WUMPH of another horn echoing across the valley.
Aaron stood at the lip of the trench, wrapped in half a trauma blanket and a full sense of disbelief. "That's... a lot."
"Yes your eminence," Aleric said, peeking over his shoulder with a twitch of excitement. "That's not just a resupply. That's a damn pilgrimage. Reinforcements from Virex-Cathedralis and the Cruciform Stations."
The next figure to emerge broke the illusion of solemnity like a hammer to stained glass. He came half-sprinting, half-tripping over himself, a figure dressed in mismatched plates of gold-laced armor and streaming liturgical ribbons that slapped against his chest like confused birds. One eye glowed faintly, the other twitched violently. His mouth never stopped moving.
"The fire has spoken! The gunpowder sings! The sky is full of verbs and none of them are past tense!"
"That's the War Prophet," Holwen muttered. "Try not to ask him direct questions. Or make eye contact. Or speak to him."
Aaron stepped back as the prophet paused mid-run to scream a prayer into the dirt, then collapsed sideways in ecstasy and was dragged upright by two Pilgrims who looked like this was a Tuesday.
Behind them came the Communicant Anti-Tank Hunters—tall, spindly figures wrapped in signal-mesh robes and coil-rifles as long as their own bodies. Their eyes were augmetic lenses, each rotating independently. They scanned the trenches like they were trying to find the nearest war crime to disassemble.
One nodded curtly at Aaron, muttered "Target confirmation: Saintly anomaly intact," then walked past.
"…Cool," Aaron said weakly. "Love the enthusiasm."
Next came a Combat Medic, trudging beside a stretcher sled loaded with blood-soaked gauze and relic-staplers. Her gloves were slick, her coat half-burned, and her expression one of a woman who had absolutely no time for divine nonsense.
She glanced at Aaron with one raised brow. "Oh. You're the Saint."
Aaron nodded. "Apparently."
She stared another moment, wiped her hands on a bloody rag, and walked off muttering something about "miracles meaning more mess."
Then the Mendelist Ammo Monks arrived.
Clad in heavy scribe-robes, each one carried massive belts of ammunition and ritual lubricants. They chanted as they marched, intoning the ancient Rite of Reloading, their voices like monks reciting from a hymnbook full of gunpowder and salt.
"By click and spark, may the bolt fly true.
By oil and brass, may the shot be renewed."
One of them offered Aaron a sacred bullet wrapped in silk. Aaron accepted it automatically.
"Uh. Thanks?"
The monk smiled beatifically. "May it find a blasphemer's skull."
"Cool," Aaron whispered. "That's so metal I'm crying."
Then came the Witchburners, tall and silent and mean-looking. Their armor was red scorched, their weapons heavy and soot-stained. One held a chained brazier that reeked of ash, blood, and barely-contained vengeance. The One stood to the side, leaned against their flame-spewing pikes, watching Aaron with cold disinterest.
"Is this the guy?" one muttered.
"Yeah," the other said. "Flaming junk Saint."
"Still naked under that robe?"
"Probably."
"Eh. If he kills witches, I don't care."
Aaron glanced their way, offered a very awkward wave. The Witchburners didn't return it. One just lit a cigarette off the other's weapon.
And then the fog trembled.
The ground beneath them shook—not violently, but with the rhythmic certainty of something massive approaching. It was not like thunder. It was older. Heavier. The sound of penance with an engine. And then—it came.
Then came something no amount of lore or fan wiki prep could've truly prepared Aaron for.
A distant clank. A hiss of steam.
A low, guttural diesel growl rising through the ground.
Then—it appeared.
It moved with the slow inevitability of an incoming god.
The Shrine Anchorite.
Twelve—maybe fifteen feet tall. A walking altar made of armor, agony, and prayer. Chains rattled from its shoulders like holy dreadlocks. Its outer hull was festooned with relic icons, scorched banners, and entire scrolls of devotion nailed directly into its plating. One of the lower panels displayed a crucified rat skeleton mounted inside a shattered reliquary bell. Another bore the melted visor of a Penitent Nun and the inscription "She Sang as She Burned."
Trumpets mounted along its upper shoulderplate blared a monotone hymn, echoed by vox-repeating choirboxes lashed to its chest like echo chambers of guilt. A faint cloud of black incense-smoke followed it, billowing from vents near its flamer-arm exhaust port.
Aaron felt something in his stomach twist—not in fear, but in joy.
Oh my GOD, his mind shrieked, I'm finally seeing a Shrine Anchorite up close!
He had read about them. The living altar. The sacred mech-coffin. The iron monk that never stops hurting.
It looked exactly like a Warhammer 40k Dreadnought, except instead of machine spirits and servos, this thing ran on pain, diesel, and guilt-fueled incense. The pilot, a monk or nun—was somewhere inside, impaled on hooks and spikes, wires stuck into their spine, kept in a state of constant divine torment.
The holy mecha of the trench cults.
There's even a Catherine Wheel attached to the back. That's not decorative. That's for holy execution. Who does that? These people, apparently.
The Anchorite let out a low, guttural bell-toll sound as it passed, and Aaron swore he could feel it resonate through his ribcage.
Aleric, noticing Aaron's near-catatonic awe, leaned in and said, "That one's from the Moravian design lineage. You can tell by the triple exhaust pipes and the cruciform radiator."
"I want to kiss it," Aaron muttered.
"Please don't," Aleric replied.
It towered over the line, dragging behind it a rusted Catherine Wheel the size of a war cart, spiked and blackened with dried blood. A Stigmatic Nun was already being strapped to the wheel, voluntarily, of course—her body bruised, lips singing through broken teeth.
"Praise be," the Nun rasped. "Let me be the brake upon our doom."
Aaron whispered reverently, "I love this insane universe so much."
Aleric, beside him, raised a brow. "You say something?"
"Nothing," Aaron said quickly. "Just having a quiet theological crisis."
The Anchorite rumbled past, the ground shaking with every step. Aaron watched it go with his mouth slightly open, an expression halfway between religious awe and full fanboy meltdown.
The Shrine Anchorite turned slightly, as if regarding Aaron.
Its vox-blaster croaked a half-garbled hymn.
"THE SAINT WALKS. THE ASH RISES. THE FLAME REMEMBERS."
Aaron blinked. "Did it just quote me?"
Aleric shrugged. "It quotes a lot of things. Once it sang the Entire Book of Blame at a broken siege tower until the wood caught fire."
At that moment, a pair of private soldiers from the newly arrived Redemption Corps approached. They looked young. Probably conscripted two weeks ago. Their boots were too clean and their faces too hopeful. The shorter one held something behind his back. The taller one cleared his throat and saluted.
"Excuse me! Sir! Your Saintness? Uh, do we call you Grave? Or Saint Grave? Or, like, Father Firepants?"
Aaron squinted at him. "Just… Aaron. Please."
The private saluted so hard he nearly knocked off his own helmet.
"Right! Just Aaron, sir! I mean, Saint! Anyway, we've been briefed, and uh, we were sent by Parade Command. We're supposed to ask if… if you're ready."
"Ready for what?"
The shorter one piped up, barely holding back excitement. "The parade, sir! The Virex-Cathedralis Commemoration! You're the headlining relic! I mean, Saint."
Aaron stared blankly.
And then it all came flooding back.
Holwen. The parchment scroll. The look of ecclesiastical dread.
"Parade," Aaron echoed. "Oh. Right. That."
He remembered every word of Holwen's warning.
"You're on the schedule between an arch-saint's jaw unveiling and a mass relic burning. You're slotted right after the noon bell."
Aaron rubbed his temples and groaned. "Can I die again and skip it?"
"No, sir," said the shorter one cheerfully. "You're on the mass hymn banners. The local Shrine Choir already finished their Saint-Grave tribute hymn. It's called 'Ash, Fire, and Unexpected Nudity.' Real catchy tune, sir."
Aaron closed his eyes.
The world had ended. Twice. He'd died, resurrected, vomited relic-grade slurry, formed a holy order, and was now being immortalized in choir songs with a subtitle that sounded like a failed cabaret act.
"Tell Parade Command," he said slowly, "that I will attend."
The two privates saluted again, and the shorter one held out a sealed envelope, shaking slightly. "Also, uh... this is from the Ecclesiarchal Office. It's your ceremonial under-robe, sir. One of the pilgrims sewed it using battlefield banner scraps. It's… symbolic."
Aaron accepted the bundle like it might explode.
The two departed, grinning.
Aleric said nothing for a long moment. Then, "Do you want me to start writing your parade speech?"
Aaron groaned. "Just start digging my grave again. And make it big enough for my dignity this time."