The Relic Train howled through a land broken by fire and scarred by faith.
Its vast, rust-black engine spewed columns of sanctified smoke into the heavens, trailing votive chains and incense-slick banners in its wake. Each of its cathedral-shaped cars groaned and screamed across relic-steel rails laid by centuries of forgotten pilgrims. As the train tore through corpse valleys and ash-hills, the wind moaned with a choir of lost voices, echoing back the hymns carved into the hull.
Inside, the Ashborn rode in silence, their armor glinting with oil and soot. This was no transport.
This was a moving shrine, and they were the relics.
Aaron Graves sat awkwardly in the mess compartment, legs curled beneath a too-small reliquary table meant for kneeling prayers, not meals.
His stomach growled loudly.
"I need food," he muttered, rubbing his ribs. "I think I lost like a hundred pound. I swear my bones echo when I walk."
Trenaxa, sitting nearby with her leg propped up and bandaged in thirty-seven sacred ribbons, raised an eyebrow. "You're the Saint. Don't you just eat divine light or something?"
"Nope," Aaron groaned. "I eat like a panicked raccoon."
She smirked. "Well. You're in luck."
From the reliquary-fridge came the distinct hiss of relic-seals breaking open. An Ecclesiastic Prisoner in soot-blackened robes shuffled forward, face wrapped in ash bandages, holding a steaming tin tray like it contained the blood of saints themselves.
"Your blessed meal," the prisoner said reverently, placing the tray down.
Aaron leaned in. Then recoiled.
"Oh… that's… definitely food?"
[Relic-Rations]
A can labeled Loaf of the 12 Martyrs hissed open. Inside was a block of grayish meat paste, shimmering faintly with relic-preservation oils. Something that might've once been a bean rolled to the side like it regretted being involved.
"The tin hissed like a dying prayer," Aaron muttered. "That's not ominous at all."
[Communion Root]
A chunk of boiled trenchroot lay next to the loaf, pulpy and fibrous. Its smell reminded him of old metal and blood.
"It's supposed to clear your heresy," said a nearby Redemption soldier helpfully. "Or your colon. Depends on dosage."
[Saint-Crust]
Dry flatbread, inscribed with a nail-sigil and sprinkled with blood-salt, crumbled into Aaron's lap when he touched it.
Crunch.
Regret.
Crunch.
Existential crisis.
[Blessed Slop]
A ladleful of sludgy stew was poured from a copper cauldron stirred by a muttering Chaplain-Sergeant. The steam carried the smell of beans, boots, and something like burned incense. It also slightly shimmered with relic fire.
"Why is it fizzing?" Aaron asked.
"Because it's blessed," said the Chaplain.
"Right," Aaron muttered. "Holy indigestion incoming."
[Communion Wine]
A thimble-sized cup was handed to him by Aleric, who insisted he sip it as a rite before the parade.
Aaron sipped.
He immediately felt like his throat had been melted, purified, and forcefully reassembled by faith and fermented plums.
"Wanna finish mine?" Trenaxa offered, pushing her untouched slab of Saint-Crust forward.
"Nope," Aaron wheezed. "Pretty sure another bite will make me ascend again. But like… sideways."
Aleric, sitting across from him, was scribbling in the codex. "'The Saint Accepts Relic Rations with Humility and Digestive Strain.' Excellent. I'll pair it with your face when you bit the Communion Root."
"I thought it was a carrot," Aaron muttered.
"It was not," Aleric replied, matter-of-fact.
The train continued.
Every car was its own relic chamber. Soldiers sat on kneeled prayer-benches, polishing armor with reverent cloths soaked in oil and wine. Broken bayonets were burnished and re-wrapped in devotional cloth—not for battle, but for display.
Pilgrims recited fractured litanies, some humming, others just weeping silently.
Wound badges were displayed like holy sigils. Scars were touched like scripture.
The Ashborn were no longer just a company.
They were a miracle on rails, a moving testimony to survival, flame, and something none of them had quite named yet.
Aleric recited aloud as he walked beside Aaron through the central shrine-car:
"And lo, the Saint did rise from the soot, bent and trembling, but unbroken.
With vomit upon his boots and benediction in his breath, he forged the Ashborn,
A brotherhood from ruin, a fire from the grave."
He paused. "Too much?"
Aaron blinked. "You rhymed breath with grave. That's not even close."
"I'll fix it in the appendix," Aleric said.
In the rearward car, priests and confessors argued in hushed tones.
"—but my sect's flag was present at the founding—"
"—he vomited into our relic font, that makes it part of the origin—"
"No one cares about your heretical piss-saints—"
"Watch your mouth, Confessor-Sergeant—"
The argument turned briefly violent when someone tried to canonize the Ash Saint's Socks. Aaron quietly backed out of the car.
"Good," he muttered. "Let them fight."
Banner-bearers stitched new sigils, some depicting a flame-wreathed man holding a cracked relic-book, others a skeletal Saint with ash pouring from his eyes. One, slightly more flattering—showed Aaron weeping onto a wounded soldier's face while light poured from his hands and his mouth was mid-puke.
Trenaxa stared at it, brow furrowed. "You… weren't wearing pants in that one."
"I was definitely wearing pants," Aaron muttered.
"Then someone's projecting," she said dryly.
As the train rounded a long mountain curve, the horizon opened.
And they saw it.
Virex-Cathedralis.
A city-temple larger than some continents. Its spires clawed into the heavens like relic-blades. Its towers wept incense. Massive relic-horns, each the length of a battleship, were being raised into place along the central concourse.
Even from this distance, they could hear them tuning up.
The Miracle Tone was coming.
People flooded the roads. Pilgrims. Faithful. Beggars in chains. Knights in broken armor. Children wrapped in ashcloth. Wretches waving flag-shards. Choirs bleeding from their throats to scream the words:
"He came back from death!"
"He walks!"
"The Saint breathes!"
In the distance, giant effigies of the Woundwalkers burned like funeral pyres.
Aaron stepped to the window of the lead car, watching in silent horror.
Paintings of him already plastered the outer wall. In one he was glowing. In another, he was crucified atop a trench-gun. In yet another, he was naked and weeping fire while thousands bowed before him.
"That one's definitely not accurate," Aaron mumbled.
"I don't know," Aleric mused. "You did cry flame during the Benediction Collapse."
"One tear!" Aaron protested. "One. And it was an accident."
The Ashborn were assembling in parade formation in the lower car. Armor was tightened. Banners raised. Saints' names were carved into forearm-plates.
Altar-nuns placed prayer-torches on the outside of the train. As it pulled toward the station, the train began to blaze.
A halo of smoke. A chariot of ash.
The Saint's arrival would not go unnoticed.
Back in the mess, Aaron stood near the center table, chewing on the last of the Saint-Crust like someone who'd forgotten what joy tasted like.
"I think," he said, "I'm going to be sick."
"Because of the crowd?" Trenaxa asked.
"No," he groaned. "Because of the slop."
She laughed.
Then looked at him, more serious. "You know what you're about to walk into, right?"
Aaron shrugged. "Nope."
She shook her head. "They'll fight to own you. Twist you, rewrite you, you're more than a symbol now you're a power struggle."
Aaron nodded.
Then immediately burped holy ash into his sleeve.
Outside, the Trumpets of Virex began to wail.
The horns cried out across the cathedral walls. The parade had begun.
Inside the train, a silence fell over the Ashborn. Every soldier stood. Every pilgrim lowered their head. A hundred voices muttered fractured prayers.
Aaron stepped into the forward vestibule of the train, the doors wide open now.
The station platform below was packed with tens of thousands. Banners waved. Icons lifted. Drums pounded like a thousand thundering hearts.
Behind him, Aleric whispered, "Are you ready, Saint Graves?"
Aaron sighed.
Then smiled faintly.
"Not even slightly."
And then the Saint stepped down.
Into the pageantry.
Into legend.