Angar faced the first twenty Torminian girls, their eyes burning with a zealous fire, tempered in the unforgiving forge of Tribute, their faces a mix of excitement, defiance, and uncertainty.

Nearly half cradled infants or bore the unmistakable swell of pregnancy, each of these a widow.

The Terran-normal environment stunned them, their first time within such, their steps lighter in the gentler gravity, lungs drinking clean, oxygen-rich air free of burning fog.

As Angar didn't need much sleep and planned on spending little time at South Point, he'd taken a bed in the men's barracks.

The meeting was being held in the residence meant for him, but given to Jon, a very nice prefab with three bedrooms all occupied by his family, the sterile churn of its air-recycler struggling to remove the stench of the filthy Torminian girls infesting the room.

One of them near the front spoke up, asking another question. "And if we survive the Grim Ordeals, we're to reject Anointment as Crusaders?"

Angar looked at her. "That choice is yours alone," he said. "Still, I strongly suggest Anointment and joining a chapter, though only briefly. After a year of service, you can leave without penalty. You'll gain genetic enhancements to boost your strength, free Crusader Armor, sacred rites, quality weapons, cybernetics, and training.

"Whether you choose a Knightly Chapter or pursue Seminary, as long as you come back to shape Tribute's destiny, your contributions to your people, the Lord Hungers, and the Holy War will be profound."

The girls shifted, some exchanging glances, others clutching their children tighter.

Angar's gaze swept over them, lingering briefly on one whose face was less repugnant than the norm, her jaw not quite so massive, her features not so pocked and brutal.

Then it snagged on another. It was Anka's widow, her cold, piercing stare cutting through him like a blade forged in Hell's depths. All she did was stare. It was unnerving. She alone had asked no questions.

Though she stank as horribly as the rest, for a Tributean woman, she was as good as it got. To Angar, she was almost not repulsive.

Another girl, her voice softer but no less resolute, spoke up. "Wait. If we become Crusaders, after a year, we can still return and serve in your cult?"

Angar nodded. "Yes, though I like to think of it as our cult."

A nervous voice piped up from the back, barely audible over the mechanics of the dome. "What of our children?"

Looking at this one, Angar's gaze softened, her filth-laden, thick, muscular limbs and terribly hunched posture serving as a stark contrast set against the imperial precision, the sharp lines and cleanliness of the prefab.

"You're bound for a Cloisteranage," he said. "They're built to raise children. Nurseries will tend to them, and you can see them during free time in the evening. My master assures me this will hold true through your shortened Seminary as well."

Two voices overlapped, both spoken in urgency. "Don't they want to steal our children?" demanded a girl in the front, her tone filled with fear. From the back, the last speaker added, "I meant if we become Crusaders."

Angar raised a hand to silence the overlap, then addressed the first. "The tithing requirement won't apply here until our own Cloisteranages rise on Tribute. And rest assured, membership in the Lord Hungers exempts you from it."

He turned to the second girl, his brow furrowing slightly. "I'll let my steward explain what shall happen if you join a Knightly Chapter."

He glanced at Jon, who stood at the room's edge, his slate grasped in his hand. "Sir," Jon said, poking at the device, "as with ordained Ecclesiastic, Crusaders are barred from conceiving children. Transportation will be made available for you to return and give guardianship over to a relative or trusted friend here. The only other option is tithing them to the Church."

Angar nodded, turning back to the girls. "But return to Tribute after serving your year, and your offspring shall be with you always. We'll have our own chapter here. We just need some exceptions approved first."

An awkward silence stretched taut, broken only by the loud, rhythmic thrumming of the temporary dome's machinery, its gears clanking without cease beyond the prefab's walls.

Anka's widow, her gaze still locked on him, finally spoke, her voice almost cutting. "You mentioned 'your master,' Sir. What did you mean?"

His eyes met hers, unflinching. "Saint Hidetada, grand marshal of my chapter," he said. "It is customary for servants to call those they serve master. Even as a Knight, even as ruler of this world, I am but a humble servant. As is the Saint. We all bow before the Three, for the glory of our Holy Empire."

The awkward silence returned, stretching out even longer, giving Angar time to scan the room, judging these souls against the iron demands of his vision. "Any further questions?"

None came. He gestured to the door, his gauntlet pointing. "I thank you for meeting with me, then. Transports await to return you home."

The girls began to file out, their bare footsteps slapping against the prefab's grated floor.

Angar's gaze sat on the two women who remained, standing rigid. One was Anka's widow, still staring at him. The other girl was her friend, he assumed, as they'd stood together, and now remained together.

Anka's widow approached alone, her infant cradled tightly against her chest, her hunched frame moving but her eyes locked onto him still.

Angar stood rooted, his armored bulk casting a shadow across her, waiting for her to speak. Her cold, piercing gaze was unrelenting, and his pulse quickened. "Yes?" he prompted, praying his voice lacked any hint of his unease.

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"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked, her stare boring into his soul. "When our eyes met in Tormina, after you slew my husband and father. It was only a brief moment, but undeniable. Destiny."

"Destiny?" Angar's heart thumped harder. He fought to keep his face impassive.

"I am to be your wife," she declared, and fervently, as absolute fact. "I alone understand your vision. I alone will serve as you require. For me, the Three shall become Four, my husband standing equal to God Himself."

Angar's jaw tightened. "That's blasphemous to even think. Nothing stands equal to the King of Kings," he almost growled out, adding, "No man rivals any of the Holy Trinity."

Her gaze didn't falter, but her lips curled slightly. "Then call me Heretic, for I will serve you as if you do."

A mix of anger and unease grew in his chest. "Enough of that talk," he snapped, his tone not as rough as he intended. "You've yet to leave Tribute, to taste imperial life and its comforts. You don't know your heart. How old are you?"

"As we count years now, near fifteen," she replied, her tone defiant, unshaken.

"Then you'll be over a year and a half off-world, at the least, through Cloisteranage and Seminary," he said.

Her smile widened, and Angar revised his opinion. She wasn't almost not repulsive. She was almost beautiful, even compared to imperial women. Somewhat.

"What is time to destiny, Sir?" she asked. "What is meant to be, will be."

Angar drew a slow, steadying breath, holding it. He purged his feelings, gaining clarity.

He'd channel Hidetada's ruthless pragmatism, testing her as the Saint would. He'd know if this was ambition speaking, a desire to climb social rungs, advancing her status through marriage. "If you'd serve me as one of the Holy Trinity, you'd have no qualms tithing that child to the Church."

Her smile vanished, and the coldness of her eyes hardened. "What do you mean?" she nearly hissed out, her grip tightening on her son.

"If this is destiny," Angar pressed, "you'd know you must pick. Me, or that child in your arms?"

Her eyes became pure ice, almost crazed. She tried to lift her chin, but her hunched neck made the gesture awkward, almost comical.

She spat at Angar's face, but the saliva struck his armored chest.

She leapt, aiming a slap at his cheek, but her reach fell short, her hand smacking uselessly against his breastplate with an almost imperceptible thud, as if to highlight her helplessness.

"My child!" she snarled, each word dripping with hatred. She spat again, missing her mark again.

She sprang up once more, futilely. Then her fist pounded his armored stomach, spitting once again, then again. "You think I'd toss away my son! For you? Beast!"

Angar seized her wrist, his grip controlled, halting her frenzy. "Enough," he commanded. "I had to see if your child meant more to you than my whims. The woman I take in the warrior covenant will place the Three above all else, her Empire above family, and her children above her partner, always."

She wrenched her arm free, swiping at her tear-streaked face with a trembling hand. Her eyes blazed still, pride and pain warring within them. "You're...ugh!" she spat out, her voice dripping with venom.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Instead of answering, she spun away and stormed out, her friend at her heels, the prefab door hissing shut behind them.

Angar turned to Jon. "Her name?"

"Fellakan, Sir," Jon replied, not even glancing at his slate. "But the other girls were calling her Fella today."

"Understood," Angar said, not wanting to explain the why of the name change. "Mark her and the girl that asked about my cybernetics down as being slightly less disgusting than the others." His mind turned to more important matters. "Next?"

"More workers and supplies are being delivered," Jon answered, speaking in the monotone way he always did. "The ship should be arriving soon. Tormina's next twenty girls will be here in a half hour or so."

Angar nodded, then donned his helm. He hefted his maul, taking comfort in its grip. He left the residence, stepping out into South Point's evolving sprawl.

He scanned the site, taking in the progress, a bead of satisfaction growing in his chest.

It'd been only a little over two weeks. The permanent power generator was a long way off from activation, but its housing was well under way.

The permanent dome's framework was emerging like a skeletal sentinel. It would run much quieter than the temporary one too.

It'd be one of the smallest domes, but its housing alone rivaled the size of the grand cathedral rising to the south, beyond its future protective boundary.

It would take years and years to construct, well over a decade, but the cathedral's spires would eventually pierce the chaotic sky like Divine lances. When it was finished, it would be glorious, a beautiful marvel, Tribute's pride.

For Angar, it'd be the beating heart of his world, a monument to the Three, and a wrathful God, a testament to His eternal glory, a work of art inspiring awe.

Each spire would be a vow, etched in sacred stone, to forge a legacy worthy of this world's people, their ancestors, and the sacrifices they'd be called to make.

Maintaining the dome would drain a lot of credits, but soon the cult's tributes would balance the scales. And as the Lord Hungers grew, the income would flow.

He pulled the mod that dropped on the Old Guard ship from his belt, eyeing its description once again.

Eye of Mentality, Hardware Weapon Mod – Grants a 25% chance psionic energy expenditure will not lower Resilience.

Soon, when the foundry was operational, he'd have it installed.

As parish schooling ended for the day, he watched the imperial children, Simo's grandkids among them, dart out the prefab church, running about, their laughter a light in the gloom.

If he lived long enough, one day, he'd have offspring of his own. He doubted he'd see the day. But as long as he fulfilled his ridiculous penance first, when he died didn't matter.

His world was already on the path it needed to be on, and Hidetada would ensure it became what the Holy Empire needed.

A medium-class shipping frigate, called a shipper, pierced the clouds with a thunderous descent. It was a junker, with a battered and scarred hull in serious need of maintenance.

It settled on a landing pad oversized for its frame, designed for the largest heavy-class vessels.

The ramp extended with a hydraulic groan, and Layfolk emerged, blinking against the false light of the dome.

There were some single men, other men clasping their wives' waists, those wives corralling eager children, all wide-eyed, heads turning, nervously checking out their new, terrible home.

Jon strode toward them, slate in hand, ready to welcome, orient, and assign quarters.

Among the arrivals, an unaccompanied woman herded children with practiced authority, and Angar wondered if it was Len's family. He doubted they got here that fast, but he had no idea when they were notified and began traveling. It was very possible they knew Len's destination long before Len did.

As he watched the people finish disembarking, time ground to a halt, and the world froze in stasis, with the shipper's drive plumes hanging suspended, the children's striding forms locking in place.

Spirit materialized before him, her ethereal form shimmering, sorrow etched on her face, and if Angar guessed right, guilt too.

"Goodbye, Angar," she said softly, her voice laced with sadness and finality.

"Goodbye?" he asked, confusion infusing his own voice. She had already abandoned him once. She'd said her goodbye then.

She approached, wrapping her arms around him in a motherly embrace, her translucent essence phasing through his armor to skin, her head resting warmly against his chest.

As he couldn't move, he couldn't return the embrace, though he yearned to.

She raised her head, her luminous eyes brimming with grief. "Remember when I said I'd use you up until you died horrifically?"

"I do," he replied. "But then you abandoned me instead of fulfilling your promise."

She winced. "The second part's happening. You're about to die. There'll be no vivification this time."

He stood silent, wondering what she was talking about.

After studying him for a moment, she pressed on. "Azgoth was aboard that shipper. He's not alone. A Thrall of an arch-druden shadows him. They evaded my senses until Azgoth closed in and launched an attack. Before he even disembarked, his influence coiled through your thoughts, seizing control with Dominate."

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