"No," Slavo grunted, his low voice nearly lost in the engineering bay's scarred bulkheads, where tools hung like relics from an ancient forge. "What if the suit takes a breach right there? That circuit's broken, and your left arm's as dead as a Heretic's soul. No power, no movement, just a slab of metal dragging you to the pyre."

Angar nodded, shifting slightly on the workbench stool far too small for his bulk, his tripod-feet scraping against the grated deck.

He saw his mistake clearly now, grateful for Slavo's patient guidance as the instructor's grease-stained hands pointed out his errors.

Angar's First Aid and Mechanical Repair Skills had finally clawed their way up to Tier 2, earned through harsh toil and pain, his scabbed and bruised body a testament to that.

Power armor, and especially the sanctified plates of Crusaders, demanded arcane knowledge far beyond generic Mechanical Repair, specialized skills branching like veins from the core disciplines.

He wouldn't squander precious Skill Points on them, of course. No, he'd forge competency through sheer will, etching the knowledge into his mind until he could maintain his own armor on Abyssalhome's forsaken crust, at least in a basic way.

"Understood," Angar replied.

Slavo hmmed, then, after a moment, asked, "What goal must you always keep foremost in mind?"

"Prevent damage from cascading into total failures," answered Angar.

"Right," said Slavo. "Exactly right."

"Thank you for taking the time to instruct me," added Angar. "I truly appreciate it."

Slavo wiped his hands on a rag that was almost completely black, and beneath bushy brows, eyes usually lost in another world fixed on Angar appraisingly. "If you mean that, Sir, then do me a big favor. My wife's convinced you've got a grudge against her. You've avoided her for over six weeks now. She can't fathom why, and I never hear the end of it.

"Tomorrow's the twenty-fifth of September. The crew's gathering in the saloon for the Victory Day celebration. Talk to her. Let her know there's no bad blood, no harbored hate. Spend some time with her, let her school you in the cockpit arts."

A curse boiled in the silence of Angar's thoughts, unspoken but searing as plasma.

In the aerospace-mechanicum, he'd clawed his way to third in astronautics and fourth in aviation.

When he neared Iyita's mark, she surged ahead, then Harc reclaimed the apex, then Iyita again, then Harc, a dance of supremacy that left Angar trailing far in their wake. Stek, blessedly uncaring, had yielded his spot without contest.

Angar could certainly benefit from Iyita's tutelage, refining his grasp on finer points of flight. But spending time with her? No.

Spirit's silence bothered him, her failure to return and inform him of the truth, either way. Though he hated to admit it, it was possible Iyita harbored no Heresy, and Angar was being petty, as Spirit had stated.

To the crew, she was a faultless friend, all warmth, duty, and competence.

Regardless of her status and goals, coveting a wedded woman was a grave sin, and though he avoided her these weeks aboard, he highly coveted.

He could purge his emotions, gaining clarity, but it proved short-lived and futile against this deep longing.

Even if his infatuation was born of some witchcraft, his burden was to resist sin and overcome it. This issue laid bare his own pathetic weakness, an impurity needing to be scourged from his soul.

And he couldn't reply to Slavo by saying, "Sorry, friend, but I covet the wife you love so much, and must avoid her, so no. By the way, she's likely an unholy seductress."

The voyage to Abyssalhome couldn't end soon enough. War awaited, a Crusade to drown his failings in righteous bloodletting. And some relief, at least, from this constant sin.

Before Angar could forge anything close to an acceptable refusal, Deli's voice barked out from the comcap compartment. "Hey! That perfumed monstrosity's finally spat out from the Imperial Command station! Sixty-seven hours of monopolizing it! Guess who the unlucky recipient is?"

Tools clattered down as Slavo, Kong, and Angar turned, their gazes swiveling past the operator's console to the hatchway beyond.

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For three days, the station meant for vital dispatches had been hijacked by this frivolous transmission.

Whoever abused it for personal whimsy faced severe punishment. Imperial Command comcaps were sacred conduits, not playthings for idle hearts.

At three state reads per second, a simple missive of a hundred characters cleared in minutes. A sealed envelope of around 440,000 bits meant over forty hours of lockdown.

But this perfumed abomination had devoured sixty-seven, a gluttonous indulgence, foolish beyond belief.

Angar hoped the culprit would be chastised harshly. Discipline was the bulwark against chaos, and such ridiculous nonsense as this couldn't be tolerated.

Deli's head poked through the hatch, his face split by a grin wide as a hull breach. He waved the pink envelope like a captured banner, the sealed face adorned with doodled hearts and scrawls.

"Quit being a fool," Kong rumbled out in a voice like rocks grinding. "Just name the doomed man."

Deli's smile stretched impossibly wider as he flipped the envelope. In curling, golden script blazed 'Sir Baron Angar Mecia,' underscored by a heart pierced by an arrow, dripping with ornamental folly.

Laughter erupted like a salvo, hooting and jeering filling the workshop. Kong and Slavo clapped Angar's back with meaty thuds, his shoulders slumping under the weight of mortification as he rose to claim the offending artifact.

As he approached, shame curdled into a spark of unwelcome excitement. The perfume wafted like sweetly forbidden nectar, delightful to his augmented senses, and the lettering of his name was elegant, beautifully artistic.

Amid the catcalls, he snatched the envelope from Deli's grasp, schooling his features into a mask of impassiveness as he retreated, the crew's mirth chasing him like karma.

He suspected the missive was from Fella, though he had no idea how she'd managed to illegally send such a large packet through an Imperial Command comcap.

The moment he rounded the corner, out of sight, his pace quickened, excitement igniting in his chest like a drive core flaring to life.

He didn't care how much trouble he was in. He knew it'd be worth it.

He bolted to his quarters, sealing the door against prying eyes, and sat on his bunk.

Handling it with reverent care, the envelope yielded to a clawed finger, parting without a tear, revealing the folded parchment within.

He unfolded it slowly, the perfume blooming anew, a true delight in the stale air, quickening his pulse as he eyed the thick stock and feminine script, flowing like beguiling currents, the crimson lips that had pressed against the pink paper beneath the signature.

September 18th, 4186

My Dearest Sir Baron Angar Mecia,

I trust this missive reaches you amid the boundless grace of our Sovereign Lord, and that His Divine favor continues to shield you in your noble endeavors. May the Holy Trinity ever guide your hand in the sacred tithing of blood and battle, forging eternal glory for our radiant Empire.

It has been three full months since my arrival at the prestigious Athenaeum Dhikr Cloisteranage, a span that has brought both enlightenment and longing in equal measure.

I have formed bonds of sisterhood with many a devout soul, but my heart aches for the unyielding forge of our beloved Tribute. And, in truth, for you, Sir, with a fervor that defies the vastness of the stars.

I pen these words with a humble spirit, seeking first to offer my contrition for the manner of our past encounters.

One such exchange was born entirely of your provocation, and I stand unrepentant in my response thereto, for a woman's honor demands no less. In others, I confess I may have been overbold, my zeal outstripping the decorum befitting such a worthy daughter of Tormina.

The girls here, wise in the ways of the heart as they are in scripture, have counseled me that such forthrightness is unwise when addressing matters of affection. They advise that a girl should veil her intentions, else she appear unseemly and desperate.

Alas, having already laid bare my soul, and knowing you to be a man apart from the common cut, so steeped in piety and unyielding resolve, I shall cast aside such artifice and pour forth the fullness of my devotion.

Know that I love you, Sir, with the depth of the infernal abyss and the height of the Heavenly throne. Every fiber of my being, every breath drawn in this mortal shell, is entwined with yours in a bond ordained by Divine Providence itself.

To envision a life severed from you as my husband would be a torment beyond reckoning, akin to a world stripped of Firkar's loving light, a desolation of the spirit, a perpetual exile from joy.

I beseech you, do not turn from the thunderous call of destiny that struck us both in Tormina, when our gazes first intertwined amid the ashes of combat. It was no fleeting fancy, but a Divine spark, a covenant sealed in the sight of the Three, impossible to deny or diminish.

You may deem my prior declarations the idle words of an unworldly girl, when I vowed that I alone comprehend the grandeur of your vision for our planet, and that I alone am fit to stand at your side in service unwavering. These are far from vain boasts, but solemn oaths I shall uphold through every ordeal, proving my fidelity a thousandfold in deeds of faith and favor.

I shall bear your burdens as my own, nurture the seeds of our shared legacy, and offer my life in tribute to Holy War, that our progeny may rise as titans against the many foes of our Holy Empire.

You occupy my every waking thought, Sir, a constant vigil in my prayers. Each dawn, I kneel before the altar, imploring the King of Kings to grant you strength unyielding, victories resplendent, and a path cleared of shadow and doubt.

Should you deign to favor me with a reply, pray consult the postscript herein for the requisite instructions. A kinsman of one of my esteemed instructors, Sister Lifroach, whom I have come to embrace in dear friendship, holds a post at an Imperial Command Communication Outpost. He has vouchsafed to me that, though it skirts the bounds of lawful decree, this channel remains the most steadfast avenue for our continued communion.

May the Three bless you with abundant fields of battle, where the blood of the unholy flows as a sacrament to our Almighty Lord's glory.

In eternal devotion and with the whole of my heart,

Fella Tormina, Student-Aspirant of Athenaeum Dhikr Cloisteranage, Puella Adsidua of the Lord Hungers

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