Two days later, in a secret Allied command centre buried beneath the earth, the leaders of the remaining free nations gather.

  General De Morneau enters the chamber. One sleeve of his uniform hangs limp—his arm lost to the miracle-fire of Auctoridas. He salutes the gathered officials, then takes his seat at the round table.

  “You’ve read my report,” he begins, voice cool and commanding.

  The British Prime Minister leans forward. “You don’t expect us to believe she survived that blast? Surely this is some... morale tactic.”

  De Morneau shakes his head. “The shell exploded in a perfect V-pattern. Not a scratch on her. I won’t claim divine intervention. Just luck... or perhaps, something stranger. Auctoridas' old mechanisms worked in ways even we don’t fully understand.”

  The Iberian Union representative (speaking for the merged powers of Spain and Portugal) interjects. “Then God is on your side, General. And so are we. The Fleet of the Sun will be deployed.”

  The General nods. “Support in either the Mediterranean or the Alaskan front would be—”

  “We will discuss specifics later,” the representative says with a measured nod.

  The Italian Prime Minister speaks next. “So, what does the Saint require to bring us victory?”

  “She must go on a pilgrimage,” De Morneau says. “Behind enemy lines. She claims she can find and either pacify or destroy the Imperial Arms. But she requires only a small escort.”

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  The room erupts into murmurs and sighs of disbelief.

  The American President slaps his hand on the table. “Well, damn. Sounds wild, but I’ll take a long shot over no shot. One of our Automaton Commanders will accompany her.”

  The British Prime Minister grumbles, tapping his finger. “We’ll spare an Immortan Brit. One of the quieter ones, I hope.”

  The Swedish Prime Minister slouches. “A Valkyrie commander has already decided she’s going—with or without our approval.”

  The South African representative nods. “We’ll assign a medical scientist. It’s imperative she not fall into enemy hands.”

  De Morneau, for the first time in a long while, allows himself a small smile. “Then let us begin coordination. May God—or fate—guide her steps.”

  Mongolia

  A vast fortress looms over the frozen steppes of Mongolia. Within its black walls, a throne sits. Not made of metal, but of a man—frozen in an agonized rictus beneath the weight of a cybernetic woman.

  She is flawless. Tall. Beautiful. Cruel. Wings of silver glisten on her back. Her nails are like blades. She is Gluttony.

  A servant approaches, trembling, and presents a silver tray.

  On it: a severed head, its expression frozen in terror.

  Gluttony hums softly, plucks out the left eye with a glint of amusement, and swallows it whole. “To kill a traitor and dine on his insight… your rebellion was pathetic. But your head? Surprisingly tender. Your nation has earned a moment’s mercy.”

  She waves the servant away and receives a chime in her neural implant.

  A voice—cold, mechanical, regal—echoes in her mind.

  “Hello, Gluttony.”

  “Ah, Pride,” she replies sweetly. “I heard France didn’t go as planned.”

  “An impossibility occurred,” Pride says. “A frequency emerged—one that calmed the Enlightened. Something we haven’t seen since... the Great Genius.”

  Gluttony’s eyes narrow. “Was it him?”

  “No. From surveillance, it was a girl. Referred to by the allies as ‘The Saint.’”

  Gluttony purses her lips, amused. “A girl? They’d believe a grilled cheese sandwich was divine if it stopped a bullet.”

  “She may be more than propaganda,” Pride warns. “I’ve already purged the frequency from our neural code, but I advise caution.”

  “I won’t kill her,” Gluttony says, standing and spreading her wings. “Not unless she’s boring. Could be a superweapon. Or a ticking time bomb. Either way...”

  She smiles cruelly.

  “I’ll say hello.”

  And with that, she launches into the sky, silver wings slicing through the Mongolian night.