The Blessed Hinge was ugly.
A half-collapsed ridge of trenchline that reeked of moldy scripture and cordite, its devotional spikes snapped, banners rotted, and no sign of even the faintest flicker of relic light. The trench walls had caved in under the weight of spiritual neglect, and the mud smelled faintly of baptized failure.
But it was strategically critical. And worse, sacred ground that had forgotten itself.
Aaron Graves stood ankle-deep in the mire, map under one arm, frowning like a man who had realized his dream home was sinking in holy sewage.
Behind him, waves of pilgrims arrived, processions of the faithful bearing banners, relics, incense, and expressions ranging from awe to full-body spiritual panic.
The first to arrive was Father-Commander Dren, leading the Crucible Walkers with a roaring chant and a relic-thurible that belched glowing ash.
"We march with the God-Head's wrath!" he bellowed. "We bring the bones and the borrowed fire!"
Aaron gave a half-hearted salute, trying not to breathe the relic-smoke too deeply. It smelled like burned saints and cloves.
Next came High Cruciger Lueth, dragging the Iron Lantern behind him. No one looked directly at it. Those who did either fainted, vomited, or started screaming praises to saints that didn't exist.
He gave Aaron a solemn nod, which Aaron returned with a thumb-up and a nervous smile.
Then came Saint-Captain Hema and her bone-walkers—animated remains of fallen holy soldiers bound by relic-oaths and prosthetic theology.
Aaron whispered, "Please don't salute me."
They saluted him anyway.
One of the bone-walkers bowed so low its spine cracked audibly. A nearby acolyte fainted.
Trenaxa smirked from behind her rebreather. "You get used to it."
"I'm not even doing anything," Aaron muttered.
"Exactly."
[Hour One]
By the time the third battalion arrived, Aaron's reputation had snowballed into miracle territory.
He'd told a junior scribe to "adjust the relic casing's airflow to avoid feedback," and now half the Vox-Acolytes were convinced he'd healed the saint's voice box with a word.
When he asked for someone to bury a blessed bone at the 7-meter mark, an artillery priest whispered, "He numbers the land as the prophets did!"
Someone kissed his boots.
He tried to stop them.
They kissed harder.
Trenaxa took pity on him and instituted "Miracle Protocol 6"—an emergency plan activated when a living saint causes mass Faithshock.
It mostly involved forcing all artillery to stand down, making sure Acolytes had clean robes, and announcing over the Sermon Caster:
"This is not an apparition. The Saint is walking. Do not touch him. Do not smell him. Do not stare longer than five seconds. Praise from a safe distance."
Aaron wanted to crawl into a reliquary and die quietly.
[Hour Two]
Despite the devotional chaos, the ritual began.
The first relic was planted at the trench center, Saint Basriel's Battle-Flail, dipped in her martyr-blood and carried on a velvet sling by six sweating clerics.
The moment it touched the ground, mud hissed, and a nearby trench wall levitated three inches, just long enough to confuse a sniper who had been using it for cover.
The choir began a low drone.
A scribe shouted, "The earth remembers!"
Aaron stared at the relic, then to Aleric.
"I think it's working."
"You just told the dirt to feel things," Aleric said. "You're terrifying."
[Hour Three]
The relic burials expanded. Pilgrims dug trenches in triple-cruciform pattern, careful not to overlap martyr zones. Blessed oil was poured into the mud. Saint-bones were hammered into the trench walls with prayer hammers that whispered back.
A team of Purifiers arrived with barrels of relic flame, ready to perform Consecration Through Immolation.
Aaron flagged one down. "You didn't light those barrels last time, right?"
The purifier shrugged. "I only lost two fingers."
Aaron pointed to a spot. "Pour that one there. Next to the flail but not touching the bone-hook. We don't want another reaction."
He was about to walk away when a junior priest pointed at him and whispered:
"He remembered the spacing. He remembers the spacing."
Two acolytes dropped to their knees. One kissed the mud. Another wept and bled from the nose.
"Stand up," Aaron snapped. "I just read the manual!"
They cried harder.
[Hour Four]
In the eastern trench, an overzealous flame unit misinterpreted a half-finished chant and accidentally sanctified a latrine.
The pit latrine began glowing softly and singing a bassline from a forgotten war hymn.
When a corporal tried to use it, he began floating.
The vox-operator nearby panicked and triggered Miracle Code Alpha:
"SAINT-INTERVENTION IN THE LATRINE.
DO NOT USE.
I REPEAT: THE HOLY HOLE IS NOT FOR HUMANS."
Aaron just stared.
Aleric looked mildly impressed. "You've sanctified worse things. Remember the ammo crate that bled?"
[Hour Five]
The reconsecration reached a fever pitch. Choirs screamed. Scribes bled ink onto scrolls they couldn't read. One battle-priest claimed he saw a halo of ash over the Hinge.
Then someone pointed.
Across the trenchline, a Saint walked.
Not Aaron.
A real one.
Saint-Excoriant Reskael the Severed, Lord of the Chain-Crucifix, walked barefoot through no-man's-land, dragging a cruciform cannon behind him like a shepherd's crook. He burned with white flame, and every step ignited the ground.
Everyone dropped to their knees.
Even Aaron.
A single whisper ran down the line: "Judgment walks."
No one fired. The Heretics watching did not advance.
The Saint raised a hand—and was gone.
No footsteps. No mark.
Only a crater of glassified ash where he had passed.
Aaron snorted, "show-off"
[Hour Six]
Aaron placed the final relic, a sealed bone icon, engraved with forgotten scripture, tied with a wire of saint-hair.
He buried it with trembling hands.
Not from faith.
But from understanding.
He whispered:
"By blessed breach, we anchor fire.
By soil sealed, we bind sky.
By relic right, we remember why."
He looked to Aleric.
"Light it."
The boy struck the flint. The oil caught.
The trench blazed.
But it didn't burn.
It glowed, a steady, holy heat. Not destructive. Purifying.
Scribes wept. The earth pulsed once. And the Hinge sang.
Not in sound.
But in relief.
They called it the Second Consecration of the Blessed Hinge.
A miracle.
A theological event marked with three exclamation points in the official campaign ledger.
No Heretic dared step forward. Not yet.
The ground had been made to remember.
Aaron sat on a crate of relic bolts, trying to rub holy ash out of his ears. Aleric handed him a flask.
"Relic tea," he said. "Sanctified. Tastes like disappointment."
Aaron sipped and coughed. "You're not wrong."
Trenaxa joined them. "Reports say morale's up across three sectors. The Ember Line is singing your chants. The Martyr's Left... is still screaming, but less existentially."
Aaron looked up at the sky—dull, blood-orange, and too still.
"They think I'm a Saint," he murmured.
"You are," Trenaxa said. "You're understandable. That's terrifying."