Tzarine's bolt pistol continued to aim directly at the Inquisitor's head. Unwavering.

"You set us up," she said coldly. The blood of the Venastan 3rd Regiment covered the floor of the temple, the rest of her Sisters wary, waiting for ambush or retribution. "You put us here, and you wanted to see what would happen. Congratulations. Did we meet your expectations? Why shouldn't I kill you now?"

Inquisitor Gharr merely smiled. "You went beyond my wildest dreams. You can help me end this now, Sororitas. Put the gun down, and we can save this world."

The barrel of the weapon continued to point directly at him, like the eye of Death. "Save it? With you?"

"You've shown what lengths you're willing to go to," Gharr said softly. "The Imperium needs ruthlessness, tenacity and drive, and you have all three, Tzarine. You'll probably be punished for your actions, but I can protect you. My own band of deadly warriors. We can clean up this sector. Put all that rage to good use."

The Sister looked aside for a moment, at the ragtag group that followed her. Then she looked back at Gharr. "You know, for an Inquisitor, your intelligence is severely lacking."

The pistol barked once.

Katarina Tzarine's first memory was of the parade.

It had been a grand affair. She didn't even remember what it was in aid of, but it had been awe-inspiring. The long, perfectly organised lines of Imperial Guard. The formations of tanks and support vehicles, the building-sized Baneblade in pride of place at the end of the line.

And then the Sororitas.

As she'd clung to her father's shoulders, her eyes wide, the power armoured warriors had marched past with a dignity and power that the Guardsmen, for all their numbers and weapons, had lacked. She had no memory of the rest of the day, just the overwhelming, all-consuming need to become part of that.

She'd been inducted into the Adepta Sororitas a few months later. She barely remembered her parents, or anything save for the all-consuming drive to succeed and prosper, and the love and kinship for her fellows in the Order.

The time went by in flashes. Being chosen for the Order Militant, and first picking up a weapon. The gruelling training and harsh instructors did nothing to quell her enthusiasm, and time and again she was picked out for praise as a perfect student. With the completion of her training, and her assignment to a squad, she'd felt like her heart would burst. The feel of her blood-red armour and black cape, the weight of the bolter in her hands…

She'd first seen combat only a few months later. A minor thing, the purging of a cult on a primitive world. Barely worthy of the attention of the Sisters of Battle, but she'd revelled in the knowledge that she was doing the Emperor's work.

She was promoted rapidly, gaining her own squad, and then achieving the rank of Canoness, in command of a Mission. Dozens, hundreds of heretics and xenos died by her hand. All said that she was destined for great things.

The fire that burns brightest burns fastest.

During an engagement where a squad of renegade Space Marines were trapped, fifteen of her Sisters died as the superhumans attempted to break out. It was her first blow, the first imperfect success. The first moment her flame flickered.

Her superiors began to see anger, discord. Her patience and tolerance became a fraying thread, easily broken, her temper a dangerous thing. Obedience was no longer enough; she demanded reasons, justifications.

Pristine success became mere success. She became cautious, flirting with failure at times for the sake of keeping her troops safe. Sacrifice was no longer its own reward. The bureaucracy of the Ecclesiarchy sickened her, and she steadily became sullen.

When she finally actively refused an order unless she was given a reason to do it, she was demoted in disgrace. Left to languish until final judgement could be decided.

Until the Purging of Senaav III.