Another day.
Will Victor entered Chapel No. 12 as usual.
The chapel stood on the upper decks of the Shadow of the Emperor, near the edge of the Bridge area. It was small, reserved for the ship's mortal crew.
The pews were crude metal benches, badly worn, the paint on their armrests long since polished smooth by countless hands.
The lectern was a steel plate welded to a base, its edges still bearing burrs left unfiled after cutting.
But aboard a warship twenty kilometers long, even a corner like this, where mortals could seek a moment's solace, was a rare luxury.
Will sat toward the left at the back.
He had not deliberately chosen a corner, nor had he deliberately stayed close to the aisle. He simply settled naturally into the fifth seat on the left in the third row.
It was the seat he had chosen at random when he first attended a service several months ago. He had sat there every time since.
Neither early nor late, neither too far forward nor too far back, it was an established habit that had never drawn anyone's attention.
He bowed his head slightly and clasped his hands in his lap, assuming a posture of prayer.
His eyes remained lowered, neither wandering around nor staring blankly at any one spot.
His ears, however, caught everything around him: footsteps, the rustle of clothing, the creak of seats, the low hum of the air circulation system.
It was a spy's professional instinct, and a necessity for survival.
Before long, a preacher with an upright bearing stepped up to the lectern.
He wore a simple black robe and had regular features and a steady voice. He opened with a brief introduction, then began the day's sermon.
Today's subject was the importance of the Imperial