The bell rang at dawn.

  Its harsh, metallic clang echoed through the dormitory halls, jolting Lilith from sleep. She sat up with a gasp, momentarily disoriented, her right eye struggling to focus in the dim light filtering through the small window.

  Where—

  Then she remembered. The orphanage. Saint Celestine. They were safe.

  Eve was already awake beside her, sitting perfectly still, red eyes glowing faintly in the pre-dawn darkness. She'd probably been awake for hours—Lilith had noticed her twin seemed to need very little sleep.

  "Morning," Lilith mumbled, rubbing her eye.

  Eve tilted her head slightly. "Morning."

  Around them, other children were stirring—groaning, shuffling out of their rooms, heading toward the washing stations. The daily routine was beginning.

  Lilith looked at their beds. They'd both slept in hers again, leaving the second bed completely untouched. She should probably fix that before anyone noticed.

  She climbed out, her bare feet hitting the cold stone floor, and quickly began smoothing the blankets on both beds, trying to make it look like they'd each used their own.

  The door opened.

  Sister Mercy stepped in, her warm smile already in place despite the early hour.

  "Good morning, little ones. I hope you slept—" She paused, glancing between the two beds, then at Lilith frantically smoothing blankets, then at Eve sitting on the edge of one bed.

  Her smile widened slightly. "Slept together, did you? That's all right. Many of the younger children do the same when they first arrive. It's perfectly natural to seek comfort."

  Lilith felt her face heat with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Sister. I just—"

  "No need to apologize, dear." Sister Mercy's expression softened with genuine understanding. "You've been through something traumatic. If sleeping together helps you feel safe, then that's what matters. The Emperor understands the hearts of children."

  She walked further into the room, her gaze settling on Lilith with approval.

  "You're very well-mannered, Lilith. Already making your beds without being told. Most children your age need constant reminding."

  Lilith ducked her head, unsure how to respond. "Thank you, Sister."

  Sister Mercy's attention shifted to Eve, who still sat motionless, watching the interaction with those unblinking red eyes.

  "And Eve. Still cautious, I see. That's all right too. Trust takes time." She gestured toward the door. "Come now. Morning ablutions, then breakfast. We don't want to be late for prayers."

  The dining hall was large and utilitarian, filled with long wooden tables and benches. The walls were decorated with religious iconography—murals depicting the God-Emperor in various heroic poses, quotes from Imperial scripture painted in fading Gothic script, a massive Aquila mounted above the head table where the sisters sat.

  Children filled the space—dozens of them, ranging from toddlers to teenagers, all wearing the same gray robes. The noise was overwhelming after the quiet of their room—conversations, laughter, the clatter of utensils, the occasional reprimand from a supervising nun.

  Lilith and Eve entered together, hands clasped as always.

  The noise didn't exactly stop, but it definitely quieted.

  Heads turned. Eyes stared.

  The new ones. The ones with the strange eyes.

  Lilith felt every gaze like a physical weight. She kept her expression neutral, her right eye focused on finding an empty spot to sit.

  Eve's grip on her hand tightened slightly, but her face remained blank.

  They found seats at the end of one of the long tables, as far from the other children as they could manage.

  Nobody approached them. Nobody spoke to them.

  The other children went back to their conversations, but Lilith could feel the occasional glance, hear the whispered questions.

  Are they mutants?

  Why are their eyes like that?

  Did you hear? The Inquisition is watching them.

  She tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the meal being distributed.

  Breakfast was... barely food.

  A bowl of gray slop that might charitably be called porridge. A piece of hard bread that looked like it could be used as a weapon. A cup of something that was technically water but tasted faintly of metal and chemicals.

  Welcome to hive city cuisine, Lilith thought bitterly. At least it's probably not corpse-starch. Probably.

  She picked up her spoon and forced herself to eat. It tasted like nothing—or worse than nothing, like the absence of flavor with a faint chemical aftertaste.

  Eve stared at her bowl, then picked it up with both hands and started to drink directly from it.

  Gray slop dribbled down her chin, spilling onto her robe.

  "Eve," Lilith said softly, reaching over with a napkin to wipe her twin's face. "Use the spoon. Like this."

  She demonstrated, scooping up a small amount of the porridge and bringing it to her mouth.

  Eve watched intently, then picked up her own spoon. Her first attempt was clumsy—she gripped it like a weapon, stabbing at the porridge rather than scooping—but after a few tries, she got the hang of it.

  By the end of the meal, she was eating properly, if still a bit messily.

  Lilith found herself smiling despite everything. "Good. You're a fast learner."

  Eve blinked at her, a tiny hint of something that might have been pride in her expression.

  After breakfast came morning prayers.

  All the children were herded into the chapel—a large room dominated by a massive golden Aquila and countless candles. The air smelled of incense and old stone.

  Sister Prudence stood at the front, her stern voice leading the recitation.

  "Blessed is the mind too small for doubt," the children chanted in unison. "The Emperor protects. In His name, we find purpose. Through His will, we persevere..."

  Lilith tried to follow along, mouthing the words even though she didn't know them. Eve stood beside her, silent, watching the other children with that same intense focus.

  I need to learn these prayers, Lilith thought. If I keep messing up, someone will notice. Someone will question.

  After prayers came education.

  The classroom was cramped and poorly lit, filled with wooden desks carved with decades of student graffiti. A single tech-priest—old, augmented, his mechanical voice droning—stood at the front, teaching basic literacy and Imperial doctrine.

  "The God-Emperor sits upon the Golden Throne," he intoned. "For ten thousand years He has watched over humanity. He sacrifices Himself daily so that we may live. What do we owe Him in return?"

  "Our faith," the children responded mechanically.

  "Our obedience," the tech-priest continued. "Our lives, should He demand them."

  Lilith sat in the back with Eve, sharing a battered data-slate that displayed basic High Gothic letters.

  Eve stared at the screen, her brow furrowed in confusion.

  "What is this?" she whispered.

  "Letters," Lilith whispered back. "They make sounds. You put them together to make words."

  Eve's frown deepened. She pointed at one symbol. "What sound?"

  "That's 'ah.' Like in 'Aquila.'"

  Eve repeated it softly. "Ah."

  "Good. This one is 'beh.' Like in 'bolt.'"

  They went through the alphabet slowly, Lilith teaching Eve letter by letter. The other children around them were already reading simple texts, but Eve was starting from zero.

  She's never been educated, Lilith realized with a pang of sympathy. They created her as a weapon and never taught her anything else.

  But Eve learned quickly. By the end of the lesson, she could recognize half the alphabet and sound out simple words.

  The tech-priest noticed, his optical implants whirring as he observed them.

  "Subject Eve," he said, his mechanical voice neutral. "You learn at an accelerated rate. Curious."

  Eve didn't respond, just stared at him with those red eyes.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Lilith felt her stomach clench. Please don't make a big deal out of it. Please don't report this to anyone.

  The tech-priest made a notation on his data-slate, then moved on.

  After education came chores.

  The children were divided into groups and assigned tasks—cleaning, cooking, maintenance, laundry. Lilith and Eve were assigned to floor scrubbing in one of the dormitory wings.

  A nun handed them buckets of soapy water and brushes, demonstrating the proper technique.

  "On your hands and knees," she instructed. "Scrub in circles. Make sure to get into the corners. The Emperor demands cleanliness in all things."

  Lilith got to work immediately, remembering similar chores from her old life—cleaning her apartment, helping her mother with housework.

  Eve stared at the bucket, clearly having no idea what to do.

  "Like this," Lilith demonstrated, kneeling and scrubbing a section of floor. "Just copy what I do."

  Eve knelt beside her and began scrubbing.

  Too hard.

  The brush snapped in half in her grip.

  "Oh," Eve said, staring at the broken brush.

  The supervising nun sighed. "Here. Take this one. And gently, child. You're cleaning, not trying to destroy the floor."

  Eve took the new brush and tried again, this time with exaggerated care. She scrubbed so lightly it barely touched the floor.

  "A little harder than that," Lilith said, trying not to laugh. "Just... normal pressure. Like this."

  Eve watched her carefully, then adjusted her technique.

  By the end of the chore session, she'd figured it out.

  "You're doing great," Lilith said encouragingly. "You just need practice with... normal things. You learn fast, though."

  Eve nodded slowly, a hint of satisfaction in her expression.

  Lunch was similar to breakfast—gray slop, hard bread, metallic water.

  Lilith was starting to suspect that "gray slop" was just the standard meal for orphanages in hive cities. Efficient. Cheap. Barely nutritious enough to keep children alive.

  After lunch came more chores, then afternoon lessons in Imperial history and religious doctrine.

  "The Emperor conquered the galaxy during the Great Crusade," the tech-priest droned. "His twenty Primarchs led His armies. But treachery struck. Horus, the Warmaster, turned to Chaos..."

  Lilith knew this story—at least the broad strokes. The Horus Heresy. The betrayal that nearly destroyed humanity.

  But hearing it taught as religious dogma, as absolute truth, was different from reading wiki articles.

  Eve listened intently, absorbing every word even if she didn't fully understand.

  In their free time—the brief hour between afternoon lessons and evening prayers—Lilith pulled Eve aside to one of the quieter corners of the common room.

  "Come on," she said. "We need to work on your reading and writing."

  She'd borrowed a piece of chalk and found a small slate board. She wrote out simple words and had Eve practice copying them.

  EMPEROR

  FAITH

  AQUILA

  Eve's handwriting was atrocious at first—shaky lines, uneven letters, symbols that barely resembled what they were supposed to be.

  But she improved rapidly. By the end of the hour, her letters were recognizable.

  "Good," Lilith said. "Really good. Tomorrow we'll work on more words."

  Eve nodded, staring at her work with something that might have been pride.

  Around them, other children played or talked or studied. But none approached Lilith and Eve.

  They were outsiders. Strange. Different.

  And everyone knew the Inquisition was watching.

  Day Two

  The routine repeated.

  Bell at dawn. Morning ablutions. Breakfast. Prayers. Education. Chores. Lunch. More education. More chores. Free time. Evening prayers. Dinner. Lights out.

  Eve continued to learn at an alarming rate. By the second day, she could read simple sentences. By the third, she could write basic words without help.

  Her lack of common sense remained a problem, though.

  During meal preparation chores, she picked up a knife by the blade instead of the handle, cutting her palm. The wound healed before anyone could even react, but Lilith had to quickly explain it away as "just a small cut."

  During laundry duty, she tried to carry an entire basket of wet linens by herself—easily thirty kilograms—and nearly succeeded before Lilith stopped her.

  "You're supposed to ask for help with heavy things," Lilith hissed. "Normal children can't lift that much."

  "Oh," Eve said, setting the basket down.

  She doesn't understand what 'normal' is, Lilith realized. She's never been around normal people. Never seen how regular children act.

  So Lilith taught her.

  How to ask for help. How to pretend to struggle with tasks. How to laugh at jokes even if she didn't find them funny. How to blend in.

  Eve absorbed it all, adapting her behavior day by day.

  Day Three

  More of the same.

  But during evening prayers, something changed.

  Sister Prudence was leading the liturgy, and she called on individual children to recite passages.

  "Lilith," she said suddenly. "Recite the Prayer of Morning Devotion."

  Lilith's heart stopped.

  I don't know it. I've only been here three days. I haven't memorized—

  But she had to try.

  She stood, cleared her throat, and began: "Blessed is the mind too small for doubt. The Emperor protects. In His name, we... we find purpose. Through His will, we..."

  She faltered. The next line wouldn't come.

  The chapel was silent.

  Sister Prudence watched her, expression unreadable.

  Then Sister Mercy spoke up gently. "She's only been here a few days, Sister. She's still learning."

  Sister Prudence nodded slowly. "Indeed. Continue your studies, Lilith. The Emperor's words must be learned."

  "Yes, Sister," Lilith whispered, sitting back down.

  Her hands were shaking.

  Eve reached over and squeezed her hand. Grounding. Comforting.

  Day Four

  The other children were starting to whisper more openly.

  "Why don't they talk to anyone?"

  "Because they're weird."

  "I heard they came from a crashed pod. Like they fell from the sky."

  "Maybe they're angels?"

  "Angels don't have red eyes, stupid."

  "Maybe they're demons pretending to be children."

  Lilith ignored them. Eve didn't seem to notice or care.

  During free time, Lilith taught Eve more words. More common phrases.

  "When someone asks how you are, you say 'I'm fine, thank you.'"

  "I'm fine, thank you," Eve repeated.

  "When someone offers you something, you say 'yes, please' or 'no, thank you.'"

  "Yes, please. No, thank you."

  "Good. And when you don't know something, you say 'I don't know' instead of just staring at them."

  "I don't know."

  "Perfect."

  Eve was becoming more human with each passing day. Learning not just facts and skills, but how to be a person.

  And Lilith found herself caring more and more. Wanting to protect her. Wanting to see her succeed.

  Why? she asked herself for the hundredth time. Why do I care so much?

  But the answer remained elusive.

  Day Five

  During chores, Eve accidentally broke another brush.

  And then another.

  "Emperor's teeth, child," the supervising nun muttered. "What are you made of?"

  "Sorry," Eve said quietly, the word Lilith had taught her.

  The nun sighed. "Just... be more careful. Those supplies aren't infinite."

  Later, during their free time, Lilith pulled Eve aside.

  "You need to be more careful about showing your strength," she whispered. "Normal kids can't do the things you can do. If you keep breaking things, people will notice."

  "I try," Eve said, and there was genuine frustration in her voice. "But everything is... fragile."

  Because you were built to fight assassins and psykers, Lilith thought. Everything is fragile compared to you.

  "I know," she said gently. "Just keep trying. You're doing great."

  Day Six

  A near disaster.

  During afternoon lessons, another child—a boy named Matthias—deliberately tripped Eve as she walked past.

  She stumbled but didn't fall, her reflexes too good.

  Matthias laughed. "Clumsy mutant."

  Eve turned to look at him, and for a split second, Lilith saw something dangerous flash in those red eyes.

  No. Don't. Please don't.

  "It's okay," Lilith said quickly, grabbing Eve's hand. "He's not worth it. Come on."

  Eve allowed herself to be pulled away, but her gaze remained locked on Matthias for a long moment.

  Later, during free time, Lilith asked quietly, "What were you going to do?"

  "Hurt him," Eve said simply.

  "Don't. If you hurt someone, they'll know you're dangerous. They'll take you away." Lilith squeezed her hand. "Just ignore them. Please."

  Eve was quiet for a long time. Then: "Okay."

  Day Seven

  The week had passed in a blur of routine and careful pretense.

  By the seventh day, Eve could read simple texts, write basic sentences, and navigate most social situations without making critical errors.

  She still didn't talk much. Still watched everything with that intense, unsettling focus. Still held Lilith's hand whenever possible.

  But she was learning. Adapting. Surviving.

  And Lilith felt a surge of pride watching her.

  The other children still kept their distance, but the whispers had quieted somewhat. Familiarity bred, if not acceptance, at least tolerance.

  We're making it, Lilith thought as they sat together during free time, Eve practicing her letters while Lilith watched. We're actually making it.

  But that afternoon, Sister Prudence's office received a visitor.

  Inquisitor Rathken entered without knocking, his presence filling the small room like a physical force.

  Sister Mercy, who had been reviewing supply requisitions with Sister Prudence, immediately stiffened. Her warm, maternal demeanor evaporated, replaced by something colder, more guarded.

  Sister Prudence simply nodded once, her expression unchanged. "Inquisitor. We've been expecting you."

  "Your report," Rathken said without preamble, settling into a chair across from the desk.

  Sister Prudence slid a data-slate across to him. "Observations from the past week. Both subjects have integrated into the orphanage routine without incident."

  Rathken activated the slate and began reading, his sharp eyes scanning the text with mechanical efficiency.

  Subject Lilith: Polite, obedient, well-mannered. Displays above-average intelligence and learning capacity. Has begun teaching Subject Eve basic literacy and social behaviors. Shows no signs of psychic activity. Left eye remains non-functional. Exhibits strong attachment to Subject Eve; becomes anxious when separated.

  Subject Eve: Quiet, observant, learns at accelerated rate. Displays enhanced physical strength (approximately 3-4x normal for age). Requires instruction on basic social norms and common sense. Shows no signs of psychic activity. Exhibits strong attachment to Subject Lilith; becomes anxious when separated.

  General Observations: Both subjects appear to be normal children aside from noted physical abnormalities. No aggressive behavior. No signs of corruption. No interaction with other children beyond basic necessity. Recommend continued observation.

  Rathken read through the entire report twice, his expression unreadable.

  Finally, he looked up.

  "They've been... unremarkable."

  "Yes," Sister Prudence said.

  "No incidents? No outbursts? No manifestations of any kind?"

  "None."

  Sister Mercy spoke up, her voice carefully neutral despite the tension in her shoulders. "They're just children, Inquisitor. Frightened, traumatized children trying to adjust to a new life. Whatever you suspected them of being, they've shown no evidence of it."

  Rathken's gaze shifted to her, cold and assessing. "Your opinion is noted, Sister."

  He stood abruptly. "I have other matters that require my attention. I will assign operatives to continue observation. They will be discreet but thorough. Any deviation from acceptable behavior is to be reported immediately."

  "Of course," Sister Prudence said.

  Rathken turned and left without another word, his long coat sweeping behind him.

  The moment the door closed, Sister Mercy let out a long breath and sank into a chair.

  "Emperor preserve us," she muttered. "I hate dealing with Inquisitors."

  Sister Prudence returned to her paperwork, her expression unchanged. "They serve a necessary function."

  "They terrify children," Sister Mercy countered. "Those two girls—they're five years old, Prudence. Five. And they're being watched like criminals."

  "They're being watched because they're unusual," Sister Prudence said calmly. "And in this galaxy, unusual often means dangerous."

  Sister Mercy was quiet for a moment, then asked, "What do you think of them? Honestly?"

  Sister Prudence set down her stylus and looked up, her sharp eyes thoughtful.

  "They're fine children. Sweet, even, in their own way. Lilith is remarkably well-mannered for her age. Eve is... learning. They cause no trouble. They obey without complaint."

  "Then why does the Inquisition still watch them?"

  Sister Prudence leaned back in her chair, her expression distant.

  "Because the one with the gold eye is good at lying."

  Sister Mercy blinked. "What?"

  "Lilith," Sister Prudence said. "She lies. Not constantly, but regularly. Small things, mostly. But she's skilled at it—far more skilled than any five-year-old should be."

  "How can you tell?"

  "Experience." Sister Prudence's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I've been doing this for thirty years, Sister Mercy. I've seen thousands of children pass through these walls. I know when someone is hiding something."

  Sister Mercy frowned. "But... if she's lying, what is she hiding? What could a child possibly—"

  "That," Sister Prudence interrupted gently, "is what you should find out."

  "Me?"

  "You're better with children than I am. You have a way of making them feel safe. If anyone can earn their trust and learn the truth, it's you."

  Sister Prudence stood and gathered her papers.

  "Not everyone who lies has bad secrets, Sister Mercy. Some are simply desperate to survive. Some lie because it's all they know. And some..." She paused, meeting the younger woman's eyes. "Some lie because the truth would destroy them."

  She walked toward the door, then stopped.

  "Find out which one applies to Lilith. If you want to. And when you discover the truth—whatever it may be—you can do whatever you wish with that information."

  With that, she left, leaving Sister Mercy alone in the office.

  The younger nun sat there for a long moment, staring at the closed door.

  Then she sighed, long and heavy.

  "Emperor grant me wisdom," she murmured. "Because I don't know what I'm supposed to do with these children."

  She rose and made her way toward the dormitories, her mind churning with questions she wasn't sure she wanted answered.