"I'm saying," Humility breathes, static forming in her hair from brooding wrath, "that the perfect martyr has no attachments. Just because she put her pontiff's halo back on means nothing. She was defective, and defied them. And she's attached to us. To you, too. You can tell how she keeps committing to strategies that try to keep our casualties down, how she's working without sleep to cover us when we're fighting. She's a one-woman army, but it's wearing her down."
"So it's easier - it's easier, if they send us to the front, and we all die. Then they can have their perfect instrument, without distractions, without attachments. One more useful than any of us are, individually. They do it with Revenant hearts, sometimes, I've heard. Widow them from their battle-lovers so that the Revenant can be molded into something fully theirs."
You see it in your mind's eye. "A Kora isn't supposed to truly devote herself anyone, but Her. True love of another self is…"
"It's an obstacle," Humility finishes what you could not.
Your stomach drops. Even the regret inhibitor cannot suppress the feeling. You knew it, but you never dared say it so bluntly.
You suck in a breath through your teeth. "Then what do we do?"
Humility fixes you with a sharp, defiant glare. "The same thing you helped Radiance do, tonight. Survive, and spite them all to the demiurge's spiral hell."
You harden your own gaze, and lock arms with her. "Survive, and spite them all to spiral hell," you vow.
For the first time in your life, you might have a copse that believes in you, and wants you. Not as a witch, but as a person. You need this. You need to keep them alive. For your sake. For theirs.
But it is not a promise you, or she, can keep.
On the battlefield, no one is the master of their own fate.