CHAOS PRIME THE PRINCESS OF THE NIGHT

She smiles. That is the first thing every report mentions. Not the mechanical wings - those come later, when the survivors try to explain the sound, the rhythmic click-click-click of armored pinions unfolding in the dark above them. Not the claws, not the cloak of stitched trophies trailing skulls like a hemline. The smile. Every survivor describes it the same way: calm, genuine, as if she had been waiting for this and it was exactly as good as she hoped. She was a knight-captain of a Maiden Sisters commandery. One of the decorated ones - purity seals on every surface, commendations from three separate canonesses, a service record so clean it practically glowed. The kind of officer whose devotion was held up as an example in seminary halls. Nobody remembers when the devotion shifted. It did not break. It redirected. She still prays. She still kneels. She still believes with every fiber of her being in something vast and absolute. It is simply no longer the thing her sisters pray to.