As consorts of death, time passed quickly for the Sisterhood. For Everie and her two junior Sisters, that was no exception.

Everyone climbed ranks. Higher-ranked Sisters died, leaving spots for the others to fulfill.

At ten years old, Everie became oh-fifteen. She was the youngest to ever break into the twenties - at least, in the history of their branch of the cult. Forty-seven became forty-three, and thirty-four thirty- two. They, too, eventually chose names; forty-three became Ellie, and thirty-two Addie.

Selena remained undisputed, of course. She performed superhuman feats with such regularity that some of the members of the cult had begun to call her an incarnation of one of Zabaniya’s holy virgins.

The others rose in rank, too. But they were much less interested in the martial path than Everie, who had begun to relish in it.

She didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if Everie particularly liked killing - she did it to survive. After her revelation of the truth of their world’s ruin, Everie had been soured on anything related to faith, or ideology.

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She was a beast, certainly. But everyone in this cruel, callous world was. And at the very least, she was a simple beast - one that knew what she wanted, and was happy with her place in the world.

As long as she could spend her days with Selena, she would be happy.

Operations were grueling, of course. Everie often traveled with Addie and Ellie, sneaking into the Brass Cities in the dead of night, or ambushing caravans of clergy - all at the behest of the shadowy leaders of the cult. They tripped over death’s feet many more times than Everie would comfortably admit.

But they always survived, one way or the other. And when they did, Selena would be waiting for them. The other Sisters would be waiting for them. There would be a community waiting for them.

A family, carved out of their tiny corner of their cold and callous world.

Eventually, as oh-fifteen, Everie found for the first time that she had discovered something akin to happiness.

Of course, worries still plagued her. Death was their instrument, but it was a tool that could take their lives as easily as anyone else’s. Every month, a Sister died.

Every month, they held vigil in the graveyard. Without a body to honor, that was all they could do. That was the first time more Sisters joined them; in silent, directionless prayer, they bound themselves to one another.

Together in death. That was what Sisters were for.