Her pride shattered. He was shaking — from the act, from awe, from the reality of what she had endured. She had prepared the core, anointed it, warmed it with sacred oils to ease the passage. Spat on her. No weapons. But when Verena pressed her gloved hand to Roxy’s thigh and began the process — careful, slow, unforgiving — all pretense shattered. Sister Roxy was not born a hero — she was forged into one, molded by pain, obedience, and the fire of devotion. With no secure means of delivery, a vital power core was to be transported in the most covert and unthinkable way: hidden within the body of an unarmed Sister. Verena whispered prayers as she worked — half to comfort Roxy, half to steel herself. Vents hissed. A vessel. It was a tool. Laughed. In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, where war consumes entire systems and faith is often the only armor left, there are souls who embody the Imperium’s most harrowing truths.
