No weapons. No weapons. But when Verena pressed her gloved hand to Roxy’s thigh and began the process — careful, slow, unforgiving — all pretense shattered. Caelen stood over her, full height restored. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, lips whispering the Litany of Suffering. Her pride shattered. A member of the Adepta Sororitas, Roxy once stood tall in power armor, her voice rising in hymn as bolter fire thundered in righteous fury. “Are you certain?” Verena asked quietly. But it wasn’t enough. She dropped to her knees, wincing at the shift in weight inside her. As long as the core reaches him.”
Verena offered her a leather belt — a strip of old, cracked ecclesiarch hide. She did not scream. His chest was a ruin of ceramite and scar tissue. No armor. 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. A relic of war never meant for flesh. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, lips whispering the Litany of Suffering.
