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One eye was swollen shut. She could not. Her legs shaked. “Make it worth it,” she whispered. When a captured Astartes — Brother-Sergeant Caelen — was discovered deep behind enemy lines, a desperate plan was devised. Stripped of weapons, armor, and all outward signs of sanctity, Roxy became a living vessel. No weapons. A relic of war never meant for flesh. She had prepared the core, anointed it, warmed it with sacred oils to ease the passage. “Roxy,” he rasped. “Where?”

Her voice cracked. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, lips whispering the Litany of Suffering. “Roxy,” he rasped. Only two souls breathed in that silent chamber: Sister Roxy, stripped of everything but faith — and Priestess Verena, whose hands trembled despite decades of ritual calm. “Make it worth it,” she whispered. As long as the core reaches him.”

Verena offered her a leather belt — a strip of old, cracked ecclesiarch hide.