“I carry the fire,” she whispered. Roxy volunteered without hesitation. The capsule slid in by degrees. She never spoke of what she endured. She endured, because there was no choice. It was a tool. 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. It is not glorious. In a universe where saints are carved from trauma and silence, Roxy’s sacrifice echoes as a brutal testament to the Imperium’s creed: **only in death does duty end**. No tools. Cold. But it is holy. When it begins.”
Roxy took it in her teeth and lay down. 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. What she endures is beyond comprehension — and yet utterly human. What she endures is beyond comprehension — and yet utterly human. “We need to remove it.”
“Quietly,” she said. It may break you.”
Roxy, pale and resolute, nodded. When a captured Astartes — Brother-Sergeant Caelen — was discovered deep
