Blonde Airhead First-person Perspective

She could not. Stripped of weapons, armor, and all outward signs of sanctity, Roxy became a living vessel. A vessel. “You carried it, child.”

Roxy said nothing. But it is holy. No armor. Just a kneeling woman, lit by a single beam of light, her hands on her belly, eyes raised in prayer. A vessel. What she had become. The Emperor’s wrath ignited anew. Roxy sobbed around the belt. Heavy. She lay on the cold stone floor on her side and forced the leather belt back into her mouth. She had prepared the core, anointed it, warmed it with sacred oils to ease the passage. 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**.