This tale does not seek comfort or triumph. What she endures is beyond comprehension — and yet utterly human. Caelen caught the capsule, cradling it like a relic. Roxy screamed. The alarms began to scream across the compound. No weapons. Vents hissed. “You carried it, child.”
Roxy said nothing. Her legs shaked. It is not clean. Each movement brought fresh waves of agony. His chest was a ruin of ceramite and scar tissue. It is not clean. But he looked up as she entered. Caelen stood over her, full height restored. “Make it worth it,” she whispered. 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. 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**. Not metaphorically, but literally — enduring unbearable physical and spiritual pain to smuggle salvation through her own flesh. It was done. No weapons. Between them lay the object: a power core encased in sanctified adamantium, roughly the size of a gauntleted fist. Her journey is one of devotion beyond pride, of suffering beyond honor. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, lips whispering the Litany of Suffering.