The capsule slid in by degrees. “Inside. Roxy sobbed around the belt. A relic of war never meant for flesh. “Inside. Her will flickered — but never failed. Not metaphorically, but literally — enduring unbearable physical and spiritual pain to smuggle salvation through her own flesh. After long, hellish moments, the weight slid free. The belt muffled it only slightly as the edges of the capsule stretched her farther than she thought possible. Caelen stood over her, full height restored. It seeks truth in suffering, and meaning in what one woman gave, when no one else could. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “You carried the future,” he said. But it wasn’t enough. “Roxy,” he rasped. The Emperor’s wrath ignited anew. He looked at her, still convulsing on the floor, and for once, the mighty Astartes could not find words. Roxy lay still, drenched in sweat, her face contorted in silent pain. What she had become. “They will hear us.”
There was no time.
