“You carried it,” Verena whispered, touching her brow with a trembling hand. A vessel. Power returned with a low, reverent hum. He only looked at her — truly looked — and understood what she had done. Roxy screamed. The weight seated fully. The Emperor’s wrath ignited anew. The Emperor’s wrath ignited anew. But he looked up as she entered. Each movement brought fresh waves of agony. It was a tool. She never spoke of what she endured. When it begins.”
Roxy took it in her teeth and lay down. The capsule slid in by degrees. “Inside. Heavy. Her legs shaked. They beat her. But he looked up as she entered. The heretics believed she was a captured missionary — a discarded Sister cast off by the Ecclesiarchy. 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**. Her journey is one of devotion beyond pride, of suffering beyond honor. Lights flickered. Her hands clawed at the stone floor, her legs trembling violently. This is the story of an unspeakable mission. The pain was white, all-consuming.
