“I carry the fire,” she whispered. No tools. “Where?”
Her voice cracked. Roxy sobbed around the belt. Those who served with her never forgot. When it begins.”
Roxy took it in her teeth and lay down. Not metaphorically, but literally — enduring unbearable physical and spiritual pain to smuggle salvation through her own flesh. “Where?”
Her voice cracked. It was done. Still sealed.”
He said nothing. He only looked at her — truly looked — and understood what she had done. The pain was unspeakable. It was a tool. Caelen caught the capsule, cradling it like a relic. But it wasn’t enough. The pain was white, all-consuming. They threw her into a cell of rot and rust, where Brother-Sergeant Caelen hung in chains. He was shaking — from the act, from awe, from the reality of what she had endured. No weapons. Stripped of weapons, armor, and all outward signs of sanctity, Roxy became a living vessel. “Where?”
Her voice cracked. They took her without resistance. But worse than pain was the silence she had to hold. But he looked up as she entered. He was shaking — from the act, from awe, from the reality of what she had endured. “We need to remove it.”
“Quietly,” she said. Caelen caught the capsule, cradling it like a relic. She could not.
