Her pride shattered. “You carried it, child.”
Roxy said nothing. The pain was white, all-consuming. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, lips whispering the Litany of Suffering. She arched her back. “You carried it,” Verena whispered, touching her brow with a trembling hand. The weight seated fully. Only two souls breathed in that silent chamber: Sister Roxy, stripped of everything but faith — and Priestess Verena, whose hands trembled despite decades of ritual calm. She didn’t have to. Her entire body resisted — locked up — twisted in silent torment. This is the story of an unspeakable mission. Nothing could prepare a body for this. Between them lay the object: a power core encased in sanctified adamantium, roughly the size of a gauntleted fist. “Roxy,” he rasped. She didn’t have to. Her legs shaked. It is not clean. “You’ve already done enough.”
He locked the core into his broken plate. 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. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. Lights flickered. She did not scream. She didn’t have to. It may break you.”
Roxy, pale and resolute, nodded. “Inside. Still sealed.”
He said nothing. “I carry the fire,” she whispered.
