She had prepared the core, anointed it, warmed it with sacred oils to ease the passage. 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. The pain was unspeakable. “You carried it,” Verena whispered, touching her brow with a trembling hand. She lay on the cold stone floor on her side and forced the leather belt back into her mouth. “You’ve already done enough.”
He locked the core into his broken plate. “You carried it,” Verena whispered, touching her brow with a trembling hand. Her entire body resisted — locked up — twisted in silent torment. “They will hear us.”
There was no time. In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, where war consumes entire systems and faith is often the only armor left, there are souls who embody the Imperium’s most harrowing truths. She could not. This tale does not seek comfort or triumph. The pain was white, all-consuming. The belt cut into her mouth as her jaw clenched. In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, where war consumes entire systems and faith is often the only armor left, there are souls who embody the Imperium’s most harrowing truths.
