Caelen stood over her, full height restored. Her hands gripped her knees. But when Verena pressed her gloved hand to Roxy’s thigh and began the process — careful, slow, unforgiving — all pretense shattered. The alarms began to scream across the compound. Those who served with her never forgot. Roxy lay still, drenched in sweat, her face contorted in silent pain. “Make it worth it,” she whispered. Roxy lay still, her body exhausted, her purpose fulfilled. Her will flickered — but never failed. Vents hissed. The capsule slid in by degrees. Heavy. “Bite. Roxy screamed. “You carried it,” Verena whispered, touching her brow with a trembling hand. After endless minutes, the pressure shifted. 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. This is the story of an unspeakable mission. His chest was a ruin of ceramite and scar tissue. Caelen, grim and silent, began the extraction. When it begins.”
Roxy took it in her teeth and lay down.
