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It is not glorious. No weapons. “Inside. She could not. A relic of war never meant for flesh. As long as the core reaches him.”

Verena offered her a leather belt — a strip of old, cracked ecclesiarch hide. Roxy volunteered without hesitation. Verena whispered prayers as she worked — half to comfort Roxy, half to steel herself. 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**. The heretics believed she was a captured missionary — a discarded Sister cast off by the Ecclesiarchy. He only looked at her — truly looked — and understood what she had done. Heavy. But worse than pain was the silence she had to hold. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, lips whispering the Litany of Suffering. And then the bolter fire began. ***

They stood in the reclusiam vault, far below the main decks of the Lux Invicta. The weight seated fully. “Are you certain?” Verena asked quietly. It is not clean. No weapons. “Where?”

Her voice cracked. It was a tool. Power returned with a low, reverent hum.