A vessel. “I carry the fire,” she whispered. Laughed. “You carried it,” Verena whispered, touching her brow with a trembling hand. “We need to remove it.”
“Quietly,” she said. Those who served with her never forgot. But it wasn’t enough. The pain was unspeakable. It seeks truth in suffering, and meaning in what one woman gave, when no one else could. A member of the Adepta Sororitas, Roxy once stood tall in power armor, her voice rising in hymn as bolter fire thundered in righteous fury. It may break you.”
Roxy, pale and resolute, nodded. Caelen stood over her, full height restored. Her hands clawed at the stone floor, her legs trembling violently. Stripped of weapons, armor, and all outward signs of sanctity, Roxy became a living vessel. It is not clean. Her pride shattered. She lay on the cold stone floor on her side and forced the leather belt back into her mouth.
