“This has never been done. His chest was a ruin of ceramite and scar tissue. But he looked up as she entered. Laughed. Just a kneeling woman, lit by a single beam of light, her hands on her belly, eyes raised in prayer. It was a tool. She arched her back. She didn’t have to. The capsule slid in by degrees. The belt muffled it only slightly as the edges of the capsule stretched her farther than she thought possible. Each movement brought fresh waves of agony. It may break you.”
Roxy, pale and resolute, nodded. But in a galaxy that grinds even saints to dust, her greatest act of service would come not from battle — but from surrender. “Roxy,” he rasped. She lay on the cold stone floor on her side and forced the leather belt back into her mouth. 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**.
