Between them lay the object: a power core encased in sanctified adamantium, roughly the size of a gauntleted fist. What she had become. His chest was a ruin of ceramite and scar tissue. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. It is not glorious. ***
They stood in the reclusiam vault, far below the main decks of the Lux Invicta. Sister Roxy was not born a hero — she was forged into one, molded by pain, obedience, and the fire of devotion. Cold. “This has never been done. What she had become. After endless minutes, the pressure shifted. But when Verena pressed her gloved hand to Roxy’s thigh and began the process — careful, slow, unforgiving — all pretense shattered. Her hands clawed at the stone floor, her legs trembling violently. This tale does not seek comfort or triumph. 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 Emperor’s wrath ignited anew. “Make it worth it,” she whispered. Her vision
