His chest was a ruin of ceramite and scar tissue. xxx As long as the core reaches him.”
Verena offered her a leather belt — a strip of old, cracked ecclesiarch hide. The pain was unspeakable. “Roxy,” he rasped. “I am ready to die,” she whispered, the belt falling from her mouth. Verena whispered prayers as she worked — half to comfort Roxy, half to steel herself. In the halls of the Reclusiam, a mural was painted in her honor. No tools. “Where?”
Her voice cracked. In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, where war consumes entire systems and faith is often the only armor left, there are souls who embody the Imperium’s most harrowing truths.
