Anger surged through Elizabeth, but it was quickly snuffed out by the weight of her own shame. She, too, was hiding. She, too, had failed. How could she judge Lysandria when she herself cowered in the shadows?

  Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears as she watched Lysandria’s hollow, defeated expression. Her once-proud leader, the Sister who had carried them through tless battles, was no longer reizable. Her body moved unnaturally, her mind broken, her faith shattered. ‘What has this world bee? What have I bee?’

  Elizabeth’s breath hitched as she ched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She forced herself to look, to truly see the nightmare before her. Daemon’s cruelty, the destru of her Sisters, Lysandria’s desecration—it all burned into her memory. Her gaze fell on her bolter, lying just out of reach. The same thoughts returned. She could grab it, rise up, and fight. She could throw herself at Daemon, even if only to buy her remaining Sisters a moment of respite.

  But Daemon’s overwhelming power loomed in her mind, and with it, fear crept ba. The memory of how effortlessly it had sughtered her squad repyed over and over, paralyzing her. ‘You are weak,’ whispered a voi her mind. ‘You are nothing. You will die, and nothing will ge.’ Elizabeth bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. Another voice, quieter but more resolute, rose within her. ‘Cowards will die in shame.’

  The words echoed like a tolling bell. They were the Emperor’s words. Words she had recited tless times, but ruly felt until now. Trembling, Elizabeth reached out. Her fingers brushed the bolter’s etal, and a spark ignited deep within her. Not hope—hope was fleeting and fragile. What burned in her heart now was rage. Lysandria had fallen pletely, her once-iron resolve drowned under a wave of pain and despair. Shame, duty, and the Emperor’s name—all cast aside. Daemon’s power had overwhelmed her mind, leaving only a hollow shell of what was ohe proud leader of their squad.

  Elizabeth’s gaze flickered between her shattered Sisters and the looming Daemon. Her heart wrenched as she fought against the primal instincts g at her—a desperate desire to survive. Every lesson she had learned, every word of scripture, told her to fight, to embrace death in the Emperor’s service. Yet, as the horrifying se unfolded, her body froze, refusing her ands. ‘Holy Emperor, I beg you. Save me. Grarength to fight the evil before me. Give me the ce to end this torment. Protect me, shield me from their sight. I am your servant.’

  The silent prayer offered no soce. Her ce ebbed away, repced by the gnawing fear of Daemon’s overwhelming power. But as the fmes of despair ed her, something flickered deep within—a faint spark of defiance. Suddenly, Elizabeth felt her limbs respond, an adrenaline-fueled crity sharpening her senses. Her body surged with newfound strength, and she felt as if the Emperor Himself had breathed life into her failing form.

  Daemon, preoccupied, didn’t notice Elizabeth until it was too te. As thick, viscous fluid poured from one of its severed tentacles, momentarily clouding its vision, Elizabeth moved. She leapt forward, snatg her fallen bolter. “Elizabeth!” Marcellia’s broken voice rasped from the floor. “Help us!” Her words struck Elizabeth like a hammer. The plea wasn’t for salvation—it was for release. Spock, with her mangled body and unyielding faith, sought only ao her suffering.

  Without hesitation, Elizabeth raised her on. The bolter barked three sharp bursts. The first round struck Spock, sileng her cries and granting her peace. The sed hit Eryndis, whose desecrated body still hung like a grotesque trophy. The third round, meant for Lysandria, was intercepted by one of Daemon’s writhing appehe explosion tore through the tentacle, spraying ichor and blood across the room, but Daemon remained unfazed.

  Elizabeth didn’t stop. She switched to full-auto, her bolter r as she emptied the magazine. Explosive rounds tore into Daemon’s grotesque form, shredding flesh but failing t it down. As the bolter clicked empty, Elizabeth reached for the st on she carried: a small pistol holstered at her thigh.

  The pistol, a standard-issue sidearm, was woefully ie against Daemon. Its brass bullets cked the stopping power of her bolter, but that no longer mattered. The pistol wasn’t meant for Daemon. Elizabeth pressed the barrel to her temple, her breath hitg. Her mind raced with the futility of the situation, the age she had witnessed, and the crushi of her failure. The Emperor’s daughters had fallen, and she, their st survivor, could not hope to avehem.

  Tears streamed down her face as she whispered, “Five me, Holy Emperor.” Her firembled origger, but she hesitated. ‘Pull it. End it now. Do not let them defile you.’ She adjusted her grip, pg the barrel in her mouth. Her thumb hovered over the trigger, her heart pounding in her chest. “You pulled the trigger. I’m impressed,” Daemon’s guttural voice rumbled, cutting through the silence like a bde. “But too slow, little mortal. If you’d acted faster, perhaps you might have succeeded.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened in shock. She had felt no pain, no release. The pistol hadn’t fired. Instead, a foul, warm liquid filled her mouth, coatihroat with its sickly, metallic taste. Jerking the on from her lips, she saw the truth: her pistol had transformed, its barrel ed into a grotesque mockery of itself. “What… what is this?” Elizabeth stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

  Daemon chuckled, its amusement dripping with malice. “A simple trick,” it said, its maacles writhing in delight. “Your on was dangerous, so I made it… safer. You mortals are so amusing, ging to your little toys. But your lips—ah, so inviting. Watg you wield it was… exhirating.”

  Horror washed over Elizabeth as Daemon advanced, its mog tone filling the room. She scrambled backward, clutg the useless pistol. Her mind raced, desperate for a way out, but the truth was inescapable. She was trapped. Daemon loomed closer, its twisted form blotting out what little light remained. “No…” Elizabeth whispered, her voice crag. “I don’t want to die… I don’t want to be your pything.”

  Daemon ughed, its voice eg with cruel delight. “Then what do you want, little mortal? Mercy? Salvation? The Emperor you cry out to ot save you now.”

  Tears streamed down her face as she cried out, “Holy Emperor, I beg you! I am your servant, faced with unspeakable evil. Save me! Deliver me from this despair!”

  “It’s too te for prayers now,” Daemon sneered, its voice a mog rasp. “Face the truth, little girl. Begging your false Emperor will achieve nothing. What he do? He is nothing but a rotting corpse on a golden throne, unable even to save himself. How you expect him to save you?”

  The creature’s head tilted as it ughed, a cruel sound that echoed through the shattered room. “This is despair, child—pure and unfiltered. Your Emperor’s so-called daughters: one is moaning in rapture above my head, another weeps like a child at my feet, and the rest... well, they’re sizzling nicely on the fire.” Daemon spread its cwed arms wide. “Ah, the taste of hopelessness. I never grow tired of it.”