Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

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 countless battles, was no longer recognizable. Her body moved unnaturally, her mind broken, her faith shattered. 'What has this world become? What have I become?' 

Elizabeth's breath hitched as she clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She forced herself to look, to truly see the nightmare before her. Daemon's cruelty, the destruction 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 back in. The memory of how effortlessly it had slaughtered her squad replayed over and over, paralyzing her. 'You are weak,' whispered a voice in her mind. 'You are nothing. You will die, and nothing will change.' 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 countless times, but never truly felt until now. Trembling, Elizabeth reached out. Her fingers brushed the bolter's cold metal, 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 completely, 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 once the 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 clawing 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 scene unfolded, her body froze, refusing her commands. 'Holy Emperor, I beg you. Save me. Grant me strength to fight the evil before me. Give me the courage to end this torment. Protect me, shield me from their sight. I am your servant.'

The silent prayer offered no solace. Her courage ebbed away, replaced by the gnawing fear of Daemon's overwhelming power. But as the flames of despair consumed her, something flickered deep within—a faint spark of defiance. Suddenly, Elizabeth felt her limbs respond, an adrenaline-fueled clarity 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 late. As thick, viscous fluid poured from one of its severed tentacles, momentarily clouding its vision, Elizabeth moved. She leapt forward, snatching 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 an end to her suffering.

Without hesitation, Elizabeth raised her weapon. The bolter barked three sharp bursts. The first round struck Spock, silencing her cries and granting her peace. The second 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 appendages. The 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 roaring as she emptied the magazine. Explosive rounds tore into Daemon's grotesque form, shredding flesh but failing to bring it down. As the bolter clicked empty, Elizabeth reached for the last weapon she carried: a small pistol holstered at her thigh.

The pistol, a standard-issue sidearm, was woefully inadequate against Daemon. Its brass bullets lacked 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 hitching. Her mind raced with the futility of the situation, the carnage she had witnessed, and the crushing weight of her failure. The Emperor's daughters had fallen, and she, their last survivor, could not hope to avenge them.

Tears streamed down her face as she whispered, "Forgive me, Holy Emperor." Her finger trembled on the trigger, but she hesitated. 'Pull it. End it now. Do not let them defile you.' She adjusted her grip, placing 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 blade. "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, coating her throat with its sickly, metallic taste. Jerking the weapon from her lips, she saw the truth: her pistol had transformed, its barrel warped 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 many tentacles writhing in delight. "Your weapon was dangerous, so I made it… safer. You mortals are so amusing, clinging to your little toys. But your lips—ah, so inviting. Watching you wield it was… exhilarating."

Horror washed over Elizabeth as Daemon advanced, its mocking tone filling the room. She scrambled backward, clutching 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 cracking. "I don't want to die… I don't want to be your plaything."

Daemon laughed, its voice echoing with cruel delight. "Then what do you want, little mortal? Mercy? Salvation? The Emperor you cry out to cannot 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 late for prayers now," Daemon sneered, its voice a mocking rasp. "Face the truth, little girl. Begging your false Emperor will achieve nothing. What can he do? He is nothing but a rotting corpse on a golden throne, unable even to save himself. How can you expect him to save you?"

The creature's head tilted as it laughed, 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 clawed arms wide. "Ah, the taste of hopelessness. I never grow tired of it."