The screen flares to life in velvet black and violet, rippling with ambient corruption. A figure appears—draped in obsidian and silk, armor alive with alchemical heat. Her hood frames a face sculpted for dominance, but it is the six glowing eyes that claim the soul. Twin rows of violet flame—unnatural, insectile, inescapable. The armor was different to the usual one, it seemed more hardened, plated for battle and death. Large spikes protruded, danger and power unbound.
Darth Virelia speaks.
"Sith of the Order."
"You know my voice. I am Darth Virelia."
A slow, venomous smile followed underneath the mask.
"And I have grown weary of rot."
She steps forward—closer. The image tightens like a noose.
"One among us has postured too long beneath the crown's shadow. A child dressed in ideology, strangling prophecy with borrowed threads. He speaks of unity, of lineage, of empires forged by people and a snake that eats its own tail. But Hoth does not hunger for whispers. Hoth devours the unworthy."
"Darth Malum—of House Marr, of choking mediocrity—I name you."
A violent pulse surges behind her words. It distorts the broadcast for a moment, warping vox like reality buckling under the force of her will.
"You have dared much, haven't you? Denied my worth. Plotted against me. Believed that your fools would stand against my might. Tried to end me in front of witnesses, with your lava and your coward's tools. And yet, here I stand—always born in agony, violet-eyed and open to the truth. You struck. You failed. You fled."
"I do not flee, especially not from one who is beaten by a mere trooper."
Her voice drops to a conspiratorial hush, lips like silk over glass.
"I call you now—not to council, not to court, not to crawl. I call you to Kaggath."
"One against one. On Hoth, beneath the screaming sky. There, in the cold cradle of death, your legacy dies—or mine ascends untethered."
She lifts her hand. Clawed fingers curl with ceremonial grace. Behind her, ancient Sith runes bloom in burning circles.
"No armies. No champions. No gaudy apprentices leashed to their masters' shame. You and I, stripped of pretense, weapon to weapon, truth to truth."
A pause.
"You have seven standard cycles after the interlopers are kicked from the Holy Worlds to prepare your will. Make it sharp. Have it sung at your funeral. If you fail to answer, I will claim you, your seat on the Dark Council and your precious Tsis'Karr, and when I do, I will wear your mask like a trophy."
The glow in her eyes deepens—hungry. Certain.
"Let this be the moment the Sith remember. The hour we carved mediocrity from our ranks. Come, Malum. Come and break."
"Or be broken."
The screen cuts.
But her eyes linger in the mind.
Forever.
Darth Malum of House Marr
