The silver elegance of Naboo was an insult to Remowa's senses, as the air was overly sweet, infused with the fragrance of blooming jasmine and the stagnant tranquility of a Republic that believed itself safe from external dangers now that the Galactic Empire had crumbled. To her, the planet resembled a polished gravestone, beautiful to behold from afar but hollow inside, as the same decay that had consumed the Galactic Alliance began to seep into it.
She navigated through the shadows of the High Republic's capital like an unseen specter. Her Chiss skin, typically vibrant, was dulled beneath the shifting black fabric of a stolen cloak. She avoided the main gates and the grand staircases. Instead, she climbed the limestone walls of the administrative district, her movements spider-like, a dark blur against the immaculate white stone.
The Office of the Voice served as a monument to self-importance. Luxurious silk tapestries adorned the walls, while the desk was meticulously carved from a single slab of polished grain-wood. Remowa stood at the heart of the room, the stillness of the office resonating in her ears. She refrained from touching the valuables. She did not take the data.
Reaching into a concealed pocket of her armor, she pulled out a single, weighty slip of parchment. Its rough texture stood in stark contrast to the sleek surfaces surrounding her. With a steady hand, she placed it directly on Sibylla Abrantes' personal terminal, ensuring that Sibylla would notice it as soon as she resumed her work.
At the base of the parchment, embedded in a puddle of black wax, lay the emblem of the Seyugi Dervish. The clawing mouth of the dark side coven appeared to squirm in the moonlight streaming through the window, accompanied by the gentle hum of Republic Gunships soaring above on yet another patrol. The note bore no signature, just a handful of lines penned in a jagged, erratic script:
Remowa paused for a moment, her crimson eyes fixed on the chair where Sibylla presided over the Royal Houses of Naboo. She bent down, the cold emanating from her skin creating a delicate frost along the desk's edge.
"Sweet dreams," she murmured to the vacant space. In an instant, the balcony curtains danced in the wind, leaving the office deserted once again. The only evidence of her presence was the lingering aroma of ozone, the subtle fragrance of old perfume, and a letter that bore the heavy burden of a death sentence.
