"Finally, the hard work pays off."
Beneath the burning canopy of Rakata Prime, far below the cyclopean ruins and feral thickets of Force-twisted flora, the jungle's shrieking pulse could not reach her. Down here, in her sanctum of sharp edges and mathematical silence, Serina Calis walked barefoot upon black obsidian floors that drank in the sparse torchlight and seemed to whisper her steps back to her. The fortress she had carved from the bones of the ancients was more than a hiding place—it was an instrument, a psalm to dominance cast in basalt and circuitry.
She had designed the central study chamber herself: a circular space lined with towering monoliths of raw data crystal, suspended columns of encoded Rakatan language, and a single thronelike seat carved into the side of an obsidian altar that reached toward the ceiling like the blade of a guillotine paused in divine thought. Every surface was etched with sigils of command, of insight, of domination—the kind of deep language only intelligible to those who had outgrown their need to belong.
Serina reclined into the curve of her chair with the casual arrogance of someone who knew she was alone with her own perfection. Her long, bare legs crossed slowly, lazily, as if she were winding a clock with her body. A thin shimmer of sweat clung to her collarbone from hours spent in meditative trance, but she had not removed the high-collared jacket that clung to her like a second skin. It was black, of course—always black. But subtly so, textured with undercurrents of violet and wine-dark red, as though the fabric itself remembered blood.
She flicked her fingers toward the holopane floating beside her, and the voice of her overseer chimed in. It was one of the Rakatan constructs she'd reprogrammed to serve her—a guttural, metallic rasp reborn in elegant Sith syntax.
:: The primary production lines are now fully operational. We are estimating a capacity of twelve thousand units per cycle once resource acquisition protocols reach baseline efficiency. The machine has been… tamed. ::
Serina smiled slowly. Tamed, he said. As if what lurked beneath the ancient factory—coiled around it like a shadow eager for flesh—was ever truly docile. The machine was alive in ways that no being of this age would call life. It remembered an empire older than death. It remembered hunger.
"Excellent," she murmured aloud, resting her chin on her hand as her eyes flicked through columns of updated schematics. "We'll begin test-fabrication of the psi-reactive alloys. Send a message to VesperWorks. Quietly. I want no ripples."
She didn't look up as the projection winked away. The data confirmed what she already knew: she'd won this world. The Rakatan super-factory was hers. And now, more than ever, it was time to plunder their greatest gift—their secrets.
Serina turned toward the dais at the heart of the chamber. There, bound in levitating stasis and illuminated from below by a circle of thin crimson beams, hovered a scroll. Not a hologram. Not a datapad. An actual scroll—ancient vellum skin sealed with bone and sinew, recovered from the lowest catacombs beneath the Temple of the Ruling Shadow. She had murdered six and bribed two to get it.
Force Shadow.
It had taken her months to decipher the text, longer still to begin grasping the principles, such as she had tried with Lirka Ka on Korriban and Zachariah Conway in their first meeting. The Force Hounds of the Infinite Empire had been rabid things, feral navigators led on leashes of will, but the technique… the technique was brilliant. A form of mental projection that could cross stars. Sight without eyes. Thought without distance. A ghost that wore your skin.
And tonight, she would finish it, with some unique modifications of course.
She stood. Stretched, almost luxuriously. Her fingers touched the stasis field, and the scroll dissolved into her mind like smoke into a flame. The knowledge had already been internalized—but ritual mattered. Reverence sharpened intellect.
She knelt at the center of the circle, bare feet placed precisely, hands on her thighs, breath slowing to the rhythm of predation. Not peace—never peace. Only precision.
The Force flowed through her like hot mercury.
Her thoughts drifted into the abyss of self, then out—beyond.
The chamber flickered. Then cracked.
From the shadow beneath her spine rose another form.
Serina's Force shadow uncurled from her like a second soul made flesh. It stood behind her, long-limbed and graceful, luminous black like oil made conscious. Its eyes glowed softly—her eyes—but not quite. A blurred echo. A silhouette of her presence shaped by intent, not reflection.
But this time… it spoke.
"…Now, that is beautiful," purred the shadow in Allyson Locke 's voice.
Serina opened her eyes and laughed. Genuinely laughed.
"Too much?"
The shadow blinked. "Oh, darling. Never too much."
The featureless silhouette tilted its head with something akin to mischief. But the tone shifted— Darth Strosius ' voice this time.
"The presence is muffled. Nobody will trace it to you through the Force. But the visibility…"
"A trade-off," Serina replied, standing. "If it's seen, it's just featureless anyway. It's not like they can trace it to me, it just means I can't spy with these things."
She walked around the projection, studying it with the kind of slow, appreciative glance usually reserved for lovers or prey. Its presence in the Force was subtle—muffled. Intentionally disconnected from her unique signature. She could cast it across continents, even planets, and no Jedi would know who it belonged to unless she let them.
And the voice… oh, the voice.
It could speak in anyone's voice. Anyone Serina had touched. Anyone she had tasted in memory.
She flexed her will.
"Go," she whispered.
The shadow turned and dissolved, slipping into the walls, the air, the void. Her eyes closed again as her consciousness surged through it—her body now separate, but present. She moved through the jungle canopy above like a ghost. She whispered to the local tribes in the voice of a long-dead goddess. She stared at the stars and heard herself respond in his voice—low, commanding, awe-inspiring in its indifference.
She returned.
Eyes opening. Breath sharp.
Serina exhaled as if she had just climaxed. The afterglow of perfection prickled along her skin.
"Well," she muttered, stretching again, "that's going to be very fun to abuse."
She ran a hand down her side, fingers dancing lightly across her hip as she walked back to her throne. Her mind buzzed with possibilities.
Sabotage, subterfuge, seduction. All made possible now with her voice, their face, no trace.
What was that old general's name again? The one who still thought he had a chance at redemption?
He would be hearing his daughter's voice, calling for help, very soon.
Serina Calis sat back down, uncorked a dark blue bottle of something that definitely wasn't legal outside the Outer Rim, and poured herself a drink.
"To shadowplay," she said aloud, raising her glass to the empty chamber.
And then, with a faint hum of restrained hunger, she summoned the next scroll.
