Ordinarily, one expects a certain solemnity after committing a final testament to record. A reckoning, perhaps—a quiet reweighing of one's life, one's failures, one's worth. It is much like the stories told of those dying of hypothermia: after the agony, after the violent shivering, comes a strange and treacherous warmth. A false comfort. A lullaby before the end.
Virelia felt that warmth creeping in.
The chamber she now occupied was small, barely large enough for a single tomb—its occupant unknown, unmarked, another forgotten thread in the Calis tapestry. The air sat heavy, stale but gentle in its stillness. She had tried to push on, to break into the next room, but the door stood unmoved, as immutable as the dead surrounding her. It was an infuriating obstacle. A single slab of ancient stone—seven feet tall, seamless, monolithic—mocking her efforts.
She had attempted everything her weakened form could muster. Technique layered upon technique, each more creative and desperate than the last. She had braced herself against the floor, used leverage, used momentum, even rammed her armored shoulder into its cold surface until her bones rang from the impact. She'd pried at the edges, hunted for hinges, searched for some mechanism. Nothing. The door did not give.
A structure far older than she was, built by hands long dead, had halted the Dark Queen at her first threshold. Perplexing, yes—but also humbling in a way she refused to voice. For all the people she had broken, for all the minds she had bent, for all the violence she had mastered… she was stalled by a single, ageless block of stone.
She stood before it now, breathing softly, watching her violet eyes faintly reflect back from its polished surface. In the stillness, that comforting warmth crept deeper into her bones. Was this to be her end?
If so, at least she had the small comfort of having arranged her final affairs. There was a bleak practicality in that. Virelia lowered herself to the ground, armour clinking softly against the stone as she sat opposite the unmoving door. The only illumination came from the faint, eerie glow of her armour—her own light in a place that refused to offer any.
She still did not understand how she had ended up here. The last memory was of the shrine: the firekeeper's voice, the cold air, a strange exhaustion tugging at her bones. She remembered closing her eyes for only a moment, surrendering to a rare sense of quiet.
And then—this tomb. This stone. This impossible confinement. Whatever the cause, she found herself growing strangely at peace with the ordeal.
By the Force, she was so tired of struggling.
No matter how fiercely she pushed, no matter how ferociously she fought, every victory seemed to slip through her fingers. Every plan soured. Every attempt to claw her way upward collapsed into ruin. She tried and tried, again and again, and the galaxy offered nothing in return but resistance.
Perhaps she did push too hard. Perhaps her intensity was its own saboteur. It was possible. But in truth, she was simply exhausted. For the first time since the day she had been cut down, she felt exhaustion seep into her in a way that did not frighten her.
And strangely—it felt almost good.
For once in her life, she was content simply to sit. Not out of apathy, but instead from a rare and startling clarity—a moment in which she could simply exist without resisting herself. A moment of honesty. A moment of peace.
She was Serina Calis, a girl trapped in a tomb, destined to die in silence, forgotten by most and misremembered by the rest. And perhaps—just perhaps—that was how it was meant to be.
She considered the galaxy without her. Who would celebrate? Who would mourn? Those who hated her would rejoice with vicious delight. Those who cared, in their limited ways, would grieve, but only briefly. Life moved on, as it always had. Malachor would reshape itself. Polis Massa already swore in another governor—she wondered idly if they were competent, if they had inherited her city of ghosts and machines with steadier hands.
Dominic… her heart tightened at his name. What path would he walk without her shadow looming over it? He deserved something quieter than the chaos she dragged behind her. Reicher, by contrast, would likely remain unchanged—a man who strode through disaster as though it were merely another corridor. She envied him that strange, stubborn resilience.
Virelia let her breath ease out through the modulator, listening to the artificial cadence fill the still air. Each inhale, each exhale echoed against stone and memory. Her heart felt heavier with every beat, a familiar ache coiling inside her chest.
Her soul never slept. It never let her forget what she was. It clung to her symbiotic and parasitic in equal measure, demanding its due—reminding her of the price of continued existence. Conquest. Power. Desire. Hunger. It gnawed at her even now, whispering reminders of what she was built upon. Because contentment, even for a moment, opposed everything she had become. Everything that kept her alive.
Peace was poison to her. And yet, she savored it.
Just for this single, fragile moment.
A breath.
Pause.
One final breath for the road.
Pause.
Then Virelia pushed herself upright, armour humming faintly as her servos came alive. She scanned the tomb with renewed urgency. If she did not find a way out soon, her heart might decide to end the matter for her — an indignity she refused to permit. That was when she heard it. A sound so soft it barely existed.
She turned instantly, violet eyes slicing through the dark, but saw nothing. Nothing except… a tile slightly out of place. Suspicion prickled through her, nothing in this tomb moved without intent.
She approached slowly, each step accompanied by the low thrum of the Tyrant's Embrace. Ancient stone met engineered precision — a strangely fitting duet in the claustrophobic silence. Bending down, she examined the disturbed tile. It had been shifted, deliberately. But why? By whom? With careful pressure she lifted it aside.
Beneath lay something she had not expected: a device, shaped almost like a key, wrought from metal that glinted faintly even in the weak glow of her armour.
Virelia stared at it, her breath caught somewhere between caution and curiosity. Most definitely a key. Hidden in the tomb of her ancestors. Revealed only after she had surrendered to peace.
Interesting. Very interesting.
She couldn't shake the suspicion that some ancient ghost was trying to instruct her. A quaint thought — and one she resented. Virelia had always held a particular disdain for teachers; lessons, in her experience, always had to be learned by the self. But if whatever spirit lurked in these halls intended to spare her from becoming just another member of the family funeral procession… well, perhaps she could tolerate its theatrics a little longer.
Key in hand, she approached the massive stone door. Only now did she notice the narrow slot carved beside it — a recess precisely the size and shape of what she held. Of course. The old firekeeper must have known. She mentally rolled her eyes, a gesture she had perfected over years of suffering through prophecy, riddles, and wise old fools.
Still, she inserted the key.
The reaction was immediate. Hidden plates shifted with the grinding rumble of ancient machinery awakening from centuries of slumber. Dust rose from the floor in soft clouds, disturbed for the first time in generations. The massive stone barrier shuddered, groaned… and began to move.
Forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours of frustration, despair, and contemplation — only to realize she had been trapped by a glorified lock the entire time.
She let out a breath that might have been a laugh. This was going to be a slog. A long, irritating, possibly deadly slog. But something about that thought amused her.
In truth, there were remarkably few days where she had the luxury of spending time alone with the most fascinating, brilliant, irresistibly compelling person in the galaxy.
Herself.
Virelia let out a low chuckle, the sound echoing against the newly opened stone. It felt good to be happy. Even here and now, trapped between death and escape.
Perhaps especially then.
