Private Another Blade.

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



The air was still, and so was she.

Serina Calis stood at the edge of the landing platform, where the blackened steel met the abyss. Far below, the fractured surface of Polis Massa flickered with thin veins of industry—automated refineries, signal spires, and storm-shielded mining veins buried like arteries beneath cracked stone. Here, atop the high spire of Substation Varnak-8, the wind howled not from weather but from the low atmospheric pressurizers bleeding steam into the void.

She let it howl.

Behind her, the narrow corridor of the platform yawned open into a cavernous hangar, where muted lights pulsed like the heartbeat of some great sleeping beast. Her retinue had been dismissed. Her sensors were silent. Only the distant hum of repulsorlifts—perhaps a ship approaching—echoed like a whisper of the inevitable.

She waited.

Tyrant's Embrace shimmered faintly under the pale glow of the station's perimeter lights, each slow flicker casting her silhouette long across the permacrete. She stood motionless, yet somehow it was the world that moved around her, adjusting to her presence. Gravity obeyed her. Time slowed for her. Even the wind dared only brush the hem of her cloak, as if it feared to cling too tightly.

She did not pace. She did not fidget. The Redeemer was already late—or early, depending on whether you measured arrival by schedule or consequence.

Lucaant Vaneric. Human. Young. Untethered. A blank page drifting in the Force, one with potential—but no master. No past. No allegiances. A question waiting to be answered by someone strong enough to write the answer in blood.

She had read nothing about him, only enough to consider him interesting. And Serina had no patience for the uninteresting.

Her violet-glow optics narrowed by fractional degrees. In the mirrored dark of her faceplate, stars were reflected as pinpricks—tiny and brittle. She looked skyward not in reverence, but in calculation. Somewhere, he would descend from orbit. Somewhere above her now, an unmarked ship carried a man without a name worth fearing.

Not yet.

Behind the mask, she inhaled deeply—not with lungs, but with intent. Her mind reached outward like a coiled serpent sliding across the edge of the Force, tasting the air for signs of weakness, ambition, or promise. The Force responded with echoes. Faint. Raw. Young.

He is coming.

And when he did, she would not greet him with words, not at first. He would be met with silence so total it weighed upon the soul, dragging out every doubt, every crack in the armor of his psyche. Her gaze alone would dissect him. No ceremony. No welcome. Just the expectation that he prove he was worth more than nothing.

Serina Calis, Governor of Polis Massa, did not offer partnerships.

She offered power. And a place at her side—one always balanced on the edge of her shadow.

Let him come. Let him see her. Let him try to speak.

And she would decide whether his voice deserved to echo.

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



The air was still, and so was she.

Serina Calis stood at the edge of the landing platform, where the blackened steel met the abyss. Far below, the fractured surface of Polis Massa flickered with thin veins of industry—automated refineries, signal spires, and storm-shielded mining veins buried like arteries beneath cracked stone. Here, atop the high spire of Substation Varnak-8, the wind howled not from weather but from the low atmospheric pressurizers bleeding steam into the void.

She let it howl.

Behind her, the narrow corridor of the platform yawned open into a cavernous hangar, where muted lights pulsed like the heartbeat of some great sleeping beast. Her retinue had been dismissed. Her sensors were silent. Only the distant hum of repulsorlifts—perhaps a ship approaching—echoed like a whisper of the inevitable.

She waited.

Tyrant's Embrace shimmered faintly under the pale glow of the station's perimeter lights, each slow flicker casting her silhouette long across the permacrete. She stood motionless, yet somehow it was the world that moved around her, adjusting to her presence. Gravity obeyed her. Time slowed for her. Even the wind dared only brush the hem of her cloak, as if it feared to cling too tightly.

She did not pace. She did not fidget. The Redeemer was already late—or early, depending on whether you measured arrival by schedule or consequence.

Lucaant Vaneric. Human. Young. Untethered. A blank page drifting in the Force, one with potential—but no master. No past. No allegiances. A question waiting to be answered by someone strong enough to write the answer in blood.

She had read nothing about him, only enough to consider him interesting. And Serina had no patience for the uninteresting.

Her violet-glow optics narrowed by fractional degrees. In the mirrored dark of her faceplate, stars were reflected as pinpricks—tiny and brittle. She looked skyward not in reverence, but in calculation. Somewhere, he would descend from orbit. Somewhere above her now, an unmarked ship carried a man without a name worth fearing.

Not yet.

Behind the mask, she inhaled deeply—not with lungs, but with intent. Her mind reached outward like a coiled serpent sliding across the edge of the Force, tasting the air for signs of weakness, ambition, or promise. The Force responded with echoes. Faint. Raw. Young.

He is coming.

And when he did, she would not greet him with words, not at first. He would be met with silence so total it weighed upon the soul, dragging out every doubt, every crack in the armor of his psyche. Her gaze alone would dissect him. No ceremony. No welcome. Just the expectation that he prove he was worth more than nothing.

Serina Calis, Governor of Polis Massa, did not offer partnerships.

She offered power. And a place at her side—one always balanced on the edge of her shadow.

Let him come. Let him see her. Let him try to speak.

And she would decide whether his voice deserved to echo.

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Meet with a special guest.
People involved: Darth Virelia

---
​

Luccant wasn’t late. He just took his time.

When you show up to someone like the woman he'd heard of, you don’t walk in like prey. You arrive like you own the void you stepped out of — or at least like you’ve bled enough in it to deserve standing in it. Serina Calis was truly an interesting being.

His ship touched down without fanfare. Matte-plated, scarred, silent even as it hissed into position. Not the kind of vessel meant to impress, just the kind that barely survives. The ramp dropped, but he didn’t rush. He watched first — the wind, the architecture, her.

She didn’t move. Not a flicker. Action, or inaction, which would have been terrifying to Lucaant if he hadn't been familiar with this type of intimidation.

Good. He hated false welcomes.

Luccant stepped onto the platform like it was a battlefield. Not cautious, just… aware. Aware of her stance, her presence, the kind of silence that pressed on the chest like weight. The kind that whispered real threats. He put his left hand on his bloodied vibroblade's hilt, he didn't have time to clean it, not after his stint in the Outer Rim. The movement was a sign of awareness and respect for the woman, acknowledgement of the threat she made.

He didn’t speak. No, what was happening here was a battle of will.

Lucaant's calculating grey eyes bored into Serina's piercing blue stare. Another unnerving, ferocious, and, silent dance.

He didn’t bow, didn’t salute. His armor still bore dust and dried blood from whatever rock he’d last clawed through. One scar — that one, the vertical slash through his left eye — caught the station’s light just enough to glint. He didn't have a helmet on, it was on his ship, to damaged to be of use. Luccant’s dark blue hair shifted in the wind, a silent herratic movement without tempo, its unnatural hue catching the light in a way that hinted at something arcane, or unnatural.

They stood there. Two outlines. Her cloak unmoving. His shadow twitching with the shape of past violence.

She measured.

He let her.

Because Luccant didn’t need to posture.

If he wasn’t deemed enough already, no amount of words would save him. No actions would save him.

And if he was?

She’d know.

Let her decide. He’d make his decision in time.

​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



She did not move when he arrived. Not when the ship descended like a wounded beast still too proud to die. Not when its hatch exhaled tired heat into the air. Not even when he stepped out—wounded, weathered, real.

But her eyes—those six violet slits of predator's geometry—followed him the way storms follow breath. She did not blink. She had no need. Her gaze absorbed him whole.

Dust. Blood. A blade left dirty by necessity, not negligence. A scar that had not been treated with vanity. No theatrics. No begging to be seen. Just the plain, hard texture of someone who had survived too many things that should have killed him. Someone who hadn't yet learned to fear silence.

Good.

The wind curled around her like a serpent denied prey, growing agitated by the lack of motion between them. She let it scream into the void for them both.

Stillness was her throne.

He stood before her like a question carved from violence and grit. And she... she was the answer that never blinked.

When at last she did move, it was like the world obeyed her command to resume.

A single step forward.

Not loud. Not slow. Just absolute.

The cape of the Tyrant's Embrace fluttered slightly—more a tremor than a dance. The faint hum of the crystalline node in her chest grew subtly louder, its rhythm like the slow, steady beat of a heart that had long since stopped needing blood.

Another step.

The distance closed with surgical tension.

And then she spoke.

Her voice didn't echo.

It consumed.

"You do not flinch. You do not boast. You understand what it means to bleed, but not to beg. That's rare."

There was no praise in her tone. Only observation. Diagnosis.

"You were not invited to impress me. You were summoned to see if you belong."

A third step. Close now. The scent of scorched metal and ozone hung faintly around her, like something old and weaponized. Her helm tilted just slightly, the six glowing eyes aligning, narrowing.

"And so far... you have not failed."

A beat. The wind stopped howling.

"Name, purpose, and what you believe I owe you in return for your presence."

It was not a test. It was an autopsy waiting to be performed.

If he answered wrong, she would not kill him.

She would never need to.

He would simply not exist again in her world.

This—this—was the mercy of Serina Calis.

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



She did not move when he arrived. Not when the ship descended like a wounded beast still too proud to die. Not when its hatch exhaled tired heat into the air. Not even when he stepped out—wounded, weathered, real.

But her eyes—those six violet slits of predator's geometry—followed him the way storms follow breath. She did not blink. She had no need. Her gaze absorbed him whole.

Dust. Blood. A blade left dirty by necessity, not negligence. A scar that had not been treated with vanity. No theatrics. No begging to be seen. Just the plain, hard texture of someone who had survived too many things that should have killed him. Someone who hadn't yet learned to fear silence.

Good.

The wind curled around her like a serpent denied prey, growing agitated by the lack of motion between them. She let it scream into the void for them both.

Stillness was her throne.

He stood before her like a question carved from violence and grit. And she... she was the answer that never blinked.

When at last she did move, it was like the world obeyed her command to resume.

A single step forward.

Not loud. Not slow. Just absolute.

The cape of the Tyrant's Embrace fluttered slightly—more a tremor than a dance. The faint hum of the crystalline node in her chest grew subtly louder, its rhythm like the slow, steady beat of a heart that had long since stopped needing blood.

Another step.

The distance closed with surgical tension.

And then she spoke.

Her voice didn't echo.

It consumed.

"You do not flinch. You do not boast. You understand what it means to bleed, but not to beg. That's rare."

There was no praise in her tone. Only observation. Diagnosis.

"You were not invited to impress me. You were summoned to see if you belong."

A third step. Close now. The scent of scorched metal and ozone hung faintly around her, like something old and weaponized. Her helm tilted just slightly, the six glowing eyes aligning, narrowing.

"And so far... you have not failed."

A beat. The wind stopped howling.

"Name, purpose, and what you believe I owe you in return for your presence."

It was not a test. It was an autopsy waiting to be performed.

If he answered wrong, she would not kill him.

She would never need to.

He would simply not exist again in her world.

This—this—was the mercy of Serina Calis.

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Meet with a special guest.
People involved: Darth Virelia
---
​

Luccant didn’t answer right away. A short, sharp bark of a laugh, devoid of mirth, cut through the quiet. He took in the silence like a man used to being watched, but rarely seen. The kind of silence that weighed more than it should — not just quiet, but calculated. Intentional. Her eyes—those inhuman slits burning violet—scanned through him like they were sorting flesh from purpose.​

He took in the silence like a man used to being watched, but rarely seen. The kind of silence that weighed more than it should — not just quiet, but calculated. Intentional.

Her eyes, those inhuman slits burning violet—scanned through him like they were sorting flesh from purpose.

And still, he didn’t look away. Couldn't look away. At 185 centimeters, she didn't need to move to dominate the space; Luccant, a scant 1.76 himself, felt every centimeter of her imposing presence.

There was no bow. No salute. Just the brief twitch of a smile, the kind that never reached the eyes. It wasn’t amusement, not really. Just recognition. Of the game. Of the way she stood, unmoving, like a fixed point in a universe that owed her inertia.

“Luccant,” he said at last, voice low, even. “No house. No crest. Just the name that made it through.”

He tilted his head slightly, a small motion—like he was trying to decide if she wanted him to speak plainly or poetically. Then chose the former.

“I don’t know what I am to you yet. Asset, test case, spare parts... maybe nothing. That’s fine. But you asked for name, purpose, and what I think you owe me.”

A pause. His hands were loose at his sides. Open. But not unready.

“My purpose?” He shrugged once, the gesture narrow and unreadable. “To survive. To sharpen. To find the thing that finally doesn’t disappoint. Whether that’s a war, a woman, or a cause... I’m still working that out.”

He let the words settle for a second. Not rushed, but not dramatic. Just honest in a way that hinted he wasn’t used to being honest.

“As for what you owe me?” His eyes flicked back to hers — not challenging, but steady. “Nothing. I don’t believe in owed things. Just earned ones.”

The air between them felt heavier now, like it had soaked up the weight of his answer. He didn’t try to fill the silence that followed. He didn’t shift or fidget.

And when he did speak again, it was quieter. Almost a thought spoken aloud.

“But if you’ve really got power that doesn’t chain the wrist it touches… then maybe I’m not here for you to prove something to me. Maybe I’m here to see what I become near it.”

He didn’t smile this time.

Didn't laugh.

Just stood there — a figure made of something unfinished. Not raw, but not yet refined. A canvas with a pulse, waiting to be painted on, but only by the right hand, by the right artist.

Lucaant blinked, it was just a blink, but for anyone watching closely, it was Lucaant making up his mind.

"You're not looking for an answer, are you?" he stated, rather than asked. "You're looking for a reaction. For what I am, not what I say I am."

He took a slow breath, letting the silence stretch again, just as she had. His hands remained loose at his sides, ready for anything, yet showing no aggression. And this… this was him giving Serina the brush.
​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



The silence stretched—longer than it should have. Longer than was comfortable. But comfort was never a currency Serina trafficked in.

Instead, she let his words settle around them like fine ash. Purpose. Survival. Honesty, not as vulnerability, but as a blade honed against expectation. He stood in it—his silence, now—trying it on like armor that didn't quite fit yet.

He wasn't posturing. Not exactly.

Which meant he was worth responding to.

When Serina moved, it was slow—deliberate—like gravity adjusting its own axis. A subtle incline of the head. Not acknowledgment. Permission. The violet gaze didn't soften, didn't narrow. It simply shifted—from observation to something closer to interest. Calculated. Slow-burning.

The six slits flared slightly. Like apertures refocusing.

Then came her voice.

Low. Laced with control. The kind of voice that didn't rise, didn't shout—because it never had to.

"Good."

A single syllable. But it carried the weight of something absolute.

Then she stepped closer—one more measured pace. Close enough now that the difference in their height became irrelevant. Presence was not measured in centimeters.

The crystalline core in her sternum glowed just faintly brighter, casting violet light up across her armor and the shadowed edges of her hood. Her mask tilted again, studying him like a sculpture might study the sculptor.

"I do not collect oathbreakers. I do not mend broken things out of charity. And I do not suffer the desperate."

Her voice carved each word, careful, clean, like surgical incisions. No excess. No sentiment.

"But you are not any of those things. You are..." she paused, not because she searched for a word, but because she chose to let him feel the pause.

"...raw material."

Another pause, but this one dragged, deliberately—until it twisted.

"That is not an insult. It is potential unspent. Power... uncommitted."

And then—quietly, with the clinical reverence of a predator explaining the food chain:

"I create. Not from pity. From design."

Her left hand rose—slow, open, elegant—and hovered between them, palm up. Not a gesture of offering. One of command, invitation through dominance.

"You want to become something? Good. I will carve it into you if you let me. I will strip the excess. Refine the will. Test the theory of you until what remains is real. No title. No crest. Just strength with a purpose sharper than instinct."

A beat.

"But know this—"

And her voice dropped just enough to scrape the spine.

"—everything I touch changes."

She let the words linger, unhurried. The cape behind her hissed softly as a gust of manufactured wind stirred it—red and black and violet, like flame bleeding into night.

"If you still want to stand here after hearing that, then you've passed the first test."

Another beat. Then, with a razor's edge of mirth behind the final words:

"But you won't know the price until it's too late to turn back."

Then silence again.

The brush was in her hand now.

And she had already begun to paint.

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Meet with a special guest.
People involved: Darth Virelia
---​

Lucaant stood in that violet glow, where lesser men might shrink, and didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make it known: he wasn’t searching for clever words.

He was searching for something that finally meant something.

"You say everything you touch changes."

His voice was quiet, but grounded. Not cold, controlled.

"Great. Because I’ve been stuck halfway between too many things for too long. Not lost. Just..."

He hesitated, not because he didn’t know what to say, but because saying it felt like peeling something old and raw open again.

"Waiting. For something real. For someone who doesn’t make promises they abandon when it stops being easy. For a reason not to turn away when the rest of them do."

His gaze didn’t falter but there was no sharpness in it. Just a kind of brutal sincerity.

"I’ve followed people before. Watched them fall apart the second their ideals got scratched. Watched them flinch at failure and call it mercy. I don’t need that again."

One breath. Then another. Slower.

"What I need—what I want—is something that doesn’t lie when it calls itself purpose. Something that doesn’t fold the second it’s tested. And maybe that’s you. Maybe it’s what you’re building here."

A flicker passed through his expression, not doubt, but memory. He exhaled it and didn’t let it linger.

"I don’t want a throne. I don’t want to be known for theatrics. I want something... no, need something I can shape with my own hands. Something that breaks the world before it breaks me."

He took one step forward — not aggressive, not challenging, but deliberate. Like placing a blade on a table. They were close now, not uncomfortably close but enough for most other things around them to not matter.

"So go ahead. Test me. Strip every fundation down. Burn it clean. Just don’t make me believe in this..."

Another breath. Deeper now. The pause hung between them like a wire stretched taut.

"...only to walk away like the rest. With cowardice."

The blue of his hair caught her light again — almost metallic in places, like starlight drawn through deep water — half-shadow, half-sky. A fitting mirror for someone who had never been allowed to be fully one thing or the other.

He held her gaze.

"I can handle the pain. I can handle the fire. But what I need from you... is that you don’t disappoint me."

That landed harder than anything else he’d said. Not a threat. Not a demand.

A truth. One that mattered more than all the rest.

Then, after a heartbeat, quieter — steadier than ever:

"I do not like disappointment."​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



Serina did not speak.

Not at first.

The air between them shimmered—whether from the distant heat vents or the slow ignition of something older, darker, more intimate than mere temperature. Her gaze remained fixed, the six violet eyes motionless but alive, tracking not his posture, not his voice, but the deeper architecture of what he was building with every word: conviction. Not polished. Not profound. Just real.

And that was rarer than any vow.

Another man might've tried to impress her with resolve. Another would've begged to be seen. But Lucaant offered her something far more valuable than worship.

He offered her something to refine.

The sound that came from her wasn't a laugh. It wasn't even quite human. It was a low, soft exhale of breath behind the mask—so subtle it could've been mistaken for nothing, unless one was close enough to feel the temperature shift with it.

She stepped forward—final now—until there was no more distance between them that could shield one from the other. Her voice followed after, so low it pressed against the ribs like pressure beneath the skin.

"Good."

The word again. Sharper this time. Not approval. Confirmation.

"I would rather shape a weapon that threatens me than cradle one that rusts in praise."

She lifted a hand—not toward him, but toward the air between them—and two of her fingers flexed subtly. Not a gesture of sorcery. A signal.

From somewhere behind her, the station hummed. A pulse of dark power flickered through the ferrocrete beneath their feet. The violet light of her core flared once, casting deep, moving shadows over Lucaant's features—like paint dragged in violent streaks across canvas.

"Disappointment," she said, with that same awful calm, "is the disease of those who mistake ideals for iron."

Another beat.

"I am not a cause. I am not a flag. I will never promise you peace, or belonging, or safety. I do not believe in sanctuary."

And then—quietly, but deadly certain:

"But I never walk away."

Her hand lowered. The lights returned to their cold simmer. The silence followed, obedient once more.

"What you want, you may find here. If you survive it. If you earn it."

Her helm inclined just slightly, the war-mask of a god in mourning.

"But if I test you—and I will—know this: I will not stop at pain. I will reach into the marrow of what you are and twist until everything false comes loose."

She paused.

"Because if there's anything left after that—anything—then it will be real. Yours. And I will call it worthy."

Another moment of weightless quiet.

Then, with the finality of an oath:

"Welcome to the forge, Lucaant Vaneric."

A name given shape. A thing begun. And if he listened carefully, he might've heard something beneath her voice—just for an instant.

Something dangerously close to respect.

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Meet with a special guest.
People involved: Darth Virelia
---​

"A forge," Luccant's voice was a low, steady rasp, matching her awful calm. He didn't blink, didn't shift his weight. His grip on his blade remained firm, a silent counterpoint to her words. "Then so be it."

He paused, letting the sentence echo the confirmation she had given him. He absorbed the weight of her final pronouncements, the phantom pulse of dark power from the ferrocrete beneath his feet, the memory of her core's violet flare painting his features. He understood the language of disappointment, of false ideals, of promises that rust in praise.

"I don't need sanctuary. I don't need promises," he continued, his eyes, dark and unflinching, meeting hers. The thought of peace, of belonging, of safety, was an alien concept, one he'd learned to despise for its inherent weakness since his childhood. "And I don't falter." His gaze held hers, a silent and dangerous, grim challenge.

The words "twist until everything false comes loose" resonated with a part of him that craved the brutal truth, the stripping away of pretense. He knew the marrow of what he was, built to destroy the things that refused to yield. If there was anything left after her fire, it would be real. And that was all he cared about.

He didn't offer a bow. He didn't offer a smile. He simply stood there, a figure of unfinished purpose, accepting the trial. This wasn't a negotiation; it was a recognition. A tacit agreement that the path ahead would be painful, brutal, and utterly uncompromising. And for Lucaant Vaneric, that was exactly what he was looking for.

As her hand lowered and the silence obediently returned, Lucaant felt it. A flicker in the Force, a subtle warmth in the air that wasn't from the vents. It was like the brief, almost imperceptible brush of a predator recognizing another. It wasn't praise. It wasn't reverence. It was something closer to... acknowledgement. A strange, cold surprise that rippled through his hyper-vigilant mind. He allowed it to settle, a new variable in a universe he thought he'd cataloged.

He took another slow breath, the air filling his lungs, tasting of dust and latent power. "I know pain," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly confession, almost a thought spoken aloud. "I know breaking." He didn't elaborate on what they were steps to, but the implication hung heavy between them.

His eyes, dark and unblinking, scanned the quiet chamber once more, taking in the cold simmer of the lights. "You say you don't promise peace or belonging. Good. Those are lies." His gaze snapped back to hers, a raw intensity burning in his grey eyes. "But you promise real. You promise worthy. Or so you say" The words were not a question, but a demanding statement. "Show me. Show me what I become when you're done twisting. Prove your words."

He didn't move, a blank page with a pulse, standing in the center of her new 'forge,' inviting the fire. The silence that followed was his answer, a silent oath that spoke louder than any words. He was here. He was ready. And he would not disappoint.​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



The silence between them crystallized—hard, cold, beautiful in its severity. Like a blade balanced perfectly on its edge.

Serina didn't speak at first. She didn't need to. She simply looked at him.

That blank page of a man, etched with violence, standing unflinching in her shadow and asking—no, daring—to be tested. Not for glory. Not for approval. But to become.

Good.

She turned without a word, the folds of her segmented cloak whispering against the ferrocrete as she moved. Her pace was unhurried. Regal. The kind of pace that demanded following, not by command but by gravity. And Lucaant would find that following her felt less like walking and more like descending into something—like stepping into the eye of an orbiting storm.

The black corridor swallowed them whole.

Lights pulsed to life as she passed—dim violet halos flickering into being along the walls, casting long, predatory shadows. There was no music, no grand proclamation. Only the sound of boots striking alloy, the deep thrum of distant machinery, and the quiet promise of transformation.

She brought him to a chamber that did not open with codes or commands. It knew her.

The door slid apart with a hiss and a sigh, like an old beast exhaling after long dormancy.

And then—the forge.

Not a furnace, not a place of fire, but something colder. More deliberate. A sanctum of steel.

The armory was cathedral-like in its scale, lit only by the ambient violet glow of embedded runes and low humming hololights. Phrik weapons lined the walls like relics—dozens of them. No two the same. Each mounted in isolation, set into vertical stasis fields as if they were living beings dreaming of war.

Blades, axes, polearms, daggers. Sith swords darkened with age, alchemized monstrosities with thorns of obsidian and channels for venom. Straight blades of perfect, quiet lethality. Curved fangs forged for flourish and terror. Twin sabers fused to chained hilts. One weapon even looked like it was breathing, its hilt pulsing faintly beneath glass.

Each one deadly.

Each one waiting.

Serina stopped in the center of the chamber and turned toward him, her voice cutting through the humming quiet like a scalpel.

"Every weapon in this room was built to kill."

A slow sweep of her hand toward the gallery. Not a presentation. A command to see.

"Each forged in blood and silence. Each sharpened by a different truth—betrayal, fury, hunger, faithlessness. None are toys. None are kind."

She stepped aside. A subtle gesture, but more meaningful than ceremony. She was giving him space to act.

"Choose."

Her voice dropped. Not in volume, but density.

"Do not pick what you like. Do not pick what looks right in your hand. Pick the one that answers when you reach for it. The one that wants to be wielded."

A flicker of menace—no, of certainty—entered her tone as she concluded:

"Because it will be the one you bleed with."

She said no more. The weapons waited.

And so did she.

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Find, observe, use.
People involved: Darth Virelia
---​

Lucaant said nothing at first.

He stepped forward like someone entering a tomb — reverent, but unafraid. The weight of the chamber pressed around him: a cathedral of death, silent except for the distant hum of energy fields and the low, pulsing tension of power waiting to be claimed.

Weapons lined the walls like old gods, each one whispering stories he didn’t want to hear. Betrayal. Rage. Glory. They all had voices — but only one called his name.

It hung low on the left wall. Not center-stage. No pedestal. Just there. Waiting.

A long, lean blade — matte black from pommel to point, as if forged from shadow itself. He moved toward it, drawn not by beauty, but by familiarity. Recognition.

The crossguard curved forward like the jaws of some forgotten beast — meant to trap, to control. The grip was long enough for a two-handed swing, but balanced enough for one. The blade? Straight. Double-edged. Plain. No engraving, no ornament. Just silent, functional purpose.

It reminded him of a relic he’d once uncovered in the cult's ruined sanctuary — a ceremonial blade, cold and heavy with intention. That same pressure existed here. He felt it now, coiled in his gut, humming just beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

Phrik.

He knew it before the metal even touched his hand. He remembered that texture — the dark, uncanny density of it — from his own vibroblade. The one that never chipped. The one that still bore the blood of the first man who tried to cut him down after he broke with the cult.

Lucaant reached out.

The stasis field blinked out, soundless.

His fingers closed around the leather-wrapped grip.

And everything stilled.

The hilt fit his hand like it had been measured for him. The weight was perfect — not light, but honest. Not built to impress, but to outlast. He could feel it: not just metal, but memory. The blade had been wielded before. Maybe not by him. But it had waited for someone like him.

He turned slightly toward Serina, still holding the weapon low at his side. His voice came quiet, steady. Almost like he was speaking to the blade as much as to her.

“This one doesn’t ask anything from me.”

A beat.

“It already knows what I am.”

He gave the longsword a small, test shift — left, right. Felt the torque in his wrist, the center of balance, the edge alignment. It moved like it wanted blood. But not frenzied. Not impatient.

It wanted it right.

He looked at Serina again, eyes calm, voice flat but certain.

“It’s not loud. Not proud. Just... ready.”

Then, softly — the closest thing to reverence he’d allow himself:

“Like me.”

He didn’t ask for permission.

He sheathed it on his hip, besides his vibroblade, and stepped forward again — ready.

For a second, he considered reaching for his coded datapad and check the Cult's audios. Ultimately deciding otherwise.​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



Serina watched him in complete silence.

Not a judge. Not a mentor. A force—observing the gravity of choice bend quietly around him.

When his hand closed around the blade and the stasis field dissolved without resistance, something within the room—within the Force itself—seemed to shift. A current redirected. A question answered.

She didn't nod. She didn't move. But something imperceptible about her presence tightened, like a circle closing.

And then, after a breathless span of stillness, she stepped forward—not with fanfare, but with inevitability.

Each soundless step struck like punctuation. Final. Defining.

She stopped before him. Close now. The towering frame of Tyrant's Embrace cast its shadow across him, the violet veins of her chestpiece pulsing in rhythm with something deeper—older. Her voice, when it came, was low and resonant. The kind of voice that didn't echo because it never needed the space.

"It chose you."

Not surprise. Not approval.

Recognition.

Her head inclined a fraction—not a bow, but the ritual microtheatre of high command.

"Good. The first truth of the forge is this: what you wield is not an extension of your will. It is a mirror of it."

She circled him once, slow and silent, the violet glow of her lenses flickering subtly as she studied the blade now bound to his hip. Her voice continued like a blade drawn slowly free of its sheath.

"It does not flatter. It does not forgive. But it remembers. Every motion, every hesitation, every moment of clarity or failure. What it cuts will not be your enemies first."

Her steps stopped at his back.

"It will be you."

And then, quieter now. Almost intimate.

"That is what makes it worthy. That is what makes you worthy."

She moved again, this time past him, leading toward a wide, vault-like threshold at the rear of the armory. As it opened, a faint gust of cold air spilled forth—heavy with ancient dust, steel, and the electric tension of combat long awaited. The space beyond was a dueling chamber—spartan, brutal, illuminated only by vertical slits of white light across obsidian walls. No comfort. No distractions. Just a floor and blood waiting to be spilled on it.

She stopped just inside the entrance.

"Enter the crucible, Lucaant Vaneric."

Her helm turned slightly, so that the nearest pair of violet eyes aligned directly with his.

"And show me if the blade that chose you is right."

She stepped into the chamber without looking back.

Not because she didn't expect him to follow—

—but because she knew he would.

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Meet with a special guest.
People involved: Darth Virelia
---​

The sudden dissolution of the stasis field around the blade was a physical release, its weight now settling against Luccant's hip with a familiar, cold comfort. Serina's unwavering presence, silent and observing, felt like an intensified pressure in the room, her attention absolute. This wasn't a judgment, but an inevitable consequence, a current redirected.

Luccant held her gaze, those multiple violet eyes aligned directly with his. The words she spoke were a brutal validation of the path he understood, a grim clarity that resonated with his own nature. He felt that familiar, cold spark of acknowledgment from her again, a recognition of the grim truth he lived by. It wasn't praise, and he wouldn't mistake it for such, but a rare instance of being truly seen, of his own raw philosophy mirrored back at him without pretense. This was the kind of honesty he valued, cold and sharp as the edge of his blade.

She moved past him, leading toward the dueling chamber, a space of ancient dust, steel, and electric tension. No comfort. No distractions. Just a floor and blood. The prospect didn't deter him; it sharpened his focus. He'd walked into countless such spaces, physical and metaphorical, throughout his life, each one a step, as he'd told the Usher.

Luccant didn't hesitate. His metallic grey eyes, cold and unwavering, fixed on the spartan chamber. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Every word she had uttered was a testament to the path he was already on, the questions he already sought to answer within himself. The blade at his hip felt like an extension of his own bones, a silent promise of the agony and clarity to come.

He stepped forward, the single action a quiet affirmation of her challenge. The cold gust of air from the chamber washed over him, carrying the scent of steel and awaited combat, a familiar perfume. His boots met the unforgiving obsidian floor, each step measured, deliberate. There was no hesitation, no second thought. His past, a history of being forged in violence and disappointment, had led him to this exact moment.

His expression remained unreadable, a carefully constructed mask he rarely dropped, but within him, something coiled tight. It wasn't fear, nor was it excitement in the conventional sense. It was a dangerous anticipation, a readiness to meet the cutting edge, to endure the twisting she promised, and to discover what, if anything, would be left. He was here to see if the blade that chose him truly was right, and if he, Luccant Vaneric, could finally become something unbreakable. He was ready for the forge.​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



The chamber sealed behind him with a final, echoing thoom—not mechanical, but ritualistic. A sound with weight, as if announcing not a test, but a burial.

Serina stood in the far corner of the dueling space—motionless, sovereign, absolute. Her cloak whispered once as it settled. Then she raised her hand.

And the world changed.

The lights above dimmed to void. The floor beneath him shimmered like heat-distorted metal—then broke. The obsidian tiles vanished in a pulse of violet energy, and in their place bloomed a reality sculpted by the Force and machine alike. A simulation, yes. But only in that the corpses would fade when they fell.

Everything else would hurt.

The sterile room dissolved into a battlefield choked in smoke and shadow. The horizon was a ruin. Stone towers half-fallen. Siege fires still smoldering. Blackened skies boiled above, distant thunder cracking like drums. The ground beneath his boots shifted—packed dirt, torn by footprints and churned mud, pitted by old fires and blood. The wind stank of ash, iron, sweat.

A war without time.

All around him, echoes of battle: warriors in archaic armor, some living, most dying. Melee weapons clashed in visceral rhythm. Spears shattered. Shields broke. Screams laced the wind like hymns of agony.

Then, they saw him.

Six of them. No names. No emblems. Just brutal figures from another age—iron-helmed, furred, and rotting with undeath. Eyes burning red. Limbs armored in scrap and ritual bone. And in their hands, real steel.

They did not hesitate.

They charged.

From the edge of the illusion, Serina's voice came—not booming, but so precise and close it felt like she stood beside his ear, whispering into the root of his mind.

"This is the crucible."

A figure fell before him—one of the dead warriors, cleaved in half by a greater monstrosity behind it. A towering knight with twin axes and no face, only a furnace where its head should be. The heat radiating off its body burned the nearby air into distortion.

"They are phantoms. Yes. Souls I train for the coming eternal war. But their blades will cut. Their fists will break bone. And if you fall here, the pain will be real enough to remember."

Another crash of thunder.

"You carry no allies into this. No lesson but your own."

She paused—just long enough for the nearest revenant to howl as it rushed at Lucaant, blade raised, teeth gnashing.

Then, her voice—low and final.

"Show me what you become when the world decides you should not exist."

The simulation did not wait.

Neither did the dead.

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Meet with a special guest.
People involved: Darth Virelia
---​

Lucaant moved the instant the first undead charged, no hesitation, no posturing.

Both blades hissed free in the same breath—the longsword whispering out of its back-scabbard, the vibroblade unsheathing at his hip with a grating hum. He held them naturally, not mirrored, but balanced—long steel in his dominant hand, the shorter phrik weapon close and tight in the other, perfectly poised for control, leverage, and killwork.

The revenant roared and closed the distance with heavy steps, its cleaver dragging sparks as it scraped along the ruined stone.

Lucaant didn’t retreat.

He advanced.

Their weapons met in a clang of metal and rot—the cleaver swinging wide. Lucaant stepped inside its arc, twisting his torso and angling the vibroblade up to meet the larger weapon, catching it close to the hilt where the leverage was weakest. The undead thing snarled, but too late—its strike deflected, overextended.

Lucaant's right arm moved in a blur. The longsword cut diagonally, from shoulder to hip, hard and deep. Not elegant. Not pretty. But purposeful—splitting armor, bone, and dried sinew. The revenant jerked from the force of it, staggered, but still moving.

He stepped in closer, boots finding stable ground in the churned soil. Without pause, he jammed the vibroblade up under the thing’s jaw with brutal force—angled precisely to punch through rotten palate and into brainstem. The creature spasmed.

Then he wrenched the vibroblade free in a backward motion and let the corpse collapse at his feet with a wet, cracking thud.

Smoke curled around him. Ash stuck to the blood already speckling his arms. His chest rose once, slow. Eyes on the others.

He didn’t look back. Didn't ask for praise or instruction.

The blaster at his side remained holstered. In a world forged by ritual and fury, he knew better than to fire a sound that would drown out instinct. The Force could shape illusions all it wanted—but the music of steel, of impact and breath, was real.

He turned slightly, just enough to watch the next warrior break into a charge.

His shoulders rolled once. Calm. Centered.

Then he moved again.​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



From the edge of the shifting illusion—beyond the veil of smoke and death—Serina Calis watched.

Not as a commander.

As a sculptor.

She made no sound, gave no signal. Her presence loomed like a second gravity at the edge of the simulation, violet eyes cold and immobile as obsidian lenses. The chamber fed her everything: data, telemetry, pulse rate, micro-tremors in muscle fiber, the rhythm of Lucaant's footfalls against collapsing ground. But she wasn't watching numbers.

She was measuring soul.

And it was not disappointing.

Her voice, when it came again, was lower than before—carried not on the air, but on the will of the chamber itself. It folded into the space between Lucaant's breath and the clash of steel.

"You don't hesitate. You don't pray. You solve."

It was not praise.

It was observation. Truth.

The battlefield shifted.

Like a living memory reshaping around them.

The sky darkened further. Lightning cracked in violent zigzags across the dome above, illuminating jagged ruins that hadn't been there before. War drums began to pound—slow, deliberate beats that resonated from beneath the earth. The scent of ash thickened with a copper tang.

And then more came.

A pack of six twisted knights surged from the mist—mounted atop decaying beasts of burden, skeletal warhounds chained at their heels. Each bore different weapons now: a poleaxe, a hooked scythe, a serrated glaive that wept with ichor. These weren't simple revenants.

These were chosen.

Specters pulled from nightmares older than Sith history, coded into the simulation by Serina's own mind. The worst things she had studied. The worst things she had created.

And from her corner of the illusion, she whispered—more to herself than to him:

"Let the fire deepen."

The first knight charged, glaive swinging in a vertical arc meant to split him in two. The warhound peeled away to flank him. Another leapt from horseback, crashing down toward Lucaant with the force of a falling pillar.

And still, she did not interfere.

There were no safety protocols here. No disengagements. No limits.

If he was going to survive her forge, he would have to understand its true purpose:

Not victory.

Transcendence.

Serina folded her arms as she watched his silhouette clash with theirs, violet eyes burning like faultlines behind her mask. And beneath her breath, in a voice no machine could record:

"Become."

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Survive | Kill them all.
People involved: Darth Virelia
---​

The first knight moved like death on a leash.

Lucaant didn’t.

He became death.

No pause. No flourish. Just forward.

The glaive came down in a vertical arc—clean, precise, meant to cleave him whole. He stepped into it.

Into it.

The longsword caught the glaive’s haft mid-swing—metal screaming against metal—and his vibroblade shot up beneath, jamming straight into the knight’s exposed throat with a sound like wet gravel tearing open.

Not a kill.

A message.

The vibroblade sang, ultrasonic teeth chewing flesh and cartilage, and when he ripped it free, the knight’s head didn’t fall so much as slough from the neck in twitching halves.

Blood—not real, but close enough—sprayed in a fan over his battle armor, coat and face.

Then came the warhound.

It leapt. He spun.

Mid-turn, the longsword cleaved upward—an ascending diagonal that bisected the beast from gut to skull. Its hind legs hit the ground a second later, disconnected, twitching. The air shuddered with every blow, like even the simulation couldn’t handle the precision.

Another knight dropped from above, axe poised to split spine from skull.

Lucaant twisted.

Let it fall.

Let it almost hit.

Then he arched backward in a low crouch, blade-first, catching the fall of the knight’s weight and momentum and turning it against him. The longsword drove straight through his gut and out the other side, skewering black armor like paper. With his offhand, Lucaant twisted the vibroblade and jammed it through the knight’s open visor.

One blade in. One blade out.

He let both corpses fall at his feet like trash.

And then he moved again.

Two more knights came at once—one with a poleaxe spinning, the other wielding a crescent cleaver. They didn’t flank. They didn’t coordinate. Didn’t matter.

He didn’t dodge.

He advanced.

Poleaxe met the longsword first—deflected, turned. Lucaant stepped into the opening, shoulder-slamming the knight back a half step, just enough to slam his vibroblade under the ribcage and saw upward, catching the heart, the lungs, maybe the soul.

The vibroblade got stuck on the sternum.

So he let it go.

Ripped the longsword free from a parry and turned it into a backswing that decapitated the second knight mid-charge, sending helmet and jawbone spinning in opposite directions.

A beat. A breath. The thunder overhead grew louder.

He stood in a ring of butchered enemies. Breathing. Not heavy. Not wild.

Controlled.

A drip of simulated blood trailed from his jaw, caught in the corner of his mouth. He wiped it on his sleeve, eyes still scanning the dark—searching not for threats, but for challenges. His coat was soaked, his boots slick with gore, guts stuck beneath them. But his grip never faltered.

He never faltered.

His voice cut through the stillness, low and serrated.

“You want fire?” he said, barely more than a growl. “Watch me burn them all down. Watch me burn everything down.”

He kicked the glaive aside.

Tore the vibroblade from the corpse it was lodged in.

Lucaant then walked forward into the rest of the storm—no flourish, no mercy. Waiting for the next enemy, or victim, to appear.​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



Serina Calis stood at the edge of the storm, watching not a warrior—but a weapon.

Her arms remained folded, her silhouette unshaken. The wind, the blood-mist, the thunder, the illusions breaking and reforming around her—none of it touched her. She was the eye in a hurricane made of memory and violence.

But inside the mask—behind the six violet eyes, glinting like carved amethyst under black glass—something shifted.

A flicker of heat. A tightening of focus.

This was not performance.

This was becoming.

The Force itself curled tighter around the simulation, responding not to her command, but to Lucaant's fury. It writhed and pulsed, not as a test anymore, but as fuel. Even the false reality recognized what it was witnessing now: not a trial, but a transfiguration. He did not just survive. He exalted.

And Serina, the sculptor of blades and minds, approved.

She let the silence stretch as he tore through corpse and construct. Let it drag like a whetstone across steel.

Then—just before the next revenant could lurch into being—her voice swept through the chamber. It was neither distant nor loud. It came from everywhere and nowhere, as if spoken through the marrow of the simulation itself.

"You do not fight like one seeking victory."

The thunder above dimmed. The pulse of lightning froze in the sky, mid-strike.

"You fight like one who has already lost everything worth retreating for."

A flicker of admiration colored her next words—not soft, but sharp. A cruel kind of acknowledgment. A private kind of praise.

"Good."

She stepped forward. Into the illusion.

And the battlefield recognized her.

The dead recoiled—not in fear, but as if making way. The darkness deepened. The sky itself darkened to bruised crimson, and with a thought, she snapped her fingers.

The world changed.

The wind shifted, thick with sulfur.

A great shadow fell over the ruined field as something colossal loomed beyond the haze—a construct of twisted bone and cursed iron, rising from the earth like a half-buried god. Its eyes burned like coals set in molten sockets. Its arms dragged iron flails behind them, each larger than a speeder, chains etched in runes of pain and permanence.

"The forge is not done," she said, calm as winter.

She walked closer to him, now within striking range—but she didn't raise a hand. She didn't need to.

"This is your crucible, Lucaant Vaneric. You are steel. But even steel must be quenched."

And then, low—intimate, just between them:

"Do not stop now."

She stepped back. Let the nightmare rise. Let it roar.

"Break. Or become what cannot be broken."

The flails lifted.

The titan screamed.

And Serina vanished into shadow.

The next moment belonged to him.

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Survive | Kill them all.
People involved: Darth Virelia
---​

The titan loomed.

Its head brushed the storm-wracked clouds, a silhouette of iron and rot wreathed in smoke and red lightning. Its chains dragged behind like dying suns, runes along the links pulsing with slow, hateful rhythm.

One of its flails lifted. Higher. Higher still.

And Lucaant ran straight at it.

No plan.
No calm.
Only heat.

His phrik vibroblade hissed in his left hand, snarling with each step. In his right, the longsword dragged sparks from broken stone as he closed the distance. His breath was ragged. Blood slid into his right eye. It didn't matter.

There was no room for hesitation.

No fear.

Only resolve.

The flail came down with a sound like the end of a city. Stone ruptured. Ground shuddered. Lucaant threw himself into a shoulder roll, not guided by technique—but by sheer defiance. A ripple of raw intent pushed outward from him, unseen but undeniable. The Force didn’t shape his movement—it followed it, wrapped around it like a cloak of coiled fire.

He was on his feet in a blink, sliding low under the second chain strike. Sparks erupted around him. He surged upward with a roar, driving the longsword into the titan’s thigh joint. Steel bit deep.

Then the vibroblade struck.

He reversed his grip and stabbed upward, wedging the phrik blade between overlapping plates of cursed armor. The edge vibrated, grinding through sinew and arcane seal. The titan bucked, letting out a bellow that shook the illusion itself. The sky cracked. Illusion or not, this thing felt real.

Lucaant ripped both blades free and leapt back as the titan’s arm swept across the field in a brutal arc. He couldn’t dodge it completely—it caught his shoulder, sent him sprawling, pain flaring bright and hot down his ribs.

But he got up.

Of course he got up.

He spat blood. His left arm shook from impact. His longsword dragged slightly as he raised both weapons again. Above him, the titan turned. Chains lifted. The next blow would kill him.

Unless he chose otherwise.

He stepped into the pain.

Flung the vibroblade like a thrown spear—its phrik edge punched into the titan’s collar, burying deep enough to stagger it.

And before it could recover—

He charged again.

He jumped high—too high for any normal man. The Force rose behind him, not gentle, not trained—just furious. Willed. He landed on the titan’s forearm, boots skidding on rusted metal, and with a bellow, he drove the longsword into the thing’s throat.

Not once.

Twice.

A third time.

Steel screamed. Something deep inside the titan gave way, and fire erupted from its mouth and eyes like the last breath of a dying star. Lucaant dropped as the construct began to fall—rolled, staggered, caught his phrik blade on the way down in a skid of ash and heat.

He stood there, steaming, smoke peeling off his shoulders.

One sword in each hand. Blood on both. S

Chest heaving. Knees shaking.

But he did not fall.

The titan crashed behind him—limbs twitching, chain flails slack, its eyes gone dark.

And Lucaant Vaneric didn’t even look back at it.

He just turned his head toward the red sky—toward her—and muttered, low and certain:

“Still breathing.”

A pause. Then:

“I could do with some whisky right about now.”

 

[Darth Virelia]

"War needs bodies."

Tag - Lucaant Vaneric



The battlefield stilled.

Not like peace—no, never peace. More like the space between lightning and thunder. A pause, vast and echoing, carved out by violence so complete that even the illusion itself dared not follow it with anything less.

The storm above began to retreat, clouds boiling outward from the fallen colossus as if they too were afraid to linger in Lucaant's presence. Firelight danced along the ruined stone, casting his shadow long and fractured across the field. A warrior's silhouette—but not the kind sung about in taverns or etched in murals.

This was something else.

Something earned in ash and tendon and unflinching pain.

The titan twitched once—reflex, not defiance—and then was still. Its form began to decay, like coal crushed to dust, fragments breaking away into the air and dissolving as if its purpose had simply ended. As if its story no longer had permission to remain on the same page as the man who destroyed it.

Then—she returned.

She did not walk.

She arrived.

One moment there was only silence, the aftermath of ruin. The next, Serina Calis stood before him, framed by the red sky like a prophecy made flesh. Her armor caught the dying light, the contours of Tyrant's Embrace glinting with cruel perfection—black, violet, and red forming a monarch's shadow among blood and fire. Smoke curled gently around her feet, caressing her like something obedient. The six eyes of her helm glowed with terrible composure, fixed not on the wreckage…

…but on him.

She looked at him like an artist studies a blade just hammered into shape—still hot, still imperfect, but undeniably whole.

Then came her voice.

It did not echo. The battlefield bent around it, silenced itself for it. There was no fanfare. No applause.

Just a sovereign's decree.

"Still breathing," she repeated, slow, considering. "After facing death so intimately that most would forget how."

She let that hang, then advanced—each step measured, each one declaring dominion over every shattered stone beneath her.

"You didn't win because you were stronger. Not because you were faster. Not because you were clever."

She stopped a pace before him. Close enough that the violet glow of her core cast stark shadows across his bloodied face. Her gaze bore into him—not with judgment, but with the weight of something older. Something final.

"You survived because you refused to be erased."

The words were not praise. They were law.

"That construct you felled was not merely a beast of steel and curse. It was a mirror. A ghost shaped in your image, built to unmake you with your own truths. It broke cities in prior simulations. Killed Jedi. Shattered Sith."

A pause. A flicker of something like satisfaction, razor-thin.

"It could not kill you."

The storm behind her softened into red twilight. The simulation's program flickered, then slowly dissolved into thin black walls and violet gridlines. The chamber was revealed once more—its stone floor cracked, its quiet ambiance returned.

But the moment did not lessen.

She reached out—not abruptly, not gently—and took the longsword from his hand.

Turned it over once in her taloned gauntlet.

Inspected the edge.

The blood.

The truth.

Then, after a long beat, she offered it back.

Not as one returns property.

As one confers recognition.

"This weapon chose well."

She stepped back, head tilting slightly as she studied the rest of him—splattered in gore, shoulders tight with pain, posture still erect despite the abuse. There was no noble light to him. No heroism.

Only steel shaped by fire.

And fire that had not yet gone out.

"You are not yet finished. Not yet refined. But neither are you unworthy."

The next words came slower, more deliberate—like titles being chiseled into a foundation stone.

"From this moment forward, your training begins not in how to fight… but in how to endure."

"Pain, yes. Doubt. Betrayal. Loyalty. You will learn that power without control is a wildfire. But control without purpose… is rot."

She let the words coil around him like armor being fitted into place.

"You came into my presence as a man with no crest. No claim. No cause."

She gestured around at the battlefield—what remained of it, fading still at the edges.

"Now you have one."

She inclined her head, only slightly. Not respect.

Investment.

"You are mine now, Lucaant Vaneric."

A long pause. That slow weight settling over the finality of her statement.

Then, with a razor-slick flicker of dry amusement—almost imperceptible:

"And as for your request…"

She turned, walking toward the far wall as a concealed panel slid open with a hiss. A small table emerged—tall bottle of dark glass. Two glasses. No labels. No need.

"…only a fool denies a blade its first taste of fire and a drink to honor it."

She poured with the same calm precision she fought with—measured, exact, without flourish. One for her. One for him.

She offered him his glass without ceremony. Let it hang between them.

"Drink."

Then, like an afterthought spoken in a voice that could have cracked thrones if it so chose:

"You've earned it."

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."

⏵ Play Theme

Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Survive | Kill them all.
People involved: Darth Virelia
---​

Lucaant said nothing at first.

His breath steamed in the cooling air, each exhale slow, controlled—like a furnace that hadn’t gone out, only shuttered its doors.

Then, with a motion like sealing something sacred, he sheathed the vibroblade. The phrik edge kissed the scabbard with a final, satisfying scrape. A moment later, the longsword followed, its blackened steel slotting against his spine with practiced weight.

Only then did he look at her.

He stepped forward—not in deference, not in respect. He advanced like a man reclaiming space that no longer belonged to the past. His boots rang sharp on the chamber’s fractured floor. When he reached the table, he took the glass she offered without hesitation—but held it like a weapon. Not an heirloom. Not a gift.

His gaze was fire and dusk beneath blood-matted hair.

When he spoke, his voice carried low—but it hit like a blade driven slowly into stone.

“Don’t call me yours.”

A pause. He didn't blink. Didn't soften.

“I survived your nightmare. I tore down your monster. That doesn’t make me property.”

He held her gaze—those six cold eyes behind the mask—and didn’t flinch. Didn’t yield. He let the moment stretch, let the battlefield silence drag behind his words like a broken chain.

“You want a weapon? You can build one.”
“You want a shadow to kneel when commanded?” He leaned slightly forward, not threatening—but undeniably close. “You can program that.”

Then, softer—but no gentler:

“I’m not a forge-born oath.”

“I’m not your sword.”

He lifted the drink slightly—not as salute, not as gratitude. More like a counterweight to the violence still crackling through his frame.

“I fought your beast because it stood in my way.”

A breath. Not calming. Just fact.

“I’d do it again. For the same reason, in the same way.”

He drank. The burn crawled down his throat like an old scar being remembered. He didn’t grimace.

He set the glass down—firmly. A punctuation.

Then, more quietly:

“You shaped the crucible. Fine... But I stepped into it by choice.”

He stepped back once—not to retreat, but to draw the boundary she’d tried to erase. Still bloodied. Still upright. Still staring her down like a flame that refused to be tamed.

“I’ll walk your path if it means power.”

A small pause, Lucaant took a breath then resumed:

“But don’t mistake my endurance for submission.”

He turned partway—only partway—just enough to let the moment cool, but not enough to offer his back. His voice came one last time, harsher now. Iron under frost.

“The next time you try to claim me…”

A pause.

“…make sure you’re ready to lose something.”

Then—silence.

Not defiance for the sake of pride.

But a warning.

One earned. One meant.

"You didn't disappoint. Though, what exactly do you think of me?"​