Tyrant Queen of Darkness

"Breaking and Entering."
Tags -


The crimson winds screamed like flayed throats across the basins of Sevarcos II, clawing at the blackened spires of the Eviscerant Yards. Floodlights cut narrow wounds into the storm, silver and violet streaks that illuminated towers belching iridescent smoke, conveyors rattling with crates of volatile spice, and the skeletal silhouettes of mercenary watchtowers. Here, industry was not progress; it was domination. Every shriek of a droid drill and every crack of a guard's baton testified to the same truth: this place was owned, and that ownership had a name.
Darth Virelia.
She stood at the highest landing platform of the Calis Central Overseer Tower, her armored silhouette haloed in the sulfurous glare of refinery fire. The mask turned slowly, surveying the hellscape below like a goddess appraising her altar. Her House's altar. Her fortune, her inheritance, her triumph. The mines might have been cut into the bones of Sevarcos by desperate laborers and digger-droids, but the wealth they bled into the galaxy flowed first through her hands, her ledgers, her will.
The Overseer Tower itself was a monolith of brutalist intent—obsidian angles, blast-shielded windows, and comm relays thrust skyward like spears in defiance of the planet's constant storms. It was fortress, counting-house, and throne all at once. And today it was stage.
"Productivity has increased seven-point-two percent since last quarter, my Lady," droned the overseer AI, its voice filtered through a drone escort at her shoulder. "Refinery yield at Crucible Ridge remains stable. Section B reports eighty-three percent labor survivability."
The masked woman tilted her head slightly, and even that delicate motion felt deliberate. Calculated. The sort of grace that made hardened soldiers swallow against a dryness in their throats. "Eighty-three percent." The words were velvet-wrapped steel. "Do you know what I hear, darling machine?"
"Compliance, my Lady?"
"I hear waste."
Her gloved hand drifted across the guard-rail, fingertips dragging lines through the dust gathered there. Beneath the mask, a smile cut sharp and indulgent. "Spice veins care nothing for sentiment. Laborers are flesh, replaceable. Each corpse enriches me as much as each survivor—sometimes more, if I am creative. Waste," she repeated, "is the only crime. And you will ensure there are no crimes at my Yards."
Below, floodlights revealed the Spiral Cut, a pit vast enough to drown a city. Heavy digger-droids crawled its slopes like iron beetles, burrowing into veins of glittering spice that shimmered with lethal beauty. Beyond it, Crucible Ridge Refinery belched its smoke, churning out crystalline sticks and powder under mercenary guard. To most, it was hell incarnate. To Virelia, it was elegance. The order of her dominion carved into a world of chaos.
But sometimes, chaos likes to remind the galaxy why it's in charge.
