Private ATRAMENTUM | Where Eyes Cannot See

[Darth Virelia]

"Beginnings."

Tags - Zachariah Conway


The black blood of Mustafar bled slow tonight.

Its rivers of fire, normally furious and unrelenting, pulsed in a strange, lethargic rhythm, as though the world itself were holding its breath. Above, lightning flared within ash clouds, but the storm did not speak. It waited. And far beneath that haunted sky, below basalt and bone, deeper than even the Jedi had ever dared to dig, there stirred something forgotten. A place without name in the archives, without mention in the thousand years of conquest or ruin. The place had been swallowed whole by time, by fear, by silence.

But Serina Calis had found it.

The obsidian shrine was no larger than a noble's tomb. Its architecture was severe and alien—pyramidal, inward-facing, twisted not by time but by intention. It was a machine of secrecy as much as stone, and every angle of it whispered in tongues no longer known to any civilization that mattered. In this place, light did not behave as it should. Flames bent backward. Shadows curled unnaturally around the carved faces of forgotten Lords. The Force was not just strong here—it was listening.

Serina stood alone in the central chamber, the hem of her coat dusted with soot, the soles of her boots silently echoing against the ancient tiles. She had not brought an escort. She had not needed one. Even her VESPER agents had been denied entry past the first mile of tunnel. This was sacred. Not because of the Sith. Not even because of the power. But because of what was about to begin.

This was where the lie would end.

The Galactic Alliance. The Jedi. The Sith Empire, the nascent Imperials, the arrogant Mandalorians, the deluded Republic and Diarchy, in all their broken hierarchies. For millennia they had waged the same war with different words. Rebellion, conquest, rot, repeat. It was all theater. A cycle not of progress, but of inertia. Of delusion.

And Serina Calis was done pretending.

This temple was not the birthplace of the Sith. Nor was it the origin of any ancient secret. But it would be the birthplace of something greater.

Atramentum.

Not a cult. Not a sect. A design. An intelligence grafted to the Dark Side like a mind to a nervous system. It would not conquer—at least not visibly. It would whisper through markets, through sciences, through old dynasties crumbling and new corporations rising. It would convert. Dominate. Influence without exposing a single face to the fire.

But to make it more than theory, she needed one thing: a peer. Not a servant. Not a subordinate. One who would understand the necessity of patience. The usefulness of restraint. One who could disappear as easily as they could command. Someone to help her architect this subversive web of power and perception.

And for that, there was only one candidate.

Darth Latens.

Their first encounter had been brief—a year or so ago now. A coded meeting. An exchange of ideas dressed as casual exchange. But even then, Serina had seen it: the potential. Latens had not begged for favor. Had not postured. He had listened, offered nothing unnecessary, and parted without theatrics. In him, she had sensed a predator that understood subtlety. A rival in the best sense. A potential co-founder.

Since then, she had watched. Quietly. A few nudges here, a few credits there. And now, finally, the hour had come.

Serina moved to the center of the temple, where a triangular stone basin stood like an altar. In it, she had poured a mixture of volcanic glass powder and her own blood. The alchemical reaction had blackened the room and scorched the air, revealing inscriptions long buried beneath stone. The air was sharp now—almost acidic in its purity. Everything unwanted had been stripped away. Here, there was no ideology. No sympathy. Only clarity.

The temple lights flared—dim, smoky torches sputtering to life along the edges of the chamber, revealing murals carved in obsidian: not of Sith Lords, but of systems falling silently to rot. Of markets collapsing. Of senators bribed, assassinated, or corrupted. Of fleets turned against their masters. These were not symbols of death—they were diagrams of control.

The kind of control Atramentum would wield.

She looked to the arched doorway at the far end of the temple, now yawning open. The seal had broken moments ago—a security lock tied not to mechanics, but to intent. It had taken both their signatures in the Force to activate.

And now she felt it: a presence approaching. Dark, but clean. Focused.

Darth Latens.

The air shifted. The heat thickened. The molten rivers of Mustafar outside the walls pulsed in time with a heartbeat that was not her own.

Serina stepped away from the altar, slow and smooth, her posture straightening like a queen awaiting the arrival of an equal. Her hands, gloved in black synthsilk, folded behind her back. The flicker of her breath stilled. Everything in her went quiet.

This was the moment.

Not of battle. Not of bloodshed. But of beginning.

The dark silhouette appeared at the threshold.

And Serina Calis smiled—not in welcome, but in recognition.

He was finally here.

 

[Zachariah Conway]

Location: Mustafar
Tags: Darth Virelia
Equipment: Lightsaber | Sith Robes
​

For once, the young Sith wasn't donning his armour.

He didn't hide behind a helmet or the lavish trappings of power. There was no need. Dressed in the same black Sith robes he had commissioned years ago, his presence was unguarded, the fabric clinging to his sculpted frame with unapologetic confidence.

The purpose of their meeting was simple. Both of them knew it's purpose.

The far reaches of the lava world, of Mustafar, raged around Latens as his slow and deliberate steps came down. Motlen rock thundered as it erupted from the lakes of fire, crashing down with authority. The planet was commanding respect.

For lack of a better phrase.

It was the beginning of the end.

Both Serina and Latens knew it.

His steps were gentle, almost silent as he made his approach. He had found their meeting place with ease, the obsidian shrine that was no larger than a noble's tomb. He'd expected the agents to challenge him, yet instead they'd let him pass with not even a word. Even they knew something important was going on, something that would make a difference.

Gentle steps.

Every step made with purpose.

Every step delibrate.

"Serina Calis" he spoke at last as he entered the temple itself. His voice was soft, almost delicate. It was different to the last time Serina had heard him speak, last time his helmet had been modulating his voice, he had been empowering it through the Force.

Now?

There was no theatre involved.

Only focus.

"You claim you wish to make a change. I ask, what do you hope to achieve?"

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Beginnings."

Tags - Zachariah Conway



The obsidian shrine had no windows. No open air. No breeze. It was not built to allow the world in, only to shut it out. And in the absence of that world, with no sky and no wind, the air inside felt suspended—hung between seconds like a breath not yet exhaled. Ancient murals shimmered faintly in the red glow of wall sconces. And at the center of it all, in the space between fire and silence, stood Serina Calis.

Still.

Serene.

She had not moved when Darth Latens entered. She had not needed to. She was already the axis of the room. The center of gravity around which this moment turned.

Her armor, as always, was immaculate: sculpted black voidmetal layered over synthweave like the skin of a panther carved into obsidian, etched with microscopic circuit-tracery that glinted faintly with the dull heat of Mustafar's depths. It was both throne and shell—neither ceremonial nor truly martial, but something in between. Her only adornment was the thin, red-threaded seal at her collar: the mark of a secret dynasty not yet spoken into being.

Atramentum.

As Latens entered, the temple reacted. The flames in the sconces bowed inward. The Force tensed. Not in alarm—but in anticipation. Two centers of will had entered alignment.

She turned slowly to face him, like a calculating predator in no rush to eat. When her eyes met his, they were voids—green, flecked with soft gold, but cool as polished glass. Her gaze didn't simply observe. It measured.

And then, his words came.

"Serina Calis,"
"You claim you wish to make a change. I ask, what do you hope to achieve?"

There it was. The key in the lock. The spark to the engine.

A lesser being would have launched into declarations. Diatribes. Justifications. They would have rushed to fill the silence with ideology, dressed their ambition in scripture or myth. But Serina was not lesser.

She listened.

To the tone. The calm. The deliberation. The absence of hostility in his voice, and the presence of something far more dangerous: curiosity. It pleased her. He was ready.

Her response did not come immediately. She moved closer first—just three steps, soundless, like falling silk. Not into attack range, not into familiarity, but just enough to bring her fully into the red-haloed light of the altar.

There, she stopped.

The heat of the planet rumbled through the temple's bones, but Serina's voice—when it came—was colder than stone, and far more enduring.

"Control."

The word echoed.

Not like a shout, but like a truth dropped into the endless well of history.

She did not elaborate. Not yet. The word was not a summary, it was an anchor. Everything else would spiral outward from it.

She turned her back to him now—not as a dismissal, but as an invitation. A display of sovereign confidence. Her posture was perfect. Not stiff, not posturing. Simply correct. She placed one gloved hand atop the basin that had once held her blood and glass, and looked upon the murals carved into the wall—those scenes of systemic decay, political manipulation, economic rot. The artwork was old. But her vision was not a reflection of the past.

It was the next step.

Control.

Not through sabers. Not through banners. Not through brute force. But through design.

Through truth twisted at the root. Through suggestion instead of decree. Through the understanding that the galaxy did not change by killing kings, but by choosing what the next generation would be allowed to believe was possible.

She allowed the silence to stretch—tense, heavy, as if the Force itself dared not interrupt. Then, a second line. Soft. Clear.

"Not of territory. Of trajectory."

And with that, the idea bloomed.

A lesser mind might have missed the distinction. But not Latens. She knew he would hear it. Territory was the delusion of the old Sith. The need to conquer, to raise flags, to sit on thrones in palaces that would one day burn. She had no interest in lines on maps. She wanted timelines. The very course of history itself, shaped like molten metal by unseen hands.

Control the path, not the land.

She moved again—this time to the base of the shrine where a low holoprojector flickered to life, revealing not a map, but a weave of influence: corporate shells. Academic boards. Religious cults. Syndicated media arms. All of them spinning quietly like spokes on a wheel.

Some of the names Latens might recognize.

Some he would not.

All of them had one thing in common.

They had already been touched.

A slow smile curved on her lips—not warm. Not victorious. Just… deliberate. The way a sculptor smiles at the first smooth strike of the chisel. There was satisfaction here. But no hurry.

She turned once more to face him.

Serina Calis, unblinking, lowered her chin slightly. Her presence radiated not the passion of the Sith, nor the calm of the Jedi, but something far more terrible:

Certainty.

"A thousand blades cannot stop a whisper… if the whisper writes their orders."

There. The third and final line. Her creed.

And with it, the blueprint was clear.

This was not rebellion. This was not conquest. This was reprogramming.

The Sith Empire would fracture again. The Jedi would lose their way again. The Alliance, or whatever mockery replaced it, would rot again. Because none of them understood that empires were surface-level phenomena. All of them were symptoms of the same disease.

Serina would not treat the symptoms.

She would replace the bloodstream.

She would do it through currencies. Through the holonet. Through the Forge Worlds. Through sleeper agents raised as assassins, as ideas.

And with Latens?

She would make the first incision.

The moment hung.

The lava roared outside. The temple walls groaned. Somewhere in the deep distance, a tremor shook the ancient stones, dislodging a single grain of obsidian dust that fell between them, unnoticed.

It was the only thing in the room that dared to move.

Serina did not.

She didn't need to speak further. She had said everything that mattered.

Three lines. Three tenets.

Control.
Trajectory.
Whisper.

Now, she waited.

To see if the man before her was ready to become something greater than a Sith.

If he, too, was willing to abandon the theater.

And become the director.

 

[Zachariah Conway]

Location: Mustafar
Tags: Darth Virelia
Equipment: Lightsaber | Sith Robes
​

Darkness clung to both of them.

Both Serina and Zachariah were soaked within it, both manipulated it in their own rights. They controlled the darkness, forced it to do as they wished. They both bent it to their will in their own ways, were the masters of it. It was theirs to command.

It filled the room that they were in, pierced only by the flickering amber of the flames that adorned the individual sconces around the room. It cast a soft light against both Zachariah and Serina, a warm glow against the otherwise impenetrable darkness.

He didn't expect a story. Darth Virelia had never been one for speeches, she was more controlled than that. Her points were always simple, yet twisting. She was a master manipulator, someone able to bend anyone to her will with just a simple word.

Control.

It all came down to control.

It's all either of them wanted.

It was an unspoken between them both.

Every time they had shared a room.

Every conversation.

They both wanted control.

Not through direct means, they were both two good for that. They weren't about to wage wars and kick in doors and seize planets through violence. It wasn't about banners, it was about design. A carefully placed word, the disapperence of a high ranking general.

Subterfuge.

Serina clicked a holoprojector to life, the young boys eyes darting around the room to take in all of the information it provided. Some names he recognised, others he didn't. It was influence, corporations and government bodies that would soon be under her control.

"You speak like Ophidia"

His voice was quiet, yet every word was intentional and picked for purpose. He'd only meant the ghost of Darth Ophidia once, when his master had plunged in the blade to declare him a Sith Knight. Ophidia's vision of the Tsis'Kaar was not what the Tsis'Kaar had become.

Serina's vision.

That was what the Tsis'Kaar always should have been.

"Yet you never met her. Interesting"

His words were quiet, to himself.

Moving silently, unknown. Weaving control in ways it couldn't be linked back to them, twisting the odd arm or slipping a few credits into the correct pockets. Whilst the Sith fought their wars and conquered their planets, Darth Virelia and Zachariah Conway would slip into the shadows and control everything from behind the scenes.

The Force froze on the moment, anticipation not fear. The room went silent, holding it's breath for a decision that would set off a chain of events and cause a domino effect unlike any other. They weren't the most powerful in the Force, but control and influence outweighed power.

"You speak as if you intend to write the orders" he spoke at last. "I already know that is your intention, do not mistake me" he added before she could even speak. "A thousand words have been said between us Serina, even if you don't realise it"

He smiled towards her.

Atramentum.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Beginnings."

Tags - Zachariah Conway



The shadows didn't cling to Serina Calis.

They obeyed.

Where others vanished into darkness to hide, she wore it. It curled around her frame like silk, bent in reverence around the liquid obsidian curves of her armor. The flickering amber sconces made the metal glint like blood-slick bone, each ridged plate molded to perfection—inhuman, cold, an artwork of intimidation. The air was sharp around her, not hot despite Mustafar's fury, but precise—like the breath before a knife sinks in.

Zachariah Conway's words lingered in the space between them. Measured. Intentional.

"You speak like Ophidia. Yet you never met her."

No, she had not.

And yet, somehow, Ophidia's ghost had whispered to her through the cracks of what remained. Not in memory, but in failure. The Tsis'Kaar had been meant to be an invisible empire. A dynasty of minds, not blades. But the structure had become rotten, exposed itself too deeply to the wider empire.

Serina did not repeat the past.

She corrected it.

She moved—slowly, silently—to the center of the chamber once more. Her steps made no sound. Her presence was gravitational. The shadows did not scatter before her, they followed, reverently coiling around her legs like faithful hounds.

The holoprojector's light danced across her features. It illuminated no joy, no fervor. Only precision. On the projector flickered the early skeleton of a vast and quiet empire—not of territory, but of influence. Corporate holdings. Hidden accounts. Puppet senators and manufacturing syndicates. Cults masquerading as charities. Legal fronts hiding weapons testing beneath refugee aid. Whispers in every direction. And somewhere, not yet illuminated, the black nucleus:

Atramentum.

She looked toward Darth Latens.

No smile.

No immediate answer.

When she finally spoke, her voice was as quiet as it was absolute. Every word fell into the air with the weight of a falling empire.

"The illusion of order is built on logistics."

She let that hang.

Let it settle into the bedrock of the moment.

No rhetoric. No preamble. Just foundation.

Then, she turned her head back to the projection, fingers gliding over the interface, selecting one node from the map—highlighting it.

Ministry of Production and Logistics – Sith Empire

Her eyes shimmered faintly. Not from emotion. From clarity.

"We do not need to control the Dark Council. Or the Sith Assembly. Not yet."

"We need to control what feeds them."

She tapped the node.

The screen unfurled a web. Hundreds of data paths. Billions of credits. Resource flows. Starship construction, industrial automation, planetary-scale supply chains, nationalized trade fleets, hyperfuel routes, droid programming rights, medical convoys, arms shipments, water purification systems, terraforming modules, agricultural spores.

The lifeblood of the Empire.

Her voice was calm. Surgical.

"They believe power lies in violence. In armies. In votes."

"But I have no interest in breaking the body. I want to own its pulse."

This was not ambition.

This was engineering.

Her gaze slid back to Zachariah. The glow of the projector cast lines across her cheekbones, sharp and severe like sculpted marble. Her words came slowly. Deliberately.

"We infiltrate. We replace. We elevate."

"We move the right analysts into critical positions. We discredit the competent. We promote the pliable. We insert our proxies as auditors, logistics supervisors, system architects. We replace planning AIs with copies rewritten to respond only to us."

"Not saboteurs. Not brutes. Administrators."

A small, cruel whisper curved her lips—though it never reached her eyes.

"Let the Empire feast on itself… and never realize who salted the meat."

The plan was not immediate conquest. It was positioning.

Once Atramentum held the Ministry of Production and Logistics—whether directly or through masks and fronts—they would possess a hand on the true beating heart of Sith power.

Military deployments would shift by accident.
Fuel would run short during critical operations.
Replacement parts would never arrive.
Communications relays would lag or misfire.
Entire legions could vanish into resupply voids.
Planets would fail to receive food.
Colonies would be condemned to scarcity.

And with the stroke of a single command code, entire sectors would go dark.

All without a saber being drawn.

That was the shape of Serina's war.

Not to conquer the Sith Empire—but to own its momentum. Like fingers on a puppet's strings, she would be the ghost in the system. Her enemies would never know they had lost until their fleets failed to launch. Until their soldiers starved. Until they begged for a solution.

And Atramentum would be there, dagger, sorcery and whisper in toe.

"We do not seize thrones," she continued, "we create dependence."

Her hand swept outward slowly, a quiet flourish of elegance and menace, as if unveiling the future to a fellow god.

"The Sith believe themselves immortal. But we will make them perishable."

"Then, when they kneel—not from defeat, but necessity—we will choose who rises."

There was no fire in her voice.

No thunder.

Only truth.

The silence that followed was not empty. It was devouring. It felt as if the very chamber were listening—its ancient stones pulsing with the anticipation of being made holy again, not by religion, but by conspiracy.

Serina turned fully to Zachariah now. Her posture was that of a monarch, but not one crowned. One awaited.

She did not approach him. Did not reach out.

She waited.

Because he would either step forward of his own volition—or he was not ready to matter.

"I will be the vector. The whisper that compels the scream."

Her final words came low. Measured. Carved into the very bones of the temple.

"And I suspect you will be the silent steel that cuts the rot."

That was the offer.

Not power.

Purpose.

Atramentum would have no public crest. No shared oath. No visable war banners. It would exist only in action. In corruption. In control. In shadow.

And tonight—on a forgotten world of lava and ruin—its first two architects stood cloaked in shadow, not to destroy the Empire…

…but to inherit it.