Junction The Sundering Dawn | Act II: Galaxy in Crisis (Chapter 5 | BYOO)

[Darth Empyrean]

The Sundering Dawn | Act II: Galaxy in Crisis

Across the Galaxy, maps have become unreliable. Hyperlanes that once fed empires now twist unpredictably—or vanish outright. Pilots speak of missing stars. Entire sectors fall silent overnight. Refugee flotillas pile up at fringe worlds too remote to rely on established trade. The once‑steady rhythm of galactic civilization—transport, communication, stability—has begun to falter like a failing pulse.

But the chaos hasn't come without warning. Force-sensitives across cultures have experienced a cascade of shared visions: burning spires, mirror-flipped fleets, ice-entombed vaults, and a rusted machine devouring space itself. These mass hallucinations—or prophecies—speak of three "Keys" known only as Blood, Echo, and Axis, and a larger force beneath it all: a planet‑sized Celestial machine named Calladene, either broken or waking, and desperate to rewrite the galaxy's structure.

In response, the major powers of the galaxy have formed an emergency accord. A fragile summit has been convened aboard Karath Station, where envoys exchange fragments of insight and plan expeditions to recover these mythic Keys. But not every battle is fought at the center. As the stars fracture, so too do the boundaries between factions, loyalties, and even space and time. Worlds cut off by collapsed lanes now govern themselves. Independent ships seize the opportunity to smuggle, rescue, raid, or rebel. Small powers emerge, carving territory from the edges of broken corridors. Ancient sites long hidden by hyperspace traffic are suddenly accessible—and haunted.

This is the age of crisis and opportunity, where the lines between myth and map blur. You might be a local leader defending your system from Starweird incursions, a scavenger drawn to a mysterious pulse on an ancient world, a refugee navigating shifting alliances, or a rogue Force-wielder chasing visions that none of the factions understand. Whatever your path, the galaxy is no longer safe, and no longer stable. But in the cracks forming across the stars, new futures are waiting to be written.

This thread is open to all characters, factions, and stories that wish to explore the Galaxy in Crisis narrative. Whether you're writing horror, diplomacy, archaeology, civil unrest, or solo mysticism, your narrative helps shape the larger tapestry of this unfolding event. Cross paths, leave echoes, and remember: the galaxy is watching, and it is not the same one you woke up in.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Truth makes the greatest lie."

BYOO - Tag - NONE.



The room was not grand.

No high throne. No vaulting columns or gilded iconography. No fawning attendants or perfumed petitioners kneeling to kiss the hem of her robe. Not here. The office of the Governor of Polis Massa was compact, minimalist, and intentionally drab—a relic of the planetoid's time as a research outpost, its corners rounded, walls smooth and matte white, the furniture built more for efficiency than aesthetics.

But the woman seated at its center made it feel imperial.

Serina Calis reclined in a high-backed chair of cold obsidian durasteel, a single boot resting elegantly atop the edge of her streamlined desk. Her posture was relaxed, the way a serpent might rest in the midday sun—sated, calculated, poised. The dim light from the low-hanging holomap panels painted her angular face in shades of soft crimson and ice blue. Her long golden hair, re-braided since the fires of Saijo, spilled over one armored shoulder like molten coin.

She was dressed in black, every inch tailored—part warlord, part queen, part executioner. Her bodice was molded phrik, engraved with subtle hexagrams and spiraling Sith runes like veins of ash across volcanic glass. The skirts of her armor draped over her legs in layered panels, designed to both intimidate and command desire. A slash of deep red silk lined the inside, visible only in motion.

Her gauntlets tapped lightly against the armrest—metal on metal, a slow and rhythmic sound.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

In the center of her desk hovered a spherical holoprojection. It spun silently, lines of glowing red text and visual data rotating around the slowly pulsing emblem of the Sith Order. One file in particular blinked—awaiting final confirmation. It was labeled:

// Saijo/Op/Daggerfall/Terminus.v1 //

Below it: audio-visual feeds, biometric readouts, sensor logs, and encrypted timestamps—each stamped with formal insignias from recovered Saijan systems. A dossier of irrefutable data. Bodycam footage of Darth Fury's madness, his disintegration into a laughing, raving beast. Audio logs of intercepted orders to hired pirate fleets—cross-checked, voice-matched, traced. Artifacts found in the Crimson Citadel sealed in evidence crates with Sith Inquisition-grade authentication codes.

Proof.
Fact.
No manipulation. No lies.

Just truth sharpened into a blade.

And she would let the Sith Assembly choke on it.

Her lips curved into a slow, sultry smile.

"Let them come," she murmured, voice like smoke and sin. "Let them clutch their pearls and flail in horror, shrieking over dead cities and broken Lords. I'll show them a spine of gold beneath their illusions."

She didn't need to cheat. That was for the desperate.

Serina had mastered reality—its optics, its silences, its scent in the dark.

Her survival didn't depend on their mercy.

Her ascension depended on their predictability.

She had walked into the maw of Saijo and emerged untouched. She had given them a villain and offered herself as the cure. She was no longer the prodigy who stammered through the Free Trade Council, whose youth was mocked and name dismissed.

She had brought down a fortress world, ripped a Sith Lord from history, and made the act look like self-defense.

Now, all that remained was to file the paperwork.

Serina extended her finger—painted obsidian black—and tapped the glowing file node.

UPLOAD: CONFIRMED
TIMESTAMP: SUBMITTED TO CENTRAL INQUISITION ARCHIVE NODE: JUTRAND

As the system confirmed the action, the office dimmed. The holomap spun down. Silence returned.

But it was not peaceful.

Because Serina was thinking.

The galaxy was tearing itself apart. Hyperlanes collapsing, systems isolated, prophecies muttered like plagues in the dark.

And Serina Calis couldn't bring herself to care.

Let it fall.

Either the galaxy would be saved by those desperate to salvage it, or it would collapse under the weight of its own fractured stars. That was not her concern.

Her concern was opportunity.

In the chaos, governors disappeared. Fleets were stranded. Lords vanished into rituals they couldn't control. Entire arms of the Sith bureaucracy were consumed with Calladene, Blood, Echo, Axis—obsessions masquerading as strategy.

Good.

Because while they chased omens, Serina Calis would be planting flags.

She would move her agents into abandoned halls. Offer "protection" to floundering sectors. Extend quiet tendrils through trade, military procurement, cult networks, and political sponsorship. Let others play prophet and martyr.

Serina would play queenmaker.

And when they returned—when they crawled back from myth-choked ruins and broken temples seeking stability—they'd find her already in their chairs. With their followers. With their titles.

With their futures.

No trial was coming.

Only the unveiling.

She would stand before the Sith Assembly not as a criminal, not as a visionary, not as a woman seeking anything.

She would stand as the one who remained while others wandered.

Serina Calis, the Widowmaker of Saijo.