First Reply Choosing the wrong path

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Royal Palace Park, Cinnagar, Empress Teta
Outfit

The mirror hid no flaws whereas Damian’s own self-reflection had disguised plenty of cracks and worn edges. He stared deeply into his lone tired crimson eye with a newly found sense of pity. There was no necessary apology required nor would there have been forgiveness given by the young du Couteau heir. A promise broken, an old grudge that Damian held with himself to never wallow in melancholy and sorrow.

Yet here I am, weak and pathetic.

Damian clasped his cheeks with both hands to strike himself out of this pool of empathy and finally broke free of the mirror’s gaze. A sigh escaped his lips but Damian remained true and headed out of his office and towards the Palace entrance. The day of remembrance had arrived and Damian was obligated to offer words of compassion and determination to his people.

Sometime later, in front of the Royal Palace of Cinnagar. . . .

“Today we honor those that have passed on during the liberation of our home from the Maw and from the Dark Imperials. I know that despite the tragedy and tremendous damage inflicted upon us we here; all continue to forge a better path that will seek to honor all those who've paid the ultimate sacrifice. . . .

“- Today and everyday we shall honor them with determination and certainty in our very souls. Even as we walk ahead into the future their memories as; fathers, mothers, sons, daughters and friends are etched into our hearts. Our very existence proves that their memory shall never be forgotten.”

“Let us all recognize our sorrow and allow it to unite us through sympathy but never to hold us together in that pit of despair and loathing. . . I thank you all for your efforts to rebuild our homes, our lives and to finish I will leave you with a simple message that my father left for me; Always chase the wind, even on the windiest of days.”

Damian bowed deep and walked away from the podium, the sounds of the crowd slowly died down as he finally reached the final step off of the stage. There were others left to give their speeches or eulogy, a part of him wondered if there would be any attempts of campaigning. The larger issue of his appointment as a candidate for the elections continued to haunt him, yet even with his own plans in motion the prospect of failure loomed.

What a troublesome month this has become.

The skies above had grown darker, the sun ever the diminished source of light as the night continued to encourage and overtake. Damian figured he had a few more hours before he could leave with a graceful exit, but he had little inclination to seek out the rest of the Noble Head of families that were spread across the main Palace square.

“Sir, your operation has begun, their reports shall be delivered later tonight.”

“Ah, thank you.”

Damian nodded to his ever faithful Chief of Staff, the older man had followed both him and his father and felt like one of the pillars Damian could lean on for support presently. And with his future path filled with uncertainty he needed every trusted aide and their help.

“Well do run interference for me as I make my way through the crowd and find an exit. Thank you again.”

“Of course.”

With that the two headed towards different paths, Damian for his part wore his more pleasant expression on his face. Not the worst mask to keep up but he had his own limits as he weaved between both groups and small conversations. He found himself in a rather rare position to be without a data-slate, else it would have discouraged a lot more people from approaching him if it had appeared he was busy working on some report.

Not that I don’t have reports to work on. . .
​

 

[Serina Calis]

"Long time, no see."

Tag - Damian du Couteau



The crowd parted like a tide around him, not from fear, but reverence. Or perhaps wariness. It was always hard to tell. Damian du Couteau moved like a man worn thin beneath a tailored mask—every gesture polished, every smile convincing, every step deliberate. The lines at the corners of his eyes, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the haunted weight in that lone crimson gaze—these were not things born of weakness, but of investment. He carried Empress Teta on his back, and the world loved him for it.

From the edge of the gathering, watching him slip through the nobles and their perfumed tragedies, stood Serina Calis.

She was late, by design. Draped in shadowed silks that shimmered like oil beneath the dying light of Cinnagar's sun, she was unmistakable even before the crowd noticed her—an emissary of something not quite named, not quite wanted, yet never refused. Her ensemble bore no sigil, yet the armor beneath her robes whispered of violence. It was not the ceremonial garb expected of nobility. She was not a noble, at least right now. She was not anything they could place, for the time being.

But she moved like someone who belonged, and the galaxy often obeyed those who simply acted as if it must.

Her eyes—blue, crystalline, cutting—traced Damian through the crowd. It had been months. Six? Twelve? Longer? Time was a soft concept for her now, measured in power gained and masks discarded. He had changed. Leaner. Sharper. And still, in the way that mattered, wounded.

She smiled.

Not for the first time, Serina thought of how beautiful he looked when he was burdened.

When finally she moved, the effect was subtle at first—a few heads turned, some watched her pass with a mixture of curiosity and unease, others whispered behind silk fans and jeweled smiles. She let them. Serina Calis did not arrive so much as appear, sliding into the narrative like a blade through silk.

She caught him just as he dipped his head to sidestep another lowborn sycophant looking for favor. Her voice followed him like a perfume through the breeze—rich, low, and warm with amusement.

"Careful, du Couteau. People will think you're running from responsibility."

There was a pause. Then:

"Or worse… from me."

Her golden hair swept back in a soft, elegant cascade that framed the half-mask she wore, carved in black enamel and subtle violet accents, revealing only the lower half of her face. The lips that smirked at him now were the same—dangerous, indulgent, and unmistakably amused.

She approached, every step as fluid as memory. Every inch of her posture was curated for maximum disarmament: hands folded behind her back, shoulders relaxed, smile soft and inviting. But her eyes—those never softened. They drank him in like a vintage long denied.

"I had thought I might catch you before the speech," she said, tilting her head. "But I must admit… you were quite moving." Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "Almost convinced me you were one of them."

One of them. A civilian. A mourner. A man untouched by the world's darker truths. She did not need to say it. They both knew the illusion was paper-thin.

She circled slowly to his side, walking now beside him through the marble square, their paces matching like old dancers.

"You've lost some softness," she noted, not unkindly. "I see it in your eyes. In your posture. The weight sits differently now." She glanced sideways, her tone honeyed. "Did you finally let go of that last scrap of optimism you were clinging to?"

She didn't wait for the answer.

"You shouldn't worry. Hope's a cruel thing. Lovely on the tongue, but sour in the stomach. I've always preferred certainty myself." She leaned in just slightly, her voice brushing against the edge of something intimate. "Like knowing exactly how a man will taste when he's decided he has nothing left to lose."

There it was.

The same Serina, unchanged and yet irrevocably more. Time had not dulled her—if anything, it had crystallized her. The charisma, the predator's elegance, the licentious charm—those had always been her weapons. But now, she wielded them with absolute purpose. No longer a player among nobles and Force mystics. No longer subtle. No longer becoming.

She simply, was.

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Royal Palace Park, Cinnagar, Empress Teta
Outfit

If Damian had found himself with less presence of mind he might have flinched when Lady Calis walked alongside him. One moment he was alone and the next it was as if she had always been right next to him with a matching pace. The young du Couteau heir felt an eerie feeling rise from within his stomach but he refocused his mind away. Damian knew it was better to hold everything deep within himself until when he was out of the public eye to investigate such strange emotions.

Or never preferably.

“Hardly do I ever run in public, it can give the wrong impression; as if I cannot keep track of time.” He spoke warily and with a smile that never reached his lone eye. Could never reach.

Soft. He never believed himself hardened, even when he was young and apathetic without a care in the galaxy. Damian always understood how fragile both his body and mind were, a delicate cup that needed tending whenever threatened by fall or attack.

And with whatever fills my head with poison or other things far more dangerous and subtle.

Damian leaned his head closer as well, his voice soft, “-My dear Lady Calis, to properly imitate and instill hope into others, I still need a tad of hope myself. . . and cruelty can be an acquired taste. . . as we all learn to stomach anything in our lives.”

In his own honest mind Damian believed he could become empty and still give a genuine sense of aspiration to others. But for how long until someone notices the emptiness in both his words and eyes? He knew how it would appear and the eyes of ambition had the potential to warn potential enemies.

Green eyes of envy appear clear as day, how soon would a lightless eye remain unnoticed?

“Also, I have to worry about how we appear, rumors of relationships are a bore to sweep from the media.” Damian joked dryly as he slowed his walk and stood in front of Serina. His mind refocused on the present and their surroundings once again.

Treading carefully, how I won’t miss this sensation.

“-All the same, what can I do for you today Lady Calis?” Damian asked with a small bow and courteous gesture with both hands. “The galaxy can shift entire star systems but I dare say it would take a lot more to move me from this path we walk together.” A flowery lie but Damian felt his heart being pulled by a sense of obligation to a promise made in that ruined office on Coruscant.
​

|| Serina Calis ||​

 

[Serina Calis]

"Long time, no see."

Tag - Damian du Couteau



Serina stopped when he did, the low murmur of nobles, governors, and senators buzzing behind them like distant insects—present, but inconsequential. Here, in this narrow orbit where their gravities locked again after too many silent months, the air had shifted. It wasn't affection. It wasn't even tension. It was inevitability.

And Damian du Couteau, with his carefully worn mask and lone crimson eye, had the misfortune of standing exactly where she needed him to be.

Her smile was slow and deliberate, her eyes bright beneath the half-mask that covered only enough of her face to invite curiosity. Her voice, when she spoke, was velvet drawn over razors.

"Then let us not waste time with dancing metaphors or pleasantries that taste like ash on both our tongues."

She stepped forward into his personal space—not to dominate it, but to share it. To remind him that despite the performance, despite the deflections, despite the dry humor and the carefully cultivated weariness, he was still playing her game.

And he had stepped onto the board willingly.

"The galaxy is collapsing," she said plainly. "Again. But this time, it's not in fire or in madness. No, this collapse is tidal. Slow. Vast. Inevitable. It is not chaos that threatens us. It's consolidation."

Her voice lowered, each word measured and surgical.

"The Black Sun has begun consolidating Nar Shaddaa and the surrounding Mid Rim, legitimizing control with credits and blood. Their internal hierarchy is no longer fragmented—there's leadership again. Disciplined, methodical, and no longer interested in staying in the shadows. They don't want obscurity anymore, Damian. They want influence. From spice to senators."

She let that sink in before continuing.

"The Imperial Confederation, somehow, has dragged itself out of obscurity and irony alike by reestablishing on New Alderaan. From there, they're pressing north—between the Slice and the Tingle Arm—spanning vital trade corridors that used to be quiet. They are not strong, not yet. But they are symbolic. And symbols are dangerous."

Her tone grew slightly colder.

"The Mandalorian Empire, reborn on Mandalore itself, is far more than symbolism. It's unity. Under one banner. With one voice. And that voice is sharp, resentful, and has the word Taris lodged in its throat like a durasteel dagger."

Serina let her eyes linger on his for a moment, just long enough to tether the next thought.

"The Diarchy, ever serene in appearance, is starting to bristle. Diarch Reign and Diarch Rellik both were born on Taris. The idea that Mandalorians now control it is not just a strategic insult—it's personal. Their priests whisper legacy. Their admirals whisper retrieval. And their people whisper war."

Her hands unfolded behind her back. She did not pace. She anchored herself, every motion quiet and sovereign.

"The Sith Order and the Galactic Alliance are at war, but only on paper now. The invasions have stalled, skirmishes have become whispers of massacres on outer colony worlds no one can verify, and the rhetoric has grown cold. Not cold enough to cool—but just enough to turn the fires inward."

And now her voice turned still lower, into something licentious in tone but utterly cutting in content.

"And the Galactic Alliance, which controls the Core, sits at the center of this increasingly pressurized machine. They will not choose to fight. But they will be thrust into war. By necessity. By pride. Or by someone else's hand."

She tilted her head.

"It's all going to fall. Not all at once. But soon. Like a glass already shattered, waiting for the final tap."

Then—only then—did she allow a note of pleasure into her voice. Not cruelty. Excitement.

"You and I both know that Teta cannot afford to be surprised. You've rebuilt a world, given it purpose, reshaped its systems. But Damian—" she stepped forward again, a whisper between them "—you haven't insulated it. Not from what's coming. You've made a palace of glass. And all the while, you've kept one hand empty."

Her lips curled.

"I'd like to be that hand."

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Royal Palace Park, Cinnagar, Empress Teta
Outfit

Damian blinked.

A smile frozen on his lips as he listened, not the one to overreact but Damian took careful effort to keep himself from emoting. While a part of him wanted to argue or at least raise pointed questions in Serina’s overview, he knew the importance of keeping difference.

Especially in these matters and even more so with who I speak to.

Though another element also was the fact that Damian had precious little time to focus on other foreign nations and their actions. Usually whenever the Senate had matters that required attention outside their borders Damian had ample time to read reports and research briefings before the Senate hearing.

“An open hand can easily become a clenched fist when times become desperate.” Damian spoke, his tone wry and his smile cracked near the corners of his lips.

A sigh finally escaped, his lips pursed tightly right after as the realization haunted closer and closer to his reality. There was an idea that many, even Damian, believed that with enough people together could change a path destined for tragedy towards one of happiness. All it took was enough people who held that idea closely to their chest.

Enough people to all pretend together and. . . “. . . Let’s pretend a little longer.” Damian muttered softly to himself.

He focused his scarlet iris on Serina’s eyes and offered a small shrug.

“Did you know my father survived many Empires and Imperial factions grasping for galactic dominance? Not a story he’d like shared, but it is a curious thing that the only government my father did not outlive was our Galactic Alliance.”

His hand gestured towards the memorial proceedings around them, the result of his father’s sacrifice against the first Maw invasion. And Damian himself alive after the second.

“How many sermons have Sith and Imperials preached about becoming greater than that of the Rakatan Infinite Empire. . . while their very foundations fade faster into obscurity than the previous fanatic who uttered the same. . . tiresome to read the same thing over and over again in our history slates wouldn’t you agree?” Damian’s voice hardened, the smoldering embers of hatred dared to engulf him once again.

Damian rubbed his face and mouth with his right hand, the cooling sensation eased him and allowed a chance for proper thoughts and words to gather.

“If the galaxy collapses all around us, I am not afraid of the monsters that remain nor the darkness that encroaches. Instead let us brace for the feast of our galactic end.” Damian recited an old faded poem that brought on his pessimism.

“I will offer a bit of warning if you wish to fill my hand Lady Calis; be sure to grasp tightly when my hand becomes slick with blood. Certain plans have been laid and I hope to reap the rewards soon enough.” Damian would not lose his election, perhaps he may not win it in the way that would serve him but it would best serve Teta.

And what else matters more?

"Have I lost my softness? I do not know, I feel my skin with my hands I worry about pricking myself whenever I prune the rose bushes." He laughed quietly.
​

|| Serina Calis ||​

 

[Serina Calis]

"Long time, no see."

Tag - Damian du Couteau



Serina listened, her head inclined just enough to suggest attentiveness, but her posture—still, elegant, almost statuesque—radiated the silent tension of a coiled predator.

Damian's words intrigued her. Not the content—she expected weariness, expected the tired comparisons to cycles of empire and extinction. No, what truly intrigued her was the tone. It wasn't defeat. It wasn't even disillusionment.

It was clarity.

The clarity of a man who had stared into the abyss long enough that the abyss had started to look familiar. Comfortable.

And still, he stood upright.

Still, he smiled.

How utterly Tetan.

Serina waited until the silence between them had stretched to the point of intimacy, until the laughter—his laugh, so soft and so wounded—faded like a ripple across a dark lake. Then, and only then, did she step forward, closing what little space he had given her.

"You're wrong, you know."

Her voice was velvet, but it carried weight. Not anger. Not correction. Something deeper.

Certainty.

"You haven't lost your softness. You've simply buried it."

She studied him. Not with hunger, not this time. This was different. The gaze of a collector evaluating a rare piece—flawed, but unique.

"A man who mourns the pruning of rose bushes still believes the world can be beautiful. Even if it cuts him. Even if it costs him."

Her tone was quieter now, less indulgent.

"That is not weakness, Damian. That is dangerous."

She said the word like a compliment.

"The monsters and the darkness you claim to welcome?" Her head tilted slightly. "They don't fear strength. They fear conviction. They fear the one man in the room who doesn't need to raise his voice, who doesn't make a show of cruelty, because his resolve is already etched in bone."

A breath.

Then her voice deepened into something lower, sultrier, more intimate.

"And you—you—are still pretending to be polite. Still hiding the blade behind your back, thinking no one sees the crimson dripping from your fingers."

Her lips curved into a slow, sharp smile.

"But I see you. And more importantly… you see me."

She let that linger, the space between them crackling with a tension that had nothing to do with politics, and everything to do with recognition.

Two creatures forged by the same cruelty, bent by different weights, shaped by different lies—but shaped all the same.

"You speak of sermons," she said, voice rising only slightly, her tone now laced with controlled fire. "Of the Sith. Of Imperials. Of the fanatics who wear the past like a crown and bleed the present for a vision no one remembers."

She gestured to the crowd—to the square, the banners, the old men speaking of sacrifice.

"You're right. Their history is recursive rot. Their empires burn brighter than the stars for a heartbeat, then vanish with a whimper, leaving only monuments for the next corpse-king to imitate."

She turned back to him, her smile dimming into something darker.

"But I am not one of them."

The words were low, but final. Not defensively spoken—declared.

"I don't worship power. I understand it. I don't kneel to tradition. I reshape it. The Dark Side doesn't define me—I use it like I use a blade, a pen, a kiss."

And there it was, the glint of her true nature—not shouted, not sermonized, but breathed into existence.

Not a Sith.
Not a Jedi.
Not a believer.

A force.

A woman who had discarded the need to justify her ambitions.

"I do not build temples," she said, stepping in close enough that their shadows merged in the dying light. "I build leverage. I don't raise banners—I raise debts. And if blood is the price of progress, then so be it. Let it flow. I will catch it in a chalice and offer a toast to every fool who dared believe the galaxy would end with a whimper instead of a scream."

Then—softer now, almost a caress—she looked up into his tired crimson eye and spoke the truth behind all the others:

"I offer you not loyalty, Damian. I offer you utility. I offer you an edge."

A pause. A breath.

"I will hold your hand when it's slick with blood. I'll whisper to your enemies while you smile in public. I'll sharpen your ambitions while you sleep—until Teta is more than rebuilt. Until it is indispensable."

Then, her voice curled back into licentious warmth, smooth and wicked.

"And when they come for you—and they will—I will be the shadow behind your throne, smiling while I remind them why they feared us in the first place."

She leaned close, her breath warm against his neck.

"I don't want your trust, Damian."

She pulled back, her smile now a perfect, devastating thing.

"I want your permission."

And like a knife offered handle-first, she let the words hang in the air, daring him to reach.

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Royal Palace Park, Cinnagar, Empress Teta
Outfit

Damian remained still and silent, his body screamed at him to move but he remained rooted all the same. The dangers that Serina presented needed far more consideration than what Damian was able to conduct presently. A blade that could cut both ways might prove far more terrifying than finding himself without any weapon among the wolves.

In a field of tall grass even snakes can prove troublesome.

“Behind a throne?” His voice cracked with a small chuckle. "It is quite the accursed chair if its previous occupants are of any use. . ."

Ambition threatened collapse but the young du Couteau heir had calculated the proper risk tolerance for his path. A delicate path through a thorny rose garden, where even the slightest scratch could prove fatal for man like Damian.

That’s why it’s important to maintain and trim the gardens.

“Maybe the greatest regret I will ever have is seeing blood spilt on Tetan soil once again. . .but what is life without regrets?”

He intended to avoid any bloodshed or unnecessary violence, such was the way of a Tetan Noble that Damian championed. Political maneuvering, deception and of course the economics of power all were fair game among those who played the game.

But what of the consequences to act without violence? Am I willing to bear those regrets too?

“You say that the Alliance stands at the precipice of utter darkness? Will we soon become fading lights in this galaxy?” A bitter sigh escaped his tightened lips as he posed his questions.

“There was this ancient psalms that we’re supposed to rage and rage against the dying of the light.” Damian’s face turned up to the darkening skies as the sun continued to set and the night slowly arrived.

“Permission? It is not mine to give, at least not for Teta. I am neither her voice or law. Simply a son attempting to hold it all together with as many tools available to me.” Damian spoke half honestly. There were lines on the sand as it were but he was not going to be so upfront with them. Was it fear that held him back?

Perhaps, but maybe its for the best for people like me.
​

|| Serina Calis​

 

[Serina Calis]

"Long time, no see."

Tag - Damian du Couteau



Serina didn't move when he laughed. She didn't blink when he doubted. She didn't flinch when he cloaked himself in Tetan traditions and noble melancholies like armor too worn to truly protect.

No—she watched.

She studied him as one might observe a rare chemical compound beginning to destabilize. Something dangerous. Something beautiful. Something in need of precise calibration before it exploded or collapsed entirely.

"A throne," she echoed at last, voice silk-wrapped steel, "is never cursed, Damian. Only the men who sit in it without understanding what it demands."

She turned her head slightly, as if regarding a ghost only she could see. Her expression softened into a strange blend of reverence and contempt.

"Your father survived empires, yes. But he outlived them. That's not the same as winning. Surviving is not triumph. Survival is merely the privilege of watching others die slower."

A pause. Her gaze drifted back to him, lazily, almost languidly. But behind the veil of elegance, her words had begun to draw blood.

"You say regrets are inevitable. That you'll mourn blood on Tetan soil again." Her lips curled into a smile that should not have been so warm. "And yet… you stand here. Not retreating. Not hiding in some coreward archive. You're still here. And that means something."

Another step closer.

A brush of her hand—innocent enough in its placement on his sleeve, but not in its intent. Her fingertips dragged slowly, deliberately, as if feeling the weight of the threads. The pressure of the moment.

"I know what this is," she murmured. "This… hesitation. This need to believe your hands remain clean until the final choice must be made."

Her voice dipped to a breath, threading past his collar.

"You want to be ready, but not committed. Sharp, but not cutthroat. Close enough to touch the edge of power—but not yet willing to bleed for it."

And now her lips were near his ear again, and her words were velvet poison.

"But the galaxy won't give you the luxury of that distance for long. When the Alliance breaks—and it will—you will not have time for poetry and sorrow. You will have minutes. Seconds. You'll either strike… or you'll be swept away by those who do."

Serina pulled back, only slightly, and regarded him again with that same unnervingly soft smile. A smile that, somehow, felt even more dangerous than her sharper expressions.

"You speak of raging against the dying of the light," she said, "but Damian… light does not rage. It flickers. It pleads. It fades. Only shadow rages. Only those of us forged in the cold places, beneath marble and silk and perfumed parliaments… only we know what must be done to survive the night."

And now, her hand dropped, gliding off his coat like a departing kiss. She turned, as if to leave—but didn't. Not fully. She lingered in his periphery like a scent that refused to fade.

"Permission is never truly about authority," she said over her shoulder. "It's about willingness. And you've already shown me yours, in far more ways than you think."

A final glance, and something wicked and gentle danced in her voice.

"You're holding it all together with every tool available to you. I'm simply reminding you, Damian…" Her eyes gleamed like candlelight on obsidian. "I'm the sharpest one in your box."