Tyrant Queen of Darkness
"An elegant poison."
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Iskera Valest
The cavernous throne hall of Malachor was still, except for the soft crackle of the braziers that ringed the dais. Their violet firelight cast long shadows across the obsidian floor, every flame bent and elongated by the dark geometry of the chamber. Silence here was not absence but weight, a silence that pressed down on stone and soul alike.
Upon the throne at the chamber's heart, Darth Virelia reclined like a predator at rest. The high, curved seat of carved basalt rose about her shoulders like the wings of some vast, petrified beast. She was not armored now—armor was for war, for the spectacle of destruction. Tonight she wore midnight silk that clung where it pleased and revealed where it was meant to, its folds spilling over the throne's arms like liquid shadow. In her hand was a crystalline chalice, wine swirling within it, rich as blood and glimmering faintly with the faintest suggestion of starlight.
Her lips touched the rim with languid grace, a sip that was less necessity than ritual. Each motion carried deliberate elegance, every small indulgence transformed into a statement of dominion. To drink here, in this hall carved from the bones of a dead world, was to remind all who entered that she had survived what no one should. That she was inevitable.
The throne room's vastness only emphasized her stillness. She did not fidget. She did not pace. She did not need to. Waiting was another form of command, a ritual she had perfected. Whoever came through those doors would already belong to her the moment their eyes lifted and found her silhouette in the flame-lit dark.
Virelia's violet gaze lingered on the floor before her, though she did not truly see it. She felt. The planet's wounds breathed into her, whispering of hunger, betrayal, and endless endurance. Malachor had been shattered, consumed, defiled, and yet it remained. So did she. The parallel pleased her. It lent a certain resonance to her dominion. This place was not backdrop but mirror.
Another sip of wine. She let the liquid linger on her tongue before swallowing, savoring the sharpness, the subtle burn. Pleasure was a tool, no different than the Force or a blade. She knew how to wield it.
Her expression betrayed nothing but calm amusement, the faintest curve of lips that promised indulgence and punishment in equal measure. The apprentice would learn quickly: here beauty and terror were the same language. Here, desire was not refuge but leash.
She shifted, slow and deliberate, crossing one leg over the other. Silk whispered against stone. Shadows clung to her like courtiers. The sound of her movement seemed louder than it had any right to be, echoing faintly across the chamber.
The apprentice was late by a margin, but that was of no consequence. Time was hers to command. She enjoyed anticipation, enjoyed the tension that grew in an empty hall before a meeting. It was the savoring before the first taste, the drawn breath before a kiss or a strike.
Virelia raised her chalice again, lips brushing glass, eyes fixed on the doors. The moment of arrival was near.
