Private DAGGERFALL | Black Iron Tyrant.

[Serina Calis]

Black Iron Tyrant.
Location: Jutrand.
Objective: Meet with the Butcher King.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Carnifex

Power is not given. It is not inherited, nor bestowed by fate. It is taken—seized by those with the will to claim it. And I will claim it.
​

The air was thick with the scent of incense and burning oil, a cloying mixture of power and decay that clung to the cavernous halls of Jutrand's dark citadel. Shadows twisted along the vaulted ceilings, flickering in the torchlight, shifting as if alive with the whispers of a thousand dead voices. Serina Calis walked with measured steps, her boots striking the polished obsidian floor, each step echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

Beyond the great windows of the citadel, Jutrand loomed in its eternal twilight, its skies choked with the storms of industry and war. The blackened skyline was pierced by towering spires, cruel monuments to the rule of the Sith. Below, the city festered with the unending march of legions—soldiers, warbeasts, and machines of death, all moving with mechanical precision under the banners of the Sith Empire but also the Kainite. Under the banner of the Black Iron Tyrant.

Carnifex.

Serina's breath was steady, but she could feel the weight of the world pressing down on her as she ascended the final stairwell. She had not come here on a whim. No, this was fate calling her forward, as inevitable as the pull of the Dark Side itself. Jutrand was a domain, a throneworld sculpted in the image of war, where the strong reigned and the weak were crushed beneath their heel. It was a place of absolute power, and she had come to see its one of it's masters with her own eyes.

Her reflection stretched across the polished black stone of the walls as she passed, a shifting silhouette of power and purpose. The dim light caught the sharp, angular edges of her armored bodice, the glowing crimson and magenta patterns pulsing faintly as if breathing with her own will. Gone were the humble, formless robes of the Jedi—what she wore now was something else entirely. A statement. A warning.

Her deep hood framed her face in shadow, enhancing the enigmatic allure she wielded like a blade. Beneath it, golden blonde waves spilled forward, catching the light in subtle streaks, a stark contrast to the dark regality of her attire. Her piercing blue eyes, half-hidden beneath the hood's depth, gleamed with an intelligence that dissected the world around her with ruthless precision.

The form-fitting armor over her torso bore a raised, stylized crest, an intricate blend of beauty and menace, its sharp lines mimicking the Sith runes that twisted along her gauntlets and sleeves. The intricate designs ran seamlessly from shoulder to wrist, an unbroken flow of geometric and organic shapes—roots of power entwining, marking her as something greater than the acolytes and warriors who scurried through these halls.

Draped over her shoulders, her long, flowing cape added to the sheer presence she exuded. The inner lining glowed faintly in shades of pink and violet, shifting as she moved, the sharp edges of the fabric carving through the air like a banner of conquest. Below, her attire blended structured armor-like panels with flowing fabrics—discipline and freedom, control and motion, woven together in perfect harmony. The magenta-lit patterns converged to a precise point at her knees, drawing the eye, as if the very design of her clothing was meant to lead others toward submission. To make others submit.

But she was not yet where she needed to be, to make that vision reality.

Two colossal doors of black iron stood at the end of the hall, adorned with crimson engravings of battle and conquest. They pulsed with power, as if the metal itself remembered the blood spilled in the Tyrant's name. Before them stood two sentinels, their armor hulking and monstrous, forged in the image of death itself. Their faces were hidden behind blackened visors, their crimson capes motionless in the still air. They did not move as she approached, did not acknowledge her presence. They did not need to.

They knew why she was here.

Serina slowed her pace, standing before the massive doors that led into the Butcher King's throne room. A single, gloved hand reached out, fingers trailing across the iron, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon her shoulders. This was it. The threshold between everything she had been and everything she was destined to become.

Beyond this door awaited the man whose very name sent tremors through the galaxy.

Carnifex.

The Black Iron Tyrant.

The Butcher King.

The room beyond pulsed with power, a presence so overwhelming it was like staring into the void itself.

Serina took a breath.

And stepped forward.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The chamber was dark, very little light from the corridor beyond the heavy doors pierced the smokey gloom. Only the faint, dismal glow of crystalline ornaments running along the walls and floors gave a faint outline to the room, only highlighting its edges and keeping large swaths completely engulfed in darkness. Not even sight enhanced by the power of the Force could breach such opaque murk. Shapes moved just beyond the periphery of light, emaciated things with long, bony limbs wrapped in funerary silks; words of power meticulously woven through the fabric like a tapestry. Their eyes watched her.

Smoke danced at her feet as she drew further into shadow, their source finally revealing themselves as towering three meter tall pillars that billowed sickly incense in continuous cascades. They were tended to by the same skeletal priests, whose arthritic hands moved glacially slow as they tended to the internal mechanisms with cautious precision. These never once bothered to regard her presence, so enthralled they were by their singular task.

Rather, it what lay beyond the obelisks that would focus its attention upon her.

A throne, raised high upon obsidian and basalt, chiseled right from the stone in which it rested. Relics and other religious artifacts hung from it, more of an amalgamated reliquary than a seat of power. Yet, serve as a seat of power it did, for the being perched upon it watched the young girl with cold, merciless eyes; eyes that saw far more than they should've been allowed. Black raiment hung from a muscular frame, radiating with power and authority. He wore no crown, for He needed no such regalia to convey His superiority over others; it simply was as foundational as the law of gravity.

Every exhalation of His brought with it a tremor of power, as though the Dark Side itself had given breath to His being and animated His action. At a glance, there was no doubt as to why so many revered and despised the Butcher King, for He was every bit as terrible as the legends described. A beast wearing Human skin, a devil so monstrous that there were many who dared not to even utter His name aloud, let alone give it life with a thought, for fear of the Black Iron Tyrant becoming aware of their presence. Perhaps such tales were true, for it was a fact that the Eternal Father often acted in the manner of someone who's perception stretched far beyond mortal means.

The power of prophecy and darksight, His to wield.

There was another presence among them, dark and elusive, slipping through every crack and crevice; distinctly feminine, but almost imperceptible. The young girl might see a shimmer of a smile in the periphery of her vision, a flash of teeth and haunting eyes, gone before she could focus. Something, beyond the Dark Lord and the priests around her, was watching her, stalking her. An unknown predator lurking in the shadows, or perhaps it was the shadows.

"It must please you to dwell on your own guile." The Dark Lord's voice cut not only through the sound around them, but also through thought itself; breaking whatever concentration she might've had at that moment. The smoke around the Dark Lord abated, giving her a greater view of the man she came to see. Beside Him sat a priest wrapped in red, their face obscured; quiet and demure. They watched the girl with unseen eyes, an insidious presence cloying at the frayed edges of her mind, tasting her every thought.

"For you do believe yourself clever, Serina Calis. Clever enough to think that your actions have been obscured from my sight. Your meddling does not come without consequence, the severity of which will be decided by what you've come to accomplish." His eyes seemed to bore into her, stranding her amidst a searing, unforgiving spotlight as though she were naked as the day she had come into this world; shorn of secrets. The magnetism of the Dark Lord drew heavily upon her, and the existence of such a personality cult around the Sith Lord became apparent.

"So speak your words, if you have to power to voice them."

Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Black Iron Tyrant.
Location: Jutrand.
Objective: Meet with the Butcher King.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Carnifex

Power is not given. It is not inherited, nor bestowed by fate. It is taken—seized by those with the will to claim it. And I will claim it.
​

For a moment, Serina did not answer.

The silence stretched between them like a drawn blade, taut and expectant. The air in the chamber felt thick, heavy with something beyond mere incense—the residue of countless souls who had stood where she stood now, whose fates had been sealed beneath the weight of the Black Iron Tyrant's gaze. She was surrounded by the remnants of their failures, the echoes of a million voices that had begged, bargained, and broken before the throne upon which He sat.

And yet, she did not kneel.

The oppressive darkness coiled around her, thick as oil, suffocating in its sheer density. The crystalline glow that lined the chamber's edges cast just enough light to fracture the murk, illuminating only glimpses of the towering throne and the colossal figure that occupied it. The smoke curled at her feet in twisting, serpentine patterns, as though alive, slithering toward her with the hunger of something unseen. From the shadows, the skeletal priests moved with the slow inevitability of time itself, their bony fingers caressing the mechanisms of their towering incense obelisks, releasing endless streams of thick, cloying perfume.

And in the periphery—just beyond the realm of sight—something else lurked.

A whisper of motion. A shimmer of a smile. Teeth flashing in the dark before vanishing like a half-forgotten dream.

She was surrounded.

Judged.

Measured.

Carnifex's presence was only akin to one other she had bore witness to before. The Dark Side did not merely radiate from Him; it bent to His will, existed because He allowed it to. His breath carried a weight that sent tremors through the Force, rippling through the very marrow of existence. He was not just a Sith Lord. He was something greater. Something fundamental.

His voice cut through the silence like the shattering of a great edifice, splintering through sound and thought alike.

"It must please you to dwell on your own guile."

The very sound of it sent a ripple through the Force, pressing against her like the crushing depths of an ocean trench. The smoke that curled around Him abated, revealing Him more fully—a great, immovable monolith of power, enthroned upon obsidian and basalt, adorned with relics of conquest and sacrifice. The Butcher King. The Twice Emperor. The Black Iron Tyrant.

Beside Him, a priest in red sat motionless, their face veiled, their presence wrong in a way Serina could not immediately define. But she felt it. A quiet pressure at the edges of her mind, an insidious touch slithering through the cracks, tasting her thoughts, probing for something deeper.

"For you do believe yourself clever, Serina Calis. Clever enough to think that your actions have been obscured from my sight. Your meddling does not come without consequence, the severity of which will be decided by what you've come to accomplish."

His gaze bore into her, an unrelenting force that stripped away all pretense, all illusion. The sensation was visceral—like standing beneath an unyielding sun, laid bare and shorn of secrets. There was no place to hide here. No veil of wit or charm would protect her. This was what it meant to stand before a force of nature.

And yet, Serina did not look away.

She did not falter, nor did she cower beneath the weight of His scrutiny. Instead, she allowed the silence to stretch once more, allowed the moment to settle like dust in the wake of a storm. She was aware of every force acting upon her—His power, the lurking presence in the dark, the unseen hands grasping at the edges of her mind. She felt all of it, absorbed all of it, let it sink into the very marrow of her bones.

Then, she smiled.

It was not an act of defiance, nor was it arrogance. It was something more measured, more deliberate—a knowing smile, the slightest upward tilt of her lips, like the suggestion of a blade hidden beneath silk.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was smooth, confident, its cadence carefully controlled.

"I imagine it must be exhausting."

The words were not a challenge, nor a dismissal. They were an observation, one spoken not with pity but with understanding. Her voice carried through the chamber, cutting through the murk like a slow-moving ember, glowing against the abyss.

"Endless supplicants. Kneeling. Pleading. Professing their worth. A chorus of hollow voices, all claiming they are different from the last."

She took another step forward, unhurried, her presence moving through the darkness with the quiet grace of a shadow. Her golden hair caught the faint light as it spilled from beneath her hood, framing her face in a contrast of warmth against the cold, unfeeling black.

"And yet, you entertain them all the same."

Her hands unfurled from where they had been clasped before her, palms open, movements fluid.

"Not out of charity. Not out of obligation. But because even the smallest ripple in the current can be useful—until it isn't."

She let the words settle, her blue eyes never once leaving His.

"I will not waste your time pretending I am unique in my ambition. We both know what I seek, power. But you did not summon me here because I am merely another voice in the choir."

A pause. A heartbeat of silence.

Then, the smirk sharpened, like the edge of a blade sliding from its sheath.

"You see something, don't you?"

Another step forward. The light shifted. The lurking presence in the dark watched.

"Something worth watching."

Her voice softened, the edge of her words tempered not with submission, but with something deeper—an invitation. A challenge wrapped in deference, a display of understanding wrapped in intrigue.

"So I wonder—what is it that you see, Black Iron Tyrant?"

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"What I see," intoned the Dark Lord, voice ringing like a thunderclap, "Is a child who still bears the mark of the Jedi upon her spirit."

Molten eyes narrowed slightly in the gloom, yet still piercing. "To shift from one state to another does not excise all that you once had been. Born from the womb of the Jedi Order, the vestigial amniotic sheen still shines on your countenance. Not quite a Sith, but no longer a Jedi. Something in-between, but lesser than either. You say you seek power, but true power belongs only to the Sith. All else is a pale imitation, a simulacrum of smoke and gaseous light."

"It is that charged potential that I bear witness to, young neophyte. Torn between two polarities." With this, the Dark Lord at last rose from His seat. With each step down the tiered dais, His presence grew stronger, the darkness cloying at her ever sensation. To be in the Dark Lord's company was intoxicating, suffocating. He was at once asphyxiance and devourance, His power engulfing everything around Him in enduring night. He did not call upon the darkness, the darkness obeyed without pause.

He was the darkness.

Reaching out, the Dark Lord moved to cup her chin and study her features. The power and magnetism of His being was hypnotic, and a darker power beyond seemed to stiffen her limbs and numb her aversion to the sheer terror that dripped from His mere existence.

"What drove you from the Jedi, child? What fear did nestle in you that spurned their hand in favor of the dark's cold embrace?"

Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Black Iron Tyrant.
Location: Jutrand.
Objective: Meet with the Butcher King.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Carnifex

Power is not given. It is not inherited, nor bestowed by fate. It is taken—seized by those with the will to claim it. And I will claim it.
​

For the first time since stepping into this chamber, Serina felt it.

The true weight of His presence.

It was not a forceful thing, not a tempest that battered against her mind like a storm against a fragile hull—it was far worse. It was insidious, creeping into her lungs like an intoxicating vapor, a pressure that did not merely push upon her but drew her in, siphoning the very air from her throat. His darkness was not summoned; it existed, omnipresent and absolute. And in that moment, as He descended from His throne, as He closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps, Serina understood.

This was no ordinary Sith. This was no mere warlord, no practitioner of the Dark Side's baser instincts. Carnifex was beyond such limitations. He was something greater, something fundamental—a being whose will shaped the void itself.

And then His hand was upon her.

The cold, implacable weight of His touch beneath her chin was enough to send a tremor of something primal through her body, something distant and buried, an instinctual recognition of a predator far beyond her. Her body wanted to recoil, to resist. But she did not.

Because she was more than instinct.

Because she was Serina Calis.

Her piercing blue eyes locked onto His, and for the first time, she allowed herself to feel the full force of what she had endured, what had shaped her into the thing that stood before Him now.

Her voice, when she spoke, was steady.

"The Jedi killed me."

The words were not dramatic, nor were they spoken for effect. They were fact.

"Grandmaster Noble—she struck me down within the halls of the Temple itself. After a duel I never wanted. A fight I never sought. But Aadihr forced my hand, and when I proved myself his and Ran's better, she took the choice from me."

Valery Noble , Aadihr Lidos , Ran Serys .

Serina would have her vengeance.

The memory flickered behind her eyes, vivid even now. The temple's great columns casting long shadows in the twilight. The burning ache in her limbs, the sweat slicking her brow as she fought—not just against her opponent, but against everything she had been taught. The whispers of the Dark gnawing at the edges of her mind, beckoning her to do what she knew she could. What she knew she must.

"I fell," she continued, voice still unwavering. "I felt my body grow cold, my mind unravel. I felt death take me, and in that moment, I understood."

Her lips curled, not into a smirk, but into something deeper, something almost reverent.

"The Jedi believe the Dark Side corrupts. But I saw the truth. The Light is not purity—it is a lie. A fragile thing, brittle in its own arrogance. I died with its radiance burning through my flesh, and yet, it was the Dark that brought me back."

The smirk returned then, faint and knowing.

"And so I hold onto the Light—"

She tilted her head slightly, just enough to break the hold of His hand, but not enough to reject it. A careful balance. A precise movement.

"—not as a lifeline, but as a weapon. I will corrupt it. Twist it. Mold it into something new. Something neither Jedi nor Sith have dared to conceive."

She took a slow step forward, the space between them now razor-thin, as if walking the edge of a blade that could slice her apart at any moment.

"You say I am lesser than either, torn between two polarities. But what I am, what I will become—" her voice dropped, a whisper that carried with it the weight of certainty, of sheer, unrelenting will—"—is greater than both."

A pause. A heartbeat.

"Perhaps it is foolish. Perhaps it is impossible. But I will see it done. No matter the cost."

"No matter the sacrifice."

Her heart was gone, her right eye was no longer her own thanks to the butchery of Jenn Kryze , but the fire in her eyes did not waver. If He crushed her now, if He snuffed her out beneath the sheer magnitude of His presence, then so be it.

But if He saw what she saw—if He believed that ambition was worth witnessing—

Then the path before her would be limitless.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"You have conviction, we shall see where it leads you."

But, in truth, conviction alone would never be enough for a Sith. Darth Strosius had conviction, greater than most in the Order, but where had his steadfastness led him? Into a pointless kaggath and the ruination of all that he'd struggled for. He burned others until there was no one left to burn but himself, even his own brother in arms turned against him.

Such was the destiny of those like Strosius.

Side-stepping the younger Serina, the Dark Lord swept past her as all the harrowing darkness and choking smog was lifted in an instant; the veil around her surroundings dissipating. The red priest that had been sitting up by the throne was now standing, descending the steps with soft, measured strides before moving to join their Lord. Their prickly intrusion onto the margins of Serina's mind never wavered, and seemed to intensify the closer they physically became.

"Come with me, we will discover what purpose you may yet serve our Empire."

They withdrew from the throne room, walking through hallways adorned with mosaics and marble busts of individuals and events from Sith history. Much of it had been commissioned by the Dark Lord, Sith artists pouring the Dark Side into their very craft to fashion pieces that met the Dark Lord's eclectic specifications. They passed the occasional masked guard, still as a statue, but they also passed various chambers where dark rituals were conducted amidst seance and sacrifice.

"Tell me more of your time in the Jedi, tell me of those you once called brother and sister."

Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Black Iron Tyrant.
Location: Jutrand.
Objective: Meet with the Butcher King.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Carnifex

Power is not given. It is not inherited, nor bestowed by fate. It is taken—seized by those with the will to claim it. And I will claim it.
​

Serina walked in measured silence beside the Black Iron Tyrant, her gaze absorbing the grand, imposing halls of Sith history as they passed. The veils of shadow had lifted, but something of the weight of that throne room still clung to her, an afterimage burned into her very essence. She could still feel the presence of the red priest, that insidious pressure at the edges of her mind, testing her, prying into the fractures of her thoughts like careful fingers peeling apart delicate parchment. But she did not resist. Let them see. Let them understand.

His question lingered in the air, an invitation, an order. Tell me more of your time in the Jedi.

She let out a quiet breath, her expression carefully poised, though a glint of something sharper flickered in her blue eyes.

"I was never meant to be a Jedi," she said at last, her voice smooth, contemplative. "I was taken as a child, raised among them, trained in their ways—but I never belonged."

Her hand traced the fabric of her cloak, fingers running idly over the flowing material as she walked. The past was something she had long since buried, but here, in the halls of the Sith, it felt worth examining again—worth understanding.

"I never accepted the lie of balance, of submission to the will of the Force. To them, it was sacred, something to be obeyed. To me, it was always a tool—an instrument of control, of domination."

She turned her head slightly, meeting Carnifex's gaze, unafraid to bare the truth.

"The New Jedi Order was weak. Too concerned with coddling their students, shielding them from the truths of the galaxy. The Masters spoke of peace and harmony, yet when I so much as questioned that fragility, I was reported to Grandmaster Noble. Do you know what my crime was?"

She let the moment stretch, the silence purposeful.

"I gossiped with a friend."

Her hands unclasped, gesturing subtly as she continued.

"I spoke of how weak some of the other Padawans were. How they would never survive beyond the Temple walls. I watched them stumble through their lessons, their minds clouded with doubt, with fear, with hesitation. And I did what any rational being would do—I voiced the reality of their failure."

Her gaze flickered toward the mosaics that lined the walls, depictions of Sith warriors and conquerors who had never backed away from the truth.

"For that, I was labeled cruel. I was chastised, scolded, warned that such thoughts would lead me down a dark path. As if darkness were some abyss to be feared."

Her voice had taken on a new edge, not anger, but certainty, the steel of conviction tempered by bitter experience.

"And yet, it was the Jedi who struck me down."

She exhaled, slow and measured, her expression smoothing once more.

"So I learned."

She turned her attention fully to Carnifex, walking in step with Him, her posture confident, composed.

"The Jedi failed me, but in doing so, they taught me the greatest lesson of all."

Her lips curled, her voice lowering, laced with the weight of revelation.

"Corruption is the most powerful force in the galaxy."

She let the words sink in, her smirk fading into something more contemplative, almost reverent.

"It is not strength that bends the will of others, nor is it peace. It is corruption—slow, insidious, patient. The Jedi tried to shelter their own, and yet, one by one, they fell. Some to their own weakness. Some to their own desires. And some..."

Her eyes gleamed, piercing in their certainty.

"Some simply needed a nudge."

Her hands clasped once more in front of her, a picture of composed ambition.

"I have seen what it can do, how even the purest souls can be twisted, reshaped, turned into something useful. And I will master it. No matter how long it takes. No matter the cost."

The weight of her words hung in the air between them, and Serina met the gaze of the Black Iron Tyrant without a flicker of doubt.

"That is what the Jedi taught me."

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"The Jedi's peace has defeated them."

They passed through another chamber, one that terminated into a long, broad walkway overlooking a maze of machinery; manipulator arms, conveyors, bustling industry and endless production. Below, the unending war machine of the Kainate was given substance and form. Miles and miles of automation as far as the eye could see, manufacturing everything from armor and weapons, to fleets of starfighters and star destroyers. All of it to fuel the maelstrom of war now engulfing the galaxy.

"They have brought forth a generation wet-nursed on nothing but banal peace. Unprepared for what we have unleashed. The Grandmaster is a hypocrite, one who has routinely flounced the edicts of her order, only to chastise and condemn those who emulate her example. All that she has built in the Jedi has been built with violence, is that not amusing?"

The Sith never shied from violence, the Dark Lord especially, and are it's more vocal advocates. Evolution requires violence, stagnation is a precursor to annihilation. How many had He killed, directly or indirectly, in the pursuit of His goals? Trillions, at the very least, if not magnitudes more. His name was a curse across the galaxy, spoken in whispered fear that the mere utterance would bring about His presence. His malevolent influence spread far and wide, seeping into every aspect of galactic society; from the glittering parlors of Cantonica to the seediest slums of Coruscant.

He was everywhere, so long as darkness endured in the hearts of those who allowed fear and hate to guide them.

He would never die.

"Your ambition requires nurturing, Serina Calis. The corruption of others is something that must be fiercely honed, polished to a sheen. You must understand how another thinks, understand how they fear. When you have hold of that, then you can make them do anything. I can show you this path, but it will be paved with your suffering. The way of the Dark Side is the way of pain and loss. You asked me what I see in you, and I see someone who can leave their mark on the galaxy wherever they go."

"Just as I have."

Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Black Iron Tyrant.
Location: Jutrand.
Objective: Meet with the Butcher King.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Carnifex

Power is not given. It is not inherited, nor bestowed by fate. It is taken—seized by those with the will to claim it. And I will claim it.
​

Serina lingered at the edge of the walkway, her gaze sweeping over the vast expanse of industry below. The rhythmic pulse of machinery, the hiss of hydraulics, the unceasing flow of creation—it was hypnotic in its scale, a manifestation of power given form. This was no mere factory. This was the beating heart of an empire, an engine that churned out destruction with mechanical precision.

And at its centre, Him.

The Dark Lord's presence loomed over all, as inescapable as gravity. His name was whispered in the corners of the galaxy, a curse and a prayer all at once. He was the architect of nightmares, the master of a shadow so vast it stretched beyond time itself. And yet, here He was, offering her a path—a road paved in suffering, in loss, in the relentless tempering of ambition.

She turned her head slightly, regarding Him with a slow, knowing smirk.

"Suffering is the crucible of power."

The words were spoken smoothly, laced with a calculated reverence. Not devotion—no, that was beneath her. It was understanding.

She stepped forward, letting the faint glow of the machinery below cast shifting shadows across her face.

"The Jedi believe suffering must be endured. The Sith believe suffering must be inflicted. But I—" her lips parted slightly, her voice slipping into something softer, something almost conspiratorial, "—I have always preferred suffering to be guided."

Her gaze met His, unwavering.

"The weak need only the right pressure in the right place. A well-placed wound, a whispered doubt, a pleasure denied or granted at precisely the right moment. Push too hard, and they break. But nurture their fears, feed their hungers, and they will never even realize the shackles you've placed upon them."

Her fingers trailed absently over the cold railing before her, her touch feather-light, suggestive.

"I have always had a talent for knowing what people want, even when they refuse to name it. The pious want to be corrupted. The strong want to be worshiped. The loyal want a reason to betray."

She turned fully toward Him now, her expression unreadable save for the faint glint of amusement in her piercing blue eyes.

"And you, my Lord, see in me something worth cultivating. That much is clear."

A slow breath, a calculated pause, letting the air between them hum with unspoken meaning.

"The way of pain and loss? I welcome it. If suffering is the cost of power, then let me drown in it. Let it carve away the weaknesses they tried to instill in me. Let it temper me into something the galaxy has never seen before."

Her smirk deepened, her chin tilting ever so slightly upward, a movement that spoke of challenge and invitation all at once.

"You say I will leave my mark wherever I go? Good."

A step forward, her presence close enough now that the shadows of His own power curled around her like phantom hands.

"Then brand me in the ways of the Dark Side. Show me the path, and I will walk it in heels soaked with the blood of my enemies. Teach me to break them, and I will make the galaxy beg for its corruption."

Her voice dropped to a sultry murmur, the weight of her words curling in the air like smoke.

"Do that, and I will not disappoint you, My Lord."

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"Suffering is the crucible of power," she said.

"Pain is the scalpel of creation," replied the Dark Lord.

He continued to listen to the rest of her words, expression unwavering even as she approached Him. She was eager, hungry for instruction. Within her festered the insidious rot of corruption, the desire and will to twist and warp all others into shadowy facsimiles of who they once were. To make them wholly shackled by the darkness she wove. It was a feeling that He knew all too well, for that same hunger existed within Him. The insatiable need to dominate all life.

She stood close to Him now, closer than any would dare. Directly within arm's reach, for both of them. Had He the thought, He could have killed her with the cruelest stroke. But that thought had not yet metastasized. He was intrigued by this woman, this neophyte of the shadow. She who had once been a Jedi, to have fallen so far into the pit. But that was the difference between them. She had fallen into the dark, He had always been in the dark. It was as intimate to Him as His own thoughts.

"You know not the true depths of suffering," spoke the Dark Lord after a moment's pause, "Nor the true enlightenment therein, that which through unbridled agony is unlocked. Long have I studied the intricacies of pain, that wisdom is mine and it cannot be taught. I can only show you the way, as I have said."

He extended His hand, fingers clenched down on His palm. After a moment, He relaxed His fingers, revealing a small jewel resting upon the center of His open hand. It's surface was glossy black, with an oily sheen coating it, and it seemed to pulsate in rhythm with her own heartbeat. He seemed to be offering it to her, for He did nothing else until she took it from His hand.

"If you truly wish to begin down this path, then swallow."

Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Black Iron Tyrant.
Location: Jutrand.
Objective: Meet with the Butcher King.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Carnifex

Power is not given. It is not inherited, nor bestowed by fate. It is taken—seized by those with the will to claim it. And I will claim it.
​

For a single breathless moment, time seemed to fracture.

The jewel rested in the Dark Lord's palm like the eye of some ancient leviathan—small, unassuming, and yet impossibly dense with promise and ruin. It pulsed, once… then again… each beat echoing in the hollow of her chest like a whispered prophecy. Her heartbeat aligned with it, not by choice, but by inevitability.

Serina Calis stared at it.

It stared back.

The oily sheen shimmered with impossible colors—black and green, violet and crimson, hues that did not belong in the realm of natural light. It was as if the stone were not a stone at all, but a prison—a sliver of something vast and terrible compacted into a single, seething mote. The moment she laid eyes upon it, she knew. This was no mere test of obedience.

It was a threshold.

Her gaze flicked up to the Dark Lord's. Unwavering. Impenetrable. Uncompromising.

Carnifex had given her no command. Only a choice. The kind of choice that carved one's fate like a blade across flesh. The kind that could not be taken back.

And that—that—was what made it dangerous.

She stood motionless for less than a second, but within her mind, whole galaxies of thought collapsed and spun anew. She considered everything—every path, every possible consequence, every angle and danger hidden within the gesture. Swallow it.

Not ingest. Not hold. Not study. Swallow.

That meant it wasn't meant for mere examination. It wasn't a relic to be worn or bound to her through ritual. It was meant to enter her body. Her being. Whatever lay within it would become part of her—irrevocably.

It could be poison. A curse. A living fragment of some Sith horror that would devour her from the inside. A shard of sentient pain, of torment sculpted into shape by the Dark Lord's hand. A mirror of His own anguish, preserved in black crystal.

Would she suffer? Yes. That much was certain.

Would she die?

Possibly.

But her mind moved faster than doubt could take root. If He wanted her dead, He could have crushed her in the throne room with a word. The power He wielded was not subtle—it wasn't meant to be. This was not an execution.

This was an invitation.

A door. A chasm. A challenge.

Serina inhaled through her nose, slow and steady, as if tasting the air for some final confirmation. Her eyes remained on His hand, and the space between them was heavy with meaning. No fear showed on her face—only calculation. Clarity.

And then she stepped forward.

Without hesitation, she reached out with her gloved hand and plucked the jewel from His palm. The moment her skin met its surface, it burned. Not heat—memory. A pulse of something ancient and writhing shot up her arm, curling around her spine like a predator claiming its den. Her fingers trembled, just slightly.

But she held on.

She turned the thing over in her palm, studying it as it shimmered and pulsed. Her breath slowed.

"You say I do not yet know suffering," she murmured, her voice quieter now, more intimate, "But I've learned this much already—true power never asks if you're ready. It requires you to leap before you're certain you'll survive the fall."

She lifted her gaze to meet His again. Her pupils had dilated, her expression now a blend of reverence and pure, unshakable will.

"I am not afraid of pain, Butcher King." Her voice was velvet-wrapped steel. "I welcome it, if it will teach me to break others with the same precision."

Her eyes narrowed, a slow smirk blooming at the corner of her mouth.

"I will not be your blade. I will be your evolution."

She raised the jewel to her lips. The shadows around her seemed to tighten. The pressure in the air grew thick, syrupy, suffocating. Something unseen held its breath.

And Serina Calis—once Jedi, now acolyte of shadow—opened her mouth.

And began to swallow.