Tyrant Queen of Darkness
"A new contract."
Tags -
Revna Marr
The Spire had moods of its own, and tonight it was restless.
Darth Virelia walked its violet-lit halls with the ease of one who had long since mastered both the structure and the silence between its walls. Each step came soft and deliberate, a whisper of boots over obsidian stone, the slow rhythm of a predator's heartbeat. Shadows stretched before her like courtiers at attention. The faint hum of the life-support systems harmonized with the low sigh of the violet braziers that lined the corridor, every flame bending ever so slightly toward her as she passed—drawn to their maker.
Her hand brushed the polished basalt of the wall, feeling the pulse that ran through it. The Spire was alive, in its own way. It listened. It remembered. It obeyed. That was why the change struck her so keenly.
At first, it was a breath too shallow, a silence too measured. Then, the faintest echo—out of sync with her own steps. Barely audible. A presence that didn't belong.
She didn't stop.
Instead, her pace slowed just enough to look natural, her head tilting slightly as though admiring the mural etched into the wall beside her—a depiction of Malachor's ancient wars, illuminated by threads of crimson light. The gesture was elegant, unthreatening, almost languid. Yet her senses sharpened to a blade's edge. Through the Force she reached, not outward but inward, drawing the dark into herself until her aura thinned to a whisper. Her presence folded upon itself like silk being drawn through a ring.
The intruder would not sense her coming.
Her lips curved faintly, a private smile, equal parts amusement and promise. How quaint, to imagine someone trespassing here. Did they know whose shadow they had entered? Did they understand what it meant to stand within her dominion—this temple of black glass and nerve-veined steel, where every light, every echo, every breath was tuned to her will?
A flicker of movement ahead. Subtle. Almost artful. Someone was careful. That alone earned a measure of her interest.
Her hand lifted, tracing idle circles in the air, each motion a cipher of control. The shadows around her thickened, pooling like ink across the floor, stretching into the patterns of her thought. She moved among them as if gliding through warm water, her figure half-lit by the Spire's violet glow—every step a choreography of poise and patience. The faint scent of ozone and myrrh followed her, the scent of the storm and the altar both.
She could end this now. A single command through the Spire's systems would flood the corridor with defense drones, or worse. But there was pleasure in the hunt, and curiosity had always been her ruinous vice.
So she stalked, unseen, each motion smooth as liquid sin.
Whoever had dared breach her sanctum would learn soon enough that the Dark Queen did not rush. She savored. She studied. And when the time came to strike, she did so not with haste—but with certainty, with elegance, and with the kind of intimacy that made death feel like a kiss.
