Private Debriefing.

[Serina Calis]

"Where secrets are kept."

Tags - Allyson Locke



The lab was quiet now, save for the low, mechanical thrum of the life-support systems deep within the substructure of Polis Massa. The air was sterile, still, and cold—yet it reeked of memory. Not nostalgia. Not sentiment. But memory: tactical, categorized, and useful.

Serina Calis stood near the center of the chamber, not seated, not lounging—she didn't have the luxury of posturing here. Not today. Her silhouette was of poise sharpened into threat, her shadow cast long across the permacrete floor by the soft violet glow of the recessed lighting overhead. Behind her, the lab's old holotables flickered faintly with residual power. They had once been host to the quiet hum of treason: overlays of Saijo's defensive network, falsified communication data, resource pipelines traced from Tsis'Kaar stores to Reicher Vax 's construction efforts. And beside her, where the light caught dust dancing like snow through the sterile air, a recessed gas vent—one she had personally used to pacify Odrin Rath during their first meeting. A gentle pink fog, composed of pheromone-diluting neurochems. It had been so effective.

A pity she didn't have time to synthesize another dose.

She tilted her head slightly as she remembered how Odrin had responded to it—he'd felt its effects almost immediately, but resisted it out of sheer pride. She had enjoyed that. Watching him grapple with his instincts, even as his aggression smoldered behind the mask. She wondered what Allyson Locke would do in a similar state. The thought made her lips curve, faintly.

But this meeting wasn't for enjoyment.

Her fingers danced lightly across the lab's main holonet relay, encrypted protocols responding with a trill of confirmation as she queued the message to be broadcast—brief, encoded, but with just enough deliberate oddity to draw a single recipient.

[HOLO-NET TRANSMISSION // PUBLIC CHANNEL — HYDIAN RELAY NODE 47B // ENCRYPTION: NONE]

Inventory discrepancy noted:
Model Unknown. Quiver: one arrow unaccounted for.
Payload analysis indicates residual light contamination—
A shadow. Unexpected. Not unwelcome.

We missed our debriefing.
Someone should rectify that.

Coordinates uploaded under file designation: 'Unreturned Fire.'
Relay it or be fired upon.

Station's lights are out, but the air still holds memory.
Experiments.

To the world shattered before time had a name.
Bring no mask.

I'll be waiting.

END TRANSMISSION

A faint chime confirmed its release.

Only Allyson would understand.

The lab around her still bore the scars of decisions. The place where Darth Strosius had once stood beside her, when they first whispered about a future not led by stagnation but by contagion. The place where she and Odrin Rath, that brutal cathedral of a man, had charted the knife-edge of Daggerfall with the precision of a surgeon. Here, she had become something more than a governor. Here, she had first envisioned empire.

And now, the next stage awaited.

Her expression was unreadable—neither eager nor cold. Simply focused. Not a hair was out of place, not a wrinkle in her cloak. She had dressed with intent: polished, regal, but not ostentatious. A predator in velvet skin.

She did not pace. She did not rehearse.

Serina Calis simply waited—flawless and still—as if the room itself had been built around her.

And she wondered, in that slow, coiling way she always did when something interesting was about to happen—

Would Allyson Locke bring peace? Or would she bring passion?

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

A small device blinked on the desk of the carefully organized office. Allyson looked up from her pillow, eyes narrowing. The night before, she hadn't found sleep, but lucky for her, her work hours varied. It meant she was alone and could catch up on what she had missed.

Allyson only took a minute to muse about the device; it wasn't important, so she could ignore it. Deciding to do so, she rolled over and tucked her arm under the pillow. Closing her eyes, she grabbed the other pillow in her bed and snuggled against it.

Whatever poor soul her network had caught would have to wait.

A few hours later, Allyson sat up in bed, her hair still messy, but at least she was rested enough. Slowly, she stood, yawning and scratching her stomach as she approached the living room and kitchen area. Her hand rested under the thin fabric of her t-shirt as she glanced around the kitchen, wondering what to eat. Being home in the apartment was rare for the Corellian, so she wasn't entirely sure what was even left in her apartment.

As she looked through the kitchen lazily, the flashing light from her desk caught her attention. At that moment, Allyson's eyes widened as she remembered the message that had arrived while she was trying to sleep after Madelyn had left. Wandering back over, her curiosity piqued enough to forget breakfast.

Looking down at the device, she leisurely used the force to open it and flick through it. She had a few messages that were just news updates, but one made her pause. Allyson stood with an arm draped over her bare waist, casually going through the message with a raised brow. Whoever had sent this had tried really hard to be cryptic, but their attempts were amateur at best.

She read it a few times and sighed. Quickly, she figured out who it was from. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Allyson turned and began to pack. It was better to get this over and done with.

---

Allyson Locke was late, partially because she didn't want to be there. Polis Massa was not a place she would have chosen to go to, but it was the place where Serina's power was centralized for the most part. She didn't question it more than she needed to. Allyson hoped the teenager had moved past the Corellian's private relationship with the Minister and fellow Govenor.

Stepping down on planetside, she was escorted by the woman's men. Allyson quickly looked at their insignia and made a mental note to see what more she could dig into the group. Knowing Serina's ego, the men were wearing uniforms issued by her for use in her little militia.

She was expected, and upon entering, she gave the woman who seemed to have been waiting a bit a slight wave.

"You rang, your Highness." Allyson couldn't help the sarcasm as she let it hang. With a little bow and her arms stretched outward, she smirked. Standing, Allyson entered the room further, looking around and doing her usual checks. Picking apart the arrangements, finding a way out if things were to go by the wayside, she settled on the blonde woman when all that was done.

"For a cluster of pebbles, you seem to be doing well for yourself, so why summon me?"

 

[Serina Calis]

"Where secrets are kept."

Tags - Allyson Locke



Serina's eyes lifted—not abruptly, not with surprise, but with the smooth, practiced grace of someone who already knew when her guest would arrive. She did not smile. Not yet. Instead, she let the silence stretch, allowing the chamber to settle around the new arrival like a silk noose.

A small, tiny part of her was annoyed that she had taken her sweet time, but she had arrived.

She turned slowly from the console, movements measured, calculated—not sluggish, never hesitant. The violet light of the lab played across her features like stage lighting, catching the faint shimmer of her robes—dark velvet, lined with red embroidery in shapes that suggested geometry, but not logic.

"Your Highness."

The words left her lips like a poured vintage—rich, slow, and laced with a knowing amusement that made the title feel both flattering and damning. Her gaze slid down Allyson with studied consideration, not predatory, not quite—it was cooler than that. As if assessing whether the other woman was still useful... or had become obsolete.

"How delightfully colonial of you," she murmured, stepping closer, her boots whispering against the polished floor. "A crown is such a vulgar thing, don't you think? But people see the shape of it even when it's absent. Power… authority… the illusion of benevolence bound in gold."

Her head tilted slightly, just enough to let a strand of her perfectly styled hair fall forward. "I prefer something quieter. A little more… contagious."

She crossed the space between them, unhurried, letting the atmosphere of the ruined lab do some of the talking—the ghosts of treason and ambition still alive in the corners. The pheromone vent nearby remained closed, but she stood just near enough to it for Allyson to notice. A reminder, unspoken.

"You look well. Rested. Domestic, even," Serina offered, the word domestic laced with ironic venom. "Pillows and homes… I confess, I had forgotten that was a lifestyle people still chose."

She drifted past Allyson, walking toward one of the flickering holotables, placing a hand upon its edge. "You've never been to Polis Massa before." It wasn't a question. "Which means I should welcome you. So…" She turned, just enough for the cloak to catch the light and flutter behind her. "Welcome, Archer. You're fashionably late, and still dressed for the wrong sort of war."

There it was—the glint. Not overt aggression, not yet. But the suggestion that this was her domain, her gravity, and Allyson had stepped into it like a moon brushing too close to a collapsed star.

Serina's gaze lingered just a fraction too long as she studied Allyson again. Not with hostility, but with curiosity wrapped in silk and glass.

"I could offer you wine. Or something lighter. Though the Massans don't drink wine, I find it all the more satisfying to indulge where others abstain." Her lips curled, slightly. "You'll forgive me if I skip the small talk about traffic lanes and trade routes. I assume you're here because you understood the message."

And then, as if the rest had been foreplay:

"I wonder, though…"

Her voice dipped an octave, almost whisper-soft.

"When you stood on that ruined field on Saijo, with the Force blazing in your bones… when your fingers curled and your aim was perfect—"

She paused, letting the silence lick the edge of the unsaid.

"—Did it amuse you?" A low smile this time. "To miss?"

But she didn't wait for an answer. Not yet.

Serina turned her back again, deliberately vulnerable, walking toward the central platform.

"Come," she said lightly, "You didn't come all this way to posture. Sit. Indulge me."

She gestured to the single chair she had prepared—plush, comfortable, facing her across the lab's central holoprojector like a throne across a senate chamber. She remained standing. Serina Calis didn't sit for anyone.

"Let's play this carefully, you and I. There's a thread of fire running between us, and I would hate to see it wasted."

She gestured with a single elegant hand, as though sealing an accord already written.

"Now. Shall we begin?"

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

Chit, I made her monologue…

Allyson thought calmly to herself as she watched the woman begin to speak. It was apparent she had been waiting, which meant she had time to think and work out this grand speech. Allyson half-listened, mostly because her brain was still trying to process some of the wording the teenager decided to use. Her face reacted to certain things to show that she was paying some attention, and her weight shifted as her arms folded gently.

She watched as Serina moved. She stood next to a vent. Allyson raised an eyebrow and figured the girl needed to catch her breath because she was expelling so much and not inhaling. The vent meant nothing to her; she knew nothing of its use besides cleaning the horrid airspace of the asteroids.

Allyson raised an eyebrow at the comment of her never being to Polis Massa. The girl's youth was showing, expecting that someone from Allyson's station had never been to a place. Her face said it all, softening in disbelief at the posturing the young woman was trying to do with the spy. Was she trying to win her over?

"Well, I have been to Polis Massa, but not in your lifetime." She started, musing how the girl would take the small bit of information. "But thank you for the welcome."

Allyson looked at the offered seat and gently raised her hand, "No, I prefer to stand; I don't think this meeting will take too long. I still am a little unsure why you called me out of all the people in the galaxy."

Remembering the comment about Saijo, Allyson smirked slightly. "Honestly, Serina, I felt nothing as I shot at you. I missed on purpose, yes, but it was only because I hadn't been commanded to kill you yet." Shaking her head, Allyson walked deeper into the room, letting her eye scan the bits of it, trying to figure out the little game the girl was playing.

"I'm a tool, remember? My feelings don't play a part in anything I do when it comes to work. If my feelings did play a part in anything…" Allyson stopped and shrugged, her eyes catching the girl's gaze briefly.

"We wouldn't be standing here talking. You'd have burned with the rest of Saijo, root to stem."

Allyson smiled.

"So, like you said - let's not waste time, and please indulge me with why you summoned me to your rock collection. I am particularly busy - which you know who and what I am in the Empire - since our dear Lord Marr outed me during the Tsis'Kaar meeting."

 

[Serina Calis]

"Where secrets are kept."

Tags - Allyson Locke



Serina didn't speak for a long moment.

Not because she was formulating another speech. Not this time.

She simply stood there, staring at Allyson with a quiet, deliberate stillness. The kind of stillness that follows after something breaks—not loudly, not catastrophically, but with a soft, internal snap that no one else can hear. Her head was tilted slightly, not in that performative, serpentine way she favored, but as if she were genuinely trying to see something in the Corellian's face that wasn't there.

Disappointment, sharp and unmistakable, flickered behind her eyes.

When she finally moved, it was quiet and small—a subtle breath pulled in through the nose, her hand lowering from where it had rested on the holotable's frame. She didn't sigh. She didn't slouch. But something about her frame seemed... less. Not vulnerable. Not weak. Just tired.

Tired of pretending that everyone she called was going to respond.

She stepped to the side and keyed a silent command into the terminal. A flicker of pale blue light bloomed to life between them, not blinding, not theatrical. Just data. Projected cleanly in the middle of the room: ship manifests, coded routing assignments, intercepted fragments of comm-traffic bearing the unmistakable digital signature of Sith-Imperial asset handlers. All of it triangulated around a single name.

Fury.

And the privateer corps he sponsored—each ship now a smear on Polis Massa's memory.

Serina spoke softly, but without the theatrical cadence she usually employed. No grand words. No layered innuendo. Only truth, and that made it feel heavier.

"Recovered during the Saijo engagement. My contractors intercepted one of the pirate signal caches buried beneath a refueling station in orbit. It wasn't just opportunism. It was sanctioned. Directed."

She walked a few paces, then turned her back—not dramatically, just… not wanting to watch her own words fall flat again.

"You were right," she said after a pause, quieter still. "You haven't been commanded to kill me yet."

A long silence followed, broken only by the low hum of the projection.

Serina moved toward a small, unassuming container resting near the vent. With a touch, it hissed open. She reached inside—not for a weapon, not for some elaborate Sith relic. But for a slim black tin, the kind one wouldn't expect to see outside a senator's lounge or a noble's drawing room.

She turned, crossed the room again, and extended it toward Allyson—an offering.

"Chocolate. Serenno. Not replicated."

The box clicked open gently, revealing precise squares arranged in rows—matte, dark, infused with the faintest trace of caff and dusted spice.

It was absurd. Extravagant. Out of place in a war room.

And entirely sincere.

Serina didn't elaborate. Didn't plead. Didn't soften. She just stood there, holding it out, her eyes no longer alight with seduction or threat.

Simply... waiting.

Not because Allyson mattered, not in any romantic sense. But because for one sliver of time, Serina had thought maybe—just maybe—this wouldn't be another meaningless exchange of power. That someone else might understand, or at least engage with her on something more than terms and thresholds.

Something, fun?

Instead, she'd found herself speaking to another functionally hollow agent of empire. And while she didn't cry, didn't break, the air around her shifted. Heavier. Duller.

This was not the predator in velvet.

This was the woman who ruled the predators, and found herself, despite it all, profoundly bored by the hunt.

She turned back to the console with no further word. Let the records play. Let the facts speak. If truth wouldn't stir a flicker of meaning in the other woman, then nothing would.

But still, the box of chocolate remained offered—one thread of something human in the sterile dark.

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

Allyson glanced towards the display that Serina had activated. Everything was recorded and stored on her server through her cybernetic eye. She read it herself, figuring out the core entity that everything pointed to.

It was interesting, but also too late. Allyson assumed most of this was fabricated. It was the fact that this information was recovered during and after the engagement. It meant that while it would be something to go after Fury for - it was discovered after the plan of attack. If it had been before, Allyson would understand, but why wasn't it brought through the proper channels?

As Serina spoke again, Allyson glanced at the woman from the corner of her eye. It was a different cadence from just moments ago. It was a welcomed change, but the posturing wore thin on the Corellian's patience. She would rather have this Serina than the one trying to prove something. Allyson didn't respond to the comment; it didn't warrant one.

Again, Serina moved, and Allyson watched her - her movements told more to the Corellian than the woman's words. The girl would need to learn something - particularly if she was going to survive the Sith. It was a lesson Allyson had to learn the moment she pretended to be a Sith and was the only reason the woman was surviving now.

She walked over; the box was something she recognized. It was the same type of chocolate she had gotten Madelyn once. The woman enjoyed her treats, and Allyson easily picked them up. It didn't surprise the spy that Serina also enjoyed indulging a little. One curious thing, Serina felt the need to emphasize that it was not replicated or a fake. It reminded Allyson of girls she had gone to school with who didn't have the same funding as the true upper-class Corellians.

Serina was a woman trying to prove herself to the galaxy and, at this moment, to Allyson.

Seeing the effort, she reached into the box and pulled up one of the chocolates. Examining it quickly, she assessed that the piece wasn't tampered with - years of her work forced her to be suspect. Carefully, she ate the chocolate, savoring the decadence, and nodded. She understood why Madelyn enjoyed the treats. "It's good, thank you" Allyson sucked on her finger, the bits of the chocolate dust staining the tips of her index and thumb.

She thought about grabbing another but remembered her manners.

"I understand the frustration of this issue coming from someone who should be an ally, particularly since you both are governors. This information was found after you had planned to attack from how you worded it." Allyson sighed.

"This information won't help you - why Saijo? Why take it upon yourself to do this when there are avenues - proper channels to take Fury down?"

Allyson looked back towards the stream of information that Serina had provided.

"Was this all you wanted to show me? Serina, you need to be honest and not hide behind what you think I want to hear."

 

[Serina Calis]

"Where secrets are kept."

Tags - Allyson Locke



For a moment, Serina didn't look at her.

She simply stood at the edge of the holoprojection, watching the data streams flicker across the air—evidence of treason, yes, but also of futility. Her posture remained straight, but not stiff. It lacked the sharp edges she normally wore like a weapon. Her shoulders, though still squared, looked as though they bore a weight that hadn't always been there.

The box of chocolates now sat untouched between them.

When she finally spoke, her voice was subdued. No silk. No acid. No smirk.

"Because no one gave a damn."

She didn't turn to face Allyson. She didn't need to. The words weren't for effect anymore. They weren't even strategic.

"They call it governance," she murmured, "but all they want is carnage. You sit in a chair and bleed for it—make the ledgers balance, feed the workers, replace the lost ore, patch the hulls of a fleet that never stops hungering. But if you're not setting something on fire, they don't see you. Not really. You're just another girl playing regent over a ball of rock."

Her voice caught on that word. Girl. She spat it softly, like a slur made of pity.

"I inherited Polis Massa when Reicher stepped down. Do you know what they said in the halls of power when that happened?" She turned now—slowly, deliberately—and finally looked Allyson full in the face.

"They said I was the young one. That it made sense. That I would be controllable. Replaceable. A softer mark than the one before."

She stepped closer, her tone hardening—not with anger, but sorrow pressed flat and compressed into steel.

"Reicher was the best thing to ever happen to Polis Massa. He didn't play their games. He didn't posture. He just served. He worked. He gave everything—everything he had. In one year, he brought this place to the edge of a golden age. He didn't want anything in return. Not power, not praise. Just a future."

She paused, as if weighing whether she should say the next words aloud.

"And they broke him for it."

Her eyes softened—truly, for the first time. Not out of weakness, but in pain so carefully buried it bled through the cracks only now.

"They let those pirates burn what he built. They let it happen. Because he wasn't part of their little club. Because he didn't smile the right way at Tsis'Kaar dinners or cut down his rivals in front of an audience."

Serina drew a slow breath and exhaled through her nose. Her voice was quieter now, raw around the edges.

"He left, you know. To start a family. To live a real life, away from all this."

She gestured around her—not just at the lab, but at the Empire.

"And I... I stayed. I stayed because someone had to answer for what happened. I stayed because I thought, maybe, if I bled loudly enough, someone would finally shut up about my age, or my ex-Jedi status, or the fact that I didn't crawl out of a Korriban tomb swinging a red blade and screaming about passion."

Serina turned away again, not dramatically—just because it was too much, too open.

"Saijo wasn't about Fury. Not really. It wasn't about punishment or justice. It was about proof."

She looked down at her gloved hands, flexing them as if unsure they were hers.

"I did what they're all too cowardly to do—I made a call, I took a world, and I didn't ask for permission. And for one breathless moment, they listened. They looked at me. Not as a child. Not as a placeholder. As a Sith."

She stepped toward the projection again and let it flicker out with a touch of her fingers.

"I know it was the wrong way. I know it doesn't change anything. But I didn't do it because I wanted to be right. I did it because I wanted to matter."

Then, finally, she turned back to Allyson again—her face unreadable now, but stripped bare of all the usual armor.

"Now you can tell me how foolish I've been. Then you can politely fuck off."

She didn't want a lecture.

She just wanted someone to care.

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:​

"Stop being a martyr; you're not a Jedi anymore."

Allyson spoke quietly but sternly. They were both former Jedi, and they both had it drilled into their heads that they must sacrifice themselves for the greater good if they were ever going to accomplish anything. She hated this about the Jedi, in particular the lies that the New Jedi Order spouts to their children. She watched as older Jedi disregarded these teachings, claiming titles and fortune. At the same time, the young died at the feet of monsters.

"You need to get over their lies. We were fed them, over and over again, while the Masters grew fatter and our peers died."

Allyson's voice was laced with knowing. She had seen padawans die, and she had watched her own fall to the dark side while she was away. The Masters of the NJO were nothing but failed shepherds leading their lambs to the wolves.

"Bleeding for what you believe in only means that you bleed. There's nothing good about that, and you're no better than a Jedi."

Allyson knew this was something Serina probably didn't want to hear. Yet, she'll fuck off after she says what she needs to say. Serina summoned her out of bed so she would listen to what the Corellian had to say.

"No one cares if you bleed. It's a lesson you need to learn; once you learn it, remember it. Not the Jedi, not the Sith, not the Galaxy. The one who cares if you bleed is you. Don't bleed because you think it will bring you glory."

Allyson shook her head and looked at Serina. She had bled before for the Alliance, the Jedi, and so many other organizations that claimed they cared.

No one cared.

Allyson remained quiet for a moment as she sighed. She hated the stupid parallels between their journeys. The Jedi had failed them both, their elders had failed them, and they were both left to their own devices.

"Look, I get it. I've bled and believed the lies the Jedi have told. I was pulled from my fighter and put into the intelligence branch. I was forced to be a Shadow; on my first mission, I was sent to Bastion."

This was a story she hated; it was painful and frustrating. If she had realized how little she meant to the Alliance and the Jedi. Maybe she would have been able to have a normal life - or she would have just let herself die back then.

"Long story short, I was captured and tortured, and no one came for me. I escaped, went home, and was punished for failing the mission." Allyson shoved another chocolate in her mouth, disregarding her manners for the moment. "So I get it, trust me."

Chewing on the candy, she looked around and waited for Serina to tell her to fuck off again.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Where secrets are kept."

Tags - Allyson Locke



Serina stood still.

But the silence around her didn't feel still at all. It thrummed. It vibrated, as though the air itself had become the drum of a war machine, slowly spinning up. No burst of rage, no shattering of glass or dramatic exhalation of Force power. That would have been easy. Obvious. Weak.

Instead, the rage built inward—tightly coiled, molten, deliberate. A slow forge, not a fire.

Her eyes didn't flash. They darkened.

And when she spoke, her voice was quiet—almost eerily so. But it carried. Every syllable pressed with the weight of her entire being behind it.

"I am not a martyr," she said, the words measured like they were being cut into stone.

"And I am not a Jedi."

She took a step forward—not toward Allyson, but toward the center of the room, as though reclaiming it. As though owning the space itself again.

"You think I'm bleeding for meaning? For love? For some pathetic vision of being understood?" Her head tilted back slightly, not in derision, but in revelation—as if she were finally seeing the truth laid bare, stripped of the pity in Allyson's voice, the weariness in her own.

"No," she breathed. "I bleed because one day this galaxy will choke on what I have become. Not because it will want to. But because it will have no other choice."

Her voice grew in volume, not through shouting, but through focus—like a scalpel pressed deeper, not swung harder.

"You're right, Allyson. No one cares if I bleed. Not the Jedi. Not the Sith. Not the Assembly. Not the Tsis'Kaar. They left Reicher to burn. They thought I would break. They think I'm pretending. That I'm still trying to earn this."

A pause—short, sharp.

"I'm not trying anymore."

Now she did face Allyson. And this time, there was nothing veiled in her gaze. It was pure, honed, and terrifying in its conviction.

"I don't care about their approval. I don't want it. I don't want them to accept me. I want them to kneel. And if they won't do it out of reverence, they'll do it out of the pathetic fear of seeing their fellow Sith stung up and gutted, their planets razed, their monuments defaced and their own families turned against them."

She stepped closer, her cloak barely whispering behind her, her words like cold iron in the mouth.

"I don't need to be loved. I need to be inevitable."

The lights of the lab flickered slightly—reacting not to a surge of power, but to something more subtle: a gravitational shift in presence. Her presence. Like reality had adjusted the room's mass around her determination.

The Dark Side was feasting on her emotion.

Her eyes dropped, not with defeat, but thought.

"I did believe the Jedi's lies," she murmured. "And when I stopped, when Valery Noble herself drove her lightsaber into my heart, ending my life, I thought it would mean I was free. But all it did was show me the next lie: that the Sith were any different. That here, we climb by killing, as Malak did, that it makes us pure. But no. It’s the same game. The same ladder. Just painted with blood instead of robes."

She shook her head, once.

"I'll build my own ladder. And I will climb it alone if I have to. One corpse at a time."

Then, quieter—quieter than before, and more dangerous for it:

"But if you're right, and all that's left is to bleed in silence... then let me tell you, Allyson Locke—"

Her voice curved like a blade.

"I will bleed louder than any of them."

The moment hung there, thick with something unspoken. Not hatred. Not even defiance.

Promise.

Serina turned again, walking back toward the console. Her posture now was flawless. Controlled. Regal. Unshakable. She picked up the box of chocolate, closed it carefully, and placed it aside.

Then she looked over her shoulder.

"You can go, if you want. You've said your piece. And I've said mine."

A beat.

"Or you can stay. Because the next name on my list isn't Fury."

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

Chit, she's monologuing again…

Allyson sighed softly, and her face softened with exasperation. She felt suddenly tired and had a creeping headache. This was turning out how she figured it would. She felt as if she was listening to an evil villain in a holo film express how diabolical their ending would be from the horrible start of their life.

Her attention began to wane as she wondered what was happening back on Jutrand. Her eyes casually glanced towards the clock in the room, and doing a bit of math in her brain - she figured if she left soon, she could make her 7pm meeting with the Minister. Pressing her lips together, she mulled over how quickly she would need to get through everything.

It wasn't until the monologue name-dropped someone who was once important to the Corellian. Allyson's attention returned to the blonde child, and she leaned in slightly with her brow raised. Almost in disbelief, she learned that Valery Noble, the Grandmaster of the New Jedi Order, had murdered a padawan, thus creating Serina Calis.

Allyson kept her composure, no break in her mask, but the fury burned in her chest. This was against everything the Jedi had taught or what they were supposed to teach. Not only were the Jedi sending children to die, but they were also murdering them on their own swords.

She let Serina finish.

The silence of choice stretched between them. Her mind was focused on Valery, trying to understand and justify the woman's reasons for murdering a child. Her arms tightened against her body, Allyson didn't know what to think anymore about the Jedi. She hated hearing that her views were validated. It was better when they weren't - she could ignore them and assume it was her own experience.

Hearing it from someone else, hearing that the Jedi had quickly betrayed and slaughtered a padawan, someone they were supposed to protect and teach. It killed something inside of the Shadow.

Allyson did what Allyson does best and compartmentalized her own feelings about Valery and the Jedi. Her eyes fell on Serina once more, and she did her best not to show her curiosity was piqued.

"What is this list?" The Spy tilted her head slightly as she stepped closer to the center of the room. This list had caught her attention. She had a feeling who was on it, but she needed to verify.

"Tell me who's on this list," Allyson sighed, "Let's make a deal."

 

[Serina Calis]

"Where secrets are kept."

Tags - Allyson Locke



Serina didn't react right away.

She stood in the same position, half-shadowed by the violet hue of the lights above, her features composed into something cool and unreadable. Only her eyes moved, flicking to Allyson as if measuring not just the question, but the motivation behind it. And when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet—precise. Not laced with bitterness or drama. Just the clinical edge of a surgeon deciding where to cut.

"It's not a list of enemies," she said. "That would be too obvious."

She walked to a nearby terminal, her fingers hovering just above the interface—but she didn't activate it. She wasn't ready to show it. Not yet.

"It's a ledger," she continued, turning slightly to glance at Allyson. "Not of debts. Not of crimes. Of intent."

There was no need for fanfare. No flourish. She could see Allyson was exhausted, disinterested in performance, and Serina had no patience left to perform for people who weren't worth it.

"It contains the names of everyone who has shaped me, slighted me, tried to break me—or worse, ignored me entirely. It's not just for revenge. Not all of them deserve death. Some deserve far more interesting fates."

She let the words hang a moment. The implication didn't need elaboration.

"I'm not giving it to you," she added, calmly. "Not unless I get something in return."

She crossed the space between them with deliberate grace, stopping just close enough for her presence to press without suffocating. When she looked at Allyson now, it was no longer as a posturing politician or a girl trying to prove something. It was as a tactician, a player in the great game, laying a piece on the board.

"I know things. About the Tsis'Kaar. About the Assembly. About the shifting power bases within the Empire. About who's planning to betray who, who's stealing what, and where the bodies are buried. I have agents. Hidden archives. Vaults beneath this rock that not even the Dark Council knows exist. And more importantly…"

Her head tilted slightly.

"…I don't need to share any of it."

That was the real leverage. Not the information itself—but the fact that Serina could let it all rot in the dark if she wanted to. She could take it all to her grave out of pure spite. She didn't need to be obeyed. She only needed influence—control over the ones who thought themselves above her.

"I'll make you a deal, Allyson. I give you access to everything I know. Not just now, but as long as it's useful. You get a direct feed into every shadow I cast—every time someone crosses me, you'll know before they do."

Her tone didn't waver.

"In return, you serve my interests. Quietly. Indirectly. But when I ask for something—intel, access, intervention—I expect results. You don't have to pledge loyalty. You don't have to kneel. You just have to be useful."

A pause.

"And if that sounds transactional, it is. I'm not asking for trust. I'm offering power."

Her eyes flicked to the console again, the list waiting behind encrypted layers of code. Names of Jedi. Sith. Senators. Criminals. Assets. Future pawns.

"You know what I am," she added. "I don't pretend to be anything else."

That was the closing move—stated plainly, not as a threat, but as pure understanding.

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

Allyson tilted her head. What was with blondes and mentioning her kneeling? Did she come off as someone who needed to kneel and be useful? The Corellian would have to rethink her approach to things if this is something that most are thinking of her.

"No."

Her voice was flat.

"I don't care about the Tsis'Kaar, the Assembly, or whatever knowledge you're keeping to yourself." She shrugged; the information that Serina could provide was something Allyson could get herself. While the young Calis may have her agents and hidden archives, Allyson Locke had her own mind and network of discovering things.

"Your knowledge isn't something I want. I want this grand ledger; I want names. I don't want information on a dying power within the Empire or things I can easily find out on my own." Allyson sighed.

"You forget who I am, Serina. You forget the chit, I know. Your information isn't worth my services—what is worth anything between us is the names."

Allyson stepped back. If Serina wasn't going to provide the names, the deal meant nothing. Shaking her head, she continued.

"As for my intel, access, and intervention, that comes with boundaries for you. You can't have the same access as the one that holds my leash. That's a special deal I have. What you do get is a get out of jail free card."

Allyson smirked as she reminded the girl.

"Remember, right now, I don't have the order to kill you, but when I do get that order - I can figure out a way that buys you time. I won't come for you right away."

She laughed.

"Offering me power is pointless; that's never been something I wanted, Serina, and what I truly desire is something you'll never be able to give me - so please don't insult me like your Master Nefaron and offer me this false power you so foolishly claim like a bottom-dwelling Sith Lord." Her words were sharp, but her voice carried the cadence of her usual bravado. Allyson Locke never wanted power; it wasn't something important to her.

Yet, everyone offered it - except two people.

One had her undying loyalty.

"So again, Serina - my mercy for when the reaper calls for your head for 5 names on your list."

 

[Serina Calis]

"Where secrets are kept."

Tags - Allyson Locke



Serina listened in silence.

There was no scoff, no retort, no roll of the eyes. She didn't lash out or fall back on theatrics. She simply stood there—still, composed, tired in a way that ran deeper than the body. Her hands slowly folded in front of her, and for the first time since the conversation had begun, she looked at Allyson not with cunning, not with curiosity—

—but with clarity.

The mask dropped. Not in some melodramatic collapse of pretense, but in the steady, graceful disrobing of someone who had finally grown tired of playing parts for people too blind to notice the difference.

She didn't speak for several seconds. And then, when she did, it was with something harder than steel—truth.

"You talk like someone above it all." Serina said quietly, "but you're drowning, and you don't even know it."

She stepped forward—slowly, with deliberate calm. No predator's stride, no seduction in her voice. Just truth, sharpened to a point.

"You say you don't want power. That it means nothing to you. But you live in the most brutally tiered hierarchy the galaxy has ever known. You take orders from people who do care about power. And one day, Allyson, they're going to use you up and throw you away—and you're going to call it duty. Here, it is use or be used."

Her head tilted faintly, but her tone remained even.

"You think you're free because you're a spy. Because you play all sides, keep secrets, bend rules. But you are not free. You haven't been free since the day you stepped into the Sith's shadow and let them collar you. If the Kainite ever find out that a certain minister's lover was an agent of the Emperor, they will see it as breach of a long standing ceasefire."

She let that settle, eyes never leaving Allyson.

"You bargain with me like you're the one in control. But you don't even realize how little control you actually have."

She took another slow step.

"You think you're dangerous because you know names. But yet you want my names. You think your silence is power, yet you berate someone who achieved a governership at the age twenty, who burned a planet at the age of twenty, who you know deep down has the potential to leave a mark on this galaxy nothing will ever recover from. That your deferrals, your tired little 'I'll buy you time' routine, makes you merciful. But it doesn't make you merciful, Allyson."

Her voice dipped.

"It makes you stupid, because there is one thing you never understood about me, Agent Locke."

Her voice hardened.

"I have faced death before, I have died twice already, what makes you think I fear death again?"

And then, her expression changed—only slightly. The edge of sadness, disappointment—understanding—softened her eyes, just for a moment.

"Because I know what you're really afraid of. It's not me. It's not the Empire. It's not the order to kill. It's her."

Serina's tone didn't shift. She didn't need it to.

"Madelyn Lowe."

There it was.

"You think you're unreadable, but you're obvious, Allyson. You flinch when she's mentioned. You linger when you speak of her. You deflect, dismiss, joke—but you hesitate, hell, even your light is dimming."

Her hand lifted slightly—not accusatory, but almost… gentle.

"That hesitation will get you killed."

She moved closer now, voice low but unwavering.

"She serves Order. Real Order. She wears a Ministry title, yes—but she was made in the heart of the Kainite machine, forged by Prazutis and Carnifex like so many other loyal hounds. And when they tell her to kill you…"

Serina's head tilted faintly. The pity in her gaze was surgical.

"She will."

Not dramatic. Not shouted. Just fact.

"She will, because she's still clinging to something she calls order. And in five years time you're just collateral."

She turned from Allyson, letting that sting settle—not out of cruelty, but because it was the truth no one else would say to her face. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. Not weaker—just done.

"You say you don't care about the Tsis'Kaar, about Marr, about the Assembly. That's fine. I didn't expect you to. I didn't bring you here for an alliance or some twisted little loyalty pact. I brought you here because I was tired."

Her eyes moved to the holotable again. It remained dark.

"I wanted one conversation—one—that wasn't wrapped in protocol or surveillance, that wasn't a performance to keep the wolves at bay. I wanted to speak to someone who understood what it's like to live between knives and pretend you're not bleeding."

A pause.

"But you don't understand, do you?"

She turned back, not bitter—just resigned.

"You lost hope in the Jedi now? After everything they've done? The betrayals, the indoctrination, the lies? That's not clarity. That's delay. You chose to ignore it all because it made you more comfortable to stay blind."

"Or did you expect the great Grandmaster Noble to be above killing children?"

Her tone sharpened futher.

"And now you want to pretend that the Sith offer some other path? That you can straddle the line, play the clever little ghost and make everyone believe you don't belong to anyone? What? Because they say they kill children rather than hide it? Because that will justify their path to power like I do? With personal feelings and opinions rather than doing a common good for the galaxy?"

A pause.

"I see now why you cling to her, because in this galaxy where everyone has forced you to kneel, you wanted to choose your master. In a galaxy where people are owned, you wanted to belong."

"You are to be owned by everyone."

Another beat.

"You are to belong to no one."

She paused again, her face turning to solemn reflection, almost as if she pitied Allyson.

"There is a saying on Chandrilia: Fate is the chain, duty the lock — no Chandrilan dies free."

She concluded, her focus beating the Force around her into drums of war.

"On a world in which freedom is the highest virtue, soldiers and spies who never returned home have this saying engraved on their tombs, because even they know the truth."

"Choice is an illusion, freedom is a lie. Tragedy is destiny."

She stepped past Allyson, toward the sealed exit of the chamber. Her back to her now.

"And that's why you'll die with nothing. Alone. No cause. No conviction. No legacy. Just another file closed, another spy retired, buried under a dozen layers of classified code."

Her hand hovered over the control panel, but she didn't press it yet.

"You want names?" she said without turning back.

"Earn them."

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

Serina's words were not anything new to the Corellian. People told her these things, or she silently thought about them. Despite that, each word cut a new sliver of flesh from the Corellian's bone. Nothing beyond superficial, but the reminder still had a small lingering effect on the woman.

While initially it wasn't her choice to become what she is, it was her choice to stay in. Lovers, friends, and even lingering family had offered her a place outside of the game. She never took it because Allyson didn't know who Allyson was out of her role. The thought scared her, even now. Some days, it felt like this was all she was and ever would be. There was no line between Allyson and Allyson the Shadow.

The mask remained, her face still and silent, as Serina used sharp words to try to tear down the Spy. Some of it made her wonder and made her think further about her place in the Empire. Was she collared? Did she just pass hands between the Jedi and Sith? The thought made her scoff silently, her lip curling upward as the brief spat of air lingered. The Empire was different—here, she did have her freedoms, and she was working towards more.

The Emperor gave her a home, and Madelyn made her belong.

It was hard not to smile at the thought and at the hand Serina had revealed. Allyson wondered if she was aware of it. Serina seemed to think her privy knowledge of the unprofessional activities between the Minister and the Spy were grounds to cause strife between the Kainite and the Emperor. If Serina had known anything about the Spy, she would know of the efforts of the Kainite god and his oldest ally's mission to bring the Corellian into the folds of the Empire. In the same breath, the Emperor could care less who his apprentice chose to lay with.

Allyson was worth more as an ally than dead.

Serina continued, and Allyson listened. The demand to be special was now on full display. She recounted her 'achievements,' and Allyson nodded as if she agreed with the girl. All of them were just titles that meant nothing in the greater scheme of things. And yet, in the end, her governorship, something she seemed most proud of, was handed to her. Reicher, the brother, had elevated Polis Massa, and Serina was given a completed pet project.

Allyson held her tongue; she knew better than to interrupt a woman spiraling.

In that spiral, Serina finally got to the point where she was taking the Corellian. Everything led back to Madelyn Lowe . There was no sense in hiding her frustrations at the mention of the Minister's name. Back on Saijo, Allyson had threatened the girl about speaking of the woman. Yet, despite the threat, Serina fully brought the woman back into the conversation. Allyson's eyes narrowed slightly, and her fingers curled tightly into fists. Every fiber of her being screamed to draw the bow, to somehow muster enough of the Force to strangle the rambling woman and to follow through with the threat she made on Saijo.

Allyson could feel the threads tightening around her heart, each pulse pounding in her ears as she felt the sudden taste of blood on her tongue. She wanted so badly to follow through, make her threat real, and extinguish the flame that was Serina Calis.
But she didn't.

Instead, Allyson let her continue, her words bitter reminders of things the Corellian had already thought about. She knew who Madelyn was and what she was. There was no surprise, but unlike Serina, Allyson knew more than what was on the surface of the Minister. Allyson believed there was something deeper that they both had felt, but knew their positions would threaten. It was easier to deny, to play naive to the emotions that swelled at the thought of the other.

This wasn't a fairytale - it was something else, something intoxicating, and Allyson would do anything to protect it.

She smiled and slipped in the silence a small quip. "I know, and if it's five years, they'd be the best five years of my life. Being collateral isn't so bad, you know."

Her words were playful, but she didn't believe it. There was something almost sacred between her and the Minister - something no one else needed to know.

And finally, the last knife to strike the Spy. It was almost comical when she thought about it. Everything important to Serina was said between the insults and the jabs to the Spy. What was important to Serina, what she didn't value, and everything. Allyson nodded as she brushed stray strands of brown hair from her face and mouthed wow.

"You sure got me there," she started, feigning pain in her voice. "Dying alone? I would have never pictured it." Allyson chuckled, "Serina—I know that. I know most of the things you belittle me for. It's my choice, and it's my place in this galaxy. I don't do what I do for glory or legend. I do it because, at the end of the day, I made some very small change, and that's enough for me."

She shrugged, "I know I'm going to disappear once I die - even now, I don't exist; like the stories you heard in the temple, I'm a ghost with no home."

Allyson exhaled gently as she thought about where to start responding to the long monologue. Figuring she would explain things as they came up would be the best. Firstly, the Jedi, "I lost hope a long time ago for the Jedi - what I did hold on to was the fact that it was my experience. That the Jedi were otherwise good, but not good for me."

What hurt more than finding out about her experience not being the outlier was the information on Valery. "And yes, I did think Valery was above killing children. Valery was one of the only people I had as a partner - I typically always worked alone, but she was special. We worked well together; she could anticipate my moves, thoughts, and plans. Everything. She was smart and good and embodied what it was to be a Jedi."

Something carefully masked was in the Corellian's voice; there was more involved than what she was saying about her old friend.

"So to hear that one of my oldest friends slaughtered a child without a second thought bothers me. I wonder if this was how she felt when I betrayed her on Woostri."

Seeing Serina's back to her, a dark thought lingered in her mind - but Allyson pushed it away and chuckled.

"I'm not scared of Madelyn turning on me - if she kills me, then so be it. Wouldn't be the first to try, but yes. I did choose her, but as you know, I was also chosen by another. So if you think that's being collared, be it."

Allyson shrugged, "I guess you just don't know what it's like to be chosen. I hope you do one day."

Pausing, Allyson stepped closer, her footsteps quiet until Serina could feel the Corellian's mere presence as she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper.

"I may not have the order from my Master. But I suggest you start sleeping with the lights on, Governor Calis. I did warn you." Allyson leaned away and stepped back, waiting for the girl's reaction.

"As for the names, I could give or take them mostly to feed my curiosities. I would enjoy trying to strike another deal - something good for both of us - but it seems like her Highness is done talking to the scoundrel."

Allyson folded her arms and laughed slightly at the Corellian bravado on full display. "Running away because the conversation didn't go the way you planned? Or have you run out of venom, Governor?"

 

[Serina Calis]

"Where secrets are kept."

Tags - Allyson Locke



The silence didn't descend—it detonated.

No words escaped Serina Calis.

Not a breath, not a twitch. Her back remained to Allyson, her posture flawless, untouched. But something had ruptured beneath the surface, something violent and catastrophic, and the air itself seemed to react as if scorched by it. It was not the silence of dismissal or disappointment—it was the silence before impact. Before a sun went supernova. Before the first stone fell in a purge.

Inside her, something collapsed—not from fragility, but from compression. Pressure she had tolerated for too long. Pressure that began with Reicher's resignation and never stopped building. The endless parade of petty Sith lords dismissing her. The sting of being handed a governorship not with ceremony, but as if she were a child given a toy to keep her occupied. The mass graves left behind by pirates nobody had stopped. The Free Trade Meeting. The choking loneliness of ruling a world that obeyed her out of protocol, not love. THE FUCKING COMET. And now this. A half-smirking specter wrapped in Corellian sarcasm, calling her Her Highness, whispering poison in her ear, speaking her name—Madelyn—like it were intimacy.

Allyson Locke.

A nothing. A blade for rent. A walking reminder that the galaxy rewards ghosts and spits on the women who dare to carve their name into stone with blood and brilliance.

Serina's fingers twitched. A flicker. Almost imperceptible. Her nails dug into her palm hard enough to draw blood through velvet. Her teeth clenched so tight her jaw ached, and her breath didn't come—not yet. Every part of her internal machinery, every strand of cunning and restraint and artifice, seized. And in that stillness, in that crushing silence, her mind ignited in a thousand directions at once.

You think this is power, don't you? You think the smirk makes you untouchable, that the lover's touch makes you chosen, that a leash of velvet is better than one of iron. You think you walk away. You think I will forget.

She didn't even feel the tears welling behind her eyes—not of grief, but of hate. She wouldn't let them fall. She would rather be buried beneath this rock and turned to fossil before Allyson Locke saw her bleed.

There was no plan. There was no performance. There was only will, white-hot and perfect, consuming.

She wouldn't kill Allyson. Not yet. Death was too brief.

She would strip her down to usefulness. She would be reduced to raw nerve and muscle and whisper. Allyson would be bent, reshaped, worn until all that was left was a creature that did not smile, that did not dare to jest—until the smirk died on her lips and the Corellian accent curled into something that only spoke when spoken to.

Allyson Locke would belong to her.

Forever.

A harsh alert tone split the air. Not triggered by Serina directly, but by ICHNAEA. The AI watched everything—and it had seen what was coming.

Red strobes flickered from the ceiling edges. A containment protocol.

And then the door burst open.

Fifteen mercenaries—armed, armored, and visibly afraid—stormed into the chamber at full stride. Veterans, by the look of them. Not the polished guards that escorted dignitaries, but bloodied men who had spent years cracking skulls in secessionist holds and cleaning pirate infestations off the bone of lawless moons. Their leader barked before he was even fully inside:

"We gotta GO, now! Let's MOVE!"

"Come on, lady!" another shouted at Allyson, grabbing her arm. "You don't get it—she ain't right right now. She's never like this. Never. What the fuck did you SAY?"

A third merc ducked low, checking corners as if expecting Serina to detonate. "Every protocol is red. There's a kill-lock on the whole damn compound. We don't MOVE, it might—" He didn't finish the sentence. He just jerked his head toward the door and ran.

The lab lights dimmed slightly, but not from power failure.

The temperature dropped.

Behind them, Serina still hadn't moved.

She was no longer breathing through her mouth. Only through her nose, low and steady and murderous. The hate behind her eyes was not explosive. It was surgical. She wouldn't kill Allyson.

She would reconstruct her.

But not today.

Not until it would hurt more.

Not until the woman who smirked and whispered and thought herself chosen came crawling back—empty, cracked, broken—and begged to be claimed.

And when that day came, Serina would smile.

She didn't turn around.

Didn't scream.

She simply stood, composed and wrathful, a storm frozen at its eye.

And watched.

Watched them take the scoundrel away.

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

Allyson waited for her answer but was met by a cold silence. Knowing that the words she had just said sank deep into the blonde witch was almost satisfying. That silence continued, and the room began to grow colder. She had seen the way the Force settled around a user like Serina before. It shook at the fickleness of their emotions, and now Allyson realized what she had done.

She had pushed too far to make the girl see reality.

The alarms came, sirens flashing. The footsteps of soldiers barging in and grabbing at the Corellian. They shouted and looked upon their mistress, their employer, with fear. At that moment, Allyson understood what was happening to Polis Massa. This wasn't a government; it wasn't a plaything given to a child to keep her busy - no, this was a monster hoarding her sheep.

Allyson smiled. She had drawn out what had settled deep into the former Jedi. Even calling her something like a Jedi was laughable. Serina Calis was never a Jedi—her fall was something preordained, and Allyson understood that. Maybe she shouldn't judge Valery as harshly as she did earlier—maybe Valery had seen this inside the girl and understood there was no saving.

Maybe Valery did her a favor.

Either way, Allyson finally found the predictability in the girl. It was all she needed.

As the mercenary group grabbed her jacket, Allyson reached out and grabbed the Serenno chocolate. She wasn't going to leave Polis Massa empty-handed, but it seemed the group of men had grown frustrated with the Corellian's lack of urgency. One shouted at her, and she shrugged.

"Baby got mad." She gave the man a cheeky grin as she popped one of the expensive chocolates into her mouth.

Looking back at the statue that now stared hard at the Corellian, Allyson waved and tossed the half-bitten chocolate to Serina.

"All that anger," Allyson quipped towards Serina as she was dragged off, "Funny coming from someone so desperate to be in control." She laughed as she pulled away from the guards.

It didn't take much for her to slip them, quickly folding into the cover of the Force. Allyson found the nearest exit and made it towards one of the cargo ships heading through Polis Massa. At least there, she could head deeper into the Empire and eventually make it back to Jutrand.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Where secrets are kept."

Tags - Allyson Locke



She didn't catch the chocolate.

It hit the edge of her cloak, bounced off, and landed softly on the cold permacrete floor, leaving a tiny, oily crescent where the filling met the dust.

Still, Serina didn't move.

Her fingers remained curled, faint tremors pulsing in their tips like aftershocks of some great, silent quake. Her eyes—those perfect, cutting, blade-sharp eyes—did not follow Allyson. They stayed locked on the space where she had stood only moments before, as if they could burn her ghost into the stone and force it to stay.

But there was no ghost.

Just absence.

She was gone.

The Force stopped trembling. The alarms quieted. The chamber sealed again behind the retreating mercenaries, and the dull echo of boots on metal faded down the corridor, swallowed by distance and silence.

And still Serina did not move.

She had power. She had a planet. She had agents and vaults, and secrets people would kill for. She had laboratories that could birth monsters and war machines. She had ships without names, soldiers without faces, weapons that could rewrite memory, or silence it altogether.

But she didn't have control.

Not of Allyson.

Not of the moment.

Not even of herself.

Her breath came back to her in ragged slivers, quiet and brittle. Not loud enough to cry, not sharp enough to scream. Just there. Like breath through glass lungs. Like someone who had held their composure too long and now had no audience left to hold it for.

She turned her eyes downward. Slowly. Mechanically.

The chocolate still lay at her feet.

Half-bitten. Casual. Dismissive.

A symbol.

A trophy.

Serina sank to one knee—not in collapse, not in weakness, but in something worse.

Reflection.

Her gloved fingers reached out. Hovered. Then curled around the small ruined piece of luxury as if it were a relic. She brought it to her lap, not to eat it, not to analyze it. Just to hold something. Just to feel something.

She had thought this meeting would be a reprieve. A distraction. A chess match she could enjoy between the endless agony of policy briefings and requisition requests. She had thought—maybe—Allyson would be someone she could understand, or control, or break, yes, but meaningfully.

But all Allyson had done was leave her with another wound. And a mirror.

"All that anger," the woman had said, "Funny coming from someone so desperate to be in control."

It was funny, wasn't it?

Because that was the truth. Not the throne. Not the secrets. Not the cold smiles or the perfect gowns or the kill-switches on her captains' ships.

Serina Calis wanted control because everything else had been taken from her.

Her childhood. Her family name. Her place in the Jedi. Her love. Her peace. Her brother. The future Reicher had started to build. The one moment she had felt safe, and they had burned it to ash with pirate fire and left her alone in the ruin.

So she built her walls high.

Made herself a tower of whispers and glass and knives.

And now Allyson Locke—another ghost from another life—had come into her sanctum, spat in her face, and walked out laughing, as if she'd just conquered a child pretending to be queen.

Serina sat on the floor for a long time.

Not broken. Not shattered.

Just… alone.

As she had always been.

The Force didn't stir around her. The lab lights returned to normal. The AI went quiet, too cautious to speak.

Eventually, Serina stood. She brushed her cloak clean with a single sweep of the hand and turned her face toward the console, her expression already smoothing itself back into something precise and dangerous.

But the hand that touched the terminal still trembled, and the chocolate in her pocket—melted now—burned against her side like a scar.

And in the quiet, the phrase whispered from her own lips—unbidden, bitter, foreign, yet utterly her:

"Fate is the chain… duty the lock."

She didn't finish it aloud.

But the rest of it rang clearly in her mind:

No Chandrilan dies free.

And neither, it seemed, would she.