Private From Industry, Empire

[Darth Prazutis]

Dromund Kaas greeted no traveler with warmth. As her shuttle pierced the veil of the planet's eternal storm rumblin high above, the first thing Ivalyn Yvarro would see were the angry clouds, bloated with thunder and stitched together with veins of frenzied, violet lightning. The sky was a writhing tapestry of dark fury, the very atmosphere seemed to scream with unspent wrath. Even before her vessel broke the cloud line, the Force began to whisper, insidious and alive. Not the wild, untamed call of nature, but this was something orchestrated. Something…owned. And then it came into view.

New Kaas City, the Shadowed Dominion.

It spanned the horizon like a mechanical god sprawled across the world, stretching outward in all directions as far as the eye could see across this vast continent, breaking the very horizon. Vast monolithic towers of Blackstone and durasteel rose like jagged spires from the earth, their sharp angles biting into the storm-choked skies above. The buildings were immense and cold, carved in a unique style that blended Neo Panathan Brutalism with Sith glory, massive blocks of architecture flanked by crimson lit obelisks and adorned with immense murals depicting conquest, dominion, and obedience. This city was unlike every iteration before it in grandeur as well as sheer scale. There was no mistaking whose dominion this was, who lorded over this place for it was a great monument to the might of the Sith Order. High above, crimson banners bearing the sigil of the Kainate whipped violently in the winds, illuminated by the ever present arcs of lightning flashes. There was no mere beauty here no. This was only awe. The shuttle banked low, flying over great black arterial highways where endless columns of vehicles moved with mechanical precision. Infantry units in midnight armor patrolled every street corner, their presence marked by glowing visors and harsh discipline. Drones circled like vultures overhead in perfect geometric patterns. The city was alive with the hustle and bustle of the crowds. Its immensity reached such a height even the jungles remained visible, a unique blend of civilization and wilderness as the city overtook everything in sight. Statues of Dark Lords of the Sith, both towering and unblinking, watched over the city constantly with silent judgment, some were so tall they seemed to disappear into the very clouds above. Every citizen, every movement, every breath was cataloged, disciplined. Order here was absolute. Fear was institutional, every move was calculated. And in the very heart of this monolithic city, it stood.

The Sith Citadel.

No holovids, ancient records, or distant memory could do justice to the behemoth of darkness that loomed at the city's heart. The Citadel didn't simply dominate the skyline, it consumed it, devoured it rising into the clouds above. Carved from black iron, obsidian, and alchemical stone, the massive fortress rose like a vast mountain sculpted by pure hate itself. It was a continent of a fortress, walled in by barriers thirty meters thick and a hundred meters tall, each etched with burning runes that pulsed like veins beneath a creature's flesh. Behind the vast walls it was like a different world, the realm of living gods separated from the megacity around it. Above its gates, the crest of the Dyarchy was emblazoned proudly: two crowns, eclipsing a bleeding star. The shuttle descended toward one of the heavily fortified landing platforms situated on the Citadel's upper tiers. There, among the wind-lashed towers and the scream of high-altitude gusts, she would disembark, only to be met immediately by a cadre of Koshûtaral Sentinels, statuesque warriors in crimson, their eyes hidden behind unblinking helms. They did not speak. They did not move save to open a path. Around them were Paladin Synthmarines, ARAC-6 Spiderbots, and the drone legions of war, all standing vigil for the arrived guest. She was expected. They would escort her through into the very depths of the great citadel. The immensity of it couldn't be properly put into words, shadows dominated everything here, and the light itself seemed like nothing more than a fleeting minority. The very air inside the Citadel was heavier, denser, charged with a dark pressure that gnawed at the mind and twisted the soul. Whispers haunted the air. Echoes of past rituals, voices of Sith long dead, trapped in the stone like flies in amber.

Still, deeper she descended, down corridors lit by ghost-flame torches that flickered in unnatural rhythms, past vast windows of black crystal that gazed out upon the endless storm-drenched sprawl of New Kaas City below. Along the halls stood the Crownguard, towering in their black warplate, motionless sentinels beneath crimson banners that looked like nothing more than statues. In other wings around them, the shadows continually shifted with unnatural cadence, and sometimes the glint of bestial eyes flickered around her in the dark, stalking terrors of flesh and sorcery that prowled the hidden places of the Citadel. Feral sounds and distant, seismic stomps echoed faintly through the stone and steel, reminders that this place was more than fortress, it was a nightmarish world within a world, a dominion of monsters and Sith, a fortress world within a fortress world. But despite their gazes, nothing dared approach her. It was as if her presence was authorized, expected, and this expectation hammered deep into their minds enough to only pass her a glance as she moved. Then, at last, she came upon it: the Black Nexus.

The door itself loomed impossibly tall and wide, forged from obsidian laced with crimson circuitry, they were carved with ancient Sith runes whose meanings had been lost to time. It did not open with a hiss of hydraulics, but with a deep, resonant groan, as if some unseen will had commanded it so, not through sensors, but sorcery. Inside, the chamber was a void of light, vast and circular, the walls that pulsed faintly like the veins of a great sleeping giant. Crimson holomaps and rotating starfields hovered effortlessly in the air, plotting galactic conflict in true, real time; ghostly fleets drifted in orbit above black-glass tables, they vanished in silent explosions and reappeared elsewhere. The ceiling vanished into the looming darkness above, from which hung ancient, tattered banners of great Sith warlords long dead, their symbols glowing faintly like watchful eyes. Four Sentinel Obelisks stood at the corners of the chamber, monolithic and silent, etched in wards said to awaken should betrayal be spoken aloud.

Right at the center stood the Grand Strategic Table, it was a polished disc of obsidian veined with alchemical red circuitry, ringed by hololithic glyphs and battle projections. It did not respond to touch, but to will, to thought, to dominance. The floor beneath bore a massive rune circle, etched in gleaming silver and iron, a battlefield diagram turned ritual sigil. A blend of dark technology with pure sorcery. Although no one stood within the chamber to greet her, the woman wouldn't feel alone. The shadows were too still. The silence too full. The will of the Dark Lord of the Sith, the Shadow Hand of the Kainate was already here, it loomed in the unseen pressures that clung to the mind, to the whispers that seeped into one's bones. This was the place where wars were waged before they even began, where enemies were defeated before they ever took the field. It was a general's dream, an admirals wonders given shape, everything a ruler could ever ask for.

Ivalyn Yvarro ​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Ivalyn wasn't sure what she was expecting when she had thought this whole thing up. Somewhere in her desire to increase the Commonwealth's political alliances and trade. She thought it keen to reach out to Dromund Kaas. Although such an idea eluded her now, perhaps she thought something possible. As Dromund Kaas greeted her, she exhaled. This world she recalled had survived quite the tragedy one wrought upon it by Mandalorians. Yet now it stood as a prison, even from within the sealed comfort of her shuttle. Ivalyn could feel the weight of the world pressing down on her. Oppressive, suffocating, as though the air itself resented her presence.

The storm churned above like a living beast, violent and unpredictable. Yet, somehow controlled, this was no natural chaos. it was curated, orchestrated, owned. It reminded her partially of the reason why she was here. The Commonwealth could forge the machinations that would afford Dromund Kaas no matter how suffocating. The means to power itself, through a system that would harness the worlds own storms to its advantages.

As the clouds partned and New Kaas City revealed itself in all its gloom. Ivalyn's breath slowed, and she thought this was less of a city and more of a shadowed dominion. A name Ivalyn felt suited the place more, as the city stretched endlessly, swallowing the horizon with its jagged spires and obsidian monoliths. Towers of Blackstone and durasteel jutted skyward like broken teeth, illuminated by crimson obelisks that bled the light into the choking storm.

Statues of Sith Lords loomed, towering so high their crowns seemed to pierce the clouds themselves, with their blank, unfeeling stares casting judgment over all who dared tread below. Ivalyn longed for this trip to be over. She wanted to be back in the Commonwealth where color, life, laughter and love were had. Dromund Kaas seemed especially designed to deprive you of every single one of those things. It was monstrous in its precision. There was no trace of joy here, no frivolity, no indulgence in beauty for beauty's sake. Every building, every street on every corner, dark-visored and motionless statues. Drones circled above, tracing mathematical patterns like vultures waiting for something to die.

Ivalyn's fingers drummed idly against her palm. What a miserable place to call home. Skótini̱ kai psýchri̱ érimos... san ta fýlakas mías chamenís psychís.

Even the jungles that fought to reclaim parts of the city felt suffocated, hemmed in by the iron will of the Sith. New Kaas was no marvel. It was a prison, one too immense for its inhabitats to even recognize the bars.

At the center of it rising like a black mountain carved from pure hate stood, the Citadel.

It didn't simply dominate the skyline; it consumed it. Towering spires and jagged ramparts clawed at the storm-wracked sky. Its walls immense enough ot make a warship seem small. Black iron and alchemical stone seemed to drink in the light, the runes carved into the fortress walls pulsing like veins under skin. Even from distance, Ivalyn could feel it. The gnawing presence of something vast and unnatural, pressing against her thoughts like a hand against her throat.

Instinctively her fingers drifted toward the, kapnóvlions in her pocket, the cigarras that she had become increasingly reliant on these days. Ivalyn however stopped herself before she could curl her fingers around the case. No weakness, not here, not in this place.

The shuttle touched down, the violent winds buffeting against the hull as the ramp lowered, Imperial Guards disembarked the shuttle first, chosen from within the Janissaries. The Belisarius Guard were her personal guards. They held what were for the most part standard Nocturne Black uniforms. The uniforms however had accents of deep crimson and gold, symbolizing their elite status and unwavering loyalty.

The sentinels were there to meet her, statuesque warriors in crimson, their faceless helms gleaming ilke blood-polished glass. They said nothing, not that they needed to . The message was clear: You are here because we allow it.

The Citadel swallowed her whole.

The air was thicker here, dense and charged with an oppressive, unnatural weight. The shadows stretched too long, clinging to corners like something half-alive. The torches that lined the walls flickered with unnatural rhythm — their pale ghost-light fighting to exist in the suffocating gloom.

Ivalyn's heels clicked against polished stone as she followed the Sentinels deeper — down, always down. The deeper they went, the less the place resembled a palace or fortress. No, this was something far older — a pit, a lair, a tomb.

The Kainate's heart.

The Crownguard stood along the walls — giants in black warplate, motionless and unblinking. Each stood like a monument unto themselves — reminders of what loyalty in this place demanded.

In the distance, a faint snarl echoed — something feral and twisted prowling the shadowed halls. Ivalyn felt it — the sensation of eyes on her. Something watching from the dark, something with teeth. It never revealed itself, yet the sound lingered — just enough to remind her what kind of place this was.

The whispers came next — faint, hissing voices that wormed their way beneath her thoughts. They whispered things she knew weren't true — doubts, insecurities, old memories she had buried long ago. Your mother would have never let this happen. You are not her. You are not enough.

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. This place wants you afraid, she reminded herself. It thrives on it.

The corridor opened at last into a vast, circular chamber — the Black Nexus.

The walls pulsed faintly like living veins. The air vibrated with unseen power — a pressure that gnawed at the edges of her mind. Crimson holomaps flickered above a black-glass table — entire fleets spiraling and shifting in orchestrated patterns, disappearing in silent explosions only to reappear elsewhere. Starfields rotated lazily, plotting endless conflicts yet to be fought. Your mother would have never let this happen. You are not her. You are not enough.

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. This place wants you afraid, she reminded herself. It thrives on it.

But it was the silence that unsettled her most. No one stood in the room — yet she knew she was not alone. The air watched her — the unseen presence of Darth Prazutis clinging to her thoughts like cold iron.

Her gaze drifted to the great obsidian table at the room's heart. It shimmered faintly with crimson circuitry, its surface waiting — not for touch, but for will. For dominance.

This, she thought grimly, is what the Sith call power.

It was monstrous — a place where wars were orchestrated long before soldiers ever took the field. A place where death was calculated with cold precision. A place where destruction began not with ships or soldiers, but with whispered commands.

Ivalyn swallowed the lingering taste of dread and straightened her shoulders. Her grandmother's voice echoed in her mind: Power is not in the hand that holds the blade — but in the mind that tells it when to strike.

Fine, Ivalyn thought grimly. Let's see what this mind has to say.

Flanked by her personal guard, Ivalyn pressed ahead.

Darth Prazutis ​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The silence did not break. It shifted. It came like tectonic weight that was slowly settling into place, the presence that clung to the air thickened then, watchful, patient, absolute. The Black Nexus didn't announce the arrival of its master with any sound or spectacle. It didn't need to. The Force twisted. The shadows recoiled. All of a sudden, he was simply there. Not with the motion of any footsteps, there was no hiss of a door sliding open, it was as if reality itself had chosen t acknowledge him then. One moment, the room was completely empty. The next? It was full.

The Dark Lord of the Sith, Shadow Hand of the Kainate Darth Prazutis stood behind the command table.

Clad in the Zâvrai Kôzkar, black robes that were woven from abyssal shadow and death itself, weaving sorcery and malice into every strand of cloth. The mantle seemed to shift and move like it breathed, like it was alive, absorbing light as if it loathed any illumination, determined to choke the brightness out of its very presence. Faint whispers came then, impossible to place, yet undeniable, these voices seemed to curl at the edge of hearing. The dead didn't rest in these robes. They watched.

The Shadow Hand didn't speak at first.

He merely watched.

His presence was a vast, great vortex, a devouring gravity that pressed down over the room like the weight of the void itself. The very air around him seemed to grow significantly colder. The lights around, above them dimmed, though none of them flickered. The giant's gaze, those twin molten orbs that burned like suns set in a chiseled face framed in shadow, locked on Ivalyn like chains around a throat. She wasn't seen. She was measured. Weighed.

Only once the silence had done its work, once it had gnawed its way into the very corners of thought, did his voice finally come.

It wasn't loud, it didn't come rushed. It spoke like iron being dragged across cold stone. "You did not tremble." A beat followed. Not praise. Not yet. "That is more than most bring into this chamber." One gauntleted hand rose, more claw than glove, its fingers trailing motes of shadowy light as they moved ever so slightly. The holomaps shifted at his command, entire fleets rearranging in eerie silence. The projection of Dromund Kaas rotated into view, a storm-wracked sphere cloaked in dominion and defiance.

"You speak of trade. Of systems. Of industry." The Dark Lord's tone remained impassive. But the weight behind his words made it clear, they weren't dismissive no. They were evaluated, carefully chosen. "Before we discuss what may be built, Lady Yvarro…you must understand what has already been forged." He stepped forward then. The shadows curled tighter at his approach, the temperature dropping even lower still in his wak. The robes moved as if with thought, sentience, driven not by wind, they whispered across the blackstone as if dragging unseen chains behind them. The Undying King didn't shake the floor, but somehow, it felt like the ground itself shifted in deference to his footsteps. "This world is not powered by faith. It is not driven by loyalty. It does not bend to treaties or titles or good intentions."

"It obeys only power." Another pause, more silence swept through the chamber. The Force itself seemed to coil tighter, pulled taut around his very words, rushing to his side. "So tell me, daughter of order, voice of industry…" A whisper of cold, a breath of dread.

"What exactly do you believe you can offer me?"

Ivalyn Yvarro ​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Darth Prazutis ​

Ivalyn Yvarro did not shrink beneath the weight of the Dark Lord's presence, but neither did she fool herself into thinking she could stand unmoved by it. The air clung to her skin like frost, biting and invasive, gnawing at her bones with unnatural chill. The whispers, faint yet persistent, curled at the edges of her mind, scratching against her thoughts like nails on glass. Still, her spine remained straight, her expression composed, her chin held high.

She exhaled slowly, as if releasing the tension coiled in her chest. Her grandmother had spoken of men like this, beings who cloaked themselves in shadow and fear, who wielded power not simply as a tool, but as a weapon meant to suffocate and consume. Men who needed no raised voice to command, because their very presence declared dominion.

But her grandmother had also taught her something else, power, no matter how absolute it seemed, could always be negotiated with.

"Power may be what this world obeys," Ivalyn began at last, her voice measured, deliberate. "But power alone will not sustain it."

She shifted her gaze, slowly, to the swirling projection of Dromund Kaas, its storm-wracked surface like a wound torn across the galaxy's map.

"This," her eyes narrowed on the planetary image, "this world is choking on its own defiance. Dromund Kaas has endured siege, conquest, devastation, yet here it still stands, a monument to Sith will. But monuments can crumble. What power sustains can also suffocate."

She allowed a pause, one carefully measured to let her words settle.

"I've done my research, pollution levels that blacken the skies and poison the air. Disease festering in sectors where the factories burn too hot and the rain falls acidic. No world, not even this one, can endure that indefinitely."

Another pause — longer this time. She let her gaze drift back to the Dark Lord, meeting those molten eyes that burned like twin suns. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the cold grip of his presence. But she did not falter.

"You asked what I believe I can offer you," Ivalyn continued, her voice taking on a subtle edge, one that cut sharper beneath her otherwise composed tone. "I offer you time."

Her fingers brushed lightly over the datapad at her side, and the projection shifted — no longer displaying only the storm-choked world of Dromund Kaas, but something more intricate. A sleek web of towers, conduits, and processing stations, Atmospheric Carbon Purification and Filtration Systems, the culmination of Commonwealth engineering and ingenuity.

"This," she gestured to the projection, "is the Commonwealth's latest advancement in carbon purification. Efficient, durable, and scalable. A network of these systems could reverse the environmental degradation plaguing Kaas City's industries. Clean air, clean water, these are not acts of charity, they are investments. They are what ensures your war machine continues to turn, your industries continue to expand. What use is power," her gaze hardened just slightly, "if it suffocates you in your sleep?"

Ivalyn allowed the silence to stretch once more before continuing, softer now, but no less firm. "The Commonwealth does not seek dominion here. We have no ambitions to control Dromund Kaas. But commerce, industry these are things we understand. You hold the strength to command, my lord, but I can give you something more, longevity. Not survival, endurance."

She took a step forward, her voice lowering in pitch. "A world this powerful should not be fighting for breath. Let us help you make it stronger, so that it may remain unconquerable for generations to come."

Her hands clasped neatly before her once more, and she waited. Ivalyn knew better than to assume her words would impress him. But power, true power, knew when to listen.

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The silence that followed her words was not empty. It was deliberate. Measured. Like a blade raised, not yet swung. The Black Nexus did not react, not visibly. But the Force did. It thickened again, not with malice… but with consideration. Like a great beast deciding whether to devour or employ. Darth Prazutis did not move for several long seconds. When he did the giant made a slight gesture with his hand towards the table, and it's projections parted at his command. The projection of Dromund Kaas shimmered in static as the storm-wracked world gave way to Ivalyn's diagrams, her web of towers, conduits, purifiers. Her vision. Her proposal. His molten gaze remained fixed on it, unreadable, as the glow of data flickered across the sculpted lines of his face. "You speak like a merchant." Prazutis said at last. The Dark Lord's voice was low. Controlled. A glacier given sound. "But you think like a warlord."

He looked to her now, not simply at her, but into her. Measuring depth in his honed gaze, not just intention. It was among the true gifts of the Shadow Hand to read people so thoroughly. "Dromund Kaas does not bend to breathless sermons or ideals. It breathes storms. It drinks fire. It survives. But what you offer…" A pause. There was a slight tilt of his head then. "What you offer may be a weapon that does not look like one." The hologram twisted then as its towers turned red. "Clean air is not charity." He echoed her words, with a touch of iron. "It is supply chain. It is workforce. It is obedience through stability." Then the glow faded, and he stepped closer still, just enough so that the air pressed colder against her skin. Not hostility, nor intimidation. Not yet. But a reminder. "But understand this, Lady Yvarro." The Dark Lord paused then, waiting in the pregnant silence before once more resuming his speech, words falling swiftly. "If your technology fails, if these machines grind, sputter, or poison in their attempt to purify, the Kainate has a long memory, we do not forget." The words were subtle, but the implications were there.

A beat. Then a gesture, open-palmed this time, like an iron gauntlet welcoming fire. The Shadow Hand was never one to waste time, his honed gaze could easily pull apart any issue. Governance was among his gifts and the Kainate was founded and ran on many of the systems he put in place. "You will submit a prototype for immediate deployment. One sector. One storm-ridden borough of my choosing. You will oversee it. Personally. If it brings breath to Dromund Kaas…the Kainate will remember who gave it lungs. Large scale deployment will become a reality, and then the Kainate, and the Commonwealth will forge enduring ties." The words fell with the force of a crashing anvil, a judgement.

"You came with promise. Now comes price."

The Shadow Hand continued to speak his voice dropping lower in a quieter tone, but it was no less immense. "Do this, and you may find this world does not merely tolerate you…it may begin to require you." The deal was not merely struck. When the Sith Dyarchy spoke it was decreed.

Ivalyn Yvarro ​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Ivalyn Yvarro stood poised, her expression a study in composed attentiveness as Darth Prazutis's words settled over the chamber like a gathering storm. The air between them seemed to thrum with the weight of unspoken challenges and veiled promises.

With a measured breath, she inclined her head, acknowledging both the gravity of his decree and the opportunity it presented.

"My Lord Prazutis, your discernment honors me," she began, her voice a harmonious blend of deference and quiet resolve. "To view Dromund Kaas not merely as a planet to be healed, but as a force to be reckoned with, a crucible that tempers all who dwell upon it, is a perspective both profound and apt."

She allowed a brief pause, her gaze unwavering as she met his molten eyes.

"I accept your terms without reservation. A prototype shall be developed and deployed within the sector of your choosing. I will personally oversee its implementation, ensuring that each component functions with the precision and reliability that such an endeavor demands."

Her hands, rested lightly upon the table's edge, fingers interlaced, a picture of composed determination.

"Should this initiative succeed, as I am confident it will, it is my hope that the resultant prosperity will not only fortify Dromund Kaas but also serve as a testament to the strength found in our alliance. The Commonwealth stands ready to contribute its ingenuity and resources to the Empire's enduring legacy."

Another pause, deliberate and thoughtful.

"I am acutely aware of the gravity of this undertaking and the expectations that accompany it. Rest assured, failure is not a concept I entertain lightly. The Commonwealth has a long memory as well, and we are committed to honoring our commitments with unwavering diligence."


With that, she inclined her head once more, a gesture of both respect and resolve, before settling into a composed silence, awaiting further discourse.

Darth Prazutis ​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The silence that followed her final words was not passive. It was deliberate. An unseen force settled over the chamber like the slow descent of a monolith, the looming of a tall mountain, heavy and eternal. There was no wind here, no movement, only the quiet thrumming of power restrained. Yet even in stillness, the presence of Darth Prazutis was suffocating. He stood unmoving, massive beside the large table in the center of the room, the mantle of the Shadow Reign cloaking his colossal form in living shadow. Darkness wound around him like a crown, not chaotic, but obedient. Purposeful. The very air seemed to thrum by his will, even to the uninitiated in the force, it would be prevalent just how much dominion over it this individual commanded. The giants eyes, twin suns, remained fixed on her. Watching. Measuring. "Then it is decided." The Shadow Hand's voice emerged not with volume, but with gravity. Each word fell like a slab of blackstone onto the foundations of something newly built. No flourish. No preamble. Only the sound of judgment being rendered into law. "You will be granted a sector in Kaas City's eastern industrial quarter, where the old manufactories once stood. You will have access to the infrastructure. The labor. The power grid. You will be watched. Security will be provided. Interference will be met with silence." Prazutis finished, taking a single step forward as he did so. The chamber seemed to breathe with him.

Light dimmed where he passed, not extinguished, but cowed, bent. The air grew thicker then, it was as if reality itself knew what was being spoken now would not be undone. Prazutis moved with the inevitability of stone, the will of empire carved into flesh. "Dromund Kaas is not soil to be tilled. It is stone that remembers. It resists intrusion. It tests resolve. You do not cure this world, you command it. You will seize breath from poisoned air, not by design, but by dominion." Another pause, long and cold. "If you succeed, your work will not be praised. It will be expected. It will be absorbed into the strength of this world as if it had always been here. That is how Dromund Kaas remembers worth." Prazutis turned slightly now, not dismissing her, but realigning the chamber's pressure, like tectonic plates shifting beneath a mountain. "Should it fail, this world will not forget. It will swallow the effort. The steel. The name. And salt the ground with the memory of the attempt." Then quieter, yet somehow heavier:

"It has done so before." The mantle around his shoulders whispered as it moved, voices, shapes, things seen only from the edge of vision. The giant's presence was not static; it layered. Now? One final layer settled into place. Recognition. "You came to forge a partnership. You now have a proving ground. The Kainate has given you access. It will not give again lightly." He looked directly into her eyes now. The air between them felt sharp, as though the very Force was held on the edge of a knife. "Deliver. And you will not have to ask for more. You will be invited." Then? The shadows around them shifted once more. Not closing. But watching.

"The Kainate does not forget. Nor do I. Your success will be remembered, and we will continue to do great things together." No more words followed. Because none were needed.

Ivalyn Yvarro ​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

902 ABY, -4 BSE​

Ivalyn endured the silence that followed, but did not move to fill it.

Instead, she stood there unmoved at the center of the vast chamber, her posture immaculate and hands folded neatly before her. The woman had been in the presence of other beings, even powerful ones. While the stillness that came from Ivalyn could be interpreted as uncertainty. Here, before the Shadow Hand himself, it was a strategy. Each breath she took was deliberate, and even the steadiness of her gaze was a calculation.

When the decree came, it landed as expected: absolute, irrefutable. The weight of his judgment pressed against the very air, carving her path with the same ruthless finality that built empires and razed them in the same breath. She did not flinch. That, she knew, would be remembered too.

"I understand," she said at last, her voice as steady and unhurried as his own had been, though notably warmer, like brushed velvet over steel. "Dromund Kaas demands not mercy, nor sentimentality, but proof. Let this then be mine."

Her gaze lingered on the projections, on the glimmer of Kaas City's eastern sector, once blackened by industry, now offered as a crucible. There was no pretension in her next words, only an earned confidence, born not of pride, but preparation.

"We will begin within the week. Specialists are already en route. The systems, the turbines, the sensors, all of it will be overseen by myself and my chief engineer. You will have no need to send eyes. We will make certain you see."

She allowed a breath to pass, not out of hesitation, but to temper the rising certainty in her chest. There would be no congratulations, no laurels. Not here. Not ever. That too, she accepted.

"Dromund Kaas does not forget," she echoed, her tone quiet, reverent, almost as her gaze met the Shadow Hand's directly. "Nor shall I."

A pause, longer this time. Then a subtle shift in her voice. Not retreat, but redirection. There was power in humility when it was worn with purpose.

"I thank you, Lord Prazutis," she said with a slight dip of her head. "For the opportunity. For your trust, however conditional. I intend to be worthy of the memory this world keeps."

There was nothing more to say , not yet. She would not gild what had already been cast in iron. Instead, with a final incline of her head and the whispering movement of her cloak, Ivalyn stepped back from the table, turned on her heel, and left the chamber with the measured grace of someone walking toward the fire she'd chosen, and meant to master.

Darth Prazutis ​