T h e F l a m e A s h y r a
*** This is a thread detailing and logging Anneliese’s trip to Quilura, her planet of origin and becoming known to herself as well as the tale of her taking the mantle among her clans and uniting them.
Hyperspace had its own kind of silence.
Not the soft kind that soothed, but the hollow kind—the one that crept into her chest and stayed there.
Anneliese sat alone in the cockpit of the Quasar, the pale light from the nav console washing over her face in fading blue. Outside, the galaxy stretched into ribbons of white, endless and indifferent. Inside, the only sound was the faint hum of the engines and the rhythmic tap of her thumb against the throttle.
She hadn't slept much. The air was too still, the quiet too full.
Each jump brought her closer to Qiilura—closer to the world that had once nearly destroyed her.
She reached over to the small holoprojector mounted on the console and hesitated. The button pulsed once beneath her fingertips before she pressed it.
A shimmer of blue light.
Then Valery appeared—composed, radiant, her features flickering softly in holographic relief. Her master. Her mentor. Her mother in all but blood.
"The Force is not only in the grand and the bright, Anneliese," Valery's voice murmured. "It breathes in the quiet between things. In waiting. In patience. Let it teach you who you are, not just what you must do."
The message looped for a moment, Valery's gaze lingering as though she were there—watching, proud, but worried too.
Anneliese swallowed hard. The sound of her own breath filled the cockpit.
Then she reached out and switched it off.
The light vanished.
She sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where her master's face had been.
It hurt—because Valery was her anchor. Her voice had steadied her when she'd first been branded. When she'd lost Roman. When the nightmares came.
But this journey… this one she had to walk alone. Looking back would only weaken her resolve.
She leaned back in the pilot's chair and exhaled through her nose, letting the silence return.
Hours bled into days.
To keep herself from unraveling, she fell into rhythm—routine.
Every morning she cleared the cargo hold, ignited her saber, and moved through the forms until sweat rolled down her spine and her arms trembled. Not for perfection. Just to feel alive.
When she was done, she'd collapse onto the deck and stare up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling to the ship's steady pulse.
Sometimes she'd catch her reflection in the viewport—a flash of green eyes, hollow with thought, and the faint shimmer of the crescent brand when she stretched.
In the afternoons she busied herself with work that didn't need doing. Calibrated the stabilizers. Cleaned the weapon rack twice. Reran diagnostics.
She even tried recording a log once—then deleted it halfway through.
At night, she'd sit by the observation window, watching the stars.
And when her mind wandered too far—when she thought of Isola's voice and the warmth of her hand on her jaw—she'd force herself to focus on the faint ticking of the nav computer instead.
This was the path she'd chosen. To go back. To find out what the name Kaohal really meant.
On the fourth day, Qiilura rose out of hyperspace like a ghost.
Soft green continents. Pale golden plains. Veins of river and forest cutting through clouds. The sight made her chest tighten. The last time she'd seen that horizon, it had been burning.
She steadied her breath.
"Here we are again," she whispered to no one.
The Quasar dipped through the atmosphere, the hum of descent filling her ears. Sunlight broke through clouds, washing the cockpit in gold. When she finally touched down, the ship settled with a low hiss, kicking up dust across an empty plain.
The ramp opened with a sigh.
Warm wind rushed in, carrying the scent of soil and something faintly sweet—like rain about to fall.
Anneliese stepped out barefoot.
Her boots hung over her shoulder, forgotten. The dirt felt strange beneath her feet—real, grounding, alive. She crouched down, running her fingers through the grass. The planet didn't remember her, but the Force did. It thrummed faintly beneath her skin, cautious… waiting.
Ahead, the world stretched quiet and endless. The horizon shimmered with heat. And there, standing alone like a monument to what once was, rose the Elder Tree.
She froze.
Once, this had been sacred ground—the heart of her people. Now its massive trunk was split and blackened, its roots sunken into the soil like the bones of a giant. The air around it felt heavier, older.
She walked toward it slowly, every step echoing the memory of her last visit. Roman's voice in the wind. The screech of the Nameless. The moment her body had changed, cracked open, the animal inside clawing its way free.
Her hands clenched.
"Alpha," they had called her then.
The word still felt foreign. A title she hadn't asked for, hadn't earned.
She reached the base of the tree and looked up. Runes etched into the bark flickered faintly beneath layers of soot. She brushed one clean with her thumb, tracing the lines until her eyes blurred.
From flame we are born, from flame we return.
Her breath hitched.
She sank to her knees, pressing her palm flat to the earth. The soil was cool, the hum beneath it alive but faint—like a pulse fading.
"I'm here," she whispered. "And I don't know where to begin." The wind stirred her hair across her face. Somewhere, far off in the distance, a lone howl cut through the silence—deep and mournful.
Her eyes lifted to the horizon.
The journey had begun.
Hyperspace had its own kind of silence.
Not the soft kind that soothed, but the hollow kind—the one that crept into her chest and stayed there.
Anneliese sat alone in the cockpit of the Quasar, the pale light from the nav console washing over her face in fading blue. Outside, the galaxy stretched into ribbons of white, endless and indifferent. Inside, the only sound was the faint hum of the engines and the rhythmic tap of her thumb against the throttle.
She hadn't slept much. The air was too still, the quiet too full.
Each jump brought her closer to Qiilura—closer to the world that had once nearly destroyed her.
She reached over to the small holoprojector mounted on the console and hesitated. The button pulsed once beneath her fingertips before she pressed it.
A shimmer of blue light.
Then Valery appeared—composed, radiant, her features flickering softly in holographic relief. Her master. Her mentor. Her mother in all but blood.
"The Force is not only in the grand and the bright, Anneliese," Valery's voice murmured. "It breathes in the quiet between things. In waiting. In patience. Let it teach you who you are, not just what you must do."
The message looped for a moment, Valery's gaze lingering as though she were there—watching, proud, but worried too.
Anneliese swallowed hard. The sound of her own breath filled the cockpit.
Then she reached out and switched it off.
The light vanished.
She sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where her master's face had been.
It hurt—because Valery was her anchor. Her voice had steadied her when she'd first been branded. When she'd lost Roman. When the nightmares came.
But this journey… this one she had to walk alone. Looking back would only weaken her resolve.
She leaned back in the pilot's chair and exhaled through her nose, letting the silence return.
Hours bled into days.
To keep herself from unraveling, she fell into rhythm—routine.
Every morning she cleared the cargo hold, ignited her saber, and moved through the forms until sweat rolled down her spine and her arms trembled. Not for perfection. Just to feel alive.
When she was done, she'd collapse onto the deck and stare up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling to the ship's steady pulse.
Sometimes she'd catch her reflection in the viewport—a flash of green eyes, hollow with thought, and the faint shimmer of the crescent brand when she stretched.
In the afternoons she busied herself with work that didn't need doing. Calibrated the stabilizers. Cleaned the weapon rack twice. Reran diagnostics.
She even tried recording a log once—then deleted it halfway through.
At night, she'd sit by the observation window, watching the stars.
And when her mind wandered too far—when she thought of Isola's voice and the warmth of her hand on her jaw—she'd force herself to focus on the faint ticking of the nav computer instead.
This was the path she'd chosen. To go back. To find out what the name Kaohal really meant.
On the fourth day, Qiilura rose out of hyperspace like a ghost.
Soft green continents. Pale golden plains. Veins of river and forest cutting through clouds. The sight made her chest tighten. The last time she'd seen that horizon, it had been burning.
She steadied her breath.
"Here we are again," she whispered to no one.
The Quasar dipped through the atmosphere, the hum of descent filling her ears. Sunlight broke through clouds, washing the cockpit in gold. When she finally touched down, the ship settled with a low hiss, kicking up dust across an empty plain.
The ramp opened with a sigh.
Warm wind rushed in, carrying the scent of soil and something faintly sweet—like rain about to fall.
Anneliese stepped out barefoot.
Her boots hung over her shoulder, forgotten. The dirt felt strange beneath her feet—real, grounding, alive. She crouched down, running her fingers through the grass. The planet didn't remember her, but the Force did. It thrummed faintly beneath her skin, cautious… waiting.
Ahead, the world stretched quiet and endless. The horizon shimmered with heat. And there, standing alone like a monument to what once was, rose the Elder Tree.
She froze.
Once, this had been sacred ground—the heart of her people. Now its massive trunk was split and blackened, its roots sunken into the soil like the bones of a giant. The air around it felt heavier, older.
She walked toward it slowly, every step echoing the memory of her last visit. Roman's voice in the wind. The screech of the Nameless. The moment her body had changed, cracked open, the animal inside clawing its way free.
Her hands clenched.
"Alpha," they had called her then.
The word still felt foreign. A title she hadn't asked for, hadn't earned.
She reached the base of the tree and looked up. Runes etched into the bark flickered faintly beneath layers of soot. She brushed one clean with her thumb, tracing the lines until her eyes blurred.
From flame we are born, from flame we return.
Her breath hitched.
She sank to her knees, pressing her palm flat to the earth. The soil was cool, the hum beneath it alive but faint—like a pulse fading.
"I'm here," she whispered. "And I don't know where to begin." The wind stirred her hair across her face. Somewhere, far off in the distance, a lone howl cut through the silence—deep and mournful.
Her eyes lifted to the horizon.
The journey had begun.