Private Legends Written in Ruins

[Varin Mortifer]

The ripple sent a slight vibration through his body as he drew closer to the archway. He lightly placed his hand upon it as if to feel its source of power. It called to him. Beckoned him.

He was ready for the next trial. Or so he believed.

The caverns begun to shift. The whispering darkness of the planet slowly funneled into him as the cavern changed. A hiss of a lightsaber ripped away his attention to her as the archway shun a white color.

He could hear that voice. His yelling. The Jedi who cut his blood line down.

“No…”

His breathing shook and begun to quicken as the image of his castles great halls started to ink into what seemed reality.

“It…it isn't possible…”

His fists tightened as his body froze. The sounds of screams, blaster fire, slug throwers and artillery began to fill the air as the hall shook from the violence.

“What is this?!”

His voice was harsh as his eyes darted. Each face running by him was a blur with a hint of familiarity, like a detailed dream. No, like a detailed nightmare.

His head jerked into the direction of a loud crash as he relived his father clad in dark heavy armor wielding a mace, leap towards a drop ship. Slamming the heavy weapon into its blast shield, shattering the glass like fragile crystal.

The ship spiraled and fell to the ground in a mass explosion.

“No, no, no.”

He mumbled to himself as he looked down the hall, almost like he knew where to look to see his younger self with his younger sister run down the hall with their bodyguard droid, CC-14.

“Not that way!”

He raised his voice as he stepped forward in an attempt to intercept them. The rage within him began to boil and writhe like a living thing. His brands lit aflame burning away his shirt.

“STOP!”

His voice echoed towards the siblings to no avail.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not recoil from the shift.

She felt the archway flare the instant his hand touched it—the way the Force snapped from dormant memory into active recall. This was not an illusion crafted for spectacle. This was a reclamation. Malachor was not showing Varin a vision; it was returning him to a moment the planet itself remembered.

Her attention never left him, even as the cavern dissolved into stone halls and fire. "Varin," she said, sharply enough to cut through the rising chaos, but not loud. She did not compete with the screams. She anchored beneath them. "This is not happening again."

The white glare of the saber reflected across her eyes as she stepped closer, shadows tightening instinctively around her form—not to hide, but to contain. She could feel the pull of the memory dragging at him, trying to lock him into the role he had once been forced to play: witness, victim, survivor without agency.

"Malachor does not create," she continued, voice steady despite the violence unfolding around them. "It exhumes. It digs until it finds what still has teeth."

When he surged forward, when his rage flared, and the brands ignited, Seren reached out—not to stop him, not to restrain, but to ground. Her hand closed around his forearm, firm, deliberate, the cool pressure cutting through the heat radiating from his skin. "Look at me," she said, and this time there was no uncertainty in it. "Not them."

The screams echoed. The crash of the dropship thundered through the false hall. His younger self ran past, untouched by their presence, unhearing. Seren did not follow the motion. She knew better. "You cannot save what has already been taken," she said quietly, closer now, her voice threading through the memory like a blade through smoke. "But you can decide what this moment is allowed to claim from you."

The shadows responded to her will, not striking, not obscuring—but dimming the edges of the vision, blunting its grip. Not enough to end it. Enough to keep him from being swallowed whole. "This trial is not asking you to stop it," Seren said. "It is asking whether you will kneel to it."

Her gaze held his, unflinching even as the fire roared around them. "You are not that child anymore," she said, and this time there was something personal in it—earned, not assumed. "And this memory does not command you."

She tightened her grip just enough to be felt. "Stay here," Seren said firmly. "With me. Let the vision rage. Let it show everything it has."

A pause. Then, softer—not weak, but precise. "If it wants to break you, it will have to do so while you are standing."

The memory continued to burn. But it had not won yet.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Her voice fell on deaf ears, at first. His attention on his home coming undone before him once again.

“I can redirect them, I can show them another way out!”

He spoke to her as his voice tightened around his throat, a choke of a breath leading him as he watched the siblings disappear into the halls, carnage following.

“Look at me.”

Her hand found his arm, burning with a rage long held into his body as she spoke. The shadows attempting to cool the brands as a mist began to hold into the air.

“Not them.”

His teeth grounded together as he repressed the urge for violence. He knew deep down she was right, this was not an illusion. It was a reliving. The heat, the sound of screams, the shaking. It was all real again. His fists tightened and shook as he tried to hold himself back.

He then heard it.

“Children!”

The voice of the Jedi echoed through the halls as he stepped into view. His white saber shone in the halls. Varin watched his cut down servants and bystanders as they ran past him. Faces and voices of people he knew and were close to. The ache in his chest reverberated through his being as he tried to step forward again, struggling between grounding or movement.

The Jedi's dark dreads dangled to the side as he looked in Varin's general direction, like he knew Varin was on the other side of the room. The look in the Jedi's violet eyes reflected that of unwavering merciless slaughter.

Varin glared at him as he watched the Jedi begin to follow the children. Varin listened as the Jedi's yells echoed through the halls.

“I…I need to see it happen, Seren.”

His voice faltered. The dry feeling in his throat made it hard to swallow or speak.

“I have to watch them all die, don't I?”

He looked down at her, the molten glow of his eyes shining on her and her alone.

“I can't intervene when it happens either can I?”

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not answer him immediately.

She did not rush to soothe, nor did she look away from what was unfolding around them. Her hand remained on his arm—steady, anchoring—not to restrain him, but to remind him where he stood now. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, even, carrying through the chaos without rising to meet it.

"No," she said quietly. "You cannot intervene." The truth was not softened—but neither was it cruel. Her grip tightened just slightly, enough for him to feel intention behind it.

"This is not a test of strength," Seren continued. "Nor of will. It is a confrontation." She shifted so that she was directly in his line of sight when he looked down at her, forcing the present to exist alongside the memory rather than be consumed by it.

"What you are witnessing is already complete," she said. "The planet is not asking you to change it. It is asking whether you will let it define you." The screams echoed again. The white blade cut through another figure. Seren did not flinch.

"You are here to endure it," she went on, measured and precise. "To watch without surrendering yourself to the hunger it offers in return." Her thumb pressed lightly against his arm—grounding, deliberate.

"If you turn away, Malachor will follow you with it," Seren said. "If you give in to violence, it will claim you as it has claimed so many others." She held his gaze, unblinking. "And if you stand," she added softly, "if you witness without becoming what it wants you to be—then this memory loses its power to command you."

A pause. Then, quieter still: "You do not watch because they must die," Seren said. "You watch because you lived." Her voice did not waver.

"I will not interfere," she said honestly. "But you are not facing this alone." She stayed where she was—not shielding him, not saving him, witnessing—with him.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin watched as the memory unfolded before him. His emotions were still high, but he decided to take a step towards the halls. Not in a rush to stop anything. He moved to face the inevitable. His voice was low.

“Then endure it, I shall.”

He stopped just inside the hall where he could see his mother, the moment she was shot. The echo of the slug thrower sliced through the surrounding sounds. Then she dropped to the floor.

Varin's fists tightened so his nails dug into his palms, forcing droplets of blood to the ground. He watched as the Jedi shifted his attention from her to the siblings. Younger Varin holding his ground against him, but the Jedi prevailed.

Before the final blow was struck Varin's Father grabbed the Jedi's blade, flinging him across the hall. The siblings ran out of the palace and into the massive burning garden. The giant center Oak was aflame.

The screams and blaster fire faded as the environment faded to shadow. All that remained was the massive oak. Wrapped around the trunk and some branches are four black chains that bind another version of Varin to the tree. One arm, both legs and his throat have a chain wrapped around it. His right arm is free.

“What the…”

The bound Varin slowly looked up to him, eyes feral, wings of flame bound to his back and a singular horn stretches from his brow.

He then heard a familiar, rumbling deep voice like transitioning tectonic plates.

“I warned you of searching boy.”

A flash of lightning lit up the sky as within the clouds he could see a massive reptilian head, draconic in nature, looking down at them. Its eyes like dying stars.

“What are you doing in my court?”

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not move to stop him.

She remained just outside the threshold of the hall, grounded and attentive, watching the vision complete its turn—not with detachment, but with the careful restraint of a scholar who understood when not to intrude. Trials of this depth were not disrupted by comfort or command. They were answered by presence alone.

When the hall collapsed into shadow, and the burning oak remained, her focus sharpened.

Chains. A mirrored self. Fire bound—not extinguished, not unleashed.

As the sky split and the draconic presence revealed itself, Seren did not look away. The name did not need to be spoken for her to recognize the nature of what stood before them. This was no opportunistic predator and no foreign intrusion. It was a nexus of identity—an answering force given form because Varin had reached a depth where such truths responded.

Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but steady enough to anchor the space.

"This is not an interruption," Seren said, not to instruct but to orient. "And it is not punishment."

She took a single step closer—not toward the chained figure, but toward him—careful not to cross the invisible boundary of the trial itself.

"What you are seeing is how your power understands itself," she continued evenly. "Not as memory… but as relationship."

Her gaze traced the bindings with deliberate attention: the throat, the limbs, the single arm left free. She did not rush the observation. Trials like this did not waste detail.

"The bindings matter," Seren observed softly. "You are not caged entirely. Only constrained where surrender would be easiest."

She did not acknowledge Ignati directly. Entities like this fed on recognition. She would not grant it without purpose.

"This presence is not here to steal the trial from you," she said with quiet certainty. "If it wished to rule this space, you would not be standing."

Her attention returned to the bound reflection—the flame-winged version of Varin straining against its restraints.

"That figure is not what you fear becoming," Seren continued. "It is what you already are—when stripped of narrative and restraint."

She let that truth settle before adding, more quietly still:

"The question is not why it is chained."
"The question is who placed the chains… and why one hand remains free."

Only then did her focus narrow further—not to the sky, not to the draconic presence—but to the chains themselves. She watched how the links sat against the fire, how strain traveled unevenly through the metal, how some glowed hotter than others. This was not symbolism alone. This was structured.

After a moment, she spoke again, careful not to fracture the moment.

"There," Seren said, her voice low and precise. She did not point with her hand—only with her gaze. "On the chain at your throat."

She waited just long enough for him to see it.

"That link does not carry the same tension," she continued. "It is resisting instead of holding."

Her eyes flicked briefly to the bound reflection, then back to Varin.

"This trial is not asking you to break everything," Seren said softly. "Only to recognize what was never meant to bear your weight."

She did not move closer. She did not reach out.

"If one bond fails," she added, "the rest will have to decide whether they are restraints… or habits."

Then Seren fell silent again—present, steady, and deliberately still—allowing the vision to breathe, allowing him to choose whether the weakness he now saw was an escape, a test, or a truth long ignored.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

“...Ignati…”

The name left his throat as if in awe.

Her words drew his attention back to her. He shook his head holding his hand to his temple.

“...The bindings…”

His eyes grew fierce as he looked up at the being and back to his reflected self.

Ignati spoke as if in response to her.

“His chains are forged of his own doing. He holds himself back.”

His voice erupting like deep rolling thunder collided into the sky.

“He has broken one chain, years ago. Yet four remain. One weakened.”

Varin looked at the weakened chain around the throat.

“What if I have to break the chain to get the memories?”

He spoke quietly as his eyes shifted to Seren then back to the chain. The clash of thunder and lightning erupted through the sky again as wind buffeted the area.

He turned to step towards his bound version looking down at him as he struggled against his chains. His gaze fixated on the weakened link as it clattered against the tension. He didn’t know if it would work, only that he felt he needed to do it. Rip away the binding that held him down with past trauma.

His runic brands began to glow up his arms and shoulders. The ritual circle that was carved in his back now glowing with an intense orange.

He rested his hands on the chain around his bound version’s throat.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not raise her voice when he moved. She did not rush to stop him either. Instead, she stepped closer—not into the vision, not into the space claimed by Ignati, but close enough that her presence cut through the thunder and the instinctive pull of action. Her hand did not touch him, yet her focus locked onto him with unmistakable intent.

"Varin," she said firmly, his name chosen with care, not command. "Listen to me."

Her eyes tracked the glow of his runes, the way the circle at his back burned brighter as he reached for the chain. She did not flinch at the power rising—she expected it. But this was not a trial of strength. "This is not a binding you can tear apart," Seren continued, voice steady against the roar of thunder. "Not here. Not like this."

Ignati's words still rolled through the sky, but she did not look at the draconic shape when she spoke again.

"He is right about one thing," she said quietly. "The chains are yours." Her gaze shifted to the weakened link at the throat—the one straining, resisting rather than holding.

"But that does not mean they exist to be broken by force." She stepped half a pace closer now, close enough that Varin could feel the steadiness of her presence even as the storm intensified.

"This is a memory-trial," Seren said, precise. "It is asking what you believe must be destroyed for truth to be revealed." Her eyes lifted briefly to his reflected self, bound and burning. "If you try to rip the chain away," she warned softly, "the vision will resist you. Not because you are weak—but because this place does not reward violence against the self."

She let that settle, then added—lower, calmer: "You are not here to free him. You are here to understand why you believe freedom requires pain."

The wind howled. The chain rattled under his grip—but did not break. Seren's voice cut through it once more, grounding. "Do not pull," she said. "Observe."

Her gaze flicked back to the weakened link. "That chain is already failing," Seren continued. "Not because you are tearing at it—but because you are finally looking at it without obedience." She held his attention there—between restraint and action, between instinct and understanding.

"If the memories are meant to come," she finished quietly, "they will surface when you stop trying to earn them through suffering." And then she fell silent again—letting the storm rage, letting Ignati watch, letting Varin decide whether he would continue to fight the chain… or listen to what it was already beginning to release.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

His grip held firm around the chain as his hand shook. Torn between listening to Seren's words or following his pure instinct. It was right there, he could feel it.

A frustrated growl left his throat as his fingers began to unfurl from the chain. His body was trying to resist what his ears heard and what his mind was demanding him to do.

“A trial of memory and truth.”

His voice was quiet, but directed to himself. A battle of will between his mind and his body. The constant war with himself that he always struggled with.

He pulled his hand back, releasing the weakened chain from his grip.

“I…must…endure.”

He reached for his rosary once again. The grip tight around the beads. The chain that fastened each bead groaned under his strain, but he was careful enough to not snap it.

He spoke quietly again to himself almost like a repetition of prayer.

“I, must endure.”

The phrase was slow but clearer.

He closed his eyes as he ran his fingers over the beads.

His breathing began to steady as his bound self struggled against the chains, frustrated that his current self would leave him. The feral yell aimed to him to get his attention. But Varin did not sway. His eyes only opened.

“I must endure.”

The weakened chain began to rattle further as Ignati watched from the sky. The clouds stirred and converged as if to make his massive body. His wings outstretched over the expanse of the sky. He said nothing, but he kept his attention on the two before them.

Varin's stance straightened as if to brave the spectacle before him. The storm grew violent for but a moment longer, before a calm of the wind shifted.

It grew quiet.

The surroundings began to shift back to the cavern as Varin stood, his breath was harsh like he had ran across the planet. His knees shook as he caught himself on the archway again.

“I must….endure.”

His voice was almost a whisper as it bounced from the walls.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not reach for him when the cavern settled back into itself. She remained where she was, allowing the last echoes of the vision to fade without interruption. Trials like this were not meant to be won. They were meant to be survived without distortion.

Only when his breath steadied—only when the words I must endure no longer sounded like a plea—did she speak. "You were never meant to break the chain," Seren said quietly. There was no disappointment in her voice. No correction. Only certainty. "This was not a test of strength," she continued. "Or defiance. Or will imposed upon the past."

Her gaze lifted briefly to the archway, to the place where the vision had collapsed, then returned to him. "What you witnessed cannot be altered," Seren said. "Malachor does not offer mercy in that way." She took a single step closer—not to touch him, but to anchor the space they now shared. "The trial was whether you would try," she said softly, "or whether you would endure knowing that nothing you did could change what happened." That was the truth of it. The cruelty of it. The honesty.

"You did not mistake memory for a battlefield," Seren went on. "You did not let instinct rewrite what was already written." Her eyes flicked once—briefly—to the sky above, where Ignati's presence had receded. "And that is why the storm released you," she said. "Not because you conquered it… but because you understood it." She exhaled slowly, the tension in her own posture easing now that the danger had passed.

"Endurance, in this place," Seren finished, "means allowing the truth to exist without letting it consume the present." She did not praise him. She did not comfort him. She stood with him in the quiet aftermath—acknowledging that some chains are not broken… only outlived.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

His head felt light as she spoke. Her words echoing in his ears. Blurred, fused, but heard. He shook his head to clear the feeling, but it remained. The trials were beginning to take a toll on his body as he held himself on the archway longer than the previous trial had left him.

“But…the chain is meant to break. It is how I break his bindings over me, Seren. It's how I can finally grow stronger within him. To understand him.”

He spoke with deep breaths between words. A strain left his throat as he pulled himself off of the archway, nearly falling off his weakened stance.

“I…have to keep going.”

Sinew pulled herself from behind a stray rock to come to her master. Using her small body in an attempt to support him.

“When I thought about that night…all I could ever think about was what I could have, should have done differently.”

He looked at her, his now dark brown eyes looked into hers, unflinching.

“Its worthless thoughts. I know that. I can't change what happened. It has made me who I am now.”

He looked at the archway ahead of them.

“I have let that consume me for so long. It only feels second nature to wallow in it. It will not consume me any longer, but I refuse to forget what had happened.”

The mist hung to the air, keeping the area cooler. Varin's body temperature dropped to a lower temperature. The mist no longer steamed off of his body.

He slowly reached down and softly ran his hand down Sinew’s head and back, she leaned into the hand taking in the comfort.

The brands that were glowing before now lay dormant, nearly dark. Though a small flame of light can still be seen as the runes maintained a low tense glow, barely noticeable. But there.

“I feel there is another trial ahead.”

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren watched him closely as he spoke—not just his words, but the way his balance faltered, the way his breath lagged behind his intent. The scholar in her noted the signs before the Sith ever would. This was no longer a matter of will alone. The body was asserting limits the mind was trying to outrun.

When she spoke, her voice was firm—not sharp, not indulgent. Grounded. "There will be another trial," Seren said quietly. "But not yet." She stepped fully into his space now, close enough that he could not mistake the seriousness of her intent. One hand lifted—not to touch him, but to signal pause, unmistakable and deliberate. "What you just endured was not preparation," she continued. "It was an excavation. You cannot keep digging without reinforcing what you have already exposed."

Her gaze flicked briefly to Sinew, noting the instinctive support, then back to Varin.

"Your body is cooling because the surge has passed," Seren explained. "Your brands are quiet because they are recalibrating, not because you are finished." She did not soften the truth—but neither did she let it overwhelm. "If you push forward now," she said evenly, "you will not reach the next trial. You will collapse into it."

From within her cloak, Seren produced a small canteen—unremarkable in appearance, but warded. She extended it to him without ceremony. "Drink," she instructed. "Water first. Breathe second. Meaning comes later." She waited—not impatiently, not indulgently. Simply present.

"Assessment is part of endurance," Seren added, quieter now. "You do not honor the dead by destroying yourself in their memory." Her eyes held his steadily.

"You are not refusing the trial by resting," she said. "You are ensuring you survive the next one intact enough to understand it." She lowered her hand once more, giving him space—but not distance.

"We pause," Seren concluded. "Then we continue—deliberately." There was no doubt in her tone. Only structure. Only survival.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He winced as she spoke, leaning his head back onto the archway.

“I suppose collapsing into the next trial would not be a good first look.”

He looked up at her offered canteen. He reached up slowly taking it from her hand and opened the top. He gave a small sniff to see if it was possibly tampered with, a force of habit. Once he was sure the water was not tampered with he took a couple of heavy sips. The coolness of the water and the dry feeling of his throat being relieved caused Varin to let out a sigh of relief as he slowly sank down to sit for a moment.

“Thank you, for the water.”

He put the top back on and offered it back to her. Varin tilted his head to the side, a loud audible crack left his neck as he grunted in relief before he settled back again.

“This next trial. Is it the final one, do you think?”

He looked up at her as his arms rested over his knees. He sat for some time, just breathing, meditating. Focusing on his body and his will. Prepping his defensive walls against what could happen next.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not rush him.

She remained standing near the archway, close enough that he did not have to look far to find her, but far enough to give him space to steady himself. She accepted the canteen back without comment, sealing it and replacing it in her pocket, her attention returning fully to him as he sat and breathed through the aftershocks of the trial.

When she answered, her tone was measured—not authoritative, not reassuring by force. Honest. "Malachor does not favor uniformity," she said quietly. "Trials often come in threes, yes. That is the most common pattern."

She paused, eyes drifting briefly to the cavern ahead, as if listening for something beneath the stone. "But that is only when the planet is satisfied with the surface of a seeker," Seren continued. "When it believes the lessons are simple."

Her gaze returned to him, steady and thoughtful. "I have seen it stop at two," she admitted. "When the question is already answered." Another pause—longer this time.

"And I have seen it go to five," Seren added softly. "When the planet senses something unfinished. Something…recursive." She did not elaborate further. Malachor had a way of punishing over-explanation. "This is not a matter of endurance alone," she said, gently correcting the unspoken assumption. "It is an assessment. Each trial responds to what you carry forward from the last."

Her eyes flicked briefly to his hands, his posture, the way his breathing had begun to even out again. "You did not fail the previous one," Seren said, firm but calm. "You recognized its limit."

She shifted slightly, lowering herself to a crouch near him—not looming, not distant. "Rest a moment longer," she advised. "Not because you are weak—but because Malachor notices when someone chooses to pause instead of being dragged forward."

Then, quieter: "When the next trial comes," Seren said, "it will not ask whether you can survive it." Her gaze held his. "It will ask whether you understand why it is there at all."

She fell silent after that, allowing the cavern to breathe again, giving him the time he needed—knowing that when Malachor was ready, it would make itself known regardless.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He finally pulled himself up after a moment, his balance maintained and his breathing steady. The muscles in his body still ached with a dull pain as Varin stretched, lightly massaging his shoulder and rotating the joint in hopes to ease the tightness.

“I don’t think I’m going to be more rested than I am now.”

He placed his hand on Sinew’s head and lightly scratched., Sinew pushed her head into his hand accepting the attention.

“I have a feeling this is the big one.”

He looked over at Seren then back at the archway. The cavern ahead lay just on the other side, all of the caverns were like that. But each trial made it feel as if he were climbing a mountain. He could feel the summit’s edge before him.

His gut told him that this next trial would certainly truly test his entire being.

“Every trial releases a part of itself into the next one. Building off of it to see if you truly learned. Adapting to create a new lesson to learn from.”

He looked back down to the caverns.

“I believe I am ready, Seren.”

He spoke with certainty, but also with a more knowing and careful nature. As if he is preparing for something that evolved from the prior two trials.

Sinew moved to Varin’s side just before they headed to the next area.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren watched him closely as he steadied himself—not with the scrutiny of a judge, but with the quiet attention of someone who understood what it cost to stand again after being taken apart. She did not rush him.

When she spoke, her voice was even, low, and grounded—meant to settle rather than stir. "You are correct," she said after a moment. "Malachor does not repeat itself. It layers." Her gaze moved from him to the archway, then back again, measuring the space between what waited and what stood ready to meet it.

"Each trial carries residue forward," Seren continued. "Not to punish—but to see whether understanding endures once strain returns." She stepped closer, not into his path, but into alignment beside him. Close enough that her presence could be felt without pressing.

"If this is the final ascent," she said quietly, "then it will not test what you can withstand." A brief pause. "It will test what you choose to carry with you."

Her eyes flicked briefly to Sinew, acknowledging the creature's instinctive loyalty, before returning to Varin.

"Readiness does not mean certainty," Seren added. "It means awareness. And you have that now." She did not offer reassurance she could not guarantee. Malachor respected honesty too much for that. "If the cavern adapts," she said, "then so must you. Do not try to overpower what comes. Do not rush to answer it."

Her tone softened—just slightly. "Let it show you what remains unresolved," Seren said. "And remember—you are not facing this to be remade." She met his eyes, steady and present. "You are facing it to decide what you refuse to lose."

Then, with a slight inclination of her head toward the archway: "I will remain with you," Seren said. "As before. Until Malachor has finished asking its questions."

She did not lead. She waited for him to take the next step when he chose to.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

His eyes fell to her, then back past the archway. Her words fell upon him as a sense of determination coated his face.

“Then I will adapt.”

He spoke deeply, his voice carrying forward towards the cavern.

“Malachor can teach me what it wishes, test me how it wishes. But it will find that my drive, my will, is stronger than most of what it has swallowed up. Just as I have proven in the prior trials.”

He looked back at her after she reminded him. A slow nod given to her.

“Of course.”

He walked at a slower pace towards the archway. A feeling of power vibrated the air. Buzzing inside of his head, as if Malachor were simply testing to see if he truly felt ready. He pushed forward. His mind shutting out any feelings of doubt and nervousness as they entered the cavern. Their footfalls echoed into the chamber as Sinew walked between them.

As they walked through the pathway, the cavern of rock and cold air seemed to change once more. The air grew hot, the room was alight with blue flickering. Blue flame surrounded them, clung to the walls as calm flickering blades. Towards the center of the cavern was a throne of metal and bone. A large man sitting atop of it, wearing a crown of orange flame. His armor strapped to his body almost as if he became the armor. The beings eyes shot a glance towards them, Varin stopped his pace, not in anxiety but in familiarity.

The figure stood up, the chains that decorated the back of his armor clattered against his back as they fell into the shape of a cloak, not binding, but dragging.

“Father.”

Varin spoke deeply as he looked over to the figure, his gaze unwavering as he stared into his Fathers infernal eyes. The soulless white orbs of his father’s helm stared back before His deep voice responded back to Varin.

“Son, Where have you gone?”

His fathers arms crossed behind his back in an attentive state as his posture slowly straightened. The armor whispered as the plates slid over themselves. Varin remained silent for a moment.

“You perished, Father. I had to escape.”

Lord Mortifer stepped closer.

“You ran away, instead of fighting to the last man.”

Varin’s posture tensed.

“You ordered us to leave.”

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not step between them.

She did not reach for Varin, nor did she speak to the figure on the throne. This was not her trial to answer, and Malachor would not tolerate an intrusion here. Instead, she remained just behind and to Varin's side—close enough that he could feel her presence if he needed it, far enough that the confrontation remained his alone.

Her attention, however, was keen.

This was not merely a memory replayed. The cadence of the exchange, the way the figure moved with intention rather than repetition, the accusation sharpened by judgment rather than recollection—all of it marked this as a constructed truth. Malachor was no longer asking Varin to remember.

It was asking him to define himself.

When his father accused him of running, Seren saw the shift immediately: the tightening in Varin's shoulders, the instinctive bracing of someone who had carried that accusation for years. She said nothing yet. Letting him answer mattered more than soothing him.

Lord Mortifer stepped closer, chains whispering like dragged iron behind him.

"You ordered us to leave." The words landed heavily in the chamber.

Seren's gaze flicked briefly to the throne, then to the crown of flame, then back to Varin's father's eyes. Not fear. Assessment. This was authority given shape. And authority, she knew, was most dangerous when it masqueraded as truth.

Only when the silence stretched long enough for doubt to try and creep in did Seren speak. Her voice did not rise. It did not challenge. It anchored.

"This is not a test of obedience," she said calmly, her words carrying just far enough to reach Varin, not his father. "It is a test of authorship."

She did not look at Lord Mortifer as she spoke. She kept her eyes on Varin.

"Malachor is not asking whether you followed orders," Seren continued, measured and steady. "It is asking who you became when the chain of command failed."

She let that settle before adding, quieter: "Do not argue his version of events. Name your own."

Then she fell silent again. Not retreating, not intervening. Standing firm in the space where Varin could choose whether this figure before him remained a ruler of his past—or became simply another trial he had already begun to outgrow.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin listened to her words in silence as his eyes stayed on the visage of his Father. Lord Mortifer's eyes burned with a white fury as he slowly stepped off his throne towards Varin.

“I told you to watch after your sister. And where is she boy?”

Varin's fists tensed as he remembered. He remembered her gasping for air, struggling to speak, the panic in her eyes, the blood and her last words.

“I….I did what I could!”

Varin stepped forward as he spoke.

“I tried to lead her to safety.”

Lord Mortifer was quiet for a moment.

“Tried…”

He spoke low as he began to slowly walk around the pair.

“So she is gone then? And you have that blood on your hands along with our kingdom.”

Varin's attention stayed straight, eyes forward as his Father spoke. The gravity of his presence even vibrated the air around them. Varin remained silent, daring not to speak.

“You believe you are worthy to take back what you could not even hold? Our home was laid to ruins and is now governed by that scum!”

Varin's breath hitched as his Father's voice rose. He remembered the chaos.

“Kneel…”

His father spoke quietly, almost sinister as he began to pull out a large Sith blade. The top of the blade weighted and flat. An executioner's blade.

Varin glared in his direction as his body began to shake. His teeth grounded down against one another.

Her words met him again, whether it be from behind him or from memory.

“....no.”

Varin spoke quietly as the runes began to pulse once again.

Lord Mortifer stepped forward, head tilted.

“You know our ways. What you committed was treason. The punishment is death.”

Varin set his footing as he stared down his Father.

“And what of you, Father? You failed us too! You failed to protect our home as well!”

His voice thundered around the walls as they both stood in a moment of silence.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not step between them. She did not raise her voice. She did not deny the accusation, nor soften it. Instead, she moved—just enough that Varin could feel her presence at his back, steady and unmistakably real, anchoring him to the now while the past tried to claim him.

Her voice came low, deliberate, carried through the chamber without challenging it. "This is not a court," Seren said calmly. "And he is not here to pass sentence." The flames did not recoil. The throne did not vanish. Lord Mortifer did not falter. Which told her everything. "He speaks with the authority you remember," she continued, eyes never leaving the figure before them, "not the authority he still possesses."

She took one slow step closer to Varin—not touching him, but close enough that the heat of the chamber felt shared rather than isolating. "Listen carefully," Seren said, quieter now, meant for him alone. "Every accusation he makes is framed around what you failed to hold." Her gaze flicked briefly to the executioner's blade, then back to Mortifer's burning eyes.

"Not what you chose. Not what you endured. Only what was lost." The runes along Varin's arms pulsed again, answering—not to rage, but to clarity.

"This trial is not asking you to kneel," Seren said evenly. "It is asking whether you still believe obedience is the same as loyalty."

She let the silence stretch, letting Mortifer's words echo until they sounded thinner—hollowed by repetition. "He calls it treason," Seren added softly. "Because he cannot name it survival."

Finally, she turned her eyes fully to Varin. Not pleading. Not commanding. Simply present. "Do not answer him as a son," she said. "Answer him as the man who lived."

The chamber seemed to wait. Not for submission. Not for violence. But for Varin to decide whether this throne still had the right to define him.

Varin Mortifer