Tyrant Queen of Darkness
"Expectations."
Tags -
The Lost
The throne room of Malachor was a cathedral of obsidian and silence. The jagged stone walls seemed to lean inward, hungrily listening to the breath of the one who sat at its heart. Darth Virelia lounged across her throne as though it had been carved for her alone, a chalice of deep crimson wine balanced loosely in her hand. Shadows clung to her like velvet, shifting at her slightest motion.
The glass tilted, and she watched the liquid swirl, half her focus on the reflections it cast. It amused her, this game of seeing what patterns the light chose to draw across her pale knuckles. Five minutes. That was the margin she had given the young one. She could almost taste the tension that must be swelling in their chest as they made their way through the labyrinth halls.
Virelia's lips curved faintly at the thought. Youth made for such delicious volatility: pride that burned too hot, fear that refused to be named, desire that lingered just beneath their careful facades. It was why she entertained them, why she allowed them into her orbit. The galaxy was filled with Sith who thought themselves predators. She alone enjoyed the hunt as much as the meal.
Her eyes slid toward the sealed doors. Not yet. She tipped her head back against the throne, lashes lowering half-shut. The hum of Malachor's wounded core shivered faintly beneath the stone floors, a constant reminder that she sat upon a graveyard of empires. It was an appropriate stage for her amusements.
She wondered what face the young Sith would wear today. Confidence? Defiance? Trembling obedience? She preferred when they tried to mask themselves—every mask could be broken, and she relished the sound of it cracking. Today she had chosen a small test, a training exercise disguised as indulgence. The young Sith thought themselves clever; she would measure whether their wit sharpened into steel, or dulled under the weight of her hand.
Her free hand drifted along the carved armrest, nails trailing in slow rhythm. She could already imagine the tension when they entered: the way the silence would hang, the way her gaze would strip them down before a single word was spoken. She would let them speak first, always. That was where the cracks showed.
Virelia drank, the taste dark and spiced, lingering against her tongue. "Four minutes," she murmured softly, though no one else was there to hear it. The room seemed to stir at her voice regardless, as if Malachor itself bent to her amusement.
Her boredom was not discontent; it was hunger held at bay. She savored the stillness before the storm, the knowledge that someone else's future was about to be rewritten under her careful hands.
When the young Sith arrived, she would not need to raise her voice. The game would begin with nothing more than her smile.
