Tyrant Queen of Darkness
"A Symphony of Violence."
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Qyssiyana
The air on Malachor V was not dead—it was devouring. A constant thrum of broken gravity rippled through the canyons, carrying with it the whispers of battlefields calcified into stone. Lightning forked in silent arcs across the sky, never striking, only illuminating the ruins as if the world itself still remembered the war it had birthed. Here, among shattered monuments and fields of glass, Darth Virelia waited.
Her silhouette rose from the altar of obsidian like something carved from the planet's own grief. The black armor sheathed her curves in cruel geometry, each plate lacquered to a mirror sheen, reflecting faint violet fire from the glyphs inscribed at her feet. Her mask was lowered, revealing the full weapon of her mouth—lips painted in a shade too dark to be called crimson, too alive to be called black. When she breathed, the world seemed to pause, as though Malachor itself recognized in her a kindred predator.
Qyssiyana was coming. Virelia had chosen the Elryssia's next crucible carefully. No velvet foyers here, no crystal alcoves to frame her beauty. This was Malachor: unrelenting, hungry, and honest. The only way to survive upon its surface was to be sharper than the storm. And Virelia intended to sharpen her new possession until she could cut reality itself.
The Dark Lady's hand hovered over the stone beside her. At her touch, cracks spiderwebbed through the obsidian slab, violet radiance bleeding from within like the lifeblood of the planet. A saber hilt lay across her palm, its weight casual, her grip loose, as if she were holding a toy rather than a weapon that had ended dynasties. With the other hand she traced the air, a languid motion that sent a ripple of Force energy through the altar, making the glyphs flare and fade in sequence like a heart in arrhythmia.
"Sing me a silence," she whispered to the shadows, words not meant for Qyssiyana's ears but for the wound in the Force that was Malachor itself. "Then I will teach her the song of violence."
Her eyes gleamed with violet fire as she turned them toward the broken path leading up to the altar. She imagined Qyssiyana walking it: cyan gown replaced with combat garb, heels traded for footing steady enough to kill. Virelia would tear the softness away, remold her into an instrument of exquisite cruelty—polished not for display but for domination. Every weakness, every tremor, every beautiful fault line in the girl's soul would be exposed and redrawn under her hand.
And Virelia would enjoy it. As sculptor shaping living marble into something both useful and unbearably beautiful.
The air cracked. Far off, the faint silhouette of a figure approached, framed in the phosphorescent gloom. Virelia smiled slowly, a licentious curl of promise and hunger.
