Private Restraint

[Darth Virelia]

"Break the will, shatter the creed."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz



The doors hissed shut behind her with the sound of a blade sliding into flesh.

Silence followed.

Not peace. Never that. The silence here was held—bound in durasteel and obsidian, bound in secrecy and threat. Every breath taken within the sublevels of Polis Massa's hidden training vaults was a trespass against comfort, a vow against weakness. These chambers had seen war before. They had seen breakdowns, bloodletting, breakthroughs. They had seen becoming.

And Serina Calis was already waiting.

She stood at the center of the training floor, alone, yet suffocatingly present—more a fulcrum than a figure. Her armor shimmered faintly in the clinical lighting, a second skin of alchemized alloys and dark elegance. Runes etched along the curve of her collarbone pulsed with subdued violet energy, each breath she took measured, sovereign. Her gloves flexed and relaxed at her sides like a predator waiting for the first move.

The chamber around her was vast—spartan, circular, sterile. White walls interrupted only by black-rimmed observation lenses that glinted from the shadows like the eyes of silent gods. From somewhere above, a mechanized voice whispered readiness into the vault's air:

"Environmental locks sealed. Surveillance active. Lethal thresholds disengaged… for now."

She paid it no mind.

The floor was marked with geometric combat diagrams and arcane Sith battle inscriptions—some functional, others ceremonial. All had been burned into the permacrete with sabers and lightning over the decades. It smelled faintly of scorched ozone and something darker.

A single line of light led from the main entrance to where she stood, as though daring her apprentice to follow it.

She had sent for him without ceremony. Without fanfare. No honorifics. No praise for surviving the tomb. Because he had not yet earned the right to rest.

This was where his body would be reshaped. Where instinct would be unraveled and rewoven. Where his raw strength—so brutal, so beautiful, so stupid—would be taught restraint. And where she would teach him the most difficult lesson of all:

That a weapon is only as valuable as the hand that wields it.

Her expression betrayed nothing. But within the dark hollows of her eyes was a calm anticipation—not hope. Not joy.

But hunger.

She could feel his presence drawing closer, that savage signature pushing against the sterile clarity of the Polis Massan complex. She could almost taste the lingering blood on him, the echo of lightning from the tomb, the violence still coiled in his muscles.

She would need to break that.

Not to destroy it—never that.

But to teach him how to wield it like she wielded words: with precision, seduction, inevitability.

Serina inhaled deeply through her nose. Closed her eyes. And whispered, not to herself, but to the room:

"Let him try to impress me."

And far above, behind layered transparisteel and durasteel bulkheads, the observers watched. Scientists. Guards. Agents of VesperWorks. All instructed not to interfere.

This was her domain now.

And the door to the training room began to open.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Kharnaz readied himself before the doors. He did not know what was in store for him but he knew it could not be easy. Serina did not go easy on anyone. The doors opened and he stepped inside.

It was a testing room of some kind. Not like the tomb, it was different in some way. Newer, but the echoes of pain still filled the room. He was not the first applicant to enter, he could see that. Kharnaz wondered how many other Sith had been here, fighting to prove their usefulness.

Still, Kharnaz was confident after the tomb. If he passed that test surely he could pass whatever was in store for him here. He bowed his head.

"I am ready to follow your commands, my mistress."

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Break the will, shatter the creed."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz



He entered as he always did—heavy-footed, commanding, the storm of him trailing close behind. There was still blood in his fur. Still that wiry, feral tension in his frame. He was a beast who had survived the fire, and now believed himself reborn by it.

How precious.

She didn't speak at first.

Her gaze tracked him, slow and surgical, from paw to throat. Her silence was not passive—it was dissection. Every movement he made was measured, catalogued, filed against what she had seen in the tomb. She watched the way his muscles flexed with each breath. The way his shoulders carried a fraction more arrogance. The bow of his head—eager, but not desperate.

Good. He was still high from the tomb.

Which meant the fall would cut deeper.

She stepped forward once, letting her presence ripple outward—not violently, but with that same smothering gravity that had greeted him on Korriban. The Force curved around her like a noose mid-drop. Lights flickered. The very air thickened, expectant.

"You presume too much."

Her voice cut through the room like a scalpel—not loud, not angry, but so sharp it didn't need volume.

"You survived the tomb, yes. And you call me mistress as if survival were obedience."

Another step. Her boots struck the training floor with a quiet finality. She moved in a circle around him—close, intimate, invasive. Not just a master inspecting her student, but a sovereign examining a weapon not yet worthy of use.

"But do you understand what you survived? Do you grasp the meaning of what you killed?"

She stopped behind him.

"You destroyed the version of yourself that believed strength alone was enough. But that creature still breathes in you. Still lingers. Still dares to think the Force will bend to rage without discipline."

The next word was a whisper:

"Foolish."

And then, she struck.

Her hand darted forward with unnatural speed—not with malice, but instruction. The flat of her palm drove hard between his shoulder blades, the Force behind it like a wave compressed into a single point. It was not meant to wound.

It was meant to remind.

To claim.

To reset the hierarchy.

She moved past him now, walking to the edge of the training circle, where a console blinked to life beneath her gloved fingers. She activated the hologrid—at once, the space around them shimmered with flickering light. Dozens of projections ignited. Spectral enemies, motionless for now—assassins, beasts, war droids, Jedi.

"You will fight until I tell you to stop."

Her voice was calm now, poised, the voice of a woman absolutely certain of her control.

"You will face simulacra crafted from real combat data. Enemies you may one day encounter—if you survive long enough to earn missions worthy of them."

She turned back to face him. The lighting caught the violet in her eyes, the lines of her armor, the slight upward tilt of her chin.

"You will bleed. You may fail. That is expected."

A long pause.

Then, with soft cruelty:

"But if you disappoint me… again…"

Her head tilted.

"…I will seal the tomb behind you myself."

A flick of her hand.

The grid ignited.

The first wave began to move.

And Serina stepped back into the shadows, cloak flowing behind her like a judge retreating from the bench—leaving the blade to prove itself upon the anvil.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Her presence rolled over him again, as powerful as ever. He steeled himself as it hit him, its darkness passing over him. He listened to her describe his achievement.

"You destroyed the version of yourself that believed strength alone was enough. But that creature still breathes in you. Still lingers. Still dares to think the Force will bend to rage without discipline."

He frowned. How dare she think he had not killed it. He was about to protest when he was struck.

He gasped as he was hit, the force enhanced blow briefly knocking the air out of his lungs. He inhaled quickly, determined not to be vulnerable for long.

His eyes darted around as she activated the holograms. There were many, far more than he would have thought when he first entered.

"…I will seal the tomb behind you myself."

He snarled with anger. He had never dissapointed his mistress. And to think that she believed he may dissapoint her again was maddening. He tracked the first wave as they advanced, getting ready to pounce.

"Mistress, how am I to fight holograms? I will go through them immediately. And how am I to face a Jedi without a lightsaber?"

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Break the will, shatter the creed."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz



He snarled.

Oh, how precious it still was.

Serina turned her head slightly at his outburst, and for a brief moment—just a flicker—her eyes gleamed with something like delight. Not the warmth of a proud master. No. This was amusement, cruel and indulgent, the kind that tasted like spice and poison and power twisted into silk.

"Holograms?" she echoed, her voice soft with mock concern.

Then she laughed.

Not loud. Not unrestrained.

But slow. Licentious. Like a secret being drawn across bare skin.

"Oh, my dear little blade…"

She stepped out of the shadows again, each movement like choreography—coiled grace and imperial threat wrapped in the armor of a queen who never bled. Her hips swayed as she walked past one of the training specters—an assassin with twin vibroblades frozen mid-pose. She ran a finger along its edge without even looking at it.

"Do you truly believe I would waste my time... or yours... with simulations?"

Another laugh. Lower this time. Almost a purr.

"These are constructs, Kharnaz. Fed by combat telemetry, enhanced by the Force. They think. They adapt. They hurt. You will not pass through them. They will try to kill you. Just as they tried to kill the acolyte who screamed on this floor three nights ago. You remember her?"

She tilted her head, tapping her cheek as if recalling something sweet.

"I do. She lasted... nineteen seconds."

Her eyes flicked to him then, sharp and glowing with restrained fire.

"So if you believe yourself above pain, above proving yourself, then you may die convinced of your superiority. But it will still be death."

Then came the smirk. That smirk—the one that held promises and threats and a razor's edge behind painted lips.

"And as for the Jedi…"

She raised her hand.

The room hissed, and from a recessed slot in the far wall, something slid forward on a magnetic tray.

A long, curved hilt.

Plain. Brutal. Featureless.

The kind of weapon made not to impress—but to kill.

"This was recovered from the tomb. The blade of the one who failed before you."

She turned her palm up—and with a flick of her fingers, sent it flying toward him.

It halted mid-air, hovering just outside his reach.

"Take it. If you dare to wield what another died failing to master."

Her voice dropped into something deeper now. Not cold. Not cruel.

Commanding.

"And if it slips from your hand… then you wont get your lightsabers back."

She stepped back once more, her figure again framed in the half-light of the vault, arms folding with languid precision across her chest. Her gaze bored into him, hungry, assessing.

"Begin."

And the constructs moved.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

These are constructs, Kharnaz. Fed by combat telemetry, enhanced by the Force. They think. They adapt. They hurt. You will not pass through them. They will try to kill you.

Kharnaz looked closer. They were indeed solid, imbued with power he could not understand. it was foolish of him to assume they were harmless. But he would not admit that. He only nodded.

I do. She lasted... nineteen seconds.

Kharnaz growled. He did not know who she was reffering to, only that she must have been weak. He would prove his worth here, and he vowed to destroy this collection of automatons.

It halted mid-air, hovering just outside his reach.

He reached out with his claws, and with the force he yanked the weapon into his paw. With a warriors instinct he found the activation switch immediately, and the blade burned red before him. The penalty for dropping his weapon was not new to Kharnaz. In the arenas if you lost your weapon the next thing you would lose was your life. He gripped hard, with no intention of letting go.

And the constructs moved.

Being outnumbered was nothing new to Kharnaz. Towards the end of his time in the pits they had to send multiple gladiators against him if they wanted the fights to be entertaining. You had to keep your head. If you went all in too quickly you would be swarmed and beaten to death. No. The best way to do this is single the weak ones out first, and work your way through them, gaining momentum with each kill.

With a howl he launched himself towards one of the droids. Droids were predictable, and could be outmanuvered. He landed with the lightsaber buried in its chest, which he drew out again vertically, slicing its head in too. One was down but there were many more projections, including those accursed jedi. He would deal with them last.

The specters were fast, and Kharnaz would have to move quickly to avoid being stuck. Kharnaz knew there were too many of them to be able to pass unscathed, it was about choosing which hits to take. Already they were adapting. Coming closer together. Avoiding being singled out. That was fine. He was the master of the battlefield. He would control it. And, no matter how much pain he would go through, he would come out victorious. He had done so before, and Kharnaz swore he would do so again.

Tag: Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Break the will, shatter the creed."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz



He lunged like a blade unsheathed—raw, reckless, beautiful.

Serina did not blink.

She watched him crash into the construct with a predator's grace, the tomb-reclaimed saber cutting down through droid alloy and illusion alike. Sparks flared as the blade tore free in a vertical line, bisecting the specter from groin to skull. The hologrid screamed in reaction, the air trembling with hard-coded anger and adaptive recalibration. His kill echoed through the chamber like a war drum—sharp, clean, deliberate.

And the others began to move faster.

"Yes…" she murmured, more to herself than to him.

From her position in the darkened edge of the room, Serina's fingers pressed against the side of the control console. Not touching anything. Not yet. Just feeling.

Sensing the tension. The fear. The resolve.

Watching how the grid responded to his movements.

The room was learning him.

Just as she was.

Each step he took, each breath drawn in rage, told her more than any oath or kneeling ever could. He fought like a creature born into violence, not molded by it—his approach elegant in brutality, precise in instinct, and wholly unschooled. A natural weapon, yes. But still too eager. Still too… narrow.

She watched him as the constructs advanced—two flanking, another already behind him, two Jedi specters holding back, gauging him like duelists waiting for the perfect breach. Their blades hissed to life in mirrored timing.

"He bleeds correctly," she said aloud, voice rich with satisfaction, "but still sees only his claws."

She stepped forward now, her presence bleeding from the shadows like ink.

Her heels clicked with slow, sovereign rhythm on the floor, the sharp sound cutting between the grunts and howls of battle. She came to stand just outside the ring of light where Kharnaz fought, cloak pooling around her like dark water. Her gaze never left him.

"Control the fight," she called out, low and commanding. "Don't react. Command."

One of the Jedi constructs leapt.

A sweeping arc, blue blade rising with practiced perfection—aimed at the blind spot left by his last kill.

Serina's hands remained folded before her.

"Predict the line. Force them to reveal what they want you to fear."

He was being studied from all sides now. The constructs circled, honed. Not beasts, not brutes, but memories of precision and balance made manifest. They would not fall for brute strength. They had seen gladiators before. They had killed gladiators before.

The room began to hum with rising energy, sensors within the walls adjusting the difficulty dynamically in response to Kharnaz's speed, his aggression, his strikes.

He would not be swarmed by numbers.

He would be tested by refinement.

By adversaries too well-disciplined to be cowed by intimidation, and too focused to be flustered by fury.

And Serina, arms now behind her back, leaned forward slightly—eyes narrowed, mouth just faintly curved.

"Let them taste you. Bleed if you must. But you will teach them to choke on it."

Her voice dipped, honeyed and dangerous.

"Or I will find another beast with better instincts."

She said it without venom.

Without bluff.

She meant it.

And the constructs closed in.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Kharnaz howled with pain as he was hit. Kharnaz has been hit with many weapons over his life, but this was his first taste of a lightsaber. it tore through old armour and singed the fur and skin underneath. Kharnaz knew he was lucky to only have faced a glancing blow.

"Or I will find another beast with better instincts."

He snarled at the insult. His instincts had got him this far. He would show his mistress they were still top notch.

Kharnaz summoned a wave of force energy, repulsing some of the constructs and knowcking others off balance. He had cleared some space. Control the battlefield. Master it.

These were constructs. Which meant that beneath all their mysticism was metal. And metal had one obvious weakness.

He lashed out with force lightning, unleashing his hatred on the constructs. This was different to the tomb. Focused. Deliberate. Several of the constructs fell, sparking with energy, their circuits fried. But there was more. The jedi construct in particular was in Kharnaz's mind. The one that made him bleed.

The false Jedi moved quickly, its moves economical and controlled. it rose its blade again and attempted a cut at his neck.

Kharnaz had seen this blow coming and was prepared. While fighting some beast from a forgotten world he had watched the jedi come out of his peripheral vision. With effort he tugged on the beast with the force, forcing it to be shoved between him and the jedi. Kharnaz watched with satisfaction as the Jedi slew its own ally.

Kharnaz knew that his strength alone would not be enough, nor his speed. Only through cunning could he win this battle. And even then he couldn't use the same trick twice. Good. No competent enemy would let him do that in the field.

Another one came from behind, looking to slash his legs with a vibroblade. Kharnaz used the force to freeze it in place, and then glared at it. He tightened his fist, and as he increased the pressure the construct began to be crushed. It was squashed into a cube, slowly and painfully, until it was little more than half a meter cubed.

The ground was littered with constructs by now, victims of his cruel attacks or force powers. He himself was not unscathed, his armour dented and cut.

Only the jedi constructs remained, staring him down.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Break the will, shatter the creed."

Tag - Darth Kharnaz



The scent of scorched metal and singed flesh hung heavy in the training chamber, sweet and acrid, as it always was in the presence of true progress. Energy crackled in the air, clinging to the walls like ozone after a lightning strike. The lights flickered from the aftermath of Kharnaz's surge—Force lightning dancing over shattered circuitry and artificial limbs, smoke curling in elegant spirals from the wreckage.

Serina Calis stood still.

She watched the destruction with no trace of surprise, no sign of pride. Only focus—the gaze of a craftsman watching the first hammer blows strike the shape of a weapon she had yet to finish forging.

When he turned the beast into a shield, she tilted her head slightly. Calculated. Effective. Cruel.

When he froze the construct with the Force and crushed it, slowly, the corners of her lips curved upward.

Not a smile.

A reveal—like the sun briefly breaking through thunderclouds to reveal the battlefield strewn beneath.

"Yes."

The word escaped her like silk through teeth. Measured. Satisfied.

She walked once more, boots tapping over the permacrete, moving with the assurance of someone who never needed to rush. Each step echoed through the now-broken silence of the grid, a slow, sonorous counterpoint to the hiss of damaged servos and the faint sizzling of fried droid components.

Her gaze found the crushed cube of the vibroblade construct.

"Painful. Deliberate. Slow."

She let the words linger in the air like incense. Her eyes lifted to him at last—seeing not the wounds, nor the blood-soaked fur, nor the dents in his armor.

She saw the mind.

The flicker of strategy. The awakening of vision. The transformation.

"You're beginning to understand."

The final two constructs—the Jedi echoes—still circled him in eerie silence. Their movements were slow, careful now. Analytical. They had learned too. They always did. Their footwork was mirrored, their timing synchronized like duelists trained under the same master. They would not fall for tricks. Not again.

"These phantoms are not here to test your strength," Serina said, voice low and cutting. "They are here to test your ego."

She let that settle like a stone dropped into a still pond.

"Kill them, and you kill what still believes that strength is enough. Kill them, and you become something useful."

A pause.

"Fail… and I will collect what's left. Perhaps your crystal will find a more receptive host."

Then came the cold smile again. The one she wore not when she saw victory, but when she saw the possibility of it. The blade being shaped.

She extended a single hand toward the Jedi specters—and the training grid responded.

From the far walls, vertical columns rose—barriers of flickering red energy. The arena narrowed, tightening around them like the throat of a snake. Escape routes vanished. Cover dissolved. Only one space remained, one path to survival:

Through.

"No more running, Kharnaz. No more distractions. Just you, and the lie of civility before you."

Her voice dipped into a whisper that trembled with cruel delight.

"Show them what the Dark Side truly looks like."

And the Jedi constructs advanced in perfect unison.

Their sabers burned white-blue.

Their movements—flawless.

The lesson had truly begun.