Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private Rules and Consequences

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Polis Massa
Serina Calis Serina Calis
There would be little warning as, at the edge of the system and asteroid field that was Polis Massa, three Khan-class Star Destroyers would revert from hyperspace. They would not be running in a combat formation or dispatch any fighters from their hangars, the ships merely hanging at the edge of the system as from the hangar bay of the lead ship, a single Adonis-class shuttle would launch with an escort.

"Polis Massa Control, this is DC-231, code clearance Amethyst. We're starting our approach."

The transmission would all but announce to the governor and her staff that a certain Dark Councilor was making a very unannounced arrival in the system. Within the shuttle, Darth Arcanix was reading over the reports that had come out of the attack on the fortress world of Saijo and the information gathered by the Hand, a frown firmly in place as her shuttle made its way to a hangar bay to land. Her clearance would mean there was little the staff could do but warn the governor that Darth Arcanix's shuttle had arrived and was preparing to land, but would also give them just enough time to prepare a welcoming party.

In many ways, for the Lady of Secrets, this unprompted meeting was inevitable as the young governor of Polis Massa had been a busy little bee, although not in the way she had suggested the young Sith should be when she had met her during a meeting on free trade zones. No, she had gone about catching attention in all the wrong ways and the Lady of Secrets was arriving to understand why she had done so and to... explain the rules and consequences of violating such rules if that had occurred.
 




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"Consequences."

Tags - Taeli Raaf Taeli Raaf




Polis Massa did not welcome intrusions. It endured them.

The warning came not from a lookout, nor from a panicked clerk at PAD-1, but from ICHNAEA herself. A whisper through the planetary neural scaffold—no more emotional than a temperature reading, no more urgent than a pressure fluctuation. Three Khan-class Star Destroyers: identified, logged, archived. No formation. No posture. Passive, but present. A shuttle launched moments later. Clearance requested.

ICHNAEA spoke not in words but in shifting data streams across hundreds of subsystems.
Serina felt it before she saw it. The system's awareness tensed, and that tension coursed through its arteries: dome vents recalibrating, atmospheric dampeners shifting tone, doors sealing more tightly than usual. The Massan machine did not scream. It did not raise alarms. It simply adjusted, as it always had, for pressure.

Serina Calis stood alone on a cold deck of PAD-1, one hand resting lightly on the datapad cradled beneath her palm. She did not look up. Not yet. The room around her was silent save for the distant whir of sub-dome reactors. Her eyes skimmed slowly over the week's civic stress models, one finger flicking through projected disruptions, population compliance curves, long-term predictive forecasts. Arcanix's visit had not appeared on any chart. But then again, ICHNAEA had marked this moment a long time ago.

Saijo had been a rupture point. This was the echo.

And the echo began not with alarms, but with a voice.

"
Polis Massa Control to DC-231," came the first transmission, etched into the cold airwaves with bureaucratic precision. The voice was androgynous, sterile, and almost irritatingly polite—an audio composite filtered through ARACHNEA's voice modulation system. "You are approaching a designated civilian orbital zone, currently optimized for low-threat, low-disruption traffic only. Per revised edict CRX-1123.9a, formation entry exceeding three capital mass signatures must submit orbital disruption offset credentials prior to deceleration. This protocol is in accordance with atmospheric stability measures instituted following the Reicher Vax Catastrophic Mass Displacement Event, clause eleven. Please transmit your manifest for layered review."

A pause, engineered.

"
Note: code clearance Amethyst is presently subject to Tier-Three authentication checks due to recent systemwide encryption recalibrations, initiated per the Vornax Data Purity Directive. Secondary verification will require localized biometric signature imprinting and at least one vocalized clearance phrase in Massan Sign. Stand by for initiation of customs interrogation cycle six."

The line clicked. Another voice replaced it. Slower. Older. Drier.

"
Be advised, DC-231, your vessel's biometric registration tag—Sith-grade, Class Four—conflicts with archival standardization norms currently recognized under Interdome Access Harmonization protocols. This is likely the result of outdated Sith Assembly documentation no longer recognized by the PAD-1 Subsector Routing Authority. Please verify the following: biosignature cluster, crew heat map, neural impulse scatter index, and precise holonet browsing records for all non-essential passengers aboard. Please note: personal data deemed too vague will trigger a temporary blacklisting of your escort squad under the Industrial Intrusion Suspicion Mandate, version 3.7."

Another pause.

"
Hold position."

A third voice. Younger. Over-enunciated, like someone reading from a manual they barely understood but took immense satisfaction in following to the letter.

"
Please be advised that sudden mass influx due to rotational redistribution of Docking Arm Theta has rendered your previously assigned docking vector obsolete. In its place, you are hereby reassigned to Docking Node Epsilon-Three, currently flagged for routine civilian use, scheduled bulkhead sealing maintenance, and hull plate decontamination. Additional friction anticipated due to local dome calibration drift. Surface temperature variance plus-or-minus 14 degrees. Civilian personnel have been instructed to ignore all non-emergency contact. Should your escort squad require amenities, they are advised to consult the dome's Emergency Displacement Kiosk, located two kilometers from the active bay, behind the coolant vent stacks."

Still more.

"
We are aware your shuttle class is Adonis-pattern. Be advised that Adonis-class vessels exceed the pressure buffer zone for Epsilon-Three by 0.2 atmospheric units. Risk of secondary seal damage acknowledged. Should damage occur, liability will be assigned to the vessel under rule 78b of the Internal Dock Hazard Resolution Charter. Confirmation of waiver acknowledgment pending. Please sign digitally and retransmit."

And on. And on. AND ON.

It continued for the better part of an hour.

The dockside command matrix was not malfunctioning. It was performing precisely as instructed.

Every department involved—Logistics, Customs, Orbital Control, Internal Docking Integrity, Environmental Regulation, Port Liability Review—functioned with terminal-level obedience. They verified documentation with manual override delays. They asked for redundancies no system actually required. They cited statutes written during the Old Republic and "
still technically in effect under continuity clause F-44." Each department blamed the last. Each passed the file back upstream. No one said "no." But no one said "yes," either.

The port control staff escalated the insult by requesting a passive scan of the shuttle's life-support matrix, citing archaic contamination statutes designed for livestock freighters. When Arcanix's pilot protested, they were placed on a silent loop—"
One moment while we connect you to Biological Hazard Clearance Specialist Third Class Olai Venn"—only to be told after twenty minutes that Venn was out for a nutrition capsule break.

A mechanized hauling droid labeled XR-7 trundled forward across the shuttle's designated approach vector, dragging three tons of broken alloy struts behind it on a rusted pallet. It stopped. And refused to move. A long pause followed before a maintenance technician slouched into view, shrugged at the controllers, and filed a report citing "
anomalous tread pressure variance," which, regrettably, required manual recalibration from a certified technician who was "currently in sector HD-Omega handling vent coil replacement." Estimated wait time: undefined.

By then, the hangar's ambient lights had cycled twice. The shadows stretched.

A group of adolescent laborers—none older than sixteen, some barely teenagers—rolled in a series of massive coolant tanks on cracked hover-slates, steering them with practiced inefficiency in an arc directly between the Sith shuttle and its disembarkation platform. None acknowledged the escort detail. None apologized. Their faces were blank, exhausted, precise. They were Massan-born. Reared in silence, trained for function. They moved like wind through pressure cracks: calm, inevitable, unbothered.

A single tank tipped over. It took twelve minutes to re-right it.

Elsewhere, a low-level administrative functionary assigned to PAD-1's orbital registry desk pinged DC-231 with a corrupted update file. "
Apologies," she said over a crackling line, "the packet may have been encoded using the obsolete TS-122 formatting standard. Please resubmit your transmission request in 4K-Word Massani Compressed Script. I believe your system does not support that protocol natively? Oh dear."

A second droid began welding at the corner of the hangar, sparks spraying into the already narrow shuttle egress path. "
Routine, routine, routine," chirped the bot without glancing up. "Do not impede operations."

By the time the shuttle finally set down on the deck of Epsilon-Three, its escort craft rerouted, systems pinged and re-pinged for compliance, and a grand total of twenty-three internal requests filed and "
lost," it had become unmistakably clear to any who still harbored doubt: this was not oversight.

This was not chaos.

It was rejection.

The mercenaries were no more subtle. Towering brutes in matte-black armor flanked the dock perimeter, sidearms visible but not raised. Their helmets bore no insignia. Their movements were slow, deliberate, and devoid of theatricality. One of them held a plasma torch the size of a riot baton, casually inspecting its heat readout while never quite turning away from the shuttle's primary hatch.

A loading overseer offered a "
welcome" with all the enthusiasm of a malfunctioning droid: "Please advise your superior that landing is complete. The Governor is aware. She will receive you… eventually. Do not leave the designated corridor. Do not attempt to access auxiliary domes. Translation services will not be provided."

There was no ceremony. No banner. No music. No greeting.

Serina did not stand at the landing bay. She did not descend the stairs of PAD-1 in flowing robes or stand framed by backlit glass like some theatrical sovereign. She did not even deign to broadcast a visual message.

Instead, she remained in her office, the room so sterile it felt like a surgical theater, flanked by data projections and silence. The light was cold and flat. The air smelled faintly of steel and sterilizer. Across from her, a blank screen pulsed quietly—live footage of the shuttle as it powered down, surrounded by mercenaries and passive-aggressive port staff.

There was no emotion in her face. No triumph. No apprehension.

Only inevitability.

Polis Massa's people had reacted not out of fear, nor defiance, but out of loyalty. Not to her—though many were loyal—but to the system. To the rhythm of silence and survival that
Serina had preserved and deepened since Reicher Vax's retreat. Darth Arcanix was a foreign signal, a heat spike in a system that prized thermodynamic equilibrium above all. She would be processed. Observed. Catalogued. Contained.

Not as a threat.

As an anomaly.

The Lady of Secrets would find no secrets here. Not because they did not exist—but because they were layered too deep, coded too intricately, stored in vaults without keys. She would find nothing but silence, inconvenience, and a mirror of her own intent.

Serina lifted a single finger, tapping the edge of her desk.

"
Observation feed four," she said quietly.

The footage shifted.
Arcanix's shuttle door began to hiss open.

Serina said nothing else. Her hand drifted back to the datapad, resuming her scroll through civic maintenance logs. Distantly, a soft chime from ICHNAEA marked the arrival's progression. But nothing else stirred.





 
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Polis Massa
Serina Calis Serina Calis
Most star systems and governors in Sith space, whenever a Dark Councilor made an unannounced arrival and transmitted their code clearance for landing immediately, typically bent over backwards to facilitate that request. It was generally found, by those governors and planetary governments, that doing so significantly decreased risk to themselves and those they ruled or could possibly curry favor if they complied. The Sith that were just one step beneath the throne, that held the Emperor's authority whenever he was not present, that could throttle or increase resources to worlds, were generally ones you wanted to be in a good mood with you.

Polis Massa and its governor had taken the opposite approach.

From the moment the first response came through, its cadence and tone ever so careful to begin the deluge of bureaucracy, the Dark Councilor within the shuttle knew her arrival was not wanted or desired. That was anticipated. She would listen to each request, her flight crew growing more exasperated at each new voice, at each new little thing that would hold up the landing process. Each one she would pass back to her wife through the bond in the Force, and she could feel her pacing and absolutely seething. The Lady of Secrets would play the little game though, each request or delay being met or

Oh, it was all very well done. The pacing, the changes in voices and supposed bureaucrats, the passing the docking request up and around in a circle of responsibilities and failures. It reminded her of a customer service job she worked in her days before she was a Sith, back when her main concern was having some pocket money to buy books while she learned. That was nearly seventy years ago now, but it was the same sort of runaround. Even once they had clearance to land, after over an hour of back and forth with her flight crew and the seemingly various individuals, their docking bay seemed to have a parade of 'issues' and routine busy work to stall their landing. It was so carefully constructed, so precise in its just barely concealed disdain and fabricated ineptitude. It just gave the game away of what was dealing with. The least Govenor Calis could have done is do the runaround with a physical staff instead of an AI. It was all just too perfectly done.

But it also told her plenty about Serina herself, combined with her observations from the economic meeting. What was on display currently was a complete and utter lack of respect, something the younger woman desperately wanted herself if how she had conducted herself on Terminus. As her shuttle's ramp lowered into the sterile landing bay, no procession there to greet her, it only compounded that feeling of disrespect. Govenor Calis had caught her attention in the wrong way, and the whole drawn out affair of even actually landing, had only further the slide of her attention in the wrong direction.

As she descended the ramp, garbed simply and elegantly in a flowing dark gown and her cloak, there would be no accompanying soldiers with her. No honor guard with her, just the Dark Councilor herself walking into the hangar bay. Amethyst eyes would slowly scan her surroundings, marking the young workers and staff and the mercenaries. She would be perfectly composed, if not having a slight tilt of her head in curiosity, ignoring the words from the overseer. Serina wasn't hiding in the Force, her presence easily found in the currents of the Force around her. A casual probe of her surroundings would reveal to her feelings of...

Rejection. Silence. Loyalty. Concealment. Impudence. Irritation. Routine. Monotony. Distract.

How very interesting, she thought, her gaze turning to the oversee as he spoke that the governor would receive her eventually and that she would not be allowed to deviate from the path given to her... eventually. Adorable, if he actually believed she cared about what he was saying. It was just another attempt to slow her, to show disrespect, to obfuscate what was really happening in this system. Now she only wanted to dig deeper, her attention heightening even further in the wrong direction. Her gaze would move directly to the observation feed that Serina was watching through, even though she couldn't possibly know that.

"Is this your attempt to try and assert some sort of power over me, dear?" she would ask quietly, clearly not speaking to the overseer. "Adorable."

She would turn to the overseer.

"No need, I'll see myself to her." And she would begin walking, following the presence in the Force that was the governor like a Galidraani bloodhound on the scent.
 




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"Consequences."

Tags - Taeli Raaf Taeli Raaf




The security doors parted with a whisper.

They did not hiss, or clank, or moan like ancient temple gates in some forgotten citadel. They parted like silk torn at the seam of reality itself—utterly smooth, utterly final. Beyond them, the air in PAD-1's innermost hall had a different quality, as though it had been filtered more than the rest, stripped not only of dust and toxin, but of warmth, humanity, sound.

It was a corridor without identifiers. No markings. No signifiers. The lights were bright, but sterile. Panels along the walls shimmered faintly with power, but displayed nothing. Cameras did not follow. Droids did not scurry. It was not empty in the way most hallways were. It was empty in the way a sealed vault is empty—deliberate. Controlled. Waiting.

Serina stood at the far end.

She did not turn.

She did not move.

She stood in perfect stillness, framed by the geometric monolith of a datawall flickering behind her—white code pulsing through dark crystal, like veins lit from within. Her silhouette was tall, sharply-cut against the pulsing glow, her black dress clad in asymmetrical severity, devoid of ornament. The only detail that stood out was the faint glint of pressure-steel thread along the edges of her gloves—like surgical instruments wrought into attire.

She heard
Arcanix before she saw her.

The sound was not in the air. Not in footsteps. It was in the pattern shift of the hall itself—the minute disruption of Force harmonics as the woman's presence advanced. A ripple. Calculated. Intentional. But still just a ripple.

When the
Dark Councilor finally emerged into view, Serina did not speak.

Not immediately.

Not even as the other woman's words still lingered in the Force like perfume—Is this your attempt to assert power?—not even as that invisible tether sought to tighten.
Serina's eyes tracked her, but not like prey. Like data. A pattern to be resolved.

And then—

"
I wasn't asserting anything," she said at last, voice low, cool, deliberate. "I was confirming your character."

A pause. Calculated silence.

A slow, single step forward.

"
You chose to come unannounced. You chose to treat my system like one of your courtly toys. You chose to arrive with a fleet formation more suited to suppression than conversation. And now, you choose to interpret consequence… as disrespect."

Another pause.

"
You chose all of this. I simply let you experience the outcome, a fitting beginning to this conversation, don't you think?"





 
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Polis Massa
Serina Calis Serina Calis
She would walk quietly down the revealed corridor, her cloak trailing behind her slightly in the filtered air. It was all so surgical, the presentation given to her thus far of the operations on Polis Massa. Everything done so far to show displeasure and to make sure she didn't see anything too important to the real operations in the system. The girl was guarded, wary of revealing anything of her hand. At least she had some courtesy to be waiting at the end of the corridor, but Taeli herself would pause at the exact halfway point. To listen to the girl's first words to her in this... conversation.

"Ah," would be all the Lady of Secrets would say at first to what Governor Calis said, of why she had given the Dark Councilor the runaround in even arriving at her domain. There may very well be something to be studied in her character on how she had reacted to the little game of bureaucracy. There would be a soft click of her tongue, hands folded in front of her as the girl took a step towards her. Perhaps the young woman before her didn't even recognize what her actions had done or could be perceived as, although she suspected the girl would disagree with that assertation.

"You seem to be under the impression that a Dark Councilor must announce their arrival," she would reply quietly, her tone even. Her own presence in the Force, what could be felt at least, radiated patience. But that would be all Serina would sense, the patience of a schoolteacher before the lesson. "That a Dark Councilor needs to schedule an appointment to be seen by a planetary governor. That a Dark Councilor requires permission to use a system as they see fit or to bring an escort along with them. That a Dark Councilor would receive consequences for exercising the authority they wield in the absence of the Emperor. Allow me to dissuade you of that notion of... equality."

She would take a step forward herself.

"If we are to discuss choices, let's examine yours. You chose to demonstrate a distinct lack of respect, either for me or for my position. If you did not intend to do so, you created the perception of it all the same. You chose to try and teach me consequences for exercising my authority, authority that exceeds your own in every manner of the word."

Another slow step forward.

"But it is your other choices that have brought, perhaps not my full attention yet, but enough of my attention nonetheless to prompt this... visit. You wanted to be seen and heard by those above you. Congratulations, you succeeded. Here I am, the consequences to your actions. Begin your explanation of the Saijo affair... now."
 




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"Consequences."

Tags - Taeli Raaf Taeli Raaf




Serina listened.

Every word.

She did not flinch beneath the weight of Arcanix's title. She did not react to the rebuke, the accusation, or the slow, careful walk of a woman who had slain systems with her silence. She did not interrupt.

But she watched.

Watched as the
Lady of Secrets claimed ground with the same assumption every Councilor did—that the stars bent for them. That worlds halted their spin to make way. That someone in a black cloak could appear without warning and still expect a throne to be set.

When
Arcanix finished—when the edict of begin your explanation cut through the air like the slash of a blade—Serina did not immediately reply.

She moved.

Not toward. Not away. She walked in a slow circle beneath the towering hololiths of PAD-1's data core chamber, the room rising like a cathedral built for machines. Lines of pulsing violet code swam through mirrored panels overhead. ICHNAEA's whisper could be felt like static across the skin. Outside the sealed duraglass walls, the stars loomed close—huge, and silent, and unblinking.

Only then did she speak.

"
I respect power, Councilor."

Her voice was smooth. Precise. But lower now. Measured with an intimacy that demanded silence to hear.

"
I respect it most when it moves with understanding and respect. Not force. Not tradition. Understanding and respect."

She turned toward
Arcanix, chin tilted ever so slightly—not deferent, not superior. Calculating.

"
What happened on Saijo was not rebellion. It was calibration."

Her gloves clasped behind her back. Her eyes did not waver.

"
You are correct to say I acted without sanction. I did. You are correct to say I made a spectacle. I did that as well. But I did not act out of delusion. Or ambition. Or the adolescent desire to be seen. I acted because no one else had."

A breath. Then—

"
Saijo was not a world. It was a choke point. A vault. A fortress feeding something far greater than its manifest could explain. My mercenaries cataloged seven times the usual of artillery stockpiles. Three interdiction frigates under false corporate identities. Ground-side logistics nodes for fuel reserves and combat droid fabrication plants that did not report to any Sith War Office. Every piece pointed to a mobilization effort designed not to project power—but to slip it through the cracks."

A slow step forward. She would only speak the truth here. These reports had already been administered to the correct people, she could only hope
Arcanix had seen them. Seen the real truth.

"
From Saijo, one could reach Terminus without obstruction. Or Jutrand. The Emperor."

She let that hang. No flourish. Just the knife-point of implication.

"
From Saijo, Councilor, the Tsis'Kaar had a back door to the Empire's throat. And they thought no one was watching. Because who would dare look?"

Another step.

"
Who could, after all, when the Dark Council squabbles bats each other with one hand, while the hand beneath the table sharpens its knives?"

And now her tone changed. Not angry. But colder.

"
I did not bomb Saijo to be loved. I burned it to shut the door before anyone could walk through. Before Fury's game reached your chambers. Or the Emperor's."

Silence again.

This time, when it broke, her voice had a quieter edge—razor-sharp with restraint.

"
But I won't lie to you."

She looked
Arcanix directly in the eye.

"
I did it to wound the Tsis'Kaar. Not for glory. Not for the Empire. For me. Because I extended my hand once before. And they spat in it."

A pause.

"
And because my people paid the price."

Her gloved fingers unclasped. From a data node beside her, a holo-document spiraled to life—no dramatics, just a clean Massan playback string. Thousands of line items scrolled across the column. Personnel logs. Fuel purchases. Frigate loadouts. Pirate fleet telemetry. All triangulated. All verified.

"
My contractors intercepted a pirate signal cache buried beneath a refuelling station in orbit. A full ledger of shipments routed to outer rim staging groups masked as cartel fleets. Ships that later struck here. Polis Massa. During the collapse. During the second massacre. The one that forced Reicher Vax Reicher Vax 's retirement."

She let the logs speak for themselves.

"
You may recognize the authorizations. Fury's handprint is all over them."

Serina stepped back into stillness.

She would let the data speak for itself.





 
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Polis Massa
Serina Calis Serina Calis
She would remain silent as the conversation moved into the data center at the end of the hallway, the room a testament to the idea of data being king. She was well aware that the room was likely only one of several that would be the processing centers for the governing AI that Serina was utilizing for her ambitions, which was a shame because it would certainly be indicative of a first-generation design if that were the case.

Her silence would remain as Serina explained what she respected and how she respected it. Respect for power through understanding and respect itself, not grounded in tradition or force. How... idealistic and yet flawed in its reasoning, but that would be something to be addressed. As the explanation for her actions on Saijo began, what was said offered her an interesting insight into the young woman, although perhaps not in the way she intended. The claims that it was calibration, not rebellion, was an odd descriptor to use. It suggested to her forethought into her actions, planning that went beyond a spur of the moment attack.

Her next words were admission that she had acted without sanction and had made a spectacle of the whole affair. That need not be said, but saying it gave her another piece of the puzzle. Her supposed rejection of the underlying reasons of ambition or delusion rung hollow to her though, as though the words needed to be set for performance but held little power or effort beyond the air expended for them. The girl oozed ambition from every pore, perhaps more blatantly than other Sith of her age she had encountered thus far. There was a thirst to prove herself, to prove that her way of thinking and doing things were right. That much was obvious and thus leading to the hollowness of her rejection of those.

And then the justification she had fully expected to come, the one that she had been forewarned about would be forthcoming. Saijo and its governor were planning to act against the Empire as a whole, building up resources for war slowly but steadily. According to the young woman before her, a coup with the full and quiet backing of the Tsis'Kaar that Darth Fury had been a member of. That she had acted to thwart those endeavors before they could culminate, before they were unleashed and destroyed the Emperor and the supposedly squabbling Dark Council.

But the real reason, the real insight into the young woman before her, came next when she said she had done it to wound the Tsis'Kaar... because they had rejected her, had spurned her offers of support. That the attack had come because they had struck her first, with pirates and other nefarious and subtle means.

There it was.

She had been offered three reasons for the assault on Saijo, for the decimation visited upon it and its governor. The data bearing Fury's authorizations and everything he had done to Polis Massa flowed freely in the data center. It was all so wonderfully constructed... except for a few issues.

"How magnanimous of you to strike down such an enemy before it attacked us," would come her quiet response. "How thoughtful that you did so out of duty to the Empire and to your people. Such passion. And all the data we could ever want to corroborate the account of events, all right before me. How generous of you to provide it..."

A pause, just the right length of silence to add emphasis to the next words she would say.

"And how all of it is irrelevant now."

It would be her turn now to begin pacing slowly in a circle, each step made with deliberate focus and grace born only from someone that had been playing this game for a long long time.

"You made a few mistakes, however, my dear at this first attempt at subterfuge. Mistake number one, admitting to the Emperor's Hand that most of this information if not all of it from Darth Fury was obtained after the attack had been nearly concluded, suggesting you had planned to attack Saijo with your mercenary force before that particular justification came up. I have her full report about the affair and what she witnessed."

She would pause a moment, looking at the girl with some amusement in her eyes, before continuing both her circle and her dissection.

"Mistake number two, although you share this one with the former governor of this system as well. Why not report these pirate attacks in the first place to the Dark Council? Such an attack on a system near several key worlds in the southern portions of our Empire would certainly have drawn attention, and yet not a word of it came to us. Why, the idea alone of pirates slipping through the Blackwall would have brought an immediate response from the Dark Council if not the Emperor himself.

"Mistake number three, you brought forth too much data. The art of creating a truly believable story as you wanted to construct relies on it being created in pieces, tiny ones, and all of them building up and reinforcing the other. You tried, I would imagine, but how you presented it here is too much. You didn't allow room for the stories to breathe on their own, but that's born from inexperience at the art. It takes practice to understand just the right number of clues and hints and data points to lay where others can find them."

She would glance up at the flowing data screens before back at the young woman.

"Mistake number four. Once you had bested Darth Fury and his forces, you made the decision to bombard the planet. To shatter its infrastructure and people, to ensure that your mark was left on it. An orbital bombardment, when the order is given, needs to be a dispassionate action. You, according to the Emperor's Hand and her report, were anything but dispassionate."

She would finally stop pacing, looking directly at Serina eye to eye again.

"Mistake number five, and this is the kicker of the argument, ties into mistake number two. Do you know why the Legions besides the Zero Legion are not allowed to operate anywhere except on the borders of the Empire? I'll tell you. It's to avoid unnecessary violence without authorization, to ensure that anyone that tries with the Legions or their personal forces is immediately recognized as crossing a line and brings the full force of everyone else down upon them. You admit to me that you knew this attack on Saijo was not sanctioned, and yet it occurred anyway when all you needed to do so within the bounds of our Empire is to inform us and seek the justification from any of the Dark Councilors or the Emperor and Empress."

For the first time, the Force would shift in the room and around them as her power stirred, rising from where it had been hidden. It was only a slow uncoiling of it, but it was quietly subsuming and engulfing the room. Her gaze and tone belied the power however, remaining calm and measured.

"You spoke at the beginning of your explanation that you respect power through understanding and respect, not tradition or force. However, that is a flawed belief, especially among the Sith. All Sith, from the Emperor down to the lowliest Acolyte within the academy system, have their power and standing grounded in both the traditions of the Sith and the power they hold, whether it be in the Force or other means. A Sith that understands this, understands that the rest of the galaxy is fair game but to strike at another Sith requires acting within the rules established by tradition, such as the Kaggath or the unsaid understanding that rivals need to be eliminated without yourself being caught in the act, creates the respect of those under them and those above them that recognize someone that should be cultivated."

A beat. Another coil of her power rearing up, tightening the circle.

"You have not done so. I believe you did tell me the real reason for your attack, and it was to simply strike at the Tsis'Kaar because they spurned you. You knew Fury would be a good target because he held a fortress world and it could be a demonstration of what you can do, of your power. You allowed a need for petty revenge and unchecked ambition to drive your actions, regardless of what you tell yourself or others in such honeyed phrases. Anything you claim otherwise is a lie, to yourself and to anyone else that hears you."

Another tightening. She hadn't moved at all from where she had stopped pacing, but her presence, her power, would be all around Serina. There would be nowhere her own abilities could go, and she would find she could only move a foot before meeting a force, invisible and forged from nearly seventy years of study. And it still wasn't the full extent of her presence, just what she had deemed necessary thus far.

"Let's begin the lesson."
 




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"Consequences."

Tags - Taeli Raaf Taeli Raaf




The data streams flickered like ancient rivers of light, humming across the dark walls like veins in the skin of a titan. Every thread of information, every burst of decrypted knowledge, bled across PAD-1's crystalline vaults with surgical elegance—beautiful, unyielding, alive. The quiet was profound now. Not the sterile silence of secrecy, but the solemn quiet of inevitability. The quiet before a blade. The quiet before a verdict.

Serina Calis did not move.

Not as the
Lady of Secrets circled her. Not as the ancient, coiled weight of her power constricted the chamber like a serpent formed of will and fury. Not as the air turned heavier, denser, each molecule vibrating with the potential of annihilation. She did not flinch. She did not rise in her own defense. Her hands, clad in gloves now frayed with faint scorches from Saijo's hellfire, remained at her sides. She did not reach for the Force.

She was the Force.

What remained of her.

Because
Serina Calis had already died.

Not in metaphor. Not in theory. Not in some symbolic tale of loss or sacrifice. She had died.

The first death had been the most pathetic. She hadn't even been given the dignity of a duel. On Rakata Prime, she had walked into a ruin with ambition in her throat and demands in her eyes. The Sith she met had simply grown bored of her presence. One flick of his blade. One casual, disgusted strike. She had been bisected in the middle of a sentence. That had been the lesson. There was no grandeur in failure. Only silence. Only cold.

She remembered the moment her blood hit the stone. How quiet it had been.

The second death had been worse.


Jedi Grandmaster Noble, inside the archives on Coruscant. She had come seeking to fulfil her promise, to step away from life and choose to remain in the background, to be content serving another. She never even finished defending herself when they came upon her, she held a desperate stand until Valery Noble Valery Noble had Serina beaten. The saber went through her chest before she could scream. Her heart—gone. There was nothing to mend. Nothing to regenerate. The darkness didn't heal her. It preserved her. The Force stitched her back together only enough for her to keep walking.

That hole still remained. Invisible. But infinite.

Her body had never recovered. She needed the Force now like lungs needed air, like cells needed heat. Without it, she would wither. Collapse. Not metaphorically. Literally. She had nothing left but will. Nothing left but the ambition that her enemies said made her dangerous, or naive, or suicidal.

And yet, here she was.

Surrounded by the suffocating might of a
Dark Councilor's wrath, the very structure of PAD-1 groaning under the weight of the presence pressing in on her from all sides, Serina Calis finally moved.

Not her body, no, her body had finally finished mourning.

Her eyes.

They lifted slowly to meet
Arcanix's gaze—not with defiance, not with challenge, but with certainty. An impossible calm. Not apathy. Not arrogance. The calm of someone who had already made peace with the outcome. Someone who had already died. Twice.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. Measured. Each syllable delivered with surgical restraint.

"
You're right."

No venom. No sarcasm. Just the plain, brutal truth.

"
I did it for me."

Acceptance.

She let the words settle like falling ash.

"
I did not act for the Council. Not for the Emperor. Not for some noble vision of the Sith."

Her hands remained still. Her shoulders did not tense.

"
I acted because they laughed at me. Because they sneered. Because they used words like arrogant, impulsive, young—as if age alone made them wise. As if tradition were a throne that could never rot beneath them. As if power was a birthright rather than something that could be taken."

She stepped forward. Only once. The Force resisting her movement like tar. But she moved anyway.

"
I acted because I wanted them to fear me."

Now her voice dropped lower. Almost a whisper.

"
Because they would not listen. Because no one ever listens until you make them afraid."

A pause. Her eyes were cold now. Not unfeeling—but stripped bare of performance.

"
And now?"

She tilted her head. Not mockingly. Curiously.

"
Now they do."

Her gaze did not waver as she spoke again, slower this time, each word enunciated like a mark etched in stone.

"
Saijo burned because I needed them to look at me and understand… that I am not someone to ignore."

Another breath.

"
I do not deny that I violated every rule. That I broke every chain. That I danced in the fire and dared the heavens to punish me."

Her hands, so still until now, curled gently inward.

"
I expected to die for it. I chose to die for it. A thousand times in my mind I've died for less. For nothing."

The light above her head flickered briefly.
ICHNAEA's pulsing code danced faster.

"
But here I am."

The Force around her didn't flare in protest. It didn't crackle or shriek or scream in refusal. It simply compressed, dense and silent and unrelenting. It wrapped around her body like a sarcophagus.

She did not resist it.

"
I have no illusions, Councilor. I am not equal to you in power. Not in station. Not in age. I do not pretend I belong here. I know I don't."

Then a pause.

"
But I will."

It was not a plea. Not a vow. Just fact.

"
There is no part of me left that asks for approval. No permission for belonging. No invite of redemption. I gave those up on a stone floor when my blood ran cold. I gave them up in a library as my heart was pierced. When I realised the galaxy itself wanted me dead. I do not serve. I do not ask."

Finally.

"
I take. I control. I corrupt."

She looked up at the massive hololiths—the empire of data, the machinery she had built to calculate futures, to bend probabilities.

And in that single moment, she realised a simple, horrid truth.


Serina understood, with a clarity sharper than any blade, that she was owed nothing.

That she must take everything.


A realisation that only required little thought, because it had only required acceptance.

Acceptance.

She continued.

"
I built all of this to last. Not to be liked. Not to be admired. To endure. To make sure that the next time a girl like me dares to climb, she doesn't get cut in half for speaking too boldly. Or executed for walking in the wrong corridor."

A breath.

"
You say I broke the rules. I know I did."

Her gaze dropped back to
Arcanix. And here—here—a faint tremor of emotion touched her voice. Not regret. But finality.

"
But I did it because of the rules. Because they were written to keep people like me in place. To keep the old guard safe. To protect the lie that only tradition can define power."

Then, softer—

"
I will not die kneeling."

The air crackled now. Not with Force lightning, or rage, or fear. But with the weight of certainty.

She stepped forward again, even as the invisible pressure wrapped tighter, the metaphysical bindings beginning to constrict.

"
I know what comes next."

Another step.

"
I have earned what comes next."

Final step.

"
And I will face it as myself."

Acceptance.

And then—silence.


Serina Calis stood alone, bathed in the artificial light of a thousand truths, the weight of the past coiled behind her like a cloak of ashes.

She did not reach for a weapon. Her weapon was her will.

She did not raise her voice. Her voice was her defiance.

She stood still, and proud, and ready.

Ready to accept death.



 

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