First Reply Selective Interest

[Meya Liefi]

​

Mortyra walked along an upper thoroughfare. The street was busy, though less so than most, as it was reserved for those who could afford to exist at their own pace.

Polished stone stretched beneath her heels, clean to a fault, reflecting the pale clarity of the sky above. There were no clouds. Just a wide, uninterrupted blue that gave the entire district a strange, curated stillness.

A cooling breeze slipped between the structures without resistance, brushing lightly against the fabric of her dress. The air carried little scent beyond faint traces of expensive oils and distant metalwork.

The dress she wore was black, threaded with fine gold. The stitching depicted storms, patterns of curling wind, and fractured lines that suggested lightning caught mid-strike.

Gold necklaces rested at her throat. Each of her fingers bore a ring set with dark, carefully chosen stones. Bracelets encircled her wrists.

Her hair was drawn up and secured into an arrangement that left no strand misplaced. Fine chains of gold were worked through it, draping with intentional asymmetry, shifting faintly with each step before settling again.

A step behind and to her left walked a meek-looking, well-dressed man assigned to assist her. In his hand was a datapad that he was currently typing on.

Further back, her bodyguard followed. His posture remained relaxed in appearance only. His gaze did not settle. It moved constantly, measuring distance, tracking motion, evaluating every passing figure without pause.

She was here to meet a collector, one who claimed to possess a unique item she would want. Mortyra had not sent anyone ahead to inspect it. For one, she was not the type to let others know what she collected. Secondly, she preferred to determine its authenticity herself.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Lysander stalked the district's upper walkways. His mind was always a cold forge of calculation. Trusted and loyal, he'd been dispatched by one of the Triumvirate to verify rumors of a collector trafficking artifacts, those beyond Covenant oversight. Previously, such rumors would have been ignored. But since seizing the Core, their intelligence network had grown sharper.. better funded. Evolved with resources. What once began as a few scattered informants had become a large network of operatives. Almost like becoming something you once despised.

Today he wore the familiar black cloak of Sith.. which was no longer a rarity on Byss, now infested with followers of the Dark, or at least sympathizers. Some just played at darkness, but he truly embodied it now. By the time he reached the main thoroughfare, he'd already pinpointed the collector's building; it was a slim tower. The entrance was guarded by security nodes. There was no need for reconnaissance. After all, this planet had become his home, claiming him, as he was drawn back again and again by forces he couldn't quite name. Maybe it recognized what he was becoming.

He sensed a courier before need for visuals. Fear leaked from the figure like radiator. Lysander's gaze narrowed, pupils contracting. Sometimes, disorder was opportunity in disguise. Or perhaps just another excuse for violence. The man careened forward, blind to everything.. but his own panic, moments from colliding into a woman who was flanked by guards.

And so, the young Sith moved like a shadow. His grip found purchase upon the courier's shoulder. Fingers pressing harshly against nerve clusters. His other hand secured the case while also immobilizing the man's arm.

"People only move like that when a situation has gone sideways," came the words, stripped of warmth. "Tell me what happened, so I may determine if you live beyond today."

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
​

Mortyra’s guard shifted the moment the courier broke into their path, preparing to intercept him. But a cloaked figure moved first. Swift. Precise. The courier was seized mid-stride, his momentum cut short as the young man’s grip found his shoulder and arm with ease.

The courier flinched sharply at the contact. A strained sound caught in his throat as his body locked under the pressure. The sudden stop caused his cap to slip, tilting low enough to nearly cover one eye. His dark eyes darted, unfocused at first, then snapped toward the one holding him.

“I—someone tried to rob me,” the courier lied, stammering, breath uneven. “Back there—I didn’t stop, I just kept moving. I’ll report it, I will, I just—”

Mortyra’s own gaze had already shifted to them. Her yellow eyes moved once between the two men, then lowered briefly to the case now secured in the Sith’s grasp. The address on it was visible. The collector’s. And they stood within sight of the tower.

More importantly, she did not miss the sense of deceit clinging to the courier.

Her attention shifted again. Her emotionless gaze angled upward in an attempt to meet the cloaked man's eyes, the movement causing the golden chains in her dark hair to shift and catch the light. He had height on her, and weight as well, by a considerable margin. Most of her species were lithe, even the males. It did not show in her posture. She was small, not meek.

She had not stopped moving entirely, only slowed. Her shoulders remained squared, her stance unchanged, balanced as ever. If there was any reaction to the interruption, it was contained to the attention it drew from her.

“Is there a problem here I need to worry about?” she inquired, her tone even, controlled.

Her gaze flicked once toward the tower, then returned to the Sith, settling there without urgency as she came to a stop. The final click of her heels echoed briefly before being swallowed by the courier’s uneven breaths.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Lysander's hand lifted, fingers tightening around the courier's throat next; no longer containing him, but perhaps.. promising to redefine his relationship with oxygen. The man's pulse thudded against his palm like a trapped animal. Fast.. and erratic. More fear, something that had a signature unique as handwriting. And this one screamed. Lies hung in the air between them; they were sour.

Darkness coiled within him, a familiar companion. There was only power and consequence, as he was coming to understand. A truth the Covenant carved into his essence. One more pressure on the windpipe and he would be ended.

Leaning in closer, his voice dropped to a colder frequency; perhaps, he wanted it to bypass the ear and settle straight in the spine. "Look at me," he commanded. "You're lying."

The courier's hitch in breath was an admission itself without further speak. Lysander angled the case slightly, letting the courier see it in his own hands. Anticipation was building like another toxin..

"This didn't leave that tower by accident," he continued. "Give me a name."

The courier's lips parted with a plea.. but this time there were no words. Somehow, he could feel more lies before they even had a chance to manifest. The Sith felt another presence settle into the moment. His gaze slid over to the woman, noting the gold chain.

"No, not a problem.. but a violation I will rectify."

His gaze lifted to one of the towers above. "The Covenant doesn't request compliance.. we claim it. Every level of this tower, every corner of this district, it all answers to us."

In truth, the blonde typically approached most matters with a more pragmatic mindset, but today's earlier frustrations might've left him with a shorter fuse. His eyes dropped, traveling over her once more. "Interesting enough.. you're headed to the same tower. But I don't know your purpose here.. not yet."

The breeze shifted. "Does your business touch something else?" Brows narrowed slightly. "In other words, I need to understand whether you stand inside this problem.. or outside it."

A small crowd gathered at the edges of his vision; so, he loosened his grip, hand falling back to his side. For now, better to make it appear as a conversation instead of an execution.

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
​

Mortyra allowed the man’s words to settle and was not oblivious to the crowd beginning to gather.

A heartbeat passed. Another.

One of her eyebrows rose by a fraction. “Do you always put on a show?” she asked bluntly, her voice stripped of emotion despite the judgment carried in the words. “It’s one thing to use fear as a tool to keep the common on their heels. It’s another to broadcast that you’ve let something slip within your territory.”

She paused, briefly, not for effect, but for consideration even if he decided to answer. She quickly realized there were multiple ways this encounter could unfold that might expose her.

It irritated her, and she promptly guarded her mind against him. One of the first disciplines her late master had taught her, though it could also tip him off if he was trained enough to sense it.

She was highly protective of keeping her face separate from her Sith identity. There were too many advantages to it for her to relinquish. Very few knew the face beneath her Sith mask, and those who did were mostly the result of lapses in her judgment she did not intend to repeat.

Her eyes remained locked with the other Sith’s, unflinching. Cold and calculating. She did not care if he understood that he was staring at another predator. It wasn’t unusual for one to clock another even when masking, from her experience.

“I’m here to purchase an item from the collector,” she said plainly. “Of course, he assured me it was registered in his name, and that he held the legal right to sell it.”

He hadn’t said any of that. And she was not foolish enough to believe that something of Sith origin would be sold legally within Covenant space. That was precisely why she had already guarded her mind. Regardless, it was still a gamble. She did not know anything about this Sith besides what he had showed her so far.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Lysander’s attention drifted to the gathering crowd for a few seconds, jaw tightening, before his gaze settled back on the woman. A quiet breath released through parted lips. “Nothing slips in my territory except my willingness to wait.”

“A performance?” he then repeated, one corner of his mouth curving upward. “No, not hardly. If I wanted spectacle, I would have painted these cobblestones red.” Something dangerous flickered behind the blonde’s pupils. “What happened wasn’t for show. Think of it as prevention instead. Stopping a threat before it could touch you,” he paused, studying her posture, “or anyone else.”

In truth, he wasn’t even sure why he bothered in that moment to explain himself..

He tasted the word, rolling it across his tongue like sour wine. “An item.” One eyebrow arching might’ve suggested skepticism. “You’ve already been promised safety. How disappointing to watch another.. bright mind discover that safety is only the first sacrifice.”

Fingers uncurled from the courier’s throat, releasing him to.. insignificance. The man fled, naturally so, but the case.. the prize, remained. Then, he pivoted toward her slowly. Some of the gathering crowds began to recede, fear rippling outward. But what he sensed before him wasn’t prey.

“The collector has a reputation,” he continued. “He deals in things that don’t belong to him. Things that vanish from archives and reappear in.. private vaults. Things that are not meant to be sold.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And I am here to determine why. So, when you tell me you’re here for a purchase, I can’t but hear something else.” A smile ghosted across his lips, there and gone. “I don’t know your purpose here. Not yet. But I know it isn’t as simple as a transaction. So tell me this instead..” he extended his hand, palm up, "are you here because you want what he’s selling.. or because you know what he’s stolen?”

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
​

Wasteful. That was the first word that came to mind when he spoke of painting the streets in blood.

But when his hand rose, Mortyra’s posture tightened by the smallest degree. The only Sith to ever defeat her in combat had been her master. That did not mean she would ever allow her defenses to lower when she could think of ways for someone to take advantage of their position.

She let out a quiet breath through her nose as he finished his question, and a faint frown flickered across her lips before vanishing. "Before I answer any more questions, let me simplify things."

Her right hand rose, all fingers curling into her palm save for her pointer. It remained extended, angled upward toward the open blue sky.

“You want something. I want something.”

“I’ll help you solve your… mystery,” she continued, her eyes settling into a nearly lifeless gaze now that she was moving onto the ‘basics’. She finally blinked, once. “In return for three things.”

“One.” Her pointer finger remained raised. “You minimize personal questions.”

Her middle finger joined it.

“You accept that the item, a tome… bound in dark, aged brown leather, threaded with deep red veining and edged faintly in gold, marked at its center with a small gilded star, is mine. It leaves with me. By any standard that matters, even yours, it belongs to me.”

Her ring finger rose to join the others.

“When I tell you to look away, you do so. I will only request this one time during our… outing. You may keep me in your periphery, if it makes you more comfortable.”

Of course, she was prepared for him to break any deals they made if it benefited him, or to simply attack her right here and now. He was Sith, but so was she.

Her hand opened then, flattening as it lowered slightly. The gold flecks in her black-painted nails caught the light briefly, and if Lysander was close enough, a faint, unfamiliar scent might reach his nose. The polish was far more dangerous than it appeared, something she kept to herself.

As her hand lowered, her assistant moved without prompting. From his bag, he produced a fitted harness, a belt that crossed her torso and secured at her waist, along with a worn grimoire. He stepped in just enough to fasten the harness into place before placing the book into her hand.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Another slow breath was drawn through the nose, the cool air stinging his sinuses as he regarded the woman. A gust of wind pressed between them, lifting strands of blonde hair; it carried the scent of autumn decay. Though he were younger, he'd fought his way past blind obedience and subordination. Above all, he trusted pragmatism.. an invisible thread that held the Covenant together while others so often probed its limits.

Three conditions.. the arbitrary number amused Lysander. Why not one? Why not ten? A clever bargaining ploy. Too few would reek of desperation. Too many would be unreasonable. Clearly, she was protecting herself, erecting walls before he could breach them. Naturally, he recognized the strategy all too well, because he'd invented similar ruses himself.

Nostrils flared as another scent reached him. Twin emeralds flickered to her hand before returning to her face. "Ownership is not the same as right, though," he stated calmly. "If it belongs to you, then someone stole it from you." He left that little implication hanging between them.

The tome's description had been.. too specific. She knew exactly what it was, what it contained. Power recognized power, and hers was the kind that expected privacy and special privileges. He didn't need her help, not truly, but.. discretion had its merits. And unfortunately, Lysander already shown too much of his hand with the courier.

"Privacy is yours until it threatens me," he continued, eyes narrowing to slits. "So, we'll see how long that lasts." He then raised a single finger. "My terms are quite simple. Truth when it counts. You don't lie to me about the tome."

His focus slid to her guard, jaw tightening. "No," the word rolled out as a second finger joined the first. His gaze cut to the assistant next. "He doesn't come inside either. Both of them. You and I go in alone." Nothing wrong with minimizing his own risk. He could keep an eye on her, when necessary, but he had no desire to dodge a blade from behind.

"As I understand it, the collector's… vault is cramped, riddled with traps and wards keyed to Force signatures," said while glancing again at the guard, then finally back to her. "Your people will slow us down, and they may very well die for it."

Lysander pivoted on the ball of his foot, a movement precise as a duelist's turn. The case was still clutched in one hand. As the first step was taken, he spoke over one shoulder, his voice descended.

"I'm not convinced the collector is alone."

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
​

His mention of ‘right’ drew an immediate response from her. “That tome belongs to me through tradition. One even your ilk might respect.” Her expression did not shift. “It is mine by right.”

Whether the Covenant recognized such claims was another matter entirely. Then there was the matter of… her not wanting to admit which tradition.

His remark about it being stolen went unanswered. Why? Because he was right. Her purpose here extended well beyond what she had revealed and that touched on it.

As he laid out his own terms, several thoughts passed through her in quick succession. The more he pressed on the tome, the clearer her nature would become. For now, it would be best to rely on magick, she thought. Perhaps he would take her for a witch and nothing more… if he had not already marked her as Sith.

The crowd had begun to part and thin as he moved, tension dissolving into cautious distance. Mortyra lifted her hand in a small, dismissive gesture toward her guard and assistant. They did not protest. They knew better.

“If my hair loosens,” she said, her voice as flat as ever, “there will be no one to fix it. Because of you.”

It was not a complaint. Merely a statement.

She stepped forward, falling into place beside him as if it were natural.

“I wish to start at the top,” she stated. Not a request or a suggestion.

Her grimoire was secured against the harness. Then her hand rose again, extending toward him. She stopped just short of contact, close enough to feel the heat of him if he did not move or stop her.

“Do not resist.”

If he allowed it, green fire ignited at her fingertips first. Thin, coiling strands that licked upward before thickening. It spread within a handful of heartbeats, swallowing the space between them, then the street itself, curling around their forms in dense, spiraling layers. The world fell away in a muted rush.

For a heartbeat, there was no ground. No sky. Only the press of that unnatural green haze and the sensation of being pulled—folded—through something unseen.

Then it snapped away.

The flames unraveled just as quickly as it they formed, peeling back into nothing as stone met their feet once more. They were now atop the tower. The air was sharper here, the wind less obstructed as it swept across the roof. Before them stood a reinforced entrance set into the structure itself, marked by subtle etchings and ward-lines barely visible beneath the surface. Mortyra lowered her hand and, without looking at him, stepped forward toward the door.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Time wasted was advantage lost, and for now, their 'goals' aligned enough. So, cooperation made sense. Just two pieces moving temporarily in sync on the same board. When her hand rose toward him, he felt the heat. As always, some icy rationale part of him ran through risks and outcomes, but there was no time for hesitation, nor resistance.

Then a green fire bloomed in her palm, unlike any pyromancy he'd ever seen, and he'd seen plenty. His own work paled beside this.. spreading with eerie purpose. Space folded and twisted around them. For a second, maybe two, Lysander existed nowhere and everywhere, his consciousness stretched thin across a void that should not have been crossed. Then reality snapped back into focus.

They matched pace again. "You were worried about your hair," rolled the words dryly. "It's still holding." An attempt at levity, no different from the pre combat rituals with his Covenant brethren. Exhaling through his nose, he stepped forward. "And impressive transportation," added quietly. "Though next time, perhaps a warning before you.. rip a hole in reality." The phenomenon intrigued him, something to further study later.

Around them, the ancient glyphs carved along a corridor came alive. Not in violence though, but almost like an old predator recognizing a familiar scent Ripples ran through the air. Soft murmurs pressed against the boundaries of Lysander's mental barriers.

Pupils contracted as understanding bloomed. "It knows we're here."

After another step, that pattern fractured. What was before them was not truly a door. An idea, or barrier beyond anything physical.

No, his instincts warned, this was wrong.

As he faced faced her, his expression was grave but alight with dark curiosity. "What do you suppose it wants from us?" A tribute, perhaps? He wasn't sure. "I suspect you're withholding information regarding this place and your connection to it." .

The most troubling part? While entry eluded him, he was certain she possessed this knowledge. The young Sith kept that detail masked. "Those wards might not be as forgiving of lies as I am."

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
​

Mortyra didn’t respond to the comment about her hair. If it had loosened that quickly, a slave would have paid the price. Only when more suspicion left his lips did she look back at him. Slowly. For a second time in their encounter, one of her eyebrows rose. “Is it not partly because of your curiosity that you haven’t tried to arrest me yet? If I gave you everything… there would be nothing left to play.”

Her yellow eyes held his emerald gaze for a moment longer before drifting back to the ward.

“How much experience do you have with wards?” A question that carried a dull, practiced cadence, as though she had asked it many times before and found the answers consistently lacking. Her expression remained unchanged, eyes half-lidded, distant. “Peel back enough layers, and it will tell you what it wants. Exactly.”

Mortyra lifted her hand slightly, probing the creation before and around them. The ward's structure began to unfold. To a trained eye, each line of magick fed into the next, braided so tightly that no single part could be separated without first understanding what came before it. Meaning folded into meaning, intent buried beneath careful misdirection.

Her fingers moved subtly, tracing through the air. As her focus settled, a faint ripple passed through the ward. Then another. And another, and another, each following the last in measured succession until the air around them was threaded with distortion and reality itself seemed to waver.

“You should feel it now." That same quiet dullness carried in her tone. “It speaks in its own way.”

A faint pause. Then, without looking at him, “Offer your hand.” Her gaze remained fixed on the shifting ward. “It is keyed to male blood,” she added. “You are the only viable option.”

Another brief pause.

“I will… alter yours to its specifications.”

Would he obey? Risk following her instructions again. A woman he had only met minutes ago. One he didn’t even know the name of.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

The ward's murmurs pressed against the edges of his mind. Unwelcomed whispers and half-formed thoughts. Despite himself, he strained to understand them, searching for patterns.. even if this were a language he could not comprehend. Strange, how they were almost.. sentient.

Curiosity. Yes. He supposed that was part of it. Of course, Lysander held her gaze, refusing to surrender this small contest of wills between them, perhaps mattering more than it should. "Arresting you would have been simple. Understanding you is harder. But you're playing too. You've had practice." The admission cost him nothing, he told himself, and not weakness, though many Sith Lords would surely be quick to suggest otherwise. Curiosity could also be temporary.

Though another truth, this entire encounter... well, it was something unexpected. Not what he'd anticipated when entered the district, not entirely appealing in its sudden exposure of limitations, but also a welcome deviation from the monotony of his daily regimen.

A sound escaped him that might have been a laugh in another life. "Less than I'd like," he admitted. "And enough to know that whatever you're doing is something I was never taught." He watched her hands move through the air, coaxing layers of magic he couldn't perceive until she made them.. manifest. They were hypnotic. But those gestures would continue revealing the chasm between their knowledge. A sobering realization, really.

The request for his blood made something wary slither through him like a cold serpent. Not manipulation.. no, this was different. Blood was never just blood to those who understood power. It was the river that connected him to his ancestors; their gifts still sang in his veins. To offer it freely was unlocking an entirely different door..

Lysander traced the lines of her face, hunting for any telltale of a lie. Trust was far from his natural state. He'd sooner trust a starving Nexu, but she'd already held his life in her hands during that impossible teleportation.

The ward throbbed in time with the blood in his veins. Naivety wasn't his weakness either. Everything he'd observed up until now, all of it suggested she was dangerous. Maybe, they weren't so different.

He released a slow breath. Finally, he extended his hand toward her, palm upward. "I want to see how you do this. But if I feel you reaching for anything beyond what the ward requires, I'll pull back." Another warning hovered on the tongue, but he swallowed it.

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
​

Easy to arrest her? Maybe…. most likely. It would be… quite a feat for her to escape.

It wouldn’t be as simple as reaching her ship. Spaceports could be locked down within minutes. Even if she broke atmosphere, it would not grant her freedom, only distance. She would still need to clear Covenant space, slip past patrol routes, avoid being flagged the moment her transponder was recognized. And if she did manage that, her face could travel faster than she ever could. Systems could be alerted. A bounty placed on her head. Hunters sent after her with far more time than patience.

This man—Sith—held most of the cards now.

Not being taught something was another matter entirely.

“Let me guess,” she began, her attention turning from the ward to him now that he had agreed.

She stepped toward his extended hand. The faint chime of gold against gold followed her movement, each piece at her wrists, her neck, the fine chains woven through her hair settling almost immediately—almost unnaturally—despite the wind howling around them, as she came to a stop and looked down at his palm.

Her left hand came up beneath his, cupping it. Cold, icy skin settling against his warmth.

“Your training focused on manipulation of others. Ambition. Domination.” Her fingers shifted slightly, turning his hand just enough to further expose the center of his palm, adjusting it with the same detached care one might give an instrument. “And replication of skills and abilities.”

A pause, just longer than a breath. “You were shaped into a good tool.”

Another pause, her voice lowering a fraction. “Not all knowledge is meant for the masses.”

As she spoke, her other hand moved. The wind along her fingers tightened, drawn thin and sharp, before it kissed across his palm and opened a shallow, precise line of skin.

Blood that pooled from the cut did not fall. It lifted. Drawn upward in a slow, controlled motion, gathering and suspending above his hand. It held there, trembling faintly. Mortyra’s focus did not waver. After pooling for a heartbeat the blood stretched, thinning into finer strands before folding back into itself.

Something in her expression shifted as she worked with his blood. Subtle. A hair’s breadth more than a hint of a smile touched her lips, just wide enough to bare the edge of her teeth. Something flickered in her eyes… recognition… understanding.

Then it vanished. A dull, distant expression returned to her face as if it had never been disturbed. She shifted after, sending his blood curling through the air toward the ward, which absorbed it without resistance. A single blink was enough for it all to be gone. Where the ward had been, a stairwell now descended into the building.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

An ice sharp jolt traveled through his veins. The sudden assessment brought forth a shake of his head, lifting his gaze as she studied the meat of his palm. Almost like a fortune teller searching for truths. "That's not entirely fair," he affected. The irony of invoking 'fair' wasn't lost on him either. "Beyond the physical discipline, my studies were steeped in political theory and science." An understatement. One eye arched, a challenge to her assumptions. "But I find also fulfillment in the study of saber forms." Pride colored his voice; after all, he was an instructor at Coruscant's Academy.

His following words were slower. "A tool? I've never considered myself an instrument for another's hand. I've always shaped my own destiny, one way or another.. as I've learned to shape others."

The wind changed, sharpened into a knife of air that split his palm in a perfect line. Lysander simply observed the blood well and lift into the air, crimson droplets trembling.. like a moth's heartbeat. Magic drifted up to his nostrils. A slow exhale escaped, watching the newly birthed stairs take shape. Steps carved into the darkness.. so he stepped closer.

"An interesting segue. You manipulate flesh, energy, and now.. environment. But all theatrics aside, what is your endgame here?" The question was as much for himself as for her.

Descending, down he heard the door seal them in. Ahead, a security camera in the swiveled toward them. Two, maybe three guards were sweeping the floor. Their voices came in fragments.. "check the eastern corridor," "collector wants eyes on everything." A flashlight beam cut across the shadows and stairwell. It was clear they weren't expecting company.. but Lysander was ready to respond. The strangest part? He couldn't predict what came next.

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
​

Mortyra didn’t respond in any form to his endgame question. Not even a twitch of a brow or any sort of eye contact or movement to acknowledge he spoke. She noted his prideful answer about his education, filing it at the back of her mind. Soon some pieces would fall into place for him, and so she needed all the intel she could gather.

She entered the hallway slightly behind him, at his side so she remained in his peripheral and he wouldn't feel the need to slow down to check on her. She paused to look down the center of the spiraling stairwell. They were several floors from the bottom. A leap without breaking bones would be possible for a talented Force Sensitive, but still quite the drop.

Now Mortyra looked at the Sith. “It’s time for you to be useful.” She did not speak quietly. Her voice carried far. It struck the walls and fractured, echoing downward.

“Did you hear that?” a man’s voice came from below.

Mortyra was already moving as it did. What remained of the blood on Lysander’s palm, dried along the cut or still glistening at its edges, lifted at her will. It peeled free in a thin, unnatural thread. Green fire answered her call instantly, blooming around her form in a tight, violent flare.

She vanished.

The teleportation snapped shut almost as soon as it opened, faster now. Cleaner. It took less time when she took only herself… and the small, stolen tether of blood.

“I heard it from above,” another male voice said. Boots struck metal as they began their ascent, urgency building in each step.

At the base of the stairwell, green flame flickered back into existence. Mortyra appeared for the briefest moment there, a silhouette etched in sickly light. Just long enough to be seen, if anyone had been looking closely enough. Then she moved, slipping past the threshold of a nearby doorway without pause.

From that room, the unmistakable sound of bones cracking, giving way under sudden, decisive force made it into the stairwell. Next, the sound of a body hitting something hard. A cut-off breath that never quite became a shout. And then the screams began. Not loud. Not sustained. They rose in jagged bursts. Each one shorter than the last.

Spoiler: Read only if Lysander catches up to her

Inside the room she slipped into, the air was colder… and wrong. Thick with the Dark Side and the smell of iron, with something sweeter underneath it, and a faint, sour rot that clung to the back of the throat.

Several small containers and sealed pouches hung from her harness now, secured in tight rows across her torso and along her hips.

The containers were narrow and cylindrical, some glass, some of a darker, opaque material that swallowed the light. Each was filled to a different degree with blood. Fresh. Dark.

The pouches were heavier looking, irregular in shape, From them came a different scent. Not just blood. Flesh. Bone.

One body sprawled on its side lay near her, spine bent in a way no living body could sustain. Its skin was drained to a pale, waxy gray, stretched tight over bone in some places and oddly slack in others. One arm was missing from the shoulder down, the absence too clean to be accidental.

Another was further away from her, leaned against a wall, and its legs crossed unnaturally at the knees, one turned completely the wrong direction. The chest cavity had been opened with unsettling precision, ribs parted and held there, leaving a hollow where something had been removed.

Mortyra wouldn’t wait for Lysander; she’d keep moving into the next room unless he stopped her.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

The cut on his palm still sang with something older and nothing to do with pain. It was like being recognized by something unseen, even as they traveled well past the door. The power of another brushing against his aura. Then she was gone, at least in body.

Wasting no time, he moved. The stairwell curved and he hugged the inner wall like a shadow. A guard’s flashlight swept the bend, but it was too lately. The beam met only emptiness. Already a eulogy. The blonde’s hand clamped over his mouth before breath could form a word, and the strike that followed was the kind he no longer regretted. A second guard lunged from a side corridor and managed half a syllable before a forearm found his throat. The figure’s heels scraped the floor twice.. then stopped

The woman hovered just ahead.. but he was trailing like a phantom.

Youth hadn’t spared him the sight of death. He’d made it even, with coldness that the Covenant generously rewarded. Mass graves from the Outer Rim to the Tapani sector, and then the Core. Hundreds of thousands. Even so, the scene before him, this chamber, was an entirely different kind of wrongness. Coldness pressed behind his back teeth, then settled behind his eyes. The room exhaled decay. His pulse thundered in his ears, matching the fractured rhythm of the Force’s cries.. a symphony of anguish, echoing from every corner..

And beneath the flicker of a lone brazier lay two bodies.. one collapsed in what one might call a nightmare.. spine ruptured and pale as marble; another propped against the wall, ribs flayed open, absence where a sentient heart once called home. Almost as if the soul had been plucked out too.

But.. it wasn’t the woman’s cruelty that truly whispered to him; no, it was something else entirely. Every nerve alight, he stepped forth as a hand wrapped around his lightsaber’s hilt. Would a blade cut through sorcery? Lysander knew the answer to that. And that answer only stung like venom. But this was about more than survival.

Bootfalls alone should've given him away. “Don’t think you can slip by me as if this is nothing now.” His voice pitched higher, and naturally, that was an ill-advised choice, given that the building was filled with guards and other anomalies.

“You knew exactly what you were coming for here.” Truths pressed up against his teeth. “You asked for my blood. And you used it.” The space between them was lost to another step. “So don’t perform ignorance now. Tell me what you’re actually after. All of it” A crimson blade came alive with a long wet hiss that bled red into the shadows, painting the chamber in the color of blood.

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
​

Mortyra did not stop moving. She continued forward, though her yellow gaze locked onto the Sith the moment his blade came alive. Red light spilled across her form, catching brightly along the edges of her harness and the glass of the vials at her sides as they swayed with each step.

Nothing in her posture suggested retreat, but neither was there any ease to it. As certain as she was of the outcome should he choose to act, she had no intention of underestimating him.

“Have you ever held a lightsaber blade itself?” she asked, her tone almost conversational despite the circumstances. “A dangerous ability to learn and use. One break in concentration, the energy could become unstable… and both combatants are likely to suffer.”

Behind him, from an adjoining corridor, the sound of boots began to echo, distant at first but steady, closing. The faint chime of the containers at her hips answered the subtle shift of her weight as she readied for whoever was approaching, without breaking her focus from him.

“Not only am I here to take back my property, I’ll be creating a follower,” she continued, as though there was no danger approaching. “One out of the man that crossed me. The collector.” A brief, measured pause followed. “The uneducated call what I intend to make him an... abomination.”

"Those who understand call them refined instruments."

Whether Lysander believed her, or noticed the omissions threaded through her words, she left to his own judgment. Another thought settled in her mind: had he ever seen an abomination formed? The idea that he might not have... interested her, in a small way. Not enough to distract her, only enough for another note to be filed away.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Perhaps it was anger, for each inhalation tinged with the iron of his own blood; or maybe, it was an effect of the wards and what he’d given earlier, for the walls felt like they were exhaling malice in accusation. The saber’s energy resonated nonetheless, a reluctant anthem to whatever strength Lysander carried. Though, as the woman advanced, unbowed by blade or by the distant drums of what were clearly armored boots, he tasted something else both alien and.. necessary. In truth, his curiosity was sharp enough to cut. The way she looked at him with patience suggested she’d long studied fractures of living things.

From his own perspective, unpredictability spilled from her like fumes. Friend of foe? Hard to tell. Frustratingly so, especially as one never to be baited or led astray.

"I am no pawn beneath any... and yet I stand here, drawn in."

In that cavernous room , the red glow stole fragments of shadows, revealing glass vials that were noted. The guard’s footsteps grew nearer, but he was only focused on the shifts in her posture.

“I have held a blade,” unfurled a tone flat as obsidian, “and I have felt its hunger. I find your comparison.. more apt than you intend.” He tapped a digit against the emitter; another vibration resonated through his arm. "You speak of refinement, of fashioning a follower. But I wonder.. my lady.. what do you see when the collector’s mind finally submits? Triumph? Art? Or something.. darker still?”

His eyes, cold lanterns in the gloom, refocused on her. “I won’t pretend to understand your craft. But do know this.. I plan to hold you to everything you’ve said today. And learn every secret you cling to.”

A single step eased back. No need to turn around to understand the truth.. many footfalls were near.

Words were low as a mausoleum's hymn. “Proceed then.. I will find both you and the collector shortly.”

A second later, the doors crashed open. A dozen guards spilled forth, rifles raised. Voices began barking their commands, but Lysander heard only the hum of his prized weapon.

Blaster bolts streaked forward, and so he intercepted with a single arc. Energy began to clash against energy. The first stepped forward; he pivoted, red glare igniting across his visor, cleaving through the plating in a spray of sparks.

Each guard dispatched was a note in a dark symphony.. buying her the seconds she might need to press on.

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
​

Had he seen it then? The irony in his claim of not being shaped into a tool, only to be used as one seconds later.

His following words, most of them, fell over her without another change in her posture. When she answered, the words came slower, clinical. "A mind misused, corrected. Nothing more." Not art, nor triumph, simply a variable brought back into alignment.

She left as he turned to face the approaching men, somewhat caught off guard that he took them on himself instead of trying to take advantage of the situation as she... almost had.

Mortyra slipped from the room, a streak of darkness and red light before vanishing past another threshold. Behind her, the sounds of clashing energy and shouting voices dulled into the distance.

While walking, thoughts curled in her mind. He wanted her secrets, and yet they were not meant for him. Mortyra and her late master kept most of them between themselves. Yes, other beings across the galaxy knew parts, small and large. In some cases, they had even taught them, but to hold all of it… the only person she intended to share it fully with was… the one who would come after her.

Expecting her target to be there, she slowed and stopped just before his panic room. This was the mistake she had planned to exploit. He had not realized she had already taken the code to enter it.

Bootsteps approached from both her left and right. Two guards rounding the corridor at speed, armor clattering faintly with each step. Within a single breath, they were lifted from the ground.

Their bodies twisted against themselves, armor groaning under strain, joints bending into angles that forced sharp, involuntary spasms through them. The smell in the air changed, layering over the sterile environment with something unmistakable.

Their blood.

Drawn free of their bodies in controlled streams, gathering rather than spilling, flowing over her shoulders in measured arcs. One of her shoulders dipped slightly beneath the warmth, then the other. Her right hand rose, fingers slipping through some of the flow, collecting it before lifting to her face, brushing down her forehead, over her lips, and to her chin before her hand fell away again to her side.

A part of the ritual that was… unnecessary, perhaps.

She stepped forward and keyed in the code, each press leaving faint traces of blood behind. The panel responded, and the door hissed open.

"Meya… Meya, wait," came the start of the collector's plea, his voice thinning with panic as he stumbled from his seat and began to back away.

The room changed. Lights did not dim. They vanished, swallowed whole by shadow. Shadows deepened unnaturally, pressing into every corner of the space. The room trembled under power she usually kept tightly contained, a low, structural shudder spreading outward through the tower itself.

The air thickened and turned cold, not the absence of heat but something sharper, something that settled into the flesh, raised hairs, slipped into the lungs, and seized the breath. Her anger. Cold. Sharp. Deep. Raw. For the first time, if Lysander was capable, he would feel it, a spike of emotion breaking through her control.

"You… crossed… me." The words left her in a hiss, scarcely above a whisper, and yet they carried with perfect clarity. The collector heard them as if they had been spoken directly into him.

His fingers wrapped around the blaster at his side, trembling as he fought to steady his grip. "There… there is much for me to explain. This isn't necessary."

The containers and packages attached to her shifted. Seals split with soft, brittle snaps. Fabric tore. The contents lifted. Blood sliding down her began to move. All of it gathered, coiling and threading together, slithering forward toward the collector.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Another rasping snap heralded the crimson blade blossoming in Lysander's grip. An eager weapon begging to claim life. Another pivot on his heel followed, and so every millimeter of his body shifted. Weight into the back foot, toes splayed for purchase. Inhaling sharper, he could taste their fear as they fired in unison, the crack of red bolts stitching past, spitting sparks off the walls.

The blade hissed upward, meeting the first with a bright shower of energy. Naturally, his arms trembled under the recoil. But that was still control, he reminded himself. Pushing forward, he swung in a murderous diagonal arc. Flesh parted beneath the blade with a satisfying shudder; he savored the charred bite of flesh and air that stung the air. The man's scream was wet.. and brief.

He pivoted again, the rooms corrugated plating pressing through his boots. Lysander's breath hitched.. one.. two.. steady. The red glow warmed his cheek. Each brunch of vertebrae drove another thrill into the Sith's veins. Gurgled breaths exploding into something far louder. When the last guard collapsed, he switched the saber to his right hand.. muscle memory in every joint. Everything returned, like his own heartbeat, footballs, exhalations. Unlike the climax of a true battlefield among worth foe, there was no desire to relish the sight of their corpses.

Peripheral intuition caught another disturbance in the air. Anger.. tasting it like acid on the tongue. Immediately, he recognized this signature aura. The assignment from the Covenant was simple enough. Eliminate, retrieve, or depart. Just secure the 'prize'.. but there'd been no clear instructions on how. Was she carrying out his mission now?

Outside a door, he came to a halt. The voice within, tremulous, desperate..

Meya?

Then, it was cracked ajar as darker curiosity flared at every notion of restraint, stepping into the threshold. Darkness draped the room; light died in every corner. Almost a representation of the current galaxy itself, no? For the Sith were in a Golden Age, especially with their hold on the Core.

The air was frigid, akin to inhaling shards. Now, he felt the woman's anger pressing against him. Strange, really.. was he an intruder now, or a guest of this spectacle? Nonetheless, this ritual captured his focus, though it was entirely relied on by sight. The smell of iron was sufficient.

To step forward would mean choosing a side.. to only observe, would that be betrayal? So the options became nothing more than chains, and he could not allow himself to be bound by anything.

So, he stepped forward.. planting a flag in soil that was not his. "He's more valuable alive than dead. You know it as well as I do." They were just words of counsel that unfurled naturally, though it felt like the outcome was already decided.. in the shadows. Because he stood in a cathedral of wrath.. and congregation was blood.