Tyrant Queen of Darkness
"Starting the plague."
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Beneath the endless strata of Coruscant, where sunlight was a myth and the air tasted of metal and secrets, Darth Virelia sat alone.
The chamber she had claimed was carved into the bones of the city's forgotten machinery—its walls a jagged amalgam of durasteel ribs and exposed conduit, glistening faintly in the half-light. The silence here was not empty; it was dense, watchful, and heavy with anticipation. It pressed in on the senses like a held breath.
The table before her was a vast circle of black glass, so smooth and flawless it seemed to swallow the glow above and bleed it back in violet reflections. A single magenta ring of light hung suspended over the center, its radiance sharp enough to carve her silhouette in liquid fire. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beam, vanishing into the dark the moment they slipped beyond its reach.
The rest of the room was swallowed in shadow. Only faint glimmers—jagged slashes of purple from distant neon signs, the cold reflection of an illuminated sigil on the far wall—hinted at the scale of the place. That sigil, sharp and geometric, pulsed like the heartbeat of the room, its glow mirrored in her armor.
She sat at the head of the table, her posture relaxed but absolute, one gauntleted hand draped loosely along the arm of her chair. The other rested on the obsidian surface, fingers tracing idle arcs that left no mark yet suggested precision, calculation, inevitability.
Her armor caught the light like flowing oil, the segmented plates flexing subtly with her every breath. Veins of faint violet energy ran along its ridges, pulsing in time with some private rhythm. Her mask—a void-smooth black mirror broken only by six symmetrical, glowing eyes—gave no hint of expression. Those eyes shifted slowly, methodically, studying the empty chairs that awaited occupants.
The Dark Court would begin here.
They would arrive soon enough, drawn by her summons like predators to a wounded heartbeat. Some would come out of greed, others from desperation. Some would believe they could use her. She would let them think so, just long enough to make their loyalty a reflex, not a choice.
The air was thick with the scent of rain on metal, the ozone tang of old circuitry. In the far corners, shadows seemed almost to move, the illusion born from the interplay of dim light and industrial ruin. Every so often, the faint thrum of repulsorlifts passing far above reverberated through the structure, the city's heartbeat layered over the quieter, more dangerous pulse of her own intent.
Virelia leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table. The movement brought her deeper into the magenta glow, setting the mirrored planes of her mask ablaze with color. In that light, she was no longer a figure seated at the head of a table—she was the axis of the room, the point around which all else would inevitably orbit.
Her voice did not break the silence. Not yet. Anticipation was the sharper blade, so she let the moments stretch, each one feeding the tension that would greet her guests when they stepped through the door.
She imagined their expressions—hidden or not—when they first saw her like this. Alone, yes, but unassailable. The exile who had not vanished into obscurity but instead claimed the deep places of the galaxy's beating heart as her throne. A faint, slow smile curved behind her mask, unseen but present in the way she shifted her posture—a subtle, predatory readiness. She thought of the galaxy above: its governments complacent, its orders fractured, its predators distracted by their own games.
The Dark Court would be the infection that spreads unseen until it was too late.
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