Private Shock and Awe

[Darth Virelia]

"One spark is all it takes."

Tag - Lyssa Cluada



The chamber was quiet. But not silent.

It breathed.

Deep beneath the surface of Polis Massa's black-core architecture, Sublevel Eight was not a place for visitors. It had no marked entrances, no indicators, no directional glyphs. The hallways leading toward it had been purposefully left incomplete—walls dark and unpolished, lighting sparse and focused only on the paths Serina Calis herself walked.

This was not a place for process.

This was a place for conditioning.

The Discipline Chamber—Delta-3 by internal designation, though Serina simply called it the mouth—was circular, domed, and without windows. It had no weapons racks. No training dummies. No durasteel flooring or padded crash zones. The floor was dark obsidian, polished to a mirror-finish. The walls were curved and engraved with interlacing Sith script, each character carved at slightly different angles to capture and distort the chamber's acoustic feedback. It was built so that no sound here ever quite died—it lingered, folding in on itself, becoming a whisper and an echo all at once.

At the center of the chamber stood Serina.

Not pacing. Not meditating.

Waiting.

Her long cape, cut with precise angular edges, fanned out around her like the unfurled wings of some predatory noble bird. She stood with her arms loosely crossed behind her back, posture perfect, head slightly inclined—not toward the door, but toward the ceiling. As if speaking to something unseen. Or simply listening to herself think.

The air was cool. Not cold. Just cool enough that the taste of metal lingered on the tongue, just warm enough to carry static on the skin.

She liked it that way.

Today would be delicate.

Not because the lesson was difficult. Force Shock was, in practical terms, basic. A trick. A weapon used by acolytes and assassins, often abandoned in favor of the raw, gratuitous fury of Force Lightning. But that was the very reason it was perfect for Lyssa.

Because this—this flicker of violent precision, this whisper of energy that could hunt and sting—was not brute power. It was craftsmanship.

And Serina had no intention of raising a beast.

She would raise a blade.

A smirk curled her lips, slow and sensual. It was not the smile of a woman pleased with her student, but the kind of expression a sculptor might wear when they spotted the first gleam of gold beneath the mud.

A reward not yet granted.

She reached out one gloved hand, slowly rotating her wrist so her palm turned upward. The faintest ripple moved around her knuckles. Barely there. A breath. A murmur.

Then, with no visible strain, a thin spark of violet-blue arced between her fingers and flicked forward into the air, where it danced for a moment in lazy, seeking spirals.

Force Shock.

Not as chaotic as lightning. Not nearly as deadly. But alive. A thread of controlled aggression. Measured. Directed.

The energy flickered once more, then sparked out of existence with a faint hiss.

Five seconds. Enough to train pain into memory.

Serina lowered her hand, exhaling slowly. The Force settled again around her shoulders like a lover's shawl—possessive, familiar, comforting.

The purpose of today's lesson was simple. Not to teach Lyssa how to kill.

But how to tease.

Force Shock was not a weapon of dominance, but of denial. It licked. It bit. It hunted. It did not devour—it tormented. It warned. A little spark between enemies—or lovers. A reminder of control.

And Lyssa, Serina knew, was ripe for such a lesson.

She had watched the apprentice closely over the past days. Her resilience had proven authentic. Her will, though fervent and raw, was enduring. But what Serina truly delighted in was the way Lyssa reacted not to pain… but to attention. Her hunger was endless. Her loyalty absolute. And yet… she trembled, just slightly, when praised. As though unsure she deserved it.

That insecurity was not a flaw. It was kindling.

"Let her come," Serina whispered aloud, her voice cutting softly through the chamber. The room, built to carry voices like mantras, repeated her command a moment later in five different intonations.

Let her come...
Let her come...
Let her come…

Her eyes, half-lidded, turned now toward the sealed door at the far edge of the chamber. She knew Lyssa would be punctual. Exhausted, still—Serina had ensured that. But loyal. Always loyal.

And loyalty, in this Order, was not weakness.

It was a currency. And Serina was a banker of souls.

She stepped to the center of the room now, the light above her dimming slightly as the crystalline nodes overhead adjusted to her proximity. She let the chamber settle into its 'lesson' mode. The floor beneath her shimmered faintly, signaling tracking had begun. The walls pulsed with quiet warmth. The smell in the air changed—just slightly. Burnt copper. Ozonic tension.

Her voice would sound sharper in here. Commands would cut deeper.

Good.

Because Lyssa would be expected to suffer today. Not in pain—not truly. But in restraint. Force Shock required patience. Timing. Discipline. It was not a roar. It was a whisper given claws.

Serina smiled again—sharper this time, more hungry than amused.

The door hissed.

And there she was.

The scent of ozone hadn't even faded before Serina's voice, low and warm, cut through the space like silk against bare skin.

"Enter, apprentice."

A pause. Not to let Lyssa respond. Merely to enjoy the sound of command.

"Today, we speak in sparks."

She took a single, deliberate step forward. Her voice dipped into something deeper, something meant to be felt between the ribs.

"You will not learn to hurt. You will learn to sting."

Another step.

"You will learn how to track a soul through shadow, how to remind them what it feels like to be prey. How to whisper pain into the skin without speaking a word."

She smiled as the door sealed behind her apprentice.

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

Tag - Darth Virelia

The past few days had been both paradise and perdition. Restful and rigorous. But above all, painfully, excruciatingly tantalising.

Because before she had met her mistress, Lyssa's life had meant nothing. Years spent chasing shadows of the past, wasted on the whims of childish fantasy. Now she had seen the light, or perhaps more accurately, found the root of darkness. Now, she walked a different path. It was the path of the disciple.

No -

It was the path of the apprentice.

And yet it was a painful path to walk. After all, were she anyone else, Lyssa might have been able to trick herself into being satisfied with life on Polis Masa. To be static and grateful, resting in her new quarters in this strange place she now called home. The former Jedi might have even been able to fully enjoy the comforts that were offered to her here - food, water, a warm bath, even healing for her wounds.

But Lyssa could never be satisfied with such things. They meant nothing in comparison to the goddess who gave them to her.

The way the mirialan felt about her mistress was now beyond simple admiration. The seeds the woman had planted in her heart had grown and bloomed into the blood red roses of lust and desire. Not of the flesh, but of the spirit - for Lyssa craved the presence of her superior, hungered for attention from her idol as the wolf hungers for blood, as dog hungers for its master's touch.

It was obsession, plain and simple. Burning, all consuming, and never ending.

All these thoughts swirled within her as she answered her mistress's call. The metallic ring of the cyborg's steps rang through the subterranean halls as she approached the doorway she had been summoned to. The woman would likely hear her long before she arrived. No, how idiotic. Her master would sense her presence before the sound of her footfalls even dared to grace her ears.

Still, she arrived early, after all, to be early was to be on time, and to arrive on time was to arrive late. Hovering for just a second at the door, the cyborg steadied herself. Took a deep breath that shook, just slightly. As every prophet feared to speak to their God, so to did every apprentice tremble at the thought of displeasing their master.

Yet it wasn't hesitation that held her there. Lyssa was preparing herself for perfection. She would not disappoint her mistress.

Not again.

"Enter, apprentice."

Lyssa smiled as she did, with warmth in her eyes that should not have been possible given their corrupted red hue. Maintaining the silence, the mirialan chose instead to bow reverently. She had retired her usual hooded cloak for the lesson, so that her mistress could read the emotions on her face even easier.

Not that Lyssa ever attempted to hide her devoted, adoring expressions from her mistress. Everything that the cyborg was already belonged to her - soul, mind, and body.

"Today, we speak in sparks."
"You will not learn to hurt. You will learn to sting."
"You will learn how to track a soul through shadow, how to remind them what it feels like to be prey. How to whisper pain into the skin without speaking a word."

Sparks? Her mistress had instructed her to leave her saberpike behind, so the apprentice knew she wasn't referring to the cracked crystal within. Curious, Lyssa leaned closer towards her mistress as she spoke. Were it not for blind faith erasing thoughts of doubt from her mind, she might have questioned the point of learning a skill that could not end the life of another. Thankfully, all unfaithful, intrusive thoughts like those were quickly dismissed from her mind.

Her mistress was primordial, a being of darkness incarnate. Of course she knew what she was doing.

Subtilty was never Lyssa's strong suit, so to learn it would surely take some trial and error. Stepping forward until she was within arm's reach of her master, Lyssa held out her hands, palms up.

"If it is your will, teach me this power, mistress," her voice echoed through the chamber like a worshipper's chant. "Teach me the art of shadows and quiet power, for I am yet unpolished, loud, reckless, and burning far too bright with the fires of my desire."

 

[Darth Virelia]

"One spark is all it takes."

Tag - Lyssa Cluada



She arrived early. Of course she did.

Serina had felt her apprentice moving through the corridors long before the doors hissed open. The Force wrapped around Lyssa like a second skin—overwound, hungry, radiating like a pulse beneath metal and bone. The girl wore her devotion like a shackle, and she dragged it behind her with reverence.

And when the door finally slid open, Serina turned—not with haste, not with drama, but with the slow, deliberate grace of a sovereign who had expected to be worshipped.

Lyssa entered with a bow, wordless but bursting with meaning. Her face, free of the shadowing hood, was a portrait of surrender. Her eyes, that unnatural shade of alchemized gold and red, shone not with fire—but with want. Unspoken. Unashamed.

Serina drank it in.

Every motion. Every breath.

She adored this stage of apprenticeship—the trembling cusp between fear and rapture, where devotion became a kind of addiction. Lyssa had passed the crucible of pain. Now came the far more dangerous trial: the pleasure of proximity.

Serina stepped forward, the long sweep of her cape catching a currentless breeze that did not exist, the chamber seeming to respond to her presence alone.

"You arrive early," she said softly, circling her like a serpent in silk. "A wise choice. The breath between anticipation and disappointment is razor-thin. And you... have already learned to fear wasting my time."

She stopped just behind Lyssa, her breath deliberately exhaled close to the girl's ear, a whisper of ozone curling around them both.

"Good."

The word echoed around the chamber like the last word before a spell is sealed.

Then, slowly, Serina's hand lifted. She did not touch her apprentice immediately. She hovered—fingers outstretched, gloved, commanding—just over Lyssa's shoulder, tracing an outline that the Force felt, even when flesh did not.

"Today is not a lesson of death," she purred. "But of dominance. Of suggestion. Of reminders."

She circled again, and this time, she stopped in front of Lyssa—closer now. Their bodies a breath apart. She raised her other hand, letting the violet-blue crackle of Force energy dance just barely between her fingers.

"The power I show you today is not for killing. It is for correcting. For marking. For taming."

The spark hissed softly, curling like a question into the air before vanishing.

Her thumb traced just beneath the Mirialan's lower lip, slowly.

"You'll learn," Serina murmured, her voice slithering past the senses like silk soaked in poison, "that the most dangerous power… is the one that never asks to be feared."

She let the silence settle like a net. Not dead silence—no, the chamber hummed now. The air thickened, saturated with potential energy. Even the shadows in the corners seemed to recoil from the two of them, afraid to blink and miss what came next.

Serina did not move at first. She simply looked at her.

And that was worse than any touch.

Her gaze slid down the bridge of Lyssa's nose, over the trembling part of her lips, lingered on her throat—where the pulse beat visibly now—and then, up again. Calculating. Dissecting. Drinking.

Then she took one, slow step forward.

Then another.

Then another.

Each one measured, not with distance, but with dominion—as if the space between them wasn't being crossed so much as conquered. She advanced the way a storm rolls over the ocean: with certainty, and no intention of leaving anything untouched.

When Serina finally came to a stop, they were too close. Her scent—sharp, alchemical, dark spice and heat—filled the apprentice's lungs with every breath. The taller woman leaned in, her lips parting slightly. She was not speaking now. She was letting the moment devour itself.

Their mouths were so close they might as well have been one breath apart.

But still—no kiss.

Not yet.

Serina tilted her head ever so slightly, as if curious to see how much restraint Lyssa could endure before she shattered. As if daring her apprentice to break formation, to move even an inch closer—to risk disobedience for pleasure.

She didn't. Goddess, she didn't.

And so Serina rewarded her.

Her voice emerged low, a ghost of a murmur that dusted over Lyssa's lips like snowfall on a flame. Each word burned because it shouldn't have been that soft. It shouldn't have been that close.

"Do you know what the shock truly is, Lyssa?" she asked, not expecting an answer. "It is not power. It is not damage."

Her lips brushed against Lyssa's—but did not stay.

"It is a message."

And then—finally—Serina kissed her.

Not a rush, not a taking.

A sentence, punctuated by flesh.

It was a kiss so calculated it could have been etched in a spellbook—an incantation cast not with incensed words but with lips forged for dominion. There was no hesitation, no messy collision of want; only the exacting application of intent. It was finite, yes, but not in its impact—only in its execution.

As deliberate as a blade drawn across skin just enough to bleed, Serina's mouth claimed Lyssa's without aggression, without haste, but with absolute certainty. The kiss didn't ask for response. It didn't need to. It commanded it, as surely as breath follows drowning. The rawness of it wasn't in passion—it was in precision. Every millimeter of movement calculated to bend the apprentice's will more thoroughly than any threat or shout could.

Her gloved hand rose without urgency, yet without delay, and found Lyssa's jaw like a sculptor correcting flawed marble. With two fingers beneath the chin, Serina tilted her apprentice's face to just the right angle, deepening the kiss with surgical elegance—until she felt it. The shift. The falter.

Serina didn't stop. She savored it—the fragility of that moment, when strength turned to surrender not through force, but through mastery. And in that fragile balance between collapse and rapture, the Dark Lady fed her lesson into the girl's body more surely than any word she might ever speak.

And then she broke it—cleanly.

It ended the way lightning does: abrupt, merciless, and unforgettable.

Serina stepped back—not to retreat, but to observe. Her eyes were sharp again now, focused like twin razors.

"That," she said, her voice thick with satisfaction, "was a spark."

Another step back.

"A leash."

Her fingers, still lifted, trailed one last time along Lyssa's cheekbone. Not affection. Not reward. A claim.

"A promise."

"And now, apprentice… you will return it."

She stepped back—not far, only a few paces—and raised her hand again. A single arc of blue-violet energy shimmered across her palm, then faded.

"The technique begins here. A spark between your fingers. But you must aim it. Will it. Bind it to your enemy with intention. A whip needs a target. A leash needs tension."

She turned her body slightly, opening her stance to display. Her voice shifted to its instructional cadence—velvety but sharp.

"Focus just behind the sternum. Not the gut. Not the throat. The heart. Always the heart. That is where pain breeds fear—and where fear becomes memory."

She gestured for Lyssa to mirror her.

"Lift your hand. Let the Force settle just under the skin of your palm. Don't force it. Invite it. Coax it. Sparks do not roar. They listen."

Another step. She was behind Lyssa now. Close enough that her hand could rest lightly against the Mirialan's back, just between her shoulders.

"Breathe."

The command was soft. Almost reverent.

"Now—ignite."

"Show me how much you want to obey."

And in that sentence, layered beneath her voice, were countless promises.

If Lyssa succeeded, she would be praised. She would be seen. If she failed... she would be broken again, reshaped again, reforged again—because Serina was not cruel.

She was thorough.

And this lesson had only just begun.

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

"You arrive early. A wise choice. The breath between anticipation and disappointment is razor-thin. And you... have already learned to fear wasting my time."
"Good."

Every moment in her mistress's presence was intoxicating, the brilliant and thrilling sensation of swimming in nectar and blood. Every step that she drew closer pulled shuddering breaths from Lyssa's frame, desire and fear hanging in the air like daggers. Each breath from the woman before her against the mirialan's skin set everything around her ablaze. It was all she could do to steel her anxious heart and focus her mind on her mistress's words.

"Your time is worth more than I am," She managed to whisper in response. "Each minute spent with you is a privilege, not a right."

"Today is not a lesson of death. But of dominance. Of suggestion. Of reminders."
"The power I show you today is not for killing. It is for correcting. For marking. For taming."
"You'll learn, that the most dangerous power… is the one that never asks to be feared."

Her mistress did not merely speak of dominance. She embodied it, her every movement highlighting the power she held over Lyssa. Her sparks, subtle yet vibrant, flickered between them. The apprentice, for her part, did her best to study the movement. The nearly indiscernible way her fingers flexed. The tiny flick of her wrist. The way the lightning obeyed her mistress, as a net spun between her fingers, intending pain but not fatality.

Then her mistress caught the cyborg by her chin and all thoughts of concentration disappeared. Her mistress's thumb traced her lower lip and the twin triangles that resided there in a beautifully ironic act. Her master, who was not a mirialan, likely did not even know the symbolism of those two markings specifically. She had applied them to honour the achievement of being chosen by a master.

But then she caught the flicker of amused pleasure in the woman's eyes. No. She knew.

Her gaze was torture and titillation both. Her fiery eyes burned like a thousand suns, searing into the apprentice's skin, branding her roaming stares into her flesh. Lyssa fought to keep still, to not lose her composure, even as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest and her lips trembled with raw want.

This was a test of will, surely. Her mistress knew how Lyssa felt about her. Even as she stepped forward the apprentice remained locked in place. She would not be so easily tempted to disobey. Even as her master leaned in, their lips a breath apart. Mere millimeters away from fulfilling a thousand fantasies with one touch.

Still, Lyssa stood her ground.

"Do you know what the shock truly is, Lyssa? It is not power. It is not damage."
"It is a message."

Lyssa had come to learn when her mistress expected an answer, and when she didn't. Still, she couldn't help but part her lips open anyway. Not to speak back, but to chase the taste of her words, taste her lips against her skin.

That was until those lips claimed her own in the greatest moment of conquest she would ever witness.

Pleasure, sweet and perfect, overwhelmed Lyssa. Dreams were made reality in that moment, a million unspoken desires answered. The mirialan murmured out what could have been mistaken as both a gasp and a moan, leaning into her mistress hungrily. The world around them had disappeared, and only the two of them remained.

The whole galaxy had disappeared, leaving just Lyssa...and the goddess she had fallen in love with.

No, love was too sweet a word to describe what they had. Too innocent, too pure. There was nothing pure or innocent about the way her mistress's tongue chased hers, the way Lyssa responded to her every movement passionately and fervently. She could feel the brush of the woman's hand across her jaw, tilting her chin upwards to deepen their kiss. Lyssa responded eagerly, her whole body burning at her touch, at this blinding pleasure.

Had she even lived before now? No pleasure or pain could ever hope to overcome this. Nothing would ever overshadow this feeling.

Because for the first time, someone wanted her. And that thought alone made her soul burn just as hot as her mistress's skin against her own.

"That, was a spark."
"A leash."
"A promise."

All too soon, it ended. Lyssa stumbled back, dazed. She barely heard her mistress's words over the blood rushing in her ears. She just nodded along dumbly, still somewhat dizzy. Her face remained red hot from her moment in the fire, burning beneath her mistress's fingers as she trailed along her cheekbone.

"And now, apprentice… you will return it."

Blinking away her momentary hypnosis, Lyssa forced herself to shake off any remaining fogginess and concentrate on the lesson at hand. Intent on perfection, she returned to studying her mistress's technique once more. The cyborg mirrored the woman across from her cleanly and masterfully, almost instinctively becoming the perfect reflection.

Still, she couldn't help the slight shiver down her spine as her mistress commanded her to breathe, one gentle hand pressed against her back.

"Now—ignite."
"Show me how much you want to obey."

Oh, there was nothing Lyssa wanted more. Not even the revenge she had dedicated her entire life to. That seemed like a distant memory now, a hazy dream in comparison to the beautiful reality of what her master was offering her.

But she had to earn it first.

Desperately, Lyssa fought to calm herself. Reign her overeager emotions in. Take a deep breath.

Draw the power from her heart -

And suddenly, she felt it. A shimmering wave travelling up through her ribcage and out of her torso. Through her shoulder, across her arm and into her hand. Red sparks rippled out from her fingertips in exactly the way they were supposed to.

Lyssa couldn't hold back her grin. She had done it, and on her first try, no less. Surely she would be rewarded, perhaps even with another kiss?

But that single thought brought back the ignition of that shared moment of passion. The emotions she'd tried to restrain burst from their cages and bled into her sparks. Just as she was about to snuff the electricity out, her sparks grew, forming crackling tendrils of lightning that fought to escape her hand. The immediate alarm Lyssa felt only fuelled them further, as grasping hands of electricity began to shoot out, uncontrolled and raw.

And as she fought her power in that training chamber, her own words echoed back to her, mocking and cruel -

She was unpolished.
Loud.
Reckless.

And burning far too bright with the fires of her own desire.

Whatever punishment came next, it would be a far worse fate if Lyssa did not to try to quell the sparks and allowed her master to get hurt. With a cry of pain, the apprentice forced the lightning into a burning ball and crushed it back into herself, back into the treacherous heart from whence it came. It burned through her arm all the way back, before settling in her heart to shock her entire core from the inside out. The cyborg couldn't help but cry out again as the electricity coursed through her frame, shaking her like a puppet.

Finally, the agony receded. She hadn't fallen, at least - she'd remained on her feet. Suppressing a sigh, the apprentice looked up at her mistress with sorrowful eyes.

"I deserved that," Lyssa muttered, casting her gaze to the floor once more. It wasn't an attempt at sympathy. It was an admission of guilt.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"One spark is all it takes."

Tag - Lyssa Cluada



Serina Calis did not speak at once.

She stepped forward in slow, deliberate silence, and the heels of her boots marked time like a metronome of judgement—each step a measured signal that the weight of her gaze had not lifted. Her eyes drank in the sight of the Mirialan who had dared to lose control, dared to let her heart rise above her craft, dared to want her so deeply that it eclipsed precision. Serina should have been furious.

But fury was far beneath her in this moment.

No, what glowed behind those glacial eyes was something far worse—and far more intimate.

Approval.

She circled Lyssa like a dark sun tracing the orbit of its captive moon, hands lightly clasped behind her back, her movements unhurried. The air still sizzled faintly where the uncontrolled surge of Force energy had twisted and flailed into wild arcs of crimson lightning, but Serina paid the remnants of chaos no mind. Her attention was entirely—utterly—devoted to her apprentice.

"You think," she said at last, voice low and melodic, "that the sparks failed because you lost control."

Her gloved hand rose slowly, index finger extended—not to strike, but to trail the faintest caress down the back of Lyssa's neck, just where flesh met synthflesh. The sensation would be barely there, but unmistakable. It was not affection. It was ownership.

"No. You failed because, for a flicker of a moment, you thought of something other than me."

She stepped in front of Lyssa again, gaze sharp enough to peel back armor and ego alike. "You thought of success. You thought of pride. You thought of reward. A kiss. A favor. You let the possibility of something sweet distort the purity of your purpose, to bring a new kind of clarity."

She leaned in, lips close but untouched.

Serina let the moment stretch, lingering with the silence of a predator watching prey tremble in its cage. Then her voice slid back in like a razor across silk:

"And in that clarity… you did please me."

Her voice darkened, taking on the edges of velvet and obsidian. "Because obsession is the beginning of wisdom. You allowed your desire to ruin you. To rupture discipline. And in that ruin, I saw the truth of your loyalty—wild, untethered, hungry."

"Good."

One syllable. Delivered with finality, like a sentence passed from on high.

"I do not want an apprentice who tempers herself. I want a creature whose thoughts are only ever mine. Whose every failure, every heartbeat, every twitch of muscle or whisper of pain is bent inward, toward me."

She turned again, not away but to the side, pacing slowly. A lecture now. A dark sermon, the room their cathedral.

"Control is not the opposite of obsession. It is its final form. The apex predator is not emotionless. It simply feasts only on what it chooses. And I will teach you to devour everything in my name."

She gestured, casually, toward the scorch marks Lyssa had left on the floor.

"That… was chaos made reverent. A scream from the soul. Not good. Not polished. But honest."

She came back to her apprentice's side, and this time, her touch returned to Lyssa's chin—not guiding it now, but holding it.

"You will fail again. And I will not be so kind. But understand this: your only salvation is to think of me. To burn for me. To ache when you displease me, and to weep with joy when I approve of you."

Her thumb brushed once more across the edge of the apprentice's jaw. "You want to be tamed. That's what makes you worthy of it. A beast with no master is nothing. A beast that chooses its leash, that begs for the weight of it across its throat—that is devotion. That is sacred."

Her voice dropped to a whisper now, but it carried more command than a scream.

"You are not to think of yourself again. Your self is mine. I do not share."

She turned, finally, the hand at Lyssa's jaw slipping away, the warmth of her skin vanishing like the last echo of a hallucination. She stepped toward the center of the chamber again, and raised one hand, palm open, fingers still.

The Force shimmered between them. Not an attack. Not an order.

A test.

"Focus again. Do it. But this time—don't you dare think of sparks. Don't think of pain. Don't think of failure."

Her tone dropped. "Think of me. Only me. Think of the lines of my face. The cold of my armor. The sound of my breath before I speak. Think of my disappointment if you falter, and think of the paradise I may let you taste if you do not."

She extended her fingers again, beckoning.

"Because this is how I will own you completely, Lyssa. With chains. With domination. With obsession. Every time you close your eyes, it will be me you see. Every time you raise your blade, it will be me you fight for. You will not simply love me. You will be shaped by me."

Another pause. Her voice, when it returned, was a decadent purr.

"That… is devotion. And if you can show me that, if you can shock the world and brand my name into it with every motion…"

She turned slightly, just enough to glance over her shoulder.

"Then I will reward you with something more than kisses."

A beat. A smirk. A challenge cloaked as prophecy.

"Begin again."

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

Lyssa bit her lip nervously as she felt her mistress step forward, felt the weight of each step against the training room floor. Each click of her boots rang in her ears, loud and accusing making her hang her head in shame. The mirialan knew she deserved whatever punishment her master - her judge, jury, and executioner - thought best to place upon her.

It was only when her mistress spoke, circling her like a shark circles its prey, did Lyssa dare to look up. For a moment, she swore she might have seen something warm, almost approving in her mistress's cold eyes, before her master was at her back and out of her sight again.

"You think, that the sparks failed because you lost control."

Lyssa nodded, shivering as her mistress trailed a finger down her neck. Was this to be her punishment? Taunting, torturous touches? A spell the apprentice could not hope to break, an embrace she could never return?

Lyssa swallowed thickly as her mistress continued to speak, waiting for the blow of disappointment to hit. Instead, she found herself stifling a relieved gasp as her mistress spoke those four little words, strung together in harmony to form the most perfect of sentences:

"And in that clarity… you did please me."

She had?

Yes, she had!

Lyssa had pleased her mistress!

The mirialan shook with suppressed delight. She was not yet a failure in her master's eyes. She was still beloved, valuable, useful, and the thought of it made her giddy with pride. Whatever critique came next, the apprentice would not feel it's sting, not fully. She was struck numb with the joy of servitude, the anaesthetic of her mistress's approval.

"Because obsession is the beginning of wisdom. You allowed your desire to ruin you. To rupture discipline. And in that ruin, I saw the truth of your loyalty—wild, untethered, hungry."
"I do not want an apprentice who tempers herself. I want a creature whose thoughts are only ever mine. Whose every failure, every heartbeat, every twitch of muscle or whisper of pain is bent inward, toward me."

Lyssa met her mistress's eyes once more, her gaze adoring, her head cocked slightly to the side as if contemplating a fabled artwork, or a statue of a deity. "My lady, you know that I have always been that. Before I even met you I hungered. Now that you have granted me the privilege of living in your shadow, my hunger has only grown to become insatiable."

"I have never once held back my loyalty. I do not plan to. And I have never been ashamed of my desire for you. Not since we first met," the cyborg continued, placing her hand over her heart as if swearing an oath, "Not since you saved me from ruin. You know it to be true. Apprentice, slave, guard, assassin, lover - my fate is yours to choose."

"After all, I owe you my life," Lyssa almost sighed, doting and awestruck, "For as long as I live, everything I am belongs to you."

"Control is not the opposite of obsession. It is its final form. The apex predator is not emotionless. It simply feasts only on what it chooses. And I will teach you to devour everything in my name."

Lyssa listened attentively to her master's words, the very picture of a dutiful student. Her arm still ached with the pain of her outburst but she resolutely ignored it, narrowing in on the woman's lecture.

It was good that the power of the darkside was fuelled by emotion, like her mistress said. Lyssa brimmed with emotion, she always had. Of the twins, Liriel was the emotionless one, always praised for her calm demeanour by their father. But she was also the only one out of the two who had never made it off of Kalee.

Honesty was in turn a trait that Lyssa knew well, and it pleased her to see that her mistress recognised it. It was true, the apprentice had yet to be polished, she was still blunt and reckless, but she would always be truthful in that, at least. There was no point in hiding her weaknesses. Not when they were so blatantly obvious.

Subconsciously, she shifted her cybernetic legs a little.

Then her mistress's fingers were back on her chin and Lyssa was fighting to keep her focus again, struggling to maintain eye contact with her master's piercing gaze. Her words flowed like honey, the taste sweet, though their meaning felt redundant.

After all, why repeat what Lyssa already knew? A subtle smirk of bemused obedience quirked at her lips. Really, mistress. You know that I know this already.

Of course the woman before her had been her salvation on Korriban, and of course she would remain her salvation indefinitely. Her mistress was her goddess, and she demanded worship, demanded devotion, and the perfection found within them. Lyssa would build the church to her idol herself brick by brick if she had to, because the truth was, when she displeased her mistress, she didn't just ache.

She burned.

Gazing into her master's eyes, Lyssa's only thought was about how privileged she was, how incredibly lucky she had been to have been chosen by her master. To be tamed by her, to become her beloved pet, it was her greatest dream. That was why she wore her leash like a queen wears her crown. The cyborg's surrender was sweet and complete, because it was what she desired.

Even a wild jackal could be tamed and trained until they became a loyal dog.

But only by the right master.

"You are not to think of yourself again. Your self is mine. I do not share."

Lyssa just nodded, reverent and serious, her soft smile disappearing. She was no fool. Though her mistress was beautiful and the sensation of her touch was close to what the mirialan imagined heaven to be like, she knew the truth - that her master was still a sith.

This was no gentle mentor. The woman who stood before her was a drink laced with poison, a threat wrapped in a whisper shared between lovers. The apprentice knew that to disobey her would be a fate worse than death.

Force knows, she herself knew of the bloodshed that comes when a darksider is forced to share.

"Focus again. Do it. But this time—don't you dare think of sparks. Don't think of pain. Don't think of failure."
"Because this is how I will own you completely, Lyssa. With chains. With domination. With obsession. Every time you close your eyes, it will be me you see. Every time you raise your blade, it will be me you fight for. You will not simply love me. You will be shaped by me."

Her mistress's fingers pulling back from her chin brought Lyssa's focus back to the lesson at hand. Red rimmed eyes narrowed in concentration as she watched the woman hold up her hand again. Her instructions were clear.

Her mistress spoke of thinking only of her. There was nothing easier, it was as if she was telling Lyssa to breathe. Every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of her silky blonde hair, her piercing eyes, and soft lips, but also of her presence, dark as death itself, in the force.

Will be? She already was owned completely by her mistress. What her master spoke of had long since already begun. And to be shaped by the goddess before her...

It was the greatest gift the force had ever bestowed upon the cyborg.

Lyssa took in a sharp breath as her mistress challenged her. Called on her to be her disciple as well as her apprentice. An evangelist through violence. And the mirialan held out her hand, closing her eyes this time as she drew on the force.

In her mind's eye, she saw the two versions of her mistress she had been allowed to know. One - a loving, gentle woman, sweet and seductive. The blonde haired angel who had kissed her.
The other - a harsh, disciplinary master, her words as painful as whips and chains. The cold hearted Sith lord who had made her train until she had collapsed from exhaustion.

These women were one and the same, two halves of a glittering golden coin. In her mind, Lyssa saw the two merge, blurring into one perfect image. The complex and not fully knowable form of her master. A woman she likened to a goddess, but what was she the goddess of?

Control, of course.

And there it was again, the sensation of power travelling through Lyssa's arm and into her hand. She could feel the crackling sparks gathering in her palm, the same as before. Lyssa kept her eyes closed. Kept her focus on the duality of her mistress.

It was in that perfect diad that she found her sense of control. To let her desire for affection from the one side of her master would be to overbalance her respect and fear for the other side. To fear her too much would be to lose sight of the passion that fuelled her electricity in the first place. It was only in the quiet acknowledgement of both personalities that the apprentice mastered this power.

The electricity burned steadily in her hands, continuous, hungry, but controlled. Kept in line by the mirialan's own devotion and adoration. Slowly, Lyssa opened her eyes, but her gaze was not on the steady stream of sparks in her hands. Her eyes were solely on her master.

"Does this please you, my mistress?"

 

[Darth Virelia]

"One spark is all it takes."

Tag - Lyssa Cluada



For a moment, Serina Calis said nothing at all.

Her silence, as always, was strategic—pregnant with meaning, thick with gravity. She stared at the lightning curling in Lyssa's palm: it didn't sputter or lash uncontrolled, nor did it fade with timidity. It lived. Not Force Shock. Not a mere bolt of impulse.

No.

This was Lightning. True Force Lightning. Not a parlor trick, not a scream of pain or rage. It was a declaration of will. Refined. Shaped. Dangerous because it obeyed.

And it obeyed her apprentice.

Marvellous.

Serina took a slow step forward, one heel at a time, until the distance between them felt like it no longer existed. Her voice, when it came, flowed like velvet sliding across a blade.

"You did not ask for lightning," she said, tilting her head slightly, "and yet it answered you."

Her gloved fingers reached out—not to seize the power, but to pass through it. A ripple of sparks arced along her fingertips, dancing across her skin as if worshipping its mistress's touch.

"It knows who you belong to."

She let her hand fall away. Not in dismissal—never that—but in ceremonial reverence. Like a queen anointing a knight, like a sculptor stepping back to admire a masterpiece before the next strike of the chisel.

"Do you feel it now, Lyssa?" she purred. "This is not raw strength. This is not fury. This is not noise."

"This… is elegance."

Serina moved closer still, just enough for her breath to kiss Lyssa's cheek as she leaned in, and her voice dropped to a whisper of silk and heat.

"You have done what most never do. Not because the technique eludes them, but because they lack the will to sublimate themselves. You let me reach into you. Let me reshape you. And in doing so, you became something worthy."

She pulled back—not with haste, but slowly, delicately, like a lover savoring the final note of a symphony. Her eyes never left Lyssa's.

"Others would call it Force Lightning. I call it… obedience, made radiant."

Her gaze lowered briefly—not to inspect the lightning again, but to trail over Lyssa's form, her stance, the rise and fall of her chest, the rigid posture so clearly wrung out by pain, discipline, and relentless devotion. A low hum of approval escaped her lips—almost a purr, but too calculated, too coldly satisfied to be anything so base.

"You are learning not to crave reward," Serina said softly, circling her once more, voice always behind her shoulder, just beyond reach. "And that makes you ready to receive one."

She stopped behind Lyssa. One hand, leather-clad and precise, rested lightly against the back of her neck—fingers spreading out slowly, possessively. Not a grip. A claim. The kind of touch that said: You are mine. You move only because I allow it.

Serina's voice dropped again, not to a whisper this time, but something more dangerous—a murmur, dark with satisfaction.

"My methods are not gentle. They are not easy. But they are unmatched. Every apprentice who touches my shadow is reborn. Not as themselves—but as a reflection of me. That is why you succeeded, Lyssa. Not because you are strong. But because you are devoted."

"Other masters teach tricks. I breed disciples."

She let her fingers trail down Lyssa's spine slowly. Not a caress. A carving. As if she were inscribing the moment into her flesh.

"You conjured lightning not with hate… but with hunger. And that makes you powerful."

She turned, moving back into Lyssa's field of vision, and this time her smile was unmistakable. Cool. Curved. Predatory. Pleased.

"The galaxy will fear what I make of you."

Her hand rose again—not to Lyssa's chin this time, but to the side of her face, brushing a strand of hair back behind her ear with a tenderness that clashed beautifully against the austerity of her presence.

"This is the face of my victory," she said softly. "The world may never know it… but when they scream at your feet, when their bones rattle from your touch, it will be my name you carry in your veins."

She leaned in again—closer than before—until her lips hovered beside Lyssa's temple.

"And you will whisper it," Serina said, the words sliding in like a dagger drawn in a single elegant motion, "with every spark you offer to the dark."

She let the intimacy stretch between them again—tension not of lust, but of purpose. Obsession met with ownership. Need met with authority. And the only thing more exquisite than the proximity… was the control.

For a moment, there was no movement. No words. Just Serina's presence—immense, deliberate, enveloping the space like a force field of gravity and will.

Her eyes never left Lyssa's. Gold on red, cold fire on burning coals.

Then, without ceremony, she crossed the final inch between them.

Her hand, still cradling Lyssa's cheek, guided the Mirialan's face just so—tilted not like a lover, but like an artist inspecting the curvature of marble she was about to mark with her sigil. And then Serina kissed her.

It was not gentle. It was not kind.

It was a seal.

The pressure of her lips was purposeful, claiming, a silent brand pressed into flesh. It was the kind of kiss that said: You will never forget who you belong to. It was not offered with affection—it was offered with certainty.

And when it ended, she did not retreat.

She lingered. Her breath tasted of promise. Her fingers traced along Lyssa's jaw with maddening slowness, as if committing the curve of it to memory. Her voice returned at last, not above a murmur.

"There, there." Serina whispered.

Then, with purposeful intent, she drove the final, binding nail.

"Good girl."

She drew back an inch, just enough to study the expression in Lyssa's eyes—not out of sentiment, but to verify. Had the lesson sunk in? Had the kiss carved the understanding deeper than words ever could?

Apparently, it had. Because Serina's smile sharpened, refined. A satisfied, indulgent smirk curved her lips like the edge of a scalpel. She knew what she was doing. She knew the monster she was going to unleash on this undeserving galaxy.

"You crave, you ache, you hunger… and now that hunger answers only to me."

She turned away, slowly. Her cape whispered along the floor as she walked back toward the holoprojector, the long hem of her dress trailing behind her like the sweep of a dark comet's tail. She did not look over her shoulder as she spoke.

"Your training has now proven worthy of your first assignment."

A pause. Still facing away.

"A quest you must complete in my name."

She stopped just before the console, head tilting slightly—barely an inch.

"In doing so, you will prove to me how far you have come, if you deserve great punishment..."

She turned back, eyes aglow like twin suns beginning to rise.

"Or great reward."

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

A smile - half a smirk, half a grin, broke across Lyssa's face as she met her master's eyes.

Perhaps it was self indulgent and self satisfied, but it was far from arrogant. It was strange, how quickly the apprentice could lose her pride and her sense of superiority within her mistress's gaze. Out there, in the galaxy, when they were no longer alone? Lyssa would spit and scowl upon anyone else who dared to claim they were her equal, or greater than her.

But here, in intimate solitude with the woman she dreamt about, the mirialan lost all sense of herself entirely. Who she was or had been didn't matter, the only thing she cared enough to perceive was her mistress.

Could Lyssa even be called a person anymore, or an individual at all in this quiet room, hidden deep beneath Polis Masa? All she was in this place was an extension of her mistress. A planet in orbit to the blinding sun, a mere shadow, clinging to the edges of the light.

Her master approached her now, and spoke to her, and her voice was not merely captivating, it was transformative. Those words, those beautiful but subtle notes of approval, hummed like music in Lyssa's ears, filling her with pleasure. As her mistress reached out her fingers into the dancing sparks in her hand, the apprentice did not bother to pull back. Her electricity loved her mistress as much as she did.

How could it not, when it was born from the emotions of her heart?

"It knows who you belong to."

Lyssa nodded eagerly, pleased at the observation. Even as her mistress dropped her hand the apprentice remained on the balls of her feet, pent up desire and energy flowing through her.

She did not expect a reward. That would be blasphemy.

But she could still yearn for one.

"Do you feel it now, Lyssa? This is not raw strength. This is not fury. This is not noise."
"This… is elegance."

Elegant...Lyssa had never before been referred to as such. Now, the first woman to ever call her such was the same woman who had the same grace and refined dignity as the night itself. This compliment would have been reward enough but still her mistress indulged her, leaning in to breathe more sweet words across her skin. To whisper that she was worthy, useful, special.

Those piercing blue eyes called her obedient. Called her radiant, and the word made her shiver with delight. Finally, someone recognised her for the supernova that she was. No longer was her fire being quelled lest she outshine the stars around her.

Who would have known that it was in another's gaze that she would finally find purpose? Reverence was her salvation.

And what sweet salvation it was. Her mistress lowered her eyes to take in Lyssa's form - to trail seductively over every curve, every contour of skin and metal. All of it devoted entirely to her, all of it her's to claim. The mirialan's straight posture didn't waver for a second, though she bit back a whimper as her mistress hummed, her voice a melody of a million fantasies. She could feel her heart begin to beat out of her chest.

Still, in the never ending war of discipline and temptation in her mind, Lyssa's devoted obedience would always win out.

Even as her mistress promised reward, trailing gentle fingers down her neck. Even as she claimed her, spoke the words with her touch: You are mine.

And it was all the apprentice ever desired to be.

"My methods are not gentle. They are not easy. But they are unmatched. Every apprentice who touches my shadow is reborn. Not as themselves—but as a reflection of me. That is why you succeeded, Lyssa. Not because you are strong. But because you are devoted."

A suppressed scowl crossed Lyssa's lips as her mistress mentioned her other apprentices, but her resentment quickly disappeared as she continued to praise her. She had never been praised, never once been appreciated or honoured by anyone else before in her life. She drank it in eagerly, each word sweeter than the last. Each touch of her mistress's fingers burning the moment into her flesh.

Power. Her master was not wrong, all of Lyssa's strength came from her hunger. She hungered now more than ever, she was starved for affection, she thirsted for infamy. Some spoke of desperation and subjection as if they were signs of weakness. But the cyborg knew the truth - desperation was the threshold a true acolyte had to cross in order to attain real power. Subjection was the most beautiful of surrenders, but only when surrendering to the right master.

Taking in the woman's smile before her, Lyssa knew she had chosen the right one.

Sometime, over the past few days, a switch had been flipped within her. No longer did the former Jedi merely want revenge. Her ambition was more focused now, razor sharp, a combination of both her lust for power and her desire for her mistress's approval.

Yes, let the galaxy fear her - let them hate the dark cloaked warrior standing at her master's side, her loyalty unwavering. Let them fear the wild eyed girl who bathed in the blood of her enemies, more animal than mirialan.

Her smile was sweet as her mistress brushed a loose strand of her ebony hair back, her gaze soft and adoring. The apprentice had reached an equilibrium, found the gentle within the evil, the peace within darkness. The moment was not tender in spite of her mistress's words of pain and bloodshed, but because of them - there was nothing sweeter in Lyssa's mind than hearing the woman she admired most whisper of their future conquests together. Nothing more perfect than knowing she would be the instrument of her mistress's victory.

And then Serina kissed her.

Another kiss, fierce and perfect. This day would forever be burnt into Lyssa's mind, the fire of the moment between them unforgettable, inescapable. But even though the taste of her mistress's lips, the sweet pleasure that enveloped her very soul, was overwhelming - there was a lesson in this reward that the apprentice could not ignore.

Lyssa belonged to her master, body and soul. But her master did not belong to her, and if she wanted her sole affections, she would have to fight for them.

So this time, as she drank in the touch, Lyssa swore to herself that she would become her mistress's favourite. She wasn't going to go through the sting of being shoved to the side again. This time, she would be the one who her mistress loved the most. This time, it was her turn to be chosen.

And as if her mistress knew her thoughts, she drove the lesson home with perfect, cruel finality.

"There, there. Good girl."

Lyssa staggered, eyes wide and adoring. Her smile almost overwhelmed her, and she fought to restrain her happiness. She was so beloved. Her mistress's loyal dog, and she was proud to claim the title. The apprentice would always be by her master's side, so long as they both lived.

Her mistress eventually turned away, but Lyssa was satisfied. For now. It would not be long until her ravenous hunger for attention and appreciation would return in full force. But at this moment, the ache had been dulled, if only temporarily.

Her ears pricked up, however, with unconcealed ambition as her mistress mentioned an assignment. She was being trusted to fight for her mistress on her own, and the thought made her glow with pride. This was the first step towards becoming her favourite.

"Everything I do is in your name," she reassured her mistress, touching her hand to her heart earnestly. "Everything, from the moment I met you."

At the mention of reward or punishment, Lyssa simply knelt to one knee, bowing her head reverently. "Whatever you ask of me, it shall be done, and in a manner deserving of you. I am not just your loyal servant, but someone who is capable of the perfection you seek."

 

[Darth Virelia]

"One spark is all it takes."

Tag - Lyssa Cluada



Serina Calis did not turn at first. She let the silence stretch between them, taut and glistening like wire strung through bone. Her back was a vision in elegance and restraint, her silhouette framed by the dim crimson ambient of the chamber—an apparition made flesh. The apprentice's reverent posture behind her might have belonged to a zealot before an altar, or a beast awaiting command.

And Serina, of course, was both priestess and deity.

Her voice, when it came, was low. Measured. A velvet blade drawn from a silken sheath.

"You are not sent into the galaxy for slaughter," she said. "Slaughter is base. It is the indulgence of children and amateurs."

She turned now, and the slow pivot of her body carried all the menace and grace of an executioner stepping forward with the final command. Her boots clicked once. Then again.

"You are sent," she continued, "to break."

A pause, delicate and deliberate. Serina's gaze rested on her kneeling apprentice, cool as arctic steel—and just as lethal. Then, her fingers lifted, and with the slow curl of her hand, she beckoned Lyssa to rise.

"You have begged for pain. For purpose. You've bled in my training halls, kissed my lightning, cried into my hand like a creature bred only for my use. And so I give you what every apprentice craves."

Another step. The air between them tightened. Her voice dipped lower still.

"A rival."

The word cut like glass, and Serina let it linger.

"She calls herself Malra now. A name she chose herself—how quaint. She was once called Serren Ven. A human acolyte I trained in the art of poisons and persuasion, subterfuge and subtle domination. She was intelligent. Curious. She adored me."

Her eyes burned like twin moons eclipsing fire. Her voice dropped to a whisper that smoldered with pride and contempt in equal measure.

"But unlike you, she did not have the will to stay mine."

There was no fire or fury in Serina's words. Only a profound, guttural revulsion. "She broke. She fled. She tried to define herself without me. And now she whispers my techniques into the ears of lesser Sith, trading my secrets like a commoner sells kisses in the gutter."

She moved to Lyssa now, slowly, until their bodies nearly touched. One hand extended to gently cup the Mirialan's jaw—controlling, possessive, almost gentle.

"She is not to be killed," Serina said, her tone the edge of command. "Death would free her. Death would excuse her betrayal."

Her fingers stroked beneath Lyssa's chin with the tenderness of a lover and the certainty of a master. "No, my radiant little blade. You will hunt her. You will strip her pride from her one shard at a time. You will show her what a real apprentice is."

And then, closer still, lips barely brushing Lyssa's ear: "You will remind her why she ran."

The scent of power, heady and rich, hung thick between them.

"This is not a battle of strength, Lyssa. Malra knows my mind. She has studied the same lessons you have. She will not challenge you in open war. She will run. She will scheme. She will whisper to others, try to turn them. She will try to sow doubt in you."

Another pause. Serina's fingers tightened in her hair—not harsh, but inescapable. A subtle, sensual tether.

"She will use what I taught her. She will call me cruel. She will tell you I break what I cannot love. She will say you are just the next in a long line."

Serina's gaze bore into Lyssa's eyes now, raw with intensity. "She will try to steal your faith. Not with violence. But with memory. Emotion."

And then, lower still: "You will not let her."

The weight of the room shifted as Serina's aura expanded. The presence of the Dark Side thickened until it pressed against the walls like an atmosphere ready to ignite.

"You will find her," she said, her voice a serpent's purr. "You will seduce her. Hurt her. Humiliate her. And when her pride is shattered, when her mind is bruised, when she begs you to end it—then, my darling shadow, you will bind her wrists in cortosis chain, and you will bring her back to me."

Serina's lips quirked into a smile that was neither kind nor cruel, but something beautifully in between.

"She was mine. And I do not allow my possessions to wander."

A breathless pause. Then, once more, she kissed Lyssa—not soft, not sweet. But slow and claiming. A seal. A mark. A contract burned not in ink, but in soul.

When she drew back, her voice was husky with power.

"This is your proving, Lyssa. Show me that I was right to choose you. Show me that my teachings make gods, not ghosts."

She turned then, languid and imperial, the movement of her robes a whisper against stone.

And behind her, she left the echo of the only command that mattered:

"Go."

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

"You are not sent into the galaxy for slaughter. Slaughter is base. It is the indulgence of children and amateurs."

No, of course not. Lyssa was no longer so contemptible. She was in the process of cleansing herself of her endless urge for ceaseless violence, for the blood of innocents to wash away the sins of her own insecurities. The girl who had committed genocide before on Kalee was the same girl Lyssa had killed, a shadow from her past that she had struck down as surely as a tattooist strikes a line of ink through skin.

The apprentice who listened to her mistress now was a changed woman, tamed and eager to please. She was not perfect yet, certainly not refined, or elegant or even subtle. But in fairness, she wasn't being called to be any of those things.

No, she was called to break someone. To destroy their spirit, to pull their hope apart. A task perfectly suited to the cyborg's strengths.

At her mistress's gesture, Lyssa rose, ambition and lust for power all too obvious in her eyes. She had to restrain herself from nodding along too vigorously as her master spoke of their time together. The mirialan's training had been filled with unending agony and pain.

Which is exactly why she coveted and treasured the memory of it as the sweetest moments of her life.

"A rival."

Lyssa gritted her teeth, her jaw setting. She did not crave a rival. She had lived her entire life underneath her sister's shadow and she refused to play second fiddle again now. If she craved anything, it was permission to cut down all her competition until there was no one but her left. No one else to receive her masters sweet attention and admiration.

"She calls herself Malra now. A name she chose herself—how quaint. She was once called Serren Ven. A human acolyte I trained in the art of poisons and persuasion, subterfuge and subtle domination. She was intelligent. Curious. She adored me."
"But unlike you, she did not have the will to stay mine."

"Ugh," Lyssa could not hide her disgust, her face twisting into an expression halfway between revulsion and fury. "Her mind is too weak to even comprehend how much she has lost by turning from you."

The mirialan's hands curled into fists, every word offered about this Malra feeling like a personal insult. She could scarcely form the thought of her in her mind - to betray her mistress would be to betray herself. This girl had given up everything, forsaken a life of bliss and endless power for...what, exactly? An eternity on the run, chasing affection from strangers, cowering away from the whispers of her past?

What kind of life was that? What kind of existence? What was even the point of living at all, then, if life could not be spent with the goddess before her?

The fact that anyone could ignore the call of Lyssa's mistress astounded her. Clearly this Malra did not know what it meant to be truly destitute, to hit rock bottom and still somehow find a way to keep going down. She had clearly never lay upon the sands of Korriban, mourning a life she had never had a chance to live. She had clearly never been blinded by the light of a perfect saviour, offering her her hand, offering her a way out.

Indeed, thoughts of murder raced across Lyssa's mind until her mistress dismissed them, trailing her fingers over Lyssa's jaw in that continually addictive way. But she was right. Death was too kind of a punishment for the likes of this girl.

Lyssa's mistress, as far as she was concerned, was the sun, or perhaps a black hole, the gravitational pull of her power, of her touch, stronger than any other power in the universe. It was everything to please her, it was everything to be called radiant, to be named as her blade. How could Malra forsake such pleasure? Lyssa would rip her apart limb from limb to remind her what kind of savagery exists outside of the perimeter of her mistress's light.

And yet, it would be as her master decreed it. Not a battle of strength. A test of loyalty.

It was in this moment, with midnight black hair strands woven through her mistress's fingers like a promise, that Lyssa knew she would succeed the test. The mirialan was a comet, a meteor. She was the kind of star that burned bright and hot but only for a short while. She was never meant to live past sixteen. Still, the girl had cheated death and she was ready to burn again.

But this time, she would burn for her master.

What did it matter if she really was the next in a long line? If her mistress chose to break her in the future? All that mattered was the approval and attention that she received now, and would continue to receive in the future if she obeyed. All it would take was an indestructible sense of loyalty.

Yes, Lyssa was governed by emotion. Her mistress was right to recognise that in her. But once Lyssa had decided to feel a certain way about anything - or anyone - she didn't change her mind easily. She was nothing if not stubborn.

"You will not let her."

Lyssa leaned in slightly, only somewhat indulgently, her breath whispering across her mistress's skin. Her words were slow and reverent, thick with the authentic and raw truth: "I would rather die."

The cyborg didn't declare it lightly. She knew what it was to draw her last breath. She had nearly joined the force before and still bore the scars of the event, both physically and emotionally. And yet...there was something in her mistress's eyes that made her willing to do it all again, if only to gain more of her favour.

Perhaps her master recognised this, because her presence in the force expanded, enveloping the room. It was in these moments that her mistress was truly terrifying, embodying the darkness of the galaxy itself. She spoke like an eldritch beauty, the greatest creation of destruction and perfection. And Lyssa knelt at her feet, a priestess privileged to bear witness to her goddess's plan.

"I will make her life hell," The cyborg swore, one hand over her ever beating heart. "I will track her to the edges of the galaxy, burn her home to the ground and murder those she holds dear. I will make her bathe in the blood of her loved ones, I will strip her of her power and debase her before the entire Sith Order. I will be the fury that hounds her head and heart until she has no choice but to end her suffering and return to you."

Standing back up, Lyssa looked deep into her mistress's eyes. "I am your loyal guard dog. Tell me to fetch and I will. Tell me to hunt, and I will return with the bloodied carcass of your failed apprentice's ego."

Her declaration earned the mirialan another kiss, and this time she savoured it, pushing all other thoughts aside to simply enjoy the moment. It was the greatest pleasure in the galaxy to be desired. Her life of loneliness had ended the moment she had stepped foot on Polis Masa, though she did not know it then.

But she knew it now.

"This is your proving, Lyssa. Show me that I was right to choose you. Show me that my teachings make gods, not ghosts."

To be a goddess like her mistress was blasphemy, a lie, a simple exaggeration by the woman before her. Lyssa would never be her equal. But she could be her dark angel, or a demoness working under her instruction.

The mirialan had spent her whole life proving herself. Proving she was just as good as her older sister - just as fast, strong and smart. Now the time had come to prove that she was better.

"Your word is my command," Lyssa whispered as her master dismissed her. "Everything you ask for shall be served unto you."

Because that was the job of an acolyte, wasn't it?

To deliver the one they worship whatever sacrifice they call for, to burn every thicket, every forest, every village in the galaxy for just one word of praise? For just one kiss?

Let this Malra try to dissuade the her from her path. The mirialan merely scoffed at the thought, striding through the halls of her master's fortress until she was greeted by the expanse of the stars. Her ship growled a greeting at her, sentient and hungry as she was.

Yes, let this girl try. Let her meet Lyssa and tremble at her conviction.

Because she had been well trained. The apprentice would not be so easily broken.

Not by anyone but her master.

 

[Lyssa Cluada]