Tyrant Queen of Darkness
"Furry Potential."
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Darth Kharnaz
The sanctum was a wound carved into the stone heart of Malachor V.
A cathedral hollowed from the jagged obsidian cliffs, it breathed with a darkness older than memory. Black spires rose from the floor like teeth, jagged pillars split by the planet's cataclysm, their fractured edges still slick with the faint shimmer of energy that had once scoured armies from existence. The air here was not air but ash and static, a tension that seemed to hang heavy on the lungs. With each breath came the copper sting of ozone, and with each exhale came the certainty that something listened, something watched.
In the center of the sanctum she waited. Darth Virelia.
Her silhouette was framed against the deep violet glow of glyphs carved into the walls, runes that writhed like veins of lightning trapped in stone. Her armor—polished like oil-slick steel, streaked in faint reflections of violet flame—caught and refracted the glow. A cloak hung from her shoulders, its edges whispering across the cracked floor as though stirred by some phantom wind. She stood with hands folded lightly before her, every line of her posture deliberate, predatory, regal. Her mask, smooth obsidian with a seam of searing violet light cutting through its center, turned toward the lone archway.
There would be no words until he arrived. Silence itself was her opening lesson.
The sanctum seemed to sense her intent. The runes brightened, hissing faintly as though reacting to the tension building in her presence. Sparks snapped and crawled across the fissures in the floor, coiling around her boots before vanishing into the dark. The air thickened, dense with anticipation, as if the world remembered what it was to be sundered and now longed to taste destruction once more.
Her thoughts were precise, blade-sharp. She had chosen this place for its resonance—the wound in the Force that mirrored her own perfection of will. If her apprentice could survive Malachor's hunger, if he could draw breath without faltering beneath the weight of its memory, then perhaps he would be worthy of the gift she intended to give him. Lightning was not a trick, not a parlor display of raw violence. It was command. Dominion. It was the power to seize the universe in one's fist and force it to kneel.
The sanctum whispered with echoes of distant thunder.
Her gloved fingers twitched, and with the smallest motion arcs of violet fire crawled across her hands, illuminating the carved runes on her gauntlets. The lightning did not strike outward—it danced along her skin as though eager, alive, a predator held on a leash. The faint crackle was both invitation and warning.
Kharnaz would enter soon. He would feel the air shift, the weight of the world pressing against him, the sting of ozone against his tongue. He would see her standing in the heart of the sanctum, violet eyes burning behind the mask, and he would know:
This was not training. This was a trial.
