Private Tests Upon Tests

[Darth Virelia]

"Feel the power of the Force."

Tags - Miasmær



The training chamber was cold by design—smooth white duracrete, reinforced glass, and polished obsidian veins cutting through the floor like ancient script. It was cavernous yet precise, one of many hidden beneath the foundations of Polis Massa's deeper sanctums. No decorative relics adorned the walls. No sigils. No banners. It was not a place of celebration or ceremony. It was a crucible. And at its center stood the woman who had built it to break others.

Darth Virelia leaned idly against the elevated observation platform, the curve of her hip accentuated by the taut angles of her armor. Tyrant's Embrace shifted as though breathing with her, polished like midnight glass, etched with subtle, crawling runes that pulsed softly with each of her heartbeats. She had dismissed her guards. Closed the doors. Lowered the lights. In the silence, only the low hum of repulsorlift panels and distant ventilation could be heard—like a whisper of something alive beneath the walls.

Her fingers traced lazy circles across a control panel, but her attention was elsewhere. She could feel the girl approaching. The Force always murmured before she did—a flicker of pain and ambition, laced with defiance. Miasmær was not strong enough yet to hide from her. Not here. Not in her domain. Serina's lips curled faintly, a slow, amused smirk that hinted at something more than challenge. She wanted to see if the girl would sweat. Would strain. Would break. Not to hurt her—no. To reveal her.

Virelia adjusted her posture slowly, sensually, letting the cape drape from one shoulder like silk blood. She imagined Miasmær watching her from the doorway, trying not to be caught looking. That flicker of hesitation—desire wrapped in discipline—was a flavor Serina knew intimately. She had coaxed it from stronger wills than this one. But Miasmær was hers now. And this lesson was not about survival. It was about submission to the truth. Power was not in what you knew. It was in what you did with what was inside you. And Virelia intended to draw it out of her like poison from a wound.

She didn't look up when the door hissed open. She didn't need to. The air changed. The pressure shifted. Her voice cut through the silence like perfume and blade.

"Welcome, apprentice."

 

[Miasmær]

Miasmær strode through the halls of her mistress' sanctuary, portraying a confidence she had come to master in the previous days. Things had moved so quickly in recent weeks, all of it culminating in her assault on the Loovrian slave pits and the freeing of several hundred of the slaves, most of whom Miasmær had brought off world with her. They had never made it to the sanctuary, instead occupying a once-abandoned mining facility in the asteroid belt of Polis Massa which Miasmær had made functional again by diverting some of her mistress' more skilled servants attention to the facility. While it may have been permitted, for the time, Miasmær still expected to be chastized for her actions and so it was with a set jaw she strode towards her meeting with Serina.

Passing through the dimly lit halls those servants who had come to recognize her bowed in reverence before returning to their tasks, and those who didn't were quickly dragged down to avoid their mistress' wrath. It wasn't Miasmær they feared, it was only the authority bestowed upon her they had any reverence for and that simple fact churned at the embers of rage in Miasmær's core. They should fear her not grovel because doing so would upset another.

She would hesitate at the entrance, trying to take a deep breath to master her emotions before she would break out into a small coughing fit. She was ill. She had come to recognize that now and already had consulted the on-site physicians for necessary treatment and yet she did not get better. Miasmær would compose herself, taking a second to subdue the self-loathing at being so unable to control oneself as to show signs of weakness in front of her mistress' servants. Then, she would enter.

The doors would hiss open revealing Serina, clad in her signature armor. Upon being greeted Miasmær would step into the room, giving a small but formal bow.

"Mistress." would be all the greeting she would offer before straightening, her voice cold but formal.

Her eyes would scan the room, trying to determine what was about to happen before settling on Serina once again. Part of her awaited judgement and sought to flee but she rejected it. What was to come was needed, it would shape her... or so she hoped.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Feel the power of the Force."

Tags - Miasmær



The sound of that single word—Mistress—struck across the chamber like a chime of crystal dipped in poison. Virelia's head tilted ever so slightly, not in approval… not yet. Her lenses pulsed violet, soft like candlelight, cold like stars. She didn't move from where she stood on the dais. She didn't need to. Presence alone was a noose.

"So formal," she said at last, her voice rich with amusement. "You sound like you expect punishment. I wonder what for."

Her words, languid and laced with velvet contempt, carried the weight of inevitability. She let the silence hang, just long enough for it to become uncomfortable. Then she descended.

Her heels struck the floor like falling verdicts—each step unhurried, echoing with quiet power. The armor moved like liquid machinery, the folds of her cape whispering across the stone behind her. She approached slowly, deliberately, as if studying a flaw in a precious relic. When she reached Miasmær, she circled once, not touching her. Just feeling. The girl was sick. Weak. Worn. And still trying to pretend that nothing had cracked.

"Do you know," Virelia said, her voice curling close to the girl's ear, "I woke yesterday to a list of names I did not recognize. Dozens. Hundreds. Most of them half-starved, traumatized, illiterate. Runaways. All dropped in the shadow of my system with no explanation but a name: yours."

She drew in a slow breath through the vent of her helm. The scent of her apprentice's condition—unwell, stretched, unready—was not lost on her. She would not call it weakness. Not yet. But it was a risk. One she had not authorized.

"What exactly have you brought me, Miasmær?"

It was not truly a question. Her tone made that clear. It was a test. One she fully expected her apprentice to fail unless she could make her answer more valuable than her mistake.

Virelia stepped in front of her at last, close enough that the edge of her armored breastplate brushed against the girl's robes. Her voice dropped to something more intimate now, more cutting.

"Was it some sentimental little crusade? Some moment of moral clarity while I wasn't looking?" Her helm tilted ever so slightly, six violet eyes narrowing in synchrony. "Did you think that this Empire I'm building could accommodate every bleeding-heart cause you bring to its doorstep?"

And yet—

She didn't strike her. Didn't raise her voice. Instead, her tone shifted once again, softened—dangerously.

"You did something, my little ember. Something bold. Stupid, perhaps. Unforgivable, even. But I haven't decided whether I should flay you for it…"

She reached out, gloved fingers trailing almost across Miasmær's jawline, but not quite touching.

"…or reward you."

There it was. The tension. That thin line between danger and desire. Virelia thrived on it. She let the silence hang again, giving her apprentice the chance to breathe—but only just.

"You want power," Virelia continued, "but you still think like a child. Like someone trying to do good in the galaxy and merely survive its consequences. But I didn't take you in to survive."

Her voice became a murmur, like silk pulled tight.

"I took you in to make you safe."

And then, she stepped back. The moment passed. Her tone returned to something more clinical, cold and smooth.

"You will explain what happened on Loovria. Every detail. Every decision. You will give me a reason not to return your little refugees to the fires they fled from. Because I am not your sanctuary, Miasmær. I am your crucible."

A beat.

"And I do not suffer waste."

 

[Muphinz]

(wrong account -_-)

 

[Miasmær]

​

Miasmær would accept her chastisement with a set jaw and forward facing stare, refusing to surrender in the face of critique. Part of her wanted to protest, to offer vague half-thought out excuses. But instead she stood and listened. It is only when Serina finished, standing stoicly in need of a reply that Miasmær dared respond.

"I went to Loovria to fight." she would pause, realizing that that wouldn't be good enough, so she would clarify "All my life I dreamed of striking back, of doing something to hurt the people who hurt me. So I hit them where it hurt; their bottom line." she would pause again, trying to think further before deciding to tell her story in full.

"I landed on the planet discretely, then made my way to the pits underneath Strako. There I carved a bloody path until discovering a young Jedi, who I manipulated into aiding me under the pretext of freeing slaves-" There was no pretext, that was the goal "With her assistance we claimed a security room and freed the slaves, but the Jedi escaped before I could claim her. The plan was to always evacuate the slaves off-world to prevent the arenas from using them, slow down their games. Most I sent away, some I brought here."

She would pause again as if interrogating her own actions, trying to figure out why she had been so worried about them before offering further though less substantiated reasoning "They're loyal. Treat them well and they'll kill for you. You were the one that taught me love was a better way to control than fear, and now they love me. I have their unwavering loyalty. Train them to be soldiers, put them to work, what ever you decide to do with them they'll do it. There may even be a few force sensitives among the younger ones-" Nearly thirty percent of them had been younger, orphans who had no where else to go and who didn't know what to do. It seemed only natural, at the time, to guide them to safety.

Miasmær would lift her chin a little, refusing to admit she had done any wrong "This is the way of the Sith? Is it not? Is it not in our nature to struggle amongst one another, to take what one is too weak to keep? I took what I was strong enough to claim."

She was grasping at straws now and she knew it. Three different explanations; hurt her enemies, provide a service to her master, prove her strength. None of them were necessarily false, and neither were they contradictory. But these were rationalizations of someone who had time to think on their past actions. Miasmær refused to admit she had simply been angry, had simply wanted revenge. And when she was ready to leave it was the adorations of the lost and scarred that had swayed her to protect them.

Finally she would add her final statement, this one more of an admission of guilt than anything else "I apologize for the inconvenience. It was not my desire to put you in a difficult position."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Feel the power of the Force."

Tags - Miasmær



"Oh, Miasmær…" she purred.

Not angry.

Worse.

Amused.

Virelia stepped forward again, leisurely, as if she hadn't just been handed the confession of an unsanctioned crusade. Her fingers brushed lightly along her hip, trailing upward to the curve of her collarbone, tracing the etched runes there with idle seduction. She looked at her apprentice as one might regard a particularly sharp blade—impressive, dangerous, but perhaps not yet forged to perfection.

"You do speak so eloquently when you're cornered," she murmured, circling again. "Pain as justification, power as purpose, loyalty as currency. Mm. It almost sounds like I taught you well."

The edge of her gauntlet traced the air an inch from Miasmær's shoulder, not quite touching.

"But here is where you misstep—" Her voice dropped to a whisper now, warm and intimate, coiling just behind the girl's ear. "You mistake personal catharsis for strategic value. You confuse your moment of vengeance with a plan."

A sharp turn. Virelia now faced her fully again, hands behind her back, posture imperial and cold.

"Yes. You wounded the slavers. You freed the cattle. You brought them here like a triumphant warlord returning from her first raid. That takes boldness."

A beat.

"But not vision."

Her voice was now cut glass—beautiful and cruel.

"You did not warn me. You did not assess whether our assets could support them. You risked exposure, you invited Imperial scrutiny, and worst of all…" Her tone dipped, suddenly coiled in licentious warmth again, "…you made me clean up after you, darling."

Another step, slow and deliberate.

"And now, I have mouths to feed. Weak ones. Broken ones. Survivors clinging to you because you were the first person who didn't sell their flesh for sport. They worship you… because they have no one else. You must understand the danger of that."

A long pause.

Then—silence broke.

Laughter. Low, sultry, genuine.

Virelia laughed.

It was the laugh of someone who had already decided the shape of the game before the board was ever placed.

She reached out and finally touched Miasmær—one gloved finger under her chin, lifting it slightly.

"Congratulations, my little ember. You've created a problem so large I cannot ignore it."

Her smile returned. Feral. Hungry.

"And that means you've won something."

She released her chin and turned, her cape flaring with that subtle grace born only of discipline and design. Her heels clacked as she crossed back to the center of the training floor.

"Enough," she said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "We will address Loovria in full later. But right now, you will show me something else."

She turned to face Miasmær again, eyes narrowing.

"I want to see what all that righteous fury bought you."

With a gesture, the lights above dimmed. A circle illuminated around them—a dueling space of light and shadow.

"Draw the Force to your hands. Shape it. Show me how far you've come since Exegol. And this time," her voice dropped into a purr, "don't disappoint me. Or I will punish you, pet."

 

[Miasmær]

​

Miasmær stood in silence, teeth grinding in a subtle display of anxiety as it would slowly dawn on her just how much trouble she is in. With every word the dagger of accusation dug deeper into Miasmær's mind, picking apart each action Miasmær had taken with surgeon like precision. Each promise of physical touch, of intimacy, promised connection while bringing further emphasis to Miasmær's own inadequacy.

It is with fear Miasmær stared forward, eyes wide as if anticipating a physical knife to plunge into her stomach. Yet what came was so much worst.

The laugh that came was not at all expected, and that made it all the more terrifying. Instinctively Miasmær would begin to step back, one foot falling behind the other before she would straighten, swallowing her fear as she would force herself to remain in position. Serina's touch, as subtle and intoxicating as it was, was far more devastating than any physical abuse that Miasmær had faced. With upturned chin Miasmær felt incredibly vulnerable, neck exposed, a sign of submission as her chest would rise and fall with deep controlled breaths.

And then the worst possible outcome bore its grinning jaws: delaying the inevitable. What Miasmær would give to resolve this now, to not have to ponder further about what would come to bare on her.

"Yes, mistress." she would obey, her voice stoic in an attempt to hide her coiling emotions.

Miasmær's hands, balled into fists, would lower to face one another while hovering in front of her stomach in a well practiced meditative position. Her connection to the force had always been tenuous. She had not been chosen for her mastery of the force or potential for growth, she had been chosen for her skill in the blade. Subtle manipulation of the force was something Miasmær knew she needed to develop, and already fear had begun to corrupt as her mind would repeat one simple concept: she was going to fail. Punishment was coming.

With a deep breath Miasmær would close her eyes and use that fear, letting it wash over her before pulling it inside of her. In her core she would use that fear, shaping it into kindling as her rage would begin to burn. With rage at the self loathing she felt in this moment she would call upon the force. Not in a subtle way, and certainly not in the seeking plucks of a Jedi seeking the force's will. No, Miasmær grabbed at power. With it she would pull it to her fists, forming a bridge between fists as the force, ever moving, flowed through her.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Feel the power of the Force."

Tags - Miasmær




The hum of the Force built slowly—uneven, turbulent, alive with tension. Virelia watched without speaking, her head tilted slightly, the expression beneath her helm unreadable. Six violet eyes drank in every flicker of strain across Miasmær's brow, every shift in her stance, every flicker of rage breaking through that desperate façade of control. She saw the clenched fists, the defiance forced into stillness, the way her apprentice's chest rose in deep, almost meditative breaths—as if she were trying to drown the storm inside with a whisper.

Admirable.

Virelia stepped forward, her boots silent against the training floor, the light above them casting her silhouette in sharp relief. Her voice, when it came, was low—almost gentle. But there was a wickedness to it. A subtle, curling danger that clung to every syllable like silk over poison.

"That's better."

She didn't raise her voice, didn't praise her. Not really. She simply let the moment stretch, savoring the way the Force bent around Miasmær like a shroud. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't even stable. But it was hers. And that meant it was malleable.

Virelia circled slowly around her again, each step a metronome of quiet judgment.

"You grasp the Force like a drowning woman clings to the surface," she murmured. "With need. With panic. With hunger." A pause. "That's good. Better than most. You'll never be one of those self-styled priestesses chanting at stars or whispering to trees."

She stopped just behind her again, voice dropping.

"But don't pretend it isn't fear that started this fire. I smell it on you, Miasmær. Thick on your skin like blood."

A gloved hand ghosted near her shoulder—never quite touching, but close enough for heat to be felt through armor and flesh alike.

"And that is why you belong to me."

It wasn't a compliment. It was a claim.

"You don't know how to ask the Force to serve you. You demand it. And the Dark Side—" she leaned in, a breath against the shell of her apprentice's ear, "—responds to demand."

She drew back, circling around again, then stepped once more into the light.

"But you burn without direction."

The statement hung in the air.

"Do you think I chose you for your swordplay?" she asked suddenly, sharply. "There are thousands who can kill better than you. Faster. Cleaner."

She let the truth sink in, then added, more slowly now, "I chose you because you fight back. Even when you're losing. Even when it's hopeless. Even when it's me."

A flick of her wrist, and a control panel activated nearby. A low rumble echoed through the floor as the training circle's walls shimmered into being—translucent barriers that pulsed faintly with energy.

"But now you're mine, and that means your anger must be useful. Not explosive. Not desperate."

She turned to face her again, and this time, her tone shifted—darker, seductive, coiled with that same infernal gravity she always used when she wanted everything.

"Show me you can direct it. Shape it. I want precision, not wrath. I want a dagger, not a bomb."

She gestured toward a cluster of metallic spheres now rising from the platform's edge—training drones. Their smooth surfaces shimmered under the light, each marked with delicate runic inscriptions that moved faintly, like breathing glyphs.

"They will not fire. They will evade. I want you to strike them with the Force alone. Reach. Crush. Pierce. No weapons. No saber."

Another step, and she folded her arms, the runes across her armor flaring subtly in violet as if mirroring her silent command.

"If you can strike even one," she murmured, "I'll consider your failure on Loovria… a beginning rather than a mistake."

Then her voice softened again, wicked and dark.

"And if you cannot…"

 

[Miasmær]

​

Miasmær's eyes would flare open at this final command, fear purged as determination would flood her veins. Hatred, boiling carnal hatred, burned inside her. Memories of the slavers of Loovria, memories of those she had yet to kill, blinding her as with an outstretched hand Miasmær would reach out with the force to the probes. Coiling, writhing, serpentine power would launch from her, impacting one of the probes. This flowing ever-moving power would coil around the probe and with little hesitation it would crumple under a thousand depths of pressure.

"I am not a failure." Miasmær would state, her mind clear as she would lift her chin at the crumpled wreck of a target only a few meters away. "None of them are safe. Loovria, Kessel, Ryloth, Nal Hutta, every slaver will know my name. Loovria was the first, others will follow."

The rational part of her was screaming for Miasmær to shut up, to bow and submit to authority. But Miasmær's fear was gone, all that was left was memories and rage.

Silence would reign, Miasmær's hand slowly drifting down to her side again in quiet defiance. She wanted to say more, to say she belonged to no one. But she knew she was an idiot if she actually believed that. Furthermore she was already feeling foolish for her little dramatic showing. With concentration and shame Miasmær's rage would burn out, returning to its steady simmer.

"I apologize, mistress. That was... dramatic, foolish." she'd half apologize. Was it foolish? Yes. But she meant what she had said.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Feel the power of the Force."

Tags - Miasmær




The sound of the crushed drone's casing giving way echoed through the chamber like the crack of bone. Virelia did not look at it. Her attention was fixed solely on Miasmær—on the way her chest rose and fell, on the tension still trembling in her fingers, on the way her chin lifted in that brief, dangerous defiance.

The helm tilted slightly, violet lenses catching the training room's cold light, and then—slowly—she began to approach. Her steps were unhurried, but each one seemed to press against the air, compressing the space between them until it felt as if the entire chamber bent toward the moment.

When she stopped, she was close enough that the heat from her armor bled into the air between them.

"Dramatic?" she murmured, voice low, smooth, and heavy with deliberate weight. "Yes. Foolish?" Her head tilted the other way, considering. "Only if you believe the galaxy is won with patience."

She allowed the words to linger, her gaze raking over her apprentice as if reading more than just the set of her jaw or the faint tremor of her shoulders. There was satisfaction there—subtle, dangerous—but she hid it behind the measured poise of a woman who never gave her opponent the full shape of her thoughts.

"You are not a failure," she conceded at last. "Not yet. But this—" a slight gesture toward the twisted drone, "—is only a taste of what you'll need to become if you intend to keep the promise you just made."

Her voice lowered further, drawing the listener in by instinct. "Hatred is a forge. It burns what is weak. It tempers what is strong. And you—" the faintest hint of a smirk ghosted her lips, "—you've been burning for a long time. I can smell the years on you."

She took another half step forward, close enough now that the lines of Tyrant's Embrace seemed to merge with Miasmær's own shadow. "But a forge without a smith makes nothing but ruin. Without direction, your rage will eat you long before you can feed it to your enemies. I will not have that."

Her gloved hand lifted—not to touch, not yet, but to hover just beside the side of Miasmær's face, the warmth from her palm an unspoken temptation. "You belong to me, and that means your victories are mine to shape. I will not have you waste them on spectacle for your own ego."

The hand dropped, the weight of the moment easing just enough for her to step past her apprentice, cape whispering across the floor. She moved toward the control panel and with a flick of her wrist summoned three more drones into the air. These ones began moving immediately—erratic, darting in seemingly random arcs.

"You think Loovria was the first step of a grand campaign?" Her tone sharpened, though never lost that velvet undercurrent. "It was an opening move in a game you haven't even begun to see. The Black Sun, the cartels, the syndicates—they don't bleed from one lost shipment of bodies. They bleed when you make them doubt their own chains. When every slave begins to wonder if escape is possible. When their fear turns inward."

She looked back over her shoulder, eyes catching the light like shards of amethyst. "Do you see the difference? Loovria was revenge. What I'm offering is domination."

Turning fully toward her again, she gestured toward the drones. "So—show me you can think beyond your anger. These will evade, just like before, but they'll change speed and direction at will. You don't get to crush them outright. You must hold them in place first. Pin them in the air, and then end them."

She stepped back, folding her arms. "This is control. This is the difference between a warrior and a master. Between killing because you can…" she let the pause draw out, "…and killing because you own the moment."

Her head inclined, a subtle invitation and a challenge all at once. "Now, apprentice—show me if Loovria made you sharper, or if you've already started to dull."

 

[Miasmær]

​

Miasmær listened, this time with a subtle eagerness befitting a co-conspirator. It was always difficult, she had found, to balance those sides of her which often conflicted: sith and emancipator, warrior and operative, apprentice and ambitious up and comer. Yet it was moments like this, in the depths of her master's sanctuary, that it seemed like every aspect of her aligned in spirit and purpose.

To describe force sensitivity is a difficult thing; Miasmær had always thought of the force as an invisible gas. The gas swirled, moving in invisible currents across every world, around every star, through every cell. With a deep breath she drew the gas in. Not into her lungs, into that part of her science would never be able to identify. She felt it fill her cells, felt it energize her as oxygen did to a drowning man. Perception expanded. She could see with eyes closed, she could hear servants speaking in hushed tones several rooms over, she could smell the chemical composition of the air though she couldn't put a name to the individual scents, she could feel the force as her skin prickled in response to its swirling presence, and she could taste the power it promised.

With another breath Miasmær would channel the force, the gas, the fuel, to her core. Within it would be churned up, burned, used as kindling for her rage and hatred; the energy driving her to action. Usually she would give in, answering the call to action with brute strength and carnage. But this time she focused, imposing her will on the force with a long exhale through her nose. The gas would first be condensed into liquid; a usable form and the one she most often used. Fine control wasn't possible, you simply directed the currents. Crushing, pushing, or moving could be accomplished without finesse, and rarely had Miasmær needed finesse.

Yet now she pushed farther than she typically did, the liquid condensing into a solid. In her mind's eye Miasmær envisioned strange abstract impossible shapes that she knew yet could never imagine in physical space. With another deep breath in the force would take shape in her mind, a hand. Then, as her eyes would shoot open, her new third hand would launch across the room and grasp the drone with vigor. The hand in her mind would change, changing into a sphere which completely encircled the drone and then slowly it would condense. Metal crumpled, electronics sparked, and glass shattered as Miasmær would, with mental strain, crumple up the ball-like drone into a crumpled slightly-smaller sphere.

All at once the force left her as did her breath, taking a second to catch her breath as her eyes would flicker down to the crumpled mess of the drone as it fell to the floor, before her eyes would drift to her master.

"Subtle manipulation.. is difficult for me." She would explain as she'd catch her breath, deciding that the only real way for her to grow is to explain her weaknesses in the best words she could.

"Its as if the force hates me, I can feel it recoil and resist fine manipulation. I can direct it, let it flow and manipulate the speed of that flow but to stop it completely or give it direct orders is... difficult." It was weakness, but if she was to be shaped she had to be weak. A glowing hot bar of iron was weak, but ready to be forged.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Feel the power of the Force."

Tags - Miasmær




The drone's shattered remains hit the floor with a metallic rattle, the sound bouncing hollowly through the chamber until silence reclaimed it. Virelia didn't clap, didn't praise, didn't so much as nod. Instead, she let the moment breathe, her violet gaze fixed on the girl until Miasmær's own eyes dared drift toward her. And then, slowly—deliberately—her lips curved into a smile.

Not the cruel smirk of chastisement, nor the sly promise of punishment. No, this was rarer, softer, indulgent. The kind of smile a lover might offer after watching her paramour take the first successful step onto a stage.

"Better," she said, voice smooth as velvet poured over a blade. "Much better. That wasn't brute force. That was shape. Form. Vision. Do you see the difference, apprentice?" She began pacing again, each step measured, cape brushing like liquid shadow against the obsidian-veined floor. "Crushing is easy. Any hammer can crush. But what you did just now? That was sculpture. You gave the Force a design, and for a moment it obeyed."

She circled Miasmær as a predator circles prey—not to devour, but to appraise. Her gloved fingers brushed along the girl's shoulder briefly as she passed behind her, lingering just long enough to suggest both approval and ownership. "The Force doesn't hate you. It doesn't love you, either. It resists because it is alive. And everything alive resists chains. You mustn't think of it as gas or liquid or solid. Those are useful metaphors, yes, but limited. What you must understand is this: the Force is an animal. A vast, beautiful, dangerous animal. And if you want subtlety… you must stop wrestling it."

She came to a halt in front of her again, lowering her head slightly so the luminous eyes of her helm locked with Miasmær's. "You must whisper to it. Coax it. Seduce it into loving the chains you place on it." The words dripped with licentious intent, her voice weaving intimacy into instruction until the line between education and temptation blurred.

Then, abruptly, she broke the spell with a soft laugh. The kind that rolled lightly out of her throat and made her seem, for a brief moment, almost human. She turned away, striding back to the observation platform and perching herself on its edge, one leg draped casually over the other. The armor creaked faintly with the motion, plates folding like the exhale of some great mechanical beast.

"You've earned rest," she announced with a languid gesture, as though the declaration itself was a gift. "No more drills tonight. I'd rather you keep that little victory polished in your mind than drown it in exhaustion. Let it remind you you're more than just a sword arm. You can shape. You can sculpt. You will."

Her helm tilted slightly, watching her apprentice with that same predatory fondness. "Besides, I'd hate to see you collapse into a heap on my floor. The servants would start whispering, and I'd never hear the end of it. Can you imagine? 'Ah yes, Mistress Virelia—breaker of empires, mistress of shadows… and collector of fainting girls.'" She chuckled again, shaking her head. "It doesn't quite strike the proper terror, does it?"

The casualness was deliberate—a rope tossed across a chasm. She knew when to draw her apprentices taut and when to let them breathe. And in this moment, she let the air between them soften, inviting Miasmær into the rare warmth she reserved only for those who earned it.

Her voice lowered again, quieter now, though no less sharp. "Remember this, my dear. Strength is not only in rage. It is in patience. In allowing yourself to rest when you've built something worth keeping. If you burn the iron too hot, it breaks. But with the right rhythm…" her smile widened, sly, "…you can hammer it into anything you desire."