Private Trials.

[Serina Calis]

"How many skills do you posses? How many more do you require?"

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



Polis Massa did not breathe.

There was no wind to rustle robes. No birdsong. No rainfall. Just the deep, arterial hum of machinery far below and the silent, endless stillness of dead rock orbiting dead space. It was a place abandoned by nature and claimed by intention—cold, clinical, surgical.

Perfect.

The transport touched down on a landing platform that barely marked itself against the surrounding stone. There were no lights to guide them in, no officials to greet them. Only the hiss of pressure equalizing and the silent descent of a ramp that led not into a facility—but into a tomb of precision and purpose.

Serina stepped down first.

Her boots struck the polished obsidian floor like punctuation. The armored cloak whispered behind her, trailing a faint scent of dust, blood, and something floral but wrong. Her posture was regal, hands clasped loosely before her as if she were already addressing a throne that hadn't been built yet. Every motion was measured. Every breath deliberate.

Lyssa followed—wounded, weary, but alive.

They moved through long corridors carved directly from the black rock of Polis Massa's subterranean layers. No droids. No windows. Just angular lighting embedded into the walls like veins of white fire, illuminating their path with an artificial glow that refused to flicker.

Eventually, they came to a circular chamber. Tall. Wide. The walls were raw stone etched with thousands of tiny inscriptions—some mathematical, some alchemical, some ancient Sith. The ceiling curved into a smooth dome, and in the center stood a narrow stone pillar bearing a single object: a black-bladed dagger, mounted upright in a block of glassy volcanic resin.

Serina stopped at the threshold. She did not enter the room. She simply turned, letting her presence fill it first.

Her blue eyes met Lyssa's without preamble.

"This chamber is called the Crucible." Her voice cut cleanly through the silence, neither loud nor soft—just perfectly exact.

"It was not designed for you."
She began to circle the room's edge slowly, each step an orbit, each word gravitational.
"It was made for something I lost. But loss has its uses. Pain preserves meaning."

She paused before one section of the wall, running her gloved fingers across an inscription that was visibly newer than the rest—raw, gouged in with violent precision. Her lips curled faintly at the memory.

"You are not ready to survive what this room demands. That is not your test."
A beat.
"Not yet."

She turned fully now, facing Lyssa with the kind of stillness that only predators and statues could manage.

"Your test is simpler."

A gesture. One finger, smooth and slow, extending toward the center of the room—the dagger.

"Walk into the Crucible. Touch nothing. Speak nothing. Feel everything."

Another pause. Then, as if confiding a secret:

"I do not train tools. I unmake them. And when you are nothing, I forge."

She stepped aside, opening the path like the drawing of a curtain.

"If your will breaks, you fail. If your mind shatters, you fail. If you reach for the blade—"
She tilted her head.
"—I will bury you beneath this world. Quietly. Without hate."

And still, her voice did not rise. It didn't need to.

"You asked to be mine. This is where that begins."

The glow of the chamber dimmed, leaving only the dagger lit by the silent fury of the crucible's unseen power.

Serina did not move.

She only watched.

And waited.

For the screams. Or the silence.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Polis Massa...Lyssa thought she might have passed through here, once. Though she certainly had never seen this side of the asteroid. The young adult trailed behind her new master like a shadow, beaten and bruised but never wavering in her resolve. She stopped dutifully as soon as Serina did, letting her curious eyes take in the room with the dagger.

"This chamber is called the Crucible."
"It was not designed for you."
"It was made for something I lost. But loss has its uses. Pain preserves meaning."

Something, or someone? Lyssa thought, but kept her thoughts to herself. Instead, she nodded. "I understand, Mistress. The loss of my legs was what made me stronger. The pain I felt bleeding out that day still fuels the fire that keeps me fighting."

"You are not ready to survive what this room demands. That is not your test."
"Not yet."

Lyssa turned her tattooed face away in shame. She was still so sickeningly weak. She still had so much left to prove.

"Your test is simpler."
"Walk into the Crucible. Touch nothing. Speak nothing. Feel everything."
"I do not train tools. I unmake them. And when you are nothing, I forge."
She stepped aside, opening the path like the drawing of a curtain.

If there was one thing the Mirialan was good at, it was following orders. As soon as her master spoke, Lyssa stepped into the room, lifting her hood above her eyes to block her vision. She let herself focus her concentration on her breathing, while her hands hung obediently at her side, clenching and unclenching with each deep inhale and exhale she took. Still, she struggled to focus. Her new master's aura of darkness was overwhelming and distracting, making it nearly impossible to sense anything about the room itself.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. She refused to disappoint her master. After all, a weapon was only useful as long as it was still deadly.

"If your will breaks, you fail. If your mind shatters, you fail. If you reach for the blade—"
"—I will bury you beneath this world. Quietly. Without hate."

Lyssa's eyes flashed open. She did not say anything, but her anger was unmistakable. How could her master still doubt her loyalty so? With a huff, the apprentice deliberately turned her back to the dagger, swishing her cloak with no small amount of sass in the process. She was hardly interested in such a small blade anyway.

"You asked to be mine. This is where that begins."
The glow of the chamber dimmed, leaving only the dagger lit by the silent fury of the crucible's unseen power.

"I already am yours," Lyssa replied reverently, closing her eyes again. "Whether I am worthy or not, I am still yours."

The air stilled. Silence enveloped them once more. Pushing her master's overwhelming force presence away, the dark Jedi managed to focus her thoughts on the chamber around her. Cold, empty, lifeless, until...there! A flicker of something. Some kind of energy, or creation of the force. Lyssa could feel it building and building until with a flash she ignited her lightsaber pike and opened her eyes to face what she knew the room was about to throw at her.

 

[Serina Calis]

"How many skills do you posses? How many more do you require?"

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The Crucible accepted her.

Not with a roar. Not with fire. It had no need for dramatics. Its power was ancient, restrained, meticulous—like its mistress. The moment Lyssa crossed the threshold, the air began to change. The temperature dropped. The ceiling seemed higher. The shadows on the walls elongated unnaturally, bending into impossible angles not cast by any present light.

Serina said nothing.

She stood just outside the circle, perfectly still, her silhouette framed by the wide archway. Her hands folded before her, her hood casting her face in darkness save for the faint glint of her eyes—watching. Studying. Hungering.

When Lyssa turned her back on the dagger, Serina's lips twitched.

Not quite a smile. But almost.

Yes, little blade, good. Defiant in her loyalty. Angry in her obedience. The emotions were still crude, still human, but the trajectory… the raw material… it gleamed.

And then the Crucible moved.

No doors opened. No mechanical trap activated. No noise accompanied the shift. One blink—and the dagger's glow faded. Another blink—and someone else was in the room.

A Jedi.

Clad in soft tan robes that seemed too pristine for such a place, his face was calm. Forgettable. He bore no specific identity—no known title or legacy. That was the point. The Crucible summoned not a memory, but an idea. An echo.

This was not someone Lyssa had known.
This was everyone she had failed to become.

He did not speak. He didn't need to.

The blue lightsaber he held ignited with a low hum, casting cool illumination over the carved walls. He stepped forward with the poise of a thousand masters before him—graceful, upright, absolute. He did not run. He simply advanced, serene, certain, as though this duel had already happened and he had already won.

And the Force—sharp and invisible—shivered around him.

Serina did not warn her.

She did not shout instructions or offer critique. She simply remained where she stood, a statue of silent judgment in the threshold. Her eyes burned like lanterns behind her hood, locked on her apprentice. Watching for every twitch of fear, every hesitation, every misstep.

This was not a sparring session.

This was the first moment the galaxy pushed back. And the blade Lyssa claimed to be would either sing… or shatter.

Let her bleed, Serina thought. Let her earn herself.

She folded her arms slowly. And waited.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

Hatred. Jealousy. Loathing.

Lyssa had spent her entire life letting her actions be controlled by her emotions. This fight was no different, as she took in the figure of her opponent a million unresolved wounds she'd let fester in her heart overtook her. Fury flashed in her eyes as she realised what her master likely already knew - that this Jedi represented everything that she could have been. The dutiful apprentice. The child of light. The favourite daughter.

Lyssa would rend this apparition limb from limb.

His lightsaber shone blue. Her old lightsaber had had the same hue - representing bravery, truth and justice. Ironically, Lyssa had never truly let go of those beliefs, but rather, she had twisted them into dark, perverted ideals of the dark side. She was fearless, brave in her willingness to do whatever it took to grow stronger. She was blunt and honest, always, because she knew the truth of this world - that the dark always triumphed over the light. And she was just - for what was more just than bitter, beautiful revenge?

He moved forward, this apparition, poised and confident and as overly self assured as the Jedi always were. Emotionless, serene, perfect. And Lyssa couldn't hold back anymore.
The Mirialan let out a savage cry of pure wrath, leaping forward with the strength of her mechanical legs propelling her further than any non cyborg could go. Her arms moved as a blur, spinning her lightsaber pike above her head before she brought it down with the momentum of her movement to cleave the Jedi in half.

It wasn't graceful. She was still fighting through the pain of her wounds. But it was fierce. And it was bold.

 

[Serina Calis]

"How many skills do you posses? How many more do you require?"

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



She came alive in violence.

And Serina watched.

From the Crucible's edge, she observed her apprentice descend into chaos—wounded, furious, magnificent in her fury. The mechanical shriek of Lyssa's legs striking the floor echoed like a war drum in the stone womb of the chamber. Her lightsaber pike spun, red blade hissing as it tore through air, hatred hurling her toward the image of serenity incarnate.

It was not graceful.

But it was true.

Serina didn't move. Didn't blink. Her expression remained perfectly still, and yet… there was something shifting behind her gaze. A heat. A thrill. The pulse of a predator watching its chosen creature hunt itself.

The Jedi projection met the strike not with fear, but with silence. His saber moved to intercept, elegant and precise. Sparks exploded in a radiant halo as red met blue, but it was Lyssa's weight—her unrelenting need—that drove the moment forward. The two locked, blade to blade, but only one was truly alive.

And Serina smiled.

Just a fraction.

Just enough.

Hatred. Jealousy. Loathing. Yes.

But it was more than that. The girl understood something primal—something sacred. She fought not for posturing or pretense. She fought to deny what the galaxy had tried to shape her into. She was burning through her history like parchment under flame.

And still, Serina said nothing.

Instruction was a luxury. Praise was poison.

This was not a lesson. This was excavation.

She leaned forward slightly, hands still clasped before her, her voice at last entering the chamber—soft, controlled, and utterly still.

"Let him see you."

A whisper across a battlefield.

"Let the Force see you."

The words were not encouragement.

They were permission.

"You are not a Jedi fallen," she continued, her voice curling like smoke through the cold, "You are their failure given shape."

Her eyes never left the fight. But her tone grew darker—more intimate, velvet over razors.

"Do not strike at what he is. Strike at what you were."

And in that moment, as the Crucible howled with heatless light and the ghost of the Jedi raised his blade again with the calm of a thousand hollow masters—

—Serina saw it.

Not just the rage. Not just the potential.

She saw the beginnings of something beautiful. Something cruel. Something useful.

And she waited for the scream. Or the silence. Or the moment the blade finally found its purpose.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

The Jedi projection met the strike not with fear, but with silence. His saber moved to intercept, elegant and precise.

How dare he intercept her. How dare he push back so smoothly, so perfectly, so irritatingly meticulously. Lyssa clashed against him, let all of her mechanical strength weigh against his saber, bending him back. He was sleek as ice but she was as fierce as fire, and she would do whatever she could to burn him to the ground.

"Let him see you."
"Let the Force see you."

That voice. Cutting through her anger so clearly and cleanly. Offering guidance. Testing her loyalty.
Lyssa listened to it intently.
With a nod, the Mirialan pushed the Jedi away with the force, out of the embrace of their locked sabers. They stood at a distance, examining each other, blades in defensive positions, and Lyssa tried to do what her master instructed.
So much of the cyborg's life had been spent repressing not just her emotions but the very core of who she was, her very soul hidden deep behind walls of secret shame and fear. She was so unwilling to reveal her inner self to others, to let the raw chaos that she was loose to the world, that she'd held back her own power for far too long.
No more. This Jedi would see her for who she was. Her master would see her for who she was. The force itself would have no choice but to see her and recognise her for the glorious monstrosity she had become.

With a giddy grin of psychopathic elation, Lyssa let her inhibitions go.

"You are not a Jedi fallen," she continued, her voice curling like smoke through the cold, "You are their failure given shape."

Of course. Everything that she was, her father had made her, through his own shortcomings and delusions. It was only through her new master that she would be remade, that his mistakes could be cleansed - an old blade reforged and formed into a weapon of terrible destruction.

"Do not strike at what he is. Strike at what you were."

Lyssa lunged, her moment of joy at her revelations replaced once more with righteous anger. She hated who she had been, hated the frightened girl who had cried herself to sleep at night, who begged for attention from a pathetic man and worst still, knew what it was to love and be loved.
Compassion was for the weak. Let the old version of her burn to ash and be forgotten forever. For what was love in the face of pure, unadulterated power?
The cyborg let these thoughts fuel her attacks as she struck at the Jedi again and again, swiping at his head, his arms, his legs - jabbing at his neck, his abdomen, his heart - never once faltering in her flurry of blows. In her eyes, she saw the small, miserable child raised on Kalee. A child that no longer meant anything to her because she was dead - replaced by a weapon, by a loyal guard dog, by a monster wrought by the dark side itself.

 

[Serina Calis]

"How many skills do you posses? How many more do you require?"

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



Serina did not blink.

She stood at the Crucible's edge like a monument—hood drawn, hands still, blue eyes locked on the unfolding storm she had summoned into being. Her body did not move, but the Force swelled around her in a silent tide, whispering against the walls in sibilant tongues. Not audible. Not words. But meaning.

And what she saw…

…was beautiful.

Lyssa had ceased to fight the Jedi. She was fighting herself.
Each savage blow, each strike of that crimson pike, was not a contest of saber to saber—it was a purge. A cremation. A trial by flame.

Yes. Yes. That was what the Crucible was always meant to do.

Serina tilted her head slightly, watching her apprentice fall into her rage with unrestrained clarity. The girl's grin, her fervor, the precision in her movements growing not from training, but from revelation. Not from control, but from liberation.

The Jedi projected calm. Stillness. Order.
But Lyssa—Lyssa was alive. Gloriously so.

And so, at last, Serina spoke.

Her voice was low, deliberate, wrapping around the chamber like smoke crawling through the cracks of a sealed tomb. Not raised. Not shouted. It did not need to be.

"Power is not the opposite of love," she said. "It is what survives when love fails."

The Crucible flickered, shadows quivering across the runes. She stepped once into the room, just one heel's worth of presence inside the boundary—not interrupting, only letting her voice stain the stone itself.

"Love is soft. Conditional. It pleads, it begs, it barters. It breaks." Her gaze followed the dance of Lyssa's crimson blade, the sharp flashes of motion carving bloody echoes in the air. "But hate? Hate remembers. Hate refuses to die."

Her hand raised—not to intervene, but to gesture, palm open, toward Lyssa.

"You mourn the girl you were. Good. Mourn her. And then erase her. For what she could not do, you will. What she could not take, you claim. She was not your foundation—she was your failure."

Her tone sharpened. Not louder. Just deeper, now pulsing with cold intensity.

"Do you understand, apprentice? This is not simply combat. This is exorcism. That creature you once were—the child desperate to be seen, the daughter, the sister, the bride—they cling. They whisper from the cage you put them in."

She took one more step forward. Not toward Lyssa. Toward the blade embedded in the center of the Crucible. The black dagger. Unreached. Unclaimed.

"The Jedi would tell you to find peace within yourself. To integrate. To heal." A sneer, thin and elegant, ghosted across her lips. "That is not our way."

"We amputate."

And for a moment, Serina's voice softened—not in warmth, but in reverence.

"You are not here to become whole, Lyssa. You are here to become clean."

She turned her gaze toward the projection now, impassive and unfeeling as ever—the perfect model of Jedi serenity, fighting without hatred, without lust, without want. A still pool pretending to be an ocean.

"Strike it down," Serina whispered, her words now blade-thin. "Not as a duel. Not as victory. But as the final act of forgetting. When your saber pierces his heart, let it be the last breath your past self ever draws."

She extended her arm, slowly, fingers open.

"And when it dies… you will take your first step into what I will make of you."

The chamber did not tremble.
The Force did not wail.

But in that silence, in that sacred moment, Serina Calis smiled.

Because now she was sure.

The girl would be magnificent.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

"Power is not the opposite of love," she said. "It is what survives when love fails."
"Love is soft. Conditional. It pleads, it begs, it barters. It breaks. But hate? Hate remembers. Hate refuses to die."

Lyssa's master seemed to know her so well, seemed to know her every thought and feeling, her very soul laid bare before her. Her master knew of the love that had existed before in Lyssa's life, and how every time, no matter who it was directed at - it had failed. Torn apart like the threads of a great tapestry unwoven, every bond, every connection, severed and meaningless.

In that moment, Lyssa vowed she would never plead, never beg, never barter, never break again. For she saw now who she was always meant to be - the living embodiment of resentment, hate given physical form. Just as her master said, Lyssa would always remember, she would never forget nor forgive the sins of the Jedi. And she would never die, could never die, because her greatest strength was survival. She always lived to see another day not because she was lucky or particularly skilled but because she clawed and fought for her every breath, her every moment of being.

Let them try to kill her. She'd come back from the brink of death once before. She could do it again.

"You mourn the girl you were. Good. Mourn her. And then erase her. For what she could not do, you will. What she could not take, you claim. She was not your foundation—she was your failure."

Lyssa continued her wild assault, her master in her ear encouraging her every attack. The apprentice did not speak back, she didn't need to - her mistress knew her thoughts before they could even begin to form on her lips. And Lyssa was glad for it. What better way to ensure she was always truly hers? What other way could her master reforge her, if she was not always completely open to her manipulations?

Sparks of red spluttered across the Jedi's blue blade as her master spoke of the child that Lyssa was busy executing. The Mirialan herself did not mourn what could have become of the child, nor did she mourn what she actually became. The only thing she truly missed about her was her innocence, and the gentle wonder that had once lived in her soul.

The dark apprentice had no need for innocence or wonder anymore. Hatred left no room for purity. Obedience left no place for curiosity. The little girl she was represented her failures and for that crime alone she would have to die.

"Do you understand, apprentice? This is not simply combat. This is exorcism. That creature you once were—the child desperate to be seen, the daughter, the sister, the bride—they cling. They whisper from the cage you put them in."

Lyssa shook her head - not to contradict her master, but to obey her. The gesture represented her hatred for the truth in her master's words, and her desperate need to rectify her soul. To cleanse herself of her past lives and finish this purging of weakness so that she might finally be worthy to call herself her apprentice.

The Mirialan spun on her mechanical heels, twirling her pike to bring it down upon the Jedi with the power of her momentum. As she did, she imagined impaling the child she once was, ending her desperate cries for attention. She blocked the Jedi's strike that came after and kicked him away so his back was to the wall, holding her the staff of her pike up to his throat and choking him. Each desperate gasp brought visions of the diligent daughter she used to be drowning in the hatred in her soul. The Jedi broke free and Lyssa stepped back, slashing as his neck. In her eyes, she saw the sister who had braided her twin's hair, laughing as they stayed up late into the night. The laughter died on the girl's lips the moment her blade severed her head cleanly from her body.

Finally, the bride. It seemed only right that Lyssa use what she learned from her husband to kill her. The Mirialan lept, spinning her pike face down to strike the Jedi right between the shoulder blades, the same way the predatory mumuu were killed by the savage tribes of her childhood home. In her vision, the woman who looked up at her accepted her death quietly. Her eyes, filled with sorrow, seemed to say: I've been expecting you.

"The Jedi would tell you to find peace within yourself. To integrate. To heal. That is not our way."
"We amputate."
"You are not here to become whole, Lyssa. You are here to become clean."

Clean...yes, for far too long her soul had been a whirlwind of chaos and emotions. A never ending mess of misery and pain. Only her master could quiet the voices, only she could burn them away till only cold, hard hatred remained.

Lyssa knew enough of amputations in her life. She had known the pain of losing a limb before. But to lose this part of herself, to cut away her weakness and fear? It would not be painful. It would be freeing.

And when she was done, her master would be there to cauterize the wound.

"Strike it down," Serina whispered, her words now blade-thin. "Not as a duel. Not as victory. But as the final act of forgetting. When your saber pierces his heart, let it be the last breath your past self ever draws."
"And when it dies… you will take your first step into what I will make of you."

For the first time in her life, Lyssa felt confidence surge through her every being. She was so ready to forget. So ready to become new.

Her master had told her to pierce his heart with her pike. But there was something poetic in ending things the way they began. So Lyssa used the force to wrench the apparition's saber from his hand, rendering him defenceless, and in one clean sweep, cut his torso from his body.

Just like her father had done to the girl she once was. Just like she did now to the memory of who she used to be.

But it was not in her nature to disobey. With a quick spin of her pike, she took the blade and buried it deep into the fallen Jedi's heart. Whatever life might have still clung to him was snuffed out as she viciously twisted hot plasma into his flesh, or at least, what the apparition made appear flesh. In her eyes, it was the light green skinned girl whose heart she was ending, not his.

When it was done, Lyssa stood back, looking to her master as a dog looks to its owner. Her heart raced at the sight of a smile on the woman's lips, the joy she felt not dissimilar to that of a worshipper being noticed by their God. After all, the Sith did not show their favour lightly.

Still, the Mirialan knew she still had much to do to prove she was worthy of that favour. Approaching her master with no small amount of respect, Lyssa extinguished the blade of her pike and bent to one knee, bowing her head reverently. "It is done, my master."

 

[Serina Calis]

"How many skills do you posses? How many more do you require?"

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The moment death bloomed across the chamber, the air changed.

No wind, no shift in temperature—yet everything knew. The Crucible, ancient and unfeeling, recognized the finality of Lyssa's strike. Not merely the death of the Jedi projection… but the execution of something far more sacred.

A self.

And Serina… smiled.

Not the small, slivered curve of satisfaction she had given before. No. This time, it spread fully—an expression of ecstasy restrained, the kind only she could wear without tearing the moment apart with applause. The corners of her lips lifted with the precision of a scalpel carving a sigil into flesh.

And she spoke. Slowly. Deliberately. As though each word cost something to deliver, but the result would be divine.

"You have done more than kill."

She descended into the Crucible at last. One step, then two. Her boots were near silent, but the air parted before her as if it knew she did not walk—she claimed.

"You have amputated. Severed. Sacrificed."

Her voice moved like mercury—silken, toxic, and utterly exact.

"You did not ask. You did not plead. You did not hesitate."

She stopped before her apprentice's bowed form. The blade was still stained with memory. The ashes of the old Lyssa still hung in the stillness of the room.

"And in that silence… I see you."

One gloved hand reached out, not to strike, not to raise, but to rest—very gently—beneath Lyssa's chin. Two fingers, firm yet reverent, lifted her gaze just enough to meet her own. The contact was cold. Measured. Sacramental.

"I do not reward loyalty. I expect it."

She let that truth settle like a knife pressed to the throat.

"But devotion... unquestioning, zealous, ravenous..."

A pause. And the faintest flicker of indulgent approval.

"That, I nurture."

Serina studied her apprentice then, not as a creature—but as a canvas. The blood still warm on her fingers, the remnants of pain still quivering in her limbs, the wild and newly-cleansed soul behind her eyes.

"This is your first truth: That pain is not the price of power. It is the proof."

She stepped past her then, the hem of her cloak sweeping over the stone like smoke over embers. She moved to the dagger, still embedded in the pillar, untouched, undisturbed.

Serina placed her hand over its hilt. She did not pull it free. She did not need to.

"It was not meant for you," she repeated. Then, softer, almost amused:
"But perhaps it always was."

Turning back toward Lyssa, her expression shifted—just slightly. Her voice darkened with anticipation.

"You will dream of what comes next. Your body will break again. Your mind will fail again. And I will be there, in every scream and sob you choke down to survive."

She took a step forward. Then another.

And when she stood before Lyssa again, she leaned in—not intimately, not tenderly, but like a confessor. A forcer of truths.

"You are mine. And so, everything you kill, everything you break, every soul you carve a lesson into… becomes part of me."

Her breath, barely audible now, was the final whisper of the Crucible.

"And one day, they will call you monster. But you'll know, beneath every scream of terror… you are my masterpiece."

She straightened, turned, and strode back toward the exit.

And without looking back, her voice echoed like a final command—cold, seductive, inescapable:

"Your training begins now."



The Crucible had served its purpose.

Now came the work.

The training hall was a vast expanse of obsidian tile and matte durasteel, arranged with brutal functionality. No aesthetic indulgence. No banners, no symbols. Just purpose. Clean, cold, silent—save for the echo of boots and the low whirr of a projection emitter cycling to life.

In the center of the chamber, a massive holotable hissed open. Blue light shimmered, resolving into the image of a dueling form—a human male, tall, lean, wielding a lightsaber pike in perfect, minimal stances. The blade flickered to life with a long, crimson shaft and a single short emitter, traditional in style. The figure assumed a neutral guard, waiting for command.

Serina circled the display slowly, her cape whispering behind her like silk dragged across a corpse. Lyssa stood ready—obedient, bloodstained, but alert. Serina didn't need to instruct her to pay attention. The girl knew.

"Watch," she said, voice rich with dark silk and subtle seduction, her fingers motioning to the hologram like a composer gesturing toward a favorite passage in a symphony. "We begin not with flair, but with foundations."

The hologram stepped through a basic opening series: low guard, vertical parry, reverse sweep, disengage, lateral thrust. Smooth. Precise. Almost slow.

"You wield a lightsaber pike, not a saber. That distinction is everything."

Serina's tone turned sharper—not colder, but more exact, like a blade being honed against glass.

"A saber invites chaos. It thrives in duels between equals. A pike is dominion made manifest. Longer reach, broader control—less finesse, more area denial. You do not dance with your opponent. You dictate the rhythm. You fence space. You own it."

She stepped in front of the holoprojection now, obscuring its view, forcing Lyssa's focus solely on her.

"Your weapon is not elegant. It is authoritarian. It declares: this is mine."

Serina mimicked the motion in the air with a slow sweep of her arm, as if her hand alone could paint the arc of a weapon she didn't carry. She spoke with the cadence of poetry—refined, delicious, almost mocking in how thoroughly she enjoyed the lesson.

"Your reach is your fortress. But do not forget—every inch you gain can be turned against you. Overreach, and I will collapse your spine. You will not flail. You will place. Each motion is purposeful. Surgical."

Another gesture. The hologram reversed its sequence. This time, slower.

"Footwork."

A pause.

"The difference between survival and spectacle. Balance is not about keeping still—it is about knowing exactly how far you can push before death becomes inevitable. You do not lean. You shift. Controlled. Centered. Every stance builds the next. Do not plant your feet. Anchor them."

Serina's gaze met Lyssa's again—piercing, unblinking.

"If your weapon is space, then your body is threat. The pike means nothing without your will behind it. You are not defending yourself. You are reminding the world that it is unworthy of touching you."

"Only I am."

She stepped back, allowing the projection to cycle through a series of simple drills: forward guard, thrust-retreat, sweep-pivot, quarter turn deflection.

"These are nothing. Mere bone and sinew. You will learn them until they bore you to tears."

And then her smile returned, slow and razor-sharp.

"Only when your body begins to resent the simplicity will your mind be ready to evolve."

She turned to Lyssa, voice dripping now with indulgent command.

"Repeat the sequence. Match it perfectly. Then again. Then again. Until even I can no longer see the difference between you and the recording."

Her smirk deepened as she leaned in, purring lowly:

"And remember, apprentice... I take great pleasure in perfection."

She stepped aside, gesturing toward the floor with one extended finger, lacquered in obsidian polish.

"Begin."

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

"You have done more than kill."
"You have amputated. Severed. Sacrificed."
"You did not ask. You did not plead. You did not hesitate."
"And in that silence… I see you."

Lyssa glowed with pride, or perhaps it was closer to pleasure, as Serina lifted her chin to meet her gaze. The mirialan's red and yellow eyes burned with fires fuelled with adoration and passion.

Finally, finally, she had found a master who appreciated her. A master who actually saw her for who she truly was. A master who weighed her past failures up and still found her potential to be greater. And in turn, Lyssa had finally taken the leap, shed her old skin forever. From a snake to serpent.

From a dog to a wolf.

"I do not reward loyalty. I expect it."
"But devotion... unquestioning, zealous, ravenous..."
"That, I nurture."

"You will have it, my mistress," Lyssa breathed, her breath ragged not with fatigue but with uncontrollable fervour, her very soul lashing within her, desperate to prove herself, desperate to be worthy. "Till the end of all days, I will be by your side. I will faithfully follow you into the depths of hell and back again just to earn the honour of being your apprentice."

"This is your first truth: That pain is not the price of power. It is the proof."

Yes. This was something Lyssa had only just begun to learn. For far too long she had seen her pain as seperate to her power. She'd considered it a burden, a inconcealable scar or infected wound constantly reminding her of the past. Every mechanical click of her heels brought her feelings of shame and inadequacy. Self loathing had hung heavy over her for far too many years.

How foolish she had been. Her pain was her trophy - hard earned and won through blood, sweat and tears. Her cybernetic body was proof of her survival, the way she had overcome even death through sheer willpower alone. Anger and spite kept her alive all those years, and shame was no longer welcome. From this day forward, Lyssa swore to herself that she would treat each scar, each instance of pain, both old and new, as evidence of her rebirth. They were the marks of a warrior victorious, not a fallen student filled with self hatred. That student was dead now, and would never haunt her again.

"It was not meant for you,"
"But perhaps it always was."
"You will dream of what comes next. Your body will break again. Your mind will fail again. And I will be there, in every scream and sob you choke down to survive."
"You are mine. And so, everything you kill, everything you break, every soul you carve a lesson into… becomes part of me."

"I do not need any blade as a gift," Lyssa responded, bowing her head again respectfully, "For being your blade is gift enough. Serving you is gift enough."
Her head snapped up again, a strange mixture of hunger, awe and desperation swirling behind her eyes. "I will not fail you. I swear it. Break me as many times as you have to. I am yours entirely, to use and manipulate, train and test, honor and hurt - whatever you see fit to do to me or use me for, I swear I will follow your commands unflinchingly."

"And one day, they will call you monster. But you'll know, beneath every scream of terror… you are my masterpiece."

A deep, maniacal grin spread across the mirialan's face at her master's words. Ever since that fateful day when she had lost her legs and her heart, she had dreamed she would one day become a monster. She'd prayed that she would find a way to grow in her power till she left her victims with scars so deep, they would speak of her not as a girl but as a force of nature, a shadow whispered about in hushed tones for fear of invoking her wrath.

No longer just a mirialan. No longer just a sith.

She was the wolf that slaughtered the sheep in the night.

And she would delight in their fear, for what was fear but respect in another form? What was fear but a twisted acknowledgement of power and prowess? No, being a monster suited Lyssa just fine. And to be the masterpiece of this woman who she so admired? That only made Lyssa hunger for it more.

"Your training begins now."
"Watch. We begin not with flair, but with foundations."

The apprentice followed dutifully, quietly pushing aside the frenzy of emotions that had spurred her on in her previous fight, replacing them with keen, sharpened focus. She watched the forms of the holo figure attentively, her thoughts narrowing in on every small detail as if she were a machine.

There had only ever been two great loves in Lyssa's life. Flying and combat. Only these two art forms had ever been able to elicit this kind of reaction from her - this near calm. A brief respite to her maddened passion, the eye of the hurricane. Nothing else inspired such quiet concentration within her.

"You wield a lightsaber pike, not a saber. That distinction is everything."
"A saber invites chaos. It thrives in duels between equals. A pike is dominion made manifest. Longer reach, broader control—less finesse, more area denial. You do not dance with your opponent. You dictate the rhythm. You fence space. You own it."
"Your weapon is not elegant. It is authoritarian. It declares: this is mine."

The apprentice nodded along, her focus now on both her master's words and the man's forms. It was child's play, mostly - guards, sweeps and parries that Lyssa could do in her sleep. Still, she had agreed to be remade and for all her flaws, she was self aware enough to recognise that meant she would have to let go of her pride.

Still, she could not help an indulgent smile as her master praised her choice of weapon. Her eyes met hers the moment she stepped in front of the table, and she knew that her master saw through her. She knew that her master could tell that to Lyssa, her pike meant all of those things and more.

Strength.
Power.
Victory.
And indeed - dominion.

"Your reach is your fortress. But do not forget—every inch you gain can be turned against you. Overreach, and I will collapse your spine. You will not flail. You will place. Each motion is purposeful. Surgical."

Lyssa repeated her master's gestures, almost mirror-like in her accuracy. She wasn't stupid. She knew of the flaws of her weapon, and she recognised the warning directed at it's wielder.

It was her nature to thrash wildly and angrily at her opponents, to let her anger dictate her combinations and let spontaneity take control. She'd been like a child, spinning around with no direction, lost. Pathetic. Well, no longer. She would learn to fight like her master. Deathly and precise. Thought out and calculated to the point that duels would be over before they began.

"Footwork."
"The difference between survival and spectacle. Balance is not about keeping still—it is about knowing exactly how far you can push before death becomes inevitable. You do not lean. You shift. Controlled. Centered. Every stance builds the next. Do not plant your feet. Anchor them."

Lyssa swallowed a lump in her throat at her master's next words, unwittingly shuffling her feet under her robes. So much of her footwork was lost that day alongside her legs, so many of her skills had to be retaught. And so many were simply lost altogether. She was no longer sure if she would be able to honour her master's teachings with her...mechanical limitations.

Still, she listened carefully. Balancing herself securely she could do. Centering herself would not be difficult if she engaged her core. As for anchoring her feet? Why, if this floor were fully metal she could do exactly that - with the magnetic adjustments added to the soles of her feet. Of course, that would be nothing but cheating and an easy way to disappoint her master, so Lyssa kept it to herself.

" You are not defending yourself. You are reminding the world that it is unworthy of touching you."
"Only I am."

Lyssa nodded reverently. This was always who she was meant to be. Servant and blade, puppet and pupil, but only ever to this woman. To everyone else, to the whole world and the rest of this accursed galaxy, she was untouchable.

The dark apprentice drew her pike then and ignited the spluttering red blade. "I am ready, my master."

"These are nothing. Mere bone and sinew. You will learn them until they bore you to tears."
"Only when your body begins to resent the simplicity will your mind be ready to evolve."
"Repeat the sequence. Match it perfectly. Then again. Then again. Until even I can no longer see the difference between you and the recording."
"And remember, apprentice... I take great pleasure in perfection."
"Begin."

At her mistress's command, Lyssa immediately began replicating the sequence. Low guard, vertical parry, reverse sweep, disengage, lateral thrust. Her deep sense of concentration had returned, the feel of the metal in her palms comforting and familiar, the moves cathartic in their simplicity.

Low guard, vertical parry, reverse sweep, disengage, lateral thrust. Again. Low guard, vertical parry, reverse sweep, disengage, lateral thrust. Again. Again. Again.

Over and over she repeated the pattern, each time her strikes and blocks growing smoother and more perfect. Closer and closer to earning her master's approval. Just the thought made the apprentice giddy with excitement.

But the repetition had gotten to her, her own thoughts distracting her as she accidentally sped up, faster than the recording. Lyssa's pike spun in her hands and as she went to move to disengage, her pike moved faster than her mechanical feet could. For one awful moment, a window to her vital organs was exposed before she could place her feet in their position. Horror washed over her face as she realised what she had done. Shamefully, she began again, this time at the same speed as the recording.

And, as if in a cruel twist of irony, this time it was kriffing perfect.

Lyssa matched him move for move, no mistakes in her technique, no hesitancy in her strikes, no gaps in her defences. Every action was exactly how it was meant to be, but what did it matter?

She had already failed. And that meant that her apprenticeship was over before it had even begun.

 

[Serina Calis]

"How many skills do you posses? How many more do you require?"

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



There was no need to speak. Not yet.

Serina watched as Lyssa's blade completed its arc—flawless, finally. Every movement mirrored the holorecording down to the millimeter. Perfect distance. Perfect poise. Perfect timing. But it was too late.

The performance was immaculate. The execution was not.

Because perfection, true perfection, was not about the motion. It was about the moment. And the moment had already passed.

Serina had seen it all—down to the twitch in Lyssa's lower eyelid as she realized her misstep. The visible shiver of shame when her foot lagged behind her strike by half a heartbeat. The way she caught herself, recoiled, and then began again like a machine correcting its code.

Yes, it had been corrected.
Yes, the next attempt was flawless.

But that wasn't the point.

And Lyssa knew it. That was the most delicious part.

Serina stepped forward in absolute silence. Her heels tapped lightly against the cold, polished floor, each step measured with predatory elegance. The folds of her cloak whispered as they moved, the weightless sound somehow deafening in the sudden, aching quiet.

She did not announce herself. She invaded the space behind Lyssa, her presence like a tide of shadow drawn close behind the apprentice's neck—heavy, hot, and suffocatingly intimate.

When she finally spoke, it was a razor-thin whisper.

"I told you," she began, each syllable shaped with the precision of a needle passing through flesh, "that this was bone and sinew. That these movements are beneath you."

She leaned closer, not quite touching, but near enough that Lyssa would feel the low hum of her power like heat off a forge.

"And still," Serina continued, her voice curling like dark incense, "you presumed to disgrace them with pride."

She stepped slowly around Lyssa then, letting her cloak brush across the Mirialan's mechanical heels, letting her orbit her like a black sun.

"You did not fail because your blade moved too fast. You failed," she said, voice falling to a low croon, "because for one moment, you forgot who you were training for."

Now she stood before Lyssa once more—close, direct, irresistible.

Her gaze was unflinching. Her words were not raised. She never needed to raise her voice.

"You are not training for yourself. You are not training for the recording. You are not even training for perfection."

She leaned in, a breath away, her voice sinking into something darker. Something decadent.

"You are training for me. And if I am not pleased, then it is not perfect. It is waste."

Her words struck like lashes. Precise. Measured. Controlled.

"I saw your shame, Lyssa. Not just in your eyes—but in your soul. That twitch of panic, that need to punish yourself before I could speak. How quaint."

She turned away from her, for only a moment, to activate the holotable with a gesture. The blue light shimmered again—this time displaying a paired holographic recording: two Lyssas side by side. One stumbling, one flawless.

A study in failure and correction. And yet, the first cast the second in shadow.

"Watch it," Serina said, folding her arms. "Not as a warrior. Not as a technician. Watch it as my apprentice."

She returned her gaze to Lyssa, cold and dissecting. Then her tone softened—not gentler, but more dangerous.

"Tell me, Lyssa. When did you decide that your judgment of yourself mattered?"

A beat.

"I do not recall granting you that liberty."

Then came the shift.

Her posture relaxed. Her smile returned—slow, coiling, full of something far more wicked than cruelty.

"Do you know what I find most amusing?" she murmured. "It was beautiful. Your mistake. That flicker of horror. That naked humiliation. It was so raw. So honest. You were perfect in your failure. For one moment, I saw you without masks. And it thrilled me."

She circled again, then stopped behind her and reached forward—not to touch, not quite. Two fingers hovered beneath Lyssa's chin before making contact. Not rough. Not soft. Calculated.

"You are mine," she whispered. "And your flaws are mine. Your errors. Your breakdowns. Your weaknesses. I take them, and I make them sacred. But only if you let me be the one to break you."

Serina tilted Lyssa's face upward slightly, so they were eye to eye once more.

"You do not correct yourself. I correct you. You do not punish yourself. I punish you."

A pause.

"And I do not take that pleasure lightly."

Her hand withdrew, and she straightened. With a slow, predatory motion, she turned back toward the holotable and waved the projection away.

"Your punishment," she said lightly, like an afterthought being plucked from a glass of wine, "is repetition."

She turned back, her expression almost smug.

"You will repeat the sequence, perfectly, until you collapse. And when you collapse, you will crawl to your feet and begin again. And only when your limbs refuse you, when your mind blurs the forms into art, not technique—then, then, you may stop."

She stepped back once more, folding her arms, and issued one final command, her voice now ritualistic—something sacred and sharp.

"But first…"

Her eyes bore into Lyssa.

"Say it. Say what you are. Say who owns you. Say what you exist to become."

She extended one hand toward her like an empress offering benediction.

"Then you may begin again. And this time, apprentice…"

Her smile widened. And it devoured.

"Do not just impress me."

Her voice dipped, low and velvety:

"Seduce me with your excellence."

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

"I told you, that this was bone and sinew. That these movements are beneath you."
"And still, you presumed to disgrace them with pride."

Lyssa hung her head in shame. The all too familiar sensation of being a disappointment washed over her, making her grit her teeth at her own hubris. Her master had every right to rebuke her, or even end her pathetic existence where she stood. The mirialan just hoped that when it did happen, it would happen quick, and she would not have time to reflect on her failure as the life slowly drained out of her.

"You did not fail because your blade moved too fast. You failed, because for one moment, you forgot who you were training for."
"You are not training for yourself. You are not training for the recording. You are not even training for perfection."
"You are training for me. And if I am not pleased, then it is not perfect. It is waste."

As her master moved in front of her again, Lyssa lifted her chin to meet her eyes. There was no defiance in them, just regret, thick and potent, shame, and that same, never ending hunger. She was so starved for power that she craved her master's approval as if she truly would perish without it.

"I will never forget again," the apprentice vowed. "I swear, I did not mean to displease you, my mistress."

The 'forgive me' that rested on the tip of her tongue did not need to be said out loud. Her mistress knew her heart well enough. Lyssa only hoped she would not consider it a sign of weakness and cast her out.

"I saw your shame, Lyssa. Not just in your eyes—but in your soul. That twitch of panic, that need to punish yourself before I could speak. How quaint."
"Watch it. Not as a warrior. Not as a technician. Watch it as my apprentice."
"Tell me, Lyssa. When did you decide that your judgment of yourself mattered?"

Lyssa watched the recordings, the shame her master spoke of still burning within her like a raging fire. To view the holotapes as her master's apprentice meant to ignore the second one completely. The only one that mattered was her mistake. So the mirialan watched as again and again, she stumbled. Again and again, she proved herself a disgrace.

By the time her mistress asked her her question, Lyssa could have broken down entirely under the weight of her own self hatred.

"Never, my mistress, never. My judgement does not matter, it never has," she stumbled over her words, voice cracking with emotion, "Nothing else matters but you and your opinion of me."

"I do not recall granting you that liberty."

The apprentice just nodded miserably. She knew. And she would surely be thrown out for her lack of judgement.

"Do you know what I find most amusing? It was beautiful. Your mistake. That flicker of horror. That naked humiliation. It was so raw. So honest. You were perfect in your failure. For one moment, I saw you without masks. And it thrilled me."
"You are mine, And your flaws are mine. Your errors. Your breakdowns. Your weaknesses. I take them, and I make them sacred. But only if you let me be the one to break you."

Lyssa's mouth parted open a little in shock at her master's words. Her mistake, beautiful? She had been so sure the woman would have considered it unforgivable. She stood wide eyed and disbelieving even as her master touched her chin and continued to speak.

Would it be wrong to smile? To sigh in relief? Her mistress had not turned her away, not yet. She still claimed the cyborg as her own, still wanted to reforge her and make her new. Lyssa was still wanted, still worthy in her eyes. Her apprenticeship was not over yet.

Restraint had never been Lyssa's style. She let an expression of relief and adoration flood over her face. She would surely be punished, yes, but she had not been cast out yet. She was still worth something to this woman and that was all that mattered.

"You do not correct yourself. I correct you. You do not punish yourself. I punish you."
"And I do not take that pleasure lightly."

Lyssa let her lift her chin, and when her master met her eyes, they were devoted, adoring, filled with a love born from desperation.

"Punish me as you like, and put me through as much pain as you see fit," she simpered, "For I am yours until the day I die."

"Your punishment is repetition."
"You will repeat the sequence, perfectly, until you collapse. And when you collapse, you will crawl to your feet and begin again. And only when your limbs refuse you, when your mind blurs the forms into art, not technique—then, then, you may stop."
"But first…"
"Say it. Say what you are. Say who owns you. Say what you exist to become."

The mirialan didn't even care about her punishment. It was what she deserved. It was something to be celebrated. So when her mistress commanded her to speak of her purpose -

Lyssa did not hesitate.

"I am entirely yours. I exist only to become your blade, your tool, your perfect weapon," she pledged, her voice thick with admiration, "I stand here before you as a mistake you will unmake, a loyal dog to be trained, a molten metal yet to be formed. My life is dedicated only to you - wherever you send me, I shall go, whenever you may need me, I will be there."

"I have no greatness uniquely my own. Even at the height of my power, I will only ever be a shadow of your greatness," the cyborg continued, passion in her eyes, "But even that is an honour I do not deserve."

"Then you may begin again. And this time, apprentice…"
"Do not just impress me."
"Seduce me with your excellence."

A curt nod. The flash of her blade reigniting. The apprentice began again.

This time, nothing broke her concentration. Every movement she made was precise, calculated, exactly how she had done it before. Perfect. Focusing became so easy when she dropped her mask. When she let her master see every expression on her face, every thought that crossed her mind. She would not hide herself from her master. There was no point.

Again and again she moved through the stances. Over and over she swung her pike in smooth arcs until her hands begun to ache with the weight of the metal. Her hips grew weary, tired of every twist and turn and the constant pain of pushing the bond of technology and flesh too far. Sweat dripped from her brow until, between sets, she cast aside her cloak and continued on without it. Still, every other part of her body screamed in protest as she continued to push herself.

She was in so much pain. But she was smiling. Grinning like a madman.

Because the pain felt like pleasure. It was her debt being repaid to her master. Every horrific sensation that shot through her limbs was worth it because she was worthy of being punished. For if her master was going through all of this just to reshape her, Lyssa knew that she was surely worth something in her eyes.

Her strikes were perfect, every time, over and over until suddenly they slowed. Lyssa tried to fight the exhaustion but she couldn't. Halfway through a lateral thrust she collapsed to the floor, completely spent, exhausted. It had been hours.

She looked up to her master. Not for mercy. But for permission.

Once she was sure she had it she clenched her fist and summoned the smallest amount of crimson lightning within it. Gritting her teeth with effort, she pounded her fist against her heart, hard, and the shock of pain was enough to push her to her feet. Still twitching with painful aftershocks of electricity, she stumbled back into the beginning stance.

Her Master had given her a second chance. And her apprentice did not intend to waste it.

 

[Serina Calis]

"How many skills do you posses? How many more do you require?"

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



Serina did not interrupt.

She stood at the edge of the training platform with the same poise she had held since the moment this trial began. Regal, imperious, still. A woman carved of intention, wrapped in elegance, crowned in shadow. Her arms remained crossed, her chin lifted, and her eyes—those piercing, pale blue blades—never once wavered from her apprentice.

She watched everything.

The clenched jaw. The sweat. The wobble that Lyssa forced still with sheer willpower. The tremble in her synthetic limbs as the flesh around them shrieked under pressure. The rise of pain. The birth of obsession. And then, finally—collapse.

But still, Serina said nothing.

She let the silence weigh down on Lyssa like a shroud. Let her feel the weight of her own endurance as it broke against the floor. Let her wonder if this was still not enough.

And then—she rose.

The crackle of crimson lightning, that desperate self-summoned agony, the fist slammed to chest. Serina saw it. Registered it. And said not a word. But her lips parted, slowly, with a breath of pleasureless amusement.

The Mirialan staggered into stance. Quivering, twitching, radiant in her pain. A slave to exhaustion, and yet still standing.

And that was when Serina finally moved.

One step.

Two.

Her footsteps echoed now—louder than they should have been, as though the chamber itself understood that something sacred was unfolding. Not a lesson. Not a command.

But a revelation.

She walked a slow circle around Lyssa—graceful, measured, deliberate—as if inspecting a statue she herself had carved and was now deciding whether or not to place it in a gallery of monsters.

When she spoke, her voice was velvet over steel.

"You broke."

She stopped just behind her.

"And still, you rose."

She circled again, her words soft and resonant, rich with something indulgent.

"Not from pride. Not from anger. But from devotion."

She came to stand before Lyssa again, looking down at her now with no cruelty, no scorn. Only that subtle, decadent curiosity. Like a collector admiring a rare and priceless item, not yet purchased—but desired.

"You understand now, don't you?" Serina asked, voice low, almost affectionate. "The pain is not punishment. It is permission. It is the language I use to write my truth into your bones."

She reached out, gloved fingers tilting Lyssa's face upward once more—not roughly, not gently, but precisely.

"Everything you did in the last hour was perfect. Not for its execution, but because it was mine."

She stepped closer still, just a breath away now. Her tone dipped into something silken, luxurious—like wine poured slowly into a glass of obsidian.

"You did not collapse for yourself. You did not rise for yourself. You rose for me. And for that—"

She leaned in, her voice falling to a whisper that tasted like poison wrapped in honey.

"—you are rewarded."

Her hand slid from Lyssa's chin to her shoulder, trailing down across the curve of the girl's collarbone—not in seduction, but in possession.

"You will rest. You will eat. You will bathe. You will drink. All facilities will be open for your use."

She smiled. Soft. Inevitable.

"And tomorrow, when your body aches with the memory of my will, you will thank me for the pain."

Serina's hand fell back to her side. She stepped away, turning with the languid elegance of a queen whose audience had been pleasing, but brief.

"You have done well," she added, voice trailing behind her like perfume, "and pleased me absolutely."

A final pause. Then, without looking back:

"Your next session will be instructions on how to properly use the Dark Side of the Force, which should culminate in the study of Force Rage, until then..."

"Have a lovely night."

Serina moved to the door, stopping for one last word.

"And if you need anything, come find me."

And with that, the doors of the training hall opened in silence, and Serina disappeared into the shadows from which she came—leaving her apprentice behind, sore, breathless, hollowed… and utterly claimed.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

"You broke."

Her master's footsteps rang loudly in Lyssa's ears, sending a shiver down her spine. Her words were piercing, soul crushing.

Because she was right.

Lyssa had broken.

She'd snapped like a twig, fallen apart at the seams, collapsed completely from her exhaustion. If the reason her mistress approached her now was to end her apprenticeship, to cast out the pathetic, pained mirialan girl in front of her and send her back to the dust -

Then that was what she deserved. For failing her. For not meeting her expectations.

"And still, you rose."
"Not from pride. Not from anger. But from devotion."

This much was true. Lyssa looked up into her master's eyes then, meeting their cold blue hue without hesitation. She had always prided herself on telling the truth. She had never hidden her emotions or thoughts from anyone and she wasn't about to begin now.

So she let her eyes speak for her. They begged for her, pleaded for her, revealed the feelings swirling within her that she could not quite put into words - those burning desires to lay herself at her saviour's feet and worship the ground on which she stood, to beg for even a scrap of acknowledgement from her lips. Above all, Lyssa's red and yellow stained eyes only confirmed everything that her mistress was saying - that the cyborg no longer had desires of her own.

Everything she did, she did it to honour her master.

"You understand now, don't you? The pain is not punishment. It is permission. It is the language I use to write my truth into your bones."
"Everything you did in the last hour was perfect. Not for its execution, but because it was mine."

Lyssa ducked her head respectfully, a smile twitching at the corners of her lips. Of course. How had it taken her so long to understand it? Not the pain her mistress spoke of, she was well acquainted with the language that her master used to teach, but the truth of their relationship.

Her mistress was not going to cast her out. For they were truly master and apprentice now, student and teacher, devoted worshipper and God. Such a bond could not be so easily cast aside. After all, once a dog came to know and love it's master, it did not leave their side until the last days of its life.

And its master would never cast that dog aside. Not so long as it still knew how to hunt.

"You did not collapse for yourself. You did not rise for yourself. You rose for me. And for that—"
"—you are rewarded."

"It is reward enough," Lyssa replied, her voice reverent, infatuated obsessed, "To be by your side. To be your servant and student. I would not ask for anything more. I could not ask for anything more."

Her hand slid from Lyssa's chin to her shoulder, trailing down across the curve of the girl's collarbone—not in seduction, but in possession.
"You will rest. You will eat. You will bathe. You will drink. All facilities will be open for your use."
"And tomorrow, when your body aches with the memory of my will, you will thank me for the pain."

The mirialan's breath caught in her throat as fingertips reached down and brushed against her skin. It was as if a deity itself had touched her. Adoring eyes looked back at her mistress as she listened to her words, her mouth opening to reply as soon as she was done.

"I would not wait till tomorrow. I will thank you now," she declared passionately. "I am grateful for the pain in this moment, and I will be grateful for it when the dawn comes as well - every sunrise to sunset I would express to you my utmost appreciation if you asked it of me."

"You have done well," she added, voice trailing behind her like perfume, "and pleased me absolutely."

Something cracked inside Lyssa then, as if a long forgotten seal had been opened by those words alone. Shock, joy, disbelief and a million other emotions she couldn't name flooded through her mind and heart and left her staggering. She was more off balance now then she had ever been while training or fighting earlier. Blood rushed through her ears as she desperately tried to process what the other woman had said:

Done well. Pleased me absolutely.

Never before had Lyssa experienced validation from a master. Never before had her efforts been acknowledged or praised. Was this the reward her mistress had spoken of? The sheer ecstasy from one sentence alone was almost more than she could bear. To be rewarded thusly...

...she was truly the most blessed amongst all the Sith.

"Your next session will be instructions on how to properly use the Dark Side of the Force, which should culminate in the study of Force Rage, until then..."
"Have a lovely night."
"And if you need anything, come find me."

Still somewhat distracted, Lyssa bowed as her mistress left, moving out of sight with her usual grace and elegance. The Mirialan found herself standing alone in the empty training hall, her calloused hands still resolutely gripping her pike, her body numb and aching from the exercise before.

Yet for the first time in years, the girl smiled.

Not a crazed, psychopathic expression or a sarcastic, bitter display. Not an ill advised attempt to charm someone or a grimace at something going wrong in her life for the millionth time. It was a true smile, of genuine joy, of the unfiltered happiness swirling within her.

She had finally found her calling.

And it was everything she had dreamed it would be and more.