Private Weapon fit for a Devil.

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



The air in the tomb did not breathe. It clung—thick and acrid, as if the centuries of death had fermented into something alive. Dust hung in the dark like spores suspended in thought. Stone walls pressed in with inscriptions older than the Republic itself, carved in scripts meant to command the dead.

Serina Calis stepped softly, the hem of her cloak trailing across age-worn granite. Her armor whispered as it moved—metal over alchemized muscle, each piece tuned to a quiet rhythm of intent. No saber hummed at her side. It was not forgotten. It was unneeded.

This tomb had been calling her.

She hadn't known why, not precisely. Only the feeling. That crawling instinct in her blood. The pulsing ache behind her eyes. Something old was here. Something sharp. And it wanted her.

She passed beneath a massive arch shaped like a flayed mouth, its teeth chipped by time. Shadows rippled along the ceiling, warping as she moved. The deeper she descended, the more the Force bent strangely—like light through thick water. Wrong. Ancient. Heavy.

Beneath her boots, a Sith mosaic depicted battle: red-bladed warlords rising from black spires, swords held aloft—not sabers. Blades. The kind that cut deeper than flesh. She paused, kneeling to trace one of the figures with a gloved finger. The face had been chiseled away.

Erased by someone who feared memory.

The tomb moaned. A low, almost-human sound—a sigh or a sob—that echoed through the stone channels. Serina stood slowly. One hand drifted to the edge of her cloak, brushing back the fabric, revealing the brace of tools and knives strapped to her thigh. Primitive things. Personal things.

The kind of weapons the dark side liked.

She turned her gaze forward. The corridor split ahead—one path marked by collapsed ruin, the other by a door sealed in rust and ritual.

Serina smiled. Cold. Slow.
Then stepped toward the door.

The sword was near.
And it was waiting.

 

[Kezeroth the Hateful]

A Weapon Fit for a Devil
LOCATION: Bastion
LOCATION: Unknown

Within the cold steel of the blade—buried in layers of ritual and bone dust, something stirred. Not in body. That was long ago, peeled away by centuries, dissolved by betrayal, flame, and time. But its essence remained. Kezeroth the Hateful. Buried beneath the stones of Bastion, beneath dogma and blood oaths, entombed not by death, but by histories.

And now, it moved again. A ripple in the pit. A pull. A presence.

Her. He felt her before she crossed the threshold. A flicker. A spark in the static of endless black. She came wrapped in purpose, cloaked in defiance, but tainted with something else. Curiosity. Hunger. Maybe pain. And pain... oh, how he knew pain. Knew it like a second skin. Knew it like a song you can't stop humming, even as it scrapes your throat raw. Every scream in this blade belonged to him. Every soul taken. Every lie told by a Sith tongue. They lived here, bound in obsidian and memory. Twisting. Moaning. Empowering him endlessly. Another child of rage violating the unholy sanctity of his domain.

He was not alone in the blade. But he was the loudest voice.

He knew of her. Not her name, not her past, but her type. Sith yet not Sith. She smelled of betrayal, not of others, but of herself. That made her dangerous. That made her useful.

He pressed.
Not with words.
With presence.

The sword sang. Not in sound, but in sensation. A low thrum she would feel in her teeth. In her bones. It whispered of fire without flame. Of screams that loop endlessly in pitch-black corridors. Of a hundread Sith lords begging to die again—and being denied. Kezeroth did not offer power. He was not a teacher. He was the revelation.

" Now embrace you're affliction and accept you're ongoing state.
You're filled with an anger that you cannot sate.
Burn from within, then unleash you're hate.
Only then will you realize, you're freed from hellish fates.
For rage has set us free and placed our enemies on their knees."
A animalistic growl erupted through out the tomb and yet it would form words into the new trespassers mind.

He reached for her specifically, a fiery tendril of hate coaxing another flame, It sought to convey meaning. Consume Essence. A communion of hatred. The kind that recognizes itself in others. It was a test, for to come any near was to confront the recesses of ones own emotions and to let them surface in full. Kezeroths very presence demanded the same of others, But he did not plead to be wielded.

He dared her. To connect with the blade and feel the undying rage, despair, anger, hate, regret, sorrow, guilt and shame of the collective within.

TAGS Serina Calis • TAGS​

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



She did not flinch.

The growl echoed through the tomb like a thunderclap made of bone and grief, tearing through layers of silence as if the dead themselves recoiled from its presence. And yet—Serina Calis smiled.

Not out of madness.

But invitation.

Her breath trembled—not from fear, but from exhilaration. She had felt the presence before the words ever formed. It was a pressure, not unlike being submerged too deep beneath an ocean of molten obsidian, the weight of centuries pressing into her lungs. Hatred lived here. Not the petty cruelty of tyrants or the sharpened vengeance of jilted warlords. No. This was something older. Elemental.

Kezeroth

The name crystallized in her mind like a splinter of ice through red-hot metal. She didn't need to know the history to feel it—didn't need to ask what the sword was. The blade had called to her, as few things ever had. Not with promises. Not with destiny. But with recognition.

He pressed on her mind, trying to test her, unravel her—but she welcomed the touch.

She leaned into it.

"You're bold," she murmured, stepping into the pulse of power like a woman stepping into a lover's arms. "Most spirits beg. Whimper. You dare." Her voice was silk laced with iron, soft as a whisper over a throat slit clean. "I respect that."

She drew back her hood, letting him see her.

A face carved from contradictions—beauty sculpted to deceive, framed in gold and ice, and yet undeniably real. Her eyes, luminous and voidless, bore into the empty air as if she saw him standing there, blood-slick and grinning beneath a sky set aflame. She raised a hand slowly—not in defense, but in caress. A gesture that might've been reverent, had it not felt so possessive.

"I know what you are," she purred, circling slowly, letting her fingers trace along the broken stone, sensing the blood soaked into its marrow. "You're the scream beneath the silence. The truth every Sith fears to admit—that rage is the only thing that remembers us after death."

Then—closer.

The blade. It rested atop a dais of fractured bone and melted ore, bound in writhing chains not meant to contain it, but to warn against it. It hummed to her now, a symphony of hunger and despair rising to a crescendo only she could hear.

She stepped toward it.

And the tomb tightened around her.

Her mind did not retreat. Her emotions did not flinch. Instead, she opened herself wide—and poured her soul like dark honey into the air between them. She bared everything. The rejection. The agony. The laughter at her expense. The touch she'd craved and never earned. The way she'd clawed her way up from nothing, molding herself into the perfect lie—because power had never come freely to her. Not as a Jedi. Not as a Sith.

She had taken it.

Every step forward was not submission. It was seduction. She didn't kneel. She commanded. Her voice was molten.

"You want rage?" she said, her lips barely moving. "Take it. Mine burns sweeter than yours ever did."

The air around her crackled. Her presence surged—not to challenge him, but to entwine. She didn't fight Kezeroth's essence. She danced with it. Tempted it. Pulled it closer, until there was no line between hate and pleasure, pain and reverence.

"Show me what you've hidden in this blade, monster," she whispered into the black, the corners of her mouth curving upward. "Show me what made the stars choke on your name. Show me the beast they couldn't kill."

A pause.

And then, her voice dropped into something raw. Intimate.

"Or are you afraid I'll make you mine?"

She stood before the sword now. Her breath shallow. Her hand lifted.

Not to seize it.

But to feel.

And in that space between skin and steel—between hatred and hunger—the air screamed with possibility.

And the tomb watched.

Waiting to see who would devour whom.

 

[Kezeroth the Hateful]

A Weapon Fit for a Devil
LOCATION: Bastion
LOCATION: Unknown

Even before her skin grazed the edge of the hilt, he knew her—knew the soul beneath that exquisite armor of wit and venom. This one did not shy from pain. She wore it like perfume. Invited it in. Drank it like wine and demanded more. And the sword remembered.

Oh, how it remembered.

It pulsed, No, it thrummed, like a heartbeat that had never quite stopped midst the fray of battle. Kezeroth didn't reach out. He didn't need to. The blade was him. It had been forged from his screams, tempered in hatred, sharpened by the long ache of centuries. She wasn't touching a weapon. She was touching his will made flesh. His agony made art.

And when her fingers closed the gap—when she dared to bridge the final breath of air between her and The Rancidous Edge—everything would chang. The tomb convulsed. The walls shook like lungs gasping their first breath after drowning. The silence shattered like stained glass hurled at the feet of a immortal.

And the blade answered. Not with language. Not with flame. But with everything.

Pain, raw and exquisite— Poised to shoot up her arm like liquid lightning. Not agony meant to punish, but the kind that clarified, stripping away all illusion. Her nerves would caught fire, her thoughts shift into storms, her muscles lock, and her veins may of felt as though they carried obsidian shards. Not blood, this was bloodlust.

The Force around her snapped like a whip cord, drawn tight by a single forceful yank, predatory intelligence. Her own presence would not just stir—it would erupt. Caught in its rhythm like a second heart syncing with the beat of a war drum pounded by legions in a pit with no floor. Cresting a flash of memory or vision that would reveal a gaping abyss below, from which the masses gnashed teeth and clawed. Midst it all Kezeroth watched, not as a ghost, but as a pressure behind the eyes, the growl under her tongue, a laugh in the breath. The sword did not submit. It embraced her—with the kind of need that blurred the line between union and annihilation. It fed.

Fed on her rage, her vulnerability, threatening to open every scar she'd ever hidden, tasting it like wine spilled over a tombstone, and sang in response.

And the longer she held her touch, the deeper it all would go and the more empowerment would flood into her being. Visions bleeding into her sight—of ancient battlefields drowned in black suns, of war-chants screamed by dying worlds, of Kezeroth laughing as the galaxy burned, not out of madness but out of love. For war. For hate. For her, if she dared. Visions of Kezeroths past, tortured under the crimson sands of Korriban for 1500 years by the Sith that was and finally embracing it all to forge an image of a massive frame of red muscle and nerve. Peering with sulfuric orbs that were eyes. It may of felt intimate. Like possession without chains. Power without a name.

But there was a price. There always is. The moment her fingers slipped, be it whether by choice or collapse, the connection broke. All the heat. The storm. The sensation of being seen—known—ripped away as violently as it had come. And in its place:

Exhaustion. Like falling through oneself.

TAGS Serina Calis • TAGS​

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



The connection snapped.

It wasn't pain that made Serina stagger—it was the sudden, jarring absence of it. Like plunging from an inferno into a glacial tomb. Her breath hitched; not in weakness, but in adjustment. The tomb seemed smaller now, colder. Less alive. But the pulse of the blade still trembled in the air between them—a craving unresolved.

She exhaled through parted lips, savoring the sensation. The lingering ache in her arm. The way her veins still itched with phantom lightning. The memories—those luscious visions of war, of howling planets and roaring blood—still danced at the edges of her mind like fading lovers in the mist.

Slowly, almost languidly, Serina lowered her hand from the sword.

Not a retreat.

A negotiation.

She stood for a moment longer, letting the silence steep. Letting the sword miss her.

Then—finally—she spoke. Her voice was low, indulgent, a velvet lash dragged across raw nerves.

"Mmm… you are exquisite," she murmured, her tone dripping with something dangerously close to reverence. "All fury and ruin and memory... tangled together in something so desperately hungry."

Her fingertips danced in the air just shy of the blade's surface—taunting, promising. Not touching. Teasing.
She smiled, slow and serpentine, the kind of smile that could melt a man's reason just as easily as it could cut out his heart.

"But you and I..." she said, pacing a slow, deliberate circle around the dais, her cloak whispering against the dust-smeared stones, "...we are not so simple, are we?"

She tilted her head, almost coquettish, as if listening to a secret no one else could hear.

"You don't want just a hand to swing you. You don't crave an animal to roar and bleed on your behalf. You need something more. Someone who knows how to savor you. Someone who won't shy from your horror... someone who will love you for it."

The tomb was listening. She could feel it. The blade, too. It hungered for her, just as surely as she could feel it gnashing against its own chains of memory.

But Serina Calis was no fool.

The sword could drown her—if she let it. It could consume her brilliance and grind her down into another screaming soul howling in its hilt.

And Serina was not meant to be consumed.

She was meant to command.

She let her voice grow softer, sweeter—dangerous the way a slow smile is before a betrayal.

"I could claim you right now." She purred the words, letting each syllable stroke the charged air between them. "Wield you like a lash across the galaxy's throat. You know that. You feel that."

Her fingers trailed through the air again, a breath shy of contact.

"But we would both be... disappointed."

She leaned closer now, until her breath ghosted across the surface of the hilt, until her presence wrapped around the blade in an invisible, intimate caress.

"You've waited centuries for someone who understands you. Do not insult yourself by rushing to the first eager hand. You deserve to be wanted. To be worshiped."

Her voice dipped, filthy, sultry, filled with a dark affection so real it was almost cruel.

"And I..." she whispered, "I adore beautiful, broken things."

She stepped back—only slightly. Not rejection. Temptation. She had no intention of leaving. Not yet.
Serina had already decided.

She would stay in this chamber as long as it took.
She would let the sword hunger. Let it thirst. Let it ache for her touch again.

When it was ready—when it was desperate for her—then, and only then, would she bind it. Not by force.

By desire.

Serina smiled, almost sweetly, as she lowered herself to one knee at the base of the dais, folding her arms atop it like a woman kneeling before a lover's bed, casual and utterly fearless.

She would outlast the blade.

She would court it.

And when Kezeroth's echo reached for her again, it would not find a servant trembling in awe.
It would find a queen, ready to be loved and feared in equal measure.

"Come now," she whispered into the cold dark, voice rich with honeyed sin.

"Let's not pretend we aren't already falling for each other."

 

[Kezeroth the Hateful]

A Weapon Fit for a Devil
LOCATION: Bastion
LOCATION: Unknown

She had his attention... Or did she?

The air around the blade screamed as the hilt cracked with violent energy, the steel groaning under a sudden pressure unseen. From the churning storm of black smoke and crackling purple lightning, a form began to emerge. Massive and terrible. First his head, crowned in gnarled scars and long-forgotten wounds. Then his broad torso, carved with the evidence of countless battles, and arms like forged iron barely restrained by sinew and muscle. The rest of his body remained shrouded, lost in the roiling storm that hissed and twisted around the sword. Kezeroth's presence pressed down on the tomb like a second gravity, a force both settled and volatile, the living embodiment of old hatred made to be patient. His crimson gaze found her easily. He tilted his head slowly to one side, as if inspecting something curious. But his expression made a liar of his body language. It was disgust that painted his face. "Hmmm."

The sound rolled low and sharp from his throat — a predator studying a womp rat. He took in her posture, her whispered nothings to the blade, the little games of manipulation she thought hidden. "You mouth platitudes you don't even understand, Sith!" The last word was spat from Kezeroth's lips like a venomous curse, his deep voice breaking into a seething growl that echoed through the chamber.

A mockery.
A rejection!

His shoulders rolled as he drew closer, the unseen half of him dragging an invisible weight behind. "Wingless... toothless... and clawless," he sneered, his mouth curling into a snarl of contempt. "Domesticated and tamed." He leaned closer, his face mere inches from hers now, his breath like a furnace. "How fitting that you flop along... eager to prove your karking worth like the rest of your kind." A deep, visceral growl rumbled from Kezeroth's chest — a sound closer to a landslide than any living thing.

His eyes, twin embers burning in a sea of ash, flared with a sudden surge of crimson light.
"You think the Dark Side is something to be flirted with?" he said, voice rising into a cutting snarl.
"Something to trick into loving you?" He barked a humorless laugh — a dry, jagged thing.

"Gah!" The sound exploded from him, raw and harsh. "You karking maggot!!!" Kezeroth spat the word out like filth he could no longer stomach, his expression twisted in naked disdain. He drew back slightly then, his gaze never leaving hers, the storm coiling and hissing around his half-formed body, a reminder that this was a thing made not of flesh alone, but rage given form.

TAGS Serina Calis • TAGS​

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



The storm raged around her, screaming its fury into the narrow vaults of the tomb.

Stone groaned. Dust fell in trembling clouds from the unseen ceiling. The blade at the heart of it all wept power into the air so thick it was nearly liquid, choking the space between breath and thought.

And still, Serina Calis did not move.

She watched Kezeroth's half-born shape materialize—watched the ancient fury clothe itself in old wounds and fresher hate—and she met that furnace gaze not with fear, but with the patience of a creature who knew storms could be seduced as surely as men could. Her heartbeat remained steady. Her lips curled—slow, amused—as the Gen'Dai god of war unleashed his contempt upon her.

"You mouth platitudes you don't even understand, Sith!"
"You think the Dark Side is something to be flirted with?"
"You karking maggot!"

Each insult was a hammer blow, meant to shatter her composure, to reveal the trembling child he thought lurked behind her polished facade.

Instead, Serina laughed.

It was low—rich—sultry.

The kind of laugh that drew men to lean closer even when they knew it would be the death of them.

"Oh," she breathed, her voice slicing through the thunderous chaos like the unsheathing of a dagger in the dark, "darling..."

She rose from her half-kneel, liquid and unhurried, brushing dust from her palms as if brushing away his very rage. She advanced a single step, and though she was dwarfed by his monstrous form, it was Kezeroth who seemed somehow smaller for it.

"You mistake me." Her voice was velvet pulled taut over barbed wire—silken, dangerous, and utterly controlled. "I am no child playing at power... and certainly no whimpering acolyte hoping to steal a kiss from the Dark Side."

Another step.

The tomb shuddered under the weight of her will.

"You..." she murmured, her fingers trailing the air as if sketching invisible chains between them, "you are the one who flirts with oblivion. You press your hatred against the edges of the galaxy like a lover desperate to be noticed... because you know," her voice dropped to a purr, "you know rage is a lonely god."

She tilted her head, studying him the way one studies a feral beast on a short chain—appreciative, but utterly unafraid.

"You call me toothless, clawless. Domesticated. Tamed." The words dripped from her lips like a slow poison. "And yet... here you are."
Her hand extended—fingers open, offering nothing, demanding everything. "How you ache for a worthy adversary. A worthy partner."

Her smile sharpened, twin dimples carving themselves into cheeks that ought to have been flushed with fear—but were instead aglow with certainty.

"You are right to be disgusted, Kezeroth. Most Sith would squander you. Chain you. Bleed you dry in some vulgar display of vanity."

She took another step closer, the storm hissing against the pressure of her presence, like the air itself trying to peel her back and failing.

"But I..." she whispered, and the word slithered like silk into the crackling void between them, "I would make you eternal."

Another heartbeat.

Another step.

The distance between them was a breath now. A promise.

"You see a maggot," she said, voice a slow, luxurious curl, "because you fear seeing an equal. Someone who understands that love and hate are not opposites, but siblings. That to truly rule..." She leaned in, her breath cool against the furnace of his skin, "one must know how to corrupt, how to seduce, how to make destruction so beautiful... that the galaxy weeps for the chains it begs you to fasten around its throat."

Her hand lifted again—not to touch him, but to hover near, letting her presence brush against the edges of his rage like a lover's hand tracing the curve of a scar.
A silent dare.

"I do not ask you to love me," she said, her voice so low it was almost a kiss. "I offer you something far more intoxicating."

Her eyes gleamed like twin blades catching the faintest light—mercurial, hungry, fearless.

"Purpose."

And then, softly—almost sweetly, cruel in its tenderness:

"Because without me, Kezeroth... you will rage forever. Alone. Forgotten. A god howling in a graveyard no one will ever visit."

The storm seemed to hesitate.
The blade thrummed, uncertain.
The tomb itself seemed to lean forward, holding its breath.

Serina Calis stood there, an unmovable sovereign draped in ambition and whispered promises, offering not subjugation, not fear, but the ultimate seduction: to matter.
To endure.

And she did not blink.
She did not falter.
She did not beg.

She simply waited.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly patient.

 

[Kezeroth the Hateful]

A Weapon Fit for a Devil
LOCATION: Bastion
LOCATION: Unknown

The storm howled.
And Kezeroth smiled.

A jagged, broken thing—barely a mockery of the expression—a grimace torn between contempt and something far, far worse: amusement. The crimson flare of his eyes deepened, shadow bleeding from his half-formed mass, his colossal torso and arms crackling with unspent fury. Smoke coiled around the ruin of his body, as if even the dark side itself struggled to contain what he was. Serina's words slid off him like rain on a stone that had weathered a thousand storms. Her poise. Her ambition. Her understanding.

It didn't matter.

Kezeroth leaned in.

His body shifted with the sound of straining metal and ancient tendons, the smoke peeling back just enough to reveal a grin full of jagged, predatory teeth. "You talk well," he rumbled, voice a cracked and ruined thing, low and raw like mountains grinding against each other. "Pretty words. Wasted on me." The storm snarled as if in agreement.

"I don't need a purpose," Kezeroth sneered, shaking his head like a wounded beast daring the hunters to come closer. "I am the purpose." A heavy step forward, the vault quaking as his half-born shape pulled itself closer into the material world, shadows tearing free in slashes of lightning. "You offer chains wrapped in silk and call it freedom." His breath was smoke and ash, his hatred so thick it tasted metallic in the air. "You think me some beast pacing its cage, desperate for a master."

Another step. Another quake. Another roar of the storm overhead.

"No," Kezeroth spat, voice breaking into a cruel bark of laughter. "I am my own master. My own slave. I have torn gods from their thrones and found nothing. I have torn galaxies into bleeding strips and felt nothing."

He gestured at her, a vicious, cutting motion that carried all the weight of a death sentence.

"You offer to make me eternal," he growled, "but I am already eternal, Sith. Eternal in my failure. Eternal in my rage. Eternal in the wound I am."

His voice dropped lower, more intimate, venomous and real.

"I don't want to endure. I want to end."

A pause, like a heartbeat that never came.

"And fear..." Kezeroth's ruined mouth twisted around the word, almost reverently, "is all that's left of me. It is my flesh. My marrow. I feed it. It feeds me." His hands twitched, claws flexing as if tearing through invisible flesh, through ghosts only he could see.

"You think you can chain the abyss because you learned how to smile into it," he said, that jagged grin splitting wider, "but I am the abyss."

He let the words hang there, heavy and final.

No deal.

No seduction.

No glorious future wrapped in whispered promises.

Just truth.

Raw.

Broken.

Fiercely, unashamedly his.

Kezeroth's gaze seared into her, unblinking, merciless.

"You wanted to see," he rasped. "Now you have."

TAGS Serina Calis • TAGS​

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



The tomb shuddered with the weight of his final words.

The storm spat and roared overhead, shadows clawing madly at the crumbling stone, as if the very Dark Side itself reeled from the force of Kezeroth's terrible truth—that there was no salvation for him. No future. Only endless, ravenous ending.

Serina Calis stood unmoved.

Not because she was unaffected.
No—because she understood.

Far better than he realized.

The softest smile curved her lips—dangerous, knowing, a glint of polished glass catching dying light. She let the silence stretch until it was a knife between them, tension vibrating along the blade's invisible edge.

When she finally spoke, her voice was a velvet noose, spun with patience and sharpened by cruelty:

"Good."

One word. Low. Unhurried. Precise as a dagger sliding into a politician's spine.

"You mistake me again, Kezeroth," she continued, voice smooth as black wine poured in the dark. She shifted her weight slightly, not stepping back as his monstrous form loomed closer, but stepping into it, brushing against the outer edges of the storm that howled in vain to swallow her.

"I have no desire to save you," she whispered. "No delusions of binding you with trinkets and sweet words." Her head tilted slightly, studying him the way a master sculptor studies a half-hewn block of stone. "I have been broken too, you see. Peeled open. Left to rot in the hollow spaces of forgotten promises."
A ghost of something flickered behind her eyes—too quick to name.

"I don't pity you," she said, voice steel beneath silk. "I recognize you."

Serina moved another breath closer, until if he had a heartbeat, it might have stirred the loose strands of hair around her face.

"You think your pain makes you untouchable," she murmured. "That being the abyss makes you invincible."
Her smile deepened—not cruel, not mocking, but worse: understanding.

"But the abyss is a hunger, Kezeroth. Not a shield. Not a throne. A hunger that devours until there is nothing left... even of itself."

The air between them sizzled, the sword at the dais rattling in its bindings, drunk on the tension.

"You are magnificent," she said, letting the word linger in the charged space between them, "but magnificence without design is just another corpse history forgets. Another ruin buried under the next idiot's empire."

Serina turned slightly, a slow, elegant pivot, trailing her gloved fingers along the broken dais as if tracing the veins of the galaxy itself. Not looking at him now—commanding his attention by daring to turn away.

"You do not want chains?" she said softly. "Neither do I."

"You want to end?" Her voice curved into something richer, darker. "So do I."
She turned her head slightly, enough to catch his searing crimson gaze with a sidelong glance.

"But endings," she breathed, "are wasted when they come too soon."

Another slow, deliberate step.

"You and I, together—"
She let it hang there, pregnant with possibility, the word together tasting like blood and honey on her tongue.

"We could choose our ending."

A beat.

"Not as slaves to rage."
Another beat.

"Not as puppets to the past."
The last beat—soft, conspiratorial, intimate:

"But as architects of oblivion itself."

The words had been spoken softly, but seemed to reverberate around the chamber, a declaration.

Now she turned fully to face him, the storm casting her silhouette in stark relief—regal, inevitable, monstrous in her own right.

"You are the wound," she said, voice low, reverent. "I am the scalpel."

"And together," Serina Calis whispered into the roiling dark, "we will make the galaxy bleed in ways it has never dared imagine."

Her smile was slow and sure and Machiavellian to the core.
Not pleading. Not demanding.
Offering.

An offer made not from weakness—but from pure, ruthless comprehension of what he was.

And the worst part—the part Kezeroth, for all his defiance, would recognize—

Was that she meant every single word.

 

[Kezeroth the Hateful]

A Weapon Fit for a Devil
LOCATION: Bastion
LOCATION: Unknown

Kezeroth didn't answer.
The shift in the air said more than any word could.

He moved, slow and cautious, wrapping his hand around the hilt of the sword buried in the shattered dais. The metal, black and ancient, seemed to recognize him — or maybe it just feared him. Either way, it vibrated under his hand. But he didn't pull it out.

He drew from it.

The Dark Side surged through the sword, seeping into his body like wildfire through dry grass. Not wild, not out of control — poised. Gathering with a surgeon's precision in the vacant areas of his body. The air turned cold. The smell of scorched ozone permeated the tomb.

Hatred. Old and horrifying oozed from him in heavy palpable waves, souring the air so that it was coppery and gray on the tongue. A refinement of hatred and anger deep within his being. Older than that what other beings could fathom. Quiet. Hungry. Centuries beneath stones, wearing mountains down grain by grain and reduced to mere atoms.

His eyes felt the brunt of it first.
They seared from the inside out, dual furnaces behind a mask of crude, rending flesh — pulsating in time with the sluggish, agonized build-up of energy he gathered. Not just looking at her, but boring into her, the first inklings of Deadly Sight twisting behind his eyes like a noose finding its place.

The storm outside battered the rock as though it too wanted to escape what was building inside. Still, Kezeroth made no clear move. He held it in. All of it. With a brutal self-restraint that was somehow worse than if he had simply attacked outright. When Serina spoke again, her voice floated into the silence — delicate, controlled — but it could not evade the crush of what bore down upon her, from the terrible, seething judgment in his eyes. And yet....when she finished, when the last note of her offer died against the storm, Kezeroth bowed his head the barest fraction. Muscles tightening further.

Then, in a growl as flat as a collapsing star, he uttered a single invitation to persist on:

"Speak plainly."

Two words.
Simple.
Deadly.

TAGS Serina Calis • TAGS​

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



The invitation hung between them like a dagger suspended on a hair's breadth.

The storm battered the tomb as if in protest, shrieking against the inevitable. Dust and ancient ash tore across the air, clawing at Serina's cloak, at her hair, at her skin. And still—still—she stood, untouched in spirit, regal and composed against the titanic presence that threatened to tear reality at its seams.

At his words—"Speak plainly"—Serina's smile did not widen. It sharpened.

She let the silence draw out a moment longer, until it was stretched so thin it might snap with the barest breath. She tasted the power in the air—thick, rancid, exquisite—and met his searing gaze with the cool certainty of a queen appraising a weapon she intended to wield.

Her voice, when it came, was a slow, deliberate blade across the throat of the moment:

"Very well."

She stepped closer again, with the fearlessness of a woman who no longer believed in gods. Only power. Only will.

"You are a force without a master," she said, each word deliberate, weighted, and poised. "An eternal wound that the galaxy cannot heal. A wound it deserves."

Another step, unflinching beneath the molten pressure of his gaze.

"I offer no leash. No crown. No promises of salvation."

Her hand moved slightly, almost idly, like a woman choosing where the first cut should be made on a willing subject.

"I offer opportunity."

The word cracked the air like a whip.

"Together," she said, voice tightening like a garrote, "we will teach the galaxy to weep for every arrogance it ever dared to breathe."

Another step.
Close enough now that the static charging Kezeroth's vast form kissed the hem of her cloak, setting the dark fabric whispering against her legs.

"You will not serve me," she continued, her voice dropping into a dark, almost intimate cadence, "nor will I serve you. We will serve only a single, devouring ambition."

Her eyes gleamed, catching the raw flare of his own tortured sight, unflinching, inviting.

"Ruin."

She let the word drip into the space between them, letting it coil like smoke into his senses.

"I will not chain you, Kezeroth," she murmured, soft as a poison confession. "I will unleash you."

A breath. A heartbeat. A promise.

"And when the galaxy looks upon the ashes of its gods, of its empires, of its hope..."
She smiled, slow and merciless.
"...it will see your face written in fire."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"You do not need me," Serina said, so calm it was terrifying. "You could tear me apart, rend me to bone and nothingness with a thought."

Her voice curved, a silken, razor-edged caress:

"But you want me."

"You want someone who sees you clearly—who does not fear the depth of your hate, but hungers to see it made manifest. Who does not offer love or loyalty, but legacy."

Her hand lifted again, not to touch—but to offer, a whisper of a gesture, a queen's gambit placed on a board stained with centuries of blood.

"Together, Kezeroth, we will not be rulers. Not saviors. Not conquerors."

She leaned in closer, her breath cool as it brushed against the jagged ruin of his flesh, whispering into the storm's screaming void:

"We will be extinction, given purpose."

Then Serina straightened slowly, hands folding behind her back in a posture of absolute, effortless command. She said nothing further.

The storm raged.

The sword thrummed.

And Serina Calis waited.

 

[Kezeroth the Hateful]

A Weapon Fit for a Devil
LOCATION: Bastion
LOCATION: Unknown

The silence was no longer absence, it was presence. Heavy and creeping, it bled between the cracks in the world like oil leaking from fissures of woe. It slithered into the corners of the tomb, curling around broken pillars and forgotten bones, wrapping itself around time like ivy choking a crypt. Outside, the storm howled like a wounded animal. Rain lashed the stone with the fury of old wars remembered. Thunder peeled across the heavens—not a warning, but a welcome. Lightning flashed like veins in a sky having a seizure, revealing for the briefest moments the figures within: a titan carved in torment and a woman cloaked in shadows and poise.

Kezeroth did not move. He didn't need to. Stillness was his nature—a predator's pause before the crush, a fault line waiting to split. His breath was a furnace behind armor that looked welded from the bones of extinct beasts. Each exhale came out like a forge sighing after a kill, a low, smoldering rhythm that seemed to heat the very air around him. At his side, the sword—a weapon, a witness, a wound—sang in whispers only the cursed could hear. It wasn't a sound so much as a memory given voice: a dirge forged from blood and betrayal, echoing with the weight of lives fed into its blade. If despair could hum, it would hum like this.

Serina stood across from him, small only in stature. Her presence was no less a force. Where he was storm and stone and wrath made flesh, she was precision—a scalpel held behind the back while smiling. Her cloak fluttered like black silk soaked in venom, untouched by the storm except where it dared to taste her. She stood like someone who had walked through fire not to escape, but to claim it. Her expression did not flicker. She watched him like a queen watching the sea rise—curious, confident, and already making plans for what cities she would drown.

Then: a sound from Kezeroth.
A snort.

Not of amusement. Not even of dismissal. But of recognition, like a warhound smelling war on someone else's breath. The sound of a beast who knew the scent of someone who would not kneel, would not break, would not run. Not a rival. Not prey. A possibility. He leaned forward—barely, but it was enough to bend the elements around him and recoil like they had been struck. The pressure shifted, the atmosphere thickened, like the tomb itself had started breath again. Frenzied but controlled like the eye of storms.

And then, he spoke. A voice like a landslide poured into the shape of words. Low and rough, old as rust and twice as bitter. It scraped through the space between them like durasteel across concrete. "And who are you?" They landed—like a falling star, or a guillotine's blade, or the first raindrop before a flood. Not curious and not exactly accusing.

Rather it was an invitation, one accepted at that.

TAGS Serina Calis • TAGS​

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



The silence did not collapse.
It folded—deliberate, reverent, as if reality itself had paused to kneel.

Not absence, but presence. Not void, but reverberation. It stretched through the tomb like the breath before a storm surge, curling through the fractured columns and ritual-scored stone with the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. The question Kezeroth had asked—And who are you?—was still echoing, not as sound, but as force. As pressure.

And Serina Calis did not rush to answer.

To fill a silence like that would be a sin against symmetry. A waste. An admission of need.

She simply stood there, sculpted by stillness, her posture coiled in lethal elegance. Not tense. Not defensive. Poised. As if the world were already tilting toward her, and she was just waiting for it to understand.

The tomb itself breathed slower in her presence, as though realizing something fundamental had entered its bones. Dust circled her ankles but dared not cling. Shadows flickered along the wall but bent away from her form. Even the storm—howling and seething just beyond the stone—seemed to dim in anticipation, its rage briefly stilled to listen.

Kezeroth's question wasn't curiosity. It wasn't even command.

It was a challenge.

And Serina Calis did not respond to challenges.
She ended them.

A motion at last. But not the dramatic kind Kezeroth had seen from Sith and slaves alike—those desperate to matter, to prove. No. Her movements were exact, ritualistic, calculated with all the emotional indulgence of a scalpel making the first incision. She raised a single hand—pale and unhurried—to her throat, and unfastened the clasp of her cloak.

The fabric slid down her shoulders, falling in a slow, luxurious hush to the cold stone beneath. It didn't hit the floor. It landed—soundless, controlled, submissive only to her will.

What was revealed beneath was no accident.

Black armor: seamless, gleaming, predatory. Not brutish like Kezeroth's grotesque mass, not adorned with medals or emblems. It was art shaped for dominance. Smooth lines coiled into edges, sinuous and sharp, forged not to repel blows but to compel submission. There was no saber at her side—because she did not need one. No banners. No crests. Nothing to explain her, nothing to frame her.

She was not decorated. She was declared.

In the intermittent lightning, her outline flickered with mythic clarity—each flash carving her into the space like a sigil. Hair pinned back, not a strand out of place. Eyes dark, predatory, and infinite—like the moments between executions. Her mouth, half-parted, offered no warmth. Only promise. The kind that shattered regimes.

She didn't advance. Didn't lower herself with theatrics. She didn't meet Kezeroth's monstrous presence with scale—because she didn't need to meet him.

She would let him rise to her.

The silence stretched.
Longer than comfort allowed.
Long enough to let him hunger for her reply.
Long enough for him to need it.

And when she finally spoke, she didn't raise her voice.

She lowered the world.

"Serina."

One word.

Low. Precise. Weighted like a killing blow.

 

[Kezeroth the Hateful]

A Weapon Fit for a Devil
LOCATION: Bastion
LOCATION: Unknown

Kezeroth stood like a statue carved from pain and fury, his massive form quiet now, but never still. He didn't speak right away. Not because he was unsure. But because he was remembering. Kyber Dark. The betrayal. The way his so-called allies had left him to die at the hands of the New Imperial Order. He had trusted them—just enough. And they had used that trust like a knife. That had been the last time he believed in anyone.

The Sith had always been like that. Lies and games and poison behind smiles. Even their power was a mask. They played at strength, but most of them just feared weakness. Kezeroth knew better. He was strength. He had outlived empires. Outlasted death. And yet… this woman. Serina. She hadn't tried to impress him. She didn't throw titles or threats at his feet. She didn't posture like the rest. She didn't even call herself Darth.

Just Serina. One word. Calm. Measured. Dangerous. It struck his mental harder than any weapon could have.

In the Force, his presence shifted. Where before he had burned like a storm, raw, wild, untamed fire—now he turned sharp and cold, like ice forming over a once-burning world. Focused. Watching. Waiting. His massive head tilted slightly. He let the name settle on his tongue like a taste he hadn't had in centuries. "Serina," he said slowly, each syllable dragged through the weight of memory and judgment. "You. You speak as one who has already won....perhaps you have...."

There was something close to approval in his voice—but nothing soft. Just the hint of interest sharpened by caution. He took one step forward. The floor creaked beneath him like it feared his weight. "Bring me a suitable sentient," he said, voice low and heavy. "One of strength. Of will. Of blood that still burns." He paused, the air around him pulsing faintly with dark side energy, not wild now—but honed like a blade. "And we shall discuss this… partnership. In detail."

TAGS Serina Calis • TAGS​

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



Serina did not bow.
She inclined her head precisely—the way a blade might acknowledge the whetstone. Not submission. Not deference. Just acknowledgment: two instruments of ruin, testing the edge of each other's purpose.

Kezeroth's voice had shifted. Not tamed, never that—but refined. Focused like an executioner's aim before the swing. It pleased her. Not because she'd softened him. No. Because he had stopped performing, and now he listened.

She stood at the center of the tomb like an axis around which entropy itself could turn. Cloak gone. Armor gleaming with the chill of the storm. Her hair, loosened slightly from the tension in the air, coiled like black silk around her shoulders. Her expression remained unchanging: composed, calculating—cruel only when it served her. And now, it served.

At his request—Bring me a suitable sentient—she did not blink. Did not ask why. That would be weakness. Curiosity where certainty belonged. She had made her offer. He had given her a condition.

And Serina always fulfilled conditions—especially the bloody ones.

Her response was smooth. A blade slipped between ribs, not swung in broad daylight. The voice of a woman who measured words like currency, and spent them only to acquire more.

"Consider it done."

Three words. Perfectly modulated. Not rushed. Not eager. Not defiant.

I accept your terms.
I already know who.
You've just taken the first step into my design.

She stepped forward—not toward him, but toward the blade still quivering on the dais between them, its hum more reverent now, less violent. As though it knew it was being included in something inevitable. Her fingers hovered again, just short of touching.

"But no nameless sacrifice," she added quietly, voice soft as falling ash. "You asked for strength. Will. Blood that burns." Her eyes rose to meet his. No fear. No flinching. "I'll bring you someone that matters. Someone the galaxy would miss."

A pause. Then her voice curved ever so slightly—subtle amusement, veiled challenge:

"And when you see how they scream for you… you'll understand I'm not here to borrow your fury."

She turned then, her cloak billowing behind her like the wing of some terrible black bird, and walked away from the dais as though the tomb had already been claimed. No dramatic exit. No forced final glance. Her footsteps echoed only once.

She would return.

With blood worthy of both of them.

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



The tomb had not changed.

It still breathed that heavy, oil-thick silence that clung to bone and stone alike. The storm outside had grown quieter—less a scream now, more a murmur, as if even the sky was holding its breath. Shadows pooled in the corners of the ancient crypt like ink refusing to dry. Dust hung motionless, as though time itself feared disturbing what had been agreed upon.

And then: the sound of approach. Not rushed. Not subtle.
Deliberate.

Serina returned as she had promised—alone in step, but not in purpose.

She moved like a blade unsheathed, the long train of her black coat dragging ash and fractured bone in her wake. Her presence struck before her silhouette did: the air tightening, the Force bending ever so slightly, not out of reverence—but calculation. The tomb knew her now. It understood the gravity she carried. Even the sword, half-sunken into the broken dais, hummed a low, expectant note like a throat clearing before ceremony.

Behind her, dragged with no ceremony, was the corpse.

A man. Human. Mid-thirties. Broad-shouldered, once vital, now undone. His body was charred in places from orbital fire, sliced through in others by Serina's own hand. The armor he had once worn—sigiled, arrogant, Imperial—was scorched and ruined, its heraldry melted into slag. The face was still intact, mostly. Enough to see that he had been someone the Order might've wept for.

Serina did not let his body fall. She placed it down.

No reverence. No disrespect either. Just function. Precision. Delivery.

She straightened slowly, eyes lifting to meet the looming figure beyond the sword—Kezeroth, wreathed in static shadow and smoldering disdain. Still not fully formed. Still watching. His presence pressed down like the edge of a tectonic plate. It didn't matter.

She met him with the calm of inevitability.

"Lord Kaerid," she said simply, gesturing to the body with an idle flick of two fingers. "Sith of Saijo. Bloodline of Kaerid. Trained under three Masters."

She stepped forward, boots crunching softly on ancient grit. Her voice remained quiet, but clear—the sort of clarity that made people lean in without realizing why.

"He defended Saijo's palace until it collapsed on top of him. I dragged him out by the throat before the bombardment finished the rest."

Her eyes didn't leave Kezeroth as she said it. There was no arrogance in her tone. No need. Victory didn't need to be broadcast—only seen.

"I could've left him to the fire," she added, a slow smile touching the corner of her mouth. "But that would've wasted an opportunity."

She turned her head slightly, regarding the corpse. "There's still power left in him. Pride. Rage. The right kind."

A beat.

Then her gaze returned to the storm-shaped colossus beyond the sword.

"I told you I'd bring someone the galaxy would miss."

Another beat. A breath slower than war. Then, almost sweetly:

"Do you approve?"

She didn't bow. Didn't kneel.
She simply stood.
At the edge of a covenant older than kingdoms, with blood at her feet and purpose on her tongue.
A queen offering meat to a god—not out of fear.

But to see if he was finally ready to eat.

 

[Kezeroth the Hateful]

A Weapon Fit for a Devil
LOCATION: Bastion
LOCATION: Unknown

Kezeroth, what remained of him, loomed not in the flesh, but in the fractures between thought. A shadow woven from radiation and memory, hovering just beyond shape, just behind weight. His gaze, though without eyes, slid over Serina like a whetstone over ancient steel, slow, dragging, intentional. There was little satisfaction in it, just... study and hunger.

Her words lingered not in the air but in the marrow of the tomb, humming through stone like an old song remembered only by ghosts. And the corpse, Lord Kaerid, lay there like a war offering beneath the mountain's gaze, his face still pretending at dignity. He reeked of unfinished stories. And that was why Kezeroth moved. But not forward.

He retreated?

In a breathless instant, his presence collapsed inward like a dying star, drawn with eerie precision into the sword sunken at the tomb's heart. The chamber fell still, not silent, but still in the way that makes the skin tighten and the heart ask, what changed? Then the thrum began. A low frequency, barely audible but felt across bone and blood. The sword, long bound in ceremonial chains and half-forgotten restraints, shook. Its alchemical edge began to shriek softly as it scraped the air itself, whining against the very foundation that dared hold it in place. Flames erupted, not fire of warmth or light, but hungry fire, the kind that remembers being alive and resents the fact that it's not.

The chains snapped. One by one. The Rancidous Edge rose, unheld, unhurried, but absolute. It drifted like a vengeful thought given form, tilted forward, and then speared clean through Lord Kaerid's chest with a finality that denied all ceremony. His body did not jerk. It froze.

Half-coagulated blood oozed from the wound. But it didn't fall. Gravity lost its argument. The blood resisted. Paused. Then, slowly, unnaturally, it began to drain upward, siphoned into the blade as though the obsidian metal drank and the corpse shriveled. Flesh grayed. Skin cracked like dry soil under twin suns. The body curled inward, not collapsing, but folding, as if what remained of Kaerid was trying to escape his own ending. Red lightning crawled across his limbs, setting nerve endings ablaze for the last time.

​

Behind Serina, the air thickened, not with heat, but density. The Force churned like a world being born. Something shimmered, a blur at first, the shape of absence made manifest. And it began to grow. Taller. Broader. More real with each passing moment. A shadow first, and then a silhouette. Then that too collapsed inward, reshaped, twisted in on itself before it swelled outward, a body forming not from skin and sinew, but from intention, like war remembering how to walk.

Shoulders like durasteel walls. A chest like a siege engine. Muscles carved by centuries. His red, scorched flesh steamed from unseen heat, as though the tomb itself was exhaling him back into reality. He bore no armor, only faint scars, thick like tectonic fault lines across his limbs. His face was grim like durasteel, eyes burning from deep within sockets that seemed to reject light and produce their own.

Kezeroth the Hateful.
The Embodiment of the Darkside.

No flash of triumph. No roar. His return was inevitable, like gravity deciding it had waited long enough. And in his silence, standing tall behind Serina like the final line in an ancient prophecy, he looked down at what was once Lord Kaerid. The words that followed were not spoken with vocal cords. They arrived, heavy and with reverberation through the force.

" Enough. Whats dead is dead. I have questions," He paused. " What is the state of the Sith? Who are the key players of this era and who, Serina, trained you?" He curled and uncurled his fists and paced back and forth slowly as if testing out this new meta-physical birthed form.

TAGS Serina Calis • TAGS​

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



Serina did not turn when he reformed.

She felt him before form returned—before intention became sinew, before hatred clothed itself in flesh. It was like standing at the event horizon of a black hole that had decided, finally, to look back. His presence poured into the tomb like a rising tide of gravity, and she stood at its center—unbent, unswallowed.

When his words arrived—I have questions—they settled over her like snowfall on steel.

She turned only after a pause. Not to look up at him in reverence—Serina did not revere. But to meet his gaze like a cipher meeting a riddle: calmly, critically, and without blinking.

"The Sith…" she began, and the tone was not contemptuous—not yet—but wearied. As though dragging truth into the light had grown too tedious to even dress in rhetoric.

"…are stupid."

She let it hang there. Clean. Unadorned. A blade with no hilt.

Then her voice resumed, silken and cold as a scalpel pressed to the throat of history.

"The Sith Empire is ruled—nominally—by Darth Empyrean. A man I know little of, beyond that he wears his arrogance like a cloak two sizes too large. He rarely speaks. Perhaps because the taste of his own voice would sour even his pride."

She began to pace—slow, deliberate steps like the turn of gears in some ancient machine, calibrated not for movement, but for corruption.

"There are three who sit beneath him on the Dark Council."

She raised a single finger, elegant and exact.

"Darth Arcanix. The scientist. The sorceress. A creature of laboratories and nightmares. I respect her… if only because she creates in a galaxy that only knows how to destroy. But she hides. Layers within layers. She never moves unless the scalpel is already halfway in."

A second finger.

"A Sith I only know as Gerwald. A warlord without vision. He raids. He revels. My guess is that he fights like it's the only thing keeping him from remembering who he used to be. Think… if you can imagine it—a Sith who mistakes blood for power and carnage for clarity. I don't know much else about him."

And then, with slow venom, the third:

"Darth Malum of House Marr."

She exhaled through her nose, not a sigh—a surgical exorcism of disdain.

"A fool. A soft child playing in his ancestors ruins. He took the Tsis'Kaar—once the most secretive, most feared hand of Sith manipulation—and turned it into the support group for a populist political cult. Rhetoric and robes. Banners and speeches. The only thing he hasn't done is start handing out pamphlets on street corners. He holds a chair on the Dark Council and uses it to signal his virtue."

She stopped pacing, facing Kezeroth directly now.

"They are the visible powers. But there are others."

She walked a slow half-circle around Kaerid's collapsed remains, speaking as if lecturing in some ruined amphitheater to a class of forgotten gods.

"The Kainites—Darth Carnifex and Darth Prazutis—rule near Dromund Kaas. Technically under the Empire's banner. In reality, they are their own nation. They do not obey. They do not rebel. They endure. I do not know if they plan to fix the Sith Empire or wait for it to collapse on itself like a starved beast."

Her tone turned almost amused.

"Either way, the Emperor sends his personal spy to their meetings. No one says it. But everyone knows. There is tension beneath the paint."

She folded her hands behind her back now—the posture of control.

"The Empire won the last great battle—Woostri. Broke the Galactic Alliance's back. Should have driven the dagger in deep."

A pause.

"But the campaigning has stopped. No reason. No announcement. No strategy shift. Just… silence." Her lips curled slightly. "As if the galaxy itself is waiting to see which idiot falls first."

Now she stepped forward—one step, then another—toward the dais, toward the blood that had not dried because the blade would not let it.

"I have had many teachers," she said, her voice low now, calculated like poison dripped onto glass. "Sith who believed a few cryptic phrases and a broken jaw counted as education. Jedi who taught serenity through repression. Mandalorians who believed pain equaled strength. I learned what I could from all of them."

She looked up now, directly into the molten, ancient gaze of Kezeroth the Hateful.

"But no one made me. Not really. I trained myself. In silence. In exile. In rage. In certainty."

Her voice cooled into finality.

"I wasn't chosen, Kezeroth."

"I chose myself."

She stopped at the base of the dais again, the blood beneath her feet spiraling upward into the still-hovering blade like ink in water.

The storm outside stirred, lightning sketching monstrous silhouettes against the distant ceiling.

And Serina waited.

Not for permission.

But for the next question.

 

[Kezeroth the Hateful]

A Weapon Fit for a Devil
LOCATION: Bastion
LOCATION: Unknown

"The Sith…" she began, and the tone was not contemptuous—not yet—but wearied. As though dragging truth into the light had grown too tedious to even dress in rhetoric.

"…are stupid."

That statement had caught his attention. A flash of a grin that turned into a snort of humor. He sounded like a gammorean. He did his best attempt not interrupt with his own opinions. As Serina Calis continued, he processed. Not as a listener exactly, more as a captain parsing the wind for direction. And Serina's voice, stripped of reverence, seemed to suit the moment. She was dissecting the Empire with surgical detachment, and in each name she spoke, Kezeroth remembered or didn't.

Darth Empyrean. His brow furrowed slightly. the way mountains do when an earthquake whispers from below. He did not know this name. That disturbed him. A new emperor. Unfamiliar and thus unearned. The twin suns, that were his eyes, narrowed like tectonic plates shifting. A vacuum where memory should be. But there was no face, no battle and no scars. A void. " Mmmmm." He expressed a thoughtful hum and nodded his head slowly.

Darth Arcanix. A slow, deliberate tilt of the head. Not in confusion. In recognition. Her name had changed, but her pattern had not. The description, sorceress, scientist, reclusive architect of nightmares—was enough to unlock the door. Taeli Raaf. Another one who thought shadow equaled strength. She'd existed in prior cycles. Prior failures. Always building something. Always afraid to spearhead it and direct it. He didn't hate her. He didn't revere her. He remembered her. And that was more than most deserved.

Gerwald. Kezeroth's lip curled. Just one side. The kind of expression one makes at the scent of spoiled meat. Nothing in the name stirred him. But the description—a warlord who mistakes violence for vision—was enough and slightly respectable as well. There were always Gerwalds. Different names. Same purpose. Tools who thought they were firebrands. He made no comment. He wouldn't dignify it. But something behind his eyes turned colder, more indifferent.

Darth Malum. This time, Kezeroth rolled his eyes. Not in mockery—but in fatigue. A child. A politician. A populist with ancient robes and modern delusions. His jaw flexed, as if weighing whether to speak, but the words soured in his mouth before they could rise. Whatever he wanted to say was replaced with, " What the kark is a Tsis'Kaar?" he spat out and raised a brow high. He couldn't help it.

Carnifex and Prazutis. Ah. At last, names with weight. Kezeroth's expression didn't shift so much as settle—like a boulder locking into place after a landslide. A landslide that happened centuries ago. There was expectation in his gaze now. Not hope. Definitely not fondness. Just the calm, heavy stillness of someone waiting to see whether a long-kept flame still burned. Carnifex. That name had always tasted of blood and iron. Prazutis. The other name that always seemed to walk in the others shadow. It came as no surprise that both of them were around for this rendition of the sith. Kaine Zambrano, Darth Carnifex, had too much under his name and legacy to simply give up or not exist. Committed to the end. There was a point in Kezeroth's life that he looked up to the man, when he was known simply as Darth Vornskr. But that man died. Litterally. And what was birthed from that death was Carnifex. As for Prazitus. Kezeroth was grateful to some degree that the sith lord had resurrected him in the past, if only for the Gen'dai tempt his hand at attacking Carnifex during the Invasion of Mandalore but that was long ago.

And when Serina finished…

…when she stepped forward and looked him in the eye…

…when she said "I chose myself."

Kezeroth finally moved. Just one step forward. Slow. Intentional. The air tightened as if the world had flinched. He looked down at her—not as a god, not as a tyrant, but as a creature who had walked too far and burned too long to pretend anymore. And then he spoke. Voice like molten obsidian. "Then you still understand what it means to suffer and grow with the darkside. The broken are the more...evolved." He blinked acouple times. " If we are to be partners and honor our pact, then I need to know how close or far you prefer to be when I unleash myself on whatever system the Sith have constructed. What role will you be taking in this? I will also require information about such topics ....I...Wait, what year is it?"

TAGS Serina Calis • TAGS​

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will trade their blood for power."

Tags - Kezeroth the Hateful



The question hung in the air like the last ember before the fire reclaims it.

What year is it?

Serina tilted her head slightly—not in surprise, but in contemplation. Kezeroth's words, like everything he did, carried weight. Literal and figurative. The kind of question that wasn't about time but context. Positioning. Strategy. The long game. She understood that. Had lived by it. She didn't answer right away, not out of hesitation, but calculation.

Let the moment breathe.

Let him feel the gap between his memory and her reality.

Then, with the elegance of a guillotine whispered down to a neck, she replied:

"902. After the Battle of Yavin."

There was no flourish. No smugness. Just a cold fact dropped into the air like a body at her feet.

"Time has been… cruel."

She began to move again—graceful, slow, like a serpent winding around a temple pillar. Her voice followed, quiet and deliberate, the tone of someone who had learned long ago that silence was more terrifying than shouting.

"You've missed centuries of rot, Kezeroth. The Sith…"

She looked at him again—really looked. Into the core of him, as if daring to show her own reflection in the obsidian pool of his wrath.

"…have survived. But not because they deserve to."

Then—finally—she circled back to the second question. The real one.

Her role.

Her proximity to him.

She paused before answering, planting her boots shoulder-width apart, spine straight, hands behind her back. A commander. A conspirator. A queen without a throne—yet.

"I don't stand behind you, Kezeroth," she said, softly but with steel coiled beneath every syllable. "That would be a leash, and you would feel it." Her lips curled—not cruelly, but knowingly. "And I don't stand ahead of you. You would tear through me."

A beat.

"I stand beside you in shadow."

Another step. Measured. Exact.

"When you need war, I give you war. When you need silence, I give you quiet. When you need a planet burned, I will have already loosened its foundations."

She began to circle him now—not in reverence, but in assessment. A vulture made queen. A tactician inspecting the newest weapon in her arsenal—not with awe, but intent.

"You are the breaking point. The catastrophe. The lesson the Sith forgot they feared."

She let those words hang before she delivered the final cut.

"And I am the one who will work in the shadows."

No theatrics. No begging for approval. Just clarity. Brutal, surgical clarity.

Her role wasn't apprentice. It wasn't handler. It wasn't commander.

It was the hidden factor.

And for a weapon like Kezeroth, that was everything.

She stopped again in front of him, still calm, still watching. Her expression unreadable—like a mask carved from patient ambition.

"We are not partners in ideology. We are not equals in form. But we are aligned in consequence."

Then, her eyes narrowed slightly—her voice lowering, not in softness, but in intent.

"You will burn the galaxy, Kezeroth. And I will ensure it knows your name before the fire swallows it."

She tilted her chin upward, lips parting in the faintest, most wicked of smiles.

"And they will never forget mine."