Private What You Are, Is Not Yet Enough

[Darth Prazutis]

The storm had no beginning.

There was no point in the sky from which it poured, no horizon where the thunder began. It simply was. The skies above Dromund Kaas roared eternally with the wrath of the dark side, casting jagged bolts of red and violet lightning across the boiling cloud layers. Ever since the very first day the Kainate darkened the surface of the world; ever since the Mortarch unleashed the Umbral Maw and restored true power to Dromund Kaas. Beneath that apocalyptic canopy, the world churned in perfect, controlled suffering.

New Kaas City stretched across the continent like a scar carved by the Force itself, a continent-spanning labyrinth of fortress towers, ritual spires, and industrial monoliths lit by blood red signs and flickering propaganda holoscreens. Blackstone towers clawed at the sky like the fingers of the dead. Legions marched through screaming avenues. The masses of the faithful who lived their lives in service to the Kainate, to the Sith Order. From the lowest slums to the penthouse balconies of Sith lords, every breath was measured, recorded, and judged. The air reeked of ozone, iron, and incense. New Kaas City was among the greatest cities forged by Sith in all of galactic history, a utopia of the Shadowed Dominion of the Kainate that eschewed Imperial values for the undisputed supremacy of the Sith. A city of such might and splendor even smaller, it stood in stark competition with the likes of Jutrand itself. Deep at the city's center, the apex of this colossus of order, rose the Sith Citadel.

It pierced the heavens like a blade of obsidian and void, its silhouette lost within the stormclouds it seemed to command with an iron fist. Every inch of its surface was etched with Sith runes, glowing faintly beneath the downpour as though the Citadel itself bled thought. Statues of ancient Dark Lords loomed over its many battlements. Ships, dropships, and airborne patrols carved red lines through the clouds as they circled it like flies around a wound, a storm of activity that the city itself gave a wide berth to. It was far more than a seat of power, for the citadel was like its own realm, its own dimension separating one world from the next all behind those colossal walls. Even the force felt different when one crossed the barriers.

The Citadel was alive. It watched. It waited. Entry was no a grand affair. The outer halls were stark and silent, blackstone and dark iron corridors lit only by the crimson glow of wall-etched runes, dimly glowing braziers casting haunting shapes among the shadows. Overhead the banner of the Kainate flew in blood red. Occasionally one would see mosaics, statues and other decoration. The sheer size of the structure defied all comparison, all thought, all reality. Many said it was double or even triple the size of all predecessors, perhaps larger still than even the Imperial Palace on Jutrand. A place truly fitting as the seat of power for those who led and influenced the Sith Order with guiding hands for well over the past half century or more. The inner complex contained enough military force to withstand any siege, armies of the black iron warhost stood a silent vigil, constantly on a hyper alert of all intruders, infiltrators, prepared for every eventuality. No immense greeting. No overt displays. A simple entourage of Crownguard, a silent attendant to ensure the woman's needs were met, that the storm never touched her form. The silence did not invite reverence, it demanded it.

As one descended, the great arteries of the fortress twisted inward, narrowing through deeper layers of command zones, vaults, ritual halls until even architecture obeyed the logic of the dark side. It was a dizzying display of every whim of its master catered to. Doors sealed behind. The light dimmed. The shadows moved just a little too independently. The air grew heavier and heavier. Eyes gazed back from within the darkness, towering creatures lumbered through distant hallways. Those who tread here did so with a purpose, all under the watchful eye of its guardians, and technology so advanced it bordered on magic.

Past the Grand Council chambers. Past the Sanctuaries of Strength, Power, and Passion.

Deep beneath the foundations of the throne amphitheater, hidden even from most Sith who called the Citadel home, lay a chamber sealed by layered rituals, security gates, and psychic locks keyed not to simple access codes, but to something greater. It was called the Mind's Crucible. A chamber not for training, but unmaking. Here, the very floor was a mirror of black glass that pulsed with veins of red. The air trembled. The silence throbbed with clear anticipation of what was to come, it was as if the stone itself held its breath. Towering spires lined the outer ring, etched with scenes of betrayal, ambition, triumph, and death, each etched from inside, as if clawed from within the stone. All the while looming right at the center, a throne of woven abyss and scorched will. He was already here.

The Shadow Hand. The Lord of Lies. The Once-Emperor. The Elysian Grandeval Mortarch. The Dark Lord of the Sith, Shadow Hand of the Kainate. The Sovereign of Dromund Kaas. Darth Prazutis. The giant sat motionless, silent, a god clad in living shadow, black robes breathing with abyssal weight trailed in pulsating crimson runes. The chamber would greet her. The Crucible would see her. It would remember everything, her blood, her scars, her brush with death itself, her failure to save the one she loved. It would breathe with the scent of Exegol's ruin, Vesta's final scream echoing faintly beneath the stone. It would show her nothing, but ask everything. It would be the battleground that would challenge her.

Only when she walked through those doors and chose to speak would it all begin.

Quinn Varanin​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Darth Prazutis //:
//: Dromond Kaas //:
//: Jacket //: Attire //:

It had been so long since she'd walked this planet. So much had changed, and the influence of the Zambranos was everywhere.

Dromund Kaas had been more of a home to the exiled Princess than Eshan ever was, and returning hurt more than she expected. Faint memories clung to the edges of her thoughts as she moved, guided by those already expecting her.

Like Jutrand and Bastion, this place wore its power proudly—etched into its architecture, its air, its people. Kaas was a stronghold, a perfect domain for Sith and Imperials alike. Many called Kaas City home and fought for it as fiercely as a Corellian for Corellia.

Quinn wondered what that was like—to belong to a world like that.

Her roots had been nurtured and shaped by her Mama's hand. She'd learned what it meant to be Echani, how to fight as if her body and weapons were one. That shared culture was carved into her bones, and she was proud of it.

But something was still missing.

She tried not to dwell on it. Maybe it was something she'd never find—and that had to be okay. Her home, she often reminded herself, was the Empire.

Eshan had its Queen.

She cleared her throat and pulled her coat tighter, as if shielding herself.

From the cold? No.

From the ache.

As the young Princess stepped through the final divider, something long-buried surfaced. It hurt like thorns wrapping around her heart, tightening, cutting deep. She'd avoided Dromund Kaas for a reason. She didn't want to see the life that might've been.

If this had been the reality, Vesta had worked to perfect for them…They would have survived.

Quinn closed her eyes for a moment. Ghosts stirred in the corners of the room, of the world. Still, she walked forward, toward the Shadow God on his throne. The man who might have become her father-in-law. The family she might have joined.

The click of her heels stopped.

Stillness settled as she took in the space around her. There were whispers. She felt the room's rhythm, a slow breathing beneath the surface. Quinn had mastered her resistance, shielding her mind not just from others, but from the deeper parts of herself. But here, she wondered if he could feel it.

The Phobis Core scratched at her mind, persistent and irritating.

At her feet, a slender black cat wound its body around her ankles. Its tail coiled possessively around one leg, and its eyes—uncannily familiar—met Prazutis' for a moment before it resumed purring against Quinn.

"It's been a while," she said quietly, hands tucked into her coat pockets. The words held the weight of so many meanings left unsaid.

"Kaas City looks better than it used to."

Her gaze returned to him. Darth Prazutis. The grief in him was unmistakable. She knew it. She carried her own.

They had both loved Vesta. And neither of them could save her.

Quinn had tried to fix it. She scoured their memories, searching for one moment, just one to pull free, to rewrite, to change a lifetime. Nothing worked.

When she looked for Alina's soul, she had shamelessly searched for Vesta's first.

And failed.

Again and again.

Quinn was the first to break the silence, "Have you been well, Uncle?"

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The throne cast a vast and terrible silhouette, forged in angles unnatural to light, its crowning figure unmoving, draped in abyssal black regalia that shifted like oil over glass. The robes breathed with a will of their own, shadow trailing off the fringes of the cloth and blending into the darkness of the room. Zâvrai Kôzkar stirred faintly at the sound of her voice, its shikkari silk trailing like shadows in water, but the Dark Lord remained still. His presence loomed not only in the flesh, but in the very air, in the walls, carved into the bone marrow of the Citadel and in the world itself around them. When he finally spoke, his voice didn't come with a booming proclamation. It was low, and yet it flattened the entire room. "You shouldn't have come back here…unless you meant to change." His voice was gravel and velvet, and it moved through the chamber like a tide of black ice. Not anger. Not coldness. Something deeper. Weight.

Slowly. Prazutis rose from the throne. Each movement was deliberate. Not a man merely rising to his feet, but a god unfolding. His robes whispered with ancient curses, the sorcerous weave twitching at Quinn's presence, as if recognizing the girl once meant to be bound by blood. A faint shimmer pulsed across the floor, where runes woven into the obsidian veins glowed faintly red beneath His steps. The shadows twisted toward Him as if in reverence, drawn to his towering visage and cloaking him like the protective embrace of a loved one. His eyes, those endless coals, rested solely on her. "It's true. Kaas City is different. The city stands taller now. Stronger. It remembers the war. It remembers the fire. Just like we do. Its grown beyond its past." Prazutis paused. "But it remembers her too." He didn't have to say the name. The very air cracked at the mention of her memory. Vesta. He looked at her, Quinn, not as the child He once knew, as the one who almost joined His family, but the woman shaped by fire and failure, and He looked at her, He saw the echoes of another life. He saw His daughter's smile flicker in the corner of Quinn's mouth. He saw the way her grief lingered, barely hidden behind pride and poise. It clawed at something buried in Him. The grief followed Him like a second cloak when He stepped down from the dais.

"Do you think I don't remember?" He said, voice now low, as He walked toward her. "Do you think there's a day I don't wake to the memory of her scream beneath a sky on fire? That I don't feel her fingers slipping from mine as the world came apart? That I don't see the light fade from her very eyes?" He stopped before her, not inches away, but near. The air between them ached with the unfolding grief. "I died beside her, Quinn." There was a pause, and silence quickly overtook the space he left behind with truth. "I would do it all again. I would die a thousand more deaths if it meant she lived." Something passed behind His eyes then, the edge of a soul that had walked beyond death and returned. "You and I…we both carry her ghost." His gaze sharpened. "But ghosts don't rule empires." The softness, like mist in the dawn, evaporated. Not unkindly. But with a clear purpose. He gestured once, and behind him the dais shifted. Columns of obsidian rose from the stone like jagged teeth while the throne in the room disappeared. This was no mere throne room. It was the Mind's Crucible. The seat of visions. The chamber where Sith were broken and rebuilt. Where the strongest were tested.

"Your mother gave you doubt when you asked for power. When you shared ambition." he said. "She told you ruling was not for everyone, only a rare few and alluded that you were not one of them." His voice dropped even lower to a whisper. "But what if she's wrong?" The runes in the floor pulsed beneath them, crimson and relentless. "You have ambition, Quinn. I've seen it flicker behind your eyes like a secret too dangerous to admit. You hide it behind clever smiles. Control. But that ember burns. And that is why I called you here." He extended a hand, not to crush her, not to test her reflexes. All it was, was a hand offered. "Come with me. Let us bury the last pieces of who you were." A pause. A breath. "If you still want to lead…then today, you begin the path not of a princess, not of a daughter…" His voice was like prophecy now, low and absolute. "…but of a Sovereign." Prazutis paused. "I will teach you what your blood never could. I will show you how to bend the world with your voice, your will, your smile. You will learn to command not just armies, but hearts. Not just fleets…but loyalty." His hand remained, open in the silence between them. "No one else will give you this, Quinn. Not Ashin. Not Spencer. Not Srina. They will love you. But they will never prepare you for this." A final stillness. "I will."

Quinn Varanin​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Darth Prazutis //:

As he began to speak, Quinn turned her eyes away. The way he carried himself reminded the Echani too much of her. With each heavy footstep, she could hear Vesta. Every time the man spoke, it was her voice echoing in Quinn's mind.

And nothing, nothing, could ever bring her back.

Being near the father only reminded Quinn of what she'd lost. That comforting weight Vesta's presence brought… it crushed her, rebuilt her, held her together when she was breaking. Now it was gone.

She remained composed, careful not to let the swirl of emotions show. Her eyes stayed fixed on anything but him. She knew the moment their eyes met, he would see it all—how close she was to unraveling.

I'm here…​

The voice echoed in her mind. A sudden presence enveloped her like warmth, like a memory. The black cat at her feet pressed into her legs, anchoring her with soft weight. She recognized it, she had felt it before, when it manifested against Taeli.

This echo, stronger than the others, settled deep into her heart. It gave her strength. Comfort.

Prazutis continued to speak, descending toward her like a predator toward its prey. The galaxy feared him. She had seen entire worlds tremble beneath his shadow. But she stood her ground, head high, eyes wandering deliberately across the room.

Then he mentioned her mother.

Her shoulders tensed. Her throat went dry.

He was aware of the conversation on Jutrand. She didn't know how, but of course, he would. Prazutis had eyes and ears everywhere. Perhaps even her own Master had shared it.

Her fists clenched at her sides, manicured nails biting crescents into her palms. Not enough to bleed, but enough to hurt.

The room stilled. He had the girl's full attention now.

He wasn't looking at her title. He wasn't seeing the mask. He saw her. And for a terrifying moment, she wondered—

Did he see the monster that kept her heart beating?​

Quinn's eyes finally lifted, locking with his. She saw the abyss behind his gaze, and yet… There was safety in it. Recognition. He could break her, but maybe, he could remake her too.

If he was going to strip away the last pieces holding her back, she would have to let him see it all. Taste the power hidden behind the seal she had spent years perfecting.

"I tried," she said quietly, her tongue brushing over dry lips. "I'm still looking. The Netherworld… Chaos… they're familiar now. And I still haven't found her."

Her eyes stayed fixed on his as she let out a shaky breath.

Then, slowly, she released the carefully channeled control over her presence.

To most, she appeared only as a noblewoman with faint potential. She had been trained to hide, to seem normal. But now the seal broke. Her dark presence surged forward—grand, heavy, and raw. It carried the full weight of her lineage, the marks of Spencer and Ashin etched into the very fabric of the Force itself. And with it came the Phobis Core with its disgusting, oppressive, and utterly overwhelming aura. The nightmare her essence had clung to like a second skin, a means to life.

How much did he know? Vesta had known everything. Had she told him?

"I want to prove them wrong," Quinn said at last. Her voice was different now. Not flirtatious. Not careful. It was determined.

"I want to shape the Empire—the galaxy—into the reality I choose."

This was not a girl pretending to be a ruler. This was someone ready to become. Her hand reached for his, uncertain, but unwavering. Her fingers closed around his.

The Phobis Core pulsed again. Her breath hitched, but she did not pull away.

"Teach me."​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The silence that followed was absolute. Not the stillness of hesitation, nor the silence of disbelief, but of ritual, and of recognition. It was a true moment carved out in time, like the first heartbeat before a storm. The Echani's hand in his looked tiny by comparison, cold, the very instant her fingers closed around his, the world changed. The air constricted greatly tightening like the string of a drawn bow. The Phobis Core pulsed, its oily presence leaking into the space between them, testing him, tasting him. Its raw power unfurled was a great and terrible thing of unimaginable power. But it found no weakness. It found kin. The Dark Lord's fingers wrapped around hers were gigantic, they didn't crush her, nor did they hold her delicately, they were firm, grounding her in this world. There was warmth in it. Real warmth. It lingered beneath the calloused strength and scarred flesh, beneath the chill of a soul long buried in shadow. The Dark Lord's grip carried not only power, but memory. Grief. Recognition. "I know." he said quietly. "You searched for her first." His voice didn't judge. She would find no scorn here, only the reflection of the same endless failure.

"I looked for her too. I burned worlds for mere whispers, cracked open temples for scraps of information that wouldn't come." For a moment, something ancient and wounded flickered behind the eyes of the giant. He could feel Vesta in the echo behind Quinn's presence, in the shape of her grief, the sharpness of her resolve, and perhaps Quinn felt it too, as His free hand lifted not to strike, not to command, but to gently rest against her shoulder. "Grief is a forge." Prazutis said, low and intimate. "And you have walked its flame longer than anyone sees." A pause. Then the moment passed, and he turned without another word, leading her deeper into the Crucible. The floor responded to their movement. Crimson runes pulsed with slow, predatory rhythm as they crossed the chamber. Where once stood a throne long since vanished now rose a platform of dark glass and whispering stone, suspended between curved pillars like ribs from some titanic fossil. Shadows shifted with impossible angles along the walls, each surface etched with ancient Sith formulae, dark echoes, and memory burned into the structure by ritual. In the blink of an eye the entire room transfigured itself.

Here, one did not simply speak of power. Here, it was felt. The central dais flared to life with a circle of blood red runes, revealing the Crucible's true purpose. This was not a throne room. It was a proving ground of the soul, a chamber where spirits were broken, identities reshaped, masks torn off and reforged into crowns. "You've hidden yourself for too long." He said as He ascended the steps with her, hand still held. "You've become so skilled at pretending to be less. Masking your hunger. Disarming with poise. That was her gift to you, Srina's gentleness. But it is not your path." He turned to face her, towering and resplendent in shadow runed cloth and gleaming plate, the robes drank in the shadow and swayed unnaturally without the absence of wind. His voice changed again, no longer gentle, but fierce. "You were born from queens and warlords. The blood in your veins has ended empires and built them anew. You were never meant to serve at anyone's pleasure, Quinn. You were meant to command."

Behind them, the runes thickened. The air turned heavy and now he let go of her hand. "You've seen how the galaxy treats the clever girl behind the throne. They praise your grace. They patronize your strength. They smile while clipping your wings." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Let them see you now." He stepped back into the darkness of the chamber's edge, and the circle beneath her feet ignited with red flame. Visions swirled in the runes, chaos, conquest, coronation. A thousand potential realities clawing for shape. The chamber did not test her power. It tested her will. "Here." he said, the Shadow Hand's voice echoed around her "We strip away the last chains of who you were. No more princess. No lone heir clinging to the memory of the past." The Crucible judged, and the Dark Lord was its voice. "If you truly want this… if you mean to shape the Empire, not serve it, then show me the Sovereign within." The air surged. The shadows bent toward her like supplicants. The test had begun.

The runes beneath her feet ignited in a slow, spiraling bloom of red light as the blackstone pulsed like a beating heart. She would feel it in her bones, in the marrow of her being, a summoning. There was no explosion in the wake of the eruption. Only a subtle wrongness in the air, a slipping of time as the world fell away. One moment, she stood in the Mind's Crucible, and the next? The chamber dissolved into a boundless void, featureless, formless and immense. There was no ground beneath her, no sky above. Only the all-consuming darkness. But it soon became clear that she wasn't alone as something made itself known. Reflections shimmered in the dark like fragments of suspended glass, floating mirrors that pulsed with memory. In the first, she saw herself adorned in silver robes, the Queen of Eshan. The people knelt. The nobles bowed.

Yet Quinn's smile was tight, her eyes dimmed. The throne beneath her was made not of stone, but of soft compromise. It cradled her, but it did not empower her. Another mirror hovered to her left. In it, she laughed among Spencer and Ashin, seated at a long table lined with light. She was loved here. Cherished. Daughter. But she was small, little more than a jewel kept in a case, admired but never worn. When they turned to speak, it was not to her but over her. She was the ornament and never the architect. Life would spiral forward with the mundanity of existence, of family and memorable gatherings but it would never be enough.

Then another image: Dromund Kaas. Storms carved the skyline. The people moved in organized rows beneath towering ziggurats of crimson and black. In this vision, Quinn wore the black, silver, and red of an Imperial official. In this vision her commands were followed. She rose to a position of prominence within the halls of the Sith, but would never be enough, there was an inevitable ceiling she would reach and be forever bound behind. But her name, spoken behind closed doors, was always followed by a pause. Pretender. Puppet. Princess of Shadows.

Then the final mirror appeared, and it was unlike all before it. It cracked along its surface before she even looked inside. Deep within this mirror? A crown of twisted darksteel rested upon her head, shaped like thorns and fire. The Echani wore armor of obsidian veined with crimson, the cut of it angular and regally cruel. Her eyes were black, pierced by narrow irises that shimmered like molten fire. She moved through her palace with a slow, measured grace. Her very voice commanded generals, nobles, fleets, a mere word transfiguring the face of the known galaxy. None dared speak against her. Even the Force bent beneath her will as easily as the tides. Worlds held their breath in anticipation of the coming of Darth Iraedeus, Empress of the Sith Empire. Only loyalty. Only power. She had become what they feared. What they denied her. No longer standing in the shadows of others, instead others stood in the eclipse created by her presence. Then the mirrors shattered.

Each shard of glass spiraled outward and reformed into specters, phantoms of Quinn herself. Some wore her childhood form, others bore her mother's face twisted with disdain. One cloaked itself in Ashin's face, only to whisper: You were never meant to lead. Another took Vesta's form, her voice a soft dagger: You couldn't even save me. More and more gathered around her, dozens of versions, all shaped by doubt and love and grief. They did not attack with claws or blades. They pressed in with truths. The kinds that nested deep in the ribs. One leaned close and hissed to her "You're the afterthought. The insurance policy." Another smirked "They trained you to look the part. But you were never chosen."

Quinn Varanin​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Darth Prazutis //:

The feeling of his hand as she followed, listening to his words. All she saw was Vesta. The shi'do would often bounce between two faces, one that looked like a younger version of her Father - the one that Quinn had seen more than anything. Feeling her hand in his, hurt and made the girl crave desperately for her lost lover.

It was almost on command, the small cat continued brushing into her every step of the way. A warmth caressed her mind as she remembered that she wasn't alone, that she was here. Quinn wondered if the Father knew. If he could sense that Vesta's echo lingered within her. She knew of no other apprentices, nor did she feel the echo being shared with anyone else.

Vesta even now was just hers.

Quinn watched from the corner of her eye as the room changed. It shifted, whispering its presence and purpose through the Force. She understood what his plans were; she was a girl who hid from her ambition, fearing what they would make her. The Princess remained silent, listening to his words of truth and praise. With each moment, he called out her behavior, giving a reason why it was wrong and why she was better.

It would be foolish to claim that Quinn was unaware of how small she had made herself. She knew, but did nothing to change it. There was no reason for her to hide anymore. Her worth was proven on Woostri. The Jedi who slithered away with their near-dead companion were enough to show they were nothing but insects under her power.

She mused, wondering what the creature that got away was doing. Was the Jedi getting stronger? Or was she wasting her borrowed time with frivolous things?

There was no reason for her to hide for safety. Quinn was untouchable in combat and now in life.

He continued telling her how she would be changed, shifted into something more. Quinn wondered if she was what he wanted, or if he was trying to compensate for not having Vesta.

She closed her eyes, letting the room shift around her—trying to silence the voice that insisted this wasn't faith, but guilt.

"The chains?" She repeated this while watching everything move and shape into different mirrors and realities of herself.

"I want to be more than just a sovereign." Her voice sharpened, honed by the hidden ambition.

"I want to be their GOD." Her gaze flickered to Prazutis. They burned with a fire none have seen behind the poise and delicate Princess of the Empire.

The room drew her attention again. She watched as the different versions of her lived their lives. First, she was given what she had always wanted. Quinn watched herself calm, quiet, and invisible. It would have been the life the Echani Princess would have lived if the Alliance had never invaded. If the Mandalorians or the Thyrisians had never broken into the palace.

She continued to watch, seeing a young man next to her. An eyebrow raised as Quinn figured this was a political arrangement. She had become Queen, taking charge of her sister.

A small smile curled at her lips, but knowing that the relationship she had was loveless and her role with the people was just to continue a line. The glimpse into her life continued, and children and family surrounded her. It was mundane, boring, and nothing she wanted. Quinn realized this life wasn't meant for her. For the first time, she was thankful her life was different.

Upon blinking, the images below her changed - shifting into something more attainable. She watched as her uniform was clean, and Quinn tilted her head. Everything was as she had currently planned. A minister of expansion, making moves, but never making the change she was destined to make. It was a life of compliance, and while not as simple as the previous life, it was still empty.

She watched, seeing a familiar ring on her finger, and Quinn wondered if she had been able to keep Kirie for herself.

Would she be okay with this ending?

Quinn parted her lips, but stayed silent. As she had proclaimed earlier, she needed to stick with her ambition.

Finally, the next potential future played out. Quinn could feel the power that bled from the throne she represented and the person she was. She felt the power radiating from the throne—and from herself. Not Quinn, but Darth Iraedeus. Empress of the Sith Empire. People bowed to her, they feared her, they revered her, and it was everything Quinn could want.

Her heart swelled—there it was, the same ring on her finger. In every path, it remained. That part of her fate, it seemed, was unshakable.

It was a curious scene; she had everything minus her proclamation. She was just an empress, still flesh and blood - still mortal.

The glass shattered and moved, and Quinn settled back on her foot. Her stance opened, preparing for a fight that could occur. Each spectre appeared, the words whispering each and every insecurity that she had felt.

Each phantom taking a face. The first one, Ashin, Quinn felt her heart sink as she heard those words again. They weren't true; they weren't how she was seen by others, and hopefully, not by her parents.

"It's not real," She whispered under her breath.

Next came Vesta; her heart broke, shattering in her chest as she heard the words she had always told herself. Quinn couldn't save Vesta; she couldn't find her in the afterlife, nor could she do anything to change reality.

So many endless nights of walking through their memories, plucking and changing the most minor details, only to find that in the end…Vesta would ALWAYS leave her. Her hands fisted as she felt her body tense. How could she argue the truth?

Quinn shut her eyes, doing her best to block out the phantom Vesta. Thankfully, the real Vesta reached out, enveloping her mind - protecting it with whispers of reassurance. Each word pushing back the phantom's lies.

They were reminders of who she was and what she was meant to be.

The phantoms drew closer, whispering their words, their lies, and self-doubt until suddenly the weight of the Force bore down upon the room itself. Walls shook as if fearful of the power that was swelling at the room's center.

Around them, the air thickened as electricity sparked, leaving the stench of flame in its wake. Anger, frustration, and the desire to prove herself fueled the dark residue as it collected. It all built up until the climax and waves of horror released from the girl at its core.

With each wave of trepidation, Quinn could feel the power surging from the Phobis Core. Its influence bled through her as she watched each of the Phantoms flicker where they stood. Their shapes broke with each pulse of her dreadful heart.

Gracefully, as if she were performing a ritualistic dance, Quinn extended an arm, palm open. Ribbons of brilliant gold spiraled from her, dancing, and entrapping each phantom. The ribbons wound tightly around each of them, draining whatever essence they were. As soon as they appeared, they were gone, and the gravity of the room fluctuated till it returned to normal.

"What was their purpose?" She asked, breaking the stillness of the room.

Quinn didn't look to the Father. Her eyes were glued to where the phantoms had stood. She could still hear their words, lingering in the back of her mind.

"They were cruel." Her voice suddenly became small as she finally looked at him. Tears were clinging to the anger that burned in her eyes.

The small voice suddenly found its teeth, as the Echani Princess demanded answers.

"WHAT WAS THEIR PURPOSE?!" ​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The mirrors shattered. All of her, past, potential lives, the looming shadows of her family, lingering regrets and past failures, triumphs, everything twisted into a maelstrom of glass shards and memory. Quinn stood at the epicenter, drenched in her own darkness, the scream of her soul raking across the walls of the Crucible. The living void twisted around the woman then, folding into itself like a serpent devouring itself, until it collapsed without a sound drowning the world in silence, the dreamscape broke. Once more the Echani stood at the center of the chamber, undoubtedly changed from the experience, a step in the right direction. She would find that her breath steamed in the air here, the runes beneath her feet would burn with a low, constat thrum. The obsidian of the chamber glistened like a wet stone in firelight, and every inscribed glyph in the walls pulsed in response to her presence. Something had changed. Something had stirred. Out from the shadows beyond the circle stepped the Dark Lord of the Sith. Each step came filled with purpose.

The giants eyes drilled holes through her, not merely gazing upon her as the spoken words hung in the air, it was as if he was peering through her into the deepest depths of her soul, as if He were methodically cutting flesh from spirit to examine the core of her identity. His robes flowed around Him like a burial shroud its fabric whispered with every footstep taken, their motion stirred independently from each movement He made as if they were alive. As the Mortarch walked, the shadows seemed to clear, yielding to their indomitable ruler. In the moments after her harrowing trial He didn't respond, He didn't speak and let the moment breathe, He let her pulse in it, choosing to let the memory of the event ruminate between them. It was after this period that He finally spoke, like an oracle proclaiming the future.

"There it is." Prazutis said. His voice rolled through the chamber like stone scraping against the bones of the dead, a baritone reverberating through the very walls. Each word was measured, carefully chosen. It wasn't approval, but it was acknowledgment, and that meant something. "You let it out. The ambition. The rage. The truth of what you desire, not a throne of memory, not their legacy draped like a borrowed cloak across your shoulders, but something more. Something truly, unquestioningly yours." He circled her carefully, His eyes drinking in every motion, every breath taken from the woman with careful analysis of a trained master. Despite his inquisitive gaze it wasn't predatory, merely the gaze of one evaluating another. "You screamed your will into the void and it screamed back. That is the first law of power, the first step."

He stopped before her, towering, the shadow of His presence stretching high over the ritual chamber. "But don't mistake this for triumph, Quinn. Don't mistake clarity for arrival. You saw a crown in your vision, but it was shaped of thorns. You wore obsidian not because you conquered…but because you survived long enough to wear it. That throne? It does not exist. Not yet." He reached forward, not to touch, but to lift His hand beside her face. The Dark Lord made the slightest motion of his hand, and the air split open like paper torn across a seam no one could find. A second veil parted in reality itself, torn by the indomitable will of one with such a profound control over fate itself. The walls melted away into a storm of vision. He unveiled the tapestry behind the Crucible, and she saw. She would see empires rise and fall like tides under a dying sun. Before her she would see sovereigns made not of gold and silk, but blood, steel, and sacrifice. She saw Vesta in battle, screaming, radiant, falling. She saw Srina at war, perfect, alone. She saw Spencer the living force of nature bending worlds to her chaotic will, and she saw herself, not as she was, but as the world would remember her if she failed.

"Do you understand what you invited, when you asked me to teach you?" Prazutis's tone dropped now, intimate, terrible. "I am not here to grant you power, Quinn. I am here to kill the part of you that was never meant to rule. The quiet doubt. The borrowed grace. The longing to be seen, to be loved, to be understood. You want to shape the galaxy? Such a thing requires sacrifice." A pause, slow and final came as He continued. "Then you must become the storm they build shelters against. You must bury the girl they all once knew and give birth to the nightmare they will never forget." A flicker of something rare passed through his voice then, not warmth, but something akin to it. Recognition. Perhaps even pride. "And for the first time…I believe you just might."

The Dark Lord stepped back and lifted His hand, and the room shifted again in accordance with His design. A ring of black stone rose around them, scorched with sigils as the room transformed. Twelve raised spires, uneven and jagged rose like fangs closing around a fire. Above, the ceiling seemed to peel away to reveal the void lit skies of Dromund Kaas, eternal stormlight arcing against a sky saturated with dread, a world gripped by the Umbral Maw He unleashed. "This is where your trial begins in truth. Not the illusion. Not the scream. But the forge." He turned his back to her, and with a gesture, called forth a long blade, not a weapon, but a symbol, floating in the air. It was etched in her name, blank, unwritten. "You are not crowned, Quinn Varanin. Not yet. But you are no longer who you were when you entered. You have taken the first steps."

His voice softened to a whisper, one that crept past the ears and whispered directly into the marrow. "This is the moment you pass from being their daughter…to being my apprentice." Prazutis finished, and then He spoke a name. A powerful name pulled from the bones of the dark itself. The name vibrated in the chamber, not loud, but irrevocable. The storm outside bent around it. "Darth Iraedeus." The air stilled. "Not your name. Not yet. But a shadow cast ahead, for you to step into…if you survive what comes next. If you are willing to kill who you are and become what you could be."

Quinn Varanin​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Darth Prazutis //:

Quinn listened. She didn't break her gaze; she didn't speak. The young woman took everything the man was saying. Even then, she was reminded that he was a man. He was just a man. He had her respect; that was something that not many had.

Braxus Zambrano was the Father of a woman who sought to attain godhood. She had reached and nearly accomplished her goals. Quinn stood by and allowed herself to be thrown away in the end — but she still held on.

She knew that she was loved and regarded as precious, but she wasn't enough for Vesta to stay. It was something that Quinn had to spend her time accepting. Even now, the Princess struggled, but continued.

There was a mixture of notes, praise, and yet he tore her down. There were conflicting points, but she understood the reasoning. It was a style of teaching she had employed herself. Praise the child, yet in the same breath, tear them down so they can be rebuilt.

Understanding the teaching style, she raised an eyebrow. Quinn didn't see herself as something broken. She was a person with flaws. They were scars from those around her, wounds that were healing and made her human. But did she want to remain just human?

No.

Quinn wanted to be something beyond that; she wanted to be better than any of the Sith before her. She had to be better than her parents; she had grown tired of being reminded of their skills and talents. All anyone saw when they looked at Quinn was Spencer and Ashin. It was a common compliment from those who knew her parents: 'You look just like your mother, the Queen.'

As a child, it was an honor, but now? Quinn wanted to own her face — she wanted people to see her.

Her gaze began to drift away from the man as he continued, and her mind mused over what the next test would be. Would he demand she denounce things? Would he throw more of these phantoms at her?

Instead, she was given more visions. The people she cared for the most were Vesta, Srina, and Spencer. All of them have their place in the galaxy. All of them did what they were destined to do.

Her eyes settled on her birth Mother. The woman was extraordinary and had transcended humanity. It was something Quinn wanted for herself. She knew that she would have to be better than the woman who granted her life.

His words struck a chord. Her eyes suddenly flashed a deep burning orange, mirroring the Empress's. Earlier, he had mentioned things she had learned from the woman. As he continued to tear at the parts of her she valued, the parts of her she had inherited from Srina Talon — her rage grew.

She let him finish, she let him claim her as his. But this would not go without a challenge. Her usual gentle, viridescent eyes remained the burning fire of the woman that raised her. What followed was another gift from her Mother.

The gift of her voice, the sharp tongue, and the courage to stand up to the tyrannical beasts of the Sith Empire.

"Keep my mother, keep the woman that raised me, that made me WHO I am today out of your mouth, or I will remove your tongue and send it to your nephew in a box."

She took a step forward, the Phobis Core quaked in her chest, and continued to bleed the rage she felt from his words.

She knew that the things she found value in about herself were considered weak in the eyes of other Sith. But those things made her different, made her better.

Her birth mother had become the Mother of the galaxy — caring for her children from a distance.

Quinn was jealous; she wanted a mother who cared only for her. But she had that in Srina, and because of that, she felt the rage she had just lashed out with.

She cared for Braxus. She admired him. She had always thought of him as family. And his pride warmed her in a way she hadn't expected. She wished Vesta could hear this — could be proud of her, too. Having the Father offer her that was something that she would hold on to till she returned ot the Force.

But that didn't give him the freedom to tear down what Srina had built up from childhood.

"She is the reason I exist. She is the reason why I fight. She will ALWAYS be my Mother." Her voice continued to boom, filling the large room with every fiber of her fury.

"If I choose to be your apprentice, Srina Talon's name, and Empyrean's — will remain out of your mouth. They are my parents, and while I seek to be their BETTER, I will NEVER forget what they have given me."

Her voice calmed as she drew back in indignation. It may have been childish, but she wouldn't allow someone, no matter who it was, to tear down the gifts that her Mother had given her. The woman didn't have to love her like her own; she didn't have to take her in and watch over her, but the Empress did.

And there was nothing Quinn could ever do to repay her.

"Those are my conditions, Uncle. I will learn. I will let you build upon the foundation that my Mother created. There will be no killing of who I am. Everything I am is meant to rule."

Quinn kept her head held high as she looked at the tyrant. He was a being of his own gravity, but she didn't fear him.

She feared no one.

"If that is acceptable, I will be your apprentice. And you will have a hand in creating the greatest Empress the Sith Empire has ever known."

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The threat landed between them like a blade laid gently on an altar, edge-first, bright with nerve. The Dark Lord didn't so much as flinch. The vast figure regarded her in full, and in that gaze there was no anger, only measure…and the faintest curl of approval from Him, like heat rising from banked coals, just barely perceptible. "Good." The Shadow Hand said at last, voice low and even. "Keep that spine. Keep that heat. A sovereign who will not defend her sanctities is a steward, not a ruler." He stepped closer until the red veins in the floor lit the planes of His face. "Hear me, Quinn Varanin: I did not 'put your mother in my mouth' to profane her. Srina built in you grace, discipline, and lethal restraint. Those are gifts. I will not spit on gifts." A beat, then the iron slid in behind the velvet. "But I will demand you surpass them. Devotion cannot be your ceiling. Love cannot be your leash. I am not here to unmake what she forged. I am here to harden it, edge it, and drive it through the world."

The Dark Lord let the words settle, then inclined His head ever so slightly, an acknowledgement rare as dawn in this place. "Your conditions are accepted." The admission was simple, but it carried weight: an oath given in a room where oaths were carved into stone. "In return, you accept mine." The air tightened; the chamber listened. "Three counter conditions, apprentice. First: No veils between us. Bring me the truth of your triumphs and your failures, not the story you'd prefer to tell. Second: Obedience in the lesson, dominion in the field. When I set the line, you cross it, then draw your own. Third: Ambition without apology. You will not apologize for wanting the crown, the knife, and the world. You will take them, and you will make them serve. Break these, and I will break you. Keep them, and I will raise you beyond the reach of ordinary ruin. I will forge in you the knowledge, and wisdom to rule."

The temperature of the room shifted. Around Quinn, faint lines of script, almost smoke, almost light, spiraled up from the floor and sank into her skin, threading a lattice just beneath the surface. "This is not a leash." Prazutis said, reading the brief flare of instinct that would potentially flare in her eyes. "It is a scaffold. Your dread is a sea with storms of its own choosing. I will teach you to set its tides." The Phobis Core inside her throbbed once, He could feel its power and, astonishingly, it didn't gutter outward but drew in, coiling like a great beast turning to regard a hand that knew how to touch without being devoured. "You are not a passenger to your fear." He said softly. "You are its rider. We begin there."

"Keep your teeth." The Dark Lord said, the hint of a smile like a cut in stone. "But remember: spoken threats spend their value. In court, you do not promise mutilation, you let them imagine it. You smile, and the rumor does the cutting. If a tongue must be boxed, let it arrive unannounced and make the second man talk for you." His gaze held hers, weighing, approving. "I wanted you to choose. You did." A fractional nod, acknowledgment. "Very well…my apprentice."

Quinn Varanin​