Private Whispers Beneath the Dust

[Serina Calis]

"I enjoy being a Queen, maybe one day, I can make it a reality."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The air was dry with memory.

It clung to the skin, to the bone, to the soul—like ash, like secrets, like blood long since dried. Wind whispered through the ancient cracks of the stone tomb behind her, carrying with it the cold breath of a thousand curses and the scent of timeworn decay. And yet, Serina Calis emerged unscathed. No, better than unscathed. Empowered. Enriched. Reignited.

She stepped from the threshold of the tomb into the scarlet twilight of Korriban's sun, the dull roar of the dying wind parting for her passage. Her silhouette was framed by the jagged teeth of crumbled masonry, the remnants of some long-forgotten ziggurat looming like the shattered molars of a god slain in another age. She did not look back.

The cape trailing behind her moved as though it had a will of its own, curling and fluttering in defiance of gravity, catching the fading light on its glowing violet inner lining. It kissed the ground behind her with reverence, but never dared touch her heels. Her boots struck the sandstone path with rhythmic, deliberate precision—each step echoing with the weight of purpose.

Her bodice gleamed darkly in the crimson sun, etched with the ancient geometry of Sith knowledge, not merely decorative but alive, pulsing faintly like veins beneath skin. Crimson and magenta sigils flickered across her form like coals that refused to extinguish. They had learned her now. Accepted her. Claimed her. And she, in return, had claimed them.

The tomb behind her had not given its knowledge willingly.

There had been whispers—of trials buried in madness, of rites stained with the minds of those who failed them, of spirits who clung to their legacies like starving jackals. But she had moved through those shadows like a storm cloaked in velvet: graceful, violent, patient. The Force had not been wrestled with. It had been seduced.

The wind rose again, brushing strands of her golden hair across her cheek. A hand moved—slow, controlled—tucking them back beneath the deep hood that framed her features. The motion was elegant, practiced, almost theatrical. Her face, when revealed again, bore the same faint, knowing smirk she always wore after taking something she was never meant to have. Not just satisfaction. Victory.

Her piercing blue eyes flicked toward the horizon where jagged peaks met blood-red sky. She could feel them out there—others, lesser seekers of power, slaves to ghosts and doctrine. Wandering acolytes, self-proclaimed lords. Broken relics in living flesh. She did not fear them. She pitied them. Every step she took was already three they could never match.

This planet had forged Sith for millennia, and it would continue to do so. But it had not known her before now. And what Korriban did not know, it would learn. Quickly. Violently.

She came to a halt near the edge of a broken stone platform overlooking the valley floor. Ancient statues of long-dead Sith loomed around her in pieces, faceless, eroded by time and forgotten fury. One of them had crumbled entirely, leaving only a jagged foot and the suggestion of a once-proud hemline. Serina rested one armored hand atop the broken stone.

"I remember you," she said aloud, though no one stood nearby to hear her. "You all thought yourselves kings… prophets… gods."

The Force rippled around her—a slow pulse, dark and deep, like the distant beat of some slumbering leviathan. The tomb behind her had given her something old. Something twisted and sacred. Its knowledge now whispered through her veins, curled beneath her tongue, fed her mind like a lover feeds poison in a kiss.

"I am what you feared would come," she said softly, voice as smooth as black silk across a razor. "Not your heir. Your reckoning."

She turned, the broken statue at her back, and began descending the timeworn path into the valley. The sky above her bled into darkness, and with it, the desert heat surrendered to a colder, hungrier chill. The night was coming. And with it, her plans.

Korriban would remember her. But it would not mark her with statues or empty hymns.

It would mark her by what came after.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

Back again.

Back to Korriban, back to being nothing more than an empty shell of a former Jedi, a blocked conduit incapable of mastering the power that flowed through her. Back to searching restlessly through the sands and the dust for answers, praying that the force would give her some kind of answer to the question that had haunted her since she turned to the dark side: What was she?

Not a Mandalorian, that was made abundantly clear when her bucket headed old master had cast her out after she'd killed his other acolytes. But she was only proving her devotion! How could he not see that? She was making sure that she could have given him her full attention without having to constantly be fighting others for his favour.

It didn't matter. She didn't care.

Lyssa wandered through the valley consumed with her own thoughts. Others like her wandered nearby, but she wasn't interested in them. They were too weak. They couldn't teach her anything she didn't already know.

However, ignoring them outright proved to be a fatal error.

Lyssa sensed movement just in time to turn around and receive a painful blow to the side of her face. Blinking, she looked up at a hulking Trandoshan wanderer, wielding some form of crudely made mace.

"I must prove myself to the gods of the dark side!" He barked out ferocoiusly. "I will gain their favour by soaking this sacred ground with your blood!"

"You are not even worth my sweat, you brute," Lyssa sneered back, but she knew she was caught off guard. She didn't have time to draw her lightsaber pike as the man swung at her again - all she could do was twist out of the way, but not nearly fast enough. The mace caught her shoulder with a sickening crunch, snapping her right shoulder blade clean in two.

Hissing her breath out angrily, Lyssa reached for the hidden compartment in her leg, drawing her vibrodagger and activating it. Furious, she began to slice viciously at the Trandoshan, who blocked her first two strikes but drew blood on the third. It dripped down from the top of his nose down to the top of his neck - a little further, and Lyssa would have slit his throat.

"You damned woman," He cursed, leaping forward again only to pass straight through the mirialian. The real Lyssa smirked at her duplication trick, sending multiple force visions of herself to surround him in a circle. The perfect distraction - this would be her chance to draw her real weapon and finish him off.

But the Trandoshan didn't hesitate. Screaming out a war cry in his language, he spun his mace around in a circle, passing through all the illusions until he reached her. Lyssa was knocked clear off her feet, hitting an ancient statue and landing painfully onto the red sand floor. Her illusions flickered out weakly as the man strode forward, grinning through the blood dripping down his face.

"Oh gods of the Sith, see me now!" He called out to the sky, raising his mace. "Watch as I sacrifice this soul to you! See that I am loyal and devoted-"

He didn't get a chance to finish as Lyssa raised her hand and shot out volts of crimson lighting from her fingertips. He screamed as his flesh burned, scales melting off of his skin like candle wax until he was little more than a husk of ashes staining the ground.

Gritting her teeth, Lyssa tried to call off her lightning - control it - but she was no Sith master. The electricity shot straight back into her, the last of it coursing through her entire body excruciatingly. The agony came to a crescendo as it reached her metal legs. Lyssa screamed, clawing at the ground weakly, tears of pain pooling in her eyes.

How could she have ever thought she was worthy of this power? If she died here, she would have deserved it.

Gradually, her lightning subsided, the last little bits leaving sending small shocks that shook her whole frame. She lay there twitching and crying on the ground, pathetic and everything that her father always told her she would be.

Useless.
Weak.
Alone.

In the end, she was nothing. And she would always be nothing.

 

[Serina Calis]

"I enjoy being a Queen, maybe one day, I can make it a reality."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The smell of scorched flesh was unmistakable.

It traveled on the air like incense—uninvited but oddly ceremonial. A dark offering not to gods, but to something far more insidious: failure dressed as devotion.

Serina paused in her descent, her head turning slowly, crowned by the deep, angular hood that cast her expression in shadow. The wind swept across the valley floor, tugging gently at the edges of her cape, drawing its hem toward the epicenter of the violence like the cloth itself was eager to bear witness.

She did not rush. She never did. Instead, her pace was steady, unhurried, her presence threading through the jagged ruins like an invading thought—quiet, dangerous, inescapable.

The hulking corpse of the Trandoshan lay twisted, blackened, the outline of his death burned into the sand beneath him. The stench of failure clung to him thicker than his melted scales ever had. But Serina's eyes were drawn elsewhere.

To the girl.

Curled in the red dust, her frame shuddering with aftershocks of self-inflicted agony, lightning still dancing across her twitching fingers like snakes refusing to leave a broken nest. Her tears were still fresh. Her pain still raw. Her shame—so thick and potent in the air—it almost shimmered.

Serina approached like a specter, boots making only the faintest sound as they disturbed the cursed soil. Her presence in the Force, however, was undeniable—a roaring storm behind silken curtains. Lyssa would feel it before she heard her voice. A great weight descending.

When Serina spoke, it was not cruel. Not mocking. It was far worse.

It was amused.

"Oh," she said, voice smooth and sonorous, like velvet wrapped around a dagger. "I see someone's been playing priestess to powers she doesn't understand."

She crouched beside Lyssa, not a trace of pity in her expression. Her glowing crimson and magenta armor caught the dull light of Korriban's fading sun, casting eerie reflections over Lyssa's ruined form. Serina studied her, those piercing blue eyes dissecting everything—injuries, posture, tears, shame.

And then she smiled.

Not kindly. Not cruelly. With interest.

"You have power," she said simply, brushing a lock of golden hair behind her ear, her gauntlet reflecting the raw energy still sparking from Lyssa's limbs. "But no refinement. No discipline. You bite into the dark side like an animal tasting blood for the first time, surprised when it bites back harder."

She tilted her head slowly, her tone deepening—more intimate now, like a whisper meant for a lover's ear.

"Tell me… is this what you imagined you'd become? Writhing in the dirt, begging your own power to spare you? Crying for a father who was never coming to save you?"

She watched the girl closely, savoring the silence that followed. And then, softer still, a thread of genuine curiosity in her voice:

"Or was this always your true face?"

She rose smoothly to her full height, her cape falling into place like the curtain on a stage. Her posture remained regal, statuesque. Her hand drifted lazily to her side, resting against the hilt of her own weapon—still sheathed, still unneeded. She looked down at Lyssa like one might examine the embers of a ruined painting: tragic, yes… but salvageable.

"I didn't come for you," Serina said finally, her tone shifting. "But now that I've found you? It would be a waste to leave you rotting here."

A step forward. Slow. Deliberate. A shadow fell over Lyssa's face.

"I can show you what you are. If you're willing to unlearn the weakness that brought you to your knees."

She knelt again—closer now. Close enough to whisper.

"Or you can die here. Screaming, twitching, forgotten."

A pause. Her gloved hand extended.

"Choose."

And in that one word—so calm, so seductive, so impossibly cold—was a universe of meaning.

Because Serina wasn't offering salvation.

She was offering clarity.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

Serina approached like a specter, boots making only the faintest sound as they disturbed the cursed soil. Her presence in the Force, however, was undeniable—a roaring storm behind silken curtains. Lyssa would feel it before she heard her voice. A great weight descending.

Lyssa was broken out of her thoughts abruptly, the strength of the powerful force presence looming over her cutting through the swirling chaos of her mind like a blade. Still in a lot of pain and unable to move her body, Lyssa resigned herself to her fate. Her only comfort was that she would die beneath the shadows of the Sith sorcerers of old - perhaps after she passed, her spirit would mingle with them, the great dark side users from eons ago.

The Mirialan closed her eyes and waited for the killing blow. Waited to join the ancient masters and surrender her spirit to the force. But instead of the swift and decisive strike that Lyssa was expecting, the figure spoke.

"Oh," she said, voice smooth and sonorous, like velvet wrapped around a dagger. "I see someone's been playing priestess to powers she doesn't understand."

Lyssa's eyes flickered open, regarding the woman warily. She was blonde, pretty even, but dangerous, as evidenced by her seemingly enchanted ancient armour. She didn't look much older than Lyssa herself was, maybe even younger. The familiar feeling of jealousy shot through her, only amplified when the woman began to mock her. Lyssa gritted her teeth. She was too weak to explain that she wasn't a priestess, that she wasn't as undisciplined as the woman claimed, that she usually knew better than to use her lightning unless she had no other choice. Still, it was pointless to antagonize this woman. Better to just wait until the blonde grew bored of playing with her food and decided to finish the cyborg off for good.

"You have power," she said simply, brushing a lock of golden hair behind her ear, her gauntlet reflecting the raw energy still sparking from Lyssa's limbs. "But no refinement. No discipline. You bite into the dark side like an animal tasting blood for the first time, surprised when it bites back harder."

She tilted her head slowly, her tone deepening—more intimate now, like a whisper meant for a lover's ear.

"Tell me… is this what you imagined you'd become? Writhing in the dirt, begging your own power to spare you? Crying for a father who was never coming to save you?"

Lyssa knew her face betrayed her surprise as the woman called her powerful. Genuine joy even began to bubble up in her chest, much to her disdain. Hadn't she had enough of hope to last a lifetime? Was she so desperate that she might think for even a moment that such a force of nature might ever consider her for a padawan, or an acolyte?

So when the woman rebuked her, called her reckless, Lyssa meekly nodded, berating herself inwardly alongside her. Of course no one would ever want her as their padawan. She'd never be the devoted student of the darkness she had dreamed she'd be when she first set out on this road.

Almost as if the woman could hear her thoughts, she mocked her again, only this time, her comments actually angered Lyssa. Seething, she went for her pike - to show this woman exactly what happened when someone dared bring up her father - only for her lightning to flare up again, encouraged by her anger. The Mirialan choked out a strangled hiss of pain, immediately dropping the weapon she had only just forced her fingers around.

Lyssa was nothing like she imagined she'd become.

"Or was this always your true face?"

Her true face...had she always been this weak? She knew that she had always been a force of darkness, the ying to her sister's yang. A never ending vessel of envy, hatred and ambition. Weak? Nothing about the child who'd murdered her sister in cold blood was weak. Nothing about the survivor who built herself legs of wood and taught herself to fight with a spear was weak. Nothing about the wife who slaughtered her husband and his tribe under the light of a blood moon was weak.

Her face was known to many, her name associated with destruction. None had ever dared question her strength besides her father - and herself.

So Lyssa coughed up her blood, forcing herself up onto one elbow to look the woman dead in her eyes as she answered: "No."

["I didn't come for you," Serina said finally, her tone shifting. "But now that I've found you? It would be a waste to leave you rotting here."

"I can show you what you are. If you're willing to unlearn the weakness that brought you to your knees."

"I am not weak," Lyssa argued back, though her voice came out choked and pitiful. "I just don't know the proper technique. I just need a master."

"Or you can die here. Screaming, twitching, forgotten."

Lyssa immediately clamped her mouth shut, looking away. This woman could easily leave her here and she wasn't about to let herself argue her way out of what could be her only chance to become a real sith.

A pause. Her gloved hand extended.

"Choose."

As if Lyssa could ever choose anything else. From the day she was born and cast aside as a spare in her father's eyes, to the day she murdered the only person who ever truly knew her, she was destined for darkness. Her fate was violence, her road paved with the corpses of those who could never understand her, because at the end of the day: None of this was ever about choice.

It was who she was. She would always burn with the power of malice and hate inside her. The only choice she could truly ever make was who she trusted to teach her how to wield it.

Lyssa's light green hand, clad in triangular tattoos, snaked up and grabbed the woman's hand. "I am yours to reform."

 

[Serina Calis]

"I enjoy being a Queen, maybe one day, I can make it a reality."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The wind stilled.

Not entirely—but just enough to notice. Enough that it felt as though the planet itself were holding its breath.

Lyssa's trembling fingers wrapped around Serina's outstretched hand, rough and calloused with the aftermath of too many fights, too many desperate grasps for power in the dark. A thousand scars pressed against the cool, obsidian-slick surface of Serina's gauntlet.

And Serina smiled.

Not the smile of pity. Not the grin of a victor. This one was something older. Wiser. Something that knew exactly what had just been set in motion.

"Good," Serina said softly, like a lullaby spoken in a language lost to time. Her fingers curled with exact precision around Lyssa's hand—not gently, but firmly, with a grip like a seal, a brand, a pact. The kind that couldn't be broken without blood. "Then we begin."

She did not pull Lyssa up immediately. Instead, she held her there—suspended in the moment, forced to feel the weight of her decision. To own it. Serina's gaze remained locked with hers, blue eyes like twin blades carved from glacial ice, each sharpened by years of conviction.

"You are mine to shape," she murmured, her voice almost intimate now. "Not to heal. Not to fix. But to forge."

And then—only then—did she raise the girl to her feet.

Lyssa staggered. Her shoulder cracked audibly as she rose, her muscles spasming against half-fried nerves and shattered bone. The scent of ozone still clung to her, mingling with sweat and charred leather. Serina let her stand. Let her struggle.

She offered no comfort.

Only presence.

"You speak of technique," Serina continued, her tone shifting once more—rising now, resonant with the tempo of command. "But technique without understanding is nothing more than mimicry. You chased shadows in the dark and called it sorcery. You burned your own flesh and called it sacrifice. But power without intention is just noise."

She paced now, slow circles around Lyssa. Each step quiet, but precise, like a panther circling a wounded cub—not with hunger, but with expectation.

"Your rage is raw. Beautiful, even. But wild things burn out. You will learn to use it. Shape it. Make it desire your command. And when it does…" Her words trailed, replaced by a small, sharp smile as she paused behind Lyssa, voice a whisper at the back of her neck, "…then you may call yourself something greater than Sith."

Serina stepped beside her now, facing the direction they would go—the rise leading out of the Valley and toward her waiting ship, a sleek black shadow half-sunken into the cliffside like a coiled viper.

"But know this, Lyssa—" Serina finally said her name aloud, savoring the weight of it like a spell given shape. "This path will not lead you to love. Or belonging. Or peace."

Her head turned slightly, enough for one searing blue eye to meet Lyssa's peripheral gaze.

"It will lead you to power. Real power. And that power will strip you of every lie you still tell yourself. It will burn the child. Bury the sister. Crush the lover. Break the daughter."

She turned fully now, facing her once more. Her posture was regal. A queen in all but title, forged not by bloodline, but by will.

"And from those ashes, I will carve someone worthy of their pain."

She extended her arm again—not to shake. Not to help.

But to claim.

"Swear to me," she said, her voice now low, sacred, and commanding all at once. "Swear yourself to this path. No doubts. No questions. No turning back. You are mine now. Flesh and fire. Bone and belief. Swear it."

And the desert, in its ageless silence, waited with them.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

"You are mine to shape," she murmured, her voice almost intimate now. "Not to heal. Not to fix. But to forge."

Lyssa met her gaze, acutely aware of the weight of the moment. The woman chose to hold her there in a completely unnecessary display of power. As if Lyssa didn't already know she was completely at her mercy. Unless...this was her first test. A test she could not afford fail.

Without breaking eye contact, Lyssa dipped her head. A simple, subtle act of reverence - a bow to a woman she hoped might become her master.

"Let it be as you say," she answered, her tone deeply deferential. "I am but a blade in your forge. Once you have hammered out my weakness and shame, and cast me into the image of a real weapon, I will be yours to wield and use as you will."

And then—only then—did she raise the girl to her feet.

The pain in her shoulder was overwhelming, white hot and furious. Still, Lyssa refused to show weakness. Not to her. The Mirialan may have bitten straight through her cheek to the point of drawing blood, but she did not scream. She did not cry out. She stared the woman before her down with crimson dripping from her teeth and determination in her eyes.

"You speak of technique," Serina continued, her tone shifting once more—rising now, resonant with the tempo of command. "But technique without understanding is nothing more than mimicry. You chased shadows in the dark and called it sorcery. You burned your own flesh and called it sacrifice. But power without intention is just noise."

"Your rage is raw. Beautiful, even. But wild things burn out. You will learn to use it. Shape it. Make it desire your command. And when it does…" Her words trailed, replaced by a small, sharp smile as she paused behind Lyssa, voice a whisper at the back of her neck, "…then you may call yourself something greater than Sith."

"You think you know me so well," Lyssa whispered bitterly, crossing her arms over herself defensively, "But I never thought myself anything but an acolyte. I never believed I was a sorcerer, or a priestess, or even someone worthy of sacrifice - just a seeker of darkness. A follower of the other side of the force."

Her bitterness slowly turned into a hesitant smile at the woman's next words. "Of course. Under your guidance, I will flourish, but," she glanced away, suddenly fearful of earning another rebuke, "The last person who promised me I would be even greater than the Sith abandoned me. I need security, I need structure and I need to know that if you leave me, others might accept me instead. I need some kind of assurance - some kind of order."

"But know this, Lyssa—" Serina finally said her name aloud, savoring the weight of it like a spell given shape. "This path will not lead you to love. Or belonging. Or peace."

"It will lead you to power. Real power. And that power will strip you of every lie you still tell yourself. It will burn the child. Bury the sister. Crush the lover. Break the daughter."

"And from those ashes, I will carve someone worthy of their pain."

Lyssa bit back the gasp as the woman spoke her name. She knew she shouldn't be surprised, she knew it was stupid of her to underestimate her teacher's power, but for her to already know everything about Lyssa...it sent sensations of both terror and twisted veneration down her spine. Blind devotion flickered in her eyes as she nodded along to her words.

Yes, she would burn the child - the forgotten daughter: unwanted, abandoned, belittled.

She would bury the sister - the lesser half of a whole: jealous, malicious, scheming.

She would crush the lover - the bride forced into marriage: bitter, resentful, vengeful.

But most importantly, she would break the daughter...the daughter who still let her father shape her every moment, her every thought. Well, no longer.

"Swear to me," she said, her voice now low, sacred, and commanding all at once. "Swear yourself to this path. No doubts. No questions. No turning back. You are mine now. Flesh and fire. Bone and belief. Swear it."

Lyssa looked down at her hands, marred from a life of hardship and suffering. Drawing her vibroblade once more, she slit her wrist, adding one more scar to the multitudes that already decorated her flesh. The Mirialan let the blood drip down her hand, letting the weight of the moment consume her.

It may have taken her five long years, but she was finally going to complete her training. She would finally harness the power within that had for so long threatened to destroy her. The force had smiled upon her today. And today, she smiled back.

A calloused hand stained with crimson blood grabbed the woman's as Lyssa looked deep into those piercing blue eyes. "Master," she began, her voice dripping with conviction just as the blood dripped from her hand, "I swear to follow you into the darkness. To be your weapon for as long as you may sharpen me, polish me and perfect me. I swear loyalty to you and no other. I am nothing but your tool and I welcome it, for I know you will break me and rebuild me again, stronger and greater than ever before."

Once more, Lyssa bowed her head in reverence. "Flesh and Fire. Bone and Belief. My flesh is yours. The burning fire of my rage is yours. My broken bones are yours. I believe in nothing but you. Everything I am I give to you, for my entire life is too small a price for the gift of knowledge you will impart to me."

 

[Serina Calis]

"I enjoy being a Queen, maybe one day, I can make it a reality."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The oath hung between them like incense in a tomb.

Serina watched it unfold—not merely hearing Lyssa's words, but feeling them, each syllable steeped in desperation, in conviction, in that exquisite, fragile thing that so many Sith forgot to recognize: hunger.

And Serina loved hunger.
It was the mark of the unbroken, the truly moldable.

As the Mirialan's blood slicked her gauntlet, as crimson dripped from calloused fingers down onto the thirsty sands of Korriban, Serina did not flinch. She welcomed it, let the blood anoint her hand like a sacred baptism—binding, eternal, profane.

"You speak well, little blade," Serina murmured, voice low, dangerous, almost affectionate in its depth. "And you bleed beautifully."

Her free hand rose, two fingers catching Lyssa's chin in a deceptively gentle hold, forcing her face up from its bow. Not cruelly—no, not yet—but with the commanding grace of a sculptor inspecting the marble before the first strike of the chisel.

Blue eyes stared into green without a shred of mercy.

"You swear yourself flesh and fire, bone and belief," Serina said, her voice rippling with power, heavy enough that even the ancient stones seemed to lean closer to hear. "Then hear me now, Lyssa."

Her thumb brushed faintly over the blood that had stained Lyssa's mouth—a mockery of the sacrament it resembled—and her next words were sharp, cutting:

"I will not be your mother, nor your shield. I will not coddle the wounded girl clawing at your ribs. You will not find kindness in me. Only purpose."

She released Lyssa's chin, letting her speak or fall silent as she pleased, but the gravity of her gaze never faltered.

"I will strip you until nothing remains but will and weaponry. I will turn your screams into songs of power. Your weakness into walls no force in this galaxy may scale. Your loyalty will be tested—not once, not twice, but unrelentingly—because power is not granted. It is earned."

A faint smile flickered across Serina's lips—a smile not of warmth, but of recognition. The first breath of something inevitable taking root.

"And should you betray your oath—" her tone turned soft, almost regretful, as if mourning a death yet to happen, "—I will end you. Swiftly. Without ceremony."

She stepped back finally, letting the distance stretch taut between them like the final note of a symphony. Her cape whispered across the sand as she turned, facing the path out of the Valley, the black silhouette of her ship framed against the bleeding sky.

"But if you endure," she added, voice rising just slightly, enough to stir the air between them like a rising storm, "then you will not merely be greater than the Sith."

She looked over her shoulder, blonde hair gleaming under the setting sun, a golden halo mocking her dark majesty.

"You will be inevitable."

Without waiting for confirmation, Serina strode forward. Her steps were measured, unhurried, assured that the broken thing behind her would either follow—or collapse and be left to rot with the other failures buried in the dust.

And in the rhythm of her stride, in the certainty of her presence, was the only answer Lyssa would need.

This was no kindness.

This was salvation through obliteration.

"Come, apprentice," Serina called over her shoulder, her voice wrapping around the dying daylight like a velvet noose. "The forge awaits."

And the shadows—ancient, watchful, whispering—seemed to close behind them, sealing the old tombs away once more as two new architects of ruin left the Valley of the Dark Lords behind.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

"You speak well, little blade," Serina murmured, voice low, dangerous, almost affectionate in its depth. "And you bleed beautifully."

Lyssa couldn't help her smile as the woman lifted her chin. She was this woman's prize, something worth keeping and reforging. The sheer delight at the thought of it was almost overwhelming.

"You swear yourself flesh and fire, bone and belief," Serina said, her voice rippling with power, heavy enough that even the ancient stones seemed to lean closer to hear. "Then hear me now, Lyssa."

"I will not be your mother, nor your shield. I will not coddle the wounded girl clawing at your ribs. You will not find kindness in me. Only purpose."

"I have never needed a mother," Lyssa responded, neither defensively nor bitterly, but simply stating a fact. "And a blade does not beg it's wielder to shield it from battle. No, it craves blood, just as I crave revenge. I don't expect pity from you. I expect power."

"I will strip you until nothing remains but will and weaponry. I will turn your screams into songs of power. Your weakness into walls no force in this galaxy may scale. Your loyalty will be tested—not once, not twice, but unrelentingly—because power is not granted. It is earned."

"And should you betray your oath—" her tone turned soft, almost regretful, as if mourning a death yet to happen, "—I will end you. Swiftly. Without ceremony."

Lyssa's red and yellow eyes flashed angrily at the implication that it was only a matter of time before she break her oath. Baring her teeth, she snapped back: "I would see myself burn before I betrayed you!"

She gestured to her legs with fervour: "I have mourned the loss of my flesh before but if you were to tell me to cut off my own arms...I would do so willingly. Do you not see that I am nothing but your steadfast and faithful servant?"

"But if you endure," she added, voice rising just slightly, enough to stir the air between them like a rising storm, "then you will not merely be greater than the Sith."

"You will be inevitable."

Lyssa nodded, mouthing the word alongside her, excitement stirring in her heart, anticipation swirling through what was left of her body. "I will not disappoint you."

"Come, apprentice," Serina called over her shoulder, her voice wrapping around the dying daylight like a velvet noose. "The forge awaits."

Lyssa followed dutifully, grateful that her ship was in the same direction. Reverently, she asked: "By what name shall I know you, then?"
There was no part of her question that made it seem like she was trying to learn the other woman's secrets. There was no hint of a need for equal footing, or a tool to use against her.

No, this was simply the desire of a dog, wishing to know the name of its master.

 

[Serina Calis]

"I enjoy being a Queen, maybe one day, I can make it a reality."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



Ah.
There it was.

Serina heard it in Lyssa's voice—the surrender so complete, so intoxicating, it hummed through the Force like the pluck of a perfectly tuned string. No hesitation. No bargaining. No misguided illusions of partnership. Only service. Only hunger. Only faith.

And it was delicious.

Serina let her strides carry her up the crumbling slope, slow and regal, her every movement steeped in sovereign poise, drinking in the new song that trailed behind her—the sound of bare loyalty clicking into place like a trap around Lyssa's own ankles.

This was what she had sought.
Not a rival.
Not a student.
A creation.

Lyssa's desperate fervor was not met with derision, but with a kind of dark, seductive satisfaction that curled at the corners of Serina's painted lips. It was good that the girl spoke with such fervor. It was right that she burned for purpose. Better still that she burned for her.

When Lyssa asked her question, soft and reverent, Serina slowed her pace just slightly—enough to let the anticipation bloom in the space between them. She tilted her head, letting the crimson sky catch the luminous edge of her blonde hair beneath the hood.

Without turning fully, she spoke. Her voice was rich—an exquisite silk wrapped over sharpened steel—meant to be worn against the skin and cut to the bone all at once.

"You may call me..." she paused, savoring the moment, "...Mistress."

The word flowed like a command and a promise, both soothing and invasive, seeping into Lyssa's ears and down into her marrow, a brand invisible but everlasting.

Serina finally turned to face her fully, one elegant boot planted atop a jutting stone, her cape swirling around her like a living thing in the rising night wind. Her stance was effortless, commanding—an empress at the edge of an empire only she could see.

"You will never speak my true name unless I permit it," she said, her tone taking on a purring softness that somehow made the command even more unbreakable. "In your mind, in your heart, and from your lips, I am only Mistress."

Her blue gaze burned into Lyssa's battered body, seeing past every injury, every scar, every past betrayal—and into the shape of what she would become.

A perfect blade.
Beautiful. Deadly. Devoted.

Serina stepped closer, close enough that the hem of her armor-brushed bodice might have brushed against Lyssa's shoulder if the Mirialan dared to move. She reached out, one crimson-etched gauntlet tracing the air near Lyssa's temple, a gesture almost tender—but ultimately untouchable.

"I will make you strong enough that the galaxy itself will tremble at your passage," she whispered, voice low, caressing the very air between them. "You will wield pain like an artist wields brush and ink. You will forget what it is to beg, to fear, to need."

Her hand dropped back to her side with studied grace, and she smiled once more—slow, predatory, pleased.

"But for now..." she said lightly, as if discussing something mundane rather than reshaping a soul, "we must first mend the broken bones you so dutifully offered to me."

She turned again, striding toward the waiting ship, the boarding ramp already lowering at her silent command. The silhouette of the vessel loomed like a black crown against the stars.

"You'll find no bacta baths and pampering aboard," Serina called over her shoulder, voice growing distant but no less commanding. "You will heal as you train. You will learn as you bleed. Every step forward will be bought with agony."

Another step. Another heartbeat.

"And every ounce of agony will be a hymn to me, little blade."

Without pausing, without doubt, Serina disappeared into the waiting shadow of the ship—leaving Lyssa standing at the precipice of her new life.

There would be no turning back now.