Tyrant Queen of Darkness
"Long time, no see."
Tag -
Quinn Varanin
The shuttle descended through the layered dusk of Jutrand, its matte-black silhouette cutting clean through the haze as though unwilling to touch the sky more than it had to. Below, the city stretched like a wound dressed in marble and durasteel—grand towers veiled in silk banners, spires half-swallowed by clouds. There was beauty here, old and cold, the kind born from curated power and perfected stillness. It was a place Serina Calis once imagined herself belonging to.
But that was before.
She stood at the fore of the landing deck, one hand gloved and resting lightly on the polished rail beside the viewport. No armor today. No flowing battle-cape, no ceremonial markings of dominion. The figure reflected in the transparisteel was something else entirely—cloaked in understated violet and carbon-gray, her silhouette regal in profile but not theatrical. A polished neckline. Subtle earrings. Her hair, coiled in a severe knot at the crown of her head, elegant and immovable.
Even her boots made no sound as she walked.
Outside, the platform cleared as the vessel's descent ramp extended with a quiet hiss of hydraulics. Crimson light bathed the entryway, casting a soft glow across the fine ridges of her jaw and the obsidian ring on her finger. The very air of Jutrand pressed differently. Heavier. Slower. It felt like a place used to being observed, not touched.
Her breath fogged slightly as she exhaled.
Quinn Varanin.
The name flickered through her mind like a once-familiar chord now left unplayed. Not with ache. Not with longing. But with a weight far stranger—a nostalgia that didn't crave return, but still demanded recognition.
Once, she would have rearranged the galaxy for this meeting. She would've stepped off this ship in something meant to dazzle, to haunt, to win. She would have chosen words like blades or verses, polished every syllable until they shimmered with apology or invitation or need.
But that woman was dead.
Serina Calis had not loved lightly. She had not lost lightly either.
And in the silence that followed the Archive's collapse—the silence after Lirka's intrusion, after the violence, after the smoke and blood and Quinn disappearing into shadows without a word—something inside her had finally turned cold. Not out of hate. But clarity.
The dream had been beautiful. Unreal. Unreachable.
And she had outgrown it.
Now, as the ramp lowered and the scent of rain-soaked stone met her, Serina Calis allowed herself a rare expression—something almost human. Her lips curled, just faintly, into the suggestion of a smile. No one aboard saw it. No one was meant to.
This was supposed to be a wine tasting.
That had been Quinn's idea, sent half-playfully in a short, carefully neutral message. A shared vintage. A place without history. Without politics. The kind of meeting that might once have passed for peace between old, complicated friends.
But Serina was not here for wine.
She was here for the Velgrath.
She had come, quietly, precisely, to ask for Quinn's support—not in title, not in ceremony, but in momentum.
She would not beg.
She would not plead.
But she would ask.
Because even now—even with the love severed, the ache behind her, the dreams folded like closed wings—Quinn Varanin was still someone she trusted.
Trusted not to lie. Not to flatter.
Trusted to see her as she was, not as she wished to be.
The wind caught the edge of her cloak as she descended the ramp. She didn't hesitate, didn't glance back. Her posture was tall, her movement as fluid as ever—every line of her figure speaking of precision and power in quiet harmony. Her heels struck the stone of the landing pad with sharp, surgical clarity. She scanned the horizon, letting the moment stretch.
She would not arrive early.
She would not pace.
She would simply be.
Whatever passed between them would not be born of the past.
It would belong to now.
