Private With Interest

[Darth Virelia]

"I know what she will do. Because I taught her to do it."

Tags - Lyssa Cluada



The outer rim's darkness had teeth.

The coordinates were scrubbed from most charts, the system unlisted, unspoken—an ugly pocket of warped asteroids and fragmented trade lanes long since abandoned. A graveyard of drifting cargo and imperial wrecks, picked over by vultures and forgotten by the light. This was where she had gone. Of course it was. Hiding in the margins, whispering secrets into the void like they were gospel. Malra. Serren Ven.

Darth Virelia stood in the chamber aboard her corvette, arms clasped behind her back as the stars rotated slowly beyond the wide holodisplay. Her figure was still as a blade waiting to fall. In the low red light of her personal sanctum, her silhouette blurred against shadow, as if the Dark Side itself refused to fully define her shape. Lightning pulsed through her mind. Not rage—something colder. Anticipation. Memory.

Malra's voice still echoed sometimes. Still clung to the corners of old recordings: hushed tones, precise diction, a breath of laughter in every syllable. She had been brilliant. Not as strong as Lyssa, perhaps, but sharp. Clever. Aching to be shaped. And she had begged for that shaping with all the reverence of a zealot. That was what made the betrayal all the more bitter.

Virelia's lips curled.

Not because of what was lost.

But because of what would now be returned.

With interest.

"Cowards always try to rewrite the terms of their leash," she said aloud, though no one stood with her. "But chains remember. And so do I."

The chamber trembled slightly as the ship adjusted course, aligning with the dead system's border. Deep within her sanctum, Serina's command panel flickered to life with an incoming report: preliminary scout droids had confirmed trace signs of Force usage—brief flickers of illusion magic, smoke conjurations, and shadow-binding rituals too delicate for the average cultist to sustain. It had to be her.

Serina did not smile. She didn't need to. Her satisfaction burned through every command, every step of her careful orchestration. The game was already underway. The board was being set not just for vengeance—but for dominance. For correction.

A soft chime.

She turned.

Behind her, the secured door to the hangar began to open. She knew who it was without turning. She always did. Her presence was singular, unmistakable—rife with electricity, hunger, and that beautiful wildfire of obsession that Serina herself had stoked.

Lyssa.

Her apprentice.

This was no longer a lesson.

This was ascension.

And in the silence that stretched before that first spoken word, the Dark Side itself seemed to hold its breath.

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

Here, out in the darkness of the outer rim, a rabbit hid in vain from a jackal.

A coward concealed herself here in this abyss - here in the forgotten corners of the galaxy, far from civilisation and prying eyes.

Malra - the girl who thought she could leave heaven and not taste hell. A woman who thought that she could defy God.

With every broken bone, Lyssa would prove to her just how wrong she was.

The mirialan waited patiently outside her mistress's chambers on the Corvette, calloused fingers brushing over the even more worn metal handle of her lightsaber pike. This was to be her first mission, the beginning of her reckoning. Her master had given her a chance to prove herself and she would certainly not get another - either she excelled now or she would lose her standing forever.

It was finally time to prove that Lyssa deserved to be known as her master's loyal hunting dog.

The ship shifted slightly and the cyborg shifted with it, her feet securely magnetised to the floor. When she closed her eyes, she could sense each movement, every inner working of the vessel. As if there was a latent power within her, desperate to reach out with the force and control the metal herself.

Perhaps one day her master would teach her how to harness that power. For now, she ignored it.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the air changed. The stillness of the moment was gone, the quiet sense of reflection that had draped over the ship like a shroud had dissipated. The time for waiting was over - the force hummed now with a sense of deep expectation.

Her mistress was ready for her.

The chime that announced Lyssa as she stepped into her master's chamber was too gentle for the individual it introduced. The cyborg stood, back lit by the light of the doorway, a silhouette of devotion and darkness. Her wild eyes were framed with messy black makeup, smeared across her face to bring out their corrupted gold and red colour. White strands of hair shone against midnight black ones, unnatural and wiccan.

She was a nightmare.

But she was a nightmare who bowed.

Taking a knee before her queen, casting her eyes to the floor lest she be blinded by her light, the Mirialan broke the silence. "I am ready, my mistress."

Holding out her hands above her kneeling form reverently, Lyssa summoned crimson lightning into her hands, vicious electricity that she presented as if it was an offering. "All my abilities - all my strengths - everything that I am is in service to you."

Calling back her lightning, Lyssa chanced a glance up, only to show her mistress how deeply she meant her next words. "You have placed me as a curse upon Malra. I will not disappoint you. I will bring unto her the greatest suffering the galaxy has ever seen. I will torment her, day and night, until she begs me to take her final breath from her. I will not relent, not until death seems to her a kinder fate than a life plagued by my presence."

"And," the cyborg could not help but smile, sweet and lovestruck, "It shall all be done in your name, my queen."

 

[Darth Virelia]

"I know what she will do. Because I taught her to do it."

Tags - Lyssa Cluada



The air inside the chamber had already begun to darken before Lyssa entered, as if the walls themselves were reacting to the promise of violence. Serina Calis—Darth Virelia—stood at the heart of the storm. She did not move as the doors parted. She did not need to. Her presence was gravity, and Lyssa, ever faithful, was drawn into orbit with instinctive, reverent obedience.

Kneeling.

Offering.

Yes, Virelia thought, slow and predatory. This was the apprentice she had chosen. The reflection she had coaxed from blood and discipline, obsession and fire.

And now—now she wanted to burn something for her.

Good.

Let her.

The moment Lyssa's voice reached her ears, Virelia turned with practiced grace. Her cloak whispered along the floor like smoke as she approached, her eyes gleaming like molten sapphires caught in low light. Her gaze fixed on the lightning pooled in Lyssa's palms—a sacred, writhing tribute.

Virelia smiled.

Not softly.

Sharply.

Wickedly.

"There you are," she purred, the words low, drawn out like silk slipping from the edge of a blade. "My dear, destructive marvel. My perfect little monster."

She stopped just shy of touching distance. Letting the weight of her presence settle into the room like a velvet noose. Her voice was not loud. It never had to be. It curved between syllables with the slow confidence of one who knew her words would be followed regardless of tone. Regardless of mercy.

"You kneel like a blade offered to the hand. You look at me as though you would set fire to the stars just to reflect their dying light in my eyes. And you call her name"—she leaned forward slightly, tipping Lyssa's chin up with a single gloved finger—"as if you understand the meaning of betrayal."

She let the silence hang. A breath. A heartbeat.

Then her lips curved again, this time with the cruel ecstasy of revelation.

"But you do, don't you?" she whispered. "You know it in your marrow now. That I am your meaning. That the light you once followed was nothing but a lie… a dim candle pretending to be dawn."

Her finger traced lightly down from Lyssa's chin, gliding along the edge of her jaw, the curve of her throat. "And this—this beautiful wrath in you—it belongs to me."

She walked behind Lyssa now, slow and deliberate, her voice never once losing its delicious, terrible intimacy.

"Malra," Virelia breathed the name like a curse laced with amusement, "thought she could drink from divinity and then spit the taste from her tongue. She thought herself clever. Independent. Free."

A soft, mocking laugh.

"No one walks away from me."

She reached Lyssa's shoulder and let her palm press there with slow, possessive weight. Not heavy. Just enough to remind. Just enough to claim.

"She left, yes. But only because she didn't understand what she was given. You…" Her voice dipped, practically a moan wrapped in velvet, "You do. That is why this trial is yours. Because when you break her—and you will, my pet—it won't be for information. Or revenge."

She leaned down, her breath brushing Lyssa's ear.

"It will be an act of worship."

She let that sink in before circling around once more to face her. Her boots clicked like punctuation, her presence overwhelming. Her violet gaze pinned Lyssa in place like a knife through parchment.

"I do not want her dead," she said, tone suddenly chilled with the ice of command. "Death would absolve her. What I want is obedience. Humiliation. I want her to crawl. Not for me. For you."

She stepped close again. So close Lyssa could smell her—an intoxicating blend of spice and ozone, like perfume laced with lightning.

"I want her broken so completely that when you drag her to me, she no longer speaks her name without asking permission."

One hand rose.

Crimson lightning danced along her fingertips—not wild, but beautiful. A masterpiece of control.

"I gave you power, Lyssa," she said softly, tilting her head. "And now I give you purpose. Your lesson is no longer about technique. It is about truth. About which devotion is real… and which is rotted."

Her smile returned.

"I want her to see you and know she was the lesser offering. I want her to beg to return to my favor, and be denied. I want her to understand—" she pressed two fingers to Lyssa's sternum, right over her heart, "—that this is what love looks like."

A pause.

"Pain. Pleasure. Piety. Perfection."

She stepped back again at last, and for a moment the chamber felt as though it exhaled. Her expression softened—still wicked, still hungry, but touched now with something colder and prouder.

"I chose you for this not because you're brutal," she murmured. "But because you are mine."

A gesture, simple and final.

"Go."

And then, dark as the space outside the viewport, she turned away. Not dismissively. But like a god, satisfied that her worshipper had learned the prayer.

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

Lyssa melted in her mistress's presence, glowing with reverence, a candle burning before the sun. She called her perfect, called her a marvel. She claimed her as her own, as the monster she had tamed, and Lyssa was so, so desperate to prove her right.

The apprentice listened intently as her master called upon her, as she spoke of the task she had recieved. She scowled, hatred marring her features, as the woman spoke of her target. She gasped softly at her touch. Played the part of her puppet perfectly, reacted to every word exactly the way she was supposed to.

After all, it was in obedience that Lyssa truly shone.

Her mistress pressed her palm against her shoulder, the weight not heavy, nor painful, but comforting. A physical manifestation of the obsession that always weighed upon her mind. A metaphorical collar roped around her neck, tightening with every lilt of her master's commanding voice.

"It will be an act of worship."

"As is everything I have done since we first met," Lyssa whispered back, so softly she barely heard the murmur herself.

"I do not want her dead. Death would absolve her. What I want is obedience. Humiliation. I want her to crawl. Not for me. For you."

The cyborg nodded, determination flowing like molten metal through her veins. Death was far too kind a fate for this girl. She would taste every single expression of agony Lyssa could inflict before she even began to think of the sweet relief of death. Her mistress called upon her to help the girl forget her name - but the mirialan had a better idea.

She intended to make Malra's suffering so great, she would forget she was even alive.

The shame, humiliation, and sheer agony would be so terrible, the woman would believe she was already dead. Her life would become hell, with Lyssa serving as her personal demon, dragging her through every single circle of hades before finally, finally, throwing her at the feet of the most magnificent satan imaginable.

"I gave you power, Lyssa, And now I give you purpose. Your lesson is no longer about technique. It is about truth. About which devotion is real… and which is rotted."

Lyssa listened to her mistress praise her, listen to her beautiful words about devotion, love and purpose. She let her body shiver with the pleasure of being claimed, felt the burning sensation across her skin as the woman pressed her fingers to her heart. The mirialan couldn't help but pray that her mistress could feel her heartbeat beneath her touch, feel how it screamed against her ribcage just for her.

"I'll always be yours," she whispered softly, lovingly. Obsession, sickly sweet, dripped from her words.

"Go."

Lyssa nodded once more, slow and reverent, before retreating back down the corridor until she reached the docking bay where her own ship sat patiently waiting for her. The war horse growled it's greeting as she approached, it's purr vibrating through her fingers as she trailed them it's hull. Her warhorse wasn't merely a vessel - it was a friend.

And it was the steed that would carry her to victory.

Slipping into the cockpit, the Mirialan plugged in the coordinates her mistress gave her as the doors of the bay opened to allow the cold vacuum of space to fill the room. Closing her eyes for a moment, Lyssa let herself breathe. Let the power of her ship flow through her as their neurolink activated and she sensed everything it could.

Then she dove, the vessel soaring down and through the stars as finally, the hunt began.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"I know what she will do. Because I taught her to do it."

Tags - Lyssa Cluada



The locals had once called it Devon's Bone, a jagged corpse of a world caught in orbit around a dying gas giant. Now, it was nothing but cratered rock and crumbling structures—an ossuary for ambition, silent and forgotten.

Perfect for hiding. Perfect for hunting.

Ash fell like snow across the surface, carried by whispering winds through shattered domes and twisted metal spires. Structures collapsed under the weight of time and silence, and the only signs of recent life were the faint shimmer of a repurposed energy field flickering like a dying flame above the remains of a refinery. That refinery had become Malra's sanctuary. Her coffin. The lights inside were dim, red and defensive, and somewhere beneath that half-buried shell of industry, the traitor tried to remember what it meant to be safe.

The surface above didn't care.

The ship that pierced the moon's thin atmosphere slithered down through the clouds—sleek, black, and blood-hungry. Lyssa's warhorse. Born of violence. Bred for pursuit. Its hull was scorched from old battles, jagged where it had torn through minefields and gun lines. It looked more like a predator than a ship, and when it touched down on the high ridge above the refinery's edge, it made no sound.

This place was an altar.

And Malra was the sacrifice.

The hatch opened with a low hiss.

Ahead, the shell of the refinery rose from the dust like a half-swallowed corpse. Towering smokestacks had long since fallen, snapped like brittle fingers. The main bulk of the structure was buried in rockfall, save for a single corridor still accessible, shielded by a low barrier field and two makeshift sentry towers powered by scavenged cores.