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.

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

Metallic feet kicked up ash as they landed upon the surface of the planet. Silhouetted against the setting sun, the huntress stalked her way over to the flickering, weak energy field that shielded the refinery. A pathetic attempt at safety - a mere shell for the girl to shrivel up in as if she was a slithering sea slug.

Malra disgusted her.

As Lyssa approached the corridor, she summoned crimson lightning to her fingertips. A gift from her mistress, a tool she could use against the lost one. Pressing her palms to the energy field, she fuelled her rage into the sealed entrance, overwhelming it with electricity and short circuiting the power supply. The entire complex went dark, but Lyssa stepped confidently through the shadows.

It was time to slaughter the black sheep.

 

[Darth Virelia]

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

Tags - Lyssa Cluada



A cascade of sparks rained from the junction nodes above the refinery's only remaining access corridor, arcing violently before winking out into silence. The emergency lighting flickered red once—twice—and died. Whatever weak semblance of power still fed the complex was strangled in an instant. Inside, the corridors became tomb-like: narrow, rust-stained, lined with jagged conduit and peeling hazard tape. Air hissed in some forgotten pipe as the failing repressurization system gave one final, futile groan.

Then all was still.

Far below, on sub-level three, a warning siren gave a dying scream and cut off. A dim holopanel projected a distorted warning in broken Basic, glitched beyond legibility. The smell of oil and old blood lingered thick in the air, mixing with the stench of burnt ozone now creeping down the ventilation shafts. Shadows pooled in the corners of the narrow maintenance corridor—stagnant and oppressive—and from somewhere deeper still, a low metal creak echoed through the dark like a groan from the moon itself.

A door slid half-shut in the distance. Then a crash. Then silence again.

Someone was running.

The refinery had been repurposed by desperate hands—reinforced doors, welded sheet metal, jury-rigged cameras and sensor nets. But nothing inside had been built for a siege. Nothing here was made to keep something out. This was a hiding place. A rabbit warren. And now, the rabbit was cornered.

On sub-level two, a motion-triggered holocam flared to life. Static crackled across the screen, revealing a single figure dashing down a catwalk with a blaster held in trembling hands. Human, female, shoulder-length hair half-braided in panic, half-loose in disarray. Malra wore no armor. Just a repurposed worker's flight suit and a field pack slung over one arm, spilling datacards and stolen relics with every frantic step. She didn't slow. She couldn't afford to. Every breath was shallow, desperate. Every step a fight against the weight of inevitability.

She didn't even look back.

The internal holonet glitched again. Briefly. A few frames flickered to life on an auxiliary panel: the landing pad, a black ship, and then—nothing. The feed cut out entirely.

Malra cursed under her breath.

She scrambled into the core control room, slamming the emergency bulkhead shut behind her with a wheeze of old servos. The lights here still worked—barely—casting an ugly, orange glow over a dozen consoles, each one marked with warning glyphs and flickering indicators. She ignored them all and ran for the terminal against the far wall. Her fingers danced over the keypad, not with confidence but desperation, praying the databanks she'd stolen from Virelia's archive could still be ejected before she arrived.

She didn't have much time.

Every second felt like eternity. The power core groaned below the deck, unstable, overstressed by her tampering. Sweat clung to her brow as the air temperature began to spike. Somewhere far above, a footstep echoed like a death sentence down the ventilation shafts.

She heard it.

And she froze.

Not just in body—but in spirit. In the soul.

She wasn't ready.

She had thought herself clever—elusive, justified, even noble in her betrayal. But now, in the cold silence of this failing complex, all of that rationalization drained from her like blood from a wound. She felt the shadows moving outside the bulkhead. Felt them hunting. Her hands trembled.

One last message, she thought. One last signal. One last cry for help.

She turned back to the console.

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

Darth Virelia

Darkness shrouded Lyssa like a cowl, wrapping her warmly in its embrace as she strode confident and unafraid through the refinery's corridors.

This was Malra's reckoning.

This was her master's vengeance.

The girl ran like she didn't understand what it meant to be truly hunted. She ran as if she didn't realise she was prey. Careless and thoughtless with fear, her trail was clear to Lyssa as it marked her frantic dash for safety. Scattered datacards and Sith curios littered the walkways. Lyssa's mechanical boot kicked them into the maintenance shafts below. Whatever power they once held had long since been tarnished by the dirtied hands of a traitor.

Shallow breaths, murmured curses - Malra made it almost too easy. Her terror was the truest of her trails, a stench that a hunting dog like Lyssa could all too easily sniff out. The former apprentice had buried herself in the deepest crevice of this hiding hole, locked herself in a server room in the hopes of convincing herself that it had been worth it, in the end. That she had made a difference, that she would not be forgotten by the galaxy.

Lyssa would prove to her just how ridiculous that lie was.

The cyborg's footsteps were heavy, suffocating in their unnatural nature as she circled the room above Malra. Her presence moved below her, weak and desperate and so undeserving of her master's attention. The huntress ignited her saberstaff.

It was time to reinstall the fear of God in this woman.

For what greater God existed in this galaxy than her mistress?

In one fluid motion, the apprentice cut through the ceiling, landing behind Malra in a shower of sparks and red hot metal. Boldly, the girl dared to ignore her, dared to continue to frantically toy with her console and fight to secure her legacy.

Oh, Lyssa would show her legacy.

Her mistress had taught her control. She had been the only one to ever control Lyssa and show her how to master her flames and harness the fire inside of her. Where once anger had played with her like a puppet, there existed now only cold, steely focus.

Stepping back, the mirialan raised her hand, spreading her fingers out towards the console.

Some skills were transferable. Some lessons universal. And right now, as she concentrated on the mechanics just in front of Malra, Lyssa knew she had gained the mastery to make her power non lethal. With her mistress's face in mind, all of the dark energy within her could be tamed and harnessed not only to kill but to demonstrate.

With narrowed eyes, Lyssa closed her fist and the console in front of Malra exploded in a crescendo of flames.

 

[Darth Virelia]

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

Tags - Lyssa Cluada



The console screamed before it shattered—an unholy, metallic shriek followed by a detonation that painted the walls in digital gore. Sparks burst like blood spray from the shattered interface. Red light stuttered wildly across the control room, illuminating Malra's silhouette as she was hurled backward, limbs flailing. The heat from the explosion licked across her side and shoulder like a cruel brand, burning synthetic fabric and leaving skin raw and blackened beneath the collarbone.

She hit the ground hard. A heap of twitching breath and disbelief.

Then silence.

The fire died as quickly as it had come, leaving only the whisper of melting circuits and the ghost-light of ruined holoscreens. The room smelled of ozone, coolant, and scorched flesh. Smoke curled up like incense before an altar, and amidst that ruin, the remains of the console—the one last desperate link to the outside galaxy—flickered and died.

A severed lifeline.

Malra groaned.

She pulled herself upright on trembling hands, fingers slipping in the dark over shards of transparisteel and burning metal. Her body screamed at her to stop. Her lungs felt like they were coated in ash, each breath sharp and shallow. She didn't dare look at the injury. She couldn't afford to. Not now. Not with the weight of presence behind her.

It was palpable.

A shadow darker than the smoke. A predator in the shape of a woman. The very air between them felt thinner—charged and watching, like the world itself was holding its breath. The wound on her shoulder was already beginning to clot, but the wound inside—the reality—bled freely now.

She was cornered.

Malra turned slowly, the fire reflecting in her eyes.

"…You are Lyssa?" she rasped. The word tasted like dust. Her voice trembled not with fear, but with something worse: recognition. Her face contorted with disbelief, anger, betrayal, and a sudden, blinding understanding.

Of course it would be her.

The mirialan stood with blade drawn, wreathed in the fading glow of her own destructive artistry. Malra stared up at her, disbelief hardening into a cold, defensive snarl. She clutched her injured side but refused to cower, even now. Even after everything. She pulled herself to her feet with defiance in her posture, even as her knees threatened to give.

"You were nothing," she spat, voice thick with bitterness. "You were barely known before I left. You're her dog now? Is that it? You came all this way to grovel at her feet?"

Her gaze flicked toward the ruined console, lips curling into something between a sneer and a snarl. "She sends a weapon, not a message. Cowardice, as always. She never could face her own failures—so she makes them into monsters and calls it power."

A trembling hand reached toward her belt. There was no saber—she'd pawned that on Taris long ago—but she still carried a vibroblade. Dull, nicked, barely functional. A relic of her running. She drew it now with shaking fingers, leveling it in Lyssa's direction like a talisman against a demon.

Her body shook.

Her courage cracked.

But her voice—her voice—remained.

"If you came to kill me…do it. But know this: I didn't betray her. I escaped her. And if you had half a brain left under that metal skull, you'd do the same."

She took a breath.

She readied herself.

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

Darth Virelia

Malra squirmed upon the ground like a worm caught on a hook, like an injured animal fighting for its last breath.

Lyssa gazed upon her with utter contempt.

What her master once saw in this woman, Lyssa did not know, nor could ever understand. Malra's presence in the force was weak, a flickering flame of forgotton power. Where once she might have feasted at the table of her master's might, she now begged for the crumbs of a lost legacy.

Pathetic.

Then the creature dared to speak. To address her, as if they were equals.

"…You are Lyssa?"

The mirialan gave her the slightest of nods. It wasn't done in recognition or deference, but as the physical manifestation of her mistress's fury. The small movement might as well have been the girl's death sentence.

Malra played the part of prey perfectly. Her snarl, her hidden fear veiled in a fierce glare, her desperate attempt to staunch the pain of her injuries, even the wobble of her weakened knees - all of it fed into the hunter's instincts. Every action fuelled Lyssa's desire to pounce upon the former acolyte and watch her blood stain the factory floor.

But not yet. To kill her now would be to fail her mistress's test. Let her try to convince her to join her side. Let her beg for her to turn against her saviour.

Lyssa would not be so easily swayed.

"You were nothing. You were barely known before I left. You're her dog now? Is that it? You came all this way to grovel at her feet?"

Lyssa cocked her head, almost amused. She hadn't expected such ridiculously childish insults and lies. Still, while most of what Malra said was filth, there was one thing she was right about.

"Correct. I was nothing," Lyssa agreed, her voice cold as steel as she took a step forward. "Now, I am everything."

Because to be her mistress's dog was to be everything. There was no greater honour than getting to grovel at her feet, no greater joy than getting to be her pet. The mirialan had finally found her purpose and she was not about to throw it all away like Malra had.

The girl continued to babble, referring to her as a weapon and not a message. Was she so stupid that she did not see that Lyssa was both? A harbringer of death, a fury sent to torture a lost soul. The cyborg served as her Goddess's angel, her own divine executioner of justice.

How could the girl call her mistress a coward? Was it cowardice for a queen to instruct her knight to go after insurgents, while she focuses on ruling her kingdom? Was it cowardice for a deity to ignore an ant, so far beneath it, and send a raging storm to wipe it out instead? Was it cowardice to wield a powerful weapon, when the alternative was to allow it to gather dust?

"No. You were a failure, Malra," Lyssa eventually spoke, and her voice rang out around them like thunder before lightning. "You were just never strong enough to become a monster like me."

The fallen apprentice reached for her weapon - not a saber, not the true and respectable sword of the sith - but a vibroblade. The favoured armament of guttersnipes, no better than a jagged piece of broken glass or a blunted razor blade. Lyssa didn't bother to fight back a low, dark chuckle as the girl levelled it at her.

Did she truly still believe she had a chance of survival? With that?

"If you came to kill me…do it. But know this: I didn't betray her. I escaped her. And if you had half a brain left under that metal skull, you'd do the same."

"Kill you?" The chuckle became a full laugh now, deep and guttural to the point that Malra could feel it in her bones. "Oh, you should be so lucky!"

Lyssa's final word turned into a snarl as she flew forward, spinning her saberstaff in a swirl of deadly crimson and leaving sparks in the air behind her. Her master had taught her to use her reach and she did, her focus narrowing on the girl's pitiful excuse for a weapon.

Malra wanted a message? Well, the cyborg would show her one.

Never raise a hand against her master.

A clean lunge, perfect, guarded and poised as she had been taught. Lyssa's blade moved to slice through the girls hand, disarming her both figuratively and literally.

To lose a limb was an unimaginable pain.

Lyssa would begin there.

 

[Darth Virelia]

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

Tags - Lyssa Cluada



The pain was excruciating.

Malra screamed as her weapon hand fell limp, the vibroblade clattering against the scorched floor beside it, useless now—like her. Searing agony tore through her arm, the smell of burned flesh rising thick in the air as the cauterized stump oozed red around the edges. Her legs buckled. She collapsed to her knees amidst the slag and smoke, eyes squeezed shut, breath hitching in broken gasps.

But she didn't die.

She didn't beg.

Not yet.

Fury flickered behind her eyes like a dying spark struggling to catch flame. There, beneath the horror and agony, lived something older than pride—something stubborn, ancient, forged in the crucible of Virelia's early teachings. Malra had failed, yes. But she remembered the lessons. Pain was a whetstone. Suffering could sharpen a broken blade.

"You're not the first thing she sent to kill me," she hissed, blood on her teeth. "But you will be the last."

One hand. That was all she had left now. Her movements were frantic, clumsy, desperate—but no longer stupid. Malra threw herself backward, skidding behind the ruined husk of a shattered server stack, her breath ragged and feral. Every inch of her throbbed with injury, every beat of her heart a scream—but she endured.

The Force answered.

She wasn't strong, not anymore. But desperation had a way of opening channels long forgotten. She reached into the floor, into the walls, into the very systems of the old refinery, scavenging fragments of power—metal piping, leftover coolant lines, exposed voltage nodes still crackling in the dark.

With a snarl, she yanked an overhead valve from its housing with the Force. The pipe ripped loose, slamming to the floor beside her, hissing steam in great bursts of heat and fog. Visibility dropped instantly. She wasn't trying to win. She was trying to stall. To flee. To bleed into the corridors before Lyssa could pin her down again.

A trap door behind the central cooling column groaned beneath her as she hurled it open, diving down into the dark before her hunter could round the corner. She left a trail of blood behind her, a fading streak across the floor—but she didn't stop.

Let Lyssa laugh. Let her monologue.

Let her call her a failure, a worm, a coward.

Malra still remembered what it meant to be hers—to belong to Virelia. That kind of memory didn't vanish with a broken oath. It carved itself into the marrow of your bones, left branding marks beneath the skin.

But she was not going back.

She'd die first.

And if she had to rip this entire refinery apart to take that smug little metal beast with her into the abyss, so be it.

Some lessons were learned only in the dark.

 

[Lyssa Cluada]

Darth Virelia

She was so weak.

Lyssa had cut off only an arm, barely half of the agony that the mirialan herself had to endure in her past. And yet, Malra buckled and bled, whimpering on the floor as if the mirialan's blade had pierced through her heart and not merely sliced through her limb.

Such a sad, pathetic display. What little resistance, what small scrap of self preservation Malra had left was wavering, hesistant at best. Her attempt at fury wasn't real enough to convince even herself, let alone Lyssa.

"You're not the first thing she sent to kill me," she hissed, "But you will be the last."

"Exactly," the cyborg replied, her voice cold and emotionless. "When all of this is over, my eyes will be the last yours ever meet before your soul is vanquished forever."

The moment stretched between them, barely seconds and yet each one weighed heavy. Lyssa studied her quarry, watched her every twitch, waiting for her to make her move. Her dismemberment was not merely a punishment, but it was also a test.

This was Malra's final chance to earn the apprentice's respect. Not her mercy. Just an ounce of recognition.

When her father had condemned her to die on that god forsaken planet, staining the grassy meadow beneath her red with blood, Lyssa had experienced the same thing that Malra was now. A crucible, forged in pain, misery and utter devastation. When the mirialan was butchered and abandoned, she had forged a new identity, not through what had happened to her - but by how she had reacted to it.

Lyssa had gone down grasping, thrashing and screaming revenge until her final breath. She was a true warrior, one who didn't stop fighting until her vision went completely black.

Malra was not a true warrior.

She dove underneath the ruined tech, running desperately and futilely away from her fate. But Lyssa wasn't so easily shaken off. Slicing what was left of console cleanly in two, the acolyte parted the pieces with the force and stepped through them like a twisted prophet and harbringer.

The girl had the audacity to throw an obstacle her way. Steam - as if heated water would stop the hunter now. Lyssa emerged from the vapor as if she was channeling the sith lords of old. As if Serina herself was there, parting the fog for her as it whispered across her armour like the slow, indulgent touch of a lover.

The slam of a trapdoor closing shut cut through budding thoughts in Lyssa's mind of her mistress. A trail of blood led the way to the entrance, leading into a dark embrace of the unknown. The mirialan didn't hesitate to jump through after Malra.

The chase had only just begun.

 

[Darth Virelia]

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

Tags - Lyssa Cluada



Beneath the refinery's shattered upper decks, the world changed.

Gone were the walkways and rusting consoles, the forgotten luxuries of a broken industrial age. The lower levels were another thing entirely—built for containment, built for control. This was where heat was harnessed and pressure maintained. Now, it was where shadows lived and the wounded crawled. The walls here were slick with condensation, the air humid and stale, choked with the reek of oil and old blood. Malra's breath came in gasps, shallow and wild, each step a stumble as she fled deeper into the maze of old catwalks and exposed piping. Her severed arm hung limply at her side, cauterized but still screaming, her body lurching with every heartbeat.

She hadn't meant to end up here. The hatch she'd triggered in desperation had been meant to lead to an escape shaft—but it had jammed, forcing her down into the sealed heat-sinks and fusion channels instead. A labyrinth of broken reactors and ruptured coolant lines stretched before her now, thick with mist and dim red light. It was hell. But perhaps that was fitting. This was where ghosts belonged.

Clutching her side, Malra pressed herself against a wall, sliding down until she crouched beneath an old monitoring station half-submerged in coolant overflow. Her weapon was gone. Her arm was gone. Her chances—gone. But still she refused to cry. Her teeth bared in a silent snarl as she fought to slow her breathing, fought to think.

She had once trained beside Serina. She had learned under her. Slept in the same chambers, studied the same texts. That should have meant something. But Lyssa had no memory of that—no concept of anything but blind loyalty and bloodlust. A rabid thing, beautiful and broken. There would be no bargaining. No reasoning. No escape unless she could change the rules of the hunt.

Malra's hand trembled as she reached into the shadows of the workstation and retrieved what she had hidden there long ago—a needle-thin shard of obsidian glass wrapped in cloth. It pulsed faintly with power. Not much. But maybe enough. She closed her eyes for half a second, feeling the weight of it, the memory of what it once did to her… and smiled. If Lyssa wanted to walk through hell to bring her back to that monster, then hell would answer.

The pipes above hissed. The metal trembled. Her time had run out.