The rain lashed against the grand windows of the Calis estate, streaking the glass in erratic patterns. A heavy, ceaseless downpour drummed against the rooftops, drowning the world outside in a haze of gray. Thunder rolled distantly over the verdant plains of Chandrila, its reverberations swallowed by the opulent silence of Serina Calis' office.
She sat at her desk, fingers steepled, her piercing blue eyes staring through the downpour. Below, past the manicured gardens and the estate's wrought-iron gates, a procession of dignitaries, politicians, and noble families gathered under black umbrellas. The funeral was underway.
Lord Alric and Lady Elyra Calis—her parents.
Serina exhaled slowly, her breath steady despite the maelstrom of thoughts within. They had been good people, beloved by Chandrila's elite and commoners alike, voices of unity, of peace. Their dream had been noble, perhaps even righteous—to dismantle House Calis, to relinquish the aristocracy's stranglehold on power, to appease the ever-growing egalitarian factions pressing against the old order.
And so, they had to die.
Her fingers curled slightly. It was an easy conclusion. The logical one. Had they lived, the Calis name would have faded into history, another noble house rendered obsolete in the face of populist idealism. They would have signed away everything—the estate, the wealth, the influence—believing that Chandrila's future was best placed in the hands of the weak.
And yet, as she sat in the seat of her family's power, she could not summon the expected satisfaction.
She had not seen them since she was three years old. Their voices existed only as echoes in her mind, preserved through fragmented childhood memories and holovids stored in the estate's archives. She had watched those recordings in the days leading up to their deaths, searching for something—remorse, hesitation, some flicker of weakness within herself that might compel her to reconsider.
But there had been none.
The arrangements had been meticulous. The sabotage subtle. The crash was a tragic accident, a mechanical failure in a well-maintained speeder. No one suspected her. Even Dominic had taken the news with solemn acceptance, though his silence afterward had been telling.
She had done what was necessary.
Still, as the rain pounded against the glass, a strange emptiness gnawed at her, slow and methodical, just like her thoughts. The weight of absence settled in, not as grief, but as something colder.
Would they have recognized her, had they lived? Would they have seen the woman she had become and recoiled?
She leaned back in her chair, gaze shifting from the rain to the old, ornate holoprojector on her desk. It was an antique piece, one of the few things in the office that had remained untouched since her parents' rule. With a flick of her fingers, the device activated, and a familiar image flickered into being.
Her mother, radiant, cradling a young Serina in her arms. Her father beside them, a gentle smile on his face.
She had loved them once. Hadn't she?
The rain did not answer.
The heavy door to Serina's office creaked open, allowing the soft glow of the corridor's light to spill into the dim room. The scent of rain and damp earth clung to Dominic Calis ‘ uniform as he stepped inside, his expression carved from grief and exhaustion. His normally precise, calculated posture was absent—his shoulders were stiff, his steps measured but not commanding.
Serina turned her chair slightly, enough to see him but not fully meet his gaze. She had expected him sooner.
"They're really gone," he murmured. His voice was not weak—Dominic Calis would never allow himself to sound weak—but it carried a weight that even he could not hide. "Just like that."
Serina let the silence linger before replying. "I know."
Dominic exhaled, running a hand over his face as he paced toward the rain-streaked window. The thunder outside seemed quieter now, distant, but the storm within him had only begun to gather.
"You don't know," he said suddenly, turning to her. His eyes—so much like hers, yet so different—held a sharpness that wavered beneath sorrow. "You barely knew them. I spoke to them last week. I was supposed to see them again next month. And now…" His jaw tightened, and he turned back to the window. "And now they're gone. I didn't even get to say goodbye."
Serina remained still, watching him carefully. She did not flinch, did not betray a single emotion that might hint at the truth.
"You had them in your life," she said, voice measured. "That's more than I can say."
Dominic let out a bitter laugh. "They always spoke about you, you know. Even when you were away. Mother would always wonder if you were eating well. Father—he thought you'd grow into the greatest Jedi." He let the words hang in the air before shaking his head. "And now they'll never know."
Serina allowed a flicker of something—regret, perhaps—to touch her face before she stood. She approached him with slow, careful steps.
"Dominic," she said softly, "I know nothing will bring them back, but we have something."
He turned, brow furrowing. "What?"
She gestured toward her desk. The holoprojector flickered as she activated it, displaying a detailed report. "The investigation has concluded," she said, her tone shifting, controlled and steady. "The cause of the crash was deliberate. Sabotage."
Dominic's sorrow froze, replaced by something else—something colder. "Who?"
Serina tilted her head slightly, observing him. This was the moment. The path she had carefully laid now opened before them both.
"The investigation traced it back to an anti-Calis faction within the Chandrilan Parliament," she said. "A group that had been working closely with Mother and Father for years."
His expression did not change at first. He stared at the report as if expecting the words to shift, to change into something less damning. But they did not.
"They… they worked with these people," he said slowly, as if testing the words on his tongue. His hands curled into fists. "They trusted them."
"They did," Serina affirmed. "And those same people betrayed them."
Dominic's nostrils flared as he took a step back, his eyes darkening with fury. His sorrow, his grief—it had been directionless. But now it had a target.
"They were fools," he muttered, shaking his head. His fingers clenched at his sides. "They let idealism blind them. They let this happen."
Serina watched, impassive.
"They believed in compromise," she said after a moment, her voice carrying an edge of something unreadable.
Dominic scoffed, the sound sharp. "And it got them killed."
Lightning flashed beyond the window, casting shadows across his face. The grief was still there, buried under layers of rage and disbelief, but Serina could already see where this would lead.
Dominic's breath came uneven now, his mind racing to keep up with the weight of the revelation. His fists clenched, his jaw set in a silent snarl, and Serina could see the cracks in his controlled demeanor widening.
"They should have known better," he muttered, voice low and shaking with restrained fury. "They should have seen this coming. These people weren't their allies. They were parasites, waiting for the right moment to gut them."
Serina folded her arms, tilting her head slightly as she watched him unravel. "They believed in their vision of Chandrila," she said carefully. "A world where nobility and governance walked hand in hand. They thought they could convince their enemies that they weren't enemies at all."
Dominic let out a bitter laugh, sharp and humorless. "And now they're dead," he spat. He turned, pacing away from the window and running a hand through his golden hair. "They thought if they gave the people what they wanted, if they compromised just enough, it would stop the wolves from tearing down everything our family built." He exhaled sharply, eyes dark and wild. "They were wrong."
Serina allowed a measured silence to settle between them before she spoke again. "Yes," she said simply. "They were."
Dominic turned to her then, searching her face, looking for something—validation, understanding, an excuse. She gave him nothing.
He let out a sharp breath and shook his head. "Damn it." He clenched his fists again, as if willing himself to stop shaking. "I would have protected them. If they had just told me what was happening—if they had just listened instead of trusting their ideals—I could have done something!" His voice cracked slightly at the end, but he masked it with a growl, slamming a fist against the desk.
Serina stepped forward slowly, placing a steady hand on his arm. He flinched but didn't pull away.
"They wouldn't have listened," she said, her voice calm, her words chosen with care. "They believed in their cause too much. Even if you had warned them, it wouldn't have changed anything."
Dominic swallowed hard, staring at her hand on his arm before his gaze lifted to meet hers.
"And now what?" His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. "We bury them, let the vultures in Parliament offer their empty condolences, and pretend this wasn't an execution?"
Serina tightened her grip slightly, just enough to ground him. "No," she said softly. "We don't pretend. We remember. And we make sure it never happens again."
His eyes darkened. "Meaning what?"
She studied him for a long moment before letting her hand fall away. "Meaning House Calis will not fall," she said, voice steady. "They wanted to dismantle what our family built, to erase us. Now, we decide what comes next. Not them. Not the Parliament." She let the words settle between them like the quiet after a storm. "We will honor them, Dominic. But we will not repeat their mistakes."
Dominic stared at her, breathing slowly, his anger still simmering just beneath the surface. "No more weakness," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
"No more weakness," she echoed.
For a moment, he simply stood there, fists clenched at his sides. Then, finally, he exhaled, long and slow. He looked down at the report on the desk, the damning proof of betrayal.
Then he looked back at Serina.
"You were always the colder one," he said, not unkindly. There was something new in his voice now—something raw, something almost reverent.
Serina tilted her head slightly. "And you were always the one who thought you could protect everyone."
Dominic let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. "Guess we're both learning."
Serina nodded, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips. "Yes," she murmured. "I suppose we are."
Outside, the rain still fell, but neither of them paid it any mind. The funeral below carried on, but in this moment, it no longer mattered.
Dominic stood there for a long moment, his gaze lingering on Serina as if he were seeing her for the first time. The storm outside had dulled to a steady rhythm, the thunder now a distant murmur over the estate. His shoulders squared, and though grief still clung to him, there was something else now—purpose, hardened by the fire of betrayal.
He let out a slow breath, nodding once.
"Thank you, Serina," he said, his voice quieter now, but firm.
She inclined her head slightly, offering nothing more.
Dominic lingered for just a second longer before turning on his heel and striding toward the door. As it slid open, the light from the corridor cast his shadow long across the office floor. Then, without another word, he stepped out, the door shutting behind him with a soft hiss.
And Serina was alone.
The silence pressed in like a weight, heavier than before. The air was thick with the scent of rain, but even that felt distant now. She turned away from the door, her eyes drifting back to the holoprojector still flickering on her desk.
Her mother's face smiled up at her, frozen in time. A warm, kind expression—one Serina hadn't seen in anything but recordings for as long as she could remember.
She stared at it, at them, at the people she had once loved. The people she had killed.
Her fingers twitched at her side, but she didn't move to turn off the projection.
How far have I fallen?
The thought came not as regret, nor as guilt, but as something colder—an observation, an assessment of the choices that had led her here.
The child in that holovid, cradled in her mother's arms, would never have imagined this future. She had once been innocent. She had once belonged to something greater than herself.
And now?
She had orchestrated the deaths of the only people who had ever truly loved her. And she had done it without hesitation.
Not because she hated them. Not even because she wanted to.
But because it was necessary.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
She had won. She had saved House Calis. Dominic would never know the truth. And in time, he would come to see things the way she did.
But as she looked at the projection of her mother's face—at the warmth, at the kindness—she wondered if she had severed something within herself that could never be restored.
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the office for a brief moment.
Serina exhaled slowly, reached forward, and shut off the holoprojector.
Darkness settled in its place.
