Beneath the crust of one of Polis Massa's many asteroids, in a laboratory carved from the ruins of silence and pressure, Serina Calis sat before her altar of rebirth. There was no natural light here—only the violet sheen of reactor cores thrumming with harvested decay, and the soft pulsing of arcane circuitry trailing like veins across the walls.
She had been quiet for hours. Days, maybe. Time was meaningless now. What mattered was the work.
The holopad before her shimmered, showing the silhouette of something not yet real: armor—sleek, curved, terrifyingly graceful. Veins of incandescent magenta traced through a body of black phrik and darksteel, forming a figure that was not just protection, but proclamation. Something beautiful. Something inevitable. Something divine.
Her fingers ghosted over the projection. Each line drawn was not just design, it was a burial rite.
She was not the Jedi she once was, not the shadowy agent who whispered from corners and played both sides of the blade. That woman—who held back, who doubted, who loved—was still in here, somewhere. Flickering. A candle in a tomb.
She would snuff it out tonight.
"No more."
The words slipped from her lips like a spell, like a curse. Her eyes burned with the hue of a dying star, reflecting in the glassy sheen of the armor's breastplate. The suit would reshape her—physically, spiritually, psychically. With every forged plate, she would kill another memory. With every circuit woven through the spine, she would sever another thread of weakness.
There would be no more compromises. No more half-steps. No more tears in the dark.
This was not armor.
This was apotheosis.
Tyrant's Kiss was her revenge against others.
This armor would be her revenge against herself.
It would be her skin. Her weapon. Her answer to everyone who ever turned away, to everyone who ever tried to tame her, to the galaxy that had dared to ask her to choose a side.
To the galaxy that dared to speak out of turn.
To the galaxy that dared to stand where it should kneel.
She would wear beauty like a blade. Walk into rooms and be loved or feared—but never again ignored.
And six eyes, six, set into the mask like amethyst flames. Arranged in pairs that spiraled up the curvature of the visor, watching in every direction—like a spider, or some forgotten god from the old Sith pantheon. Each one could see. Each one would see.
Behind her, ancient machines stirred from slumber, reacting to her will. Fabricators descended. Alchemical bindings hissed to life. The forge had waited long for her final decision.
Now she had made it.
And Serina Calis would rise anew.
