The soft glow of amber sconces flickered against the polished obsidian walls, casting fractured light along the corridors of Serina Calis' underground fortress. The dark stone, quarried from the very bowels of Rakata Prime, reflected her image in jagged distortions as she walked through the still-growing structure, hands clasped behind her back. A light draft swept through the halls, carrying the scent of freshly cut rock and the distant echoes of workers chipping away at new expansions.Despite the fortress still being under construction, the parts she had deemed most essential were already completed—the war chamber, her private quarters, and, of course, the central atrium where she placed her throne. She had designed it to be a monument, not just to herself, but to the force of will she was cultivating. There was something poetic in the way obsidian—once a chaotic, molten substance—was now shaped into precise, unyielding architecture, much like the Force itself bent to her control.
She ran her fingers along one of the carved reliefs adorning the walls. A Rakatan depiction of conquest and power, now stylized under her own aesthetic direction. Even in something as mundane as architecture, she found herself lording over the past, molding it to fit her vision.
As she entered her study, the massive doors—etched with golden veins running through the stone like captured lightning—slid open at her mere presence. Inside, the air was warmer, more intimate. A long blackwood table sat at the center, its surface covered with datapads, half-rolled schematics, and a few scattered objects of interest, including an old, rusted Rakatan artifact she had yet to decipher.
Serina let out a soft sigh and seated herself at the head of the table, pressing a button on a nearby console. The central holoprojector flickered to life, displaying various logistical reports.
Labor Output: 76% Efficiency
Projected Completion: 7 Cycles (Pending Material Availability)
Fatalities This Rotation: 2
Material Deficit: 14% Below Projection
Structural Integrity of Secondary Passageways: At Risk
Her blue eyes narrowed slightly as she absorbed the data. The laborers—prisoners, mercenaries, and the occasional Force-sensitive acolyte desperate for favor—were falling short of their quotas. No surprise. Mortals had a habit of underperforming when fear alone was used as a motivator. She needed them to understand that failure was not only intolerable but utterly beneath her.
The fatalities were expected. Construction of this scale, under these conditions, was bound to take its toll. Still, she disliked inefficiency. She made a mental note to send a message to Overseer Jarrik, the foreman managing the workforce, and remind him of the difference between discipline and wastefulness. She could afford to replace a few laborers, but not in excess.
Serina swiped through the reports, absently running a single finger along the rim of a crystal glass filled with deep amber liquid. The sound of the gentle ringing hum filled the room. Her mind, however, was elsewhere—caught between the present and the vision of the future she was crafting.
She leaned back in her chair and allowed herself a moment of silence, eyes drifting toward the far end of the chamber where a large, unlit brazier stood. Soon, it would burn with violet flame, a reflection of her power.
But for now…
She needed a distraction.
The rec chamber was still under construction, but one corner had been completed enough for her to indulge in one of the few activities she found personally satisfying beyond the Force—pool.
The table, a sleek, custom-made piece of black marble with crimson felt, stood as an island of civilization amid the fortress' ongoing transformation. It was an indulgence, but one she justified easily. Strategy, precision, control—these were the qualities of a good game, and she enjoyed nothing more than testing them against herself.
Serina picked up a cue, rolling the cool weight of it between her fingers before positioning herself over the table. With a calculated flick of her wrist, she sent the cue ball scattering into the neatly arranged triangle of colored spheres, watching as they ricocheted and dispersed into unpredictable angles.
Much like the galaxy.
She smirked to herself, chalking the tip of the cue stick with smooth, deliberate motions.
Most people would find it strange, she supposed, a Dark Jedi playing something so mundane. But she had always found value in the simple things—when they were properly understood. Everything was an extension of control. The precise calculations of the strike, the way inertia and geometry dictated the path of every ball, how a seemingly chaotic action could be predicted with enough knowledge and skill.
She lined up her next shot, her gaze razor-sharp, and then took it without hesitation.
The Force did not guide her here. Only her own mastery.
A sharp clack rang through the chamber as another ball sank into the corner pocket.
Perfect.
She allowed herself a slow breath. It was moments like this, between the scheming and the pursuit of power, that she remembered she was still, in some ways, a person. It was easy to lose herself in the grand vision, to think only in terms of conquest and control. But it was in these quiet, human rituals—reading reports, making adjustments, playing a game alone in a dimly lit room—that she reminded herself of the truth.
She was not simply an idea, not merely an agent of the Dark Side. She was Serina Calis.
And the galaxy would one day learn the weight of that name.
But for now, she chalked the cue again and took her next shot.
Chapter II
The cue struck home again. Another ball disappeared into a pocket with a decisive thunk, leaving a scattering of colors and angles across the table. Serina straightened, exhaling softly through her nose as she observed the new layout. Each ball was a problem to solve, a path to be taken or manipulated. And like all things, the correct answer was never left to chance—only to skill, foresight, and control.Control.
The word whispered through her mind, not in a menacing way, not in some grand declaration of tyranny, but in something far more intimate. It was not power for power's sake that drove her; it was the certainty, the structure of things bending to her will, of seeing an outcome and knowing that it was hers to shape. There was something deeply satisfying about taking a chaotic, unformed moment and making it obey.
She lined up another shot, pausing as she thought back to the reports. The inefficiencies in the fortress' construction gnawed at her—not just because they delayed her plans, but because they represented something uncontrolled. Something imperfect.
A breath. She focused. The next shot was difficult, a tight angle requiring finesse.
She sank it effortlessly.
Her eyes flicked over to a nearby datapad as she walked around the table. The screen still displayed the labor reports, and in particular, the small note about the two fatalities this rotation.
There was no hesitation in how she viewed their deaths. She had long since passed the point where such losses troubled her conscience. The fortress demanded labor, labor required sacrifice, and if some broke under the weight of it, then they were unfit for the grander work. That was the way of things. That was efficiency.
And yet…
Her hand, idly resting on the table's edge, curled into a loose fist. She stared at the glowing numbers on the screen, the cold figures, the reduction of human lives into mere calculations of output and attrition. Even now, she recognized the convenience of it, the neatness.
Did she care? No, not in the way that a Jedi would. Not in the way that soft-hearted fools wept over the price of their ambitions. But the part of her that demanded control chafed at the wastefulness of it all. A dead laborer was one less set of hands to move the stone, one more delay to be corrected. She did not mourn them, but she resented them for failing.
For not being strong enough to matter.
She took another shot. The cue ball snapped against the remaining cluster, scattering the remaining obstacles in a way she did not anticipate. Her jaw tensed. She had not intended for that. A miscalculation.
Her grip tightened on the cue. Even here, in this moment of solitude, in this game where no one watched, no one judged—she could feel the need crawling under her skin, the unbearable irritation at even the smallest instance of unpredictability.
Control was not just a desire. It was a hunger, gnawing at her every moment, whispering in the back of her mind that nothing, nothing was ever truly stable.
Everything had to be grasped. Held firm. Bent to order. Because to lose control was to be controlled.
And she would not allow that.
Not by the Jedi, not by the Sith, not by fate itself.
Serina exhaled slowly, setting the cue aside. The irritation faded, or rather, she willed it to fade. Another test of dominance—if not over the world, then over herself.
The fortress would be completed. The laborers would learn efficiency or be replaced. And one day, the galaxy itself would be arranged like this table, its pieces set into perfect order, each ball moving exactly as she dictated.
But for now, she picked up her glass, took a slow sip, and let the amber warmth of the liquor smooth the edges of her thoughts.
The glass was cool against her lips, the amber liquid warming her throat as she took a slow sip. She let it sit on her tongue for a moment, savoring the bite, the way it burned just enough to remind her she was alive. It was one of the few indulgences she allowed herself—good liquor, well-aged and properly distilled, the kind that took patience and precision to create.
Patience. Precision.
That was what made something great. That was what separated masters from fools. What Serina was still trying to learn.
Serina set the glass down carefully, her fingers lingering on its rim. She could have downed the rest in one motion, but that would have been wasteful. Everything had a proper rhythm, a method. Even something as trivial as drinking was another opportunity for control—another exercise in mastery over impulse.
It wasn't that she denied herself pleasure. She was not some self-flagellating Jedi monk, afraid of indulgence, afraid of what enjoyment meant. She simply despised excess. Those who drank to drown themselves, to numb their minds, to slip into some thoughtless haze of pleasure—they were weak. They were surrendering to something beyond themselves.
She never surrendered.
She reached for the cue again, rolling it between her fingers. The smooth wood was another comfort—not in the way one might clutch something sentimental, but in the way an artist felt comfort in their brush, or a duelist in their blade.
Serina enjoyed skill. Not just in herself, but in others. It was why she had no patience for incompetence, why she surrounded herself only with those who could meet her expectations—or at least, those who could be shaped into something worthwhile.
A memory stirred. She thought back to her training in the Jedi Temple, sparring against the other Padawans. She had been ruthless—not out of malice, not even out of arrogance, but because she hated seeing wasted potential. She would cut through them with precision, faster, sharper, more calculating than her peers, and when they fell to the floor panting, defeated, angry, she had only ever thought:
Why weren't you better?
Why didn't they want it the way she did?
It frustrated her even now, thinking of those old matches, thinking of the way they had looked at her—with resentment, with suspicion, as if her discipline, her drive, was something unnatural.
And yet…
A small voice, one she rarely acknowledged, whispered: Would they have played pool with you?
She frowned, chalking the cue tip again, letting the action distract her. It was a ridiculous thought. Pointless. But it lingered, unbidden.
Would any of them have wanted to sit across from her now, not as enemies, not as rivals, but as… something else?
A companion? A friend?
The idea made her grip the cue a little tighter, as if she could physically force it out of existence. She had no time for such things. People were either assets or obstacles. That was how she had survived, how she had grown beyond the smallness of the Jedi's narrow vision, beyond the simplicity of the Sith's brutish hunger for destruction.
She created. She built.
Her fortress was proof of that.
And yet, for all its grandeur, for all its rising spires of black obsidian and halls carved with meticulous care, she was still the only one here playing pool.
Serina let out a slow breath, forcing the tension in her shoulders to ease. She took another shot, watching as the ball bounced sharply, but failed to sink. Her brows furrowed, irritation creeping back in.
A mistake. An imperfection.
She stepped back, rolling her shoulders. Perhaps she had been at this too long. Her mind was wandering, trailing into places that did not serve her.
Another sip of her drink. Another carefully measured breath.
Control.
She could not control the past. She could not control the lingering whispers of nostalgia, of what-ifs. But she could control this.
One more shot. One more victory, even in something as small as a game played alone.
She lined up the cue, inhaled, and struck.
The ball rolled smoothly, perfectly, sinking into the pocket with a soft, satisfying thunk.
She exhaled.
Order restored.
Chapter III
The boardroom was one of the few completed sections of the fortress, and it was as much a reflection of Serina's philosophy as it was of her taste. The long obsidian table—seamlessly cut from a single slab of volcanic rock—stretched across the chamber like a black monolith. The walls, smooth and unblemished, bore no unnecessary ornamentation, save for the faint golden inlays that traced sharp, geometric patterns across the surface. It was not ostentatious, but it was deliberate—like everything she did.
Seated around the table were the key figures responsible for the fortress' construction. Engineers, logistics officers, financial overseers, and security heads—each handpicked either for their competence or their usefulness. Some were hired specialists, others were labor bosses managing the workforce, and a few were even former mercenaries who had found new purpose under her command.
Serina took her place at the head of the table, setting down a datapad with an audible click. The room quieted. The hum of whispered conversations and the soft shuffling of reports faded as all eyes turned to her.
She did not speak immediately. Instead, she let the silence stretch, let the weight of her presence settle. There was power in silence. A well-timed pause could command as much respect as any decree.
Finally, she glanced at the first report, then at the man sitting across from her—Overseer Jarrik, the chief labor coordinator. A hard man, with the weathered face of someone who had spent decades in the field. He was useful, though prone to overusing force where efficiency would suffice.
"You reported two deaths in the last cycle," she said, voice smooth, cool. "Explain."
Jarrik cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat. "Structural collapse in the eastern wing," he admitted. "Supports weren't set properly before the workers began excavation. A miscalculation."
Serina's eyes flickered to Chief Engineer Voss, a short, wiry man with a thin-lipped mouth that always seemed to be pressed into a grimace. He looked irritated—not at her, but at Jarrik.
"The collapse was due to impatience, not miscalculation," Voss said, voice clipped. "My teams had the proper bracing scheduled, but labor pushed ahead of schedule without approval."
Serina leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. Impatience.
She hated waste. Not just wasted resources, but wasted potential. A dead worker was an inefficiency, a sign of either carelessness or negligence.
Her fingers tapped once against the datapad. "Jarrik," she said, her voice deceptively calm, "you are responsible for the labor schedule. If your workers move without authorization, that is your failure."
Jarrik's jaw tightened, but he did not protest. He knew better.
"I will not tolerate another collapse," she continued, eyes locked onto his. "You will coordinate with Voss. No excavation begins without engineering approval. If I find out another section of this fortress has crumbled due to recklessness, I will personally see to your replacement. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Lady Calis," Jarrik muttered.
A pause.
Serina's gaze softened, if only slightly. "Good."
She did not want to replace him. Despite his flaws, he was effective, and effective people were rare. But fear alone would not be enough to mold them into the team she needed. There had to be order. Respect.
She turned her attention to the logistics officer, a younger woman named Miren. Unlike the others, she carried herself with a quiet confidence, speaking only when necessary—another trait Serina valued.
"Miren," she said, "our supplies?"
"We're running 14% below projection," Miren reported. "Primary issue is transport. Our shipments from the outer rim suppliers have been delayed due to increased security sweeps in the region. The Alliance has stepped up inspections, slowing down our convoys."
Serina tilted her head slightly. Of course they have.
The Galactic Alliance had become increasingly aggressive in their patrols, clamping down on smuggling routes, pushing their influence outward. Their reach was growing. It was… inconvenient.
Options flickered through her mind like the movements of a game board. She could increase bribes, pay off the right officials to look the other way. But corruption was fickle. A more permanent solution was preferable.
She steepled her fingers. "How many convoys are we losing entirely?"
"None," Miren replied. "Just delays. We're paying off enough inspectors to keep shipments moving—just at a slower pace."
Serina nodded, considering. "I want alternate routes explored. Reach out to independent shipping firms. If necessary, arrange for an escort force to discourage further interruptions."
Miren gave a short nod. "Understood."
Serina's gaze moved to the next figure in the room—Security Chief Ralvor. A former mercenary, broad-shouldered and grim-faced, who had taken to his new role with an almost obsessive level of diligence.
"What of our internal security?" she asked.
Ralvor exhaled through his nose. "Minimal disruptions, aside from the usual worker disputes," he said. "No attempted escapes this cycle. Though we did have an… incident."
She raised an eyebrow. "Elaborate."
"Two workers were caught hoarding rations. We dealt with it."
Serina's fingers curled against the table's surface. Hoarding.
That word disgusted her. It spoke of scarcity. Desperation. Weakness.
Her voice remained even. "Were they starving?"
Ralvor hesitated. "No. Greedy, not desperate."
"Then the punishment?"
"Executed."
A pause.
Serina inhaled, slow and measured. She did not regret their deaths. But she hated inefficiency.
"Killing thieves is all well and good," she said, voice calm, controlled, "but those bodies no longer contribute to our labor force."
Ralvor nodded stiffly, understanding the correction.
Next time, she would ensure a better use was found for such people. The lesson mattered, but so did practicality.
She exhaled through her nose. "Our next steps, then," she said. "Jarrik and Voss, coordination will be absolute. No more rushed projects. Miren, secure alternate transport options. Ralvor, adjust punishments as necessary—but do not squander useful assets."
She paused, looking at them each in turn. "This fortress is not just another structure. It is not a simple base. It is the foundation of something greater. And I will not allow disorder to seep into its construction."
Silence.
And then—nods. Resigned, understanding. They knew she was right.
Serina let the quiet settle for a moment longer before standing.
"Dismissed."
Chairs scraped against the obsidian floor as the room slowly emptied. She watched them go, her mind already calculating the next steps, the next moves in this grand, intricate game.
When the last of them had left, she let out a slow breath and glanced at the datapad still in her hand.
Control.
It was not just about power. It was about perfection. About shaping the world—not as it was, but as it should be.
She was not a tyrant. She was a sculptor.
And the galaxy was hers to carve.
