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.
