Serina Calis stood alone in the heart of her obsidian sanctum, her pale fingers resting lightly on the edge of the great war table before her. The blackness of the chamber consumed all light, save for the faint violet glow of the data terminals embedded within the polished stone, casting flickering shadows across the high, vaulted walls. The chamber was a monument to her will, its design reflecting the depth of her descent, the richness of her ambition. Every surface—walls, ceiling, floor—was crafted from dark obsidian, so seamless in its construction that it felt less like a room and more like a void. A void of her own making, a place where the light of her past could never reach her again.
In the center of this abyss, standing in stark contrast to the unyielding black, was her bed—an exquisite creation of shadowed perfection, its obsidian frame sculpted into elegant, angular designs, smooth and sharp in equal measure. The sheets, a deep, regal purple, spilled over the edges in silken folds, like the robes of an empress reclining upon her throne. It was a place of luxury and indulgence, a fitting reflection of the life she had carved for herself.
But she would not rest yet. Not before the game was finished.
Serina turned her gaze downward, her sharp blue eyes scanning the war table with a mixture of calculation and amusement. It was a vast, sprawling battlefield, a map of the galaxy recreated in exquisite detail. Hundreds of pieces stood upon it—fleets, armies, planetary strongholds—each representing a faction in her grand simulation. The rules were complex, crafted by her own hand, a fusion of strategy and probability where even the smallest decisions could ripple into catastrophic consequences. She had played against others before, and she had won every time. But tonight, she played against the most formidable opponent of all—herself.
She had just finished donning her armor, its polished plates snug against her body, the weight of it comforting, grounding. She relished the sensation, the way it reminded her of what she had become—what she had chosen to become. The obsidian-black plating gleamed under the dim light, the deep crimson engravings along its surface whispering of ancient power. Her cape, a cascade of midnight fabric, trailed behind her like the flowing ink of a quill inscribing fate itself.
She reached down, delicately picking up a fleet marker between her fingers. It represented the core of an empire, a civilization on the precipice of ruin, poised to either rise again or be crushed beneath the weight of the inevitable. Slowly, with deliberate precision, she moved it forward, setting it upon the galactic core. She smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips.
"Corruption is inevitable," she murmured to herself, rolling a set of dice in her palm before casting them onto the table.
The numbers came up in her favor. Of course they did.
Serina leaned over the table, her mind reveling in the delicate dance of power unfolding before her. The pieces were more than simple figures of metal and stone—they were rulers and tyrants, rebels and warlords, all locked in their endless struggles, unaware that they were but puppets upon the great stage of existence. She took pleasure in the thought, in the understanding that all things—governments, armies, even the Force itself—could be bent to her will, given time and patience.
She delighted in the process of corruption. The slow, inexorable erosion of ideals. The moment when a noble cause turned inward, devouring itself from within. The thrill of watching a hero hesitate, falter, take that first, irreversible step into darkness.
Serina had taken that step long ago, and she had not looked back.
A chill ran through her, not of fear, but of pleasure. She felt it settle deep within her, curling like a whispering specter beneath her skin. She was so far removed from the girl she had once been, the Padawan who had clung to naive dreams of wisdom and justice. That girl was nothing now—nothing but a memory to be discarded, an echo of weakness drowned in the tide of her ascendance.
She was more than she had ever been. More than the Jedi, more than the Sith. She had taken what she needed from both, shed their chains, and shaped herself into something greater.
And tonight, she would be rewarded.
She could feel it—beneath the layers of reality, beneath the flow of the Force itself, something stirred. A presence, vast and ancient, waiting beyond the veil. It had whispered to her before, in dreams and waking visions, guiding her hands, shaping her mind. But tonight, the whispers would become words. Tonight, she would see.
She took a breath, steadying herself, reveling in the anticipation that coiled within her.
The game was nearly complete. One final move.
Serina reached for the last remaining piece—her piece. It was small, unassuming, yet it stood alone amid the battlefield, untouched by the chaos around it. With a delicate motion, she moved it forward, placing it upon the galactic throne.
Checkmate.
A soft laugh escaped her lips, low and rich with satisfaction.
The galaxy was a game. A beautiful, intricate, endless game. And she would win.
She stepped back from the war table, her heart still thrumming with exhilaration as she turned toward her bed. The moment was close now—she could feel the Force thickening in the air, its presence an intoxicating weight pressing against her skin.
With slow, deliberate movements, she unfastened her armor, setting each piece aside with care. The act was almost ritualistic, the shedding of steel in preparation for revelation. Finally, she slid beneath the silk of her sheets, their cool embrace a stark contrast to the fire burning within her.
She closed her eyes, exhaling softly.
The darkness enveloped her completely, swallowing her whole.
The contents of that dream would change the course of Serina Calis forever…
