She dreamed of Quinn Varanin again.
Not the battlefield. Not the throne rooms. Not the Sith or Jedi. Just the garden. That impossible, aching little corner of Jutrand where nothing sharp existed—where war was a rumor and ambition hadn't yet turned Serina Calis into something venomous.
The dream bloomed with color.
Warm sun, soft petals, the pale shimmer of Quinn's platinum hair catching the light as she laughed—so gently, so freely. There was no blood in that memory. No secrets. Only wine, roses, and the echo of skin brushed in hesitant invitation. The garden had smelled of everything Serina hadn't known she wanted. The warmth of the Echani's touch. The quiver in her voice. The whisper—"You don't have to go back."
Serina had loved her then. Had known it in that soft moment when their foreheads met and her breath caught on Quinn's name. She hadn't said it. She hadn't needed to. Quinn had kissed her, and Serina—disciplined, measured, controlled—had forgotten the galaxy existed.
She still had the rose.
The same one Quinn had plucked and placed in her hair with a smile that made Serina forget titles, power, even the Force itself. It sat now in her quarters—pressed, dried, preserved in a sealed case without a word. No one asked about it. No one dared.
Serina woke gasping.
Not weeping—never that—but breathless, fingers gripping the edge of her sheet as if bracing against some unseen current. Her room was silent. Artificial lights traced dim amber lines along the wall. The silence of Polis Massa greeted her like an old companion, and for the briefest moment, she wished it would scream.
The dream left her hollowed. Not because it had returned, but because it still had power over her. After all this time. After all the work. After all the things she had become.
It still hurt.
She rose.
Not with the smooth grace of command, but with the stiffness of someone trying to walk away from a corpse they swore they buried. The satin sheets rustled against her legs, her bare feet whispering across the floor as she crossed the room. She stopped before the sealed case.
There it was. The rose.
Its red had dulled over the years, brittle now—like a memory slowly forgetting itself.
She hated it. She hated herself.
That she still kept it. That part of her still looked for Quinn in the crowd. That she still wondered what might have happened if she had stayed, if she had said "I love you" instead of returning to the Jedi like a dutiful, spineless fool.
She thought of the way Quinn had kissed her. Sweet. Nervous. Sincere. The way her hand had held Serina's, unafraid, open. She remembered the softness of that first touch. The miracle of it.
And she remembered how Quinn had gone on to love others.
Not her.
Never her.
She had never been the one anyone stayed for. Not the Jedi. Not the Sith. Not even the people who claimed to need her. She was followed, feared, obeyed—but never chosen. Not really. Not in the way that mattered.
She had built empires in silence. She had rewritten the fates of worlds. And still, a single memory reduced her to this: barefoot and aching before a dried flower like a penitent before a shrine.
"No," she said aloud.
The word cracked in the quiet. A break, not a command.
She dressed quickly. Utility fatigues, belt half-clasped. No makeup. No regalia. She didn't activate her escorts or alert the substation monitors. ICHNAEA, of course, noted her movement, but said nothing.
She descended into the lower domes of Polis Massa like a shadow. Past the clean rooms. Past the research towers. Past the hushed corridors of medical sanctums and pressure-sealed vaults.
Down into the older veins of the planetoid, where dust still clung to the corners and droid cleaners moved with slow indifference.
She needed to be somewhere ugly. Somewhere human.
A drinking hole still lingered near the industrial sub-levels—an off-duty mercenary bar tucked into the base of Dome 11-A. No signs. No lights. Just a heat signature and recycled air thick with disinfectant and poor decisions.
She walked in without a word. Heads turned. Some recognized her. Others only stared at the authority in her spine, the weight of her silence.
She said nothing.
She sat at the far end of the counter, beneath a flickering light, and held up two fingers.
The bartender—a former shock trooper with a cybernetic jaw—nodded and poured.
The first drink went down like acid. The second didn't burn enough. She wanted it to hurt. She wanted something to hurt more than this memory. This dream. This ghost with platinum hair and the scent of roses.
She thought about going back to the room. Smashing the case. Burning the flower. Purging every reference to Jutrand from ICHNAEA's databanks.
But she wouldn't.
Because Serina Calis, governor of Polis Massa, mistress of the dark, corruptor of the light, heir of Malak—was still, in some dark, private alcove of her heart, a woman who loved someone who never stayed.
And she hated that most of all.
So she drank. And let the silence hold her.
Because nothing else would.
She didn't speak. She didn't look at anyone.
Another glass. Another burn. The edge of it dulled now, as if her body was trying to defend itself from its own intentions. The bartender kept his distance. He knew the kind. She wasn't here for trouble. She was here because there was nowhere else left to go.
The dome's artificial hum buzzed behind her thoughts, that familiar lull of Polis Massa's machinery—a white noise that usually centered her. But here, it only amplified the distance between her and the world. Here, it felt like every system that kept the planetoid alive was staring at her. And judging.
This was the first time she had left the governor's spire.
Not for inspections. Not for security checks. Not to observe infrastructure or oversee simulations.
Just… out. Just down into the planetoid proper. Past the sealed blast doors and administrative halls where her orders were gospel. Past the terminals where she played deity. Down into the place where people lived. Where they drank. Fought. Forgot.
She was just another presence now. A woman in the corner, nursing grief and pretending it wasn't eating her alive.
But the truth was a slow fracture. Not a scream, not a dramatic sob—just a quiet, invisible disintegration of poise.
Her eyes blurred before she realized it was happening.
The first tear didn't fall. It escaped—a single, traitorous thread of warmth down her cheek that she didn't feel until it hit her collarbone. She blinked, startled, confused. Her breath hitched. Not a sob. Not yet. But the tremble was there, just under the ribs, trying to claw its way free.
She turned her face down, hand raised to her mouth, knuckles pressed hard against her lips. She clenched her jaw, breathed in sharply through her nose. Control. Control. But it was slipping through her like cracked glass.
Then came the second tear. Then the third.
And then it was no longer deniable.
Serina Calis was crying.
Quietly. Horrifyingly. And helplessly.
She didn't sob. Didn't make a sound. But her shoulders curled forward, slightly hunched over the bar like a woman shielding herself from shrapnel that never came. Her breath stuttered in her chest—soft, barely audible gasps that shook her ribs but couldn't form into anything louder. Her hand covered her eyes now, trembling. The other clutched the empty glass like it was a lifeline.
It wasn't the drink. It wasn't even Quinn.
It was everything.
The silence. The pressure. The years of pretending to be whole. The empire she built from nothing. The orders given. The lies sold. The people broken. The nights spent alone in a spire designed to make her untouchable.
And the fact that not one person—not one—had ever truly chosen her.
Not even Quinn.
Especially not Quinn.
She had told herself it didn't matter. That power would replace affection. That mastery would replace warmth. That the galaxy didn't need to love her—only obey her.
But none of that had ever touched the wound. It had just grown deeper. Sharper. Better hidden. Until tonight.
A sound broke the quiet. Not a word. Just a clink—the bartender quietly setting a new glass beside her, full. He didn't look at her. He didn't ask. He simply placed it there, as if she were any other broken thing in need of repair.
She didn't drink it.
She just sat there. Breathing. Crying. Drowning without noise.
And in a city of sealed domes and artificial light, the most dangerous woman on Polis Massa finally cracked.
Not from weakness.
But from remembering what it felt like to want something she could never have.
