It has been three months since I last stood on the soil of Valisca Prime. Three months since my world shattered.
I remember the night I fled. The air was sharp with the scent of fire and steel, the once-proud halls of my home darkened by the shadows of betrayal. I can still hear the distant echoes of voices I will never hear again. Three months, and still, I wake with the memory clinging to me like an old wound that refuses to fade.
In these months, I have walked the neon-lit streets of Denon, lost everything but the weight of my own name. I have wandered the ruins of Chatkla, where the past lay in silent, untouched reverence, a stark contrast to the chaos I carried within. I have stood upon the crystal-laden fields of Christophsis, feeling the ghosts of battles long past. And now, I find myself in the underbelly of Nar Shaddaa, where secrets are currency and trust is a fool's wager.
I have fought. I have run. I have learned.
What does it mean to lose everything?
At first, I believed it meant weakness. I thought my failure was marked by the fact that I lived while my home burned. But survival, I have learned, is not weakness. It is not cowardice. It is endurance. It is defiance. It is the will to stand when the weight of the past would see you fall.
Still, the question lingers—what comes next?
I do not seek the Jedi, nor do I believe in their justice. They are as lost as the rest of the galaxy. Valisca Prime was never meant to bow to these fractured powers, and I will not surrender myself to their distractions. But to reclaim what was stolen? That is no small thing. It will take more than just my will, more than just the hollow promise of vengeance. I need allies. I need power. I need something greater than what I have now.
I was meant to be a ruler. But rulers do not exist in exile. Leaders do. Fighters do. Survivors do.
The path ahead is uncertain, but I know this much—
I will not be a forgotten name in the histories of Valisca Prime.
Atheon Karis may sit upon my throne, but he does not hold my future.
I do.
I remember the night I fled. The air was sharp with the scent of fire and steel, the once-proud halls of my home darkened by the shadows of betrayal. I can still hear the distant echoes of voices I will never hear again. Three months, and still, I wake with the memory clinging to me like an old wound that refuses to fade.
In these months, I have walked the neon-lit streets of Denon, lost everything but the weight of my own name. I have wandered the ruins of Chatkla, where the past lay in silent, untouched reverence, a stark contrast to the chaos I carried within. I have stood upon the crystal-laden fields of Christophsis, feeling the ghosts of battles long past. And now, I find myself in the underbelly of Nar Shaddaa, where secrets are currency and trust is a fool's wager.
I have fought. I have run. I have learned.
What does it mean to lose everything?
At first, I believed it meant weakness. I thought my failure was marked by the fact that I lived while my home burned. But survival, I have learned, is not weakness. It is not cowardice. It is endurance. It is defiance. It is the will to stand when the weight of the past would see you fall.
Still, the question lingers—what comes next?
I do not seek the Jedi, nor do I believe in their justice. They are as lost as the rest of the galaxy. Valisca Prime was never meant to bow to these fractured powers, and I will not surrender myself to their distractions. But to reclaim what was stolen? That is no small thing. It will take more than just my will, more than just the hollow promise of vengeance. I need allies. I need power. I need something greater than what I have now.
I was meant to be a ruler. But rulers do not exist in exile. Leaders do. Fighters do. Survivors do.
The path ahead is uncertain, but I know this much—
I will not be a forgotten name in the histories of Valisca Prime.
Atheon Karis may sit upon my throne, but he does not hold my future.
I do.
