Mistress of the Dark.
In Cradled Silence.
Location: Polis Massa.
Objective: Begin developing further relations within the Sith Order.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tag:
Darth Strosius
If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.
The ancient Sith laboratory slumbered, entombed in rock and silence. Nestled within one of the countless fractured asteroids drifting through the Polis Massa belt, the place was less a structure and more a scar in the Force—a wound gouged open long ago and left to fester.Location: Polis Massa.
Objective: Begin developing further relations within the Sith Order.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tag:

If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.
The corridors were a cathedral of rot and shadows. Black durasteel walls cracked with age. Red emergency lights flickered like dying embers, their once-commanding glow now little more than a heartbeat in the dark. The air tasted of iron, dust, and old sins—filtered through generators that hadn't seen proper calibration in centuries.
Everything hummed with the memory of agony.
This had once been a stronghold of

And now, like a spider settling into another's hollowed-out web, Serina stood in Ophidia's sanctum, awaiting the man who had survived her tutelage.
She was the first warmth this place had known in decades.
A pool of white light spilled down from a broken fixture above, illuminating her where she stood at the heart of the chamber, directly before a cracked transparisteel window that offered a silent view of the belt outside. The stars glittered like knives.
She had made no attempt to repair the place. No need. The desolation served her purpose. It spoke of endings, and Serina was here to propose a beginning.
She stood poised—elegant, commanding. Her robes were a deep obsidian, embroidered with thread-of-gold patterns in the shape of open eyes and thorned vines, one shoulder bare to the cold air. Her long blonde hair had been pulled back and braided with onyx rings, each one engraved with ancient sigils. Her lips, painted in the color of crushed roses, curled faintly in amusement as she traced her gloved fingers along the edge of a rusted operating table.
One leg crossed over the other, her stance intentional. Relaxed, but not idle.
There was nothing idle about Serina Calis.
Her halberd—Ebon Requiem—was propped beside the table, gleaming faintly with its etched luminescence, casting soft shadows against the wall behind her like a second set of limbs. Watching. Waiting.
She had sent the invitation days ago, sealed with an encrypted signature only he would recognize. No commands. No threats. Just her voice, coiled like silk.
"Darth Strosius.
I extend this summons not as your rival… but as something more useful. A variable. A constant. A key.
Come to Polis Massa. Lab Theta-9. You'll find me where the shadows still remember your master's name.
We have much to discuss.
And I, so very much to offer."
She had not signed it. She didn't need to.
The Force knew. And he would, too.
Her fingers drummed idly on the table as she exhaled into the quiet. The air was freezing, recycled and stale, but she breathed it in as though it were a fine perfume.
Plans.
So many of them. Spiraling like galaxies inside her mind.
The Tsis'Kaar were becoming loud. Predictable. Heavy-handed. She did not despise them—not yet. But they were limiting. And Serina Calis had never believed in limits.
If she was to remake the Order in her image—if she was to weave the Force itself into a throne—then she would need allies, not servants.
She would need people like him.
Darth Strosius.
Powerful. Untamed. A storm in need of direction. The kind of man who could tear through the galaxy if given the right cause—or the right company.
She would not bind him. That was foolish. He would never serve.
But she could tempt him.
Serina turned, slow and deliberate, her gaze falling on the doorway where she knew he would eventually appear. Her voice, soft as velvet, broke the silence like the first sigh in a lover's bedchamber.
"Come now, Strosius. Don't keep me waiting in this tomb. The least you could do is make it worth the chill."
She smiled—
Not a grin. Not a sneer.
But something between promise and peril.
Because today would not be about blades.
Not yet.
Today was about deals.
And Serina Calis was ready to make one.