Private Little Red

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Liliane
Location: Jutrand
____________________________________________________

The palace that the Imperial Family called home stood as an observant monolith against the crimson sky of Jutrand. It was no relic of the past, no fortress of crumbling stone and fading echoes. It was a construct of absolute precision made of synthesized materials and cutting-edge design, towering over a cityscape that pulsed with a drive for advancement. The synth streets were visually cleaner than that of Nar Shaddaa but the disparity between wealth and station was just as vast. It varied from district to district but all fell beneath the shadow, the weight, of the Sith Emperor.

The exterior of the building gleamed with a dark finish, with sharp, angular architecture. Black metal stretched skyward in impossible spires, reinforced with golden alloy that shimmered within the cold artificial lights of the capital. From a distance, it seemed more like a living thing, with shifting plates and energy conduits feeding the ever-expanding infrastructure.

Inside, the air was often thick with power and purpose.

The private quarters of the Empress had been designed for her pleasure and comfort but even they emulated the rest of the building to some degree. There were ornate walls formed of onyx panels inlaid with luminous circuitry. Overhead, vast floating chandeliers projected soft, ambient lighting that adapted to the moods and movements of those within. The floor was seamless obsidian-glass, reflecting light, statues, imperial officers, and envoys that passed through—creating blurry shadow figures that never quite seemed to leave. The area was alive with motion, ever and always.

Silent droids hovered through corridors, completing tasks, or scanning for intrusions while relaying information. Praetorian Guards stood motionless at key access points; their visors linked to an unseen network that fed them every detail of the palace's security. They were often more tense and stringent within this zone because of whom it housed. While the Emperor was the focal point, no one, wanted to explain to the Corpse King that something had happened to his wife on their watch. It was in their best interests to ensure that it never came to pass.

There would be the scent of sterilized air mixed with the faintest flowery fragrance that most assumed came from the Empress' Solarium. It was a mix between jasmine and rain, cloying, and bewitching. It was no floral nor perfume…Merely the mark of power that the pale monarch left behind. It was a hidden space. Beyond the bustling command hubs and council chambers, past the secured sanctums, and nestled in the heart of the monstrosity…But there would be no sign of whom occupied the area outside of internal memos and communications.

Jutrand was beautiful, dangerous, and ugly all at the same time…Trapped in a state of orderly chaos.

Srina stood quietly before the floor-to-ceiling viewport with her hands folded before her. The reflection she left was a ghostly silhouette as she took in the movement of the city below with measured calm. None of the chaotic motion seemed to touch her. She was pristine, untouchable, as any eye in a storm should be. Her long hair fell in waves of luminous white, partially braided, by her husband. Not a strand was out of place, but there was a fading scar across her cheek and collar bone that marred the perfection of her visage. It would likely fade with time—But the events of Woostri were still too recent.

She was not weakened as she had been after Echnos, but the Jedi had left his mark all the same.

The quiet Echani wore a simple dress that was made of soft ivory shimmersilk. It held to her form as if it were made of liquid but there was a sense of modesty to it that tricked the eye. A Sith in white was blasphemous. A Sith, modest, was equally an oxymoron. But that always seemed to be the case with the diminutive creature. Challenging perceptions, doing everything, the way a Sith should not…And yet many of her brethren preferred her. Many of her children, called her mother of their own free will.

She would never correct them.

Slowly, she pulled away from the window and the fabric of her clothing shifted, displaying golden thread that sent veins of light through intricate Sith geometric patterns. Wards. It was practical. Not fashionable. There were no sleeves but it locked neatly behind her neck. A clasp cinched at her waist, the design sharp, angular and decidedly Eternalist—But that was neither here nor there.

"What is the latest data coming from the Woostrian sector?"

The area was newly acquired and would therefore be in a state of unrest while the Order repurposed the planet for their own designs. The question was issued without emotion, her visage composed, utterly, as if she had been sculpted rather than born. The broadcasts going across the holo-net until they were banned by certain feeds told the galaxy a chilling tale, one of conquest, one of dear and tired strife and struggle that would not end—Unless their enemies chose submission over ignorance.

Srina was focused on the aftermath. Not necessarily "rebuilding" as relief efforts might suggest from a Light-Sided nation, but with conversion. She had not tolerated a rebellion on Susevfi and she would not tolerate any feeble efforts from Woostri now. "Have there been any other reported incursions?"

|| It is on the screen for you, Lady Talon. ||

"Typhojem?"

||Yes?||

"Should you not be with the Mors Mon?"

||I am, your grace. You wished for the latest information…I am patched in to your network.||

She nodded her head coldly, though, inwardly pleased. There was something pure about working with that particular AI that she liked more than others. She paced the large sitting room while reviewing data only to move toward the table where tea and breakfast should have been, only, it wasn't.

Srina frowned but didn't comment. It was…Unusual.

 

[Liliane]

The weight of everything here was heavy, thick. It clung to every sense like the press of humid air before a storm, seeping into skin, into breath, into thought. The silence was not true silence, but rather an inescapable weight that pressed down onto everything, layered with the distant murmur of unseen voices and the low hum of machinery woven into the very bones of the palace, all working together to produce a chorus of dissonant unease.

The sheer scale of the palace was oppressive, built for beings who belonged to a world far removed from common life, even within Jutrand itself. Towering archways swallowed those who passed beneath them. Seamless panelled walls gave no imperfections to grasp onto, no seams where one could pry and find weakness. Even the distant sconces — their golden light dim and strategic — seemed to cast more shadows than they dispelled. To walk these halls was to feel the weight of power; not chaotic, not reckless, but deliberate.

The polished obsidian floors mirrored flickering ambient lights, as a nameless servant draped in black stepped cautiously through the towering doorway, the weight of the silver tray balanced carefully in her hands. The hush of the Empress’ private quarters pressed in around her, swallowing the soft click of her careful footsteps. Behind her, the doors whispered shut, sealing her inside the silent chamber. The scent of steeped tea — delicate, floral — drifted from the porcelain pot on the tray and blended with the smell of sweet bread, though the fragrance did little to mask the gnawing dread in her chest.

She had arrived late.

Too late.

She moved forward with measured humility, lowering her gaze instinctively to avoid meeting the eyes of the woman standing before her. The Empress was still as a statue, draped in pale ivory, a presence as untouchable as the unfolding cityscape behind her. The servant forced her breathing to remain steady, suppressing the instinct to shrink, to apologise, to beg. Mistakes were costly in a place like this, and though her posture remained smooth and practised, tension coiled beneath her skin.

She had not been summoned. But lateness was noticed, and in a palace where perfection was expected, such things were not forgiven lightly.

Placing the tray silently on the table, she took several steps back, seeking the safety of the closest wall so she may blend into the environment as a demonstration of humility. As ruby eyes — thoroughly enflamed with something distantly unquenchable, in spite of a life that sought to dull them — gazed silently downward towards the floor, a lock of deep blood-crimson fell from out the servant's black hood.

With a single, swift motion, she tucked the strands back behind her ear, the sleeve of her robe falling just enough to show the edge of a marking she wished she could forget. She didn't acknowledge the brief flash, but lowered her arm back down immediately, letting the fuliginous fabric of her attire to drape again over her pale, sallow skin.

She stood there in tense silence, hoping the Empress would forgive her transgression, but ever waiting to further serve.

Srina Talon​

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Liliane
Location: Jutrand
____________________________________________________

The hush within the chamber remained unbroken, thick with something that was not quite silence. It was an awareness, a presence that pressed into every breath, into the very marrow of the bones. The city beyond the viewport sprawled in perfect lines of motion, streaks of repulsorlift traffic tracing golden veins through the blackened towers of Jutrand. And yet, for all its endless movement, there was stillness here. A stillness that was not idle.

Srina Talon did not turn immediately.

She did not need to.

The presence of staff was already accounted for, her hesitation absorbed into the vast awareness that stretched beyond the confines of flesh and walls. The tray had been placed as it should, the movements careful and precise despite the tension. It was not the lateness that interested the Empress. Not truly.

Her luminous gaze, corrupted and untouched by emotion, remained fixed upon the skyline for a moment longer. There was something fragile in this quiet. The aftermath of conquest had a way of settling into uneasy stillness, like dust drifting after a great storm. The city below did not grieve for Woostri's fall—its people did not pause to acknowledge the countless lives shattered beneath the Order's will. The machine continued, unrelenting.

She exhaled softly through her nose, breaking the silence without shattering it.

"I see that a bid has been placed for my grandson to take control of the sector. He is young…But capable. I'm uncertain if the assembly will ratify—But it is something to consider."

<<His approval rating among the other Lords is favorable enough and his presence on Woostri was notable. I believe that he will attain Governorship within the fortnight.>>

It made sense. Darth Latens was new…But not so new that his name had never been passed around influential circles. Malum appeared to have a great deal of faith in the young man, which was the same double-edged sword as his relationship to the current Imperial Court. Bloodlines and adoptions within the Order made it rather difficult to find individuals that didn't have some sort of relation to the other. Even tenuous. The ill-educated, greedy, and ambitious would have him flogged for his association.

"Keep me apprised on the matter."

Then, she turned.

The motion was slow, deliberate. A shift in the atmosphere, altered, so that the light in the room seemed to condense around the young woman intent on holding up the wall with her back. The long folds of her gown moved like liquid against the polished obsidian beneath her feet, trailing in unnerving silence. Her pristine ivory hair gleamed beneath the dim sconces, an ethereal compliment to the white-and-gold detailing of her attire. She was cold, untouchable—not through innate cruelty, but in the simple, unwavering precision of her being.

Her gaze settled upon the girl; expression empty of all things.

"Come. Be seated…I will not bite."

The Empress sat down on the scrolling lounge and picked up her teacup, thankfully, finding that the glass was so hot it almost burned the pads of her fingers. She preferred her tea that way. Scalding. The young woman did not flinch away at the prospect of being scolded. By and large—She had every reason to be nervous. Sith killed, often, indiscriminately. But…There was control in her posture. A practiced discipline. Survival instinct, refined. The flicker of movement when she adjusted crimson tresses drew her sight…But it was the marking on her wrist that kept it. Curious.

Dulcet tones were soft when they came next. Slow. Smooth as cut glass and as deliberate and natural as one might draw breath. "Is something wrong?"

It was not an accusation, nor a reprimand, just a simple question that was unadorned and without any sort of subterfuge or trickery. Srina preferred to be blunt rather than attempt to spin webs of confusion in those who existed in her orbit. She had seen this member of staff more often lately but they had never actually been introduced. The war with the Alliance and maintaining the Emperor's peace was something that required her full focus, so much so, that even her children suffered her absence. Her focus had shifted like that of a cold wind turning its attention on a single falling leaf.

It was not the lateness that drew her attention. It was the unspoken whisper of something beneath it…A thread. A question unanswered. The palace, the Order, the war—It all moved with the efficiency of a machine. But here, in this moment, something had disrupted the pattern. Not enough to bring consequences or hold any repercussions…But it had been noticed.

And Srina…Aid not overlook things once it caught her eye.

 

[Liliane]

She shouldn't be here. Why did they have to send her here, of all places?

She did not sit, not at first. The words unsettled the servant more than if the Empress had chastised her. An invitation, not a reprimand. A question, not a command. She had braced for cold dismissal, for the flick of a hand that would send her back into the shadows where she belonged. But the Empress had done neither. She had seen her, addressed her. And now she was waiting. Was this all just a test? Or was she, for sport, simply being set up for failure? The questions raced through her mind, a flicker of uncertainty just barely grazing the surface of her brilliant crimson eyes.

Slowly, the servant moved, careful, deliberate. She settled delicately onto the edge of the seat like a feather, as if the wrong shift of weight might break the fragile moment and reveal it for the mistake it surely was. She had never been invited to sit before. Not by someone like this. Not by anyone. It was unnatural, disorienting.

"No, my lady."

The words left her without hesitation, because hesitation was dangerous. They were smooth, practiced, perfectly constructed to give nothing away. But they were too quiet. Not a whisper, not uncertain, but controlled. Too controlled. A lie laid carefully at the feet of a woman who could undoubtedly see through it.

The servant dared not look up, but she felt the weight of scrutiny, cold and precise, like a scalpel poised just above her skin. No anger. No disappointment. Just patience. The worst kind of patience. The kind that meant the Empress was studying her, peeling back layers, searching for things unseen and unspoken.

The servant fixed her gaze on the tea between them, its surface perfectly still. Heat curled into the air, perfumed with something soft and delicate, masking the tightness coiling in her chest. She should not be here. She should not be sitting. And yet, the moment stretched on, unbroken, and she did not know if she had already failed.

Srina Talon​

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Liliane
Location: Jutrand
____________________________________________________

The silence stretched.

Not oppressive, but expectant—like the wicked edge of a vibroblade against the skin, not cutting, but poised to. It was not outright violent, but the innate threat of it existing because of the warlike creature the Empress had come to be. She was not made to rule. She was not some sovereign from on high but something far more barbaric. She was not a liberator, not a hero, but a conqueror.

Srina regarded the hooded woman without moving, her golden gaze cold but not cruel, sharp, but without trying to draw blood. She did not need to lash out as a lesser Sith might choose to do when staff arrived late for a meal. That was a childish and wasteful response. True power did not require noise or force. It simply existed with a dynamic of it being the truth. There was strength in knowing—wisdom to be gained in seeing.

And she saw the girl.

Not the lateness. That barely registered…She saw the hesitation. The careful way she moved with a shadow of her past clinging beneath the polished surface of obedience. It was not defiance…But it was something she could not quite place. Her discerning gaze swept over the young one but she did not demand that the servant girl meet her eyes. She did not require submission, not when it was already offered in posture and breath. Instead, her voice returned, full of self-discipline, but it was a tone that wrapped around the words as if they were weapons. "Are you certain, that is the case?"

The Empress could smell a lie a meter away and it didn't help that Echani eyes were exceedingly keen. The delivery had been perfect, but she wouldn't be able to help any autonomic tells that Srina innately picked up on. Endlessly graceful hands brought the tea cup to her lips and she took a sip. Waiting for her member of staff to be seated, giving her time, to catch her breath and reorientate to the changed reality. "I will not harm you…", Srina spoke plainly, again, reiterating that the girl was in no danger. It would probably take a long time for that to sink in as true.

"If you fear me…You fear the wrong thing. My duty is to the people of the Order and all who stand tirelessly at my side. Do you understand?"

Srina set down her teacup on the silver tray and set about to making another. The way she moved was artistry, as if she belonged in a tea house rather than on the throne of some grimacing monolith. Her sleeves were long but somehow, they managed to stay out of the way. Lifting the steaming cup, she moved her hand over it to cool it slightly. Still hot—But it wouldn't scald.

Carefully, she passed it on a saucer to Liliane before settling back into her seat.

"Take a moment. Settle…Calm your mind, your heart. When you are ready…What is your name?"

The Dread Queen continued with her silent assessment. She was not capricious in which servants were punished simply for the satisfaction of hearing someone beg. She had Jedi, for that. No. Her gaze was clinical. Precise. Assessing. For the Empire was effectively a machine, and every cog had a place with value. Every piece had a function…And a machine could not tolerate weakness, not in its enemies, not in its servants, and not within itself. Weakness, however, was not always an act of insolence.

Sometimes, it was simply a secret. A flaw that had not yet been mended in an otherwise perfect diamond. Srina tilted her head sightly, the light catching on the smooth fall of ivory tresses, casting sharp angles of gold against hawkish features. The taciturn nature of the Echani also lent her the ability to see beyond base emotion, typically, because she was the last to feel it.

So, she remained patient. Still. Waiting…. Waiting for the crimson songbird to feel secure enough to sing. And she would—

One way or the other.

 

[Liliane]

Her words were spoken plainly, without the flourish of reassurance or the weight of threat. They hung in the air, challenging her to believe them. But belief was a luxury she could not afford. Experience had taught her that harm often came cloaked in kindness, that the hand extended in friendship could just as easily deliver a blow. The Empress' voice was a melodic cadence, each word meticulously enunciated, each phrase a carefully laid snare.

Did she understand? The servant's mind raced, thoughts colliding in a chaotic jumble. She understood duty, understood the iron chains of obligation that bound one to a path not of their choosing. But to sit with someone like the Empress? To be engaged by her? To be acknowledged in the first place? That was a concept as foreign to her as freedom. The Empress set down her teacup and, with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, prepared another. The movements were fluid, practised. When she extended the cup toward her, the servant hesitated, her hand hovering in the space between them, the chasm of their stations a palpable force.

Slowly, her hands took the cup with utmost caution and respect, her fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain of the teacup. Its warmth seeped into her skin; a stark contrast to the cold knot forming in her stomach. The Empress' words echoed in her mind, each syllable meticulously chosen, each pause laden with unspoken implications. She had been conditioned to navigate the treacherous waters of servitude, to anticipate the whims and tempers of her masters. But this was different. This was not anger or impatience; it was a calculated probing, a predator's curiosity. The concealed branding on her arm almost felt like it burned beneath its fabric, the guilt of something hidden itching to come out.

She did not drink, but she gazed at the cup in her hands — the steam curling up towards her, as delicate and exposed as her whole being — as she wrestled with understanding the meaning behind the gesture. Was this all a trick? The tea obviously wasn't poison. Was the Empress merely judging the way in which she dealt with the circumstance? Her gaze remained fixed upon her, unyielding yet devoid of overt malice. It was as if she were dissecting her with her eyes, peeling back layers to expose the raw nerve beneath.

She then asked her name. Her name. A simple question for a simple thing, yet it felt like a key turning in a lock, opening a door she had long kept sealed. Her name was a precious and rarely acknowledged thing she had buried beneath layers of obedience and survival. To speak it now felt like an open act of defiance, a rebellion against the identity that had been imposed upon her. The silence stretched between them, taut and fragile, like a thread pulled to its breaking point. Finally, she lifted her eyes to meet the Empress', the weight of the moment pressing down upon her.

"Liliane, my lady," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet carrying the strength of a confession.

Liliane. It was strange to hear that word out loud again. It was not a name she had been given, but rather taken; claimed for her own somewhere along the long path of servitude. It was not just a name to her, but a symbol; a smouldering fire of personal identity — the only expression of such — that remained unquenchable beneath it all, and the honouring of a distant memory of another long lost, forever alive inside of her. The name was something she had actively chosen, the only thing she had choice over, that was hers and hers alone. Not something given, nor forced upon her, but something she had carved out of the darkness, a small defiance against the world that had sought to erase her. A tether to the self she refused to let slip away. It was the only piece of her that had not been shaped by the hands of another, the only thing that had belonged solely to her.

And now it belonged to the Empress.

Srina Talon​