Mistress of the Dark.
Tag:
Alana Calloway
The chamber was silent.
Not the comforting, peaceful kind of silence—no, this was something far more deliberate. It was the silence of a predator waiting, of a noose tightening, of judgment being prepared for the one who had yet to arrive.
Serina stood in the center of the training hall, a place carved from obsidian and shadow, the walls smooth and gleaming in the dim light of the red energy sconces embedded in their surface. The air was thick with expectation, with something that coiled and hissed in the unseen corners like a living thing.
She was not pleased.
Her hands rested behind her back, fingers loosely laced together, her body the picture of patience, of control—but her eyes… her eyes were sharp, frozen shards of blue radiating disappointment.
The stone floor beneath her feet was polished to a perfect black sheen, broken only by the long, crimson insignia of the old Sith Empire, yearning back to the days of the Old Republic, of Revan and Malak, stretching across its center. The room itself was simple, spartan, meant only for one thing—training. Breaking. Remaking. The space was empty, save for the silence draped over it like a funeral shroud, thick and suffocating.
Serina hated waiting.
She had allowed leniency before—small allowances, moments where she had entertained the little fantasies Alana still clung to.
That was over.
There was no Alana Calloway anymore.
Not in Serina's mind.
Not in reality.
Only the husk remained, waiting for its name, waiting for her to sculpt it into something worthy of existing in her world.
She had given the girl one night to sit with her thoughts, to wallow in the emptiness that came with finally realizing she was nothing without guidance, without structure, without purpose.
Serina had no doubt she had fought against it—because that's what creatures like her did.
They clung.
They struggled.
They pretended they still had something left to hold onto.
But the moment would come—had already come—where she had nothing left but what Serina had given her.
And that was why she was furious.
Because Alana had dared to try and pull away.
She had dared to show hesitation.
She had tried to leave, to retreat into herself, to deny what had already been set in motion.
Serina would not tolerate it.
Not again.
A low hum filled the chamber as she lifted her right hand, fingers flicking idly through the cold air, the tendrils of her power stretching outward, unseen but always present. The energy in the room stirred, reacting to her displeasure, to her expectation.
This would be the first lesson.
Serina exhaled, slow and measured.
There would be no kindness today.
No warmth.
No whispered reassurances.
Only the truth.
Because Alana had asked for strength.
And now she would learn what strength truly was.
Her lips curled at the thought, but there was no amusement in it.
Only cold certainty.
The massive entrance doors to the training hall loomed before her, sealed, waiting for her new apprentice to step through them.
If she dared.
If she had the will to take the next step.
Because if she walked through that door, there was no turning back.
And Serina would break her completely.
Not because she was cruel.
Not because she was angry.
But because it was necessary.
Because Alana had not yet earned the right to be anything more than a nameless, empty thing.
But she would.
Or she would die trying.
Serina exhaled once more, lowering her hand, fingers unfurling as the air around her calmed, the storm within her hidden beneath a flawless exterior of control.
And then—
The doors creaked.
The silence shifted.
The moment had come.
Serina did not turn to face the entrance.
She did not acknowledge the presence beyond it.
She simply waited.
And when the doors finally opened—when the first echoing footstep landed on the polished floor—Serina spoke.
Calm.
Quiet.
Absolute.
"You're late."
