Private Whispers Beneath the Dust

[Serina Calis]

"I enjoy being a Queen, maybe one day, I can make it a reality."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The air was dry with memory.

It clung to the skin, to the bone, to the soul—like ash, like secrets, like blood long since dried. Wind whispered through the ancient cracks of the stone tomb behind her, carrying with it the cold breath of a thousand curses and the scent of timeworn decay. And yet, Serina Calis emerged unscathed. No, better than unscathed. Empowered. Enriched. Reignited.

She stepped from the threshold of the tomb into the scarlet twilight of Korriban's sun, the dull roar of the dying wind parting for her passage. Her silhouette was framed by the jagged teeth of crumbled masonry, the remnants of some long-forgotten ziggurat looming like the shattered molars of a god slain in another age. She did not look back.

The cape trailing behind her moved as though it had a will of its own, curling and fluttering in defiance of gravity, catching the fading light on its glowing violet inner lining. It kissed the ground behind her with reverence, but never dared touch her heels. Her boots struck the sandstone path with rhythmic, deliberate precision—each step echoing with the weight of purpose.

Her bodice gleamed darkly in the crimson sun, etched with the ancient geometry of Sith knowledge, not merely decorative but alive, pulsing faintly like veins beneath skin. Crimson and magenta sigils flickered across her form like coals that refused to extinguish. They had learned her now. Accepted her. Claimed her. And she, in return, had claimed them.

The tomb behind her had not given its knowledge willingly.

There had been whispers—of trials buried in madness, of rites stained with the minds of those who failed them, of spirits who clung to their legacies like starving jackals. But she had moved through those shadows like a storm cloaked in velvet: graceful, violent, patient. The Force had not been wrestled with. It had been seduced.

The wind rose again, brushing strands of her golden hair across her cheek. A hand moved—slow, controlled—tucking them back beneath the deep hood that framed her features. The motion was elegant, practiced, almost theatrical. Her face, when revealed again, bore the same faint, knowing smirk she always wore after taking something she was never meant to have. Not just satisfaction. Victory.

Her piercing blue eyes flicked toward the horizon where jagged peaks met blood-red sky. She could feel them out there—others, lesser seekers of power, slaves to ghosts and doctrine. Wandering acolytes, self-proclaimed lords. Broken relics in living flesh. She did not fear them. She pitied them. Every step she took was already three they could never match.

This planet had forged Sith for millennia, and it would continue to do so. But it had not known her before now. And what Korriban did not know, it would learn. Quickly. Violently.

She came to a halt near the edge of a broken stone platform overlooking the valley floor. Ancient statues of long-dead Sith loomed around her in pieces, faceless, eroded by time and forgotten fury. One of them had crumbled entirely, leaving only a jagged foot and the suggestion of a once-proud hemline. Serina rested one armored hand atop the broken stone.

"I remember you," she said aloud, though no one stood nearby to hear her. "You all thought yourselves kings… prophets… gods."

The Force rippled around her—a slow pulse, dark and deep, like the distant beat of some slumbering leviathan. The tomb behind her had given her something old. Something twisted and sacred. Its knowledge now whispered through her veins, curled beneath her tongue, fed her mind like a lover feeds poison in a kiss.

"I am what you feared would come," she said softly, voice as smooth as black silk across a razor. "Not your heir. Your reckoning."

She turned, the broken statue at her back, and began descending the timeworn path into the valley. The sky above her bled into darkness, and with it, the desert heat surrendered to a colder, hungrier chill. The night was coming. And with it, her plans.

Korriban would remember her. But it would not mark her with statues or empty hymns.

It would mark her by what came after.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

Back again.

Back to Korriban, back to being nothing more than an empty shell of a former Jedi, a blocked conduit incapable of mastering the power that flowed through her. Back to searching restlessly through the sands and the dust for answers, praying that the force would give her some kind of answer to the question that had haunted her since she turned to the dark side: What was she?

Not a Mandalorian, that was made abundantly clear when her bucket headed old master had cast her out after she'd killed his other acolytes. But she was only proving her devotion! How could he not see that? She was making sure that she could have given him her full attention without having to constantly be fighting others for his favour.

It didn't matter. She didn't care.

Lyssa wandered through the valley consumed with her own thoughts. Others like her wandered nearby, but she wasn't interested in them. They were too weak. They couldn't teach her anything she didn't already know.

However, ignoring them outright proved to be a fatal error.

Lyssa sensed movement just in time to turn around and receive a painful blow to the side of her face. Blinking, she looked up at a hulking Trandoshan wanderer, wielding some form of crudely made mace.

"I must prove myself to the gods of the dark side!" He barked out ferocoiusly. "I will gain their favour by soaking this sacred ground with your blood!"

"You are not even worth my sweat, you brute," Lyssa sneered back, but she knew she was caught off guard. She didn't have time to draw her lightsaber pike as the man swung at her again - all she could do was twist out of the way, but not nearly fast enough. The mace caught her shoulder with a sickening crunch, snapping her right shoulder blade clean in two.

Hissing her breath out angrily, Lyssa reached for the hidden compartment in her leg, drawing her vibrodagger and activating it. Furious, she began to slice viciously at the Trandoshan, who blocked her first two strikes but drew blood on the third. It dripped down from the top of his nose down to the top of his neck - a little further, and Lyssa would have slit his throat.

"You damned woman," He cursed, leaping forward again only to pass straight through the mirialian. The real Lyssa smirked at her duplication trick, sending multiple force visions of herself to surround him in a circle. The perfect distraction - this would be her chance to draw her real weapon and finish him off.

But the Trandoshan didn't hesitate. Screaming out a war cry in his language, he spun his mace around in a circle, passing through all the illusions until he reached her. Lyssa was knocked clear off her feet, hitting an ancient statue and landing painfully onto the red sand floor. Her illusions flickered out weakly as the man strode forward, grinning through the blood dripping down his face.

"Oh gods of the Sith, see me now!" He called out to the sky, raising his mace. "Watch as I sacrifice this soul to you! See that I am loyal and devoted-"

He didn't get a chance to finish as Lyssa raised her hand and shot out volts of crimson lighting from her fingertips. He screamed as his flesh burned, scales melting off of his skin like candle wax until he was little more than a husk of ashes staining the ground.

Gritting her teeth, Lyssa tried to call off her lightning - control it - but she was no Sith master. The electricity shot straight back into her, the last of it coursing through her entire body excruciatingly. The agony came to a crescendo as it reached her metal legs. Lyssa screamed, clawing at the ground weakly, tears of pain pooling in her eyes.

How could she have ever thought she was worthy of this power? If she died here, she would have deserved it.

Gradually, her lightning subsided, the last little bits leaving sending small shocks that shook her whole frame. She lay there twitching and crying on the ground, pathetic and everything that her father always told her she would be.

Useless.
Weak.
Alone.

In the end, she was nothing. And she would always be nothing.

 

[Serina Calis]

"I enjoy being a Queen, maybe one day, I can make it a reality."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The smell of scorched flesh was unmistakable.

It traveled on the air like incense—uninvited but oddly ceremonial. A dark offering not to gods, but to something far more insidious: failure dressed as devotion.

Serina paused in her descent, her head turning slowly, crowned by the deep, angular hood that cast her expression in shadow. The wind swept across the valley floor, tugging gently at the edges of her cape, drawing its hem toward the epicenter of the violence like the cloth itself was eager to bear witness.

She did not rush. She never did. Instead, her pace was steady, unhurried, her presence threading through the jagged ruins like an invading thought—quiet, dangerous, inescapable.

The hulking corpse of the Trandoshan lay twisted, blackened, the outline of his death burned into the sand beneath him. The stench of failure clung to him thicker than his melted scales ever had. But Serina's eyes were drawn elsewhere.

To the girl.

Curled in the red dust, her frame shuddering with aftershocks of self-inflicted agony, lightning still dancing across her twitching fingers like snakes refusing to leave a broken nest. Her tears were still fresh. Her pain still raw. Her shame—so thick and potent in the air—it almost shimmered.

Serina approached like a specter, boots making only the faintest sound as they disturbed the cursed soil. Her presence in the Force, however, was undeniable—a roaring storm behind silken curtains. Lyssa would feel it before she heard her voice. A great weight descending.

When Serina spoke, it was not cruel. Not mocking. It was far worse.

It was amused.

"Oh," she said, voice smooth and sonorous, like velvet wrapped around a dagger. "I see someone's been playing priestess to powers she doesn't understand."

She crouched beside Lyssa, not a trace of pity in her expression. Her glowing crimson and magenta armor caught the dull light of Korriban's fading sun, casting eerie reflections over Lyssa's ruined form. Serina studied her, those piercing blue eyes dissecting everything—injuries, posture, tears, shame.

And then she smiled.

Not kindly. Not cruelly. With interest.

"You have power," she said simply, brushing a lock of golden hair behind her ear, her gauntlet reflecting the raw energy still sparking from Lyssa's limbs. "But no refinement. No discipline. You bite into the dark side like an animal tasting blood for the first time, surprised when it bites back harder."

She tilted her head slowly, her tone deepening—more intimate now, like a whisper meant for a lover's ear.

"Tell me… is this what you imagined you'd become? Writhing in the dirt, begging your own power to spare you? Crying for a father who was never coming to save you?"

She watched the girl closely, savoring the silence that followed. And then, softer still, a thread of genuine curiosity in her voice:

"Or was this always your true face?"

She rose smoothly to her full height, her cape falling into place like the curtain on a stage. Her posture remained regal, statuesque. Her hand drifted lazily to her side, resting against the hilt of her own weapon—still sheathed, still unneeded. She looked down at Lyssa like one might examine the embers of a ruined painting: tragic, yes… but salvageable.

"I didn't come for you," Serina said finally, her tone shifting. "But now that I've found you? It would be a waste to leave you rotting here."

A step forward. Slow. Deliberate. A shadow fell over Lyssa's face.

"I can show you what you are. If you're willing to unlearn the weakness that brought you to your knees."

She knelt again—closer now. Close enough to whisper.

"Or you can die here. Screaming, twitching, forgotten."

A pause. Her gloved hand extended.

"Choose."

And in that one word—so calm, so seductive, so impossibly cold—was a universe of meaning.

Because Serina wasn't offering salvation.

She was offering clarity.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis

Serina approached like a specter, boots making only the faintest sound as they disturbed the cursed soil. Her presence in the Force, however, was undeniable—a roaring storm behind silken curtains. Lyssa would feel it before she heard her voice. A great weight descending.

Lyssa was broken out of her thoughts abruptly, the strength of the powerful force presence looming over her cutting through the swirling chaos of her mind like a blade. Still in a lot of pain and unable to move her body, Lyssa resigned herself to her fate. Her only comfort was that she would die beneath the shadows of the Sith sorcerers of old - perhaps after she passed, her spirit would mingle with them, the great dark side users from eons ago.

The Mirialan closed her eyes and waited for the killing blow. Waited to join the ancient masters and surrender her spirit to the force. But instead of the swift and decisive strike that Lyssa was expecting, the figure spoke.

"Oh," she said, voice smooth and sonorous, like velvet wrapped around a dagger. "I see someone's been playing priestess to powers she doesn't understand."

Lyssa's eyes flickered open, regarding the woman warily. She was blonde, pretty even, but dangerous, as evidenced by her seemingly enchanted ancient armour. She didn't look much older than Lyssa herself was, maybe even younger. The familiar feeling of jealousy shot through her, only amplified when the woman began to mock her. Lyssa gritted her teeth. She was too weak to explain that she wasn't a priestess, that she wasn't as undisciplined as the woman claimed, that she usually knew better than to use her lightning unless she had no other choice. Still, it was pointless to antagonize this woman. Better to just wait until the blonde grew bored of playing with her food and decided to finish the cyborg off for good.

"You have power," she said simply, brushing a lock of golden hair behind her ear, her gauntlet reflecting the raw energy still sparking from Lyssa's limbs. "But no refinement. No discipline. You bite into the dark side like an animal tasting blood for the first time, surprised when it bites back harder."

She tilted her head slowly, her tone deepening—more intimate now, like a whisper meant for a lover's ear.

"Tell me… is this what you imagined you'd become? Writhing in the dirt, begging your own power to spare you? Crying for a father who was never coming to save you?"

Lyssa knew her face betrayed her surprise as the woman called her powerful. Genuine joy even began to bubble up in her chest, much to her disdain. Hadn't she had enough of hope to last a lifetime? Was she so desperate that she might think for even a moment that such a force of nature might ever consider her for a padawan, or an acolyte?

So when the woman rebuked her, called her reckless, Lyssa meekly nodded, berating herself inwardly alongside her. Of course no one would ever want her as their padawan. She'd never be the devoted student of the darkness she had dreamed she'd be when she first set out on this road.

Almost as if the woman could hear her thoughts, she mocked her again, only this time, her comments actually angered Lyssa. Seething, she went for her pike - to show this woman exactly what happened when someone dared bring up her father - only for her lightning to flare up again, encouraged by her anger. The Mirialan choked out a strangled hiss of pain, immediately dropping the weapon she had only just forced her fingers around.

Lyssa was nothing like she imagined she'd become.

"Or was this always your true face?"

Her true face...had she always been this weak? She knew that she had always been a force of darkness, the ying to her sister's yang. A never ending vessel of envy, hatred and ambition. Weak? Nothing about the child who'd murdered her sister in cold blood was weak. Nothing about the survivor who built herself legs of wood and taught herself to fight with a spear was weak. Nothing about the wife who slaughtered her husband and his tribe under the light of a blood moon was weak.

Her face was known to many, her name associated with destruction. None had ever dared question her strength besides her father - and herself.

So Lyssa coughed up her blood, forcing herself up onto one elbow to look the woman dead in her eyes as she answered: "No."

["I didn't come for you," Serina said finally, her tone shifting. "But now that I've found you? It would be a waste to leave you rotting here."

"I can show you what you are. If you're willing to unlearn the weakness that brought you to your knees."

"I am not weak," Lyssa argued back, though her voice came out choked and pitiful. "I just don't know the proper technique. I just need a master."

"Or you can die here. Screaming, twitching, forgotten."

Lyssa immediately clamped her mouth shut, looking away. This woman could easily leave her here and she wasn't about to let herself argue her way out of what could be her only chance to become a real sith.

A pause. Her gloved hand extended.

"Choose."

As if Lyssa could ever choose anything else. From the day she was born and cast aside as a spare in her father's eyes, to the day she murdered the only person who ever truly knew her, she was destined for darkness. Her fate was violence, her road paved with the corpses of those who could never understand her, because at the end of the day: None of this was ever about choice.

It was who she was. She would always burn with the power of malice and hate inside her. The only choice she could truly ever make was who she trusted to teach her how to wield it.

Lyssa's light green hand, clad in triangular tattoos, snaked up and grabbed the woman's hand. "I am yours to reform."

 

[Serina Calis]

"I enjoy being a Queen, maybe one day, I can make it a reality."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The wind stilled.

Not entirely—but just enough to notice. Enough that it felt as though the planet itself were holding its breath.

Lyssa's trembling fingers wrapped around Serina's outstretched hand, rough and calloused with the aftermath of too many fights, too many desperate grasps for power in the dark. A thousand scars pressed against the cool, obsidian-slick surface of Serina's gauntlet.

And Serina smiled.

Not the smile of pity. Not the grin of a victor. This one was something older. Wiser. Something that knew exactly what had just been set in motion.

"Good," Serina said softly, like a lullaby spoken in a language lost to time. Her fingers curled with exact precision around Lyssa's hand—not gently, but firmly, with a grip like a seal, a brand, a pact. The kind that couldn't be broken without blood. "Then we begin."

She did not pull Lyssa up immediately. Instead, she held her there—suspended in the moment, forced to feel the weight of her decision. To own it. Serina's gaze remained locked with hers, blue eyes like twin blades carved from glacial ice, each sharpened by years of conviction.

"You are mine to shape," she murmured, her voice almost intimate now. "Not to heal. Not to fix. But to forge."

And then—only then—did she raise the girl to her feet.

Lyssa staggered. Her shoulder cracked audibly as she rose, her muscles spasming against half-fried nerves and shattered bone. The scent of ozone still clung to her, mingling with sweat and charred leather. Serina let her stand. Let her struggle.

She offered no comfort.

Only presence.

"You speak of technique," Serina continued, her tone shifting once more—rising now, resonant with the tempo of command. "But technique without understanding is nothing more than mimicry. You chased shadows in the dark and called it sorcery. You burned your own flesh and called it sacrifice. But power without intention is just noise."

She paced now, slow circles around Lyssa. Each step quiet, but precise, like a panther circling a wounded cub—not with hunger, but with expectation.

"Your rage is raw. Beautiful, even. But wild things burn out. You will learn to use it. Shape it. Make it desire your command. And when it does…" Her words trailed, replaced by a small, sharp smile as she paused behind Lyssa, voice a whisper at the back of her neck, "…then you may call yourself something greater than Sith."

Serina stepped beside her now, facing the direction they would go—the rise leading out of the Valley and toward her waiting ship, a sleek black shadow half-sunken into the cliffside like a coiled viper.

"But know this, Lyssa—" Serina finally said her name aloud, savoring the weight of it like a spell given shape. "This path will not lead you to love. Or belonging. Or peace."

Her head turned slightly, enough for one searing blue eye to meet Lyssa's peripheral gaze.

"It will lead you to power. Real power. And that power will strip you of every lie you still tell yourself. It will burn the child. Bury the sister. Crush the lover. Break the daughter."

She turned fully now, facing her once more. Her posture was regal. A queen in all but title, forged not by bloodline, but by will.

"And from those ashes, I will carve someone worthy of their pain."

She extended her arm again—not to shake. Not to help.

But to claim.

"Swear to me," she said, her voice now low, sacred, and commanding all at once. "Swear yourself to this path. No doubts. No questions. No turning back. You are mine now. Flesh and fire. Bone and belief. Swear it."

And the desert, in its ageless silence, waited with them.