Building Blocks
Kneel before the one you serve,
You're going to get what you deserve.
Kneel before the one you serve,
You're going to get what you deserve.
The chamber was vast, dark, and suffocating. Not the darkness of night, but of something older, a void that drank light and memory alike. The black stone beneath Darth Ceryndra’s boots was warm, pulsing faintly with veins of crimson that ran toward the dais like blood returning to its heart.
She advanced in silence, her steps slow, deliberate, reverent. The armoured figures of the Diye Serjak flanked the hall, as still as statues, the Dark Side pulsing within their metal forms. Their presence felt less like protection and more like judgement.
At the far end rose the throne. Monolithic. Impossible. Its surface too smooth to be stone, too alive to be metal. The veins that ran through it pulsed softly with red light, like breath trapped within the material. And upon it sat her Husband.
He was bare-chested, bare-footed, wearing only a black skirt fastened by a girdle of gold. Across his skin wound symbols that writhed with imperceptible motion, never settling into shapes her mind could hold. Looking too long at them made her dizzy.
She sank to her knees and pressed her palms flat to the stone. “My husband,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of devotion and longing. “Word has come from Dromund Kaas. Darth Véhemen now serves the Cunt's purpose, cutting down her rivals in the city. If they form a pact, they will grow bold. Allow me to strike now, before they can challenge your design.”
For a time there was only silence. A silence so absolute that it felt alive. Then, movement. Slow and deliberate. He rose from his throne to stand, the air quivering about him in fear.
Each step he took down the dais was soundless, yet it echoed within her chest. When he stopped before her, the scent of him filled her senses: metal, dust, and something colder, stranger, the smell of places beyond stars.
His hand reached out, fingers brushing her jaw, tilting her face upward. The touch was gentle yet electric, a sensation that burned through armour and bone alike. Her breath caught.
“Amirex builds our army,” he said softly, his thumb tracing the line of her throat. “They take form beneath her hands, but the process is slow. Until they stand ready, you will make the enemy bleed. Not slain, not destroyed, but weakened. Small cuts. Many. Enough that when we strike, they will already be on their knees.”
Ceryndra shivered, half from fear, half from the unbearable pleasure of his nearness. “Yes, my husband. I live to serve your will.”
He smiled faintly, the gesture almost mundane in its normalcy, though the sight of it made her heart stumble. “You do more than serve, wife.”
He let his hand fall from her chin to her shoulder, then lower still, his palm sliding across the curve of her collarbone and tracing the faint edge of her armour’s seam. The gesture was not lustful in any mortal sense, it was claim, possession, sanctification. She trembled under it, not daring to move.
“Rise,” he said at last.
She obeyed, and when she stood, his hand lingered at her hip. He leaned close, his breath ghosting her ear.
“Come,” he whispered. “Your sisters will envy you before dawn.”
Her pulse raced. She did not need to ask what he meant. She yearned to be the first to give him an heir, a triumph greater than any conquest. Her chest filled with a fierce, wordless pride.
He turned and led her from the chamber, through two an open portal into a dark hallway beyond. Behind them, the Diye Serjak turned their heads in unison, watching as the great doors closed.
And beyond the sealed archway, she followed her god and husband into the shadows to win a great victory.
