IC:
Empress Volshe and
Cordé Venau
The Corridor
Vua spoke. As Maladi did.
There was a moment of contemplation. Her heart thrummed at the sight of the throne, bathed in light, coaxing and urging her into its resplendent seat. It called to her, the clawed hands of the walls reaching for her.
They chanted her name, in her mind’s eye. She could hear them, the legions of Sith, falling to their knees. Gazing to her with utter reverence. She had craved this, for what seemed to be aeons.
But the vision was shattered by a familiar call. She frowned, the voice of her daughter, frantic, ringing through the hall. Her head turned, headdress chiming with a soft symphony.
“Mother! Mother!
Father!”
Her footfalls landed now on the stone, the slap of her sandals echoing around them. Her eyes were wild, a wildness she had not seen in a very, very long time. Instantly, she was as on edge as Cordé was.
“You must come with me. Now. Now! There is an execution. Of the Federation leaders!”
Volshe resisted the urge to run with her daughter, in that moment. Instead, her features curled into a deep distaste, even deeper than her prior frown, and she turned on her heel to face her. Her daughter was not easily spooked, she was never so wild or untamed. Her daughter was a woman of society, of elegance and reservation, who had spent the last seven years steeped in the highest echelons, aiding her in her stalemate of the Federation. But this...this was excusable.
An execution.
The entire Hall was going to be outside. Apollyon had clearly summoned them, Vua had pursued and spoken to them. Cold ice clutched at her heart.
They were going to cut the heads from the snake, allow it to writhe as they cheered victory. Nausea pricked at her throat at the thought.
It was precisely why she had not exterminated the Federation leaders of yet. Not due to her own incapacity, but precisely because the galaxy could not afford a writhing, dying animal. Not one that encompassed so much of the military force of the galaxy. Not when she knew what lie on the horizon.
There was no time for contemplation, nor elaborate plans to subvert what was occurring.
Her eyes were hardened. She brought herself to face her allies. Her gaze settled firmly on those of her entourage. Two in particular.
“Wait until her lackey has pursued me, then take the throne. Bring the children,” she hissed at Lord Nihl, words soft enough the Vong would never hear. She looked up to Lord Nathemus with the same icy, cold stare. “Lady Maladi, Lord Nathemus. Defend Lord Nihl, and my heirs. This is my will.”
Her voice lowered, a solemn determination rippling from her words.
“The rest of you, follow me. You will have to indulge your trust in me. I have trusted you for the last many months, I know we have common goal.” She took a moment to pause, to assess them. Her cloak tumbled from her arms as she undid the satin sash, and she left it there, lying in the hall. She leaned down, unlacing the straps at her ankles and beginning to pull her heel from her foot. “I know well you do not understand what I am about to do. That you will have desired to see the deaths of our enemies, as I would, in a different place and different time. But I assure you, it is for the greater good. I assure you, the Sith are always, and have always been my priority. Your survival, the survival of the Sith is paramount to me. And I implore you, now-“ One of the heels went flying, skidding across the floor. The next followed. “- in this moment of great importance both to the Sith, and the galaxy, to stand and fight by my side.”
She turned and followed Cordé, glancing back to see who followed her. As they walked, she spoke to the woman in hushed tones, though her words did not carry more than a foot or two, the hiss of the whisper did. As did the padding of her bare feet.
“Cordé. You will tell Lord Kain of my will. If this should devolve, he will save Sia, however he can. He will take her to Fondor.”
Cordé nodded as they walked. She understood, but she was anxious that the Beloved Son would not. He frightened her. She was wise to be frightened by him, she knew, but it still did not quell the lurch of cold waves that crashed against her and wound chill up her spine. She willed herself not to show it. Concern still leeched into her features.
~
As they made it to the doors - only a short distance away - she surveyed the terraced courtyard. The setting sun blinded her, for a moment, shards shattering from the glimmering obsidian that surrounded her. It was red, as her rage. Her skirt trailed the sands, her bare feet sinking step by step into the frigid dust. Her daughter broke away, glancing at her mother for reassurance as she approached Lord Kain, crimson glinting in her unsettled gaze. Viscretus nodded to her, once.
She inhaled. Her breath held, weighing in her chest. If she survived, this, well... Erastus would kill her.
It took a moment, two, for her vision to return to her. The blade of the guillotine grabbed her focus, first, visible through the doorway. The sheen of crimson glanced off just as the malevolent rays of Horuset had caught her daughter’s eye. The sun spilled blood on the sands, decadent ichor that she hoped was no portent for the next minutes.
She did not stop just past the doorway, nor at the gathering place of the rest of the crowd. She strode ahead, imperial knights trailing behind her, the rest of the entourage behind the crimson clad guards. Their armour shone with menacing glare. There was the soft click of their armour with every step as they approached their destination. It normally would have been soothing. But not now.
Now, it was nothing more than a reminder of what was to come.
Her feet touched sand as she stepped onto the terrace. A thrill ran up her spine, goosebumps settling on her pale skin. She was not afraid, no, but she was concerned.
Her eyes darted to the prisoner’s guards, caught by their movement. Three of them knelt to the stone. She could recognize them, now, she realized.
She was crowned in sunset, but only metres away, there were those crowned only in rags.
Her assumption - and her daughters word - had been correct. Her hand curled around the saberstaff that hung, glistening at her belt, and her lip curled into a snarl. Seeing them irritated her, deeply, stoking the embers in her gut to smouldering. It was not simply because they had been her enemy, locked in a seemingly endless, brutal war with her. Not simply because they had burned Theed, and deposed her from her throne.
Her muscles stiffened for an instant, making the careful steps across the sand more difficult. She could scarcely believe what she was about to do. There was a voice willing her to return to her throne, a greed driven demon that hissed divine temptation to the shadowed recesses of her soul. It stung. It ached.
To die was perhaps unavoidable, now. Her mortality had become a terrible, yet familiar friend since her visit with Lord Kain. But to die defending those who she had hated, just months ago? It seemed surreal. Though she knew well it was what must happen. The war was a pitiful thing, in the grand scheme of it all.
The Sith would not understand. They did not need to.
Her heart was in her throat, each slow beat painful, clawing at her breaths. Every inch she moved seemed to accomplish nothing, the sands and stone stretching before her.
The blade in her hand clicked as she unhooked it partly from her belt. She hid it behind her forearm as her arm fell, just as she neared the prisoners. For a moment she regarded them, head tilting to inspect them as if she were utterly innocent in her intents. “Cease,” she hissed at the guards, suddenly, her lip curling.
Then, she turned. She stood poised, her expression offering no betrayal of emotion. Her golden eyes caught the dying sun, her dress a thousand shards of light. She was swathed in rivulets of blood and radiance.
Yet, she was no less deadly because of her beauty.
Her voice rang out, over whatever noise might have contested her.
“I am Darth Viscretus, Empress of the Sith, wife of Emperor Dreadwar, and mother of his heirs. I carry another heir within me. I am the true Empress, Chêra Sith’ari, by issue and marital right, as well as my own right, and I command you all put an end to this spectacle at once.”
The Imperial Knight at her side gripped her ‘saber, as did the others. Not precisely unthreatening. She paid it no mind. She preferred their preparation to their being caught unawares.
She turned to Apollyon, utter disdain in her gaze. It was enough that her eyes may have well killed the woman there, should she have had the arcane ability of deadly sight. “They will not die, not now. I require them.”
The threat was clear. There was no room for negotiation.
As she awaited her friend’s response, eyes leveled on the woman of shadowed eyes in crimson gown, she began to focus her energy on one thing. Tendrils of ink, intended to surround the very prisoners they sought to kill in an esoteric cage of protection. She did not summon them, not yet, but the art of dark side tendrils was one of taxing effort and great expertise.
If they questioned her, she would simply show her power was as great as her will.
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