As the crowd echoed from beyond, she stood amidst the hum of the infirmary. The noise still relentlessly carried in, the shouts and roars of the crowd not fully blocked out despite the durasteel walls. It pressed against the senses, nearly smothering them— a heartbeat too much to belong to any one body, the swell of so many different life forces gathered all at once. Velira could feel it well enough without looking… the burn of adrenaline, of blood and anticipation, each one emanating from within the fighting ring.

Nar Shaddaa had not changed, at least not in any way that was particularly noteworthy to Velira, aside for the obvious— The sheer presence of the woman that was Morgan Sorenn. The last time she had walked these depths, seventy four years ago, the air had tasted just as stale, and the people had been just as eager to lose themselves to their vices. Back then, she had not worn this face— not this version of it. Velira had not yet practiced to become something effortlessly palatable. Something that was safe and unassuming within the eyes of others. She had once moved through places like this with nothing but her voice, weaving herself into the favor of those who thought themselves untouchable— a few mid tier gang lords, men who believed power alone made them immortal. And many of them had learnt otherwise, each meeting the same fate at Velira’s patient hands, with hunger that had been far less restrained during those former years. Less cultivated.

The female Anzat had already made the careful preparations to arrive fully fed. Velira ensured it always did before entering places like this. The arena beyond was saturated with life— bright, reckless, and dangerously tempting. It would have been unwise to arrive unprepared, to further the chances of an unnecessary distraction. Especially with her here. Morgan Sorenn. Even still, the thought alone stirred something faint and unwelcome beneath Velira’s composed surface. A certain craving, much to her annoyance. Velira forced it aside, shifting her attention elsewhere.

The infirmary itself was… lacking. Functional at best, and improvised at worst. A few tables of cheap plastoid, that had no doubt been dragged in from somewhere. Overhead lights flickered intermittently, casting uneven shadows across the room. The near overwhelming scent of antiseptic struggled and inevitably failed to mask the heavier iron notes of blood and poorly treated wounds, much to Velira’s distaste. The other medics moved in hurried borderline frantic rhythms, some competent… and others far less so, each attending to fighters who cursed or lay far too still.

Velira was skeptical of the others, and especially of their work. She had taken her place at the far end of the room, where the light grew darker and the noise thinned. A curtain had been drawn there— not entirely by permission. With quiet push of influence, Velira effectively ensured that it remained undisturbed. Fear was a simple thing to cultivate when applied correctly— A subtle suggestion, or a neatly woven lingering discomfort. Some medics scared far too easily, already pushed to the brink of panic as is, which served to work in Velira’s favor.

Her tools were arranged with precision on the tray beside her— medpac components laid out in exact numerical order, an antidote kit within reach, a synthflesh dispenser already calibrated and ready. To the untrained eye, it may have appeared excessive. And to Velira, it remained necessary. One could never be too careful in places like this, where desperation and credits often outweighed integrity, and where a clean fight could be so easily… adjusted.

Velira slipped on a pair of thin white gloves, smoothing the material against her skin. The latex of her uniform clung to each ample curve of her feminine form, emphasizing them, while remaining pristine— designed for movement, and to wick away blood. Her cascade of dark wavy hair had been drawn back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, though a few loose wisps had slipped free to delicately frame the elegant features of her face.

Velira felt it before she saw her, entering the infirmary wing with a noticeable limp despite the ravenous roars of the crowd from beyond. The shift in presence was unmistakable. Even in this state, she carried something that cut through the noise. Velira’s crimson gaze lifted just as Morgan crossed the threshold. She swept forwards, smooth and unhurried, closing the distance with the quiet certainty of someone who had done this countless times before. Her gloved hand rose gently, just enough to guide.

“This way,” Velira stated, her voice even, composed. Yet even still, her crimson eyes narrowed on the other woman, already beginning her analysis, observing and cataloging the various injuries. Bruising along the ribs, strain in the shoulders, surface lacerations, and of course the compromised knee— Each one of them correctable, and yet in Velira’s mind, also equally unnecessary.

She led Morgan past the other stations, past the disarray and questionable hygiene, into the darker yet pristine corner she had claimed for herself. Velira offered the necessary support of her arm, to ease the other woman’s unsteady walk into something more manageable. The curtain fell closed behind them with a soft whisper.

“I am not particularly fond of the other medics here,” Velira remarked, with an undeniable sense of judgment and mistrust within her tone. “It seemed… efficient, to encourage distance.”

Her attention returned immediately to Morgan, focused and clinical, as she led her to the one durasteel table within the infirmary— one of the very things that Velira had clawed her way into the minds of the other medics for, to ensure that it remained within her possession. Of course, she had taken extra care to line it various towels and even a pillow for additional support prior to the fight. Velira guided Morgan with a careful hand, gesturing for her to lay down in order to begin her work.

“You’re compensating on the left side,” she began to observe. “Knee instability. Rib impact— likely bruised, possibly even cracked… And yet, you continued regardless.” A faint pause followed Velira’s words, as she briefly turned away to gather the necessary supplies in her hands.

Her piercing crimson gaze shifted to meet Morgan’s steadily. “What prompts you to enter environments like this,” she continued, her voice calm, almost clinical within nature, “where the margin for error is so narrow, and the consequences potentially so… permanent?”

The question came without inflection, and without softness, only a calm sense of inquiry. And beneath it, buried deep within the shadows of her mind and intent focus— curiosity, and quiet interest.

Velira noticed it before she saw it. The familiar metallic scent came first, threaded beneath the sweat and grit of the arena. It sharpened her focus instantly, cutting through everything else, as her gaze dropped to where Morgan’s hand grasped for the bleeding wound. A vibroblade laceration, something that Velira recognized all too well, despite Morgan’s initial efforts to conceal it.

“Stop,” she said, her voice calm but firm as she felt the faint pull of the Force gathering around the injury. Velira exerted enough focus to quickly replace Morgan’s efforts with her own , letting her own tendrils of the Force begin to wrap around the wound instead. “That is my responsibility, Morgan. I require you to conserve your energy.”

She leaned closer to the other woman, enough to swiftly work. Her hands came forward, deliberate and precise, fingers brushing lightly against the hem of Morgan’s shirt. She paused only a fraction of a second, measuring and assessing, before lifting the fabric with controlled care to reveal the injury beneath. The motion drew her gaze briefly along the lines of muscle shaped by years of discipline and combat, the subtle rise and fall of breath beneath her touch. Her focus did not linger. It returned, immediately and entirely, to the work at hand.

Velira reached for the numbspray first, applying it with practiced efficiency, her touch steady as she worked. Her other hand followed, pressing firmly but carefully to slow the bleeding, adjusting Morgan’s position on the table with subtle pressure to align her body properly.

“Hold still,” she murmured, softer now in quiet insistence. A med patch followed, placed along Morgan’s side and ribs, its slowly released compounds already working to dull the deeper aches beneath the surface. As Velira worked, she listened closely to Morgan’s answer. “Spectacle is… inefficient,” she replied evenly. “It draws attention. Attention invites variables. Variables increase risk. It is precisely why I’ve always preferred to remain in the shadows, Captain.”

Just as quickly as Velira had pragmatically responded, her gaze flicked upward briefly, studying Morgan— not the words, but the space that rested between them. The tightening of her breath, and the flare of something sharper beneath the surface, that she could faintly detect with her reaching senses. Rage. It was enough to inform Velira that this wasn’t the full truth, something that she made quick note of, with the intention of returning to later.

Her hand moved to her tools, selecting a sterilizer before abruptly pausing. The debris was too fine, too embedded. Her brow creased just slightly in mild frustration, and Velira drew in a quiet breath.

“There is something I need to explain,” she began, her tone measured yet shifted with the faintest note of uncertainty, as she turned back to Morgan. “This wound requires precision beyond what these tools can provide.” Her fingers hovered briefly over the tray before lowering. “My method is… unconventional, but it is effective. More so than anything available here.”

Velira did not look away, holding Morgan’s gaze as she continued speaking. “I have fed recently, under controlled conditions, enough to be satiated in preparation. Additionally, through the years, I have tried to find… alternative uses for my nature,” she continued, quieter now, though no less composed. “Ones that do not necessarily involve harm.”

There came the subtle shift of her hand, applying antiseptic while the other steadied Morgan’s side. “And given your current state, it will be faster. Cleaner.” She did not mention the hunger, did not mention how Morgan’s very being often strained at her senses, much to Velira’s annoyance. And yet for now, that side of her rested enough, distracted by the work at hand despite the close proximity.

Velira inhaled once more, slower this time. Slowly and tentatively, one proboscis unfurled, not yet making any movements. It emerged in a smooth, controlled motion from her cheekbone, pale and silken, its movement deliberate rather than instinctual. Velira continued to remain still for a moment after watching and measuring— ready to leap away at any sign of an attack. The tension in Velira’s shoulders did not leave as she leaned forwards, intentionally positioning her body and the tendril itself as far away from Morgan’s head as distance allowed, while still being able to access the wound.

The cloth was removed with careful precision, exposing the laceration once more. The curved tip of the tendril narrowed, refining into something finer and sharper— not predatory, but surgical. It dipped lower, slow and exact. The point entered the wound with practiced delicacy, removing the deeply embedded debris with a series of controlled movements— too precise for any medical instrument to replicate. Velira worked quickly, and yet each motion was intentional, her free hand already applying antiseptic in tandem while the synthflesh dispenser was readied in the other.

She was aware of it, how the unnaturalness of what she was doing would seem to most, and she began to speak calmly in an attempt to detract from that. “I was taught to fight long before I learned to heal,” Velira said evenly, now beginning to seal the edges of the wound with the usage of the synthflesh dispenser. “Hand to hand. Position, timing… How to remove oneself from perception, before reintroducing force where it matters most… And yet, I’ve never once stepped into a fighting ring. Not in my three hundred years.”

Velira did not answer immediately. Her hands had already begun to move, sliding lower along her form with quiet intention, as her focus shifted from the sealed laceration to the source of Morgan’s uneven stance. The knee. Velira had noted it the moment Morgan entered— the imbalance in weight distribution along with the micro adjustments to compensate for instability. Now up close, under her scrutinizing gaze, it was made much more apparent.

Her fingers traced along the joint first, not touching blindly but carefully, to map out each ligament, tendon, and subtle misalignment beneath the surface. Velira’s understanding of the body was not learned in fragments, but in systems— each motion tied to another, connected intricately. She felt the tension in the surrounding muscle beneath her careful hands. A partial dislocation, but one that would need to be corrected nonetheless. Her grip adjusted— one hand bracing just above the joint, the other sliding below. Velira’s positioning was precise, almost reminiscent of martial technique, in a way that sought to redirect pressure along natural lines rather than against them.

Not yet opting to answer the other woman’s statements, her crimson gaze steadied with something of intent focus. “I recommend breathing through this next part,” Velira advised quietly. There was a subtle firmness beneath the words, not quite a command—but close enough to matter. Even with the doses of pain relieving treatments, Velira was aware this next action could create discomfort, something that she aimed minimize as much as possible. Then— an abrupt, yet controlled shift. With the press of her hands to apply just the precise amount of enough force, the joint slid back into place with a muted, satisfying alignment, in a correction that was both clean and efficient.

Morgan’s reaction came a fraction later in a sharp, colorful strings of multiple Huttese curses, loud enough to turn heads beyond the curtain. Velira’s hand remained steady as she reached for a hyposyringe with a thin, sterilized needle, her composure unshaken by the sudden onslaught of Huttese curse words. She administered a measured injection of bacta directly along the affected area, knowing that the fluid would accelerate repair and reduce inflammation to further ensure stability. A splint followed, wrapped with practiced care around the form of Morgan’s leg in a smooth motion. “Thanks, doctor,” Morgan muttered, voice still rough with lingering pain, as she paused to gaze over Velira. Quite a pretty one at that, Morgan couldn’t help but think.

After a moment, Velira finally allowed herself to consider Morgan’s words, and the comment regarding her apparent nosiness. The faintest flicker crossed Velira’s expression— not quite offense, not quite amusement, but enough to create the first semblance of life across the pale features of her face since she’d begun her work. Recognition, perhaps. Velira had grown accustomed to always being the one asking the questions— Always the one observing, dissecting, guiding conversation without ever offering herself in return. It was… safer that way, more controlled and predictable.

Morgan disrupted that. Not in an overt way, but in the way she resisted being read cleanly, the way her answers circled rather than revealed. Velira could feel it… the fire beneath, a coiled tension of something unresolved. Her hands stilled briefly against the splint before finishing the final adjustment. “You are… difficult to categorize,” Velira said at last, her tone measured and clinical, but not unkind. Her gaze lifted briefly, meeting Morgan’s without pressing too deeply. “Most who enter environments like that do so for something more immediate… Credits, reputation, survival.” A faint pause followed her words as she tilted her head to the side in deliberation. “You do not strike me as someone easily motivated by any of those alone, Morgan.” Velira did not say more on the subject, allowing the implication to linger.

Her gaze drifted toward the distant roar of the arena beyond the walls, in a moment of consideration to Morgan’s offer. “I suppose I can understand the appeal,” Velira said more quietly, her gaze more intentional as she began to further analyze the woman. “For some, I’m sure it offers clarity. Perhaps something… that cuts through everything else.”

Velira paused for a moment, sifting through her own thoughts before continuing. “I have never allowed myself that, not in centuries. There has always been something more pressing. I’ve… never permitted myself the luxury of anything else, Captain.” Her crimson gaze flicked once more toward the arena. Something faint stirred within Velira, difficult to name, not quite of longing, but something close to it. A quiet question of what it might feel like to live in the heat of the moment… to feel alive, despite the absence of any true warmth within her, with no beating heart to anchor it. Just as quickly, Velira drew back her composure, the fleeting softness replaced by familiar, composed stillness.

Instinctively, Velira’s gaze followed Morgan before she could stop it. At first, out of observation, and then something else— The defined lines of muscle, each curve that flowed through her form, the ease with which she carried herself despite her current state. There was… something compelling in it. Velira caught herself a moment later. Her gaze averted, composure snapping back into place with practiced precision, though not before something else had drawn her attention entirely. The tattoos. Her eyes slowly returned, this time with more intent, as she began to trace each design with her gaze.

Velira had noticed them before, of course. It would have been impossible not to. Now unobstructed, each tattoo was fully revealed in all their rich details. Her gaze traced the ones along Morgan’s lower legs first— the contrast of innocence lurking beneath something monstrous, and serenity concealing something sorrowful. Symbolism layered beneath surface design, one that Velira was able to infer was certainly not mere decoration alone, as with all of them.

Her attention moved upward, settling briefly at the center of Morgan’s back— the image of a woman suspended between time and death, accented with a few roses. Velira’s expression did not change, but something quieter passed through her thoughts. The passing of time, death— Two things Velira understood, yet knew she wouldn’t experience in a way similar to most beings, with a preserved appearance and a life span that could stretch into near eternity if sustained by stolen life essence. She quickly forced her thoughts elsewhere, not wanting to dwell on that truth. Not yet.

Her gaze lingered only a moment longer before shifting again, drawn instinctively to the tattoo on Morgan’s shoulder. Simpler in its design, yet just as equally striking, with a certain beauty to it. Three interlocking rings, slightly offset, the dark ink contrasting against her skin in a way that naturally drew the eye.

Velira slowly stepped forward, now a shadow that lingered just behind Morgan’s shoulder, enough to study the design in closer proximity. She slipped off her gloves and set them aside. One hand lifted, hesitating only a fraction before the cool touch of her fingertips traced lightly around the edge of the design.

“Your analysis,” Velira said softly, a faint edge of something thoughtful threading her tone, “is not entirely inaccurate… but incomplete.”

Her fingers lingered only a moment longer before withdrawing. “Very well,” she continued, her voice slipping into that of a whisper. “I shall play your game, Captain.”

Her crimson gaze shifted to the space that still remained between them, as she indicated towards the tattoo with the faint gesture of her hand. “Curious,” she said, almost to herself. “The simplest markings are sometimes the ones that hold the most meaning,” Velira continued, her gaze fixed on the interlocking rings. “What does this one hold for you, Morgan?”

Velira felt it before she fully understood it. Not through the Force, not in any deliberate sense, but through the silent language of the body. The tightening of muscle beneath her hand, the way that Morgan’s very breath shifted, only to force itself into something slower. Velira understood that it wasn’t fear, wasn’t quite anger, but something heavier.

She remained in silence, listening. For once, Velira did not try to dissect, did not reach for further analysis. The words settled into her with quiet weight, threading through something that was older than both habit and instinct. Loss. When Morgan’s voice faltered, only then did Velira gently move.

Her hand slipped away only long enough to retrieve a clean shirt, the fabric gathered carefully between her fingers before she stepped in closer again. She guided it around Morgan’s shoulders with measured care, mindful of the healing beneath. Her movements were precise, but softened, as she carefully adjusted the fabric so it wouldn’t pull and wouldn’t disturb the synthflesh still settling into place. Her fingers worked the buttons one by one, unhurried, each motion deliberate in a way that carried quiet intention and a sense of care. Her hands lingered only long enough to ensure everything was smoothed into place, though she did not step away. Not yet.

Velira’s gaze lowered slightly, not to avoid Morgan, but to give her a sense of space without fully leaving her. “I have known something… similar,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, the cadence shifted just enough to reveal something beneath it. “Though… not in the same way. Time does not take from me in the same as it does for others. It simply… leaves me behind.”

Velira’s gaze lifted this time, an empathetic sense of understanding now carried steadily in the crimson depths of her eyes, rather than their usual look of cold calculation. “But I have learned this much,” she continued, more gently now. “What was real does not diminish because it has ended. It does not become lesser simply because it could not remain… And neither do you.”

Velira did not move. For a moment, longer than she would have ever allowed before, she simply remained where she was without retreating. The words lingered between them, and with them, leaving something unfamiliar in its wake, something unguarded. It was not a state Velira tolerated easily. For over two centuries, instinct had taught her to withdraw the moment something real threatened to surface— to smooth it over or redirect, to vanish behind a wall of control. That instinct stirred now, sharp and insistent, urging her to close the distance she had just crossed. And yet, Velira did not.

A slow breath left her instead, quieter than usual, as some of her usual composure began to return faintly. “I believe, Morgan…” she said, her voice smoother now, “… that it is your turn to ask me a question.”

Tatooine • Outer Dune Outpost • 43 ABY

The sun never relented. Even as it dipped toward the horizon, bleeding orange into the endless dunes, the heat clung stubbornly to the bones of the decaying settlement— one of spread out buildings with rusted scaffolds, that consisted of various trading posts and lodging. It certainly wasn’t Mos Eisley— this place lacked the traffic, and the constant churn of life. Instead, it was a mining outpost turned remote civilization, one that had outlived whatever purpose it was built for, now sustained by those who were too either trapped to leave or various drifters and scavengers alike.

Velira had spent five days under the twin suns that never seemed to set fast enough. Five days of dust, of heat, and of a town that felt too exposed in all the wrong ways— quiet, watchful, with nowhere to disappear for long without being noticed. But she had adapted, as she had for so many decades, enduring it for the sake of the hunt. The target had been found, tracked, and taken without incident. Now, with that task complete, she remained where she was—waiting, for none other than the notorious Morgan Sorenn.

And at the center of it— a cantina. The low structure was reinforced with scrap durasteel and sun bleached stone, with a dark interior that seemed to swallow whatever light dare enter. The air inside was thick with heat, blaster smoke, and the sharp tang of cheap liquor. Dimly flickering panels hung overhead, covered in layers of dust, casting everything in an uneven amber glow. For the most part, conversations were quiet, and with the absence of warmth. Velira preferred it that way.

She had taken a seat at a sabacc table near the back— far enough from the entrance to observe, yet far enough from the bar to avoid idle conversation. The wide brim of her hat, dark black in color and more suited to Outer Rim riders than Core fashion, cast her face into the obscurity of shadows save for the faint gleam of her crimson eyes beneath. The cards shifted in her hands, her gloved fingers moving with deliberate ease as the game unfolded around her. In the quiet exercise of precision that came with sabacc, of analyzing and deceiving in equal measure, Velira found something she could almost call enjoyment.

Her gaze slid towards each of her opponents, then back towards the cards in her hand, her face a smooth mask of composure. From her observations, the heavily armed Dowutin leaned too heavily on intimidation, with a broad posture and intentionally sharp movements. The Trandoshan, seated opposite, relied too heavily on thought alone. Each of his moves were weighed and overworked, yet his focus slipped just as easily with a wandering gaze that lingered where it shouldn’t, betraying every flicker of emotions. He watched the others, watched her most of all, rather than the cards in his clawed hands.

She tilted her head just slightly, the faintest shift in posture as she crossed one leg over the other. “Now, now… I do reckon y’all are pushin’ your luck, just a touch,” Velira’s voice spoke, still holding its silky smooth cadence— yet now, it carried an intentionally placed Outer Rim drawl as well. A faint smile ghosted her lips from beneath the shadow of her hat.

The Dowutin grunted, and the Trandoshan hissed in equal measure, taking the bait. Her cards remained steady, yet her expression did not change. But her presence did. Velira allowed a flicker of doubt pass across her features in hesitation— An artificial, calculated imperfection.

They each leaned in with rising bets and misplaced confidence as the round dawned near its end, committing to their final moves. And Velira… let them, with an expression that didn’t betray even the ghost of otherwise. The final shift came with a quiet turn of the cards, as the final hand resolved without any flourish. Just the clean, inevitable reveal of a winning hand. Velira’s hand.

There was a steady beat of silence, and then— “Cheatin’,” the Dowutin snarled, rising halfway from his seat, shoving his chair aside. “Ain’t no way!” The Trandoshan’s eyes narrowed, slit pupils tightening as his hands formed fists. “Rigged. I done smelt it from the start.”

Velira let out a slow sigh, having grown far too accustomed to this in her decades. She gathered her winnings in silence, neatly and calmly. Then she stood. The dark black leather of her long, ragged cloak shifted with her movements. Laced boots with reinforced durasteel heels gave her curved silhouette a subtle elevation. The loose scarf around her neck , deep crimson and of fine silk, caught the light faintly as she turned. Velira’s eyes, beneath the dark shadow of her hat, now held the faint red glow of an undeniable hunger.

Their hands moved, and so did she, in a blur of sudden movements. The Trandoshan reached first, his clawed hand snapping towards one of the blasters at his hip. Velira was already within reach. Her movement was not one of brute force, but of carefully placed precision, with the subtle shift of her weight and an elegant pivot. Her hand struck sharply against the joint of his wrist with tightly applied pressure, enough for the weapon to slide free and clatter to the ground before he could even register the contact. Velira turned with the motion, the arch of her body sliding behind his, with her other hand catching his arm and bending it in a sharp angle that went against its natural movements. Another sharp kick followed, as she brought the end of her boot crushing against his rib cage, followed by the audible cracks of several bones.

The Dowutin advanced next, with enough mass and momentum to crush most by brute force alone. Velira allowed him to exhaust the first few swings, as she glided around them as a shadow. Her form curved and redirected, with her foot hooking behind his ankle as her palm drove sharply into the side of his knee, with just enough force for the joint to collapse beneath the applied pressure. She moved again— already behind him now, her motion seamless. Her hand struck cleanly at the base of his neck, just enough to break his balance, and when he faltered, Velira was already there to greet it.

A sudden surge of darkness followed, flowing outwards from her like ink dropped into water. Any light within the cantina sharply vanished, eyesight along with it, as everything plunged into a cloaked radius of shadows. The Dowutin barely had time to react before her probosces unfurled and found their mark, taking swiftly and quietly, as Velira absorbed his very life essence. Tasting his fear, his very dreams for improving his fortunes— Dreams that would now cease to exist.

By the time the darkness receded, the Dowutin lay as a corpse, blood pooling beneath him. The Trandoshan knew better than to advance again, moving to slowly limp out of the cantina. Velira stood in silence, her probosces carefully concealed once again, as she paused to carefully adjust the brim of her hat. No one in the cantina spoke, only looked her over for a moment, before turning cautiously back to their drinks without making eye contact. A worker stepped forwards, cursing under his breath as dragged the body outside, leaving behind dark crimson trails on the floor boards. Another worker followed, already cleaning with a mop in routine.

The fear lingered in the room, but Velira did not leave it to chance. Her presence shifted again, subtle threads of the Force slipping outward, brushing individually against a few minds in the room with a quiet whisper of dread, enough to ward them to keep their distance. It worked. Space cleared around Velira without a word, as she returned to the bar, as though nothing happened. “Whiskey,” she said softly, the drawl still present, still effortless. A glass was placed in front of her without hesitation. Velira lifted it, the amber liquid catching the dim light as she turned it slightly in her hand.

Velira had not yet taken a single sip before the glass trembled in her hand, amber liquid rippling against its edges. She steadied the glass with practiced ease, though a faint exhale escaped her at the realization.

Of course. She set the drink back down with deliberate care, leaving it untouched. There was no irritation in the thought— only a quiet, familiar recognition. Morgan Sorenn did not typically enter places quietly, but rather announced herself, as she had begun to learn. A sharp contrast to Velira’s own nature, one that was accustomed to slipping in unnoticed and remaining in the shadows.

She rose smoothly and crossed the cantina floor without haste. The double doors swung open beneath her hand, the desert’s harsh air rushing in to meet her. Heat, wind, and sand flowed through the road as she stepped out into the open, one gloved hand lifting to secure the brim of her hat against the gusts.

The sky above churned with force as the descending vessel carved its presence into the horizon. The Kraken. Even at a distance, it was unmistakable. Carmine against the pale brutality of Tatooine’s wastes, its silhouette vast and predatory as it descended . The air howled louder with its approach, whipping Velira’s dark coat behind her, while her silky cascade of dark hair fanned behind her shoulders in the wind, catching the light with hints of auburn.

Around her, civilians had begun to gather— slowly and cautiously. Figures emerged from doorways and alley edges, drawn by equal parts curiosity or dread. Conversations had died entirely now, replaced by low murmurs and the occasional curses muttered under their breath.

“What in the dang blasters is goin’ on?” someone said, voice tight. “Must be one of them pirates, but we ain’t got nothin to offer. Not since the mines done dried up,” another answered more fearfully with something of recognition.

Velira did not look at them. Her gaze remained fixed on the ship as it settled, the tremor beneath her boots gradually easing into stillness. There was a certain… inevitability to it. A faint tilt of Velira’s head followed.

“She does have… quite the talent for entrances,” Velira murmured to herself with the ghost of something close to amusement, though it sharply vanished. A nearby onlooker flinched slightly at the sound of her voice alone, already wary from what they had witnessed inside and the fear that she had intentionally driven into her minds— Now only increased by the sudden arrival of the looming vessel. Velira paid them no mind. Instead, she stepped forward, her posture composed as her silhouette stood against the orange hued sky, waiting. Not for the ship, but for her.

“Are you sure these ain’t more of them… shadow people?” one of the men muttered from the sidelines, voice tight with unease. Another cuffed him sharply upside the head. “No, you fool! These’re pirates. Besides, my grandpappy hunted the last of that vermin ages ago.”

Velira’s head dipped ever so slightly at that— subtle enough to be mistaken for nothing at all. The brim of her hat caught the faint orange light, casting her features into deeper shadow, concealing the unnatural pallor of her smooth skin. She did not yet move, but merely listened, as the scene before her unfolded.

Velira leaned against one of the wooden posts of the buildings, neatly folding her arms in a relaxed posture. Yet at the same time, she shifted her attention towards the Sheriff, focusing inwards on the careful map that was his mind. It was one that was disciplined, not easily swayed— A man who had built himself on duty, and the simple certainty of protecting what little this place had. Something that Morgan’s sheer presence and her vessel, in his eyes, threatened to shatter.

Velira’s focus narrowed, threading carefully through the edges of his awareness rather than forcing her way in. She did not break or overwhelm, but merely adjusted with carefully placed suggestions. They’re not a threat, just drifters, like the rest of this settlement. Ones with vast credits and trade, merely passing through. Slowly, the tension in the Sheriff’s stance began to ease at these thoughts. His hands relaxed on the grip of his blasters, and he exhaled to himself.

He slowly turned to Morgan, with less edge, his tone dropping to something of understanding. “There’s good folks that live in this town, Captain. I herby ask you to keep it clean, not for me, but for them… No extra trouble.” The rooftop gunmen hesitated for a moment, exchanging glances with one another. As the Sheriff gave the slow nod of his head, one by one, their weapons began to lower… Not entirely, but enough.

Velira released her hold as cleanly as she had taken it, withdrawing without a trace, her posture never shifting from where she stood. Only then did she move, as the Sheriff began to retreat.

Velira stepped forward through the dust, now standing before Morgan as a dark silhouette. “You seem to have… quite the talent for making an impression, Captain.” A faint tilt of her head followed. “I, on the other hand, have spent centuries making a discipline of disappearing… And yet, here I am.”

Velira stepped a bit closer, her smooth voice dropping to that of a whisper. “I have what I came here to hunt for… Alive, contained, until you decide otherwise.” There was a faint pause she shifted to look up, the soft red glow of her eyes holding Morgan’s gaze. The wind stirred again, quieter now. “We should not remain here longer than necessary, Captain…” And with that, Velira began to turn away, giving the slight gesture of her hand for Morgan to follow.

Velira did not slow as she began moving. “Somewhere quieter, Captain,” she said, her voice low and even, carrying just enough to reach her through the wind. She did not turn at first— but after a moment, her gaze slipped back over her shoulder, catching Morgan’s for the briefest second. “You asked for something worth your time… I intend to deliver.”

And then she faced forward again, already moving. The settlement fell away behind them in fragments— first the faint noise, then the presence of people entirely until it gave way to something far more desolate. What remained was the open stretch of Tatooine’s wastes, where the land had flattened into long, quiet distances broken only by jagged stone and shattered remnants of debris. The suns were lowering now. Their light stretched thin across the horizon, bleeding from gold into deep amber, then eventually into a bloody red that clung stubbornly to the edges of the sky. The heat lingered, but it had begun to loosen its hold, replaced by something cooler and far emptier. Velira couldn’t help but feel a bit more at ease, as the once brilliant sunlight died and gave way to the darkness, something that was far more familiar to her.

The wind softened, but the silence deepened as it settled over the remote landscape, that shifted into something harsher. The terrain grew less traveled with sand broken only by the remnants of something long abandoned. Grave markers. They rose ahead slowly, emerging from the dark as jagged stone silhouettes that were crooked and half swallowed by sand with some leaning unevenly. A graveyard, one that was old and long forgotten. Velira slowed as she crossed its threshold, though nothing visible marked the boundary. Still, the air changed into something thicker and quieter. Her eyes adjusted easily, emitting a soft red glow in the darkness. In the low light, her vision clearly caught each detail of what little remained.

“You may find this part… inconvenient,” she murmured. A flick of her wrist sent a lighter arcing back toward Morgan through the dark, intended to provide extra light. “In case you should need it,” was all that Velira said with a slow nod.

She moved in silence among the graves, until at last, she paused. Before them rose a tomb— once ornate, yet now worn down by extended years of neglect. Its structure still held, though time had carved its edges into something more rugged. Two statues flanked its entrance in the large silhouettes of tall, cloaked Sith figures. And yet beneath their cloaks was not that of sculpted faces, but of skulls with empty, hollowed eyes. Between them, etched deep into the stone, were the ancient inscriptions of the Nightsisters. And beneath it, two names: Levoro Morvane and Sevyrna Morvane, with dates beneath marking lifetimes that ended centuries ago.

Velira did not speak. Her hand rose instead, pale against the aged stone after removing her glove. Her fingers traced the carvings not idly, but with intention. Each movement followed a pattern, precise and practiced, as though she had done this before. The very symbols seemed to respond to Velira’s touch, as a dull green light bled outwards from the inscriptions, spreading slowly across the surface in veins of ichor. The ground gave a low, grinding protest as the sealed door between the statues began to shift. Stone scraped and dust that once lay undisturbed for many years now fell in streams. Then, darkness opened before the two of them. A long staircase descended into it, winding downward into something the surface world of Tatooine had long since forgotten. As the entrance widened, torches along the passage flickered to life one by one. They each burnt not with flame, but with thick, green ichor that cast the walls in an unnatural glow.

Velira stepped forward first. “I required discretion,” she said quietly, her voice echoing softly against the stones. “This is the only place that truly offered it, Captain.”

As they begun their descent, the air chilled immediately, the heat of the desert giving way to something damp and ancient. The walls narrowed, lined with alcoves— coffins resting within them. Some were sealed, while others had split open with time. Inside rested various skeletal structures, not all of them human. The faint glint of silver clung to many of them, faint and dull.

Though the Captain stirred something instinctive in Velira, something predatory, lingering at the edge of hunger— She did not allow it to surface. Not now. Her attention shifted instead to the subtler details: the brush of Morgan’s fingertips against her weapon, the quiet readiness in her posture. Velira took a slight breath, forcing that familiar instinct back beneath careful control. She knew better than to even dare consider the notion of indulging it, despite the nagging temptation.

Morgan’s question lingered between them, a distraction that she was grateful for. It was enough for her to pause and give it careful consideration, debating silently to herself just how much to reveal. Instead, she inclined her head a fraction, the movement subtle. “There are… many tales told of my kind. Some more unflattering than others, it would seem. Everyone requires something to sustain them… We are not so different in that regard.”

As the ichor magick began to fade, the passage soon opened into a cavern beyond, where it shifted into natural stone and various stalagmites. “Not all of my kind remained where they were born,” Velira continued, her tone measured as she spoke. “Some… chose to leave. The structure of our world did not suit them. In particular, the nobility were not… universally admired,” There was an edge of resentment in Velira’s tone, though just as quickly, she pushed it away along with any thoughts connected to it.

At the far end of where they now stood, something else waited— An ornate coffin with various engravings, cemented into the stone wall. Velira paused, looking over at Morgan once again with a certain carefulness, before approaching the coffin. She raised her hand, and lightly tapped her fist against the stone in a series of knocks, the sound echoing faintly through the cavern. Silence followed, for several moments.

Finally, a voice spoke from the other side, “Velira, that you?” The voice was cautious, but warm. “It is indeed me, Silas,” She quickly answered. Stone shifted in response, as the heavy door to the coffin slid open, instead revealing a room. Light spilled out— dim, but far warmer than what lay behind them. Inside, the chamber had been made livable. Tables lay cluttered with books and tools, many of which consisted of outdated tech from bygone eras. A hearth gently burned low at the far end, with shadows moving along the walls as the fire shifted.

A pale man dressed in various dark robes stood before them. An Anzati, appearing no older than thirty, though the pale red of his eyes carried something far older. At the sight of Morgan, he recoiled moved instinctively, stepping slightly backward to place more distance between her and— Something behind him. “I do apologize, Silas, I should’ve mentioned that the visitor would be arriving with me,” Velira finally stated slowly as she met his gaze.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t make it for dinner. It wasn’t much, but it was… plentiful,” Silas finally said, voice steady, as though to intentionally convey this— the fact that he had already eaten, was already fully fed. “I… had a snack earlier,” Velira quickly replied, as a sense of unspoken understanding passed between them.

Then— a small movement shifted from behind Silas. The small, pale face of a child suddenly peered out from behind where the other Anzat stood. She appeared no more than six years of age, with dark curly hair, soft and slightly unruly, and eyes that were wide and bright in a place that should have dimmed them. The small girl hesitated only a moment before stepping fully into view, her attention immediately drawn to Morgan with much curiosity.

Before her father could stop her, she ran. “Elyna!” He cautioned, to no avail, but it was already too late. The small Anzat had crossed the space, stopping just in front of Morgan and gazing up at her in pure fascination through wide eyes. Then she turned to Velira, with absolute certainty. “Is this the pretty pirate queen lady you told me about?” Elyna couldn’t help but ask happily.

Velira froze for a moment, something in her ordinarily elegant composure shifting. “Elyna, this is certainly not the time—“ Velira began, her voice faltering slightly. And yet, the child did not seem concerned.

Velira exhaled softly, the sound nearly lost beneath the crackle of the fire. When she turned back to Morgan, her composure had returned— but not as rigidly as before. “This is Silas Kal’Voro,” she said, indicating the man. “And his daughter, Elyna. They have been… assisting me.”

Her gaze shifted, briefly, toward the deeper part of the chamber— where there was another winding passageway that led away from the room. “They have kept watch over our guest,” Velira said instead, her tone measured. A faint pause followed. “One who seems to have… taken a particular interest in you, Captain.” Velira did not elaborate further, not here, in the presence of the others.

She had remained quiet, keeping a close watch on Morgan— assessing. For a moment, Velira could sense the subtle the shift in Morgan’s presence, the quiet malice threaded through her gaze. It was enough to stir something instinctive in Velira within return, something that was almost protective, at least when it came to the regards of the small child— the urge to hiss, to warn without words. It passed as swiftly as it came, though the tension remained, buried beneath the icy grip of her control.

“Yes, of course, we shall be on our way—” Velira quickly began in response to Morgan’s words, already turning away, wanting to leave before anything else surfaced. Just as Velira reached the threshold, the unmistakable presence of Elyna ran up again, eyes bright.

“Oh, please wait! Don’t leave yet!” Elyna protested before turning back to Morgan, interrupting yet again to Velira’s annoyance. “She told me you’re beautiful and strong!” She said brightly. “That pirates travel across the whole galaxy on a huuuge ship, across all the planets and stars! I wanna be just like you one day and voyage!”

The words hung in the air, enough for Silas to flinch. His gaze dropped only for a moment before lifting again, though there was unmistakable sorrow there. “Elyna,” he said gently, with a quiet firmness beneath it. “Go on. Give them space.” The child hesitated, reluctant, before obeying— though not without one last glance back at Morgan, eyes still bright with fascination, even as she retreated.

Silas watched her go, with momentary relief that became clouded once again. Then his gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward a portrait set along the wall. A family— himself, Elyna, and woman that held her in her arms with joy. Velira’s crimson gaze instinctively followed the look, as memories that she’d long buried flowed back to her. It had only been twenty five years ago, and the woman— She had changed, into something ravenous, something feral. Silas had not been able to do it himself, and Velira had arrived to his side to finish the deed in one single, lingering snap of bone.

Her expression did not change. Silas exhaled slowly, dragging his attention and Velira’s along with it, back to the present. “Thank you… for coming,” he finally said, voice low, measured. “I suppose I should not ask when we might see you again… How many decades this time?” Silas added with a faint laugh. Velira merely inclined her head slightly with a knowing look, before speaking, “As long as necessary.”

Silas nodded in acceptance before turning to Morgan. “There’s another way through,” he added, gesturing toward the deeper passage. “Leads back toward the outpost. Thank you for your… visit,” Though his tone was polite, there was a note of uncertainty. Elyna quickly returned, rushing forwards. She turned first to Velira, wrapping her small arms around her without hesitation, then to Morgan in the same gesture. “Come back soon,” she said, eyes bright despite everything. “Okay?”

Velira gave the girl a soft, fleeting smile as warmth crept into her gaze, though she did not allow the moment linger beyond that, did not dare to answer the girl’s question. “Take care,” she said simply, stepping back, already turning. Velira did not trust herself to remain any longer, to not reveal any more pieces of herself that she’d rather leave buried, especially in the presence of Morgan.

Without another word, she moved toward the deeper passage. As they crossed the threshold, the stone door behind them slid shut with a heavy finality— sealing away the warmth, the light, and the soft crackling of the hearth. What remained was an almost eerie, desolate silence.

The passage narrowed again, the walls lined once more with inscriptions, older here and carved far deeper. The air shifted as they descended, growing both colder and heavier. The stairwell soon opened into a larger chamber, one that had been long forgotten.

Various chains lined the stone walls, well preserved despite their age. Old holding cells, ancient in design, stood open or broken with shadowed interiors. At the center of the room, a long stone table stretched outward, massive and imposing. It was deeply stained, with that of old blood that had long since seeped into the surface, darkening with time. Various bones lay strewn across it, alongside a few skeletons. A dining hall, one that had once been intended for many of her kind.

And yet now, there remained something else instead. At the far edge of the room, caught in the pale green light of low burning ichor, a man hung chained to the wall. Stripped of both weaponry and armor, reduced to simple clothes. His head sagged slightly, though not fully, his awareness flickering somewhere between exhaustion and defiance. His lips were cracked from the dry air, breathing shallow, and his eyes carried a noticeable bleakness.

Velira’s gaze shifted to Morgan with a sense of purpose. “This,” she said quietly, “is why I called you here… He is experienced, and has been tracking you for quite some time now.” Her crimson gaze briefly flickered back to the main, a sharper look now held there. “He was not working alone, when I found him. I have already dealt with the others. I found them to be… less relevant. Under normal circumstances, I would have done the same with him, but he has… acquired something, something that I feel belongs to you, Morgan,” She finally stated with a long pause.

Velira now gazed over at Morgan from where she stood, not yet revealing what she had uncovered. “I determined that it would be… unwise to act without your input,” she said as she stepped to the side, giving her a clear view of the of the man. “So,” Velira continued softly, her voice lowering just enough, “he is yours to question, Captain… or to dispose of, should it be what you wish…”

Velira did not answer immediately. She remained where the shadows gathered thickest, the silhouette of her form half consumed by the dim, greenlit dark, watching Morgan in silence. The accusation settled between them— precise enough to hit its mark, enough for it to matter. Something in her shimmering gaze shifted as she locked onto Morgan. Not heat, or fiery rage, but something far colder. When Velira finally spoke, her voice was smooth— almost too smooth, were it not for the icy sense of bitterness laced underneath.

“Yes, Morgan,” she began, with a certain tone that bordered on feigned politeness. “That is exactly what I did. I spent five days on this unfathomable dust bowl of a planet, surrounded by meager minds and tasteless meals, all to carefully orchestrate this moment in my favor.” The sarcasm was unmistakable now, flowing cleanly through every word, as her predatory crimson eyes narrowed on Morgan into that of a glare.

“I even went so far as to introduce you to those whom I…” A pause and a sharp intake of breath followed before Velira dared to continue. “… may even care for. All part of the performance, of course, dear Captain.” Her posture remained sharpened into place, almost rigidly so, and yet despite this her hands both curled into elegant fists.

“Because manipulating the one person who ensures I can move freely, feed without interference, and exist without consequence…” Her head tilted slightly. “…is, clearly, a brilliant long term strategy. And a great use of time, when one of us is already limited in that capacity by lifespan alone!”

The ice in Velira had given way, breaking into shards. She took deep breaths, in an attempt to steady herself. To steady her very thoughts. A sense of regret suddenly flashed in Velira’s eyes following her choice of words, followed by… something else. At this, she crossed her arms and turned away, quickly averting her gaze from the other woman as though to not further betray her own thoughts. The realization had struck Velira sharper than the accusation had… That she potentially cared just enough that the thought of Morgan’s life ending unsettled something within her, on some level. It irritated her, more than anything else. Velira inhaled again, this time steadier.

Her hands lifted, smoothing the lines of her jacket with practiced precision, adjusting the fall of her dark, wavy hair over her shoulders. Each movement was deliberate and controlled, as she forced her very features into a mask of calm, effectively burying away anything that she may have felt into something much more refined.

She remained within the shadows as the chamber erupted, the Force itself warping under the weight of Morgan’s fury. It was not subtle, not controlled— nothing like the careful precision Velira wielded. This was something raw, tearing through the space with a violence that demanded to be felt. It pressed against her very senses, both jagged and unrelenting.

Velira did not intervene, did not even so much as dare move. She did not reach into Morgan’s mind, to temper or soothe, or begin to question the unrelenting fury. This was not something to be corrected… but something that needed to exist, to burn through its course without restraint. There was a kind of beauty in it. Terrible, all consuming… but honest, in a way few things ever were for Velira. With all her centuries of control, of carefully measured restraint— Velira couldn’t help but gravitate to this unbound sense of honesty, for more than hunger alone. The violence ended as abruptly as it began, leaving behind the searing remnants of what had been done. Velira did not look at the ruined body for long. Her attention turned inward instead, to what she had already seen— what she had learned before this moment had ever ceased to unfold.

Velira had searched his mind, carefully and cleanly, without leaving any marks or trace. Though what she had uncovered had not been nearly as simple in nature… There had been clear intent within his mind, not just to hunt or kill, but to truly hurt— Morgan, and her family. It had aligned within Velira’s thoughts with a sudden sense of clarity, as she recalled the image of the three ringed tattoo etched into Morgan’s bare skin, and her faltering words that had followed. Names had surfaced in the man’s thoughts, ones Velira had not dismissed…. Conner and Avaleen, and with it, one more piece of the puzzle had slid into place within Velira’s mind, in a sudden sense of clarity.

She had analyzed the names afterward, through her own means. Not for personal gain, but for the simple want of answers. Databases and long forgotten archived reports had flashed across the screen after some time searching, until Velira had found what she was looking for— A sudden ship explosion in the skies of Coruscant, a terrorist attack, twenty dead alongside two children… Connor and Avaleen.

The discovery had struck something in her— sharp and unwelcome. Younglings had always occupied a rare, unguarded space in Velira’s otherwise controlled existence. Fragile and fleeting, undeserving of the hungers and violence of the galaxy they were born into… they were, in her mind, something always meant to be protected.

The weight of it settled now, fully realized in the wake of what stood before her. Velira’s expression shifted— not visibly to most, but enough to something of understanding. Her gaze moved briefly toward the stairwell behind them, toward the place where Silas and Elyna remained… where something fragile still existed, for now untouched. Then it returned to Morgan gently, to the woman standing in the aftermath of her own storm.

Velira stepped forward, slow and deliberate, her presence no longer concealed by distance but still restrained… still careful. When she spoke, her voice changed, into something gentle.

“Their names… Connor, Avaleen…” Her gaze met Morgan’s, steady and unguarded in a way that it hadn’t been mere moments ago. “I see now,” she said softly. A faint pause followed, something deeper settling behind her crimson eyes.

Her gaze flicked, briefly, toward the stairwell behind them— toward the space where Elyna waited, small and bright against a galaxy that would not spare her simply for what she was. “Elyna,” Velira continued, quieter now. “She should not exist in a place like this. And yet she does. I understand the instinct to protect that. To… not allow it to be taken.”

Velira stepped closer, her gloved hand coming to rest steadily Morgan’s shoulder in a gentle gesture, one meant to be grounding. “You did not fail them, Morgan… The galaxy has never easily spared what is gentle.”

Her gaze briefly slid towards the aftermath, then back up to Morgan. “This kill was never one that was meant for me…” Velira continued, her tone steady, though softened at its edges. “It always belonged to you.”

Dathomir • The Cliffs of Longing • 43 ABY

The red mists of Dathomir flowed around her darkened silhouette. They curled and shifted along the jagged terrain as Velira wove through them, threading between stone and the twisted, clawing roots that jutted from the shadowed surface. The planet breathed in slow rhythms with currents of heat, the haze of ash, of rot, and the steady ever present flow of magick. The stiletto heels of her boots found quiet purchase along the uneven slope as she descended from a high ridge in one smooth motion, the piercing glow of her crimson eyes cutting through the haze beneath the wide shadow of her hood. A distant memory instinctively began to take shape within her mind— of the last time she had set foot on Dathomir, and the blood that had been spilt.

There had been a coven once, small in numbers compared to the others of the planet, but alive. Hidden deep within the wastes, cloaked in rituals and the old magicks that still reverberated within Dathomir’s bones. She had walked among them— soft spoken, patient. Velira had learned their ways, sat beside their fires, and listened to their tales. Waited, as one of them, and when the time had arrived— Velira’s expression did not change, but something colder passed behind her eyes. Their deaths had been quiet, and their realization that something had been feeding on them had arrived far too late. And yet, Velira could still remember the taste… the earthy bitterness of magick within their memories, the sheer depth of the flavors that followed. A dull, ever present hunger tugged at her very senses.

Within the base of a ravine, below Velira and partially obscured by creeping growth, the Gravewalker remained where she had left it. It’s black frame crouched low to the ground, elongated and angular, it’s surface layered in dark plating that swallowed the light. Its limbs, jointed and arachnid in nature, had pierced firmly into the terrain, allowing the vessel to blend seamlessly into the landscape as though another predator at rest.

Velira had already spent a week on Dathomir— seven days of careful movement, of rationed feeding, and avoiding the larger beasts that roamed the land by prowling within the shadows. Her gaze lifted now, settling on a distant structure carved into the cliffside ahead, of an ancient temple. Her movements were swift, her hands clawing into place holds within the rock with practiced ease as she climbed, her form slipping through the crimson mists as she made her ascent along the cliffside.

Awaiting Velira, was the Heart of Velesh… a relic that was a myth to most, but to her marked the premise of a life with freedom. Her hand pressed against stone as she pulled herself onto the final ledge, her breath steady despite the climb, though no warmth came with it. None ever did. Her gaze lifted toward the distant temple, and something shifted within it.. Hope. To feel the steady beat of a pulse beneath her own skin, to exist without the constant need to take from others for sustenance, and to sleep— not hollow stillness, but true rest. To experience dreams, the fragile fleeting things that belonged to those whom were truly alive. But more than anything, she longed for a life in which she was no longer a monster.

With her gaze fixed upon her objective, Velira began to advance forwards. The air howled, her long dark hair whipping around her form with each step. The flow of her movements were guided by purpose— of the possibility for a cure, and the burning intent to claim the Heart of Velesh for herself.

The sudden gleam of the glow rod caught her sight, radiant against the haze of Dathomir. Velira felt it before she truly saw it— the unmistakable fiery pull of life, against a world steeped in rot. It called to her being, each instinct within Velira inevitably drawn to that particular flame.

Her pupils narrowed into thin, predatory slits within the crimson glow of her eyes as the scent reached her… warm, vivid, and alive. It slipped into her senses like silk, stirring something deeper than hunger. She lowered into a crouch in one fluid motion, her body coiling with quiet, lethal grace. A slow breath parted her lips, and her tongue brushed slowly across them, betraying just a flicker of restrained desire.

The pale tendrils unfurled from her cheekbones in soft wisps, their hooked ends shifting with anticipation, as if tasting the air themselves. The darkness slithered around Velira, coiling around her very form in a dense haze of concealment.

She advanced forward, in something both between a silent step and a glide, slipping closer through the mists. The sleek black of her armor clung to her like a second skin, molded to every ample curve of her form with deliberate precision. The laced corset along her back pulled everything taut, accentuating the sculpted line of her waist and the fullness of her chest. Dark, smooth material twisted what little light there was into soft distortions that rendered Velira’s silhouette into little more than a suggestion— A presence to be felt, and yet unseen.

Velira paused only when she saw her, when the familiarity of what she had sensed became suddenly apparent against the burn of her own hunger. Morgan. Her gaze lingered, tracing the other woman’s form in the low light with deliberate attention. There was no mistaking it now— the force of her presence, the way it pulsed so vividly against the decay around them. It called to Velira, slipping beneath her composure in an invitation that held the premise of a craving far more indulgent. The silk of her tendrils hovered in the air, suspended in that fragile space between instinct and restraint, their curved tips angling ever so slightly towards the line of Morgan’s throat and the shape of her mouth, even at a distance.

No. The thought suddenly rung through her mind, as Velira lightly bit her lower lip, forcing a sense of control back over her own senses. Morgan was not prey. Not in the way that mattered, not when something else lingered beneath the surface of that instinct— something Velira neither named nor allowed herself to fully examine. A pull that had nothing to do with hunger, and everything to do with something far more… inconvenient. Slowly, the tendrils receded, slipping back beneath her smooth skin until no visible trace of them remained.

“Careful, Morgan,” her voice suddenly purred out from the darkness, low and smooth, touched with the faintest curl of amusement. “You might attract something… dangerous.”

She moved as she spoke, circling, her presence shifting like a whisper along the edges of Morgan’s awareness— first behind her shoulder, then gone again. “And here, I thought I was the only one with a taste for dark places…”

The shadows held Velira completely now as she retreated, nothing more than a subtle whisper in the air. She lingered there, not as a hunter closing in, but as something with curiosity— her vision tracing Morgan’s form with both unspoken interest and observation. “Tell me, Captain…” her voice slipped closer again, dropping into something softer and more intimate, “… what is it that calls to you?”

Near enough now to feel the warmth of Morgan’s body, to feel the steady beat of her heart, something stirred within Velira— familiar, unwelcome, and yet… not entirely resisted. Memories from their first meeting within the Sinning Den resurfaced in Velira’s mind, and the quiet tension that came with it, coiling low and slow within her form. Her lids lowered, crimson gaze softening into something more indulgent as her body responded in kind— a subtle adjustment of her thighs, a soft breath that escaped her lips.

And yet beneath it, lurked the insistent burn of hunger. It lingered at her senses, threaded through rather than overtaking. Velira inhaled slowly, drawing in the warm scent of smoke and whiskey that clung to Morgan, savoring it as her attention drifted — inevitably, to the pulse at her throat, to the heat of life that radiated from the woman before her.

Her hands moved then, smooth and controlled, sliding along Morgan’s sides as though simply adjusting her stance— should Velira choose to slip free. But her motion lingered, the brush of her fingertips tracing slowly down along the line of Morgan’s back, around the curve of her hip beneath leather— until her hand settled there, firm and deliberate. For a moment, her fingers shifted, dipping just slightly lower… before stilling in restraint.

“Is that so?” Velira murmured at last, her voice low, not yet moving away. “Perhaps I merely wished to pay this world a visit… to sightsee,” she continued, her words touched with a soft lilt, enough to suggest she didn’t expect to be believed. Velira looked up, now meeting Morgan’s gaze more directly. “And you, Captain,” Velira went on, quieter now, something warmer slipping beneath her composure, “are not the only one who can be drawn to… interesting things…”

“Hard to get?” Velira echoed softly, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Or simply… selective.” Morgan’s touch lingered where it had been, as she took a deep breath to steady herself, and attempted to leash her hunger back under control… even if some semblance of it still remained, as it always did.

Morgan’s question settled, shifting something in Velira. Her gaze slipped, settling instead on the outline of the temple that loomed in the distance, rising above the crimson mists and rugged peaks that stretched before them. The air itself felt heavy with a haze, thick with the tang of ichor that clawed through the land.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Morgan moved first, turning with quiet intent, her leather boots grinding against the rough terrain as she began forward, already scanning the path ahead for threats. She did not wait, but she did not need to. Velira fell into step beside her with fluid ease, her presence slipping once more into something measured and controlled. Their pace matched without effort, two predators moving through hostile ground with different instincts, but the same awareness.

“I am… familiar with these lands, Captain,” Velira said at last, her tone even, though now laced with something quieter beneath it. “I have seen many worlds… walked among their people, learned their ways… fed from them…” The faint red glow of Velira’s eyes bled through the darkness, as a breeze caught the silk and crimson of her cloak, flaring it behind her in a wing like silhouette, one that was more shadow than fabric.

“But merely seeing is not the same as living.” Her voice grew quieter, if only for a moment, before sharpening again. “And Dathomir is not a place one forgets, no matter how many centuries pass…” She turned without another word on the matter, moving ahead and slipping into a narrow pass between jagged stone. Where the path converged into complete darkness, her crimson gaze cut through clearly.

The passage tightened quickly, leading them into a steep ascent. The jagged rocks remained unstable, fractured enough by time to force precision and extra balance with each step. Velira moved first with a fluid sense of grace, her movements almost weightless as she climbed, the subtle manipulation of gravity easing her ascent. She pulled herself onto a higher ledge, pausing for a moment to await the Captain, not far behind her.

Morgan moved forward on her own accord, her approach more grounded yet no less effective, with a sense of strength and control that carried through each movement. A slab shifted beneath her boot, suddenly grinding loose with a sharp scrape of stone. Velira’s hand caught her arm in the same instant, instinctive and precise, steadying what Morgan had already begun to correct herself. For a brief moment, they stilled there in close proximity— suspended between movement and gravity, breath shared in the narrow space between them, as loose rocks clattered steeply to the distant ground below. Quickly releasing one another, they continued the climb in focus, until the face of the cliff gave way to level terrain.

While still moving, the elegant features of Velira’s face shifted to hold an expression that was more inquisitive. “The Kraken is already plentiful of relics, is it not? Contraband, rarities… entire histories, if you wished for it.” A faint pause followed, as their movements fell into a quiet rhythm. “And yet…” she murmured, something more intent now threading through Velira’s smooth voice as she spoke, “this is not something pursed without purpose… What is it about the Heart, Captain, that made it worth the journey?”

Velira walked a few paces in silence, as though considering the question with far more care, despite the edge of teasing in Morgan’s voice. And yet, something colder began to thread its way through her thoughts… If the Heart’s power was not an endless well, but could only mend once, and what that meant. The faint glow of her eyes dimmed slightly as her focus turned inward, measuring and weighing.

“I think,” she began, her voice smooth and unhurried, “that if it were merely for display… You would have sent someone else to do the work of retrieving it for you.” Her gaze slid back to Morgan, and the faint tilt of her head followed. “And if it were only power…” a pause, followed by a fleeting laugh, “well, we both know you are certainly not in short supply of that, Morgan.”

Velira’s lips curved into a the whisper of a smile, one that did not fully reach her gaze. “With power,” she continued, quieter now, something older threading through her tone, “can arise the certainty of loss… or at the very least, the fear of it.”

She took a quiet breath, before continuing. “The Heart heals, mends what cannot be mended, and cures,” Velira stated, reciting in part what she had come to understand of the relic. “You wouldn’t be here for something trivial,” she said, quieter now. “…this is surely about something that truly matters to you, more than you’re willing to let on.”

Velira fell silent once more, her focus sharpening as something struck her senses. Low, guttural sounds began to echo from the surrounding peaks around where they stood, steadily growing louder. She stilled, her gaze lifting past Morgan into the dark, as tension coiled through her frame in preparation.

For the briefest moment, no more than a flicker of instinct, Velira considered it…. The path that lay ahead, the Heart. She debated slipping past the chaos, to claim it for herself. The thought lingered… and died just as quickly, the instant that Morgan’s hand shoved her clear of the lunging creature. Velira steadied as she slid across the stone, the impact controlled, as her gaze snapped back to Morgan and the beast— tracking her movements, the way she fought and the fire beneath each movement. Something shifted in her mind, and for once, Velira did not calculate the secondary alternative of forging ahead on her own accord. They were in this together, at least for now.

The sound of sharpened claws scraping against stone from somewhere behind instantly snapped her away from her thoughts, locking her into her instincts. Velira turned, but where Morgan advanced, she adjusted her movements within the beast’s line of sight to vanish. Her form slipped into shadow, her presence distorting into something less predictable, as the Nydak’s claws slashed through the empty air where she had once been.

Velira reappeared if only for an instant at the edge of the Nydak’s vision. In one sudden motion, her arm snapped forward. A silver fibercord whip sliced through the air and caught, coiling tight around the creature’s throat in one fluid motion. It constricted instantly upon impact, biting through flesh and sinew alike as the beast roared, clawing at the wire while dark blood slicked beneath it. It surged toward Velira in blind fury, clawing at the wire that kept them both tethered, its sheer weight seamlessly dragging her forward. Velira slid with it for a breath, boots scraping, before her footing caught just enough against the uneven stones for her to anchor herself.

She let the beast hold, before suddenly releasing. The tension of the wire snapped loose, shifting the creature’s own momentum against itself. Its body wrenched backwards, claws swiping furiously for purchase, as it slammed into the side of a cliff side with a loud crack. Stone fractured on impact, its frame twisting unnaturally as guttural snarls tore from its throat.

A third Nydak sprung from the crags above, descending fast and silent, its massive form nearing the distance behind Morgan. Velira’s crimson eyes held steady on the beast, though she did not move, as her mind coiled tendrils of the Force into place. A loose boulder shuddered, then tore free. It struck the Nydak, driving downwards into its hind leg with a wet, splintering crack. The beast howled and clawed at the ground, dragging itself towards Morgan in jagged, desperate motions that were now greatly slowed. “Behind you, Captain,” was all that Velira’s voice whispered against the other woman’s mind.

A faint smirk touched Velira’s lips as she watched Morgan, drawn not just to the fire she carried into the fight, but the way it sharpened her. Her crimson gaze locked onto the other female and the advancing beast, as she allowed phantom coils of the Force to slip around Morgan’s form, not in a tight grip, but something closer to an embrace. It traced the line of her movements, syncing with her rhythms, in order to propel her momentum forwards with greater speed. Velira’s voice followed a breath later, low with a subtle hint of amusement. “Oh, I am… though it has very little to do with them.”

The wounded Nydak barely had time to turn its head before Morgan’s weapon struck— searing clean through bone. Velira’s threaded propulsion carried the motion past impact, letting Morgan glide even higher with unnatural speed. As she landed, only then did the silk coils of the Force ease away, enough for gravity to gently take hold. “Good… I could feel it breaking…” Velira breathed from where she stood, her eyes gleaming from the shadows.

The echoes of the last creature’s fall faded into stillness, and only then did Velira move. She brushed a gloved hand along her sleeve, letting the dust fall away as though it had never touched her. She adjusted the line of her corset with the same care, before stepping forwards.

Her gaze found Morgan’s in the darkness, with the slight tilt of her head. “You’re dangerous, Pirate…” Velira said both with a sense of intrigue, but also to serve as a reminder within her own mind— to not allow herself to forget that very fact.

Her gaze shifted briefly towards the shadow of the temple that now loomed much closer before them, and then back to Morgan, lingering longer than it should have. The familiar sensation of hunger coiled at her senses, responding not just to the aftermath of violence… but to her.

She paused for a long moment in complete stillness, suddenly caught off guard by Morgan’s question. For a moment, Velira had assumed it would be forgotten, filed away and lost to the natural erosion that came with a mortal mind. Human memory was often fleeting, shaped by urgency, and yet dulled by time at least for some. But Morgan was certainly not ordinary. Nothing about who she was, and what she had built for herself, was the product of anything fragile. In Velira’s mind, it had been carved out, piece by piece, through sheer will… and even through pain, as she had come to learn. Velira had seen that much already, within the woman standing before her.

And yet, despite it all— there was something in Morgan that still burned, something intangible that Velira could sense, both defiant and bright. Alive, in a way Velira had not felt in… far longer than she cared to measure, for as many years that she had merely existed within the galaxy. It stirred something within her, that she did not have a name for, that extended far beyond that natural hungers that came with what she was. Her crimson gaze lingered on Morgan, clouded for just a moment with something unguarded— before the flawless mask returned to the elegant features of her face, smooth and refined.

“I protected you, Captain,” Velira said, her tone sharpening into something icy as her gaze lowered into a glare, “simply because our arrangement allows me to feed… and therefore survive. Nothing more.” The words came easily to Velira, yet the act of lying, for once did not… Something that only seemed to happen with the woman standing directly before her, that Velira found equally unnerving.

A shaky breath escaped her, as her carefully crafted composure began to crack, before she even had the chance to ensnare a sense of control over herself. Her gaze lowered briefly, then lifted again, meeting Morgan’s more deliberately this time. “You pushed me out of the way. I saw it. You protected me, despite what I am,” Velira finally began, revealing fragments. The words nearly continued— despite what I do, what I’ve done, what I will always be— but abruptly Velira silenced them, before they could fully take shape.

“Morgan…” Her voice faltered this time, just slightly. A quiet hiss of annoyance slipped through her breath, as her eyes flared with something between both irritation and anger. The instincts of her hunger, the centuries of control pressed against something far less familiar— something far more dangerous in Velira’s mind, in the act itself of truly allowing herself to feel.

A deep breath escaped her lips, as she tried to resist. Until finally, a small part of Velira relented— Until it was no longer merely calculation shaping her actions, at least not entirely. She tilted her head up, enough to meet Morgan’s gaze with her own. “As stubborn as you are, as unrelenting as you can be, Morgan…” Velira began, her hands loosely curling to fists at her side as she fought the instinct to look away from her. “I stayed, because you’ve begun to show me what it’s like to live.”

For a few quiet steps, she let the silence stretch between them, the distant hum of Dathomir’s restless atmosphere filling the space. The faint red glow of her eyes traced the jagged path ahead, catching on drifting mist and fractured stone, but her mind lingered elsewhere. On Morgan, the way she moved, measured and controlled… and on the way she had moved then. The memory surfaced— the charged energy of the fighting ring, the raw violence of it, and the way Morgan had carried herself not with hesitation, but with something far sharper.

And now, even on a place as desolate as they were, walking beside her through both shadow and stone— that same fiery current remained, just below the surface. When Velira finally spoke, her voice was softer with a sense of unspoken understanding, as she let the words thread between them, “You don’t fight like someone who necessarily fears death… You fight like someone who has learned to survive.”

Velira’s gaze shifted then, turning toward Morgan not sharply, but with quiet intention. The faint glow of her crimson eyes caught the low light, reflecting something far more thoughtful, as her gaze traced the sculpted lines of Morgan’s form— muscle no doubt shaped and refined by her years of combat. Dark waves of Velira’s hair stirred against her shoulders in the breeze, framing a face that held far more curiosity than hunger.

She slowed just slightly as they walked, her gaze lingering on Morgan a moment longer before she spoke. “Who were you before all of this, Captain… before the ship, before the name, before the power?”

The warning settled in the air, lingering within Velira’s mind as she looked at the woman before them, not moving yet. For the briefest moment, her gaze flickered, not to the shadowed path ahead, but to Morgan with a sense of both assessment and calculation. The thought returned, sharper now within her mind, no longer purely hypothetical. If the relic could only be claimed once… then this was no longer simply a shared pursuit.

Her fingers flexed at her side, the shadows around her seeming to deepen in quiet response, as though readily waiting for her to slip into them and vanish ahead. The instinct rose swiftly— only to be stilled under Velira’s careful sense of control. Her crimson gaze narrowed on Morgan for a fraction longer before shifting away, as she tensed just enough to hold back a hiss from escaping at the hand they’d been dealt. A twist of fate indeed, one she had quietly suspected… and yet hoped for otherwise.

Her attention turned to the woman before them, careful to not betray her thoughts any further and shift the subject. Velira tilted her head slightly, studying the frailty in the Nightsister’s frame— the way time had etched itself into her skin, the subtle tremor in her hand as the staff rattled with bone and charm. “How fascinating…” Velira murmured under her breath in observation, as she gazed at the elderly woman with a clinical sense of curiosity. “You’ve lived for so long… Sometimes, I find myself wondering what it must be like to experience the cellular decay of aging, joints stiffening… but alas…”

Despite her words, her mind had already been at work considering this new, unexpected piece of information that the Nightsister provided regarding the Captain— and what to do with it. Velira could understand it in herself, the draw of magick, the way that it called to her. But Morgan… Her gaze slid back to her, edged with intrigue.

“You,” She said, studying her in a way that was different than before. “Now, that is certainly something I did not expect… You have walked among the Nightsisters before, Captain?” Velira began in curiosity, though her tone held that of a statement, an inference, rather than yet another mere question.

“Nightsister magick claims those it touches, perhaps even binds them in some way,” Velira continued, reflecting on the very words that had been instilled into her, during what was lifetimes ago to most. “And yet… according to this woman, you carry it as well..”

Her gaze lingered on Morgan for a moment longer, before it shifted briefly back to the Nightsister. Then without another word, Velira moved. It was subtle at first. A step, angled just enough to redirect. Her hand found Morgan’s wrist, not forceful but certain— and with a quiet insistence, she guided her along the edge of the path, away from the open crag and the woman’s watchful presence. Passing deeper into shadow, where the crimson light of Dathomir began to thin and stones surrounded them.

Her fingers remained at Morgan’s wrist as her crimson gaze lifted, more focused now. “Magick like that does not fade without leaving something behind… and I would like to understand what it left on you, Morgan.”

Velira had seen them before, the witches aboard the Matron. They had moved as passing figures in dim corridors, distant presences woven quietly into the rhythm of the massive ship. She had never thought to question it, the possible correlation to Morgan, given the vast amount of individuals who roamed aboard the Matron. Velira’s time there was spent on her other pursuits— buried beneath sterile light, within the precision of her medical instruments and controlled outcomes, within both the laboratory and med bay. The diligence of her work aboard the vessel had always proven enough to bring Velira a momentary sense of comfort, and a fleeting sense of purpose.

Morgan’s voice disrupted her thoughts. Feral. She suddenly stilled at that word. The motion was subtle, but the meaning behind the statement struck deep, starting to tear itself through her layers of carefully crafted discipline. Velira’s expression tightened, her composure held only by force of will, as something unguarded broke beneath it, at the inevitability of the fate that loomed before her.

The memories came without invitation… Her mother. Miren, and the look of terror in the eyes of both Silas and Elyna. Monstrous creatures that were mere shells of their former selves, with flesh drawn thin over bone, bodies that were hollowed and starved, their forms warping into something unrecognizable— jaws unhinging, hands curling into claws, thoughts and memories dissolving into nothing but hunger. They had not simply died, had become something else…. Something Velira knew she could not outrun, not entirely.

Her gaze snapped back to Morgan, her entire form tensing as that truth coiled through her. And yet beneath it, the hunger. It had grown worse, sharpened by the magick of Dathomir and of Morgan’s very presence— the warmth of her steady pulse beneath her skin, the fiery life that called to her in a way she could not ignore. And yet, it was that very hunger that prevented Velira from starving, from turning feral. She did not answer, could not, as a knowing look passed through her gaze instead.

Without warning, Velira tore her gaze away from Morgan and moved— fluid and immediate, slipping into shadow with a certain precision that was now more instinct than thought. The Nightsister felt her before she arrived, her voice steady despite the noticeable tremors in her frame. “You’ve come to claim me, haven’t you? I know what you are, Velira… what you truly are.”

Velira did not reply… She did not want this, not truly. And yet, the image of turning into something feral clawed at her mind… At what could happen if she didn’t feed, just as it had to her mother and Miren. A sudden motion followed, snapping Velira free from her thoughts. There came the shattered glass of something thrown, and air that now thickened with the haze of green ichor smoke, laced with poison.

It hit her all at once, burning sharply through her senses as her footing faltered for a half step, the terrain tilting beneath her. Velira tensed, steadying herself. Her breath slowed into something controlled, forced into stillness as her body adapted through the Force— the need for oxygen dulled, along with the toxins, now held at bay by practiced control. Her crimson gaze burned brighter through the haze.

Velira moved as a shadow, closing the distance in an instant. The Nightsister’s staff was knocked aside with a precise strike, as Velira’s other hand moved to catch the frail woman before she could collapse against the stone, carefully guiding the movement. For a moment, Velira hesitated. Regret flickered across her features. “I’m sorry…” she whispered to the woman, barely audible.

Velira moved to feed, not in a way that was violent or uncontrolled, but one that was restrained. Her tendrils flowed with precision, threading into the woman’s mind with surgical care to draw only what was necessary. Velira took carefully, methodically, finding that the mind she had entered into was stronger than most. Memories unfolded around her, vivid with color. Not fractured pieces, not fading impressions— but a life, rich and complete, one of sisterhood and of laughter that echoed around dim firelights. It was a life marked by belonging, surrounded by family, and a heartbeat alongside the flow of magick.

For a moment, she lost herself… drawn into something that she had never truly known. And then, followed by words that haunted her. “Take all of it.” Her father’s voice cut through everything, cold and absolute. ”She is prey. Nothing more.” Velira sharply recoiled. She cut herself off instantly, the connection snapping away as her tendrils recoiled. The woman lay still beneath her… too still. Velira’s hands moved quickly, already retrieving a vial and administering bacta with careful accuracy, as she worked to stabilize. She next reached for the woman’s satchel, recognizing the ichor compounds within, applying them where she could— healing, supporting, trying. There was always the possibility it might not be enough, a fact that did not escape Velira’s mind, especially given the woman’s age. Still, she relentlessly tried. When it was done, Velira sat back slightly, her gaze falling to her hands. There was no visible blood, and yet, her gaze remained fixed on them as though there was. Carefully, she adjusted the woman’s position, gently laying her to rest.

Only then did she step back, putting distance between herself and the Nightsister. Her knees gave way before she fully registered the motion. Velira sank to the ground, the strength leaving her— not physically, but somewhere far deeper, something held too tightly for too long, finally slipping. The shadows answered her without thought, wrapping inward around her curled form, forming a sphere of darkness that sealed her away. For a moment, there was only silence, until her breath finally broke. Silvery tears gathered in her crimson eyes from within the shadows. “The Heart… It can cure me….” she whispered, her voice unsteady now, stripped of its usual control. Her hands curled slightly against the ground. “I won’t have to be this anymore…”

Velira drew in a slow, measured breath as she felt Morgan approach— the shift in the air, the subtle warmth of her presence pressing gently against her senses, cutting through the icy stillness that she had coiled so tightly around herself. Morgan grounded her in a way she had not expected…a quiet, unfamiliar comfort that stirred something Velira did not yet have a name for. Instinctively, she turned towards where Morgan now was on her level.

The darkness around them receded, enough to allow the faintest light to return, to catch on the lines of Morgan’s features— The burn of fiery orange in her eye, the way the crimson glow of the sky reflected faintly against the white streaks of her hair. Velira gazed up at her, taking her in, though her thoughts quickly shifted the moment that the truth was revealed.

Morgan’s very words deeply resonated in a way she had not come to expect. And in those words, Velira felt something achingly familiar— the weight of inevitability, the quiet war against something within that could not simply be cast aside and forgotten. Different in nature, perhaps… but not in consequence. Cursed. The realization did not arrive to Velira as pure thought, but as something quieter— something that settled between the two of them, unspoken.

Her gaze lingered, though beneath it something shifted. That same awareness from the cavern returned, clearer now in her mind, and much harder to ignore… The shattering realization that Morgan’s life was finite, burning bright with intensity … and yet, destined to burn out all the same. And rather than meeting the thought with the irritation she once would have, dismissing it as weakness, Velira let it remain. Just for a moment, long enough to recognize it for what it was— that there was a part of her that cared, as much as she wished otherwise.

Her crimson eyes softened, if only for a moment. Velira was certainly no stranger to death. Over centuries, she had learned to let it pass without attachment— people came and went, lives ended, and she endured. Distance had always made it easier, cleaner. And yet, this did not feel distant… Because there was a part of Velira, that did not want Morgan to become yet another fleeting moment.

“We are not so different, are we?” She finally said at last, her voice low and even, but gently touched now with something more reflective. “You burn from within… something that will consume, given time.” A slight pause followed, her gaze holding Morgan’s as she spoke. “And I…” her voice softened, just slightly, “…am carved by a hunger, that will do the same…”

Her expression softened, with something of recognition. “Two paths… arriving at similar ends,” Velira whispered in shared understanding, as though tracing the very weight of that truth that settled between them. Her gaze moved over Morgan once more, not searching or analyzing, but seeing… The strength in her, the refusal to yield to something as absolute as fate. Fire, where Velira had always been something colder.

Even as the fear of her own future lingered, of what sort of monster she would become, of what she could not outrun— Velira knew she would endure longer still. Another century, perhaps, if she was fortunate, if she remained careful and fed. But Morgan… Velira exhaled softly, and despite her own desires that burnt through her mind, she made her choice.

She rose back up to her feet with a steadying breath. “If it is still the Heart you seek,” Velira said quickly, before she could have the chance to change her own mind, “…then I will see you to it, Morgan.”

At the first glimpse of the Heart, something in Velira had flared— sharp and immediate. The very pull of it was unlike anything she had felt before, aside from her own natural hungers. The Heart threaded through her senses almost hypnotically, its very presence drawing her in. Velira had considered to herself the option of letting that temptation take hold… But beneath that call, there had been something else, something that felt wrong to her senses.

This was not simply the Force, not even the darker currents she had long since grown accustomed to navigating. This was something older, something of pure magick laced through within the relic’s very core, emanating within the stone room. And yet, even with that awareness, even knowing— the Heart had still called to her. But before that very thought could fully take shape, before she could move… Morgan already had.

Velira felt it the moment her hand closed around the relic, a sudden shift of dark power that clawed through the room and began to ensnare. The Heart did not simply respond— it took. Velira felt its presence surge outward, latching onto Morgan with a force that twisted the air itself, binding her in place and draining. A sudden realization snapped through Velira, at the very fact that Morgan was no longer holding the relic, but that it was holding her.

No! The thought tore through Velira with a sudden force that eclipsed all else, igniting her instincts. The sight of Morgan— her strength, her vitality, her very will being pulled, struck something deep within Velira. A sensation that something, that someone was being taken from her… Someone who, against all reason, now mattered to her.

Velira moved in an instant, not near the Heart, but now searching for any sort of clue to reverse its pull. Her gaze flicked across the chamber, locking onto the shifting runes and crawling sigils etched into the stone. They twisted and reformed, resisting comprehension, but Velira forced her mind through them, breaking them apart, searching for any semblance of structure, for meaning— for a way to stop it. But time was slipping, and with it, Morgan’s very life. Velira knew better than to touch the Heart herself, or to even reach for it with the Force, knowing that it would see her and take from her just as easily. Which left only one option.

Her gaze snapped to the side as Furia skidded across the stone, towards where she stood, leaving sparks trailing in its wake. Instinctively, Velira reached for it, her hand curling around the hilt— and in the same instant, the connection to the blade suddenly struck through her senses, sharp and radiant. It was more than just a weapon, but the sheer essence of Morgan. The blade pulsed through Velira— Morgan’s unyielding will, her rage, her defiance. The corrupted essence of it flared through her senses in a rush, too fast to fully control. Death coiled around the fire of the blade, melding alongside it as a steady current, whispering with all the countless lives it had claimed. And yet, beneath the anger, beneath the violence… Something else, that faintly ebbed. Threads of love, giving way to grief in a quiet, ever present ache. Velira’s breath caught as it hit her all at once, with enough force to overwhelm.

And yet, her grip on the hilt tightened as she swam out of the sensations, focus locking back onto Morgan. Her crimson gaze snapped forward. Velira advanced as a shadow, moving in a blur or speed, to silently stand just behind Morgan’s form. The glow of the blade ignited, the fiery orange-red hue reflecting as bright embers in her crimson eyes. There was no hesitation in Velira’s expression now, no more time to allow for doubt. The strike came clean in one single, precise motion. The glowing blade passed through Morgan’s wrist with surgical accuracy, severing flesh and connection in the same instant. The moment it was done, she deactivated the weapon.

As Morgan’s form collapsed, Velira was already moving. She caught her before she could fall fully to the ground, arms wrapping around her in a firm embrace. Velira could sense it, the weaker pulse that now beat beneath her skin, the amount of how much had been taken. And yet, she could feel that Morgan was not beyond saving, not yet. “I’ve going to get you out of here…” Velira whispered softly, her voice low and steady, but touched now with something warmer. “I won’t let it take you, Morgan. Not like this.”

Her hands moved quickly, practiced and precise, with antiseptic being applied first followed by pressure. Bandages were carefully secured into place around Morgan’s wrist, where her hand had once been, tightened with controlled force to decrease the flow of blood. “Stay with me, Captain,” she murmured, softer now, her gaze flicking briefly to Morgan’s face before returning to her work. “You’re not done yet… not here.”

A skittering sound suddenly broke through the chamber, one that was familiar to Velira. “Call the ship,” she hissed sharply, her voice cutting through the air. The arachnid probe droid’s roving red eyes flared in response, and moments later the temple itself seemed to shudder in response. Stone fractured and dust fell, walls splitting as the Gravewalker forced its way through underground, mechanical limbs tearing into the terrain with relentless precision.

The spider cruiser clawed upwards into the chamber, the shadow of its form now looming before them in the darkness. The hatch creaked open with a hiss, and Velira swept inside without another moment to waste. She supported Morgan within her arms, holding her close as she moved swiftly into the ship. The doors sealed behind them with a heavy sound, as the vessel lurched forward on its own accord, clawing across Dathomir’s jagged stretch of terrain to make way for Kraken.

Inside, the shift was immediate. Dim candlelight flickered against dark metal and silk draped surfaces, along with silver gilded webs that adorned the ceiling. Various sculptures and artwork lined the walls— fragments of history from bygone eras, now preserved and collected. And scattered among them, across the surface of an old desk… sketches, ones of precise anatomical studies, bone and muscle rendered in careful detail. And atop them, rested a half finished drawing… Morgan, standing aboard the Kraken with a rare smile on her face.

Velira carefully carried Morgan through the space without slowing, moving to where a bed waited. Carefully, she laid her down. Her hand hovered for a moment, then settled gently against Morgan’s chest, where she could still feel her heartbeat. Velira closed her eyes briefly, drawing inward, gathering what she could. Carefully and deliberately, she channeled her own life essence in a way that was both measured and controlled— allowing it to flow into Morgan, just enough to stabilize and begin to restore what had been taken. Until Velira saw the color begin to return to her face, and could feel her heartbeat growing stronger beneath her touch.

Her hand moved from Morgan’s chest to side of her face, gently resting against the side of her cheek with a quiet, grounding warmth as she gazed down at her. “I’ve got you, Morgan.”

Mechanical limbs scraped against the door as the spider shaped droid skittered inside. It paused for a moment as it registered Morgan, sensors catching the motion from her. The droid quickly emitted a series of sharp, almost frantic hissing tones to alert Velira before darting back out of the room.

From in the pilot’s seat, Velira had tried to connect to the Kraken. The comm system crackled with static, in an attempt to relay one simple message— The Captain is alive. Injured, but alive. And yet, the transmission had never made it through, clouded by the denseness of the planet and the magick that threaded through the land.

The terrain beyond the ship had shifted as they traveled, uneven peaks swallowed by crimson fog that clung low to the marshes. Sharp rock formations jutted upward like claws, and strung between them hung the decaying forms of Nightsister bodies, bound in suspended sacks that swayed faintly in the heavy air. Velira had made careful note of them, and the potential for life to spring back into their bones… Her mother had always been quite the skilled animator, when it came to such things.

The ship had adjusted its course accordingly, to one that was longer… yet safer. Inside, Velira moved with purpose, within the small kitchen, where a cauldron etched with Nightsister markings rested atop a low burning stove. The warm scent that filled the air was one that was savory, filled with the aroma of fresh herbs and spices. And yet, despite the lovely smell, Velira knew that what she was crafting was entirely unessential to her, to an Anzat.

She had followed the recipe precisely, with deliberate hands and careful measuring, demonstrating the same care she would have used in a medical procedure. The loosely scrawled instructions had been old— left behind by Silas as a gift, by someone who loved cooking even if it did not serve their kind, which had been tucked among things Velira had never thought to use.

She prepared the bowl carefully with a light garnish, setting a glass of water as well on the tray, her movements precise despite the unfamiliarity of the task. For a brief moment, she studied it— evaluating, assessing her work carefully, before quickly making her way back to Morgan.

Look at yourself. An Anzat cooking for a human. You’ve gone soft, Velira couldn’t help but think to herself in mild irritation, sighing to herself before dismissing it. She carried the tray toward the bedroom aboard the ship, her pace steady. However, the moment Velira crossed the threshold and saw Morgan attempting to stand, she stopped. The tray was set aside immediately. Her expression sharpened into something firm, bordering on stern, as she placed her hands on her hips, the heel of her boot tapping against the floor in quiet emphasis.

“No!” Velira quickly began. “No, absolutely not.” Before Morgan could protest, Velira stepped forward, one hand already moving to adjust the pillows behind her, the other guiding her back down, firmly but carefully. However, she shifted Morgan just enough to keep her gently supported, guiding her slightly more upright. “You are not going to strain yourself. Not in this condition, Morgan.” she continued, her tone leaving little room for argument. “Stubborn,” Velira finally muttered quietly under her breath as she turned away.

Only then did Velira retrieve the tray, placing it tentatively down before Morgan. “I brought you some soup—” she began, then sharply froze. A brief flicker of realization crossed her expression, as she dragged a hand through her dark wavy hair. “No, not that soup,” Velira corrected herself quickly. Internally, she winced. The terminology always felt… crude, in comparison to her preferred term of life essence for such a thing.

She exhaled quietly, composing herself. Already, the aroma of herbs and spices that steamed from the soup began to fill the space between them. Velira sat at the edge of the bed. And for a moment, she felt it— The pull, subtle yet familiar, the hunger beneath the surface that stirred in response to Morgan. Her gaze faltered. Velira shifted, just slightly to create more space between them, setting her focus elsewhere.

“It would appear,” she said, her tone smoothing into something more relaxed, “that you have given me an excuse to finally use the stove.” Her crimson eyes drifted briefly to the bowl, then back to Morgan. “It’s Silas’s recipe. One he… acquired from a Corellian chef.” A faint pause followed, her voice holding a faint edge of softness as she spoke. “He has always been… passionate, about such things.”

Velira had watched her quietly through it all. Not in the way she once might have, with a sense of calculation, but with something softer threaded beneath her observation. There was something in her that Velira recognized— the unspoken adjustments, the absence of hesitation where others may have faltered, how Morgan was able to adapt despite what had been lost. She could feel the strength in the woman before her, even now. Strength that Velira was coming to learn had been forged through hardship, and unspeakable loss.

At hearing her, Velira was distracted from her thoughts. She couldn’t help the faint smile that touched her lips, subtle but genuine, at Morgan’s reaction to the meal. “I’m sure Silas would love that.” Velira folded her arms loosely, considering to herself. “You know, Captain… I think you may be the first person I’ve ever cooked for,” she said with a soft laugh beneath her words, one that was rare.

The thought lingered longer than she expected, enough for another memory surface— one that was far more unwelcome. Velira couldn’t recall ever cooking for him. Of course, there had never been a need. He had always been surrounded by servants and by excess, and had sought to offer her the same in their betrothal. At least, until everything changed. In Velira’s mind, it now served as a quiet reminder of what trust meant, and what it could cost.

Velira exhaled softly, as though pushing the thought away before it could take further take root in her mind. When her gaze returned to Morgan, it had steadied again. “You have been out for… several hours,” she answered.

Her tone shifted slightly as she studied her— not clinically, but with a quieter curiosity, one that was more reflective. Velira had remained near while Morgan rested, enough to keep watch in case her condition worsened. Sleep, to her, was a strange and distant thing. Dreaming even more so. Velira had never experienced it herself, not truly. And yet, it was evident to her that Morgan did not rest peacefully— from the way she carried subtle tension more ways than just from the physical pain, her restless shifts, and the faint tightening of breath. Velira remembered clearly what she had felt through Furia… the overwhelming currents of emotion bound into it, of unrelenting rage and the melancholic undertones of grief.

Her gaze softened slightly as it settled on Morgan again, something quieter entering her expression. “Even in sleep, you fought,” she said gently, choosing her words with care. “It did not seem… restful,” Velira slowly continued.

A pause followed. “If I may ask…” Her tone lowered, in genuine curiosity. “Do you always dream like that?” Her head tilted slightly, though Velira now met Morgan’s gaze as she spoke. “And if so… is there anything that eases it?”

Her gaze lingered on Morgan a moment longer. Velira had listened as she spoke, as the humor gave way to something more real. For all the wounds that Velira had cured in her lifetimes, this was not a matter that held an easy solution— unless it came to the altering of one’s mind, a certain specialty that Velira had always reserved for her prey. She exhaled slowly, trying not to think of the matter of sustenance, of her own hungers and cravings.

Morgan’s question was enough to catch her off guard. “Sleep is… irrelevant,” Velira replied a touch too quickly, the words forming a quiet barrier. It was easier to dismiss it, at least at first, than to admit the truth that lingered beneath— That for all her years, for all her control, she had wondered what it might feel like to simply rest, to let her mind go quiet, and to dream.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Velira said after a pause, her tone returning to something composed, though gentler than before. “We may be aboard this vessel for some time. I might as well… slip into something more comfortable.” She rose without waiting for an answer, moving toward the far side of the room where a semi-sheer curtain hung. With a fluid motion, Velira drew it closed, the soft fabric diffusing the candlelight into something warmer. On the other side, her silhouette came clearly into view, outlined in shifting gold and shadow.

She bent slightly, unlacing her boots first. Her hands next moved to the armored corset cinched around her waist, allowing it to fall away. For a brief moment, she paused— then reached for the seam of her bodysuit, slowly unzipping it down along her back. The curves of her bare form were visible through the veil of fabric, as she shed the last of her armor.

A few moment later, Velira emerged from behind the curtains. A thin silk robe was draped around her form now, tied loosely at the waist. She returned to the bed and sat on its edge once more, crossing one leg over the other. “There are far more interesting things to do than sleep, Captain,” Velira finally said lightly with a faint smirk, the flickering warmth of the candlelight reflecting in her crimson eyes.

She paused, reaching for a cigarra. It rested between her fingers before she brought it to her lips, the lighter sparking once— then catching, a small flame blooming in the dimness. She drew in slowly, the ember at its tip flaring to life, before exhaling a thin stream of smoke that slipped past her lips in soft, languid spirals. The smoke curled upward through the candlelight, lingering for a moment before dissolving into the air.

“No,” she admitted after a moment, her voice quieter now, with honesty. “I do not sleep. Not unless I… overextend myself. And even then, it is not true sleep. There are no dreams. Only… absence.” Her gaze drifted briefly in thought, as she drew in another inhale of smoke. “I occupy my time instead, with the pursuits of creation and study,” Velira continued as her composure relaxed.

“And yet…” she added, her voice lowering just slightly, “I have always wondered what it might be like… To dream, to experience something unbound by control.” Her gaze returned to Morgan then, resting there. “The closest I come,” She continued quietly, with another slow exhale of smoke, “is through tasting the impressions left behind in others… fragments of memory, of sensation…”

Morgan’s chuckle lingered in the air, and Velira’s lips curved faintly in response, subtle, but real. “So one of us can lose another limb?” she replied, the dry humor threading through her tone with surprising ease, something Velira hadn’t allowed in years. A soft breath of a laugh followed her words. “No more suspicious artifacts. Not for a very long time, Captain.”

She lifted the cigarra once more, drawing from it slowly, the ember flaring in the dimness before she exhaled. The smoke drifted between them, blurring the space just slightly as she shifted— closer this time to Morgan, the movement unhurried.

“I am probably a very bad Doctor for even suggesting this,” she continued, her voice lowering just enough to soften the edges of it, “but… for you, if you would like…” Velira extended her hand, offering the cigarra between her fingers in invitation. Her posture remained relaxed, one leg still crossed over the other, the silk of her robe shifting subtly as she settled.

“I have… guided minds into quieter states before,” Velira finally admitted, the words measured and careful. “Temporarily.” Sometimes permanently, Velira silently added on in her thoughts, not elaborating further.

And yet, now this close, something else stirred beneath the surface. Velira could feel it— the steady rhythm of Morgan’s pulse, the warmth of her skin, the restored strength of her presence. It moved through the air and touched Velira’s senses like something tangible, something alive. It called to her, drew her in.

A dull hunger pressed at the back of her throat, subtle at first, then sharper… an ache she knew too well. The cigarra softened it, dulled some of the edge, but it did not erase it. Not entirely. Her gaze flickered, just briefly, tracing the line of Morgan’s throat, the rise and fall of her breath. “… You are starting to feel stronger already,” she whispered, almost to herself. “It’s… difficult not to notice.”

Velira closed her eyes, allowing herself, just for a moment to exist within the proximity of Morgan. To feel, rather than analyze. The sensation of warmth from Morgan’s body pressed through the thin silk of her robe, the fabric shifting as it slipped lower from one shoulder. The air between them carried Morgan’s scent now, layered with the slow curl of cigarra smoke, something that was both grounding and intoxicating to Velira all at once. She took a deep breath, letting it wrap against her senses.

The reaction was immediate— sharp and visceral. Hunger coiled low within her, not alone this time, but braided with something warmer. It moved through her like a pulse, threading into her very senses. She shifted slightly where she sat, her breath catching just enough that she had to steady it, to force it back into something measured, quietly restraining herself even now, despite the part of herself that still wanted Morgan.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Her mind drifted, unbidden, through what she would have done, once. What Velira had done, countless times before. Anyone else, and she would have already been inside their thoughts, unraveling them with quiet precision. Tracking them and studying them. Drawing them close with care, with false invitations and patience, until the moment came to take what she needed. Gently, if she could afford it. Swiftly, if she could not. And then they would be gone. Especially if had burned the way Morgan did— if their life essence had called to her, like a moth to a flame. It was not just hunger. It was something more consuming, a pull that made even centuries of discipline feel… fragile.

And yet, Velira had not acted. Instead, she had brought Morgan here, to the closest thing she had to a home. Tended to her, cooked for her, let her in… cared for her. Her eyes opened slowly, half lidded now, the faint glow of crimson catching in the dim light as her gaze moved over Morgan with quiet intensity, taking in lines of her form, to the curve of her breast, lingering on the ink that was etched there — a skull, pierced clean through with an intricate dagger, its design trailing with deliberate artistry lower along the soft form beneath. There was something beautiful in it. Velira reached out. Her fingertips were cool against the heat of Morgan’s skin, as they brushed lightly along the line of her neck, trailing downward. Her touch followed the design, tracing the curve of it, moving lower— Until Velira stopped herself and gently moved her hand back up, where her hand now settled against where the dagger lay inked into her skin. “This one…” Velira murmured, her voice softer now, “is one of my favorites.”

Her gaze lifted slowly, sliding back to Morgan’s face, meeting her eyes again, closer now. “I’m always hungry around you,” she whispered, the admission low and unguarded, carrying more truth than she had intended to give voice to. There was no hiding it, not from her. She began to turn away, the instinct returning, the need to reassert control threading through her again… but Velira faltered.

Her gaze drifted, just briefly, to Morgan’s lips. “It would be far easier,” Velira said softly, her voice dipping, “if it were only the agreement… or only hunger…” The words lingered between them, unfinished in what they implied. “…And yet,” she continued, quieter still, something in her slipping past the control she had held for so long, “something in me resists that simplicity.”

Her lips parted slightly, as though catching herself too late. “I find myself… choosing you.” Velira held her gaze, something shifting there— something that was no longer just hunger, no longer just restraint. “Tell me, Morgan…” she murmured at last, her voice softer now, “when you look at me… do you see a monster? What is it that you feel?”

The words struck something deep within Velira— something she had long since buried beneath discipline, beneath the careful distance she had always kept from others in her time roaming the galaxy through the centuries, time that had begun to blend together into a haze… until now. For a moment, she could not speak. She could only feel.

To be seen, not as a creature to be feared, not as something to be hidden or controlled— but as something more… something worth understanding, worth protecting. It unraveled something quiet and ancient within her, something she had never allowed herself to believe could exist. Her gaze held Morgan’s, steady but softened now.

She felt it then… the steady rhythm of Morgan’s heart beneath her hand. The beat of it radiated outward beneath her touch, and yet, it was something Velira herself had never possessed. But as she gazed at Morgan, she felt something bloom in its place, slowly spreading through her. Warmth.

As Morgan rose, her eyes followed her instinctively, attentive in a way that was no longer clinical or measured, but caring. There was something unguarded in Velira’s expression now. A quiet joy, soft and genuine, touched her pale and ordinarily cold features in a way that transformed them entirely.

And before she could think to stop herself— Velira moved. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Morgan, drawing her in close in an embrace. For a moment, she allowed herself to linger there, to memorize the feeling… the warmth, the presence, the way Morgan fit within her arms. As though this moment, fleeting as it may be, could be carried with Velira long after everything else faded, and the years turned to centuries.

“Morgan…” she began softly, her voice quieter now, touched with something far more vulnerable than she had ever allowed it to be. “You speak of death… and yet, I have never been alive. Not truly.” She pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, one hand lifting to rest against her, steadying and focusing on the comforting feeling her heartbeat.

“I do not have a pulse,” she continued, her tone lowered into a whisper. “I do not carry warmth as you do…” Her fingers pressed gently, as if confirming it. “But in the time I have known you…” she went on, her voice softening further, “You carry rage. You carry pain. And yet… you have never allowed it to define you. You care. You protect. And through everything, you endure.” A faint breath escaped her, as she tilted her head to look up at her. “There is beauty in that,” Velira said, her gaze not leaving Morgan’s. “There is beauty in you.”

Velira paused for a moment, letting the words settle between them, allowing herself to be present and honest, despite the careful mask she had always worn. “And though I am not truly alive…” Velira added, quieter still, the admission slipping free before she could catch it, “for the first time in all my centuries… you have made me feel that way.”

Her hand rose slowly, brushing lightly against Morgan’s cheek before she leaned in, placing a soft kiss there. When she pulled back, she did not retreat. Her gaze remained steadily— not with any sign of hunger this time, but with something deeper… Something that simply was.

The ship moved faintly beneath where they stood together. A low hum shifted through the hull as the Gravewalker adjusted its course, the world outside beginning to change. Through the narrow viewport, the dense crimson fog of Dathomir’s marshlands had begun to thin. At first, it was subtle, a pale glow pressing against the horizon. Then, slowly, it deepened, spilling into warm hues of gold and amber that cut through the red with steaks of light. Velira’s eyes shifted briefly toward it, catching the glow as it reflected across the chamber—soft gold mingling with shadow, touching her features, Morgan’s, and the space between them.

And in that light, fleeting as it was, Velira no longer felt bound to darkness. The Gravewalker descended just enough for the distant shape of the Kraken to emerge through the thinning mist, vast and familiar. But for that moment— everything remained still.