Basic Information:

• Name:  Zera Vashara

• Alias:  Darth Zera

• Species:  Human

• Gender:  Female

• Age:  32

Affiliation & Status:

• Affiliation:  Sith Empire, Sphere of Galactic Influence

• Title:  Voice of Alignment (Minister of Strategic Coherence)

• Rank:  Darth

• Force Sensitive:  Yes

Origin & Residence:

• Homeworld:  Dromund Kaas

• Current Residence:  Dromund Kaas

Physical Stats:

• Height:  1.75 meters (5’9”)

• Weight:  62 kg (137 lbs)

• Build/Body Type:  Sleek, coiled

• Eye Color: Amber-gold (corrupted by the Dark Side)

• Hair Color:  Black, braided into coiled knots or precise waves

• Skin Color:  Fair
  
  

Distinctive Features:

• Distinctive Characteristics:  Silent gravitas, unnerving stillness, studied restraint

• Scars/Tattoos/Markings:  Faint containment scars along left forearm—unhidden, unexplained

• Other Notable Features:  Unarmed at rest; gloves etched with archaic Sith lexicon, always worn

Personality Profile:

• Openness to Experience:  Low (filters insight through structural orthodoxy)

• Conscientiousness:  Very High (ritual-driven, structurally exact, self-auditing)

• Extroversion:  Very Low (elliptical, precise, voice as verdict not invitation)

• Agreeableness:  Low (selective empathy, rigid alignment boundaries)

• Neuroticism:  Moderate (fractured interior stabilized by intentional control)
  
  

Additional Traits:

• Strengths:  Strategic doctrine shaping, silent influence, fear sculpted through absence

• Flaws:  Emotionally inaccessible, mistrusts sincerity, safeguards vulnerability as liability

• Likes:  Control framed through perception, unspoken pacts, silence used as architecture

• Dislikes:  Sentiment mistaken for strategy, rhetorical excess, mercy that dilutes memory

• Disposition:  Icy calm, distanced, empathic only when deliberately chosen

Command Structure:

• Superior:  Darth Xarion (Sphere of Galactic Influence)

• Subordinates:  Sulia Daraminn (Sith Apprentice)
  
  

Personal Connections:

• Significant Other:  None (intimacy held at strategic remove)

• Notable Friends:  Zylia Vashara (twin sister; silent counterbalance)

• Pets/Companions:  Cinn (scarred loth-cat; companion in discipline, not comfort)
  
  

Family:

• Mother:  Lady Sira Vashara (status unknown; shaped internal discipline)

• Father:  Lord Maros Vashara (deceased; defined structure, not affection)

• Siblings:  Zylia Vashara (twin sister; her unanswered question)

Skills & Abilities:

• Signature Abilities/Force Powers:  Fear echo projection, silent truth coercion, power masking

• Combat Specialties:  Disarmament by posture, doctrinal misdirection, ritual execution

• Languages Spoken:  Galactic Basic (precise), High Sith (archaic dialects included)

• Notable Achievements:  Averted Korriban crisis through symbolic inversion of power

• Other Skills:  Memory resonance decoding, apprentice psychometric calibration, will suppression
  
  

Equipment & Gear:

• Primary Weapon(s):  Dual-bladed lightsaber (red, resonance-tuned; rarely unsheathed)

• Notable Equipment/Gear:  Null-chron passkey, encrypted talismanic cipher seal

• Armor/Outfit:  Custom violet-obsidian robes, ceremonial layering, non-reactive to aggression

• Personal Items:  Ziost mirror shard; codex scroll inked with Zylia’s lost phrasing

• Mount/Vehicle:  Shadow Apex (stealth-optimized, orbital drift; relocation patterned

Roleplay Hooks:

• Quirks & Habits:  Issues verdicts with a single syllable (“Noted”); calibrated three-second silences

• Rumors & Reputation:  Whispers claim she only speaks in council chambers when deception is present

• Open Connections:  Former rivals, abandoned apprentices, Jedi who recall restraint—not aggression
  
  

Story Seeds:

• Current Goals:  Shape a doctrine of withheld fear—power preserved, not proven

• Hidden Agendas or Secrets:  Keeps Zylia’s words encoded; replays Nar Shaddaa encounter before major rulings

• Fears/Weaknesses:  That silence has become mask, not method; that self-restraint is her most fragile trait

• Story Arcs:  Define legacy through discipline, not dominion; remain feared without monstrosity; preserve doctrine as mirror, not muzzle

Background:  

Born into the storm-forged bastion of House Vashara, Zera understood silence as structure and doctrine as sanctuary. While her twin Zylia extended outward—open to nuance—Zera turned inward, perfecting herself as executor of Sith thought. She advanced not through spectacle, but by shaping silence into influence and making others act in her stead. From Ziost’s annihilation to Korriban’s restraint, she wielded fear without speaking it. Yet in a ruined corridor on Nar Shaddaa, in her sister’s pause, she glimpsed an ethic not taught—but felt. She did not follow it. She did not crush it. Instead, she evolved. Now a Darth under shadows, she speaks only when truth is required and acts only when silence will not suffice. Her mask is not concealment—it is clarity chosen. And in that stillness, she has found doctrine not just to enforce—but to become.

Timeline/Chronology:

• 3653 BBY | Age 0 — Born to House Vashara, legacy valued over connection.

• 3643 BBY | Age 10 — Doctrinal shaping begins under parental regimen.

• 3636 BBY | Age 17 — Ziost consumed; begins shaping legacy over loyalty.

• 3635 BBY | Age 18 — Encounters Jedi restraint; learns stillness as weapon.

• 3632 BBY | Age 21 — Destroys Zakuulan relic; violates directive with purpose.

• 3630 BBY | Age 23 — Contains Factory Theta without extermination; adopts Cinn.

• 3629 BBY | Age 24 — Ascends as Sith Lord; resolves vault breach via presence.

• 3627 BBY | Age 26 — Takes Sulia Daraminn; tests legacy through mentorship.

• 3624 BBY | Age 29 — Survives near-rupture of command; doctrine hardened.

• 3621 BBY | Age 32 — Becomes Darth; Voice of Alignment—silent, seen, chosen.

Roleplayer Info:

• Contact Preference:  In-game (Zera Vashara - Imp Side)

• Timezone:  EST (UTC-5)

• Activity & Availability:  Weekdays (afternoon) & weekends (during day)
  
  

Roleplay Preference & Boundaries:

• Roleplay Style:  Prefer 1:1 or small group roleplay, mostly in-game.

• Triggers & Boundaries:  No god mode.

• Plotting & Collaboration:  Open to long-term plots but prefer things to develop more on the fly/spontaneously. 

• Other Notes:  Preferred session length: 1–3 hours.

🟥 Episode I – The Hidden Name
3643 BBY | Age 10 | Civilian | Dromund Kaas, Vashara Estate

🪐 Galactic Context:

Following the Treaty of Coruscant, the galaxy simmers beneath a fragile peace. Dromund Kaas remains the thundering heart of the Sith Empire—its skies blackened by endless storms and its streets patrolled by enforcers sworn only to strength. In noble lineages like House Vashara, children are shaped not for love or legacy, but for conquest, silence, and survival. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The storm over Kaas City rolled like a heartbeat in Zera Vashara’s ears. At ten, she moved through the Vashara estate with the precision of a tactician—every step measured, every breath rehearsed. Her parents—Lord Maros and Lady Sira—spoke of legacy as if it were law; daughters were not raised, they were refined. Mornings began with logic drills punctuated by nutrient rations; evenings ended in posture reviews beneath the cold eyes of Sith-aligned tutors. Zera did not love learning—she absorbed it, because failure held no value. Her twin, Zylia, mirrored her features but not her silences; Zera’s thoughts folded inwards, tightly bound like the ceremonial linens her governess demanded she press without crease. Nobility granted no leniency. It was burden and branding alike. Servants bowed without glance. Tutors praised without warmth. Even at ten, Zera knew: power was not inherited—it was performed.

✧ Her earliest memories were not lullabies, but whispered strategy sessions overheard from behind ornate screens in the war-room atrium. She memorized names and vendettas like sacred texts, parsing inflection and pause as others studied numbers. While her peers learned star charts, Zera studied leverage. She walked into rooms calculating their temperature—social, political, psychological—and left them changed. Her favorite game was negotiation: a pointed comment here, a diverted gaze there, each one masked as civility but seeded with hierarchy. Once, when a visiting dignitary mocked their holdings in the Quelii sector, Zera responded with such elegant precision that the woman excused herself mid-supper, visibly shaken. Her father said nothing. The next morning, a Kaasian datapen etched with her crest appeared beside her tea. She did not smile. She simply understood. Approval was never spoken. It was implied. Expected. Extracted.

✧ Zylia was different. She asked questions during briefings, made the guards laugh, once tried to free a locked droid because “it seemed lonely.” Zera watched her sister with quiet fascination and cautious restraint. They were inseparable by proximity, if not by nature—exploring the underground tunnels between wings, whispering about guests and governors. Yet Zera never voiced fear, not even to Zylia. Fear was a vulnerability, and vulnerability had no sanctuary here. One night, after overhearing Maros speak of eliminating a rival through "complete dissolution," Zera lay awake cataloguing every word and vocal dip, dissecting the tone as a weapon. Zylia slept peacefully beside her, one hand curled loosely on the coverlet. Zera stared at the ceiling, the taste of power sharp and sour on her tongue. She didn’t reach for sleep. She reached for certainty.

✧ Family dinners were examinations in formal wear. Lady Sira’s questions came like data spikes—precise, weaponized, and cold. Zera always answered first. Always flawlessly. Until one evening, when asked who among their retinue might pose the greatest internal threat. Zera named a senior tutor, noting subtle linguistic shifts and unusual personnel requests. The next day, the instructor was gone. No explanation. No inquiry. Only absence—and a single nod from Sira during supper. Zera didn’t feel pride. She felt consequence. Silence held weight now. Knowledge was not just power—it was provocation. Later, Zylia stared at her during sparring with an expression Zera couldn’t place—curiosity? Sadness? That night, they didn’t speak. The quiet between them was louder than any reprimand.

✧ That winter, lightning knocked the estate’s grid offline. The twins were confined to the sublevel vault chambers until backup systems rebooted. Zera practiced flame-control in the shadows, letting heat gather at her fingertips—just enough to balance the wick of a candle, never enough to spark attention. Zylia watched, breath slow, eyes wide. “You’re not scared of the dark,” she whispered. “The dark listens,” Zera replied. That was the moment she understood: Zylia feared the void. Zera read it. Commanded it. The storm outside screamed like a beast in mourning, but Zera sat still, her pulse steady. The Sith Academy lay ahead. But she had already begun the path. She would not be shaped by Kaas. She would bend it to her will.

📓 Personal Log: “The Lesson of Silence” | Dromund Kaas, 3643 BBY

“I am Vashara—not because of my name, but because I do not flinch. The world is made of doors and hierarchies—who opens them, who closes them, who controls the threshold. Zylia sees people. I see angles. I don’t want to be understood. I want to be inevitable. Let others fear the dark. I’ll make it listen.”

🟥 Episode II – Stormborn Allegiance
3636 BBY | Age 17 | Sith Acolyte | Dromund Kaas, Sith Academy

🪐 Galactic Context:

In the wake of the devastation of Ziost, the galaxy reels from the Sith Emperor’s unspeakable act: the complete annihilation of all life on the planet through a ritual that drained its living Force essence. The event redefines the meaning of Sith power—turning fear into doctrine, and doctrine into expectation. Within the Academy on Dromund Kaas, aspiring Sith are no longer trained merely to survive—they are expected to embody that power, without hesitation. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The halls of the Sith Academy rang with silence after the news broke. Ziost—dead. Not occupied. Not conquered. Emptied. Zera sat motionless in the strategy chamber, posture perfect, eyes fixed on the grainy holofeed of ash-stained towers collapsing in slow ruin. Around her, fellow acolytes whispered—some awe-struck, others visibly shaken. Zera’s throat tightened—but not from fear. From hunger. Power like that redrew the galaxy. She almost looked away when the planetary scan flatlined, before swallowing the instinct and keeping her gaze steady. Her instructor’s voice echoed overhead: “The Emperor does not lead. He consumes.” Zera understood. This was not conquest. It was a declaration.

✧ In the weeks that followed, Academy training turned merciless. Students were expelled—or broken—for hesitation. Overseers spoke of Ziost like scripture, reciting casualty figures with the same reverence as Sith Code verses. Zera thrived. In sparring, in ethics trials, she didn’t strike first—she struck correctly. Her restraint was praised. Her precision feared. Yet at night, while the dormitory slept, she stood alone on the eastern terrace, watching lightning claw at the Kaas skyline. Her jaw clenched with each flicker. She almost allowed herself to feel something for the deaths on Ziost. Almost. But feeling was delay. She catalogued instead. The lesson was simple: power must not hesitate. Power must erase doubt.

✧ In a simulation exercise, she was ordered to command a theoretical strike team on a “hostile civilian world.” The scenario’s chaos echoed Ziost’s early descent. Zera's strategy was swift and bloodless—sever command, fracture morale, dismantle resistance through presence, not fire. Midway through the exercise, Overseer Kreyin halted the program. “Would you question the Emperor’s will, Acolyte?” he asked, flat. Her breath caught—just for a second—before she lowered her chin and replied, calm as glass: “No, Overseer. I would exceed it.” Her hands were steady, but something twisted deep inside. She hadn’t faltered. But she’d revealed something that didn’t belong. Not all resistance should be silenced. Not all shadows deserved to burn.

✧ Whispers trailed her now. “Vashara doesn’t blink.” She used them. She requested the assignments others avoided—interrogations, surveillance breakdowns, doctrinal ethics post-Ziost. She studied the ritual—what fragments remained—and asked veiled questions. “If annihilation is ultimate strength, why preserve an empire at all?” Kreyin did not answer. But his gaze lingered. Zera felt the Force coil near her, as though the dark was listening. She almost flinched. Instead, she returned to her quarters and studied her reflection until it showed nothing else.

✧ One night, she found Zylia in the lower archive vestibule, hunched over redacted resonance reports. “Trying to understand what happened?” Zera asked. Zylia nodded, silent. For a moment, there was no rivalry—only a heavy, humming stillness. Zera almost admitted she’d dreamed of ash. Almost spoke of the silence chasing her through every meditation. But she swallowed it. “The galaxy will remember what fear feels like,” she said instead. Zylia didn’t respond. The flicker of disappointment in her eyes lingered longer than words would have. Zera turned away. She had chosen her path. And paths, once carved, do not bend.

📓 Personal Log: “The Weight of Survival” | Sith Academy, 3636 BBY

“Ziost is a mirror, and the reflection is terrifying. Not the destruction—but how natural it now feels. We are taught to seek power, yet punished when we hesitate before its full cost. I didn’t flinch. But I thought about it. That is the scar I carry. The Emperor showed us what obedience truly demands. And I intend to give it—selectively. Strategically. Let others burn for glory. I will remain—untouched by fire, but shaped by its heat.”

🟥 Episode III – The Quiet Imperative
3635 BBY | Age 18 | Sith Apprentice | Nar Shaddaa, Refugee Sector 6

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Eternal Empire’s conquest has turned Nar Shaddaa into a crucible of desperation. Zakuul's Eternal Fleet bypasses strategic targets in favor of dismantling social infrastructure—spawning refugee crises and silencing opposition through fear, not fire. Sith Intelligence deploys covert apprentices to observe Jedi responses to civilian unrest, measuring doctrine through restraint. Zera, apprenticed to Lord Vaela, enters the Smuggler’s Moon not as a conqueror—but as a shadow. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The highwalk scaffolding groaned beneath Zera’s boots as she stepped into shadow, eyes narrowing through the haze of neon dust. Surveillance nodes flickered, dormant by her own hand—deactivated six minutes prior under Lord Vaela’s order. “You are the scalpel,” her master had said, “not the sword.” Below, the plaza swarmed with triage droids and makeshift food queues, the scent of plasma and rust heavy in the air. Zera watched the Jedi—one centered, one coiled—as they moved with an elegance that spoke of violence restrained. But her gaze drifted. A figure near the power conduit. Hooded. Still. Zylia. Recognition struck like a nerve. Her breath caught—but she didn't move. Not yet. The mission didn’t permit contact. But still, she didn’t look away.

✧ The explosion cracked reality open before logic could follow. Heat. Screams. Dust. Zera dropped low behind a conduit casing, senses flaring. She reached instinctively for her disruptor—then stopped. Across the chaos, she saw Zylia again, caught mid-turn, her hands clenched, her posture reading alert but unreadable. The Jedi acted quickly—lifting beams, directing civilians, never once drawing blades. And then—across flame and ash—Zera’s eyes met Zylia’s. Just for a breath. The Force surged between them, confused and electric. Zera almost stood. Almost signaled. But she didn’t. She remembered Vaela’s voice, cold and final: “Every gesture is a verdict.” And still, the verdict remained unspoken.

✧ She retreated to a substation mezzanine, replaying tactical data on a loop. Her fingers slid across the holopad, cataloging patterns—but her mind kept returning to the plaza. The Jedi hadn’t hesitated. They had chosen not to escalate. Zera replayed the moment again: saber gripped but unlit, their posture defensive, never assertive. Her own muscles ached with stillness. She wanted to dismiss it as weakness—but the word didn’t hold. There had been control in their refusal. Intention, not indecision. And when she thought of Zylia, frozen just beyond the wreckage—her expression unreadable, but alert—something deeper stirred. Zera’s jaw tensed. She didn’t name it. But it stayed.

✧ Night fell in slick, oil-slick layers across Nar Shaddaa’s upper decks. Zera found the tallest gantry she could access, her scope fixed on the Jedi convoy's final departure. She spotted Zylia before she meant to—leaning against rusted struts, barely obscured. Their gazes met again—this time across silence instead of fire. Neither moved. Zera felt her breath slow. This wasn’t surprise. It was recognition. Reflection. She searched Zylia’s face for signal, for permission, for accusation. None came. The Jedi glanced upward. Saw them both. Did nothing. Zera held the stillness. She could’ve vanished. She didn’t. And still, Zylia didn’t look away.

✧ Her report to Lord Vaela was precise. Jedi movement patterns, tactical formation under duress, restraint demonstrated under high-pressure civilian exposure. But in her private notes—buried beneath encrypted cipher—she wrote: Subject’s restraint was echoed by observer. Force resonance indicates mirrored recognition. Further intersection probable. She expected reprimand. None came. She almost wished for it. Instead, the image of Zylia’s face at dusk stayed with her, framed not by fire, but choice. Zera stared at the note before encrypting it. She didn’t delete it. Couldn’t. The moment had held. And still—it held.

📓 Personal Log: “Between Fire and Choice” | Nar Shaddaa, 3635 BBY

"They teach us power is dominance—control through presence, silence through fear. But what I saw today… wasn’t that. She didn’t draw first. Neither did I. And in that space between what we could have done and what we chose not to, something sharpened. Not mercy. Not alliance. But recognition. I don’t know her name. I don’t need to. The Force saw us both. And still… I don’t know which of us it judged."

🟥 Episode IV – The Blade I Didn’t Raise
3632 BBY | Age 21 | Sith Apprentice | Ord Talath, Site Echo-9

🪐 Galactic Context:

Ord Talath, a once-independent archive world known for preserving pre-Republic cultures, was silenced during the early Zakuulan expansion—its cities melted beneath a secret glass-bombing authorized by rogue Eternal commanders. Republic and Imperial forces alike deny responsibility. Now, Force anomalies leak from the ruin sites, drawing Jedi and Sith alike to investigate what lingers in its ash. Apprentice Zera Vashara is sent by the Sphere of Biotic Science to retrieve a Zakuulan resonance shard—but what awaits her is not clarity, but reflection.

📘 Narrative:

✧ The catacombs narrowed around her like a throat—tight, sharp-edged, alive with static memory. Zera’s boots moved in silence across fractured crystal, the residue of glassfire coating her soles. Her sensor bracer blinked slowly: the shard was near. So was something else. Behind her, Zylia moved with practiced grace, calm but attentive. The Force here didn’t hum—it clicked, warped, echoed back wrong. Zera reached for her saber hilt, but didn’t draw. She knew better than to announce her fear. Then: motion. Two Jedi emerged from the dust, not with attack, but with awareness. One stood like a stone. The other—her—coiled, unreadable, too familiar in her stillness. Zera’s breath caught. She didn’t blink. And still, no one moved.

✧ The tremor came fast—a seismic twitch deep below. Screams echoed through the break, and Zera turned instinctively, not toward the Jedi, but toward the noise. A child’s cry fractured the tension. She saw movement: the coiled Jedi, sprinting toward collapse, her blade still silent. Zera followed—not in action, but in sight. The woman lifted wreckage with the Force, face strained, focus absolute. Zylia moved beside her, calling out safe paths for the wounded. Zera stood at the perimeter, watching. The Jedi didn’t look back. But the younger one—the one who had knelt beside a broken boy on Nar Shaddaa—glanced toward her. Not with accusation. With recognition. And still, Zera didn’t raise her weapon.

✧ They reached the vault before the Jedi. The shard pulsed faintly, embedded in fractured obsidian—a remnant of Zakuulan tech laced with memory-triggered resonance. Zera stepped close, her fingers brushing the air above it. Pain surged: visions of Ziost, the Academy, Nar Shaddaa’s smoke—her own hand gripping a saber in hesitation. Her breath hitched. She stepped back. “It’s alive,” she muttered. Not to Zylia. To herself. Footsteps echoed behind them. The Jedi entered. Tension returned, but no blades were drawn. Zera turned slowly, met the still one’s gaze. The other—breathing hard, soot-streaked—looked ready to strike. Zera almost welcomed it. But instead, they spoke. Carefully. And still, Zera wasn’t sure whether she had crossed a line—or refused to.

✧ The discussion spiraled without center. One Jedi argued for destruction. Zylia proposed study. The calm one—measured, precise—watched more than she spoke. Zera said little. But her thoughts churned. The shard was a weapon. That much was clear. But it was more than that. It was a mirror. Of how easily the Force could be twisted into doctrine, into annihilation. Her orders had been clear: retrieve it. Deliver it. But standing in its presence, she felt her certainty fracture. Again. Fire coiled in her palm—not rage. Control. She stepped forward. “Enough echoes,” she whispered. And with one touch, she unmade it. And still, no one stopped her.

✧ Dusk cast Ord Talath in bruised light as evac moved forward—civilians boarding the salvaged Zakuulan transport like figures from a half-forgotten myth. Zera stood near the ramp, arms crossed, watching as the Jedi coordinated evac without command. Not once had they drawn blades. Not once had she, either. The coiled one passed nearby, eyes sharp but unreadable. Their gazes met—no challenge, no thanks. Just weight. Recognition again. The Force buzzed, uncertain. Zera looked away first. Not from shame. From calculation. She had disobeyed a directive. But obeying would have been worse. And still, the silence between them echoed louder than anything spoken.

📓 Personal Log: “The Silence That Stayed My Blade” | Ord Talath, 3632 BBY

"I destroyed it. Not because I was ordered to—but because I wasn’t. The shard reflected power, yes. But it twisted pain into legacy. That’s not clarity. That’s poison. Zylia said mercy can be action. I don’t know if this was mercy. I just knew I couldn’t carry it out of that chamber. And still, I wonder if walking away from the Empire’s will… is how treason begins." 

🟥 Episode V – The Fracture Below
3630 BBY | Age 23 | Sith Apprentices | Factory Theta, Balmorra

🪐 Galactic Context:

As the Zakuulan Eternal Fleet retreats from the Core and Mid Rim, Balmorra—long-scarred by occupation and resistance—becomes a renewed strategic prize. The Empire moves swiftly to claim key assets before Republic forces can respond. Factory Theta, buried beneath the ruins of the Okara droid network, holds dormant Zakuulan technology capable of influencing galactic warfare. Under Darth Acina’s restructured Sphere of Galactic Influence, Sith apprentices like Zera Vashara are deployed not to conquer, but to interpret, recover, and—if needed—contain. The future now depends not on force, but on what remnants of war are allowed to endure. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The factory breathed beneath her like something half-dead, half-dreaming—every flicker of light an echo of orders long abandoned. Zera moved through the shattered entryway, boots scraping over rust-veined durasteel, her eyes adjusting to the pulse of old systems struggling to revive. Her bracer pinged faintly, its sensors twitching at the layers of encrypted code hidden beneath decades of decay. The assignment had come from Lord Vaela, now elevated under the Sphere of Galactic Influence—a subtle reminder that conquest could be achieved through silence as easily as fire. Zera’s directive was clear: assess the factory, extract any viable Zakuulan assets, eliminate instability. But what lingered in the stillness wasn’t inert. Her hand hovered near her saber. Not drawn. Just aware. Then—movement. Organic. Small. A loth-cat, charred along one flank, emerged from behind a ruptured coolant pipe. Her breath caught—not out of fear, but recognition. And still, she didn’t move.

✧ The creature was trembling. Watching. Waiting. Zera lowered herself slowly, the air thick with static and the lingering sting of ancient plasma. She could feel the factory hum beneath her knees. Her training from Lord Vaela urged detachment—expendable assets served narrative, not sentiment. Yet her hand extended, palm open, steady. The loth-cat limped closer, touched her fingers with its soot-slick nose. “Cinn,” she said—without thought, without question. The name felt older than language. It blinked once, then curled against her leg. Zera inhaled sharply. Not sentiment. Signal. Something here had not let go of the past. And still, she did not rise.

✧ Zylia arrived minutes later—silent, precise, but softer than the darkness they stepped through. Her eyes tracked the shadows, then settled on the loth-cat without surprise. “That one chose you,” she said, as if confirming something already known. Zera didn’t respond. Her grip tightened on Cinn, not to shield—but to anchor. They moved forward into the command corridor where shadows reached like old hands, desperate for witness. The console hissed as Zera input her override. Then: sparks. Red strobe. Activation sequence surging. Okara-class droids lurched from their racks, limbs spasming in forgotten patterns. Zera stood. Saber ignited. She did not hesitate. And still, beneath the hum of battle, she heard something mourning.

✧ She fought like memory—clean, efficient, unforgiving. Each movement landed with precision, each strike an echo of academy drills sharpened by field necessity. But something beneath her skin itched—an unease not born of threat, but of familiarity. These machines didn’t defend. They responded. As if still following orders from voices that no longer existed. Zylia ducked behind a torn bulkhead, rerouting power conduits while shielding her own loth-cat—Dot—from harm. “They’re not just reacting,” Zylia said through grit teeth, “They’re responding to us.” Zera didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her strikes slowed. Her thoughts didn’t. When the last droid collapsed, she exhaled—slow and ragged—and felt her knees weaken. And still, she kept the saber lit for a few moments more.

✧ Outside, Balmorra’s sky bled into red dusk. The shuttle awaited them, but neither moved to board immediately. Zera crouched beside Cinn, running a gloved hand along her soot-matted fur, the motion careful, reverent. Across from her, Zylia cradled Dot like a question answered too late. The silence between them had weight again—not division, but recognition. Zera stood slowly, her muscles aching with restraint. She had not sent the report yet. She wasn’t sure what it would say. The data collected. The system restored. The threat… redefined. She met Zylia’s gaze across the loading ramp. And still, neither of them said what they were both thinking: not all directives should be followed.

📓 Personal Log: “The Pulse Beneath Rust” | Balmorra, 3630 BBY

"They said Factory Theta was dormant. Inert. Just hardware and ruin. But something moved in there—beneath the steel, beneath the code. Not hostility. Not ambition. Just… memory. I didn’t expect to be seen by anything in that place. Especially not a creature too broken to run. I kept it with me. I don’t know what that means. But I know this: not every echo of war needs to end in silence. And still, I feel like something in that factory chose to remember through me." 

🟥 Episode VI – The Doctrine Unspoken
3629 BBY | Age 24 | Sith Lord | Korriban, Vault Annex B, Eastern Containment Sector

🪐 Galactic Context:

As conflict reignites on Iokath and discontent simmers after the betrayals on Umbara and Copero, the Sith Empire braces for fractures within. The Sphere of Galactic Influence intensifies internal scrutiny—deploying newly elevated Lords to root out instability before it festers. Zera Vashara, now Sith Lord under Darth Vaela and operating beneath Darth Xarion’s directive, is dispatched to Korriban to observe containment sectors under stress—including Vault Annex B, flagged for irregular Force resonance. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The air inside Vault Annex B smelled of dust, metal, and judgment. Zera Vashara’s boots cut clean lines through the corridor dust as she entered—posture straight, eyes unblinking. Her cloak didn’t flutter; she had already calculated its fall before stepping through the breach. Lights spun crimson against ancient stone, strobing like a pulse she refused to mirror. The report had mentioned a relic—a Sith mask—and a containment breach. What it hadn’t mentioned was the boy in the center, clutching it with trembling hands. Nor had it prepared her for Tarika Kenau, unarmed, kneeling within arm’s reach of the anomaly. Zera’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t absence of protocol—it was its erasure. She stepped forward without announcing herself. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ “I’ll take command of this response,” she said, voice cold enough to cut. Sergeant Sara Kenau didn’t flinch—merely held her position with a calm Zera did not trust. Tarika, by contrast, didn’t even look up. “He’s stabilizing,” she said. It wasn’t an excuse. It was an invitation to contradict her. Zera’s pulse spiked, but her face remained still. She could feel the Force curling around the boy—not threatening, but uncertain. Her fingers twitched near her belt, almost calling the relic to her directly. She considered forcing resolution—ending the ambiguity. But then the vault door hissed again, and something shifted. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Zylia entered like a breath behind frost—quiet, slow, absorbing the room instead of commanding it. Her presence slid in without resistance, but the power beneath it pressed against Zera like an unseen hand. They hadn’t coordinated their assignments. Zylia served under Darth Xalara now—an arrangement folded inside Darth Krovo’s web of command. “He’s not breaking the vault,” Zylia said after a pause. “He’s reflecting it.” Zera’s stomach clenched, but she didn’t respond. The boy’s grip loosened as if the statement had touched something neither command nor caution could reach. Zylia didn’t look at her. She looked through her. Zera nearly spoke. But her words lodged like stone. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The relic shimmered like a wound stitched from breath—each flicker an echo of what the boy feared. Zera moved one step forward, posture perfect, hand rising—but Sara raised a single gloved palm. Not defiance. Not challenge. Just control, quietly stated. Zera hesitated. Her breath hitched, though she caught it before it showed. She could order them all to stand down. She could rip the relic free. But something about the moment warned her: power here would echo, and not in her favor. The boy exhaled—and let go. Tarika wrapped the mask in null-cloth, her hands slow, steady. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The containment lights blinked from red to amber, casting the vault in a half-peace that felt earned rather than imposed. Zera said nothing as the boy was escorted out—no reprimand, no commendation. She logged the event as “stabilized without escalation.” Noted artifact containment. Noted restraint. But when she reached the line marked Leadership Interference, she paused. Her stylus hovered. Then clicked forward without filling the field. Her cloak settled back across her shoulders. Her gaze swept the room, unreadable. She exited first—but her jaw remained tight. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “The Action I Didn’t Take” | Korriban, 3629 BBY

"I should have overridden them. Tarika broke protocol. Sara delayed escalation. Zylia—she always moves like she knows something I don’t. And still, the breach closed without me. That shouldn’t bother me. But it does. The artifact obeyed presence, not power. I stood still. And I don’t know if that was strength—or hesitation."

🟥 Episode VII – Summit of Shadows
3627 BBY | Age 26 | Sith Lord | Dromund Kaas, Sith Academy

🪐 Galactic Context:

The renewed war between the Sith Empire and Galactic Republic ignites on multiple fronts, with Onderon erupting into chaos and Mek-Sha destabilized by shifting power blocs. Amid this resurgence, the Dark Council begins consolidating leadership beneath the surface—ensuring every Sith Lord commands not just territory, but lineage. Apprentice selection becomes a political weapon, and those without successors risk irrelevance. As Objective Meridian looms on Corellia, Zera Vashara returns to the Academy—not to train, but to choose her legacy. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The Sith Academy had not changed—but Zera had. Her steps echoed less than they once had, not because she was quieter, but because the building recognized her now. Over-Seer Drenis met her with the deference afforded to Sith Lords, but his smile was hollow—too practiced, too knowing. Zera barely returned it. Her jaw tightened as they passed the eastern statuary wing; this corridor once echoed with threats barked at trembling acolytes. Now she walked it with command draped like a cloak. Inside the candidate chamber, ten hopefuls waited—some posturing, others sweating. Her gaze flicked to a Mirialan female, spine straight, eyes calm. Sulia Daraminn did not avert her gaze. Zera almost dismissed her—almost—but didn’t. Something about the way she withheld her ambition caught her breath. The way Zylia might have. And still, Zera’s silence lingered.

✧ Drenis offered commentary with every name, eager to display his insight. Zera listened without reaction, filing his bias as meticulously as she filed each student’s posture, word choice, hesitation. Sulia held back in every group sparring trial—but when she struck, it was surgical. Clean. Unapologetic. Zera studied her like one might study a puzzle: not to admire, but to find the flaw. She almost questioned Sulia’s restraint—until a rival acolyte lunged too hard and Sulia disarmed him in a single fluid arc. No celebration. No gloating. Just breath, held and released. Zera’s own fingers twitched slightly. Control, that absolute, wasn’t natural. It was forged. And she recognized the shape of that furnace. Still, she said nothing.

✧ Later, alone in the archives, Zera reviewed Sulia’s records. Her heritage was unremarkable. Her scores, efficient but never flashy. Her Force aptitude balanced—rare in a system that rewarded extremity. Zera’s brow furrowed. The girl had survived by calculation, not power. Her reflection flickered in the console glass—herself at sixteen, blood on her hands, doubt folded into corners of her mind she’d never dared open. She closed the file. The past wasn’t here to speak. It was here to be shaped. She would test Sulia personally. Not with combat. With choice. And if the girl broke? Better now than later. Zera's breath caught, then steadied. She’d become her own crucible. And still, her hands itched for answers the blade couldn’t carve.

✧ The test came in the form of false orders—an encrypted directive planted into Sulia’s mission tablet. Zera watched from the shadows as Sulia found the contradiction in protocol and paused. The girl stared at the screen for three long minutes. Her lip curled. Not in confusion. In anger. She reported the anomaly to an instructor—risking exposure, punishment, failure. Zera stepped from the shadows then. Sulia didn’t flinch. “You’re not afraid of deception,” Zera said. “You’re afraid of being its instrument.” Sulia said nothing. But her jaw clenched with a clarity Zera knew too well. “You’ll kneel,” Zera added. “But not for long.” Sulia didn’t deny it. And still, Zera heard her own voice echo back.

✧ That evening, the storm over Kaas howled like prophecy. Zera stood at the terrace edge of the Academy, Sulia a step behind her. “Power is not given,” she said. “It’s taken. Earned. Refined.” The girl nodded once, not in awe—but in understanding. Zera didn’t turn. She simply said, “From this moment, you serve me. But your loyalty will be tested.” Sulia answered: “Then test me.” It wasn’t bravado. It was invitation. Zera almost smiled. Almost. The wind roared across the stone. And still, she did not speak the fear that flickered behind her ribs: that in teaching another, she might begin to see her own cracks.

📓 Personal Log: “The Shape of My Legacy” | Dromund Kaas, 3627 BBY

“They tell us to take apprentices as extensions of power. As shields, as tools. Sulia is none of those things—yet. But she didn’t lie when faced with a lie. That… matters. More than I expected. I was shaped by silence. She answers it. I wonder what that makes her. Or me. I have passed the blade. Now we’ll see who bleeds.”

🟥 Episode VIII – What the Vault Saw
3624 BBY | Age 29 | Sith Lord | Onderon, Vault Delta-Seven

🪐 Galactic Context:

Onderon fractures under layered allegiances and unearthed truths. In the wake of Darth Malgus’s rogue actions and whispers of Darth Nul’s legacy, anomalies ripple across the Force—disruptive, ancient, and precise. Deep beneath the city of Iziz, a vault reveals itself—unlisted, unguarded, undeniably waiting. Zera Vashara, dispatched under Darth Xarion’s authority, expects resistance. What she finds instead is something far older than conquest: memory with intention.  

📘 Narrative:

✧ The vault did not resist their entrance. It received them—quiet, breath-held, aware. Zera Vashara stepped through the threshold like a blade crossing water. Two Czerka operatives flanked the interior corridor—one adjusting her scanner, the other alert, hand resting casually near her sidearm. They didn’t salute. They didn’t need to. Zera read their postures like punctuation: tension with discipline, calm with curiosity. The Force pressed against her—not with challenge, but with density. As if the air itself waited. Her fingers brushed the edge of her saber hilt. Not in threat. In recognition. And still, nothing moved.

✧ At the center of the vault, the relic hovered—fractured and veined with faintly pulsing light, like something remembering how to breathe. Zera circled it, calculating. The walls bore glyphs she didn’t know—neither Sith nor Zakuulan, but ancient and intentional. Symbols wrapped around one another like thought wrapped around memory. She stepped closer, the air growing colder, heavier. Then another presence entered. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. The Force shifted—not louder, but deeper. Her cousin. Zylia. Zera felt her before she saw her. Felt her not like an echo—but a mirror. And still, no one spoke.

✧ The two operatives worked in silence—one adjusting scanning ranges, the other powering down a recorder without comment. Zera watched them only briefly. Her attention remained fixed on the vault itself. The relic did not call. It observed. Its presence threaded through her like memory traced in reverse. She stepped nearer and felt her breath hitch—not from fear, but from the sensation of being known. The Force wrapped around her, not like a weapon—but like a gaze. Then, at the edge of vision, a figure appeared. Hooded. Motionless. Zera didn’t move. Neither did anyone else. It didn’t need to speak. Its presence spoke for it. And still, the vault remained open.

✧ No one reached for a weapon. Even the operatives stilled, as if aware that motion here might be mistaken for arrogance. Zylia stepped forward—not assertive, not hesitant, simply present. “We’re not here to claim,” she said softly. “Only to witness.” The figure tilted its head. The relic pulsed once—quietly, like breath leaving a body. Then the presence vanished. Not with threat. Not with dismissal. With disinterest. Zera looked down at her own hands. One had curled into a fist. The other trembled. Just for a second. And still, she did not understand what had chosen not to act.

✧ No one claimed the relic. No data was extracted. The operatives exchanged a glance. One shut down her scanner. The other knelt beside the threshold, as if logging absence. Zylia backed away from the relic without turning her back on it. Zera remained still a moment longer. She had entered this place to secure power. But power here had not required securing. It had simply allowed itself to be seen. Later, her official report would describe an indeterminate anomaly with no hostile outcome. The real entry remained unsent. One line. “Power that waits without need to act is not meant to be owned.” And still, she doesn’t know whether she passed the test—or was irrelevant to it.

📓 Personal Log: "Witnessed, Not Claimed" | Onderon, 3624 BBY

"I didn’t draw my saber. I didn’t speak my name. And still, the vault saw me. It didn’t resist. It remembered. That was worse. I felt no threat—only the kind of attention that doesn’t fear what you are, because it already knows. I was prepared to dominate. I left uncertain I’d been relevant at all. Whatever power lingered here, it didn’t demand obedience. It didn’t reward control. It offered something else: a moment. A mirror. And still, I don’t know what it saw in me."

🟥 Episode IX – The Mask Remains
3621 BBY | Age 32 | Darth | Dromund Kaas, Imperial Diplomatic Annex

🪐 Galactic Context:

The galaxy fractures beneath hidden allegiances. On Dromund Kaas, where thunder still writes the rhythm of power, the Sith Empire repositions itself for survival, not supremacy. With Darth Vaela gone and Darth Xarion's sphere stretched thin, Zera Vashara is elevated—not just in rank, but in responsibility. She is no longer apprentice, no longer daughter. She is Influence. And influence is a blade best sheathed in shadow.  

📘 Narrative:

✧ The air inside the annex pulsed with ozone and veiled menace—exactly as Zera intended. She stood beside the obsidian-topped briefing table, posture precise, gaze cool. Outside, Kaas lightning bled against permaglass. Inside, two figures in Eternal Alliance insignia stood across from her—poised, polite, and entirely out of place. Emissaries. Not Jedi. Not Republic. Not friends. She did not address them by name. “You came for diplomacy,” she said flatly. “Not familiarity.” One of them—measured, clear-eyed—nodded. The other, warmer somehow, only watched. Their silence didn’t irk her. It intrigued. They moved like system logic and living empathy. And still, she felt their judgment before they spoke.

✧ “We understand the Sith Empire has restructured its command threads,” the calm one said. “Our interest is in transparency.” Zera’s jaw didn’t move, but the Force curled around her. “Transparency is a luxury afforded to systems on the verge of collapse,” she replied. “We are not collapsing.” She didn’t elaborate. She never did. Beside her, Zylia stood in her own silence—Darth now, under Krovo’s directive. Their paths had split, but they converged here: war tempered by legacy. Zera didn’t introduce her sister. She didn’t need to. “I represent the Sphere of Galactic Influence,” she said aloud. “My designation is Voice of Alignment.” The title was new. Her mask, older than breath, stayed in place. And still, the dark listened.

✧ The conversation veered: logistics, territorial echoes, the Outer Rim incursions. But something in the room shifted when the topic turned to reconstruction. Raeya—the softer emissary—asked the question directly. “How does your sphere intend to protect civilians in the convergence zones?” Zera’s answer came smooth. Measured. Cold. “By shaping the perception of threat before it’s felt. Civilians don’t need safety. They need certainty.” Zylia said nothing. But her presence flared—quiet defiance beneath rigid poise. The emissaries glanced between them. “And you?” the one named Kylia asked Zylia. Zera's hand tightened just slightly at her side. Zylia spoke without flinching. “I command stability through deterrence. Not illusion.” The pause after was heavier than the words. And still, Zera did not break.

✧ When the meeting adjourned, it was without resolution—just fragments passed like currency. As the emissaries turned to leave, Raeya offered something like a bow. Not deference. Respect. Zera watched it like one might study a fracture line—beautiful, inevitable. “They were not what I expected,” Zylia murmured after. “Expectation is a weapon,” Zera replied. She didn’t say what lingered beneath the mask: that their presence had unsettled her, not through power—but through restraint. They did not fear her. They saw her. That was worse. That was rare. Outside, the storm cracked again, and her voice dropped: “I did not ascend to be understood. I ascended to be obeyed.” And still, she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.

✧ That night, alone in her quarters, Zera lit no lights. She reviewed transmission trails, adjusted public threat overlays, reclassified three strategic illusions as “civil reassurance deployments.” Her rank meant decisions. Her title meant she would never again show doubt. But when she removed her gloves, her fingers trembled—just briefly. She steadied them. She thought of her former master, of Vaela’s cold doctrine and vanished certainty. She thought of Xarion’s expectations. Of Zylia’s eyes. Of emissaries who didn’t flinch. She closed the terminal. She reached for her mask. And this time—this time—she chose to put it on. Not because she needed it. But because it was hers. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “Inheritance Held in Shadow” | Dromund Kaas, 3621 BBY

"I do not mourn Vaela. I do not celebrate her absence. She served doctrine. I refine it. Xarion trusts my silence more than any declaration. That is power. And yet… today, two emissaries entered my city without fear. One moved like logic. The other like clarity. Neither bowed. Neither provoked. And neither needed to. They reminded me that influence isn’t obedience—it’s perception. And perception, once altered, does not return to form. I remain the mask. But I now know this: I wear it by choice. And that is more dangerous than anyone realizes."