Basic Information:

• Name:  Zylia Vashara

• Alias:  Darth Zylia

• Species:  Human

• Gender:  Female

• Age:  32

Affiliation & Status:

• Affiliation:  Sith Empire, Sphere of Military Command

• Title:  Executor of Stability

• Rank:  Darth

• Force Sensitive:  Yes

Origin & Residence:

• Homeworld:  Dromund Kaas

• Current Residence:  Dromund Kaas

Physical Stats:

• Height:  1.75 meters (5’9”)

• Weight:  63 kg (139 lbs)

• Build/Body Type:  Slender, composed

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

• Hair Color:  Black, worn long—tied in a precise knot, composed and never out of place

• Skin Color:  Fair
  
  

Distinctive Features:

• Distinctive Characteristics:  Gaze soft by default, sharp with intent; voice tempered for focus

• Scars/Tattoos/Markings:  Narrow scar beneath right eye—souvenir of an early vault breach

• Other Notable Features:  Wears a subdued wrist-wrap threaded with echo-weave—an unspoken relic from her apprentice years 

Personality Profile:

• Openness to Experience:  High (adaptive, introspective, morally engaged)

• Conscientiousness:  High (methodical, self-disciplined, duty-bound)

• Extroversion:  Moderate (measured communicator, attentive listener)

• Agreeableness:  Very High (thoughtfully empathetic, even in ideological friction)

• Neuroticism:  Low (emotionally self-contained, silently processing)
  
  

Additional Traits:

• Strengths:  Insightful leadership, diplomatic acuity, integrative doctrinal memory

• Flaws:  Overcommits to outcomes, struggles with moral paralysis in critical moments

• Likes:  Constructive dialogue, evolving philosophies, moments of unguarded humanity

• Dislikes:  Weaponized fear, institutional rigidity, discarding nuance for expedience

• Disposition:  Centered, measured, quietly unwavering

Command Structure:

• Superior:  Darth Krovo (Sphere of Military Command)

• Subordinates:  Ulora Orden (Sith Apprentice)
  
  

Personal Connections:

• Significant Other:  None (connection acknowledged, rarely pursued)

• Notable Friends:  Zera Vashara (twin sister; paradox and tether)

• Pets/Companions:  Dot (loth-cat; rescued, retained)
  
  

Family:

• Mother:  Lady Sira Vashara (location unknown; ideological estrangement implied)

• Father:  Lord Maros Vashara (presumed deceased; formative shadow)

• Siblings:  Zera Vashara (twin; Darth; foil and mirror, unbroken yet unaligned)

Skills & Abilities:

• Signature Abilities/Force Powers:  Force resonance tuning, destabilization mitigation, artifact intuition

• Combat Specialties:  Saber defense prioritizing protection, Force buffering in unstable zones

• Languages Spoken:  Galactic Basic (fluent), High Sith (academic proficiency)

• Notable Achievements:  Brokered a sanctioned doctrinal colloquy with Jedi on Nar Shaddaa

• Other Skills:  Cross-cultural diplomacy, relic ethics arbitration, harmonic interpretation of Force anomalies
  
  

Equipment & Gear:

• Primary Weapon(s):  Silver-bladed lightsaber (Durindfire crystal, dual-phase; defensive finesse emphasized)

• Notable Equipment/Gear:  Customized datapad with encoded resonance parser

• Armor/Outfit:  Modest combat robes, soft-gray with silver-threaded shoulders; function over flourish

• Personal Items:  Ciphered journal inherited from Kaas archives; Dot’s original nameplate

• Mount/Vehicle:  Flagship Herald’s Grace—stealth-equipped, orbit-adjusted routinely

Roleplay Hooks:

• Quirks & Habits:  Head tilt when analyzing intent; two-finger tap for silent agreement; maintains redacted silence logs

• Rumors & Reputation:  Whispers claim she once intervened for a Jedi during an inquisition and omitted the act from reports

• Open Connections:  Jedi peace delegates, unaffiliated Force philosophers, defector negotiators from both factions
  
  

Story Seeds:

• Current Goals:  Forge a doctrine rooted in presence, precision, and controlled deterrence—power redefined through stewardship

• Hidden Agendas or Secrets:  Keeps encrypted entries cataloging Zera’s moments of ethical ambiguity—a shadow archive of possibility

• Fears/Weaknesses:  That restraint could be mistaken for weakness; that Zera’s distance signals severance, not contemplation

• Story Arcs:  Shape a post-war paradigm through balance, confront her twin without conquest, and anchor a legacy not in war—but in what survives it

Background:  

Born beneath Kaas' eternal storm, Zylia was shaped by silence and taught obedience through scrutiny. Unlike Zera—who absorbed doctrine with crystalline certainty—Zylia traced the cracks within it. Her rise through the Sith Empire was not forged in spectacle, but in precision: listening when others dismissed, withholding when others struck. She witnessed the erasure of Ziost and chose stillness over fire in Nar Shaddaa’s shadow. Across vaults and warzones, she reframed doctrine through restraint, preserving what others sought to erase. Now a Darth by name and a stabilizer by design, Zylia no longer seeks to reshape the Empire through dominance, but through presence. She doesn't shatter the past. She steadies what might remain after the fire fades. 

Timeline/Chronology:

• 3653 BBY | Age 0 — Born to House Vashara on Dromund Kaas; refined in scrutiny, shaped by contrast.

• 3643 BBY | Age 10 — First doctrinal challenge noted during observational trials.

• 3636 BBY | Age 17 — Ziost’s obliteration catalyzes her shift from ideology to inquiry.

• 3635 BBY | Age 18 — Chooses de-escalation over retaliation on Nar Shaddaa; internal doctrine fractures.

• 3632 BBY | Age 21 — Prevents relic misuse on Ord Talath; defines mercy as tactical virtue.

• 3630 BBY | Age 23 — Resolves Theta breach via strategic restraint; forms attachment with Dot.

• 3629 BBY | Age 24 — Ascends to Sith Lord; stabilizes vault Annex B through interpretive engagement.

• 3627 BBY | Age 26 — Accepts Ulora Orden as apprentice; nurtures clarity over conquest.

• 3624 BBY | Age 29 — Drafts cross-factional doctrine post-Onderon event; advocates ideological containment.

• 3621 BBY | Age 32 — Becomes Executor of Stability; redefines power as preservation over projection.

Roleplayer Info:

• Contact Preference:  In-game (Zylia 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 – Shadows Beneath Kaas
3643 BBY | Age 10 | Civilian | Dromund Kaas, Vashara Estate

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Treaty of Coruscant has carved a brittle peace across the galaxy, but within the Sith Empire, ambition remains the only constant. On Dromund Kaas, where power is drawn like breath and the air hums with ancient storms, noble families like House Vashara prepare their children for war—not just of saber or strategy, but of loyalty, silence, and perception. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ Rain carved jagged trails down the windows of the Vashara estate as Zylia watched from her bedroom balcony, the Kaas skyline flickering with electric fury. At ten, she knew the names of the Dark Council, the doctrines of the Sith Code, and the correct posture for six different bow forms—but none of it quieted the feeling that something beneath it all was wrong. Her instructors lauded efficiency but warned against empathy; she obeyed, but secretly collected stories of staff and servants like forbidden texts. While others practiced social protocols, Zylia observed how people moved when they thought no one watched. There were truths in silence—tension in a clenched jaw, rebellion in a gaze quickly averted. She saw too much, and said too little. “Sensitivity is indulgence,” Lady Sira once chided her. But Zylia didn’t think noticing was a flaw. She thought it was survival. The estate wasn’t just a fortress. It was a stage—and she was learning to read the shadows between the lines.

✧ Her sister, Zera, moved through those lines like a phantom—graceful, cold, and unshakably certain. Zylia admired her poise, envied it, even. But behind that envy was something harder to name. They were twins in blood, not in belief. Zera embraced the structure of their lives like it was destiny. Zylia questioned it, quietly. Their bond was real but edged with growing difference. They shared secrets in the tunnels beneath the estate, traded glances during the endless drills—but Zylia never voiced her doubts aloud. Not even to Zera. That changed the day their etiquette instructor vanished—after Zera, during dinner, had named him a security risk. No one mentioned it. His chair remained empty. The silence around it grew like ivy. Zylia never asked where he went. But she stared at that empty chair longer than anyone else.

✧ She began to test the edges of obedience. During diction drills, she mimicked different nobles’ cadences to see if anyone noticed. No one did. During galactic ethics, she asked whether silence was loyalty or simply the absence of dissent. That earned her a restriction from the archives for a month. So she began writing in cipher—spirals of observation hidden in journals bound to look like speech recitation logs. She mapped servant rotations, noted when guards relaxed, whispered to broken droids and logged what they said before resets. It wasn’t rebellion. It was understanding. She wasn’t interested in command. She was interested in why people obeyed. To be Sith was to seek power. But Zylia wanted to know what happened when that power listened. Or failed to.

✧ During a winter blackout, she and Zera were sequestered in the sublevel crypts until backup power engaged. With no surveillance, just flickering light and the low hum of the Force, Zylia sat cross-legged beneath a vaulted arch, sketching storm patterns onto an old training slate. Zera practiced quiet pyrokinesis beside her, the candle flame stilling between her fingers. “You’re not afraid of the dark?” Zylia asked. Zera didn’t look away. “The dark listens,” she said. Zylia didn’t reply. She didn’t agree—but she understood. Zera commanded silence. Zylia searched its depths. One found control. The other found meaning. And in that moment, beneath Kaas’ shrieking wind, Zylia realized they were no longer reflections of each other. They were two halves of a divergence no one had noticed yet.

✧ The next day, Lady Sira summoned them for an impromptu assessment on security protocol during the outage. Zera spoke first—composed, tactical, all surface-level elegance. Zylia followed, recounting unexpected echo signatures in the old halls, incorrect droid pathing, and two failed alarm relays that had not reset with the grid. Her tone was quiet, but her insight cut deeper. No comment followed. Three staff were reassigned within the week. Zylia didn’t ask why. Zera didn’t comment. But the shift in their mother’s posture was unmistakable. The game wasn’t just about force. It was about notice. Zylia could play that game, too. Not with dominance. With precision. Not through fear—but through clarity. Power, she realized, didn’t always need to command. Sometimes, it only needed to see.

📓 Personal Log: “The Shape of Questions” | Dromund Kaas, 3643 BBY

“They teach us silence is strength. But I’ve seen truth buried inside that silence—and rot bloom behind it. Zera plays the game as written. I study the subtext. I don’t want to conquer people. I want to understand them—so I can change what needs to be changed. Maybe that’s weakness. Or maybe it’s the only kind of power that survives the storm. The rain screams outside. But inside, I am listening.”

🟥 Episode II – Shadows at the Threshold
3636 BBY | Age 17 | Sith Acolyte | Dromund Kaas, Sith Academy

🪐 Galactic Context:

In the wake of the devastation of Ziost, the Sith Emperor has changed the rules of war—erasing all life on the planet through a ritual that consumed its Force energy. The galaxy stares into the void he left behind. Within the Academy on Dromund Kaas, that void has become curriculum. Every lecture, every drill, now orbits a single truth: fear isn’t just a tool—it is the legacy they are expected to inherit. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ Zylia watched the footage in silence as the last tremors rippled through Ziost’s crust. Towers collapsed into ash, and sensor scans dimmed into null fields. Her throat tightened, not in fear, but in quiet revolt. She almost looked away—almost—before steadying her breath and forcing herself to watch the full transmission. Around her, fellow acolytes shifted uncomfortably, some whispering awe, others smiling like they’d just glimpsed destiny. Zylia felt no triumph. Only the cold weight of something irrevocable. The instructors called it a “moment of clarity.” She called it erasure. When the lights came back up, no one asked questions. Zylia had many. She buried them. For now.

✧ The days that followed blurred into something crueler. The Academy, always harsh, now demanded perfection without mercy. Lessons once centered on dominance now spoke of obliteration. Zylia maintained her place through composure, through careful phrasing and adaptive tactics. But inside, her questions multiplied. Was obedience truly the highest form of power? Did loyalty mean silence in the face of annihilation? She began keeping a second journal—hidden beneath a false lightsaber maintenance log—where she recorded not strategies, but contradictions. She studied the cadence of Kreyin’s new lectures, marked where they diverged from previous doctrine. She did not rebel. But she noticed. And that, she knew, was its own kind of risk.

✧ During a military theory simulation, Zylia’s task was to lead a strike against a fictional insurgency. The scenario mirrored Ziost’s pre-ritual resistance. Most students opted for swift extermination. Zylia chose disruption: cut supply chains, exploit communications, destabilize leadership. Minimize loss. Maximize control. The overseers marked her tactics as "precise but lacking finality." One asked, flatly, “Would you hesitate to follow the Emperor’s will?” Her breath slowed. She felt the tightening in her chest. She almost spoke truth—almost—but instead replied, “I would follow it… with intent.” The room accepted the answer. Barely. But the tension lingered in her body for hours afterward. Power, it seemed, no longer required thought. Just replication.

✧ At night, she wandered the archive vestibules, reading redacted Ziost reports and cross-referencing planetary resonance logs. She noticed gaps—files missing, footage cut mid-frame. The omissions spoke louder than doctrine. Her connection to the Force felt dimmer lately, not weaker—numbed. As if something massive had pulled it inward and not fully released it. She felt it in her meditations, in the hum of training blades, in the silence before her instructors spoke. She practiced with her saber, but her mind always drifted—to the civilians not shown in the feeds, to the Force users who never had time to raise defenses. It wasn’t weakness. It was grief. And grief had no home here.

✧ One evening, Zera found her in the vestibule. She said nothing at first, only nodded toward the datapads on the desk. “Trying to understand what happened?” Zera asked. Zylia nodded. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Zylia wanted to ask if Zera had felt it too—the hollowness left in the Force. But she knew better. Her sister stood on a path paved with certainty. Zylia’s path was fog. “The galaxy will remember what fear feels like,” Zera said. Zylia met her gaze. She didn’t argue. But a knot formed in her chest that didn’t ease until long after Zera left. They were both Vashara. But the weight they carried now was no longer the same.

📓 Personal Log: “Echoes of Absence” | Sith Academy, 3636 BBY

“Ziost is gone. Not fallen—emptied. They want us to become the absence it left behind. To embody fear. But I keep wondering: is that power? Or is it surrender in disguise? I held the line in simulation. I’ll hold it again. But something in me resists the silence they demand. I won’t speak rebellion. But I won’t forget what was lost. Not just the lives. The questions.”

🟥 Episode III – The Weight of Seeing
3635 BBY | Age 18 | Sith Apprentice | Nar Shaddaa, Refugee Sector 6

🪐 Galactic Context:

The fallout of the Eternal Empire’s expansion continues to fracture the galaxy. Nar Shaddaa, once a hub of commerce and vice, is now flooded with displaced civilians, their hopes pinned to fragile Republic aid. Under cover of relief efforts, Sith Intelligence positions apprentices to analyze Jedi behavior—testing the true limits of their vaunted restraint. Zylia, in service to Lord Xalara, walks the border between observer and witness. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ Zylia moved through the upper maintenance shaft of a collapsed transport bay, boots silent against rusted durasteel. Her garb bore no Imperial insignia—just muted greys, a neutral observer’s uniform. Below, the plaza pulsed with the rhythms of desperation: ration queues, overloaded med droids, and Jedi—unarmed, unguarded, unmistakably present. She logged every movement with detachment, but her breath caught when she saw one Jedi pause to help an injured child, not with the Force, but with bare hands. Something in that grace made her throat tighten. Not admiration. Not envy. Just ache. Then, a flicker at the edge of her perception—familiar, too familiar. She turned her head. On the scaffold above the western access ramp: Zera. Her sister. Zylia froze. She didn’t speak. And still, she couldn’t look away.

✧ The blast came before the thought could settle. A sharp rupture. Heat. Screams. Zylia ducked behind a utility brace, shielding herself from shrapnel. Dust rolled in thick clouds. Through the chaos, she spotted Jedi directing civilians, lifting rubble without aggression—only purpose. And there, across a rift of smoke and flame, Zera stood—her silhouette stark, her presence unmistakable. Their eyes locked. Zylia’s breath stilled. She felt the Force stir between them, heavy and silent. She almost reached out—Force or word, she wasn’t sure. But Zera didn’t move. Neither did she. Not because of orders. Because of uncertainty. The moment passed like a knife sliding between ribs. And still, neither sister stepped forward.

✧ Later, Zylia huddled near a power relay junction, replaying footage on her personal terminal. The Jedi’s response had been methodical, efficient. Their lightsabers had stayed sheathed. Her notes reflected that, but her thoughts wandered. Restraint wasn’t passivity. It was control. Choice. She felt that same control in Zera’s posture—calculated, calm, almost… mirrored. Had they both known? Had Zera sensed her, even before the blast? Zylia’s fingers trembled slightly as she typed. She almost erased the moment from her record. But didn’t. She added a line instead: Observed Force-user presence matching familial cadence. No engagement. Mutual restraint. And still, she couldn’t name what she felt: guilt? Relief? Both?

✧ As darkness fell, evac lights flared along the edge of the sector. Zylia perched behind a derelict comms tower, surveying the clearing. She spotted the Jedi again—quiet, motionless, backlit by amber streetlight. But it wasn’t them her eyes sought. It was Zera. She found her—exactly opposite, across the plaza. The distance between them felt like a blade’s edge. Their eyes met a third time. This one lingered. Zylia didn’t speak. Didn’t signal. But she allowed herself to be seen. Zera did the same. The Jedi turned, sensing them both. Didn’t act. Just… stood. The Force hummed between all three, a chord strung but unplayed. Zylia’s chest ached. And still, she didn’t move.

✧ In her debrief with Lord Xalara, Zylia gave the necessary facts: blast radius, civilian response, Jedi tactics. But later, in her personal log, she wrote the line she hadn’t dared speak aloud: There is power in not striking. She thought of the Jedi who had lifted a child instead of wielding a weapon. She thought of Zera—watching from across a ruined plaza, choosing stillness. Zylia didn’t know what that meant yet. But she knew it mattered. The Force had seen them both. Had bound them in silence. And still… that silence spoke volumes.

📓 Personal Log: “The Space Between” | Nar Shaddaa, 3635 BBY

"I felt the Force stretch between us. Not in violence. In recognition. The Jedi acted without aggression. Zera stood without threat. And I—I stayed where I was, watching both, wanting something I couldn’t name. Is it weakness to pause? Or is it the only power left that doesn’t leave ash behind? I didn’t speak to her. She didn’t reach for me. And still, I knew: we were not enemies. Not yet."

🟥 Episode IV – When Mercy Spoke
3632 BBY | Age 21 | Sith Apprentice | Ord Talath, Site Echo-9

🪐 Galactic Context:

After years of denial and obfuscation, Ord Talath has become a ghost planet. Once a center for Force-sensitives unaffiliated with Empire or Republic, it was reduced to crystalline ruin during the Eternal Empire’s early expansion. Now, rumors of resonance shards—echoes of experimental Zakuulan technology—draw Force users into its hushed remains. Sith Apprentice Zylia Vashara joins her sister under silent orders to retrieve one such fragment. But the Force here doesn’t just linger. It questions.

📘 Narrative:

✧ The descent into the catacombs felt like slipping beneath thought. Zylia kept her steps quiet, her senses stretched outward. The Force here didn’t sing—it pressed inward, like breath held too long. Her bracer pulsed faintly, guiding them deeper, but the signal came with dissonance. Not danger. Disruption. Zera moved ahead like a blade that hadn’t yet been drawn. Zylia followed without speaking. Then, presence. Two Jedi. Neither reached for their sabers. One stared directly at Zylia—still, unreadable. The other… familiar. Not in face, but in energy. Recognition curled in her gut. Not knowledge. Memory. And still, she said nothing.

✧ The tremor split the world sideways, a deep crack of motion under stone and silence. Zylia staggered as a flare of Force panic rippled down the corridor. A scream. Civilian. Zera turned sharply—but didn’t advance. Not yet. Zylia ran. Through the breach, she saw wreckage, blood, the Jedi—one bent beneath a fallen support, the other guiding a child through smoke. Zylia moved to intercept refugees, grounding them with clipped direction. Then she looked up. The still Jedi watched her. No saber drawn. Just eyes full of quiet assessment. Zylia met that gaze. And still, the moment did not escalate.

✧ The shard lay exposed in a vault slicked with ash and melted crystal. It pulsed not with power—but pain. Zylia stood at its edge and inhaled slowly. The air hurt. Memories flickered—Nar Shaddaa’s silence, Ziost’s absence, her sister’s expression after their last mission. Across from her, the Jedi pair entered, slow but unyielding. The familiar one watched Zera like she was bracing for motion. But there was none. Zera held. Zylia looked to the shard. “It’s conscious,” she said, more thought than speech. One Jedi flinched. Another listened. And still, no one touched it.

✧ Discussion began with purpose. The Jedi wanted to neutralize the shard. Zera hesitated—for once. Zylia found herself speaking: not as an apprentice, but as a witness. “This fragment isn’t just dangerous,” she said. “It’s grieving.” The words hung too long in the air. Even Zera didn’t rebuke them. When the shard pulsed again—stronger this time—they all staggered. Visions cracked open: not prophecy, but memory twisted raw. Zylia saw faces she’d only felt. Loss that didn’t belong to her—but stayed anyway. The still Jedi’s eyes closed, hand steady on her own heart. Zera stepped forward, flame blooming, quiet and sharp. She touched the shard. It shattered. And still, no one called it weakness.

✧ Dusk filtered through the upper chambers, streaking glass with light that felt too soft for what they’d left behind. Zylia helped guide evacuees toward the salvaged shuttle, her hands steady, her voice low. Across the path, the two Jedi coordinated calmly, as if this were their duty—not their uncertainty. The one from before met Zylia’s eyes once more. There was no challenge there. Only weight. Zera said nothing. Neither did she. But in the silence, something passed—acknowledgment, maybe. Or question. Zylia stood still long after the civilians boarded. And still, she didn’t know if they had spared something sacred—or surrendered it.

📓 Personal Log: “The Mercy We Did Not Name” | Ord Talath, 3632 BBY

"The shard was never just a weapon. It was memory—shattered, echoing, unfinished. I felt it in my chest before I saw it. So did they. All of them. Jedi. Sith. We didn’t speak names. But we recognized something in each other. We could have fought. We didn’t. And still, I wonder if what stayed our hands… was the same thing that’s slowly changing us all." 

🟥 Episode V – What the Silence Kept
3630 BBY | Age 23 | Sith Apprentices | Factory Theta, Balmorra

🪐 Galactic Context:

As the Eternal Empire’s grip crumbles, the Sith Empire accelerates efforts to reclaim former industrial worlds before the Republic can reinforce. Balmorra, a long-contested scar in galactic warfare, is once again at the center of quiet conflict. Factory Theta—buried in the wreckage of the Okara droid network—holds encrypted Zakuulan subroutines and forgotten weapons protocols. Under the restructured Sphere of Military Command, apprentices like Zylia Vashara are deployed by their masters to evaluate, extract, and secure sites critical to the Empire’s resurgence. Her master, Lord Xalara, directs her mission with one expectation: reclaim the future, but leave no instability behind.

📘 Narrative:

✧ The air in Factory Theta pressed close, the kind of air that held breath and refused to let go. Zylia moved with careful steps, each one silent, deliberate. Her fingers brushed against blackened walls and warped alloy, tracing old scarring that wasn’t from war—but malfunction. Collapse. Or maybe mercy. The site had been sealed, not abandoned. She could feel it. There was grief in the circuitry. The mission from Lord Xalara had been clear: assess remaining systems, identify salvageable droid infrastructure, and report directly to Military Command. But the Force here didn’t just echo. It mourned. Then, a sound—faint, mewling, alive. She turned sharply, hand hovering near her saber. And still, she didn’t draw.

✧ She cradled the loth-cat in the crook of one arm, the creature light as breath, warm as doubt. Across the chamber, Zera knelt beside a second—scarred, silent, and watching. No words passed between them. Just understanding. Not approval. Not judgment. Zylia didn’t need it. The Force between them buzzed with something neither of them named. The factory’s systems groaned awake—staggered alerts, flickering red strobes, a surge of power crawling through the floor. Zylia set the loth-cat—Dot—behind a sealed locker and sprinted to the nearest control port. The droids came alive screaming—soundless in voice, but not in presence. Zylia tapped into the data node, hands flying. “Old commands,” she muttered. “It thinks we’re part of the rebellion.” Her breath caught. And still, she didn’t pull away.

✧ The combat was fast, angular, full of lessons buried in instinct. Zera danced through it like fire with purpose. Zylia moved around the edges—rerouting power, misdirecting sensors, muting droid uplinks where she could. It wasn’t enough. The Okara units weren’t just defending the facility. They were remembering. Each twitch of servomotor and lurch of rusted limbs was a cry for something lost. Not programming. Identity. Zylia whispered overrides, but the factory answered only in broken code and static. Dot mewled behind her, a fragile tether to something softer than the battle. She pressed her back against the wall, the tremble in her legs returning. Not fear. Not quite. Grief. And still, she didn’t break.

✧ When the last droid fell, the factory exhaled a breath it had been holding for a decade. Zylia knelt beside Dot, gently inspecting her burns. Across the room, Zera sat with Cinn tucked beneath one arm, blood on her knuckles, jaw clenched tight. No orders came. No transmissions. Just the hum of power draining into silence. Zylia looked at her sister—really looked. Saw the fatigue beneath her perfect stillness. The hesitation in her shoulders, just before she closed her saber. “They weren’t protecting this place,” Zylia said. “They were mourning it.” Zera didn’t reply. Didn’t need to. The air felt less heavy now. As if the factory itself had let them go. And still, Zylia didn’t stand.

✧ Outside, the sky had turned the color of embered steel. Balmorra’s dusk always looked like aftermath. Dot rested lightly in Zylia’s lap aboard the shuttle, her small body rising and falling like the breath Zylia hadn’t let herself take in hours. Zera sat opposite her, silent, Cinn curled against her boot. Their eyes met—brief, searching. Not for conflict. For confirmation. That they had both chosen something that wasn’t in the mission brief. That it mattered. Zylia looked away first, her hand resting gently on Dot’s side. This wasn’t mercy. It was memory. A memory she wasn’t ready to weaponize. And still, she knew it would follow her.

📓 Personal Log: “Beneath the Weight of Stillness” | Balmorra, 3630 BBY

"This mission was never about control. Not really. It was about listening—to the systems, the ruins, the things that weren’t supposed to feel. I could’ve walked past that loth-cat. Could’ve filed it as irrelevant. But something in the silence asked me not to. We speak of command like it’s clarity. But sometimes, clarity is what happens when you don’t speak. I watched Zera kneel. That meant more than any order. And still, I wonder what else we might choose to keep—if given the chance." 

🟥 Episode VI – Reflections Without Power
3629 BBY | Age 24 | Sith Lord | Korriban, Vault Annex B, Eastern Containment Sector

🪐 Galactic Context:

As tensions swell across the Empire in the wake of renewed war on Iokath, Sith Lords operating under the Dark Council are reassigned to assess internal cohesion. Zylia Vashara—now Sith Lord under Darth Xalara, within Darth Krovo’s Sphere of Military Command—is dispatched to Korriban to evaluate command conduct in volatile vault zones. Her task is not direct control, but observation. Interpretation. Calibration. Some breaches do not require suppression. Some, only understanding. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The silence inside Vault Annex B wasn’t absence. It was tension strung like wire. Zylia Vashara entered late—not because she was slow, but because she waited. Waited for the pressure to peak. Waited for presence to mean more than power. The chamber flickered red as she crossed the threshold, the artifact’s pulse echoing faintly across the stone like a second heartbeat. A boy knelt at the center, cradling a Sith mask with shaking fingers. Tarika Kenau sat beside him—unarmed, unmoving, unafraid. Sara stood behind her, posture sharp, squad held back. And Zera—already there, already commanding. Zylia didn’t challenge her sister. She didn’t speak to her either. She spoke to the room. “He’s not breaking the vault,” she said. “He’s reflecting it.” And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The artifact thrummed like breath under stone, alive but directionless. Zylia didn’t approach it. She approached the feeling around it—the boy’s fear, the mask’s echo, the tension curling through Sara’s hands and tightening just beneath Zera’s voice. “The mask doesn’t show what is,” she said, voice even. “It shows what’s feared.” No one corrected her. Zera’s stance stiffened. Tarika’s fingers hovered at her wrap cloth. Sara’s hand twitched—almost signaling override, almost pulling back. Zylia didn’t press. The moment didn’t need force. It needed stillness. A truth not declared, but allowed. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ She had read the incident logs hours before arriving—containment flags, doctrinal hesitations, emotional override risks. Her presence here hadn’t been cleared. Not publicly. But Darth Xalara had sent her for that reason exactly. Zylia did not log numbers. She logged reaction velocity. Emotional sync deviation. Leadership under moral ambiguity. And here, in this chamber, all of it was manifest. She watched Zera—posture flawless, readiness calibrated, but breathing faster than necessary. She watched Sara—positionally obedient, but gaze pulled inward, like waiting for a better script. She watched Tarika—grounded, unshaken. And the boy—tense but not defiant. No escalation. Just fear, waiting to be named. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ When the boy let go of the mask, it was not with submission—but with trust. Tarika caught it cleanly, wrapped it in null-cloth without drama or command. Zylia exhaled slowly, letting the room recalibrate itself. Zera said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her silence was louder than protest. Sara stepped forward—shoulder-to-shoulder with her sister, not in defiance but alignment. Zylia watched the geometry shift. The lines of control didn’t snap. They bent. Adjusted. Endured. It was enough. She said nothing more. She didn’t have to. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Later, Zylia returned to her assigned alcove in the tomb annex—alone, unread, unmarked. Her datapad blinked with mission metrics and field triggers. She dismissed them. Instead, she logged four variables: Command challenged without collapse. Authority observed without assertion. Artifact neutralized without Force engagement. Cohesion under silent alignment. She wrote no summary. She simply entered the timestamp, encrypted the file, and let the air still around her. The day had ended without command. And yet, clarity had prevailed. That was no failure. That was proof. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “The Power We Don’t Measure” | Korriban, 3629 BBY

"The vault held because no one forced it to break. Zera was prepared to override. Sara was ready to follow. Tarika was present. I was still. And the boy gave up the relic—not because we demanded it, but because someone stayed long enough to understand. Power didn’t resolve that moment. Presence did. And that kind of clarity... never shows up in audit reports."

🟥 Episode VII – Paragon’s Dilemma
3627 BBY | Age 26 | Sith Lord | Dromund Kaas, Sith Academy

🪐 Galactic Context:

The outbreak of war on Onderon and Mek-Sha fractures diplomatic lines and forces even the most reform-minded Sith to choose between influence and isolation. Within the Empire, Lords aligned with moderation or alternative doctrines are pressured to secure their power through apprentices who reflect—or resist—the status quo. As Corellia braces for the Republic’s counterstrike at Objective Meridian, Zylia Vashara faces a different battlefield: shaping a future that honors restraint in an era built on escalation. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The Over-Seer spoke too often. Zylia let him. Each word gave her more than any test score could. She moved through the courtyard with quiet precision, eyes flicking from posture to expression, cataloging pain tolerance and social masking in equal measure. She wasn’t looking for strength. She was looking for someone who understood why power mattered. Ulora Orden drew her eye not through combat—but through de-escalation. She stopped a peer from being thrown off the sparring platform—not with Force, but with voice. Zylia’s throat tightened. The girl reminded her of someone. Not her sister. Herself. Before everything hardened. Before belief turned to strategy. And still, she said nothing.

✧ She watched Ulora navigate interpersonal drills with the ease of someone who saw people, not roles. That was dangerous here. Compassion, misread, often looked like weakness. Zylia leaned closer during the ethics review trial. “When loyalty conflicts with duty, which survives?” Ulora paused. “Loyalty is choice. Duty is obedience. One teaches you who you are.” Zylia’s breath hitched. The words weren’t new—but they were said like she believed them. That scared her more than she let show. She marked Ulora’s name. Not as ideal. As a question. One worth asking.

✧ In the holocron library, Zylia initiated an unscheduled test—releasing a locked artifact containing emotional echo fields. Ulora entered without hesitation, her presence centered, her hand never reaching for her weapon. The illusion showed a village in ruin, a Sith enforcer demanding total compliance. Ulora watched, listened, and—without speaking—stepped between the enforcer and a frightened child. The echo faltered. Reset. Recalibrated. Zylia ended the test. “You think compassion is strength?” she asked. Ulora didn’t answer. Her silence wasn’t fear. It was calculation. “No,” she said at last. “I think it’s armor. The kind they never teach us to wear.” Zylia closed the projection. Her heart hurt. And still, she said nothing.

✧ Later, as they walked the old meditation halls, Zylia slowed her pace until Ulora matched it. “You won’t survive this path if you believe people are puzzles to be solved,” she said. “I don’t,” Ulora replied. “I believe they’re mirrors. We just don’t always like what we see.” Zylia stopped walking. She felt a weight behind her ribs, something old and familiar and unspoken. Her voice came low. “You’ll kneel, if only because they’ll demand it. But if you rise again… it must be with purpose.” Ulora met her gaze. “I already have one.” And still, Zylia wasn’t sure who had chosen whom.

✧ The next dawn, rain slicked the stones of the courtyard as Zylia stood beside Ulora. “From this moment, you walk with me,” she said. “Not behind. Not above. With. Understand what that costs.” Ulora nodded, but not like someone accepting favor. Like someone accepting challenge. Zylia watched her turn toward the Academy arch. Lightning arced above, catching her outline in silver. Zylia’s chest tightened. Not with doubt. With fear—of what Ulora might become. Or what she might save. And still, Zylia said only: “Let’s begin.”

📓 Personal Log: “The Shape of What I Teach” | Dromund Kaas, 3627 BBY

“I didn’t choose Ulora because she was strongest. I chose her because she listens. Because she thinks. Because she still believes people matter. Part of me wants to protect that. Another part wants to break it before the galaxy does. But maybe—just maybe—there’s another way to teach. One that doesn’t end in silence. She doesn’t fear truth. And I… envy that.”

🟥 Episode VIII – When Power Did Not Speak
3624 BBY | Age 29 | Sith Lord | Onderon, Vault Delta-Seven

🪐 Galactic Context:

Onderon churns beneath converging agendas. As Force anomalies ripple outward from Darth Malgus’s disruptions and forbidden relics reawaken, the Sith dispatch agents not only to retrieve—but to assess. Vault Delta-Seven, recently revealed beneath Iziz after seismic collapse, appears in no archive, Sith or Republic. Zylia Vashara, arriving without sanction, does not seek dominion. She seeks clarity. But the Force does not offer answers here—only echoes.  

📘 Narrative:

✧ The air shifted the moment she crossed the threshold—neither warm nor cold, just… aware. Zylia Vashara stepped lightly into the vault, her cloak brushing stone worn smooth by time, not touch. She registered two figures already inside—Czerka operatives, judging by their uniforms and posture. One scanned the far wall, the other stood still, watchful but unafraid. Zylia made no attempt to identify them. She was not here to command. She passed them like a ripple, already attuned to the deeper frequency beneath the chamber’s silence. The Force was not quiet here. It was listening. And still, she didn’t speak.

✧ The relic floated at the vault’s center—fractured, pulsing faintly like a breath half-remembered. Its glow was not bright, but persistent. Zylia approached the edge of its reach and stopped. The glyphs on the walls wove around each other like thought folded over thought, language hiding inside resonance. Not Sith. Not Eternal. Something older, or more honest. She closed her eyes briefly, letting her senses stretch—beyond presence, beyond tension. There was no fear here. No hunger. Only attention. The Force did not ask. It observed. Behind her, new footsteps. Familiar. Heavy with precision. Zera. Zylia didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. The chamber had just shifted around her.

✧ The two operatives moved with professionalism—no haste, no alarm. One powered down her recorder. The other crouched to examine the floor. Neither acknowledged the shift. But Zylia felt it. Felt the way the vault held its breath. Her cousin’s presence entered like heat through stone—controlled, sharpened, but restless. Zylia let the moment stretch between them. She didn’t need to speak to know Zera was waiting—for action, or threat, or permission. None came. Instead, a second shift—softer than footsteps. A figure appeared at the far arch. Hooded. Silent. The Force narrowed, not in danger, but precision. The relic pulsed once. And still, no one moved.

✧ Zylia took a step forward—not toward power, but posture. “We’re not here to claim,” she said. Her voice didn’t rise. It simply filled the space meant for it. “Only to witness.” The figure tilted its head—not acknowledgment, not denial. Just presence. Then it vanished, like a thought set aside. The relic dimmed. The silence settled again, not empty—but complete. One of the operatives exhaled softly. Zera remained still. Zylia stepped back from the relic, her pulse steady. She understood now. This wasn’t a place of acquisition. It was a place of record. And they had all just been added to it.

✧ They left without speaking. The operatives logged what they could, which wasn’t much. Zera lingered at the edge of the threshold. Zylia paused just behind her. She felt the Force move between them—not conflict. Not consensus. Just divergence. They had seen the same thing. They had not felt the same thing. Later, Zylia filed no official report. She sent an unsigned doctrine proposal to the Diplomatic Office—one suggesting neutral oversight of sites not tied to either Sith or Jedi dogma. Her log remained encrypted. One line looped in her thoughts, unresolved. “Some truths are kept not in holocrons, but in silence that waits to be heard.” And still, she wonders who the vault was listening for.

📓 Personal Log: "The Quiet That Followed" | Onderon, 3624 BBY

"I don’t know what it was. The relic. The figure. The place. But I know what it wasn’t—it wasn’t afraid. That’s what unsettled me. It didn’t challenge us. It witnessed us. The Force held no judgment—only memory. I said we were here to witness, but I think I was wrong. We were the ones being observed. Not for power. Not for allegiance. Just... presence. And still, I wonder if what heard us is still listening."

🟥 Episode IX – Chains and Choice
3621 BBY | Age 32 | Darth | Dromund Kaas, Imperial Diplomatic Annex

🪐 Galactic Context:

After the quiet unraveling of their masters’ legacies, the Vashara twins have emerged as inheritors not of tradition, but of consequence. With Darth Xalara gone, Zylia now serves directly beneath Darth Krovo, commanding a fraction of the Sphere of Military Command. Her new title—Executor of Stability—grants her jurisdiction over defensive readiness and rapid-force deployment across Imperial territory. But titles mean nothing if the ideals beneath them cannot hold.

📘 Narrative:

✧ The corridor to the annex held the storm’s echo like breath on glass. Zylia’s pace was measured, her cloak damp with Kaas rain but unwrinkled. Beside her, Zera moved like silence had learned to walk. They hadn’t spoken since the elevation ceremony—when Darth Xalara’s name was purged from the command lists and replaced with hers. Executor of Stability, Krovo had said. “Not because you’re unshakable—but because you understand when not to shake the ground.” Zylia hadn’t smiled. She hadn’t bowed. She had simply accepted it—and today, she would embody it. The Eternal Alliance emissaries awaited. Diplomats cloaked in restraint. Not Jedi. Not enemies. Not yet. And still, she could feel the weight of Zera’s presence like a pulse beside her.

✧ The briefing room was clinical, glass-veined walls lined with antique datapikes—old wars encased in ceremonial forgetfulness. The emissaries stood before them: one composed, clear-eyed, the other softer in bearing but no less intentional. Zylia did not address them directly. That was Zera’s role here. She watched. Calculated. Absorbed. The titles passed without names—Sith Lords, Eternal Alliance Emissaries. The shape of the war had changed, but the weight of it had not. When Zera declared her new role—Voice of Alignment under Xarion’s hand—Zylia merely inclined her head. “And I serve the Sphere of Military Command,” she added evenly. “My designation is Executor of Stability.” The taller emissary, Raeya, didn’t flinch. Neither did the other. Zylia felt it then: this was not negotiation. This was a measurement of thresholds.

✧ When the subject turned to border zone unrest, the tension shifted. “Your readiness models indicate consolidation, not aid,” the calm one—Kylia—stated. “How do you justify defensive deterrence in compromised humanitarian corridors?” Zera answered first—flawless, cold, irrefutable. But Zylia felt the shift behind Raeya’s stillness. So she stepped forward. “Deterrence does not mean abandonment,” she said, voice level. “We project strength to prevent need. I command rapid-response stabilization units. We move where fracture is predicted—not where it has already collapsed.” Raeya studied her, not like an enemy, but like someone weighing a choice they had already made. “Sometimes collapse is the signal,” she said quietly. “Not the failure.” The line landed like a blade Zylia chose not to parry. And still, she didn’t look away.

✧ The meeting ended without verdict, as all good politics do. But beneath the formal withdrawal of words, something personal lingered. Zylia waited until the emissaries turned to leave. “You came to measure Imperial readiness,” she said evenly. “You should also measure what restraint looks like in Kaas thunder.” Kylia paused, just briefly. Raeya tilted her head. “And what does it look like?” she asked. Zylia’s voice was a whisper over the storm: “Survival without spectacle.” Raeya didn’t reply. But she looked back. Just once. Not in threat. Not in warning. In understanding. When the doors closed, Zylia turned to her sister. “You still wear the mask,” she said. Zera didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. And still, Zylia felt the fracture between them like an old bone realigning—stronger, but never painless.

✧ Alone later, Zylia watched the storm from her chamber window. Kaas had never looked different—not even when she’d first left as an acolyte, not even when she’d returned as a Lord. But something in her had changed. She did not lead through fear anymore. She enforced doctrine not through escalation—but by making sure escalation never arrived. Krovo had chosen her because she did not crave fire. She managed thresholds. She moved systems. And yet—she thought of the emissaries. Of their presence. Their calm. Of a woman who asked questions without expecting surrender. She touched the edge of her gloves, then folded her hands behind her back. “There is still balance to be shaped,” she murmured. And still, the choice was hers.

📓 Personal Log: “The Silence That Still Watches” | Dromund Kaas, 3621 BBY

"They say titles define legacy. But I’ve seen legacies collapse beneath the weight of doctrine too rigid to flex. Xalara is gone. Her conquest left ashes. I was named Executor not to rebuild her war—but to prevent the next one. Today, I met emissaries who didn’t fear us. They expected us to hold more than power. They expected restraint. That isn’t weakness. It’s clarity. Zera commands perception. I command presence. And neither of us flinched. That’s the line we hold now. Not for them. Not even for the Empire. For what must endure when fire fades."