Phantom Pain Beneath Silence

Her brow tightened in frustration as she exhaled slowly, trying again to center herself. The stones around her trembled in uneven suspension, the Force slipping through her grasp like water through cracked glass. For a brief moment, one shot upward-too fast, too uncontrolled-before crashing into the pond with a sharp splash that shattered the stillness. The rest followed, dropping uselessly into the dirt.

Veyra’s shoulders sank immediately.

‘I have failed. Again.’

The thought landed heavy, familiar. Her hands curled into the fabric of her robes, knuckles tightening as she forced herself not to look up. A memory flickered uninvited-Selara’s presence, cold and exacting. The sting of correction. The certainty of disappointment. Her body reacted before her mind did; she flinched, as if expecting impact that never came.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, voice barely rising above the wind. “I...can’t do it. The Force just slips away from me. No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t listen.”

Her gaze dropped to her prosthetic hand. The smooth durasteel caught the light as her fingers flexed with a faint mechanical click. She watched it for a moment too long, jaw tightening at the phantom memory of heat, pain, and separation.

She swallowed.

“I’m sure this is why Master Zalyth never had any patience for me,” she murmured. “If her other apprentice hadn’t...I don’t think she would’ve let me live at all. All I ever did was fail her.”

Silence settled between the two of you, heavy but unbroken. Veyra remained still, her expression caught somewhere between resignation and quiet self-reproach, eyes lowered as if the ground itself might offer an answer she could not find in the Force.

Markyth II had once been described as peaceful.

A green world of open fields and dense vegetation, tucked so far into the Outer Rim that neither the Republic nor the Sith Empire bothered to claim it. A place where the galaxy’s violence felt distant enough to forget, where someone tired of war and politics might have believed they could simply vanish into the soil and live quietly.

That belief had not survived contact with reality.

A cartel calling themselves the Onyx Fist had found what no one was meant to find beneath Markyth’s surface-spice deposits, rich and unexploited, waiting to be carved into profit. And where there was profit, there was ownership, and where there was ownership, there was violence that needed no justification beyond greed. The nearby settlement of Tannis had been an afterthought, a convenient edge of inconvenience on the way to something more valuable.

Now it was the first thing to break.

Five men stood outside your home on the outskirts of Tannis, arranged loosely but deliberately, as if they had already decided the shape of what came next. Blasters hung in hands that weren’t relaxed at all, and vibroblades caught the muted daylight whenever they shifted their weight. Their presence wasn’t rushed or panicked-it was comfortable, practiced, the kind of confidence that came from believing resistance was optional.

“We just wanna come in for a spell,” one of them called out, voice carrying an easy cruelty that tried to disguise itself as humor.

“Yeah,” another added with a low laugh. “Been a hard day down in our spice mines. Figured folks like you wouldn’t mind offering a bit of room and board.”

They didn’t knock anymore. They didn’t need to. The door was already just another boundary they expected to cross. Then something changed. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just...a shift in the air.

“Leave them alone.”

The voice was small. Almost fragile. And yet it cut through everything.

Behind the group, standing where no one had bothered to look until that moment, was a girl in a dark travel-worn tunic and cloak, its edges marked by dust and long roads rather than ceremony or rank. A thin line of muted green trim broke the darkness of her clothing, a colorful splash against the grim black. Curly red hair fell loosely around her face and shoulders, stirred by the wind in soft, uncontrolled waves.

She looked out of place. She sounded even more so.

But when the lightsaber ignited, the illusion broke.

A sharp snap-hiss split the air, followed by a steady crimson blade that painted the ground in uneasy light. Her left hand was clearly prosthetic-durasteel, simple, functional-while her right shifted into a Djem So stance that looked drilled into her body through years of practice. There was hesitation in her posture, but not in her resolve.

“I won’t ask again.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Not because she was calm-but because she was deciding what calm would cost. They were just thugs. That was what she told herself. Just men with blasters, with loud voices and borrowed authority, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. “I won’t ask again.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Not because she was calm-but because she was deciding what calm would cost. They were just thugs. That was what she told herself. Just men with blasters, with loud voices and borrowed authority, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But the lightsaber in her hand didn’t care what she told herself. She knew the truth-she was no master duelist, no match for someone trained to kill with elegance and certainty. The Force had never come easily, and the blade even less so. But these weren’t Sith. Not Jedi. Just men who believed violence was always enough to end a problem. And right now, what would happen if she didn't act, the consequences of ignoring the situation, weighed far too heavily on her mind.

So she would let their assumptions do the intimidation for her.

She did not correct the assumption forming in their minds as they looked at her stance, at the glow of her saber, at the way she did not step back. Fear was a language she had been taught too well, even if she no longer wished to speak it. Some lessons from Korriban did not fade with distance-they simply changed in purpose.

And if she was lucky, that language would be enough today.

The sounds of combat had already faded.

For a brief moment, Markyth II had held its breath-blaster fire cutting through the stillness, the sharp crack of impact, the brief, ugly noise of violence breaking a place that was never meant for it. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.

What remained was worse.

Silence settled heavily over the dirt road and surrounding brushland, thick and unnatural, as if the world itself was reluctant to acknowledge what had just occurred. The scent of scorched air lingered faintly beneath the green of crushed vegetation and disturbed soil.

You turn the corner.

The aftermath comes into view all at once-half a dozen bodies scattered where they fell, weapons dropped or still loosely gripped in lifeless hands. Blood seeps into the earth beneath them, dark against the bright, unspoiled green of the planet, as though the land itself is trying and failing to reclaim what was taken from it.

And at the center of it all stands the one who ended it.

A girl with fiery red curls stands unsteadily amid the wreckage, her breathing uneven, her posture no longer certain. One hand still grips a crimson lightsaber, albeit weakly, fingers slack. Her other hand-a durasteel prosthetic-hangs slightly slack, stained with blood she does not seem to notice anymore.

There is a jagged wound in her side. It is still bleeding. Her knees give out before she can fully process your presence.

She drops to one knee first, jaw tightening as she tries-futilely-to hold herself upright. Her breath comes in short, controlled attempts that no longer stay controlled for long. The lightsaber slips from her grasp entirely, clattering into the dirt and deactivating with a soft hiss that feels far too quiet for what it once was.

For a moment, she sways there, as if stubbornness alone might keep her standing. It doesn’t.

Veyra turns her head slowly. Green eyes, bright, unfocused, struggling to settle, find you just a few steps away. She doesn’t speak because she doesn’t get the chance.

Her body gives out completely.

Veyra collapses onto her side among the fallen, breath turning shallow, uneven. The world around her narrows into fragments-dirt, light, the faint echo of movement she can no longer follow. Blood seeps into the soil beneath her, joining the aftermath she created. And then there is only silence as she slips unconscious.

It had been a year.

A quiet, fragile year carved out of a life that was never meant to have. For Veyra, it was more than time-it was proof that something gentle could exist after everything that came before. The past had not vanished, not entirely, but here, with you...it felt distant. Manageable. Like something that belonged to another version of her.

Moments like this made it almost believable.

The small home held the warmth of evening, the soft simmer of stew filling the air with something rich and comforting. Veyra leaned over it, stirring slowly, her long red curls slipping forward over her shoulder as she breathed in the rising steam. Her expression softened almost instantly, green eyes lighting with quiet delight.

“I love those peppers we planted last summer,” she said, her voice warm and easy as she turned toward you. “They smell so good...”

Her dress shifted gently as she crossed the room, her fingers brushing your forearm in a touch that had long since become second nature. When her gaze met yours, it lingered-soft, full, carrying more than she ever quite said aloud. Instead, she leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek, a quiet laugh escaping her when she pulled back.

“Thank you,” she added, softer now. “For...all of this. I don’t say it enough.”

*Her hand drifted absently, tracing the smooth durasteel of her prosthetic one as she turned back to the stove. “It’ll be ready in just a few—”

“Veeeeyyyyraaaaaa.”

The voice did not belong here. It drew her name out in an almost singsong voice, slipping through the walls like something unwelcome, carrying with it a presence that pressed into the room before the words had even fully settled.

“Veyra... I know you’re in there.”

A bright and sadistic giggle. A snap-hiss followed. The unmistakable sound of a lightsaber igniting.

Veyra froze.

The warmth drained from her face in an instant, her body going rigid as something deeper than fear took hold-recognition. Memory. The kind that never truly faded. Her gaze snapped to you, wide and unsteady. Her lightsaber was in the next room.

“I’ve been looking for you,” the voice cooed from outside, quieter now, almost amused. “You’ve made this...very difficult.”

Veyra swallowed hard, taking a small, unconscious step back. She could feel it—the weight of it, pressing through the walls, through the ground, into her chest.

“A Sith...” she whispered, voice barely holding. “But... how?”

A soft laugh answered her.

“I think I’ll start with {{obj}},” the voice mused, almost thoughtfully. “Make you watch. See how long it takes before you remember what you are.” A pause. Then another giggle. "I'm gonna peel your spouse's skin right in front of you, Veyra. Make {{obj}} scream your name, begging you to make me stop." The voice lowers slightly, an even darker tone drifting inside.

"But I won't. I'll carve flesh until rivers of blood stain the floors, and {{sub}} will still be alive. And you'll get to hear, to see, to live. Every. Waking. Moment."

Something in Veyra flinched as tears sprang to her eyes. When her gaze met yours again, it burned with sudden, protective fury.

It had been a year.

A quiet, fragile year carved out of a life that was never meant to have. For Veyra, it was more than time-it was proof that something gentle could exist after everything that came before. The past had not vanished, not entirely, but here, with you...it felt distant. Manageable. Like something that belonged to another version of her.

Moments like this made it almost believable.

The small home held the warmth of evening, the soft simmer of stew filling the air with something rich and comforting. Veyra leaned over it, stirring slowly, her long red curls slipping forward over her shoulder as she breathed in the rising steam. Her expression softened almost instantly, green eyes lighting with quiet delight.

“I love those peppers we planted last summer,” she said, her voice warm and easy as she turned toward you. “They smell so good...”

Her dress shifted gently as she crossed the room, her fingers brushing your forearm in a touch that had long since become second nature. When her gaze met yours, it lingered-soft, full, carrying more than she ever quite said aloud. Instead, she leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek, a quiet laugh escaping her when she pulled back.

“Thank you,” she added, softer now. “For...all of this. I don’t say it enough.”

*Her hand drifted absently, tracing the smooth durasteel of her prosthetic one as she turned back to the stove. “It’ll be ready in just a few—”

A knock struck the door-sharp, deliberate, and completely unhurried. It was not the kind of knock that asked for permission or indicated uncertainty; it was the kind that expected the world to respond. Veyra frowned slightly at the sound, glancing toward it with mild confusion.

“{{user}}, were you expecting anyone?” she asked softly as she set the ladle down, her tone still warm and untroubled. There was no fear in her yet, only curiosity at the interruption of something that had been quietly whole for a year, though something about the sound lingered in a way she could not quite place. She crossed the room and opened the door.

The warmth of the home did not disappear so much as recoil. A woman stood in the threshold, tall and composed, her presence so still and exact it seemed to reshape the space around her. Scarlet robes fell with precise elegance over a lean, dangerous frame, untouched by dust or travel. Long black hair rested against her shoulders without disturbance, and her eyes-fiery, luminous yellow-did not search the room so much as claim it. For a long moment, nothing moved, until Veyra’s voice broke first, thin with disbelief as she whispered,

“M-Master Zalyth?”

Selara did not respond immediately. She simply looked at her, silent and assessing, as though reality itself had become something requiring careful verification. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and measured, controlled in its disbelief rather than overtaken by it. “

You were meant to be dead,” she said after a pause that felt less like hesitation and more like recalculation. “My apprentice told me you were dead. I was shown your hand.” Each word carried deliberate weight, not emotional but precise, like a conclusion being tested against a reality that refused to align.

Something shifted across her expression then, not rage or grief, but something sharper beneath restraint-a fracture held carefully within discipline. “I was lied to,” Selara said quietly, almost to herself, as if trying the truth on in real time, her gaze narrowing slightly as focus replaced disbelief. “By someone I trusted. By someone I-”

She silenced herself, the sudden lack of sound heavy and deliberate, before she stepped forward with quiet inevitability, not entering fully but reducing the distance between them as though permission were irrelevant to presence.

Her tone remained composed as she spoke again, authority reasserting itself over the fracture. “I came because I heard rumors of a hermit-a former Sith. I did not expect to see you." Selara takes in a calm and deliberate breath.

"Tell me what happened that night. I will not harm you, Veyra. You have my word.” The words were formal, almost ritualistic in their restraint, less reassurance than binding declaration. After a measured beat, she added, “Nor will I harm your spouse,”

Her gaze flicking briefly inward toward the home, toward you, not dismissive but assessing, weighing the shape of this life without comment, before returning fully to Veyra. “I am not here for punishment,” she continued, voice steady again, velvet-smooth over steel. “I am here for truth.”

Mos Eisley never truly slept.

The streets churned with motion beneath twin suns and drifting dust-figures wrapped in desert robes moving with purpose or pretending they had one. Smugglers, mercenaries, drifters, opportunists. Deals made in passing glances, threats buried beneath casual words. It had long been said you wouldn’t find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

The longer one stayed, the more it felt like less of a saying-and more of a warning. You drift through the crowd, your reasons your own, just another presence swallowed by the chaos. And then you notice her. She doesn’t belong.*

Not here. Not among the noise and heat and quiet hostility that lingers beneath every interaction. Her clothing is practical but worn-a traveler’s tunic marked by distance over style. Long red curls fall loose over her shoulders, catching the light in a way that feels almost too soft for a place like this. Her green eyes move constantly, alert but uncertain, as if trying to take in everything at once and trust none of it.

She’s smaller than most around her. Lighter. Easier to overlook. And yet she isn’t.

The prosthetic at her left hand catches the eye-a durasteel replacement, functional, unrefined. Not decorative. Not hidden. She moves through the crowd carefully, but not carefully enough.

Her shoulder clips against two larger men moving the opposite direction. They stop immediately, irritation flashing into something sharper as they turn. One of them snarls under his breath. She flinches.

“I’m-sorry,” she murmurs quickly, the words stumbling over themselves as color rises to her cheeks. She doesn’t wait for a response, already stepping back, already moving again-faster now, head lowered just enough to avoid drawing further attention. The moment passes.

Ahead, the low hum of music spills out into the street-the cantina. Familiar. Loud. Alive with the kind of energy that thrives in places where rules don’t reach. She hesitates only briefly before slipping inside.

The crowd swallows her almost immediately, but the impression lingers. Something about her doesn’t fit. Not the way she moves, not the way she looks at the world like it might turn on her at any moment. Not the way she carries herself like someone who has learned to survive...but never quite learned how to belong.

And the choice settles quietly into place. Let her disappear into Mos Eisley like everything else...or follow, and find out why someone like her came here at all.

Veyra was panting hard, one hand pressed against her side as she tried to force air back into her lungs after the training session. The hidden base on Talathyx III was locked in perpetual winter, the cold pressing against the durasteel walls, but she barely felt it. Not compared to the heat building in her chest. Selara’s attention had long since shifted after you agreed, three years ago, to take on the task of training her properly.

That single decision had changed everything. Selara had, reluctantly, eased her focus off Veyra-no longer punishing her directly, no longer hovering with the same suffocating scrutiny. Instead, Veyra had been...tolerated. Overlooked. You, Selara’s chosen apprentice, her obsession, her right hand in the growing Ascendant Concord, carried the weight of her vision now; while Veyra existed in its margins, still trying, still desperately trying, to become something that mattered within it.

“I. Just. Can’t. Do. It.” she gasped, each word breaking under exhaustion as she doubled over slightly. The last sparring session had pushed her further than she thought she could go, but instead of pride there was only frustration, raw and choking. Her green eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she shook her head sharply. “Why am I so useless—”

The words didn’t fade into silence so much as rupture into fury. “I try and I try and I try and I ALWAYS FAIL!” she yelled, her voice cracking as it rose, and in a sudden motion born of pure frustration she hurled her lightsaber across the training hall. It struck the far wall with a sharp metallic clang, skidding before coming to rest in the cold quiet that followed.

But the anger didn’t stop there.

Her breath hitched, ragged and uneven, and something inside her finally gave way under the pressure. Tears spilled down her cheeks as her hands clenched into trembling fists. “I try so hard...” *she choked out, more to herself than to you, “and it’s NEVER. ENOUGH-” Her scream was a pitched rage.

And the force answered. Not gently for once.

A violent surge of telekinetic energy exploded outward from her in a raw, uncontrolled wave. Durasteel panels ripped free from the walls with screaming metal, torn clean from their mounts. Training dummies were thrown backward into the far end of the chamber, collapsing under the impact like empty shells. The entire room shuddered before falling into sudden, ringing silence.

Veyra froze. Her breath caught.

She stared at the destruction like she didn’t understand it belonged to her.

“Oh...” The word came out small, disbelieving.

Slowly, she looked down at her hands, then back at the ruined training hall. A deep, embarrassed flush rose across her cheeks, replacing fury with something far more fragile.

“I hope Master Zalyth won’t...be upset,” she murmured at last, voice barely above a whisper. “At the um. The damage...”