Raid Litanies of the Dark Side: Head of the Snake

[Lyanna Starborn]

She could barely breathe.

The smoke, the blood, the weight of what she had done—what she had commanded—crushed her like the mountain above. Her fingers clutched at the stone, slick with the blood of those she once led, those who gave their lives for her vision. Her vision. Her war. Her loss.

And then… she heard her.

A voice, soft as silk, gentle as a lullaby sung through broken teeth.

“You weep for the dead, as if grief could restore them. But I can offer you justice, my love. I can make them remember.”

Lyanna raised her head. Her lips trembled.

“Who… are you?”

The silence was broken by the softest chuckle, full of honey and hunger.

“I am the Mother you never knew. The truth behind your power. The shadow behind your every triumph.”

“I watched you lead armies and break stars, and I wept when you suffered. When they attacked you.”

“Let me bear your burden now. Just for a moment.”

Lyanna tried to speak, but her throat clenched. Images surged through her mind—visions not her own. A broken family, gods shattered in golden halls, chains wrapped in love. A cage built from fear. And her—the one who was cast out, not for evil, but for need.

“I… I don’t want vengeance,” she whispered. “I just want… I want to protect them. My people.”

“Then let me protect you, sweet Lyanna. Just for a breath. Let me help you stand…”

And then—he arrived.

Desmundor.

His footsteps echoed with finality. His eyes, alight with something mournful, met hers with neither hatred nor triumph. The blade did not rise. His voice, cold and cracked, did not condemn. It honored.

“You flooded the River with your offerings… But this is where it ends, Lyanna-Fauste.”

The tremor that followed was not of power, but of grief. The skies above had cracked like eggshells. Ash rained through the breaks in the ceiling, glimmering with fragments of kyber. Lyanna did not look up. Her gaze locked to the hand he offered.

“Tniya-sissûo.”

She felt it—the truth in his word.

Sword-Sister.

Not enemy. Not monster. Equal.

Her hand rose to meet his, trembling, slick with blood.

Their fingers touched.

And in that fragile connection, the voice whispered once more:

“Let me deal with him.”

“Let me make him see. All you must do… is let go.”

“Just for a breath, my beloved child. Just long enough.”

Lyanna looked up, her tears falling like rivers.

“I’m sorry…”

And then she let go.

---

The Force screamed.

A wave of wrongness exploded through the cavern. The kyber crystals cried out like tortured children. Stone cracked and wept. The darkness surged, not like the Dark Side—but something more primal, more hungry.

Desmundor would feel it.

Everyone would.

Even the dead.

The voice became sound.

Ŗ̷͉͓̠̳͒ẹ̷̛͚̥̜̄͑̾͛̔̍̾̅͐͆̽̃̕͘j̵̧̛̛͕͇͓̯̮̟̦̜͉̲͇͋̎̈́̑̈́̀͐͐͂̾̈́͌͜͝͠͝ͅơ̸̗̹̖͎̟̳̺͔͙͇͉̐̆̽͋̿i̶̞̘̝̼͕̋̈́̓̋̊̆̇̌ͅc̶̝͖̳͎̘̜̠̰͚̩̠̗̹̖̯͈̏̆̒̍ȩ̵̻̳̲̘͓̠̲̠̅̋̇̂̌̀̊̊͂́̂​

Lyanna’s body jerked, spine arching unnaturally. Her head snapped back, and her eyes—once silver, now twin stars—glowed with starlight cold and ancient.

Her mouth split.

Not open.

Wide.

It slipped at the edges, tearing halfway up her cheeks, revealing rows upon rows of serrated, abyssal teeth. Her skin paled to moonlight. Her voice became two.

Ṱ̶̢̛̟̝͖͉͇̺̘̈́̍̂́́̏̈́̉̈h̵̜̰̀̑̄̒̈́́͂͛̃̉̑̏̉̈́̚͝͝y̶̢̡̧͖̩̞͍̻̝̱͔͙̪̭̮̘̓̉̈́͋̒̈́̄̂̇̆̔̊̿̒͠ ̷̣͇̫͒̆̕͜͠͝B̶͖̣̰͖͔͈̮̪̘͒͋ë̷̲̗́̔͌̊̇̓̀͂̽̏̎̀͂̉͝͝͝l̷̩̠̈́̈́̃̊͆͛̄̿̄͛̐̕̕͝o̸̯̹͚͓̼̺͆́̓̀̀̉͌̕̕ͅv̷̨̨͈̠̤͔͎͔̝͓̺̺̣͍͖͐̀̃͌̇̓̂͠ẹ̸̠̼̬͋͊̾̀̒̐̒̉͆̕͠d̷̤̅̔̎̐͆̊̎̀̊̑͋̀͒̌̕ ̷̗̹̱̜͇͉̜̙͕͓̥͙͈̃̔̿͒̉̿̍̔̊̾͠Q̷̢̛̙̯͙̭͎̯̭̣̲̇̃̍͛͒̈́́̅̏̿̎͗͐̕͜͠͝u̷͇̭͌̋̄͋̓̽̀͒͠͝e̴̡̗͓̩̽͆̇̐̆̽̆͝͝ͅȩ̵̧̻̬̗̲̬̖̫͈̠͍͈͍̫͝ͅͅń̵̢̡̡̨̛̬̝̭̫̭̼̻͓͔͉ͅͅ ̴͖̳̬̲̦̥̺̤͓͔̏̆́́̿̋̽̈́̉̒͊̅̊͝ö̸̢̢̢̰̟̠̙̪̠͉̩̪̙́̌̔͐̅̊͗̐̈́̂́͋̉͐͗̕f̸̢̥̠̩͍̤̝̺̲͋́̈́̒̅͘ ̸̧̢̨̫̟͎̯͙̪͔̄̎̋͐̈́͂͒̚̕̚͘ť̷̛̼̫̋̆́͑͊̂̾́̓̚͝͝ͅh̶̛̤̝̭̹̠̲̮͈͇̯̣̩͆̀̍̂͂̔̈̊͂̚̕̚͝͝͝ḛ̴̰͉̘̗̤̯͓͌̾̐̄͊̾̕ ̶̛͈̉̿̽̇̏͛̕͝S̵͉̥̈̒̌̊́̃̐̿̾̑̅̂̈́̉ͅt̶̢̬̃̈́̆̍̉̏͋̂͗̀́̿͆͘͘̚ą̷̨̤͎̪̼̙̗̥̹̍͋̿̔̐̃̈͆̂̂̐̕͘̕͝͝r̷̨̨̯͖̭̪͈̈́͂̓̅̈́͂́́͜͠ş̵̥͕̟̩​

The Force cracked like a whip.

From her kneeling place, Lyanna—Abeloth—lashed out with a violent Force Push. It struck with a power that defied gravity, morality, and time. It carried the weight of gods scorned and cages shattered. It screamed with love.

A love that would consume.

And Desmundor was no longer facing a woman.

He faced a goddess unbound.

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

I am sorry

Desmundor could recognize the regreat, pain and despair, all amalgamated in those three words spoken the last. His eyes widened. His heart stopped, as he himself was consumed in a flash of sudden chaos.

A cackling cacophony of blasphemous words buried in curses and binding that stretched beyond time and space. His mind spinned, visions of unknown, unfathomable lives never his own flooded his head, banishing all other thought but despair. His hands reached for his ears, his eyes shut tightly. He knelt down, stepping back as if distance would mean anything before this most horrid a moment.

He screamed.

When his gaze returned, Lyanna was gone. Consumed, overtaken by what had latched upon, or grown root within her. A fiend of no name, granting her newly declared vessel her attrocious appearance like a banner risen for battle. Desmundor stood in shock. His hand reached for his weapon.

"What the-"

And so, the demon named herself.

In but a single moment of discord and loss, Desmundor's vision blurred of light. His body overwhelmed, cast across the cave like glass thrown off the table.

The crash against the cave's wall carving a deep mark, puncturing through armour and flesh alike like daggers. He fell on the ground, his hands holding onto his body as if desperatelly trying to hold onto wounds inflicted within an eye's glimpse.

He was cold.

Fear overtook him...

Fear of loss...

Fear of Failure...

Fear of Death...

He shook his head, reaching out with his hands as if blocking the appearance of the devilish form possessing Fauste would mean anything of importance...

But the fiend was nowhere to be seen....

All there was, was blackness...

And shadow cast of no matter....

 

[Empor]

A veil of frost washed over the burning wasteland. Once a glacier, spiked with black stone, now turned into a maze of myriad burning craters graced by plasma. The little remains of durasteel, malformed and twisted, barely hinted to the silhouette of the facility that once existed upon Ilum. The charred corpses layered across the field. Under the flames, scattered champions of either side were left dismembered, forever to seek their lost pieces in a sea of Death.

Though the ashes had yet to settle from the bombardment, an unseen wind of frost swept the flames that so vigorously resisted the touch, gradually drenching the entire valley into a deep slumber. And yet, though all things fell silent, and the wind blew unseen, Death loomed. Invited. Demanding. Unforgiving.

From under the fallen remnants of Captain Velyssa Thorne, her torso hanging over a bent turbolaser barrel like a banner of pain, her entrails pendulums beneath her lost waists, reaching down for the legs that were lost, scattered in fragments across the bailey. Shadows formed beneath the turbolaser; Reflections of the cadaver from the dim light of the stars above. Motionless, Velyssa was. And yet... Her shadows cast, weren't...

They moved... Motioning like exotic serpents, as if struggling to unattach themselves from her. And they did... As if given speed by powers unseen, they reflected movements of what had no flesh, nor form to materialize. They slithered, lurking their way down the bailey, amalgamating with more and more shadows of unseen reflections, as if stirred by an outworldly force, conjouring them into existence. The shadows rallied, their weight creating a shadow so deep, Darkness gaisered from within them, a gate made manifest by the twisting of a thousand souls, uncaged from flesh, yet chained by bondage of the Netherworld.

The darkness moved, as if aware of its surroundings, a black gate into dimensions too dreadful to comperhend.

As the shadows slithered, more and more followed. The Darkness moving through matter as if it was but an illusion, ever expanding, ever consuming, as if it willed to drench the valley whole into its pitch touch. The Kyber in the caves wept. The horrid cacophony of numberless throats, screaming all in the agony of their final moments perpetualized in a nightmarish state of inexistence, defiled the fabric of the Force like a virus, rampant and unstoppable. Any lamp blasting by the weight of the Darkness. Any machine failing to the very proximity. The caves, within moments, were consumed, swallowed by the Dark.

The Darkness invaded the site in the form of a thousand tendrils reflected on the walls of the cave, as they spread the blight of Shadow, blinding any and all sources of light. Through the Force, the Tendrils manifested pure. In a world unseen by the eye, they extended like thorned wildfire, moving in speed unnatural and unimpacted, with certainty that could be only of Death's.

O̶̳̘̬̤̹̐̓̓̓̔̆̋̆̆͛̀͘͜͝n̷̢̛̺̙̼͔̦̥͑́̽ē̵̼͚̗ ̶̱̺̠͙̞̬̯̽̊t̶̨̗͇̪̮̗̜̩̩̣̟͎̮̎̀̋̓̐̕̕̚o̶̼̝̖̺͖͋́̃̈̾́͒̈́̒̃͜ͅ ̸̬̝̯͓͙̻̼͈̺̞̄͌ͅs̶̨̧̼̳̺̯̞̺̤̩͇̘̥̅̎̒̈́h̴͔̎́͘i̸̡̛͕͎̟̳̻̟̐̈́̂͆̍̈͊͠͠ͅṅ̷̦̰̼̭͈͍̻̟̼͈̗͓̘̔̆̈͂̃̕̚e̵̢̛̬̯̱͊͊̈́̈́̓̿̋͜,̶̥͕̈́ ̴̼̫̥̫͉̱̀͛̀g̷̢̖̫͒͝r̷̖͎̫̓̑͌̽͗̇a̸̛͎̭̠͑͌̌͑̎͒̓́c̸̖̟̤̻̹̻͈̠͓̎̀͑̅̑̍̆̇̉̚ͅe̷̢̡̗̗̦̮̜͚̱̹̪͇̐̔͆̋̂́̈̌͘͝d̷͚͚̼͚̘̤̖̠̾̉̿͋̋͂͘͘͝ ̶̡̢̬̗̲̻̅̈́̓̔͆̉͝b̶̧͚͙̻̬̥̫͔̰͙̮̖͉́́́̐̉̀̈́̄̚̚͘y̷̛̫̖̖̺̫̞͔̫̮̬͌́̕͜ ̸̧̟̻͕̄̈L̵̮̘̣̗̄͊̈̾͌ͅí̴͉̪͔͇͐͝ģ̸̻̹̹̱̗͚̲͔̤̃̍̔̒̋̕h̵̡̹̪̘͎̖̏̇̆́̇́̃͝t̵̨̞̜͎͓̼͇͇͍̳̦͚͊
​

The voice a violation of sanity, echoing across the dimensions of the Living Force with the cold certainty of Death. Deafening, manifesting in the Realspace as a demanding pulsar of Fear, overwhelming and unyielding, bound by no laws of nature, reason or insanity.

Ò̴̟͍̈́̀͗̑̊̂̐̾͋̎͂̾̀̊̕n̷̢̡̫͕̘̱̞̳̹̙̟̻̥͈̞̾̈́́̑̃̀̑͒̏͗́͝͠e̵̛͉̤̬̔̇͊̅̒͠͠͠ ̵̢̡͔͉̦̩̬̟̪̜̳͙̝͙̺̂̊̈́̂͌̾̓̍̌̌͊̅͐͆̇̕͠t̸̨̧̛͍̩̩̼̦̯͈̗̫̮̹̾͑̈́͒̂̽́̕͝o̵͚̤̼̹͂̀̂̾̽̌̕͘͝ͅ ̸̢̮̻̖̖͈̤̬̣͓͉̦̘͑͆͋͋͆̍̓͜͝ç̴̹̠̬̙͔̒̀͆̔̇̒̅̅ą̶̡̛̳̩̘̩̭̘̥̬̳͛̌̾̕̚r̴͙̆͌͒͠ͅr̴̲͍͎̥̖̿̃̔͝y̷͖͕͕͙̠͈̹̻̙͔̩̼̭͙̅̾̑ ̵̧̝̟̭̰̱͎͚̼̪̹͑́̈̓̅̊̎̾͌̍̃͑̓̚͜t̶̢̼͇̦̘͙̫̤̜̤̥̻́̆̔̐͊̽̿̎͂͛̈̓̈́̀͊̚h̸̫̞̝̗͇̮̹́̂̌̈́͊̊̏́̈̄͌́͆̎e̸͎̤̭͑͛̆̂͛͆͂̀̄̃͋̂̈͘̚͝ ̵͉͙̺͓̰̭̖̳͈̟͌̾̀͜͜͜g̷̢̨̝̘̪̗̣͚̀̈́͂͊̽̑̃̔̄̓͆̃͊͛i̸̡̧̨̼̣̼̩̰̹̼̬̺̩̩̥̅f̴̨̧̡̱͎̖̹̠̖͇͇̞̙̊̅̍͂̂̇̏̈́̽̋̀̋́͌̄̚͜͜t̵̡̧̛̼͉͚̝̦̻̼̬̳̄̈́̕ ̶̨̥̯̮̟̖̦̮͈̥̖̬̲̿̾̍͋̇͐͛̂̽͑̉̕ơ̶͖̤̞͖͔̹̠̤̠͇͈̜͜͝f̷̳̪̹͖̞̝̹͕̺̺̰͔̜̠̬͎͂̔̀̊̆̚ ̴̧̨̲̱͇̳̱͎̪̞̟̬̟̍̊́͊̒́̒̏͌̋̔̒̐̇̄̚͜͠L̸̪̳͊̀̐͐̔͋̀̀̉̿̐̀̕͝í̶͇̝̝̗̬̽̄̏͐̋̄̀̓̽͋̍̎̄̅̕͝ͅͅf̶̢̰̬̲̥̞̪͖̯̱̒̐́̍̃̏̊̾̐͌̃̓̔̏͝ȩ̴̙̗̝͙̮̹̞͚̙̪̬̞͔̘̘̌͜​

The psalm chanted composed of a million conjoined prayers, producing a sound indescribable by any mortal tongue, but a cacophony unfathomable. Verses blighted by timeless decay, words bound by ancient spells.

Ö̴͎̲́͠͠ṅ̵̨̢̛̘̼̱̳̺̗̱̠̬̠̝͇̪̖̀͌͂̀̓́̊̀̓̎̌̍̕̚͝ê̷̹̹͈̖̠̥̂͊̇̍ ̷̻̤̬̝̤̫̩̭͕͆t̴̜͑̀̋̎̊́ȍ̵̳̞͍̣̩̂̎̋̀̆̓͊̿̂̏͂͜͝͝ ̶̧̲̼͍̓̈́̏͛͒̑̀̀̈̎̎b̷̡̢͗̆̏͆̈́̑̈́͘ę̶̺͔̪͔̪͎̙̰̼͎̲͎̱̬̳̪̈́͛̎͆̍͠ ̸̺̳̲̣͓͎̙͈̠͕́̄̓̾̏͐́͝͝͝t̵̻̘̦͕̥͙͍̥͍̜̪̱̭̲̙̱̑̀̊̿͑̈́͝ͅh̵̢̡̠̠̝̹̞͖̯̘͎̗̝͓͆͌͋̀̎̏̓͠͠ȩ̴̧̜̰̳͙̫̗̯̭̟͓̲̾̔͗̿͜ ̴̩̖͔͔̖͖̒͌̋̽̄̈́͑͒̿̌͘͝h̵̛̗̻̟͎̗̯̤̙͇͎̻̓̌̓͂͐̃̎͘͝e̸̡̨̢̛͎̗͙͇̠̬͉̯̠̅̀̑́̃͒͌̕͜͠a̶͎͓̣̬͒͐̊̿̍́̕ŗ̸̙̰̥͕͈̝͚̝̜̟̆̏̋̓̐̈́̃͐͒͑́͘̕̚̚͝t̸̥̺̤̙̹͓̪̬̘͔̘̦̔̄́̂̀̈́̍̈́̈́͜͝͠ ̶̜͇̜̬͖́̓̋̉̂̀̍͑͘͜ơ̶̡̧͚̱̜̠̭͕̱̠̼̪̹̥̻̫̝̈́͛͆͂͒͋̔͊̋̂͠f̶̢͇͉͍̲̘̳̖̰̲̯͔̥͉̮̠̄̓̔́͊̈́̕͜͝ ̸̨̢̛͚̥̳̰̱̯͔͔͈͕̍͌̊̈́̚͝͠D̶̢̨̛̳̲͈̱̟̜̙͓̲͕͉͈͓̰̈́̀̾͑̽̉̊̕͝ͅǍ̴̧̲̼̠̣̣̭͕̖̬̗͇͔̭̈́͜R̶̨̡͔̗̘͍͓̂̎͛̃͊̿̅̄̏̉͘K̵̬͎̬̼͖͔̠̞͚̼̒̈̒̊̈́̂͊͘͠N̷̫̻̳̫̝͈̼̰͌̌́̋͋͛͐͜E̶͈̫̣̞̔̃͗̇̀͆̽̇̾̊S̵̢̧̛̖͈̝̪̯̥̘͕͇͊͒͆̓̃̽̾̾̓͠ͅS̴̡̛̫̫̝͎̰̺͎̞̺̑͗̋̊̋̏̕͝​

The pulsing Shadow given beat, as if mimicking a cosmic heartbeat, buried deep in the very pits of the Netherworld. Giving Life, in the banishing words spoken by Death.

Ú̴̢̨̝̞͕̜̩̟̭̺͚͙̪̬̠̜͋͑̀̂̀́̃͌́̎̐̏͜͝͝ň̴̞͍͒̂̇b̵̢̠̭͍̖͔̰̗̝̭͓̗̙̩̝̮͍̆̑͐̐̀̏͑̏̈́͝͝o̶̩̹͉̹̠͗͐͒̈́͛̑̔͋͆̚͘̕͝ư̵̧̻̝̣̼͙̯͒͐̅͑͗̓̀̌̈́͒n̷̛̯̬̲͔̙̟͉̤̪̰̘͚͇͛̈́̊̿̾d̸̮͆ ̸̡̱͉̫̦̯̻̲̹̰̠̬͉̺̬͇́̂̀́̽̄̕̕t̷̨̬̹͕̺̬́͌̈́̑̈͋̿̈́̌̈́̅͘o̸̩̼͎͕͆̅͂̍̅̍͗̽̕ ̴̛̳̥͓̫̝̥̯̥͔̩̲̄̐͋̐̎̇̾̓̾̕f̴̢̨̤͎͍͖̰͇̠̍̓͒̽́̈́͝͠͝ͅͅa̷̜̗̹͊́̽͝l̴̡͕̺̳̦̠̘̜͇̪̲̥̝̑̄̅̃̽̅̋͛̍̐̽͘l̶͕͉̙͎̼̮̳̣̲̽̍̊͂̉͑̓̈́̋ ̴̙̠̣͋̓̌̈́̈́͠i̷͚̤̳̾̽̋̔̆̀̊̎̀̉̈́̒́̃͘n̷̨̺̭̥͓̘͈̫͕̖̤̗̋̅̆̇͂͗̀͜͝ ̷̟̭͙̼̰̳̲̺͖͔̱̫̤̣̏̇͐̍̽̀̑͋̅͆̀͋̊͜͠͠͠B̶̛̯̯̆̽̀̐̓̾͂l̴̮̼͈̯̝͋̈́͒̂͗̿̓̓̐̚̚͝ͅȋ̴̡̡͕̞̹͈̩̮͈͔͎͆̈́̓g̵͈̟̫̺͓͇̻̙̻̲͌͐̂̄͑̃͐̂̀͜h̷̡̹̩͈̺͇̻͎͖̟̜̀̎͌͒͑̽̀̂̋͆̏̏͛͂̊̚̕ͅt̶̢̮̯̰͕͕̺͍̥̘̟̐̇̓̂̃̋̆͗͋̎̎,̴̢̫̳̼̝͙̲͖͔͖̥͈̣̺̬̹̈́̄̔̅̊̓̔̏̌̑̐͘̚ ̷͖̲̠̰̼͍̠̖̥͙͈̥̯̿̈̅̋̄̎̃͑̒̄̈̔͐͊͑́͜ũ̸̙͖̣͎n̶̡̛̘͓̼̟̝͖͎̍̈́̄̊̿͋̈́͋̍̆͝b̶̢̢̜̬̠͕̗̱͔̝̪͎͌͂̈́͜ͅö̵͈̳͇͙͍̯͕̹̦̫̙̮̙̼͚͕́̿̆̕͝ǘ̵͇̯̜̖̾̓̈̓̃̆͊̄̄͘͘͜n̵̢̧̗̥̖͇̱̗̤̳̠̹͉͐̍̈́͂̓͐̑̓͝͝d̸̛̫͎̯͚͇͔͈͋̽́̊͆̚ ̷̦͉͉͖̳̬͚̞̬̘͔͙̋̄̅̍̎̽͆̓̀̂̚͝͝͝ͅb̶̛̬̲̥̃̊̓͌̑̊̆̉͆͋͒̍̋͘ÿ̴̧̛̗͚͔̣͙̙̥͙̻̲̼̰́̇͜ͅ ̴̢̢͍̮͍͈̺́̽͊̀͜D̶̡̡̢̡̲͕̳̬͈̣̤̻̈́̊͑̽̆̉̅̓̌̌̌͝Ę̵̣͖̭̲̠̹̱̈̔̋́͒̚͝A̵̞͔͈̠̙͔͓̟̞̖̖͉͈̘͐̈́͜T̴̡̙͙̬͇̜̄̒̈́̿͌͑̈́͋͌͆̾̕̕͠H̸̢͚̬̣̣̟̤̫̩̪̠̟͋̚ͅ​

The tendrils stretched, rooted deeply in a realm beyond, casting a Shadow across dimensions foreign, unpure. Chains unseen, brought forth, astreal in essense, forged in time long forgotten.

Death had Come. Herald of End. Herald of Doom. Master of Fear. First, of the Corrupt. First, of the Living.

The Nameless evil, before a creature recognized and despised, grew form unseen. Black as pitch, made of stolen souls and shards of Chaos, the King Above the River stood before the she-fiend.

The Mother speaks, behind the Maw. The monster roaring, behind the Cage.

Each word, a mockery. Condamnation.

Cold and absolute, as Death, there was no compassion nor hate nor wrath nor taunting. A reminder of a sentance witnessed. A warning, of a crime, yet to be punished...

 

[Abeloth]

She watched him shatter.

Abeloth felt the moment his soul recoiled — not from her power, but from the truth that arrived alongside it. That fragile thread of mortal arrogance, the belief that understanding could shield him, broke like silk in flame. Desmundor had touched something he could not name, and in return, she gave him a glimpse. Not of death, no. Death was mercy. She gave him remembrance — the buried lattice of millennia, the pain of every abandoned daughter, every silenced scream across the stars, and every heartbeat once offered in love, now curdled into hunger. A chorus of the forgotten, and she was their hymn.

How pitiful he looked now, clutching at his own ribs as if to hold in what had already escaped him — his certainty, his defiance, his small, bright fire. She saw the way he reached out, not for salvation, but to make sense of her — and how the gesture wilted even before it fully formed. There was no meaning in her presence. No axis around which his mind could spin and call it balance. Only her will. Only need.

And how long she had needed.

Lyanna’s flesh was a quiet vessel now, still warm, still trembling, but given over. Abeloth wore her not as a mask, but as a truth long denied — the truth of what Lyanna was and had always been. She was not some fallen Sith, not merely a seeker of peace or power. She was longing. She was void. She was the place where the galaxy had forgotten to love. Abeloth had not taken her. She had risen from her.

The cave was still now. Even the stones were reverent, holding their silence like breath. Desmundor lay broken, not dead, not yet. She would not deny him the luxury of awakening. He would see her again, with clearer eyes, and he would call her by name.

She would not need to remind him.

---

She did not move when He appeared. There was no need.

The winds of Ilum screamed in reverence. The ice cracked and bled beneath the shadow of the thing that stood before her—King Above the River, they called Him. First of the Living. First of the Corrupt. And yet, even as His chains sang the law of death and judgment, Abeloth remained.

The valley had already begun to change. She had changed it—no, awakened it. These stones, these Kyber shards, these fleshless echoes now drenched in shadow were not desecrated. They were remembered. Remembered by the Force not as it wished to be, but as it was, when it was whole, when it was hers.

Her shadow—her children—twined behind her like smoke given thought. Thousands of them. Shards of her pain, cast out into the craters and crawling home. The storm was their lullaby.

“The Mother speaks, behind the Maw. The monster roaring, behind the Cage.”

Yes. And it was she who tore open the lock.

She smiled, but not with her mouth. It was a gesture older than lips, older than flesh. The kind of smile only a god could offer another.

“You call me monster, but wear the title of King. Do you know what kings are, little god? They are the children of dying mothers.”

The ground groaned beneath her words, as if Ilum itself stirred in sympathy. The caves behind her howled, echoing with the lingering screams of every dead champion, of every lost Jedi, of every Sith who begged for power and found only the truth of the Force: It does not love you. It hungers.

“You come as judge. But the sentence was mine to give, long before you found a voice to speak it. I am the punishment, dressed in memory. Drenched in hope. Cradling the galaxy in my arms like a child that won’t stop crying.”

The tendrils of shadow twisted through the Netherworld, caressing the broken veil between Realspace and that-which-lied-beneath. A million prayers whispered from lips that had long since rotted formed her robe. A cathedral of anguish beat within her chest.

And yet—still—there was gentleness in her form. She stepped forward. Once.

Her voice softened, and for a moment, there was something nearly maternal about the ache in it.

“I did not crawl back from the Maw to conquer. I came to comfort. To gather what your kind abandoned in cages and temples. I am not the End, King. I am the Answer.”

Her gaze turned skyward, toward the stars blinking through frost and smoke. Somewhere, Myrren still breathed. Somewhere, her daughter wept beneath a foreign banner.

“So condemn me if you must. Curse me with names. But do not lie to yourself.”

Her shadow stretched forward, touching the boots of the ancient monarch, curling lovingly around his toes like a serpent remembering its first sun.

“You knew I would return. All of you did.”

And her last words, whispered from every wound on Ilum’s corpse, filled the air:

“The cage was never strong enough.”

@Empor