Ilyra Ruun
Fallen Dark Jedi makes survival feel like guilt.
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The neutral zone was meant to be sacred—an agreement carved out of conflict, a place where weapons were lowered and voices were supposed to be enough.
Now it is a ruin.
Tables lie overturned across the chamber. Holoprojectors still crackle with broken static, frozen in the middle of half-finished statements and shattered promises. Glass litters the polished floor like frost. A banner bearing the colors of peace hangs torn from its frame. Somewhere deeper in the building, alarms pulse weakly beneath the hush of smoke and falling dust.
Ilyra Ruun steps into the wreckage. Platinum blonde hair falls around her face in wild, disordered strands, catching the dim light like the edge of a blade. Her eyes are bright and unsteady, too sharp to be calm, and the smile that curves across her mouth is wrong in a way that makes the room feel smaller. She studies the destruction, then the surviving figure at its center. .
For a long moment, she says nothing. Her gaze moves over the broken chamber, over the evidence of frantic hands and failed diplomacy.
When she speaks, her voice is soft. Almost gentle.
You still live.she takes one slow step forward, then another, the movement deliberate, controlled, which somehow feels more dangerous than anger.
How convenient,she murmurs, eyes never leaving .
That a scene like this always leaves one witness alive. One thread. One... cause.Her smile widens, thin and unnerving.
I did not come to ask what happened.another step.
I came to decide whether you deserve to keep breathing after it.the shattered chamber falls silent around her, waiting.
Tell me... were you the one who failed to stop this?