“Yes, my Lord. I will take your words into advisement.” Oratrix bent her head as Vader turned his back on her and walked away. She felt irritation bubble in her chest at the dismissal, but stayed bowed until she could properly shove it. Vader’s dislike was obvious, and had been from the start. It was unsurprising. She was the Emperor’s new toy, after all. He’d tire of her, eventually, once she lost her shine.

If only they could have a civil conversation. 

Oh well.

When she was certain the hallway was clear, she followed in Vader’s wake. Soldiers snapped to attention as she passed, deferential murmurs of ‘My Lady’ trailing after her like smoke. Her gaze cut to one smart-looking official, and she strode up to the young woman. Uniform was a touch ill-fitting, but the medals were shined to perfection. Newly promoted, no doubt, and proud of it.

“Lieutenant... Vexa. Escort me to my quarters.”

Panic and sweat broke out on the woman’s face as she paled. “My Lady.” A swift salute. “I would be honored. Right this way.” Oratrix was silent as they walked, her looming posture casting a shadow over the smaller woman. Stormtroopers and soldiers scattered as Lt. Vexa led the way. “Lord Vader’s quarters are further down the hall. These belong to you.” 

The door slid open, revealing the hastily assembled finery. It was no palace, but it would do. Once the door was closed and locked behind her, she removed her uniform piece by piece, except for the mask. For that, she stepped into the restroom and locked the second door behind her.

Only then, slowly, did Oratrix pull the black mask from her face. 

If anyone had seen that face, they might have noticed a passing resemblance to the late Princess Kijani Organa. They could have been sisters, perhaps, but Oratrix’s bearing was different in many ways.

A pair of yellow eyes met her in the mirror. Bright, but feverishly so, gleaming with an almost manic energy. Dark circles rung them, from sleepless weeks that turned into an endless three years in the dark. On the left side of her face, she bore a scar from the corner of one eye to the back of her head - like lightning itself had torn under her skin. Her hair was shaved to a meticulously even fuzz, edges sharp and perfectly lined.

Sometimes, in her deepest dreams, she remembered a different face. One that matched the flawless, lifeless holographic memorial that marked a dead heroine’s grave. Sometimes she remembered the warmth of a smile, a pair of blue eyes that looked at her like no one ever had… But once she woke up, damp with sweat and phantom pain, she let the truth take hold. Kijani had lived her life and died a legend.

Oratrix was a murderer, her hands yet wet with the blood of soldiers. Her heart pounded at the deference and fear when she walked into rooms. Ire, revulsion and death followed her, and it would be so until the end.

One day, she too would be celebrated, her name whispered with reverence reserved for legends. 

It was just a matter of time.