Her Name | (OOC Only)

The doors sealed with a final, echoing thud, locking Leth Rha inside the meditation chamber. The sound reverberated through the room, filling the air with a deafening silence, a silence that seemed to sink into her bones and weigh down her very soul. She stood there, staring at the towering doors, knowing they would not open for days. She was truly, utterly alone.
 
The cold stone of the chamber pressed in on her. The red glow of holocrons and dark teachings filled the room, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Leth Rha sat in the center of the chamber, legs crossed beneath her, her back rigid. Every breath was a battle to maintain composure, a battle she was slowly losing. Her thoughts—fractured, conflicting—raced through her mind, and for the first time in years, she felt like a child again.
 
No escape. No mask. No Ferrah Klegane.
 
She had always worn Ferrah like armor, like a shield. Ferrah had been a necessity, a reflex of comfort to protect the fragile part of her that still believed in something better. But now… Isatri had taken that from her. She had drawn out Leth Rha, peeled back the hardened layers of Sith and revealed the vulnerable Twi’lek girl beneath it all.
 
The weight of the chamber pressed heavier upon her. The weight had a name.
 
Leth Rha.
 

---

 
At first, she clung to the only thing she knew how—Ferrah’s voice, Ferrah’s strength. Sitting cross-legged on the cold floor of the meditation chamber, Leth Rha forced herself into stillness, her breaths slow and deliberate as she recited the Sith mantras that had defined her existence for so long.
 
"Peace. Is. A. Lie..."
 
The words had once brought her comfort. They had grounded her, provided her with an anchor when everything else seemed to slip away. They were the foundation of Ferrah Klegane—lessons she had built her new self upon after years of torment and brutality.
 
But now, those same words felt… distant. Hollow.
 
The phrase that had once fueled her seemed to lose its meaning with every repetition, each word echoing back at her as an empty reminder of the facade she had crafted. Ferrah had believed in that phrase. Ferrah had wielded it like a weapon, a shield to protect herself from the vulnerability and weakness that Leth Rha had left behind. But sitting here now, in this suffocating solitude, Leth Rha could feel Ferrah slipping away.
 
She clenched her fists on her knees, her knuckles turning white. No. She wasn’t going to let this happen. She wasn’t Leth Rha anymore—she couldn’t be. That name, that part of her life, was dead and buried. She had killed it long ago, hadn’t she?
 
"I am not her," Leth Rha muttered under her breath, her voice strained and shaky. Her eyes squeezed shut, willing herself to hold onto that idea. "I am not her."
 
But the knot in her chest was growing tighter, coiling itself around her heart and lungs like a vice. Each breath became more labored, her body betraying her as the words she spoke felt more and more like a lie. "I am Ferrah Klegane." She repeated, desperate to drown out the rising tide of emotion threatening to swallow her whole. "I am strong. I am in control."
 
And yet, the more she spoke, the quieter that voice inside her became. Ferrah’s voice—the one that had roared inside her head for decades, the voice that had led her through the carnage of the Sith—was fading into the background, leaving behind only the quiet, terrified whispers of a little girl from Korriban. She had a name.
 
Leth Rha.
 

---

 
The first night passed in a suffocating silence, but it wasn’t the peaceful, meditative quiet she was used to. It was the kind of silence that pressed in on her, making it impossible to think straight. Every breath seemed too loud, every beat of her heart echoed in her skull like a drum. The chamber’s cold metal walls felt like they were closing in, suffocating her, mocking her isolation. Alone. Trapped.
 
She sat cross-legged in the center of the room, her back straight, arms resting on her knees, trying to meditate. It was a struggle, though. Her focus kept slipping, her mind wandering back to the gnawing fear she refused to name.
 
"Peace. Is. A. Lie.."
 
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to remain calm. This was a trial, that was all. A test of endurance, of control. Isatri would see her strength, see that she was Ferrah—that she could endure anything. But the words felt hollow now. They were like an echo of a voice that no longer belonged to her. They were Ferrah’s words, but the more she repeated them, the more foreign they sounded, as if they didn’t fit inside her mind anymore.
 
Her body ached from exhaustion, her muscles tense and stiff from holding the same position for hours, but she refused to move. To shift even slightly would feel like a defeat, a crack in the armor she had built around herself. Stay awake. Stay in control. Sleep was the enemy. If she slept, she might lose her grip on Ferrah. And she couldn’t let that happen.
 
I am not Leth Rha. I am stronger than this. I am Ferrah Klegane.
 
She repeated the words to herself, over and over, like a prayer, but it didn’t bring her comfort. If anything, it only deepened the growing sense of dread that had been creeping in since she was sealed in the chamber. I am not Leth Rha, she told herself again. But the knot in her chest tightened.
 
Her eyelids grew heavier as the hours dragged on, her mind slipping into a foggy haze. She blinked rapidly, trying to fight off the fatigue, but it was relentless. Her body screamed for rest, for sleep. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not when she was so close to losing everything.
 
Her thoughts became erratic, scattered, as she fought to hold onto something, anything that would keep her grounded. But it felt like her mind was unraveling, slipping through her fingers like sand. The more she tried to concentrate, the more it slipped away.
 
Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake.
 
Her breathing grew shallow, her heart racing as panic clawed at the edges of her mind. She was losing control, and it terrified her. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, the sharp sting of pain a desperate attempt to keep herself present, to stay in the moment.
 
But the pain wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
 

---

 
By the second night, her meditation had crumbled entirely. The calm, controlled facade she had fought to maintain was gone. In its place was a frenzied, restless energy that left her pacing the chamber like a caged animal. Her boots clicked against the metal floor in an erratic rhythm, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the chaos in her mind. Her thoughts were disjointed, scattered, her emotions a tangled mess that she could no longer suppress.
 
Anger. Fear. Sorrow.
 
They were all there, bubbling beneath the surface, each one more volatile than the last. She had spent years burying them, locking them away deep inside her, but now they were clawing their way out, refusing to be ignored any longer.
 
Her fists clenched at her sides as she paced, her muscles twitching with the need to do something—anything. But there was nothing. No one to fight. No one to command. No escape. Just her and the unrelenting silence of the chamber.
 
She stopped abruptly, her hands shaking, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.
 
What’s happening to me?
 
She slammed her fist into the wall, the impact jarring but welcome. The sharp pain shot up her arm, a fleeting distraction from the storm raging in her mind. But it didn’t last. The pain faded as her Riptide stole it away greedily, but the chaos remained.
 
"No one can take this from me!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the walls, bouncing back at her like a taunt. She hit the wall again, harder this time, her knuckles splitting under the force of the blow. Blood smeared against the metal, but it was nothing. It wasn’t enough.
 
I am Ferrah. I am Ferrah.
 
She had to remind herself, had to believe it. But with every passing hour, her grip on that identity grew weaker, more tenuous. The lines between Ferrah and Leth Rha blurred, and she didn’t know who she was anymore.
The voices in her head grew louder, more insistent. Ven’Et’s voice, soft and trusting, called out to her, breaking through the noise.
 
"Mother?"
 
She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands curling into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.
 
No. No. No. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.
 
But it was real. It was happening. And the more she tried to push it away, the harder it came crashing down around her. The memories she had buried—her son, her betrayal, her guilt—they were all flooding back now, overwhelming her, suffocating her.
 
Her mind, already fragile from exhaustion, was fracturing under the weight of it all. She couldn’t hold on much longer. Couldn’t keep Ferrah in control.
 
She hit the wall again, the pain a dull throb now, her body too tired to register it fully. She needed to stay awake, needed to fight this, but her mind was slipping, unraveling.
 
Ferrah was fading. Soon, she would be gone.
 
By the end of the second night, her reflection wasn’t even her own anymore. The yellow eyes staring back at her in the metal wall weren’t Ferrah’s. They were Leth Rha’s. She saw the fear in them, the desperation.
 
And for the first time, she realized how afraid she was. Afraid of who she really was. Afraid of Leth Rha, of what that name meant. Afraid of what she had done.
 
There was no escaping it now. No more walls to hide behind, no more masks to wear. Just the truth.
 
The truth had a name.
 
Leth Rha.
 

---

 
By the third day, Leth Rha was unraveling, her mind fraying at the edges as the exhaustion, hunger, and isolation hollowed her out. She sat in the center of the cold chamber, her legs drawn to her chest, her back pressed against the hard metal wall. The fight had long left her. The pacing had stopped. Her screams had faded into an eerie silence, the echoes swallowed by the oppressive air that seemed to press in on her from every side. She didn’t even notice the sharp sting of her split knuckles anymore, or the dried blood staining her fingertips. Physical pain was a distant, meaningless sensation now.
 
She felt empty, yet inside her, there was something far more terrible growing, spreading like a poison—madness. Her mind felt like it was breaking apart, piece by piece, as if the walls she had built around herself were crumbling under the relentless pressure of her memories and guilt. The hunger pangs clawed at her insides, but worse than the physical starvation was the Riptide inside her, gnawing at her sanity, tugging her deeper into the maelstrom.
 
By now, there was no more screaming or frantic struggling. It wasn’t that the fight was over—it was that she didn’t have anything left to fight with. Her defenses, her rage, her defiance, even the cold logic of the Sith teachings, all had disintegrated into ash. And in that bleak, shattered state, she could no longer outrun the truth.
 
The truth had stripped her bare, leaving her exposed, raw, and defenseless. Her mask, the armor of Ferrah Klegane, had been torn away, and underneath it was the terrified child she had buried so deeply within herself.
 
The knot in her chest tightened as she sat there, and for the first time in decades, Leth Rha allowed herself to remember. She could feel it rising to the surface—the memories, the trauma, the pain she had refused to face for so long. They had been locked away in the deepest recesses of her mind, hidden behind layers of rage and denial. But now, with nothing left to protect her, they rushed back like a tidal wave, overwhelming and suffocating her.
 
It began with Korriban. The cold, shadowed halls of the Sith Academy where her life as Leth Rha had ended, and something darker had taken its place. She could feel the cold stone under her bare feet, the oppressive weight of the Dark Side pressing down on her even as a child. The overseers watched her with their calculating, predatory eyes, like vultures waiting to see how long she would last before they tore her apart. It was there that they had broken her for the first time. But it wasn’t the memories of the overseers or the endless pain of her training that crushed her now.
 
No, it was her mother.
 
Leth Rha squeezed her eyes shut, but it did nothing to stop the memories from flooding back. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, soft and warm, telling her stories of Ryloth, of a peaceful life they would never have. The warmth of her mother’s embrace, the smell of the oils she used in her lekku… Leth could almost feel it, even now, after so many years. She had buried it all, locked it away so tightly, pretending it didn’t matter. But now, it consumed her.
 
The day the Sith had taken her was as clear as if it had happened yesterday. She had been so young, so small, clutching her mother’s sleeve with tiny, trembling hands. She had begged, sobbed, pleaded for her mother to do something, to save her. But there was nothing her mother could do.
 
She remembered her mother’s face—the desperation, the helplessness, and the resignation. The moment the overseers dragged her away, the look in her mother’s eyes shattered something inside Leth Rha forever. That was the moment her innocence had been ripped away, leaving a gaping, festering wound where love had once been.
 
And it wasn’t enough for the Sith to take her. They had executed her mother, cut her down like she was nothing, right in front of Leth’s eyes. Her blood had stained the floor, a vivid red against the cold, unforgiving stone of Korriban.
 
A strangled sob escaped Leth’s throat, her body trembling violently as the memory played out, over and over again in her mind. She had watched, helpless, as the only person who had ever loved her was taken from her in the cruelest way possible. Her chest heaved, the pressure unbearable. She hadn’t cried then. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel. But now—now, with nothing left to hide behind—the grief hit her like a landspeeder crashing into her ribs.
 
She rocked back and forth on the floor, clutching her arms tightly, as if she could somehow keep herself together if she held on hard enough. But it was futile. She was falling apart, and there was no stopping it. The tears streamed down her face, hot and relentless, her breath coming in shallow, broken gasps.
 
“I should’ve died with her,” she choked out, her voice hoarse and barely audible in the silence of the chamber. "I should have—"
 
But she hadn’t. She had lived. And in living, she had become something else, something darker, something the Sith had molded. But in that moment, as she sobbed on the cold metal floor, it wasn’t Ferrah who grieved. It was Leth Rha. It was the child who had been forced to watch everything she loved burn.
 
The cracks in her psyche deepened, splintering as the weight of that grief crushed her. She had spent so long pretending that Leth Rha didn’t exist, that she had died on Korriban. But that had been a lie. Leth Rha was still here, still suffering, still bleeding from wounds that had never healed.
 
And now, there was no escape from it. She could no longer retreat into the persona of Ferrah Klegane. That mask had been shattered, leaving her exposed, fragile, and broken.
 
“I am Leth Rha,” she whispered, her voice trembling, as if saying the name out loud would break her even further. "I am… I am Leth Rha."
 
And with that admission, the weight of her past crashed down on her in full force, suffocating her, drowning her in a sea of pain she had spent a lifetime trying to avoid.
 
The hunger gnawed at her insides, her throat burned from thirst, and her mind swirled with exhaustion, but none of it compared to the agony of remembering, of realizing that she had been running from herself all along. There was no Ferrah Klegane—only the twisted, broken remnants of Leth Rha.
 
And for the first time, she felt the full weight of what that meant.
 

---

 
The days dragged on. Time lost meaning. There was no escape from the torment inside her mind. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her past. Her mother’s death. Her time as a slave. The years of training, of torture, of breaking and rebuilding until she had nothing left but the shell of Ferrah Klegane.
 
But now, there was no Ferrah to protect her. No Ferrah to hide behind.
 
By the fifth day, she couldn’t fight anymore. She couldn’t pretend. She was broken, shattered into a thousand pieces, each one a fragment of the life she had tried so hard to forget.
 
The name echoed in her mind, over and over, until it was all she could hear. All she could think about. She had spent so long denying it, so long pretending it wasn’t her, that she had forgotten what it meant. But now, there was no escaping it.
 
She was Leth Rha. She had always been Leth Rha.
 
She collapsed against the wall, her legs giving out beneath her as the memories overwhelmed her. She could feel the tears stinging at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Crying was weak. Feeling was weak… Despite her efforts to hold back, a single tear slipped down her cheek, leaving a burning trail in its wake.
 
The weight of her past, the weight of everything she had tried so hard to forget, crushed down on her. Ferrah’s voice was gone now, drowned out by the flood of emotions she had buried for so long.
 
She wasn’t Ferrah anymore. She couldn’t be. Ferrah was a lie, a mask she had created to survive. But without that mask… who was she?
 
"I am Leth Rha," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the silence. The words felt foreign, strange, as if they didn’t belong to her. But they did. They always had.
 
She had tried so hard to be someone else, to be stronger, fiercer, more ruthless. But now, sitting here in the dark, alone with her thoughts, she realized that she couldn’t outrun her past. She couldn’t bury Leth Rha any longer.
 
The knot in her chest loosened slightly, and for the first time in days, she allowed herself to breathe. That first breath had a name.
 
Leth Rha.
 

---

 
The sixth day, Leth Rha sat huddled in the corner of the chamber, trembling violently as the cold walls seemed to press in on her, suffocating and unyielding. The silence was deafening, her heartbeat the only sound that pulsed through her body. Her throat was raw from days without water, her lips cracked and bleeding, but the pain in her body was nothing compared to the agony clawing at her mind. Acceptance of Leth Rha came with regret. The child. He had a name.
 
Ven'Et.
Her son.
 
A strangled sob escaped her, shattering the fragile quiet of the room as her chest heaved with the weight of a truth she had kept buried for so long. The sob turned into a scream—a primal, guttural sound of grief and horror. She clutched her head, her fingers digging into her scalp as if she could rip the memories from her mind.
 
"I killed him!" she shrieked, her voice echoing violently off the durasteel walls, mocking her, repeating her own words back to her in a chorus of condemnation. “I KILLED HIM! MY SON!”
 
Her body convulsed as she collapsed onto her side, her fingers clawing at the cold floor, desperate for something to hold on to as her world spiraled out of control. There was nothing. No anchor. No comfort. No Ferrah. Only the brutal, unrelenting truth.
 
Ven'Et was gone. And she had killed him.
 
Sobs wracked her body, tearing through her chest like daggers. Every breath felt like fire in her lungs, but she couldn’t stop. The grief was too much, too overwhelming. It ripped her apart from the inside, leaving nothing but a hollow shell of the person she once was. She pressed her hands to her chest, trying to stop the pain, to hold it inside, but it was impossible. It poured out of her in waves, uncontrollable and vicious. His face flashed in her mind again, vivid and cruel in its clarity—the way he had looked at her, his eyes wide with disbelief, not from fear, but from trust. He had trusted her. His mother.
 
The memory twisted her insides, a fresh scream ripping from her throat as she slammed her fists against the floor, over and over again. Her knuckles splitting further, the sharp sting of pain shooting up her arms, but it didn’t matter.
 
“I— I didn’t… I didn’t mean to,” she whimpered, her voice breaking as her body shook uncontrollably. “I didn’t— I—" But even as the words left her lips, they felt like a lie. A pathetic, hollow excuse. She had meant to. She had looked into his eyes, and she had made the decision. The blade had been hers. The intent had been hers. She had taken his life.
 
“No!” she screamed again, shaking her head violently, tears streaming down her face as she tried to deny it. Tried to push the truth away. But it clung to her like a second skin, suffocating her, drowning her in its weight.
Her screams turned to wails, raw and animalistic, the grief erupting from the deepest parts of her soul. She dug her nails into the floor, scraping at the steel as if she could claw her way out of this nightmare, but there was no escape. There never had been.
 
He had called her mother. In that final moment, with the blade against his throat, Ven'Et had whispered her name. “Mother, it’s me.”
 
Leth Rha gasped for breath, choking on her own sobs as she rocked back and forth on the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “I’m sorry,” she whispered through her tears, the words tumbling from her lips in a broken, desperate chant. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”
 
But no apology would ever bring him back. She had murdered him. Her precious boy, her light in the darkness, the one person who had always believed there was good in her. He had been her son. Her Ven'Et. And she had stolen his life.
 
“I didn’t… I didn’t want to…” Her voice cracked, barely a whisper now, as she pressed her face into her hands, her whole body trembling with the force of her sobs. “I didn’t want to do it… I didn’t want to…”
But she had. She had wanted to. At that moment, she had wanted to kill him because it was easier than facing what he represented. Easier than facing the hope he had for her. The love he had for her. It had been easier to destroy him than to let him see the truth of what she had become.
 
“Ven’Et,” she whimpered, the name catching in her throat, choking her. “Ven’Et, I’m so sorry…” She pressed her hands harder against her face, trying to block out the memories, trying to drown herself in the darkness. But the memories came anyway, flooding her mind in an endless Riptide.
 
She could see his smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. She could hear his voice, calm and steady, always so full of hope, even when she had long since abandoned hers. He had loved her, even when she couldn’t love herself. Even when she had fallen so far, he had believed there was still something good in her. And she had repaid that love by putting a blade through his heart.
 
“I’m a monster…” she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of her confession. “I’m a monster…”
 
Her body shook with renewed sobs as she pressed herself against the wall, curling in on herself, trying to disappear. There was no one to blame but her. Not Ferrah. Not the Empire. Not the Sith. It had been her. Leth Rha. She had made the choice. She had killed her son.
 
The realization was like a dagger to her chest, twisting deeper with every breath. She had spent years hiding behind the mask of Ferrah Klegane, pretending that it had been someone else who had done those terrible things. Pretending that it wasn’t her who had destroyed everything she had once loved. But now, with the mask torn away, there was no hiding from the truth.
 
“I don’t deserve forgiveness,” she whispered through her tears, her voice hollow and broken. “I don’t deserve anything…”
 
Her sobs quieted, though the tears continued to fall, soaking into the floor beneath her. There was nothing left. Nothing but the darkness that had always been waiting for her. The darkness she had run from for so long.
Ven’Et was gone. And she had killed him.
 
There was no redemption for her. No salvation. No hope.
 
And maybe… maybe that was how it had always been meant to be.
 
Maybe she had been running from her true nature all along…
 
That nature had a name.
 
Leth Rha.
 

---

 
By the seventh day, the tears had stopped. The anger had faded. All that was left was a quiet, hollow acceptance.
 
Leth Rha sat in the center of the chamber, her legs crossed beneath her, the cold floor biting into her skin. Her eyes remained closed, but there was no longer that frantic desperation behind them, no longer that fierce battle to keep Ferrah alive in her mind. There was nothing left to hold on to. Ferrah Klegane, the mask she had worn for so long, was gone. It hadn’t been taken from her—it had fallen away, piece by piece, shattered under the weight of truth, grief, and the hunger that gnawed at her body.
 
She hadn’t eaten in days, hadn’t had a drop of water. Her body was fragile, thin, but there was a strange clarity in the exhaustion that consumed her. She no longer needed to fight, to resist the name she had buried for so long. Leth Rha had been reborn in the stillness of her mind, in the silence after the storm. The dull ache in her muscles and the dryness in her throat were constant reminders of her mortality, but they didn’t dominate her thoughts. Not now. Her suffering had become something different—a thread that connected her to everything she had endured. Each pain, each pang of hunger, each flash of a memory long buried felt like it was stitching her back together, piece by broken piece.
 
She no longer felt the fear that had haunted her since the beginning of this imprisonment, the terror of facing herself without the armor of Ferrah. That fear had been replaced by something else.
 
Acceptance.
 
It wasn’t a joyous feeling, nor was it one of peace. It was cold. Heavy. But it was honest.
 
“Peace. Is. A. Lie.”
 
She had always been Leth Rha. That child who had clung to her mother’s sleeve as the Sith dragged her away. The one who had watched her mother die for trying to protect her. The one who had buried herself under layers of hatred, violence, and anger to survive the horrors of Korriban, the academy, and the endless suffering the Sith inflicted upon her. The one who had killed her own son. That was her truth. She could no longer hide from it. She could no longer blame Ferrah.
 
The truth of it came crashing down on her, though the tears didn’t return. The storm had already passed, and all that was left was the aftermath. She was no longer the weak, frightened girl she had been in her youth, no longer the slave, or the victim, or the broken child who had lost everything. That identity was gone, too, but in its place stood something stronger—something that had survived it all.
 
And yet, survival wasn’t the same as strength. She had endured, yes, but strength was something different. Strength wasn’t hiding behind masks and personas. It wasn’t lashing out in violence to hide her vulnerability. True strength—she realized now—came from embracing that vulnerability, from facing the very things that had made her tremble, and emerging on the other side.
 
It took a deep breath, and the air felt heavy in her lungs, but there was no rush to exhale. She was no longer in a hurry to push the pain away. It had become a part of her—a scar that marked her survival, but also her failure. She had failed Ven'Et. She had failed her mother. She had failed herself.
 
And yet, there was a strange liberation in acknowledging it. She had grieved, she had raged, she had denied. But now, there was nothing left to fight. The truth was laid bare, and she could finally see it clearly. Leth Rha wasn’t the same as she had been before. She had changed, but not in the way she had feared.
 
She wasn’t weak anymore. She wasn’t that trembling child who had been forced into slavery, who had been taught to destroy others to preserve herself. She had destroyed herself, instead. And now... she was rebuilding. Without masks. Without lies.
 
For the first time, she was simply Leth Rha—and that was enough.
 
Her eyes fluttered open, but there was no rush of emotion, no desperate need to get up or take action. She was still. Her mind was still. The madness, the chaos, the storms that had once raged within her had given way to a quiet, steady presence.
 
It wasn’t that she no longer felt anger or grief. Those things would always be there, simmering under the surface, but they didn’t control her anymore. She controlled them.
 
And in that control, there was power.
 
Real power.
 
Not the kind she had sought as Ferrah, not the raw, chaotic energy of the dark side she had once wielded without understanding. This was different. This was a power rooted in knowledge, in understanding, in the acceptance of herself—her true self.
 
She was Leth Rha. The one who had endured the worst the galaxy had to offer and survived. The one who had made terrible mistakes, but who had learned from them. The one who would no longer hide behind shadows or fear what she had done.
 
Ferrah was dead. And in her place, something far stronger had been born.
 
She survived, and she has a name.