The man sitting in the cage farthest from the door scares me. The emotion is foreign. I've fought numerous beasts – hideous and deadly – in my months here on Korriban from the lowest slimy K'lor slugs to bloodthirsty Shyraks without any trace of hesitation. This is just a man – an Imperial, by the looks of his uniform. His shoulders are hunched, his body bloodied from torture. No doubt the Inquisitors in the Academy had their fun before they brought him here. He looks defeated and downtrodden in every way. Except his eyes. They burn with blue fire - an intensity of emotion so powerful that it stirs the Force around me and makes me feel as though I've swallowed acid.

"Where would you like to start, My Lord?" the jailer asks me. Fortunately, I've mastered the art of molding my features into a mask of indifference. He hasn't noticed my brief moment of weakness. Yet. Forcing myself to tear my gaze away from the third prisoner, I glance at the other two and choose the opposite side of the room to give myself time to rebuild my defenses. I am Sith. There is no room in my heart for fear or hesitation. The slightest ***** in my armor and conviction means my death. I feel the jailer's eyes on my back. Though he acts subservient and respectful, I know better than to let down my guard around him.

What he doesn't know could save my life. In the Academy, much hinges on secrecy. In my case, secrecy is the only defense I have. Why was I brought over from Ziost months ahead of schedule? Why is Tremel arranging for all of my trials to take place on Korriban? Why is my Overseer hauling in prisoners from off-world so that I may judge them within Academy walls? The majority of the people around me would kill to know. But, the answer isn't as simple as many believe. I am not anybody's darling, nor an Academy favorite. I am simply different, as is my unique connection to the Force.

Focus…

I make my way to the first cage and listen to the prisoner's story. To his lies. He is accused of a serious crime against the Empire yet he continues to proclaim his innocence despite extensive torture. As he babbles, rants, and begs for mercy, I find myself glancing towards the third cage again. Towards the blue eyes that I recognize from my dreams. Focus – I remind myself. This is my trial. The jailer tells me more about the alien's transgressions. Did he notice my distraction? I can't afford any mistakes. To regain control, I latch onto my favorite emotion. Anger.

"Please…surely you can see that I have been set up. I am not guilty of – " The prisoner's words disappear in a symphony of gurgling and gasping as I raise my hand. I channel my anger – my frustration with the blue-eyed prisoner who dares to distract me, my fury with those who have made my life a living nightmare here, my hatred for wretches like this criminal who are only fit to lick my boots. I let my passion be my strength. I feel the Force tremble at my fingertips, feel the life slipping away from the alien that is now floating in the air. His nails try to pry invisible hands loose from his throat one last time before I release the pressure there. He collapses in a heap, heaving and gulping in air. My expression does not change even as he vomits all over the floor of his cage.

"Your verdict, My Lord?" the jailer coughs, his tone subdued. No doubt the maggot will report everything that transpires here today to Vemrin and those who pull his strings. I have no illusions about my position here and how tenuous it is. Nobody is on my side. Not even Tremel.

"Send him back to the Inquisitors. Torture him enough and he will confess," I decree, moving on to the next cell without a second glance at the first. Here I meet a failed soldier. He begs for trial by combat rather than execution. I consider this for a moment. "Your failure has cost thousands of lives. Nothing you do now can possibly redeem such complete incompetence."

"This man served a long time. Perhaps he does deserve some consideration for that..." the jailer volunteers. My anger, which had briefly lowered to a simmer, now boils over again. First, I deal with the prisoner. A quick death. My saber in his gut. Then, I turn to the jailer and raise my hand. He flinches, understanding my silent message. Nobody questions a Sith. Though I am not officially one yet, I have enough power to silence anyone that tries to cross my path. "Forgive me, My Lord," he sputters. Face still set into a mask of stone, I steady myself and turn towards the final prisoner. The blue-eyed bastard who is still glaring at me. When the jailer begins to read off a summary of his crimes, I stop him with a gesture.

"I want to hear it from this man personally," I explain. I move until I am only a hair's breadth away from the humming bars of the cage and inspect the man again. His uniform is torn, but I can still make out several insignia upon it that mark him as someone of fairly high rank. Imperial intelligence, perhaps? No. Not the right pattern. Something else. His black hair is short, the style tasteless. His face is unshaven, a pitch black stubble shadowing his jaw. He is thin, but when he gets to his feet I can sense that he's more agile that he seems. His hand briefly wavers over his hip, no doubt reaching for a blaster that's no longer there. Interesting habit. When he doesn't speak, I frown. "Well, then? What are your crimes, ex-officer?" I demand. He doesn't seem surprised that I've discovered a part of his identity.

"My Lord, I have committed no crime." His voice is smooth and free of doubt – respectful to a point yet also full of confidence. Not something I would expect from a man fresh out of the torture chambers. When I don't respond, he looks up and those blue eyes take my breath away. Up close, the color looks even richer. It reminds me of the blue I often see on afterburners – the hottest part of the flame.

"Then why are you here?" I expect him to reply, but he doesn't. Instead, he just sneers and looks away. He doesn't resemble a rebel or a spy. So why the hatred in his gaze? Why the hesitation? The jailer speaks up again.

"My Lord, if I may…that one hasn't spoken to anyone about his crimes since he arrived. Heard that he's been court-martialed by a Moff, I did."

Either Tremel was desperate when searching for prisoners for me or he found an easy out that I should consider taking. Nobody would bat an eyelash if I chose to kill this fool in cold blood. Being court-martialed these days usually leads to execution anyway. The growing tension between Empire and Republic will allow for no alternative. Seems too easy, though. I listen to the jailer explain that this man nearly caused a major disaster at some important battle or another.

"You heard this from a reliable source, I take it?"

"Some of it's in his personnel file. Some of it…well…" I struggle to keep my expression neutral. The jailer doesn't have to finish his sentence. I can already smell a trap here. He isn't lying, but who is to say that those records weren't sabotaged by my rivals? I have so many here, after all, who want me dead. What better way to ensure that my reputation goes to tatters than by forcing me to make a mistake in this trial?

"Leave us, jailer."

"Pardon, My Lord?"

I force a smile – one of cruelty and anticipation. I hope it will be enough to convince him. "I want some time alone with this one. He seems reluctant. I can fix that."

"I'm to stay with you throughout the trial, My Lord," the jailer protests. I turn to him, still smiling, and wave my hand as though beckoning for him to come closer. Tugging on his will through the Force is too easy. He is weak-willed and frail of mind. I watch his eyes go blank as I suggest that he needs to fetch something from the storage room on the second floor. It won't buy me much time – perhaps ten, fifteen minutes at best – but at this point I decide to take what I can get. Failure is not an option. As the jailer steps out and leaves me alone with the ex-officer, I relax my smile and smooth my expression back into neutrality.

"You insist that you have committed no crime, yet officers aren't court martialed without cause." I cross my arms over my chest. "Explain yourself. Now. I don't have time for your games. You have one opportunity to be completely honest with me before I take matters into my own hands." I drop my voice, channeling all the hate and rage that I can muster into the next few words. "Believe me, soldier – you'll be begging me to release you into the Inquisitors' custody by the time I'm through with you." My intimidation must have worked, for his face loses a few shades of color. I watch his throat bob as he swallows back obvious fear. That's where that emotion belongs – on the faces of my enemies.

"Where should I begin, My Lord?" he mumbles, clearing his throat.

"Details – who you are, why you were court-martialed, how you got to Korriban. But quickly, soldier. We only have minutes before we are interrupted." Though I'm restless now, I keep any and all feeling out of my voice. It is difficult to do now that I'm standing so close to him. The Force does not alter my dreams without a reason. If I see specific people or events, then I pay attention. At Ziost, my dreams were full of predictions that came true – predictions and signs that changed my life forever. Among my most recent dreams, I saw this man's blue eyes. For weeks, they'd been plaguing my sleep. I know this man will change the course of my destiny.

The question is how...what connection can some disobedient grunt have to a Sith?

"Captain Malavai Quinn – Imperial Officer. My story cannot be related in a few words…"

"Try. Your life depends on it," I threaten.

"I was betrayed by a Moff. Long ago, I made a decision to disobey him in an important battle. His mistake nearly cost us a victory, but I was able to salvage it. He has never forgiven me for dishonoring him, despite the fact that he took credit for the victory himself. This isn't the first time he's had me disciplined for one reason or another, but it is the first time he's gone as far as court martialing me. As to how I came to be in the Academy," he shrugs. "Honestly, I don't know. One day, some men entered my personal quarters on my ship and blindfolded me. The next thing I knew I was being strapped to an interrogation table." His explanation doesn't do anything to ease my tension. In fact, it just confirms my earlier suspicions and aggravates me. This trial is indeed a trap – one that's about as difficult to step out of as Bantha droppings. My mind whirs with activity as I try to consider all possible options. Inadvertently, I begin to pace the room.

Disobedience of a higher authority alone – no court martialing involved – often earns anyone in the Empire an instant death sentence. If I ignore this fact and let him go based on his testimony alone, I will look the fool. And wouldn't that earworm Vemrin just love to see me being scolded? If I kill him and it turns out that he's innocent of his charges, I'll look the fool as well. The Overseers and other Acolytes will whisper that I don't have the power to know whether he is lying or not. He isn't lying, but that doesn't make things any easier. As I move around, I catch my reflection in one of the shiny surfaces in the room. A young human girl stares back. Her waist-length red hair is tied back in a tight braid. Her eerie silver eyes look huge in her small face. She looks frail - thin and delicate. Not like a Sith. A true Sith would not allow this situation to disorient them. I bite my lip and frown, trying to remember the last time I looked in a mirror. Must have been before my last trial. The door to the jail hisses open, startling me.

"I brought the supplies, My Lord," the jailer announces in a monotone, rattling a few boxes in his arms. The moment that he places the boxes on the ground, his eyes clear. My suggestion wears off. He looks around, confused. "Forgive me, My Lord. I think I may have lost my train of thought for a moment. What was I saying?"

"You were reading off this man's crimes to me," I reply, doing my best to appear unperturbed. A sound from my right catches my attention. I steal a glance at the ex-officer and see him cough to hide a sound of mirth. I admit that this situation would be somewhat humorous if my life wasn't on the line.

"What is your verdict, then?"

I raise my chin and reply without hesitation. "In this case, the evidence provided is not clear enough to allow a proper verdict to be dispensed. I reserve judgment, for now, and request that further evidence be provided."

"You hesitated!" Tremel shouts, slamming his fist on the desk in front of him. His voice echoes off the walls, reverberating with fury. A part of me is amused. Seeing this man lose his composure isn't something I have a chance to witness very often. Ever since my arrival, the Overseer has struggled to maintain an image of a calm, collected, servant of the Empire. I know otherwise, of course. Detecting falsehoods is something of a specialty of mine, as is telling them.

"I made the only logical choice," I say in response to his yelling. "It's not as if I set a precedent. Others have reserved judgment in the past in other trials."

He shakes his head and rubs his temple. "Don't you see? It makes you look weak. You should have killed him. Insubordination and failure are stains that he will never be able to erase from his record. He deserves to be eliminated."

"Then eliminate him," I challenge.

"It's too late now. We have other problems and other concerns. For now, you've managed to pass the trial and must immediately move on to the next."

"What will happen to the prisoners?" I ask, trying not to sound too interested. Tremel pauses and searches my intentions. I can feel him rummaging around inside my emotions. Inwardly, I smile. A strong attempt, but still too weak to make it past my defenses. I keep my expression bored and look out the window, as though I'm unaware of what he is doing.

"The alien is being taken to interrogation as we speak. The other is being transferred," he reveals at length. Where? – I want to ask. My heart skips a beat at the thought of losing the only clue to the meaning of my recent dreams. Technically, the prisoner is mine until a verdict is decided. If he is being moved off-world, then rules are being broken. Not unusual for the Academy. Just frustrating.

"What is my next trial?" I demand, attempting to change the subject. He describes my next task in extensive detail, making sure to emphasize every step. I take in what he says and make an effort to appear attentive. Inwardly, however, my mind drifts elsewhere – still trapped in the ex-officer's blue gaze. I struggle with several emotions. The sway he has over my thoughts confuses and angers me. The role he has yet to play in my destiny piques at my curiosity. The fact that I can't seem to get a force-blind soldier – a nobody by my standards – out of my head disgusts me.

"…after you slay the beast. Do you understand, Acolyte?" I nod and reassure the Overseer that I won't fail. "Will you leave immediately?"

"Yes. As soon as we're done here," I reply. I want to get started as soon as possible. Perhaps some bloodshed will set my thoughts in order at last. A realization. "What other problems were you speaking of?" I inquire, alluding to his earlier words. His grimace tells me that the issue is serious.

"I was hoping to keep your presence on Korriban hidden from certain individuals in the Academy, but doing so has proven exceedingly difficult over the past weeks. Someone has noticed you, though for now this person seems only mildly curious."

"Who?"

"A man named Darth Baras."

"I haven't heard of him."

"You will, and when you do you will wish you had not."

"A Darth," I whisper, surprised. Most Acolytes dream of being noticed by someone of such stature. "Does he know about my powers?"

"No," Tremel answers, his voice firm. "And I intend to keep that hidden from him. Should anyone find out, you will be vulnerable to attack." He sighs. "Right now, Vemrin is being groomed to be Baras's newest apprentice. This cannot be allowed to pass."

"What are you suggesting? That I take his place?" A beat. "Is that why you brought me here?" When he hesitates to answer, I frown. "If I become Baras's apprentice, he will know about my powers."

"No," Tremel repeats and motions for me to sit down across from him. I do so. "No one must know. Ever. You must use your gift to your advantage and rise within the ranks. But, no one must know the details." He reaches out and covers my hand with his own. He is a big man; his hand engulfs mine completely. Something about his words makes me uncomfortable. As we look into each other's eyes, I recognize the cause and pull away.

"Don't tell me you're getting sentimental towards me, Tremel," I sneer. "You have a daughter. Reserve this foolishness for her."

"If only my daughter was like you," he confides. "You have a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere else. You must make it through this gauntlet at the Academy. You must find a powerful Master to guide you – one that will help you reach new heights of power and authority. You must use your strength for the Empire." I remember my earlier thoughts, remember believing that nobody was on my side here on Korriban. For a moment, I process Tremel's words and consider them. I search the syllables for lies and deception.

"You mean what you say," I murmur. For a moment, I allow my mask to shift and reveal a vulnerability. Ever since I was pulled away from the orphanage on my home world and thrust into the world of the Sith, I've considered everyone to be my enemy. Now, perhaps, I could allow myself to consider someone as a friend. "I will not fail."

"I know." He doesn't smile. There is no room for softness here. I gather the words and the confidence he's gifted me into a bundle of memory and hide them far away in the dark recesses of my mind. I will need them one day. For now, I need to stay focused.

The tomb of Marka Ragnos smells of death and decay – of centuries of endless suffering. Time has eradicated all life from this place save one – the monstrous guardian. The Master is dead, but the beast remains loyal, guarding and protecting its creator's treasures and secrets. I recognize the creature as a terentatek, a monstrosity created by the hands of Sith from the body of a rancor. Its fury is palpable, its bloodlust potent. It towers above me. As it shifts and moves to circle me, grey flesh shimmers in the faint glow of the flames I lit while meditating. A sweet smell wafts to my nose. The beast roars, flexes its massive claws, and snaps its jaw, glaring at me through eyes that resemble bottomless voids. I know what it wants.

"Blood…my blood…" I am strong with the Force, and that makes me this creature's only chance for survival. It's starving. No Acolytes have been sent here for their trials in a long time. I recall reading about Marka Ragnos and his pet during my studies. As it circles me, I note all the scars on the monster's flesh that its master left behind. Had I been capable of feeling something as trifling as pity, I may have felt sorry for the thing and the life it led – full of abuse, hatred, and starvation. After Ragnos's death, it was doomed to stay here for eternity, to hover on the border of starvation and insanity. The current situation does not warrant any sentiment, however. This thing wants to tear me to shreds, and the only way I can win is by matching its level of hatred with my own. I pull on the Force around me, on the power that feeds my emotions. My blood catches fire; my senses sharpen. I reach behind me and pull out my warblade. The moment it sees this, the creature attacks.

Then the scene shifts. I am thrown into a hurricane of blurred colors and distorted sound. The battle transforms into a recording fast forwarded by invisible controls. The faster it zooms by, the less details I can see. I fight against the tide, wrestling with the flow of my dream to try and catch specific fragments of the scene. I recognize that this dream means to tell me of the trial I am to face. No matter how much strength it costs me, I must know the outcome. Heedless of the consequences, I bury my hands in the river of scenery that rushes by me. Pain. Agony. Doing this hurts so much that I nearly let go. Nearly. I grit my teeth and rummage through the liquid possibilities, finally grabbing onto one and yanking it out of the river. The scene unfolds before me. I pray that it will show me my victory. Instead, I see red.

The tomb of Marka Ragnos sprawls out in front of me. The light from my fires still illuminates the crumbling walls and the intricate carvings on them. The colossal terentatek leans over something on the ground. Its flesh is marred with fresh wounds – burns from a warblade. Skin that was previously grey is now glistening with crimson. My heart drums a chaotic rhythm in my chest; my eyes travel downwards – farther and farther – until I see a corpse at the monster's feet. The creature has torn it apart so thoroughly that I cannot recognize its identity.

You know…

Yes. I do. I am Sith, and I will not back away from my fear. Though my instinct warns me not to get closer to the body – to the truth – I do. The dead woman is wearing armor that I recognize as mine. Her warblade is snapped in half, the fragments tossed aside. She lies in a pool of blood. As I step closer, I feel it coat my ghostly feet. The fluid is sticky, thick, and still warm. The terentatek bites into her stomach, rummaging through organs and bones in clumsy attempts to get to the bloodiest portions of its victim's body. The crunching sounds of its fangs tearing through the woman sends me to my knees. At this level, I can see the her hair – a red braid. Mine.

I feel clammy fingers of dread wrap around my throat and shake my head. Impossible. Me? Defeated? At the hands of a monster? I sink lower, my body going limp as shock attempts to incapacitate me. I fight. No. I will not accept this fate. There is much more that I must do. I know that I need to get up, that I must go back to the river to try and find other possibilities to this situation in their depths. I must go back to the battle; I must see what happened and what mistake let to my downfall. I place my palms on the ground and try to push myself up. My terror forces me back down. All sound disappears save for the crunching of the monster's teeth, the tearing of my flesh, the slurping of its tongue as it sucks out my blood.

Stop it! Stop! Leave me alone! Leave me in peace!

In a desperate attempt to regain control, I cover my ears, close my eyes, and begin to chant the Sith code.

Peace is a lie. There is only passion...

The crunching grows louder. I feel myself being pulled backwards. When I crack open my eyes, I see the monster above me. I am now inside the dead woman's body. My body. I scream, but no sound emerges. The creature opens its cavernous mouth. I gasp and breathe in the scent of something familiar. The sweet smell from earlier. Now that I'm closer to it, I can finally make out what it is.

Poison. Its claws and fangs are coated with venom...

The last thing I see is its teeth closing around my throat.

During the night, I sense death. The Force vibrates with raw killing intent, tearing me from my restless sleep. I am disoriented as I try to make sense of my surroundings. My recent nightmare is still fresh in my mind. Images flash before me in a dizzying procession, and I clamber to staunch their flow. I see the terentatek above me, flinch as I remember the feeling of its fangs ripping me apart. I am hyperventilating. My hands reach up to feel for the punctures in my neck, the gashes in my gut, the cuts all over my body. Only when I am reassured that I'm whole and unharmed do I begin to calm down.

I shudder, shoving my anxiety away with sheer willpower. No time for confusion. There can only be one reason why someone would sneak around in my quarters uninvited in the middle of the night. Vemrin is making his move. This realization deadens my frayed nerves, takes the edge off the dread planted in my heart by my dream. But, not for long. Just when I think I've regained control of my emotions, I look down at myself. I swear that I can still see blood coating everything – my hands, my arms, the sterile white sheets that cover me.

It isn't real. Focus. Use your fear. Embrace it. Let it fuel you.

I do my best to ignore the haunting illusions. My eyes fly around the pitch-black chamber, searching for the intruder in the inky darkness. I don't relax when I fail to see anything out of place. Instead, I kick off my sheets, reach over beside me, and pull out my warblade. I nudge the lever on the side of it with my thumb and watch my room light up with an eerie red glow. The weapon's familiar humming gives my mind something real to latch onto. As I sit up, my body runs through a series of automated motions. The hand that holds my weapon moves in front of me for defense; my free hand reaches down and zips up my armored jacket; my feet slip into padded boots coated with aluminium. I don't remember the last time I wore anything but armor to sleep. Some might call it paranoia. I call it preparation.

A movement from the corner of my eye is the only warning I get before my enemy's blade flares to life in a blaze of orange and flies towards me. I duck down and roll forward, dodging a move that would have decapitated me. The blade spins around and flies backwards, a deadly boomerang. As its owner grips it, the orange light illuminates a man's face. I don't recognize him. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. Despite the situation, I'm still unable to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. The fear heightens my senses, bolsters my hostility. I can taste my opponent's hatred. Sour, tangy, vile – like blood; I respond in kind.

As Sith, it is my destiny to fight this way, to scramble to survive among a hostile culture that only respects supreme power. I understand my place; I know the Dark Side – I crave it. Killing has been a routine part of my life for many years now. I know that when I spill this man's blood, I won't regret it. I will hate him and lust for his destruction either until he is destroyed or until I am defeated. The latter is not an option. I do not want to die. In fact, as we fight, Tremel's words come back to haunt me. I remember his faith in me, his desperate efforts to assure that I succeed. His blind devotion to the Empire confuses me. All I've ever known is the will to survive; all I've ever wanted was to find some place in the galaxy that I could call my own. I imagine that such a place would make me feel safe. There, I could leave my weapon on a stand instead of carrying it to my bed every night.

That place isn't here – I reflect as I am bombarded with my enemy's malicious aura. This place is only a stepping stone.

We clash. My opponent has some skill, but not enough. The way he moves leaves too many openings. If I was at my full potential, I could crush him like an insect. My anger spikes. As he tries to slash at my leg, I jump aside and push him back with a sphere of Force. He cries out as his body loses mobility and flies towards the opposite wall, connecting with a thud. He recovers quickly. In the faint light, my enemy – still nameless – looks me up and down, notes my armor. "Should have known this wouldn't be easy," he grunts and spits out a glob of blood.

"You one of Vemrin's?" I ask, glancing towards his arm. I look for a thin red band – a trend that my rival has started that marks Acolytes as his lackeys. Using the brief lull in action to my advantage, I reach out with my senses to try and gauge his true strength. What I find disappoints me. "I don't see a band. Couldn't get into the fan club so you came here to prove yourself?" Instead of answering, he lunges forward. The more I recover from the harrowing experience of my dream, the slower and clumsier his movements feel. Was he hurt? Had my half-hearted attack injured him? Pathetic. I can see why Vemrin didn't want him as an ally. "You've got guts coming here knowing that I would destroy you."

"I will destroy you," he growls and slices upwards with his blade. I meet it half way with my own. As the weapons clash, the air thrums with power. Angry red and furious orange blend together to create a light as bright as a sunset. "What makes you so special?" my opponent asks through gritted teeth. We fight to overpower each other. "I can handle Vemrin. I can handle hardship. I can handle competition. But you…" the rest of his words are lost in the screeching and howling caused by our blades as they collide. No matter. I don't need to hear him to know everything he wants to say. This isn't the first time a rival Acolyte has tried to kill me, after all. My arrival displaced many from their comfortable niches within the pecking order here. Their angry words are always the same; their actions predictable.

I fake an opening, slouching my shoulders and lowering my face. Too incompetent to see through my ruse, he takes the bait. I watch his saber fly towards my heart, wonder what it would feel like to watch it slip through my chest and impale me. Not yet, though. It's much too early to consider death. I haven't achieved my goal. I haven't even started. So, I dodge. I sway to the side. Moving forward to stab me has made him vulnerable to retaliation. I see his outstretched arm, note the way the angle of his torso leaves his throat exposed. No hesitation. No regrets. The fight comes to a grinding halt with a single motion. I twist forward and run my warblade through the soft point at the base of his neck. The smell of burning flesh makes me sick. I watch my enemy drop to the floor…lifeless.

Seconds tick by…minutes…or is it hours? I stand over the body long enough to feel the blood within it grow cold. The man's mouth hangs open, his expression forever trapped in a look of surprise and pain. His eyes stare through me, devoid of life yet still bearing traces of their owner's animosity. I've defeated him in combat. There is no shame in what I've done. So why am still standing here? Why is a single sentence looping in my head like a broken record?

I didn't even know his name.

I am certain that, had the tables been turned, he would have celebrated his victory. He would have kicked my corpse out of his chambers and gone back to sleep, waiting to start another day in this purgatory called Korriban. Or would he? I can still smell his burned skin. A sudden bout of nausea makes me turn away. I holster my warblade and strap it to my back. What now? A glance at my clock tells me that I only have a couple of hours before morning – just a short time until my next trial at the tombs officially begins. I think about what will happen when my alarm rings. Tremel will be expecting me in his office first thing in the morning. How will I explain the events that transpired tonight? Acolytes are expressly forbidden from murdering each other. I've had to break that rule several times to defend myself, but all of those times had been during my trials out in the field. How will I explain the presence of a corpse in my personal quarters? Would anyone even believe me?

Tremel might – I reason with myself. I don't want to, but I reach down and force myself to pick up the man's body and drag it over to a password locked door near my closet. As I key in the code, the structure hisses open to reveal my trash compartment. The thing is about the size of a crawlspace, but at least it is hidden behind a door. If anyone comes snooping, they may not think to check here. I struggle to maneuver the large body around, stuffing his arms and legs into the tiny space. His limbs are stiff in death, his muscles snapping and tearing as I move him. His head bobs around, those eyes accusing me even in death. My nausea intensifies, and I bite back the urge to run to the toilet and empty the contents of my stomach. It takes me too long to squeeze him into the compartment – so long that I find myself wondering if I'm not in another nightmare. As soon as the body is out of sight, I make a decision.

I have to see Tremel…

"You did what?" the Overseer demands, his voice hoarse. "What were you thinking? You know the rules!" I sense the man's frustration, somewhat surprised to see him shouting again. This feels like déjà vu. Just yesterday, he shouted at me for making a mistake during my trial with the prisoners. I observe his profile, try to sense his emotions through the Force. Exhaustion, frustration, anger, despondency. Yesterday, he was upset, but not like this. This most recent fiasco has heavily disturbed him. When I came to tell him about what had transpired, I didn't expect to find him in his office. The man had no need for sleep, it seemed, and worked around the clock to find new trials for me to complete on Korriban.

"What was I supposed to do?" I ask defensively. "He broke into my quarters and tried to kill me."

"You should have incapacitated him. Knocked him out. Reported him." Tremel grimaces and rubs his forehead. "Instead, you've openly killed another Acolyte. Not only that, but you tried to hide the evidence."

"Somehow I don't think a gentle warning from the higher-ups would have stopped him. You should have seen him – heard him – this man was determined."

"They are all determined – every single one of them," he counters. "They will do everything in their power to see you fail. And now, they have. You've failed…"

"I killed a man in self-defense. Surely that means - "

"Nothing," Tremel cuts in. "It means nothing. His life means nothing. Your excuses mean nothing. The only thing that means something is the fact that you've broken the rules."

"It's not so simple…" I try to argue. His rebuff and refusal to listen cut me to the quick.

"And why did you come here, Acolyte? What did you think I could do about this?" he frowns.

"I thought you could help me. I thought…" before I can make a fool of myself, I stop and look away.

"I am your Overseer, not your babysitter. I can't clean up all of your messes. First the prisoner, and now this? Your actions speak of your lack of judgment, Acolyte," he sneers. I'm furious now – disappointed. Not with my would-be assassin or with Tremel, but with myself. How could I have ever considered trusting him? Did I actually dare to think that he could be my friend? I should have just thrown the body down the compactor, should have found a way to solve this situation on my own.

"Forgive me," I reply, bitterness heavy in my voice. I want to go on, but I don't know what to say. I dare not speak further for fear of saying something that I will later come to regret. He may not be my friend after all, but he isn't my enemy either. I hope that he still sees me as a worthy investment. It's the only way I will ever make it through this nightmare. When he steps towards me, I step back. His face is strained. He regrets his words, but I am not one to forgive so easily. Tremel sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a holocommunicator. He keys in a frequency. The device pings for a moment before the ghostly image of a young man appears on it.

"My Lord?"

"My office. Twenty minutes."

"Understood." The image fades. I want to ask him what the exchange was all about, but I don't trust myself to speak yet.

"Acolyte, you will forget about this incident. Right now, you need to focus on your trial in the tomb of Marka Ragnos. Are you prepared to leave? I will arrange for a shuttle to pick you up in an hour from the Academy steps." Though he asks me if I'm ready, I know that I only have the option of nodding. Ready or not, he wants me out of here. I glance towards the only window in the office. The sun hasn't risen yet. There are still two hours before dawn. "Go, then. Prepare yourself, and do not return until you have slain the beast."

My stomach rumbles with hunger, but my feet do not take me to my quarters for sustenance. Every time I think of the body hidden in the trash compartment, I feel sick. I can't imagine eating in that room. Or eating at all. Tremel would disapprove. He would want me to be at the peak of my strength when facing the challenge ahead. My logic tells me that I need something in my stomach, especially if my dream was any kind of foreshadowing to what I will face later. Somehow, though, I can't bring myself to care. I've faced hunger before. Back on Ziost, Overseers abused us for their own sadistic pleasure. They starved us for days and beat us for the smallest of offenses. This isn't the first time I've had to ignore complaints from my body, and it won't be the last. What eats at me more than my longing for food is the realization that I really am alone – that the life I want as a Sith will always keep me isolated from anything except my own passions and agendas. Any alliances I make will always be shallow. Anyone I ever call a friend will always be tempted to stab me in the back. Can I live like that? Can I sacrifice whatever humanity I have for power?

I am so lost in thought that I'm surprised when I look up and find myself in front of the Jail Cells. I have no recollection of coming this way. At first, I turn to walk away, but a sudden thought stops me. I remember what Tremel said about my blue-eyed prisoner and his transfer. Before I can understand the reasons behind my actions, I push open the password protected doors using the Force and enter the Jail. Most of the cells are empty, the cages powered down and silent. No lights here. I struggle to see as I stumble around, making my way towards the place where I completed my last trial. I expect to see more empty cages and bloodied interrogation tables. Instead, I find him.

The blue-eyed mystery.

He hasn't heard me yet. In fact, he is sleeping. As I move closer, however, he blinks and shakes his head. He takes in his surroundings then finally notices me. Our gazes lock. I wonder what he is thinking. I'm sure that the situation must seem strange. An Acolyte sneaking into the Jail in the middle of the night to see…what, exactly? Him? If only I knew the answer to that myself. I struggle to find something to say, desperate to justify my presence here. I feel the same confusion assail me as the one I felt the first time I saw him. Frustrated, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind –

"You should never look a Sith directly in the eyes, ex-officer."

"Forgive me, My Lord," he mumbles. When he looks away, I feel like I've lost something important – like I've strengthened the barrier between us erected by social status. It shouldn't matter – I tell myself. This man means nothing to me. So why am I here?

"You were supposed to be transferred," I continue, trying to keep the awkward hesitation out of my voice. "Why are you still here?" He shrugs. I frown. "Answer properly, Imperial."

"I don't know, My Lord." His voice is dead, like a droid's. I notice that there is more blood on his uniform than yesterday. Was he tortured after I left? Did the Inquisitors take him under their wing? Such things weren't unheard of. If one Inquisitor had a particular amount of authority, he could "purchase" prisoners to toy with. Sometimes this merely delayed their trial. Other times, the prisoners died on the table without any trial at all.

"You don't know or you don't care?" I ask. I'm relieved to feel my anger returning. Anger is much better than the despair I felt after walking out of Tremel's office. Anger strengthens me, bolsters me, and empowers me. The prisoner shrugs again. Another suspicion takes the place of the first. Perhaps he isn't the true victim here. Perhaps he was placed in my path to distract me. By who, though? Vemrin? No. Too stupid. The man is more brawn than brains. Tremel? No. The man has made my success his top priority. Then who? "Perhaps you don't wish to tell me," I continue. "Perhaps I should make you tell me." I expect him to blanch like he did the first time we spoke. I anticipate his fear. Yet, I quickly learn that what I expect from this man is rarely what I'm actually going to get. Instead of cowering, he tilts back his head and rests it against the bars of his cage.

"Go ahead, My Lord. There is nothing for me to say. I've told you all I could." A smile tugs at his lips – tired, wan, full of hopelessness. "Not that anything that I say will dissuade you from hurting me." His open defiance rubs me the wrong way. The past few hours have made me feel more helpless and out of control than I've felt in months. If there is anything that I hate, it is the sensation of being unable to exert control over anything. I am Sith. I am the master of control. I obliterate anything that stands in my way. My emotions spiral outward, feeding me dark images. I imagine this man at my mercy, imagine how he would sound as he begs to me to stop hurting him. Then, his face changes. Vemrin's terrified features take its place. How I would love to make him squeal. How I would love to give him a taste of his own medicine. My hand rises. I tug on the strings of Force around me and wrap it around the prisoner's neck.

He isn't Vemrin.

My train of thought is shattered. I blink a few times as my vision comes back into focus. In front of me, the prisoner is struggling to breathe. I'm Force choking him.

His name is Quinn. Malavai Quinn.

Somehow, giving the prisoner a name in my mind makes him seem more important. Less like an insect. I release him and examine my hand. As Quinn coughs and struggles to regain his senses, I lose myself in a new kind of inner turmoil. The assassin's face comes back to haunt me – the way his eyes continued to spit hate at me even after I killed him. Is that all I am? Someone to be hated and someone who knows nothing but hate? I don't want to tread this path. I don't want to think about this so deeply. I do what I must to survive, to become a true Sith. This is my destiny.

"You know I am Sith, yet you defy me," I hear myself say. "Why?" The ex-officer rubs his throat and glares at me.

"I do not mean to defy you, My Lord."

"Yet you do."

He slumps back against the walls of his prison and sighs. "Perhaps after all I've been through, my tolerance levels aren't what they used to be."

"Tolerance?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"For Sith and their games…" The way he says the words should annoy me, but I allow him to go on. "They fight each other and kill each other for power when they should be using their strength to help the Empire."

"The Empire has abandoned you," I counter. "Your superiors left you here to rot for a crime you didn't commit."

"My superiors are not the Empire." I wait for him to elaborate. When he remains silent, I move closer to him. Here is a man more miserable than me – I reflect. Yet he doesn't give in. I sense the hope in his heart – a belief in some sort of cause.

"You love the Empire and dislike the Sith. But you know, without the Sith as its backbone, the Empire would be nothing."

"No, My Lord. I do not dislike the Sith – simply some of their methods." He turns to look at me. "You are very privileged. If only I had your authority – your power. I would use it to make the Empire even stronger."

"You are a prisoner," I cut in. "You will likely die here. Yet still you speak of serving the Empire?"

"Yes. I will always serve the Empire. The only thing I regret is that my death will not help our cause in any way." His words give me new perspective. He reminds me of Tremel. To me, this point of view is alien.

"I…have never thought of serving a higher cause," I confess. "My only concern has ever been to survive."

"Survive? As a Sith?" this time, I can hear that I've caught his interest. Some life has returned to his voice again. For reason I can't explain, I begin to tell him things I've never shared with anyone. I relate my hardships on Ziost, the challenges I've faced since I arrived on Korriban, the story of the man I killed in my quarters, and the trial that I am about to face in Marka Ragnos's tomb. At some point, I sit down in front of his cage. Throughout the entire conversation, his eyes never waver from mine. I can tell he is truly listening and considering my words. Perhaps I am bolstered by the knowledge that he will die soon – that he will take the secret of my inner conflict to his grave.

"I never knew that Sith faced such…hardship," he admits. I can tell he means what he says. This is the first time anyone has ever sympathized with me or my situation. I'm unsure of what to make of the development. But, I didn't tell him my story because I sought his pity.

"I don't need your sympathy, Quinn," I declare, surprising myself. Since when did I start calling prisoners by their names?

"My Lord, you remember my name?" he sounds genuinely surprised. A sharp sound startles us both. The holocommunicator in my pocket is beeping, alerting me that the taxi is waiting for me outside. Has it really been an hour already? Quinn – no, the prisoner – looks at me with an expression I can't identify. His brow is marred by a long furrow. His eyes radiate with focus.

What am I doing?

The whole thing – my confiding in him, his unexpected empathy – feels wrong. I begin to regret my decision to say anything at all. If he was planted here by my rivals, then I just gave them information that could be used against me in the future. Suddenly, all I want to do is get out of here. I want to face my trial – to fight, to hate, and to triumph over my foe in battle. I want to feel powerful - in control. I stand up, prepared to leave everything behind, when something latches onto my hand. I look back with a start. Quinn is holding my wrist through the bars of his cage. His hand feels warm and strange. I'm not used to human contact.

"What are you doing? How dare you touch me?" I demand to know, trying to pull away. He hangs on.

"My Lord, before you leave, please tell me your name." His request throws me off balance.

"You want to know my name? Why?" He spends a moment in silence, and I realize that he doesn't really know himself. I sense his confusion, his hesitation.

"It's something you mentioned…about other Sith saying they would forget you if you died. I may not have long to live, but I don't want to forget you." Damn those eyes. Damn his sympathy. Damn him!

"I don't want your pity, ex-officer," I grind out between clenched teeth. "I am Sith."

"It isn't pity," he argues. My holocommunicator beeps again. "Please, just tell me your name." I tear my wrist out of his grip. Quinn's plea triggers a memory. My name. It takes me a moment to recall it. The last time anyone – even I – spoke my name was on my mother's deathbed many years ago. I remember holding her hand, watching – and sensing – as her life slipped out of her. Back then, I wasn't an Acolyte or Sith. Back then, I was just a girl who knew nothing of the cruelty of the world around her. In my mind, I see my mother's lips moving as she breathed her last and whispered –

"Seraphine…"

Before he can react or say anything else to make me feel more vulnerable, I escape. I whirl around and run out of the Jail towards my next trial.

Towards the tomb of Marka Ragnos.

Towards my probable death.

As I step out onto the Academy's marble steps, I see a faint light over the horizon. Rays of sunlight illuminate towering mountains and sprawling ruins. The scenery is exotic and wild – untamed. Everything on Korriban is so…red. Almost like the sand and rocks are saturated with the blood of those who did not endure the rigorous journey of becoming Sith. It's beautiful in the cruelest of ways. This breathtaking scenery is both motivation to survive and a reminder that I may not. I focus on the light, trying to memorize the details, wondering if this is the last time that I will see it. The sky brightens. Dawn is coming.

My death approaches.

At the base of the steps hovers a shuttle that looks like it's been through a grind in a Tuk'ata's mouth. Dents and various punctures mark its surface. The only thing that marks it as Academy property is a small logo on the back. Countless sandstorms and harsh climate have taken their toll on the pathetic taxi, eating away paint and protective coating and leaving metallic innards to rust. The droid driving the vehicle is in no better shape. It greets me in a faded and scratchy monotone as I approach. After scanning me to confirm my identity, it opens the passenger door and allows me entry. Now that I'm closer, I can make out a few more details on the droid. It looks like an older model.

"Droid, who ordered this taxi?" I demand, feeling uncomfortable.

"Unknown," it rasps. It must be my Overseer. No one else in the Academy is aware of this trial yet, and the holocom in my pocket only relays messages between two frequencies – mine and Tremel's. I know he is angry with me, but this thing looks like it's going to explode or break down at any moment. Surely he isn't mad enough to risk my safety this way.

"What is the last recorded maintenance date for this vehicle?"

"Unknown."

"Does this taxi belong to the Academy?" I am dubious on this point. The logo is there, but…

"Unknown," the droid repeats. It blinks at me with a pair of eyes that resemble dying headlights. "No known records exist for this vehicle."

Unregistered taxi driven by an unregistered droid – I realize. Normally, all taxis that belong to the Academy have their own beacons. No Acolyte is allowed to board one without express permission from a higher authority, and any taxi that leaves the grounds is immediately tracked. All routes and destinations are reported back to the Academy. By assigning me this particular car, Tremel is ensuring that I can't easily be followed. Without saying anything, the droid calls my attention to a compartment in front of me. When it points to a hidden latch there, I pull on it and start when something heavy drops into my lap. I pick it up and examine it.

"A lightsaber…" I murmur in surprise. It isn't the sturdiest thing I've ever seen. In fact, it looks old and worn. Yet, something about it feels familiar. Typically, Acolytes aren't allowed anywhere near lightsabers until they've passed a certain amount of trials. Rules be damned. Knowing what I'm going to face in the tomb, I decide that this will give me an immense advantage. When I press the switch, the saber roars to life. The color makes me flinch. "Green…like a Jedi's. What are you thinking, Tremel?" As the taxi lifts into the air and zooms off towards our destination, I wonder about the Overseer's motives.

After that scolding he gave me in his office, I didn't think he would care if anyone got wind of where my next trial would be or what weapon I'd be using. Apparently, that wasn't the case. Arranging for something like this is a huge personal risk. Not only is he interfering in my trial – he is showing favoritism. He may be an Overseer, but he is not immune to reprimands from higher authorities. Perhaps he still believes that I'm worth the risk. The landscape flies by me as I try to understand my own feelings on the matter. He is clearly doing me a favor, but that doesn't mean there's anything personal about it. Now that I know what Tremel expects of me – to unseat Vemrin from his cushy position as Baras's favorite – I understand that this is just business. I wonder how different things would be if Tremel knew about my dream and the disaster it foretold. I'm sure he would abandon me at the drop of a hat. There is no room among the Sith for failure.

"We have arrived," the droid announces, snapping me out of my reverie. I open the taxi door and hop out. My boots sink into red sand. "Have a pleasant stay," the robot concludes in a cheerful voice. Before I can ask about my return journey – assuming there will be one – it turns the car around and hovers away in the opposite direction. The maneuver kicks up a cloud of dust. All I'm left with is a blast of hot air in my face and the realization that – from here on out – I'm completely and utterly alone. My heart rate accelerates. The tomb is behind me. I stand still for an unknown span of time – battling my dread, battling my insecurities, battling my fear. A clouded mind will only weaken me. If I'm in doubt about my decisions, I'll only die that much faster. I remember an exercise one of my instructors taught me back on Ziost and roll my shoulders. Letting out a long breath, I close my eyes and try to connect with my surroundings.

Peace is a lie. There is only passion…

I shift my feet, feel the sand move and give way beneath my heels. Stretching out my senses, I can feel the air bend around my body. I merge with the open sky. I breathe in the scent of wet sand and aging stone. Behind me, I feel the tomb of Marka Ragnos. Though I know that it is hidden deep within the ruins, I can sense the dark energy from it as though I'm standing at its center. As I breathe, it does too. My spine tingles. I feel the weight of the lightsaber in my dominant hand, feel it responding to my will. Then, I unstrap my warblade, gather my strength, and prepare for the fight ahead. I don't want to die. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. I will live and fulfill my destiny – the one I saw so many years ago. It doesn't matter if I have to fight alone; it doesn't matter if the entire world opposes me. I will carve out my place in the galaxy by force if I have to. With this determination at the forefront of my thoughts, I turn around.

It's time.

The moment I was called to Korriban ahead of schedule, I knew that I would have to conserve my full strength for something important. I knew that I would need to use my hidden power at least once. For that reason, I bottled up excess emotion. I didn't completely cut off my feelings. Doing so would have weakened me too much. Instead, I siphoned. Piece by piece. I bided my time. All for this moment. I touch my free hand to my heart and draw a circle on my chest. Releasing a sigh, I tilt back my head and unleash all of the barriers I've placed over my feelings for the past several weeks. I imagine the Force as a key to the prison in my mind and turn it.

If only Vemrin was here – I think. Or anyone. I imagine all of them would kill to finally know my secret. The moment I finish turning the key in my mind, I gasp. Agony assails me – the pain of a thousand different feelings and emotions. They all clamor for dominance, and I struggle to hold them in check. The sand around me begins to swirl and shift. This is dangerous and risky. I've only used this power twice before; there are many things I still don't understand about it. I look at the entrance of the ruins. Beyond the intricate carvings of the doorway, I can't see anything but viscous darkness. The beast within has sensed my presence. It calls to me, beckons me to enter. I do so, pressing the switch on my warblade to activate it.

I pass through gloomy hallways and corridors filled with vast emptiness. The carvings on the walls tell of stories that I have no interest in. Right now, all I want – all I can allow myself to feel – is the need to come out of this alive. I run faster than the wind can fly. My blades are the only source of light. That, and the glow of the Force that surrounds me. I encounter a few Shyraks and other lower beasts. When they catch sight of me, they flee. I pull on their terror, use it to feed the vortex around me. I don't blame them for being afraid. Only a handful of people have ever seen me unleash my unique abilities. All of them described me as terrifying. With as much Force and emotion that I have wrapped around me now, I am a hurricane of dread. I am the antithesis of life. I am a walking nightmare. By the time I reach the tomb of Marka Ragnos, I am full to the brim with power.

The stone doors before me are a nuisance. I blast them apart with a flick of my wrist. At last…a voice hisses from the abyssal darkness. At last, you've come…

Before me, I see an altar standing in the center of an otherwise empty room. Where is the beast? I tense and raise my blades in front of me, my legs bending in a tight crouch. Restless, I circle the first half of the enormous chamber. It's so dark here. I expect the creature to use that darkness to its advantage. Yet, no matter how long I wait, the tomb shows all signs of being vacant. In my mind, I'm screaming curses. I don't have time to wait! I want to fight. I want to finish this as quickly as possible. After all, I don't know how long the vortex of my power will last. My gift has always been as unpredictable as a sandstorm.

Maybe the beast is sleeping. Jogging further into the room, I start shouting and making as much noise as possible to draw it out. Nothing. Just an eerie silence that hurts my ears. I glance at the altar, think that maybe I should meditate. Then I laugh – a bitter, hysterical laughter. Meditate? In this state? No. Out of the question. I don't want to still my mind. I don't need to focus my anger. I am anger! I'm seething with rage, boiling with fury. I look around and want to tear down the walls, brick by brick, until I find my enemy and destroy him. Maybe if I blow this place to bits, the beast will show itself.

Such power…such strength…I've been waiting for you for decades…come, give me your essence…Finally, I see what I am searching for. I feel the significance of the scene before me, remember that this is just how it began in my dream…

The tomb of Marka Ragnos smells of death and decay – of centuries of endless suffering. Time has eradicated all life from this place save one – the monstrous guardian. The Master is dead, but the beast remains loyal, guarding and protecting its creator's treasures and secrets. It moves through the shadows as though it owns them. The dragging and shuffling of scaly flesh across stone break the silence around me. I recognize the creature as a Terentatek, a monstrosity created by the hands of Sith from the body of a rancor.

Its fury is palpable, its bloodlust potent. I should have known that a creature like this wouldn't be affected by my hurricane of fear. It towers above me. In person, it looks much more intimidating. As it shifts and moves to circle me, grey flesh shimmers in the faint glow cast on our surroundings by my lightsaber and warblade. A sweet smell wafts to my nose. I know what it is this time around. Venom. Poison. This is what kills me. I can't let it touch me – I decide. I have to give it a wide berth between attacks. The beast roars, flexes its massive claws, and snaps its jaws, glaring at me through eyes that resemble bottomless voids. I've heard its whispers in my mind for a long time now, but even without them I know what it wants.

Déjà vu.

"Blood…you thirst for my blood…" I am strong with the Force, and that makes me this creature's only chance for survival. It's starving. No Acolytes have been sent here for their trials in a long time. I recall reading about Marka Ragnos and his pet during my studies. As it circles me, I note all the scars on the monster's flesh that its master left behind. In person, I see them in clearer detail. Whip marks, laser burns, torn and carved flesh – and there, on its forehead, is Marka Ragnos's personal symbol. Had I been capable of feeling something as trifling as pity, I may have felt sorry for the thing and the life it led – full of abuse, hatred, and neglect. After Ragnos's death, it was doomed to stay here for eternity, to hover on the border of starvation and insanity.

The current situation does not warrant any sentiment, however. Nor does the vortex around me. In fact, it dampens all of my emotions and leaves my mind clear. An advantage that I will sorely need. Again, the Terentatek growls. This thing wants to tear me to shreds. My dreams – and fate – have decreed that I am to die here this day. The only way I can fight against that and win is with focus and precision. I pull on the whirlwind of Force around me, on the emotions that I have been storing away for so long. My blood catches fire; my senses sharpen. I tighten the grip on my blades. The moment it sees this, the creature attacks.

My first priority is to keep my distance from those huge poisonous claws. It understands the threat they pose and swipes at me as I circle around it. I decide to try and get a feel for how this thing moves. The first few minutes are spent on analysis. Jump forward. Attack. Claws and tusks are unaffected by my sabers. Good to know. Now, dance backwards. Defend. Soon, I begin to see a pattern – a rhythm – in its motions. Its large body limits its speed, while my vortex makes me faster with every second that it is wrapped around me. Crouching down, I pool Force in my feet then launch upwards and run across the ceiling to get a better view.

I note the shell-like scales on its back. My vision narrows in on a soft spot of flesh just beneath them. The scales are dark grey, but this spot is light pink – unprotected, vulnerable. Terentatek anatomy isn't something that I've studied extensively – or at all – but I do know the basics of how muscles work. I run into its range several times to observe how its musculature functions when it moves its arms. Every time it lashes out with an arm, I see the pink flesh move. A tendon? Perfect. What I want to do is a huge risk, but if I pull in enough Force from my energy cloak, I calculate that I could jump in and slice a few of its tendons open before it can hit me.

I just need a distraction.

Then a memory hits me. Just several hours prior, I watched the assassin in my room throw his warblade like a boomerang. I've never seen anyone do this before, but the idea intrigues me. I wish I could test it, but the motion will only work as a distraction if it has the element of surprise. I decide on my warblade. Should something go amiss, I will need the stronger weapon – my lightsaber – intact. No hesitation. No fear. Just focus. Taking a moment to gather even more Force on my feet, I leap to the side wall and use it as a ramp to accelerate into a run. Much like my vortex, I begin to circle around the Terentatek at dizzying speed. It struggles to keep up with me, and right as I see it turn to catch me, I throw my warblade in a spinning horizontal arc.

The spin isn't perfect. I know right away that it won't return to my hand. No matter. That wasn't the goal. For now, the weapon did what it was supposed to. The Terentatek is caught off-guard. It attempts to knock the warblade aside but misses. I hear the sizzling of burned flesh as the blade embeds itself into the monster's chest. No time to waste. As its reaching down to try to pry the blade out of its body, I sail upwards and use the momentum I've gathered in my run to flip forward. By the time it realizes what I'm up to, my lightsaber is already slicing a long blazing gash down its back. The beast howls in pain and fury, turning and lashing out with its tusks.

I feel fate stir. This is it. This is the moment of truth. I watch the tusks coming towards me and know that I can't dodge them. I'm fast, but not fast enough. I'm not entirely defenseless, however. Had the warblade been my only weapon, I would have been impaled. However, I still have my lightsaber. I grit my teeth and move it in front of me. The tusk connects with the powerful beam and pushes it back into me. I smell burning skin and scream as the side of the saber digs into my stomach. The force of the blow throws me back. I manage to summon up enough strength to roll in order to avoid dying from the impact to the ground.

I lay still, dazed and disoriented as the agony of my injury runs through me. The ground beneath me shakes and trembles. My breathing is coming in short, pained, gasps. With a groan, I turn my head. The Terentatek is thrashing about. It's right side is completely useless. Blood runs like a river down its back. Everything feels far away – the monster, it's howling, everything. I know that I have to get up, to finish it, but my limbs feel as heavy as lumps of Mandalorian iron. I'm still in control of my mind, however, and I try to assess the extent of my injuries to the best of my ability. I raise my head as far as I can and look down at my body.

The lightsaber singed a long, thick, line down the middle of my stomach, burning through the armor on my jacket. It managed to hit my hand, too, and burned a gash into my wrist. The majority of the impact was absorbed by my armor. Thank the Stars. When I think about how close I came to losing my hand, I flinch. These injuries aren't life threatening though. What I need to know is if the poison on the tusk got into my system. I look again, but all I can see are burns from my saber. It seems that the blade – though it hurt me – also shielded me. It takes me a moment, but I feel the vortex of my power still spinning around me. During the confusion, I lost my focus and nearly let it go. Now that I can concentrate again, I pull it back. The power is almost spent. It's weaker than before. Much weaker. I probably only have enough juice for one more strong assault. Somehow, knowing that I'm nearly out of time gives me the last boost of determination I need to get back up.

As I roll to my feet, I summon my lightsaber into my hand and activate it. The Terentatek sees me recover and roars, spraying saliva and venom all over the walls. I recognize this as a last ditch effort to intimidate me. Now that I'm on higher ground, I can see that the wound I inflicted on it is more severe that I thought. That pink flesh on its back must have been more than a tendon. Blood seeps from the gash there, coating the creature's back and pooling all over the ground. When it walks towards me, it stumbles. I could probably just outlast it if I wait long enough – I think, imagining it bleeding to death. But, no. This is my moment of glory. This is my victory. My triumph over fate.

Impossible…impossible…I hear the beast moan in my thoughts.

I approach it from its wounded side, and although it tries to turn so I don't have the upper hand, it's slowed and weakened by blood loss and pain. Something on the ground catches my eye. It's my warblade, snapped in half and broken. It has been a faithful companion, and it likely saved my life. But, right now I don't have time to mourn its loss. Just as I make this decision, the beast comes at me with another swipe of its claws. Too slow. I dodge back then jump up onto its hand. It tries to shake me off, but I spring forward and land on its shoulder. As soon as I'm within range, I go for its throat. With a shout – or maybe it's a scream – of fury, I embed my lightsaber into its neck and run across to the other shoulder. As I drag the saber behind me, blood spews forth in gushing hot fountains. I make a glorious mess as I slit its throat and jump back down to the ground. The Terentatek doesn't even have enough life left to roar. It wavers on its feet for a moment before dropping to the floor in a lifeless heap.

Just in time. The whirlwind around me weakens then disappears. The beast is dead, and I'm still standing. I wonder what this means for my future. Coughing to clear my lungs of the dust the monster's body kick up when it fell, I move towards it. Grabbing the tip of one of its curved horns in my free hand, I use my lightsaber to detach it from the head. It comes away mostly clean aside from several bits of dangling grey flesh. Tremel wasn't specific about how I would prove that I'd killed the beast. I figure a trophy like this will be undeniable proof of my glorious achievement. No one would be able to say a word against me.

Then, just as I think that I may have made it out of this ordeal with fairly little consequence, my knees give way. I only have a moment to try and understand what's happening before the worst pain that I've ever felt consumes my skull. I spiral downwards into what I can only describe as sheer madness. After that, my thoughts come in fragments split into different voices.

What's happening? It hurts! Make it stop. So much pain…What's going on? This must be the backlash from your powers. My head is going to explode. If I don't…Why is everything spinning? You should have considered that this would happen…do something quickly or I'll go mad. I need to…This is the price you must pay for being what you are…stand up and get out of here. I can't stay…Why is everything on fire?…here or I'll be vulnerable. Fire. Such beautiful, horrible flames. I need to get away. Flames just like the ones that burned Father alive. You can't let anyone see you like this!

My vortex has collapsed. All the emotions that spun around inside of it are now turned against me. I can feel tears running down my face. My body is trembling with violent spasms. In the distance – somewhere far away in the realm of sanity – I can hear myself sobbing. Through this acidic fog, I struggle to crawl somewhere and hide. I'm no stranger to this. It will pass. In time. But until then, I'm completely and utterly incapacitated. I slither on hands and knees through dust and blood-soaked sand. Each movement costs me all of my willpower. Forcing my limbs to move is a task equivalent to wrestling with smoke. Each command I give my body is as intangible as air. I go as far as I can before my body spasms and I curl into a fetal position.

My home is burning. Please, leave me in peace. Stop being a coward. Everything is burning. Everyone is dying. I don't want to see this. Peace is a lie. There is only passion. So many screams. My family. Please, no! I don't want to relive these memories. Through passion, I gain strength. It's all their fault. All their fault. They must pay. Through strength, I gain power. They took everything from me. That scum. That scum will pay for what they've done. Through power, I gain victory. I will avenge my sorrow. I will carve my justice into their flesh. Yes…Through victory, my chains are broken. I will have vengeance! The Force shall free me.

As I fight with everything I have to regain my sanity, my surroundings come back into focus. I say a silent thank you to whatever divine entity is bothering to listen. I've made it out of the abyss. But, I'm weak. My body will not obey me. Anyone – even a Force-blind untrained child – could kill me now. Squash me like a bug. This incident has cemented Tremel's warning to me. No one must ever know about my gift, especially not the curse that comes with it. I cannot trust anyone with this knowledge, for I know that it will be used against me. In my arrogance, I thought I could control it. Now I see that it may take me years to master this power – if I ever master it at all. Even to attempt it is a risk all its own, for every time that I fall into this hell, I risk being trapped there permanently.

I look up and see that I've managed to crawl under the stone altar at the center of the room. The space is tight and makes me claustrophobic. It takes me longer than I would like, but I manage to maneuver myself out and get to my feet. My knees tremble as I walk over to the horn I severed earlier and pick it up. I search for my lightsaber and call it into my hand. I must look horrible, but a part of me insists that I can blame it on the ordeal of fighting the tomb's guardian. Before I leave the tomb for the last time, I glance back at the dead body of the creature. My back straightens.

With this, I am one step closer to becoming Sith.

I trudge through the red sand towards the Academy as fast as I can. Each step is painful. Hours of stomping and shuffling over dunes has rubbed my heels raw. My armored boots are built for combat, not intense desert hiking. In the oppressive heat of midday, my skin blisters. The sun's scalding rays rain down on me without mercy, boiling my skin like overheated metal. I'm drenched in sweat, filthy sand, and Terentatek blood. My throat is swollen; I don't recall the last time I was this thirsty. Hungry, dehydrated, and exhausted, I can bet that I look nothing like a proud Sith right now.

At least I've still got the strength to hold onto my precious trophy. The horn that I severed from my kill in the tomb of Marka Ragnos is heavy and has been slowing me down on my hike, but I refuse to leave it behind. It is a symbol of my victory – my triumph, my success. Common sense dictates that I leave it behind. It's slowing me down and only adding to my problems right now. However, my pride disagrees, insisting that I hold onto it. I must bring it back; I must show everyone what I've accomplished and assert my superiority. As I walk, the horn digs a deep groove in the sand. Sweat transforms my armor from a comfortable cocoon of safety into itchy and heavy webbing that restricts my movement. I would throw off my jacket if I wasn't so paranoid that something was going to attack me out here. Korriban's open sands and vast plains are no less fraught with danger than its tombs and catacombs.

I'm spoiled by the Academy taxis. Free transport between trials and various miscellaneous tasks was something that I always took for granted. Surprising, for we did not have such luxuries back at Ziost. We trekked everywhere on foot. Here though, no one ever ventures out to the farthest corners of Academy grounds without a taxi. I never really understood how crucial they were to the Acolytes in this harsh ecosystem until now. With some relief, I approach a large bit of broken wall and take refuge in the shade for a moment. As I've done every chance I could since I started my hike, I reach into my jacket and pull out my holocommunicator.

I've tried calling Tremel over and over again without success. It's almost as though he's fallen off the face of planet. Surely he couldn't be so angry that he is ignoring my calls on purpose. After all, he's the one that has the most to lose in this entire endeavor. Useless thing! I grit my teeth and raise my arm, fully prepared to throw my holocom as far away from me as I can. Only a stray bit of logic stops me. Something is wrong. Tremel wouldn't abandon me out here without good reason. He's too invested in my success to drop me now. Something's happened to him. That's the only explanation. My thoughts drift, and I shake my head to clear the cobwebs blocking me from thinking clearly. I'm not helpless. I have the Force - the strongest weapon in the galaxy - as my ally! I'm not helpless. I look around me at emptiness of the desert - at the unknown number of kilometers I have yet to hike. I'm not helpless. If I can just focus on the task at hand...

But I'm so thirsty...if only I could find some water. Any water. I don't care how dirty it is...

I'm furious with my lack of self-control, my inability to hold on to rational thought. Where is my focus? Where is my sense of purpose? It's been this way since I left the tomb. I survived the battle and managed to recover from the side effects of using my powers, but I can still feel the vortex on the edge of my thoughts - lurking, stalking, reminding of the painful memories I saw during the time I was incapacitated. I thought I'd left the terror of the battle and its chaotic aftermath behind, but I haven't. Periodically, I stop and clutch at my chest as images from this morning return to haunt me. Only hours ago, I was certain that I was going to die. I'm still alive, but it almost feel like I'm living on borrowed time. Or maybe I'm already dead and all of this is just a dream...The longer I spend in this wretched desert, the more realistic this possibility becomes. Now that I've cooled my head in the shade for a few minutes, however, I realize how ridiculous that theory is.

I can't afford to break for too long. Dehydration is doing more than disorienting me. The hunger, I can bear. Not the thirst. I grow weaker every hour that I'm denied water. My tongue feels so swollen that I can barely swallow what little saliva my body can still produce. The horn is getting heavier and heavier. At this rate, I won't be able to handle whatever trouble is waiting for me at the Academy. Fortunately, when I crest over the next dune, I see the main Academy buildings in the distance. They look dark and imposing from here, a black spot that contrasts heavily with its bright surroundings. Heat waves shimmer in front of me as I drag myself towards my destination. Slowly. So slowly. I focus all of my will into putting one foot in front of the other. It takes nearly another hour before I feel concrete under my boots instead of sand. Just as I'm about to drop my trophy and sigh in relief, someone grabs the back of my jacket and pulls, throwing me off balance. Instantly, I'm alert and ready to defend myself – to kill if necessary. As I twist around, I reach into my jacket and start to pull out my lightsaber. The sight of green eyes and an innocent face stops me.

"What are you doing here?" the girl in front of me whispers. My mind reels; I'm surprised. I was expecting Vemrin or one of his lackeys. This Acolyte has no band on her arm to mark her as such, but she looks vaguely familiar. I examine her from top to bottom. She's taller than me; not unusual, I suppose. Most of the Acolytes I've met are. Her hair is a dark auburn and tied back into a high ponytail. Her clothes have seen better days. It's clear she hasn't been as fortunate at finding armor as I have. Killing her now would be simple. Her guard is down. She doesn't look like much of a threat. Simple. So simple. Like a knife sliding through silk. One less threat. One less enemy - I reason through the numbing haze that hovers over my thoughts. Then I can go to my quarters and find some water...take off this itchy armor...wash off her blood in the shower…

"You shouldn't be out here," she says, reaching out and touching my shoulder. The contact is unwelcome. I despise being touched.

"Let go of me or lose that arm," I threaten her, barring my teeth.

"Oh," she glances down at her hands and quickly withdraws. I follow her motions, noting the way she favors her right arm, the way she shifts her weight to favor her left leg. If she attacks, I know which direction to dodge first. "Is that horn from a beast? I didn't know there were such large creatures around here." The girl blinks at me as though she's waiting for me to speak. I wonder if she is able to sense the dangerous direction my thoughts have taken. Her demeanor is open – almost relaxed. I reach out and try to get a feel for her emotions. No killing intent – just confusion and concern. This gives me pause. Concern? From a fellow Acolyte? For the moment, my killing instinct slides back into remission. Curiosity takes its place. That, or common sense. With how tired I am, I can't really tell the difference.

"Who are you?" My voice comes out sounding weaker than I'd like. My throat is still scratchy. I'm dying for a sip of water. I look towards the part of the building that houses the Acolyte's quarters and imagine myself submerging my entire body under a cold shower. I can almost taste the water on my tongue and sway on my feet. My fantasies are interrupted, however, when I see a group of Dark Honor Guards emerge from the top of the stairs that lead to the Academy proper. They are marching in formation, their movement suggesting purpose and focus. I've never seen them marching like that. Are they coming this way? The thought requires the kind of attention that I can't devote to it in my current state. Almost in the same instant that this concern emerges, it recedes back into the abyss of my mind.

"Oh no," the girl whispers. Her gaze moves behind me to look at...what was it that I was just looking at again? "Please. You must go before they see you here." Her words confuse me. Concern – pure and real – accents every syllable. But, why would an Acolyte feel anything but resentment towards another Acolyte? Then it hits me. I've met this girl before. She looks so familiar. I desperately rummage through my memories, trying to recall where I've seen her before.

"Who are you?" I repeat after clearing my throat.

"You don't remember me," she ventures. There's no surprise in her tone. "I wouldn't expect you to. We met a while ago…on Ziost." The girl shuffles her feet and looks uncertain about something.

"Ziost?" I repeat, urging her to continue. Now I search in a different part of my memories. I would rather not. Ziost held nothing but terrible experiences for me.

"We shared a wall in the Acolytes' quarters. You were on the top bunk, and I was below you." Her words trigger a memory – faint and blurry. I recall training with this girl. There's someone else, too. A tall young man with broad shoulders and a large jaw. What was her name? I frown, wondering why I would even care. As it has been prone to do the past half a day, my mind begins to wander. My thoughts return to the cold nights on Ziost – to the flimsy bunks and uncomfortable mattresses of the Acolytes' quarters. I imagine that my eyes grow misty as I finally recall –

"Thana?" I try to break the memory of her down further to remember more, but she distracts me.

"You do remember," she smiles. The expression does something odd to me, touches a softness in my heart that hasn't been disturbed in a long time. I almost smile back, but stop myself just in time. Since when am I so relaxed around my competition? "Anyway, we need to leave before they see you."

"Who?" I ask, glancing around the courtyard.

"The Dark Honor Guard. They are looking for you. Haven't you heard? The whole Academy is abuzz with the news."

"For me? Why?" My answer arrives in the form of half a dozen of the Academy's guards. How they managed to sneak up on me is a phenomenon that I blame on my general exhaustion and disorientation. Then again, it's not like I was expecting them to be a threat. The Dark Honor Guard doesn't usually interfere in Acolyte activity unless someone from the Dark Council is personally involved. All of them surround us in less time than it takes to blink. The girl who tried to warn me is pushed aside. Thana tries to say something in protest, but one of the guards pulls her back. I try to follow her with my eyes, but soon all I can see is a wall of crimson. Each guard is already tall, but with their ornate helmets, they look even larger. Each man resembles a crimson tower that blots out the sun. I can't see their faces through these helmets, so I reach out to try and sense their emotions. As usual, they are stoic and neutral – like living statues. The afternoon sun makes their armor gleam. I saw a group of mutant Tuk'ata massacred by one of these Sith once. Their skills are nothing to scoff at. Underestimating their abilities would be a mistake. So, I maintain a neutral stance. One man, presumably their leader, points his lightsaber at me.

Put that away before I rip you apart– The threat hovers on the tip of my tongue. I barely restrain myself from speaking it aloud. Being intimidated like this doesn't sit well with me. The closer they get to me and the more they tighten the circle of bodies around me, the angrier I get. I feel cornered, helpless. My hand is itching to go for my lightsaber and defend myself. I want to lash out.

Calm down! Think. This isn't an educational sparring session. These men are highly skilled, and they won't hesitate to kill.

I take a deep breath. Logic dictates that this isn't an ordinary prank arranged by Vemrin and his gang. Nobody has control over the Dark Honor Guard except for the Dark Council and those with equal authority. Coupled with Tremel's mysterious silence, this looks serious. I could very well be in a lot of trouble, and any resistance that I show here could very well be used against me. This thought takes me back to the unregistered taxi I took nearly half a day ago to reach my trial. Did they know about Tremel arranging that for me? Could this have something to do with that? It's a good thing I've kept my new lightsaber hidden.

"Acolyte, you will follow us," the leader commands.

"Oh whose authority do you stop me like this?" I demand to know, raising my chin.

"On that of the Dark Council. You will follow, Acolyte."

"And if I don't?" I grind out. I'm so tired that I almost don't care if they lock me up for refusing to obey. At least prisons have water and shade. The guard's lightsaber inches closer to my face, but I stand my ground. Finally, a set of emotions breaks through the guard leader's stoic demeanor. I sense confusion and hesitation. Only fools defy the orders of the Council, and he's certain that I don't look like a fool. This man – just like Thana – seems familiar. Something about his presence, the way the Force bends around him. At last, the realization dawns on me. I've met this leader before, though recalling his name proves impossible. Once, I did a favor for him by bringing him his dead son's effects after finding his body in one of Korriban's tombs. We'd shared a few words. I wonder if one such favor will warrant another.

"If the Dark Council wishes to see me, I will – of course – respectfully obey. However, there is the matter of my appearance. If the Council has no qualms about seeing me in this state," I gesture towards my filthy clothes, "then I will follow you. I'm certain that they would rather see me when I'm more presentable." My appeal is weak. I know. But maybe – just maybe – something won't go wrong today.

"The Council demands your presence immediately," one of other guards decrees. The leader holds up his hand. The gesture is like a ray of hope. Has he recognized me?

"I won't run," I assure him. I feel him waver and step closer, lowering my voice so that only he can hear me. "You can escort me to my quarters and stand guard while I change. But, please, I at least need a drink of water."

It goes against everything I believe in to beg anyone for favors, but doing so this time seemed inevitable. At the very least, showing some humility helped me to convince the leader of the Dark Honor Guard to allow me a brief reprieve. Still, the guards don't allot me much time for luxuries. They escort me to my quarters as I requested, but don't wait long enough for me to change. I only manage to down a flask of water and wipe the sweat and grime off my face with cold water and a towel before the leader grips my elbow and insists that I follow him immediately. I frown, but I obey. This will have to do for now. At the very least, I feel somewhat more capable of rational thought. My senses feel a bit sharper than they did outside.

The guards march me down long hallways and up into a locked elevator. The leader presses his hand to a special sensor to activate it, pushing me back when I lean in to see how it works. Naturally, I'm anxious. But, I'm also curious. I've never been in this part of the Academy building before. As far as I know, no Acolyte has ever been permitted to speak in front of the Dark Council. Though I have yet to know the reason for their summons, I still feel thrilled at the thought. I wonder what the Council is like. They rule our Empire next to the Emperor, so they must be powerful. What will their Force feel like? Will I be able to sense their emotions just like I can with everyone else? I look down at my trophy. Will they be impressed? I label the thought childish, but I can't help myself.

"We have arrived. Acolyte, you will follow me into the waiting room and remain there until you are summoned. Is that understood?"

"Yes," I nod. The leader walks with me down a smaller corridor, where he opens a set of double doors to what appears to be a large lounge. Before I can say anything else, he shoves me forward and slams the door behind me. I hear the lock click into place. At first, I blink a few times until my eyes adjust to the rather bright light here. I take in the luxurious decor, so different from the sparse furnishings in my own quarters. Obsidian and onyx make up most solid surfaces of desks and sprawling tables. I can see my own reflection in the black marble beneath my feet.

"S'that her? S'that the reason we're in here? She looks horrible," a young woman's voice intones. I start, whirling around to see several pairs of eyes looking at me with mixed emotions. I was convinced that I would be waiting here alone, so seeing anyone else is unexpected.

"By the Force, child. You're alive…" Before me sit three people. I don't recognize the blue Twi'lek girl who spoke first, but I do know the other two. The first is my Overseer – the man I've been inwardly cursing at all day. Tremel is kneeling on the ground, his hands bound with what I recognize as Force shackles. His face is grey, his demeanor like that of an old man. Beside him sits my ex-officer prisoner, Malavai Quinn, his hands bound tightly behind him. The right side of his face is swelling up from a fresh bruise. I decide to focus on my Overseer first.

"Tremel?" Now completely confused and even more concerned about my situation, I rush forward and kneel down beside him. I've been storing up a thousand different things to say to this man all day, ranging from questions to the blackest of insults. However, seeing him shackled like this scatters all of those intentions to the four winds. I opt for trying to get information first. "What's going on here? Why are you - "

"No time now for questions, girl. Where have you been? Why did you miss the taxi I sent for you?" His tone sets me on edge. He sounds almost…like he's accusing me of something. My pride rebels.

"I didn't," I reply with more than a little hint of irritation. "I took the taxi that was sent, went to the tomb, and completed the task you gave me." With a smug smile, I hold up my trophy. "I've slain the beast and completed my trial."

"It doesn't matter anymore," he says dejectedly. I've never heard him use this tone of voice. Hearing this man sound so remorseful is unnerving. He's not a young man, but he's never looked this frail and old before. His wrinkles look much more pronounced, as though he's aged over ten years in the past day.

"What's going on? Why have they bound you like this? Are you in trouble with the Council?"

"I'd say being brought here in chains is a strong sign that we're all in trouble," the Twi'lek beside us drawls. I glance at her briefly and note the shock collar on her neck. A slave? Here? And she dares to speak like this to me? She should be falling over herself to grovel at my feet. Her chin is tilted up, though, almost like she finds nothing wrong with saying such bold words in front of her betters. The sight makes me sneer. I hate her already.

"Silence, slave. Who do you think you are, speaking to a Sith without permission?" Instead of cowering, the girl rolls her eyes.

"Great, just what I need. More high and mighty Sith to tell me what to do."

"How dare you - " Tremel stops me when I start to get to my feet to knock some sense into the petite Twi'lek.

"Not now, child. Listen to me. We don't have much time. Do you remember what we talked about in my office after your trial with the prisoners?" My dark impulse to beat the Twi'lek senseless is momentarily overridden by Tremel's plea.

Focus.

I reign in my anger, sit back down, and try to recall our conversation that day. "Your impassioned speech about the Empire?" I venture.

"Indeed. Remember, that is all that holds any significance here. No matter what the Council tells you or what trials they place before you – remember that you must succeed. Nothing else matters. Not the things they say, not the rules of this place…" he hesitates for a moment. "Not even my life."

"Stop rambling and tell me what's going on here," I demand.

"The Council will try us both as traitors to the Empire," he finally admits. His words have more of an effect on me than I dare to show. My blood seems to freeze. Cold sweat breaks out all over my body. Traitors? Treason? The words bounce around inside my head for a moment.

"Traitors? Why?" I keep my face neutral, suddenly concerned that the Council might be monitoring us. "We haven't done anything wrong," I insist.

"They have evidence to the contrary. I don't know where they found so much to use against us, but…" He brings up his bound hands and grips my sleeve. I suppress the urge to jerk away from his touch and succeed only because his eyes are full of yet another emotion I've never seen him show – fear. "There is one hope. One chance. You must deny all of their accusations. Deny that you had any part in my affairs. You are an Acolyte – an obedient lapdog who would do anything to impress me."

I shake my head. "What are you talking about? Lap dog?" I bristle at the implication. "Tremel…I don't understand." I'm confused, disoriented. Of course I'll deny any accusations of treason. Nothing that Tremel and I did or planned went so far against protocol except, perhaps, for the recent taxi and the Jedi lightsaber hidden in my jacket. "I've done nothing wrong," I hiss at him and rip my arm out of his death grip. "Whatever schemes you've concocted here, old man…they are your own – not mine."

"That's right. Just like that. Use your anger. Make them feel your sincerity. They will try to use me against you. You must abandon me. Do you understand?" Tremel speaks like a man who knows that these words will be his last. For some reason, the thought of him dying unnerves me. I'm not emotionally attached to him, but I admit that seeing him die would be unpleasant. In all the time since I discovered my Force sensitivity, this man alone has treated me with some semblance of decency. He isn't my friend, but I have a feeling that our fates are tied together just the same.

If the Council decides to execute an Overseer, what's to stop them from choosing the same fate for me – a mere Acolyte? I think back to my trek through the desert, to the battle before it. I escaped one kind of death only to fall into yet another trap. Hopelessness couples with foreboding to erode all of the strength and calm that I've managed to wrap around myself after the refreshing drink in my room. My shoulders sag. I'm tired. So tired. Naturally, I want to fight against this fate, but I don't know where to start. Facing a tangible enemy is much easier than battling intrigues among those such as the Dark Council. I rake a hand through my hair.

"You sound so certain about the outcome of this trial," I say, acidic dread eating at the walls of my gut.

"I've known that this day would come. I hoped that I could avoid it – that we could both come out of this victors. I had no idea that my plan would backfire like this. I've been beaten at my own game."

"Oh, I get it," the Twi'lek chimes in. I turn to see that her eyes are full of mischief. How I wish I had the remote from her shock collar in my hand so that I could teach her a lesson in manners. "You two are like this, huh?" She holds up her tied hands in front of her and crosses her fingers. "Two evil Sith, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S - "

"If you don't muzzle that mouth, Twi'lek, I swear I'll spill your guts all over this floor, marble be damned," I threaten. The ease with which this girl has gotten under my skin disturbs me.

"Oooh, scary. I'm sooo scared. Look at me shaking," she taunts. My mask almost breaks. Almost. That impulse comes back again – the desire to see her blood staining the beautiful marble. I mustn't let this slave unbalance me. Not now, when I'm moments away from facing the Dark Council. I must concentrate only on that – only on finding a way out of this mess. For now, I decide that killing her wouldn't work to my advantage. I don't know why she's here, but the Council wouldn't bring a mere slave into their presence unless she was important somehow. So, I settle for a smaller punishment. Raising my left hand, I gather Force in my palm and push. The Twi'lek goes flying, hitting the wall on the opposite side of the room with a thud. The blow won't be enough to knock her out, but at least it will be painful. I take a moment to enjoy the agonized sound that escapes her.

"Thank you, My Lord. Perhaps you've bought us at least a few moments of peace," Quinn intones with genuine relief. I'd almost forgotten he was here, too. His candor surprises me, as does the hostility that I that I sense him directing towards the slave girl – a total stranger. My eyes shift to Tremel again. There are more questions that I want to ask him, but the fear that we are being watched stops me. I examine the walls and corners around me, looking for cameras. Who knows why they've put us all together in this room? Perhaps they are waiting for one of us to slip up and admit to something. Tremel's already said enough for both of us. My arms drop to my sides. I hate feeling this helpless. Finally, I turn to the ex-officer. If possible, he looks worse than the last time I saw him.

"And why have you been brought here, prisoner?" I inquire.

"I don't know, My Lord." Frustrated with his response, I frown. If he doesn't know, then more surprises are coming my way. Not good. "I was being interrogated by the Inquisitors when the Dark Honor Guard stepped in and said that the Dark Council demanded my presence."

"The Dark Council demanded your presence?" I echo. "You? A prisoner?" I fold my arms across my chest. "And you didn't think this was strange?"

"I was hardly in a position to question my fortune, My Lord," he quips. "I was just glad that they took me away from the tender mercies of the one interrogating me." His lips curve up in a faintest hint of a smile. This doesn't make sense to me. How does this miserable man manage to smile at this ridiculous situation? He should be broken by now – a pathetic lump of flesh that only knows how to shed tears and beg for mercy. Yet here he is – finding humor in a humorless ordeal. I find this completely inappropriate. Perhaps the torture has addled his wits. At least he doesn't sound dead like he did that one night. When I fail to respond to his words, his smile fades. "Forgive me if I've displeased you, My Lord. I shouldn't have made light of something so serious."

"So when are you going to throw him against a wall for making a joke?" the Twi'lek grumbles from the other side of the room. Fortunately, I'm saved from breaking my earlier resolution not to kill her when the chamber doors open. The leader of the Honor Guard strides in, carrying a pair of Force shackles. I don't have to read his intentions to know that they are meant for me. The hair on the back on my neck stands on end. I've worn those things before. Back on Ziost, wearing them was only one flavor of punishment that the Overseers dealt out. As the man approaches me, I work hard to reign in my panic. My throat constricts and I shudder. I scoot back, a part of me screaming to bolt and put as much distance between myself and those shackles as possible. If he puts those on me, I'll be entirely helpless.

"Since when do you shackle Acolytes?" I challenge him, struggling to maintain my composure. The guard's gaze falls to my trophy – discarded and dirty on the floor. Bringing it here seems so foolish now. This whole time, I was worried about my ego and my pride when I should have been concerned for my life.

"The Dark Council has been informed of your success in slaying the beast of Marka Ragnos. They insisted on the use of these as a precaution."

"Ha!" the Twi'lek laughs. "Why don't you just come out and say it? They're afraid of her – " the girl's rant comes to a grinding halt when arcs of red electricity jump out of the collar on her neck and surround her throat. I smell burning skin. and watch her writhe on the floor for a moment. "Ouch! Jeez, go easy on that button, will ya?" I glance at the leader and note that he's holding a small remote. Finally. Some justice.

"Silence, slave," the leader commands. When he looks down at me, I sense his intent. I fight to keep my back straight, to keep from flinching, as he leans down and pulls me to my feet. Two other guards flank me from both sides and wrap their meaty hands around my arms to hold me still. This is it – the reason I despise being touched. As soon as I'm held against my will, memories resurface – horrible recollections of cruelty, torture, and pain. I watch the leader bring the shackles closer. His image wavers. My traumatized mind brings back a different scene – one with a small child sobbing at a man's feet as he smiles.

"No. You can't do this," I protest, my voice hoarse. As though sensing my distress, the Force responds in kind. I feel the vortex inside of me calling to be unleashed.

"You will cooperate, Acolyte," one of the guards demands, tightening his grip until my arm feels like it will break.

"Let go of me," I mumble, feeling my control over the vortex slipping. Not much time has passed since my last use of my strange powers. I haven't gathered nearly enough emotions. Still, I should have enough to tear at least one of these men apart. Something moves in the corner of my vision. Looking down, I can see black shadows gathering around my hands. Like gossamer, they slide up to wrap around my entire body. The sensation resembles that of being slowly submerged – one centimeter at a time – into a pool of cold water. A third guard rushes over to hold me still. The lights in the room flicker. The leader hesitates, taking a step back.

"Quickly, put the shackles on her, Naman!" the new arrival shouts. Too late. Much too late. I'm already drowning in pleasure at the thought of ripping these men to shreds. In my madness, I imagine that their faces all look like that one man – the tormentor in my memories who stands over the little girl with red hair. I can hear her crying – can hear myself crying in my mind – and it tears at my pride. How dare they? How dare anyone touch me?

"Get your hands off me!" It's not a scream. It's not a command. It's something else entirely. The guards try to hold on to me, but a surge of pure Force sends them all flying. Only their thick armor saves them from being crushed as they hit the walls. The room shakes. Some of the decorations hanging on the walls crash to the ground. Mirrors shatter; frames break; tables fall over. The temperature in the room drops until I can see steam wafting from my lips as I breathe. The guards groan as they try to get to their feet. I haven't killed any of them. Yet. My eyes narrow on the leader – the one who wants to shackle me. Somehow, he recovers quicker than the others. When he makes to charge towards me, I prepare to unleash my vortex. First, I have to hold him still. Let's see how he likes being held against his will. I don't even have to direct the Force with my hand this time. It responds to my thoughts and slams into the leader's body, pinning him to the wall behind him.

"You must not!" Tremel shouts at me. His plea breaks through whatever trance I was in. I'm still seething with rage and hate, but I turn to look at him. I see the Twi'lek and Quinn lose color in their faces. It's the blue of Quinn's eyes that catches my attention now. He's scooting away from me.

"And why not?" I hear myself reply. "Are you afraid? You should be..."

"You must not do this now," Tremel repeats with more enthusiast, holding up his bound hands. "Control your anger. Control your emotions. Remember what I taught you. Remember your purpose." Why doesn't he cower like the others? Why doesn't he just give up? In those shackles, he's as good as Force-blind. He can't possibly understand anything. Yet, he presses on. His eyes look right into mine. It's enough to give me pause. I feel the Force holding the guard leader in place recede. I don't hesitate for long, but my brief moment of indecision is enough for someone as skilled as the leader of the Dark Honor Guard.

I cry out when he slams bodily into my side and throws me to the ground. I scramble to my feet and raise my hand to try and lash out at him with Force, only to gasp when he clamps the shackles around my wrists. It takes all of my resolve to keep my knees from buckling beneath me. A heavy weight settles on my chest; an iron band constricts my lungs. My vision grows blurry. All the colors around me seem to turn grey. Breathing becomes nearly impossible. The room grows smaller and smaller, collapsing on me until I feel like an ant trapped inside a box. The vortex that has been feeding me strength and power sputters and fades.

The guard stares down at me through the black opening in his helmet. He looks even bigger to me now – even more threatening. When I reach out to sense his emotions, I find…nothing. The shackles are locking the Force – my only ally – away from me. As it slips out of my grasp, I rush to recapture it. Doing so is as difficult as catching a squirming fish. The energy writhes, dodges, and avoids me, running through my fingers like water. In the end, I'm left with a vast emptiness in my soul – a scar much like a meteor crater in the earth. The leader of the Dark Honor Guard sees me sway on my feet. He grips my elbow and pulls me towards the door.

"Take care of the others," he commands the rest of the guards. Most of them are still trying to pick themselves up off the floor. "I will lead this one to the Council Chambers." I quickly lose sight of the others when he shoves me into the hallway and slams the door behind us. He grips me by the front my jacket and brings my face closer to his, lowering his voice. "I don't know what your intentions are, and I don't care. Try that again and next time I will take your life, benefactor or not."

"Benefactor?" I ask, my voice weak and frail. I tremble in his grasp. This hallway is so small – so narrow. It's even harder to breathe here, and the man before me looks terrifying in that armor. I have no doubt that he could crush me now. All it would take is a flick of his wrist and my neck would snap. And there's nothing I can do to stop him.

"You are fortunate. Someone on the Dark Council has taken a personal interest in you. These shackles restrain you for now, but when the times comes, you must break free of them."

"When the times comes?" I try to keep the excitement out of my voice. To think that someone as prestigious as a Dark Council member has taken note of me seems unreal. Then his other words sink in. Break free? How is that possible when I can't summon even a shred of my normal powers?

"You will know," he replies in a low monotone. A ray of hope shines through the pall of darkness that's settled over my demeanor. I squash it down, refusing to believe that the guard's words are anything more than a sick game. For all I know, someone out there wants to see me even more miserable than I am now. What better way to break me than by giving me false hope?

The leader drags me down another set of hallways and stops in front of a massive set of double doors. I can hear voices echoing within. My heart jumps into my throat. I can't sense anything beyond – not even a tremor of emotion or presence. I'm about to walk into this room entirely blind. Whatever advantage the Force may have given me in this situation is gone now. I'm terrified. Perhaps it's better that the leader doesn't hesitate. He knocks on the door and opens it, pushing me inside. The shackles have robbed me of nearly everything that made me who I was. I am no longer a powerful, graceful, and omnipotent Sith. I am a pathetic woman who stumbles into the room and falls to her knees. The shame is unbearable. I want to hide under a rock and never show my face to anyone again.

Behind me, I hear the others brought in. As I push myself up to stand, Tremel is marched past me. At last, I'm able to focus enough to get my bearings. I examine the room and the faces of those who would judge me. The extravagance of this room is lost upon me. Instead, I think of how enormous these walls look – of how tiny I am in comparison. Just like the lounge and the hallway, these walls make me feel nauseous and claustrophobic, as though I've been shoved into a dark box without any openings for air. The Council members themselves all wear masks to hide their faces – some fancy, others frightening. Even without the Force, I can sense the tension and power in the room. These sensation press down like iron weights upon my lungs. Just like I did with the Terentatek this morning, I feel fate shift beneath my feet.

"Overseer Tremel," one of the Council members begins. As he stands from his ornate chair, his dark robes shift and shimmer in the light. His mask is blood red, carved into a grotesque face with four eyes and a mouth full of fangs. It changes his voice, makes it echo in the room. "You and your apprentice have been brought here on the high charge of treason. How do you plead?"

.

"Overseer Tremel," one of the Darths begins. His mask is blood red. "You and your apprentice have been brought here on the high charge of treason. How do you plead?" Before the steps leading up to his seat stands the leader of the Dark Honor Guard. I heard one of his subordinates call him Naman. As he stands vigil, his body is rigid as stone. I wonder why the others didn't enter with him to stand guard. Then again, the Dark Council could probably snap all of our necks with a flick of their wrists.

"I am guilty, but my apprentice is not," Tremel declares. His voice is stronger than before. No sign remains of the weary old man that I saw in the lounge. "She was merely a puppet in my game and holds no responsibility for my actions." I watch Tremel square his shoulders and straighten his spine. The tension in his body calls to me. It is not fear or humility. It is pride. Sith pride – the sort of thing I should be feeling at all times. I wonder how he is managing to retain this feeling despite the shackles on his wrists, how he always finds the strength to fight for the cause he believes in. Sith superiority, Sith purity - the Empire. Perhaps it would help if I had such a cause myself. Maybe if I believed in something so strongly, I could find the means to fight my fate with more efficiency.

"You shield your apprentice," another Darth intones. His mask is as black as his robes – a face with ornate patterns of gold etched on onyx. "But, you are a fool if you think that we will simply take your word for it." I can't sense his emotions or see the expression on his face, but I can tell that the words are spoken with disgust. To a Sith – to a Darth or even a Lord – an apprentice is a tool to advance towards power. I'm certain that he believes that Tremel should toss me aside and lay all the blame for his blunders at my feet. In fact, I'm almost certain that what Tremel is doing is unprecedented. I've never heard of an Overseer shielding an Acolyte with such resolve.

"It isn't that we won't take his word for it, Mortis," the red-masked Darth says. "It is that we cannot."

"Explain, Ravage," Darth Mortis commands. At least I'm learning to identify these men. With names, they seem less unreachable, somehow. Less menacing. I try to imagine that there is a face behind each mask, a person rather than a remorseless judge.

"There is a mound of evidence here that incriminates them both." Darth Ravage picks up a black data pad from the armrest of his chair and proceeds to read off of a list from the screen. He turns first to me then to Tremel. "These are your crimes and the evidence we have been provided. First, treason to the Empire. Second, the showing of favoritism to an Acolyte. Third…" With each new charge, my hopelessness grows until his voice becomes a drone in the back of my mind. He's naming off things that are completely unrelated to each other. However, someone managed to tie them together into a string of damning words.

The fact that mine and Tremel's holocoms only share one frequency, our private lessons in melee combat with instructors flown in from off world, the fact that I've been placed in my own separate quarters away from the other Acolytes, a credit stick – mine supposedly – that is determined to be linked to one of Tremel's personal accounts…the evidence seems endless. They've even managed to twist our late night meetings in his office into something perverse and shameful. I close my eyes and retreat deep into my thoughts.

This reality is the last place I want to be. I try to go to the one place I've always felt safe – the center of my Vortex. Here, there is always plenty of hate, resentment, anger, and rage. These emotions are the source of my strength. They empower me. However, my connection to this place is nearly nonexistent right now. The damned shackles have severed even this most intimate of bonds. I submerge myself deeper into the void, desperate to make any kind of connection with the Force. It's there, just out of my reach. As I strain to get closer to it, I feel it calling to me. Its voice is as distant as the horizon.

In my mind, I imagine that I stand on the edge of a great chasm. Beneath me is darkness and a terrible abyss. If I can cross this void, I'll be able to reach the Force – and my power – on the other side. But, the shackles keep me restrained. I try to analyze their hold on me, to see if I can break it. Naman, the leader of the Dark Honor Guard, implied that I would be able to do so when the time was right. As far as I know, this was a bad joke at my expense. But, if there's anything I've learned, it's that the Force grants infinite possibilities to its wielders. For all I know, the belief that these shackles can't be broken is just another form of propaganda meant to subjugate those held by them.

That's right. You've proven that you can fight your fate. You've proven that you can reshape your destiny. What's stopping you now?

Fear, of course. Though the emotion usually enhances my abilities, without the Force it has become my nemesis. I'm afraid of trying to cross the chasm before me; I'm afraid of falling; I'm afraid of failure. All I can do now is rail against my bonds and plead for the Force to come to my aid. Briefly, I consider using my powers to try and break out of the shackles. I don't know if it's even possible, but I'm sure that I can summon up enough emotion to trigger the Vortex somehow. If I really try, that is. If I can stop being so afraid.

Too much of a risk. You don't want that on your head right now.

I don't like it, but I have to agree with my logic and reason. I still don't know how my earlier attack on the members of the Dark Honor Guard will be judged. Perhaps I've already doomed myself. Or, perhaps I'm just waiting for this charade to be over. For now, I have no way of escape. I look at the chasm once more before I allow the vision of it to recede back into my subconscious. As I float back up from the darkness, I hear Darth Ravage's voice again. When will he mete out my judgment? This waiting is painful. Each word grinds on my frayed nerves. I hate this place. I hate these shackles. I hate the obsidian walls of this room which seem to be getting smaller and smaller by the second. I hate the marble that so perfectly reflects the image of my helplessness.

The doors open behind me, a sharp nerve-wracking sound. I turn to look behind me and see half a dozen of the Dark Honor Guard file into the chamber. The man in front is carrying my trophy – the Terentatek horn. Why are they bringing it in here? What could they possibly need it for? My train of thought is derailed when I see another figure enter directly behind the guards. It's another Darth, but this one isn't wearing a mask. Crimson eyes pierce through me as they look me up and down. This man is a Pureblood, his ruby red skin gleaming darker than the guards' armor. My heart skips a beat when his lips shift into an arrogant smile. I want so desperately to reach out and feel for his thoughts, his emotions, his motives. But, I can't. When I try, the Force does not respond. Who is this man? Why is he smiling at me? And why does he look like he's measuring me up?

"Vowrawn," the Darth at the back of the room says. "As usual, you are late." He is addressing the new arrival. I file the name away for later reference.

"Fashionably late, Ravage," the Pureblood drawls. He gestures dismissively in the air. "You know me."

A Dark Council member? – my mind reels. Now that I know this, everything makes sense – the man's fancy armor, his composure as he parades through the chamber, the casual way he addresses Darth Ravage, and the shudder that ghosts down my spine when he passes by me. I wonder if all Force-blinds feel this way when in the presence of a powerful Force user. The other Council members shift in their seats. Why do I get the feeling that they aren't happy to see this man? His presence is so strong that I almost fail to see the second man following him to his seat. Our eyes briefly meet as he walks by. When Darth Vowrawn sits down, this man stops on the edge of the steps, standing in a pose very similar to the one Naman took at the foot of Darth Ravage's seat. He's human, shorter in stature than Vowrawn, and dressed in simpler armor.

"This trial is almost over," Darth Ravage decrees.

"Is it?" Vowrawn asks. I can tell his surprise is fake. "And here I thought that I heard you still reading off the charges through the door."

"You were mistaken," Darth Ravage insists. "I was just about to read off the sentence."

"Let me guess. You want to execute the girl and the Overseer both." The room falls silent. I have a feeling that Vowrawn has paused on purpose. "I am here to clear up a few minor details. This child is only guilty of a single thing – total and complete obedience to her true Master." He leans back, looking as bored as though he's discussing the weather. On any other occasion, his arrogance would have irritated me. For now, though, I give him the benefit of the doubt. It almost sounds like he's defending me.

"To her Master?" Ravage looks between me and Tremel. "You mean the Overseer."

"To her true Master," Vowrawn repeats with a smirk. "Lord Qet, please step forward and explain." He gestures to the second man. The moment his name is mentioned, Qet tears his gaze away from me and bows to the Council.

"What does your apprentice possibly have to say on the matter?" another one of the Council members asks. So that's what he is. Not a bodyguard. An apprentice. That still doesn't explain why he's looking at me as though he's sizing me up.

"Well, Vengean, if you listen perhaps you'll find out," Vowrawn grins. Something about that grin disturbs me. I've always imagined Council members to be serious. Yet this man's demeanor suggests a certain candor that sets him apart from his peers. I glance between him and Lord Qet.

You'll know – Naman's voice echoes in my mind. Suddenly, I'm filled with a rush of hope. I'd thought he was being cruel, but what if his words actually held truth to them? What if this man, Darth Vowrawn, was the mysterious "benefactor" that Naman spoke of?

If that's true, then you need to focus. Be ready for anything.

Lord Qet moves to stand in front of me and crosses his arms over his chest. "This woman is my apprentice. She has been since before she arrived on Korriban. Everything that's transpired in the past weeks has been a set-up created for a single purpose – to root out this traitor to the Empire and to the Sith code." My heart sinks when he points to Tremel. The Council members all lean forward in their seats. A few remove their masks – Darth Mortis and the one I recall as Darth Vengean.

"You dare spew such lies?" Darth Ravage challenges. "It can't be." He turns to the only man in the room who dares to smile in the face of the Council's obvious anger. "Vowrawn, is this true?" I struggle to absorb what just happened. Vowrawn and his apprentice, men who I just met several minutes ago, are lying to the Dark Council to protect me. To what end?

"Naturally. Lord Qet would never lie about such a serious matter, and neither would I."

"You," Tremel suddenly cuts in. When I look at him, I see that he's glaring at me. If looks could kill, I'm sure I'd be in grave danger right now. "You betrayed me? After all I did for you..." He sounds so convincing, his voice low and full of hatred. "You were serving another Master all along?" His eyes fill with disgust. I try not to remember the Acolyte that I killed in my room. His eyes were just like Tremel's. I push against the nausea in my gut, trying not to let those memories control my emotions. But, I've never seen my Overseer so disappointed in me. The one man who I thought could be my friend now stares at me like I'm his most hated enemy. It hurts. I don't want it to, but it does. I shouldn't care. This is my chance for freedom.

Even if it's all a charade. A game. A lie.

That's when I finally understand. The pieces come together. Tremel once told me that the world of Sith was much like a game of strategy. Everything is about moves and countermoves. Each action that we take is either offensive or defensive. I didn't want to think about it too much back then. Now, however, I see it as clearly as I understand the role I'm meant to play. Yes. At last, I understand the full extent of Tremel's determination. His insanity. His sacrifice. This knowledge bolsters me like no emotion ever has. I'm ashamed of how easily I fell into despair. Just like my Overseer did at the beginning of the trial, I straighten my spine and raise my chin. Moves and countermoves – like an elaborate dance. Time to show him I'm worth it.

"You really thought I was loyal to you?" I sneer at him. "Please. Compared to my Master, you are nothing."

"All the things I taught you, all the time I spent on you and everything I risked for you…all for nothing?" His voice is hoarse now, ringing with disbelief and shock. I need to try harder, be more convincing.

"I've been wanting to kill you for so long, Tremel. Serving as your pet Acolyte was torture." That's right. Just like that. Use your anger. Make them feel your sincerity – my teacher's words mean so much more now. They lend me the support and inspiration that I need. I don't know if the shackles can stop other Force users from feeling my emotions, but I don't care. I try to summon up all the anger and disdain that I can muster.

"Apprentice," Lord Qet intones, an easy smile relaxing his features into an expression of amusement. "You can stop pretending that that toy," he points to the Force shackles on my wrist, "…has any kind of effect on you. It's time the Council knew the truth of your abilities." His eyes flash. In that same instant, I feel the shackles around my wrists deactivate. The Force rushes back to envelop me. My strength, power, and clarity of thought return with it. I realize that my Vortex has been fighting to return to me all this time. I can sense its desperation, it's anger, it's palpable fury. I know what it feels because it is an undeniable part of myself. Without it, I am nothing. With it, I am -

"Show them that you are Sith," Vowrawn commands. My pride cocoons me in warmth and vigor. As if I need his permission. Indeed, I am Sith, and I don't need anyone's approval or otherwise to mark me as a superior being. I take a deep breath and pull my hands apart, tearing the metal of the shackles like paper. The emptiness in my soul fills with life. The pain of my wounds fades away. I pull my Vortex towards the edge of my awareness, thrilled to feel it churning with renewed vigor. More. Give me more. It isn't enough. It yearns to be unleashed, to feed off my enemies. I imagine tearing off the Council's masks, imagine with a smile how they would look with their faces twisted in horror at the sight of my abilities. Oh how magnificent it would feel to see the Dark Council bowing before me, to see the Dark Honor Guard quake at my feet. More. More hatred. More darkness. I see my reflection in the marble of the floor. I am no longer a quaking girl, terrified for her life. My eyes are glowing red with power; my body is surrounded by shadows.

"Such raw power," Darth Ravage whispers behind his mask.

"Broke through the shackles..." another Darth whispers. I sense all of their emotions now – surprise, awe, confusion, and one more.

Fear.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

"Where did you find such a…?" Darth Ravage trails off as a tremor shakes the ground. My Vortex is fighting me now, demanding that I take revenge for the shame these men have caused me. It fills my head with images of me stumbling before them, of me cowering, of me lowering my head. The shame of it all in retrospect is unbearable. I grit my teeth. Despite my best efforts, I can barely hold the Vortex in check. The normal voice of reason that helps me through most tough situations is screaming in my ears, reminding me that Tremel sacrificed himself so that I would remain hidden. I may be ashamed, I may want revenge, but I must honor his sacrifice. I pull back my rage and try to soothe the storm in my chest.

"You sound surprised, Ravage," Vowrawn smirks. "Yet you know that this Sith single-handedly defeated the beast of Marka Ragnos." He points to my trophy, still held by one of the Dark Honor Guard. As though on cue, the man holds up the enormous horn for all to see. Ravage takes a step back and sits down in his chair. He pulls off his mask, finally revealing his face. He's younger than I expected; his features sport little sign of the Dark Side's corruption. Unlike Darth Vengean. The man's face is pale as a cadaver's. Black rings circle his eyes and dark veins fan out to frame his temples. His lips are a sickly shade of blue. I wonder if I will look like that one day, if this Vortex will devour me like the Dark Side has devoured this man.

"There was evidence that this claim was false," another Darth points out.

"What evidence, Jadus?" Vowrawn challenges. "An unregistered taxi? You are head of the Sphere of Intelligence. Think. The taxi had to be unregistered. I had to maintain our deception for as long as possible. All to reveal Tremel as a traitor."

"Why did you not come to me for such matters?" Darth Jadus demands. "This is my area of expertise. I could have sent an Agent. Why this deception?"

"You're just angry that you've wasted your afternoon," Darth Vowrawn replies. His flippant remark earns a few sighs from the Council. "And, honestly, I've been so preoccupied with settling certain affairs in the jungles of Dromund Kaas that I needed something to relieve my boredom." He looks pointedly at Darth Vengean. The latter remains unfazed, but there's no way that I can miss the friction between them. What's this? Another Sith game?

"Then what about the others?" another Council member insists. He is still masked, his featured hidden. His armor is designed in such a way that it looks like he has spikes protruding from his shoulders. "The court-martialed officer flown in for the Sith's trial and the Twi'lek pirate woman that was found trying to steal from our sacred tombs?"

"Darth Marr," Lord Qet begins, "I can explain that as well."

"No," Ravage interrupts him. His eyes move to me. "I want this Sith to tell us."

He doesn't believe you – I realize. Convince him. Earn your freedom. But, what should I say? I haven't the slightest clue about either prisoner, really. The only thing I know about Quinn is that he has enemies in the higher ranks of the military. I frantically run through what I can remember reading about him in the files Tremel gave me, but nothing comes to mind that might help me slip out of the noose Darth Ravage is trying to hang around my neck. And the Twi'lek…

"I'm not a pirate," she chimes in, catching my attention. "Don't lump me together with that trash. What we did wasn't always legal, but jeez…callin' me a pirate is going too far." She sounds much too cheerful for someone who is about to be sentenced to death. I see the leader of the Dark Honor Guard reach for the shock collar remote at his hip and hold up my hand to stop him. Without hesitation, I reach out and crush her throat with the Force. She gags and sputters, clawing at her skin. I give it a moment, watching in satisfaction as she contorts in agony. Finally, when I feel her lose consciousness, I let go. She drops to the ground, senseless.

"That creature is my slave," I reveal. She may be impertinent and inferior, but she's given me at least one idea. "She was assigned a part to play in all this, and I'd say she played it well. Wouldn't you, Master?" I glance at Lord Qet, hoping he'll play along. His smile is genuine, albeit filled with cruelty. His eyes rove over the slave's prone form. I wonder what will become of the Twi'lek once all of this is over. I see the way he looks at her and sense the way his gaze lingers, filling with desire. Something inside of me rebels, but I push it aside.

"Indeed," he confirms. "She was bait for the traitor."

"And the officer?" Darth Ravage prompts, reminding me that I have bigger problems than concerning myself with the fate of a Twi'lek slave. My mind rushes to come up with some kind of credible back story. I focus my attention on Quinn, try to read his body language. His eyes are burning with unspoken syllables. I can tell he understands what's going on, and I hope that he won't speak out against anything that I'm about to say. Both our lives are on the line.

"It's difficult to explain in a few words, My Lord," I say, keeping my voice neutral and even.

"Try," Darth Ravage commands, reminding me of my very first interaction with Quinn. Did I sound like he does now? Did Quinn feel the same fear that I do now?

"I, myself, wasn't fully aware of everything that my Master had planned for this man," I go on to say. Ravage frowns. His eyes narrow in suspicion. Fortunately, I am indirectly saved by Darth Mortis.

"We were told that this man is an Imperial defector," he explains. "That Tremel brought him here for your trials to spare him from execution seeing as he was working for him the entire time." Good. Something you can use. I hesitate, for what I'm about to say will implicate Quinn in a way that his career may never be able to recover from. Do it. It's your only chance to save yourself. If you stumble now, there is no hope.

"Well?" Darth Ravage urges me to continue, clearly impatient. I steel myself for my reply –

"You were not misled on this point, My Lords. This man was, indeed, planning on defecting. He has been serving under Tremel for some time. My Master knew that he has enemies in the Military. We arranged for his court martial knowing that Tremel would try to rescue him. Though, we did not anticipate that he would be brought to Korriban. That part was simply good fortune."

"Is this true, soldier?" Darth Mortis asks the ex-officer directly. I don't see Quinn rebel. I feel it. His eyes darken to a blue-black hue and his face flushes with shame. I can tell that being accused of treason is truly insulting and disgraceful to him. Though I cannot afford the luxury of pity right now, I feel sorry for him nevertheless. I wonder how we must look to him, playing our power games while the Empire fights a Cold War with the Republic. I wonder if we seem selfish and shallow. I'm not sure why it would bother me at all, but the thought that I've just lost his respect irritates me. I watch him nod to confirm my words and hope that he understands that this is for the greater good.

"Fine, then," Darth Ravage cuts in. "In that case, we must decide what is to be done with the Overseer."

"A duel," Darth Vowrawn suggests, "to the death. Between the traitorous Master and his false Apprentice." I can't stop myself from gasping and turning my gaze to the Pureblood. What he's suggested is the epitome of cruelty. He knows we are both innocent. He knows that Tremel and I have a connection. Yet he insists that I kill him with my own hands.

Think! It's better this way. You should not have formed a connection in the first place. As a Sith, this is the final lesson you must learn. If anything, he's teaching you what Tremel failed to emphasize. My voice of reason is, as always, right on target. I know that this will serve to convince the Council once and for all of our deception. I'll truly be safe if I go through with this. But…I can't help remembering the Acolyte in my bedroom again. The way he died hating me. His eyes were just like Tremel's are now. I should forget him – throw both him and Tremel out of my memories. It is the Sith way. It is our sacred Code.

"What say you to this, Sith?" Darth Marr grumbles in my direction. I sense his impatience and irritation. For a moment, I consider Vowrawn's earlier accusation – that the Council is frustrated because they feel they've wasted an afternoon. Thinking that they consider this situation nothing more than a hindrance to a productive day bothers me. I try not to let this show when I reply –

"It will an honor, My Lords, to end the life of a traitor before the esteemed Dark Council." And with that, I seal mine and Tremel's fate.

"Give her a lightsaber, then," Darth Vowrawn commands. Lord Qet bows his head and tosses me his. From his place in front of Darth Ravage's seat, Naman unstraps his own saber and throws it to Tremel. Another guard steps forth and removes Tremel's shackles.

"Not a lightsaber. Give him a warblade," Darth Vengean suggests with a cruel smirk.

"No," I insist. Everyone turns to me. "I've been wanting to spill his blood for too long. I will fight him on even ground to prove to him, once and for all, that I am superior." It's the only courtesy I can give my old mentor in this situation - the only mercy I can show.

"Spoken as a true Sith," Darth Vowrawn proclaims. "Any last words, Tremel?"

"I will fight you with everything I have. Do not think of holding back, you traitor," he growls at me. I feel his hatred across the room. No matter what he is to me, in battle this man will be a Sith. He will feed off of his hatred and emotions. As such, he means what he says when he tells me he won't hold back. A part of me is thrilled at the challenge.

"Very well," Darth Vowrawn nods. "Begin."

Concentrate on the fight before you. Think of nothing else. No need for warnings. Thanks to my adrenaline, I'm already in full battle mode. My eyes are running over my enemy, noting his weaknesses. He holds his saber in his left hand. The sleeve there shifts and I notice a bruise on his wrist. We circle each other like predators on the field, ready to respond to the slightest hint of attack. When he turns, I see him put more weight on his right foot, almost as though it's painful for him to pivot on his heel. Interesting. All around me, I sense the Council's presence, especially Darth Ravage's. He is still suspicious of me, and I'm sure he's watching for me to hesitate. For the moment, I tune him out. I will honor Tremel by giving him my full focus in this fight.

In the time that I've been here, I've trained with this man one on one enough times to know his abilities. The trouble with that is, he knows my limits too. I've never fought him at my full strength, and he's always held back during our sparring sessions. It's time to see how he earned his position as an Overseer. At this point, I'm glad for this chance to focus on something other than any regrets I may have about the way things have turned out. I'm glad to be able to focus on my emotions rather than my insecurities. I welcome this fight, and it seems that my opponent does too.

His first strike comes at blinding speed – a blow to my right side. Not good. That's the side that was burned in the tomb. I feel my charred flesh stretch and pull as I twist to avoid his weapon. It was this man that taught me how to see the smallest of weaknesses in my opponents, and apparently he successfully took note of mine. His continues his assault with a flurry of strikes that I struggle to block with a single saber. "I thought you wouldn't hold back," he taunts me. "Come, now. Fight me at your full power." Anyone else will think that this is just a dare, a desperate man's last words. However, I know Tremel well enough to spot the way he looks at the front of my jacket, the way his eyes flicker to the hidden compartment in the armor there.

"Alright, then, old man!" I bring up my foot and kick him in the chest, pooling Force there to send him reeling backwards. Using the momentum, I flip back and reach into the front of my armor. By the time I land on my feet, I'm holding two light sabers – one green and one red.

"What's this?" Darth Vengean hisses in displeasure. I hear Lord Qet chuckle.

"A little trophy my Apprentice took from a hapless Jedi. I can imagine it's been a harrowing experience having to use a warblade in the Academy when she's so used to a lightsaber." I don't look at him. I can't afford to. But, now I know who left this thing in the taxi for me. The planning all of this must have taken makes my head spin. This wasn't arranged overnight. One doesn't gain the support and backing of a Dark Council member in such a short span of time. This realization leaves only one conclusion. Tremel tempted Vowrawn with something big, something that will help him with his power games. As far as I know, Darth Vowrawn has kept his position longer than any of these men aside from Darth Marr. He didn't accomplish this feat without being clever. But, what did he tempt him with? The only thing I can think of is that he told him about my hidden abilities.

"Better," Tremel says as he jumps towards me again. We clash even more furiously this time, parrying each other's attacks and trying to gain an advantage. When I reach around with my green saber to force pressure on his injured heel, he strikes at my weakened side and forces me to retreat. When I seek to slam the hilt of my saber against the bruise on his wrist, he pushes against my chest with Force and sets me off balance. Sparks fly from our weapons, a few hitting my cheek and burning the skin there. This man isn't as fast as I am, but he has the advantage of incredible physical strength and stamina. I've already begun to sweat with exertion, but he looks as though he has yet to be winded.

He stands firm in his Soresu form while I try to hack at his defenses with my more agile Ataru. In this, he has the advantage. Soresu costs minimal effort to maintain and is highly defensive. I know that the moment I tire out and begin to leave openings inbetween attacks, he'll switch to Shien and try to overpower me. I don't have long to consider this, for he does just as I predict. The shift is subtle, but I've practiced with him so many times that I'm able to react quickly and adjust my own style. The next time I try to slice at his arm, he deflects and jumps backwards, spinning his saber around and holding it behind him, blade facing up. It's a classical posture of Shien. I grit my teeth, too tense to even wipe the sweat off my brow. To my supreme fury, Tremel looks as calm and collected as he did before we began our duel. Unwilling to give in, I adjust my own stance and leap forward.

Instead of avoiding or stopping my attacks with small motions and a tight defense, Tremel begins to counterattack after every block - the spirit and purpose of Shien form. I recognize, then, that I can still use Ataru to my advantage. I just have to move faster and attack with more intensity. My focus narrows on Tremel's hands, at the rhythm with which he's blocking me then countering. I attack once. Observe. Then again. Observe. In a few moments, I count the milliseconds of time between each counter and know what I have to do. I've been hesitating to call upon too much Force to assist me because I've been afraid of losing control over the Vortex. However, I know that unless I do this I'll tire out and lose this battle.

More than one instructor has commented in the past on my natural talent and skill with the Ataru form. My small stature makes me an ideal practitioner. When using this particular form, I was told to become the essence of aggression. I must be a blur for my opponent; I must use the Force to jump higher, to hit harder, to extend my reach beyond typical human capacity. As I crouch down and shift my stance, I embody all of these principles. I call Force into every one of my limbs. I jump up and spin, whirling both sabers in a series of vicious slashes that Shien cannot hope to counter. Before that move is finished, I already progress into the next. I don't hesitate. When I feel my foot touch the ground, I push back and flow into another jump, twirl, or arc. I use the walls; I use the ceiling; I use any surface that will add to my momentum. The combination of Force and focus grants me a haze of fury in which I submerge myself entirely. I don't care where I land or who gets in my way. All I can see is my opponent. All I can feel is the ebb and flow of Force as it surrounds me and grants me incredible speed.

Tremel is struggling now, barely able to keep up with my onslaught. It's still not enough. I feel I can sink deeper into the darkness. There is another strategy that comes to mind. Juyo form – a risk that I might just be willing to take. I don't have the same mastery over it as I do over Ataru, but the moves would certainly catch Tremel off guard. This form is not taught at the Academy, for it is considered to be advanced material that surpasses the abilities of the average Acolyte. Tremel, however, in his desire to push me forward faster, flew in special instructors from off-world to help me learn the style. He did not practice it with me, and therefore won't know the first thing about what I'm going to do with it. The idea appeals to me so much that I put it into action on my next attack. I still jump and spin, but I've completely abandoned all of my defense for direct and nearly unavoidable attacks. As I thought, Tremel is caught off-guard. I feint a blow to his skull, but at the last moment I bounce back and fall to the ground, rolling and slashing at the same time.

I feel my saber burn through flesh, relish the thought that I've obtained victory. The Vortex instantly picks up on my aggression and killing instinct. I realize that I've let go of my barrier, and rush to close it off. But, it's too late. Some of the energy from the Vortex leaks through. Just like it did back before the trial in the lounge, the temperature in the room drops drastically. I lose the sense of my surroundings. My vision tunnels and narrows down upon Tremel, now lying on the ground. I severed his legs and at some point between standing up from my roll and turning around, I cut off one of his arms. He sputters at he lies there, helpless, at my feet.

"I die…for…the Sith...Empi…re…" I watch him breathe his last, still trapped in a veil of numb apathy. I can't feel remorse at his death – not pleasure, either. In fact, I can't feel anything. A part of me understands that something is wrong with me, but the dominant portion of my will doesn't care. The Vortex bangs against the walls of my mental barriers, begging to be released. It whispers that there isn't enough blood, that the black marble under my boots would look even more beautiful if I soaked it with crimson.

"Incredible," someone whispers above me. I look up, still feeling nothing, and see Darth Marr stand up from his seat. "I have not witnessed such a battle in many decades. Your mastery of not only one but two lightsaber forms cannot be contested." His words carry a lot of weight. I can sense that his acknowledgement of my abilities has caught the interest of the other Council members.

"The Force is strong with you, child," Darth Mortis says with a nod of approval.

"Most impressive. The Dark Side favors you," Darth Jadus agrees.

"How did it feel to cut him down?" Vowrawn asks. The smile is gone from his face, erased by another emotion that even I cannot identify. "You know he saw you as family."

"He was a traitor to the Empire," I reply. At least, I think it's me. I'm not entirely sure that I'm in control of my body any more. In fact, everything feels very far away, as though I'm watching the scene unfold through a stranger's eyes. The Vortex is responsible; I'm sure of it. However, all I can do for the moment is use all of my willpower to keep the rest of it from spilling past my barriers. "You mask your emotions well," Vowrawn observes.

"You have claimed a victory here, Sith. You should be proud. Killing an Overseer – a Sith Lord – is no small feat," Darth Marr nods.

"I am Sith, but I have a name," the stranger inside of me says. "I am Seraphine Fireborne." I sense the Council's confusion at my admission.

"Why tell us your name in such a fashion?" Vowrawn asks. I don't look away from Darth Marr when I reply. Though Ravage is the one that has been speaking the most during this farce of a trial and Vowrawn helped make this possible, I sense that Marr has the most power among them. It is this man that I must appeal to now. I depress the switches on both of my sabers and reply –

"I say my name now so that when you forget the name of the corpse on the ground, you will remember who made you feel fear on this day and the one who is truly loyal to the Empire."

Wake up.

I open my eyes to unfamiliar surroundings. It's cold here. Freezing. My skin is covered in goose bumps, and I shiver. Every time I exhale, steam escapes from my lips. Silence stalks the air, capturing any and all sound in its claws and swallowing it whole. I try to say something, but my voice is gone. The only thing I can hear is my sluggish heartbeat. Walls of grey and black metal surround me. The floor is frigid, and I'm barefoot. I curl my toes, but I can't escape my discomfort. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to preserve my body heat, but it's as though I'm naked – exposed and vulnerable to the elements of this…place.

Wake up, Seraphine.

I blink to clear my vision. My breath catches in my throat. Sprawled out before me like a carpet of shimmering jewels is an expanse of stars that I see through reinforced glass. I observe a planet with azure oceans and green continents. A swirl of white wraps its long tendrils around the surface, giving the illusion that I'm looking at a pristine marble – shining, magnificent, and perfect. I look down to find a console at my fingertips and realize that I'm on a ship. How did I get here? I don't know the first thing about flying a vehicle like this, nor do I recall being sent on any missions involving space travel. Not to mention, this console looks damaged and dead. None of this makes sense. All I know for certain is that the planet in the window is not Korriban.

Look closer.

It's my voice of reason speaking – the same tone I hear so often when I'm in danger. Something creaks and moves behind me. My heart skips a beat. When I move to turn around, however, the scene around me blurs and shifts. The console and all its related structures fade and morph into a small chamber. The walls are the same, meaning that I'm still on the unfamiliar ship. Now, I'm standing next to a large bed. My hand moves to touch silken sheets the color of rubies, fingers marveling at the softness of the mattress. There's something resting on the nightstand – an undershirt that I barely recognize. Another article of clothing lies discarded on the floor. Again, mine. Then a thought. Is this…where I sleep?

Something's wrong.

The air is stale and dry, hinting at an absence of life. A stain on the pillow catches my eye. A few drops of what looks like blood. As I look on in dismay, the stain grows and expands, covering the entire pillow and dripping down onto the mattress. An emotion mushrooms in my gut – a sudden and nauseating dread. My heartbeat quickens, and I clutch at my chest as though trying to calm the drummer within. I examine my surroundings, but I can't find anything immediately wrong. My ears strain to listen for sounds of an intruder, but all I can hear is the eerie creaking and groaning of the ship. Just that. I can't even hear the life support systems or the rumbling of the engine.

Turn around.

I obey, adrenaline rising up like bile in my throat. My hands restlessly search for the lightsabers that should be on my hips. I grow frantic when I can't find them. No, I can't panic. I'm not helpless. Steadying myself, I use the only defense I currently have – my hands. I raise them in the air and prepare to push away whatever threat I'm about to face, only to see an empty hallway. Then, the lights around me dim until I can hardly see anything anymore. Even the bed disappears. Fortunately, the medbay is nearby. How I know that is a mystery. Not that I care at the moment. All I want is light. The verdant glow of the Kolto tank illuminates the hallway just enough, and I take a few steps forward until I leave the chamber to enter the corridor. Why is it so quiet? Why does this place feel so abandoned? Why is there nobody else on this ship? Why am I alone here?

Or am I?

Not that way. Behind you…

Where? Who? All I can see is pitch black darkness in the direction my voice is telling me to go. My right hand grips the wall of the corridor so tightly that my knuckles turn white. Adrenaline tells me I'm in danger, my instinct screams for me to find my weapons immediately, while my body shakes with tension and fear. The temperature drops even further, reminding me of the cold I felt once when trapped in a cave overnight on Ziost. That night, I grew to hate the cold with a savage passion. Desperate to keep my mind focused on the present danger, I push away those memories until my thoughts are clear again. As I squint to try and see anything ahead, I hear my voice whisper right next to my ear.

Let me show you…

My eyes widen when I feel something hot and sticky on the palm of the hand that I'm using to grip the wall. Blood – thick and viscous – coats my arm all the way up to my elbow. I watch it drip down onto the ground and slither to my feet. With morbid fascination, I observe as the crimson fluid wraps upwards, coating my legs up to my knees. Then, it moves again, transforming into bloody footprints that disappear down the corridor into the darkness. The voice doesn't have to command me to follow. I can't stop myself. As though hypnotized, I put one foot in front of the other, tracing the path of the ghostly prints. Each step that I take makes a wet sound, as though I'm treading through a puddle. I want to look down and see what I'm walking in, but I dare not look away from the corridor and the footprints ahead of me. Though everything around me is pitch black, I can see the prints clearly. Where are they leading me?

This way…

The light whispering rustles the hair against my ear, as though a tangible mouth breathes upon it. I gasp at the sensation and whirl around. The goose bumps return. My eyes narrow, hurting as I try to see anything out of place. But, the threat that I anticipate doesn't make an appearance. Nothing. Just darkness. Can I trust this voice? Even though it is mine and I think I know it, could it be leading me into a trap? Could someone be leading me astray?

You are afraid of betrayal. Good. You should be…

I feel a nudge on the edge of my awareness and look ahead once more. On the left, I see a flickering light emerging from beneath a door. What's this? A room? Why didn't I see it before? Urged forward by a mysterious force, I walk towards the light and press my hand against the sensor that will grant me entry. The door hisses open, and I have to squint once again to see anything. After being surrounded by darkness, any light is blinding. As my eyes adjust to the flickering lamps, a vision comes into focus. Horror wells up inside my heart. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm mesmerized. Blood. So much blood everywhere. All over the bed, staining the sheets, discoloring the walls, trapped against a matted red braid and unseeing silver orbs. The figure who stands above it all turns to me, eyes blazing with madness.

Don't let your guard down. One of your own…

I fall to my knees and cradle my head in my hands. My mind rebels against what I'm seeing, as does my stomach. It can't be. I can't be dead. This isn't happening. It's a dream. A nightmare. I have to get out of here. Now. My thoughts whirl chaotically, but among the maelstrom I can hear myself repeat the same words over and over again.

I trusted you! I trusted you! How could you?

One of your own…one of your own…

I trusted you!

.

.

.

I learned long ago that waking up screaming was a risk to both my safety and my reputation. Screaming or moaning indicates fear, and those around me are vultures waiting to spot my weakness. I'm no stranger to these dreams, and over the years I've developed a specific method to waking up from such nightmares. First, I tightly restrain my physical reactions. Second, I reach out with my senses and try to feel for immediate danger. My hand flies to the weapon at my side – now a lightsaber instead of a warblade – while my eyes dart around the room to make sure that I'm alone. When these two steps are complete and, if I know that I'm safe for the moment, I allow myself to physically react. Slowly, carefully, I let go of the restraints holding my emotions in place and let myself go.

Calm down. You're alive. It wasn't real.

This time, the first thing I need is the bathroom. I'm about to be violently sick. I kick off the sheets, roll off the bed, and stumble around, blindly looking for the door that leads to my salvation. That's when I realize that the room I'm in is completely alien to me. I expected to wake up in my Acolyte quarters. This room is much smaller than that. The ceiling is low, and I can only take about ten steps between one side of the room to the other. Disoriented and confused, I stare at the four walls around me, feeling like a mouse in a box. Unfortunately, my stomach doesn't have the time to wait for my brain to catch up to reality. My knees buckle and I drop to the ground, vomiting all over the cold floor. I heave until there's nothing left in me anymore. Tears run down my face as I continue to gag, remembering the last image of my nightmare.

It isn't the blood. It isn't the gore. It's the fact that I saw myself mutilated past recognition by someone I know and trust. That last thought gives me pause. Wait. Trust? Since when do I trust anybody? I pull myself up and away from the mess on the ground and lean back against the wall. As I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, I try to make sense of it all. My ravaged body is clear in my mind's eye, but the figure that hurt me isn't. I can't remember who they were – what their face looked like, what their gender was, their species, or if it's somebody that I currently know. The first name that pops into my head is Lord Qet, the apprentice to the Darth that forced me to kill my Overseer. I recall the way he looked at me during my trial – the way his eyes measured me up as though he was testing my skill. With that memory, others return. I remember my brave and insolent speech to the Dark Council and the way Lord Qet dragged me out of the Council Chambers…

He touched you. He tried to hold you against your will.

I recall the all-consuming numbness of my emotions. Then Tremel's expression, serene as he accepted death. Darth Ravage's visage flashes in my thoughts. He didn't like the way I replied to their praise, the way I practically announced my superiority. He said something in response, but I can't remember what it was now. After that, my memory is blank. This missing space in my awareness is a void I desperately want to fill. What happened to me? How did I get into this tiny room? This oppressive space is so…sterile. Everything about it – the walls, the tables, the bed in the center, even the curtains – are white. Other details come into focus – a Kolto tank, various medical instruments, white cabinets, and a large sink. There, just on the edge, I spot a cluster of needles, syringes, bloody bandages, and empty med kits.

Blood? Whose?

For the first time since I regained consciousness, I notice what I'm wearing. My armor is gone, replaced by a skin-tight grey body suit. I glance at the needles again and quickly tear at the material on my arm and my thigh. Sure enough, I see several entry wounds. Whoever is responsible for bringing me here has injected me with something. As I move around, I feel that the material around me is cold and wet. A sweet synthetic smell emanates from it, and as I raise my arm to my nose I recognize the scent as Kolto. A drop of sweat beads on my forehead and trails down my cheek. A wave of exhaustion washes over me.

I feel as though I've been sick for a long time. At least, it's what I suppose being sick would feel like. I've never actually been ill before – just injured. This makes me wonder if some of those syringes didn't have something in them that's dampening my strength. Did someone give me something to sedate me - to keep me here? This is why I hate needles; this is why I don't trust anyone to inject me with anything. Ever. Not even medical droids who preach the best intentions but could easily be sliced or sabotaged by my enemies. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to get out of here. I clutch my lightsaber to my chest. It's only one of them, but at least I still have a weapon.

My breathing accelerates as I look around for the door. I push myself to my feet and make my way to a rectangular line on the wall – the only seam that breaks the bleak white color there. My legs are weak; my knees might as well be the consistency of goo. My hands tremble like leaves in the wind. It takes me too long to realize that this door only opens from the outside. I'm trapped, sealed in this sterile prison. Furious at being kept anywhere against my will, I pull back my arm and bang my fist against the wall. Despite my anxiety, I stay silent. I'm too proud to shout or call for help.

Images from my nightmare suddenly assault me at the rate of blaster fire. I cringe when I see my bloodied body again – mangled, torn up, a victim of violent betrayal. Panic sets in. Have I been betrayed? Hard to accomplish when I don't trust anyone. No matter. I need to get out of here. I gather Force into my palms and step back, blasting the door with everything I have. The energy bounces off the door and comes flying back to me. I narrowly avoid being thrown against the opposite wall.

A wall that can resist Force? Not good. Use your lightsaber. Let's see how well it withstands that.

I draw my lightsaber and press the switch on its side. The whiteness in the room is thrown off hue by the green glow of my blade. So be it. They want to trap me in here? The fools. Nobody traps a Sith! I'll just have to carve my way out.

Stay calm. Stay rational.

The first several attempts to cut through the reinforced wall fail, but I refuse to give up. There's nothing in the room that could help me. My lightsaber's heat is the best chance I have. Then, as I repeatedly smash the blade against the wall and try to cut through the impossibly resilient material, I get an idea. I hack at the surface until I see my blade form a small cut in the seal. Using my free hand, I collect Force between my fingers and try to mold it into a sharp flat shape. I wedge it into the cut my weapon is making. As I push with the lightsaber, I widen my fingers and the shape simultaneously to help tear the gash open farther.

This is exhausting. By the time I've made it half way down the wall, I'm panting with exertion. I don't understand what's weakened me so much, and this lack of clarity scares me more than the thought that I'm trapped. Trapped, I can fix. But, if whoever captured me injected me with something that's causing my body to break down, then there's nothing I can do. I give my saber a few more pushes before black spots appear in my vision. Why does my connection to the Force feel so faint? I'm having trouble sustaining it, and I haven't felt the comforting presence of my Vortex since I woke up. I yearn to know the identity of my enemies – to understand what it is I'm up against. Then, just as I try to renew my efforts to cut through the wall, a sound behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I pull my lightsaber free and whirl around, fully expecting an attack. Instead, I'm met with the expressionless glowing eyes of a silver medical droid.

"Lord Sith, this unit's sensors indicate that you are ill. Please return to the bed so that this unit may perform a bioscan to determine the cause," the machine drones in a scratchy monotone. I recall seeing it standing in the corner of the room. As still and lifeless as it was, I figured it was deactivated.

"No need, droid," I reply, my shoulders sagging in relief. "Leave me alone."

"Cannot comply," it quips and produces a needle from one of its internal compartments. The sight of the green liquid in the syringe shouldn't scare me; I know it's just a Kolto injection. Unfortunately, that understanding does nothing for my current short tempter and paranoia. The droid zips towards me, balancing on a single wheel. It seems completely oblivious to my discomfort. "Please, return to a relaxed position so that this unit may administer assistance."

"What's in that? Get away from me," I growl, backing up until my back presses against the carved up wall. There's nowhere to else to go.

"Alternate directive given by higher authority to - " I raise my lightsaber and point it at the machine's head. It halts, goes silent, and blinks at me.

"My lightsaber is the only authority you need for obedience. Get away from me or I'll cut you in half and turn you into a pile of scraps." Big words for someone who is hesitating. I would make good on my threat, but this room is so tiny that I'm concerned about the consequences of cutting up a machine with a burning lightsaber. If it should explode, I might be seriously injured. Even if it doesn't, the smoke and vapors would make breathing impossible. As far as I can tell, there's no air vents in here. None that are currently functioning, anyway.

"Lord Sith, this unit does not comprehend your hostile demeanor. This unit is only offering medical assistance."

"I don't need medical assistance," I grind out through gritted teeth.

"This unit's sensors indicate otherwise," it insists. Something whirs inside its head. A long, cylindrical projection snaps up and begins to run a scan over me. "Sensors indicate internal damage and bleeding. Excessive movement not recommended. This unit advises immediate sedation and return to Kolto tank for further..." And that's the end of my patience. I'm fully prepared to destroy this obviously expensive piece of machinery – explosion and smoke be damned – when the door to the med bay pings and slides open.

The sudden lure of freedom is too much for me to resist. Without skipping a beat, I blast the intruder with a sphere of Force and charge forward. At least, I try to. The Force isn't obeying me with as much precision as I need for this sort of blitz. My enemy resists my attack and stands his ground. I lash out with my saber, only to be met with a firm counter. Like a wild cornered beast, I continue to press forward. Only when a wall of Force hits me square in the chest and sends me careening to the ground do I stop and register who it is that's standing between me and freedom. Leaning in the doorway is Lord Qet, looking much too amused for my liking. That easygoing smile of his immediately rubs me the wrong way, especially since he's clearly overpowered me.

"Back away before she makes good on that threat," he warns the droid, his tone jovial. "And you, my reckless apprentice," his tongue slips over the word, caressing it with sickening sweetness, "…you should lower that saber before I take it from you."

"Try it," I growl at him. So it was this man who brought me here, after all? It was this bastard who injected me with poison? My pride demands immediate revenge.

"Make no mistake. I left that there with you, and I can just as easily take it away."

"I'll gut you," I hiss.

He shakes his head. "Now, now…is that any way to address the man who saved your life?"

"Saved my life? All you and Vowrawn did was lie. The one who truly saved me was Tremel." Suddenly, I'm suspended in the air. Something cold and unyielding wraps around my neck and cuts off my air supply. An agonizing pressure builds in my head. By the time I realize that Lord Qet is Force choking me, I'm too panicked and frantic to care about anything but trying to escape his grip. Gutting him will have to wait.

"You dare speak his name with such disrespect?" Lord Qet growls, his syllables accented with venom and anger. "You dare! That is Darth Vowrawn to you, girl, and you will address me as your Master." I can feel my eyes rolling back into my head as my lungs scream for air. Something springs to life in my side – a new kind of agony. I feel my skin tearing. Where is my Vortex? I cry out to it for assistance, desperate and terrified. I'm being trapped against my will again. Any moment now, the memories will return. The red-haired child tied down on the floor; the man who is smiling as he holds a whip in his hands and kicks her repeatedly.

"My Lord, I must advise that you desist," a voice says calmly from a distance, cutting through my distress. "Please, My Lord. Darth Vowrawn ordered for us to - "

"I know what he said, Imperial," Lord Qet snaps. The grip around my neck disappears; the Force that held me up fades into nonexistence. My body drops to the ground like a rock. I cough and hack, gulping in air as fast as I can. Something wet and sticky presses against my side. Through blurred vision, I can see blood seeping through my suit. My ears are ringing. I sense movement above me; someone rushes to my side and kneels down. When I look up, I'm met with startling blue eyes.

"Quinn?" I gasp in-between fits of coughing. "Quinn…what are you…doing here? Are you…are you with these people?" The thought appalls me.

"My Lord, please allow me to assist you," he murmurs and reaches for my elbow. No! I don't want anyone touching me right now! Not when I'm this helpless. Not when I can't sense my Vortex at all. What is he doing here? Why is he talking so calmly with a man he shouldn't even know? Is he a part of all this? Bastard! Traitor! As soon as I feel his fingers touch my arm, I shout a denial and shove him away with whatever strength I have left in the Force. He stumbles back. Something flashes in the light of the room – a shock collar around his neck. Why is he wearing that? Do I even care? I feel sick again and try to crawl away. I don't want anyone to see me like this – so weak, so frail, so unlike a Sith.

Then don't allow it.

Frenzied now and beside myself with fear and rage, I pull on every single scrap of energy around myself that I can reach. The Force is everywhere, all around me – Tremel once said. No matter how weak my connection to it may seem, the Force will always come to my aid. I shudder as I do this, feeling my nausea intensify. A pain splits open my skull as though someone is hammering on it. I push myself to my feet, determined to face Lord Qet on even ground. I want him to fear me; I want him to see that he cannot dominate me. Instead, he looks even more amused.

"Truly, apprentice, you are a unique and magnificent creature. That you can even think about combat in your condition is incredible. Do you know why you cannot call upon the Force?" He pauses. For effect, I imagine. Mutinous, I retain my silence and glare at him, still working to try and regain my strength. "Rather, you can, but it should cause you nothing but pain and discomfort. It's a special recipe. Wouldn't want you flying into a mindless rage again. I didn't anticipate it last time, and you killed nearly seven people. As amusing as it was to witness, you also raked up quite a bit of property damage."

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"Do you even know why you're fighting or do you fight just because you can? You think we are your enemies, but we are not. Do you even remember what you did and how you got here?" When I stay silent, he finally frowns. "Imperial," he gestures to Quinn. "Make her sit down before I activate that thing around your neck."

"Yes, My Lord," Quinn replies. I sense his rebellion, his displeasure with Lord Qet. It comforts me in a small way. Maybe it's because his emotions imply that he's being forced to comply with these people. Maybe it's because it means that he hasn't betrayed me as I originally thought. I don't really understand this particular line of logic. It isn't like he was loyal to me in the first place. Why should I care what he thinks or does? Why should it matter whom he serves? In the end, all I want is my freedom. That's all that should hold any kind of significance. Nevertheless, when I see the stiff manner in which Quinn holds himself as he approaches me, the raging beast inside my chest is somewhat appeased. Perhaps I could convince him to be my ally, to help me escape. To do that, however, I'll need to cooperate.

"Don't touch me," I warn him. "If you put one finger on me, I swear you'll regret it."

Not the best way to make allies – my inner logic reasons. Pride and rationale fight for dominance inside me now. I know I should yield, but my nature will not allow it.

"My Lord, you are suffering from a serious internal injury," he murmurs again. His voice sounds soothing, as though he's trying to talk a feral Manka cat out of attacking. "Please, allow me to help you." He shuffles to the sink, reaches into one of the cabinets above it, and pulls out a pink syringe. When he turns around and comes back to me, there's no way he can miss the way I flinch away from him. "It's alright. This is just a substance that will help slow the bleeding until we can get you back into a Kolto tank."

"You're not taking me anywhere," I say, my voice low. Glaring, I meet Lord Qet's eyes. "You will escort me out of here and release me. I want nothing to do with you or your Master."

"Funny that you should say that, considering what you are and what you've done," Lord Qet huffs. "You are Sith, but you hold no title and no purpose. You are not even a Lord. Without a Master, you are as worthless as the Imperial beside you."

He's right. Unless you have a Master that you can overthrow one day, you will never amount to anything within society. At least listen to what he offers.

I step back and lean against the bed behind me, using it for support. Though I try to give the appearance that I'm in control, I feel ready to pass out. The pain in my side is getting worse. "I will listen to what you have to say, for now, but keep your instruments and injections away from me." Lord Qet's frown deepens.

"Let me shed some light on your situation, girl. The only reason you aren't a rotting corpse in Korriban's sands right now is the grace and good will of my Master. Your status as my apprentice gives you some rank and power in the Empire. Without this title, you are nothing. No. Less than nothing. As your Master, only I hold the power to promote you farther. It is your job to convince me that this is a worthy endeavor." He sneers. "Currently, I am unconvinced."

"Are we no longer on Korriban?" I ask, somewhat confused. How long have I been unconscious?

"We are not."

"How did we get here?"

Lord Qet considers me for a moment. I sense him trying to determine if my words are sincere. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"Obviously not if I'm asking you," I counter irritably.

"You destroyed the first starship we boarded after your trial with the Dark Council." My mind reels at this revelation. What? Destroyed? "Judging by your surprise, you really weren't yourself, as the Imperial suggested." Both mine and Lord Qet's gazes flicker to Quinn. His face is set in stone. The only way I know that he's stressed is because he's standing so close to me. I can feel his heightened temperature; I can hear his elevated breathing.

"Explain this," I demand. Quinn looks at Lord Qet, apparently seeking permission to do just that. When the latter nods, he straightens his shoulders and recounts the events that led to my imprisonment in this room.

"After we left the Academy, you were acting strangely, My Lord. Darth Vowrawn ordered Lord Qet to board his starship with all three of us – yourself, me, and the Twi'lek slave. Though Lord Qet tried to speak to you, you were entirely unresponsive. In fact, it didn't matter who spoke to you. You remained silent and withdrawn. We reached the spaceport and were in the midst of boarding Darth Vowrawn's starship when…" he trails off, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"When what?"

"Well…there was an explosion, My Lord."

"You exploded," Lord Qet cuts in. "The air around you caught fire and you flew into a rage, destroying everything and everyone in your path." His smile is wistful. "I've never seen such carnage and destruction. It was magnificent. However," his expression of mirth evaporates, "you destroyed an entire starship and slaughtered its crew, rendering it useless. Repairs are going to cost a fortune. I don't know how you survived, but you managed to emerge from the blast with only a single injury." He points to my side. "After that, my Master ordered that you be taken to a medical facility in Kaas City. The trip took longer than anticipated and we nearly lost you on the way. However, this Imperial proved to be particularly skilled as a medic and managed to stabilize you until we could reach the city itself."

"How long…?" I rasp, trying to absorb all of this information. What does this mean? Did they see my Vortex? Who now knows about my abilities and vulnerabilities? From Lord Qet's description, I hold out hope that what I displayed could be mistaken for blind rage.

"Two weeks, My Lord," Quinn answers. "This is the first time you've been removed from the Kolto tank for this long in that time frame. I thought that the wound had been healing more progressively. It seems I was mistaken."

"So we are in Kaas City?" I ask Lord Qet.

"Currently, we are in my Master's personal residence on Dromund Kaas. He expressed his disapproval when I suggested that we leave you in the hospital in the main city. It seems that he doesn't want you and your people's presence to attract too much attention."

"My people? Who else is here…?" my voice is growing weaker.

"The Twi'lek girl. She is your personal slave now," Lord Qet replies, a smug tilt to his chin. "Consider her a gift from Master to apprentice. She's an outspoken and rebellious creature, but her skills will be of use to you in your coming tasks."

"My tasks?" The room is spinning, and I fight to keep a hold of my awareness.

"Naturally, you will work to pay off the debt you owe to my Master. You will use your power to aid him and will dedicate all of your strength to carrying out his will. You are already behind on your assignments, apprentice, so I suggest you recover quickly and get to work."

"Behind what?"

"Your first assignment will be to go to Balmorra. You will need a crew and a ship not registered or affiliated with my Master. For this, you will take the Twi'lek slave and this Imperial with you. More details will be provided upon your departure." All of this is too much to take in. Balmorra? A ship? A crew? I hated my life on Ziost and Korriban, but those times feel simpler and less treacherous than the muck I've found myself in now. It seems like yesterday when I was talking to Tremel about my trials. Just the other day, I heard him speaking, was worried about failing him. And now, he's dead. The only person who came close to understanding me is gone, slain by my own hand. Not only that, but I'm now bonded to men who seem hell-bent on using me like a tool to achieve their own mysterious agendas. It isn't an unusual occurrence for a Sith, but that doesn't mean I can accept it so easily. I hate being cornered or forced into anything. Yet, I suppose that all of this worked out in the best way that it could. Tremel got his wish, and I graduated from the Academy to become full Sith.

You have a Master, now. A true Master who holds much influence. This is good.

My logic fails to comfort me. I push away from the bed and move towards Lord Qet.

"Where do you think you're going, apprentice?"

"I want to get out of this…damn coffin of a room…"

"Not before you recover. My Master will not be denied his investment." I feel myself slipping into a dark void. Something *****s my arm. I glare at Quinn when I realize that he's injected me with the syringe in his hand. The medicine works fast. Something cold rushes through my veins. In moments, I'm helpless. Lord Qet catches me as I fall and holds me against his chest. I glare at Quinn when he tries to inject something else into my thigh. Using every ounce of my remaining willpower, I push at him with Force. It's weak, but he hits his arm on the table behind him and cuts himself with a curse.

"I told you…you would regret it…"

Lord Qet laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Magnificent, apprentice. Your stubbornness is truly legendary." He jostles me in his hold. I feel disgust when my cheek presses against his frigid armor. "Imperial, prepare the Kolto tank."

His hands feel horrible. Even through my suit, they're clammy and cold - rough like the skin of a reptile. Immediately, I'm reminded of another pair of hands. The white room dissapears while another takes its place. A small room just like this - dark and cold. On the floor, a little girl is sobbing as a man kicks her over and over again. A shock whip cracks and the little girl screams. The man is laughing at her pain, thrilling when she begs him to stop. Then, he kneels down and pulls on the ropes that tie her hands and feet. He asks her something - words that she will never forget.

Her screams are the last thing I hear before everything goes black.

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I open my eyes to a strange ceiling. Daylight filters in through a window somewhere nearby, indicating that it's early morning. For the first time in what feels like years, I feel well rested and calm upon awakening. My sleep was dreamless – no nightmares, no disturbances, and no assassins. It's a strange feeling. I haven't decided if I like it yet. This small measure of peace makes me uneasy, for it's a sure sign that my life has taken a drastic turn. My memories are hazy, but I remember enough to understand that I've been saved from one kind of prison and dropped into another. For some time, I lie still and ponder the course fate has set me on. I've overcome so much to get here, and I wonder if all the sacrifices have justified the outcome. I know that my journey is far from over. There's so much more that I must accomplish to reach my goal, to find my place in the galaxy.

That thought leads to another. Where am I? Am I safe here? I obey my first instinct. Find a weapon. Fortunately, it seems that whoever placed me here had my paranoia in mind. I find a lightsaber within easy reach lying on a pillow on the other side of the bed. As I pick it up, I recognize it as the mysterious weapon that tumbled out of the unregistered taxi on Korriban. Lord Qet, supposedly, was responsible for it winding up there, but I have a gut feeling that there's more to it than that. This weapon still feels very familiar, almost like an old friend. I rub at my temple, trying to remember more of the recent events. As I push myself up into a sitting position, I try to recall one thing at a time.

Tremel is dead. You are no longer an Academy Acolyte. You are full Sith. Your Master is Lord Qet.

I need a plan of action. Now that I'm free of the Academy, I don't really know what comes next. Back then, I had a trial to overcome almost every day – a set of goals that drove my passion and determination. At the moment, however, I feel more than a little lost. I need a focus, a point that I can race towards. My recollections of the Academy bring a certain individual to mind. One of my regrets is leaving Korriban without severing Vemrin's head from his shoulders. Vaguely – my thoughts are still hazy – I mull over the things that Lord Qet talked about the last time I was conscious. He mentioned Balmorra, a ship, and a mysterious assignment. I've read about Balmorra and its numerous troubles a few times during my studies at the Academy.

Conflict there is never in short supply. The Empire wants to seize it for its plethora of munitions factories while the citizens rebel and fight for independence. The war there is bloody and prolonged, with no sign of victory in sight. Though the natives bear no love for the Republic, it's rumored that they are receiving assistance from them to resist the Empire's plans to take over the planet. I don't know what Darth Vowrawn plans by sending me there, and I don't really care as long as it isn't political. I'm well known for drawing my lightsaber first and asking why later. I've proven multiple times over that I'm far from diplomatic, and I have no desire to be a part of his power games.

You don't have a choice in the matter – my reason argues. You'll do whatever he says, even if it means scra ping Bantha droppings off the heels of his boots. The thought is unpleasant – and infuriating! – but I can't deny its truth. As an apprentice, I have no choice about where I go or what I do. Not to mention, it seems that I've managed to rake up quite a debt already. Destroying an entire starship is something I may not recover from financially for a long time, even if my Master is apprentice to a Dark Council member who is generous when granting me a stipend. At the very least, I need to prove myself as quickly as possible so that I can attain the rank of Lord. Then, perhaps, I can consider rebelling. It's not much, but it's a start. At least I have something in mind to work towards. With this determined, I feel more at ease. I have a direction again. Now, it's just a matter of moving forward.

First, I look down at myself. I'm wearing a set of loose breeches and a thin shirt; both are sterile white in color. I lift the edge of the shirt to see that the wound in my side and the burn on my abdomen are almost entirely healed. I can already tell that the gash will leave a hideous scar. Lord Qet mentioned that the injury had been severe, so I'm not surprised. However, seeing the pink flesh does make me wonder how long I've been unconscious. Knowing the date wouldn't help. All of my days at the Academy were such a blur that I stopped keeping track of time a while ago. Satisfied that I can move around without too much discomfort, I kick my feet over the side of the bed and take note of my surroundings.

The luxurious décor doesn't escape my notice. Clearly, this room is a part of a large and lavish residence. I don't think I've ever slept in such a large room alone before. It's at least five or six times the size of the previous one I was trapped in the last time I was awake. Remembering that tiny space makes me cringe, and I can't help but scan each of these corners for danger. Though I feel weak and somewhat off-balance, I wander around the chamber and explore. The first thing I do is make sure that I can open the door and windows. Looks like my Master has learned his lesson. I'm not locked in this time.

As I make a full circle, I notice something blinking on the nightstand next to my bed. Upon closer inspection, I find several items laid out there – a holo communicator, a vacuum sealed package of clothing, a pair of twin lightsabers, and a datapad. I inspect the holocom first. It's a newer model than the one I was given at the Academy. The controls are slightly different and the device itself looks brand new. After pressing the blinking red button on the side of it, I'm greeted with a small pale image of Lord Qet.

"Apprentice," he greets me in his usual laid back manner. "This message contains instructions that you are to follow as soon as you wake up. First, this device will now be your primary means of communication with me and Darth Vowrawn. You are to carry it on your person at all times. On the nightstand in front of you are some supplies, including new armor and weapons. You are to equip yourself and meet with me immediately to discuss your next assignment. You are already weeks behind schedule." The hologram points to the right. "That datapad will tell you everything you need to know. You are to keep it with you at all times as well. This meeting will take place on the third floor of this residence. Make sure to bring your crew members with you. End of message." I curse as the hologram flickers and expires. I'd almost forgotten about my unconventional "crew". Wanting to postpone any thoughts as to how I will deal with them, I move to pry open the package of armor.

The seam comes apart easily when I tear at it. I drop the dark garments onto the mattress and examine them as they expand from compression. This is higher quality armor than anything I've ever been given the chance to wear. As I don the pieces one by one, I can't help appreciating the craftsmanship. The base material is made of an incredibly soft mesh that allows my skin to breathe without sacrificing integrity. As I pull it on, it adjusts to my body temperature. Everything is adaptive, meaning that all of the plated portions and modules can be replaced and upgraded if needed. All the hooks, ties, and zippers are conveniently located in places I can reach, which means I can don the entire ensemble without assistance. The boots, also heavily plated, are surprisingly flexible. They reach up to the middle of my thighs and have a low heel that won't get in the way of my agile stances. An interesting fold on the inside of one of these boots catches my eye. I grope around for a moment in an attempt to understand its function when I get an idea.

Setting aside the two lightsabers given to me by Lord Qet, I bring my old saber forward and smile when I see that it fits neatly into the compartment in my boot. I have no doubt that this compartment was made with something else in mind, but I'm so ecstatic about my own inventiveness that I don't care. This way, if I get disarmed, I will not be weaponless. And nobody will ever disarm me twice. Now, to see how strange this looks. There's a full length mirror not far from my nightstand. Standing up, I catch my reflection and test the boot to see if my adjustment has changed the way it looks. Outwardly, the compartment is invisible. All it would take is a tug of the Force and the weapon will fly into my hand. Perfect.

I take a moment to examine my reflection. My silver eyes absorb the golden light trickling through the curtained windows, adopting it and making it their own. In this form-fitting solid black armor, I look a little older than normal. Taller, somehow. As I examine myself with a critical eye, I work my long red hair into a thick braid that I toss over my shoulder. My hair has grown somewhat; it now reaches past my hips. The last time I saw my own reflection was during my trial with the Dark Council. I look so different from the frightened child I remember seeing in the black marble floor that I have to wonder if she and I are the same person at all. What's changed me so much? Surely it can't all be the armor. Could it be that I feel different now that I'm truly a Sith? Or perhaps…

A knock at the door disturbs my train of thought. I straighten my shoulders and raise my chin, crossing my arms over my chest. "Enter." The door creaks open, and I hear a familiar voice.

"My Lord, forgive me for disturbing you, but I need to perform several examinations to ensure that you are recovering on schedule."

"I said enter, Quinn," I complain with a frown. The ex-officer shuffles into the room, pressing a pair of datapads to his chest as he lowers his head in a low bow. He's dressed in a formal Imperial Military uniform stripped of any markings of rank.

"My Lord," he murmurs. Now that he's standing closer to me, I can easily sense all of his conflicting emotions – frustration, anger, and shame. My eyes fall to his neck. He's still wearing a shock collar. I wonder why it makes me uncomfortable seeing that. Maybe it's because I know that he's an Imperial officer. Shock collars are typically reserved for slaves, criminals, and traitors. If he's considered either of the last two, then I only have myself and my improvised accusation in the Dark Council Chambers to blame. I can't stop myself from feeling a small amount of pity for him. As a creature of pride, I understand that wearing it must really chafe at his ego.

"I'm guessing you're here on orders, so I won't stop you from doing what you must," I convey in a neutral tone. "But I will not allow you to touch me or inject me with anything, do you understand?"

"Yes, My Lord. May I proceed with the scans, then?"

"You may." Our exchange is a frigid one, lacking in every manner of warmth. Looking back on it, I feel that our brief interactions in the Academy's jail were filled with more life than this. Then again, I was convinced that he was on death row at the time. I had no idea that he would survive, that I would be forced to publicly destroy his career, and that we would both be dragged into this mess with Darth Vowrawn.

"My Lord, please lie down on the bed. This scan will only take a moment." I figure that the least I can do is cooperate, so I wordlessly obey. The last time I was conscious, my reason urged me to attempt to make an ally out of this man. I'm still determined to do so, even if I don't know the first thing about forging alliances. All I've ever had to worry about was enemies, after all. The word "friend" wasn't even in my vocabulary until I met Tremel, and I'm certain that the possibility of me ever using it again died with him. "Please remain still, My Lord," Quinn says as he punches a few buttons on one of the datapads and leans over me.

As the green light runs over my body, a sharp spicy scent drifts to my nose. It isn't unpleasant, but it's foreign. I glance at the ex-officer and notice that he looks a bit younger than the last time I saw him. His face is freshly shaven and his hair is brushed back in a casual but neat style. The bruises on his face have faded. I look at his uniform again and marvel. There's not a single crease or wrinkle in sight. I suddenly get an urge to muss his hair to mess it up a bit. The pristine condition of his uniform – and, well, him in general – disturbs my desire for chaos and disorder. The way he is, Quinn looks like he's just emerged from a professional press machine. This man is, supposedly, going be a part of my crew. I'll have to give him orders and possibly rely on him during missions. There's a huge problem, though. His entire demeanor screams "unapproachable", making me wonder just where I'm supposed to start on the path of forming any sort of trust between us.

No. Not trust. Never trust. But…respect, perhaps?

You're Sith. He'll either show the proper respect or he'll die like a dog.

That doesn't seem like the correct kind of approach, but I suppose that I'll figure things out as I go. Right now, I'm more concerned with getting this scan over with. Quinn has respected my command so far; he hasn't touched me. But him being this close to me is making me very uncomfortable. I don't like this proximity at all, especially since I'm lying down. From this position, I'm very vulnerable to attack. To settle my unbalanced emotions, I wrap my hand around one of the lightsabers at my hip. Quinn's face retains its neutrality, but I'm not fooled. He's noticed my action, and I've made him nervous. Looks like he doesn't trust me either. Great. And this man is going to be piloting my ship. At least, I think so. I realize that I have no idea what his skillset is. The thought successfully distracts me from my discomfort.

"What do you do, Quinn?" I ask him.

"Do, My Lord?" he replies without looking away from the screen of his scanner.

"Yes. What are your skills? My Master has determined that I can use you for my assignments and missions. I'm assuming this wasn't without good reason. I already saw that you know your way around the medbay. But, what else do you do?"

"In addition to various medical skillsets, I have a varied knowledge of piloting several classes of ships, including but not limited to capital ships, starships, frigates, cruisers, and transport ships," he answers as he continues punching in codes on his datapad. "I also know how to use a wide range of weapons and artillery, both close and long range." He pauses as he takes a moment to adjust something on his screen.

"Is that all?" I inquire sarcastically, more than a little impressed.

"No, My Lord," he answers with honesty, apparently missing my tone. "I am also an accomplished diplomat with over a decade of experience in military and civilian negotiations. I am fluent in several languages, including but not limited to Huttese, Bocce, Ryl, and – " I stop him with a gesture of my hand.

"I was being sarcastic, Quinn." Irritated, I rub at my temple where I feel a headache coming on.

"Does your head hurt, My Lord?" he inquires. There's no particular concern or emotion in his voice. I glance at him and notice that he's still manipulating something on his screen. In fact, I don't believe he's actually looked me in the eye even once since he entered the room.

"A bit, but it doesn't matter. Are you finished with that scan yet?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"Your injuries appear to be healing very well. My prognosis is that you should be able to move around normally within several days."

"Normally?"

"Without any discomfort, I mean. For now, I would suggest restricting your activities to – "

"Absolutely not," I cut in, irritated. "I have to resume my training as soon as possible."

"I must strongly advise against that, My Lord," he responds and backs away, still avoiding my gaze. We haven't been in the same room for more than ten minutes and this man has already pushed all of my buttons. I feel a stab of annoyance slice cleanly through my patience. I clench my jaw and get to my feet, feeling more comfortable now that I'm not looking up at him from a prone position.

"And why should I listen to you?" I counter defensively.

"That wasn't my implication. I simply wanted to convey my recommendations as your physician."

"You will look at me when you speak to me, ex-officer," I command. Finally, our eyes meet. I'm not prepared for the thinly veiled hostility I see in those azure depths.

"Forgive me, My Lord. I believe that you told me once that I should never look a Sith directly in the eyes. I was simply adhering to that advice." The extent of this man's hatred for me is deeper than I originally believed. Now that I see his eyes, I can sense everything he's been struggling to hide from me. Not surprising, really. I've singlehandedly ruined his purpose in life – his career – and made it impossible for him to ever receive any kind of promotion or advancement. I've branded him a traitor before the highest authority aside from the Emperor himself. That he despises me is only logical. What is surprising is the extent of my hostility toward him.

"You think to hide your emotions from me, but I tell you now that this is impossible. Just like before, you defy me and show me disrespect." I lift my hand and wrap tendrils of Force around Quinn's throat – not enough to choke him, but enough to make my point. His mask of neutrality falters as he loses some color in his face. "I don't need that shock collar to keep you in line. I could snap your neck with a flick of my finger, ex-officer."

"I did not mean to offend you, My Lord," he mumbles.

"It is your manner that offends me, Imperial," I reply and squeeze a little harder. He coughs, but his eyes still do not lose their fire. I surmise that this is the source of my anger. This man is nothing compared to me. He should bow down to me and express gratitude that I even deign to grace him with my attention. I am Sith while he is a Force-blind nobody – a broken man with no future aside from the one I choose to bestow upon him. Yet still – still! – he refuses to submit to me. If anything, he openly defies me. He may feign all the obedience, loyalty, and respect that he wants, but all I need to know the truth of his nature is written in those damned blue eyes and the Force that trembles with his inner turmoil.

Disgusting – suddenly, I want nothing more to do with him. In fact, I'm concerned that if I spend any more time around him, I won't be able to resist the urge to cut him in half. I don't need him dead. Since Lord Qet specifically told me that I was to work with him for my assignment, I decide that I need to walk away. Immediately. I release my hold on his neck and turn aside. "In the future, if I sense any more of such insolence, you will regret it severely. Is that understood?"

"Yes, My Lord." He bows his head, but I ignore him. Instead, I pick my datapad up off my nightstand and search for Lord Qet's instructions. Apparently, I'm to pick up my Twi'lek crew member in a room in the servants' wing of the residence. Without looking at Quinn or saying another word, I stomp out of the room to do just that.

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"Whew, you look a lot scarier than I remember in that get-up," the Twi'lek slave whistles when I enter her chambers. "And angrier." I find her sitting in front of a small table in a room not much bigger than the medbay I woke up in some time ago. Instantly, I feel shut in and trapped. According to Quinn, I've been in and out of a Kolto tank for the past three weeks, meaning that this girl has been staying here all that time. I wrinkle my nose in distaste, imagining that I would go crazy being forced to remain in such a small space. Perhaps I can attribute that to this girl's obvious lack of an instinct of self-preservation. Instead of groveling at my feet and anticipating my needs as a true slave would, she's speaking to me like we're on equal terms.

"Slave, you will follow me," I decree.

"Right, Your Lordship," she grumbles without a hint of sincerity and stands up. For efficiency's sake, I force myself to remain calm in the face of her casual attitude. Those striped leku and her blue skin mark her immediately as inferior in my eyes. She's still wearing the shock collar, and I allow myself to imagine how it would feel to see her writhing in pain on the ground. For the moment, this image satisfies me and soothes my ill temper.

"And where is it that we're going, exactly?" she asks, picking up the pieces of what looks like a pair of blasters. "Or is that classified?" When she tucks a dirty looking cloth into her leather breeches, I realize that she was cleaning them.

"We are going to see my Master. Have you been briefed on your duties?" I question her with a glare.

"Dunno," she shrugs. Her fingers work surprisingly quickly to put the blasters back together. From what I understand, it's a delicate process, but this girl makes it look as simple as assembling a child's puzzle cube. "Nobody's really talked to me this whole time. I just know that I'm supposed to go somewhere with you." She clicks the last of the pieces into place and holsters the weapons on her belt. "Though I gotta say, if you're expecting me to do the whole 'formality' thing, you're out of luck."

"You'll do whatever it is I need you to do without complaint, slave."

"Righto…forgot who I was talking to."

Hold back your anger. Save it for the training grounds.

"You will tell me your skills. Now."

"My skills?" she replies, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I guess if you're asking about what I was doing before I came here then I can tell you." She pauses as if waiting for me to respond. I'm not sure if it's my obvious frustration with her or the frown on my face that gets her talking again. I do sense that she's uncomfortable in my presence. Her candor in the face of this confuses me. If she's afraid of me, then why not just mindlessly obey me? Why all this circling? "Right…well I'm pretty good with a pair of blasters. I can slice pretty much anything with wires and a memory core, and I'm not too shabby at figuring out ancient puzzles and the like. Is that…what you wanted to know?"

I glance at my datapad, nod, and motion for her to follow me. As we meander through hallways and climb several sets of stairs, an awkward silence descends upon the three of us. I can't shake the feeling that I want nothing to do with these people and that I could accomplish whatever my Master needs alone without any assistance. After all, I've been alone for years. I've survived odds that were stacked against me. I've stepped over more than my share of bodies to get where I am. If I can overcome such challenges – if I can kill a Terentatek with an old warblade and a rusty lightsaber – I can probably accomplish whatever Vowrawn needs without dragging two strangers along for the ride.

My datapad chirps. I look down and see that the red blip – representing myself – is right at the spot where I need to be. We're standing in front of a tall entryway – a set of double doors. I press my hand to the sensor. It buzzes and denies me entry. When several tries end in the same result, the Twi'lek speaks up –

"Sure this is the place?" she asks, her violet eyes darting around the doorway. Quinn stands at attention, his expression unreadable. We haven't spoken more than a few words to each other since we left my quarters.

"This is where my Master instructed us to meet him, yes," I reply, doing my best to ignore him.

"I could slice it, but I don't have any equipment or anything." I look at her without any understanding. In fact, I'm not sure I can even comprehend her offer. Did a slave just suggest that she could slice into her Sith master's security system?

"Know your place," I warn her.

"Jeez, I was just trying to lighten the mood," she mumbles. Suddenly, she throws up her hands defensively. "Whoa, now, Your Sithiness. Don't throw me into a wall like you did last time just for making a joke." The only thing that stops me from considering it is the ringing of my holocom.

"Apprentice," Lord Qet's projection greets me when I answer the call.

"What is the meaning of this? We've arrived on location as you instructed. Why is the door locked?" I demand to know.

"Patience, girl," my Master interrupts. "Something came up, and I can't meet you right now. Proceed to the spaceport. I will have a courier direct you to your ship."

"The ship you mentioned previously?"

"Yes, apprentice. It is unregistered and, therefore, cannot be tracked by anyone in either the Empire or the Republic."

"Like the taxi?"

"Yes."

"Why are you concerned about the Empire tracking us?"

"The situation is complex, and I won't risk speaking about it over holocom. Is the Imperial there with you?" I nod and motion for Quinn to come closer. "Good. Then have him establish a secure connection on the ship as soon as you arrive. I will brief you about the details once you are there. Meanwhile, set a course for Balmorra. There is much to do, apprentice, and little time to spare." Just when I think that he's going to end the call, he turns back to the camera and smirks. "Oh, and apprentice? Don't destroy this one. It's on loan and it does not belong to you." As soon as the transmission cuts out, I turn to my ragtag crew.

"Can you do as he says, Quinn?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"Whoa, now. Why does he get to be called by his name while I'm being called slave?" the Twi'lek complains.

"Because that is what you are," I reply.

"That's not fair," she pouts. "I've got an idea. Let's make a deal. How about you call me Vette and I call you…well…whatever you want? I could say 'Your Lordship' or 'My Lord' or whatever else."

"I have a better idea," I say and step closer to her. We're about the same height. I realize that now that she isn't chained and slouching. This small detail only serves to heighten my dislike for her. "If you obey my commands and you don't speak unless spoken to, I will do my best to refrain from throwing you into walls and choking the life out of you. How does that sound, Vette?" I add as much poison as I can manage into the name. I fully mean to belittle her name and insult her. Instead, a huge smile breaks out on her face.

"That's it! You called me by my name!"

.

.

.

The moment that we hop out of our taxi at Mezenti Spaceport, we're greeted by a mousy looking man who looks like he's afraid of his own shadow. As he approaches us, he keeps glancing over his shoulder as though he's expecting an attack.

"I'm here on orders from Lord Qet. Are you my courier?" I ask.

"Shh…" he hisses. "Not so loud, My Lord. Please, follow me." Though the spaceport is buzzing with activity, I didn't raise my voice or catch anyone's attention. In fact, everyone is so busy with their own problems that nobody even bats an eyelash in our direction. Still, this courier keeps looking around, acting for all the world like a soldier sneaking around in a minefield. "This way." Convinced that I'm being led by a madman, I gesture for my two companions to trail behind us.

"Someone's been in the spice box today," I hear Vette mumble under her breath. The timid courier leads us to a private hangar separated from the others by a few thick walls of metal and concrete. When we're out of sight of the public, he gestures for me to come closer and hands me two short cylindrical objects. He doesn't need to explain what they are. Judging from the red buttons on the top, I understand that these are the remotes to my companions' shock collars.

"This ship should be arriving at any moment, My Lord."

"It isn't here?" I ask, surprised.

"No, My Lord. It's parked above the atmosphere. You'll be taking a shuttle to it." The measures that Lord Qet has taken to hide this thing from prying eyes seems extreme. And he calls you paranoid? I'm suddenly intrigued. This mission may be more complex than I expected. Just as the courier said, a shuttle arrives in several minutes. It's a tiny five person shuttle, but I still have to shield my eyes from the strong winds of its jets when it lands. "This way please, My Lord."

The moment that I set foot into the shuttle, I'm uncomfortable. This is yet another small and confined space. There aren't any lights in the cabin except for a few on the ground. The darkness makes this cabin look even smaller. "How long is the flight?" I ask, trying to mask my discomfort.

"Thirty or so minutes," I hear the pilot respond. "We'll be docking with the ship as quickly as possible, My Lord."

"Right…" My stomach lurches as the tiny shuttle takes off. This is my least favorite part about space travel. I've only flown off world on three separate occasions, and all of them were horrible experiences. The first time, I lost my breakfast from terror alone. The second time, I nearly passed out from the fluctuations in pressure. The last and final time that I boarded a shuttle like this was when I took my trip to Korriban. That had been rather uneventful aside from some sand that got trapped in our engine. I'll never forget the turbulence.

"My Lord, are you feeling alright?" Quinn shouts over the nearly deafening shriek of the shuttle's engines. I nod and close my eyes, praying that I don't disgrace myself by fainting or throwing up. Fortunately, the liftoff passes by without a hitch, and once we're past the turbulence of atmospheric ascent, I feel much better. Soon, I see our destination through the reinforced glass of the window.

"Wow, that's a big ship," Vette murmurs, straining against her seatbelt to get a better view. Now that we're off-world, the engines are much quieter. I stare at the starship in the distance, try to imagine piloting it. The possibility seems like something out of the bounds of reality. I can't pilot a ship. I've never even tried.

"It's a Fury," Quinn chimes in. "An excellent ship, indeed. Very versatile with many applications."

"You know this ship?" I inquire, hopeful. He did mention that he was a decent pilot.

"Yes, My Lord. They are well known to be very responsive to customization and modifications and are used by both civilians of high status and military personnel. I saw many during my various assignments, especially on Balmorra and - "

"You've been to Balmorra?" I interrupt him. It's dark in the shuttle. The pilot has turned off most of the lights on the floor as well, so I can't make out Quinn's expression. I do sense the spike in his emotions though. He's suddenly nervous. Very nervous.

"Y-Yes…I was stationed there for a short time." He's lying. I don't need the Force to tell me that much. He doesn't say anything else, but my suspicions have been triggered. Why would he hide something like this?

"Fury, you said? I don't like that name."

"I agree, My Lord," Vette chirps, excited. She seems oblivious to my exchange with Quinn. "We should give it a better name."

"I don't have such authority. It isn't my ship."

"Oh, come on. If you could name it something, what would it be?" I can't see her face very well either, but I suppose that humoring her wouldn't hurt right now. After all, I'm supposed to be trying to get along with these people.

Don't ask for the impossible. The thought amuses me, but not enough to take my mind off of Quinn's odd slip-up.

After a few more minutes, the shuttle couples with the Fury and we are instructed to board. As we pass through the narrow airlock and step into the center of the ship, I feel a shudder slither down my spine. The grey metal is familiar, but not in a good way. We move from room to room, getting to know the place we'll be calling our primary base of operations for the next several weeks at least. The ship looked large from the outside, but inside it feels even larger. I try to ignore the dread in my stomach as I explore further, but each sight - the dark hallways, the medbay with the single Kolto tank, and the set of consoles in the cockpit - causes a spring to wind up tighter and tighter in my chest. I'm filled with foreboding, especially when I catch sight of the room meant to be my private quarters. When I touch the ruby red sheets and the soft mattress, I swear that I can see blood already coating the pillows.

This is it. This is where I was in my dream when...

"So, have you decided what to name it yet?" Vette startles me. I turn back to see that her eyes are twinkling with excitement. Does this mean that one of these people is the traitor in my dream? I look down and see a small knife strapped to Vette's thigh. Is that the weapon she would use against me? Somehow, I have trouble imagining that this Twi'lek could be capable of the heinous mutilation that I witnessed. Quinn doesn't strike me as the mutilating sort, either. Revenge, perhaps. I suppose that, given the chance, he might consider striking back at me for what I've done to his career. It wouldn't be logical, however. I'm the only chance he has of getting anywhere with the brand of traitor stamped on his back. He wouldn't risk destroying such an opportunity, would he?

You can never know a person fully, even through the Force. You should remain vigilant.

"Hello? You alright?" Vette waves a hand in front of my face. "You look kinda pale." Before I can answer, Quinn appears around the corner. His expression remains bland as he speaks.

"My Lord, you must be tired. You aren't fully recovered yet. Perhaps you should rest while I establish a secure connection to Lord Qet." I know I should say something. Remaining silent will sow the seeds of suspicion. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Omen," I whisper. Vette and Quinn look confused. "It's what I would name this ship."

"Ugh…that's pretty morbid for a ship name," Vette cringes.

"Omen is a good name," I argue, trying to keep my voice free of any of the tension I'm feeling.

"My Lord," Quinn says, "you aren't, by chance, thinking of the Omen that disappeared some years ago during the time of Lord Naga Sadow?" I wasn't, but I'm glad he mentioned something I could use an excuse.

"Indeed, Quinn. I'm impressed that you would know about that."

"The story always intrigued me during my studies of Sith history. I enjoy the element of mystery surrounding the incident. But, My Lord. Naming this ship after another one that mysteriously disappeared and is presumed to have perished along with its crew…isn't that tempting fate?"

"Dunno what you're talking about, but that does sound pretty creepy..." Vette agrees.

"I am Sith," I reply. "I do not bow down to fate, and I shape my own destiny." The moment that I speak these words, I hope with everything I have that my strength and the Force will help me persevere. I hope that the name I've given this vessel will not guide it to the outcome I witnessed in my nightmare.

.

.

.

"I am here, Master," I say to the projection of Lord Qet in front of me. The blue light from the holo transmission scatters across the consoles before me and reflects off the transparisteel of the viewport. Behind it, I see the violet and magenta glow of Dromund Kaas. From this point of view, it looks so peaceful, hiding all traces of the violent and often brutal ordeals that its inhabitants face on a daily basis - both in the jungles and in the cities. It's the same as Korriban, hiding a wealth of darkness behind a soothing illusion of peace and natural beauty.

Naturally...because peace is a lie.

"You appear to be in better spirits than before, apprentice. Does the ship please you?"

"It isn't mine," I answer, my eyes downcast. "You said so yourself."

"That is correct. I'm glad you haven't forgotten. I'm also glad to see that you've learned your place. This sort of obedience and deference does you credit. Never forget who you serve and who holds your leash."

"Yes, Master." I do my best to sound subservient. It's what Lord Qet expects and an image I'll have to try to maintain from now on. Though it physically hurts to call him by that title - I want no master - I force myself to give off the appearance of a complacent and subdued apprentice. Now that I see him again, my instinct whispers warnings. I don't know how yet, but I'm sure that Lord Qet has something to do with my nightmare. I'll have to be careful. It isn't tradition to purposefully kill one's apprentice, but I've known of Sith that haven't hesitated to throw theirs into fatal situations out of fear or jealousy.

"So the Imperial was able to form a secure connection aboard the ship? Good. That was no easy matter. It seems he will be useful after all." Lord Qet is dressed in formal armor, indicating that he's probably following Vowrawn around on official business. I know that some Sith would crave such a position - most in my shoes would do anything for a swift promotion to Lordship. Personally, I am glad to be away from all the intrigues of the city and the Council. My experience at the trial was enough to last me a lifetime.

"Yes, Master. Please tell me more about my mission." Lord Qet scrutinizes me for a moment before speaking. I'm sure that my sudden obedience seems suspicious and out of place considering my rebellion in the med bay. No matter. If I keep up the façade long enough, he'll grow used to it and forget I ever rebelled. Then, and only then, will I be able to gain his confidence, seek out his weaknesses, and exploit them for my own benefit.

"Is your crew there with you? They'll need to hear this as well."

"No. I've dismissed them."

"Summon them back." This command irritates me. I don't want them here. I don't want them to find out any more details about this mission than I have to give them. The less they know about what I'm doing, the less they will have to use against me as leverage should they choose to stab me in the back. However, I can't disobey in this case. "Is something wrong, apprentice?"

"No," I reply and press the button on the intercom. "Quinn," I call out, my tone curt and cold. "I need you on the bridge immediately. Bring the slave." I hear my voice echo across the ship.

"Interesting," Lord Qet smiles, rubbing his chin. I toss him a venomous glare.

"What is?"

"You call the Imperial by his name." I'm not sure how to answer that. He's picked up on something I hadn't really thought about. Or at least, a compulsion that I never understood. I've been calling Quinn by his name since my time on Korriban - since he first asked me for mine.

"You've given me orders to make these people a part of my crew. Using their names seems logical."

"Do you do the same for the Twi'lek slave?"

"Occasionally when it's convenient. She hasn't earned the privilege of being calling anything aside from her station however," I frown, wondering why he's grilling me like this.

"And the Imperial has?"

"He's shown he can be useful to me."

"I hope you aren't too fond of him," he drawls. I sense malice in his words. "His usefulness will soon expire, perhaps even after this mission. I hope you remember what use Sith have for a tool that has outlived its purpose."

"None," I respond, my mask firmly in place. I feel him reach out through the Force and dig around in my emotions. Only when he retracts his grip do I dare to inwardly gloat. The sun will freeze before I allow anyone to use such pathetic methods to know what I'm truly thinking and feeling. Let him draw his own conclusions and theorize about the facts. Let him run around trying to pinpoint any openings in my armor. I don't have anything to lose aside from my own life; there is nothing I care about more than my own survival. Thus, there isn't anything he can possibly use against me.

"Good. Always remember that these people are expendable."

"Yes, Master." It doesn't take long before someone raps on the sliding doors to the bridge.

"My Lord?" Quinn calls out behind the barrier.

"Enter," I command. He obeys, Vette trailing behind him. The Twi'lek's eyes dart around the room, a mesmerized expression on her face. I motion for them to step closer to the projection. On the way, Vette tries to poke at one of the star charts floating serenely above the console. She jumps in surprise when Quinn swats at her hand, muttering a command for her not to touch anything.

"Now that everyone is assembled, we can discuss your purpose, my apprentice. As you know, your destination is Balmorra, a planet located near the Coreward Worlds. You'll be docking at Sobrik Spaceport in a private hangar, where I've arranged for you to be greeted by one of our allies."

"Who?"

"I doubt you would know him. He is a Sith. You two might even get along," he smiles. I doubt it, but I decide to humor him nonetheless.

"Why?"

"Because he is an apprentice, much like yourself. I'm certain he'll share all the details with you once you land. For now, it's imperative that you take off. Imperial," he motions towards Quinn, who steps closer to the projection. "From what I understand, you are skilled with astronavigation. Plot a course for Balmorra immediately."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Apprentice, your primary objective on this planet is to track down and kill a pair of Imperial defectors." The transmission flickers. Lord Qet's face is replaced by a hologram of two men - one middle-aged and the other much younger.

"Partners in crime?" Vette ventures.

"No," I reply. "Father and son." My feelings and senses hint at their bond while my sharp gaze doesn't miss a single detail. Though the older man's hair is grey, I can see a trace of gold that matches the hue of the younger one's shoulder length hair. Though their eyes are different, the lines of their jaws look very similar.

"Indeed," Lord Qet agrees. "That is correct."

"They are defectors, but there's more to it than that," I observe.

"Your senses are sharp, apprentice," Lord Qet nods. "These men are currently aiding with the underground resistance that defies the Empire's rule of Balmorra."

"Aiding?"

"They began as recruits, but in nearly a year Rylon and Durmat have ascended to a much higher rank. The father now goes by the title of 'Commander' and his son is his second. They are responsible for more than a few Imperial deaths and failures in this ground war."

"And how do you propose I find them? Where do I start?"

"That is up to you. They've managed to stay below Imperial radar and evade even our top Agents. Only a Sith will be able to track them down. Our intelligence indicates that they may not be traveling together for safety reasons. I hope that this will not pose a problem."

"Capture one and his screams of pain will bring the other," I say, already imagining how I'll spring the trap. Despite the fact that this seems like a trivial assignment, I feel excitement stirring in my chest - the thrill of hunting live prey. "I will torture one until he confesses the location of the other or I'll simply use him to draw the other out." Lord Qet flickers back onto the holo.

"Very good, my apprentice. I see that I'm making the correct choice by sending you. I have forwarded all the information you'll need about your mission to your personal datapad. Since we will not be able to communicate until you reach your destination, I expect you to review it in detail. When you've arrived on Balmorra, contact me via holocom. I will be waiting."

"Yes, Master." Lord Qet's projection flickers and expires. Irritation and annoyance rear their ugly heads. I clench my hand into a fist at my side. Why do I get the feeling that we're circling around the issue here? Why can't he just tell me more about what I'm doing in person instead of making me wade through official briefing reports like some grunt? And why won't we be able to communicate until we reach the planet?

"Hyperspace travel interferes with and makes the majority of conventional communication impossible, My Lord," Quinn says as though he's read my mind. "We'll likely be cut off from all such communications until we arrive." Our eyes meet again; his are full of the same simmering anger that I saw during our exchange back on Dromund Kaas. Nothing has changed just because we're being forced to work together, and I doubt that anything will.

"I didn't ask for a lecture, ex-officer," I glare at him. "Just do as my Master has commanded and chart our course. How long will it take you?"

"Not very long, My Lord. We should be able to jump to lightspeed very shortly," he responds, standing at attention.

"Neat," Vette chimes in, cutting through the awkwardness between us. "So this baby has a hyperdrive, too?" Her words bounce off the walls of the room, echoing in my ears. That too-cheerful tone annoys me like always, but I can't focus on her right now. All I can see is the ex-officer and the defiance that he's struggling to hide beneath a veil of formality.

"Get to work, then," I decree. Quinn looks away from me and steps towards the largest panel in the front of the room. He takes a seat in one of the chairs and begins to punch coordinates and calculations into the navigational computer at a stunning rate. During my Academy days, I read that astronavigation is a very difficult art to master. I watch him for a while, impressed with his efficiency.

"Yeesh, it's like Hoth in here. What's with the icy mood? Aren't you excited at all?"

"It's a starship, Twi'lek," Quinn snaps. "Naturally, it has a hyperdrive." She waves at him dismissively and blinks up at me. I feel her casual demeanor wear on my frayed nerves.

"I seem to recall that I gave you explicit orders not to speak unless spoken to."

"Right, right, Your Lordship. I guess I'll just...be in my room till we get planet-side." She turns to walk away but stops right at the door. As she faces me again, I think that maybe she's remembered her manners. I haven't dismissed her yet, after all. Perhaps she means to apologize. My hopes are dashed, however, when she smiles at me mischievously. "Just don't let blue-eyes over there get us trapped in a gravity well or something like that. As much as I like exploring, I don't want to fall into a black hole anytime soon."

After Quinn assures me that he can handle navigation on his own, I retire to my private quarters. The moment the door closes behind me and I catch sight of the red sheets on the bed, I feel uneasy. The blood stains on the cloth refuse to disappear, and although I know that they are just an illusion, the sight of them still makes me queasy. I try to imagine sleeping here at night - in the darkness when all is silent - and understand immediately that this will not be possible. I wish that I could move the bed somehow, but the structure is nailed and welded to the wall. Setting aside my datapad, I tear off the sheets to reveal the black mattress beneath it. Perhaps it will be better without the sheets. Deciding to experiment, I sit down on the edge of the bed and close my eyes.

After a few minutes, my unease still doesn't fade away. No matter how I try to dampen my fear with logic and reason, my mind refuses to abandon the morbid images from my nightmare. In the end, I end up stepping back and Force manipulating the mattress from the bed to the ground in a corner of the room opposite from the door. I step to the middle of the chamber and check the distance between this corner and the door, measuring the amount of steps between each point. Glancing upwards, I draw my lightsaber and test the height of the ceiling by swinging it a few times. No matter how I try to move, I feel restricted. My Ataru form will be useless in here. I'll have to practice the low-maintenance Shien and make sure I'm comfortable with it should I need to use it to defend myself.

I maneuver the sheets and mattress farther up against the edge of the room. This way, I've got a wall at my back. Whoever intrudes will have to step through the entire room, and I'm certain that by the time they get to me I will feel their presence and be able to fight back. Somewhat satisfied for now, I holster my saber and decide to relax. Getting comfortable on my new bed, I summon the datapad from my nightstand into my hand then kick off my boots, set my lightsabers down beside me, and begin to thumb through Lord Qet's report on the screen. As I feared, it's quite lengthy, and I've been feeling exhausted even since I first set foot on the Omen. I try to analyze it as I read, hoping that the action will keep me awake.

Apprentice, - the report begins.

This information is given to you in this form because it is classified. You are not to share it with anyone else, including the members of your temporary crew. - So, now they're temporary. Interesting.

Your purpose on Balmorra is to undermine an operation of a certain Sith, an apprentice to Darth Vengean. - Darth Vengean? The Dark Council member? I recall seeing him at my trial.

His name is Darth Baras, and he has sent his own apprentice on a secret mission to silence Rylon and Durmat. I doubt you will run into each other, but be careful if you do. Publicly, and if questioned, you are on Balmorra at the request of the Dark Council to aid in the war effort. Specifically, I am sending you to track down a group of dangerous war criminals. You will still do as I instructed, but the true objective isn't to kill them. - At this point, my curiosity it piqued. I read through the rest of the report, alert and focused.

Without your crew or anyone else knowing about it, you are to question them and find out what Darth Baras has assigned them to do in the underground resistance. Yes, apprentice. They aren't defectors. In fact, they are working for Darth Baras as his spies. Normally, we wouldn't consider interfering as they have aided the Empire by destroying a large number of munitions factories key to the rebellion. Not only that, but they continue to provide vital intelligence about the resistance from within. However, we have suspicions that Darth Baras plans to move against our Master, Darth Vowrawn. We must know more about his intentions and any assets he has in play.

We know exactly where they are. In fact, your tracking them is only a part of the charade. Their coordinates for the next two weeks are within this report. When you find them, you are not to kill them. They must go back into Baras's service without any memory of the incident at all. Though I'm sure you could manage it on your own, I've provided a location of a safehouse they can be taken to and interrogated. It's locked down, but I'm certain that the Twi'lek in your service will be able to slice through the security system. There, you will find all the supplies you need to assure their cooperation and to erase their memory afterward.

Best of luck, apprentice.

I'm not pleased. My task just got a lot more complicated. I would rather strangle both of these men than question them. Though I have no doubt that I'll be able to wring the information out of them, I don't understand why I can't just get to the meat of the assignment instead of wasting time on charades. Then I remember Tremel's advice again - the one about moves and countermoves. It seems that there's much more to this than Lord Qet is telling me. Determined to try and read between the lines, I go through the report again. One sentence in particular catches my attention.

...he has sent his own apprentice on a secret mission...

There's only one person that can be Darth Baras's apprentice. I left the Academy without accomplishing mine and Tremel's goals. If all had gone as planned, I would be beside Darth Baras right now. Instead, I'm sure that it's Vemrin that's been chosen. A giddy feeling makes me smile. Could fate have been so kind as to send my nemesis to me directly? Lord Qet mentioned that the chances of us meeting are low, but I hope with all of my being that we do meet. All it takes to improve my sour mood is imagining how good it will feel to finally end him - to feel the candle of his life snuffed out through the Force. I don't even care how it happens as long as mine is the last face he sees as the light leaves his eyes.

Unless it defies the parameters of the mission. Concerned, I access my mail and type in a message to Lord Qet. If he tells me to leave Baras's apprentice alone, I'll have no choice but to obey. My personal vendetta might have to be put aside in favor of my mask of subservience. Besides, something about all of this is still nagging at me. Outwardly, this looks like a mission of high importance. I can logically justify Vowrawn's need to know more about Baras's intentions, especially if the latter plans to strike out against him. However, this still seems too easy for someone of my skill. Why would Vowrawn stick out his neck for me at the Council if he didn't want a powerful apprentice - if he didn't know about my true power, as I suspect? And if he does know about it, why would he waste my talents on this simple mission?

Search your feelings. You know that there is foul play here. Only the Dark Side can help solve this mystery.

My holocom beeps. As I accept the call, Quinn's projection appears. "My Lord, forgive me for disturbing you."

"What is it?" I ask.

"I have just finished setting all of the calculations for our trip to Balmorra. We are nearly 19,000 parsecs from our destination. We'll be passing along the Hydian Way. I wanted to be certain that you did not wish to make any stops along the route."

"None. We go directly to Balmorra."

"In that case, the ETA is approximately fourteen to sixteen hours. I'll be dimming the viewports during travel for safety and, as you know, we will be on radio silence for this duration."

"Good. Contact me when we arrive. Until then, I am not to be disturbed."

"Yes, My Lord." He bows and disappears, ending the call. With a sigh, I set aside the holocom and readjust my posture into one of meditation. My instinct tells me to search my feelings, and I will obey it as I always have. Closing my eyes, I let myself sink into the dark abyss of my consciousness. I relax my body and deaden my nerves to the outside world. The only way I can reach the deepest part of my connection with the Force is to try to leave as much of my physical body behind as possible. This leaves me vulnerable. It's why I made sure to manually lock the door to my quarters as soon as I entered it.

Manual locks can be overridden by a professional slicer - my logic argues. I push the thought away. Now is not the time for such paranoia. I must commune with the Force and try to understand more about my situation. I do as I've been taught, pushing past wordly thoughts and focusing on the emotions that disturb me the most. There are many candidates, but one stands above the rest. Currently, my fear holds the most sway over my destiny. The fear of betrayal - of failure, of disgrace, of losing the only thing that matters to me. My life and thus, my freedom.

I sink deeper and sense my Vortex greeting me. I envision it as a shadowy reflection of myself that stretches out her hand in welcome. She smiles and beckons for me to join her, sending me mental images of carnage, destruction, and dominance. But I have other things to do right now, other tasks I must focus on. In this realm, I can't express my will in words. Instead, I share my emotions with her through a telepathic bond - my insecurities and the images from my nightmare. She nods, and I sense that she knows about the danger I'm in. In fact, she's known for far longer than I have. There's something she wants me to do, and as she takes my hand I understand that we need to revisit my nightmare together. This isn't something that I want to do, but I am Sith, and I refuse to cower away from any part of my emotions, fear included. So I nod in agreement and together we descend even deeper into the abyss.

Wake up, Seraphine.

I open my eyes with a start and find myself standing in the cockpit of the Omen. Just like my previous nightmare, it's freezing and silent here. I can't hear the life support systems, I can't hear the engines, and I can't hear any movement. Dread washes over me, a mixture of icy water and nauseating adrenaline. Pressing a hand to my chest, I feel my sluggish heartbeat. My body wants to panic, but my mind disallows it. I know this is a dream; I need to see it and remember it so that it doesn't come true.

This time around, I try to capture more details about my surroundings and commit them to memory. Glancing at the consoles, I note the date and time. I don't recognize the planet floating in the viewport, but I remember everything I can about it. I note the light blue atmosphere, the strands of ivory clouds that stream across its surface, and the four moons that orbit it. Moving to the navigation systems, I try to memorize the information there. Coordinates: M-10. Number of suns: one. I have to remember that, no matter what.

You will die here.

No, I will not. But I may unless I pay attention. When I'm satisfied that I've remembered all that I can about the cockpit, I decide to move on. This time, I know my way around the ship. I go straight to my private quarters. Everything inside looks like same as it did during my last dream of this place. The bed has been made; the mattress is back in place; the sheets are tucked in neatly. There are no signs of a fight or a struggle. Everything is in perfect order except for the blood that soaks the pillows. Something else is different, too. There's a blanket covering the mattress. That's when I notice it -

The bed isn't empty.

A hand dangles, limp and bloodied, from under the covers. As I approach it, I feel my heart rate accelerate. My fingers brush against the crimson cloth of the sheets. A voice in my head is screaming not to lift it, but I do anyway. I expect to see my own mangled body, but what I find instead begets a different kind of dread. Not me. Someone else. My eyes fall to the shock collar around their neck. Burn marks litter the area around the metal. They were tortured - brutally - then mutilated. The horror in their eyes tells a story of prolonged suffering, the kind I myself would only inflict upon a certain type of enemy. A nemesis.

In the other room.

Yes. I can sense the traitor now. I feel their hatred - their lust for my pain and anguish. Preparing myself for what's ahead, I step out into the corridor. When the bloody footprints appear on the ground, I follow them without hesitation. In the corner of my eye, I see the shadowy body of my Vortex pointing the way. Guided by the pulsing light of the Kolto tank in the medbay, I make my way down the hall. When I reach the door, I pause for a moment, trying to steady myself for what I'm about to see. Then, I grit my teeth and use the Force to pry open the door.

Look past the blood into the eyes of your murderer.

I try, but in the end I'm unable to look away from the gruesome sight of my ravaged body. What's more, it looks like I'm still alive - barely. I'm struggling, but I'm trapped in place. Above me is a faceless tormentor. The traitor laughs, running the edge of a blade down my abdomen. The skin splits open, and I have to bring my hands up to cover my mouth to keep from screaming. I watch myself strain against a set of bindings on my wrists - Force shackles. My worst nightmare. The traitor hums as they work, first carving a plethora of patterns into my flesh then cutting deeper, reaching inside and...

Focus.

"What do you say? Should I make a dress out of your skin? I've always wanted to wear it." The traitor leans over me and whispers something in my ear that makes me groan. "No? Then shall I scalp you and wear your hair instead? Perhaps I could even become you. What do you think? Think anyone will miss you?" I shake my head in denial. "I doubt anyone at all will know you're gone."

Focus!

Anger erupts inside of me like a molten hot volcano. I want to wipe this person off the face of the galaxy. They're touching me. They've trapped me. They've rendered me helpless. My vision turns hazy, filling with red. I call my Vortex to assist me, feel it yearn to respond. But, something is trapping it. The traitor unsheathes a longer knife and begins to cut off my hair. I watch as a tear escapes my eye - red as the setting sun. One by one, crimson locks fall to the floor. No. No. No...this can't be happening. I can't be helpless. I have to do something.

FOCUS!

At last, I see the traitor's face. First, I catch sight of a pair of blue Lekku. "Does that hurt, Your Lordship?"

Then, the features shift and the Twi'lek becomes a human man. "You shouldn't fight me, My Lord. It will only hurt more if you fight."

Then the face changes again and becomes Lord Qet. "Incredible, apprentice. I'm amazed that you are still alive. Shall we try a different knife?"

Over and over again, the faces change until even Tremel's makes an appearance. Each has something terrible to say, each has a reason to hate me. I feel sick. I want to get out of here. This is too much. The thought that every one of these people are ready to backstab me is unbearable. Is there no one I can rule out? Is there no one that will stand beside me?

No one. You must stand alone.

I snap out of my meditation and gasp. My lungs are on fire, and I feel as though I've been submerged in boiling lava. The Force trembles around me, sending various objects crashing to the floor. Reigning it in, I fall forward onto the mattress beneath me. My breathing is ragged and sharp. I feel as though I was drowning and barely made it to the surface. My clothing is soaked in sweat. Instinctively, I reach out and try to sense my Vortex, only calming down when I feel its reassuring presence. My hand wraps around the hilt of one of my sabers. I jump to my feet and look around the room. My thoughts churn in a disorienting hurricane -

Calm down. Concentrate. Remember what you saw. Remember the details.

Something is ringing. The sound loops over and over again. Dizzy, I look around and finally locate the source. It's my holocom. I press the switch for audio, unwilling to let the caller see me in such a state.

"My Lord," Quinn's voice streams over the holocom.

"I thought I gave explicit instructions not to be disturbed," I grind out. My voice is low and husky. I'm thirsty, too. For some reason, I feel that I haven't spoken in a while.

"Yes, unless we arrived on Balmorra."

"And? Why are you disturbing me, then?"

"Because we've arrived, My Lord." I hear something pinging in the background and realize that Quinn must be working the navigation systems. "I estimated the trip to take about fourteen hours. We've arrived in thirteen and a half."

"I see," I mumble through my dizziness. I can't believe what he's saying. It's been that long? Have I been meditating this entire time?

"My Lord, is everything alright?" I realize that he must have picked up on how strange I sound. Not good.

"Everything is fine. I will join you on the bridge shortly."

"Understood, and - " Without waiting for him to finish the sentence, I press the button to end the call. Putting away my lightsaber, I drag myself to the door that leads to the bathroom and turn on the shower. My skin hurts. The sensation reminds me of the aches I used to get during training on Ziost. Back when I was first learning how to use the Force, I experienced some pain and discomfort in my body until I discovered how to know and extend my limits. When I look in the mirror, I see that my eyes have changed from silver to orange and my skin looks paler than normal. I went too far with my meditation, I surmise. I've reached too deep and spent too much of my strength. Now, before anyone can see me in this state, I'll have to work to recover.

Cursing, I strip off my armor and enter the shower. The hot water feels incredible and soon washes away my exhaustion. As I untie my hair and let the water run through it, I try to go through the details that I remember from my dream step by step. The last thing I saw can't be considered reliable information. Most likely, it's a manifestation of my fears and doubts. I must focus on the smaller things like the date on the navcomputer and the planets that I saw. Something else of importance was revealed as well - the body I saw on my bed. Try as I might, I can't recall who it was, but I sense it was someone I know.

It takes me over and hour to calm my raging emotions and erase the corruption from my body. By the time my eyes return to their normal color and I make it to the cockpit of the Omen, I can sense the impatience in my crew. Apparently, Quinn summoned the Twi'lek girl as well, and judging by the way their emotions are racing they've been arguing. Quinn informs me that there are several messages waiting for me.

"Why are the viewports still dimmed?" I ask, pointing to the windows.

"I was going to ask if I should raise them, My Lord, but our conversation was cut off." I see. He's referring to the way I hung up on our holocall.

"In the future, don't bother me with such trifles. Raise them."

"Yes, My Lord," Quinn complies. As the shades begin to lift, I hear Vette snicker.

"Somebody got scolded," she hums. Because I want to get on solid ground as soon as possible and because I don't think that maiming the Twi'lek will help that, I choose to ignore her. For now.

"Transfer all messages to my holocom and datapad. I will look at them once we are planet-side. How long until we land?"

"I'll make contact with Sobrik right away, My Lord. No more than an hour, I'm sure."

"Again, in the future I expect you to carry out your duties without asking me about every single little thing. You know that our time is limited. You don't need my permission to land this ship. Every hour wasted endangers the success of our mission." I glare down at Vette. "I won't put up with any nonsense, including personal spats and arguments. I expect you both to work together without compromising the assignment."

Quinn formally agrees while Vette nods. I hear her mutter something under her breath about bossy Sith, but before I can respond with a reprimand, the shades lift the rest of the way and reveal the scenery outside. My breath catches in my throat. Now that I've been in the same nightmare twice, I know that I will never forget the way the planet in it looked. In fact, it looked just like this. My eyes roam over the white clouds, azure atmosphere, and sprawling continents. I step over to the navigation systems and scroll through the information to find the coordinates. Everything matches up, even the diagram of the four moons that orbit it.

Balmorra.

So, this is it.

The place where I'm going to be violently betrayed by someone I know. The stage is set, the pieces are in motion and...

I glance at the date on the nav computer.

Apparently, I only have two weeks to find out who.

War is carved into the face of Balmorra like an ugly tattoo. It's ravaged the land and those that live here. From the moment that I first step onto the polished floors of Sobrik Spaceport, I feel an aura of sadness, desperation, and hopelessness permeate the air. Every soldier that I pass and encounter wears this terrible perfume – their heads bowed, their shoulders hunched, and their faces grey with exhaustion. I've seen plenty of images of war in the galaxy during my studies. Patriotic soldiers, sad refugees, determined Moffs, and noble Sith who guide them. Such propaganda is far from the truth, I now realize. There are no refugees here – no aliens or miserable waifs trying to find their way off-world. I don't see any Sith, either. In fact, I barely even notice any true patriots. At least, patriots like the ones described in our texts.

Every Imperial that walks by me looks like they would rather be anywhere else. I sense the resentment in their hearts and the anger in their minds. This kind of attitude doesn't fit my expectations at all. I recall the passion with which Tremel defended the Empire. What was he defending? What was at the heart of his convictions? These men and women don't look like they're fighting for a cause. In fact, it looks more like they're being coerced into performing their duties. I wonder if this is the reality behind the illusion that we're fed every day. Still, this reality seems so contradictory to what I've been taught that I have to question my own powers of observation.

What did you expect? Did you think soldiers ran around shouting 'Glory to the Empire'?

Perhaps I did. At least, on some level. Confused, I turn to the only other person who I've seen defend the Empire's honor with as much righteousness as my old mentor. "Quinn, you said that you were stationed on Balmorra previously. Has it always been like this?"

"Like what, My Lord?" he asks. I struggle to find a way to describe what I'm seeing, but no words come to mind.

"These Imperials don't seem too happy to be here," I reply.

"Well, Balmorra isn't exactly a choice assignment," he observes, rubbing at his neck. The skin there looks irritated, no doubt a result of the shock collar.

"I see." His cryptic response doesn't tell me much about the situation, but I decide to let the topic drop. I'm sure that I'll find out more later. For now, I have to focus on my personal reasons for coming to this miserable planet. At least Quinn doesn't seem out of place here. In fact, he knows exactly where to go to check in after we land. Though he ducks his head ocassionally - almost as though he fears being recognized - he leads the way to a set of terminals and computers situated in a remote corner of the station. As soon as I enter my name into the list of arrivals, I'm hailed on my personal holocom by an unfamiliar frequency. I wonder if this is the Sith contact I'm meant to work with during my stay here or if Lord Qet has simply grown impatient already. I spoke to him via holo after we arrived, and judging by his tone of voice, the man wants this assignment completed yesterday.

"The line should be secure here, My Lord," Quinn intones. "But I would be cautious about using the holocom outside larger facilities like this one."

"Noted," I reply and push the button to receive the call. A light flickers on the screen, and a man appears above it dressed in tasteful black armor. He adjusts something on the controls, bringing his face into clearer focus. His deep red skin and pitch black hair are the first things I notice, followed by a pair of hypnotic golden eyes. A Pureblood.

"Welcome to Sobrik Spaceport. My name is Cytharat, and I will be your liaison on Balmorra."

"Greetings," I respond, surprised that he so casually shared his name with me. Then again, I have to remind myself that I'm not at the Academy anymore. Sith outside Academy walls don't show open hostility towards each other like the Acolytes on Korriban. At least, not as often. Most conflicts between them occur behind the scenes – assassinations behind closed doors and betrayals in dark corridors. I attempt to keep this development and the fact that I need to cooperate with this man in mind. "I…am Seraphine," I add with some awkwardness.

"I am honored to meet an apprentice of Lord Qet and Darth Vowrawn. My Master forwards his greetings and respects to them."

"Who is your Master?" I inquire.

"Darth Malgus. He brought me out of the Academy a short time ago. Like you, this is my first assignment."

"Perhaps we should discuss this in person. My crew has warned me that Sobrik is not a secure location for conversations like this."

"I agree. That is why I have arranged a taxi for you. The droid will take you to Troida Military Workshop, where we can speak freely. It's currently my main base of operations. I apologize that I could not meet you in person. Things have taken a drastic turn here."

"I understand. We will take the taxi and will be on site shortly." He nods and ends the call. As we step outside, we are greeted by a silver droid who guides us towards the taxi terminal. However, instead of leading us to the general transport, the machine takes us to a private landing pad.

"Departure approved by high command, My Lord," the droid informs me. "You may leave at your leisure." I'm surprised to see that Cytharat has arranged not for a car, but for a low altitude shuttle. I hate this already, but I remain silent as we board and climb into the small stuffy cabin. To my surprise, I notice that there is no driver.

"Well this is inconvenient," I mutter, my eyes roving over the plethora of buttons and switches in the pilot's seat.

"But safer, My Lord." I turn to Quinn, who is already examining the cockpit. He catches sight of my raised eyebrows and hurries to explain. "Resistance strike teams have been known to target both civilian and military taxis before. Those who can afford it began to use these shuttles because they are able to fly out of range of most artillery fire."

"I hope you can pilot one of these, Quinn."

"I've done so on a few occasions. They are very similar to - " I hold up my hand.

"Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Good, then climb in. We don't have any time to waste."

"Yes, My Lord."

"This thing's like a tin can," Vette comments as she raps on the cabin wall with her knuckles. A hollow metallic sound echoes in the cabin. "Wouldn't take much to blow a hole through the hull."

"We'll be passing through a danger zone on the way, so I suggest you sit down and buckle up, Twi'lek," Quinn snaps.

"Are you teasing me, blue-eyes, or did someone shove a stick up your butt this morning again?"

"Silence," I command, glaring at them both. "From here onwards, we are on assignment. I expect you to behave responsibly."

"I'm not the one picking a fight," Vette says, holding up her hands. "Just point the way, and I'll shoot the baddies, Your Lordship."

"Would you like to sit up here, My Lord?" Quinn offers, ignoring Vette's remarks. He points to the second pilot's seat. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to watch him as he works. I hate depending on anyone for anything, and I feel that I've been too reliant on Quinn's skills lately. Now that I'm out in the real world, it's time I started learning how to pilot, at least on a basic level. As I strap myself in and watch Quinn mashing various buttons and switches, I try to memorize the procedure. In my head, I can hear Lord Qet's ominous prediction that this man's use may expire after the mission. If that's in any way true, then it's even more crucial that I learn how to do these things as quickly as possible.

You doom is coming.

I sense the danger about half way through our trip. Something isn't right. I look out through the windows to get a clearer view of our surroundings, but no matter which way I turn I can only see the same dull landscape that I've been seeing for nearly half an hour. Our shuttle zooms through funnels of billowing smoke – a result of factories and artillery fire. The land here has been torn apart over the years by war and industry, bearing fiery scars in the form of craters and scorched earth. Debris litters the plains – broken droids, fallen ships, rubble from buildings, empty bomb casings, and other evidence of bitter warfare. This area is – according to Quinn – one of the hot zones where a lot of skirmishes and confrontations take place. He's taken us to a higher altitude so that we stay out of turret range.

Death is swift on your heels.

I know. I can feel it in my bones. Something tells me to look up. I do so and see a handle. "What is that?" I ask, pointing to the top of the shuttle.

"It's a maintenance hatch, My Lord."

"Can it be opened from inside the cabin?"

"Yes, but I wouldn't recommend it while the ship is moving," he answers, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Why do you ask, My Lord?" I don't answer that question. Instead, I lean back and close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart. I think back to what Quinn said about taxis being attacked by pockets of the Resistance.

"Quinn…we're being followed." His eyes widen and he glances at the radar screen, punching in a few codes. He changes the view several times and adjusts the range with a frown. Even a layman like myself can tell that there aren't any threats on the monitor.

"But, My Lord…are you sure?"

"Machinery can fail. The Force cannot. We are being followed." I close my eyes again and stretch out my senses. At first, I can't feel anything except for my crew members. I look deeper, reaching out as far as I can. Bombs and turrets do not have a will of their own. Search for those who do. I sift through a plethora of sensations now, ignoring the presence of wildlife and other forces of nature. "Are there any offensive vehicles this size that might have cloaking devices?" I murmur.

"None that would normally - " Quinn begins.

"There might be," Vette cuts him off. I keep my eyes closed – searching – but I sense how she opens the door to the cockpit and leans in so she can be heard. "I saw something like that once on a trip to Hutta. Some bounty hunters were talking about modifying shuttles with missile launchers and stealth cloaks."

"Don't be ridiculous, Twi'lek," Quinn growls. "The military wouldn't rely on such unreliable technology."

"This isn't the military, blue-eyes," she snaps back with equal hostility. "If we're being followed, then it's not anyone official."

"We aren't being followed - " his protest is cut off. The ship lurches sideways. An explosion right beside my window sends the entire shuttle into a mid-air spin. Vette screams as she's thrown out of her seat. I hear her body hit the cabin walls a few times. If Quinn and I weren't strapped in, we'd probably be hurtled through the glass. A beat. Then chaos breaks out. A series of alarms begins blaring warnings. The entire console lights up in red. Screens are flashing. I smell smoke. Quinn's jaw visibly clenches as he digs his hands into the controls and does his best to even us out. My stomach drops; I feel like I'm going to be sick. Stars, I hate flying.

"What happened?" I demand to know as soon as we're level again. I hear Vette groan in the cabin. A part of me wants to slip out of my seat and look at the damage, but another part tells me that if we're hit again the seatbelt is the only thing that will save my life. Quinn isn't responding; his entire focus is on the console. I can feel his heart and thoughts racing just as quickly and frantically as my own. The radar is now pulsing with crimson, littered with dots that surround us. With every second, more and more dots appear. This almost looks like an –

"Ambush," Quinn grinds out, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. "Looks like they were waiting for us."

"I thought you said this shuttle was safe," I toss at him.

"Safer," he emphasizes. "These sorts of attacks aren't unprecedented, but I've never seen one so organized."

"What defenses does this ship have?" I inquire.

"None, My Lord. This shuttle isn't meant for anything but quick transport. It doesn't even have shields for atmospheric travel."

"No weapons either, I suppose."

"None." Twisting in my seat, I turn to look behind us, but no amount of maneuvering lets me get a clear view of our enemies. I hear a commotion in the cabin. Vette pokes her head into the cockpit, a nasty bruise darkening her temple. Her lip is bloodied, and I can sense that she's in a lot of pain. Normally, this wouldn't bother me at all. What do I care about the wellbeing of a slave? However, for the moment I need everyone functional and able to assist in making sure we survive.

"Well this is a farking mess," Vette grumbles and wipes the blood off her mouth with the edge of her sleeve.

"Are you injured?" I ask.

"Just a few bruises," she replies with a smile. Her emotions spike. It's vague, but I can sense surprise. Her eyes flood with unexpected softness. Seeing – and feeling – such an emotion directed my way is distasteful somehow. I feel like I've swallowed something sour. Such feelings are meant for Force-blind fools, not Sith. My eyes narrow.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking I care," I say hastily. "I'm assessing the situation to understand our options."

"Of course," she mumbles, the warmth fading from her violet orbs. Foolish woman. I look back at the console. Why am I making excuses, anyway? Why does it matter so much to me if she thinks that I give a damn about her condition?

"Can you bring us closer to the ground, blue-eyes?" Vette asks.

"I can, but I have a feeling that that's what they want us to do. There might be something worse waiting for us down below." I'm surprised at how calm he sounds. Though he's sweating and a crease is marring his brow, he's focused and in control. Instantly, I can tell that this isn't his first aerial battle. If that's what you can call a situation where numerous ships shoot at a non-offensive target. Sounds more like a slaughter, to be honest. Vette begins to say something else when another explosion – this time from the other side – throws our tiny shuttle into a nose dive. Something jerks and snaps off the shuttle. My head spins as gravity tugs us down. I can see smoke billowing from one of our engines. The glass above us shatters, sending sharp fragments flying everywhere. I bring up my hands to shield my eyes and see Vette duck down.

A strong wind nearly unseats me. Anything not welded or nailed down goes flying out of the gap in the glass. Another alarm goes off, this time warning us of a breach to the hull. I look back to see that Vette is clutching the back of my seat for dear life. Behind her, I spot a gaping hole that's been punctured in the cabin. Some of the seats are torn away and hurled outside. The sky disappears as the ship flips over. Up merges with down; I lose all sense of direction. It only takes a blink before the ground is all I can see. It's flying, moving at blinding speed towards us. There, I see our death – our doom.

"Pull up, Quinn," I say, using sheer willpower to squash down my own panic. We're dropping altitude fast. At this rate, we'll soon hit the ground and explode. "Pull up!"

"Trying," he hisses, his fingers flying all over the controls. Our enemies fire turrets at us. The beams riddle the ship with more holes. The scent of melted metal and burning plasteel is nauseating.

"Rerout power from the fourth engine!" Vette shouts, her Lekku flapping in the wind. "It's still intact!" Quinn mashes a few more buttons and pulls a switch. We wait. Nothing happens. The longer we fall, the faster we spin. Then, a miracle. The shuttle groans as Quinn manages to pull it out of a 90 degree fall. We're still falling, but at least we've stopped spinning.

"What about the nose thrusters?" Vette offers, pushing the door to the cockpit open the rest of the way and pressing herself fully against my seat. The cabin is a lost cause now. If she has any hope of staying inside the ship, she's got to lock the door. "If you turn those on, we might be able to slow down." Quinn flips a switch, but nothing happens. Sparks fly from the nose of the ship. With some dread, I note that the area is scorched and covered in dents.

"They shot through them," Quinn replies, raising his voice. "We're losing altitude too quickly," he echoes my thoughts. "Even if I reroute power from the fourth engine, it won't be enough to counter our momentum." The blaring of the alarms is overwhelming. With each ring of the sensors, with each pulse of sound, I feel my focus sharpen. I'm no stranger to near-death experiences. In such situation, I know that I have to forgo raw fear and listen to my instinct. I close my eyes and tug at my Vortex. I'm not alone. I'm not helpless. This isn't over. No. It isn't. My senses tell me what I have to do. Quinn's eyes widen when I snap open my seatbelt.

"My Lord!" he shouts. "What are you doing?"

"Strap in, Vette," I say. "Quinn, how do I open the maintenance hatch?" The ex-officer doesn't reply. His face has lost all color. He's afraid to let go of the controls or look away from the consoles. I sense his hopelessness; I can almost see it blinding him. "Quinn!"

"My Lord, wait…" He's confused and disoriented. It's all he can do to hold onto the controls and keep the ship steady. The ground is moving closer to us. Unless I do something, we'll all die. I can already see it in my mind – the image of our small shuttle ramming into the ground at full tilt, the explosion that will swallow us whole and burn us alive. I reject this outcome, refuse it with every fiber of my determination. At that moment, I realize that I don't need him to tell me anything. Gathering Force in my palm I blast open the maintenance hatch. I pull Force to my feet, using it to help me balance despite the chaotic pushes and pulls of gravity. I grab Vette by the front of her jacket and shove her into my seat, using the momentum to crouch down and jump through the hatch.

"Are you insane?" Vette yells from bellow. "You'll die!" I choose to ignore her. For what I'm about to attempt, I'm going to need a lot of concentration. One of our wings is in flames. Cold wind mixes with volcanic fumes from the fire out here, ramming into me like a tidal wave. The force of it nearly throws me off into nothingness, but I manage to catch myself on the top fin of the ship and hold on. Above us, I see the ships that shot at us floating in formation. It seems that Quinn was right. They weren't trying to destroy us in the sky; they meant for us to crash, perhaps hoping that our ship was bearing supplies that they could later salvage. No time for analysis now. Digging my feet into a pair of holes in the hull, I bring up my hands and close my eyes.

The Vortex shifts in my thoughts, stirring into wakefulness. I don't know if I'll need its power right now, but I call it nevertheless. The shuttle is small relative to other ships, but I've never attempted to move anything this large before. I do know that I cannot have any doubt about what I'm doing. I must be confident. I must know that this is going to work. The air whips at my armor and my hair – cold and piercing. I will myself to sense it, to sense everything – the air, the wind, the sky, the ship, the ground. The Force is all around me. I feel it move into me, around me, through me, within me. Now, I must exert control. I must wrap it around the ship and pull. The air must merge with the wind; the ground must push me back, not pull me down.

I sense my crew. I feel their emotions and their desperation. Quinn is blinded now by fear and terror. I feel his mind weaken with doubt and uncertainty. This break in his armor is all I need to penetrate his thoughts. As soon as I enter that abyss, I'm thrown into a hurricane of emotion and confusion. I don't have time to look for anything specific. I wouldn't be able to even if I tried, for I know nothing of piloting a ship. However, I can give him an idea of what I need him to do. I try to share the image that I have in my own thoughts. I can pull up the ship, but I need him to help me do it. Whatever he can do to try and move the ship away from the ground will help immensely. Words come to me through his thoughts…

Reverse thrusters, drag fins, emergency chute…

Whatever it takes. Do it.

Then, I slip away, back towards my own mind again – back to the bond between earth and sky. Gravity fights me with savage fervor. Bring it on. I am not afraid. Right now, I fear nothing with the Force at my side. I know it will help me; I know it will break anything that stands in its way. My Vortex shudders, begging to be unleashed. Not yet. I'm not desperate enough yet. Clenching my hands into fists, I pull. The ship shudders. Metal moans in agony as it twists and bends. Gravity is pulling on it from one end while I try to shatter its grip from the other. I feel its outrage as though it is a living being, and I understand it. It's furious, for I am defying the natural way of things. I am violating its peace, it's neutrality, its existence. If I were a Jedi, perhaps I would reconsider at this point. But, I am no Jedi. I am no meek and neutral entity who seeks order. My pride swells, taking my emotions to new heights. With this swell, I feel closer and closer to the Dark Side. I am Sith! I am the epitome of chaos. I am the bringer of pandemonium to all, especially the Force. And there is nothing I cannot accomplish.

This time, when the ship levels out and decelerates, I do not label it a miracle. To call it such would be blasphemy. No. This is my accomplishment. This is my victory. This is yet another sign from fate that I am superior in every way. Superior and exceptional – remarkable and unrivaled. When the wind whips at my hair and tries to push me back, I laugh. I am victorious! Me, who violates the laws of nature and spits on its rules. Me, who lives for moments of glory just like this. Above me, I hear the whirring of engines. Below me, I hear Vette calling out a warning. The ships that thought to destroy us approach us now with haste. My senses soar. I feel closer and more attuned to the Force than I've ever been. I can feel the pilots in those ships; I can taste their anger. Without having to see what they are doing, I know that they are planning a second attack. Fools. They have no idea what they're dealing with.

Release me. Unleash me. Unlock me. Let me devour them. Let me spill their entrails like ribbons among the clouds… - my Vortex whispers. Not now. Not yet. I will not make the Vortex my crutch, only my ultimate weapon. For now, my own power is more than enough. As soon as I feel that our shuttle can move on its own without my assistance, I let go of it. The emergency chute pops open behind us. The shuttle flounders in the air for a moment before Quinn levels it out. The ship above me aims a set of missiles at us. The pilot wants to see me dead. Pathetic. Raising my hand, I lash out with a wave of Force, wrapping it around the missiles and squashing them as though they were made of air. A beat. Then a magnificent explosion. The missiles rip open the hateful pilot's ship. But that's not all. The fire spreads and hits three other ships, blowing them to smithereens. My silver eyes drink in the sight with a cold-blooded hunger. One by one, I feel the death of each pilot, thrilling in their silent screams, in the way the Force shudders as their lives fade away. The rest of the ships scatter, flying away in the opposite direction. My veins are on fire. I want more death. I yearn for more destruction. It's not enough.

"Can you land it?" I hear Vette shout from below, snapping me out of my trance.

"I think so," I hear Quinn reply. It's immensely difficult, but I reign in my fury. As I climb back down through the hatch into the cockpit, my hands are trembling. Alarms are still wailing; the screens are still flashing. My head spins; my temples throb in agony; my body aches. I sit down behind the pilot's seat and catch my reflection in a stray piece of metal.

"That was amazing," Vette breathes, turning to look at me. "I've never – holy Sith!" She clamps a hand over her mouth. Her violet orbs widen, her skin losing color. "Your eyes…what's wrong with your eyes?"

"What is it?" Quinn asks, still focused on the console.

"Her eyes…and her skin...they're…"

"The corruption of the Dark Side," I respond nonchalantly. "It happens when I use too much Force at once."

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" she asks. That soft expression comes over her face again – the one I'm growing to really despise. My hostility and anger are still on the surface of my awareness. I'm unable to pull them back any more than I already have.

"Don't look at me like that," I hiss. "I don't need your concern or your pity."

"You saved our lives," she insists. "I just…"

"I saved my life, first and foremost. That you were saved is a consequence, not a primary intent."

"Well, thanks anyway," she beams. I feel at a loss. No matter how much negativity I throw at this girl, she just bounces right back.

"Quinn, how long until we reach the Workshop?"

"About fifteen minutes, but I don't think the shuttle will last, My Lord. We need to land immediately."

"That's fine, as long as - " I'm cut off when I sense another disturbance in the Force. It's a presence that I've never felt before – strong, proud, and powerful. I sit up and prop myself up on one of the pilot seats to look out through the hatch. Two ships surrounds us, much larger than the Resistance attackers from before. I hear the transmission crackle before a familiar voice echoes over the intercom.

"My Lord, this is Cytharat. Please land, and we will assist you. Is anyone injured?" I sag against the hatch with some relief. Though I would have fought them to the death if they were attackers, I acknowledge that I've already pushed my limits for the next several hours. I slide back down into the cockpit and mash the button for communication.

"Cytharat, we're alright. No one is injured. We will land immediately." A strong whoosh startles me. Something powerful smacks the side of the ship.

"They're dousing the fire on the wing," Quinn explains. "Hang on, My Lord. This landing won't be smooth."

.

.

.

"We received your distress signal and rushed to intercept the attack upon your shuttle," Cytharat explains as we enter the Workshop. "I'd hoped that the Resistance wouldn't attack a low altitude shuttle, but they are low on supplies and have been getting desperate lately." The building is massive, sporting three entire floors full of soldiers, weapons, speeders, and other technology. The bottom level even has a hangar full of ships. All in all, this place looks ready for a massive scale war. I wonder what Cytharat's assignment here is. Is he fighting the Resistance? He mentioned that the conflict had taken a desperate turn. What did he mean?

"Those pilots were no match for a Sith," I decree.

"Indeed. My men and I witnessed your power from a distance. I've never seen anything like it." He's impressed; my ego is boosted. "A few of my guards escorted your companions to the medbay. You mentioned that no one was injured…"

"I sent them away so that we could speak privately."

"In that case, please follow me." We take an elevator to the third floor. During the ride, I examine my contact in more detail. He's tall, much like the majority of Purebloods that I've met. I search his intentions, expecting to find some form of resentment or rivalry. I'm surprised, however, to notice that he's very calm and collected. I feel no hostile vibes from him. Although this reassures me, I still don't trust him. Back on the Omen, I made a personal resolution to treat everyone I meet as the potential traitor in my dream. I haven't come up with a possible motive for this man yet, but I'm sure I'll find one if I get to know him.

"I need to know something, Cytharat," I say as we leave the elevator. He nods and uses the Force to open a sliding door in the hallway. He's led me to his private office, a room secluded from the rest of the building. One wall is made entirely of transparisteel. From this height, I can easily see a large portion of the massive factory below. "What did my Master tell you about this mission? How are you to assist me?"

"Straight to business, I see," he smirks. The expression unnerves me. I'm reminded of Thanna and her odd behavior on the day of my trial. Just like that time, I'm almost tempted to smile back. This man could be your enemy - my logic warns.

"My Master is not a patient man."

"So I've heard," he nods. "To answer your question, though, I know the true parameters of your mission. I have a series of coordinates where you can find your targets and I am working on securing the safehouse where you are to interrogate them. I'll have some of my men deliver the SLV-16 serum you will be using for this purpose in the next few days."

"Good," I sigh, rubbing at my temple. "I'm relieved that I won't have to play my Master's games with you, at least. My crew on the other hand…"

"Games?"

"Yes. My Master wishes me to run around the countryside like a bounty hunter or Agent," I sneer. "Personally, I see this as a waste of valuable time."

"I understand. My Master also gives me such conditions for some of the things I do here."

"What do you do here?" I ask, curious.

"I've been assigned to take charge of the conflict in preparation for the arrival of Darth Lachris. She was once Darth Marr's apprentice and has earned much rapport with the Dark Council in recent times. They believe she has the power to end the war here and re-establish the Empire's dominance on Balmorra once and for all." His face remains relaxed as he speaks. I'm surprised to note that I find his voice very soothing. I feel almost...safe...in his presence for reasons that I can't explain. This feeling, while pleasant, raises my hackles. I'm concerned that he might be trying to manipulate me somehow. Yet, no matter how many times I explore his emotions, I don't sense even an ounce of hostility or ulterior motives.

"You said that the conflict took a desperate turn. What did you mean?"

"I've been able to make some progress in various 'hot zones' much like this one. We've destroyed several munitions factories and droid production plants that the Resistance was using to their advantage. As a result, they've lost a lot of supplies and important power sources."

"Rylon and Durmat are responsible for some of that success," I point out.

"Yes. It is unfortunate that they must be taken out of the action for a while. They've been a tremendous asset to our cause here."

"Sith power games," I frown. "It seems that, in this case, they are weakening the Empire." The words tumble out before I can stop them. As soon as I realize what I've said, I tense up, expecting retribution. My words may have sounded contradictory - even treasonous to some extent - since Sith are considered the unquestionable rulers of the Empire. I glance at Cytharat to gauge his reaction.

"You are very honest, Lord Seraphine." My heart skips a beat. I am unprepared for someone to say my name like this. Not only that, but he added a title that I haven't earned yet. I blink up at him. "Don't worry, I share your sentiments. Perhaps before I would not have been able to. But I've been a part of this conflict for long enough now that I can see how your mission jeopardizes our efforts here."

"You say my name so casually," I observe with a frown.

"You use mine. Am I not allowed the same privilege?"

"I am not a Lord yet."

"But you will be. I can sense it."

"Your confidence in my skill fascinates me," I reply sarcastically.

"And your eyes fascinate me. Such an unusual color for a human. They were different when I first saw you."

"During the attack, I..."

"The corruption, yes. I thought that you may have been hurt, but it seems you've recovered." Something about this conversation feels out of place. Understanding and genuine concern aren't sentiments I often encounter. I look into Cytharat's eyes, confused and taken aback. For the first time in years, I can honestly say that I'm flustered. Fortunately, I'm saved from my floundering by a call on my holocom. I check the frequency number and answer, relieved to have an excuse to slip away from this awkward discussion.

"What is it, Quinn?"

"My Lord, I am calling to ask about our orders. Are we meeting you somewhere after the medbay?" I glance at a nearby clock and note the time of day. It's almost evening. I doubt that I can accomplish much tonight, and I'll need to rest after the ordeal on the shuttle. A part of me doesn't want to. I want to get this assignment over with as quickly as possible.

"You and Vette are dismissed until tomorrow. I will go out with Cytharat's men to gather intelligence on our targets." I check the time again. "Call me in exactly fifteen standard hours to discuss how we will proceed."

"Understood, My Lord." I end the call and pocket my holocom.

"We are going out?" Cytharat asks. I shake my head.

"No. We're staying here. You're going to give me every bit of data you have on my targets so that I can study and memorize it. My Master wants me to do things a certain way, and I have no choice but to obey him. For now. However, I won't waste time pretending to be hunting for information when I can utilize it for better things."

"You don't wish to rest?"

"I don't have time for such a luxury at the moment, and I'm too restless after the battle."

"Might I make a suggestion, Lord Seraphine?" I wonder how long it will take me to get used to the sound of my own name. "We have a large training facility here." He glances at the lightsabers on my hips. "After I show you the data, would you like to spar together?" His offer catches me off-guard. As does his smile. He looks rather charming when he isn't so serious. I'm surprised at how much I look forward to the idea of testing my skills against his. This seems entirely inappropriate and out of bounds of a working relationship, but my pride can't resist the call to arms. Darth Malgus's apprentice. This should be interesting.

"Indeed, Lord Cytharat," I reply, adding a title to his name as well. Two can play this game. "That sounds like a fine use of our free time."

.

.

.

"Why do they call them the Sundari Flatlands if they aren't flat?" Vette wonders aloud as our shuttle descends. She points through the viewport at the horizon, where looming rocky spines rise up from the green and brown flesh of the hills. From the sky, this area resembles a giant earthen maze. Some areas are flat - like their namesake - but the majority of these sparse plains are imprisoned between outcroppings of black spiked stone and the wreckage of ships. Corpses of starships, freighters, and transports litter the ground, disemboweled and desiccated. I surmise that many aerial battles took place here once. On the sides of the wreckage, I can just make out a few symbols – both Empire and Republic.

"The Resistance is using the debris to their advantage," Cytharat explains beside me. They utilize the larger wrecks as bases of operations. Just recently, they began to rebuild the shields on these ships and use them to make fly-by bombings ineffective." He points to an enormous wreck in the distance. "That is where we are headed. Unfortunately, the shuttle must drop us off here for we can go no closer without risking being hit by their turrets." Yes, I can see that. Even from here, I note the silhouette of the colossal cannons that could tear through a starship hull without much effort.

"How far is it from us?" I inquire. From the corner of my eye, I see Quinn signal for the pilot to halt the shuttle. He peers through a long range scope of a sniper rifle then adjusts a few things before setting it down.

"About seven or eight kliks out, My Lord." He reaches over to a box beside him and motions for the pilot to finish his landing. "I've brought a few recon droids to help us scout the area. My sources tell me that this place isn't mapped out very well."

"It isn't," Cytharat cuts in. "We've done the best we can, but this area is crawling with Resistance soldiers. They hide behind the debris and ambush those we send on the ground. Ever since they managed to fix the turrets, air strikes have become too dangerous and costly."

"They cannot stop me," I say and glance at Quinn. "We aren't here to do anyone any favors. We have a purpose, and we are going to fulfill it."

"Of course, My Lord, but it never hurts to be prepared. If we can help the Empire's cause while we are here, then I will do what I can."

"As long as you remember that the mission is our first priority," I warn him.

"With such capable men at your command, your mission will surely be a success," Cytharat observes. I sense that Quinn's words have piqued his interest, but I can't decipher the meaning of the look he gives him. Cytharat's golden eyes seem to linger on the ex-officer longer than usual, almost as though he's noticed him for the first time. There's no explanation for the discomfort that I feel upon seeing this, nor can I readily name the emotion that springs into being in my chest. It's an unpleasant stab of something that resembles anger. But, at what?

"Men, huh? Thanks. And what am I, Bantha poo?" Vette protests. Whatever else she has to say is interrupted when the shuttle finally lands. I take the first chance I can to hop out; I've been dying to get out of the tiny cabin for nearly an hour. Quinn and Vette shuffle out behind me, each carrying two sets of weapons and a supply pack. I adjust the one on my back, wishing that I didn't need it. However, with our destination so far out of the way and deep within enemy territory, Cytharat mentioned that we might have to wait for an extraction. Unless, of course, we can capture Rylon and Durmat and drag them across the Flatlands to a safer area. I plan to do just that, for I've sworn that I will not get stuck out in this wilderness overnight.

"Lord Seraphine," Cytharat calls out. He reaches into his robes and pulls out a comlink. When I step forward to take it from him, our hands briefly touch. I expect to experience a surge of aversion; however, nothing happens. He places the device in my palm and pulls back, his lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. "We will be waiting for your signal."

"If I do not contact you by nightfall, you may assume that our mission has gone awry," I tell him, attaching the device to the inside of my armor. The pilot turns the shuttle completely around and takes off. I shield my face from the blast of the ion engines, feeling confused and a little angry. I've tried to analyze why I feel so comfortable around Cytharat many times without success. I'm unhappy with the thought that he can get past my barriers so easily. Though he hasn't attempted to rummage through my thoughts or emotions yet, I don't want to give him the benefit of the doubt. Doing so would be a mistake. He is a Sith, and I must remember that – culturally – our favorite past time involves betrayal and murder.

Fight him, then. The best way to understand someone is to fight them.

We did not get a chance to spar the night before as Cytharat was called away by his Master for one reason or another. I lament that I couldn't face him as an opponent for I agree with my logic. I notice the most about someone while in combat with them. When blade meets with blade, few can conceal their true nature. I lick my lips as I imagine testing my skills against Darth Malgus's apprentice. I can already feel the thrill of it – the way my nerves will hum and the way my adrenaline will sear through my veins. Then, when I defeat him, I may have a better understanding of the meaning behind the way he looks at me. Perhaps this imaginary victory is another motivation to finish this ridiculous mission posthaste.

"Stay low and stay focused," I command once the shuttle is gone. "Though I would personally like to execute every one of these Resistance fools, our objective is to get in and out with as little impact as possible."

It takes us several hours to trek the distance to the Resistance bunker. I quickly learn that moving in stealth is not my style. I would much rather hack, slash, and carve my way through these men to my destination. Quinn and Vette are slowing me down, especially Quinn. Periodically, he stops to release a recon droid and plug in instructions for it to follow. Damn him and his work ethic. I wish that I was alone. That way, I would hold no responsibility to anyone. Why can't I just burst into the hideout, slaughter everyone who gets in my way, and take Rylon and Durmat into custody? Nobody will be able to stand against me.

"This sneaking around is pointless," I growl at our next stopping point. We've hidden behind a group of rocks to stay out of sight of a large company of patrols. Annoyed, I peek out at them. My eyes dart between the seams of their armor, noting the blaster rifles in their arms and the grenades at their hips. That pathetic armor has no chance to stopping my lightsabers. I even know exactly where I'll hit them. Just throw them off balance, slice under those seams and –

"My Lord, be careful. We must remain hidden. Those were Lord Qet's orders," Quinn whispers.

"These guys are well armed," Vette interjects. "They don't look like the pathetic rebels the Empire makes them out to be."

"That's because they have Republic support," I mutter, observing the soldiers ahead. They are a rag-tag bunch - no uniforms and no discipline. Their patrols are scattered, their camps messy. Armor and clothing is different from soldier to soldier. Most are unshaven, their hair unkempt and varying in length. A mess by military standards. Yet, I sense something else. This group has a surprising amount of coordination and organization – nothing at all like a bunch of ignorant rebels. Not only that, but I pick up an aura of camaraderie here that I didn't feel at Sobrik or even at the Military Workshop. These men look just as tired and worn out as the Imperial soldiers I've encountered here so far, but I don't feel the same reluctance from them. They want to be here, and they believe that they are fighting for a just cause.

"Look at those assault cannons," Vette admires. "And the turrets. There's no way they would have the creds to support this kind of op on their own."

"We're wasting time," I snap. "These fools are entirely oblivious to our presence. We should go now."

"We should wait until nightfall," Quinn counters. "The patrols won't be so heavy, and they'll power down any vehicles they might try to use against us. Statistically, we'll have a better chance." Quinn's resistance angers me, and I recall that I still have the remote to his collar tucked away in the front of my armor. I'm tempted. I could easily put him in his place. The only downside would be that his screams of pain might attract unwanted attention. Then again, maybe that's even for the best. Let them come. I'm not afraid. I catch Vette staring at me.

"Do you have something to say?" I glare.

"As much as I hate to agree with him, I think blue-eyes might be onto somethin' here. Going in there now might get us more than we bargained for."

Since when do you defer to anyone's judgment? You're the leader here. Why are you following?

I have no good answer to these questions, and their implications cut my pride and self-confidence to the quick. Still, I'm no fool. I can tell that Quinn is very skilled at what he does. The rational part of me wants to take his advice and attempt to be patient. This particular trait, however, is one I've never had in spades. My stubbornness isn't placated. I know that I could do this alone – my way. I know that I could! However, I don't want to imagine the alternative. If I make a mistake and botch this mission, I'll have to bow my head in front of my Master and apologize. That's the last thing I want to do, for it would be more humiliating than listening to Quinn. So, I look for a way to salvage my pride while adhering to his suggestion. Doing so is difficult, considering how much my personal desires contradict his.

"Your opinions are noted," I say, my tone neutral. "We will move closer, and I will try to sense if our targets are in position."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Right."

We move slowly. Too slowly. Each dash between hiding places is fraught with risk of discovery. By the time we cover the final stretch to the bunker, the sun has set. Taking refuge on top of an outcropping, we observe the bunker below us. It's massive, obviously a wreck from a capital ship. The structure rises up above the spires of rock and earth that stab out of the ground in the Flatlands. If it wasn't for its position on the bottom of a huge crater, I'm certain that the wreckage would tower over some of the largest of these rocky pillars. I can make out the ship's shattered fins and scorched wings. Whatever transparisteel didn't splinter in the crash reflects the setting sun brilliantly. From here, it seems that the Resistance base was built into the ship's body. I see a blue flicker run across the white expanse of titanium– a pulse that repeats every few seconds.

Shields.

The ship itself doesn't look like any models I've seen in the Empire's arsenal. Is it a Republic vessel? The shape is different than most that I've noted in my studies, but there can be no doubt that it doesn't belong to us. I wonder what caused such a ship to crash, then I glance at the colossal turret cannons and realize that I have my answer. It's no wonder that air strikes are such a difficult endeavor with those weapons in place. Cytharat wasn't exaggerating after all. Quinn reaches into his pack and takes out a set of macrobinoculars then lies down flat on his stomach and peers into the distance. Vette snorts.

"What can you see with that hunk of junk? Even my group had a crate of electro's and we were too poor to afford ship repairs most of the time." I'm assuming that she means electrobinoculars. Quinn ignores her, but I see his jaw clench.

"We'll have to get closer, My Lord," he finally says, pulling the contraption away from his face.

"What for?"

Vette interrupts him – "Because that heap of scrap metal doesn't have image enhancers. Let me see that." She holds out her hand. Quinn raises an eyebrow in what feels like suspicion.

"Why?"

"Because I know a trick to slice 'em. I can extend your view range and make the image less blurry."

Quinn's eyes narrow. "You'll break it, Twi'lek, and we'll be left without - "

"Without what? A piece of junk that doesn't do what's it's supposed to?"

"The device you speak of isn't as durable and is not as appropriate to field work in this type of ecology."

"Electro's are just as water-resistant as those macro's," she argues, crossing her arms over her chest.

"The temperature range for resistances is different. The outer casing of these is more appropriate for what we need."

"Yeah sure thing, blue-eyes. You just don't want to admit that you made a mistake."

"Had I made one, I would have admitted it."

"Not in this lifetime."

"Then let me see those blasters," he points to the Twi'lek's hips. "They are entirely inadequate for this mission. I can - "

"Oh no," she threatens, her hands jerking down to cover her weapons. "You're not touching these babies."

"And why not?"

"Because these are - "

"Silence," I command in an icy tone. Both parties grind to a halt and look my way. Their arguing reminds me of a pair of Sleens hissing at each other, their claws at the ready and their reptilian eyes spitting venom. They've managed to remain civil since we got off the shuttle, but it seems that their truce was just as threadbare as my patience. I'm ready to strangle them both and complete this mission on my own. Only Qet's specific orders are stopping me from doing anything rash. I take a deep breath and try to control the lava boiling in my gullet. I feel as though I'm trying to stop a volcanic explosion with my bare hands. "Say one more word that doesn't pertain to the mission at hand and I'll cut your tongue out with my saber."

A moment of silence goes by in which both members of my crew look intimidated. Quinn turns aside and looks into his macrobinoculars again while Vette stares at the ground and picks at a weed under her boot. I scoot closer to the edge of our hiding place and prepare to search the area with the Force when I hear Vette shuffling in closer to me. Just when I think that I've stunned them into silence, I hear her whispering –

"Were you talking to me or Captain Know-it-all? 'Cause if you were talking to me, I just want to say that he was the one that started it. I was just trying to help…"

Her words fade out until I can see her mouth moving soundlessly. I realize that I've reached my breaking point. I don't know what infuriates me more – her blatant disobedience, her disregard for my threat, or the mischief ever-present in her eyes. Whatever it is, I'm seeing red, and that's never a good sign for anyone in my immediate vicinity. The lava in my chest that I've been managing to keep in check now boils over. Everything slams down on me at once – Quinn's refusal to submit to my judgment, Vette's insubordination, and my frustration with this entire scenario. I can swear that I hear the barriers of my self-control snapping like fine twigs under the weight of my self-righteousness. My hand trembles as I reach into the front of my armor and pull out the remote to Vette's collar.

Do it. Put her in her place.

Don't. You will foil the operation.

Too late for inward debate.

I'm already pressing the button and reveling in the Twi'lek's screams.

Tremel once told me that hindsight is always the clearest form of self-evaluation we can experience as sentient beings. Personally, I've never bothered with it. What's the point in allowing regret to trample me when I have so much yet to do for the future? Some might say that this prevents me from learning valuable life lessons, but I have alternate views. To experience some form of regret is only human, but I don't need to experience it for too long to understand when I've erred. For example, shocking Vette with the remote from her collar while trying to remain stealthed on top of a precarious outcropping above a giant crater teaming with Resistance soldiers may not have been the best decision I've ever made. I learned that the hard way when her agonized writhing and pained screaming were interrupted by a large missile sailing in our direction.

I managed to sense it and react quickly enough to divert it from hitting us directly, but the small cliff still exploded. The resulting blast caused the structure to collapse. All of us went flying in separate directions. In moments, I lost sight of Quinn and Vette in the dirt, dust, and smoke. Though I know that my team is still alive, I can't sense them beyond that. Now, I'm trapped on one end of the colossal Resistance bunker while they may be in mortal peril. Some would say that, at this point, I should despair and regret what I did. I've endangered the mission, after all, and perhaps placed the lives of my team in jeopardy. However, sitting here and regretting the past won't change it. I can only do what I've always done best – move forward.

It seems that we alerted the entire battalion of troops. At least one person triggered the bunker-wide alarm. The flashing lights and general pandemonium don't bother me. It's the sound. The wailing of the sirens is overwhelming. I imagine that this alarm was meant to move through the ship when it was still intact. There, walls, doors, and shields would have muffled it, making this kind of volume a necessity to make sure that everyone on board heard it. Here, however, there are no such walls and doors. The ship has been gutted to make room for the Resistance hide-out. Thus, the sound echoes on hollowed out plastoid and titanium and grows in volume with each pulse. I want so badly to cover my ears and shrink away from it, but I know that doing so would be a mistake.

I move as quickly as I can, rolling from cover to cover until I see the entrance to the bunker. My eyes count at least thirty soldiers guarding it; the Force tells me that at least twenty or thirty more are on the way from underground. From my hiding place, I inspect the height of the ceiling and the distance between walls. The soldiers are standing still now, fear thick in the air that surrounds them. This should be interesting. I've only faced heavy blaster fire in training simulations before. Though I theoretically know how to deflect and dodge it, I've never been burned and I don't know how much it will slow me down if I'm hit. Fortunately, I know how to suppress pain and minor injuries for a time without losing movement or power. I glance at their blaster rifles and know that I'll mostly likely need this valuable skill.

I crouch down and take a deep, steadying breath. It's difficult to turn out the shrill cries of the alarms, but I manage it through strict concentration. I call to the Force, whisper what I need for it to do. I require speed and agility; I require focus and impossibly fast reflexes. I need herculean strength. It's eager to assist me and floods my veins with liquid fire. My senses sharpen; I feel alive for the first time all day. Battle is my trade; chaos is my lifeblood; dealing death is my purpose. I firmly believe that Jedi are so weak because they fail to understand that the Force isn't peaceful. It yearns for conflict. Just as I do. It is why I am so close to it, why I feel as though we are inseparable. I am only truly alive when I'm in the midst of combat. I am afraid. Never let it be said that I feel no emotion at the prospect of my own demise. But, unlike a Jedi, I do not deny myself the strength that these feelings grant me. I embrace my doom, just as I embrace the fear that comes with it.

My Vortex blooms. I feed it the fear that would otherwise slow me down. With my mind clear, I'm able to enter this fight without reservations. I push everything back from my immediate thoughts except the need for victory. I draw my lightsabers in a flash of crimson, smiling when I hear their bloodthirsty shrieks. I cross them in a large "X" in front of me, watching sparks fly. The sound is mostly drowned out by the surrounding alarms, but it's enough to catch the soldiers' attention. They cry out warnings when they see me and try to get into a tighter formation. Their terror washes over me – a euphoric aphrodisiac that heightens my excitement. Their first round of shots is clumsy. Most of the blasts miss me entirely while I deflect those whose aim was true. I let them fire off several rounds, knowing that the taste of crushed hope is so much sweeter than sudden death.

"Stay back, Sith! Reinforcements are on the way. You have no chance of defeating us!" one brave man threatens. The group's horror mounts when I keep moving. I wonder if they've ever seen my kind before. Not weaklings, but true Sith. Or am I the first that they've encountered? If so, then they will understand why we are the true masters of the galaxy. I will take great pleasure in carving the truth into their minds before I slaughter them. My heart rate accelerates; I feel my cheeks burn with a blush of pure delight.

"Yes, I know," I drawl out with a sadistic smile. I wrap Force around the soles of my boots and jump upwards, flipping in the air. I land on the side of the wall and continue walking towards the group at a lazy pace, dragging one of my sabers behind me. It blazes a path through the metal, the sound loud and grating. "You'll need them. You'll need much more if you hope to defeat me."

"We are not afraid of you!" another soldier shouts. It's all the signal I need to begin my attack in earnest. I leap forward, diving down into the middle of the group. Holding my sabers out at arm length, I spin around. Once, I saw a man pulled into the engine of a starship during maintenance. He looked much like these soldiers do now – screaming, their faces contorted into expressions of confusion and pain, calling for help as they are shredded apart. Blood sprays around me like a gushing waterfall, coating my armor and part of my face. The motion is so fast that the others stare at me without a hint of comprehension for a moment. The men that immediately surrounded me now lie on the floor. Those who were lucky died quickly; those who were not moan in pain and horror.

"Kill her! Fire! Fire at will!" someone shouts from behind me. I jump up and out of the way as the entire group takes aim and shoots. I'm almost blinded by bright flashes of gold and orange as blaster fire goes everywhere. I dodge it with ease, somersaulting over the soldiers then charging back into the circle. They have no hope of countering my light saber. Their armor isn't nearly strong enough and their fear makes them clumsy and slow. I arc into them, slicing through arms and torsos as easily as breathing. One man tries to tackle me to the ground. He's a brute – larger and taller than me by at least three heads. I sense him coming and manage to twist around and embed my saber into his gut. He groans, but doesn't stop. As we fall, he crushes me with his weight and momentarily pins me down.

Without pausing, I send a blast of Force against him. The blow throws him off of me and sends him flying into a group of soldiers. I jump to my feet, ready to continue, when the alarms around us suddenly fall silent. Something crackles; the intercom. A movement above me makes my gaze snap to a camera that swivels down to focus on me.

"Sith…" a voice scratches over the intercom. "I am Commander Rylon. I assume you've come here to kill me. If I tell my men to stand down, will you spare their lives?" I look around at the harrowed faces of the men who are still standing. Most of them are shaking with visible fear, their weapons rattling. Spare them? Why? What's the point?

"I have no interest in leaving anyone here alive," I respond. "Tell them to stand down or don't. They will be slaughtered either way."

"If you hurt any of these men, you will not find me. As we speak, I am boarding an escape shuttle. Should you waste time killing them, you will lose me." The intercom crackles and dies. Either he's bluffing or I'm about to get forced into doing something yet again. I don't have enough time to think about a decision. I know that I can't risk losing my target, so I turn around and blast the soldiers who block my path aside.

Faster! Faster! – I command the Force as I dash towards the place where I sense Rylon's presence. The men behind me have regained their courage and rush to stop me with more blaster fire. I evade it all, but I curse at them. Every second I spend dodging is every second that Rylon has to make good on his threat. When I fly through an archway into a flat area that looks like a tarmac, I whirl around and skid to a halt. Some five or six hundred meters away, I can see the group of soldiers running after me. I sheath my sabers and raise my hands, pulling on large chunks of lose debris above the archway that have been secured with makeshift barriers to keep them from falling. I grit my teeth and tear at the suspension, smiling when I hear ruined metal groan in response. The entire thing hangs suspended for a moment before crashing down with a deafening bang. A cloud of dust and dirt mushrooms upwards. I don't stick around to watch the results.

Instead, I continue forward, stopping only when I catch sight of Rylon and Durmat boarding their shuttles. Two separate ones on two very different ends of the tarmac. I react before I can think about the possible disaster this will become. "You will not escape," I growl as I target one of Rylon's engines and crush it with Force. The engine wails in alarm then explodes is a bright shower of gold and red. Rylon is thrown out through the glass, his body flailing as it twirls through the air then skids to a halt in the dirt. I can't wonder if I've just killed the man I'm supposed to interrogate. I fix my gaze on Durmat, who glares at me with fury as his shuttle takes off into the air. I lunge forward despite knowing that it's too late. He's moving too fast. By the time I make it to his previous location, he's already too high for me to reach. Not even my Force grip can reach that far.

I don't have time to curse. My instinct warns me duck down just before a missile flies out from beyond my range of vision and rams into the side of the shuttle. The explosion is much bigger than the previous one. I feel the heat on my back and shoulders and I rush to slide under a stray bit of debris. Just in time, too, for the shuttle comes crashing down to the ground like a meteor. Smoke blinds me; I cough to get the black substance out of my lungs. When I crawl out from under my make-shift cover, I see Durmat's bloody torso hanging out of the cockpit at an awkward angle. I draw my sabers and try to find the source of the missile. My surroundings are eerily silent. Who would have shot at Durmat's shuttle? Surely not one of the Resistance. Whoever they were, they've inadvertently salvaged the mission.

You can't stay here.

The debris that I've pulled from the ceiling to cover the archway is moving. I hear the soldiers there shouting something about grenades. Someone is shuffling crates into place. By my calculations, I have less than two minutes before they blow through and attack. Sneering, I look down at the limp bodies of father and son. I should take them and go. The safehouse isn't far from here. I can make it there on foot, though it will be difficult carrying them both. Fortunately, I spot a large speeder on the far end of the tarmac. Running over to Durmat, I sling him over my shoulder. He's thin and not much taller than I am, making him a relatively light load. However, dragging his father is going to be much more challenging. While I hesitate, I hear that the other soldiers have finished preparations for blowing through the archway. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I jog over to Rylon's body and pick him up using the Force. Then, I straighten my arm and blast him forward.

Once. Twice. Three times. As soon as we reach the speeder, the ground shakes beneath me. The soldiers have made it through. I sense that the reinforcements have arrived as well, raising their number to at least fifty now. I load both men into the back of the speeder, jump into the front seat, and ignite the engine. I've never driven this type of speeder before, and I hope that the controls are at least somewhat similar. I turn the handle and shout out victoriously when the vehicle zooms forward.

It doesn't take long for me to understand why this speeder stood abandoned on the side of the tarmac. The engine is leaking and soon begins to leave a very visible smoke trail. It's fortunate that the sun has now completely set. As thick as it is, the black smoke blends with the darkness of night, making it difficult to spot. Still, I can't risk anyone following me here, so I know that I have to abandon the speeder. The trouble is that the safe house is still several kliks away. I reach into one of the side pockets on my pants and pull out the comlink that Cytharat gave me just before he left. After making sure that both of my prisoners are still unconscious, I punch in his frequency.

"Lord Seraphine, is everything alright? We have had no contact from your team."

"We were separated," I say, running a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. "I don't know where they are, but they are alive. I can sense it."

"That is good. My scouts report that the bunker is heavily damaged. I'm already arranging for heavy bombers to strike out against it. We owe this opportunity to you."

"Right now, we have other problems."

"You need an extraction?" he predicts. I want to end the call right there. Here I am, asking for assistance from a man I don't even fully trust. But what am I supposed to do?

"I have the targets in my custody, but I have no way of getting to the safe house. The speeder I took has malfunctioned."

"Send me your coordinates." I lift up my right sleeve and read off the numbers on the screen of my field navigator. "Good. That is far enough from the turrets. I will send a team to assist you. They will have the serum ready for you as well." After ending our call, I open up the trunk in the speeder and search for anything I can use to bind my prisoners. Judging by how long it took us to fly here by shuttle, I'll have to wait at least thirty minutes for Cytharat's men to arrive. To my chagrin, the trunk is empty. I curse as I slam it shut and sit down on top of it. The nights are cold here, but they are nothing compared to some of the evenings on Korriban. There, temperatures can fall so low at night that some of the water pipes unprotected by Academy walls can freeze. Here, only the wind is chilly. That doesn't change much about the situation or improve my mood, however. Cold is cold, and I hate it.

Time passes slowly. Every sound makes me jump. I feel as though I'm being watched, and I can't explain why. There's a humming in the air, but no matter how much I look around I can't find the source. I'm still expecting to be followed, so I'm on edge. I decide to inspect my prisoners to take my mind off unsavory thoughts. Both are badly injured. Rylon's skin is riddled with small bits of glass; he's bleeding from a wound on his back and I see a bit of bone protruding from his thigh. Durmat looks worse. Bruises and burns are already darkening his jaw and neck. His golden hair is stained with blood near his temple. One arm hangs by his side at an unnatural angle, broken in more than one place. So much for a subtle interrogation. These two look half-dead. There's no way any amount of magic serum will erase their memory of the past several hours. Not to mention, I think that the cameras in the bunker may have captured my image. Curse it all. I stare at the two men long and hard, wondering what use a pair of pathetic Force-blind fools could have for someone like Vowrawn or Baras. Surely, they are just pawns in a game they could never fully comprehend. Expendable pawns, at that.

I'm surprised when Rylon suddenly groans and regains consciousness. He winces in pain and looks up at me. "Sith…"

"Rylon," I respond in an equally hateful tone.

"What is your purpose in capturing me?"

"Not just you." I gesture towards Durmat. When Rylon sees his condition, I feel worry gnaw at him. "Let me tell you this, Commander. I'll be asking you some questions and you'll be very cooperative in answering them. If not, I'll break your son's other arm…then his legs…then his fingers…one by one until you tell me what I need to know."

"You'll do no such thing. Sith or not, you don't have the stomach for that kind of work," he challenges and looks me up and down. "Stars…you're just a child. No older than Durmat."

"Try me, old man." I lift Durmat into the air using the Force. "I'll be happy to see how much I can mutilate this boy before you take back your insults."

"No, please. Don't hurt him," Rylon pleads. "What do you want to know? What can you possibly want to know? I'm an Imperial! We both are. We've served the Empire loyally for years."

"You've served a man named Baras loyally for years," I correct him. "I want to know what he's planning."

"Baras?" Rylon looks confused. "Darth Baras?" He shakes his head. "I don't know. We reported to him on a few occasions, but he's a Darth. What would he want from us?" I lift my foot and slam it down on the man's broken leg.

"Don't lie to me, Rylon…lying to me is going to cost you…"

"I'm n-not lying!" he shouts between moans of pain. "P-Please! Please stop!"

"I'll ask you again. What is Darth Baras planning by keeping you on this planet?"

"I don't know! I don't know!"

"Shall I ask your son?"

"No, please!" Behind me, I hear the sound of approaching speeders. Must be Cytharat's men. "Please, My Lord! We work for Intelligence. We're Imperials. We haven't betrayed the Emperor. Why is this happening to us?" Pinning Rylon to the ground using Force, I turn to see something completely different than I originally thought. Not many speeders, but one. Not Cytharat's men, but someone else. It doesn't take long at all for me to recognize the presence. I'll never forget the way the Force bends around him – his flavor of arrogance, his cruelty, and his vain ambition. His speeder skids to a stop about fifty meters from where I am. True to his personality, the man climbs off at a slow and comfortable pace. His robes and armor are different than those I'm used to seeing him wear. They make him look even taller than usual – more menacing. Not that I care. The moment I recognize him, everything else drops several levels in priority. Only one thing matters now.

Revenge.

"Vemrin," I call out, drawing my lightsabers. He does the same. "You filthy maggot. Have you come to die by my hand at last?" The smile of his face mirrors everything that I'm feeling right now – hate, disgust, and the need to kill.

"Well look who it is. How convenient to find you here. Long time no see." His words trigger a new suspicion. How did he find me? I'm in the middle of nowhere. This can't be coincidence. The only person who knew my exact coordinates was Cytharat.

That traitorous bastard…

Right on cue, my comlink rings. I don't need to look at the frequency to know who it is that's calling for one last gloat. I activate the call using my shoulder. "Cytharat…how dare you betray me?"

"My Lord!" an unfamiliar voice hollers over the connection. "My Lord! Our base is under attack!"

Keeping my eyes on Vemrin, I reply – "Who is this? Explain yourself this instant."

"Our base is under attack, My Lord! A group of heavy bombers just passed over us! The Workshop is in flames! Lord Cytharat…he's…he's…"

"Calm down, soldier," I command. "Calm down and tell me what's happening."

"Lord Cytharat is badly wounded! We weren't prepared for…" the connection cuts off some of his words, "…he's here…we're all doomed..."

"Who?" I demand to know. "Who are you talking about?"

"...here…Darth Baras's…"

The line goes dead.

My instinct warns me that something is terribly irreversibly wrong. I've just stepped into some horrible trap. Vemrin is still smiling like a Manka cat who just made his first kill. My mind works furiously to put together the pieces of evidence I have before me. I play back the soldier's voice in my head. He mentioned Darth Baras. Baras's…Baras's…what? Surely not his apprentice. Vemrin is standing right in front of me. Unless he has a twin that's even more evil than he is then that rules him out. Then what did he mean? And Cytharat…Cytharat is wounded and his base under fire. It couldn't have been him that gave away my coordinates. Nor could it have been my team. We've been separated for too long, and nobody was following my speeder. Then who? Who was it? I glance at Rylon, shivering in fear beneath me. His denials are starting to make a sick sort of sense. Of course he wasn't lying. I would have known immediately if he was. He denied being under Baras's employ. So, where does that leave me?

I feel sick – ready to vomit. Betrayal is a bitter toxin, and I feel like I've just swallowed a full glass of it. Denial comes first. This can't be happening. I'm not on the Omen. I still have two weeks until this is supposed to take place! My dream couldn't have fooled me like this. My dream couldn't have made such a grievous error. Before I can do anything else, the sky above me lights up. Light bombers and assault ships come out of cloaked stealth and descend around me, kicking up dust when they get closer to the ground. My comlink rings again, and I feel my heart sink as I activate it.

"Surrender," a familiar voice begins. "Put down your lightsabers or you will be executed."

"If you think that I'll let them take me alive, then you are dead wrong."

"I think that you'll do as I say when you understand the overwhelming firepower you face. Darth Baras doesn't wish for you to die. He simply wants to talk."

"If he wanted to talk, he could have called himself."

"Surrender."

"Never." My eyes flicker over to a bit of movement near Vemrin. From behind him, a small round object floats up and extends its needle-like arms. A reconnaissance droid. How could I have missed it? I let down my guard...perhaps this is the price that I must pay.

"You have one last chance to lay down your weapons."

"After I slaughter every single one of these people, I am coming after you. I don't care why you betrayed me. I don't care if you believe your reasons were justified. I will find you, and you will beg for death before I am through with you…

…Malavai."