Weeping Wrath

[OriusPrime]

Preface

Greetings, fellow SWTOR enthusiasts!

I’m excited to share "Weeping Wrath," a fanfiction inspired by my journey through the Sith Warrior storyline in Star Wars: The Old Republic. What began as a simple idea—documenting my gameplay and roleplaying choices—has evolved into a narrative that delves deeply into the experiences and inner conflicts of my character, Zaraak Reth.

My goal with this fanfiction is to chronicle every step of Zaraak’s path, weaving together the established lore of SWTOR with my own creative interpretations. Each chapter reflects my gameplay, highlighting the choices I made, the battles I fought, and the emotions that drove my character forward. It’s a blend of canon elements and personal storytelling, aimed at expanding the nuances of the Sith Warrior’s journey.

I want to note that I’ve taken some creative liberties with the storyline. For example, in my interpretation, Overseer Tremel has been a mentor to Zaraak for years, rather than having just met her at the start of the class storyline. These adjustments are meant to enrich the narrative and offer a deeper exploration of Zaraak’s character and the world she inhabits.

A heads-up: the prologue and other parts of Zaraak’s journey include sensitive subject matter, particularly related to trauma. This theme is crucial to understanding Zaraak's motivations and her evolution throughout the story. I recognize that such themes can be challenging, but I’ve approached them with the respect and care they deserve. My intent is to explore these aspects of her character in a way that adds depth to her journey, rather than relying on them as mere plot devices.

I’m aware that some of you may have differing opinions on how certain themes are handled, especially in a universe as rich and varied as Star Wars. I welcome any feedback and discussions that arise, as long as they’re respectful and constructive. This story is, at its core, a personal project—one that reflects my engagement with the game and my interpretation of Zaraak’s story.

Thank you for taking the time to read "Weeping Wrath." I hope you find it as engaging and thought-provoking as it was for me to write. May the Force serve you well in your own journeys across the galaxy!

 

Prologue: Weeping Girl No More

"The dark side is in all of us. The sooner you realize that, the stronger you'll become."

Darth Revan’s words, spoken in a time long past, resonate in the present—a galaxy on the brink of war, driven by the darkness within every being. In the year 3,660 BBY, the galaxy stood on the brink of all-consuming war, a war fueled by that very darkness.

Across countless star systems, the Sith Empire and the Galactic Republic were locked in a relentless struggle for dominance. The Sith, rising from the ashes of defeat, spread their influence like a creeping shadow, seeping into every corner of the galaxy. Worlds once bright with hope and prosperity now found themselves smothered under the weight of the Empire’s ambitions, their skies darkened by the looming threat of Sith power.

Yet, the Republic, once the shining beacon of peace and justice, found itself struggling against the tide. The ideals that once defined it were eroding under years of unyielding conflict, its leaders forced to compromise, and its citizens left to wonder if the price of survival was worth the cost to their very souls. The dark side, insidious and ever-present, wove itself into the fabric of the galaxy, fanning the flames of hatred, fear, and ambition on both sides.

It was in this era of turmoil and uncertainty that a young Zabrak, Zaraak Reth, began her journey on the desolate world of Korriban. The ancient Sith Academy, carved into the jagged cliffs of the planet’s crimson landscape, stood as a monument to the Sith’s enduring legacy. The air was thick with the scent of blood and dust, the very ground soaked in the hatred and ambition of countless acolytes who had come before her, each one eager to carve their own path to power.

Within the cold, dimly lit chamber deep inside the Academy, Zaraak stood before a steel door, its edges glowing faintly red, as if the heat of the hatred that forged it still lingered. The flickering torchlight cast a faint, crimson hue across the rough stone walls, casting long shadows that danced with the flames.

Overseer Tremel, a man of stern, almost statuesque features, stood beside her. His graying hair, cut close to the scalp, contrasted sharply with the deep lines etched into his face—a map of the years he had spent shaping acolytes into Sith. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, studied Zaraak with a mix of expectation and something darker—perhaps a recognition of the pain that she carried with her into this moment. The pain that had shaped her into the being she was now, standing on the precipice of her first kill.

Zaraak’s red skin, a distinctive trait of her Zabrak heritage, glistened with a thin sheen of sweat despite the cold, the faint light highlighting the intricate patterns of her facial tattoos—marks of her people, now twisted by the darkness she had embraced. Her horns, sharp and formidable, cast small, jagged shadows across her forehead, and her green eyes, once bright with hope, now burned with a simmering rage.

Her breaths were shallow, each inhalation drawing the cold from the chamber into her lungs, chilling her blood yet stoking the fire in her veins. The glow from the door cast sinuous shadows across her face, accentuating the fierce curves of her horns and the hardened set of her jaw. Her hands flexed at her sides, fingers itching toward the hilt of the training sword at her waist—a crude weapon, a far cry from the lightsaber she one day aspired to wield. This blade was no symbol of prestige but of raw, unrefined potential, a reminder of how far she had yet to climb. Yet, even with such a basic weapon, her fury was a tangible, seething force, ready to be unleashed.

The door to the chamber hissed open, the sound sharp and final. Zaraak hesitated at the threshold, her breath catching in her throat. The chamber was dimly lit, the flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows across the cold, unyielding stone walls.

Tremel, a silent, looming figure, stepped aside without a word, his eyes locked on Zaraak. The expression on his face was unreadable, his cold gaze cutting through her, making it clear that whatever was about to happen, she would face it alone. Without hesitation, he shoved her forward, and the door slammed shut behind her with a resounding thud, the echo lingering in the air like a death knell.

Zaraak stumbled, her heart hammering in her chest as she caught her balance. The chamber was eerily silent, save for the faint, almost imperceptible sound of breathing—someone else’s breathing. Her eyes darted around the room, searching the shadows.

And then she saw him.

He was standing in the corner, half-hidden by the darkness. A human boy, no older than seventeen, with a lean frame that had once seemed harmless but now exuded a sinister menace. His pale skin was sallow, almost sickly, and his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes that had once looked down on her with twisted pleasure—gleamed with the same predatory hunger she remembered all too well. His dark hair was matted and unkempt, hanging in greasy strands over a face marred by a sneering grin that sent a cold shiver down her spine. His lips curled up at the corners, revealing teeth stained yellow by neglect, a grotesque contrast to his youthful appearance.

The sight of him standing there, unrestrained, with that same vile smirk, brought the memories flooding back with a force that nearly buckled her knees. The ghost of his touch crawled over her skin, the echo of his cruel laughter ringing in her ears.

Panic surged through Zaraak’s veins like ice. Without thinking, she spun around, pounding on the door that had just sealed her fate. “Let me out!” she screamed, her voice raw and desperate, fists slamming against the cold metal. “Please, let me out!”

But the door remained unforgiving, the walls seeming to close in on her as the weight of her fear pressed down on her chest. She was trapped, just like before—no escape, no one coming to save her.

Behind her, the boy’s laughter slithered through the air, a chilling reminder of the power he had once held over her. “Scream all you want, little freak,” he taunted, his voice dripping with sadistic glee. “No one’s going to save you now. Save your voice—you’ll be needing it soon.”

Zaraak’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst from her chest. Her hands, trembling and slick with sweat, pressed against the door as if sheer force of will could pry it open. But it was no use. Tremel’s cold indifference, the locked door, the suffocating darkness—everything was designed to break her, to force her to confront this horror head-on.

The boy took a step forward, and Zaraak froze, her breath hitching in her throat. His steps were slow, deliberate, savoring her terror as he closed the distance between them. She turned around, backing away, her legs shaky, her vision blurred by tears that she couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Please... don’t,” she whimpered, her voice a broken plea as she shrank to her knees, arms raised in a futile attempt to shield herself. “Please... just leave me alone...”

But the boy only sneered, his grin widening as he loomed over her. "There, there, Zaraak. Dry those eyes. Remember how intimate we were? Your desperate moans of passion, my companions sampling your exotic red flesh, so tantalizingly soft... mhm. We'll relive those moments, don't worry - all night long."

Zaraak’s sobs wracked her body, each breath a desperate gasp as the world around her narrowed to the memory of that night—rough hands grabbing her from every direction, cruel laughter echoing in her ears as they tore away her dignity, their collective weight crushing her into the cold, unyielding ground. Every detail was still fresh, as if it had happened yesterday—the groping, the leering kisses, the jeering voices that left scars deeper than any physical pain. The faces blurred together in her mind, a grotesque mass of cruelty. Her own voice, hoarse from screaming, begged for mercy, only to be met with sneers as she was used and discarded like a broken toy.

She was that helpless girl again, so small and frightened, surrounded by predators who saw her as nothing more than prey. All she had wanted was to be loved, to be safe. But safety had always been an illusion, dangled just out of reach, only to be ripped away, leaving her to face the harsh reality that she was utterly alone, trapped in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

Why? her mind screamed, echoing with the innocent question of her past self. Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?

The boy’s hand reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, and Zaraak flinched, a whimper escaping her lips as she tried to recoil further into herself. Memory surged—a slap, a kick, the cold, unforgiving ground of Dathomir beneath her as she was shoved into the dirt. The sharp sting of rocks cutting into her skin, the taunts of those who saw her as nothing more than an object of scorn. As a child, she had cowered in the shadow of the twisted trees, hiding in the crevices of ancient ruins, her small frame trembling with fear and shame. That scared little girl, whimpering in the filthy corners of her homeworld, disgusted her.

The boy’s fingers lingered on her cheek, his touch a sickening reminder of the torment she had endured. Zaraak’s mind spiraled, each vile word he uttered a knife twisting deeper into the raw wounds of her memory.

Why? Her inner voice was no longer a frightened cry, but a quiet, seething question. Why did they see me as nothing?

More memories clawed their way to the surface. She recalled the jeers of those who had tormented her, the cruel laughter echoing through the dense, shadowed forests of Dathomir. Nights spent huddled in the hollowed-out trunks of ancient trees, her small body trembling as she tried to hold back the tears that would only earn her more pain. No one had come to help her then, just as no one would save her now.

Why did they choose me to break?

The girl she had been, that small, vulnerable child, had always asked that question in the depths of her soul. She had been too weak to understand, too innocent to realize that her suffering was not her fault. The unfairness of it all gnawed at her, a festering wound that had never healed.

But now, that pain was changing. The more she thought of her past, of how she had been crushed underfoot by those who believed themselves stronger, the more something within her began to shift. The helplessness she had felt as a child started to twist into something darker, something that had been lying dormant within her all along.

The boy’s voice droned on, each word dripping with cruel mockery, but Zaraak was no longer listening. Her mind was no longer the mind of that frightened girl cowering beneath the twisted roots of Dathomir’s forests. It was the mind of a young woman who had endured—who had survived. And with survival came a new understanding.

It wasn’t my fault.

That thought was the first true spark of something raw. The rage she had buried, the anger she had never allowed herself to feel, began to rise within her. It started as a low, simmering heat in the pit of her stomach, growing stronger with each passing moment, each vile memory that resurfaced.

It wasn’t my fault. It was theirs.

The boy’s laughter grated on her nerves, every syllable a provocation. His presence was a reminder of the powerlessness she had once felt, but it also fed the growing fire within her. She had been powerless then, but she wasn’t anymore.

Her breath, once ragged and desperate, began to steady. The trembling in her hands ceased, replaced by a slow, deliberate clenching of her fists. The tears that had streaked her face dried, leaving only the hardened expression of someone who had begun to see through the veil of her own fear.

No more. The thought was stronger now, more resolute.

She wasn’t that broken girl anymore. She wasn’t going to let him, or anyone else, break her again. She could feel the rage burning away the last remnants of her terror, transforming her from the inside out.

No more.

Zaraak’s eyes, still wet with tears, began to narrow, her gaze hardening as it fixed on the boy before her. The fear that had gripped her heart began to melt away, replaced by something hotter, something fierce and unforgiving. She could feel it, that heat spreading through her limbs, tightening her muscles, focusing her mind.

The memory of that helpless girl was still there, but now it served as fuel, driving her forward. She wouldn’t be weak anymore. She wouldn’t cower. She wouldn’t let him—or anyone—take her power away again.

The boy took another step closer, oblivious to the change in Zaraak, his grin widening as he prepared to take what he thought was his. But this time, as his hand reached out, Zaraak didn’t flinch. Instead, she met his gaze head-on, the fire in her chest burning brighter than it ever had before.

No more.

The fear had been replaced by something else entirely.

Rage.

Zaraak’s rage was no longer a simmering ember; it had become a roaring inferno, burning away the fear that had once held her in chains. Every cruel word, every vile touch, every haunting memory now fueled a singular, focused intent. She would not be the victim any longer.

A fleeting whisper of her former self—the girl who had cowered in the shadows, desperate for mercy—surfaced for the last time. But it was quickly silenced by the roar of her fury, the darkness surging within her, demanding retribution.

Her hand, still shaking with the last vestiges of fear, instinctively moved toward the hilt of her training sword. The crude weapon that had once felt inadequate now seemed like an extension of her wrath. It wasn't about the blade itself; it was about what it represented—her defiance, her refusal to be broken again.

The boy’s smug expression faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion as Zaraak’s low growl echoed in the chamber. Her whispered words, “No more,” cut through the thick air like a blade, carrying with them the weight of a decision made in the depths of her soul. She had been the prey for too long, and now the roles were about to reverse.

His laughter died in his throat, replaced by a brittle silence as he realized too late the mistake he had made. "You think you can frighten me?" The boy’s pitiful attempt at bravado crumbled under the force of Zaraak’s transformation—a predator’s grace in the way she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The boy’s back met the cold stone wall, his eyes widening with the first taste of the terror he had once reveled in inflicting.

Zaraak moved with the lethal precision of someone who had embraced the darkness within her, who had harnessed it into a weapon more powerful than any blade. She could feel it coursing through her, a seething river of hatred and pain that had been dammed for too long, now breaking free in a torrent of fury.

Without a word, she grabbed his arm, her grip like iron. The boy’s attempt to pull away was feeble, his strength no match for the rage that fueled her. Zaraak’s eyes, once clouded with fear, now burned with a cold, merciless fire.

In one swift, brutal motion, she tore his arm from its socket. The boy’s scream echoed off the chamber walls, a shrill, piercing sound that was music to her ears. The wet, tearing sound of flesh and bone was followed by a spray of blood, painting the wall behind him in a gruesome mural of his own suffering.

He crumpled to the ground, clutching the gushing stump where his arm had been, his eyes wide with agony and terror. Zaraak stood over him, her breath steady, her expression cold and detached. The boy, once so confident in his power over her, was now nothing more than a broken, quivering heap at her feet.

“Are you frightened now?” Zaraak’s voice was calm, almost gentle, as she looked down at him. But there was no compassion in her words, only a chilling detachment that belied the storm raging within her.

The boy tried to crawl away, his remaining hand scrabbling against the blood-slick floor, but Zaraak was relentless. She reached down, her fingers curling around his other arm with a deliberate slowness, savoring the fear in his eyes as he realized what was coming next.

“Save your voice,” she whispered, echoing his earlier taunt as she tightened her grip. “You’ll be needing it.”

With another savage twist, she tore his second arm from his body. The scream that followed was raw, primal, the sound of a creature finally understanding the depths of its own helplessness. Blood pooled beneath him, his strength ebbing away with every heartbeat, but Zaraak wasn’t done. Not yet.

She knelt beside him, her expression one of cold calculation as she placed her hand over one of the gaping wounds. She focused, feeling the heat of the dark side surge through her, willing the wound to seal itself. The blood ceased its flow, but the pain remained, sharp and excruciating, forcing the boy to remain conscious.

“Remember this,” Zaraak whispered into his ear, her voice soft but laced with venom. “Remember every moment of this night, just as I remember every moment of what you did to me.”

She rose to her feet, the training sword in her hand now feeling like an extension of her wrath. The boy’s moans of pain were music to her ears, a fitting accompaniment to the symphony of vengeance she was conducting. She circled him slowly, savoring the power she now wielded, the reversal of roles that had once seemed impossible.

Outside the sealed chamber, Overseer Tremel stood motionless, the faint, muffled screams filtering through the cold metal. He closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him like a symphony. His lips curled into a small, satisfied smile.

But beneath that satisfaction was a simmering anticipation. He had seen many acolytes break in these chambers, but Zaraak... she was different. There was something raw, untamed about her rage. He could mold that. Yes, she would be a weapon—his weapon.

Yes... a weapon. The words echoed in his mind, a whisper of dark promise as he envisioned the potential she held.

Inside the chamber, Zaraak’s hand trembled as she tightened her grip around the hilt of the training sword. The boy’s face was a mask of terror, his earlier swagger completely dissolved as Zaraak advanced. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest, but its cadence had shifted—it was no longer a rhythm dictated by fear. Instead, it echoed like a war drum, signaling the imminent release of pent-up fury.

She raised the sword, her green eyes narrowing as she prepared to deliver another blow. But she paused, savoring the moment, wanting to draw it out just a little longer. Her rage had reached its zenith, every fiber of her being consumed by the need to make him suffer, to make him feel every ounce of the pain he had inflicted on her. With deliberate slowness, she brought the blade to his cheek, the edge biting into his flesh. Blood welled up, trickling down his face as he whimpered, his eyes wide with horror. Zaraak’s breath came in harsh, ragged gasps as she slowly carved a thin strip of skin away from his cheek, savoring the sound of his screams.

Outside, Tremel’s eyes opened, dark satisfaction gleaming within them. “Rage,” he whispered, the word hanging in the air like a command.

Zaraak’s movements grew more erratic, her cuts deeper and more brutal. She carved into his flesh, each slice sending blood spraying across the walls. The boy’s screams echoed in the chamber, louder, more desperate, as Zaraak’s fury built into a relentless storm.

“Rage,” Tremel repeated, his voice more insistent, feeding the darkness within her.

Her strikes became faster, more vicious. The sword hacked through muscle and bone, severing the boy’s leg with a sickening crunch. Blood splattered across her face, her hands, painting the chamber in a dark, sticky red. The boy’s wails rose to a fever pitch, a raw, primal sound that filled the room.

“Yes... Fury,” Tremel intoned, as if he were conducting a dark symphony.

Zaraak was lost to the fury now, her blade moving with deadly precision, slicing through his lungs and intestines, reducing him to a quivering, bloodied heap on the floor. She hacked into his torso, the blade sinking deep into flesh, tearing through his vital organs. Blood and gore coated her, drenching her from head to toe, but she didn’t stop. Her rage drove her, each strike a release of years of pent-up anger and pain.

“Power,” Tremel whispered, the final note in his dark mantra.

Zaraak stood over what was left of the boy, her breath coming in deep, ragged gasps. Her body trembled with the aftershock of her unleashed fury, the sword dripping with blood. The boy was nothing more than a mangled, unrecognizable mass of flesh, his remains scattered across the chamber in a grotesque display of violence.

She spat on the boy’s remains, a final act of contempt. The chamber was silent now, save for the dripping of blood from the walls. Organs lay strewn about, chunks of flesh scattered like a grotesque mosaic.

The door to the chamber slid open. Tremel stepped inside, his face expressionless but his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he surveyed the carnage.

“Good,” he said simply, his voice calm and approving.

Zaraak didn’t need his words. She had proven herself, not to Tremel, but to herself. She had faced her demons and emerged stronger, more ruthless, more powerful.

She looked down at the boy’s remains one last time, her gaze cold and unfeeling.

“No more,” she whispered, her voice low but firm, a final seal on the nightmare she had just ended.

Without a backward glance, she stepped over the boy’s remains and walked out of the chamber. The weight of what she had done settled into her bones, but instead of guilt, there was only a cold, hard satisfaction.

This was only the beginning. She had severed the ties to her past, forged herself anew in the crucible of her rage. Whatever lay ahead, Zaraak Reth would face it, not as a victim, but as the master of her own fate.

 

[OriusPrime]

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

Act 1
THE SITH WARRIOR

The SITH EMPIRE, an ancient and malevolent power, tightened its grip on the galaxy, seeking to crush all who stood in its path. The Galactic Republic, once a beacon of hope, now stood weakened and vulnerable, its Jedi defenders scattered and weary from endless conflict. Though a fragile peace had been negotiated, it was nothing more than a breath before the storm, a temporary lull before the inevitable chaos.

Across the stars, on the desolate and unforgiving planet of KORRIBAN, a world steeped in the dark side of the Force, the Sith Academy stood as a fortress of power and ambition. Here, the strongest were honed into instruments of destruction, while the weak were cast aside, their bodies left to rot in forgotten tombs.

On this harsh world, the trials were unforgiving, designed to push the limits of every aspiring Sith. It was a place where only the most ruthless could rise, and the path to power was paved with the bones of the fallen.

Amidst this grim backdrop, a new chapter was about to unfold—a story of dark ambition, hidden dangers, and the relentless pursuit of power.

One of the Empire’s most promising young warriors had been summoned back to Korriban, her journey through the galaxy far from over. ZARAAK RETH, forged in the fires of the dark side, had returned to the Academy at the behest of an influential overseer. Her final trials were to begin much sooner than expected, for the path to the dark side would wait for no one.

And so, the galaxy braced itself for what was to come, as the forces of light and dark prepared to clash once more.

 

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Welcome to Chapter 1 of my exploration of Zaraak's continued journey, where we begin to delve deeper into the trials that will shape her path within the Sith Empire. After the intense and revealing events of the prologue, which uncovered Zaraak's traumatic past and her emergence as a powerful Sith Acolyte, we now transition into the next phase of her story. This chapter not only builds on the foundation laid in the prologue but also sets the stage for the challenges that will test Zaraak’s resolve, her discipline, and her hunger for power.

As mentioned at the start of the prologue, in adapting the Sith Warrior class storyline from Star Wars: The Old Republic, some creative liberties have been taken, particularly in the interactions between Zaraak Reth and Overseer Tremel. These deviations allow for deeper exploration of Zaraak’s character, her motivations, and the intricacies of her relationships within the Sith Empire. Tremel's role, while remaining true to the essence of the original story, is expanded to provide a richer narrative experience that delves into the history and tension between him and Zaraak.

As you may have noticed, the chapter opens with a custom title crawl—a deliberate choice to evoke the cinematic feel of Star Wars. This stylistic decision serves as a nod to the franchise's iconic storytelling while setting the stage for the darker, more personal journey that Zaraak undertakes. While the forum doesn’t support images, you can view the full title crawl with the Star Wars logo by visiting the chapter on AO3: My AO3 chapter link.

What started as a simple side mission—slaying k’lor’slugs in the Tomb of Ajunta Pall—has grown into a significant chapter in Zaraak Reth’s journey. This expansion is not just about adding detail but about using every opportunity to explore and develop Zaraak’s character. Much like how a single episode in a TV series can delve into the complexities of its characters through seemingly trivial events, these moments serve as a lens through which Zaraak’s internal struggles, ambitions, and growth as a Sith are revealed.

Going forward, smaller side missions and encounters, though they may appear minor on the surface, will be expanded upon to utilize their full potential as character development moments. Each trial, each conflict, no matter how seemingly insignificant, plays a role in shaping Zaraak’s path, revealing the nuances of her personality and laying the groundwork for her evolution as a Sith.

 

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Chapter 1: Broodslayer

From the vast expanse of space, the barren world of Korriban emerged, its blood-red surface scarred by deep valleys and jagged mountain ranges. Orbiting above, a fleet of sleek Imperial warships stood vigilant, their massive forms casting long shadows over the planet’s inhospitable landscape. One shuttle, small and angular, broke away from the formation, its engines flaring as it angled down toward the surface.

Zaraak sat in the dimly lit shuttle, the silent Imperial Troopers beside her little more than shadows, their presence overshadowed by the tension coiling within her. The red emergency lights cast a sinister glow on Zaraak’s sharp features, the only music accompanying her travels was the low hum of the engines and the occasional beep of the console. Her fingers gripped the armrests as she peered out of the tiny viewport. The landscape below grew larger and more distinct with each passing moment. She could make out the jagged edges of the Valley of the Dark Lords, a place that held haunting memories for her. The Sith Academy’s spires loomed in the distance, barely visible against the dark and ominous sky. As the craft began its descent, she felt a familiar tightness in her chest—not fear, but anticipation for what awaited her on this journey back to her origins.

The air inside was thick, charged with an electric tension that mirrored the storm clouds gathering over Korriban's peaks. As lightning fractured the sky, the shadows shifted, almost alive, dancing across Zaraak's red skin and reflecting in her intense green eyes. The markings on her face seemed to deepen, a stark reminder of the power she had wrestled from the dark side and the sacrifices that came with it.

The hum of the engines was a dull vibration beneath her feet, a constant reminder of the journey’s end. Zaraak’s hands rested on her knees, her fingers curled into tight fists, the only outward sign of the tension coiling within her. As Korriban loomed closer, her thoughts drifted to the grueling months of training she had endured far from the Academy’s cold halls—in places where survival was a test in itself. The brutal lessons had pushed her beyond her limits, the faint scars on her body a testament to her resolve and the price of her ambition.

Her fingers instinctively traced the faint scar bisecting her right eye, a grim souvenir from her off-world tutelage. The laceration had long since healed, yet the memory of its origin remained vividly etched in her mind—the searing pain of a lightsaber’s scorching kiss, the jeering laughter of her fellow acolytes as she crumbled, and the white-hot rage that had surged through her veins in that pivotal moment. The sneering faces of those acolytes bore an uncanny resemblance to the boy who had defiled her innocence, their contemptuous glances seeing only a weak woman that was ripe for conquest.

Outnumbered in that trial, a brutal gauntlet where survival meant victory and defeat spelled death, Zaraak had risen from the dust, the dark side’s fire coursing through her veins. She struck them down one by one, each blow a vow—a pledge that she would never again be reduced to a helpless child. Her vow echoed with every enemy who fell under her blade: she would never be a victim again.

She closed her eyes, allowing more echoes of her grueling past to resurface—battles waged on desolate moons, where the gravity was so heavy it felt like her bones would crack under the strain; hours spent in deep meditation confronting her darkest fears until her thoughts became as lethal as the weapon she wielded. Each lesson was a trial, meticulously crafted to eradicate weakness and forge her into a Sith weapon.

Her gaze refocused on the planet below and the Sith Academy that awaited her return. Years had passed since she last touched foot on Korriban—years since Overseer Tremel had cast her out to endure trials that would either break her or forge her into something greater. Those trials had honed her, stripping away her weaknesses and leaving only the raw, unyielding drive for power. The scar was evidence of that transformation, a mark of her refusal to be broken. It wasn’t just about becoming Sith; it was about proving, to herself and the galaxy, that she was not the victim of her past. Every challenge, every scar, was a testament to her resolve—a reminder that she would never again be the helpless child who was overpowered and left to suffer. But beneath that hardened exterior, a whisper of doubt lingered—a question of whether she was conquering her fears or merely burying them under layers of strength and resolve. Her return to Korriban wasn’t just a continuation of her training—it was a declaration of her intent to rise, to dominate, to become the Sith that would one day make the galaxy tremble.

The approach was smooth, a well-rehearsed maneuver performed countless times by the Imperial pilots. But for Zaraak, it was different. As the shuttle cut through Korriban’s thin atmosphere, the memories of her time here surfaced, sharp and unforgiving. The craft circled once over the Academy’s spires—sharp, angular structures that jutted from the ground like the teeth of a beast—before banking toward the landing platform.

The engines roared as the shuttle descended, the planet’s oppressive heat seeping through the hull. Zaraak’s hand dropped from her face as the ship shuddered, the landing gear extending with a mechanical groan. She stood, her posture rigid, every muscle coiled in controlled tension. Beside her, the two Imperial Troopers rose in unison, their movements precise and disciplined. The familiar scent of scorched sand and ancient stone hit her as the doors slid open with a hiss of depressurization, the dry, blistering heat rushing in to greet her.

The troopers moved to flank her as she descended the ramp with measured steps, each clank of her boots on metal a declaration of her return. The Valley of the Dark Lords loomed before her, its shadows echoing with the harsh lessons of her early training. The Academy loomed in the distance, its towering spires piercing the blood-orange sky, unchanged since the day she left. The air was thick with the dark side, a weight that pressed down on her shoulders like an old, tattered cloak. Yet this time, she bore it differently—not with the desperation of proving herself, but with the quiet confidence of one who had already faced death and emerged stronger.

Ahead, standing at the edge of the platform, Overseer Tremel waited, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was as piercing as ever, scrutinizing her as she approached. But there was something in his eyes, a flicker of recognition—not just of her presence, but of the battles she had fought, the pain she had endured, and the strength she had gained.

“At last, you’ve arrived,” Tremel said, his deep voice resonating through the stillness. He gave a curt nod, the tension in his posture easing slightly as if he’d been waiting longer than he had anticipated. “Good, good. There is much to do, and every moment is critical.”

Zaraak turned her head slightly towards the Trooper on her right. In response, the Trooper bowed, a gesture of respect and deference. Both troopers then turned on their heels and departed, leaving her to face the Overseer alone.

Zaraak allowed her gaze to sweep over the landscape, taking in the familiar sight of ancient stone and crimson sands, so unchanged yet charged with the echoes of her past. “I see Korriban hasn’t changed much,” she remarked, her voice steady, though she couldn’t completely banish the memories that surfaced unbidden. “Same ancient stone, same stench of death.”

Tremel’s expression softened just a fraction, a rare thing for a man so hardened by decades of overseeing the trials. “Perhaps not to the eye, but much has changed. And you, Zaraak—you have changed most of all.”

He turned sharply, gesturing for her to follow as he began walking across the landing platform. “Yes, you are here and ahead of schedule because of me. I expect you to obey.”

In the distance, a small, enclosed structure loomed—its dark, angular form a stark contrast against the rugged landscape of Korriban. Tremel's pace was brisk, the enclosure their destination, offering a brief reprieve from the planet’s relentless heat.

Zaraak fell in step beside him, her posture straight, her mind focused. The familiar weight of the dark side pressed down on her, mingling with the heat that radiated from the rocky landscape. Each step resonated with the promise she had made to herself long ago—to rise above all others, to seize the power she was destined for.

“Mark my words: I am destined to be Sith,” she declared, her voice a razor-sharp edge cutting through the thick air.

Tremel glanced at her, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “It wasn’t destiny that brought you here,” he replied, his tone firm yet almost approving. “It was your will, your strength. Remember that, Zaraak—it’s not fate that will see you through, but the power you’ve earned. But be warned, power has a way of demanding more than you might be willing to give.”

Zaraak barely registered the warning, her focus entirely on the trials ahead. “It won’t be a problem. I’ll give it everything I have,” she replied, her voice laced with certainty. But in the shadows of her mind, Tremel’s words lingered, a small seed of doubt she was determined to ignore.

As the two approached the entrance to the enclosure, the shadows lengthened, and the harsh light of Korriban's surface began to fade. The silence between them grew thick and suffocating, the only break in the oppressive stillness being the metallic clanking of their boots against the walkway. Each step felt like a reminder of the weight she carried on her shoulders—the weight of her past and her future. The air hung heavy with tension, as if at any moment it would snap and shatter into a million sharp pieces.

They stepped inside the shadowed chamber, where the oppressive atmosphere seemed to close in around them. “You face your trials, you serve me, and I will make you the most powerful acolyte here,” Tremel continued, his voice steady and resolute, a promise laced with expectation.

Zaraak's eyes narrowed as she fixed her gaze on Tremel. Her voice was sharp, her earlier confidence tempered by a flicker of uncertainty. "You had better be able to deliver," she said, her words carrying both caution and the weight of her ambition. She needed him to succeed, but deep down, the uncertainty lingered—could he truly prepare her for what lay ahead?

The Overseer’s expression remained unfazed, his tone unwavering. “Leave your doubt at the door—there's no room for it in here. And no time to waste. Your final trials are difficult enough, but they are hardly the greatest threat you face.” Tremel’s gaze turned sharper, as if assessing threats yet unseen. "There's an acolyte here named Vemrin. He's your enemy, and he will try to kill you. We must prepare you."

Zaraak’s lip curled into a confident smirk, her voice dripping with cold resolve. "Let him try. I'll destroy him."

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Tremel's face, his approval subtle but undeniable. "With my guidance, someday you'll destroy all your enemies," he said, his tone carrying the weight of both a promise and a warning.

He gestured toward the training sword she carried, his voice carrying a note of disdain. "That practice sword you've arrived with is insufficient—a blade meant for lesser acolytes. You need a dominating weapon."

Zaraak’s eyes narrowed slightly, her hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of the sword at her side. The blade had served her well in off-world trials, but she knew Tremel was right—this was Korriban, where power was everything, and symbolism even more so.

"In the tomb of Ajunta Pall," Tremel continued, "there's an old armory. A strong Sith warblade awaits you there."

Zaraak tilted her head slightly, intrigued by the mention of the ancient tomb. The weight of Korriban’s history was something she had come to respect, its relics holding power that transcended time. But she was not naive—she knew that such treasures did not come without danger.

"The tomb is thick with k'lor'slugs," Tremel added, his voice lowering as if to emphasize the gravity of the challenge. "Deadly, savage creatures. Be speedy but careful. They've been the end of many an acolyte."

Zaraak’s eyes gleamed with a dark, eager anticipation. The prospect of facing these beasts did not frighten her; it thrilled her. She could already feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the dark side feeding on her anticipation. "If they lack the instinct to avoid me," she said, her voice laced with deadly certainty, "I'll feed them their heads."

Tremel nodded, his expression unreadable but approving. "Once you acquire the warblade, I suggest you spend some time in the tomb bloodying it. Then come to me in my chambers in the Academy."

With those final words, he turned and strode away, leaving Zaraak standing alone in the oppressive heat of Korriban. The weight of the mission settled over her—not as a burden, but as an opportunity to prove herself, to hone her skills, and to show that she was more than just another acolyte. She was destined for more, and this was just the beginning.

Zaraak watched Tremel's retreating form until it disappeared around a bend in the murky corridor. She followed him down the narrow and shadowy path, his words echoed in her mind, filling her with both anticipation and fear. The allure of power and the threat of death intertwined in her thoughts, making each step heavier than the last.

The narrow passageway ahead was bathed in the sporadic glow of flickering wall panels, casting brief, cold light against the dark stone walls. The intermittent illumination highlighted the towering statue of a Sith Lord, its shadow looming over her as if to judge her worth. Zaraak’s thoughts churned as she walked beneath its imposing presence, her mind replaying Tremel’s words. The power he spoke of, the destiny he hinted at—it was all within her reach, but it wouldn’t be handed to her. She would have to fight for it, claw her way to the top, just as the ancient Sith Lords had done before her.

The statue’s blank, unyielding gaze seemed to pierce through her, reminding her of the countless acolytes who had walked this path before, many of whom had failed and fallen into obscurity. They were the ones who had lacked the will, the strength, the sheer determination to rise above their peers. But she was different—she had endured, she had fought, and she had returned to Korriban stronger, more focused, and more determined than ever. This was her chance to prove that she was worthy, that she could surpass those who had come before.

As the dim light flickered across the stone, casting fleeting shadows that danced like specters on the walls, Zaraak felt the weight of history pressing down on her. These were the halls where legends were born and where the weak were culled from the strong. The statue, with its cold, unyielding expression, was a silent testament to the power that could be hers if she only had the will to seize it.

She would not be another forgotten acolyte, lost to the sands of time. She would carve her name into the annals of the Sith Empire, a name that would be spoken with reverence and fear. But to achieve that, she needed to embrace the path before her, to wield the darkness as those who had come before her had done. This passage, with its cold light and oppressive shadows, was just the beginning—a crucible in which she would forge the power that Tremel had promised.

The stark, cold light of the corridor gave way to the crimson sky of Korriban as she approached the exit, the air heavy with the scent of ancient stone and the tang of decay. Korriban was a world unlike any other—a crucible of death and rebirth, where the air itself seemed to hum with the dark side’s power. She stepped out onto the metal platform, her eyes narrowing against the harsh sunlight that bathed the Valley of the Dark Lords in a blood-red glow. The sound of her boots clanking against the durasteel echoed across the desolate landscape, a steady cadence that mirrored her resolve. Below, the Valley stretched out in all its ominous glory—a vast, unforgiving wasteland where the bones of long-dead Sith mingled with the sand, and where the dark side had left its indelible mark on the very earth. This was a place where the strong thrived, and the weak were forgotten, their names lost to the winds that swept through the canyon like whispers of the past.

Zaraak paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the Valley below. Beneath the platform, the path led down a ramp toward the tomb of Ajunta Pall, the entrance guarded by the ever-present statues of long-dead Sith lords. With a measured breath, she began her descent. The steel beneath her boots gave way to the rough, gritty texture of Korriban’s sand as she reached the base of the ramp. The harsh landscape of the desert surrounded her once again, the rocky terrain illuminated by the reddish light of the planet's distant sun. The wind kicked up small clouds of dust, and the oppressive heat bore down on her, yet she felt no discomfort—only the anticipation of the challenge ahead. The tomb entrance stood before her, a dark maw leading into the unknown, flanked by the imposing figures of ancient Sith. Just to the side, a rusty elevator creaked as it ascended to another part of the Valley, its dull groan a fitting soundtrack to the oppressive atmosphere.

From the shadows emerged K'lor'slugs, grotesque creatures with razor-sharp mandibles, their chitinous bodies clicking and scraping against the rocky terrain. Their beady eyes glinted with malice, and their slick, segmented bodies slithered across the stone, heading straight for her. They were drawn to the dark side, just as she was, their anticipation to attack matched Zaraak's own eagerness to prove her strength. Tremel's warning rang in her mind—these creatures were deadly, but that only fueled her desire to conquer them.

With a swift motion, Zaraak unsheathed her training sword, the familiar weight of the weapon in her hand providing a brief moment of comfort. The first k'lor'slugs lunged at her, its jaws snapping viciously. Zaraak sidestepped gracefully, dodging the vicious snap with practiced agility. With a wicked grin, she brought her blade down in a clean arc, severing its head from its body in a single stroke. The creature's corpse twitched on the ground before going still.

More k'lor'slugs poured forth from the crevices, their numbers growing with every passing second. Zaraak didn’t hesitate. She fell into the rhythm of combat, her training sword moving fluidly among her foes. Her strikes were a blur of lethal grace, fueled by the dark side's energy that pulsed around her.

"Is this all you’ve got?" Zaraak's voice cut through the chaos, a challenge to the relentless onslaught of her adversaries.

The acrid scent of blood and ichor filled the air, mixing with the metallic tang of battle. Sweat dripped down Zaraak's brow, mingling with the dust kicked up by the frenzied combat. The creatures seemed to redouble their efforts, sensing their impending defeat. Yet Zaraak remained focused, cutting down her foes with ruthless efficiency. Her every strike was met with a satisfying squelch as blades clashed and bodies fell.

Finally, as the last of the k'lor'slugs lay motionless at her feet, Zaraak stood at the threshold of the tomb strewn with twitching corpses. She took a moment to steady her breathing, her senses still alert for any lingering threats. The entrance to the Tomb of Ajunta Pall loomed before her, its ancient stone walls darkened with age and the weight of countless Sith who had walked these halls before her.

Stepping into the darkness, she felt the cold embrace of the tomb's shadow, the air thick with the stench of decay and the lingering presence of the dark side. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by the flickering lights of ancient torches, and the distant echoes of her footsteps seemed to carry the whispers of the dead.

Zaraak knew that the warblade was somewhere within these walls, waiting for her to claim it. The trials ahead would test her in ways she could not yet imagine, but she welcomed the challenge. With her weapon in hand and the dark side as her guide, she ventured deeper into the tomb, ready to face whatever lay in wait.

The tomb was a labyrinth, its passages winding deep into the heart of Korriban, where the ancient Sith had once walked. The cold, oppressive atmosphere would have unsettled most, but to Zaraak, it was invigorating. Every stone, every echo, seemed to pulse with the dark power she had come to embrace. It was as though the tomb itself was testing her resolve, gauging whether she was worthy of the power it held.

As she ventured deeper, her senses sharpened, alert to the presence of any lingering threats. The memory of her earlier skirmish with the k'lor'slugs lingered in her mind, a reminder of the constant dangers lurking within these ancient walls. She could feel their dark, twisted energy seeping through the stones, growing stronger as she descended further.

She rounded a corner, and once again, the k'lor'slugs slithered into view. Their grotesque forms moved with the same relentless hunger, but Zaraak was ready. The first creature reared its ugly head, the creature’s multiple eyes glinted with a predatory gleam, and its segmented body lunged forward with savage intent. Without hesitation, Zaraak brought her blade down in a swift, calculated strike, slicing through the creature's chitinous armor.

The fight was brutal, the k’lor’slugs’ ferocity far beyond the lesser ones she had faced outside. Each swing of her training sword met resistance, the creature's tough exoskeleton absorbing the impact with alarming ease. Her muscles strained as she parried and struck, the blade’s edge dulling with every hit. Sweat dripped into her eyes, blurring her vision, but she couldn’t afford to falter—not here, not now. Just as she felt her strength waning, her foot struck something solid, nearly throwing her off balance. Instinctively, she glanced down, her eyes catching a glint of metal beneath the twitching body of a fallen slug. It was a sword—no, a vibrosword—its blade far superior to the one she currently wielded. Zaraak’s pulse quickened. This could be the advantage she needed, but the worms weren’t going to give her a chance to retrieve it without a fight.

The k'lor'slugs closed in, their bodies undulating with a grotesque rhythm. Zaraak's blade sliced through the air, meeting the first creature with a satisfying crunch. She moved swiftly, her training taking over as she danced the deadly ballet of combat. Yet, for all her skill and determination, she could feel her weapon's edge growing duller with each strike.

Seizing the opportunity, Zaraak knelt quickly, pulling free an Ithorian Training Vibrosword from the corpse. The weapon felt heavier in her hands, its edge keen and deadly. Without a second thought, she cast aside her worn practice blade and gripped the vibrosword with renewed determination. The weapon hummed with latent power, a far cry from the rudimentary sword she had been using.

With her new weapon in hand, Zaraak launched herself back into the fray. The vibrosword cut through the k'lor'slugs with lethal efficiency, the enhanced blade tearing through their tough hides as if they were nothing. Each strike resonated with the dark side’s energy, amplifying her strength and driving her forward. The creatures fell before her in droves, their numbers no match for her skill and newfound power.

Finally, as the last of the k'lor'slugs collapsed in a heap, Zaraak stood victorious among the carnage. The ground was littered with their twisted remains, their blood seeping into the ancient stones. She took a moment to catch her breath, her chest heaving with exhaustion and adrenaline. In her hand, she held the sword that once belonged to her enemy—her blade now. It felt natural in her grip, like an extension of her own will.

As she pressed on, her senses remained sharp, ever alert for the next wave of attackers. But it was not a creature that caught her attention next—it was a voice. A man’s voice, tinged with desperation, echoing through the dark halls.

Zaraak followed the sound until she came upon a small group of Imperial soldiers, their red armor marked with the emblem of the Sith Empire. Most were dead, their bodies torn apart by the k'lor'slugs, but one man still stood, albeit barely. He was tall, his face lined with the fatigue of battle, and his uniform was stained with blood. As Zaraak approached, his eyes widened in recognition.

"Excuse me, acolyte," he began, his voice faltering slightly as he tried to regain his composure. "Sergeant Cormun, Fifth Infantry company, Korriban regiment. Can I—can I talk to you?"

Zaraak’s eyes narrowed as she sized him up. She could see his hands shaking and the sweat beading on his forehead, but there was a hint of desperation lurking beneath his nervousness. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and his pupils were dilated with panic. His gaze wandered hastily, unable to meet hers for more than a few seconds at a time.

"Make it quick, Sergeant," Zaraak said, her voice cold and authoritative.

The sergeant nodded quickly, swallowing hard before continuing. "You're the acolyte Overseer Tremel had brought in special, right? Heading down in the tomb to show what you're made of?"

“Mind your business, soldier,” Zaraak growled, her hand curling into a tight fist as she struggled to control her mounting anger. She was not here to make friends or be questioned. She was here to prove her worth and nothing would stand in her way.

“Apologies if I offended,” Cormun replied, clearly rattled. “I thought you might appreciate the chance to not only show off for the overseers but build some ties with the Imperial military as well.”

Zaraak raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. “And what do you propose?”

“I’m here commanding a hard target mission to exterminate k'lor'slugs in this tomb,” he explained, his voice trembling. “They’re... horrific things. Mouths bigger than your head. I've lost three squads of good men fighting them. They come in packs—they just... they’ll swallow a man whole.”

Zaraak raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Your men obviously need better training, Sergeant,” she remarked dismissively, her green eyes scanning the surrounding area for any signs of the deadly creatures.

Cormun winced under the sting of criticism, but he held his ground. “Those men were battle-hardened. The enemy just has more numbers. The damn k'lor'slugs breed so fast there’s no way to wipe them out conventionally. So we started targeting their egg chambers. They went insane.”

His eyes flickered anxiously to the inky quilt of shadows, leaping at every half-glimpsed twitch as if another onslaught was a fraction of a heartbeat away. He grumbled almost wistfully, “We managed to get explosives to all of the egg chambers, but the k'lor'slugs were all over us before we could detonate them. We barely made it out alive. We need your help to finish the job.”

Zaraak’s striking green eyes pierced through the sergeant, her jaw at in a determined line. Her gaze darted between the desperate man and his ragged group of soldiers. She had no personal interest in their struggle or their fate, but she saw the potential benefits of forming an alliance with the Imperial military. It could serve her in the long run, and completing this task would only further prove her strength.

After a long pause, she finally spoke with a dismissive tone. “Fine, I’ll finish the job, you pathetic whelp.”

Cormun nodded, gratitude evident on his face. “Thank you," he said, his voice catching with emotion. “We can’t do it without you. You have a tactical advantage my soldiers don’t: the Force. That makes you worth a dozen normal men. But don’t underestimate those k'lor'slugs, sir. They may not look like much, but they’re smarter than they look.”

Without a word, Zaraak pivoted on her heel and marched forward, her focus shifting back to the task at hand. She could hear the distant scurrying of k'lor'slugs and the pulsing hum of explosives as she made her way deeper into the tomb, its dark secrets hidden behind layers of stone and death. The walls were etched with hieroglyphs that told tales of death and decay, and Zaraak couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement course through her body.

The dark side called to her, its power seeping into her very soul as she navigated through the ancient corridors. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her vibrosword, ready for any danger that may lie ahead. She knew this was just the beginning, and that somewhere within the depths of this tomb, the coveted warblade awaited her. But first, she had to face the challenges and obstacles in her path, fueled by the constant companion of the dark side guiding her every move.

This was what she had been trained for. This was what she had endured so much for. And she would not be stopped—not by beasts, not by the dead, and certainly not by the fear that lurked in the shadows. She was Zaraak Reth, and nothing would stand in her way.

As she ventured further, Zaraak could feel the air growing denser, the shadows around her deepening. She could sense a shift in the tomb's energy, a growing unease that was as palpable as the cold stone beneath her feet. The hum of her vibrosword seemed to grow louder, echoing off the walls as if in anticipation of the challenges that lay ahead.

The deeper she ventured into the tomb, the more the atmosphere seemed to change around her. The narrow, oppressive corridors gave way to a wider chamber bathed in an eerie greenish glow, the light reflecting off the walls like a sickly pallor. The air was thick with the stench of decay and something more—a nauseating, almost chemical odor that hinted at the life teeming within this dark, forgotten place.

Zaraak's steps were cautious as she entered the chamber, her eyes narrowing at the sight before her. Large, bulbous eggs were scattered across the floor, their surfaces slick and glistening with a viscous substance. The pulsating light within the eggs hinted at the creatures growing inside, waiting to hatch and swarm whatever dared to intrude upon their territory. Her grip tightened on her weapon, the weight of it a welcome reassurance.

Deeper within, the chamber opened into a larger space, where the green hue transitioned into an ominous red glow. The walls seemed to bleed with the light, casting long, sinister shadows that flickered as if alive. A steep ramp led down into the heart of this sinister nest, where she could see a hulking form moving in the darkness—a K'lor'slug Broodwatcher, its grotesque body towering over its brood of smaller, writhing creatures.

Zaraak's expression hardened. She had faced these creatures before, but never in such numbers, and never with one so clearly tasked with their protection. The Broodwatcher’s mandibles clicked menacingly, its many eyes reflecting the crimson light like a constellation of malevolence. Around it, the broodlings hissed and squirmed, their small, sharp bodies ready to defend their nest with savage ferocity.

Slime dripped from the ceiling, oozing down the walls in thick, glistening trails. The entire chamber seemed alive with the grotesque cycle of life and death. This was the heart of the K'lor'slug infestation—a place where only the strong survived, and the weak were consumed by the darkness.

Zaraak's eyes flashed with cold determination as she prepared for the battle ahead. This was not just about completing a mission; it was a test of her strength, her will, and her resolve. The dark side pulsed within her, feeding her anger, her fear, and her hunger for power. This nest would fall, just as every obstacle before it had.

Without hesitation, she descended the ramp with a determined glare, her vibrosword raised and ready for battle. The Broodwatcher reared back and let out a guttural screech, its mandibles clicking menacingly in agitation as it towered over its protective brood of smaller, writhing K'lor'slugs, its multiple eyes reflecting a deep, fearsome red as it fixed its gaze on Zaraak.

The broodlings swarmed toward her, a writhing mass of chitinous bodies and razor-sharp mandibles. Her vibrosword flashed through the air, cutting down the smaller creatures with swift, calculated strikes. Each slash sent a spray of ichor across the stone floor, the stinging stench of their blood mingling with the already suffocating atmosphere. But even as she cut through them, more broodlings poured from the shadows, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm her.

Zaraak knew she couldn’t afford to be bogged down by the lesser creatures. The explosives Sergeant Cormun had given her were her only chance to destroy the nest and complete the mission. But the Broodwatcher was not about to let her do so without a fight. With a roar that reverberated through the chamber, the massive K'lor'slug lunged at her, its enormous mandibles snapping inches from her face.

She barely dodged in time, rolling to the side as the creature’s weight crashed down where she had just stood. The ground shook with the impact, loose stones tumbling from the ceiling as the Broodwatcher hissed in fury. Zaraak scrambled to her feet, her vibrosword raised defensively as the Broodwatcher rounded on her, its bulk cutting off any easy escape.

There was no time to hesitate. Zaraak’s mind raced as she tried to formulate a plan. The Broodwatcher’s relentless aggression was forcing her to fight defensively, leaving little opportunity to plant the explosives. But she knew she had to find a way, or the mission—and her life—would end here.

With a burst of speed, Zaraak darted toward the nest, her intention clear. She would have to place the charges in the heart of the brood, where the eggs were most concentrated. But the Broodwatcher anticipated her move. The creature lunged again, its powerful body slamming into her with the force of a speeder. Zaraak was thrown back, crashing into a pile of rubble with a painful thud. Stars danced in her vision as she struggled to catch her breath, her vibrosword clattering to the ground beside her.

The Broodwatcher advanced, its eyes gleaming with predatory intent. This was its domain, and it would defend it to the death. Zaraak could see the fury in the creature’s movements, the way it positioned itself between her and the nest. It would not allow her to harm its brood. But Zaraak was no mere intruder. She was a Sith Acolyte, trained to overcome any obstacle, to conquer any foe.

Pushing herself to her feet, Zaraak reached out with the Force, pulling her vibrosword back into her hand. The dark side surged within her, fueling her strength, her resolve. She would not be defeated by this mindless beast. Not when she was so close to proving herself.

With a feral scream, Zaraak charged the Broodwatcher, her vibrosword arcing through the air. The creature met her head-on, its mandibles snapping as it tried to seize her. But Zaraak was faster, her movements fueled by desperation and the dark energy coursing through her veins. She ducked beneath the creature’s lunge, slashing at its side with all her might. The blade bit deep into the chitin, a spray of black ichor splattering across her face.

The Broodwatcher howled in pain, rearing back as Zaraak pressed the attack. But even as she fought, she knew she couldn’t keep this up forever. The Broodwatcher’s sheer size and power were overwhelming, and the broodlings were still swarming around her, nipping at her legs and arms. She needed to end this, and fast.

Her eyes flicked to the pile of explosives clipped to her belt. A plan formed in her mind, a risky, desperate plan that might just work. She had to lure the Broodwatcher away from the nest, just long enough to plant the charges. But how?

The answer came to her in a flash. She turned and ran, sprinting toward the far side of the chamber, away from the nest. The Broodwatcher roared in fury, its instinct to protect its brood driving it to pursue her. Zaraak could feel the creature’s hot breath on the back of her neck as she ran, the ground shaking with each of its thunderous steps. She was betting everything on this one chance.

At the last moment, she pivoted, spinning around to face the charging Broodwatcher. With a surge of the Force, she leaped into the air, sailing over the creature’s head as it barreled past her. The Broodwatcher skidded to a halt, confused by her sudden maneuver. But Zaraak didn’t hesitate. She landed behind the creature, sprinting back toward the nest before it could recover.

With shaking hands, she fumbled with the explosives, planting them as quickly as she could. The broodlings snapped at her ankles, but she ignored them, her focus entirely on setting the charges. The timer was ticking, each second slipping away as the Broodwatcher roared and turned to give chase once more.

Finally, the last charge was set. Zaraak didn’t wait to see if the Broodwatcher was on her tail. She bolted for the exit, her heart pounding in her chest. The Broodwatcher’s enraged cries echoed behind her, growing closer with each passing moment. But Zaraak kept running, her eyes fixed on the doorway ahead.

She burst through the entrance just as the charges detonated, a deafening explosion that rocked the entire tomb. The force of the blast sent her sprawling, her body hitting the ground hard as a wave of heat and debris washed over her. For a moment, everything was a blur—sound, light, pain all melding together in a disorienting cacophony.

When the dust finally settled, Zaraak lay still, her body bruised and aching from the impact. For a moment, she didn’t move, letting the weight of the battle and the destruction sink in. Slowly, she pushed herself up, each breath a painful reminder of how close she had come to failing. The chamber entrance was now a collapsed ruin, the nest obliterated, and with it, the Broodwatcher and its brood, their cries silenced beneath the rubble. But as Zaraak stood there, staring at the devastation she had wrought, a hollow emptiness gnawed at her insides. The thrill of battle had faded, leaving behind only the grim realization that this victory, like all the others, was just another step in a never-ending ascent. The fight was over, but the journey had just begun. There were more trials ahead, more battles to be fought.

And she would face them all, no matter the cost.

 

Edited August 25 by OriusPrime

[OriusPrime]

Acolyte’s Log, Entry 001

Galactic Date: 10 ATC
Location: Tomb of Ajunta Pall, Korriban
Subject: Return to Korriban, Initial Trials, and Environmental Assessment

Acolyte’s Log, first entry. I have returned to Korriban, a place of origins, trials, and now, the beginning of my true ascent. This planet, my birthplace, is as unforgiving as ever—a cruel expanse of rocky red deserts and crumbling ruins. It is a world that demands strength, where only the most ruthless survive. Here, the Sith Academy stands as a monument to the Dark Side’s enduring power, its stone walls steeped in the echoes of those who have fallen before me.

The Sith Academy is not just a place of learning; it is a crucible. The Dark Council oversees the training of new acolytes here, ensuring that only the strongest are deemed worthy to join the Empire's ranks. Korriban is not for the weak—its surface is littered with the bones of those who failed to meet the Academy’s harsh standards, their bodies left to rot in forgotten tombs. The tombs of the first Dark Lords, including the one I now stand in, serve as testing grounds, filled with traps, monstrosities, and relics from millennia past.

Upon my return, I was reunited with Overseer Tremel. His demeanor is as cold and calculating as I remember. He is the one who cast me out years ago, forcing me to survive off-world trials that would either break me or shape me into something greater. Now, his expectations are clear: I must prove that I have become stronger, more ruthless, and more attuned to the Dark Side. The trials he has set before me will determine if I am truly ready to take my place within the Empire.

Tremel sent me to the Tomb of Ajunta Pall, a place of great significance. Ajunta Pall, once a Jedi Master, was the very first Dark Lord of the Sith. His tomb, like the others in the Valley of the Dark Lords, is a monument to the strength and influence of those who came before. The tomb was constructed long before Pall’s death, a practice not uncommon among the Sith Lords, who demanded their final resting places be as grand as their legacies. The rock walls of the Valley of the Dark Lords, where these tombs are carved, were anointed with the blood of a thousand slaves—an apt symbol of the Sith’s dominion and the price of power.

The tomb is infested with k’lor’slugs, hulking, worm-like creatures with pincer legs and gaping maws of teeth. They are among the most dangerous species on Korriban, capable of shearing a man in half or swallowing him whole. These beasts infest the tombs and caves, a testament to the unforgiving nature of this world. It’s said that when a batch of k’lor’slugs hatches, their cry is called "a Hutt’s cry"—an apt description of the carnage that follows. I have slaughtered dozens of these creatures, their numbers seemingly endless. Each k’lor’slug I kill is a step closer to proving my worth, to retrieving the Sith warblade hidden within this tomb.

The k’lor’slugs are not my only challenge here. The Broodwatcher, a massive k’lor’slug that guards the nest, was particularly fierce. But I am no ordinary acolyte. The Dark Side flows through me, and with each battle, I grow stronger, more focused. These creatures, while dangerous, are merely obstacles—tests of my resolve and power. And I will not be defeated by mere beasts.

As I prepare to continue deeper into the tomb, I am reminded that this is only the beginning of my journey. The Valley of the Dark Lords, with its ancient statues and monumental tombs, looms over me as a reminder of what is at stake. The Sith who rest here shaped the galaxy with their power, and their legacies endure. I will carve my own path, rise above the bones of the fallen, and claim my place among them.

The Sith Academy awaits my return, but first, I must complete the task set before me by Tremel. I will retrieve the warblade from Ajunta Pall’s tomb, and when I do, I will prove to Tremel—and to the galaxy—that I am not to be underestimated. My rise begins here, in the shadow of the Dark Lords, with the blood of my enemies on my hands.

[OriusPrime]

Chapter 2: Plundered Legacy

Welcome to Chapter 2!

If the last chapter left you on edge with Zaraak’s explosive encounter with the k’lor’slug nest, then brace yourself—things are about to get even darker—and a lot more personal. But before we dive back into the carnage, let’s address the elephant (or should I say, Rancor) in the room.

Yes, I know the red-skinned Zabraks of Dathomir aren’t supposed to appear in the Star Wars canon for several millennia. I promise, I haven’t overlooked this detail. Zaraak’s unique appearance has a story behind it—one that I’ve carefully woven into the fabric of this narrative. You’ll just have to be patient to uncover the mystery.

For now, sit back and enjoy this savage tale of foolish thieves who picked the wrong tomb to plunder. As they’re about to learn, facing a Sith Acolyte’s wrath is a mistake you don’t live to regret.

 

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In the shadowed depths of the tomb, the sudden roar of a detonation reverberated, a grim symphony marking the end of a long-standing menace. The explosion’s echo still lingered in the air as Zaraak emerged from the tomb’s inner chamber, her silhouette stark against the dim torchlight that flickered along the ancient stone walls. The heat from the obliterated K’lor’slug nest radiated around her, mingling with the acrid scent of charred carcasses and spent explosives.

Sergeant Cormun, standing at the ready, offered Zaraak an approving nod as she approached. His voice was laced with awe and admiration as he spoke, the excitement in his words matching the proud smile on his face. “I heard the explosions when you set off the charges. Outstanding, sir.” His recognition wasn’t just of her efficiency in completing the task, but of the raw power she wielded in the dark side—a power that was becoming impossible to ignore. With a grim smile, he handed her a pair of Korriban Battler Gloves, a token of gratitude for her successful mission.

The gloves, crafted from dark, durable leather and reinforced with intricate plating, hummed with a faint, latent energy as Zaraak slipped them on. She immediately felt the subtle enhancements they provided—a noticeable increase in her physical strength, sharper reflexes, and heightened precision. Each movement became more fluid, each strike more powerful, as if the gloves were an extension of her growing mastery over the dark side. They weren’t just protective gear; they were a symbol of her rising status within the Empire.

This was another step in Zaraak’s relentless ascent—a journey defined by the explosive violence of battle and the quiet moments of earned respect that followed.

Zaraak pulled the reinforced gloves over her hands, feeling the satisfying grip of leather against her palms. Her fingers twitched in anticipation, still humming with energy from the obliterated k’lor’slug nest she had just conquered. Sergeant Cormun's praise echoed in her mind, but she couldn't afford to be distracted. She focused on her ultimate goal: entering the tomb and claiming the legendary Sith Warblade that awaited her. Delving deeper within the tomb, a wave of eerie silence washed over her, accompanied by a heavy weight of ancient history and secrets waiting to be uncovered. But Zaraak was determined to unearth them and claim the weapon that would cement her rise to power.

The air was thick with the scent of charred flesh and dust as Zaraak moved forward, her boots crunching softly over the cracked stone floor. The corridor ahead beckoned, its shadowed recesses hinting at more hidden dangers—or perhaps, hidden rewards. The flickering torches played tricks on her vision, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe with a life of their own. The dark side was strong here, feeding on the death and decay that permeated the tomb.

Venturing further into the corridor, something caught her eye—a faint glint of metal, barely visible in the dim light. Curiosity piqued, Zaraak approached cautiously, her hand instinctively brushing the hilt of her weapon as she crouched down to examine the source. A viscous pool of slime had gathered in a depression on the floor, its surface disturbed by the presence of something solid within—partially concealed by the slime, the skeletal remains of a long-dead looter lay sprawled, one bony hand outstretched toward a half-submerged datapad, its screen flickering weakly.

Zaraak’s eyes narrowed as she took in the scene. The looter's final moments seemed to echo in the silent chamber, his skeletal fingers still reaching toward the device in a futile grasp. With measured care, she reached down and retrieved the datapad, wiping away the thick layer of grime and slime that had accumulated on its surface.

Activating the device, she was greeted by a flicker of text—an Imperial edict, marked with the number 936. The message was clear and uncompromising: mercenaries had been exploiting the k’lor’slug infestation to loot the tomb of Ajunta Pall, desecrating the sacred resting place of the ancient Sith Lord. The edict authorized the use of deadly force to eliminate the looters and recover any stolen artifacts.

Zaraak's lips curled into a predatory smile. Tomb raiders—idiots. They stumbled into Sith territory, believing they could plunder its riches without consequence. The tombs were hallowed ground to some, but to Zaraak, they were more of a test—a crucible where the unworthy would meet their end. And these intruders were definitely unworthy, hunting for petty trinkets in this glorious resting place of ancient Sith and Emperors. Despite her pragmatism, Zaraak still held pride in the Dark Side and all its grandeur. In her eyes, these vermin hunting for petty trinkets were lower than rats infesting a kingdom and deserved to be exterminated. At least rats hunt for survival.

More than anything else, this task presented an opportunity she relished. The k’lor’slugs had been a challenge, a necessary exercise in precision and control, but they were mindless animals, barely a step up from the sandbag dummies in the training halls. These raiders, however, offered a more entertaining amusement—fragile, sentient, and capable of understanding fear. The rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins, fueling her bloodlust as she relished the delicious imagery of peeling their tender skin from their sinewy flesh. She could take her time drawing out untold agony, savoring every scream, every plea for mercy. This was not just another mission—it was an opportunity for pure, unrestrained slaughter, a moment where she could truly enjoy herself without strain or restraint.

The thought of it sent a thrill through her, igniting the dark hunger that drove her forward. Yes, this was exactly the kind of task that resonated with her growing sense of purpose: the ruthless elimination of those who dared to challenge the might of the Sith, and the ecstasy of watching them crumble beneath her power.

But then, her gaze snagged on a single line etched across the luminescent screen: “The task is dangerous, and hazard pay has been authorized.” A bitter scoff escaped her lips. Even as a novice Acolyte, she had grown accustomed to the mercenary life, but to exchange “danger” for pitiful credits was a mockery of the Sith legacy. Walking the razor's edge of "danger" was no tragedy; it was a crucible that had sharpened her into an instrument of fatal precision. With a dismissive flick of her wrist, she flung the datapad aside and unsheathed her vibrosword, steeling herself for the inevitable dance of violence about to unfold.

Before she could take another step, a searing pain lanced through Zaraak’s side. The world spun, her vision blurring as she crumpled to the cold stone floor. Her fingers twitched, reaching instinctively for her weapon, but her strength was already ebbing away. A looter’s dirty smirk filled her narrowing field of vision, a twisted, mocking grin that dragged buried memories to the surface—memories of helplessness, of being powerless against her tormentors. No... not again...

Her body refused to respond, paralyzed by weakness. Her mind screamed in protest as darkness encroached, but all she could do was watch, horror and fury mingling in her heart. These looters would strip more than just the tomb’s treasures—they would strip her of her dignity, her life.

But then, silence. The distant howling of wind through the tomb's corridors. The stench of decaying slime filled her nostrils, sharp and acrid. Zaraak jolted awake, her eyes snapping open to the flashing green light of a medical probe hovering above her. She blinked, disoriented, the pain in her side now a dull throb.

The looters were still there, milling around the cargo crates, oblivious to her. Zaraak glanced down at her body, fear gripping her heart. Her Academy jacket was still in place, though singed with a blackened phaser burn through the fabric. Her trousers, too, were intact. Relief washed over her—they hadn’t dared to touch her while she was unconscious, too cowardly to assault a Sith, even a mere Acolyte.

She noticed a faint shimmer around her form, the temporary camouflage granted by the medical probe. The realization hit her—she was invisible to them, hidden from their prying eyes. Silent as a shadow, she pulled herself to her feet, every movement measured, cautious.

Her pride was bruised but not shattered. The bitter taste of near failure lingered in her mouth, a reminder of her carelessness. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. As the camouflage flickered and zapped away, leaving her fully visible once more, she swore to herself that this moment of weakness would be her last.

The dim, flickering lights of the makeshift cargo hold cast long shadows across the ancient stone floor, their eerie glow barely illuminating the vast chamber. Crates and equipment were strewn haphazardly, clashing with the tomb's grand architecture—a grotesque fusion of the past and the present. The tomb raiders moved among the relics like vermin, oblivious to the wrath that was about to descend upon them.

Two of the looters were standing near a pile of crates, their conversation laced with cruel laughter. The smaller of the two was a scrawny man with a jagged scar running down his cheek. He was boasting to his companion, a larger brute with a crooked grin, relishing in his retelling of how Zaraak had squirmed in the slime, his voice carrying across the chamber. “You should’ve seen her squirm, like a fish out of water. Didn’t think a Sith could beg like that.”

His companion chuckled at the tale, but his laughter was cut short and replaced by a sickening gurgle as the sharp tip of Zaraak’s vibrosword burst through the back of the smaller man’s skull, its gleaming blade jutting from his open mouth. His eyes bulged in shock, fingers twitching helplessly at the sudden invasion. Zaraak leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper, “Who’s squirming now?” The smell of blood mixed with the tomb's musty air, an intoxicating blend that fed her fury. With a savage twist, she yanked the blade free, the man’s body collapsing in a graceless heap.

Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, splattering across the ancient tiles, where countless others had bled before him. The other raider fumbled with his blaster, but he was too slow—Zaraak was upon him in an instant. Her movements were a blur of lethal precision, each strike fueled by a potent mix of fury and dark satisfaction. Gone were her earlier plans of toying with her prey—now there was only the sharp edge of her wrath, honed and unforgiving. The first swing of her blade severed the man's arm, sending it flying across the room in a spray of blood. His scream was cut short by a brutal slash that cleaved through his chest, his body collapsing in a heap on the cold stone floor. There would be no mercy, no hesitation—only the swift, punishing hand of death.

Zaraak’s rage was a palpable force as she tore through the remaining raiders. The air crackled with the energy of her fury, a tangible force that seemed to suffocate the chamber. A third looter fired a few panicked shots from his weapon, the blaster bolts going wide and scorching the ancient walls. His eyes widened in terror as Zaraak closed the distance, a horned demon wreathed in shadow and vengeance. She drove her blade through his heart, feeling the life drain from him in an instant, the weapon’s hilt vibrating with the dying pulses of his body.

Suddenly, more raiders poured into the chamber, weapons drawn, their faces twisted with desperation. Zaraak’s eyes flashed with dark intent as she spun to meet them, her movements a deadly dance of precision and power. Her anger, already burning hot, now ignited into a focused fury. With a roar that reverberated through the ancient stone walls, she slammed her foot into the ground, unleashing a shockwave that tore through the room. The force of the impact shattered the tiles beneath her feet, sending the raiders flying backward, their bodies colliding with the stone walls with bone-crunching force. The very ground seemed to tremble beneath the might of her unleashed power, leaving the raiders sprawled and dazed, gasping for breath.

But one of them, a burly man with a vibroblade, managed to stagger to his feet, his eyes burning with defiance. He charged at Zaraak, swinging wildly. She met his attack with ease, parrying his blows with a cold, calculated precision. But as he managed to slip past her guard, his blade nicked her arm, drawing blood. The pain only fueled her fury. With a savage snarl, Zaraak retaliated, her movements a blur as she struck back with a force that could not be parried or dodged. Her vibrosword cleaved through his weapon and into his flesh, a swift, brutal counterattack that left him crumpling to the ground, lifeless before he hit the floor.

Another raider tried to flee, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps, but Zaraak’s outstretched hand caught him in a vice-like Force choke. His feet lifted off the ground as he clawed at his throat, eyes bulging in horror. The crack of his neck echoed through the chamber, a sharp, final note that left the air thick with death.

The chamber was soon silent, save for the soft hum of Zaraak's vibrosword as she deactivated it. The air reeked of blood and death, the once-vibrant taunts of the looters now replaced by their cooling corpses. Her chest heaved with each breath, but it wasn’t exhaustion that gripped her—it was the intoxicating thrill of power, of dominance over those foolish enough to challenge her. The still-warm blood on her blade dripped onto the ancient stone, pooling in the cracks of the floor, as if the tomb itself was drinking it in. The silence that followed was almost sacred, the darkness wrapping around her like a cloak of victory. She allowed herself a moment to savor the carnage, to let the dark side’s power flow through her like a tide, before her gaze shifted to the crimson-lit corridor ahead.

The red glow bathed the walls in an ominous light as she advanced down the hall, her footsteps echoing against the stone. The cold air bit at her exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat of battle that still lingered in her veins. The shadows stretched and shifted, creating the illusion of the ancient statues moving in their alcoves, as if watching her progress with silent approval. The scent of death and decay grew stronger as she descended deeper into the tomb, the air thick with the weight of the past. Zaraak didn’t slow her pace. She could feel the presence of more raiders up ahead, and the dark hunger within her yearned for another taste of violence.

She passed through the archway, her footsteps echoing off the walls as she descended deeper into the tomb’s labyrinth. Ahead, the corridor opened into another vast chamber, similar to the first but marked by the signs of more recent desecration. Cargo crates lined the walls, stacked haphazardly, their contents spilled across the floor. Ropes dangled from a gaping hole in the ceiling, casting long, swinging shadows across the room. Raiders had been here, scavenging like the rats they were.

Zaraak barely had time to register the next wave of enemies before a guard stepped out from the shadows. His weapon was raised, but he was completely unaware of the fury that stalked him as he patrolled the chamber with his back turned to her. Zaraak’s lips curled into a predatory smile as she approached, the darkness of the tomb closing in around her like a shroud. Her vibrosword hummed with dark energy, a deadly promise in the dim light. There would be no mercy here, no hesitation. Only the satisfying crack of bones, the slick sound of flesh parting under her blade, and the intoxicating scent of death that filled the air.

This was her crucible, her proving ground. The tombs of Korriban were steeped in blood and darkness, and Zaraak was more than ready to add her own mark to the legacy.

As she closed in on the guard, her movements were swift and silent. The looter was a step away from oblivion, completely unaware of the retribution that approached. Zaraak’s vibrosword slashed through the air with lethal precision, cleaving through the looter’s torso. He barely had time to gasp before his lifeless body crumpled to the ground, his empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. Zaraak didn’t even pause to wipe the blood from her blade; her focus was already on the next threat.

Making a right turn, Zaraak advanced down a narrow passage, her footsteps echoing ominously in the enclosed space. The corridor soon opened into another chamber, a sinister sight waiting for her—an altar piled high with skulls, their hollow eye sockets seeming to watch her every move. The air was thick with the scent of death, and the red light cast eerie shadows on the walls, making the skulls appear to grin wickedly at her. Zaraak felt no fear, only a dark satisfaction that she was among kindred spirits—those who reveled in death and power.

She passed by the altar without a second thought, turning right again and ascending a set of stairs. The stone steps were worn with age, but Zaraak’s pace was unwavering, her steps as relentless as her resolve. At the top of the stairs, she encountered another group of k’lor’slugs, their grotesque forms slithering toward her with deadly intent. But these creatures no longer held any terror for her. She had slaughtered dozens of them in the earlier chambers of the tomb, and their presence was now little more than a nuisance.

With a fluid motion, Zaraak drew her vibrosword and dispatched the k’lor’slugs with brutal efficiency. Her blade cleaved through their exoskeleton with ease, the dark side fueling her strength as she carved a path through the creatures. The k’lor’slugs writhed and screeched as they fell, their bodies twitching in their death throes. Zaraak didn’t even break her stride as she moved past them, her gaze fixed on the next objective.

Leaving behind the chamber now adorned with the decaying mound of k’lor’slug corpses, Zaraak turned left and entered another passageway. Two more looters were rummaging through the contents of a large crate, oblivious to the approaching danger. Zaraak’s lip curled in contempt as her blade slashed through the air, cutting down one of the raiders in a single strike. The second looter stumbled backward in shock, but he was no match for Zaraak’s speed. She closed the distance in a heartbeat, her blade finding its mark with ruthless precision. The looter’s body crumpled to the ground, joining the ever-growing pile of corpses Zaraak had left in her wake.

With two more thieves cut down, Zaraak continued forward, entering the largest chamber she had encountered yet. The room was vast, its high ceiling shrouded in darkness, and the walls were lined with ancient statues that loomed over the space like silent sentinels. In the center of the chamber, several crates were stacked in a rough circle, their contents spilling out onto the floor. The looters had clearly made this their base of operations, and it was here that they had gathered the artifacts they had stolen from the tomb.

Zaraak’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene. Scattered groups of looters clustered around the stolen relics, their grimy fingers clutching at the treasures they had plundered from the tomb. They were oblivious to the danger that stalked them, too consumed by their ill-gotten gains to notice the fury simmering in the shadows. Zaraak felt the dark side thrumming within her, waiting to be unleashed. This was no mere recovery mission—this was a reckoning. She would teach these thieves the price of their desecration.

As she observed the looters, something else caught her attention—a glint of metal, a specific shape among the piles of artifacts that made her pause. Zaraak moved closer, her gaze narrowing in on a particular crate. There, amidst the relics, she noticed something unusual: a series of intricate, spiral-like designs etched into the metal of a relic that was partially visible beneath the debris. The pattern was unmistakable—it was Zabrak in origin.

She crouched low, her eyes tracing the curves of the designs. The artifacts were ancient, their metal darkened with age, but the Zabrak symbols remained clear. Zaraak’s pulse quickened as she reached out, brushing away the dust and grime to reveal more of the artifact. It was a ceremonial dagger, its blade serrated and cruel, a weapon not just for battle but for ritual—a relic of her people, possibly from a time before they were scattered across the galaxy, subjugated by the Empire and the Republic alike.

A memory stirred within her—stories told in hushed tones about the old ways, about how her ancestors used such daggers in rites of passage, in trials by combat that tested the mettle of the young Zabrak warriors. This dagger had been stolen, just like her people’s freedom, desecrated by the touch of these filthy looters. Her connection to the dark side flared, fueled by a deep, primal rage that went beyond the usual thrill of combat. This was personal.

Suddenly, the excavation lights placed around the chamber began to flicker, the machinery powering them struggling as if something unseen was draining their energy. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows across the chamber, the statues' faces seeming to shift and twist in the dim light, as if the ancient Sith spirits were awakening to witness the carnage about to unfold.

The looters continued their work, unaware of the fading illumination. “We need to pick up the pace, Tiron,” one of them grumbled. “Vorrsk expects this haul to be off-world by dusk.”

“Relax, Rannok,” the looter beside him replied with a dismissive grunt. “We’ll get it done.” But before he could finish, his words were cut off by a strangled cry as he was yanked into the shadows, disappearing without a trace.

“Tiron?” Rannok called out, turning toward where his companion had stood. His hand hovered nervously over his blaster, his eyes scanning the darkened chamber. A heavy silence pressed down around him, broken only by the echo of his own breathing.

Another scream pierced the air, and yet another looter vanished, leaving Rannok alone with his mounting terror.

Panic slicked the looter’s skin, sweat beading on his forehead as his shaking fingers tightened around his blaster. But before he could draw it, Zaraak emerged from the shadows—her red skin aglow under the dull light, eyes burning like embers of hellfire. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp that never turned into a scream. The vibrosword thrust into his belly, effortlessly piercing through his torso. His mouth opened in a silent cry as blood surged up his throat, spilling over his lips. The blade twisted, grinding through muscle and sinew with merciless precision. His eyes, wide with shock, stared down in disbelief as his innards slithered out onto the cold stone floor. Zaraak's expression remained chillingly indifferent, her gaze void of mercy as she gradually massage his insides with the serrated blade, watching the life ebb away. Darkness overtook the looter, his final vision seared into his consciousness—the merciless, fiery eyes of his executioner.

“You’ve defiled sacred ground, and for that, you’ll pay the ultimate price,” Zaraak hissed, her voice dripping with venom. With a swift, brutal yank, she wrenched the blade free, leaving the looter’s lifeless body to crumple onto the cold, unforgiving stone.

The leader of the group, a burly man with a scar etched across his face, was busy rifling through a crate when he noticed the sudden silence. The usual chatter and sounds of looters at work had vanished, replaced by an eerie stillness. His hand froze mid-motion as a cold dread crept up his spine. Slowly, he turned, his eyes scanning the chamber for his comrades. But instead of the familiar sight of his men busy with their ill-gotten gains, he was met with something far more chilling.

Bodies littered the floor, their lifeless forms twisted and broken, blood pooling around them in dark, viscous puddles. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. His breath quickened as his gaze landed on the figure responsible, a crimson demon with glowing green eyes, her vibrosword slick with blood.

His heart pounded in his chest, a primal fear clawing its way up his throat. "Sith!" he finally managed to choke out, fumbling for his weapon, but his warning was too late. Zaraak was upon him in a heartbeat, her power surging through the air like a living force. The words had barely left his mouth when his skin was ripped from his bones, his flesh peeling away like a grotesque shroud to reveal the skeletal remains beneath.

The bones, once sheathed in living tissue, collapsed onto the unyielding obsidian floor, releasing a sodden thud. A macabre mosaic of blood and viscera radiated outward, transforming the chamber into an abhorrent tableau. The room, previously echoing with the covetous whispers of marauders, now stood as a mute tomb, a harrowing tribute to the Sith Acolyte's relentless fury.

The remaining looters, gripped by terror, unleashed a frantic barrage of blaster fire. The bolts veered wildly, ricocheting off the stone walls and striking the statues, but Zaraak was already a living blur, her movements a deadly dance of lethal grace. She descended upon the first looter with a swift, fluid motion, her vibrosword thrumming with malevolent energy as it sliced through bone and sinew with a grotesque elegance. The flesh parted effortlessly, the blade’s passage as smooth as a serpent’s strike, leaving behind the wet, finality of death.

Another looter, scrambling to reload his weapon, found himself lifted off the ground. His panicked breath hitched as he was yanked upward by an invisible hand. Zaraak’s eyes burned with dark intensity as she hurled him into a nearby stack of crates, his body shattering into a sticky mess of blood and splintered wood. Without missing a beat, Zaraak pivoted, her gaze locking onto the next cluster of looters whose faces drained of color, terror etched in every line.

With a feral snarl, Zaraak propelled herself forward, the Force surging through her like a violent storm. She struck like a thunderbolt, her vibrosword an extension of her wrath. The blade carved through their torsos with such ferocious force that their upper bodies were severed cleanly from their legs. The bisected remains thudded to the floor, the looters’ arms still twitching in the final spasms of life.

One of the looters, seeing the carnage around him, tried to flee, but Zaraak’s blade was quicker. She decapitated him in a single, fluid motion, his head rolling across the chamber floor. Not content to let the moment pass, Zaraak reached out with the Force to smash the severed head into the face of another looter, the impact shattering his nose in an explosion of blood and bone. He barely had time to cry out before Zaraak was upon him, her vibrosword slicing through his torso with relentless fury. His body crumpled to the floor, lifeless, joining the growing pile of corpses that marked Zaraak's path.

The chamber echoed with the sounds of death—the final gasps of the dying, the wet thud of bodies hitting the ground, and the sharp, slicing sound of Zaraak’s vibrosword cleaving through flesh and bone. But soon, even these sounds faded, leaving behind a deathly silence. The looters were gone, their remains strewn across the chamber, their stolen artifacts lying scattered amid the carnage.

Zaraak stood amidst the ruins of the battle, her chest heaving, not from exhaustion, but from the dark ecstasy that coursed through her veins. The rush of adrenaline still thrummed within her, a heady mix of rage and satisfaction that left her feeling almost euphoric. Every brutal slash, every scream of the dying looters, had fed her fury, and now that it was over, she savored the aftermath with a twisted sense of pleasure.

She wiped her vibrosword on the fabric of a fallen looter, cleaning the bloodied blade before sliding it back into its sheath. The satisfaction of punishing these defilers, especially for daring to desecrate the artifacts of her people, filled her with a deep, almost primal contentment. Zaraak surveyed the carnage, her green eyes gleaming with the remnants of her dark triumph.

The artifacts, though spattered with blood and debris, remained largely intact. As Zaraak moved through the chamber, her gaze fell upon the various relics that had been pillaged and desecrated by the looters. But rather than mere objects of value, these items stirred something deep within her—a connection to her heritage that she had long suppressed.

She knelt beside a weathered chest, its lid slightly ajar. Inside, nestled among crumpled fabrics, lay an ancient Zabrak talisman. The intricate carvings on its surface, depicting the interwoven patterns of her people, immediately caught her eye. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the craftsmanship—these were no ordinary trinkets. These were relics from her people’s past, pieces of history that had once been cherished by her ancestors.

Gingerly, she lifted the talisman, the cold metal cool against her palm. The patterns etched into it were familiar, evoking memories of the stories her elders had once told. Stories of a time when the Zabrak people were free, proud, and unbroken. When she was a child, wide-eyed and full of wonder, she had listened to those tales with rapt attention. She could almost hear the voice of the elder who had told her of the trials faced by Zabrak warriors, how they earned their marks and proved their strength. She could see the glow of the ceremonial fires, feel the warmth of the community she had once known.

But that was a lifetime ago. That little girl who had once marveled at the world had been snuffed out, her naivety punished by the harsh realities of the galaxy. The memory left a bitter taste in her mouth, a reminder of what she had lost—what had been taken from her. Her grip on the talisman tightened, her knuckles whitening as she struggled to suppress the rising tide of emotion. She was no longer that innocent child. She was a Sith now, forged in pain and fire, and sentimentality had no place in her life.

With a controlled breath, she forced the memories back into the recesses of her mind. She carefully laid the talisman back into the chest, arranging it with a reverence she would not have admitted aloud. These artifacts were more than just relics—they were pieces of her identity, fragments of a heritage she had been forced to abandon but could never truly forget.

As Zaraak carefully brushed aside the debris covering the stone tablet, she traced the angular Sith runes with a gloved finger. The cold, ancient stone resonated with a dark energy that sent a shiver through her, a reminder of the power and legacy of the Sith. But as her eyes lingered on the inscriptions, she noticed something else—subtle etchings in the corners, patterns that intermingled with the Sith script.

Like the talisman, these markings too were Zabrak in origin, a fusion of her people's art with the Sith’s. It was a reminder of the long history between the Zabrak and the Sith Empire, a history of both subjugation and contribution. The realization stirred something deep within her, a blend of pride and bitterness. Her people had been both conquerors and conquered, their legacy intertwined with that of the Sith.

Zaraak’s fingers hovered over the inscriptions, recalling the lessons of her youth, when she had been taught to read these patterns, to understand their meanings—long before she had embraced the Sith and left that part of herself behind. These were the symbols of trials, of survival against overwhelming odds, of victory through pain and sacrifice. They mirrored her own journey, the path she had walked from the depths of despair to the power she now wielded.

A part of her wanted to keep the tablet, to claim it as a tangible link to her past—a past she could never fully escape. But she knew better. These relics were more than just objects of power or tools to be exploited. They were fragments of her people’s history, and though she had turned her back on that part of herself, she couldn't let the legacy of her ancestors be desecrated further. They belonged in the hands of those who would preserve them, not in the possession of one seeking personal gain. With a final, respectful glance, she marked the locations of the artifacts for collection, ensuring that they would be retrieved by the Imperial Reclamation Service.

The mission was nearly complete. The looters were dead, the artifacts secured, and the tomb of Ajunta Pall had been cleansed of its defilers. As Zaraak turned to leave the chamber, her thoughts shifted back to the Warblade she was tasked to retrieve, a weapon that would further solidify her place within the Sith hierarchy. The echoes of her footsteps faded into the silence, leaving the chamber in peace once more—save for the scattered remains of those who had dared to steal from the Sith and defile the legacy of the Zabrak.

Edited August 29 by OriusPrime

[OriusPrime]

Chapter 3: Warblade's Call

Welcome to Chapter 3. This one took longer than I expected—an experience filled with both frustration and determination, almost as if the dark side itself was guiding my hand. As I work on these chapters, I’m beginning to grasp just how ambitious it is to document my player character's journey in an MMO, especially when attempting to capture every detail in full-blown third-person omniscient form with vivid sensory descriptions.

Is it worth the effort? Only time will tell, but seeing the final product gives me hope that it is.

Moving forward, I might try a few things to lighten the load. Perhaps I won’t delve into every single fetch quest or minute detail of my Sith Warrior's class story. I might focus on shorter Acolyte Logs—those are quick, fun, and let me explore Zaraak’s growth without getting bogged down in the minutiae.

Whatever direction I choose, I’m grateful that you’re here with me on this journey. Together, we’re charting the course of Zaraak Reth, from an inexperienced Acolyte to a fearsome Sith Lord. And believe me, the best is yet to come. There’s much more in store, from the vast deserts of Tatooine to the unforgettable moments when Zaraak meets Vette.

The path ahead promises excitement and transformation, for both Zaraak and this narrative. So let’s not linger any longer—the warblade calls, and with it, the next step in Zaraak's destiny.

 

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The tomb’s cold air was thick with the cloying scent of blood, sharp and metallic, mingling with the musty odor of decayed stone. Flickering torchlight cast jagged shadows over the carnage surrounding Zaraak, her breaths still ragged from the fierce battle. The looters, who had defiled this sacred place, lay crumpled at her feet, their bodies splayed across the stone floor in grotesque poses. The silence that followed was dense, almost suffocating, wrapping around her like the oppressive weight of the dark side itself.

But amidst this eerie stillness, Zaraak felt a faint whisper at the edge of her consciousness—an almost imperceptible pull beckoning her deeper into the tomb. It wasn’t just any pull; it was the dark side itself, guiding her towards her true objective: the warblade. The ancient stones seemed to resonate with her purpose, pushing her forward through the twisting corridors toward the weapon of immense power that awaited her.

Zaraak turned from the corpses and pressed onward, drawn by a deep red hue pulsing through the corridor ahead. The Force flowed around her, guiding each step deeper into the tomb. The air grew colder, laden with the weight of history, the stones beneath her feet resonating with the remnants of countless Sith rituals. The whispers in her mind intensified, filling her thoughts with promises of unimaginable power, urging her closer to the blade.

Finally, she returned to the chamber where the altar of skulls remained untouched, its ivory residents’ fixed their hollow eyes on her every move. She could sense that the strength of the dark side was concentrated in this area, a palpable energy flowing through the chamber. She halted, her gaze fixated on the altar. The crimson light flickered ominously, casting eerie shadows that made the skulls appear to grin in mockery. The power radiating from the altar was almost tangible, a force that tugged at her senses, urging her closer.

But when she approached the altar, the sensation shifted. The energy that had seemed so concentrated here now felt diffuse, as if it were not emanating from the altar itself but from somewhere else entirely. Zaraak halted and scanned the chamber. She realized, almost reluctantly, that the true source of the power wasn’t the altar. The pull was stronger elsewhere, deeper within the tomb. Zaraak turned away from the skulls, and her gaze shifted to the darkened passageway beyond the altar. The scarlet incandescence flickered faintly from the far end of the corridor, beckoning her closer like a siren’s song.

With renewed focus, Zaraak stepped away from the bleached white bones, the whispers in her mind now a steady drumbeat guiding her movement. She headed toward the passage, her senses keenly attuned to the tremors of energy that quivered through the Force. Each step brought her closer to the warblade, closer to the destiny that awaited her.

Zaraak stepped through the passage, her gaze immediately drawn to two alcoves flanking the narrow corridor—one to her left, the other to her right. The flickering red light threw distorting shadows across the stone floor, obscuring the features of the towering Sith statues looming behind each alcove. The statues’ expressions, carved in cold, unyielding stone, seemed to track her every move. Zaraak inched closer to the alcoves, her eyes narrowing as the shapes within began to take form.

The faint light played tricks on her vision, creating the illusion of movement in the shadows, but as she drew nearer, the outlines solidified. There, encased in darkness, stood two ancient droids. Their rusted frames were pitted and scarred by time, their mechanical limbs rigid and lifeless. The droids' heads were bulbous and featureless, save for two small, unlit lenses that served as eyes, staring blankly into the void. The faded metal of their bodies bore the marks of age, their joints stiff with disuse, yet something about their silent vigil suggested they could spring to life at any moment.

Her heart rate quickened, and instinctively, her hand flew to her vibrosword, drawing it from its sheath with a quiet hiss. She held the blade ready, prepared to strike. But the droids remained as still as the statues behind them. She drew closer, and the faint hum of dormant machinery reached her ears. A chill ran down her spine, but she pushed on, her eyes hesitant to leave the darkened alcoves. The dust in the air hung heavily, its stale, metallic taste invading her mouth.

Satisfied that the droids posed no immediate threat, Zaraak’s focus shifted to the path ahead, where the ground sloped downward into a shadowy ramp. She descended cautiously, her vibrosword held close, each step echoing softly in the enclosed space. Her attention flickered between the two alcoves flanking the path ahead, identical to the ones she’d passed before, and she tightened her grip on the hilt. But as she reached the bottom of the ramp, the memory of the inactive droids still fresh in her mind, her gaze was irresistibly drawn away from the alcoves toward the wider opening at the end of the passage. An enormous chamber loomed before her with a brightly lit surrounding. A suspicious structure was situated at the far end, its purpose unclear but commanding her attention.

The warblade.

Zaraak rushed ahead, abandoning her previous caution. She barely noticed the numerous other alcoves surrounding the chamber, their darkened interiors possibly hiding countless droids, waiting silently in the shadows. Her prize loomed ahead, its presence filling her with a deep, unsettling anticipation.

With each step toward the brightly lit structure at the far end, her heartbeat quickened, a drumbeat reverberating through her veins. As she drew closer, the chamber’s details sharpened—the suspicious structure had revealed itself to be a weapon rack, its grooves and slots designed to hold blades of great significance. The warblade hung from the last of several deep indentations, as if it had been waiting for someone worthy to claim it. The dark metal gleamed with a foreboding sheen, untouched by time, standing out as the final relic of a long-lost era. Scattered remnants of ancient armor and shattered weapons littered the chamber, silent echoes of battles long forgotten, but Zaraak barely spared them a glance. Her focus was singular; every fiber of her being was magnetized by the warblade, her heartbeat resonating with the dark energy it exuded. She weaved deftly through the hall like a predator closing in on its prey, an invisible thread binding her to the blade, pulling her ever closer with each step.

Finally standing before the weapon rack, she let her fingers brush the cold, weathered stone. Her gaze locked onto the warblade, the dark metal gleaming with a malevolent sheen, its edge whispering promises of power. With a steady hand, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt and lifted it from the rack’s jagged slot. The blade hummed as it left its ancient resting place, the resonance vibrating through her bones, filling her with a sense of triumph.

Zaraak hefted the warblade in her hand, feeling its perfect balance as if it bad been forged to be an extension of her own arm. With a fluid motion, she swung it to the side; the blade sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, and crimson energy ignited along its edge, rippling down its length like rivers ran red with blood. The once-dormant weapon now shimmered with life, the dark metal alive with power that resonated deep within her. She twirled the blade with a practiced flourish, the streams of scarlet tracing arcs through the air—a flash of deadly elegance that mirrored the lethal intent gleaming in her eyes.

As the warblade settled across her back, the crimson light that once flared along its edge faded, leaving the dark metal as cold and silent as the tomb itself. Yet even sheathed, it was more than a blade; it was a key to her destiny, a tangible link to the dark power she craved. A slow, predatory smile spread across Zaraak's lips as she felt its weight on her back. The warblade was finally hers.

Her eyes drifted to the vibrosword she had carried up to this moment, now rendered obsolete. Without a second thought, she unclipped the vibrosword from her belt and let it fall to the ground, its dull clatter echoing briefly in the chamber before silence reclaimed the tomb. The training blade she had started with, the vibrosword taken from the k'lor'slug corpses—they were mere stepping stones, tools that had served their purpose.

Overseer Tremel’s words echoed in her mind, reminding her of how her journey had begun: with a comment that her training blade was insufficient for her potential. He had sent her into this tomb to claim something worthy of a Sith. And now, as she held the ancient warblade, she knew she had surpassed those early expectations. The tomb had tested her at every turn, forcing her to adapt, to overcome, and now, with the warblade in hand, the dark side surged through her veins with newfound intensity. She had not just survived; she had emerged victorious, stronger and more dangerous than before.

The weight of the warblade at her side was a constant reminder of her ascent. It was no longer just about surviving the trials—it was about conquering them. This weapon was more than a relic; it was the culmination of her journey thus far, a symbol of the power she was beginning to command. With it, she would carve her path through the ranks of the Sith, her ambitions sharper and more lethal than ever before.

She turned, ready to leave the tomb and face whatever challenge awaited her next—when the sharp crackle of electricity filled the chamber. The ancient droids jolted to life with a series of mechanical sparks, their once-lifeless eyes flickering to a malevolent rufous spark. The sound of their joints creaking and grinding echoed through the darkened alcoves as they powered up, a low mechanical growl rumbling through the chamber.

Zaraak’s grip tightened on the warblade.

Kriff. I knew this was too easy.

The chamber exploded into action. Droids surged forward, their joints screeching as red eyes flared to life. Zaraak instantly felt the warblade’s difference—the weapon throbbed in her hand, humming with a dark, volatile energy that coursed through her. It wasn’t just a weapon; it was an extension of her will, amplifying her power.

Her heartbeat synced with the warblade’s rhythm, each beat fueling the fury that sharpened her strikes. The first droid met its end in a flash of crimson, its torso cleaved in half with a single, effortless swing. She pivoted, and the blade sang through the air, decapitating another droid in one fluid motion. A blaster shot cracked the air, but she was faster. The warblade intercepted the bolt, deflecting it with precision before driving its edge deep into the next droid’s core. The impact shuddered through the metal as it crumpled at her feet in a cascade of sparks.

The chamber roared with the sound of battle, but Zaraak moved through the chaos with lethal precision. A surge of the Force flung a cluster of droids against the wall, shattering their frames on impact. She launched herself into the air, the dark side propelling her into the heart of the enemy. The warblade was a blur of light, cutting through droids with ease, leaving only smoldering wreckage in her wake.

As the final droid collapsed, Zaraak stood amid the debris, the warblade thrumming with satisfaction in her hand. The difference between this weapon and her previous blade was undeniable. She had wielded it with a natural ease, channeling her dark power with a focus she hadn’t felt before.

With the chamber silent, Zaraak turned her gaze toward the exit. Victory hummed in her veins, but experience had taught her caution. She approached the passage with measured steps, each footfall echoing softly off the stone walls. The memory of the dormant droids in the alcoves lingered at the edge of her mind, sharpening her instincts.

She moved closer, every sense on high alert. The alcoves crackled with a sudden burst of electricity, but Zaraak anticipated the droids' lurch forward. Before they could fully animate, she was already in motion. The warblade sliced cleanly through the first droid’s neck, sending its head clattering to the floor. The second droid barely had time to register its comrade’s destruction before Zaraak’s blade severed its torso, reducing it to a heap of twitching metal.

Satisfied, she advanced up the ramp, her grip on the warblade firm, yet relaxed. Each step was deliberate, her attention fully attuned to any sign of movement. She had learned to anticipate danger, to strike before the threat fully emerged.

At the ramp’s summit, two more droids flickered to life, their sensors locking onto Zaraak with deadly intent. She didn’t hesitate. The warblade flashed in her hand, severing the first droid’s head in one swift stroke. The second managed to raise its blaster, but Zaraak’s hand shot out, a burst of the Force slamming the droid into the wall with bone-shattering force. The metal frame crumpled on impact, its limbs collapsing in a heap.

Zaraak stood at the threshold of the exit, the warblade still glowing faintly in her grasp. She was back in the chamber of skulls, the once menacing altar now a comforting presence, its bed of bones a silent testament to her newfound power. As she stepped past the resting heads, her thoughts sharpened, calculating the next steps in her ascent within the Empire. With the ancient warblade in hand, she was ready to fulfill the purpose Overseer Tremel had set before her: the final trials that would elevate her from an Acolyte to a full Sith.

Fittingly, her destination awaited in the very place that had sealed her path to the dark side: the Sith Academy.

[OriusPrime]

Chapter 4: Homecoming

This chapter was a bit of an experiment for me, as I sought to shake up the narrative format. I delved deeper into the traditional third-person omniscient structure, but also infused more sophisticated descriptions to avoid clichéd or generic lines. Whether it worked as well as I’d hoped is up for debate, but I thoroughly enjoyed crafting a more poetic tone in these revisions.

While writing this chapter—particularly the parts immediately preceding the "Acolyte's Log"—I envisioned a grittier, episodic adventure ahead. Each book could potentially focus on a single planet, allowing me to fully explore the nuances and story possibilities of each world. The first book might be titled "Korriban," the second "Dromund Kaas," and so on. Although it’s an impractical idea, it emerged from the punchy, brutal feel of the Korriban scenes, which reminded me of the grounded human drama found in HBO’s prestige shows like Deadwood. It’s fascinating to think that documenting my player character’s journey in an MMO could offer such depth in a game world otherwise filled with generic fetch quests and mob kill missions. There’s a rich universe out there, each planet deserving of its own novel.

Of course, time constraints mean this idealized version may never come to fruition—at least not in the way I dream it. To weave an intricate tale for each planet would mean never reaching Valkorion in a few years’ time. Reality sets in.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t try. It doesn’t mean I won’t be tempted to delve deeper into the world Zaraak—and my future class characters—exist in. I hope you’ll join me on this journey as a budding writer.

Speaking of experimentation, I also created an entirely original conversation based on a room that didn’t serve much purpose in the game: the Acolytes’ Quarters. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

 

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In the heart of Korriban's unforgiving desert, Zaraak emerged from the obsidian maw of the Tomb of Ajunta Pall, her silhouette stark against the relentless glare of a sun scorching the skeletal remains of forgotten civilizations. Her eyes, long attuned to the tomb’s oppressive gloom, squinted against the searing brightness outside. Each step she took sent the rhythmic clank of her warblade echoing off the rocky terrain, a resonant testament to the trials she had weathered. The air was thick with the scent of sunbaked stone, sharp and dry, punctuated by the acrid tang of ozone from nearby Imperial machinery.

Ahead, the imposing facade of the Sith Academy loomed, a formidable structure carved into the heart of the cliffside, its towering presence a dark scar against the blood-red sky. The metal bridge leading to the entrance was worn and weathered by countless boots, each step a testament to the trials endured by generations of acolytes. At the bridge’s end, a broad stairway ascended to the Academy's gates, flanked by two colossal statues hewn from the planet’s very rock. These massive figures, with their exaggerated musculature, seemed to strain under the weight of the Academy’s roof, their forms imbued with a lifelike intensity that belied their granite composition. Yet their downcast gazes betrayed a sense of eternal servitude, as if bound to their burdens. Above them, the Academy’s serrated spires jutted out from the precipice, piercing the ochre sky as though seeking to rend the very heavens asunder.

Imperial banners, their crimson fabric rippling in the dry breeze, hung from the walls on either side of the bridge, stark against the coppery hue of the surrounding cliffs. Each banner bore the emblem of the Empire, a symbol of unyielding authority and the aggressive pursuit of power. The valleys flanking the Academy’s approach were deep and treacherous, sealing off the path like a natural fortress, with jagged rocks rising like the teeth of some ancient, slumbering beast. Near the back end of the valley behind the tomb, the metal platform of an elevator jutted out from the face of the cliff, its dark metal glinting in the harsh sunlight. Above it, an Imperial warship hovered menacingly, its sharp lines and angular design a testament to the Empire’s supremacy.

To the left of the bridge, a hive of activity drew Zaraak’s attention. Imperial troopers, their armor ablaze with the fierce hue of Korriban’s blood-red sun, were entrenched in target practice, their blasters discharging in disciplined, synchronized bursts. The sharp crackle of energy bolts reverberated through the canyon, a staccato rhythm that sliced through the eerie stillness. Nearby, beneath tattered canopies, a cluster of vendors hawked their wares, their voices rising in eager pitches to attract passing acolytes. Amidst them stood the medical center, a squat structure of dark metal, its walls humming faintly with the power of the life-support systems within. The harsh, sterile scent of disinfectants wafted through the air, mingling with the caustic odors of scorched metal and singed flesh, an olfactory assault that spoke of the Empire’s ceaseless preparation for war. On the periphery, an item modification station glowed softly, its surface cool to the touch despite the desert's heat, a faint vibration running through its metal casing. Tools lay neatly arranged beside the glowing schematics, their soft, electronic pulses casting dim light over the intricate circuitry on the station’s interface, adding a subtle yet constant oscillation to the charged atmosphere.

Ahead, at the far right end of the bridge, two acolytes knelt in the dirt, their heads bowed in submission as an Inquisitor stood over them. His dark robes billowed slightly in the wind, and the intensity of his gaze suggested a judgment about to be passed. The acolytes were flanked by guards, their blasters trained on the suspects, ready to enforce the Inquisitor’s will with a single pull of the trigger.

Behind the Inquisitor was the speeder platform, a silent sentinel on the Academy's perimeter. A droid stood at attention there, its burnished surface glistening like liquid mercury under the merciless zenith, poised to ferry the Sith and their servants alike to the farthest reaches of the Academy. The presence of the droid, efficient and unfeeling, was a cold juxtaposition to the human drama unfolding just beyond it—a silent observer to the fraught and mortal judgments being passed mere steps away.

Zaraak paused at the edge of the bridge, taking in the sight of the Academy before her. It had been years since she last stood here, and yet, the draconian atmosphere was as familiar as ever. The Academy was both a place of origin and a crucible—a site where her past met her present, where her training had begun, and where she would now return, armed with the warblade that marked her rise. The years away had changed her, and the Academy had changed as well. The statues, the banners, the watchful eyes of the Empire—all were a stark reminder that on Korriban, power was everything, and those who sought it had to be ready to take it, by any means necessary.

“No please! I'm loyal to the Empire!”

Zaraak turned to the whimper in the distance. One of the acolytes kneeling in the dirt begged for mercy. But the Trooper had none to spare today.

ZZZAT!

The acolyte fell, blood pooling in the vermillion sands.

The image of his lifeless eyes stirred something deeper within her. This could have been her at one point, kissing Korriban's gravel, and yet, here she stood—warblade acquired and poised on the edge of becoming a powerful Sith.

She looked away, a shiver running down her spine.

 

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Acolyte’s Log, Entry 002
Galactic Date: 10 ATC
Location: Korriban, Sith Academy Perimeter
Subject: Retrieval of Warblade and Elimination of Tomb Raiders

Korriban’s trials are not just tests; they are battlegrounds where power is seized, one bloody step at a time. With each challenge, I feel the dark side tightening its grip on my soul, and I welcome it. The warblade at my back is proof that I am no longer just an aspiring Sith—I am becoming the weapon the dark side demands.

The day began simply enough: clearing a k'lor'slug nest for Sergeant Cormun. The gloves I earned were a minor addition, but the true trial came with the discovery of an Imperial Edict. Looters had desecrated the tombs—worthless scavengers who dared to tread on sacred ground. The thought of their audacity ignited a desire within me, not just to eliminate them, but to make them suffer.

But my eagerness cost me. A blaster bolt struck, and my consciousness ebbed away, swallowed by the encroaching shadows—the last thing I saw, a looter’s dirty smile etched into the fading light.

In that world of shadows, a colder fear gripped my heart—far worse than the searing pain. It was the terror of reliving that nightmare, of being yet again stripped of my pride and power, left helpless once more in the hands of those who would exploit my weakness as they had in my youth. That thought gnawed at me, leaving me certain that my journey would end here, just another broken acolyte, forgotten and discarded, her potential snuffed out before it had truly ignited.

But when I awoke, it was to the indifferent touch of a medical probe—cold, precise, emotionless. My wounds had been tended, my clothes unscathed, and the looters—those craven wretches—had fled, too fearful to finish what they had started, too afraid to touch a Sith, even an acolyte lying defenseless before them. The humiliation of being struck down left a bitter taste in my mouth, but it also ignited a fire within me—a fire that would not allow such weakness to rise again. Once I regained my strength, I sought them out with a single purpose: their annihilation. There would be no mercy, no toying with them, only the swift, brutal end they deserved.

The fury that consumed me after being struck down burned hotter with each passing moment, fueling a relentless drive for retribution. My focus sharpened, guided by the singular need to erase the humiliation I had suffered. The looters, oblivious to the predator stalking them, fell with pitiful ease, each one cut down in a brutal dance of death. I reveled in their demise, savoring the symphony of their screams and the sight of blood splattering across these sacred tombs. I decapitated one, and with savage glee, hurled his severed head into the face of another, the impact shattering cartilage with a sickening crack. Yet, amidst the carnage, I remained focused, allowing myself to indulge in the slaughter while keeping my instincts sharp, my wrath controlled.

The aftermath of the bloodbath left me in a state of raw ecstasy. The thrill of mutilation, of tearing flesh from bone and severing limbs from torsos, was unlike anything else. It was more than just the act of killing; it was the assertion of my dominance, the gratification of my deepest desires, fueling every fiber of my being. Each scream, every gurgling plea, fed the dark hunger within me—a hunger that had been momentarily sated but would never truly be quenched.

Amid the carnage, my gaze fell upon the scattered relics left behind by those contemptible looters. A surge of recognition struck me, more potent than the thrill of the slaughter. These were not mere objects; they were fragments of my heritage, echoes of the Zabrak legacy etched in time. Among the relics lay ceremonial weapons, their blades adorned with the distinctive, jagged patterns of Iridonian craftsmanship—a reminder of the warrior rites that forged my people in the fires of survival. The worn inscriptions on a shattered talisman spoke of trials endured by Zabrak warriors, symbols of resilience and unyielding strength that had once guided my ancestors in their own crucibles of pain and endurance.

Holding these artifacts, I could feel the weight of history pressing down on me, a connection both profound and undeniable. These relics were more than just remnants of a forgotten era; they were pieces of a legacy that flowed through my veins—a legacy of warriors who had never known defeat, only the unrelenting struggle to rise again. Yet, I recognized they had a greater purpose beyond my personal ambitions. The Zabrak legacy would not end with me, but continue to serve the Empire's greater goals, preserved and studied by those who would understand their true value. Marking them for the Imperial Reclamation Service, I turned my focus to the warblade that awaited me, knowing it held the key to my true ascent.

The chamber of skulls, now a familiar sight, felt less like a tomb and more like a hall of ancestors, their spirits guiding me as I claimed the warblade. The moment I gripped it, I felt a connection—a bond between weapon and wielder that went beyond steel, a conduit through which the dark side flowed with renewed vigor.

But of course, as fate would have it, the moment I obtained my long-awaited treasure, the ancient droid guardians sprang to life. Nothing’s ever easy.

Nevertheless, they were as swiftly dispatched as those graverobbers. The warblade made short work of them, amplifying my instincts, sharpening my connection to the Force with a precision I hadn’t known before. I am no longer just an acolyte; I am becoming a force of destruction, a vessel for the dark side’s unbridled might.

Emerging from the tomb, Sergeant Rikel awaited me, my reward in hand. The Korriban Battler Leggings were more than just armor—they were a reinforcement of my endurance, enhancing my connection to the dark side. With each piece of equipment, I feel myself growing stronger, each victory another step toward the power I seek.

Yet despite the satisfaction of these material gains—the warblade, the armor—Rikel’s words lingered in my mind, more deeply than I anticipated. Those looters were not merely isolated scavengers; they were part of a broader, more insidious plot. It seems they had infiltrated Korriban by stowing away on slave ships, a tactic orchestrated by an elusive figure who has been plundering these tombs for years. How fitting that these spineless thieves met their end at my hands, while I continue to rise—not through theft, but through the relentless pursuit of power and the strength I’ve earned.

But the contrast gnaws at me. These plunderers sought shortcuts, sneaking among pathetic thralls to steal what they had no right to claim. And yet, here I stand, having clawed my way up from nothing—my pride shattered, my identity stripped away—all to reach a status of true power. The ease with which they tried to take what others have bled for is a mockery of all I’ve endured. They met the fate they deserved, but Rikel’s revelation has left a bitter taste in my mouth. Perhaps it’s the reminder that even now, there are those who would undermine the struggle for power, seeking to bypass the crucible that forged me into what I am. But that is the difference between us—I will never take the easy path, for it’s the struggle, the pain, and the bloodshed that have seared power into my very being.

As I make my way back to the Academy, the weight of the warblade on my back is more than just a reminder of the trials I’ve overcome—it’s a symbol of the power I’ve earned through blood and strife. The path before me is still treacherous, fraught with challenges that will test my resolve. But I welcome them. For it’s through struggle, through the pain and the relentless pursuit of power, that I will continue to forge my destiny. The dark side has been my guide, and with this weapon in hand, I am ready to carve my way to the pinnacle of the Sith, leaving behind only the ashes of those who dared to take the easy way out.

End of Log.

 

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Zaraak tapped the screen of her datapad, the subdued susurration of the apparatus signaling the end of her log. Thoughts swirled and eddied in her mind as her eyes drifted to the dead acolyte—still dead, still gazing vacuously into the abyss.

She had chosen a secluded alcove to chronicle her progress thus far. This small sanctuary was nestled within the shadowed crevice of a rocky outcrop, a natural bastion against the unremitting radiance that scalded this world. She pressed her heated palms against the cool stone, drawing in its soothing chill against the scorching planetary heat. The primordial rock formations provided a natural refuge, their jagged contours forming a protective barrier from the prying eyes of passing acolytes and the vigilant scrutiny of Imperial troopers.

But it wasn’t merely the shelter that she sought from this spot. Within this secluded alcove, the dark side seemed to coalesce, its essence more concentrated, more palpable. The substratum beneath her seemed to undulate with a faint, almost imperceptible tremor—a subtle testament to the primeval forces that had suffused the very rock over eons. This enclave offered more than just a physical haven; it provided an atmosphere thick with the dark side’s potency—a fitting milieu in which to reflect.

The only interruption to the oppressive stillness was the rhythmic chirp of her datapad, the sound reverberating off the lithic escarpments. She held the device in her hand for a moment longer, feeling the weight of her reflections settle into a cold resolve. The datapad’s surface was lustrous and placid to the touch, its refined design a small but constant reminder of the Imperial efficiency that governed her world.

She slid the console into the concealed compartment within her robes, the fabric fastening it securely against her side. Rising from the granite where she had been seated, Zaraak took a moment to adjust the warblade on her back, the weapon’s weight familiar and reassuring. The grotto had served its purpose, providing a brief respite in the midst of her journey, but now it was time to move forward.

Emerging from the shadows, she climbed the steep incline toward the Sith Academy’s monolithic edifice, the statues’ solemn countenance a vigil over her rise. At the entrance, the warm glow of ceremonial torches flanked the pathway, their amber glow spilling elongated shadows across the walls draped in the Empire’s crimson banners. The torches blazed with unwavering fervor, their flames a vivid defiance against the cold, unyielding architecture—an eternal inferno of Sith ambition and power.

Stepping into the entryway, Zaraak passed through one of the two imposing corridors, the crimson banners overhead contrasting sharply against the austere stone walls. She moved with purpose toward the narrow passageway ahead, her steps echoing in the vast chamber. As she approached, the two Dark Honor Guards stationed at the end of the corridor bowed in unison, their helmets dipping in silent deference—a gesture of respect offered even to an acolyte within these sacred halls of the Sith Academy.

The passage widened into a grand chamber, the air thick with the weight of centuries-old power. Two sweeping staircases spiraled upward, their blackened steps worn smooth by the passage of countless acolytes. The staircases framed an imposing obelisk at the chamber’s center, its surface etched with writhing figures, their tortured forms seemingly frozen in mid-agonized scream. Faint wisps of smoke coiled from the obelisk's apex, disappearing into the darkness above, as if the very essence of the dark side emanated from its core. Above, crimson banners emblazoned with the emblem of the Empire hung from the towering walls, their fabric rippling gently in the air, casting long, blood-red shadows across the cold stone floor. The sheer scale of the chamber, with its high ceilings disappearing into shadow and the oppressive presence of the obelisk, made it clear: this was a place where power was both worshiped and feared.

Winding through one of the chamber’s many hallways, each side of the ingress vigilantly guarded by an honor guard, she navigated the labyrinthine corridors, their high ceilings stretching upward into shadow. The ambient glow of blue lights bathed the walls, casting a cold, austere atmosphere. Down one of the passageways to her right, an older overseer with a weathered face stood before a chamber bathed in a spectral glow. She regarded Zaraak with a nod of acknowledgment, a gesture Zaraak returned, sensing an undercurrent of importance in the overseer’s gaze.

Walking past two additional honor guards, Zaraak approached the final stretch of the passage where two figures stood resolute. The standard-issue armor they wore bore scuff marks and minor dents—silent testaments to the relentless rigors of the Academy’s training. Their faces were devoid of emotion; their eyes were like chiseled stones sculpted by the years steeped in discipline and unyielding resolve.

The first figure was nearly behemoth-like, his bald head gleaming beneath the crisp lighting. Broad shoulders gave him a commanding presence, but a closer look revealed his inexperience. The tattoos snaking across his skin—a bold stroke of ink ran down the center of his naked scalp, splitting into angular lines that traced the contours of his skull—hinted at a need to appear more fearsome than he truly was. The weapon at his side, a mere training blade, betrayed the fact that his might was more bluster than battle-hardened skill.

His companion, though less massive, exuded an aura of lethal intent. His lean form belied the coiled power within, each muscle poised like a spring ready to snap. His gaze locked onto Zaraak with a penetrating intensity, as if deciphering a complex enigma. Crisscross scars marred his face, their erratic patterns more than mere remnants of past skirmishes—they were a harrowing testament to his ruthless determination.

“Hey there, acolyte. Hold on a moment. Let me get a look at you,” the scarred individual called out, his voice carrying an edge that demanded compliance.

Zaraak halted, her wariness masked by a façade of indifference. She felt his gaze rake over her, assessing, judging, and finding fault without any real basis. She could sense the arrogance radiating from him, a tangible force almost as palpable as the dark side itself. She allowed him this moment, her stance casual, but her muscles coiled tight, ready for whatever might come.

Vemrin’s lips curled into a wicked grin as he tilted his head slightly, as if something about her amused him. “Hmm. So you’re Overseer Tremel’s secret weapon, huh? Impressive, to be sure. Afraid the old man waited too long to make his move, though.”

His tone dripped with condescension, and Zaraak felt a flicker of anger ignite within her. She met his gaze squarely, her expression hardening. Vemrin’s next words stung more than she expected.

“I’m Vemrin, and unlike you, I’ve fought and bled for everything I have. I demand respect.”

Zaraak’s eyes narrowed, her mind flashing back to the countless battles she had fought, the trials she had endured. She had bled, too—more than just bled. She had suffered, lost her pride, her dignity, had to rebuild herself from the ashes of humiliation. The anger inside her flared, hot and potent, but she kept it in check, her voice low and dangerous as she replied, “You don’t want to make me angry, Vemrin.”

For a moment, his smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of something that might have been uncertainty. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a sneer. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to keep you from getting killed. If Overseer Tremel had made his move a year ago, when I first arrived, you might’ve had a chance. But now—too little, too late.”

Zaraak’s mind lingered on the phrase “a year ago,” her thoughts drifting to the time she had spent off-world, far from Korriban’s relentless trials. Vemrin knew nothing of the depth of her training, the years Tremel had spent hardening her, molding her into a weapon sharper and deadlier than he could imagine. He thought her fresh to this life, untested, but he was wrong. So very wrong.

The bulkier fellow—Gigantor, as Zaraak mentally dubbed him—shifted impatiently. His hand twitched toward the weapon at his side, his eagerness to draw it barely restrained. “This is ridiculous, Vemrin. Let’s just kill her and hide the body.”

Zaraak’s gaze flicked to Vemrin’s gargantuan partner, noting the raw brutality simmering beneath his controlled demeanor. She could almost taste his desire for violence, the way his muscles tensed, ready to strike. But Vemrin held him back with a curt gesture.

“We’re not on Balmorra anymore, Dolgis. There are rules. Traditions. We’ll leave the shortcuts to Overseer Tremel and his last pathetic hope here.”

Zaraak felt her control slipping, her anger surging forward like a tidal wave. Her voice was cold, devoid of any emotion but the promise of death. “I’m going to take what’s yours, and then I’m going to kill you.”

Vemrin’s smile twisted into a snarl. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked, a silent battle of wills, dark energy crackling between them. He lingered just long enough for his threat to sink in, then turned on his heel, his heavy boots echoing off the hollow passageway.

“You have no idea the enemy you’re making,” Vemrin threw over his shoulder, not bothering to look back. “Are you coming, Dolgis?”

“Be right there, Vemrin,” Dolgis replied, his voice laced with barely concealed frustration. He waited until Vemrin was a few paces away before turning back to Zaraak, his expression twisting into a sneer. He stepped closer, his voice a harsh whisper. “Listen to me, you useless priss. Acolytes aren’t allowed to murder each other. But accidents happen. It isn’t murder without witnesses.”

He leaned in, his breath hot and rancid on her face. “No more warnings. Vemrin’s the alpha monster here. You go after Vemrin, you die.”

Zaraak didn’t flinch, her gaze unwavering as she stared Dolgis down. She could feel the dark side pulsing within her, feeding her rage, sharpening her focus. Dolgis was nothing more than a barking dog, following his master’s commands. But she would remember his face. And when the time came, she would relish in the moment she made him pay for his arrogance.

Dolgis turned to follow Vemrin, but Zaraak remained still, her eyes narrowing into slits as she watched them leave. The encounter had solidified something within her—a resolve as hard and unyielding as the Sith Academy itself. Vemrin had made an enemy today, and she would ensure he lived to regret it.

When the hall was empty once more, Zaraak allowed herself a slow, deliberate exhale. The confrontation had left her tense, her muscles taut as bowstrings, but she forced herself to relax. There was no room for hesitation, no space for doubt. The dark side demanded strength, and she would give it all she had.

After that brief but intense encounter, she refocused on her primary objective and proceeded to the end of the passageway, where the entrance to Overseer Tremel's quarters awaited her. The chamber exuded an aura of authority, its high ceilings lined with stone pillars that bore the weight of the Academy’s long history. Red banners emblazoned with the emblem of the Empire hung behind Tremel’s desk, their fabric rippling slightly in the controlled air, casting dark shadows across the room.

As Zaraak entered, she found Tremel deep in conversation with another acolyte. The young woman standing before him was striking, with sharp features and a confident stance. She wore the standard-issue Academy armor, similar to Zaraak’s, but it was tailored to her frame with a more polished finish. The warblade strapped to her back was a clear sign of her status—she was no novice, but a student on the cusp of her final trials.

"Good, you've returned. You seem to be in one piece," Tremel said, his voice steady as he turned to face Zaraak. His eyes flicked to the warblade she carried. "Tell me, how do you like your new blade?"

Zaraak glanced down at the weapon, its weight familiar and reassuring in her grasp. "I suppose this is sufficient."

Before Tremel could respond, the other acolyte interjected, her tone laced with frustration. "What are you doing, Father? I only just got my warblade, and I've been here six months."

Zaraak’s gaze shifted to the acolyte—Tremel’s daughter, evidently. The tension between them was palpable, but Tremel’s reply was firm and unyielding. "I have my reasons, Eskella. And you will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you hear?"

Eskella’s defiance wavered under her father’s stern gaze. She nodded, albeit grudgingly. "Yes, Father."

Tremel watched her for a moment longer, ensuring his command was understood, before turning back to Zaraak. "Acolyte, this is Eskella, my daughter. She's one of the advanced students here. On her way to becoming Sith, if she minds herself."

Eskella bristled at the remark, her lips thinning into a tight line. "I'll keep quiet about your new charge, Father. But I won't be there if whatever you're planning blows up in your face." With that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the chamber, her posture rigid with resentment.

Tremel watched her leave, a faint sigh escaping him. "Don't mind her. She's just sore that I'm keeping secrets." He stepped closer to Zaraak, his voice softening slightly, though still holding the weight of authority. "Eskella, nor anyone else for that matter, need to know that I've been training you for decades. You are my most guarded secret, Zaraak—my ultimate weapon."

As he spoke, Tremel reached out, placing a hand on Zaraak's shoulder. His grip was firm but not oppressive, a rare gesture of fatherly pride that he did not bestow lightly. Zaraak felt the weight of his trust in his touch. She had always been sensitive to such contact, a lingering effect of the trauma she had endured, but this was different. For the first time, she did not flinch or pull away. Instead, she met his gaze, letting him see the resolve in her eyes.

Tremel smiled, a rare flicker of warmth in his otherwise stern demeanor. "I couldn’t be more proud of you. All these years, all this preparation, it’s led to this moment, where you take your final rites and prove that you are worthy of the dark side."

Zaraak remained silent, absorbing the gravity of his promise. She had known that Tremel had a vested interest in her success, but hearing it spoken aloud, feeling his confidence in her, was something else entirely. Yet, even as she relished his approval, his next words struck a chord she hadn’t expected.

"Now," Tremel began, his voice returning to its usual authoritative tone, "I thought I heard Vemrin's voice in the adjacent chamber before you arrived. Did he make his move so soon?"

Zaraak’s expression hardened at the mention of Vemrin. "Yeah. I hate him already. I look forward to ending his miserable existence."

Tremel nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly. "If things go well, you will have that satisfaction someday. Still, I'd hoped we'd have more time. Vemrin's not the type to sniff around for too long before making his move."

He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "In a drive for sheer numbers, the criteria for Academy admittance has been relaxed. Now anyone with Force sensitivity is allowed entrance."

There was a bitterness to his words, a disdain that Zaraak had heard before. But when Tremel continued, his tone sharpened into something more pointed, more personal.

"Vemrin is mixed blood. The invisible rot eating at the foundation of the Empire. He must not be allowed to advance."

Zaraak felt a chill run down her spine, her blood turning cold. She, too, was of mixed blood—half-Zabrak, half-human. Tremel’s prejudice, though not directed at her, cut deeper than any insult she had ever faced. It wasn’t just about Vemrin; it was about her, about everything she had fought to conceal. Tremel didn’t know the truth, and for now, she would keep it that way.

"So, you're an elitist snob," she said, her voice colder than before.

Tremel regarded her with a faint smirk, undeterred by the accusation. "You say that like it's a bad thing. It's the Sith way. Only the best, only the most pure, should be good enough."

His words, so matter-of-fact, grated against Zaraak’s nerves, but she buried her anger deep. She had come too far to let something as petty as bloodlines derail her. Tremel continued, unaware of the storm brewing behind her eyes.

"Unfortunately, Vemrin's caught the eye of Darth Baras, one of the most influential Sith Lords. He's being groomed to be Baras's new apprentice. As Darth Baras's apprentice, the power at Vemrin's fingertips will be considerable. He could change the Sith for the worse."

Tremel’s voice took on a grave tone as he issued her next orders. "You must proceed to your next trial immediately. I want you to interrogate three prisoners in the Academy jails and decide their fates. Consider each criminal's story carefully. The decisions you make will be scrutinized, so let your passions guide your judgments."

Zaraak straightened, her resolve hardening once more. "You better send someone to clean up after me."

Tremel’s smirk returned, this time with a hint of amusement. "The slave pens are right there. They have mops."

Her lips curled into a faint simper. "I'll try not to make too much of a mess, then."

Stepping away from Tremel’s quarters, Zaraak’s mind already began to churn over the impending trial. Interrogating prisoners wasn’t just about extracting information; it was about control, about bending the will of others to her own. She would need to gauge each prisoner’s weakness, exploit their fears, and press them until they broke. This was more than a test of power—it was a test of precision.

She felt a flicker of anticipation at the challenge ahead. The path before her was indeed fraught with challenges, but she was ready. There was no room for weakness, no space for doubt. The dark side demanded strength, and she would rise to meet its call, leaving only the ashes of her enemies behind.

Upon making her way through the Academy, her thoughts fixed on the upcoming trial, she passed by a familiar archway. The distant clash of training blades and the crackle of phaser fire echoed through the halls, unmistakable sounds that marked the vicinity of the Acolytes’ Quarters. Without breaking stride, she decided to enter, drawn by a momentary curiosity—or perhaps a need to reconnect with the echoes of her past.

Inside, the room greeted her with a subdued, red-tinged glow that cast long, creeping shadows across the walls. The austere nature of the space was evident in the rows of metal bunks lining the room, some occupied by Acolytes resting before their next trial, while others lay empty, awaiting their next occupants. Beside each bunk stood tall, coffin-like cabinets, their imposing presence hinting at the few personal belongings an Acolyte might possess—or perhaps something more sinister. Training dummies, scarred and worn from countless practice strikes, stood as silent sentinels in the corners.

Near the far wall, two Acolytes were locked in a focused dance, their training blades humming through the air as they deflected precise laser fire from floating droids. In another corner, two more sat cross-legged on the floor, deep in meditation, their minds attuned to the Force as they sought inner calm. The scent of sweat hung in the air, mingling with the hum of concentrated energy that permeated the room.

The sight brought back a flood of memories—of relentless drills, harsh lessons, and the unyielding discipline that had shaped them all into what they were. Zaraak paused, allowing herself to soak in the atmosphere, the familiar rhythms of training and determination. It was in this crucible that she had been forged, and the energy of the room reignited her own resolve for the challenges that lay ahead.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Academy's prodigal pain in the ass," a voice called out, dripping with mock disdain. Zaraak turned to see Rennak, the auburn-skinned Zabrak whose ego was as big as his horns were small. He sauntered over, still smarting from their last sparring match.

"Word is, you had a run-in with Vemrin. Did you leave any pieces for the rest of us?"

Zaraak's lips curled into a dangerous smirk. "Oh, he's still in one piece. Can't say the same for his pride, though. Might need a force-lift to get that off the floor."

"Damn," Rennak chuckled, feigning a wince. "Note to self: never piss off The Zaraak. She might skin me into her next Sith cape."

A new voice chimed in, softer but laced with dry humor. Zaraak glanced over to see a familiar human male, Varik Thane, his dark hair a perpetual mess as if he'd just rolled out of bed. “Welcome back to our cozy little snake pit, Zaraak. We were starting to worry this hellhole might actually become bearable without you."

Zaraak rolled her eyes, a hint of affection creeping into her voice. "Please. This place would fall apart without me. Someone's got to keep you idiots in line."

"Speaking of keeping in line," Rennak leaned in, curiosity glinting in his eyes, "heard you're onto your final trials. What's next on the menu of torment?"

Zaraak's expression hardened slightly. "Interrogation. Time to make some prisoners sing."

“Ooh, getting handsy with the bad guys,” Rennak waggled his eyebrows and leaned in conspiratorially. “Gonna make 'em squeal like a Gamorrean with its tail caught in a door?"

Zaraak's glare could've melted durasteel. "No, but I could practice on a swine like you. Might even leave your dignity intact... what's left of it, anyway."

Rennak clutched his chest, staggering back dramatically. "Kriff! I think I need a kolto patch for that burn." Varik choked on a laugh, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

"Careful there, Zar," Rennak chuckled, nudging Zaraak with his elbow. “Keep sweet-talking us like that, and we might start thinking you actually give a damn."

"Give a damn? About you?" Zaraak scoffed. "I'd rather french kiss a Hutt. But I guess you're slightly less annoying than Vemrin."

Varik snickered, clearly enjoying the show. “Wow, Rennak. We've been upgraded from 'walking meat-sacks.' Progress!"

Rennak held up his hands in mock surrender. "I'll take it. Come on, Z, just admit it. You missed our charming faces."

"Like I'd miss a blaster bolt to the foot," Zaraak retorted, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Varik's laughter subsided, replaced by a genuine smile. "Don't be a stranger, Zaraak. This place is duller than a Hutt's wit without you."

Zaraak gave a small nod, a rare moment of softness in her otherwise hardened expression. “I won’t. It’s… good to be back.

Edited September 1 by OriusPrime

[OriusPrime]

Chapter 5: Ripples Across the Galaxy - An Inquest of Fate

 

Chapter 5 was by far the most challenging chapter I’ve written, and not for the reasons you might expect. Zaraak’s journey is straightforward in terms of action, but this chapter demanded much more than just advancing the plot. It was a space where I wanted to experiment with introspection and bring a deeper philosophical layer to her character—something that moves beyond raw exposition and into the realm of thematic resonance.

The complexity lay in balancing the poetic depth I envisioned for the prose without sacrificing the clarity or pacing of the narrative. I had so many ideas and concepts I wanted to explore, especially regarding how Zaraak views herself and the galaxy, that it became a long process of refinement. I wasn’t just experimenting with metaphors for their aesthetic value; every image, every turn of phrase needed to connect, layer by layer, to reflect something meaningful about the characters and their roles in the greater tapestry of the galaxy.

Vette’s introduction was a particularly important moment. Not only because of the role she’ll come to play in Zaraak’s future, but because their first encounter had to feel weighty—like a meeting shaped by fate itself. Crafting that moment took time. I wanted Vette’s first impression of Zaraak to matter, to establish a dynamic that feels destined rather than incidental.

The challenge throughout this chapter was to elevate the narrative while keeping it grounded in Zaraak’s evolution—not just as a figure of raw power, but as someone who sees the ripples her actions cause across the galaxy. It’s an ambitious chapter, one that went through several iterations as I sought to strike the perfect balance between poetic expression and the momentum of the story. There were moments where I had to "kill my darlings" for the sake of pacing, but the result is a chapter that, I hope, flows with the depth and clarity I envisioned from the start.

Now, after a long time coming, I’m excited to finally share it with you.

 

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In the heart of the Sith Academy, there thrived a darkness that made the blackest night seem a beacon of hope. This was not merely the absence of light but an oppressive force, replete with the weight of centuries. Every breath drawn here was tainted, the air fouled with the acrid stench of old fear and the sterile tang of antiseptic, as if scrubbing could expunge the years of misery that clung to the stones like a permanent stain. Even the walls, ossified by time, seemed to carry the weight of whispered screams, a memento to the academy's unyielding cruelty.

Beneath the overhead lights, which bled a demon's red, labyrinthine shadows writhed like spectral prisoners, their geometric forms pulsating with the dread of the damned. Their grim pirouette was a chilling echo against the austere, clinical precision of the outer pens. There, captives were ensnared within diaphanous sarcophagi of pulsating scarlet energy, their forms cloaked by the lurid luminescence that defined each perfect, rectangular prism of confinement. The energy fields resonated with suppressed ferocity, a muted opera of carmine radiance, stark against the prison's frigid, ferruginous walls. Every facet of this place, from the stern machinery riveted to the walls to the hulking bunks stacked against its icy stone, bore testimony to subjugation. Divorced from the grandeur of the Academy, it was a raw, unwavering stare into the chasm of control.

The guards, silhouetted against the red-lit cells, moved with a measured deliberation, their every step a reminder of the pens' unforgiving hold. Within their glowing confines, the prisoners stood motionless, as much a part of this tableau of dread as the rigid columns that punctuated the room, casting long, angular shadows that sliced across the floor like blades. The air was heavy with the muted rhythm of control—a silent, merciless waltz of indifference, the searing red energy thrumming with the promise of inevitable submission. It was here that the Sith’s grip was most palpable—cold, inexorable, and unfettered.

Beyond the external pens pulsed the marrow of this somber fortress: the inner pens, sanctum of the most precious—or the most perilous—detainees. The portal to this sector stood bookended by towering monoliths of stone, their facades embroidered with the sinuous, serpentine contours of Sith glyphs. This was no mere place of detention, but a crucible for shattering souls. Those ensnared within seldom emerged unaltered—if they ever emerged at all.

Contrary to the external pens, which harnessed energy barriers to restrain the multitudes of negligible captives, the inner pens were engineered for a more intimate form of incarceration. Here, the cells were fortified by robust metal rods—frigid, obdurate, and a ceaseless, tangible testament to the dominance that held them captive. Each cell was a stark tableau of oppression, its jet-black bars standing sentinel. Bereft of all embellishment, they formed an oppressive reality that mercilessly dismantled any illusion of escape. The monochrome uniformity, in its stark simplicity, was a chilling mirror, reflecting the bleak future of those ensnared within. Within each cell, detainees clung to the last vestiges of dignity, though most had already surrendered to the desolation that seeped into every crevice of this forsaken bastion.

In this amphitheater of the condemned, a trinity of souls was meticulously arranged, poised for the inevitable advent of a Sith acolyte. Set as pawns on a perilous chessboard, their resistance and abasement shone starkly under the weight of impending doom.

Within her constricting confines, Solentz, a human maiden adorned with raven tresses clipped to a stark length, maintained a posture that belied the fresh contusions marring her pallid skin. Like a worn sculpture, she kept her stature unyielding, hands obstinately akimbo, her countenance etched with the steel of resolve. Her bruised eyes, bruised portals into a spirit weathered by the storm of torment, stared forward, acknowledging the merciless game of judgment about to commence.

Adjacent to her, a towering human, Devotek, stretched his shadow across the confining bars. A seeming monument of defiance shrouded in resignation, he was clad in battle-worn red armor that was battered and scarred from countless battles, their stories yet untold. His head bowed low, burdened by disgrace and the looming specter of impending judgment. His rough hands clung to the bars, not in a plea for freedom, but a need for stability in a world that teetered on the edge of the inevitable.

Sequestered within, Brehg, a Neimoidian prisoner, was a stark contrast. His leathery, creased skin stretched over a skeletal structure, his body language screamed of fear and submission. His sunken eyes, haunted by endless torture, flickered with a desperate hope. He cowered in his corner, hands knotted, shrinking into the shadows as if hoping to dissolve into the cold stone.

Each prisoner, acutely aware of their impending inquisition, was ensnared in the eerie quietude, their destinies hinging on the whim of the arriving acolyte.

And then there was the Twi'lek.

Amidst this grim assembly, Vette the azure-hued rebel was a stark anomaly amidst the despondency. Her cerulean complexion was a vibrant beacon against the solemn, monotonous drabness of the prison walls. Her eyes, alight with a spark of audacious mirth, were incongruent in this mausoleum of spirit and hope. Her posture in the confinements of her cell was deceptively nonchalant, the rhythmic oscillation of her lekku—an embodiment of her unchained spirit—barely perceptible as she subtly redistributed her weight. Encircling her neck, the shock collar emitted a macabre hum, yet it was impotent in its attempt to quell the irrepressible flame of her spirit.

Knash, the merciless jailer, stood as an ominous sentinel amidst the symphony of despair and degradation, his appearance an embodiment of a life soured by the bitter taste of cruelty. His beard, a tangle of matted grit and grime, hung like a petrified shadow over the rough terrain of his scarred visage, bearing the brunt of many a brutal duel and unnamed atrocities. Carved onto this rugged canvas was an enduring scowl, a stone-cold tribute to his unforgiving nature. He held the remote to her shock collar with the same reverence an apprentice would hold a Sith holocron, a deadly tool of power and control, his fingers dancing over it with ominous deliberation. His thumb hovered over the button that could silence her irreverent chirping, a tempting promise of peace amidst the cacophony of her teasing. His grip tightened, the remote's edges biting into his palm, mirroring the biting mockery that had been gnawing at his patience.

Yet, the azure-hued rebel's incessant banter was as relentless as the twin suns of Tatooine, her mirth-filled defiance a blinding beacon in the tomb-like gloom of the prison. Her playful words, a blend of bravery and audacity, reverberated in the desolate chamber, a startling contrast against the usual resigned silence. Each jest, each quip was a needle-thin prickle on the thick hide of his tolerance, chipping away at the fortress of his patience. His glacier-cold eyes, stripped of the tender touch of mercy as surely as the Sith were stripped of their compassion, were locked onto Vette with a predatory gaze as a menacing whisper escaped from his lips, “One more chirp from you, little bird, and you’ll regret it.”

The threat lingered in the stale air, heavy and oppressive, yet Vette regarded it with an ethereal insouciance. Her lips curled into an audacious crescent. “Chirp. Chirp, chirp,” she trilled with an airy lilt.

No sooner had the notes of her melody escaped the confines of her lips than Knash's visage twisted into an abhorrent mask of smug anticipation. The jailor brandished his remote with a spiteful flourish, and with a pernicious flick of his wrist, a bolt of agony surged from the diabolical device around Vette’s delicate neck.

In a grip of torment, the Twi’lek’s form coiled into a statue of anguish, every sinew taut as the voltage wove its discordant tune. Her teeth clenched with such force she could hear them grinding, the staccato rhythm set against the baleful sizzle of the electrical fiend. Her fingers curled into tight fists, nails etching crescent-shaped testimonies of defiance into her palms. Yet, amidst this tidal wave of torment threatening to overwhelm her consciousness, she held back the cry that bubbled at the precipice of her lips, denying Knash the sweet nectar of her suffering. The acidic perfume of her singed flesh and the superheated metal invaded her nostrils, intertwining with the sinister bouquet of ionized air - a cruel olfactory sonnet penned in the language of her suffering.

"Ow!" The exclamation shot out of Vette's lips as the shock subsided, her voice slicing through the electric hum. “Jerk," she spat out. "If you don’t like that, just say so. I can do other animals too. Dire-cat, frog-dog, Kowakian monkey-lizard—you name it.”

Knash’s thumb quivered over the remote once more, his irritation kindling like dry tinder beneath Vette's relentless jabs. His grip tightened, the plastic shell of the remote groaning under the force as his patience was fading into the black void of vexation. Her defiance, an insolent melody that grated against the order of this place, would be silenced— should be silenced. His scowl deepened, the anticipation of her screams an intoxicating aphrodisiac that anointed the essence of his soul.

But just as he resolved to press the button and subdue her once more, the sound of approaching footsteps rippled through the corridor, an interruption that halted him mid-act. The rhythmic clang of a warblade against the stone floor—calculated, deliberate—seized the room, a harbinger of the presence that all within these walls had been awaiting. The guards stiffened, exchanging knowing glances, their rigid postures a mirror of the dread creeping in with each reverberating step. This was not an unexpected arrival; it was the inevitable. The Sith acolyte, long anticipated, was about to cross the threshold into the heart of this forsaken place.

Knash lowered the remote, not out of mercy, but from a shift in focus. His scowl faded into a more pragmatic sneer, eyes narrowing in cold appraisal as the presence approached. The prisoners knew too—every breath they took seemed weighted, as though the air itself pressed upon their chests in anticipation. The trinity of captives, ensnared in their suffocating cells, had long resigned themselves to this fate, their composure brittle under the weight of impending judgment. Each was poised, a pawn in a game where the only outcomes were submission or obliteration.

The moment Zaraak Reth stepped through the doorway, a chill swept through the space. The Twi’lek’s taunts diminished into a taut silence, and every eye—prisoners and jailer alike—fixed on the red-skinned Zabrak. Jailer Knash’s eyes followed Zaraak, his brows furrowing and lips thinning into a tight line - an immediate reaction as he studied the Sith acolyte. She moved with deliberate steps, every movement controlled and predatory as if she were a panther stalking its prey, her presence ominous like a dark storm cloud hanging over their heads. No words were spoken, yet her presence screamed volumes. The air itself felt denser, as if they were buried under mountain of dread.

Knash's eyes danced over the harsh, black tattoos etched into her crimson skin, following their contours like a silent sonnet to her past. With a soldier’s eye, he absorbed the sight of them, not merely observing but immersing himself in the stark story they told. Each line was a testament to Zaraak's strength, each fissure a badge of her trials. The ink's path followed a predator's intent, stripes of darkness stemming from her cheeks, converging on her mouth with the fierce precision of a tiger's maw. The tattoo wrapped her lips and chin like a blackened shroud, the culmination of its journey creating a mask of raw, untamed power. These weren't embellishments but declarations, made with the sharp, deliberate intent of a warrior's cry.

Her jagged scar, a ghostly streak against the symphony of darkness, served as a chilling climax to her narrative. It was as if a savage hand had once aimed to disfigure her, only to transform her into a more formidable specter. The bone-white horns that erupted from her scalp, akin to a crown of defiance against the universe's cruel whims, seized the meager light within the chamber. They held it captive, refracting it into a spectral ballet of contorted shadows that capered with an almost sentient malevolence across the stark walls. Her armor was a marriage of sanguinary red and abyssal black. It clung to her form like a lover’s embrace, each plate meticulously cared for, its surface gleaming with an austere polish. The metallic sheen was not merely ornamental but served as a mirror to her adversaries' impending doom. It added to her aura, transforming her into an embodiment of lethal elegance, a nightmarish display of impeccable precision forever etched in the annals of Sith lore. She moved like a wraith through the room, the embodiment of deadly grace, an elegy of destruction in every step.

The jailer saw in the visitor power and precision—but the Twi’lek saw something else.

Vette, once a flame of defiance resplendent against the darkness, now felt an icy tremor ripple down her spine. Her humor, typically a phoenix in its resiliency, soaring above the storm of fear, faltered and fell mute beneath Zaraak's chilly, peridot scrutiny. The distinctive tendrils of the Twi'lek quivered, their subtle sway revealing the shroud of unease that gripped her. She had locked gazes with countless tyrants, stood toe-to-toe with the universe's monstrous faces of cruelty, but this Zabrak was a distinct specter—a deadly symphony of elegance and power, shifting the air around her into a palpable tension. It was not merely Zaraak's raw might that struck her; it was the haunting splendor, the echo of destiny in each calculated move, each glance, as though orchestrated by the maestro of fate itself. Her crimson skin, an anomaly in the sea of the common sable and sepia hues of her Zabrak kin, burned like an unquenchable ember in the gloom. The sharp, prominent horns that pierced the ether around her, stark against the blunter equivalents typically seen, carved a formidable silhouette in Vette's vision. But the most striking of all were the aggressive black tattoos, a chilling contrast against the paler traditional ink seen on Zabrak faces. This wasn't just a testament to her hardened resolve, but a warrior's scream into the void. For the first time in her vivid memory, Vette found herself a silent actress on a daunting stage, her voice muted by a dread that refused to bare its name.

The other prisoners, too, felt the shift in the air, an almost imperceptible tightening that heralded the approach of something—or someone—far more lethal than the iron bars that confined them. Devotek, once a proud Sith warrior himself, instinctively averted his gaze. The weight of his disgrace deepened in the presence of a figure who, despite being a budding acolyte, still exuded the full, terrifying savagery of the Sith—an attribute he had long since lost. The bitterness of his fall was a sharp contrast to the cold, unyielding authority that radiated from Zaraak, and it gnawed at the remnants of his pride, compelling him to look away.

Even the jittery Neimoidian in the last cell, his wide, fearful eyes, having endured the relentless torment of endless accusations, shrank back as Zaraak neared. His hollow gaze, which had once stared defiantly through the endless cycles of torture, now reflected the cold, green hue of Zaraak’s unyielding stare. The sheer power she exuded was a chilling reminder of the depths of the dark side—a force so overwhelming that it reduced his once-steady proclamations of innocence to trembling whispers in the recesses of his mind. The mere sight of her, with her predacious grace and the predestined cruelty etched into her very being, drained the last vestiges of hope from his bones, leaving him a quivering shadow of the man he had once been.

Knash, ever the hardened jailer, found himself oddly thankful that he was on this side of the bars.

In the dim recesses of the Sith pens, Zaraak’s presence emerged from the spectral shadows with a predatory grace. Her viridian eyes, hardened in the crucible of Korriban, swept over the caged souls, lingering with aloof contempt—until one, in particular, ensnared her attention. Amongst the subdued, a singular figure—the blue-skinned Twi’lek—stood as an iridescent anomaly, her indigo eyes still containing a spark of rebellion despite her status.

Vette’s cerulean skin shimmered like an ocean kissed by starlight, her spirit a blue nova burning brightly against the oppressive gloom. Despite the shock collar around her neck, her gaze met Zaraak’s without flinching. It was this audacity, this refusal to cower, that captured Zaraak’s curiosity. In that moment, an unspoken recognition passed between them—a meeting of kindred spirits, forged by the cruel hands of fate into monuments of endurance.

Their connection was instantaneous, yet layered with complexity. Initially, Vette avoided meeting Zaraak’s probing stare, overwhelmed by the Zabrak's formidable presence—the chilling menace engulfing her existence, the aggressive tattoos that told stories of violence, and the raw uninhibited strength bursting through her enclosure. But when their eyes finally met, Vette felt something shift. Her initial terror didn’t vanish, but it deepened into something more profound—a recognition of commonality, forged by the cruel hands of fate. Vette’s rebellion was a vibrant, lyrical composition—an orchestra of humor and resilience that blazed like a comet streaking against the dark of night. Zaraak’s defiance, on the other hand, was a silent, simmering force, a black hole on the verge of consuming all light. Time seemed to still, their eyes locked in an insatiable curiosity, two souls marked by the same universe, now set on paths that could either collide or converge. The universe itself seemed to hold its breath, sensing the gravity of this first meeting—the beginning of a saga that would ripple across the stars.

But this unspoken connection was as fleeting as it was profound, interrupted by the harsh reality of their surroundings.

Knash’s voice shattered the charged atmosphere that had briefly seized the room, a blunt instrument against the fine thread of destiny that had woven itself between Zaraak and the Twi’lek. “You,” the jailer grunted, oblivious to the silent exchange that had just passed between the two women. “I’m Jailer Knash. I run these cells and slave pits,” he continued, his tone grating and rough, as indifferent as the cold metal bars he commanded. He took a step forward, his presence dragging the atmosphere back into the mundane brutality of the Sith Academy. “You’re the acolyte Tremel sent for the test, right? Hrmph. He thinks highly of you.”

His words hung in the air, discordant notes clashing against the suffocating silence that had earlier seized the room. But Zaraak, her response honed to a keen edge akin to her devil’s crown, sliced through the charged quietude with curt dismissal. “Let’s cut to the chase.”

Knash’s lip curled in a smirk of approval. He appreciated someone unencumbered by the tiresome norms of pleasantries. “No skin off my rump,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to echo off the cold, concrete walls. “Now, these three prisoners have been transferred here for your inspection. You gotta interrogate them as needed, and then decide their fate.”

His hand waved toward the column of cells before them, each a grim tableau of despair and defiance. “The convicted are usually executed or given a trial by combat to see if they’re worthy. Whatever you decide, you will be the one to carry out the sentence.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Zaraak’s lips, the kind of smile that whispered of cruel pleasures yet to be indulged. Her eyes gleamed with a perverse thrill, a dark hunger that stirred in the depths of her soul. “I was hoping this would keep me entertained.”

“Hrmph. Fine, let’s get started,” Knash grunted, the faintest hint of irritation coloring his tone. He led her to the first cell, the heavy clank of his boots against the stone floor a steady drumbeat in the chamber’s oppressive quiet. “This one on the left—”

As they neared the first detention cell, the inhabitant—Solentz, a lady characterized by wild, raven-black locks and eyes aflame with implacable defiance—met their gaze with a stare as steadfast and unwavering as the steel bars that confined her. Despite the fresh bruises marring her pale skin, she maintained a dignified posture, her hands gripped in tenacity, her spirit indomitable.

“You freaks aren’t getting anything new out of me. Just do whatever you’re gonna do,” Solentz retorted, her voice a vitriolic soliloquy, the defiant clamor of a cornered creature primed to pounce.

Zaraak closed the gap, her eyes meeting Solentz's in a silent contest of wills. There was an undercurrent of intrigue swirling beneath her icy demeanor, piqued by the prisoner's audacious statement. Her voice was quiet but lethal, laden with the gravity of innumerable unspoken threats. “Let me make this plain as day. If you don’t cooperate, I will kill you.”

Yet Solentz remained unbroken. She had stood against the likes of Zaraak before — self-proclaimed deities drunk on their own omnipotence, wielding mortality like a weapon. Death was no stranger to her, a preferable companion to the monstrous atrocities she knew the Sith capable of. Her eyes ignited with steely determination. “I’m not afraid to die.”

Knash shook his head, disgust creeping at the corners of his mouth. He saw in Solentz the same reckless abandon that claimed his valued comrades on the battlefield. Almost admirable, if it weren't so foolish. Martyrs were nothing but fools in his eyes. “Impudent to the last. As I was saying, she was sent to kill an Imperial spy in the Yavin system. Throughout her torture, she maintained that she was hired anonymously.”

“Get it through your damn head—I had no idea he was Imperial, and I don’t know who hired me,” Solentz snapped. Her voice, raw and frayed, echoed off the cold steel walls—an exasperated plea against the relentless tide of ineptitude assailing her. If her death was the price for their ignorance, then let them pay in full.

Weighed down by Solentz's relentless stubbornness, Zaraak let out a long, deliberate sigh. She adopted a wide stance, her hands resting on her hips as she studied the defiant prisoner. Her gaze wasn’t weary from frustration but from the familiar sight of yet another soul refusing to yield. This, however, was different. There was something intriguing about this woman's resistance—a resonance Zaraak recognized, though it stirred something deeply buried within her.

Knash, meanwhile, turned away, rubbing his neck in frustration as he began to pace. Zaraak ignored him. Her focus remained on Solentz, whose defiance was as steadfast as the steel bars that confined her. The Sith acolyte wasn’t concerned with the veracity of Solentz’s claims—truth had always been malleable under the Sith’s gaze, bending to fit the needs of power. Instead, Zaraak’s thoughts were pulled toward the potential within this woman, the unyielding strength she exhibited even in the face of certain death.

"Regale me with the details of your operation. What was your chosen form of murder?" Zaraak's demand pierced the silence, her voice a silvered blade of frost. Each syllable was an icicle, sharp and cold, hanging in the frigid air of the cell. She let the question fade gradually, almost trailing off into a hushed whisper so as to invite not a confession, but a reaction. Eyes trained on Solentz, she scrutinized every subtle change, every unspoken word in the prisoner's countenance. Would she crow triumphantly, crumble under pressure, or stand majestic, an anchor against the inquisition's wrath? The act of murder was but a muted prelude; it was Solentz's response that held the stage – a captivating serenade of defiance and resilience Zaraak found oddly enthralling.

Solentz locked gaze with the Zabrak, her defiant stare challenging the emerald fire in the warrior's eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice cut through the silence like steel against stone—tempered, sharpened by indignation. “I didn’t kill him. I was caught before I could pull it off,” she replied, her voice steady, each word a deliberate strike, as if daring Zaraak to push further.

“The point is, she doesn’t deny the charge,” Knash interposed, his voice cutting through the tension-filled air. His eyes, hardened by years of power play, ricocheted between the two. “So, now you must decide—execution or trial by combat. Which do you choose?”

Zaraak remained silent for a moment, her eyes tracing the bruises that marred Solentz’s face, their purple and blue hues like dark shadows cast by violence. She wasn’t simply observing a prisoner; she was dissecting a soul, peeling back the layers to expose the raw defiance that lay beneath. These contusions were more than just signs of pain; they were reminders of a past long buried. A phantom ache struck Zaraak’s crimson limbs, as if the demons of her past were raking at the fragile crust of memory, their putrid breaths a warmth of epithets ravishing her auricles.

But it wasn’t the bruises alone that caught her attention. It was the way Solentz carried herself, unbowed, despite the evidence of torment. Zaraak saw in her a reflection of her own strength. The brunette’s face, though marked by the hands of her tormentors, radiated a quiet, unyielding power—a refusal to be broken. In Solentz, Zaraak saw not just a fellow warrior, but a kindred spirit—someone who had survived, not by bending, but by standing tall in the face of cruelty.

The epiphany graced her contemplations: this was not a woman to be discarded. This was a potential force to be reckoned with, a blade yet untempered but with the potential to cut deeply. Zaraak’s voice, when it came, was soft yet laced with authority. “Neither, actually. She could prove useful. Send her to Imperial Intelligence.”

Solentz’s defiance faltered, her surprise momentarily dimming the fire in her eyes. “I won’t work for free,” she muttered, almost to herself, her voice carrying the weight of a woman who had expected death, not a reprieve.

Zaraak’s gaze lingered on Solentz for a heartbeat longer, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

The jailer grunted in surprise, clearly taken aback by the decision. “Hrmph. You spared her. Interesting.”

In silence, Zaraak drifted to the next cell, her presence radiating an unspoken authority. Inside, Devotek had been a picture of lethargy, his spirit seemingly dimmed by years of hardship. But as Zaraak appeared, he sprang to life, like a wilted bloom under the touch of the first spring sun. His hands stopped their tremor and clung to the iron bars, his eyes, which were just a ghost of determination, now sparked with a sparkle of renewed vigor. His hunched posture straightened, a desperate anticipation replacing his earlier despair—an unexpected spike of life in his towering figure as he recognized in Zaraak the power of a fellow Sith.

"Please," Devotek began, his voice fractured and thin, like the crackle of dry leaves underfoot. His plea weaved itself in the musty odor of the stockade, his palms shivered against against the gelid grates. "I am a fellow Sith. Judge me with an open mind and grant me trial by combat. I beg you," he implored, each word a desperate tremor that rippled through the oppressive stillness, a bare plea amidst the ancient echoes of the Sith stronghold.

Zaraak sneered, her sullen glower drenched in contempt as she beheld the pitiful creature before her. Every fiber of her being recoiled at the sight of Devotek, this mewling quim. Her eyes, embers of emerald fury, narrowed in disgust, her face hardening like stone. His wretched state was a disgusting display, a damning indictment against the Sith Empire's might that she held so dear.

But more than that, Devotek was a man, one of the same kind that had violated her, belittled her, treated her as lesser for being a female acolyte. His pathetic display was a stark contrast to the strength and defiance she had honored in Solentz. Her disdain for Devotek was as clear as the fury etched in her blood-red scowl, her face twisting into a mask of tattooed rage, the dark angular markings contorting with her expression. If the sharp lines could leap from her skin, driven by the sheer force of her disgust, they would tear into Devotek, raking him apart, his feeble flesh stripped from bone under their fierce assault.

"Pipe down, scum. You will speak when spoken to." The command erupted from Zaraak, her words rumbled through clenched teeth, punctuating each fragment sharpened to a blade's edge, threatening to slice into Devotek. She exhaled, her breath ragged from the effort of constraining the storm of disgust within.

“This pile of waste is Devotek,” the words seeped from Knash, his voice grating like sandpaper, as if each utterance was an effort to expel something vile. “Once a valued Sith champion, until he botched an important mission and caused a thousand Imperial deaths. Now look at him.” His rancorous critique was laden with disdain. It was clear to him too that Devotek was less than a man, less than a Sith—he was a creature, a blight, akin to a cockroach scurrying in the filth. To Knash, an unwavering pillar of the Empire, Devotek's disgrace was something deeply unnerving, a grotesque perversion of the high honor and dedication he held for the Empire.

“I served faithfully for twenty-four years, then one mistake and they threw me away,” lamented Devotek, his voice fragmenting into a guttural dirge of desolation. His hands traced the timeline of his service etched on his palms, a poignant elegy of unfaltering fealty reciprocated with treachery. “Now, I have been left here to rot. Please, let me feel the weight of a weapon once more.”

“I don’t do charity work,” Zaraak retorted, a savage surge of intent propelling her hand towards the pallid man. The air in their midst coalesced, becoming viscous as if heeding her indomitable will. “Feel the weight of a weapon in your throat!”

A sudden comprehension dilated Devotek's eyes, the ghastly finality of his doom anchoring in his soul. His words, frail and steeped in capitulation, barely managed to thread through the silence, “I die a disgrace.”

With a deft manipulation of her wrist, Zaraak stirred the sleeping maelstrom of the Force, choking him into silence. He convulsed, his hands grasping at the spectral noose around his neck, gasping for the breath that eluded him. His strangulated gasps reverberated ominously, a lament to his pitiful disgrace.

Zaraak's warblade, a menacing specter in the dim luminescence, emerged from its slumber on her back with lethal elegance. Unfettered in her lethal ballet, she pivoted with calculated grace, the blade tracing a lethal parabola in the air. The warblade's tip, guided by her wrath and instincts, pierced the lattice of the cell and found sanctuary in Devotek's belly. His spasmodic struggle was abruptly terminated, his body crumpling against the unforgiving iron before making the final descent to the cold stone below.

Knash observed the tableau of death unfurling before him with a perverse sense of satisfaction. His countenance twisted into an expression of grotesque delight, a sneer of grotesque pleasure carving itself into the wind-beaten leather of his face. “Good. I won’t have to look at his sad, weathered face anymore. Thank you.”

As these words seeped into the brooding stillness, Zaraak's obsidian eyes – mirrors to a soul hardened by relentless trials – reflected the dying embers of the departed's life. A slow smirk curled her lips, an echo of the scorn churning within her. Knash, lost in his sadistic revelry, was no masterpiece himself. His face, like a weathered stone battered by eons of savage winds and searing sun, was a stark reminder of their shared ruthlessness. As if mirroring the venomous mockery in her thoughts, her voice dripped with biting sarcasm, “And he won’t have to look at yours either, jailer.”

Unruffled by the verbal barb, Knash huffed with an air of stoic nonchalance, a gruff gust in the stale air. Guiding her towards the following cage of despair, the final testament to the inhumanity they were privy to, he presented a creature named Brehg. A Neimoidian, his spindly form cowered within the cell's cold corner, his large, frantic eyes oscillating wildly in their sockets at their approach. His dermis, leathery and taut, shimmered with the icy dew of dread. He was a lamentable spectacle, a life torn asunder and reforged by relentless inquisition.

“This last prisoner is a bit of a puzzle,” Knash said, gesturing to Brehg. “He’s called Brehg, and he’s a jittery little wretch, suspected of supplying forged documents to Republic agents. Strangely enough, he maintains his innocence despite being severely tortured.”

“That’s because innocent I am!” Brehg blurted, his voice laced with terror’s melody, his words ricocheting off the impenetrable steel bars confining him. “Believe me, you gotta—I had nothing to do with forging no papers. Set up, I was set up!”

Zaraak’s eyes narrowed, her frigid stare dissecting the Neimoidian's trembling form. His fear was a corporeal phantom, a fetid stench clinging to his existence. It was the truth she sought not – only the confession born from torment's cruel embrace.

“Your ramblings are falling on deaf ears,” Zaraak countered, her voice a chilling whisper, the promise of pain entwined around her words. “Confess, and the torture will stop.”

Brehg’s voice cracked as he stammered, “Many things I’ve done in my life that I’m not proud of, but Brehg’s not gonna confess to something Brehg didn’t do. Did some time, I did, in a Republic jail for forgery, so I was the perfect candidate to implicate in this. But straight I’ve been since getting out, I swear!”

In the wake of Brehg's desperate defense, Knash shrugged with a chilling indifference. “Hrmph. He’s never wavered from that line, and the evidence is circumstantial. I suppose it’s actually possible he didn’t do it. So, what do you decide?”

A sadistic grin crawled over Zaraak’s lips, her eyes glittering with cold amusement. The concept of justice was a fleeting wisp of insignificance. Power – raw, unadulterated power – was the only deity she worshipped. With an imperious command to the Force, she declared her cruel verdict. “I don’t care if he’s innocent or not,” she enunciated, her voice dripping with disdain. “Torture him enough, and he’ll confess.”

At her casual command, the Force obeyed, a loyal vassal to its malevolent queen. A spectral noose manifested around Brehg's throat, his pleading gasps rendering a macabre symphony within the cell. His futile struggle against the invisible hand of the Force was a pathetic ballet of desperation, his widened eyes reflecting the stark terror of his predicament.

“Please, no,” Brehg whimpered, his voice threadbare with terror. “Not fair… it’s just not fair!”

An observer of the horripilating savagery unfolding, Knash’s eyes bore the icy satisfaction of a man who had seen countless lives snuffed out before him. “Shut up, you fidgety fool. The decision’s been made.”

As Brehg’s form wilted, collapsing in a heap of frail mortality upon the cold, unforgiving steel, his outcry faded to a feeble, guttural lament. Zaraak towered over him, her expression as frostbound and unfathomable as the nebulous void buried within the acolyte’s soul. This was the Sith way—a sombre dance where cruelty twirled with a callous artistry, fear struck the chords of domination, and power the crescendo echoing through the infinite cosmos.

Knash offered a nod, a glimmer of grudging respect in the depths of his eyes. “Hrmph. Well, that’s that. You’re an interesting one, kid. I can see why people are keeping tabs on you. Head back to Overseer Tremel, see what he thinks of your choices.”

Zaraak, silent as the aether that cloaked their red world in its suffocating grasp, didn’t dignify his words with a response. Her thoughts, like quicksilver, were already skimming the surface of her next conquest, her next trial, her next chance to etch her undeniable existence into the annals of the Sith.

With nary a word, she spun on her heels, leaving the spectres of her triumph to haunt the pens. The soft clinks of her warblade echoed like a requiem against the backdrop of her departure, a mournful dirge that danced with the howling Korriban winds. Each rhythmic clank was a chord underscoring her chilling power, a spectral wicker that wreathed through the dread behind these walls—a philharmonic of fear and authority, lyrics to a transaction bathed in the frost of detachment, concluded with the currency of cruel inhumanity.

Her path led her back to the foreboding chambers of Overseer Tremel. Her warblade was still humming faintly from the blood it had shed, her heart throbbing with the dark satisfaction of a trial well-executed. The chill of the prison pens lingered on her skin, an apparition of the decisions she had made, each a deliberate stroke on the canvas of her ascent. Upon entry, she found the Overseer sitting behind his desk in mid-conversation with another apprentice, Elizhis, a corpulent apprentice with a furrowed brow, clearly anxious in the presence of his master. Tremel’s posture, though commanding, carried the faintest trace of impatience—the kind only a man accustomed to perfection might betray when confronted with the imperfection of others. His eyes shifted to Zaraak as she entered, his sidelong stare lingering a fraction longer than necessary—an unspoken acknowledgment of her presence, before turning back to dissect Elizhis’s report with cruel indifference.

“Is this everything?” Tremel’s tone was a knife slicing through the stale air as he examined Elizhis with the same scrutiny he did all his pupils.

Elizhis’s gaze flitted nervously to Zaraak, his eyes catching on her unusual red skin—an anomaly among her kind, and one that whispered of a deeper connection to the dark side. It was as though he had spotted the fin of a predator slicing through dark waters—her very presence a quiet but unmistakable threat. His attention snapped back to Tremel, the weight of anticipation pressing down on his words as he answered, “Everything Lord Renning was able to obtain, yes.”

The Overseer's expression remained impassive, but there was an effulge of dissatisfaction in his eyes. He waved Elizhis away with a dismissive flick of his wrist, not sparing another glance. "Then run back to your master in the beast pens before I cut you in half."

The apprentice’s face drained of color as if the threat itself had siphoned the life from him, but he did not dare linger. With a stiff bow, he scurried from the room, his robes rustling like the last remnants of a dying breeze.

Zaraak watched him disappear through the archway, but her attention was quickly returned to her mentor. The Overseer’s gaze fell squarely on her as he leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrests. The intensity of his scrutiny was palpable, but not harsh—it was evaluative, tinged with a rare warmth that only those closest to him would ever recognize. For a moment, he studied her, as if weighing not just her recent trial but the very essence of her being.

“Sorry to make you wait, acolyte. These interruptions are incredibly annoying.” Tremel’s words barely grazed civility, his irritation still clinging to the air like the remnants of an unwelcome guest. He dismissed the memory of his earlier conversation with a flick of his gaze, turning fully to Zaraak—his true focus. Time was too precious for small talk, especially on the heels of dealing with someone so beneath her. She lowered her head in a subtle bow, a movement as crisp as it was calculated, her silence a mirror to the weight of his words.

The Overseer rose with an unhurried grace and approached, his focus already shifting to more pressing concerns. He met her gaze with an intensity that burned like the flames of Tatooine’s twin suns, searching for any hint of doubt or hesitation. But Zaraak stood at ease, her rigid posture the disciplined rectitude of a warrior masking her thoughts behind a shield of calm. Her hands were clasped behind her back, fingers interlaced with calculated restraint, her feet planted firmly as if rooted in the Academy’s durasteel floor.

"On to the business at hand: your test in the jails. First, the assassin, Solentz. She attempted to kill an Imperial spy but was unaware of her client's affiliation. You assigned her to Imperial Intelligence.”

The decision to spare Solentz had been sound from a strategic perspective; the assassin had, after all, proven to be of unexpected use to the Empire. Yet that silent acknowledgment—a recognition of shared endurance between two women who had navigated the brutal currents of an unforgiving system designed to strip them of individuality and leave only submission—Zaraak would never speak of, not to Tremel, not to anyone. To reveal such sentiment would be a betrayal of the discipline ingrained in her. Tremel, her commanding officer, expected nothing less.

“I commend you. That was excellent thinking. Never waste a potential resource.”

Zaraak’s brow twitched. Her heart stuttered, a pulse like fractured glass.

The weight in her chest unraveled, a knot of static loosened by Tremel's approval. Stiff shoulders, once carved from iron, unwound—barely. She had braced herself for a blade of rebuke, sharp words peeling her open, dissecting her decisions for hidden weakness or sentimentality. Instead, his words sank deeper, more smoke than steel, signaling something more than a blindfold of authority and command—his esteem for her calculated, tactical strike. Her quiet victory flickered like a flame caught in wind; her face the stillness of a pond before the ripple, the faintest tilt of her chin the only hint of her pride.

This was not merely a casual compliment-this was a sign that she had measured up in the eyes of more than just her teacher, but the closest thing she had to a father. That thought lingered briefly, but she pushed it aside. Such mawkishness had no place here, not in this exchange, not in the Sith Academy.

“Thank you, Overseer. I’m glad you approve,” Zaraak said, her voice calm and detached, an ocean’s surface concealing the vortex beneath.

Tremel nodded, the curve of his smile fleeting. "What's more important is that Darth Baras would approve," he added, allowing the weight of that name to sink between them, a stone rippling across the still waters of Zaraak’s mind.

Baras. A name that prowled the shadows, his existence little more than a rumor draped in midnight robes. Power—yes, but of a sort woven from unseen threads, manipulation more than might. Zaraak’s gaze did not falter, though the name stirred like a serpent coiling in dark corners. The implication slithered through her thoughts, another cipher in the ever-expanding constellation of her ambition. She did not need to know him to understand the significance of his recognition, wherever it might fall—a specter she would grasp, should it come to that. She let his name sink into the marrow of her memory, another step on the spiral path of her ascent.

“Now, Devotek, the former warrior,” Tremel spat, his voice edged with a biting contempt that sliced through its sheath. “He wanted combat, but you struck him down. Perfect. The man was utterly useless.”

Enshrined in Zaraak’s memory, her claymore’s dance through the air was an aria composed for death, its melody cleaving the human’s feeble flesh like a lover's caress. She could taste the decadent tang of his surrender as his muscle yielded beneath her blade, an intimate communion wrought in blood and terror. The sweet, wine-like warmth of his life essence rose into the frigid air, a crimson mist of victory that whispered secrets to her senses. The cessation of his trivial struggles was met with death's cold kiss, a quietus that echoed in her soul with an exultation bordering on the divine. Her heart pounded a frenzied rhythm in her veins, each beat a lustful sigh of pleasure held captive beneath the iron shroud of her composure, lest Overseer Tremel glimpse the sensual rapture etched in her smoky eyes.

Indeed, as Zaraak recalled the lifeless ruin that had once been Devotek, she considered this act a necessary culling, a sacred service performed in honor of the Sith Empire. In her eyes, Devotek had been but a pitiful husk, a parody of the Sith title he once carried, undeserving of its grandeur. His pathetic existence was an affront to all Sith, a mockery of their strength, their power, their unbending will. Zaraak had not merely slain him; she had purged the Sith ranks of weakness, of unworthiness. It was an act of loyalty, of reverence, of love for the empire that had given her purpose, a purpose forged in the crucible of pain and honed by the whetstone of power.

"I do not ever choose to waste my time," she proclaimed, her voice slicing through the necrotic air of the Sith Academy. Each word, a dagger of unvarnished truth, honed by the philosophy that had shaped her into a vessel of power. Every breath carried the full weight of her conviction, transforming the chamber into an unseen battlefield where only the strongest tenet could stand.

Tremel, a statue of stoic command, remained unmoved. His features, as unyielding as Korriban’s bedrock, betrayed nothing. Yet beneath his cold authority, a fleeting softness flickered, like the dying glow of a long-dead star. “Once something is used up, it should be eradicated,” he decreed, his voice a hammer of Sith doctrine, echoing through the hall like a ghostly specter whispering the somber epitaph of the weak.

"Lastly, the forger you sent back for more torture, even though the evidence was thin. A strong decision," he intoned, his voice jagged like the peaks of Korriban, splintering the chamber’s hallowed stillness. "Leave no stone unturned."

In the glassy depths of Zaraak's eyes, the cold, dim light of the chamber reflected a storm of dark satisfaction, a tempest veiled beneath her placid exterior of a tranquil pond. A devotee to the Sith’s dogma, she saw doubt as a blemish on the armor, a whisper of frailty that, if left untended, could metastasize into ruin. In the equation of Sith justice, innocence offered no sanctuary; the weak were invariably guilty—if not of treason, then of their own susceptibility.

"The ripple from even a tiny stone can flow a great distance," she said lightly, her voice a velvet whisper beneath the crushing silence, each word a measured stroke of a vibrosword on the canvas of the oppressive air. The metaphor permeated the room, a delicate thread weaving through the chamber’s suffocating atmosphere with its quiet, inevitable truth.

But the Sith acolyte was not merely speaking of a commonplace Neimoidian. In the labyrinthine crevices of her mind, the stone emerged as an emblem, a fulcrum. A seemingly insignificant choice, like a ripple birthed from a pebble tossed into a placid pond, could send a seismic wave through the entire cosmic web, subtly yet irrevocably reshaping not only the fate of a lone, pitiable creature but the very foundation of the Empire’s power itself. This was the Sith's sacrosanct duty, to seize such pivotal moments, to peer beyond the veneer and behold the latent potential nestled within each fissure, each fracture.

The Force, mused Zaraak, was akin to the river waters of Naboo—quietly serene, yet perpetually churning, its currents carrying the tremors of even the faintest disturbance to unseen, distant shores, far beyond the initial epicenter of the ripple. What the unenlightened dismissed as meaningless, Zaraak deemed as the nascent step in a grander ballet—an opportunity, a kernel of chaos that, if cultivated meticulously, could blossom into a cataclysm of extraordinary proportions.

Tremel’s boots scraped against the cold floor. His eyes, narrowing, studied her closely as the metaphor hung in the air like a shard of Dantooinian glass, casting shadows. Silence stretched, laden with the weight of revelation.

Finally, his lips curled into a faint smile. "Well, well. Look who just turned deep and insightful."

The room hummed with the mechanical pulse of the Academy, but it was the silence between them that carried weight—a vibration, an unspoken resonance that echoed Zaraak’s words through the air like ripples on a blackened sea. Beneath her icy exterior, Tremel saw more than ambition, more than bloodlust. It was her vision, vast and sharp like the archives of the Sith, grasping the galaxy’s shifting undercurrents. She had spoken not just of the forger’s fate, but of a fundamental truth—power was a ripple, each choice cascading through the Force, shaping destiny as surely as stars carving paths across the heavens.

His gaze locked onto hers, the philosophical depth of her words striking not only for their insight but as a harbinger of what she was becoming. A force, poised to crash against the shores of the Empire, as inevitable as the ebb and flow of the dark side.

Without looking at her, he added in a murmur: “It’s always best to know beyond any doubt. After all, what is one man’s sanity or life versus the fate of the Empire?”

The cold whisper reverberated through the chamber like the toll of a distant bell. Zaraak absorbed it in silence. She had always understood this truth, felt it as an undercurrent in her veins, but hearing it spoken aloud solidified her path. One life, one ripple, could be the spark that reshaped everything.

She gave a slight nod, acknowledging the weight of his approval. Her satisfaction was quiet, concealed beneath the armor of her ambition. There would be no celebration, only the steady rhythm of progress.

The silence that followed hung heavy with shared understanding.

The ripple had only just begun.

"Hmm, each time, each prisoner, you made the best possible decision.” Tremel’s voice unraveled slowly, contemplating the weight of each word against his judgment. His gaze appraised Zaraak; a puzzle yet to be solved. “You may yet be able to challenge Vemrin for Darth Baras's attention. To celebrate: a small reward."

He paced slowly, his boots tapping softly against the stone floor as he approached his desk, his approval a whisper hidden in the hollow of his gaze. He retrieved a small yet significant object gleaming in the corner, something not of the present world but of a time where even dust has forgotten its origin. It pulsed with the quiet decay of stars long extinguished, its surface worn by the weight of a thousand hands, hands that had dissolved into memory and oblivion. His motion was slow, almost reverent.

He extended his hand, offering her the reward. The Korriban Battler Focus. A relic. A shard of Korriban’s brutal history. Zaraak’s hand closed around it—without hesitation, without question. A focus not only of the body but of the soul, the mind. And as it settled in her palm, the ripple began—first small, then surging, spreading through her, amplifying her, twisting the threads of her power tighter, sharper. She did not simply feel the dark side—she became it. Her mind sharpened like a blade. Her endurance, bolstered, the lingering fatigue of the day's trials melting away, replaced by a steady core of resilience.

"Thank you very much, Overseer," Zaraak murmured, her voice carrying the weight of the power now coursing through her, as if the dark side itself spoke from within her, cold and commanding beneath the surface.

Something shifted in Tremel’s eyes, a shadow of recognition passing through him as though he could sense the dark side coursing through Zaraak, feel the pulse of her rising strength. His nod was slow, deliberate—a silent acknowledgment of the power she now embodied. "Thank yourself, acolyte. It’s performances like this that might just beat the extreme odds we're facing."

A somber timbre enveloped his words, and his stare intensified, heavy with ominous portent. "Because I forced you into the Academy ahead of schedule, Darth Baras will be predisposed to judging you severely. And by severely, I mean fatally."

Zaraak remained motionless, her fingers curling tighter around the Battler Focus as the weight of his words sank into her. It was not fear that ignited within her; it was something far more potent—challenge. A smoldering defiance, coiling in her chest like the first breath of a storm, inevitable and powerful, as sure as the relentless rise of the dark side's tides.

"Now, we must hurry to your next trial," Tremel continued, a note of urgency creeping into his otherwise stoic timbre. "Every moment that passes, we risk discovery before we're ready." His pacing resumed, his boots whispering against the cold stone floor, each step a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. "In the caverns of Marka Ragnos is the beast he left to guard his legacy. Go there, sit among the flames, and wait for the beast to come for you."

A half-smile danced on Zaraak's lips, her mind already weaving the tapestry of the impending battle. "Sounds like a good opportunity for violence," she proposed, her voice laced with anticipation.

Tremel ceased his pacing, his gaze cutting through the gloom to meet hers. "Hold nothing back. This creature is doom itself."

The echo of his warning hung in the air, a tangible reminder of the danger ahead. Zaraak felt the pull of the Battle Focus in her grip, the intoxicating promise of power and the mantle of responsibility it bore. She reveled in the prospect of confronting such a creature—a living testament to the ancient legacy of Marka Ragnos, a specter of doom that would crash against the tempestuous force she had become.

"Return to the Valley of the Dark Lords and find the tomb of Marka Ragnos. I'll see you when the beast is slain. Good luck."

Zaraak turned without a word, the focus throbbed in her grip, a rhythmic heartbeat of shadowy possibilities. As she navigated toward the exit, her thoughts were already racing ahead, mingling with the upcoming trial. The beast was but another milestone, another ripple in the expansive ocean of dominion she was determined to reign over.

The ripple had only just begun.

Edited September 10 by OriusPrime

[OriusPrime]

Chapter 6: Allegiance

This chapter came to life unexpectedly, sparked by what was initially a simple side quest in the game—one that centered around rooting out acolyte traitors. Yet, within this small task, I found the perfect opportunity to dive deeper into Zaraak's character and explore the complexities of her loyalty to the Empire. It's as she reflected in the previous chapter: "The ripple from even a tiny stone can flow a great distance." In this case, a tiny side quest became the catalyst for a chapter rich in conflict, pain, and revelation.

 

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The air itself seemed to skirl with forgotten whispers, like the last breaths of ancient tombs exhaling from the marrow of the planet. Zaraak stepped forward, and each footfall on the crimson sands was a promise swallowed by the earth, the weight of millennia replete with death and ambition pressing up through her soles, as if Korriban itself sought to claim her. The sky, a fuliginous crimson wound hanging too close, rippled with a suffocating stillness, as though the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to fracture.

Shadows, long and serpentine, stretched out from the Academy’s jagged spires, ensconcing the valley in the grasp of something far older than history. The dark side did not merely whisper here—it screamed in the silence, vibrating through her bones, a song of rage and inevitability that only those attuned could hear. It was a visceral rhythm, as sharp as the edge of a vibroblade, and today, it seemed to ensnare her mind with every step she took toward the speeder platform.

But just as her fingers brushed the air before her, a voice cut through the tension like the crack of distant lightning.

"Stand and account for yourself, acolyte. Let’s see what you’re made of."

Zaraak turned, her gaze locking onto Inquisitor Arzanon. He stood resolute, his black robes undulating slightly in the arid wind, flanked by Imperial troopers like silent sentinels beside their kneeling prey—suspect acolytes, quivering and bound, reduced to mere shadows of themselves. The sight stirred a flicker of memory: the acolyte whose life had drained into this very dirt not days ago, his blood absorbed by Korriban's insatiable sands, his final plea for clemency met with cold indifference. Now, different acolytes knelt in his stead, but the inevitable conclusion hung heavy in the air, unspoken yet certain.

Zaraak’s hand drifted, almost instinctively, to the hilt of her warblade, the familiar weight grounding her in the present. Her path was immutable, the trial ahead as clear as the skies of Dromund Kaas, and she could not afford to tarry. And yet, she felt the incisive force of Arzanon’s scrutiny upon her, his gaze as though a scalpel, seeking to peel back the layers of her very soul, to descry what lay beneath her defiant exterior.

"Inquisitor Arzanon’s voice sliced through the thick, arid air with an authority that brooked no delay. “I look at you, and I wonder... are you among the truly loyal, or do you hide treason in your heart?”

The words settled over her like a shroud, as heavy as the dark side itself. Zaraak straightened, her spine stiffening, though a thread of unease tugged at the edges of her thoughts. Does he know? The question surfaced briefly, unbidden, before she smothered it beneath the layers of her discipline and pride. She could not allow herself to falter—not here, not now.

She raised her chin, her voice sharp with defiance, though beneath it lay the quiet tension of someone used to guarding their secrets. “I am heir to a great Sith bloodline. How dare you even ask such a question of me?"

It was a lie, or rather, a half-truth. Her mixed heritage—the Zabrak blood of her father, corrupted by the dark side, mingling with the human frailty of her mother, a woman broken by her father's cruelty—was a fact she buried deep. She wore her red skin like armor, knowing that in the eyes of many Sith, her lineage marked her as impure. But she was not about to reveal that to this inquisitor.

Inquisitor Arzanon's expression remained carved in stone, his voice as cold and unyielding as the void. "I do what the Emperor commands me to. Your special heritage does not place you above suspicion—nor should it."

Without waiting for a reply, he shifted his stance, one gloved hand gesturing toward the kneeling acolytes, their heads bowed beneath the shadow of Imperial troopers, blasters poised at the base of their skulls. "Intelligence reports indicate this valley shelters traitors—acolytes who seek to destroy our Emperor’s carefully built order and replace it with their own weak-minded heresies."

The Intelligence Officer beside him stepped forward, scanning the trembling figures with a clinical detachment, her voice flat and unfeeling. "They hide among the faithful and obedient, but make no mistake—they will destroy us all, given the chance."

Arzanon’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing as if he could already see the blood seeping into the sand, marking their betrayal. "We've watched as the traitors scuttle about this valley and plot against us. We know their faces and their names." His hand curled into a tight fist, only to relax as though the tension itself had been enough to crush them.

"It is the Emperor’s will that the sands of Korriban be slaked with the blood of these traitors." He met Zaraak’s eyes, the command in his voice unmistakable. "Prove your allegiance by executing them."

Zaraak held his gaze, her composure unwavering, though the command felt like a vice tightening around her chest. Traitors. The word coiled in her mind like a poisoned blade, sharp and insidious. Among the Sith, to be branded a traitor was the ultimate disgrace—a mark not only of disloyalty but of weakness, a flaw that heralded death long before the physical end. It was more than the loss of life; it was the unraveling of one's legacy, a condemnation that signified failure to embody the strength required by the dark side. To betray was not merely to defy—it was to reveal the cracks in one’s will, the rot in one’s power. And for the Sith, there was no greater sin than weakness masquerading as loyalty.

But what did loyalty mean for someone like her, burdened by a bloodline that bore the indelible mark of impurity? That question had stalked her every step, a silent shadow that never ceased to haunt her thoughts, though she had long since mastered the art of concealing it. To hesitate now, even for an instant, would risk the same suspicion Arzanon reserved for the traitors beneath his boot.

She drew in a measured breath, placing her hand over her chest, bowing slightly as the weight of his words settled over her like a mantle of iron. "It will be a great honor to serve you, my lord," she replied, her voice smooth, meticulously controlled. Yet beneath the practiced veneer, a familiar knot tightened within her, coiling around her core like a viper. She would prove her worth. She would cleanse the weak from their ranks—and in doing so, perhaps, purge the doubts that had trailed her like a second shadow all her life.

Arzanon’s goateed chin lifted, arms tucking across the armorweave that embraced his chiseled chest, seamless and sure. "And in serving me, you serve the Emperor. Remember that as you exterminate those vermin in the valley."

The Intelligence Officer stepped forward, her gloved hand extending a small device—the same scanner she had used moments ago to single out the traitors. "I'll give you the means to identify the traitors. Eliminate enough of them to prove your loyalty, then return to Inquisitor Arzanon."

Zaraak accepted the scanner, its cold weight settling into her palm. There was nothing remarkable about the device—just metal and circuitry—but in her grip, it grew denser, the condemnation a latent force simmering beneath its surface. This was no mere tool; it was an instrument of authority by which she would soon expose the rot festering beneath the facade of loyalty.

She marched on in her crusade, the Inquisitor’s voice a stalking shadow. "I will be watching your progress with great interest. Go now. See that the Emperor's will be done."

Zaraak’s gaze never wavered from the valley stretched before her, a yawning chasm where the tomb of Marka Ragnos loomed on the horizon—a specter of forgotten power. Before she could slay the slumbering beast within, the purge beckoned. Her warblade vibrated faintly at her side, an unspoken promise of violence, hungry for the traitor’s blood that would soon stain the sands.

The sands of Korriban would drink deeply today.

The crimson-skinned enforcer of the Emperor’s will strode through the Valley of the Dark Lords, the scanner cold in her hand, a silent arbiter of fate. Her skin, etched with jagged warpaint, glinted under the dying Korriban sun, drawing the wary eyes of acolytes who flinched beneath her gaze. Some were oblivious, too focused on their own survival; others shifted nervously as her presence passed by, knowing that each step brought the weight of judgment closer.

The first few scans were straightforward: acolytes, loyal to the Empire. Their fear was palpable but not treasonous, their devotion measured in physiological responses that fell within the scanner's acceptable parameters. Each scan processed layers of data—heart rate fluctuations, subtle shifts in body temperature, neural patterns—cross-referenced against the intelligence reports compiled by the Empire. A cold algorithm searching for the slightest deviation from loyalty.

But then, the scanner flared in her grip, a vivid crimson pulse. A spike in neural activity, a tremor too small for human eyes to catch, flagged the acolyte for dissent. Another traitor. The warblade at her side hummed, eager, and the task was swift—her blade cutting through the tension as it had the acolyte’s spine. Korriban’s sands drank deeply, as promised.

Yet it wasn’t until she neared a more familiar corner of the valley that the real test began.

A voice she recognized carried softly through the ancient walls. “You really don’t waste any time, do you?”

Zaraak turned to see Varik leaning against a nearby pillar, his dark hair as disheveled as ever. He pushed off from the wall, walking toward her with an easy stride. “Last I heard, you were making prisoners squeal. Now you’re parading around the valley with a warblade?”

She smirked, despite herself, falling easily into their old banter. “What can I say? I like to keep busy. Besides, someone’s got to keep the acolytes in line.”

Varik chuckled softly, striding toward her with an easy confidence, his gaze lingering a bit longer on her than it did on the warblade. "Keep the acolytes in line, huh?" He stopped just short of her, close enough for his voice to lower into something more suggestive. "And what if I needed keeping in line? You always did know how to handle me."

A playful gleam sparked in his eyes, and he leaned in just enough for the space between them to feel charged with something more than just their usual banter. "Maybe I’m overdue for a reminder."

For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like before—the easy camaraderie, the shared jokes between training sessions, the rare moments of levity in a place where ambition ruled all. But Zaraak’s grip tightened on the scanner, the cold, hard edges pressing into her skin. There was no time for nostalgia. The task was still at hand, and no one was exempt.

The silence stretched too long between them. Her smile faltered as she raised the scanner toward him, the gesture as routine as it had been with all the others. Varik noticed the shift, his brow furrowing in mild confusion, though his stance remained relaxed.

The scanner flared in her grip, the crimson light casting stark shadows between them.

Zaraak stared at the screen, her heart sinking as the reality settled in.

Varik was a traitor.

Kriff.

Zaraak's fingers clenched around the scanner, as if strangling it would somehow change the verdict. But the crimson light didn’t wave, indifferent to the weight it had just cast upon her.

She stared at it for a moment longer, feeling the betrayal coil deep in her chest like a serpent. A slow, insidious tightening that she hadn’t felt in years. Not since that day on Dathomir…

Varik noticed the shift, the slow fading of her posture, her warblade still humming at her side. The smile he wore—a smile she once found comforting—faded. His brow furrowed with confusion, but then came the realization. Zaraak could see it settle in his eyes, dulling the brightness she had clung to.

"Zar…" His voice softened, all the usual playfulness gone. "So, it’s come to this."

She couldn’t look at him. Not yet. She’d trained herself for this—these moments where emotion became nothing more than another enemy to be cut down. She had lived in that steel shell for years. But Varik had found a way past it, slithering beneath the cracks she hadn’t even known existed.

Now he was tearing it apart.

Her eyes met his, and the man she had once dared to hope could be something more, something different, was gone. All that was left was another traitor. Another betrayer standing in the wreckage of her trust.

"You’re a traitor." The words were sharp, bitter on her tongue, the betrayal burning hot behind her eyes. "You betrayed the Empire. You betrayed me."

Varik’s jaw tightened. He let out a slow breath, measured, the resignation already sinking into his bones. "It’s not that simple, Zaraak."

"It is." Her warblade vibrated at her side, its hum a faint, eager call for blood. "You betrayed everything. I trusted you." Her voice cracked, the admission digging at her throat, forcing itself free. "I thought…"

But she couldn’t say it. Couldn’t let him hear that she had thought him different. That he had been more than just another Sith, more than just a friend. He had been her one chance at something else, something that didn’t end in blood.

She had let herself believe.

And now, like everything else, it crumbled in her hands.

"You’re just another weakling," she spat, the venom laced with pain, her words hitting harder than her warblade could.

He stepped closer, hands raised in a placating gesture—peace, nonviolence, the ridiculous hope that something could still be salvaged. "Zaraak, listen to me. The Empire... it grinds down the strong just as much as the weak. It’s a machine that destroys us all in the end. Look at the Sith—how many of them rise, only to be devoured by their own ambition? By the very system they serve? You can see it. You’ve always seen it. The Empire—it took everything from you—"

"DON’T." The word erupted from her, raw and forceful. "Don’t you kriffing dare tell me what was taken from me."

Her breath caught, memories surfacing unbidden—unforgiving, brutal. The hands of her Zabrak kin—her own tribe—their faces twisted with contempt and lust. She could feel their rough fingers again, their jeering voices echoing in her mind, violating her all over again. Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back with venomous determination.

"You have no idea," she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. Her teeth ground together as she fought the surge of emotion rising in her chest. "Everything the Empire took from me? It gave me back tenfold. It made me strong. It gave me power. And now you want me to throw that away? For what? Some naive notion of peace?"

Varik’s eyes softened, the sadness there almost unbearable. "It doesn’t have to be this way, Zar. Come with me. We can leave this behind, go to the Republic—together. You don’t have to keep living like this, always fighting. Let me save you—"

Her laugh was sharp, cruel. "Save me? Save me?" Her heart pounded in her chest, the bitterness rising like bile. "Where were the Jedi when I needed saving? Where was anyone when I was broken and bleeding, stripped of my dignity? Peace? Compassion? Kriff that. You don’t understand what it means to survive—you never did."

The burning in her chest grew, the rage bubbling beneath her skin, threatening to drown her. "No one saved me," she snarled. "Not you. Not the kriffing Republic. I had to save myself. I had to make myself strong, while you—" her voice broke again, the words coming out raw, twisted with fury, "You pretended to be something you’re not."

Varik’s attention clung to her, a shadow reluctant to let go, the hurt threading through the sadness in his eyes. "I never meant to hurt you, Zar. I never lied to you." He took a cautious step forward, his voice wavered with sincerity. "I just don’t want to see you destroyed by the tyranny of the Sith. They’ll chew you up and spit you out. I love you, Zaraak. I always have."

His words struck her like a blow she hadn’t anticipated, a fleeting tremor running through her core, stirring something fragile before it was consumed by the fury rising beneath her skin.

"Kriff you, Varik." The words seared her throat as they escaped, her hands trembling on the hilt of her warblade. "I was reforged stronger by the Empire. It didn’t destroy me—it defined me. I don't need your love. I don't need to be kriffing saved by you. I'm not your kriffing damsel in distress, you chivalrous pig. The Empire taught me to seize power by my own dominion—not by some knight of the Jedi Order—to eliminate all threats to myself and the Empire. And you—" she took a step forward, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You’re just another obstacle."

The warblade slid from its sheath, a serpent uncoiling in the stillness. Its edge chanted a deadly promise as Zaraak stretched its lethal grasp just inches from Varik’s throat, his pulse visible beneath the tender skin.

The air between them felt alive, charged with unsaid words and unmade choices, crackling as if the dark side itself waited for a single misstep. His breath came shallow, betraying the tension that neither of them could ignore.

“Zar, please… I failed you. I see that now, and I’m sorry—"

Her grip on the warblade tightened until her knuckles screamed in protest, the weight of her decision pressing down on her like a vice. "You disgust me." Her voice was raw, fractured by the jagged edges of her pain. "I thought—"

The words caught in her throat, as if they were too bitter to swallow, a knot twisting in her chest. "I thought you were different."

The warblade trembled in her grip, and for the first time in a long while, Zaraak found herself at war with more than just the man in front of her. Her knuckles ached, her muscles screamed, and still, the blade hung in the charged air between them—an execution waiting for the final sentence.

Tears, unbidden and unwanted, welled at the edges of her vision, blurring the sharp line between duty and whatever remnants of affection still clung to her. No one had ever cared for her like this. The bitter realization was a blade of its own, twisting deep inside.

"I can't let you live…" Her voice faltered, trembling like the hands that held her weapon. The warblade, so sure, so ready to claim another life, now felt like a leaden weight in her hands.

Varik’s breath caught, a soft, broken sound. He didn’t move. Didn’t resist. He simply stood there, waiting—offering her everything, even now. His eyes, despite the looming death inches from his throat, softened in a way that broke her more than any battle ever had.

"Then do it," he whispered. "If you can."

But she couldn’t.

Her tears fell, tracing paths down her cheeks as the warblade wavered in her grasp. The dark side surged within her, demanding blood, demanding resolution. But all she felt was the void, the crushing weight of the decision she had to make.

Zaraak’s chest heaved, torn between the girl who once sought comfort in his presence and the Sith who had to do what must be done.

"I hate you," she rasped, though the words felt empty.

The warblade wavered for a moment longer, the air between them suffocating with the weight of words unsaid and wounds too deep to heal. Varik stood before her, unflinching, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that only deepened the ache clawing at her chest.

"I hate you," she whispered again, her voice cracking under the weight of a lie too heavy to carry.

And then she struck.

The warblade cut through the air, a vicious arc of fury and despair, as if it carried the weight of everything she had ever lost. Zaraak’s scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged. "I HATE YOU!" The words echoed through the valley, but even as they left her lips, she realized—they were as much for herself as for him.

The blade met flesh with a sickening finality. Varik’s body crumpled, folding into the crimson sands of Korriban as if he had never truly been there at all. His eyes, still open, still soft, watched her with that same unbearable tenderness, even as the life ebbed from them.

This wasn’t like her past executions, where she fed on the suffering of her victims, drawing strength from their pleas and agony.

This was different.

This was pain—smothering, unadulterated pain, pure in its cruelty.

The warblade had sliced through more than just Varik’s flesh—it carved into her own heart, leaving it to bleed beside him.

Her chest heaved, her warblade trembling in her grasp, her vision blurring as hot tears streaked down her cheeks. The fury that had once filled her was gone now, leaving only a hollow ache, an emptiness where there had once been rage.

Zaraak staggered back, her legs weak beneath her, the warblade slipping from her fingers, sinking into the sand with a muted thud. She stood over Varik’s lifeless form, her breath ragged, and stared down at him. She had expected satisfaction. Vindication.

Instead, all she felt was emptiness.

The dark side was silent.

She had done what was asked of her, proven her loyalty to the Empire. She had fulfilled her purpose.

But as she gazed down at Varik’s still body, the only truth she could grasp was the gaping void he had left behind.

The sands of Korriban had drunk deeply today, sated by blood—but in their thirst, they had claimed a part of her soul.

Zaraak stood motionless for a beat longer, the emptiness gnawing at the edges of her mind. She bent down, retrieved her warblade from the sand, and wiped the blood from its edge in a mechanical motion—dispassionate, automatic. The familiar weight felt foreign now, its once-comforting presence tainted by what it had just severed.

She turned and began the march back toward the Academy, each step growing heavier as she approached the Inquisitor. His figure loomed in the distance, resolute and unmoved, a silhouette of authority against the darkening sky.

Arzanon’s voice was a blade in the silence as she approached. "I watched you deal with those traitors. Well done. That was an impressive display of loyalty."

Zaraak offered a curt nod, her expression as unreadable as the mask she had forced into place. The warblade, still stained with Varik’s blood, hung at her side, a silent reminder of the price she had paid for that so-called loyalty.

Inquisitor Arzanon extended a hand, presenting a token gleaming in the fading light—a small badge, its metal catching the glow of deepened twilight. "Take this reward as a token of the Emperor’s favor… and wear this badge. It marks you as a defender of our Empire."

Zaraak took the badge, her fingers closing around the cold metal. She felt nothing—no pride, no satisfaction—only the echo of Varik’s final moments and the hollow space left behind. Her eyes drifted to the inscription carved into the badge's surface.

The Vicious.

The words felt foreign, like a mask she had worn too long. To the Empire, it was a mark of strength—a reminder of the merciless blade she had become. But to her, it was an empty title, devoid of the meaning it once held. The viciousness that had carried her this far suddenly felt like a hollow echo, drowning out the person she had once believed she could be.

She fastened the badge to her chest, the weight of it pressing against her like an iron chain, tethering her to a fate she no longer understood.

The Intelligence Officer stepped forward, her gaze sharp, clinical. "Stay vigilant. Our enemies lurk where you least expect them."

Zaraak’s grip tightened around the badge, its surface biting into her skin. She straightened, her voice flat and controlled. "I will, my lord."

But within, a storm raged—silent, unrelenting, and unseen.