CC: The Crimson Covenant

[Syren]

“When logic and proportion
Have fallen sloppy dead
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen’s off with her head
Remember what the dormouse said
Feed your head
Feed your head.”

-Jefferson Airplane

Contruum

An ominous feeling simmers between them, actively filling the space.

Under normal circumstances, he would evade her arrogantly pointed questions and withhold these feelings. Still, the strangeness of their arrival and discussion throughout their journey has given way to a more amenable exchange. She stands firmly behind his chair with a hand placed upon her hip.

“Not loving this for us. What happens when we are discovered?”

“Contruum remains Imperial aligned. Kimber Patten’s antics allowed us to make damn sure of that. Our avatars, after all, are emissaries of the Emperor so our presence should not be an issue.”

“How fortunate for us.”

Dahlia lowers her shoulders but knows this does not necessarily mean they are out of danger. Convenience may only be a pretext for something far darker. For his part, the context and shading provided were intriguing if not somewhat suspicious so she decides to push it.

“You said you didn’t know anything and were never involved with them.”

“I said not directly,” he reiterates, staring ahead. “Things may have gotten messy but we retained control here despite certain ethical detours. While the intrepid agent St. Claire did as instructed, I was unaware of his previous allegiance to the Trade Federation which…complicated things.”

“I hear dying tends to do that.”

“He was disavowed by the Empire first.”

She tilts her head, expression tightening in a way he finds infuriating, “How is that better?”

“No one said it was but he served his purpose. Played his role. Champions rise and fall, even unconventional ones.”

“You know, the mythological aspects of our lives are seriously disturbing when you really think about it. Solid lore though.”

“I suppose so, through a certain lens. Something I imagine appeals to you a great deal.”

“Obviously but indirect involvement still counts as involvement.”

“What are you asking me?”

“If you ever met them. The Four. Do not lie to me.”

He turns and takes a more measured tone.

“Not formally and met is a strong word. I only laid eyes on two of them in person. Here, in fact. On Contruum. I was dispatched in secret after Alexia’s behavior became increasingly erratic and she absconded with then-Emperor Dementat along with the governor of this world. Considering Karen’s…connection to the Emperor and sentimentality toward Governor Strye it became, as you say, a thing.”

Her eyes widen in anticipation, “I’ll bet. Please, continue.”

He allows it with a small nod.

“Alright.”

Considering its potential relevance, she has earned a bit more of his perspective.

“As the newly anointed Darth Kyja, Karen stormed into the government building with a rage that gave even me pause before promptly, if memory serves, physically and verbally assaulting several ranking Imperial staff, securing Kimber’s release from the increasingly sadistic games the Imperial Director – your father, as it turned out - was rumored to be playing with her, and took off after Alexia.

However, I was one of few people who ever saw Riley Patten’s mother and father together alive and bore witness to your elder sister practically torching the Imperial bureaucracy. The reaction to the whole ordeal was…mixed. There were many competing agendas as we have come to discover, the Imperial staff in question themselves were angry and confused, but Karen prevailed, the Voss-Ra’s faith in her solidified, and I returned to my post far, far away from here for the rest of it to play out. We know how that story ended.”

“We certainly do,” she murmurs, eyes shifting back to the moon they are steadily approaching. “So, we share a peripheral connection to this place but I must be missing the deeper significance.”

“Perhaps you are being tested. Both of your sisters displayed feats of skill and strength here.”

“Or we are being punished for exerting the agency you so impressively wrested back from Erinbol. Neither the Sith nor the Voss-Ra may appreciate us putting them in their places which is, let’s be honest, secondary to the roles we play. We are, according to them, destined for this. You think they would appreciate the initiative.”

Seif considers this while he transmits their credentials and destination to central command. Orders from the Emperor provide swift clearance to proceed without interruption.

“It would be risky to intentionally place you in a situation that may harm their chances yet again but they have gone to greater lengths before. To your point, this may not be the Voss-Ra’s machinations we are dealing with here. We shall investigate but stay alert.”

“Fine but keep it cool. We’ve got enough to worry about.”

Seif Guldon-Greyson senses a softening in her. There is still skepticism but also a willingness that had not existed before they departed from Byss. He made his choice and it forged trust, however tentative at first, which was quickly solidifying. She has started to care for him as well. Something he had, admittedly, always wanted. The connection. The family they kept from him. As tempting as the prospect is, he also knows this path leads to a distraction they simply cannot afford.

“Don’t. Empathy does not lend itself to the goals of the Sith.”

Her eyes are consumed with the stars beyond the viewport, “Perhaps…for what the Sith once was, not what it could be. Imagine...”

“The certainty in that statement is frightening.”

“It is meant to be,” she quips evenly, straightening her posture to push impossibly shiny hair over one shoulder. “That whole solo power trip vibe is tired. Played out. Feeling the feels is what the Sith are all about. I feel what I feel and I said what I said. Deal with it.”

His tone turns warning, “We talked about this. The only thing tired is your attempt at being flip even when we both know that is all part of the act.”

She sighs, expression hardening with resolve.

“The goal is power and the freedom that brings us but we only get that by winning. I understand that very clearly, thank you, and so do you. This is our only way out but, speaking of it, how has your solo power trip worked out for you? Is that what you wanted or is this what they told you to want? The Voss-Ra are the ones who changed things up for us, leveraging different roles in different ways to win. 

You and I were never meant to be allies. Alas, here we are. If this had played out like a previous cycle they would have had one of us kill the other. Then where would we be? I say we make the most of this new frontier. Progress is not made with more of the same but hoping you don’t, like, die or whatever does not deter my focus nor does it obscure what must be done.”

“A rousing speech, to be sure, but I do not want your pity, princess.”

She rolls her eyes, “Let’s not get carried away. What’s down there?”

“A base, strategically hidden for planetary defense. It was converted for Imperial purposes after the planet declared its allegiance but, to my knowledge, seldom if ever used. That is where I feel it. Calling. Don’t you?”

“Yes but, for the record, if we get blasted to bits I am going to be super pissed.”

Seif groans wearily but guides the shuttle down and through the projection concealing the entrance to the base. A rather clever ruse to maintain its secrecy that he had been privy to on his last visit so many years ago. He sets them down on an empty platform, vast but tidy even in its apparent lack of use. They suit up; his hulking orange armor and her black mask, bodysuit, and cape. The hazy glow of the Etheralis fragment in his chest plate brightens her eyes behind the reflective void of her mask. She allows the intoxicating power to wash over her before turning and descending the platform together.

No one appears to greet them.

This does not deter Dahlia the way he feels it should. She struts steadily in front of him, heading for the blast door at the far end of the platform, finally feeling back at home in the chunky heels of her killer boots.

“Get a grip. This is a hangar bay, not a runway,” he hisses lowly, voice menacingly distorted.

“Everything’s a runway if you want it to be, darling. Don’t be so downbeat.”

“As usual, the brash humor is not helpful.”

“I’m tense. Cut me some fucking slack,” she mutters as they close in on the door.

They position themselves against either side, ready for a nasty surprise as she hits the controls, but beyond that, there is only more nothingness. Empty corridors and a heavy silence. Not so much as a repair droid zipping about. The unobstructed entry would almost be considerate if it were not so terrifying.

It is clear whatever brought them here does not want any witnesses, a realization not lost on either of them.

They follow the feeling that led them here, a dark pit that beckons from within. Her hand hovers over the saber at her belt as they press deeper. Twisting inward toward the center of the base, they emerge on a cargo platform near the bottom of a large, narrow shaft cutting through the center of the base. Crates and various electrical equipment lie orderly in the corners but it otherwise appears uninhabited.

Neither is comforted by the apparent anticlimax.

“I don’t like this. Here’s the hook but where’s the catch?”

Two figures blurred in motion, drop from the shaft onto the platform and rise to greet them.

Inquisitor Allom.

Inquisitor Feraas.

It is Feraas who speaks, “Inquisitor Involis, Darth D’Cera, we welcome you.”








-TBC

[Syren]

“You and I got some troubles we’re facing
I know we can make it staying high in low places.”

-Beach Weather

Contruum

Moon Base

“You?” Involis breaths. “You brought us here?”

The tension in the air pulls tight like the loop of a noose.
 
Allom answers, “Indeed we did.”

“Emperor Schrag will never stand for this.”

The hollow laughter that follows, echoing across the vast space of the platform, is far from reassuring.

“Schrag has become weak,” Faraas says evenly. “He hides behind that boy, granting him such latitude and longevity. The galaxy could be the Empire’s again in an instant – all he needs to do is move to seize it – but alas he does not. Shrewd as he may be, Schrag has never been a coward, and yet he hesitates, hidden away at the citadel on Byss. Trusting our fate to Trevaithan…and another Winton.”

D’Cera tilts her mask back, amused, “You brought us here to air your grievances with Schrag’s succession planning?”

“That seems a bit trite for us Inquisitors, no?”

“Not when you consider what we stand to lose. The last Winton ruined everything for us when Dementat followed that traitorous redhead to the grave on Centerpoint. Schrag did what he could to rehabilitate the Empire but coming back from that kind of a loss, one that allowed the Republic to grow into the menace it now presents, was an arduous task even for the most seasoned tacticians. Leveraging a questionable truce to bolster galactic standing was an…unexpected move, but contaminated by a Winton and her associates.”

“So, this is about me. Typical.”

“Not just you,” Allom hisses, tone rising in annoyance. “The Empire. The Sith. We will not be defeated by the spectacular hubris of The Four again.”

Involis has taken in their surroundings and assessed the nature of their setting. A private chat in a symbolic setting. Intimate, industrial, but the poetry is too nuanced for the Inquisitors which tells him there is something more, not just beneath their masks but beneath their motives. The misgivings about Dahlia are not a surprise, considering they mirror those about Karen and likely any other Winton that came before. Their pettiness, superficiality, and vanity read as liabilities unless you know how best to exploit those to one’s advantage. They could also be envious that they are not as favored now by the Emperor, or at least the appearance of what now sits on Schrag's throne. More Voss-Ra smoke and mirrors, a testament to their commitment and their power. However, his counterparts have gone to great lengths to arrange this little scene and so he must know what has compelled them to do something so melodramatic.

“What makes you so certain that she will fail?”

Allom raises an arm and extends a finger at D’Cera directly.

“You are not the true Daughter of Darkness the sorcerers have foreseen. You plot and you play but you toil away while the Republic is ripe for the crippling. The Four lives in part to your attachment and subsequent inaction. You, my dear, are not playing to win.”

D’Cera squares her shoulders, defiant, “Is that so? The implication being that there is someone who is – tell me, I am dying to know.”

Feraas ignites his saber, “Someone far more powerful than either of you.”

“I suppose we will see,” Involis counters, igniting his own. The jagged weapon eases out of his armor to match that which pulses within its center.

Feraas feels its power radiating, words whispered uncoiling like tendrils in his mind.

Faraas and Involis clash together in the center of the platform. Brothers come to blows. These are ideological lines, ones that he has only recently crossed. Whatever they think will happen by taking Winton out of the equation is one hell of a lie. As his saber connects with Faraas’s again, and again, and again, he wonders just what kind of evidence they had been presented to the contrary. The Inquisitors know their roles under Emperor Schrag’s rule, having hunted down scores of Jedi and Force-sensitives across the galaxy after being expelled from Chandaar. So many had been slain and with each one they struck down they knew the significance of it. In it. Exterminate any potential resistance to their power so that once the Sith rose there would be no one who could stop them. All of these actions are predicated on Winton proving victorious over Masterton, Patten, and Gellar.

What has changed?

D’Cera senses the shift, a compulsive desire behind it, and extends both hands to separate them with a burst of telekinetic energy.

“I am not the only reason you summoned us here.”

“Not entirely. Disappointed?”

“Kinda am.”

“You are only an instrument, Darth D’Cera. Means to an end. Except this time, not ours. There are other tools to be leveraged. It is the piece of the Etheralis we have also come to reclaim. To return to the one it truly belongs to.”

“The Etheralis? Who has filled your heads with such a big word?”

Allom laughs from where he has been standing sentry to the skirmish before them.

“An old mentor, from what we were told. The one whose counsel you disregarded. You have made too many enemies, my dear. Not enough allies.”

“There it is,” she says sharply, angling her head her cousin’s way. “Told you she would be a problem.”

Involis glowers darkly, “Adubell sent you.”

“She appeared at the Inquisitorious shortly after you two last departed. Fascinating women with a rather…interesting perspective. She made some compelling arguments.”

“I’ll bet. Surely you see through these lies? How she is using you?”

“She told us of the power in uniting the Etheralis. Bringing all four together as they were meant to be. You are merely a distraction. A false idol. The Lady Adubell is the rightful heir to the Prophecy Persephonea! She will bring forth the return of the Sith.”

D’Cera has got to hand it to Adubell. Immortal and totally delusional? Neat! Off the rails does not even begin to cover it. She would dare to try and take this from her? Blasphemy! She would feel bad about not killing her when she had the chance except she, like, did – and yet here they are. A maniac mixed up with her father’s quest for immortality now seemingly bent on retconning their entire existence.

This is not the role she was meant to play, Involis muses. This interloper. Rage ripples through him.

“Adubell may have enchanted you with her promises but this serves only her interests if this is what she now claims. The Sith will not rise in her name – only a Winton victorious will create the future we seek. The Voss-Ra have foreseen it. You know this. You have always known this. What magic now has you so twisted that you believe otherwise?”

Allom snaps back sharply.

“Not magic, merely fact. The Lady Adubell transcends death. The sorcerers may see many things, but they do not know everything. They have been wrong so many times before, misplaced their faith so egregiously it defies logic. Do you deny this?”

The words, laced with venom, pierce the armor to sting his skin beneath. The Voss-Ra raised him, taught him, trained him, and that blinded him to certain truths. Truths that have become more glaring and unavoidable which informed his path forward. Dahlia has only exacerbated this situation, acting as both a foil and a future to his journey. They have made progress throughout the cycles, adjusting and recalibrating the pieces and players into position, but ultimately failed to execute on the promise of the prophecy and the glory it purports to reward them.

“I do not.”

“Then you see our predicament,” Faraas sighs. “Trust the Voss-Ra when their failures mount or seek a new path to victory through Adubell? The prospect is…refreshing. A broken stalemate. Even you have to see the value in it, Involis. Winton must be eliminated but you have a choice. Die with her or rule with us.”

Allom nods to him, “All you must do is surrender your armor and the fragment that lies within it. Yours will make three – quite a collection. We are so close. Join us and bring forth a new era.”

It surprises him how easily the words appear on his tongue, the strength of his belief, “No.”

Whether they anticipated this answer or not, they do not show it. A hush falls over the platform.

“So be it, Inquisitor Involis. You will give us the Etheralis or we will take it from you.”

“Then we will kill you both.”

D’Cera’s saber is pulled into a tensed, gloved hand, fingers curling slowly around the hilt. The brilliant pink hue reflects off the blackness of her mask.

“Neither of those things will be happening tonight, darling.”

“Once again, your Highness,” Allom says, saber glow casting menacing shadows across his form. “You are very, very wrong.”







-TBC

[Syren]

“'Cause when something makes you shook
‘Cause there’s no way in and there’s no way out
There’s no getting off this hook
My life’s just a western, you’re born to fight
No luck all night, can you make it till sunset?”

-Nilüfer Yanya

Contruum

Moon Base

The Inquisitors are formidable.
 
Involis comes down hard on Feraas, impressed they took Adubell’s words so plainly and set out to do her bidding. It is not vision they lack. It is patience. Something the Voss-Ra and even the Sith Order believe is the key to their ultimate success. Adubell had pushed them to act but it was not the way. The Sith have risen before and would rise again…with the victor and leader to show them the way. Abudell was not that leader, of that he is certain, and she would not see victory in this.

They are also mistaken.

Barrett Trevaithan shares his own connection to the Force, one that makes him more dangerous than either of them realizes. Schrag saw the threat in him. As does Erinbol. The only difference is that Schrag took action to control him through Princess Dahlia and the Imperial Control Serum which proved…unwise. He would not have taken such an action had fear not served a convincing motive.
 
As parents of the past would likely attest – if any were still around to do so – controlling The Four was far more difficult than it appears. He knows because he watched from afar as Alexander, Monica, Celeste, Henrick, Blair, Kyri, and Lilandra lost complete control of everything they ever loved – their children spiraling into bloodshed and madness and they went down right along with them. 

One way or another.

Players, pawns. Heroes, villains. Sinners, sacrifices.
 
Sorcerers weaved webs while opportunists took full advantage along the way. Erinbol knows better than that because he, like the Voss-Ra, is playing the long game. The Corellian doctor, the Republic liaison, the Corporate Sector hero, the last remaining Inquisitors – all reek of Abudell’s intention to undermine the Voss-Ra’s foretold future to claim it all for herself. They have once again allowed someone to capitalize on the power it offers. An easy proposition with such a sinister sway but in the end they all grasp for something that they would never have. Something that was never meant for them. So much nuance in prophecy, divinations, and interpretations leads some to see what they want to see.

Until one wins, dark or light
Repeat, repeat eternal fight

Yet it has always ended the same, at least to this point – with everyone in the grave. He had even come to accept that he might wind up there as well in service of it. Lost to the legend of it all. Until Winton prevails. The central tenant of The Covenant. Dark or light is practically irrelevant, the methods through which Winton wins, and it is only that they triumph while the others perish. The concept, convoluted and mysterious, was not something many understood – obviously - as the Voss-Ra only came to understand its meaning and value a few generations before. The Voss-Ra could stage the scene but they could not be the ones to take action directly. They could not win for the Winton, the Winton had to win on their own. But it was do or die this time for the sorcerers in the shadows.
 
In their blood rituals, they saw The Four’s potential for peace – if left to live out their lives as they were set, undoing the strides the previous cycle had made. It has been drilled into him after Centerpoint, after all that planning and work destroyed. They would be set back decades and seek to sow instability, conceal themselves in glamours to whisper just the right things to just the right people for them to then take steps that would bring The Four back together and push everyone to the precipice of a galactic confrontation. A crisis to solve, a path to glory, immortalization across the ages. And so, here they are.

Dahlia was right and if they were not careful, this base would become their tomb and their blood would christen a new age.
 
The Age of Adubell.

Never.

While he takes on Feraas, D’Cera engages Allom. She and Involis keep a distance between them, always the other at their back. D’Cera does not disappoint and in this moment she is suddenly grateful for Erinbol’s training. Pushing her harder than she thought possible, preparing her for the worst possible scenarios. They may believe her their savior but that did not mean she would not have to fight for it. They never lied about that, at least. She channels her radiating hatred for Adubell’s attempt to hijack her main character arc into every tactical strike and evasive spin. That monster has some real nerve! Allom views D’Cera as merely an obstacle and wields his saber as an instrument of destruction. After all their hunting and slaying, the possible targets naturally thinned out and the Inquisitors had become complacent, bored. It reflects in his movements. Performing yet another task – although this had the promise of a far more lucrative payoff. An end to their frustration and stagnation as they rose with the Sith to power once more. It is that complacency that D’Cera uses against him. She is light, graceful, but vicious as she batters him back against the crates of supplies tucked neatly into the corners of the platform.
 
He leaps onto one and then another, narrowly missing a swipe to his legs. She attempts to counter his high ground with a push of the crate beneath him, a quick gesture as he aims to leap again, causing him to stumble and drop to her level. Seizing the moment, she springs forward, bringing the saber across horizontally but he recovers, jerking back quickly as the tip of the weapon hisses across the front of his chest plate. Allom uses the movement against her, swinging his gloved fist up and across her mask in a dastardly backhand. She staggers, feeling herself caught in his Force-grip, chest aching from the pressure, and is pitched mercilessly toward the edge. The tumble is righted on the second roll but it takes a desperate tug at the larger crate to keep her from toppling out into the space beyond. He leaps high to land beside her and brings his saber down ruthlessly. She jams her own between them and they connect, fighting the sickening screech and bending toward her mask.

“A valiant effort, your Highness, but this is where you exit the production.”

Her laugh is dry but deep, “You underestimate many things, Inquisitor Allom. Adubell. Me. Only one of us leads to resurrection, the other to ruin. You may want to reevaluate your choices.”

“Overestimating yourself, as always.”

“Let us find out,” she snarls, a flare of hatred pulsing darkness through her to push him up and away just enough to allow her to snap to her feet. Their sabers are still crossed but he does not waver. Finally, they break, twisting and striking at each other as they angle back toward the shifted and scattered tower of crates full of service equipment meant to be transported throughout the base. D’Cera forces him into a makeshift corridor, keeping him attentive to prevent an aerial escape. His truncated swing catches the side of her suit, searing pain lancing through her shoulder. She screams, bringing down her own weapon against the storage case beside them. Sparks blinding him. D’Cera forces him away from her, recalibrating herself before advancing and leaping to strike.

He uses his free hand to snare her ankle with a coil of wire, dragging her down roughly against the floor. She gasps for breath, Allom striding toward her, and channels energy into a fist that she slams down against the durasteel beneath her, creating a concussive ripple that throws his balance. She pulls herself into a crouch and vaults forward, using both momentum and the gatherings of the Force to bring a fist into the center of his chest to send him crashing through a palate. Raising her saber, she stalks forward. Allom’s blade cuts upward, slashing through the cargo around him. There are more coils of thick wire that he steps through before charging. Their sabers clash once again, a tighter, more controlled confrontation in the narrower space. He clenches his open hand, pulling her legs out from under her, and cuts down. She blocks and tries to slide away but he is determined now, relentlessly pushing down. Her shoulder is screaming, her arm giving way as his humming blade edges toward her mask.

Reaching out, she unloops the wire behind them up and around his neck. She wills it tighter, wrenching him away, freeing space between them. She knocks his saber arm out and swipes upward, taking it off with a sickening hiss. He growls as her boots find purchase and finally allows her to slide back, rising slowly before him. The pink saber reflected in his mask. She has no mercy to give, swiping off his head at the base of the neck. His helmet hits the scuffed durasteel floor with a dull thud as his body goes limp, slipping out from under the wire, across the smooth, smoldering stump of his neck, and falling flat. The thrill of the act simmers across the surface of her skin and D’Cera tilts her mask back to appraise her work.

Play to win, bitch.

On the other side of the platform, Involis has locked Faraas in a battle of endurance, movement within the armor limited but more powerful. He counters Feraas evenly but neither has taken nor ceded much ground. He considers, briefly, combining his and Dahlia’s powers as they had on Hesperidium – using it against the other Inquisitors to gain a decisive victory – but decides against it, wisely. It is untested and the results unpredictable – neither he nor Dahlia could have known what would happen. Both could just as easily wind up teleporting into the bowels of the base.

“Your faith in them is admirable, Involis, but unfounded. Why wait when the chance for victory is so near?”

“That it is, and yet your faith is misplaced.”

“Is it?” he sneers, saber in front of him. “Or it is you who have placed faith where it should not exist? The sorcerers have not told you everything.”

“Not everything is for them to tell. They are the stewards of the prophecy, not its architects.”

“Yet it seems they conceal truth even to its most ardent enforcers, as was, it seems, the case with your mother.”

He tenses, willing himself to shield his mind from these lies, “No. She has been dead for years.”

“Lady Adubell told us differently. She knows what the Jedi and the Gellar clone have been up to, a visit to Naboo where Elle Greyson had been stashed away in the throes of madness for all these years. They kept you separated from your family to keep you under control, never allowing enough of a connection with insane Alexia or a spoiled Karen to sever your service to them. Their struggles were separate from your mission and you maintained your dutiful distance. Your father may have been long dead but your mother? That would have been something to shake your confidence in them and make you question your loyalty. Even liars can be lied to.”

No. No. But Involis is shaken and he stumbles, leaving enough of an opening for Faraas to slash at his elbow and knee, armor taking most of the damage but getting a little too close. The Voss-Ra would not have kept this from him, would they? Why? How? He considers the source yet it is such a specific and targeted deception. A revelation that would only mean something to him. Distraction and doubt pull his mind in too many directions. Feraas lands a kick at the side of his helmet. Involis’s returns are weakened by his shock and Feraas takes every opportunity to strike, catching the top of his armored glove where his saber is mounted into, shorting it, a green glow winking out. He catches and grips him tightly with the Force, pressing in on the armor so it begins to crush the man beneath. His heavy boots grate against the floor as he is dragged toward the edge. With a brisk stabbing motion, Feraas punctures the casing in the center of the armor, exposing the Etheralis fragment which he then plucks out. It glows brightly in his hand.

“Such a fool,” Faraas spits venomously. “A waste. Winton may be your last mistake but I will be sure to cherish it.”

With that, he releases him – D’Cera sprinting toward them with an arm outstretched.

Inquisitor Involis disappears over the side of the platform.








-TBC

[Syren]

“And no, she can’t slow down if she wanted to
Yeah, the speakers so loud, spinning around the room
And I don’t where I’m going but I gotta move
She said, “Boy, boy, are you coming too?”

-almost monday

Contruum

Moon Base

Darth D’Cera is too late.

As Inquisitor Involis vanishes below the platform, out of sight and into the void, Inquisitor Faraas turns to face her. She stops short but keeps a firm grip on her saber. He apprises her with amusement, attention shifting ever so slightly to acknowledge Allom’s head resting on the scuffed durasteel behind her. A victory, but a fleeting one. Stiffening, he manages a gruff laugh.

“Take comfort in your anger. After all, it was you who sent him to the grave.”

“Is this the part where you lecture me about female rage?”

“Deflection does not diminish your failure, D’Cera.”

“Allom may disagree. I saw you two talking. What did you tell him?”

“Only the truth,” he says with a simple shrug. “Now you must face your own.”

He lowers his voice to issue the directive slowly. Crisp and clear.

“Winton is not the way.”

She scoffs bitterly, “And you believe Adubell is? Her? I thought the Inquisitors were smarter than that.”

He is unphased, smug, spitting his words at her with sheer malice.

“All you represent is generations of misplaced faith. A physical manifestation of the lies those decrepit sorcerers told to maintain the power and influence they have had for far too long. We have made our choice. You are not it.”

He holds up the piece of the Etheralis.

“We got what we came for. The only thing left is to deal with you.”

She flicks her wrist and slowly opens her hand to reveal the fragment in her palm.

“You mean this?”

The shock is priceless and reverberates through his body. He glances at his glove where it had been only seconds before then back at her. No! The spoiled socialite would not distract him with her cheap parlor tricks. She would pay for Allom as she would pay for her delusion in the prophecy! Igniting his saber, he lunges with a roar. Then he freezes, held in place, every muscle constricted and taut. He arches his back, arms forced down to his sides, as he is lifted from the platform surface. The saber drops and clatters to the floor. In her hand, the fragment glows a vibrant green, reflecting a brilliant and blinding glow off her smooth, dark mask. It is her turn to apprise him, but this time with judgment and contempt.

Faraas watches helplessly as her fingers close around the Etheralis. Four delicate tendrils of energy pulse from her fist and encircle her, disappearing against the black suit. She does not know how or why it happens, only that she suddenly feels more connected to everything than she ever has. The hatred is intense but more accessible and tangible. Focused.

She can see quite clearly now and knows exactly what must be done.

“H-h-how?” he chokes out.

“Wrong question.”

“Y-you are an a-a-abomination, a f-fraud-”

“I am many things, Inquisitor Faraas, but that is rather beside the point now. That choice you spoke of. Let me be the last to tell you that it was incorrect. In fact, allow me to show you.”

He feels her power flare. D’Cera clenches her fist tighter but his screams of agony go unheeded as his body is forcibly wrenched back, spine snapping loudly as he encircles himself between his own legs, head coming to rest at the front of his stomach. She waits for the gasps and sputters of realization, garbled as his mouth fills with blood, come to an excruciating end. A mangled mess of limbs and broken skin, she lets him drop to the floor.

Exhaling, she deactivates her saber and clips it to her belt then tucks the Etheralis fragment into her suit. Stepping around what is left of Faraas, she peers over the edge. The wave of sorrow is held at bay by the simmering effects of the Etheralis and so she lowers her head to honor the loss quietly. As she means to turn and survey the damage and plot her next move, something catches her eye. A flicker in the layers of darkness below. Movement.

She drops to her knees, clutching the edge to steady herself while using the mask enhancements provided by the Voss-Ra to focus on the blur in the waning light of the abyss. It darts in and out of view, below the platform before reappearing again. Back and forth. With each reappearance, something catches the light, briefly, a flash of…orange.

“Son of a bitch,” she breathes.

Tracing a thin, faintly visible cord back up to the platform beneath them, she realizes he must have activated something from his armor as he fell. Her cousin is just full of surprises, it seems, but she obviously cannot reach the cord from here. Scanning the area, she does not immediately see a skiff or transport that would bring her down safely, only loaders for cargo. There are cables nearby, strewn across the destroyed crates from her and Allom’s battle, but lowering them would require his consciousness and participation, neither of which she could guarantee. There is no telling what kind of shape he’s in or if he is even alive.

She needs to do this herself.

D'Cera lays flat on her stomach, drawing from the power of the Etheralis against her body, and extends a hand over the edge. She focuses on his form, the air around it, light, swinging like a pendulum, and calls it to her. Guiding him upward. His armor finally crests the edge, and, with a final burst of strength, she hauls him up and back onto the platform. His armor crashes against the durasteel floor. The grappling hook detaches from his plated glove and slithers back with a snap into the darkness below.

She lays beside him for a while, spent from the exertion, the fighting, her shoulder injury screaming for attention, and stares into his mask. A small laugh escapes her lips, realizing now the thought of losing him wounded her more deeply than it should have. He warned her of this. Dangerous as familial attachments can be it is not a connection she can simply set aside. She does not want to do this alone, even if that defies something sacred about the Sith.

More immediate issues await, so she again draws strength from the Etheralis and rises.

Procuring a loader, she dumps both parts of Allom and what remains of Faraas next to the hulking mass of Involis and slowly traverses her way back through the base to the landing pad and their ship. It is a trek made in silent reflection at their battle and lessons learned. She fought well and prevailed – a test the Voss-Ra would no doubt celebrate – yet the revelation of Adubell’s claim and the acolytes she turned bring new and ominous questions to the forefront. There is no telling how many she has drawn to her cause now. The added assistance against Dane, Gemma, and Riley also means she is in more imminent danger from unexpected and unnecessary sources than strictly should be allowed for this stage of the plan.

Once inside the shuttle, a feat unto itself, she closes the ramp and pulls off his helmet to find him breathing beneath it. His eyes roll and open without really focusing.

“You did it,” he mumbles with an unconcealed trace of sarcasm.

She pulls off her own and smiles, “I did. What’s your damage?”

“Bruised but alive, mostly,” he whispers, easing himself up against the wall. “Faraas…he took…”

“Except he didn’t.”

She withdraws the Etheralis fragment from her suit. It glows in her gloved hand.

He winces as he attempts a smirk, “Go team.”

She flips her hair and pushes the piece back into the center of his chest plate, snapping it into place. His armor, battered as it is, hums to life. He straightens visibly and takes a few long, deep breaths, already looking remarkably better. The connection to it clearly heightens the ability to channel the Force, but there is still much she does not know about it.

“What do you say we dump these Inquisitors and get out of here?”

“No,” he says, more strength in his tone. “Misled or not, they deserve better. Take us to Contruum and we will send them off on the surface.”

She nods, leaving him temporarily to tend to her wounds before guiding them out of the base. He'll need a minute anyway. The urge to ask him what happened is overwhelming, but she knows him well enough now to give him some space. Whatever was said caused him to shut down completely. That much she saw which means it must have pierced the cool veneer of detachment and that is a frightening thing indeed. She retraces the route Seif used to get them in and makes haste for the swirling planet beyond. She is stiff and sore, but her shoulder would heal. Nothing a bacta pad and some focus couldn’t handle. She was good but she was also lucky.

They both were.

Surface

The coast.

Dahlia and Seif are unsteady on the sand. The Imperial Academy looms in the distance, a symbol encased in shadow as the sun slips behind the horizon, deepening the sky with dark purples and glimmers of pink. A full circle moment. The daughters of Alexander Winton make lasting impressions on Contruum. Threats to each of their roles are handled dramatically and often gruesomely. Vicious cycles. A proud papa pleased even in hell. She never knew him and is not misguided enough to want to follow in his footsteps. He never really wanted Karen to win, she ponders dimly. He only ever wanted what was in it for him – just as Adubell does.

They build two pyres and place the remains of the Inquisitors upon them. Seif silently hands her a driftwood torch and she sets both ablaze. They step back and watch as the flames dance higher, embers caught in the breeze. Seif raises the flask he’s holding before taking a slug. He does not offer it to her. She does not protest, aloud at least, since they are both thinking the same thing. This makes him the last Inquisitor. A wayward one, at that.

Fallen.
Lost the mission.
Allowed a Winton to influence him just as the Voss-Ra expected them to.
All part of the plan.
For her.
For the Covenant.
The Winton must survive.
The Winton must win.
It’s all he heard. All he’s ever known.
And now they are here, Winton and Greyson-Guldon, faced with more lies.

Her voice breaks the spiral.

“What now? Continue to Chandaar as planned?”

It is a sensible thing to do. It is what they set out to do. But it is not what he wants to do. Barrett Trevaithan has a handle on things for the moment and plenty to work with. The Republic could unravel a bit longer. He had warned her against it, questioning their roles, but this had changed everything for him. He does not know who he really is. Where Seif ends and Involis begins. The Voss-Ra would answer for this. One way or the other. His features cloud over with anger, the fire alight in his eyes.

“Now we go to Dathomir.”








-TBC

[Syren]

“I have been searching for peace
Looking for something out of my reach
But it’s coming for me.

I know it’s coming for me.”

-Damian Lazarus

Dathomir

The shuttle streaks through a scattered, storm-laced sky.

His fury is righteous, and he has used the time to both contemplate and heal while instructing her where to go. She does as she is told, for once. The shift in him is not exactly subtle, and while Dahlia is dying to know what brought about this unexpected sojourn, she knows confronting the Voss-Ra is fraught with risk. She had failed in doing so herself and pondered the reception to their visit. His relationship with them spans the whole of his life thus far, and so she would let him take the lead. She hopes he knows what he is doing.

She veers through valleys that grow narrower as mountains rise on either side and sets them down in the location he provided. She stares ahead with a grim expression.

“I’m guessing this isn’t black tie?”

He grumbles something and slams a fist against the ramp controls, which lets in a stingingly crisp and surprisingly damp gust of wind. He wears his armor, still damaged and scuffed, but holds the helmet loosely at his side. She joins him, opting for a black bodysuit with a chunky belt to which her saber is fastened, hair swinging from a high pony she’d been perfecting in the last hour or so before their arrival. The bacta pad affixed to her shoulder covers a clean wound, one that would improve with time. Otherwise, she is as she has always been: that bitch. Seif, on the other hand, is still looking pretty rough. His movements may still be unsteady, but the sheer anger radiating from him causes the Etheralis fragment within the broken chest plate to glow brightly. Its energy washes over her, soothing some of the anxiety that surrounds the low-level dread emanating from this place. He acts as though all of this is familiar and takes no notice of the worrisome glances she has thrown at him. He could have at least prepared her.

At the bottom of the ramp, directly in front of them, a towering temple of what appears to be bones lies at the base of a great peak, surrounded by gnarled ridges that weave their way down to thin lines that disappear into the flat, circular, sandy space surrounding the entrance. It looks almost as if they hold the structure, guarding whatever is inside with an ominously tender embrace. The sand appears to shift as they approach.

She reaches down and rubs it between her gloved fingers. It is not sand, but delicate ash. Light and gray. Wind-swept yet held in place and manipulated into symbols. Some recognizable. Others foreign. Ancient and alchemical. It continues to shift seamlessly before their eyes, ripples parting to create a smooth and narrow path to the gates.

“They know we are here.”

It is stated so flatly that Dahlia cannot discern if that is a good thing. They move forward, ash hardening below their boots, and they cross unharmed to gates that swing open. Inside, a pulsing glow illuminates a simple foyer with four distinct archways. A single symbol is etched above each arch so that they must move closer to see clearly. It is not a language she recognizes, so she looks to him for guidance.

“Letters, initials. As they are named, from left to right. W, M, P, G.”

Winton, Masterton, Patten, Gellar.

“How…very.”

They choose the left-most arch since she is the “W” in this situation. Torches along the increasingly rocky walls spring to life as they near and dim as they move away. Tendrils of incense, pungent with musk, hang in the air and seem to beckon them. The ground beneath them slopes steadily downward, and they finally step out into a small cavern seemingly carved directly into the mountain. It is empty except for a stone pillar topped with fire and someone facing the far wall. Not exactly the welcome they expected.

“Hello.”

The figure stiffens and slowly turns around. The dim light of the fire catches the copper hues of his hair and deepens the wicked smile spreading across his lips. Alexander Winton steps forward, arms outstretched.

“My darling, Dahlia. How good of you to come.”

She remains where she is, Seif frozen just behind her.

Alexander moves toward them, “How proud of you I am. All the damage you have done, all that is left to be destroyed and rebuilt. We are so close. You truly have lived up to the Winton name.”

Her fingers graze the hilt of her saber, a movement he catches. It stops his advance.

“Enough. You are not my father.”

“We are whoever we need to be,” it says, façade fading in a distorted cloud of smoke as the Voss-Ra transforms. Ceremonial headdress, pale skin streaked with ash, sunken eyes glowing amber, and a garish squiggle of a mouth with two rows of jagged teeth, still smiling. “Forgive me. I am Elder A’kram, and you, my dear Daughter of Darkness, are not where you are supposed to be.”

“My detour,” Seif says sharply, stepping in front of her. “We have come for answers. You want us to fulfill the prophecy, then we need the clarity you have denied all others.”

“A detour? Unwise and unsanctioned. Orders not followed. We have received word that you assaulted and threatened our emissary, Darth Erinbol. Is this true?”

“It is. He is fortunate that I did not take it further.”

Elder A’kram considers this, “Your faith is shaken, Involis. You radiate with mistrust.”

“My name is Seif. Seif Guldon-Greyson. Son of Viceroy Medivh Guldon and Elle Greyson.”

“That is who you were. You became Inquisitor Involis and transcended into The Beast, an honor bestowed upon so few, a catalyst for so much progress. We have taken considerable care to ensure you were ready for this moment, and up until you appeared through that tunnel, you have not disappointed us. Now you come demanding answers when we have given you such power and possibility.”

“You gave, yes, but you took as well. Took more than I even knew.”

“A specific answer you seek, then. Out with it.”

“What happened to my mother?”

“You know what happened to her. You were taken from her, and we raised and cared for you until you came into your own.”

His resolve is strong, and he presses on with an indignation in his voice that causes the Etheralis fragment to spark in its casing.

“That is not the whole story, though, is it? How could it be? Nothing is ever as it seems with the Voss-Ra. Adubell may be ruthless, but she is thorough, and she discovered what’s left of the Jedi has been up to all this time. She told the Inquisitors, turned them against us, and they tried to stop us. Stop everything we have worked so diligently to accomplish. Thankfully, we prevailed. Princess Dahlia defeated them.”

She shrugs, flipping her pony over one shoulder.

Elder A’kram flashes a grotesque grin, evidently pleased with the outcome.

“Impressive. Not an easy victory, I gather. Unfortunate. That they were corrupted in such a way. And the Jedi, if you can even call them that anymore, desecrated our shrine on Empress Teta.”

“And on Naboo? What did you desecrate there? For all I have done, for all that I have sacrificed, you owe me this. No more half-truths or I swear I will burn this temple and everything you stand for to the fucking ground.”

A’kram appraises him, no doubt feeling the fury grow as the Etheralis pours power into him. A long, tense moment of silence passes. Dahlia realizes this also means her, but refrains from objecting in the moment. Seif is super scary right now, and she wants to see how far he will take this. A decision is made and, with a subtle nod, A'kram turns back toward the wall behind him. Waving a hand, another cave appears that he steps through. So many glamours and tricks, she thinks, is everything in this place an illusion?

Seif starts after him quickly, but Dahlia grabs his arm.

“Not that I am not totally enjoying this comeuppance and everything, but you warned me not to question them. Not to push lest we face the consequences. Are you certain this is what you want?”

“You are literally the nosiest person I have ever encountered. Always so inquisitive, so desperate for answers. Now is our chance, and here you are second-guessing it?”

“I only mean…”

“I know what you mean, and what I said. Contruum…changed things, and if what Inquisitor Feraas told me is true, then the time for subtlety and submission has long since passed. I need to know.”

He holds her gaze, and she eventually inclines her head as his arm slips out of her grasp. These secrets, so intentionally obscured, have shaped the course of so many lives and the galaxy right along with it. His abrupt pivot indicates he is ready to challenge their role in it, and yet she hopes he is prepared for answers he may not be ready to hear. She hopes they both are.

Princess Dahlia squares her shoulders, tips her head back, and follows him and the Voss-Ra Elder into the darkness beyond.






-TBC

[Syren]

“Hey, all
Don’t you give in to the games they play
They bend minds of all
But never change their ways.”

-Common Saints

Dathomir

Surface: Temple of the Voss-Ra

Following Elder A’kram, they descend further and emerge into an inner sanctum.

The room is massive, far walls ensconced in craggy shadows, where others await them. Three Voss-Ra Elders – Bashir, Sati, and Tariq – stand on three points of a large circle carved into the ground. Elder A’kram takes his place on the fourth. In the center, above them, Elder Ni’jad stands on a stone dais and motions for Seif and Dahlia to enter the circle. She takes a defensive stance, flicking both wrists as she levitates off the ground. The darkness mixing with the emerald of her eyes pleases them immensely, a true testament to all they have worked toward.

“You have nothing to fear, Your Highness. No harm will come to you here.”

“Not sure I believe that.”

“Yet it is you who came to us.”

Seif considers this. They had arrived unannounced at their sacred site, demanding an audience, making threats. As angry as he is, they must indulge them in these rituals. He nods to her, and she plants both heeled boots back on the ground. They cross the circle together and stand on either side of the dais where Elder Ni’jad raises his arms and recites an incantation that reverberates into the corners of the cavern. The air around them flashes and shimmers brightly before solidifying into a translucent barrier seemingly sealing them inside.

Elder A’kram waves a thickly robed arm slowly in front of him. “We may speak freely.”

“What the hell was that? What did you do?”

“Erected a ward,” Elder Ni’jad says pointedly. “To keep our words among those meant to hear them.”

“And the catch?”

“Crossing it before we bring it down will remove those words from your memories. Choose them carefully.”

He should have known. They have always been secretive, evasive, but he has never felt they intentionally misled him – or so he thought. Until Dahlia, he had never questioned them. Placing his faith in theirs. Every insidious suspicion she had raised had infected him over the past year, and then his errors were laid bare at Contruum. The Voss-Ra is nothing if not cunning, but he will not let it deter him from extracting what he came for.

“I ask you to do the same.”

Elder Bashir clasps his pale, thin fingers together. “Very well. Tell us why you have returned.”

“For the truth.”

The finality of his tone is not lost on any of them. His earlier admission was a twist she did not see coming, although it explains his behavior since they departed Contruum. So, that is what the Inquisitor told him. Something about his mother. Nothing like a bit of family trauma to bring everyone together. The trick with her father almost threw her, but she recovered quickly enough. She had never seen him outside of photage, carefully selected stills she imagined were meant to curate a certain perception. One that didn’t immediately scream he’d be hijacking the legacy gene, banging his absolutely bonkers sidepiece, and traipsing across the galaxy as immortals. The wonders of branding. She contemplates what the Voss-Ra will do, considering what they stand to lose. Seif appears in no mood to be dazzled by their glamours and guile.

Elder Ni’jad nods from the dais, “You shall have it. It is time.”

“It is time.”
“It is time.”
“It is time.”
“It is time.”

“Now?” Dahlia asks skeptically. “You have never been forthcoming in the past with anyone as far as I can tell. Not even with him, the one you kept so close. Do you now offer because you have the power to strip that knowledge from us, or does the prospect of losing him and thereby this chance at fulfilling the prophecy make sharing a more attractive option?”

Elder Sati’s rebuke is sharp: “We have been opaque, and intentionally so. Our history with the prophecy is…complicated. We feel discretion best.”

“Where has it gotten you? In this, the Inquisitors were not wrong to point out your failures. You are dangerously close to losing control, again, and I have played my role well for all of you. As you trained and instructed me. Hidden away at the Citadel Inquisatorious until I took up the mantle of Involis and served our mission. I need you to do better than it’s complicated. That, I have earned, Elders. For Winton. For the Covenant.”

“We agree, but do not discount our methods. We have our reasons. As you well know, not everything is what it seems. Where shall we begin?”

“Let us start with the question you have yet to answer. My mother.”

Tariq’s serpentine lisp is almost wistful. “Yes, your mother. Beautiful, reckless. Traits shared by many associated with the prophecy. You were taken from her, hidden from your parents, all because of elitist hatred fueled by war. Therefore, you could not be used by them or others who served their own needs.”

“Instead, you used me?”

“To be used in service of the prophecy is the greatest honor. A holy purpose. Our end is tied to the rise of the Sith, which means you are missing the point. You were taken, but we did not take you. You were given to us. All we were told was that this was part of a larger plan to keep Elle Greyson from the Federation Viceroy and under the family’s control.”

“But you knew she was alive?”

“Not until much later. While your father’s exploits spilled out into the public, culminating in a conflict on Corellia that threatened to engulf the galaxy, we never knew what became of your mother.”

“With as much knowledge as you have and hoard, forgive me if I find that difficult to fathom. You told me she died.”

“Given the nature of your birth and how your family reacted, we assumed the worst. Even though she survived, she was a prisoner to her family as well as the visions. The things she saw likely began to consume her. It was only calling out through the Force, establishing that connection, that we discovered she was alive. Protecting you from your father was obvious, but we could never be certain Elle Greyson was not being used as a weapon against the prophecy. Another of Alexander Winton’s ploys. We did not attempt to find out, and we never told you.”

He draws in a quick breath, swallowing the wave of dread. “And now?”

“She is gone, her voice silenced in our minds. After the Jedi found her.”

“They killed her.”

“That, we do not know.”

He is crushed but also relieved. They have much less to gain through deceiving them now, and so he takes some comfort in that. There is nothing he can do about it anyway. One more thing he must accept. Despite these answers, the anger does not dissipate entirely.

“If you had no hand in her fate, why not tell me? Why let me believe she was dead all this time?”

“There was a clear and credible threat if anyone discovered who you were, and we would not set you on that path. For your benefit, as well as ours. We told you that you were important, but even that does not begin to explain the depth of it.”

“I know.”

“Yes, but you do not understand. The Greyson name is intertwined with the prophecy itself, and the source of the visions that have been passed down through generations. The seers of the cycles with visions more powerful than those we could ever conjure. The Greyson line holds the true form of the prophecy as the Persephonea Oraculum. Some, Princess Dahlia already knows, as it was shared by her captor and Master, so many years ago.”

All eyes fall on her. Put on the spot. The images surface in her memory, things she had disregarded due to more pressing, selfish matters. Things that were there all along.

“Do you remember what you saw, what the holocron showed you?”

“A corrupted Jedi, creating life where none existed. There was an archivist, or something like that, another Jedi sent to Naboo, afflicted with knowledge of where we came from and what our bloodlines meant. She broke the code and fell in love, and the prophecy entered the chat, so to speak. She introduced the visions into the bloodline so that once our fathers joined with a Greyson, our mothers saw the prophecy too. A prophecy the Jedi tried desperately to hide.”

Stunned, Seif turns to her, “You…never told me you knew this.”

“You were never much interested in the things I had to say on Byss. Something tells me you hear me now.”

She looks among the Voss-Ra with narrow eyes, emboldened.

“These bits and pieces do us no justice. Your lack of transparency has cost us all dearly. A whisper here, a suggestion there. Conspiring in the shadows won’t get us what we all want. For this to be finished. Fulfilled. If we are taking a different approach in this cycle, then might I suggest you commit to that. Confessing may well be the key to unlocking what has so long eluded your grasp. What have you kept hidden from us?”

“You think you want these answers, but the burden is great. This is why there are five Elders chosen among us to share it with – four to oversee and one to validate. Our rituals guide us, but a scope this vast can only be influenced, not controlled. Not entirely. That is the mistake so many who come to know these words make. The Jedi wanted to keep this buried and those descendants as far from one another as the galaxy is wide without realizing that by attempting to conceal it set it all in motion.”

Seif steps back from the dais and sighs, “A clandestine plot guised as faithful stewardship.”

“Destiny is not a plot. Perhaps we have been more judicious than was necessary, but one can never be too careful with such things. What you decry as secrecy and manipulation is merely a failsafe against creating more who would twist it as others have. In these ways, we are the keepers of it. The Crimson Covenant. An Oraculum may see deeply into the prophecy, but they could not decipher it alone. It seldom made any kind of sense to them or anyone else. No one to connect it to the things happening around them. That is its power.”

“No one to connect these things…without the Voss-Ra. A symbiosis of your own. If you have this knowledge, why not intervene?”

“Direct intervention is not our purpose. Our connection with the Oraculum allows us to interpret what they see through our own magics, bringing order to the chaos of their mind. It is not always precise or perfect, and so we must choose the paths to take with the information we channel from the conduits. The Voss-Ra also cannot directly kill one of The Four. We can only facilitate interactions or create circumstances where death becomes more probable in service of it. Influence, not control. This was not feasible or sustainable in the early cycles, but it became our focus. We swore this as part of the Covenant because in our past, the Voss-Ra did not operate in the interest of the prophecy.”

Seif shudders at the thought, “What do you mean?”

“Before our time, the Voss-Ra tried to stop it. Our Order ferried Persephone away, cursed her sterile, to maintain the rule of the Keto dynasty on Empress Teta, but it only began the first cycle. The corrupted Jedi called upon the darkest aspects of the Force to spark life in the third-born daughter of the Empress, stolen from her the way Seif was stolen from his mother. Thus, the Royal Four of the Force were brought into these worlds.”

“Really? What changed?”

“The Voss-Ra disciple who advised the Empress and the Guild did so to keep them in power and our Order in favor. Through these actions, we realized our part in this was never to stop it but to bring it to pass. And so, as atonement, we began to seek out the descendants, following the bloodlines across sectors and star systems.”

“And brought them together.”

Elder Ni’jad nods, “After Centerpoint, we thought it was over. Our best chance imploded with that station. We communed with the dark spirits, performed our rituals, and beseeched the Oraculum to reveal what came next. In the blood magic, we saw a new Four. Left separated, they each held potential to bring galactic peace that would allow the light to flourish.”

“An abomination of the abomination.”

“We intended to hunt and kill you all before that ever happened, but as you grew, a new future began to take shape. Patterns that confirmed a new cycle and with it the promise of the Sith rising once more in Winton’s triumph, if only you could be brought together. We took more drastic measures this time. Guided by the Oraculum’s visions, Elle’s visions, influencing pieces that led to ruin so many times before. She outlined the course of this cycle, showed us the way. She is the reason you both stand before us now, as allies, united in this journey.”

A sympathetic ploy, one he does not take. Instead, he pushes them further.

“And again, you have allowed another the opportunity to bring it down around us.”

“Do not be so easily fooled by what you see on the surface,” Tariq counters gravely. “Lady Adubell, like Winton, allowed the prophecy to corrupt them. Believing they play roles they are not meant to play. It led Winton to his end. Adubell will follow and take others with her. We have seen it.”

“I’m still stuck on the part where you were going to kill us,” Dahlia scoffs with a shake of her head. “When you revealed yourselves to the four of us on The Wheel as kids, you could have done it. You meant to do it.”

“Yes,” Sati replies without a trace of remorse. “But we saw your power and the potential it held.”

“Lucky for us.”

“Your interpretations have been wrong before, and you gambled with their lives long after that. Striking down Masterton and Patten would have served these goals, but if I had triumphed over Winton, this would all be over!”

“We would never have known the two of you could unite unless there was a confrontation. That came with risks, but our faith remains, and here you both are.”

“Removing myself as a threat to her does not diminish the threat Adubell poses to us all.”

“Adubell’s thirst for revenge and need for control, untethered by the bounds of morality and mortality, has left her with a singular focus. Much like Alexander Winton, she will pursue it to that conclusion, which leaves an opening for you to then seize upon it. As we have said, it is the mistake they so often make. It is the nature of power and always ends the same.”

“Wow. What a convenient way for you to avoid any accountability.”

“No one is denying we have used others to help us achieve our goals, or in doing so, some have gone too far. Their involvement held potential to influence the prophecy in our favor, and therefore, it is a risk we took. We may not have collaborated with Adubell and her…operation, but all outcomes provide opportunities to drive things forward and set up the elimination of the remainder of The Four. Affection for them, waning or not, is of no consequence to their fates. Not this time.”

“Still, a dangerous gambit. One that has not yet paid off. Faith can be misplaced.”

“That it can, but we have learned much throughout our history. They are not the first. Others, before them, also tried to capitalize on what the prophecy appeared to offer them. It self-corrected in ways we never could have imagined and took several cycles before we were able to track patterns and map associations as they related to the outcomes. That is where Alexander Winton’s work with Medivh Guldon took us by surprise. A gateway to isolating The Four through their very genes. If he had only stayed the course. He bent this marvel, this gift, so thoroughly it was nearly impossible to untangle from within his cycle.”

“His cycle? That would mean his overlapped with Karen and Alexia’s.”

“By design, my dear.”

“If the Winton was my father, who were the others?”

“The Four in that cycle were Alexander Winton, Celeste Masterton, Kyri Patten, and Rutherford Gellar.”

“That doesn’t track,” Dahlia objects sternly. “Neither Celeste nor Rutherford died during that time. And Celeste wasn’t even a Masterton by birth.”

“Actually, she was. One who married another with the Masterton name.”

“You…you did that. Were you behind the death of my parents as well?”

“They were not your parents, Princess Dahlia. But no, you have the Empire to thank for that. They want Gellar for his connections and resources while using the rest of you as valuable commodities to be leveraged where necessary. Put simply, greed and power. Not terribly original, but not unexpected either. Emperor Schrag was wise to diversify his approach to fortifying the faction, even if he could not quite execute on it in the end and lost his life at Trevaithan’s hand. A course corrected. You see, Alexander Winton, in his quest for immortality, had to die to achieve it. And die he did, before Celeste Masterton and Rutherford Gellar. His ambition may have ended his cycle, but his first life ended at the direction of none other than Kimber Patten.”

Dahlia gasps. Seif’s mouth is fixed into a frown.

Sati snorts, “They thought they were so clever trying to hide her in the Hapes Cluster. Rescuing her from the clutches of the Empire only for her to turn around and use that torment to order his death. He may have overstepped his authority with an egregious audacity, but it was she who began the new cycle.”

“As Melanie began ours. That’s…insane. I thought they were both, like, light. Or good.”

“Those are only words. Kimber Patten may have been born with a face for the fools to believe, but she did unspeakably cruel things while in service to the Empire. We all hold capacity for evil, but not all evil serves these ends. Your father broke her because he could. Given his…inclinations, Alexander’s resourcefulness allowed us to use him to gather the successors long before his execution. We knew we needed to act quickly if the cycle failed due to his hubris, and so, Karen Winton, Melanie Masterton, Kimber Patten, and Valerie Gellar were already in place with established connections exactly when they needed to be. Things already in motion and significantly farther along.”

“Quite the setup,” Seif tuts darkly. “Ruthlessly efficient, as usual.”

“Yes, well, we saw him giving in to the same temptations we had seen before and leveraged that lust for power to unleash The Beast in Alexia to test Karen, who prevailed and seemed poised to bring us victory and fulfill the prophecy once their cycle began. We miscalculated Alexander Winton’s moral abandonment and subsequent betrayal of Medivh, Karen Winton’s surprising pragmatism, and Melanie Masterton’s cold resolve. It was as close as we ever came.”

“Miscalculation? That must have been quite disappointing after so much effort and planning. Tell me, how exactly did my father abandon his morals? I was under the impression he never had those to begin with. You clearly anticipated this, so why the surprise?”

The Elders exchange furtive glances. It is Elder Bashir who continues.

“Your mother, as it turns out. Queen Monica Greyson received the visions as well, but these were less debilitating than her sisters. She named those in the next cycle, which gave us time to plan accordingly but also provided your father with leverage of his own. As an Oraculum, she would whisper the words of the texts, speaking of great power for Winton, and their connection to the Sith. It was fragmented, full of non-sequiturs, and he decided he needed to get his hands on something more tangible than the ramblings of his wife. He used his position within the Imperial Security Bureau to track the location of Sith artifacts throughout galactic history. It is in this search that he found Korriban, or Moraband, as it is now called. Convinced the prophecy was hidden there, he sent Alexia to find her destiny, a destiny he promised her…but the text is not what she discovered.”

“What did Alexia find?”

Elder A’kram motions to the center of Seif’s battered armor.

“That very piece of the Etheralis.”






-TBC