The march deeper into the academy was grueling, each step a test of endurance against the weight of her shackles and the unrelenting heat that lingered even within the stone corridors. The halls of what Julia now understood to be the Sith Academy on Korriban were carved from dark, jagged rock, their surfaces rough and uneven under her boots. Red sconces lined the walls, casting eerie, flickering shadows that danced like specters across the stone, illuminating the path in a blood-hued glow. The air was thick, heavy with the mingled scents of sweat, blood, and something acrid that stung her nose—ozone, perhaps, or the residue of some unseen power. Every breath felt labored, as if the very atmosphere pressed down on her, and the distant echo of heavy boots against the floor was punctuated by occasional, muffled screams that sent chills racing down her spine.
As they passed through the twisting corridors, Julia’s gaze flicked toward an open chamber to her left—a training area, she guessed, based on the brutal scene unfolding within. Figures clad in dark robes clashed with ferocious intensity, their crimson blades slashing through the air in dazzling arcs of light. She froze for a heartbeat, her breath catching as she watched one combatant—a tall, broad-shouldered figure—drive their weapon through another’s chest with a sickening crunch. The defeated opponent collapsed, lifeless, to the stone floor with a dull thud, their body crumpling like a discarded rag. A hooded overseer stood nearby, their face obscured in shadow, observing the kill with an expressionless calm before gesturing for the victor to move on, as if the death were no more significant than a spilled drink. Julia swallowed hard, her mouth dry. This was no training exercise—it was a slaughter, and the Sith showed no mercy, not even to their own.
The realization twisted in her gut. If this was the fate of those who fought to rise, what chance did she have as a mere slave? She forced her legs to keep moving, her chains dragging with a faint clink, but the image lingered, a stark reminder of the brutality she’d stumbled into. She was in a galaxy far, far away, a place she’d once escaped to in movies and books, but now it was real—too real—and she was at the bottom of its hierarchy, a speck of dust beneath the boots of those who wielded power.
The group was led down a narrower passage, the air growing cooler but no less oppressive. A rusted, polished piece of metal was embedded into the wall—a crude mirror, its surface warped and scratched. As they shuffled past, Julia caught her reflection and froze, her breath hitching in her throat. The face staring back wasn’t hers—not the human face she’d known her whole life. Smooth gray-blue skin, ashen and unblemished, framed medium length black hair that fell just past her jawline in subtle waves. Her eyes— red, sharp, and piercing—locked onto her own, wide with shock. She stumbled slightly, her shackles clanking as she caught herself, forcing her legs to keep pace with the group. Her heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This wasn’t a trick of the light or a hallucination—it was her, or what she’d become.
What am I? The question ricocheted through her mind, unanswered and relentless. She wasn’t Julia anymore—not fully. Something stirred within her, a faint whisper at the edges of her consciousness. Yu’jinka’lis. The name rang in her head, sudden and clear, as though spoken by a voice not her own. A Chiss—she was a Chiss, she realized, the term surfacing from fragmented memories of Star Wars lore she’d devoured as a kid. But Chiss weren’t in the movies she’d seen, not really—just vague mentions in books or games she’d never paid much attention to. How did she know this? How could she be this?
More memories followed, washing over her in disjointed flashes—icy landscapes stretching beneath a pale sky, towering spires of an alien city gleaming with cold precision, a life governed by rigid duty and unspoken rules. She saw herself—no, Yu’jinka’lis—as a servant to a greater Chiss family, her days filled with quiet obedience, her hands sorting tools and supplies with practiced efficiency. Then the crime—skimming from shipments, a desperate act for reasons that blurred together. Survival? Greed? The details were hazy, lost in the fog of this other life, but the punishment was stark: capture, removal, sold into slavery. Her breath came in ragged pants as the images faded, leaving her reeling. This wasn’t her past—not Julia’s—but it was hers now, woven into the body she inhabited.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
She clenched her fists, the chains biting into her wrists, and forced the panic down. If she was going to survive this place—this Sith Academy—she needed a name, an identity to cling to. Kalis. She shortened it in her mind, stripping away the unfamiliar syllables of Yu’jinka’lis to something simpler, sharper—a piece she could claim. She wasn’t just Julia anymore, nor fully this Chiss stranger. She was Kalis—a survivor, a slave, a fragment of both lives. The past, whichever one she chose, had to serve her here, or she’d be nothing but another body on the training floor.
The group was ushered into a massive chamber, the air shifting as they entered, growing heavier with an oppressive weight that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. Several figures stood waiting—tall, cloaked in dark robes, their presence radiating a menace that made her skin prickle. Sith Lords, she guessed, though she couldn’t be sure; their eyes scanned the gathered slaves with a cold, predatory gleam, as if picking cuts of meat from a butcher’s block. One by one, the captives were assigned—some sent off with a curt gesture to labor in unseen corners, others claimed as personal attendants, their fates sealed with a nod or a word.
A figure approached her, and Kalis straightened instinctively, her pulse quickening. The woman was tall and severe, her skin unnaturally pale, almost luminescent against the dim light. Her dark robes draped elegantly over her frame, embroidered with silver patterns that twisted like smoke, catching the red glow in faint glints. Stark black makeup accentuated her piercing yellow eyes, giving her a fierce, almost otherworldly beauty. She moved with a methodical grace, each step deliberate, like a hunter sizing up prey, and Kalis felt the air grow colder in her wake.
“I will take her,” the woman said, her voice smooth yet commanding, a hint of amusement flickering in her tone as she pointed at Kalis. “The alien.”
A guard stepped forward, his movements swift and mechanical, unlocking Kalis’s cuffs and shackles with a series of sharp clanks. For a brief moment, relief flooded her—freedom from the chains, a chance to stretch her aching limbs—until a metallic click sounded at the back of her neck. She reached up instinctively, her fingers brushing a cold, unyielding collar now locked in place. Her stomach sank. Freedom was an illusion here; she’d only traded one restraint for another.
“I am Lady Tyris Shaar,” the woman said, her lips curling slightly as she observed Kalis’s instinctive bow—a reflex she hadn’t even realized she’d made. “You will serve me, slave. Do not mistake my leniency for kindness. I expect obedience.”
Kalis clenched her jaw, lowering her gaze to the floor. She didn’t need to know much about this place to understand the consequences of displeasing someone like Shaar. The memory of Torva’s lightsaber slashing through the defiant slave flashed in her mind, the smell of seared flesh lingering in her senses. Disobedience meant death—or worse.
“Your first task,” Lady Shaar continued, her voice cutting through Kalis’s thoughts, “is to clean the dueling chamber after today’s training session. You will find that my kind are not tidy combatants.” A cruel smile played on her lips, sharp and fleeting. “I expect the chamber to be spotless by dawn.”
Kalis didn’t dare ask what would happen if she failed. The threat hung unspoken, heavy in the air between them. She nodded stiffly, her throat tight, as the guards stepped forward to lead her away. As they moved, she stole one last glance at the training halls they’d passed earlier—the crimson blades igniting in the darkness, the clash of power and death. Her stomach twisted, a mix of dread and something else—something she couldn’t name yet. The yearning to survive. This wasn’t Julia…this must have been the Chiss she now was.
