It wasn’t long after her introduction to Lady Shaar that a gruff, dark-skinned man entered the chamber to escort her away, his broad frame filling the doorway like a storm cloud rolling in. The dark steel of the Sith Academy exuded an oppressive aura, its walls cold and unyielding, as if something unseen watched her every move, pressing down on her spirit with a weight she couldn’t shake. Kalis followed him in silence, her newly fastened collar a constant reminder of her status, its metal edge chafing against her neck with each step. The corridors twisted and turned, a labyrinth of stone and steel lit by flickering red sconces that cast long, jagged shadows across the floor. The air was stale, laced with the faint tang of oil and the sharper bite of something burnt, a scent that clung to her throat and made every breath feel heavy.
As they walked, the man’s voice broke the silence, higher than she’d expected from his imposing build, cutting through the hum of distant machinery. “My name is Korvin. I am the head of Lady Shaar’s slaves. Going forward, you report first and foremost to me and only to me. Do not bother Lady Shaar unless explicitly requested.” His tone was clipped, authoritative, leaving no room for questions or missteps. Kalis kept her eyes forward, absorbing every word, her mind racing to catalog this new layer of the hierarchy she’d been thrust into. She’d seen what happened to defiance—Torva’s lightsaber slashing through that slave still haunted her senses—and she wasn’t about to draw attention to herself, not yet. Survival meant blending in, learning the rules, and staying alive long enough to figure out what this place wanted from her.
The slave quarters were a stark, unwelcoming space, carved from the same dark stone as the rest of the academy but smaller, more cramped. Each slave was allotted a narrow bed—little more than a slab of metal with a thin, scratchy blanket—and a single drawer barely wide enough to hold a spare tunic. The air here was cooler, damp with the faint mustiness of confined bodies, and the light was dimmer, provided by a single flickering sconce that buzzed faintly overhead.
Two communal baths and toilets stood at the far end, their rusted fixtures a testament to neglect. Kalis scanned the room, noting the other ten slaves under Lady Shaar’s command. Some were haggard, their faces hollowed by exhaustion, while others bore a quiet resignation, their eyes dull and unfocused. A few, though, had a sharpness to their gazes—cold, calculating stares that made her skin prickle with unease. Each wore an armband, a strip of dark fabric marked with a silver sigil she assumed represented Shaar, a visible brand of ownership.
“Get dressed and make sure you wear the armband on your bed,” Korvin instructed, his voice firm as he pointed to a pile of folded cloth at the foot of her assigned bunk. “It signifies you belong to Lady Shaar. It should be enough to stop apprentices and acolytes from taking their frustrations out on you. That is, until one of Lady Shaar’s favored acolytes gets upset with you.” His words carried a warning, a subtle edge that told her protection here was conditional, fragile. Kalis nodded silently, moving to the bed with careful steps. She unfolded the uniform—a plain, dark tunic and pants, rough against her fingers—and slipped it on, the fabric coarse and ill-fitting against her gray-blue skin. The armband followed, a tight band she strapped to her upper arm, its weight a constant reminder of her place. It itched, a nagging irritation she forced herself to ignore.
“Are you understanding me?” Korvin’s gaze bore into her, his dark eyes narrowing as if searching for weakness. “I won’t tolerate insubordination or subversion. If I tell you to eat your own fingers, you will do it without question or regard for your own well-being. Do not test me.”
“I understand,” Kalis said quickly, her voice low but steady. She’d learned enough in her short time here to know laying low was her best chance—Korvin’s authority was absolute among the slaves, and crossing him would be as deadly as defying a Sith. This wasn’t the world she’d known as Julia, with its rules and safety nets; it was a galaxy of violence and power, and she was still finding her footing in its shadows.
“Good.” Korvin nodded, a curt gesture, then turned on his heel. “Follow me.”
They moved through the dimly lit halls, the oppressive feeling intensifying with every step. The academy’s walls seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive with something dark and restless, and Kalis fought the urge to glance over her shoulder, half-expecting to see eyes in the gloom. As they passed a narrow corridor, a sudden stumble caught her attention—a Twi’lek slave, his green skin pale with exhaustion, dropped a bundle of rags with a soft thud. Before Kalis could react, Korvin struck. His fist connected with the Twi’lek’s face in a swift, brutal motion, sending him sprawling to the stone floor with a gasp. The slave clutched his bruised cheek, his breath hitching, but he didn’t cry out, his eyes wide with fear.
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“You will learn not to disappoint me,” Korvin sneered, towering over the fallen figure. “Fail again, and I’ll make sure Lady Shaar hears of your incompetence.” His voice was a low growl, dripping with disdain, and the Twi’lek nodded frantically, scrambling to his feet and gathering the rags with shaking hands. Kalis swallowed hard, forcing her expression to remain neutral, though her stomach churned. Korvin wasn’t just an enforcer—he was cruel, eager to assert his dominance, and she filed that away as another piece of this brutal puzzle.
The chamber they entered next was a disturbing sight, a stark contrast to the sparse quarters she’d just left. The dueling chamber stretched wide and cavernous, its floor littered with the remnants of violence—dismembered beasts, their scales and fur matted with dark, coagulated blood, their severed limbs scattered like grotesque debris. The stench hit her like a wall, a nauseating mix of decay and iron that burned her nostrils and twisted her gut. She pressed a hand to her mouth instinctively, fighting the urge to retch, her eyes watering as she took in the carnage. Clearly, the Sith cared little for cleanliness—or mercy.
Kalis’s gaze darted to the edges of the room, where a few droids hummed idly in the corridors beyond, their metallic frames gleaming faintly in the dim light. The sight puzzled her—if they had machines like that, why make slaves clean this mess? The answer came to her almost immediately, cold and obvious: dominance. The Sith didn’t need droids to scrub blood from stone; they used slaves because they could, because suffering was the point. It was a display of power, a reminder of her place, and it settled over her like a shroud.
The task was grueling, a test of endurance she hadn’t anticipated. The beast blood was thick, sticky, clinging to the floor like tar, resisting every swipe of the coarse cloth she’d been given. Her arms ached as she scrubbed, her knees sore against the hard stone, the acrid scent searing her lungs with each breath. Sweat dripped from her forehead, stinging her eyes, but she kept going, driven by the unspoken threat of Shaar’s displeasure—and Korvin’s fists. The oppressive feeling she’d sensed since arriving only grew here, as if the walls themselves fed off the misery of those trapped within them, a dark energy that pressed against her mind and made her skin crawl.
After what felt like hours, her hands raw and trembling, she finally finished. The chamber gleamed as best it could, the blood scrubbed away, the stench dulled to a faint echo. She leaned against the wall, catching her breath, her chest heaving as exhaustion settled into her bones. Just as she closed her eyes for a moment’s respite, the doors slid open with a hiss. Several figures strode in—acolytes, she assumed, their dark robes sweeping behind them like shadows. One sneered at her, his voice dripping with disdain. “Out of the way, slave. You’re tainting this hall with your impure alien blood.”
Kalis didn’t argue. She dipped her head slightly, a gesture of submission she hated but knew was necessary, and stepped aside, exiting the chamber without a word. The moment she crossed the threshold, the doors sealed shut behind her, and within seconds, the sounds of combat erupted—roars and shrieks of beasts, the hum of ignited lightsabers, the clash of violence. Her shoulders slumped, a bitter taste in her mouth. All that work, hours of grueling labor, erased in mere moments. The futility of it gnawed at her, but she pushed it down—anger wouldn’t help her here.
Korvin approached, his arms crossed, his broad frame looming as he surveyed her. “You did well enough,” he admitted, his tone grudging, almost surprised. “Rest for the evening. Roll call is at six in the morning. If you’re even a second late, punishment will ensue.” His eyes lingered on her for a moment, assessing, before he turned away, leaving her to retreat to the quarters.
Kalis collapsed onto the stiff bed, the metal frame creaking under her weight, her mind racing despite her body’s exhaustion. Everything had changed so fast—waking up in this galaxy, becoming Kalis, facing a world where cruelty was currency. She needed to survive this place, to find a way out—or at least a way through. The thought of escape felt distant, a fragile hope she couldn’t yet grasp, but another idea flickered in its place: overcoming it. Could she rise above this, turn their game against them? She wasn’t sure.
She was no longer Julia—that life was gone, fading like a dream she could barely recall. Now she was Kalis, shortened from Yu’jinka’lis, a Chiss forged in the ashes of slavery and desperation. Her body burned with a quiet determination, a will she hadn’t known she possessed until it was all she had left. She would not break—not here, not ever.
