The scream of blaster fire tore through the air, a deafening roar that yanked Kalis from the edge of sleep—or so she thought. She blinked, her surroundings snapping into focus with a jolt, but the slave quarters were gone, replaced by a nightmare unfolding around her. A battlefield stretched out, vast and unrelenting, its jagged wasteland of scorched earth and craters pocked with the wreckage of war—twisted metal husks, shattered armor, and the acrid stench of burning flesh that clawed at her throat. Smoke billowed into a sky choked with an orange glow, the sun blotted out by a haze that stung her eyes and blurred her vision. The cacophony was overwhelming—explosions rocked the ground, screams pierced the air, and the low hum of lightsabers vibrated through her bones. Her heart pounded, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as she stumbled forward, her boots crunching over debris that felt too real beneath her feet.
She looked down, her gaze catching on her hands—gray-blue, trembling—and the black robes that clung to her, heavy and damp with sweat or blood, she couldn’t tell. A hood shadowed her face, and in her grip was a lightsaber, its hilt cold and unfamiliar yet perfectly balanced, as if molded to her palm. The weight of it grounded her, yet her mind reeled—Where am I? What is this? The thought flickered, fleeting and half-formed, drowned by the chaos pressing in. A voice barked behind her, sharp and commanding: “Move forward! Now!” She turned, catching a glimpse of crimson-armored troopers charging past, their blasters raised, their faces hidden behind visors that gleamed in the firelight. Instinct kicked in, raw and unthinking, and she ran with them, her legs pumping beneath her, the ground trembling with each step as if it might crack open and swallow her whole.
The battlefield was chaos incarnate, a swirl of motion and sound that blurred at the edges like a fevered memory. Explosions sent plumes of dirt and shrapnel skyward, the shockwaves slamming into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs. Troopers clashed in brutal melee, their shouts and cries weaving a horrifying symphony she couldn’t escape. Above, sleek starfighters streaked through the smoke, their engines roaring as they twisted in deadly spirals, tracer fire painting the sky in streaks of red and green. Kalis’s senses drowned in it, her mind struggling to hold onto itself—This isn’t right, this isn’t me—but the thought slipped away, elusive as smoke, replaced by the visceral thud of her heartbeat and the heat of the lightsaber in her hand.
Then she saw it—a figure in the distance, cloaked in white, their presence a stark beacon amid the darkness. They held a lightsaber, its blue blade cutting through the haze with an eerie glow, and as they turned toward her, their face remained a shadowed blur, their intent sharp and clear. They advanced, each step deliberate, the blade humming with a precision that sent a chill down her spine. Her grip tightened on her own weapon, her body reacting before her mind could catch up—she didn’t know how she knew, but this was her enemy. Her heart raced as she ignited her blade, crimson light flaring to life, slicing through the smoke with a snap-hiss that felt both alien and instinctive. The white-cloaked figure lunged, their blue saber meeting hers in a clash of sparks and fury, the impact reverberating up her arms, nearly knocking her off her feet.
For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath, the world narrowing to the locked blades and the heat of their clash. Her muscles strained, her breath ragged, the sensation so vivid she could feel the sweat trickling down her back, the grit beneath her boots—yet a strange haze clung to it all, a shimmer at the edges of her vision, as if the scene might dissolve if she stared too long. Then, in a blinding flash of white light, the battlefield vanished, the ground dropping away beneath her.
She stumbled, disoriented, and found herself in a new place—a dark, circular chamber she didn’t recognize, its walls lined with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with crimson light, casting long, jagged shadows. The air was heavy, thick with ozone and a metallic tang, like blood left to dry. She was seated on the cold stone floor, her legs crossed, her hands resting on her knees, the black robes still clinging to her, their weight both real and insubstantial. Before her, floating in midair, was the holocron—the same crimson-black pyramid she’d touched in Shaar’s study, its sharp edges catching the dim light with a mesmerizing, terrifying gleam. Her chest tightened, dread and fascination warring within her as she stared at it, unable to look away, its pull anchoring her to the spot even as her mind whispered, This isn’t right.
The voices began then—a low murmur at first, distant and indistinct, rising like a tide until they crashed over her, guttural and alien, their words steeped in a dark, primal energy that made her skin crawl. They chanted, overlapping and intertwining, a chaotic rhythm that felt deliberate yet unmoored, echoing through the chamber and into her skull. “You cannot escape,” they seemed to hiss, “You are bound to us,” though the words weren’t clear, only felt, sinking into her like hooks. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, the pain sharp and grounding, yet the voices burrowed deeper, relentless. The holocron pulsed, its crimson glow intensifying with each beat, and the air grew heavier, pressing her down until her limbs felt like lead, her body trembling under an invisible force.
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Then the lightning came—jagged arcs of crimson and black erupting from the holocron, crackling with raw power that seared the air. She barely had time to flinch before it struck her, a burning, tearing agony that flooded her chest and raced through her veins. Her body convulsed, her back arching as the pain consumed her, unlike anything she’d endured in her weeks of slavery—real, immediate, yet tinged with a surreal edge, as if she might wake from it. The voices swelled, a cruel symphony that roared in her ears, “You are ours, you belong to the darkness,” their meaning slicing through her as the lightning tore her apart. Her vision blurred, her screams swallowed by the noise, and she felt herself unraveling, her identity—Kalis, Julia, Yu’jinka’lis—fraying at the seams. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.
She jolted awake, her body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. She was back in the slave quarters, lying on her narrow bed, the thin blanket tangled around her legs like restraints. The room was dark and quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the academy’s systems, a stark contrast to the cacophony she’d just fled. Her hands trembled as she ran them through her damp hair, the dream—no, the vision—clinging to her like a second skin. It had felt so real—the heat of the battlefield, the weight of the lightsaber, the agony of the lightning—yet it shimmered with an illusory haze, a memory she couldn’t place, leaving her unsure where the dream ended and reality began.
She sat up, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps, glancing around the room half-expecting to see the holocron floating in the shadows. Nothing—just the cold, oppressive darkness of the quarters, the faint outlines of sleeping slaves, the routine she’d carved out over weeks. Her skin still tingled, as if the lightning had left its mark, and the echoes of the chanting lingered, faint but unmistakable, a whisper she couldn’t banish. Was that real? The question gnawed at her, but she shook it off, forcing herself to believe it was just a nightmare born of the holocron’s touch the day before—no matter how vivid, how visceral it had been.
The morning alarm blared, its sharp, mechanical tone cutting through the silence, and Kalis flinched, her body still tense from the lingering effects. She hadn’t slept since waking, her mind too restless, too haunted by the visions that had felt like more than dreams. There was no time to dwell—she’d learned that weeks ago. She swung her legs over the bed’s edge, her movements stiff and sluggish, pulling on her uniform with the efficiency of routine. Her hair, still damp with sweat, was pinned up hastily, and she avoided the mirror, unwilling to face the exhaustion she knew shadowed her crimson eyes.
The other slaves were already forming a line in the corridor, their expressions blank, their movements mechanical—habits she’d mirrored to survive. Kalis joined them, her posture straight but her mind elsewhere, the dream’s images flashing unbidden—battlefield smoke, the holocron’s glow, the lightning’s burn. She clenched her fists, pushing them down, but they clung to her like damp cloth. Before she could steady herself fully, heavy boots echoed down the hall. Korvin appeared, his broad frame filling the doorway, his expression unreadable—a rare break from his usual delegation of roll call to subordinates. His presence sent a ripple of unease through the group, a disruption to the rhythm she’d grown used to.
“Bow!” Korvin barked, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. The slaves dropped to one knee in unison, their eyes fixed on the ground, and Kalis followed, her heart pounding as footsteps approached. She kept her gaze lowered, but from the corner of her eye, she caught the hem of a dark robe sweeping past—Lady Shaar, flanked by five acolytes, their aura a palpable wave of menace that pressed against her even after weeks of facing it.
Shaar’s voice was cold, commanding. “The ruins of Darth Vaelan are not to be taken lightly. You will uncover what lies within, but remember—failure will not be tolerated.” The acolytes nodded, their faces serious, while the slaves exchanged uneasy glances.
Kalis’s mind raced—Darth Vaelan? A mission?—and before she could process it, a brash voice cut through. “You,” a blond acolyte with a scarred cheek said, pointing at a muscular slave, “and you,” his pale blue eyes landing on Kalis, freezing her in place. “Try not to slow me down,” he added, his tone mocking. “I don’t have the patience for dead weight.”
