Kalis sat in the dimly lit shuttle, the datapad in her hands casting a faint blue glow across her gray-blue face, illuminating the tight lines of her expression. Weeks of slavery in the Sith Academy had hardened her, sharpening her instincts and tempering the raw fear that had once overwhelmed her, but the words on the screen stirred a fresh unease deep in her gut. The report on Darth Vaelan, the Forgotten Shade flickered before her eyes, each line weaving a tapestry of dread—Vaelan Kriss, a Sith Lord from the Old Sith Wars, a master of shadow manipulation and stealth whose tomb lay hidden beneath Korriban’s surface. The text detailed her cunning, her elusiveness, and the unsettling phenomena tied to her crypt—distortions in the Force, illusions that trapped intruders, whispers of long-dead Sith. Kalis scrolled through it, her crimson eyes lingering on the slave crew reports, her breath shallow as she absorbed the warnings of deadly beasts and shadowy spirits that had claimed past expeditions. The more she read, the more a creeping dread settled over her—not admiration, but a cold, inexplicable sense of foreboding she couldn’t shake.
As she traced the unfamiliar script, something strange happened—the alien symbols and names began to shift, their meanings nudging at her mind like a half-remembered dream. It wasn’t full understanding; the knowledge came in fragments, unbidden, as if her Chiss heritage—Yu’jinka’lis—recognized patterns she couldn’t consciously grasp. She hadn’t been educated in ancient languages, not as a servant skimming shipments in a distant icy world, but her weeks in the academy had awakened an instinct for deciphering intent, a survival skill honed by necessity. The runes remained a mystery, their specifics beyond her, yet the report’s tone—its ominous weight—translated clearly enough. It was both exhilarating and unsettling, a glimpse of power she couldn’t wield, another tether to this galaxy she’d been thrust into.
Across from her, the acolyte she’d been assigned to—a brash, blond-haired man with a jagged scar running down his left cheek—sat with his arms crossed, his posture radiating practiced indifference. His pale blue eyes flicked occasionally to the datapad, then away, as if the mission’s gravity was beneath his notice. Beside him was Ronan, the other slave chosen for this task, a tall, wiry man with a quiet demeanor that belied the tension in his clasped hands, his knuckles white against his dark skin. The shuttle’s hum vibrated through the metal floor, a steady drone that filled the silence between them, and Kalis shifted uncomfortably, the collar at her neck chafing against her skin—a constant reminder of her place, even after weeks of bearing its weight.
Finally, she broke the stillness, her voice careful and measured, a tone she’d refined to navigate the academy’s dangers. “What should we call you?” She kept her eyes steady, cautious not to provoke him—she’d seen the Sith’s infamous ire in action, Torva’s lightsaber cutting down a defiant slave, and she wasn’t about to risk it over a carelessly worded question. She needed a name, a way to address him without stumbling into disrespect that could ignite his wrath.
He glanced at her, his eyes narrowing slightly, assessing her as if she were a minor irritation. “Kael,” he said simply, his tone cold and clipped. “Formality doesn’t matter in the field. All I care about is that you listen to my commands and don’t do anything stupid. If you jeopardize my chances of becoming Master Shaar’s apprentice, you’ll regret it.” His words carried a steel edge, a promise of consequences she’d witnessed too often—lightsabers flashing, bodies crumpling. She nodded, her expression neutral, masking the knot of anxiety tightening in her chest. She had no intention of crossing him, but the mission’s danger loomed larger with every line on the datapad, and Kael’s arrogance did little to ease her growing apprehension.
She turned her attention to the shuttle’s window, peering out at the stark, desolate landscape of Korriban sliding past below. The planet was a harsh expanse of red rock and jagged canyons, its surface cracked and barren under a sky that glowed a sickly orange, as if tainted by centuries of darkness. Thin rivers wound through the depths, their waters glinting faintly like veins of some ancient beast, a stark beauty that clashed with the violence she knew thrived here. It was a graveyard of Sith history, a place she’d once read about in books and seen on screens, now pressing against her reality with a weight she couldn’t escape. Her fingers tightened around the datapad, the cool metal grounding her as she tried to steady her racing thoughts.
The shuttle ride stretched into hours, a tense limbo broken only by the rustle of supplies being prepped and the occasional murmur between Kael and Ronan as they reviewed the mission parameters. Kalis kept her focus on the datapad, memorizing what she could—Vaelan’s shadow tactics, the tomb’s hidden location, the warnings of lurking beasts and restless spirits. Her weeks as a slave had taught her to absorb details quickly, to anticipate threats, and she clung to that now, though the holocron’s lingering whispers from her dream the night before echoed in her mind, blurring the line between preparation and unease.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, formal and detached. “We’re approaching the landing site. I’ll dock at the nearest shuttle bay to avoid tomb raiders and rogue Sith acolytes in the area. Once you’re finished, hail me on the transponder, and I’ll return to extract you.” Kael grunted in acknowledgment, his focus sharpening as he rose, gripping his lightsaber hilt with a casual ease that belied the stakes. The shuttle descended with a soft thud, the ramp lowering to reveal a rocky outcropping near a canyon’s edge, and Kalis felt a knot of anxiety tighten further as she followed Kael and Ronan out, her boots crunching against the uneven ground.
The entrance to Darth Vaelan’s tomb was unassuming—a dark crevice in the canyon wall, barely wide enough for two to pass abreast, its edges jagged and worn by time. It was less extravagant than Kalis had expected after the datapad’s ominous warnings, but that simplicity only heightened her unease. Vaelan had been a master of shadows and secrecy; an obvious tomb would’ve been a deception. Kael led the way, his lightsaber unlit but clutched tightly, its presence a silent warning. Ronan followed close behind, his eyes darting nervously from shadow to shadow, his quiet demeanor fraying at the edges. Kalis brought up the rear, her senses on high alert, her breath shallow as they stepped into the cool, damp air of the tomb.
The interior was a stark shift from Korriban’s heat—the air carried a faint scent of decay and something metallic, like blood long dried, and the walls were lined with ancient runes, their jagged shapes carved deep into the stone. They pulsed faintly, a dim glow that seemed to shift as she passed, but their meaning eluded her—her Chiss background offered no insight into such esoteric Sith script, only a vague sense of their menace from weeks of living among their kind. The passage widened into a larger chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness, the walls studded with alcoves holding skeletal figures clad in ancient armor. Their empty eye sockets seemed to follow her, a trick of the light or something more, and a chill ran down her spine, her weeks of conditioning barely keeping her steady.
At the chamber’s center was a massive stone door, its surface etched with intricate carvings—twisting shadows and writhing figures locked in silent torment, their forms almost alive under Kael’s crimson lightsaber glow as he pushed it open with a creak. Beyond lay a long, descending staircase, the steps worn smooth by centuries, the air wafting up cold and damp, heavy with the promise of secrets below. As they began their descent, Kalis noticed faintly glowing crystals lining the walls, their light flickering like dying embers, humming in unison with a rhythm she felt in her chest—an energy she’d come to recognize as the Force, though she didn’t dare name it aloud.
“Don’t,” Kael snapped as her hand drifted toward one, his voice sharp enough to make her flinch. “Those crystals are imbued with Sith magic. Touch one, and you might not like what happens.” She pulled back, her heart racing, chastising herself for the lapse—she hadn’t even realized she’d reached out, drawn by the hum like a moth to flame. The tomb’s influence was subtle, insidious, testing her resolve, and she clenched her fists, forcing her focus to sharpen.
The stairs ended in a vast chamber of metal and stone, its air thick and stale after centuries of neglect. Ancient runes pulsed along the walls, casting eerie shadows, and at the center, a set of stairs led up to a small, glowing pyramid—an artifact radiating a power she couldn’t ignore, its presence tugging at her like the holocron had. Purple-flamed pyres flared to life as they entered, their flickering light illuminating the space with a ghostly hue. “That must be one of Darth Vaelan’s meditation chambers,” Kael observed, his gaze fixed on the pyramid, his voice steady but edged with anticipation. “We should search the surroundings while no one else has found the entrance. The others are likely still delving deeper.”
He gestured for Ronan and Kalis to begin, then seated himself near the artifact, closing his eyes in meditation. The pyramid’s glow pulsed faintly, as if responding to him, and Kalis hesitated, her weeks of caution warring with the unease coiling in her gut. She turned to Ronan, her voice low. “Let’s be careful. There’s no telling what might still be active here.” He nodded warily, but as she moved to search, a sudden rush of movement caught her eye—Ronan lunging toward Kael, a tool swinging in his hand, striking the acolyte’s head with a sharp crack.
“Ronan! Stop!” Kalis shouted, springing to her feet, but the chamber trembled, dust falling as two hidden doors groaned open, revealing glowing eyes in the darkness beyond.
