Tyris Shaar sat behind her imposing black desk, its obsidian surface gleaming like a frozen pool of ink under the chamber’s dim red lighting. The polished stone walls loomed around her, their dark expanse swallowing the faint glow, casting deep, shifting shadows that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. A single candle flickered on a distant shelf, its frail flame trembling in the draft, barely illuminating the ancient Sith artifacts laid out before her—a jagged amulet, its edges sharp enough to draw blood; an ancient warblade, its notched steel whispering of battles long past. The air thrummed with the low hum of holoprojectors, a subtle vibration that underscored the silence, thick with the weight of judgment. Her dark hair was pinned into a precise bun, a style favored by the Sith upper class—a mark of control, refinement, and unyielding will. Yet beneath her composed exterior, a thread of relief coiled within her, a rare softness she buried deep. These three had made it back from Darth Vaelan’s tomb. The two who’d perished had been disappointments—blunt instruments, all brute force and no finesse, lacking the vision to endure. But these ones… they had potential. Most importantly, they had brought back something valuable.
Tyris reached out, her slender fingers brushing the jagged amulet, its metal cold to the touch yet pulsing with an eerie warmth that seeped into her skin, a lingering echo of the Dark Side’s embrace. Beside it, the warblade—once wielded by Darth Vaelan herself—caught the dim light, its surface gleaming with a dull, predatory sheen, as if it still hungered for blood. She leaned back, lacing her fingers together with deliberate grace, her sharp yellow eyes studying the three figures standing before her, their silhouettes stark against the crimson glow.
To her left stood the Sith Pureblood, his crimson skin aglow in the artifacts’ faint radiance, his presence a testament to the bloodlines that had shaped the Sith for millennia. His dark robes, adorned with intricate silver markings, draped over him like a mantle of authority, each thread a silent boast of his heritage. He exuded confidence—no, expectation—his stance rigid with the certainty that the amulet he’d retrieved, steeped in the Dark Side’s power, elevated him above the others. His golden eyes glinted with a quiet arrogance, as if he’d already claimed his place at her side, the competition beneath his notice.
At the center stood Kael, tall and broad-shouldered, his short-cropped blond hair still damp with sweat from the tomb’s trials, clinging to his scalp in faint curls. A jagged scar ran down his left cheek, a battle-worn testament to survival that matched the fresh scratches marring his sleek, polished armor—marks he wore not as wounds but as trophies, symbols of dominance etched into his very being. His posture was relaxed, almost cocky, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as if he’d already calculated his victory. His pale blue eyes flicked toward Tyris, unreadable yet sharp, a predator sizing up his next move, bored by the formality of this assessment yet keenly aware of its stakes.
To her right stood the female human acolyte, slender and severe, her sharp features framed by raven-black hair tied into a tight braid that hung like a coiled lash down her back. Her robes were simpler, unadorned by the ostentation of her peers, but her piercing green eyes betrayed a keen intelligence, a mind that dissected the world with cold precision. The histories she’d retrieved—scrolls penned by Darth Vaelan herself—lay in a meticulous stack beside the warblade, their cryptic script a puzzle of ancient secrets. Valuable, yes, but difficult to decipher, a challenge that piqued Shaar’s interest even as she noted the acolyte’s quiet competence.
The toll of the mission hung heavy in the room. The number of slaves who’d perished wasn’t small—only five had returned from the dozens sent, their absence a silent testament to the tomb’s brutality. Shaar’s gaze drifted across the trio, settling on the Chiss slave she’d selected on a whim weeks ago, a decision born more of curiosity than intent. Kalis stood rigid, her gray-blue skin a striking contrast to the dark, tattered clothing she wore, the fabric stained with dust and blood from the ordeal. Her crimson eyes were fixed downward, her posture a practiced mask of submission, yet she stood shoulder to shoulder with the acolytes, having endured the same horrors that had claimed so many.
Tyris had never given much thought to the Chiss—disciplined, intelligent, their cold pragmatism a trait she respected in passing, but rarely Force-sensitive, their connection to the Force typically a faint flicker at best. Kalis was no exception, a non-Force-sensitive alien plucked from the ranks of servitude, yet she’d survived an encounter with a beast forged by Darth Vaelan’s own hand—a Sithspawn, if the reports were accurate. Shaar noted it with mild surprise, a flicker of acknowledgment rather than fascination. It was mildly impressive, she conceded, that a slave with no apparent power had outlasted such a creature, though it hardly elevated her beyond her station in Shaar’s eyes. She rose from her chair, her boots clicking against the cold stone floor with a steady, commanding rhythm, her hands clasping behind her back as she allowed silence to settle—a heavy veil that sharpened the tension before she spoke.
“You all did well,” she said, her voice smooth and measured, carrying the weight of expectation honed over years of overseeing the academy’s ruthless crucible. “Sith are not judged by their intentions, only by their results. Those who perished in the tomb have already been forgotten—names erased, failures consigned to dust. But you…” Her gaze drifted over the three, lingering on each face with a predator’s scrutiny. “You have proven yourselves. And soon, I will be selecting one of you to return with me to Dromund Kaas.”
Kael’s smirk widened slightly, a glint of triumph flickering in his eyes, as if he’d already scripted his ascension in his mind. The Pureblood tilted his chin upward, his golden gaze steady and unyielding, dismissing the notion of rivalry as beneath his bloodline’s dignity. Kalis said nothing, her expression a carefully crafted mask of neutrality, but Shaar caught the faintest twitch of her fingers—a subtle tremor, a crack in the facade that hinted at the strain beneath. Tyris let the tension build, her lips curling into a faint, knowing smirk. “Only those who show true potential as Sith will rise. The rest?” She turned slightly, her tone sharpening like a blade drawn from its sheath. “Well. If you are not chosen, you will remain here. And we all know what happens to those left behind, don’t we?”
The air thickened with unspoken stakes—Korriban was a graveyard for the discarded, a place where the weak were culled and the strong forged. For a moment, Shaar swore she saw Kalis’s crimson eyes flicker upward, a brief flash of something—fear, defiance?—before they dropped again. With a flick of her wrist, the chamber doors hissed open, the sound cutting through the silence like a guillotine’s fall. “You are dismissed,” she said, her voice flat, final. Without a word, the three turned and left, their footsteps echoing in the corridor beyond as the doors slid shut with a resonant thud. Shaar exhaled softly, a rare release of breath, letting her gaze linger on the artifacts—tokens of power that would soon carry her from this dust-choked backwater to Dromund Kaas, where true ambition awaited.
The barracks were a stark contrast to Shaar’s chamber, their silence oppressive save for the distant hum of machinery and the occasional murmur of restless sleepers stirring in the dark. The academy’s walls, hewn from unyielding black stone, closed in around Kalis, the cramped room unwelcoming, its air heavy with the musty scent of sweat and despair. She sank onto her cot, the metal frame groaning under her weight, every muscle in her body leaden with exhaustion from the tomb’s trials—the blood, the beasts, the weight of survival pressing down on her after weeks of servitude. Her breaths came shallow, uneven, as she stared at the shadowed ceiling, the faint glow of a single torch casting jagged patterns across the stone.
Sleep had been elusive since returning from Darth Vaelan’s tomb, not from fear—though the memory of Ronan’s shredded body lingered like a ghost—nor even the unspoken tension among the surviving acolytes vying for Shaar’s favor. It was the wound that kept her awake, a gnawing presence that defied her attempts to rest. She winced as she shifted, her fingers trembling as she pulled up the torn fabric of her pants to examine her leg. The bite mark from the beast had worsened, its edges no longer a simple gash but a festering blight. The skin around it had darkened to an unnatural purple, bruised and sickly, with jagged black tendrils snaking outward like the roots of some twisted, poisoned tree. A dull, pulsing pain radiated from it, not just the ache of torn flesh but something wrong—a deep, invasive throb that seemed to seep into her bones, her blood, her very being.
It wasn’t a normal infection—she’d seen enough cuts and bruises in her weeks as a slave to know that much. Whispers she’d overheard in the barracks, hushed tales swapped between the others, surfaced in her mind—stories of creatures tainted by Sith alchemy, monsters bred in the shadows of Korriban’s tombs, their venom carrying more than death. A corruption of the body, a slow poisoning of the soul, they’d said, their voices low with dread. She’d dismissed it as superstition then, but now, staring at the spreading blackness, she felt the truth of it clawing at her. Her leg burned, the tendrils creeping further with each passing hour, and a cold sweat beaded on her forehead, her breaths growing sharper as the pain deepened.
Her fingers tightened around the strange stimpack she’d taken from the tomb, its sleek, ancient design cool against her palm, the vial within glowing with a faint, eerie light that seemed to pulse in time with her wound. It was unlike anything she’d seen in her weeks here—old, yet pristine, its surface etched with faint markings she couldn’t decipher. It called to her, a pull she couldn’t explain, a whisper at the edge of her mind that echoed the holocron’s seductive lure and the battlefield dream that had shaken her awake the night before. She knew it wasn’t safe—nothing in this galaxy was—but the burning in her leg, the creeping corruption, left her with little choice. Her hand shook as she pressed the injector against the wound, her breath steadying for a fleeting moment as she steeled herself. With a sharp intake of air, she pulled the trigger.
A hiss filled the silence as the serum surged into her bloodstream, a cold sting that quickly gave way to nothing—just the lingering ache, the quiet hum of the barracks. Then—fire. A searing heat erupted from the injection site, a wildfire that roared up her thigh, through her chest, into her fingertips with a ferocity that stole her breath. She clenched her jaw, biting back a cry as her vision blurred, the room twisting around her like a kaleidoscope of shadows and stone. Her muscles locked, her hands gripping the cot’s edge until her knuckles whitened, the metal creaking under her grasp. For a split second, she swore she heard whispers—low, guttural voices, overlapping in a language she didn’t know, clawing into her mind like the echoes from her dream. The pain intensified, a white-hot lance that radiated up her spine, splintering through her skull, and Kalis couldn’t bear it any longer—her mind dissolved into a blinding white void, her body collapsing as darkness swallowed her whole.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
The heavy silence of the slave quarters hung like a shroud, broken only by the soft hum of torches flickering against the cold stone walls, their light dancing in frail, wavering pools. Korvin, the head slave, stood frozen at the threshold, his broad frame rigid, his breath caught in his throat like a trapped beast. The air was thick—oppressive, charged with an unnatural weight that pressed against his chest, squeezing his lungs until each inhale strained against it. His dark eyes locked onto Kalis’s curled form on the cot, her breathing ragged, shallow gasps that rasped through the stillness. Dark veins spiderwebbed outward from the wound on her leg, stark against her gray-blue skin, pulsing with an eerie crimson glow that seemed to throb in time with the flickering torches. Wisps of energy curled and coiled above her, tendrils of darkness twisting through the air like living shadows, their movements sinuous, predatory.
Korvin staggered back, his boots scuffing the stone, a cold sweat breaking across his brow. He’d seen cruelty in his years here—had felt the lash of Sith malice, the weight of their disdain—but this was different. It was raw, untamed, a force beyond his comprehension that stirred a deep, primal instinct to flee. His heart hammered, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs, as he spun on his heel and bolted from the chamber, his heavy steps echoing down the corridor. There was only one person who could decide what to do with this—only one whose authority could tame the chaos he’d glimpsed.
Tyris Shaar had little patience for distractions, her ambitions stretching far beyond the confines of this desolate rock, each moment here a delay in her ascent to Dromund Kaas’s glittering spires. As one of the academy’s more esteemed overseers, she thrived on order, her every move calculated to propel her toward greater power. Yet when Korvin burst into her study, breathless and wide-eyed, his usually stoic demeanor shattered, she knew at once that something was gravely amiss. “Overseer Shaar,” he gasped, his voice rough as he struggled to steady himself, his hands gripping the doorframe. “The Chiss slave—Kalis—something’s happening to her. It’s… unnatural. The Dark Side—it’s—”
He trailed off, his words faltering, unable to capture the sight that had driven him here. That alone piqued her interest, a rare crack in his hardened facade. Sharply, she rose, smoothing the deep crimson of her robes with a practiced motion, the rich fabric adorned with subtle, elegant Sith insignias that gleamed faintly in the candlelight. Her hair, pinned tightly into a bun in the fashion of the upper-class Sith, remained immaculate as she strode forward, her boots clicking with purpose. Without a word, she swept past Korvin, her mind already racing with possibilities. What could have happened to the Chiss? She’d sent Kalis into Darth Vaelan’s tomb alongside Kael, one of her more promising acolytes—a test of survival, nothing more. Could the tomb have harbored some unknown force, a lingering darkness beyond even her understanding?
By the time she reached the slave quarters, the air shifted, a prelude to the storm that awaited her. She barely had time to steel herself before an immense wave of Dark Side energy erupted from the chamber, slamming into her chest like a physical blow. Her breath hitched, her teeth gritting as her training surged to the fore, reflexively centering herself with the Sith Code—Peace is a lie, there is only passion. The energy roiled around her, a turbulent tide that tugged at her senses. Through passion, I gain strength. She inhaled sharply, stepping forward, her robes whispering against the stone. Through strength, I gain power. She locked eyes with the Chiss slave, her yellow gaze piercing the gloom. Through power, I gain victory. The sight before her drew a frown, her lips tightening. Tendrils of darkness coiled from Kalis’s wound, the corruption visibly festering beneath her skin, black veins pulsing with a life of their own. This was no mere infection—it was something else entirely, something profound. Through victory, my chains are broken. Tyris exhaled slowly, her mind sharpening. This needed to be addressed immediately.
“Fetch Overseer Ragate and Overseer Sathel. Now,” she ordered, her voice cutting through the stunned silence of the lingering slaves, who flinched at her command and scrambled to obey. As she waited, her thoughts raced, piecing together the implications. If this was a lingering effect of Darth Vaelan’s tomb—an artifact’s curse, a beast’s venom—it could be a discovery of great significance. Or a threat that could destabilize her carefully curated order.
The arrival of the overseers was swift, their presence a clash of temperaments that filled the small space with tension. Ragate stepped forward first, a middle-aged Sith whose rigid adherence to ancient traditions often grated against Shaar’s pragmatism. Her sharp eyes, framed by lines of experience, scanned Kalis with an almost scholarly fascination, a faint gleam of curiosity breaking through her stern demeanor. She wore dark robes edged with faint gold, a nod to the old ways she revered, her hands clasped behind her back as she tilted her head to study the Chiss. Sathel followed, her crimson skin and regal bearing exuding the arrogance common among Sith Purebloods, her golden eyes glinting with contempt as she surveyed the scene. Her robes flowed with a quiet elegance, silver threading catching the torchlight, but her lip curled in disdain, her posture radiating dismissal.
Ragate spoke first, her voice low and deliberate, tinged with intrigue. “Most intriguing. Overseer Shaar, what exactly transpired here?”
Shaar kept her expression neutral, masking the irritation Sathel’s presence always stirred. “The slave Kalis accompanied Acolyte Kael into the tomb of Darth Vaelan. She sustained a wound from some dark creature within—a bite, from what I’ve gathered.”
“A Sithspawn, no doubt,” Ragate mused, stepping closer, her gaze narrowing as she examined Kalis’s leg. “Darth Vaelan was known to conduct experiments—perhaps this beast was bred for a specific purpose.” Her fingers twitched, hovering near the corrupted flesh as if resisting the urge to probe it, her scholarly mind already spinning theories. “But what purpose, I wonder? A venom that channels the Dark Side so potently…”
Sathel snorted, crossing her arms with a rustle of fabric, her disdain palpable. “This is a waste of time. Why do we concern ourselves with an inferior Chiss slave?” Her golden eyes gleamed with scorn, her voice dripping with the superiority of her lineage. “If the Dark Side is consuming her, then so be it. Let it run its course—she’s beneath our notice.”
Shaar’s eyes flicked toward Sathel, her frown deepening, a spark of irritation flaring at the Pureblood’s shortsightedness. She valued Sith bloodlines as much as any, but she wasn’t blind to utility beyond pedigree—a trait Sathel lacked. “The fact that the Dark Side has taken root in her at all is what concerns me,” she said coolly, her tone edged with a warning. “Or are you so arrogant as to dismiss something even you do not understand?”
Sathel’s expression darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line, but she held her tongue, her silence a grudging concession. Ragate, however, seemed more intrigued than ever, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. “If she survives the night, we may have something worth studying. If she dies, well… the Dark Side claims the weak, as it should.” She tilted her head slightly, her gaze shifting to Shaar. “What do you intend to do, Overseer Shaar?”
Shaar exhaled slowly, the uncertainty gnawing at her—a rare sensation that irritated her more than Sathel’s prattle. “We wait,” she said at last, her voice firm despite the flicker of doubt. Sathel nodded, her agreement reluctant but pragmatic. “If this slave has been touched by the Dark Side, it is above our station to determine what to do with it. One of the Sith Lords on Korriban would need to decide.”
Ragate folded her arms, nodding thoughtfully, her tone measured. “In the meantime, when she awakens, I will perform a few rituals to see if I can glean any information. For now, disturbing her would only risk hampering what’s unfolding here—whatever it may be.” Her eyes lingered on Kalis, the crimson glow of the veins reflecting in her gaze, a puzzle she longed to unravel.
Shaar regarded Kalis with a critical eye, stepping closer to the cot. The Chiss lay motionless, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, but the unnatural black veins snaking from the wound pulsed faintly, as if feeding off the ambient energy in the room. The air was suffocating—thick with a raw, untamed power that pressed against Shaar’s senses, a sensation she hadn’t felt since her own trials as an acolyte. If Kalis survived this, it would change her—perhaps into something useful, perhaps into a liability. That much was certain.
“Very well,” Shaar said at last, crossing her arms behind her back, her stance a pillar of authority amidst the uncertainty. “But I want to be informed the moment she wakes. This matter has already drawn enough attention, and I will not have some slave’s fate disrupt the order of my academy.”
Sathel scoffed softly, her contempt barely veiled. “The girl should have died in the tomb like the others. If the Dark Side claimed her, then she belongs to it now. If she awakens and proves useful, fine. If not—then we dispose of her. The Empire has no shortage of slaves to replace her.”
Shaar shot Sathel a sidelong glance, her patience thinning but her voice steady. “And yet, you stand here watching, curious as the rest of us. The Dark Side does not bestow its gifts lightly, nor without purpose. If she is still breathing, then there is something yet to be seen—something even your pride cannot dismiss.”
Ragate smirked, a rare glint of amusement breaking her scholarly mask. “At least someone here still has the instincts of a true Sith.” She turned back to Kalis, her expression unreadable, her curiosity a quiet fire. “We shall see what the Dark Side has in store for this one. For now, we wait.”
Shaar exhaled slowly, her breath a controlled release as she turned on her heel, her robes whispering against the stone. “Summon me the moment there is any change,” she commanded, her voice ringing with finality. “And make sure no one else learns of this until we understand exactly what we are dealing with—rumors will only breed chaos.” With that, she swept from the room, her strides purposeful, her mind already racing with possibilities. Kalis was a slave, nothing more—a speck in the grand design of her ambitions. But if the Dark Side had marked her, if that survival against Vaelan’s beast hinted at some latent usefulness, then perhaps she could be shaped into a tool—or discarded, as the need arose.
