Hi everybody! It's been a while since I've posted anything here but I've been working on a sequel to my first story and wanted to share it with you guys.

 

The False Empire is a direct sequel to my first story, Heralds of the Fall - The False Sith. Both stories are set after the "Shadow of Revan" expansion storyline, but before the "Rise of the Emperor" game update. The stories take place on Ziost; False Empire centers on the aftermath of the Kaggath fought between two powerful Darths.

 

While the main characters from the False Sith will reappear, False Empire will focus on a new set of characters as they try to survive the treacherous path that is Sith politics. I did my best so that readers don't need to have read the first story to understand what's going on in the False Empire, although knowledge of the events of the first story will shed light on certain developments.

 

As with the False Sith, characters in False Empire are mostly original, though there are occasionally some subtle references to events that occur in the main storylines of the SWTOR class stories. If there was anything that needed to be researched, I used wookiepedia.com, though if I got anything wrong, please let me know!

 

As always, thank you very much for reading and I welcome any and all feedback.

 

Edited December 5, 2016 by wangxiuming

 

Writer's Note: After reflecting a bit on Misha's invaluable feedback, I've decided to hide the Prologue chapter behind spoiler tags. My intention with the prologue was mainly to serve as a bridge between the False Sith and the False Empire. However, as Misha pointed out, I don't want to scare readers away by bombarding them with too many names and lore-dumps at once if they don't know the background of everything that's happened.

 

I think you'll get more out of it if you've already read the False Sith. If you haven't, and don't want to go back and read that fanfic that's admittedly a bit of an editing nightmare, I would recommend starting with Chapter 1 instead.

 

 

 

Edited July 31, 2016 by wangxiuming

 

 

 

The face that stared back at Lethe in the mirror was no longer her own.

 

She wasn’t sure she would ever get used to the sight of her former master’s golden mask gazing back at her with all of its imperious nonchalance. Every time she saw her own reflection, she heard her master’s voice echo through her very core, delivering accusations that she could not deny: Liar. Pretender.

 

Usurper.

 

It helped that she had so few opportunities to actually remove the guise. She couldn’t afford risking anyone discovering her true identity. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

 

As Darth Siphon, she had power. As Siphon, she inherited the glory and pride due to a victor emerged from a Kaggath. As Siphon, she commanded a power structure that would rival Darth Nox’s in the days before her ascent to the Dark Council.

 

As Lethe, she had nothing.

 

Still, wearing the visage was at times unbearable. The metal face had been welded to a leather sleeve meant for the head, the only circulation granted from the two holes carved into the metal nose to allow for breath. More than unbearable, it was a jail cell for her face. She wanted to feel it again, wanted her cheeks to know the touch of fresh air free of sweat and grime. More than that, she longed to see her old face again, to know that somewhere inside of the persona she projected, some semblance of her true self still remained.

 

Before the ornate mirror placed upon her dressing table in her new quarters, she gingerly pulled at the golden mask. Its impassive expression stared back at her, reflected in the mirror, its dead eyes somehow filled with judgment. It fought her every effort, clung to her face like a babe to its mother, unrelenting, unbowed.

 

Its defiance was by her own design; what use was a mask in battle if it could be jostled or knocked loose? It was how her master had lost the mask she now possessed in the first place. Better now that it be obstinate than risk the revelation of secrets that Lethe could not afford to reveal.

 

But something felt wrong - the mask would not come off, no matter how her fingers peeled at the golden caricature or worked at the leather bindings.

 

Her heartbeat quickened. It was one thing to choose to don the mask - it was another to be trapped within it, unable to extricate herself from the permanent prison of another’s identity. To be denied herself, to be denied Lethe … it was not a sensation she had ever thought she would fear.

 

Not until now.

 

Why would it not come free?

 

She clawed at the mask now, angling her fingernails into the leather, digging into the grooves of the metal to peel it away - by force if necessary - desperate to unveil her face. It was ridiculous; she would have laughed had urgency not overwhelmed all other emotion.

 

She knew only one thing now. She had to liberate herself from this cage.

 

Through the Force, she found her answer. Reaching into her well of power, she pulled at the mask from two ends, two hands compelling the mask to rip, to tear, to shatter. She no longer cared if the mask was destroyed - so long as the metal remained, she could always restore the rest later. She threw all of her power behind her effort - she could feel the mask tearing, loosening around her head, buckling under her will.

 

She closed her eyes and screamed as her efforts bore fruition; two halves of the mask flew to separate sides of her room, the half with the metal face slamming into the wall with a violent screech. She felt it immediately: freedom. The caress of a gentle breeze flowing in from the open doors of her balcony, whispering upon her skin sweet release.

 

Adrenaline rushed through her veins as she opened her eyes, eager to reclaim her identity … if only for a few minutes.

 

The sight of her own reflection snuffed out her hopes as her heart skipped a beat.

 

What looked back at her now was a face … but a face without features. Dark skin wrapped around a skull, without a nose, without a mouth. In place of eyes, two gaping holes revealing only darkness as black as oblivion, widening in terror. She didn’t understand; she wanted to scream, but no sound could come from a mouth that did not exist. She watched in horror as her jaw and chin reflected her efforts to shriek, only for silence to follow.

 

No trace of her former self remained.

 

Without the mask, she was nothing. She was no one.

 

She woke, covered in sweat, heart pounding against her chest with insistent declaration. She raced to her mirror, tearing off the mask as quickly as she could. Desperate, she didn’t care that the metal caught against her cheek and scraped against it painfully even as she finally extricated herself from it. It was not until her old face finally came into view that she breathed a sigh of relief.

 

It was just a dream.

 

She glanced down at the mask now lying on the floor of her quarters. It looked smaller … and yet somehow more terrifying than it had ever seemed before. She glanced at a nearby digital clock; 0400 hours. She would have to put the mask back on, assume the role of Siphon once more. She had no choice … only Siphon could command the power base she had amassed. If she ever wanted to achieve her goals, to expand her power, to ascend to the Dark Council … she could not waver. Not now. Not when she was so close.

 

Lethe reached down to pick up the fallen mask. For just a second, her fingers paused before grabbing the visage and gingerly donning it once more.

 

She told herself her hesitation was nothing, a side-effect of being groggy and half-asleep.

 

But in her heart of hearts, she knew the truth.

 

Edited August 1, 2016 by wangxiuming

“ … the resettlement of your forces into the Citadel is almost complete, my lord. I’ve left General Ravain in command at Twinspire to ensure the remaining transition remains smooth.”

 

“Very good, Astraad.” Lethe nodded as she looked to the pureblood Sith lord across the circular council table. The man’s graying hair was rapidly turning white, but it was his cybernetic right arm that commanded most of the attention. The man had forsaken his own limb to help her secure Orthas’ domain as her own, a sacrificial token meant to prove her strength to the pureblood following. The least Lethe could do was to sponsor the highest quality of replacements, never forgetting that she still did not know why he seemed so intent on aiding her.

 

Lethe allowed her eyes to survey the entirety of her advisory board seated around her. They were all sith purebloods, dressed now in plain robes that matched her own. With most of Siphon’s strongest disciples lost in the Kaggath, the ranks of Lethe's advisors were now drawn mostly from Orthas’ followers. Of those with the requisite status and power, only Ravain had been loyal to Siphon and now he had been assigned to remain at Twinspire Keep.

 

It was likely for the best. Most of Orthas’ powerbase had been loathe to welcome the woman who slew their master into the heart of their command center in New Adasta, widely known to the rest of Ziost simply as “the Citadel.” Had Astraad not convinced his brethren to honor the terms of the Kaggath, Lethe suspected she would have had another war on her hands. Even with his support, she knew Orthas’ apprentices were wary of her arrival and the inevitable change she would bring with her. Stationing Ravain in a position of authority above them might have pushed them over the edge from dubious support to defiant resistance.

 

She would not risk such a conflict. Not before she was ready.

 

That wasn’t to say she didn’t have plans for change. On the contrary, there was much Lethe wanted to do. For too long, Orthas had mired his following in ridiculous notions of obsolete tradition and an unhealthy obsession with purity of blood. Siphon had been right about that at least; Orthas’ beliefs would have been the Empire’s doom.

 

Lethe would see her empire freed from the chains of its old prejudices. It was up to her to right the course of these wayward Sith, to bring them into enlightenment.

 

Still, she knew better than to rock a ship in a turbulent nebula. And if keeping her grip on her new following meant leaving Ravain behind, she was more than willing to make that sacrifice. Besides, Ravain was close enough to the true Siphon that he might have been able to see through Lethe’s little masquerade. A little distance might indeed prove more beneficial in the long run.

 

Astraad continued his report. “ … the Citadel’s defenses have been shored up and I’ve ordered double patrols for the time-being. We’ve also dispatched envoys to other prominent Sith in New Adasta, including Lord Lector, successor to the late Darth Cerber.”

 

“Why are we courting impure filth?” Lord Hadrax spat his disgust. A young pureblood of noteworthy power, Hadrax had been one of Orthas’ most loyal apprentices. Bald save for a long braid of raven-black hair and bearing the scars of his many battles, the man somehow managed an imposing air despite his relatively short stature. “Darth Orthas never would have needed the aid of false Sith.”

 

“A mistake I would have assumed by now was all too apparent,” snapped Astraad, raising his hand to silence Hadrax before the younger Sith could object. “I won’t be dragged into this debate with you again. What matters now is that despite appearances to the contrary, our power structure is vulnerable. The Kaggath has taken its toll; that much is undeniable. We need to present ourselves as strong, or we risk inviting the hungry eyes of other aspiring Lords. Courting allies - even the appearance of such - is an effective way to ward off aggressors.”

 

A low chuckle rumbled forth from the last of Lethe’s council: Lord Cyriak, a Sith widely known to be more proficient at politics than in combat. Brown locks of hair swept over a face heavily burned - rumor had it Cyriak’s previous master once poured boiling water over his face as punishment for a failed coup. “You bring with you much change, Darth Siphon. Though the logic behind Lord Astraad’s words are hard to deny, Hadrax is right. Orthas would never have allowed it.”

 

“I value all of your counsel,” said Lethe. She chose her words carefully; despite her distaste for Cyriak and Hadrax’s clear dislike of her, she knew she would need them - at least for now - if she wanted to cement her position. “Orthas certainly was no fool in selecting his advisors. Similar wisdom will not go unrewarded while I command.”

 

Astraad and Cyriak nodded, bowing their heads slightly in deference. Hadrax crossed his arms over his chest and looked away.

 

Lethe smiled, forgetting for a moment that her face was hidden by an emotionless mask. But it was the act itself - more than the mistake - that drew her own attention. She never used to smile so freely. She never used to express any emotion at all. But now, from behind an impenetrable visage … Perhaps it was just the role she played. She often imagined Siphon smiling wickedly from behind that metal face, after all. Or perhaps she finally felt free.

 

A whisper of her nightmare flashed through her mind; Lethe's smile vanished unnoticed. “Continue your report, Astraad.”

 

“Yes, my lord. I have taken the liberty of assembling a tribute to the Dark Council on your behalf. It would not hurt to be in the Council’s good graces at the moment.”

 

“What are you including in this tribute?” asked Lethe.

 

“Minor artifacts of more historical value than anything else. Some journals and writings of ancient Sith, a sample of ancient weaponry. Credits. A show of respect, nothing more.”

 

“Very good. If there is nothing else --”

 

“Actually,” said Cyriak, “there is one more small matter, my lord.”

 

The pureblood paused before continuing. Lethe turned to face him directly. “Yes? What is it?”

 

“The relatively minor dilemma of the vacancy on this council, my lord. Darth Orthas always relied upon a council of five to advise him in all things. Of course we three remain your dutiful servants, and I assume General Ravain will be taking a position. That said, there remains one seat open.”

 

Hadrax snorted. “And I’m sure you already have someone in mind to fill Hisseratt’s shoes, Cyriak. No doubt one of your witless lackeys.”

 

“Pay Hadrax no mind, Darth Siphon,” Cyriak said, his sycophantic smile only widening. “But as a matter of fact, I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a - shortlist, shall we say? - of suitable candidates my lord would be most wise to consider for the position.”

 

“You want to elevate another weakling who can barely handle their own lightsaber,” said Hadrax. “What this council needs is someone who commands respect, who has earned their place as Sith and who respects the long legacy of our teachings.”

 

Lethe grimaced from behind her mask. This was naked ambition; she recognized clearly her advisors’ attempts attempt to further broaden their own influence. Siphon had endured similar demands, though not with much patience; she wondered if Orthas often suffered similar power plays.

 

Siding with either Cyriak or Hadrax would undoubtedly earn one’s favor, but at the risk of snubbing the other. That was not a move that would benefit Lethe - not at the moment, anyway. She needed a way to extricate herself from this decision.

 

“Is our power base in disarray?” she asked finally. “Are we besieged and in need of leadership beyond what you three can offer?”

 

“No, my lord. But --” Astraad started to respond, but Lethe cut him off.

 

“Perhaps it is time that this advisory council loses some of its excess weight.”

 

Cyriak protested, apparently appalled at the notion that she would deny him this opportunity to bolster his own influence. “My lord … there have always been five on this council.”

 

“I think you will all find that I appreciate efficiency and effectiveness over outdated tradition.” Lethe paused strategically, glancing to both Hadrax and Cyriak. “But … out of respect for your positions, I will consent to reviewing your proposals. Deliver your suggested candidates and I will consider them.”

 

Her words could have been plucked straight from Siphon’s tongue: an effective stall tactic that offered suitable respect to opposing parties, only hinting at her true intent. She did not need another overly ambitious Sith Lord whispering in her ear, attempting to exert influence where none had been earned.

 

She glanced to each of her current advisors to judge their reactions. Cyriak looked mollified. Hadrax appeared furious, though that one always seemed to be angry. She could deal with him and his empty posturing later.

 

It wasn’t until her gaze landed upon Astraad that she began to question herself; his smile brimmed with forced airs and inauthenticity. Astraad had been an invaluable ally and a true advisor through her transition in taking over Orthas’ power base - indeed, he had even provided Lethe detailed reports on all of Orthas’ Sith followers, including assessments of tactical strengths and weaknesses - but she didn’t doubt for one second that he had his own motives for supporting her ascension. And while Lethe could read Cyriak and Hadrax like they were active datapads, Astraad remained a mystery.

 

No matter. She would unravel Astraad’s agenda sooner or later … and these pureblood Sith would all fall in line.

 

“That will conclude this meeting. You’re all dismissed.”

 

She watched as the three purebloods stood up and offered respectful bows - Hadrax however reluctantly - and made to depart. Astraad hung back however, waiting for Lethe to follow. She sighed inwardly. What did he want now?

 

“What is it Astraad?” she asked. “Have you a list of candidates you’d like me to consider as well?”

 

“No, my lord. I’m content leaving the politics to Hadrax and Cyriak.” said the pureblood, bowing slightly in deference. “I only have a word of advice: you must be cautious in dealing with those two.”

 

“What ever do you mean, Astraad? Are you saying my own advisors pose a threat to me? That they might attempt to undermine me, to seize power from me, to act perhaps anything like a Sith? Why, I would just be flabbergasted at such a prospect, simply and utterly devastated.”

 

Lethe hadn’t intended to launch into a sarcastic deadpan, but it felt so good to get it out. In truth, she did not expect rebellion from any of her followers. Not yet. Siphon’s victory over Orthas was still a mystery to the latter’s disciples; they would not challenge her until they were sure they were as strong as their master at the very minimum.

 

Astraad didn’t react at all to Lethe’s outburst at all. “I realize that you are a Darth, my lord; I do not doubt your skill on the political stage. But our situation goes beyond simple struggles for power. I'm sure I don’t need to remind you that of the last dozen Kaggaths that were fought, how few of them resulted in the unification of two houses at war. And of those who forced such a union, how many managed to survive even six months afterwards? Most tore themselves to pieces within the first month, leaving only the dead to serve as cautionary tales against such an effort.”

 

Lethe hadn't known that, but she would be damned if she let Astraad know it. “I believe we’ve already overcome that particular challenge,” said Lethe. “It’s been two months since I assumed command of this faction. And if you’ll note, our powerbase - my powerbase - remains standing.”

 

“My point is that a certain degree of caution is warranted,” insisted Astraad. “Hadrax is brash, but he nevertheless commands the respect of a particularly ambitious faction within Orthas’ old hierarchy. Cyriak - as much as he appears the simpering sycophant - also holds sway, especially among the older and more experienced apprentices. Their support was critical in ensuring our two houses could unite.”

 

“And angering either of them could threaten that unity.”

 

The pureblood shook his head, looking just slightly surprised. “No, my lord. Whether they are angry is irrelevant. They need to respect you. They need to fear you. Anger from a disciple is preferable to contempt from a rebel. Without their fear, the powerbase is doomed to collapse.”

 

Lethe rolled her eyes, knowing that Astraad would only see her mask’s blank stare. “They do fear me. I killed their old master. Why else would they follow me now?”

 

“They follow because your victory over Orthas is a mystery they have yet to solve. They follow because I assure them that our power united can only lead to greater status for us all. None of them would be with you if not for that. Hadrax was particularly resistant to unification. I was only able to convince him based on your victory over Orthas in combat, that if you could defeat him, you must surely be the better Sith. Regrettably, your battle had no witnesses; none can attest to how you bested our former master.”

 

Neither did Lethe. She merely stumbled across his body and her abandoned mask. “Does it matter?” asked Lethe, careful to hide her own ignorance. “It was his corpse - not mine - that was paraded before the battlefield. There could be no greater evidence that I am the stronger Sith.”

 

“Perhaps to most. But Hadrax and Cyriak still ascribe to the traditions that Orthas touted while he was master of this Citadel. They may have gone along with this transition out of ambition for themselves, but they won’t know respect for you until they see your power firsthand …”

 

Astraad paused, eyes darting towards Lethe. For once, she was glad for the mask. She knew what Astraad was waiting for - any true Darth would have demanded either Cyriak or Hadrax - perhaps even both - to be dragged before her, to engage them in single combat and emerge a victor to prove to all that their leadership could not be challenged. As a Darth, defeating two upstart lords should have posed no problem.

 

The problem was … she was not really a Darth. Lethe didn’t know if she would be able to defeat either Cyriak or Hadrax. The latter numbered among Orthas’ most powerful disciples, and while former’s reputation could not boast the same, he nevertheless had survived dozens of years serving under one of the most ruthless Sith Ziost had ever seen. One didn’t outlast the rest of one’s class of Sith peers through weakness. And while Lethe certainly numbered among Siphon’s strongest … she could not assure victory against Orthas’ best.

 

And therein laid the rub. If she demanded a duel with Cyriak or Hadrax and lost, she would lose everything. Her masquerade as Darth Siphon would have been for nothing; losing a duel to a Lord was a humiliation from which a Darth rarely recovered. Even victory might cost her more than she could afford - if it did not come with ease, her power would be called into question, undermining her authority and opening the door for ambitious disciples and rival Lords to exploit.

 

No. Lethe had to preserve Siphon’s reputation, at least until she amassed enough power to truly embody a Darth. And that meant she would have to deflect Astraad’s unspoken challenge. It would be curious to not demand such a duel, yes … but it was the price she had to pay to maintain her cover.

 

“As I said … you will find that I value efficiency and effectiveness over tradition.” Lethe laughed lightly through her mask, grateful that the modulation hid her uncertainty. “Why go through the effort of humiliating my own followers when I can earn their loyalty through other means?”

 

Astraad could not hide the hint of surprise in his eyes. “As … as you say, my lord Siphon. But if you will not put them in their place, how will you keep them in line?”

 

“Your concerns are duly noted, Lord Astraad,” said Lethe, willfully ignoring his query. She was tired of his prattling. “You are dismissed.”

 

Astraad hesitated only for a second before dutifully retreating from the council chambers. Lethe followed a few minutes later, heading towards the nearest turbolift. Her new quarters in the Citadel resided on the top floor of a thirty-floor high-rise, bought and paid for by Orthas himself. The lift was slow, and hummed its age. Lethe briefly wondered how many had stood in the very place she now did. How many Sith and Imperial dignitaries had Orthas entertained in his stronghold? How much influence and power had run through these halls, wielded at times like blunt cudgels and at others like surgical knives?

 

She wondered how many of her supposed servants now plotted against her.

 

Lethe was no fool. She recognized how precarious her situation really was. She may have grasped at power … but at every moment, it struggled against her grip. A single mistake, a single oversight, and her tenuous hold on it would be lost.

 

She couldn’t lose it. Not yet. She still had so much she wanted to accomplish.

 

Stepping out of the turbolift and into her massive penthouse suite, Lethe breathed out a quiet sigh. Cold but fresh air wafted in from the open windows as speeder traffic buzzed below.

 

A shiver ran up Lethe’s spine.

 

Over the holocom, one of her operatives’ voices rang out. “My lord. We’ve received a message addressed to you. I’ve forwarded it to your personal terminal.”

 

“Thank y--”

 

Her mind exploded in agony. She recognized the the pain, the terror, but recognition did nothing to alleviate the experience. It felt as though an iron gauntlet had closed itself around her skull, pushing inwards at the fingertips, determined to crush, unwilling to yield. It was the Force, unleashed with unadulterated fury.

 

And then it was gone.

 

The holocom rang out once more, dulled by Lethe’s throbbing head. “My lord? Are you alright?”

 

There was no one else in her room. She was alone.

 

It took Lethe a moment to gather herself, breathing a muddled “Yes, I’m fine.” But she was anything but fine. Her heart raced, pounding against her chest as the echoes of excruciating pain rippled inward, shook her to her very core.

 

It took her a second longer to recognize that the message she received had begun an automated playback. A single word manifested in the air, projected by her holo terminal, laying bare an accusation in pulsing, scarlet light:

 

IMPOSTOR.

Edited July 18, 2016 by wangxiuming

 

“You and me, Retra. We’ll make it out of here. We’ll be the ones at the top.”

 

Retra’s voice trembled with fear. The back of the overseer’s hand had left a visibly scarlet imprint on her face. “You don’t know that ... we’re going to die here. They’re going to kill us.”

 

“I won’t let that happen. Trust me. Stick with me, and we’ll show them there’s a better way. We’ll prove that together we are stronger than any of them could be alone.”

 

Her friend looked at her with skepticism.

 

She pressed their hands together, interlocking their fingers. “You and me. Together, like it’s always been.”

 

The gesture brought a smile to Retra’s face, wiping away the fear and despair that had taken up residence, at least for a little while. Slowly, Retra nodded.

 

“Together.”

 

 

It wasn’t possible. How could anyone know that she was not the real Siphon?

 

Two days had passed since she received the anonymous message accusing her of being a pretender to her throne. An accusation she could not deny.

 

She had felt her master’s death in the Force, she was sure of it. There had been no others present, none to see her pick up her master’s golden mask, none to witness her putting it on, testing her voice through the modulation, verifying that she could assume Siphon’s very identity. How could any have guessed?

 

It could be a hoax, a prank. She wouldn’t put it past some of her new followers to call her an impostor, a false Sith, a pretender - Orthas had certainly levied those denigrations and more at the real Siphon, like daggers meant to cut away at her credibility. Even so, Lethe suspected that any who wished to challenge her now would have made the accusation openly, not under the anonymity of an encoded message. She found no indication that anybody other than herself knew or had even seen the nature of the message at all. No subtle hints or clever words meant to dig at the allegation from any of her interactions over the last two days.

 

And then there was that piercing agony that had seized upon her just before she received the message, a pain she felt keenly through the Force. A power that felt both overwhelming and terrifying.

 

No … someone knew the truth. But who?

 

Astraad?

 

The man had been acting strangely, even before she seized Orthas’ throne. Could he have discovered her secret somehow? Lethe had already begun to suspect that he was Siphon’s double agent within Orthas’ power structure; her former master had seemed so confident right before a battle that by all accounts was Orthas’ to lose.

 

And then there was that exchange that Lethe had shared with Astraad at Twinspire’s entrance - the man had attacked her, and then severed his own arm … for what? As some sort of theatre? To further sell the magnitude of her power? It was an empty gesture: what was a disciple’s arm compared to a master’s corpse?

 

It didn’t make any sense. Astraad was only too eager for her to assume Orthas’ position. Why would he seek to undermine her now with a hushed indictment?

 

And yet, she couldn’t ignore the possibility. If Astraad truly intended to challenge her authority, she would have to ensure that a battle would work in her favor. She needed to firmly establish her position as the dominant Sith.

 

Which was why Lethe now headed toward the Citadel’s repository. She needed a means to arm herself, to rapidly grow in power before the Astraad and his upstart supporters - or whoever had sent that message - made their moves. She had studied the texts and projects that Orthas had presided over for the last two days, mulled over potential alliances and reinforcements, but none had provided a solution to her need, not without risking revelation of her identity as a fraud. That left only one option. She would scour the collection of Sith artifacts Orthas had accumulated over his years as a Darth. There had to be an answer there, a solution to Lethe’s problem. Somewhere in those relics, she would find power.

 

The price? Whatever it cost, Lethe steeled herself to pay.

 

As she rounded the corner of the main hall towards Orthas’ vault, she heard what sounded to be an argument. She recognized one of the voices: Lord Rime, a sith pureblood whom Hadrax had submitted for consideration to take the empty seat on Lethe’s council - the only name, in fact.

 

Strident and ruthless, Rime had become infamous on Ziost as a merciless killer.

 

From the sound of it, it seemed he had gotten into a heated exchange with one of the Citadel’s slaves. Lethe hung back to observe. Hidden by the corner wall, she had a good view of the whole exchange. The slave was a youthful-looking human woman with strawberry blonde hair and crisp, sea-green eyes. Lethe guessed she was eighteen - twenty, at most. A cart of what looked to be clean laundry had fallen over beside her; Rime had pinned the slave against the wall, gripping both of her wrists above her head as he roared at her, spittle showering her whole torso. “What did I say about taking this route, slave?!”

 

“Forgive me, master!” said the slave, struggling to free herself, head leaning as far away as she could from her assailant’s salivary deluge.

 

“What is it about you that makes you think you can ignore my express command?” hissed Rime. “I am a lord of the Sith! What are you, but a slave? And what use is a slave if she cannot follow instructions?”

 

“I was just delivering robes to the apprentices, my lord. I meant no offense!”

 

Lethe knew the girl’s protests would fall on deaf ears. Rime was known for his especially cruel treatment of the Empire’s slave caste. He enjoyed tormenting them, torturing and often killing them for minor offenses, sometimes for sport. He insisted the occasional culling ensured others of the slave class would behave; the rest of the lords didn’t care one way or the other.

 

He was a type of Sith Lethe was all too familiar with. She had suffered her share of indignities while she trained at the academy on Korriban, had nearly been executed herself for disobeying her taskmaster’s commands. Her training had taken everything from her, had stolen from her a piece of herself that she could never get back. It didn’t have to be that way. There was a better way … and now that she was Darth ...

 

For a brief second, Lethe wondered if she should intercede.

 

She quashed the thought immediately. There would be no point. Even if she wanted to protect this slave now, Rime would simply find his satisfaction another day. Slaves died all the time in the Empire. It would be impractical to deny a Lord his sport over one middling life.

 

Or so she told herself.

 

Still, Lethe found Rime’s methods distasteful and the man himself repugnant. Wanton death and destruction served no useful purpose. Not in the new order that Lethe had planned.

 

“Delivering clothes? A likely story … more like snooping in places you shouldn’t be. You need to be taught a lesson.”

 

Lethe watched as the pureblood released one of the woman’s hands to reach to his lightsaber. Unclasping it from his belt, he pressed the still-deactivated saber into the slavegirl's gut. She winced, glancing about desperately for aid.

 

“The lesson will be particularly enlightening for your slave friends. You, on the other hand, probably won’t live long enough to appreciate it.”

 

Lethe decided on the spot that this man would never have a seat on her council.

 

She expected to hear the woman cry out, to hear her scream … but no such sound emerged. Instead, Lethe felt a surge in the Force. At first, she thought Rime was going to choke the slave girl, but his hands remained still, save for his thumb inching towards the activation button on his weapon. In that fraction of a second, the slave had pushed out her now free hand, trying desperately to shove Rime away.

 

Rime flew five feet into the air and ten feet back, slamming into the opposite wall and falling to his knees with a pained grunt.

 

Lethe’s eyes widened from behind her golden mask. Now this, she had not expected.

 

“You … you dare lay your hands on me?! You dare strike your master?!”

 

“Stay away from me!” screamed the woman.

 

“You’ve just sealed your fate, slave. A quick death is clearly too generous for you. I’m going to make you r--” Rime’s words died in his throat as Lethe once again felt a surge swell in the Force. She almost couldn’t believe it. The power itself was raw, untested, unrefined … but its potential inspired awe.

 

More than that, Lethe felt that same sensation she did when she stumbled upon her master’s mask: opportunity. She wouldn’t risk losing Hadrax’s support for any slave … but for an apprentice of her own ...

 

“N-no,” the slave said, voice quivering in terror even as she held her Sith assailant pinned by the throat to the wall. “You won’t.”

 

Lethe stepped into view. “Release him.”

 

The slave whirled around, panic-stricken, her eyes filled with equal parts rage and terror as they darted between Lethe and Rime. Lethe could see the cogs spinning behind them: fight or flight, survival or destruction.

 

She filled her voice with that imperious tone she had so often suffered from her own former master: “Do your ears fail you? Release him, now.”

 

The command finally registered; Lethe could see things click as the girl finally realized who she now faced. She dropped to the ground and released her hold on Rime. “M-mercy, Darth Siphon! Mercy!”

 

“I’m going to kill you,” wheezed Rime, clutching at his neck. “You’re dead!”

 

“Hold that thought, Rime,” said Lethe. “Girl, what’s your name?”

 

“Sierra, Master Siphon. I swear, I did not mean any offense. Please.”

 

Rime finally got to his feet, hands flying to his lightsaber. “It’s far too late for apologies, you stupid b--”

 

“Quiet,” said Lethe. “I want to hear what Sierra has to say. You are a slave, and yet you’re clearly touched by the Force. Tell me, why aren’t you at the Sith Academy on Korriban, training to become an apprentice?” She was the right age for it after all, and her potential ... Lethe did not doubt the young woman’s powers could easily match her own with the proper training, perhaps even surpass them. The girl, however, did not respond immediately; she glanced from Rime to Lethe and back, clearly still terrified.

 

“Rime,” said Lethe. “Your presence is no longer required.”

 

“Darth Siphon! This slave had the gall to strike me. I demand satisfaction.”

 

Lethe whirled around to face the pureblood, projecting her voice into an imperious boom. “You think you can make demands of me? Have you forgotten your place, Rime? Choose your next words carefully … or suffer your former master’s fate.”

 

Instantly, Rime demurred. Lethe smiled from behind her mask; she had seen Siphon do this a hundred times: kow upstart apprentices into submission with force of personality alone. It was gratifying to know she could command the same reaction.

 

“No, my lord,” stumbled Rime. “Of course not. I … misspoke.”

 

“That’s what I thought. I suggest you run along now. You’ve tested my patience enough for one day.”

 

She could tell Rime was furious, jaw clenching as he ground his teeth together in frustration. Still, he was either unable or unwilling to challenge her authority; he offered a miniscule bow of the head before retreating without another word.

 

“Come with me,” Lethe said, activating the nearby vault doors and stepping within. She beckoned to the girl to follow her, taking her past shelves of ancient texts and relics, through aisles of datacrons and artifacts. Sierra stepped behind her dutifully, though Lethe could not help but notice the girl glancing around, as though she still suspected Rime might appear at any moment to carry out his threats.

 

Lethe paused occasionally as well, making mental notes of artifacts and holocrons she thought had potential; she had only been here twice since she had assumed ownership of the Citadel. Astraad had ensured that only she and those she authorized had access to this vault of vast knowledge. The only reason she had not delved deep into its stores earlier was to fend off the impression that she needed to bolster her own power to command the Citadel’s denizens. She needed to assure her new power base that their new leader remained strong, independently powerful … without needing to resort to stealing a hated enemy’s secrets.

 

With the possibility that a traitor could be at large, however, Lethe had no choice but to leap headfirst into Orthas’ stores of knowledge. Somewhere here, she would have to find a way to overcome her enemies, both those hidden and those lying in plain sight.

 

First, however, she would explore this opportunity that had walked straight into her path.

 

Lethe and Sierra finally reached a small study tucked in a far corner of the repository. She took her seat at a magnificently ornate desk; she directed Sierra to take the seat across from her with a wave of her hand. “Now that we’re alone … I think it’s time you answered my question.”

 

Sierra paled. “I …”

 

“It’s a simple question, Sierra. You are connected to the Force … you command it with ease; more than even many apprentices. And yet you remain a slave. Why are you not training at the academy? Why have you not reached for the title of an apprentice to the Sith?”

 

Still, the blonde-haired girl balked.

 

Lethe sighed audibly. “... perhaps I was wrong about you. Perhaps I should have let Rime have his way. Shall I fetch him?”

 

Sierra shook her head vehemently. “N-no, master Siphon. I … I’ll tell you.”

 

Lethe sank into her chair for more comfort, motioning with her hand for Sierra to continue.

 

“I did spend time on Korriban … but I never attained the rank of apprentice.”

 

“You failed your trials … and yet you live?” Lethe’s modulated voice did not carry skepticism well, but it would have to do.

 

“I … I fled the Academy,” said Sierra. “The overseer, he … he favored the purebloods among my class. No matter how well I did in the trials, no matter how much stronger I became, he never acknowledged me. I soon realized he never would. He was determined to see his favored pupils ascend and leave the rest of us to languish. I couldn’t overcome him … so I ran.”

 

“Let me guess,” said Lethe. “Harkun.”

 

Sierra nodded. It wasn’t a difficult guess; Overseer Harkun was a renowned xenophobe and classist among the apprentices at the Academy.

 

“I stowed away on a freighter to Ziost,” Sierra continued. “It wasn’t hard to convince the nearest local lord that I was a regular slave, looking for a master. I’ve been hiding my powers ever since then.”

 

“Until Lord Rime forced your hand.”

 

Sierra nodded, shivering. “I … I’ve endured beatings and humiliation before, but it was different this time. Lord Rime was going to kill me, I - I was only defending myself, my lord, you must believe me.”

 

“Of that, I have no doubt. Putting aside your status as a deserter, I’m afraid the fact that you were acting in self defense won’t save you from the wrath of a sith lord.”

 

Sierra’s eyes didn’t blink. “I’m doomed no matter what then.”

 

“So quick to leap to conclusions,” Lethe chuckled lightly; the sound that emitted after modulation sent chills down even her own spine. “If you are resigned to being executed, I certainly can’t stop you. I think you’ll find the alternative I have in mind just slightly more appealing, however.”

 

“My lord?”

 

“I think you just might be the solution to a vexing dilemma.”

 

“Dilemma? Master Siphon, I --”

 

Lethe continued, unabated. “I trust you’ve been trained in the saber forms?”

 

Sierra nodded.

 

“Good. Rime favors Makashi, but tends to transition to Djem So when he cannot overwhelm his opponents with the former. His transition between those two forms is critical; it presents a singular opportunity to take advantage of a blunder in his training, where he exposes a vulnerability on which you can capitalize.”

 

At least, if the intelligence she had received from Astraad was to be believed. It had not failed Lethe yet.

 

“My lord, I don’t understand. What is it you want me to do?” asked Sierra.

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lethe smiled from behind her mask, the wheels in her mind spinning with possibilities. “I want you to kill Lord Rime.”

 

Edited July 26, 2016 by wangxiuming

 

Ziost’s two moons hung like lanterns in the sky, only partially shrouded by storm clouds. Rays of moonlight shimmered through the windows in Lethe’s quarters, painting her room with a faint glow, while a chilling breeze made her breath visible on the air. Lethe debated closing the window and adjusting the environmental controls, but thought better of it. The chill brought a sharpness to her mind, one she suspected she would need.

 

She settled into the seat beside her personal terminal and then activated her holocom, issuing a directive to the Citadel’s central security station. “Redirect the commissary camera feed to the console in my quarters.”

 

Agent Shiro Thresh, a crotchety pureblood Sith who had served Orthas for over thirty years, responded. “My lord?”

 

Lethe never thought she would grow weary of hearing those two words. Then again, she never anticipated she would hear them so often posed as a question to her commands. “Just do it. Now.”

 

The agent did as instructed and her console whirred to life, giving her a good view of the Citadel’s commissary. Rows of tables and benches lined the large hall; from the camera’s vantage point, Lethe could see almost the entire room. In the dead of night, it was entirely abandoned save for a frail-looking young woman - Sierra. The girl looked surprisingly stoic as she proceeded to half-heartedly mop the floors; the faint crimson ceiling lights bathed the room in a bloody hue and gave Sierra a foreboding appearance.

 

Lethe smiled curiously from behind her mask; there was something about this girl that she found intriguing.

 

The next hour would decide her fate.

 

Lethe activated a separate comlink. “Don’t speak. Dump that carton of blue milk on the table to your right down the nearest sink and I’ll know you can hear me.”

 

Sierra obliged, then returned to mopping the floors, glancing about as inconspicuously as she could manage. “Are you sure this is going to work, Master?” Sierra whispered.

 

“I said don’t speak. Don’t worry. There’s no way Rime will let your grievance go unanswered. He’ll find you.”

 

“That wasn’t what I was worried about,” Sierra muttered as she adjusted her earpiece, pulling at her strawberry blonde hair to ensure her link to her master was hidden. Lethe sensed the rising tension in the slave girl’s body language and decided to forego rebuking her for speaking yet again. She needed the young woman to be on her game for their gamble to pay off.

 

The reality was Lethe had no idea if her plan would work … neither did it really matter. She risked little in making this move. All she needed was to drag out a battle between Sierra and Rime; if she had evidence that Rime had trouble putting down a simple ‘slave’, she could discredit and disqualify him from ever taking a seat on her council. Hadrax would have no choice but to withdraw Rime’s nomination. A small victory, yes, but Lethe had no problem asserting her dominance one step at a time.

 

In truth, Lethe doubted Sierra would survive the night … but if the slave girl could eliminate Rime completely, Lethe certainly would not object. Of course, she wasn’t going to tell Sierra that.

 

“Remember. Follow my instructions and you’ll be fine,” said Lethe.

 

Through the video feed, Lethe watched as Sierra’s grip on her mop handle tightened. “I can taste blood in the air.”

 

“Don’t you know yet? It’s yours.”

 

The durasteel doors to the commissary shunted open. Lord Rime stepped into the dining hall proper and whipped out his lightsaber without any fanfare; the scarlet blade spurred to life with a crackling hiss. Lethe set her video feed to record.

 

Sierra backed up two steps. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Lord Rime. Please!”

 

The girl was already going off script. “Don’t beg. Break out your lightsaber.”

 

“Siphon might have saved you this afternoon, but she can’t protect you forever,” said Rime. “Even she has to realize that a slave isn’t worth risking my support, or that of Lord Hadrax.” The Sith lord brandished his weapon, assuming - as Lethe predicted - the first stance of a Makashi offensive.

 

“Now or never, Sierra,” whispered Lethe into the comlink. “Show me you have what it takes. Show me Harkun was wrong about you. Show me you are Sith.”

 

Sierra took a deep breath.

 

Rime charged.

 

The Sith lord’s lightsaber flashed forward and back with lightning-quick strikes. For a second, Lethe thought it was all over. Rime moved with the practiced skill and familiarity of a master - Orthas’ apprentices were all expert duelists - and his attacks were delivered with precise intent. Facing this onslaught, Lethe feared her failed apprentice’s defense would collapse.

 

Instead, Sierra dodged each of Rime’s attacks, countering with thrusts of her mop aimed at Rime’s head and chest.

 

Rime laughed, dodging the attacks easily while baring his yellowed teeth. “You still haven’t learned, have you? You are a slave; you don’t have the right to strike at me!”

 

With three decisive swings, Rime severed Sierra’s makeshift weapon into four pieces, leaving only the handle in the girl’s hands. Sierra didn’t flinch. She flipped what remained of the mop over; from the hollow interior, an apprentice’s training saber fell out. The girl caught it in her free hand and then activated it. A crimson blade emerged to match Rime’s own lightsaber.

 

Of course, Lethe had arranged for that little gift. Training sabers weren’t exactly ideal weapons, but it was all Lethe could manage on short notice. Plus, it would draw the least attention in an investigation and be the most difficult to trace back to her.

 

Sierra pointed her blade at Rime, dropping into the first of the basic Shii-Cho defensive stances.

 

“Step into Soresu,” said Lethe through the comlink. “Rime’s Makashi will pulverize you unless you can parry every single one of his attacks.”

 

Sierra reacted immediately, but her movements did not go unnoticed by Rime. “Not just sensitive to the Force, but trained with a lightsaber? You are no ordinary slave, are you? No wonder you seem so eager to rush to your death.”

 

The two opponents began circling each other as Lethe’s holocom activated once more. Thresh spoke, panic in his voice. “My lord, are you seeing this? There’s some sort of attack going on in the commissary. Should we dispatch a security team?”

 

“No. Lord Rime can handle it.” Lethe didn’t even bother turning to face the agent. She needed to focus on the battle.

 

“Are y-- … Yes, my lord.” The hesitation was evident in the agent’s voice, but Lethe ignored it.

 

Rime made the first move, delivering a series of rapid thrusts. Sierra parried each, dropping low to attempt a sweeping counterattack. Rime dodged backwards, so fast that his whole body was barely a blur through the video feed. As he landed, he slammed his hands forward and then yanked them back, catching Sierra with the Force and pulling her towards him with horrendous speed.

 

“Don’t let him control the tide of battle. Make him fight on your terms.”

 

“UNNGH!” Sierra grunted as she broke free of Rime’s grip at the last second, leaning backwards to slide a hair’s width beneath a slashing attack that would have bisected her had it connected. Not pausing, she leaped over a table, kicking her foot down on the edge and using momentum to bring it up as a makeshift wall. A jolt of lightning followed not half a second later, striking the plasteel harmlessly.

 

Lethe was impressed, but there wasn’t time for praise. “Keep your eyes on your enemy. If you miss his transition to Djem So, you’ll have missed your best chance to survive this battle!”

 

Sierra leaped out from her cover, eyes darting to find her opponent, but Rime had anticipated her move. He dashed forward and sliced downwards with his blade, aiming to cut into Sierra’s shoulder; she barely reacted in time, bringing her own saber up to guard. The collision sent sparks showering everywhere.

 

“Mongrel filth! You dare defend yourself?!”

 

Lethe scoffed; Rime’s words amplifying her disgust. His arrogance was more boundless than she had thought. She held no expectations that Sierra would emerge the victor here, but she hoped - now more than ever - that it was this failed apprentice that would emerge the victor.

 

Sierra was doing well, all things considered. Lethe had the footage she needed; the slave had delayed Rime’s vengeance, longer than Lethe had hoped. With this, she could defame him, and force Hadrax to withdraw his nomination, all without being accused of favoritism or bias against the contender. After submitting a disgrace like Rime for consideration, Hadrax’s future counsel would also be undermined in the eyes of the entire power base.

 

At this point, the girl was entirely expendable.

 

And still, she couldn’t help but root for this slave, this failed apprentice who abandoned the Academy. Not just because Rime was a self-important imbecile. She saw something in the girl - something that reminded Lethe of herself. “Stay cautious,” she whispered through the comlink. “It won’t be long now.”

 

Sierra, still struggling to keep Rime’s overhead swing from cutting into her shoulder, summoned the Force to fling nearby benches at the pureblood. The first smacked into Rime’s head; screaming his fury, the pureblood redirected his attention to the incoming debris, knocking his lifeless assailants aside with swings from his free arm.

 

The distraction was enough to allow Sierra to break free from their stalemate; she dashed away from Rime as quickly as she could - towards Lethe’s camera. “Reposition,” said Lethe. “You’re moving outside my field of vis--”

 

But it was too late. Rime pursued with a thrilling howl, boxing Sierra into a corner of the room before she could escape: the corner just beneath the camera, just outside its view. Lethe cursed under her breath. There weren’t any other cameras in the commissary. Sierra would have to fight without her direct guidance.

 

“Remember, strike when you see him change saber forms!”

 

For what seemed like an eternity, all she could hear were the vicious swings of lightsabers and their collisions with each other as sparks sprayed in all directions. Her video feed bathed in the crimson light from the duelists’ weapons. Without being able to see what was happening, Lethe could only wait. She briefly considered heading to the commissary herself, before dismissing the idea. Better to let things play out; she couldn’t risk being accused of actively siding with a rebellious slave or she would risk invalidating everything she had accomplished

 

A howl pierced the comfeed, unmistakably Rime’s, bursting with rage. A pained cry followed from Sierra. “N-no, please! Mercy! Mercy!”

 

It was over. Lethe heard the unmistakable sizzle of a lightsaber piercing flesh, followed by the thunk of a body hitting the ground. A resigned sigh escaped her lips … still, she had what she needed. Sierra’s death would not be wasted, her sacrifice, not forgo--

 

A lithe young woman’s body emerged back into the camera feed. Sierra was exhausted, struggling to keep herself standing, but there was no doubt: she was alive.

 

That could only mean ...

 

Lethe felt a surge of adrenaline course through her veins. A victory for the deserving. Death for the pompous and unworthy. There could be no sweeter outcome.

 

“My lord?!” came the startled cry from the security command center. “Are you seeing this? Lord Rime … I think he’s fallen!”

 

“Yes, it does appear that way, doesn’t it?” said Lethe, not bothering to hide her utter apathy at the Sith lord’s death, indeed, desperately trying to ensure her glee could not be discerned from her tone.

 

A screeching alarm began ringing out through the Citadel. The fool Thresh had activated a stronghold-wide alert.

 

“Sending word to Lord Hadrax. I’ll have a security detail rendezvous with him and --”

 

“Belay that,” snapped Lethe. “This matter is beneath Hadrax. Your security team will be enough to arrest that woman. Have her brought directly to my quarters - unharmed. Do you understand?”

 

“My lord, she’s slain Lord Rime!”

 

“DO AS I SAY, Thresh. And silence that infuriating alarm.”

 

Begrudgingly, Thresh conceded. “As you command, Darth Siphon.”

 

As soon as the communication with the central security station cut out, Lethe returned her attention to the failed apprentice that had slain a Sith lord. The girl seemed unsure of what to do with herself, continuously glancing towards the camera.

 

“You’ve done marvelously, Sierra. Truly, magnificent work.”

 

“I … what should I do now?”

 

“Put down your weapon and be ready to surrender yourself. I’ve sent a security detail to fetch you. Do not resist.”

 

Sierra nodded, setting down her training saber and preemptively putting her hands behind her head as she fell to her knees. “ … is it over?”

 

Lethe smiled, unseen. “It’s only the beginning for you.”

 

As Thresh’s team descended into the commissary, Lethe deactivated the comlink and adjusted her robes. The exhilaration from her victory still rushed through her veins; in one fell swoop, she had eliminated Rime, undermined Hadrax’s credibility, and gained an invaluable tool. Things could not have gone better.

 

All that remained was to welcome the young woman that was about to become her first true apprentice.

 

Edited July 21, 2016 by wangxiuming

 

Orthas’ repository held a whole host of lost artifacts; from datacrons to ancient lightsabers, the vault housed them all upon shelves and pedestals that lined the entire room. Lethe strolled the aisles casually, commanding the Force to extract the relics she had noted on her earlier trip, compelling them to trail behind her in what must have looked like an odd procession of levitating curios.

 

“What are we doing here, master?” asked Sierra.

 

“We are arming ourselves with as much power as we can, apprentice. I suspect some among my followers will not be pleased you slew Lord Rime. You need to be prepared; I will not always be present to protect you.”

 

It was a half truth; Lethe saw no reason to share her own dire need for power with her fledgling apprentice. But having an aid in delving through the secrets of these relics would still be helpful … and had an added bonus of keeping Sierra out of the reach of any of Rime’s vengeful friends.

 

“I … I see. I apologize, my lord, it was not my intention to burden.”

 

“Burden? No. You’ve already done me a great service.”

 

Sierra paused thoughtfully before asking “ … was Lord Rime your enemy?”

 

Lethe chuckled humorlessly. “I’m surprised your experience with your overseer has not taught you more of what it means to be Sith. Enemies are everywhere, Sierra. Even among allies. That is the first and most important lesson you should learn if you want to survive in the Empire.”

 

“Are … we enemies? I mean … I would never consider you an enemy, master, but … what you said ...”

 

Lethe paused mid-step; the cloud of relics hovering between her and Sierra froze in place. She turned around and looked upon the girl more closely. She looked impossibly young for an eighteen year old, decorated with a splash of idealism that the Empire had somehow not managed to quash in her spirit even after years of slavery and servitude.

 

“What would you do if I said we were?” asked Lethe.

 

Sierra did not speak for a long moment. “ … I don’t know.”

 

“Honest,” said Lethe, appraising the girl’s reaction carefully. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

 

“You didn’t answer my question,” insisted Sierra.

 

“Overly curious. That could be deadly too …” Lethe turned around and returned to perusing the shelves. “No, Sierra. We are not enemies. Not now. But if history is any indication, it is inevitable that we will be one day. It is an apprentice’s destiny, after all, to either surpass their master, or to be killed in the attempt.”

 

“Then why help me? Why do any of this if we’re destined to fight each other? Why would any Sith take any apprentices?”

 

Lethe chuckled at the girl’s naivete. “Because while we may betray and be betrayed, we may still have use for each other up until that point. And even in that betrayal, or perhaps because of that betrayal, we come to know our limits, come to know ourselves better than we otherwise ever would. There is much to be learned in betrayal … by both master and pupil.”

 

“Through passion, we gain strength,” said Sierra.

 

Lethe nodded, but in her heart of hearts, she did not believe what she said. She parroted Siphon’s teachings, outmoded Sith teachings, but wasn’t even sure why. She did not need to convince a slave that she was the ‘real’ Siphon.

 

Perhaps she had worn the mask for too long.

 

“Does that mean you killed your own master too?” Sierra considered that fact for a minute before continuing. “What was your master like?”

 

Normally, incessant questioning would have driven Lethe to extreme aggravation, but with this young woman - ten years her junior, who so reminded Lethe of herself at that age - she found herself more willing than usual to answer. The problem with this particular question? She knew precious little about Siphon’s master, apart from what the rest of the Empire already knew. Thankfully, the man was dead and his powerbase scattered. No one would refute what she said about him now.

 

“Baras. And no, I did not have the privilege of slaying him. But that only means I will not have to step over his particular corpse to surpass him.”

 

“That name … is familiar.”

 

Lethe quirked a brow from behind her mask. “I would have thought even an apprentice-in-training would have recognized the name of the False Voice.”

 

“You don’t mean … Darth Baras. Defeated by the true Wrath of the Emperor.” Sierra let loose a breath of awe.

 

Lethe nodded. “The one and the same. He was ambitious, to say the least. I suppose we have that in common. Then again, few Sith would disclaim that description.”

 

Perhaps one day Lethe would reveal the truth to Sierra. But for now, the lies would have to do. Thankfully, the girl did not press the matter further.

 

Lethe found the last of the relics she had been searching for and then motioned for Sierra to follow her back to the study. There, she used the Force to gently set down the stack of holocrons and ancient tablets she had gathered, careful not to allow them to disturb each other.

 

“They whisper,” said Sierra. “Is that … supposed to happen?”

 

Lethe nodded. The whispers of thousands years’ worth of knowledge at her fingertips. “Secrets, waiting to be heard. Of wisdom, of power. You should be honored, Sierra. None have had the privilege of enjoying the bounty that this vault contains, save for Darth Orthas and myself.”

 

The girl nodded obediently, a hesitant smile spreading across her face. “Where do we start?”

 

“Take the tablets. Translating them is your first task. I will review the other relics.”

 

Sierra grimaced, but had the sense not to make a fuss. “Yes, master.”

 

They began their arduous work. Sierra perused the tablets particularly slowly; apparently transcription and translation were not her strong suits. Lethe could not be bothered with aiding her, however. The tablets were busywork to keep Sierra out of Lethe’s way. She had real power to seek, and dozens of relics from which to siphon that power: there was the Holocron of the Seven Moons, left by a Sith lord who had once challenged Naga Sadow on Korriban; the lightsaber of Kaigan Threnn, a fallen Jedi who had been amongst those who discovered Ziost; the Insidious Focus, a Massassi ritualistic totem that had survived countless millenia.

 

Lethe delved deep into the hearts of these relics, all of them … and yet, she gained but superficial knowledge. A smattering of power - not nearly what she had hoped. Not enough to defend against the real Siphon.

 

Days passed with master and pupil buried in the vault’s study. From dawn to dusk, they buried themselves in the work, their only rest coming when the twin moons of Ziost dared to signal that another day had passed. The research progressed at an agonizing pace, and frustratingly, without results. Lethe threw aside artifact after artifact. Nothing here was of any use.

 

How could this vault of knowledge contain nothing but outmoded techniques and discredited teachings?!

 

Finally, after examining what must have been the seventh discredited replica of a holocron that supposedly belonged to Darth Revan, Lethe could not contain her frustration any longer. In a fit of fury, she swept aside all of the relics still remaining on her desk, sending them flying. Some of them combusted in sparks and flame as they touched each other. Others merely fell to the ground, impotent and empty.

 

Sierra tried to placate her: “Don’t worry, master. We’ll find something. I know we will … and I should have said this earlier. Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

 

The girl still thought Lethe’s efforts were to save her. It was … quaint. And unlike any Sith Lethe had ever met. Except, perhaps Lord Rend, the real Siphon’s favored disciple. He had died in the battle against Orthas but had a similarly curious personality. She couldn’t say she disliked it … she never had to fear politicking and backstabbing from Rend.

 

“Why do you want to be Sith, Sierra?” she asked. “Don’t think. Just answer.”

 

“I …”

 

Lethe shook her head. “Ah-ah. Just answer.”

 

Sierra nodded. “Power. I want power.”

 

That’s what it always came down to, didn’t it?

 

“Why do you want power?” Lethe pressed.

 

“I … I never want to be hurt like Lord Rime was going to hurt me, like he and others like him had done so many times before. Never again. I thought I could go back to being a slave, to keeping my head down and minding my own business, praying that no one would notice me, that no one would see me and think I was … prey, to be hunted. A victim, to be toyed with. Never again. Never again.”

 

Her voice was shaking by the end of her answer, but her hands had curled into resolute fists, determined and proud.

 

“... It’s not enough.”

 

Sierra’s fists faltered. “My lord?”

 

“It’s not enough to defend yourself,” said Lethe, speaking from her heart for the first time in a long time. “You have to use it to control. To assert your dominance. To master. That’s the only way you can ensure that no one will ever dare hurt you again.”

 

“But … you said that --”

 

Lethe ignored her apprentice. “I’m going to tell you a story. Tell me the lesson you see in it.”

 

Once, there were two friends, young, born to slaves, closer than sisters. Inseparable. Both touched by the Force. When their latent talents were discovered, their master sent them to the Academy on Korriban.

 

The younger of the two girls was the stronger one. Though the older girl was powerful in her own right, next to her friend, her talent was a pale imitation. Even so, for many months their friendship endured, surviving the trials, overcoming the challenges that would have torn asunder weaker alliances. They both earned their elevation beyond slavery, and together, they promised each other that they would seize power to enact change. They would overthrow antiquated traditions and hierarchies. They would be better than all the rest.

 

Both girls fell under the tutelage of the same Sith Lord. For some time further, their ambitions remained united even as the younger girl far-surpassed her friend. Both were ambitious, but it was the younger one that drew all their master’s attention. She was on track to become lord; indeed, was lord in all but name, when their master came to her with a final test. They spoke in private about the girl’s future, her title, her soon-to-be new name. And then the conversation turned to the nature of that last trial. That last challenge, on which rested the deciding factor over whether she ever became more than a mere apprentice.

 

The price of ascension was the blood of her sister. Her master saw their friendship as a crutch, a weakness. Only one of them could survive.

 

Naturally, the young Sith girl was horrified. To survive, to ascend, she would have to make an unthinkable sacrifice. She would have to choose between herself and her friend. A sister in all but name. One whose loyalties were unfaltering, beyond reproach.

 

For three days, she tarried, stuck in an unbreakable loop of emotion. Finally, she came to her decision.

 

She approached her friend … and begged her to flee. She would not betray her sister, her family. They were blood beyond what ran through her veins. Together, they could escape, make new lives for themselves, realize their dreams in another way. She pulled at her friend’s arm, desperate to bring them both to safety.

 

Her friend put a lightsaber through her chest. Their master had come to her too … had wanted to see who would have the conviction of purpose, would have the ambition to --

 

Lethe stopped speaking, struggling to contain the emotion of memories she thought long buried. The tear that welled up at the corner of her right eye was still hidden by her mask, but she could not afford the tremble that threatened to make its way into her voice.

 

After a long pause, Sierra finally spoke. “That’s … horrible.”

 

“The tale was not told to elicit sympathy,” Lethe hissed, even as the tear in her eye trickled down her cheek, cold against the metal of her mask. “There is a crucial lesson to be learned … what do you think it is?”

 

Sierra considered for a long moment before finally answering. “She should not have let love for her friend drag her down.”

 

Lethe shook her head in frustration. “No, no. Love is not a choice. Love is a compulsion. Love defies reason, defies free will. The girl could no more change her feelings for her friend, anymore than a crystal could change its own color.”

 

“Then … she should have ignored her feelings, she should have cast them aside to strike the first blow.”

 

“No. Their mistake was accepting the premise their master had presented at all. If she had only united with her sister, had joined in purpose … they could have defeated their master. They could have proved that ridiculous trial to be the farce that it was. They could have chosen defiance.”

 

Did Sierra not understand? Was it a mistake for Lethe to have chosen her?

 

“Don’t you see?” asked Lethe. “This is why power is meant for more than simply to shield, to defend, to protect. Power is needed for control. For rebellion and for domination. For victory. No amount of power could have shielded the girl from a sister’s betrayal, but with enough power, they could have defied their master from the beginning.”

 

“I … I see.” But Sierra’s voice could not hide her doubt.

 

Perhaps there was a reason beyond Harkun’s prejudice that Sierra had failed the trials after all. Lethe was beginning to question whether she had made the right choice in saving this girl. She regretted relaying the story now, a tale too close to her actual history to offer to an unreliable ally. Perhaps she would have to take measures --

 

“My lord,” said Sierra. “If it is power we seek, why don’t we turn to the Holocrons of Ancient Sorcery?”

 

Lethe whirled around. How could she have forgotten?

 

“When Darth Orthas defeated Darth Miro, he captured the holocrons as spoils of his victory,” the girl continued. “They have to be here somewhere, right?”

 

The Holocrons of Ancient Sorcery. Lethe had heard Siphon covet these holocrons for a decade, had watched her insinuate herself into Miro’s good graces for just a chance at snatching them from the aged Sith’s clutches. When Orthas struck first and seized the holocrons, Siphon’s rage could be felt through the Force. Through all this time, the rumors of the powers they granted were the things of myths: eternal life, unprecedented control of the Force, unparalleled knowledge and insight. The only caveat: none had ever been able to decipher their encryption and unlock their secrets.

 

Had he done so, Lethe suspected Orthas would not have fallen in that final battle at Twinspire Keep.

 

But, she had not seen the holocrons anywhere in Orthas’ repository.

 

“Retire to my quarters for now, Sierra. Your suggestion has merit, but I must attend to other matters at the moment.”

 

“But Master --”

 

One look from Lethe silenced her, and Sierra obediently dismissed herself.

 

Lethe would properly reward her later. She did not doubt that her initial inventory of the vault had been thorough, but it would not hurt to do another search, in private. In the meantime …

 

She activated her comlink and directed its signal to her intelligence operation. “Agent Thresh.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” came the immediate response. “How can I serve?”

 

“The Holocrons of Ancient Sorcery. Where are they?”

 

She expected surprise, but Thresh responded without missing a beat. “Those ancient Sith cubes? I believe they are being included in a tribute to the Dark Council. Is something the matter?”

 

Lethe didn’t understand. “Why would we offer those as --”

 

A realization struck her like violent lightning. Astraad had arranged the tribute. What was he playing at, relinquishing relics as powerful as these were supposed to be?

 

“My lord? I’m not … I’m not sure, exactly. The preparations were made in accordance with Lord Astraad’s instructions.”

 

“I am overriding those instructions now. Deliver the Holocrons to me.”

 

“Of course, Darth Siphon,” said Thresh, his voice as confused as ever. “I’ll have them withdrawn from the tribute immediately and sent to your quarters. Shall I assume you wish to continue to keep their existence a secret from the rest of your disciples, my lord?”

 

“... yes.” Lethe cursed beneath her breath. Something was afoot here; she could almost hear it, like a whisper just out of range. “Who currently among my followers know of the holocrons?”

 

“Darth Orthas ordered me to keep silent about them. I do not know who else he told, but when you assumed command, Lord Astraad indicated to me that you wished to maintain Orthas’ veil of secrecy. I had assumed those were your instructions.”

 

Astraad. Was this his goal all along? Was this why he supported Siphon’s bid to win the Kaggath and unify their powerbases? If he was delivering the holocrons to the Dark Council, did they hold his true loyalties?

 

Something else struck Lethe’s realization. Thresh’ words: Orthas ordered him to keep silent about the holocrons. She had no doubt the agent was telling the truth. Orthas would not have wanted his disciples coveting the relics, plotting to steal them from their own master. But then … how could Sierra have known about them?

 

“Thresh. Listen to me very carefully. If Lord Astraad attempts to impart my voice to his words again, verify them with me before you take any action. Do you understand?”

 

“Of course m-my lord.”

 

“Do not tell him of anything we’ve discussed today. If I find that you have betrayed me, that you place your loyalty to a Lord above a Darth … trust me, I will ensure that you and yours pay the ultimate price. Is that clear?”

 

“A-absolutely. You are my lord and m-master, I dare not defy you.”

 

“Good.” Lethe disconnected the comlink. She paused for a second, and then dashed it against the nearest wall, watching it shatter into a dozen pieces.

 

Was this what leadership meant in the Empire? Was this what Siphon and Orthas and the Dark Council all had to contend with on a daily basis? Treachery and machinations at every turn, plots within plots to unravel her efforts and steal what was rightfully hers. Astraad, attempting to conceal his effort to deliver the Holocrons of Ancient Sorcery to the Dark Council. Sierra, possessing knowledge that no slave should reasonably possess.

 

One way or another, she would get to the bottom of this.

 

“Did you hear, my lord? The latest news from Ziost?”

 

Lord Beral sliced smoothly into the perfectly seared bantha steak before her. She gently dipped a piece into a rosey garlic sauce before placing the morsel into her mouth, savoring the taste and texture of the meat first only with her tongue. Her teeth chewed into the flesh, releasing more savory juice with each bite. She swallowed, allowing herself a moment to enjoy the rush of satisfaction that only came with unrepentant consumption.

 

Finally, she looked to her companion, a rather meager looking human sith with greying hair and a receding hairline; in comparison to Beral’s own towering figure, the man seemed like a child. “Of course, it’s been the talk of all the intelligence networks for the last two months. Siphon has toppled Orthas.” She directed a penetrating gaze towards him. “ … Most seemed certain that such an outcome was unthinkable.”

 

“What’s more interesting is how she managed to convince Orthas’ followers to fall into line.”

 

Beral looked up from her meal to her companion; the observation was a particularly shrewd one to come from Pallas; as a middling sith lord of no notable accomplishments, he did not frequently offer valuable insight. Beral indulged his presence mostly because he offered a reliable source of news.

 

“ … you’re not eating, Pallas. Is the meat not rare enough for your tastes?”

 

She asked the question knowing full well that Pallas preferred his steak well-done. The man had only touched the outer edges of the flank of meat, slicing the thinnest of strips he could and drowning them in the nearby mushroom sauce.

 

Still, she knew that he would loathe to refuse her, and therefore be forced to pretend to be delighted at the meal. It was an unsubtle method Beral enjoyed employing to reinforce the fact that his status stood firmly beneath hers.

 

“N-no, not at all. It’s quite delicious, truly.”

 

Beral smiled, glancing from Pallas - his face now filled with grim determination to complete his meal - to outside the enormous bay window that lined the wall to her dining chamber. Rain splattered against the glass, unrelenting as it ever was at Kaas City. She turned back to her meal and carved another hunk of meat; it dripped with juice even as she delivered it to her waiting tongue.

 

“So … how long do you give it before Siphon is assassinated by her ‘followers?’”

 

“It’s difficult to say,” Pallas said, still struggling to swallow steak that Beral suspected he had only barely chewed. It took him a few gulps before his throat cleared enough to speak again. “My spies tell me there are already whispers of sedition seeping through her ranks, but it’s too early to tell whether they can unite against her.”

 

“I must admit I am very intrigued to see how this will play out.” She downed her last bite of bantha with a gloriously aged glass of Kaas red. “Keep an eye on the situation for me, won’t you my dear?”

 

“As you wish, Lord Beral. A favor for an ally is only to be expected.”

 

Beral caught the sith eyeing her intently, clearly eager for any sign that he could conclude their repast.

 

“Ally? Come now, Pallas. You are a welcome guest in my home and at my table. My best chef has prepared his finest meal for you. Certainly we can call each other friends?”

 

Pallas blinked, taken aback. “I supp-- I mean, of course, Lord Beral. My friend.”

 

“Very good. Come then, my friend, you still have so much of your meal left! And while you dine, I think this will be a good opportunity for you to shed some light on all the delightful gossip you’ve heard since we last met.”

 

Pallas could not quite hide the look of disappointment from his face. Beral smiled, unabashed.

 

Edited October 18, 2016 by wangxiuming

I just don't get why nobody's commenting on this! It's a really, really great story! I like how you aren't orientating yourself on the ingame storyline, but creating one of your own!

 

 

 

(Yeah.... I'm not much of a comment-writer.... Sorry!)

The writing here really is most excellent. The plot is very well thought out and it is a wonderful portrayal of sith intrigues, plans, betrayal, etc. The descriptions of places and people is insightful and quite beautiful in some places.

 

 

 

 

I will be eagerly waiting for more.

Edited July 27, 2016 by MishaCantu

Thanks so much for your feedback! A few comments in bold within the spoiler tags.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm really enjoying your story! Finally got all caught up! Nicely done!

 

 

 

 

The doors to Lethe’s chambers slid open smoothly. Sierra was waiting for her in the antechamber, looking anxious as she fiddled with her fingers.

 

“Did you find them, Master?” Sierra asked.

 

Lethe wasted no time and seized the girl’s robes, dragging her forward in a fluid demonstration of physical strength. “How did you know about the holocrons?!”

 

“M-my lord?!”

 

“Thresh tells me that only a select few were informed of the holocrons’ existence. How is it that a failed apprentice masquerading as a slave came to learn of them?”

 

Frantically, Sierra clutched at Lethe’s arm. “I - I was a slave to Darth Miro! He was the Sith lord that accepted me into his care. You must believe me, master, please!”

 

A slave to Miro. That in itself wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. A slave could have easily been taken as spoils; Orthas could have taken her when he slew Miro, but ...

 

Lethe didn’t relent, pushing Sierra up against the wall, forcing her hand around the apprentice’s neck. “That begs the same question. Why would Miro allow you to have this knowledge?”

 

Choking, Sierra could barely answer, “I was his personal attendant. He trusted me.”

 

There was one way Lethe could know for sure. She reached into the Force, drawing into a well of power that few others could match, a talent that even the real Siphon had acknowledged in her. With her thumb, she pushed Sierra’s chin upwards so that the girl faced the ceiling. With the Force, she pushed inwards, tearing down her fledgling apprentice’s mental walls, breaching the sealed gates that barred access to the girl’s mind.

 

Sierra screamed her agony.

 

Lethe saw. She witnessed flashes of Sierra’s memory, felt the adrenaline course through the girl’s veins in her battle with Rime. She felt the terror the girl felt during their confrontation in the halls, experienced the uncertainty and doubt that was hearing the news that Orthas had been defeated and that a new master now made her way to the Citadel.

 

Lethe pushed deeper. The walls were strong, stronger than many who had been trained in the Force. Sierra fought her, fought the invasion of her mind. It was an instinct, Lethe knew, a reflex to defend herself, a barrier thrown up to keep invaders out.

 

They fell nonetheless against Lethe’s unrelenting assault. This was always her specialty. Sierra was no match.

 

She saw the day that Orthas stormed Darth Miro’s stronghold, witnessed the terror as the pureblood struck down her master as he pleaded for mercy. She saw flashes of Sierra’s servitude, her waiting upon the decrepit Sith lord, the day that Miro found her crawling through the streets of New Adasta. She felt the anxiety of being a stowaway on a ship, the determination to survive, to overcome.

 

She had seen enough. It was all true.

 

Lethe released her hold and Sierra slumped against the wall, falling to her knees.

 

“Such … power,” said Sierra breathlessly, her chest heaving in exhaustion.

 

“You suffered it bravely,” replied Lethe, nodding her approval. “I had to know the truth.”

 

“Then … you believe me?” asked Sierra.

 

“Yes, though dragging the truth from your mind was not as easy a task as I imagined. Your mental defenses are far superior to any apprentice I have ever known.”

 

Still panting, Sierra got back on her feet. “Darth Miro’s work. He knew others would seek the Holocrons’ power, and did not want his attendant’s mind to be a source of vulnerability.”

 

“It seemed he had plenty of vulnerabilities of his own, to be defeated so easily,” said Lethe. “Why didn’t he use the Holocrons’ power to defend himself?”

 

“I don’t know. He only told me that its secrets were locked away … and that in the wrong hands, they could be an immeasurable threat to the Empire.”

 

“Your former master had a flair for the dramatic,” Lethe said dismissively. “It’s time those secrets were mine.”

 

On cue, a knock rapped at the door before the sliding panels parted to reveal a pair of Thresh’ lieutenants. Behind them, a sealed crate rested at their feet. Even sheltered within a plasteel prison, Lethe could feel the holocrons’ power emanating forth, a deluge kept at bay only through force of will. Even with all of Lethe’s training, all the power she had already amassed … the pressure threatened to devour her whole.

 

This was the power she sought. This was the answer to all of her problems.

 

Beside her, she saw Sierra visibly stumble to keep from collapsing.

 

“A-a-apologies ... Darth Siphon. Agent Thresh asked us ... deliver this to ... you.” The agents stuttered, movements jerky and unnatural, as though they fought an unseen entity just to get the words out.

 

“Leave,” said Lethe. Thresh’ agents were only too happy to oblige, scurrying away as fast as their hindered legs could take them.

 

“M-master … what is this? What’s h-happening?”

 

“The price of power, apprentice. Miro never showed them to you?”

 

The girl shook her head; a trail of blood leaked from her nostril.

 

“It seems you’re not ready for it. Go, return to your quarters and prepare yourself. Change is coming to this corner of the Empire, Sierra, and we are its heralds.”

 

 

Use us.

 

Alone in her quarters, Lethe cleared a large open space for herself to work. She levitated the plasteel chest to her side, throwing open the lid and summoning six polyhedrons forth to encircle her. The Holocrons of Ancient Sorcery. They weren’t cubes as Thresh stated, though Lethe hardly expected him to understand anything of these Sith relics: instead, they were four-sided pyramids decorated with ancient runes and inscriptions. The holocrons seemed remarkably small; she could hold them all in the palm of a single hand.

 

They whispered their shared desire.

 

Unlock us.

 

They spun in place around her, slow enough that Lethe could piece together the ancient inscription carved into their sides:

 

Ancient is our power,

boundless, our ambition.

All who would defy us,

know only submission.

 

Before she stole Siphon’s identity, before the Kaggath, Lethe - like many other Sith - had suspected the holocrons were but a myth. If they were real, then she assumed the secrets locked within to be paltry tricks, techniques lost to time due to their inability to compete with new developments in Sith magic. She hadn’t understood why the real Siphon had so coveted these relics, why it was such a blow when Orthas seized them from under her master’s nose.

 

Now, there was no question.

 

Command us.

 

What they lacked in size, they made up for in power. Up close and encircling her form, she could feel the raw, unbridled Force that emanated from within them. In the air, they whispered hints of their secrets, enlightened the briefest of reflections to the knowledge they contained. Even these momentary glimpses inspired awe.

 

Unbind us. Release us. Free us.

 

She saw a power that spanned centuries, a power to consume. A power to compel.

 

She saw countless faces that spoke with one voice. Her voice. Her will.

 

She saw towering spires pierce the heavens at her command.

 

She saw an empire reborn in her image.

 

Unleash us.

 

She couldn’t breathe, and yet exhilaration tumbled through her veins as she felt true power in her grasp. Six holocrons, six pyramids. They whispered, waiting for the key. None had ever been able to unravel the cipher to commanding the Holocrons’ power.

 

But an idea formed in her mind. How could none have seen this solution? How could Miro not have known? How could Orthas have failed to grasp its simplicity? It was almost like the holocrons themselves wanted Lethe - and only Lethe - to know, like the artifacts had unlocked themselves for her eager mind.

 

There was no time for these irrelevant questions. There was only one concern, only one purpose. Through the Force, she united the holocrons into a single, larger form, a pyramid of ancient knowledge united, unlocked, unleashed. The holocrons crackled with energy, discharging lightning and shockwaves as their edges sealed against each other.

 

Blinding light engulfed her chambers and power washed over her in waves, charging her blood, her sight, her mind. Indomitable power.

 

Overwhelming power.

 

Something wasn’t right. This … this wasn’t her power. Not entirely. Not yet. It had a mind of its own, a will that was as strong as any she had ever felt, perhaps stronger. Such strength. It threatened to devour her, to shut her out of her own mind.

 

Defy us.

 

She forcibly snapped herself from her trance and the now singular Holocron crashed to the floor; curiously, it made no sound as it did so, did not bounce or move a single inch further from the place it landed. Instead, it fell with purpose, as though it was meant to fall where it had and would not move, would not budge a single millimeter further. Lethe gasped against her will, staring at the object on the floor of her chambers with a mixture of fear and wonderment.

 

There was power here, of that there was no question. But could she control it? Could she command its knowledge?

 

Is this what Miro feared? Could the ramblings of the dead Sith have possessed merit after all?

 

The sound of an incoming communication rang out from her holocom. Lethe answered it, voice rasping as she realized her throat had become parched. “What is it?”

 

It was Cyriak. “My lord. I am terribly sorry to disturb you, but it seems Hadrax has demanded that the council convene. I suspect he does not want your presence at the meeting … which is why I take the liberty now of contacting you.”

 

That swine. Hadrax dared to convene Lethe’s own council without inviting her?

 

“Thank you Cyriak,” she said, struggling to keep from raising her still-breathless voice. “I will be sure to see you at the assembly.”

 

Cyriak’s shimmering face smiled deviously. “Of course, Darth Siphon. Until then.” The pureblood’s cerulean form vanished, signaling the end of the call.

 

Lethe went to pick up the holocron from the floor; even as her fingertips neared it, she could feel power swell within her, could hear the voices whisper in her mind once more, voices that could only belong to those who created the holocrons. Millennia of ancient power. They demanded Lethe to release the holocron’s true potential.

 

She had every intention to do just that.

 

Her hands finally grasped the now-singular holocron; it was as cold as ice, sapping the heat from her body. She winced, but bore through the pain, bringing her prize to the center of her quarters where she activated a hidden compartment that spun upwards from the floor to reach her waist. It was just the right size to house the holocron. Lethe had had this little secret installed soon after arriving at the Citadel. The compartment itself was made of enhanced cortosis, and its activation was locked behind a security code that only she possessed. Nothing would be able to penetrate this vault, at least not without an alert being sent to her.

 

She watched as her secret chamber sank once more back into the flooring of her quarters, hidden from prying eyes.

 

It was only a matter of time. The Holocron of Ancient Sorcery would bend to her will, and she would command all that it possessed. She had received but a taste of its power, and already she knew that it was the key to the realization of all her ambitions. With it, she would ascend beyond the power of a Darth, beyond the Dark Council even. She would be Empress … a Queen to take the place of the old Emperor … a Dark Lady of the Sith. She would tear down his empire for a new one. One free of the old prejudices and false ideologies that plagued everything he had touched.

 

And it would surmount all that came before.

 

Behind her mask, Lethe's smile spread so wide across her face that it hurt.

 

Edited July 28, 2016 by wangxiuming

Lethe is gathering forces rather quickly and I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. She is showing a hubris that has felled more than one dark lord and I wonder where her lust for power will lead. She is covering her backside by strength of will alone, considering her start as a rather inept imposter. With all the different pieces in play, it will be interesting to see the story unfold.

I'm really enjoying this, you have a lovely way with words and the beats in your story. I love the use of verse and the story within the story to further it too. And in the latest chapter, I really liked the way you described the holocrons and the way they interacted with Lethe. She's quite the ambitious one. I'm looking forward to more!

Thank you Misha and Luna. I really value your feedback. A few comments to your comments in the spoilertag below:

 

 

 

 

 

“This is an outrage!” Hadrax slammed both his hands down onto the circular council table, the lone counselor standing while Lethe, Astraad and Cyriak remained unmoved in their seats. Across from Lethe, a shimmering blue vision of General Ravain sat, also unimpressed by the pureblood’s outburst.

 

Lethe didn’t even bother looking up from her pronounced examination of the stitching on her leather gloves, a portrait of utter indifference. “What is, Hadrax? That you thought you could call this council without me?”

 

She watched Hadrax grit his teeth as his tongue loosed bald-faced lies. “The holocom must have malfunctioned, my lord. I was positive the invitation had been sent.”

 

His voice held back an anger that he could barely contain - but his actions had incensed Lethe just as much. She was fast running out of patience for his audacity.

 

“Lord Rime was a pillar among our disciples,” continued Hadrax. “His murder cannot go unpunished.”

 

Cyriak snorted. “A crumbling pillar, perhaps. If Rime fell so easily to a slave of all things, perhaps your bountiful praise for the man was not deserved.”

 

Astraad didn’t say a word; his eyes squared on Lethe. She found that stare to be more aggravating by the day.

 

“That woman was no mere slave,” replied Hadrax. “My informants tell me she’s actually an apprentice in training who failed her trials and abandoned the Academy. Rime did not fall to any servile thrall. She is sensitive to the Force, she is trained in the lightsaber forms!”

 

“Well, that makes his defeat look so much less humiliating, doesn’t it, Hadrax?” asked Cyriak. “A lord losing a duel to an apprentice who couldn’t even pass her trials. Woe is he, woe to the fallen.”

 

Lethe couldn’t help but empathize with the sneering delight Cyriak took from Rime’s defeat.

 

Hadrax ignored Cyriak, refocusing his attention to Lethe. “All of that is beside the point. The slave killed one of her masters. She must be made an example.”

 

“I quite agree,” said Lethe. Cyriak turned to her in surprise. Hadrax looked like he needed a minute to collect his jaw from the ground.

 

“She should serve as an example,” Lethe continued. “ … an example to all of our followers that it is not status or class or purity of blood that determines who should excel under my rule. It is achievement. It is skill. It is power.”

 

Hadrax’s eyes bulged so wide, they looked as though they wanted to escape their sockets. His anger made the top of his head - bald as it was, save for the long braid at the back - look remarkably like a wrinkled egg. “You cannot be serious, my lord. You would reward this putrid human for her insubordination?”

 

“I reward those who can prove they’ve earned it,” said Lethe. “Which is why I have decided to take Sierra as my personal apprentice. Spread the word. Any who challenge her, challenge me.”

 

Hadrax’s face somehow turned an even deeper shade of red.

 

Cyriak laughed, completely elated. “You can’t deny she’s earned her place, Hadrax. Putting down a Sith lord; that’s something to which even apprentices that did pass their trails would be hard-pressed to lay claim.”

 

The other pureblood didn’t speak another word. Instead, he whirled around and stormed out of the council chamber, his robes and braid fluttering like angry banners in the wind.

 

For just a moment, Lethe allowed herself the pleasure of imagining his expression after she severed that ridiculous hair from Hadrax’s head.

 

As her glee subsided and reality set back in, Lethe sighed inwardly; she had suspected Hadrax’s reaction to Rime’s defeat would be negative, but she also thought he would have been quick to disavow Rime the moment he learned that his nominee had lost a duel to a failed apprentice. She had underestimated his loyalty to a fellow disciple of Orthas … and that could prove dangerous if she intended to keep Hadrax’s allegiance. Much as his behavior warranted discipline, now was not yet the time.

 

“The slavegirl does seem curiously powerful.” Astraad spoke his first words that meeting as he watched Hadrax depart. “Rime was second to few in our organization.”

 

“We merely held him in high esteem,” scoffed Cyriak. “Too high, clearly.”

 

Astraad did not seem convinced, but he contented himself with massaging the flesh joined to his cybernetic arm in silence.

 

Cyriak turned to face Lethe. “In any event, it seems clear that Rime was unfit to be called Lord, and certainly unworthy of a spot on this council. I believe that leaves only my candidates left to consider. Darth Siphon, you would do well to note that all of my nominations are true and pure Lords, who have not been so categorically emasculated.”

 

Lethe had reviewed the list: three buffoons that no doubt would be more powerful if they would only pull their heads out of Cyriak’s rear. She had no intention of naming any of them to her inner circle. There were many reasons, not the least of which was her intense desire not to have to deal with any more sycophants.

 

There was also the fact that siding with Cyriak now - so soon after Hadrax had been humiliated by Rime’s defeat - could also prove a tipping point that turned the latter’s resentment into open rebellion. The enmity between the two was apparent every time they sat down at the same table; elevating Cyriak while denigrating Hadrax was certain to bring trouble. However much Lethe despised Hadrax, she did not want to risk that. Not before she had a chance to properly absorb the Holocron of Ancient Sorcery’s knowledge.

 

“All worthy Sith,” Lethe said offhandedly. “I’m afraid I have yet to come to a final conclusion, however.”

 

“Of course, my lord,” said Cyriak. “Such a decision should not be made hastily. I will await your wisdom.”

 

Lethe had bought herself some time, but Cyriak would not be patient forever. Still, soon it would not matter. When she mastered the holocron, all of this would be moot. She would compel obedience instead of request it. She would make them all submit.

 

“I assume we are done with the outbursts then,” said Astraad. “Since we’ve all gathered at Lord Hadrax’s most prescient request, there actually is some news to report. Our spies in New Adasta have noted seditionist activity in the city near the Citadel’s location.”

 

“What sort of activity?” asked Ravain, speaking for the first time. The man looked about ten years older than when Lethe had last seen him, though it had only been a few weeks since then. No doubt he was struggling to control the unruly Sith disciples that still remained at Twinspire Keep.

 

Astraad scrolled through his datapad, reading off snippets of a report. The datapad crackled its displeasure every time his cyborg arm knocked into it with more force than intended. “ … Sabotage of several old Imperial Intelligence networks. A few noted historians have disappeared under mysterious circumstances, likely kidnapped. An old Sith vault was ransacked, its contents looted.”

 

“Ziost Liberation Front, no doubt,” dismissed Cyriak. “Beneath our notice. Those fools are like fish struggling against a sailor’s net. They may snap and thrash, but in the end they always arrive to the dinner table on a platter.”

 

“Nevertheless, Lord Cyriak,” said Ravain, grimacing. “Perhaps a doubling of the patrols are in order? I will make the necessary arrangements at Twinspire.”

 

“Yes. Astraad will handle the Citadel,” said Lethe; Astraad bowed his head in acknowledgment.

 

“If there’s nothing else?”

 

A quick scan of the table confirmed that no further topics for discussion would be brought. Ravain’s holo flickered and disappeared and both Cyriak and Astraad moved towards the exit.

 

As they reached it, however, Lethe clicked her tongue and spoke once more: “Lord Astraad. If you would stay a moment. There are some further matters for us to discuss.”

 

Astraad stopped dead in his tracks. Cyriak glanced from Lethe to his fellow pureblood, eyes twinkling with an amused appraisal before exiting the council chambers. Offering a quiet sigh, the remaining pureblood turned back to Lethe and approached slowly, head hung low in what Lethe surmised was knowing contrition.

 

Had Thresh disobeyed her explicit orders?

 

“Darth Siphon. How can I assist?”

 

Lethe paced the council chambers, letting her advisor stew for a half minute before speaking. When she finally did, she found that her voice carried a new quality to it - a confidence that came from the certainty of superiority. For a second she wondered how she could ever have doubted her power over this small-minded man.

 

“Tell me. Have you heard the tale of Lord Vengre?”

 

“I’m afraid not.”

 

“He was a Sith lord that lived hundreds of years ago, disciple to Darth Crade. Both powerful in their own right - Vengre growing more powerful by the day under his master’s tutelage. But not so much that he could overthrow his master outright. Crade was no fool. He was careful in his teachings.”

 

Astraad listened, wordlessly.

 

“Though his power seemed to reach a limit, Vengre’s ambition did not know the meaning of the word. He coveted his master’s title and his position, but lacked the raw ability to seize them for himself. Unable to unseat his master alone, he curried the favor of rival Sith lords to aid him in the attempt.”

 

“I assume these Sith failed to defeat Crade?” asked Astraad quietly.

 

Lethe turned to face Astraad directly, the hollow holes of her mask focused onto the pureblood’s own yellowed eyes. They were small eyes, small-sighted and limited by the ways of old. By the weaknesses of the Empire as a whole. They were to be pitied.

 

“ … not exactly. They did defeat Crade. United, their powers toppled a Darth from his throne.”

 

Astraad stood silent for a long moment as Lethe watched him, studying his expression and reaction. Finally, he spoke again. “Apologies, my lord. But what is the point of this story?”

 

“The point is simply this. Vengre and his allies may have slain Crade … but they did so at the cost of their own lives. Crade may have succumbed to his injuries in the end, may have been forced to abdicate his throne, but not before he exacted the ultimate price from his apprentice.”

 

“And just like that,” she continued, voice lowering to a thundering hiss. “The Empire was lessened. Weakened. It lost powerful Sith that day, for the pride of an overambitious disciple. Do you understand the purpose behind this story now, Astraad?”

 

“That rebellion and infighting only serve to weaken us as a whole.”

 

Lethe nodded slowly. It was not the only lesson from the tale, but she trusted Astraad was clever enough to have deciphered it: the promise that even should he manage to topple her from her seat, she would eradicate him in the process.

 

“You are loyal to me, are you not?” asked Lethe.

 

“Of course, my lord.” Astraad looked genuinely confused.

 

“And yet your actions tell me you have loyalties elsewhere.”

 

The pureblood demurred. “My lord, I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Tell me you did not know of the Holocrons of Ancient Sorcery then. Tell me why you would gift these artifacts that rightfully belong to me … tell me why you would offer them as tribute to the Dark Council without my knowledge.”

 

Lethe watched as Astraad’s eyes widened just ever so slightly.

 

“The holocrons of -- you mean those relics that no one has ever been able to decrypt? I thought they were worthless, tokens of historical significance and no more. They seemed a suitable gift to --”

 

“Suitable gift? Do not lie to me Astraad! You instructed Thresh to keep the existence of the holocrons a secret from the rest of my powerbase, including me. And in my name no less!”

 

Astraad didn’t miss a beat. “I did my lord, and perhaps I overstepped my bounds. But I know the rumors that swirl around these relics; what do you think led Orthas to Miro’s doorstep?! For those worthless holocrons, Miro paid his life. And with Orthas’ passing, I did not want there to be a beacon calling to all the Sith, inviting them to a weakened powerbase ripe for invasion.”

 

Lethe’s fury paused. There was sense in the pureblood’s words, loathe as she was to admit it.

 

Could he be telling the truth?

 

Her mind raced with the possibilities, but it all came back to one question. Did he truly believe the holocrons’ power was inaccessible? If he had intercepted and tampered with the separate holocrons, surely he would have sensed their power as she did. In that case, she could see no reason why he would forego their secrets and still follow through with delivering them to other hands not his own.

 

She turned away to collect her thoughts; Astraad seemed to notice her hesitation. “I included them in the tribute because no one has been able to unlock their power … and better they be with the Dark Council, in the hands of Darth Nox or Darth Rictus, who could perhaps decipher their secrets and leverage their power. Who would use them to advance our Empire, rather than as a siren song in our stronghold, calling to uninvited guests.”

 

Once more, she whirled upon him, robes fluttering in the cool air of their council chamber. “Regardless of your intentions, you were wrong about one thing. The power of the holocrons is not barred to all. I have accessed it, scratched only the surface, and it shows me the future that belongs to L-- that belongs to the Empire. To me, Darth Siphon.”

 

Astraad looked stunned. “You … you unraveled the seal? How?”

 

“You sound skeptical, Astraad.” The tone of his voice, the disbelief and incredulity that filled it - it was an insult to her. He didn’t believe she could be the holocrons’ master. He lacked respect; she would not let it stand. “Allow me to convince you.”

 

The power came without her even thinking, rising like a tide in her heart, filling her veins, pulsing through her body. She almost didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend where it was coming from; of course, it was the Holocron. She was its master and even the briefest glimpses of its power was enough to overwhelm a Sith Lord like Astraad. He was a leaf upon the wind, water in the current, a slave to its master. Helpless. Pathetic.

 

Her outstretched hand clutched at the air and Astraad’s body fell instantly to a kneel, then to a full-bodied prostration, kowtowing in deference against his will, against his mind. His every breath came with a gasp, his eyes bulging, veins strained to the bursting point. His cybernetic arm reached out to her, the only part of him that stood defiant to her will - but it was not enough to save him. She saw him rally his mental defenses, summon the Force to ward off the invasion; she watched him fail, watched as his meager control slipped away from him.

 

She watched him learn once and for all who was the master of their house. Just like that, a single motion of her hands and Astraad - a powerful Sith in his own right - was brought low.

 

It was enough, Lethe thought to herself. A lesson taught. A lesson learned.

.

But something was wrong. It wouldn’t end. A wave of nausea threatened to overpower her, and a chill jolted down her spine like frozen lightning. She couldn’t make it stop! It was as though something else had taken over, something insidious and powerful beyond measure. The world seemed to slow around her, drowned in a sea of transparent molasses. She watched as Astraad’s head slammed slowly against the floor in his prostrations, its increasing fury evident only by the sickening thuds coupled with the impact of flesh meeting stone. Blood breathed air, spattering in all directions with each collision. Screams howled in silence from the pureblood’s unmoving mouth, and yet rose to a deafening din within Lethe’s mind.

 

“M-my lord?”

 

Frightened words spoken with Astraad’s voice jolted her out of -- whatever it was that had taken ahold of her. Her heartbeat came as quick and reckless as her breath, but the scene before her stood in stark contrast to what she had just witnessed. Astraad - prostrate at her feet but otherwise in perfect health - tried desperately to lift his head against the weight of the power Lethe had exerted against him. There was no blood. It was all a trick … all an illusion.

 

“Forgive me, my lord, I beg you,” Astraad pleaded. “I was mistaken. I - I know now your power. I won’t ever underestimate you again.”

 

Lethe released her grip upon him through the Force, unable to suppress her surprise, eyes locked on the palms of her hands. She half-expected her power to resist, thought that perhaps in another moment Astraad would be dead at her feet, head bashed open. That surge of power, that burst of confidence followed by sudden uncertainty … and that chilling vision. Could they all have been the result of mere minutes spent with the Holocron of Ancient Sorcery?

 

Despite being released, Astraad still cowered at her feet, as though he feared she might unleash her power upon him once more. His pathetic form drew Lethe’s attention back to the task at hand. Other sith lords might have slain Astraad then and there for his impertinence, but he was yet too valuable to Lethe to kill.

 

“Tell me your true loyalties,” hissed Lethe. “Who do you serve on the Dark Council!”

 

“No one, my lord! I serve only you!”

 

Lethe backhanded the pureblood across his face. “You expect me to believe that?!”

 

The shock of the physical contact must have ended Astraad’s panic, for when he spoke once more, it was filled with calm certainty. “ … It is the truth.”

 

“Liar!” Once more, Lethe reached into the Force, jamming her hand underneath the pureblood’s throat, pushing him upwards against the wall, palm closing around his windpipe. Just like with Sierra, she would pierce the barriers that guarded Astraad’s mind and find what veracity could be gleaned where it could not be obscured. Augmented by the Holocron, there was nothing that could bar her way, nothing --

 

She stopped dead in her tracks. If she leveraged that power once more, what would happen? Sudden and crippling doubt wracked her mind. Could she control the Holocron? Or would it send her spiraling into another maelstrom of false visions, of delusions and hallucinations? Could it do worse? What would happen if Astraad were to die; apart from losing a competent advisor, his death might even spark further rebellion against her. He had been integral in swaying Orthas’ powerbase into capitulation; he still commanded their respect, their support. If she struck him down now, if he died as a result of her actions … would they still follow?

 

Astraad quaked, wheezing for breath, both his real and robotic hand clutching Lethe’s adrenaline-powered arm in a desperate attempt to free himself, all the while protesting his innocence. “You must believe me, my lord! My master! I serve only you!”

 

She released her power, letting the pureblood’s form slide down the wall. It was not yet Astraad’s time. “ … get out of my sight.”

 

Astraad didn’t need to be told twice, collecting himself and departing out the council chamber door with as much dignity as he could muster. Watching him scurry, Lethe came to a realization: he was a coward. An opportunist that saw elevation in overthrowing Orthas, but who lacked the ambition to realize his ambitions on his own. She had nothing to fear from him, not anymore.

 

For now, she would feign mercy, trusting the pureblood lord to spread word of her power. And if he didn’t … she could repeat her display. When they learned how she could humiliate him, how she had so easily bound him to her will, what loyalty they held to him would evaporate.

 

Meanwhile, she would set a spy upon him, monitor all his activity, unmask his true loyalties the conventional way.

 

Though Lethe might need him for the moment, soon - very soon - the power of the Holocron of Ancient Sorcery would free her from the shackles of Sith politics. These treacherous games were the domain of the old order. She did not ascribe to its outmoded philosophy.

 

Whatever the price, she would pay. She had tasted true power now, and though it came bitter, it still proved stronger than anything else she had at her disposal. What were a few visions to her ambitions? What were a few hiccups to the Empire that was her destiny?

 

Even the real Siphon would have crumbled before her.

 

 

Days passed without incident. Lethe had heard no rumblings from Hadrax’s camp, nor saw any sign that Astraad resented their encounter after the last council meeting. It was almost as though the pair finally understood their rightful place within Lethe’s power structure; she felt a growing sense of victory, of pride, swell within her. No longer did she fear losing control of her disciples. She could challenge them all at once and still emerge the victor.

 

It was all because of the Holocron. After that first session unlocking its secrets, Lethe’s work with the relic expanded rapidly and with increasing ease. The Holocron wanted her to know its secrets, needed to impart them to her. And with every passing day, she grew more and more connected to it, more and more certain that it was her right.

 

The memory of the hallucination she experienced while confronting Astraad still lingered at the forefront of her mind, but she hadn’t experienced another Force-induced vision since that day. She was beginning to chalk up the sensory illusion as a fluke, a random convergence of the Force, unleashed as a result of her newfound power.

 

“What are you thinking, my lord?” asked Sierra. “You seem … distracted.”

 

Three deactivated lightsabers hovered mid-air, spinning in place by Sierra’s will. Though the girl sat cross-legged on the ground, the effort was clearly draining; Lethe could see a sheen of sweat on her apprentice’s forehead, despite the fact that her apprentice’s training took place atop the roof of the Citadel at midnight. The air was thin, but cool; Ziost’s winds offered an overly brisk breeze.

 

The stars were obscured by cloud cover this night, but they could see the tops of the other skyscrapers around them; none stood as tall as the Citadel. Perhaps only the People’s Tower could rival it, though a visual comparison would be hard to make, given the People's Tower rested deep underground in the Central District of the city.

 

Thirty stories below, New Adasta’s air traffic had gradually grown more seedy as the night pressed on, with luxury vehicles and dilapidated speeders replacing those of the day’s commuters in equal measure.

 

Lethe paced along the edge of the rooftop; a dirty railing served as her only protection against a fatal drop off the side of the building. “Concentrate, girl. The lightsaber behind you is wobbling.”

 

“Yes, master,” Sierra responded obediently, as she steadied the blade behind her using only the Force.

 

Lethe’s gut told her Astraad served someone on the Dark Council. Her first instinct: Darth Nox. As the head of the Sphere of Ancient Knowledge, the now singular Holocron of Ancient Sorcery would be precisely the sort of relic that would fascinate a keeper of knowledge, and Astraad doubtless could have curried a great deal of favor delivering it to the new Darth.

 

Then again, Nox was still a remarkably new face on the Dark Council, her personality and actions shrouded in wildly conflicting accounts and contradictory reports.

 

No, Lethe told herself. It would be unlikely that Nox would have gained the service of a Lord as entrenched in New Adasta’s politics as Astraad was. As far as Lethe was aware, Nox had never even set foot on the planet.

 

A quiet buzzer sounded out, indicating Sierra had succeeded in her task. Six hours spent maintaining aloft three lightsabers was no small feat; it was a trial the real Siphon had set upon Lethe herself once. Sierra’s eyes darted to her, hopeful, and just slightly desperate for relief. The master nodded, and the apprentice carefully guided all three blades to her side in unison, grabbing them from the air and slowly getting to her feet.

 

She looked weary, but accomplished. Lethe remembered that feeling, the first time she had managed to do the same. How proud she had been. How alive she had felt.

 

A small drizzle began to fall on their heads, like little pellets of melting ice; Sierra drew up the hood from her robes to shield herself. Lethe wanted to do the opposite. She wanted to remove her mask, to feel the touch of rain on her skin, on her face. It was a desire she never thought would seem so beyond her reach and a sobering reminder that however far she had come … she had done so under another’s name.

 

“What do you know of Lord Astraad?” asked Lethe suddenly. As a slave in Orthas’ service, the girl might have picked up details or behaviors that might explain the mystery behind the man. There was no harm in asking, at least.

 

Sierra arched a curious brow. “What kind of information are you looking for, Master?”

 

“Whatever you can tell me.”

 

The girl considered for a moment before speaking. “ … he was already a highly-respected advisor when Orthas acquired the Holocron. He has the respect of most of the Sith Lords that followed Orthas, though I heard he did once lose a duel to Lord Hadrax.”

 

That was interesting. “Do you believe Hadrax the stronger Sith?” asked Lethe.

 

“I’m not sure I’m the best judge, my lord … I wasn’t witness to their battle myself, but I did hear the whole thing took less than a minute. Lord Hadrax is a dozen times more ferocious, if that says anything.”

 

“Mm. A lack of ferocity often belies strength in combat,” Lethe murmured. “Why did they duel?”

 

“Actually, it was a disagreement over the battle strategy to be employed against you. Lord Astraad favored a more cautious approach, but Lord Hadrax insisted on a direct and immediate confrontation.”

 

Caution did seem to be Astraad’s modus operandi. But that knowledge did little to shed light on his motives.

 

“What of his allies? His contacts outside the powerbase. What do you know of them?”

 

Sierra frowned. “I’m not sure. He doesn’t exactly confide in me ...”

 

“What about his connections to the Dark Council?”

 

The apprentice shook her head, then cocked it to one side with curiosity. “ … can I ask why you want to know about Lord Astraad, master?”

 

Lethe hesitated. Her apprentice was still young, still so naive. But trust wasn’t the concern. She felt certain of Sierra’s loyalty; Lethe had been instrumental in saving her from a deadly fate, after all. She just wasn’t sure she wanted to involve the girl in something so cynical as Sith politics just yet. There was a time and place for that introduction, and it needed not be so s--

 

She caught herself. What was she thinking? This girl wasn’t a sister to be coddled, wasn’t a child that needed shelter. She had slain Rime. She had survived years as a slave and an apprentice in training. Besides, whatever Lethe might want to shield her from, there was no question that Sierra was already deeply involved in the politics of the powerbase. Lethe had put her in that situation when she named the girl as her apprentice, in defiance of Hadrax’ desires, challenging Sith tradition. Sierra hadn’t passed the trials; there would be consequences.

 

Better she prepare Sierra now, so that the girl would be ready for all the intrigue and treachery that came with politicking within the Empire.

 

Sierra sauntered over to her master’s position, resting her elbows on the railing overlooking the fifty-story drop. “Please, master. You can tell me. I am ready.”

 

A flash of light, and then a clap of thunder rumbled in the distance. Lethe glanced towards the stormclouds, their contours lit up for only a second as lightning illuminated their forms.

 

“Perhaps you are,” she agreed finally. “Very well. Listen carefully and repeat this to no one.”

 

Sierra nodded, stepping closer so that she could better hear her master over the din of the New Adastan nightlife below them.

 

“I suspect Lord Astraad to be a traitor to our cause. His loyalties do not lie with me … of that I am almost certain.”

 

Sierra looked stunned at that revelation. “Master … he has been one of your most vocal supporters since you took over Orthas’ domain.”

 

“Indeed. But while he extends his aid in one hand, he hides his motives in the other. Everything he does is indecipherable.”

 

“You don’t think he actually wants you to rule?”

 

A bitter chuckle escaped her lips; the sound came out distorted through her mask. “No, I think he does. But I also think he seeks to manipulate, to pull strings in the darkness without my knowledge … to undermine me. Something is off about him, I know it in my heart.”

 

“Have you confronted him about it, master?” asked Sierra.

 

“Yes. Unfortunately, to little result. He protests his innocence all the while.”

 

“Why not reach into his mind, as you did me?”

 

Lethe had briefly considered summoning the pureblood back for another round of interrogation, but ultimately decided against it. “He is still an ardent supporter, as you said … and an influential one at that. It would be a risk to overly antagonize him while he continues to play such a critical role during this time of transition.”

 

Sierra frowned thoughtfully. “You need him. For now.”

 

“For now,” Lethe agreed. It seemed the girl wasn’t a complete fool after all.

 

The rolls of thunder boomed louder, as lightning shot across the sky with increasing frequency. The rain began to pour down on them in earnest now, torrents of icy water that smashed against their clothes, Sierra’s skin, Lethe’s mask. Like little bombs, exploding on contact, pelting them with unwavering resolve. “Come. Let’s head back inside.”

 

Shivering from the cold, Sierra’s voice was quiet but resolute. “If there’s anything I can do to help ...”

 

A smile formed behind Lethe’s mask; the girl’s offer proved a sufficient distraction from the prison around her face. Sierra was so eager to prove herself, so dedicated to her new mentor. Lethe had been like this once, had been so thankful to the real Siphon for saving both herself and her dearest friend that she would’ve done anything for that woman as well.

 

Before the last test, anyway. Before everything changed.

 

The difference between Lethe and Siphon: she didn’t intend to betray her apprentice’s faith in her, not like Siphon had betrayed Lethe.

 

“Keep your ears to the ground. Don’t let Astraad know you are listening in on him, but keep your ears open for news that concerns him. I want to know his contacts outside the Citadel. I want to know who he communicates with. Answering those questions will be key to uncovering his true loyalties.”

 

Her apprentice nodded, though it was clear her assent came with uncertainty. “What should I do if --”

 

Suddenly, Lethe felt another presence nearby in the Force; she lifted a finger to silence her apprentice. How could she have not noticed the presence before? They were alone atop the Citadel, that much could be discerned by sight. Her tongue tasted blood in the air, through even the west scent of musk and rain. That hint of iron in her mouth was a prophecy of impending danger. Her ears craned to hear what could not be seen, desperate to reveal its identity.

 

“Master, below you!”

 

She saw it now, almost too late. Someone was carving a circular hole beneath her with a lightsaber; the durasteel of the rooftop gave way to the blade like butter, leaving behind luminescent molten metal as the only sign of its collapse..

 

Sierra slammed her hands forward, forcing Lethe to stumble several steps backwards; for just a second, Lethe thought she was betrayed. A flash of fury threatened to overwhelm her at the thought that her own apprentice would stab her in the back so soon after being saved from a gruesome fate. It took her another moment to see the truth of the situation; the circular hole being carved out from under her launched upwards into the air like a bullet, only to clatter back down upon the floor half a meter away.

 

Her apprentice had saved her.

 

“Lightsaber!” Lethe shouted, activating her own blood-red blade in a single, practiced motion. Sierra did the same, their weapons sizzling as the rain made contact with the blades. Good, Lethe thought. The girl’s still got her wits about her.

 

Three arcs of lightning rippled through the sky above them.

 

Lethe couldn’t tell what Sierra was feeling, but if it was panic, the girl hid it well. She wouldn’t have blamed her apprentice for a show of fear. She couldn’t deny that she felt an inkling of trepidation herself - this was, after all, the first assassination attempt she had ever experienced from the perspective of a victim.

 

Thunder bellowed at them from all sides.

 

Even before the cacophony of electrical currents ended, a figure leaped upwards from within the Citadel, through the opening in the roof that had just been excised. It landed with deft grace upon the rooftop, crouched, ready to launch into attack. The form was sleek for a body wearing heavy armor, and it held in its hand a shimmering blue lightsaber - it too sizzled as the rain smacked into it. For a second, Lethe wondered if it was a Jedi that invaded her stronghold. But then, her eyes fell upon the helmet that protected its wearer’s identity. Or it would have done so, had Lethe not immediately recognized it for its unique markings.

 

Vandal Pike. What the blazes was he doing here?

 

Mercenary. Bounty Hunter. Professional. The man had proven himself a persistent thorn to the real Siphon all through the Kaggath. Lord Rend had tried and failed to defeat him, time and again. Lethe had suffered a humiliating blow at the hunter’s hands. When she had seized her master’s identity, she thought she would lose the opportunity to repay this malcontent’s audacity, had expected to Pike to flee for his life. And yet now he strolled back into her sights, gall expanded ten-fold.

 

She owed him pain. She owed him denigration. But she would have answers first.

 

The bounty hunter gave her no chance to demand them. Impossibly fast, he darted toward Sierra’s form; before Lethe could scream any warning, before Sierra could react, Pike jutted his hand out, palm open, smashing into her chest, sending her flying up and backwards over the railing. The strength! How was it possible? Too late, Lethe’s hand stretched out to invoke the Force, too late, she felt the power surge forward, directed it to lance towards her apprentice, to latch onto her, any part of her, too late!

 

Already, Sierra’s shriek was fading, growing quiet with distance.

 

Lethe had no chance to mourn her apprentice. Pike wasted no time; in seconds, he was at her side, the blue lightsaber arcing towards her neck in a backhanded upward swing. Lethe danced to the side, narrowly dodging the attack. She screamed her fury, a promise of retribution that she would not allow him to deny. He had killed Sierra! He had stolen her apprentice! She would not let that go unanswered.

 

Summoning the Force, she invoked the power of the Holocron; she would bore into his mind like a shovel, a drill, a gravedigger uprooting all his secrets. She would desecrate its contents, vacate what remained of his consciousness, leave him a dribbling and helpless mess, worse than a slave, worse than dead. She would destroy him.

 

Her hands closed the Force around the bounty hunter’s head. She could see it now, could see his form collapse, screaming, could see him clawing at his jaw, at his brow, desperate to block unseen fingers from kneading his thoughts into shapeless clay. Helpless to stop her. Prostrate before the power of her Ancient Sorcery.

 

Except … no. Lethe blinked and the world shimmered, shattered and reassembled itself before her very eyes. Not another illusion. Instead of Pike’s toppled figure at her feet, the assassin stood proud, brandishing his weapon, taunting her with his defiance. How could he have resisted her power? It wasn’t possible!

 

She threw her arms forward once more, summoning the Force, conjuring her own power, intent on rending Pike’s sanity into a thousand irreparable pieces. That’s when she sensed it, when comprehension finally dawned.

 

There was no mind for her to destroy here. No sentience for her to corrupt. No thoughts, no subconscious, no emotions.

 

No doubt. No fear.

 

How?!

 

Pike charged forward, blade whistling, screaming its desire to pierce flesh. Her flesh. Lethe parried the blow and countered with a Niman flourish. The bounty hunter dropped low to dodge, then leaped into the air to bring his lightsaber down in an overhead slash meant to slice her open from shoulder to waist. She leaped to safety, but the man was persistent and quick - too quick for a humanoid. In a flash, he appeared at her side once more, blade thrusting forward to pierce her heart. Such alacrity; she barely managed to bring her lightsaber up in time to deflect.

 

She needed to put distance between them, to give herself time to rally the Force once more. If she could not shatter his mind, she would use telekinetics to tear him limb from limb. But she needed time, she needed space - she couldn’t conjure the requisite power while struggling to parry lightsaber attacks. She had to find a way --

 

Pike refused to accommodate her, pressing his offensive, forcing them into close-quarter exchanges. Lethe blocked each of his attacks, every time with greater desperation. It didn’t make any sense. The man’s form was sloppy, inelegant, the attacks repetitive and predictable. She couldn’t even discern a consistent saber form. The only reason Lethe had any difficulty defending was the sheer power and speed driving each swing, each thrust of Pike’s lightsaber.

 

A furious grunt sounded out from over the edge of the rooftop, the sound of a woman pulling herself up through sheer physical strength. Could it be? Had Sierra survived?

 

The distraction was enough for Pike to seize advantage. With a sudden and violent backhand, he knocked Lethe’s lightsaber out of her hands, sending it careening down fifty stories. Lethe gasped in shock, watched as Pike pulled his arm back to deliver the killing blow.

 

“NO!”

 

Behind Pike’s form, Sierra - alive and clinging to the edge of the rooftop with one hand - shot out her free hand to catch Pike’s saber-arm with the Force. His attack stopped in its tracks, Pike’s head turned slowly, impossibly, a full hundred-eighty degrees back to examine the source of the interference.

 

Lethe snatched at opportunity. Her lightsaber gone, Lethe had only her hands to exact her retribution; they would be more than enough. Pike struggled to free his arm from Sierra’s constricting Force grip, to no avail. Lethe lifted her own arms into the air and watched as Pike’s body rose with her hands, watched as he realized his impending fate.

 

She didn’t need the Holocron for this. This was her own power, her own superiority.

 

Lethe swung her hands outwards, slow, purposeful, as though conducting a macabre orchestra. Pike’s body screeched sharply, unnaturally. No sound of pain, no cry of terror emanated from his helmet. Instead, his armored form tore itself in two without objection, showering Lethe with sparks and fuel and shrapnel. The two halves of his body flew in separate directions, one off the edge of the building, the other slamming so hard into the rooftop that it left a three foot dent. There was no blood, no broken bones, no mangled organs. In their place, a wreckage of cybernetics and robotics, united with a bare minimum of muscle tissue and organic residue.

 

It explained almost everything. How it was immune to Lethe’s psychic assault. How it was incomprehensibly strong, fast, powerful. This was not Pike at all … but a cyborg impersonator, an unholy union of droid and man, a twisted abomination turned assassin.

 

Someone had dispatched this thing after her. That much was clear.

 

But who?

 

She hadn’t forgotten that accusation she had received via her holocom. Impostor. Now, an assassin bearing Vandal Pike’s armaments had attempted to to take her life. Attempted … and failed. Adrenaline coursed through Lethe’s veins. She felt a glorious, brimming sensation of defiant achievement. Her enemies thought she could be assassinated … how wrong they had been.

 

Sierra grunted. “Master, please … a little help?”

 

Snapping form her reverie, Lethe raced to her apprentice’s side, pulling her up and back over the railing. “Well done, apprentice. You were spectacular. How did you survive?”

 

“Instinct. I used the Force to pull one of the banners hanging along the side of the wall to me, grabbed it just in time. Then, I just had to climb back up. Turns out scaling up the side of a building isn’t the easiest thing to do, even with the Force …” The girl offered a half-guilty, half-relieved smile.

 

“You made it just in time. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t --”

 

At that moment, Astraad, Cyriak, and a contingent of the Citadel’s security burst through the rooftop’s stairwell entrance, their expressions panicked first, then bewildered as they caught sight of the broken wreckage of the impersonator’s cybernetic corpse. A rumble of thunder corresponded to a last shower of sparks spraying from the broken assassin's form as the rain drenched them all from head to toe.

 

“Lovely,” said Lethe, her tone a mocking excoriation. “We’re saved.”

 

Edited August 5, 2016 by wangxiuming

The intrigue deepens. The problem is that Lethe has so many snakes in the pit, which one is actually orchestrating the attempts against her. Perhaps one, perhaps all.

 

Your writing truly is quite elegant. Eagerly waiting for the next installment.

Thank you Misha.

 

 

 

I really enjoyed the imagery and the rooftop battle was exciting and breathtaking. I was really worried for Sierra there for a moment. Vandal Pike was pretty cool too. Very nicely done. I agree with Misha, you've got a lovely way with words...like this line about the rain. Beautiful.

 

Like little bombs, exploding on contact, pelting them with unwavering resolve.

 

I was also amused by the banners saving Sierra's life...those decorative banners are handy...both to save yourself and to make an escape with.

Thank you Luna!

 

 

 

 

 

“S-sister?”

 

Retra sputtered and stumbled back, hands hovering around the beam of crimson light that jutted outwards from just beneath her breast. Her eyes darted to all corners of their quarters, as though desperately seeking comprehension, seeking to join understanding with reality. Her body collapsed to the ground; the blade fell with her. The impact deactivated the lightsaber, withdrawing its deadly energy into its hilt.

 

“It hurts.” Retra still did not understand what had happened. “I don’t … why does it hurt?”

 

Her eyes, her lips, her breath … they stopped in morose unison.

 

“Simply magnificent,” whispered her master, stepping out from the shadows.

 

She didn’t know how to respond. She realized suddenly that she was on her knees, that her friend’s corpse now stained their room by her doing. By her hand, Retra was dead.

 

“She wasn’t going to betray me. She … she wanted to save me.”

 

Her master leaned down to embrace her. “She was holding you back. She was the reason you could not excel. Now she is gone … but you still have me, apprentice. Your master. Your family. Do you understand?”

 

She nodded, though her master’s words barely registered. Her master lied to her. Her master deceived her. What threat did Retra pose? Why did she need to die?

 

Why?

 

“I will admit, I was not sure you would pass this test,” her master continued. “But you did. You performed wondrously. Your faithful service to me has not gone unnoticed. Continue to serve me, learn from me, and we will take our rightful place as leaders of this great Empire.”

 

Retra died for a trial? She betrayed her friend, struck down a fellow apprentice, slew a fellow Sith … for what? A test?

 

Her master thought she could control her. Thought she could manipulate her. Icy tendrils wrapped themselves around her heart as she steeled her will for what was to come. She would play the game, play the doting apprentice, play at fealty and allegiance.

 

“... yes, Master Siphon,” she replied.

 

And then she would take her revenge. She would tear down this corrupt Sith way, and show to the Empire a new path.

 

Siphon stared down at her, that golden mask gleaming in the moonlight. How it embodied everything that she now hated. Everything she would see destroyed. It would be torn asunder, thrown aside, discarded. Just like her master. Just like Siphon.

 

And in her place, she would ascend.

 

“Rise then, rise an apprentice no longer. Rise as Lethe, Lord of the Sith.”

 

 

Why did everything in the Citadel reek of decrepitude?

 

Lethe summoned the turbolift to her quarters with increasing insistence, but each time her fingers jammed the buttons, they only seemed to slow the lift down. It was as though they needed to process each individual summons, each individual directive, every single point of contact between flesh and technology. She needed to return to her quarters now; she had no patience for the Citadel’s quirks.

 

She needed to ensure the Holocron of Ancient Sorcery remained safe.

 

It was an irrational fear; some part of Lethe knew that already. She had fortified its hiding place with defensive measures to ensure no one could steal it without her knowledge … and yet, paranoia wracked her mind. If they could penetrate the Citadel to attack her, what was to stop them from breaking through the Holocron’s defenses and seizing it from her?

 

She needed to be sure.

 

And so, while Astraad and Cyriak escorted Sierra to the infirmary, Lethe moved to ensure her prized possession remained untouched. The purebloods had arrived too late to do much else than hem and haw at their failures. It was never more clear to Lethe that her stronghold’s defenses were woefully inadequate. Someone had tried to kill her. Someone had actually tried to have her assassinated.

 

And why had they chosen to masquerade a cyborg as a figure from the Kaggath? Unless …

 

… it was all connected. That accusation leveled at her in secret. The revelation of the holocrons. Vandal Pike’s reappearance. An invisible thread traveled through them, joining them, weaving a tapestry of conspiracy that was just beyond her sight. Who was at the source? Who was the spider spinning the web?

 

The potential culprits were countless. Hadrax had ample reason to resent her. She had underestimated his loyalty to Rime, and the latter’s death had not proven to be the trump card she first imagined. She did not find it hard to conceive at all, that he would want to see her dethroned. But it was not his style to contract out killing. Hadrax would settle for nothing less than single combat, displayed for all the world to see. He would want the victory for himself, would want to feel his weapon in one hand and Lethe’s life slipping away in the other.

 

Then there was Astraad, the pureblood whose motives remained a mystery. He had supported her up until now, but perhaps their last encounter had soured him on his loyalty. She had humiliated him, something she now looked back upon with regret. Astraad might indeed be a traitor, but if he wasn’t, she had definitely given him reason to turn against her. She now wished she had stayed her hand, at least until she had concrete evidence of his treachery.

 

But would he turn against her now? After everything he had done to secure her place within the powerbase? Clearly, he was not the strongest of the Sith within Orthas’ following, or he would have seized control for himself.

 

This wasn’t what she had envisioned for her new Empire. This wasn’t what she had seen from the Holocron. She needed loyal followers, faithful disciples to spread her message and enact her reforms. She wasn’t supposed to stoop to the level of common Sith, to their infighting and petty squabbles. This was the problem with absorbing Orthas’ old power structure into her own … so much of it was ideologically opposed to what she wanted to bring to the Empire.

 

Lethe consoled herself with the fact that she had little choice in the matter. If she had not subsumed Orthas’ powerbase after the Kaggath, it doubtless would have turned against her - and that was a fight she had no doubt would have put her squarely on the losing side.

 

At least now, she still had a chance. As long as she still possessed the Holocron.

 

Finally, the turbolift arrived at her intended destination. She didn’t waste a minute departing the agonizing prison, whirling into her chambers, robes fluttering behind her. She activated the secret chamber in the flooring of her quarters, suppressed the urge to tear it apart as it rose upwards with all the speed of a hutt trying to climb the steps to the People’s Tower. An insistent tapping caught her attention; it took her a moment to realize it was her own foot demonstrating her impatience. Still, slow as the vault was in revealing its contents, Lethe could sense the ancient power within even before her secret repository completed its ascent.

 

Relief washed over her in waves. Its knowledge, its power … they were still hers.

 

Of course they were. The rest of the galaxy didn’t know she had leveraged its power, had no clue that she was so close to its mastery. They thought that the Holocron was a lie … a deception … or they thought its power was lost to time, to battle and war, to history. Only she knew she the truth.

 

No … that wasn’t quite right. Others knew … Astraad … Thresh. What if they told? What if they spread rumors of the Holocron to others, inviting them to challenge Lethe for its control?

 

They wouldn’t do that. Astraad had not wanted the Holocron to be known. Thresh was too much of a fool to even ponder the significance of the artifact.

 

But … could she trust that to keep her safe? Could she trust them?

 

Trust us.

 

Lethe picked up the Holocron with one hand. Even through her glove, the relic felt like ice on her fingertips, sapping her body’s heat for its own. It whispered its desire to her. It wanted her to unlock its full potential, to give in fully to its power. To taste it on her tongue, to fill her lungs with its essence. She had to throw up barriers to prevent it from forcing itself on her, flushing itself into her veins, pulsing into her heart.

 

Could she control it? Or would she be the one to be subsumed?

 

Believe us.

 

The voice was stronger now, more powerful, resonant and domineering. She heard it in her mind, beckoning for her obeisance. It ached with a millenia of knowledge and experience, desperate to be devoured and to devour all at once.

 

It was supposed to be the answer; it was how she had gotten this far.

 

Obey us.

 

She needed it. Enemies surrounded her from all sides, appeared with every step she took. She could trust so few … and whatever their consequences, the Holocron had yet to fail her.

 

Perhaps just a taste more … What could be the harm?

 

Lethe loosed a breath, releasing her grip on the mental barriers she had summoned just moments ago. She whispered the inscription on the Holocron, so quiet that even she herself could barely hear it. And yet in her mind and in her heart, the words resonated as if projected through an orchestra. A symphony.

 

 

The Citadel’s medical ward was still filled with casualties from the Kaggath. Rows of kolto tanks harbored both soldiers and sith who had been incapacitated in battle; the unmoving bodies helped the room project the impression of a very clean mortuary rather than an infirmary. The mood seemed somehow appropriate. Lethe promised herself that whoever had sent that cyborg assassin after her and Sierra would pay with their life.

 

With everything she had just gained, that was a promise she had no doubt about keeping. The power that surged through her … she could feel it reverberating through her very core, could feel her fingertips charged to the brim.

 

Nothing was out of reach now.

 

Leaning against a nearby pillar, Lethe watched Sierra wince as the Citadel’s medical staff did their work. The cyborg Pike had left a hand-shaped bruise on the girl’s abdomen, a maelstrom of blacks, blues and purples upon otherwise-fair skin. The prognosis was good; only a flesh wound, fortunately. Doctor Tivan, Director of the Citadel’s medical ward, had been concerned about internal bleeding.

 

‘Concerned’ was probably overstating it. Lethe doubted the medical staff cared one way or another if their sith masters lived. Skilled doctors and physicians could be used by anyone - in an invasion, smart sith would be careful to leave talented medical professionals alive; assuming victory, their services and loyalties could then be reassessed.

 

“I think that about wraps this up,” said Dr. Tivan. “Try not to strain yourself too hard in training, unless you want to come back and see me again real soon.”

 

Sierra nodded, stretching gingerly to test the bandages that had been wrapped around her torso. Satisfied she was adequately mobile, she offered a small smile. “Thank you, Doctor.”

 

Lethe approached the pair. “Yes, thank you. I must admit, I did not expect the Medical Director himself to do routine examinations like these.”

 

Tivan smiled, baring pristine teeth and stretching out a neatly trimmed goatee. It was a kind expression, of which genuine ones were not often found in the Empire. Lethe had discovered long ago that they tended to come with strings attached.

 

“When the Citadel’s master brings her personal apprentice in, I tend to take note,” said Tivan. “I trust my staff, but I find that it can be difficult trusting anyone above myself.”

 

Lethe smiled, forgetting again that her own face remained hidden by her mask. She extended a hand to the doctor, grasped his in her own before he could think to reject it. “I’ll make sure Lord Cyriak sends you an appropriate reward for services well-rendered.”

 

“G-gratitude, Darth Siphon. Although, I’m not sure I … what I mean to say is I only did my duty.”

 

“And I want you to know that I appreciate it,” said Lethe. “Not everyone thinks the faithful execution of duty is something that merits gratitude, but I believe differently.”

 

Tivan looked a bit confused; doubtless he had never heard gratitude expressed from the lips of a Sith. Lethe intended to change that. It was time for her and her followers to stop taking the efforts of their servants for granted. Frankly, it was time for all Sith to do so.

 

And I have the power to realize that change now.

 

“You are most generous, my lord,” said Tivan, offering a deep bow. “Thank you.”

 

“Indeed. Now, I’d like to speak to my apprentice alone.”

 

Tivan excused himself. Lethe caught a glance at the man’s face as he departed; it seemed the good doctor could not wholly rid himself of that expression of bewilderment.

 

Satisfied they were alone, Lethe turned back to the girl. “I don’t offer gratitude easily, but it is deserved here. Thank you, Sierra. Your efforts were critical in foiling that assassin’s plan.”

 

Sierra’s face flushed with pride for just a second. “Who do you think was behind that attack?”

 

Who indeed.

 

“I have my suspicions, but no concrete proof. And I’d rather not speculate wildly without it.”

 

“Do you think it was Astraad?” pressed Sierra.

 

Lethe paused before finally admitting, “It is a possibility … one I perhaps invited.”

 

“Can I say something, master?” asked Sierra after a moment. When Lethe nodded her consent, she continued. “You don’t seem like most other Sith.”

 

“I’ll assume you meant that as a compliment,” said Lethe, a hint of humor in her modulated tone.

 

“O-of course,” Sierra stammered. “I … I just mean you don’t act like most of the Sith Lords I’ve met. Miro was probably the kindest, and even he --”

 

Lethe’s tone rose sharply. “You think I’m kind?"

 

Sierra shook her head emphatically. “I’m not saying this right at all. I just mean I can see how you’ve ascended, how you’ve earned your throne. You inspire something different than most Sith. Loyalty. Faith.”

 

Lethe eyed her apprentice; her mask doubtless did not convey her skepticism. Then again, Sierra had not been witness to her low points, her conflicts on the council. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to follow Cyriak’s path.”

 

“My lord?”

 

“Flattery can be a useful tool, but it won’t get you into my good graces.” She turned towards the full-wall mirror. The medical center rested square in the center floor of the Citadel; it was well into the morning now, and only the occasional speeder flashed by.

 

“I’m only describing what I see,” pressed Sierra with just a hint of indignation. “Orthas ruled by fear. But you --”

 

“I am different, yes. I believe in a different way.” Lethe paused, turning back to face her apprentice. “ … a better way.”

 

It was time.

 

“Better than the way of the Sith?” asked the girl.

 

Lethe chuckled. “ … recite for me the Sith code, Sierra.”

 

The girl frowned, but did as instructed. “Peace is a lie; there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, power. Through power, victory. Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me.”

 

“A shorthand recitation, but no matter,” mused Lethe. “The essence is still there. Tell me … where does the code demand that petty cruelty be our method? Where in the code does it state that prejudice is our mandate? That tradition is our master?”

 

“Nowhere … but I have heard it said that those are inextricable byproducts of Sith philosophy.” Sierra’s response was tentative, uncertain. As though she was still working out her thoughts on the fly. “The code values power ... one could argue that those Sith who have achieved true power have shaped all their descendants with their methods … and those methods have been a resounding vote for terror and domination. A vote for conflict, even between fellow Sith.”

 

“Do you believe that? Do you think the Sith should be bound to that ideology?” asked Lethe. Her gaze locked onto her apprentice now, examining her every expression, her every subconscious reaction.

 

Sierra considered the question for a long moment. She seemed hesitant answer, biting her lower lip and fiddling with her empty hands. It took her a moment before she realized her physiological reactions and forcibly stopped herself.

 

“You can be honest with me, Sierra. Speak your heart … I would know if you are who I think you are.”

 

Sierra nodded slowly, finally revealing her truth. “I think you’re right, master. There has to be a better way than what we have seen from the Empire.”

 

Lethe smiled, hidden, victorious.

 

“You asked me not long ago whether we were enemies. I gave you the answer that any of our brethren would speak as truth. Sith are destined to be enemies. Master and apprentice, ally and friend … within the Empire, these relationships always end the same way. Betrayal. Treachery. Death.”

 

She paused for dramatic effect. “ … they end in weakness. They end in a diminishing of the Empire.”

 

Lethe watched her apprentice became enrapt, hanging onto her every word. “There is a better way. Nowhere in the code does it say that there can be no unity, that there can be no reason, that destroying one’s allies - and by extension weakening ourselves as a whole - that this is a Sith’s destiny.”

 

“But … is not peace a lie?” asked Sierra.

 

“Who said anything about peace? I only advocate that we seek conflict where it is needed. Where it is deserved. Conflict with one’s peers is easy. It’s right in front of you, it can always be present. But to actually grow, to gain actual power … you must seek conflict that is worthy.”

 

Sierra looked thoughtful. “With the Republic?”

 

“Or the Hutt Cartel. Or the Mandalorians. There are plenty of avenues to drive conflict, to spur self-improvement, to strive for strength. Our brothers and sisters of the Empire’s need not be among them.”

 

Sierra fell quiet again, but Lethe could not let her waffle. The apprentice had proven herself against Rime, against the cyborg assassin, against the Empire’s ridiculous requirements for apprentices at the Academy. This was the last test, the final question to see whether Sierra would prove to be Lethe’s faithful devotee, the one she needed to truly reform the Empire. The first of many. The one upon whom all of Lethe’s ambitions rested.

 

“Well?” she pressed. “What do you think?”

 

“Some would say your ideas are … radical, my lord,” said Sierra. Lethe watched her apprentice stare back at her, realizing that the girl too was probing, was trying to suss out whether she was being tested, whether these words were spoken in jest or deception.

 

“I care not what the rest of the Empire believes,” said Lethe. “In this moment, it’s your opinion that I wish to know.”

 

“Then …”

 

The girl was so hesitant. Every word she spoke was pregnant with deliberation. Why?! Had Lethe been wrong about her? Did she not see the reason and wisdom of Lethe’s philosophy?

 

“ … I think you’re right, master. I believe your way is the way of the future. The way of a new Empire, an Empire reborn, an Empire restored. Strong. Powerful. Victorious.”

 

Lethe wanted to burst out laughing, wanted to cackle with delight, to dance with celebratory glee. She had done it! She had found her first true disciple, her first true ally, a faithful herald of her new way. Together, they would see the Empire rejuvenated. With the Holocron of Ancient Sorcery and Sierra at her side, there was nothing that would be beyond her.

 

There was nothing that could stop her.

 

“Kneel, Sierra.”

 

“Darth Siphon?”

 

“Kneel.”

 

Sierra did as she was told.

 

“Weak. Powerless. Slave.” Lethe spoke with her former master’s imperious tone, bolstered by adrenaline, magnified by her mask. “You have stripped yourself of these titles, in favor of new ones. Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. Slayer of Rime, defender against assassins. You have proven to me your dedication and loyalty … and for that, I name you Lord.”

 

Stunned, Sierra’s eyes widened, unblinking. “M-master?”

 

Lethe continued, unabated, undenied. “To the rest of the world, you are Sierra no longer. Rise as Eris. Rise as a Lord of the Sith!”

 

Is it my imagination or is Lethe starting to unravel a bit? I think the holochron is taking as much as it is giving, maybe more. There is always a price to pay for that much power. Nice name for the promoted Sierra, Lord Eris indeed, but can she really be trusted?

 

Looking forward to more.

Edited August 9, 2016 by MishaCantu

Responses in the spoiler tags :

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10 coming sometime tomorrow!

Edited August 10, 2016 by wangxiuming

 

Lethe’s council was remarkably demure this day. Astraad looked somehow timid giving his report, while Cyriak made an unusual effort to keep his obsequiousness in check. Sierra sat at her side, quiet and doing her best not to attract attention. General Ravain seemed more confident, though it was hard to tell through the holocom. Lethe wondered if he was having better luck organizing the Sith that remained at Twinspire Keep.

 

Only Hadrax retained his sourpussed expression. “What is she doing here?” he asked, looking like he could not contain himself any longer, interrupting Astraad’s report while pointing an accusatory finger at Sierra.

 

“She is here at my invitation, Hadrax,” said Lethe. “I trust you have no objection.”

 

“You made it clear last time that my objections would be soundly disregarded, my lord.”

 

Lethe struggled to contain her desire to summon the Holocron’s power then and there to quash Hadrax’ audacious attitude.

 

“Ah … Darth Siphon,” interjected Cyriak. “If apprentices are to be allowed in these Council meetings, I believe there are a few of mine who would appreciate the opportunity ... to … to learn from …”

 

Cyriak’s voice trailed off as Lethe’s masked face sent him a piercing glare.

 

An awkward silence permeated the chamber until Ravain coughed through the holocom. “My lord Astraad, perhaps you should continue.”

 

Astraad defered to Lethe, who nodded her ascent. She had to admit, this new, meek Astraad was an amusing diversion from Hadrax’s insolence.

 

“As I was saying, we will be stepping up security after the latest --”

 

“Don’t bother,” said an exasperated Lethe. “How many times have we stepped up security in the last few weeks? Pretty soon the kitchen staff will be on call for patrol duty.”

 

“My lord, your safety --” started Cyriak.

 

That was a laugh. As if anyone present other than Sierra actually cared. Cyriak wasn’t one to let an opportunity to fawn over his master go by, though, however disingenuous it was; Lethe had expected it. “Just find out who paid that assassin. We need to cut the head off a snake.”

 

Astraad bowed his head. “Thresh is already scouring the shadow networks for clues. He has agents examining the cyborg’s memory banks as well. We’ll find the perpetrator.”

 

“Have we determined how that thing managed to infiltrate my stronghold?”

 

“Thresh suspects it was smuggled in as part of a shipment of protocol droids. Once it breached security, anyone could have activated it remotely.”

 

Anyone indeed. “I want names,” said Lethe, deathly quiet. “Get them to me.”

 

“Of course, my lord.”

 

“Good. What’s next?” asked Lethe.

 

“Darth Nox has sent word that she is dispatching her apprentice to Ziost, one Ashara Zavros. Her communication seems to suggest that Lady Zavros will be making contact with Minister Beniko of Sith Intelligence, and that she will also be paying visits to the most prominent Sith in New Adasta.”

 

“I didn’t know Minister Beniko had come here,” said Ravain. “Any reason why the head of Sith Intelligence is on Ziost?”

 

“There were those rumors of activity by the Ziost Liberation Front,” suggested Cyriak.

 

Hadrax snorted. “That’s overkill, don’t you think? The Ziost Liberation Front is a joke. Even impure filth like Lana Beniko would be completely wasted dealing with those fools.”

 

“Darth Marr keeps his new intelligence organization quite under wraps - we hear only what they tell us,” said Astraad.

 

“Back to Nox and her apprentice then,” commanded Lethe. “I assume this Lady Zavros will be gracing the Citadel with her presence?”

 

“Yes,” replied Astraad. “We were among the last stops she was making, but I negotiated a more prominent position on her schedule.”

 

“Mm. Well done,” conceded Lethe. The man still had his uses. “What do we know about this ‘Lady Zavros?’ Is she not a Sith? Why is she not styled a Lord?”

 

Cyriak grinned, revealing his impeccably clean teeth. “It seems Darth Nox’s apprentice is a fallen jedi who has yet to truly embrace Sith teachings.”

 

Hadrax spat, leaving a visible globule of saliva square on the face of the circular council table they all sat around. “Not Sith, not pure of blood, not even human. She is togruta scum. We need not curry her favor, we should turn her away at the gates!”

 

Lethe felt an urge to smack Hadrax in the face. “Not this again. The old order of things is done, Hadrax, your antiquated prejudice has no place in my powerbase! Accept reality!”

 

The pureblood lept to his feet, hand racing to his lightsaber, face twisted into a snarl. Lethe watched it happen in slow motion; she could read every single one of his movements. Did Hadrax actually think he could challenge her? How Lethe wanted him to do it, how it would be welcome to her now. The Holocron of Ancient Sorcery had freed from her constraints. She desired to put him in his place here, in front of all of his peers, to prove to her powerbase and to all the galaxy that she needed no one’s aid to put her house in order.

 

But no … Lethe could afford to wait just a bit longer. What Lethe intended to reveal at this council, she was sure would provoke Hadrax beyond the limit. But it was not yet time, not yet needed for her to reveal the true extent of her power magnified by the Holocron. Her apprentice would be enough to pacify the pureblood for now.

 

The rest of her councillors had fallen silent and still again. Pathetic, all of them. Only Sierra had mimicked Hadrax’s call to action - she was a step faster, a heartbeat quicker. Before the pureblood could leap across the council table to attack, Sierra - no, Lord Eris - had already placed the edge of her activated lightsaber at his throat.

 

The rest of the room looked stunned, but Lethe beamed with pride. Under her tutelage, Eris had grown so much in the last few weeks, her power undeniable. This, from a girl who had failed her trials and abandoned the Academy. Hadrax could not quite believe what had happened, his eyes widening in speechless shock. Lethe almost couldn’t believe it herself; she wouldn’t have believed such progress could be possible, if she had not personally provided guidance gleaned from the Holocron …

 

Regardless of the origins of her power, Eris was the perfect proof that the old ways that Hadrax clung to had lost all relevance, that the old teachings and traditions were but relics, obsolete and without merit.

 

“You’re going to sit down now,” said the girl to Hadrax. “And be thankful that our master still affords you the opportunity.”

 

The pureblood grit his teeth and did as commanded, releasing his hold on his still-deactivated lightsaber. Reluctantly, he sat back down, but not before sending Cyriak a piercing glare. The burn-scarred pureblood had been unable to hold back an inordinately amused giggle.

 

Feigning a cough to hide his delight, Cyriak feigned innocence. “Apologies … something stuck in my throat.”

 

Sierra returned to her seat as well. Satisfied that Hadrax had been suitably admonished, Lethe returned her attention to Astraad. “I trust you will make the appropriate arrangements for our guest’s arrival?”

 

“Of course, my lord.” He bowed his head low, careful not to meet her eyes.

 

“Good. Then it’s on to the final business of this council and the true purpose to why I summoned you all here today.”

 

Her four advisors looked upon her with expectant curiosity.

 

“I have come to a decision about who should fill the last vacant seat on this council,” said Lethe. “I make this determination, not lightly, but after much deliberation.”

 

Hadrax scoffed, disgusted. It was no wonder, considering his only nomination had been thoroughly disgraced and then slain. Astraad and Ravain seemed nonplussed. They never had stakes in this game to begin with. Only Cyriak’s nominees remained. The sycophant’s smile expanded across his whole face like a slug at a feast; Lethe wondered briefly if she could stuff a banana sideways into his mouth like that.

 

“Which of my discip --” the pureblood caught himself before he could further misstep. “Apologies, I of course meant to say which of your faithful followers have you selected to join our ranks, Darth Siphon?”

 

Lethe smiled from behind her master’s mask. Everything was about to change.

 

“Lord Eris. Rise.”

 

The whole room looked confused - except for one. Cyriak asked, disbelieving, “Eris? That was not one of my nominees. I don’t even think there is a Lord Eris within our --”

 

Cyriak’s words withered on his tongue as Lethe’s apprentice stood once more, proud, regal ... a true lord of the Sith.

 

The room exploded in a flurry of activity. Cyriak’s jaw dropped clear to the floor. Astraad looked utterly amused, stroking his chin with his cybernetic arm as he pondered the decision. Hadrax leaped to his feet again, slamming both his hands onto the council table so hard that Ravain’s holocom disconnected. “You have to be joking! You would name a slave to this council?!”

 

“A slave, is she?” spat Lethe. “You were so insistent that she was anything but a slave in our last discussion.”

 

Cyriak followed up immediately; Lethe could almost see his mind spin in an attempt to salvage what he could from his lost political play. “While Hadrax’s insolence is indeed unworthy, I must agree with his sentiment. As your advisors, we are meant to be your eyes and ears; we are meant to provide you with the most reasoned, most experienced counsel. What can such a young woman offer in that regard? You only accepted her as your apprentice a few days ago!”

 

“She offers what none of you or your nominations could,” countered Lethe. “A fresh mind, one unburdened by orthodoxy and unsullied by Orthas’ brainwashing. I expect her perspective to be quite refreshing.”

 

“Lord Ixass is only a few years older than she,” Cyriak insisted. “He was on my list; he would be the wiser choice, one that --”

 

Seeing Cyriak’s distress, however, Hadrax seemed to have a change of heart. “One whose nose stinks of your bowels. Ixis has all the wisdom of an empty book and all the efficacy of a dry mop.”

 

Astraad snorted, as did Lethe. She suspected her calculus had paid off; by naming Eris to her council, she had hit two birds with one stone. Cyriak’s bootlickers would be kept as far away from her as possible and Hadrax would be mollified; the latter seemed more than delighted that Cyriak’s nominations had all been rejected. There was something to be said about competition between Sith - a rival’s misery could often prove just as sweet as one’s own victory.

 

The holocom flashed a small light, indicating Ravain was attempting to reconnect, but none made any move to answer. Cyriak looked like someone had thrown a glass of Corellian Red in his face. For once his servile smile had vanished, hidden beneath a vicious snarl directed at Hadrax. “You insolent little --”

 

Lethe held a hand up to silence them both. “The decision has been made. Lord Eris will join us on this council.”

 

“My lord, I must protest!” exclaimed Cyriak. Lethe turned to the once-fawning councilor one more time, genuinely surprised. She had expected him to resist, but she had not thought he would take it this far. Where was the sycophantic and overly-accommodating demeanor that had so grated on Lethe’s nerves for the last dozen meetings?

 

“Even assuming the young Sierra has valuable insight to offer,” insisted Cyriak. “... she cannot be made Lord. And therefore she is ineligible to be named to this council!”

 

“You are treading dangerous ground, Cyriak,” said Lethe, her tone filled with a quiet but building fury. “Perhaps you wish to rethink dictating to me what I can or cannot do.”

 

“Darth Siphon, this girl is a failed apprentice! The whole Citadel knows her past; she abandoned her trials at the Academy! That alone disqualifies her!”

 

“Cyriak has a point,” said Astraad. “My lord, if you raise the girl up to the rank of Lord now, imagine what that says to the rest of the apprentices in the powerbase? That their accomplishments back on Korriban were for nothing? Imagine what the rest of the Sith across the galaxy will say? This is a double standard that could sow chaos in the powerbase and beyond.”

 

The poor fools. So trapped by their outdated thinking, they couldn’t see beyond their vaunted traditions. Lethe almost pitied them. Almost.

 

They would all understand in time. She would make them.

 

“The matter is closed, I will hear no more squabbling about it. If any of you have further objections to this appointment, you can make them with your lightsaber. And be assured … I will enlighten you your folly.”

 

She wanted to laugh, to display her glorious victory through unbridled mirth for all the galaxy to see. Finally, she could make this declaration. Finally, that challenge that Astraad had dared her to make all those weeks ago, she could make now in front of all who could threaten her reign. Finally, she no longer feared being exposed for her true self. Lethe was a Darth in all things, all but name … and she had Siphon’s name for that. None of her upstart disciples would dare challenge her and if they did, she would crush them beneath her heel.

 

Hadrax offered a contemptuous sigh. “So shall it be. Orthas’ legacy suffers another stain. This Citadel sinks another rung on the Sith hierarchy and our ranks swell with impurity and --”

 

Lethe had enough of Hadrax’s pontificating. She would not suffer this impudence any longer. She raised her arm and closed her fingers into a fist, grasping through the Force, channeling the Holocron of Ancient Sorcery. Crushing, choking. Hadrax’s words died mid-sentence, severed by Lethe’s power. He clawed at his neck, wheezing, desperate for release, his braided hair flailing as his body parted from the floor, lifted up by the strength of Lethe’s will alone.

 

It was so easy. The Holocron granted her power unlimited. What had she been afraid of? Why had she spent so much time accommodating this man’s ego? Any of their egos, their vanity? What was their pride before her power? What were their lives before her ambition?

 

Hadrax’s lips moved in anguished attempt to profess apology, but only the sound of air escaping his lungs could be heard.

 

She couldn’t hold herself back now, couldn’t stop herself even had she wanted to. Mocking laughter poured from her mouth, a tidal wave of delirious jubilation. A voice whispered in her mind, persistent, but muted, pleading for her not to lose sight of her better way.

 

… but what was her way before her glory?

 

Know only submission.

 

Hadrax’s eyes bulged in terror, as the man finally realized what was about to happen. Lethe watched as pain sparked understanding in those narrow-sighted eyes. These moments were to be his last. She would erase this thorn from her side permanently.

 

“Master, you’re going to kill him!”

 

An insect buzzed in her ear. How annoying.

 

“Master, stop!”

 

Someone was tugging at her arm, was trying to interfere, dared to insert herself into matters that did not concern her! What did this fool girl think she was doing?! She would pay. They would all pay!

 

A piercing scream fled her lips, sending four figures flying backwards, slamming them into the walls of the council chamber. They convulsed in place, held in mid-air by the infinite well of Lethe’s newfound power. They screamed, in agony, in terror. Astraad’s cybernetic arm shattered into a thousand pieces, burying shrapnel in his sides; blood poured in ribbons, compelled not to the floor by gravity, but by the maelstrom Lethe had summoned. Cyriak shrieked until there was no breath left. Hadrax’s body slumped over, unmoving, dead. Retra’s body spasmed like a thousand jolts of electricity poured into her skull, her eyes covered in white, her hair singed off, her --

 

… no!

 

What have I done?!

 

“Master, stop! You’re going to kill him! Remember, remember what you told me!”

 

Finally, she recognized the voice. Sierra. Eris. She didn’t understand … nothing made sense. Her vision splintered into countless fragments, and then restored itself: the sight before her, completely different than the hallucination she had just witnessed. Astraad, Cyriak, Sierra … they were all fine. Even Hadrax still breathed, hovering in the air, clinging to life by a thread.

 

Lethe fell back, unable to hide her surprise, unable to hide her shock. She recoiled, withdrawing her power, feeling the Holocron resist, taunt, defy. The vision of a long-dead friend haunted her, tormented her mind and her heart.

 

Not again. Why did this keep happening?!

 

Hadrax sank to the ground, defeated. His breath returned to him slowly but surely; he would survive.

 

“Master, are you alright?” asked Sierra.

 

“ … get out. Get out, all of you!”

 

“Darth Siphon,” said Astraad. “You’re not well, you need --”

 

“GET OUT! LEAVE. DO YOU FOOLS NOT UNDERSTAND? I WANT ALL OF YOU OUT!”

 

Sierra fell back,frightened. Astraad didn’t offer any more objections; he helped Hadrax to his feet, and then threw the weakened pureblood’s arm over his shoulder, supporting his fellow pureblood as they limped out of the council chamber. Cyriak followed closely, visibly shaken by what he had seen.

 

“Master, talk to me, please, I … I want to help!”

 

“I’m fine, Sierra. Go.”

 

The girl knew better than to try defiance again. She headed towards the exit, pausing only briefly to look upon her master before departing as well. What was that look that she saw? Was it pity? What gave her the idea that she could be pitied? That she could feel sorry for her? She was the apprentice, not her!

 

Who did she think she was?

 

By the time the sound of Sierra’s footsteps disappeared, Lethe no longer knew who she was thinking about, who she was so angry at: Sierra … or herself.

 

 

Beral sat in her Kaas City office, legs-crossed as she gazed at Lord Pallas’ shimmering form through a holocom. She selected a golden-yellow pastry from a nearby platter and held it up clearly so that it would be seen on the holocall in progress. She suspected that the cerulean holo technology would not be able to adequately convey just what she was holding in her hand, however; so, she spoke, taking deliberate care to choose her words for maximum effect.

 

“It’s such a shame you aren’t here, Pallas. My chef prepared the most exquisite madeleines for dessert today. Just the right amount of sugar without becoming overly saccharine, and lighter than air. Pure perfection, simply.”

 

She paused, glancing to the holographic representation of her ally. “Do you enjoy pastries, my friend?”

 

Of course, she already knew he did. Otherwise, she would not have requested a platter of madeleines to be prepared for her holocall. The man was renowned for enjoying baked goods, madeleines in particular. Beral even heard once that Pallas had a slave executed for stealing them, imparting a most literal interpretation of the phrase: ‘a dessert to die for.’

 

“I … yes, Lord Beral. In fact I do.”

 

She made sure to twirl the pastry in her fingers before taking a slow and satisfying bite into the dessert; the madeleine all but melted upon her tongue as she slowed her mouth to an agonizing snail’s crawl for dramatic effect.

 

She could almost see Pallas drool from the corners of his mouth, even through the holocom.

 

“You simply must come visit me again,” said Beral, her voice cooing into the holocom. “I’ll have Entony prepare a feast of madeleines for you.”

 

It was an empty offer, one that Pallas no doubt could see through. She knew he would only nod and demur though. Pallas would not dare to contradict anything she had to say. Like clockwork, the miniature holographic representation of the sith lord bowed low, its slight hesitation the only indication that the act was anything but authentic.

 

“So, tell me,” Beral asked. “How are things in New Adasta?”

 

“Lively, as usual my lord. There are reports of seditionist activity almost weekly now, though Sith Intelligence has yet to locate any concrete leads to pacify them.”

 

“Seditionists? How quaint,” said Beral, not bothering to hide her apathy. “Has the Ziost Liberation Front finally found its courage?”

 

Pallas pursed his lips in doubt. “Possibly, though these latest attacks have had a surgical quality that is usually lacking in the ZLF’s operations. The perpetrators have been targeting old Imperial Intelligence data-centers and various vau-”

 

Beral yawned. “Oh? Well, I’m sure Minister Beniko will have things well in hand soon enough. What of our fellow Sith? Has there been any more news of interest amongst the Ziost factions?”

 

“Lord Lector has finally solidified his hold over Darth Cerber’s old power structure. They say Marr will be supporting his elevation to Darth soon. And as for Siphon …”

 

Beral couldn’t help leaning in closer to the holocom. This is what she actually wanted to hear about.

 

“ … rumor has it she’s elevated her personal apprentice to the rank of Lord. Lord Eris, as she’s now known, was then named to Siphon’s personal council.”

 

“Is that even worth a rumor?” asked Beral. “How many Lords are elevated everyday? Aren’t we’re being named, killed and replaced all the time?”

 

“As you say, of course, Lord Beral, but it seems this Eris was a slave that failed and abandoned the trials on Korriban.”

 

Beral drummed her fingers together, licking her lips of the few stray crumbs that had escaped her tongue. “Well now … isn’t that interesting?”

 

“That’s not all, my lord.” Beral thought she detected a note of contempt in Pallas’ tone. “My sources also tell me that Siphon’s already been the target of an assassination attempt, one that Eris played a critical role in foiling.”

 

“How curious indeed,” mused Beral. “This assassin must not have been particularly adept at his profession to be stopped by a failed apprentice.”

 

“On the contrary, my lord. I understand Lord Eris is surprisingly powerful. She slew Lord Rime in single combat; you remember him?”

 

“I remember his stench. Campaigning with him on Taris nearly slew my sense of smell.”

 

Pallas couldn’t quite hide an amused snort. “Yes, well … Rime numbered among Siphon’s strongest apprentices, one of Orthas’ training and legacy. I would not have bet against him, even against some Darths.”

 

“Curiouser indeed. That gives me some ideas.”

 

“Lord Beral?”

 

“Have your spies do a thorough check on this Eris’ background. I want to know everything about her.”

 

Pallas bowed his head. “Of course, Lord.”

 

“As for Siphon … I’ll have further instructions for you shortly.”

 

“Yes, my lord. I await your command.”

 

Beral popped the last of the madeleines into her mouth, careful to ensure her slow chewing conveyed an adequate sense of pure, unadulterated delight. She watched Pallas turn away to quickly wipe a sliver of droop from the corners of his mouth; toying with Pallas was almost too easy. A bit of theater was all that was needed to produce results.

 

Beral prided herself on her acting ability. In reality, she despised madeleines; she found them simultaneously tasteless and insubstantial. She much preferred her meats. Steaks, ribs, chops. Protein. Hearty meals, fit for hearty appetites.

 

Still, the look of envious need in Pallas’ eyes was worth swallowing every bite of the bland, dull pastry.

 

"Thank you Pallas. That will be all."