The foreboding crudeness of the spire, black stone against the orange sky, belied the lavish interiors hidden within. Wide stairs, wide enough to march legions shoulder by shoulder, led up to a pair of durasteel blast doors which, to Malfearak’s surprise, parted as they approached, working as if they had been built the day before. The doors moved aside with a rumbling of machines, opening the way to a cavernous entrance halls, lined with tall pillars rising high above them, their surface carved with intricate designs, disappearing into the shadows above. Balconies and bridges and stairs criss-crossed overhead. Scenes were carved in many walls, depicting historical moments, few of which Malfearak recognized despite his considerable knowledge of history. He did recognize key moments of Jedi and Sith history, most notable one that depicted the rise and fall of Darth Bane, the instigator of the rule of two. It seemed the Black Hand had had a penchant of his own for history. A kindred spirit, perhaps, he thought to himself. Floors of reflective tiles laid out in patterns that formed symbols and glyphs still appeared polished to this day. Yet, the signs of past battles were unmistakable. Scorch marks marred many a surface, and countless bodies, now little more than dust and discarded armor, were strewn around the surface. Tattered clothes, weapons, lightsabers, they lay there untouched, their history forgotten.
Alaisy didn’t wait for him. She moved even as he gaped at the architecture, working her way towards a curved stairwell leading to the levels above. He followed, though he was in no hurry to do so, studying his surroundings as he did so. As they worked their way upwards, they passed through an assortment of rooms and chambers. Training halls, barracks, living quarters, an armory, a laboratory, the last of which Malfearak marvelled at. Vats containing the inert bodies of creatures, many of which he knew, creatures from countless different worlds. He had noted the marks of experimentation, specimens which had been altered in one way or another. It was as impressive as it was terrifying to witness.
As they ascended, Malfearak noted the sense of dread building up in him, the air growing colder around him, heavier, like a weight boring down on his shoulders. For all the heat they had endured moving, he found his fingers to be freezing. He didn’t have to ask her to see that Alaisy felt the same way. She had slowed down, as had the swaying of her tail, now straight and alert, as if ready to face a pouncing enemy.
They reached a set of elevators, tested them for functionality. When they moved without a hitch, they both climbed aboard. It was Alaisy, fingers clicking, that eagerly punched the directions for the top floor. The doors swished shut and he felt the unmistakable drag of inertia as they were swept upwards. It took many heartbeats, each one hammering at his rib cage, for them to reach the top.
The elevator doors opened onto a great hall cast in fiery light, the light of day cascading through baying windows of transparisteel. Columns lined the outer perimeter. Malfearak was quick to recognize the similarities with the Jedi Council chamber from the temple of Coruscant, right down to the circular patterns on the floor. It spoke to the Black Hand’s obsession with the Jedi, or perhaps did it speak to his origins? His desires? Unlike the Jedi Council’s chamber, there were no seats, except for an empty stone throne sitting atop a dais. It was of intricate design, jagged and grandiose, patterns etched across its surface. It was quite a feat for stone to appear so intimidating. No corpses littered the chamber, no weapons, though it was not devoid of signs of battle. Great arcing scars marred walls and floors, pillars and dias, the scars left behind by lightsabers. Malfearak turned as he took in the entire chamber, feeding on its raw energy, feeling it pulsating with the Living Force. And yet, he could not shake the rising dread. He could not keep the tremor out of his fingers, not by wringing his hands, not by clinging to his lightsaber. Impending doom threatened them, he could feel it in his bones even though the chamber sat empty.
Then, everything changed. Daytime was gone from the windows, replaced by darkness, the distant glow of lava the only light. He looked around for Alaisy, found her only by the red glow of her suit’s lights, her lightwhip in her grasp, though it remained inactive. Then, one by one, flames sputtered to life in sconces carved into the pillars, plunging the chamber in an eerie orange glow.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” A deep, sonorous voice rippled on the air, each word enunciated at a slow, precise pace, a rumble bone-deep dripping with humor. It reverberated around the great hall coming from a thousand directions all at once, guiding their gaze to the dais and the empty throne, though it was empty no longer. A dark figure now sat upon it, straight-backed, gauntlet-clad hands grasping the armrests. He watched them from under his knotted brow, a fiendish smile splitting his lips, pristine white teeth and sharp canines on full display. Encased in segmented black armor, an embroidered, ashen tabard spilling over the edges of the throne, he cut an imposing figure, towering despite being seated. Long, lavish, black hair flowed upon his broad shoulders, layered, fastened in a top knot, animal bones and silver beads braided throughout. His skin was almost bone-white by contrast, weathered but youthful, high cheekbones and strong, handsome features framed by a bead-braided beard. Power radiated from this man, raw, unchecked, nowhere more than from his ice-blue gaze, so intense his eyes seemed to glow. The figure pushed himself up to stand above them on the dais, arms outstretched at his sides, wide open, a genuine legend stepped out from the pages of history. “Lady Tir'eivra, master Asvraal, I welcome you.”
It took her a moment to take everything in. One thing she knew that she did not need right now was her weapon. A voice in the back of her mind told her the encounter would not likely be on her terms. Nor in a location favorable to them.
Hiss
The tall Sith steadied her breathing and gave Asvraal one quick glance, before turning her gaze back to the powerful figure above them. She clicked the hilt back under her backpack.
Aphotis could feel the distinct energy radiating off of this figure. It was without a doubt, the Black Hand himself. What she did not expect was to see him displayed in such splendor. Her electric-blue eyes squinted from behind the visor for clues to the contrary, but she knew trusting her senses could lead her astray.
She was going to play along, for now. The witch had not come all the way to Ashvroth to return empty handed. If anything, this was a time to find answers.
Leaning on one leg, she placed the back of her hand on her hip, letting her tail show off her emotional state. It allowed her to slow down her heartrate for a bit, and assure herself to make the right decisions.
She set her sight on the man’s ice-blue and blinked as little as she could, as a way to make sure the words that next reached his ear would be laced with mutual respect.
“Greetings, we are grateful, you know of us then?” Tir'eivra was pleased by herself that she kept her modulated voice steady, tinged with her cordial accent.
Her tail made short movements as if counting. Putting the pieces together, Aphotis believed the artifact was likely the reason this man knew of them already. What they learned of him, he learned of them.
‘Brilliant.’
“Who doesn’t know of Alaisy Tir'eivra, the Mistress Aphotis, the walking paragon of symbiosis, a prodigy in her own right, the mere mention of her name enough to make the Brotherhood tremble. You ask if I know of you? What of Malfearak Asvraal, renowned archaeologist, follower of the Wayseeker creed, unsung hero who hunted the usurpers of the Nihil legacy at Rehvoda? Both former Heralds standing before me, kindred spirits to my own fair fame. And you ask if I know of you. My dear girl, I know everything.” The Black Hand’s voice boomed as he spoke through his wicked smile, hands flourishing in a theatrical manner as he designated them one at a time. He worked his way down the dais, hopping down each step as he held his flowing black cape behind him with one arm, revealing the long, sceptre-like hilt of his lightsaber.
Malfearak stood still as Oscura approached them, fists bunched, brow furrowed. This man was taller than him, only a hand shy of Alaisy, and yet, by his presence alone he seemed to tower above them both. He moved with a playfulness that bordered on mockery, a Nexu toying with its prey. Where Alaisy seemed almost at ease, Malfearak was trembling, desperate to pull and ignite his lightsaber. Something wasn’t right. This could not be Cyris Oscura. Malfearak had watched footage of the man before he had disappeared from Brotherhood space years ago. A decrepit madman, a wild look in his one eye, one-armed, bald shaven and disfigured, ashen scar tissue covering half of his head, a far cry from this youthful warrior. Whoever this is, this is an imposter. A ghost. An illusion. This is NOT the Black Hand.
“Oh, I assure you, my boy, I am quite real,” Oscura said as if reading his mind, his smile only sharpening as he thumped Malfearak’s chest with a pair of armored fingers, the impact dull but enough to jolt him. The Black Hand circled them, eyeing them up and down, his cape flowing over the polished tiles like water down a river. He rounded up on Alaisy, his face only inches away from her’s. He took a deep breath, Malfearak could sense him reaching out to her in the Force.
“I have dreamed of this day, yet, the real question is, why do you come to me now?” He spoke to her, blue eyes locked on blue, ice meeting ice, as if Malfearak had ceased to exist.
Aphotis subconsciously raised a brow as the flattering stacked up.
She was not nearly feared enough by her peers. It burnt in the back of her skull that she was not. Was it arrogance from the others? A blindness to danger? Distraction from foes better at drawing attention to themselves? All of the options made the palms of her hands itch from vexation. She commanded her tail not to, but it twitched anyway.
’A paragon of symbiosis? A prodigy? Me? To my own path, perhaps. Everyone else was far too narrow-minded and disinterested to recognise the sheer miracle I have created out of myself.’
The tall Sith reminded herself of her own tenets. Each uttered sentence lifted her chin further as the dark side cupped it. She could feel the cold touch on her shoulders, the low whispers in her ears, the scent of iron, her own silhouette in the reflection of her visor.
- The only limits are the limits I accept.
- The inability of others to accept my growth is not my concern.
- Do not seek approval from others. Enforce my will upon them.
- My path is not meant for everyone.
- Never avoid, but confront fears and doubts to reach my goals.
- Let fear push myself to work harder and go deeper.
- Act with intention, not reaction.
- Release what no longer serves me and embrace the new. .
And then came Asvraal’s compliments. The sheer stillness from him said everything. Too cynical perhaps? Maybe he did not see the potential here. Merely the peril without the merit.
What put her tail at ease was the dread this man radiated. Nothing was ever worth anything without going through struggle, pain and especially fear. Her entire Garden of Trepidations flowered with each word uttered by this man. Pure strife, every cell in her body yearned for it.
The Sith witch let his words fester, waiting for them to latch on so that she could confront them. Each word became a trial, a battle.
Her mask hissed and let out a cloud of frozen air. Aphotis’s eyes glowed brighter as she processed his question.
“I am here because I will be stronger for it. I am here because this void in front of me grew to be a terror of immeasurable size and I will confront it and dive into it. I am here because I am intrigued and I will know. I am here now, because I willed it so,” her voice was dark and seeped in confidence, even as every letter uttered felt like tearing her own skin off.
Malfearak tried to keep the emotions from his face, but he could not stop the corners of his mouth from tensing up and dipping as Alaisy spoke, arrogance and confidence atwirl in her word-storm. Her words were self-centered and boastful for the benefit of the Black Hand, which only confirmed his suspicions and his doubts. She could not be trusted. As for the armored warrior standing before her, Malfearak did not think the man’s smile could grow any more predacious and yet it did, a manic glint appearing in his eyes as Alaisy spoke. The tension thick and heavy in the air, Oscura spun on his heels with a snap of his cloak as she finished speaking, stepping away from her, a finger wagging in the air as if he had made an important decision.
“Yes, indeed, indeed, indeed,” he spoke, his pitch higher, words a rapid stream, mirthfully seeping. He rounded on them again at the foot of the dais, one arm hooked behind his cloak to keep it from falling before him as he moved. “By your will, yes.” He paused as if contemplating his next words, eyes never leaving Alaisy, then spoke anew, his slow, articulate speech returning, “And so, one comes for power. What of the other?”
Malfearak felt his body tense up, sharp teeth bared, dread and anger warring in his mind as the Black Hand’s icy stare snapped onto him. The gross oversimplification and dismissal of Alaisy’s deeper meanings were appalling, an insult to their intelligence. He opened his mouth to speak but the ancient warrior did not allow him.
“The archaeologist comes for knowledge. Which is power in itself, is it not?. Ah yes, I know what drives you, Wayseeker.” The Black Hand almost spat that last word, a half-snarl on his curled lips, the first sign of animosity breaking through his mask. In a heartbeat it was gone. Malfearak made to protest, but again, the warrior did not let him. Smile returning to his lips, he continued, “It’s certainly not your old master’s teachings.”
The Black Hand moved forward, wrists crossed behind his back, setting himself squarely between them. Darkness followed the man like a veil now as he stepped forward. It rolled off of him in waves and washed over them, engulfing them. He craned his neck to look at Malfearak first, then to Alaisy. He shrugged and sighed, “Alas, we cannot three gain power, for it is a balance. For one to gain, one must lose, and so we cannot three depart victor in our own right.” His eyes went to Alaisy’s once more, his smile dropping, his icy gaze intense with unspoken meaning. “It is a limit we must accept.”
There was a reverberation in the Black Hand’s voice now as if it came from a long distance. A strange hum of energy. Malfearak gasped and stumbled, realization dawning as he tore his eyes from the warrior and found the throne room and the spire gone, replaced by the emptiness of time and space. They stood as they did in the throne room, strides apart, the Black Hand a barrier between them, except now they stood upon a narrow pathway of shimmering energy, its surface silver and translucent. The void surrounded them, interspersed by silver glyphs and shimmering runes hanging like frozen ice drops in the night air. He recognized the glyphs from ancient Jedi tomes though their meaning yet eluded him. As his eyes adjusted, he noted more pathways crisscrossing space and time, ethereal threads woven from eternity.
A golden light spat to life, and it took several heartbeats for him to realize he had pulled and ignited his lightsaber.
“A crude solution to an enthralling enigma,” the Black Hand sighed.
How were they standing?
An illusion? No. There was no whisper of warning, none of the other senses to fall back on.
What was this place?
This was the first in a long time that she blinked. She saw Asvraal and did not care that his lightsaber was activated. The sudden change of scenery made her heart sink. It was fear, her own, offset by that of the Kessurian. So sweet on the tongue. She smiled behind the mask. The heat from the fire-planet was no more, this place was cold and mystical.
‘The land of the dead? The one where the spirits reside?’
The witch had never been more relieved that she had imprisoned the souls she had slain in her Garden of Trepidations, or that she had discarded them elsewhere when she could. They would have surely haunted her here.
Where the Kessurian was being confronted by the Black Hand, Aphotis could not help but be enthralled by the paths and bridges. She did not notice it herself, but she laughed as she took one careful, yet enticing step forward on this glimmering way. The feedback was there, she felt it through the sole of her boot. Of course she did, it was covered by the same symbiotic skin as everything else—yet the road was as smooth and cool as it appeared. A clawed hand almost tried to pick out a star from the void, or one of those beautiful runes, until she realized she was showing behavior of an eight year old.
“Little girls should make themselves useful, not play around”. It was what her uncle Dogond would tell Alaisy and he was the nicest one. .
Instinct took away the wonder and brought her back. Her tail was coiled around her thigh, squeezing hard, chiming in that this was a pivotal moment for her to watch out for.
‘Just how powerful was this Black Hand?’
‘A limit we must accept?’ The tenet he picked from her brain, warped into his words, it kept repeating in her mind.
‘We?’ Tir'eivra pondered about this the most. A Sith would say ‘I’, unless they were willing to share something. When a Sith shares knowledge, there would be a cost.
She slowed her breathing and her chest became heavier. It became hard to swallow. She had grown fond of Malfearak Asvraal and he was useful. But she felt it too, three was too many. It could be ‘One Sith’, it could be ‘Two'—even if she hated and never lived by that rule—but it could never be three. That would be a class and the eventual trial that would follow, would funnel the number of lives down to two.
The tall black-clad woman clenched her jaw. Was Asvraal activating his yellow blade at the Black Hand, or at her?
She could feel the nose-cup of her facemask tighten as she pressed her lips into thin lines behind it.
“What is this, Asvraal? Why the blade?” Aphotis almost spat as she shouted out the words. She placed an angry fist on her hip as her eyes pulsed.
His hands knuckle-white on the hilt of his lightsaber, a tremor rocking the dusk-yellow blade, Malfearak drew in a long, calming breath, allowing the serenity of their surroundings to submerge him. He drew upon the energies of this new realm to quell the storm in his mind. From the moment he had set foot in the Black Hand’s spire until moments before when his lightsaber spat to life, he had been overwhelmed by a deluge of emotion, thoughts and senses both. Confusion, terror, fury, awe flooding his brain, his heart, drowning out cognition and logic, leaving him unable to manifest one concrete thought.
But now, he saw clearly.
Asvraal.
Alaisy’s voice echoed in his mind. The question, the suspicion, the… malice. He understood then, the Black Hand’s proposition to her, concealed by his duplicitous eloquence. Malfearak was no fool, not by any stretch, and he knew all too well the forces now conspiring against him. The Sith witch, ruthless. She would justify her betrayal by any means necessary, and he had given her the opportunity the moment he had brandished his weapon. The Black Hand, merciless. He was manipulating her, though she did not realize it. Even if she did, she stood to gain from siding with her new lord.
Pain shot up his jaw and he realized he was grinding his teeth, hands wringing around the hilt.
The Black Hand watched him, unmoving, his cruel smile ever present, boring into him, eyes of ice unblinking. He waited, for he would not need to defend against Malfearak. Malfearak swallowed hard as he looked past him, beyond his shoulder to Alaisy, though he no longer saw the woman behind the mask. He saw only the Sith witch, the hiss of her breath through her helmet’s filtration system almost deafening in his ears. She made to move, and he reacted instinctively, staggering back, cutting through the air, warning her, daring her.
“Stay away!” he screamed, his voice a shrill echo throughout eternity.
Oscura laughed. Deep. Cruel.
Evil.