The click-clacking of her own heels became deafening as the doors closed and no other sound was permitted in the room. Her tail remained fixed after having swung from side to side for hours. Aphotis could feel the tension in the muscles of her palms.
’Confront this reluctance, it is fear.’
Her Garden of Trepidations had been pushing her far and fast, yet now doubt settled in like a cancer. She could tell from the many voices pulling her in different directions, it was a political debate inside of her skull. With a pop and a loud hiss, she exhaled. This was not a challenge to be trifled with, she needed to be ready to face it with body, mind and within the Force.
The logical core, her ivory tower, told her not to be foolish, for this was a trap for an entity that was hungry for her power and vitality, it brought her numbers and calculations as proof. Her body, and her symbiotic skin was tender and more cognisant to any outside impulses, her tail was proof, even curiosity was being overwhelmed. This was one of those moments where she would have to trust in the dark side of the Force, it would reveal everything. That meant she would still have a choice once she found this mythical Black Hand in the flesh, just not right now.
She lowered herself in the center, in front of the altar. A chill ran over her spine as the cold knife-heels touched her second skin. To prepare her body, to truly focus, she had to place it in danger and tempt it with desire. The valve to her air tanks whistled like the scream of the dead as she cut the oxygen off with a flick of her tail-tip. She reminded herself that nothing was worth doing without pain and suffering, there was always a price. The higher the price, the greater the potential gain. In this case, and many more, she stood to lose everything, she would have to fight to transform into something greater. —
The first attempt at breathing brought with it the pleasant feeling of her mask’s nosecup pressing onto her face as her request was denied. Compassion reared its ugly head. Thoughts of Zag preparing the room with utmost politeness and respect, selfless to a fault. To the Sith, this was corruption of the self, it was unbalanced to spare even a single thought of repaying a favor for mere ‘kindness’. Umangi needed to learn this lesson, but later, she had her own path.
Then her thoughts went to Malfaerak.
‘What could his price be? What is he after? Who is he consorting with? Why is the Shroud involved? Could he be of further use?’
All important questions, and while she felt she could count on his curiosity or greed, these were devolving into thoughts of paranoia. Another fear. She would confront that when it was time.
Further musings were silenced. The void beckoned. Quietude brought clarity.
She was ready to take the plunge.
Like branding herself with a hot iron, she concentrated her will on her desire. With steady claws, the artifact unsealed. The familiar panic of breathlessness set in, letting her ascend, only to dive faster and deeper. The darkness took her down. Adrenaline punched her in the chest.
Images flashed before her, each like needles to the soul.
— Her shiny latex became matted out by ash, her vision bounced and warped with nauseating vertigo until she stabilised herself. Fire and brimstone burnt as plumes of lava shot upward. A volcanic landscape cut like sharpened blades as tendrils of black reeled her in with voracious appetite.
The melancholy of ruins and a black tower became a compressing heavy weight upon her.
Down, down, down again.
Death, the deceased, a tomb.
A giant claw reached for her heart.
’You reached your goal here, get out, GET OUT!’
Like dragging herself by her own tongue, she wrested herself from the endless oblivion, like her soul had been forced back to the living before.
She woke squirming on the floor, her tail twitching and flicking to reach the button on her oxygen supply.
Pop-hiss
A moment of panicked euphoria hit her. She cackled between breaths. Resting on her elbows, she hung her head, letting her hair cover her visor. Aphotis tried to catch her bearings. A throbbing spike of pain rattled her head, accompanied by the feverish heat of exhaustion.
“Time to inform Asvraal,” she pressed the words out between clenched teeth, prying herself off the ground.
Somehow, the masked Sith appeared more impositing now than she had before. There was a strange energy about her as she recounted her vision, her eagerness betraying her now as it did before. This time, however, it went beyond that. This was nothing short of euphoria. An unbridled thirst for answers. What she had witnessed had only stoked the embers of inquiry in her.
As he listened to her, he thought that perhaps she was keeping key details to herself. It was in part why he had asked her to relay the information in person. Speaking eye to eye, he could get a better read of her intentions and weigh her honesty. Afterall, one did not become Herald of the Brotherhood without the ability to read people, and the Force was but one of many tools at his disposal. Fortunately, here and now, he believed her truthful. She understood that withholding crucial information from him would work against her own self-interest. She needed his expertise, his knowledge, as much as he needed her… connection.
Ash and lava. The prickling of an idea loomed at the back of his mind.
A volcane. He knew this location. Mustafar? No. It couldn’t be. It made no sense.
A ruined city. The silhouette of a black hand etched upon a torn banner rippled in his mind. Could it be?
Yes… of course!
It was the tower that confirmed his suspicions.
“What you witnessed, Lady Tir'eivra, is the realm of the Black Hand. The volcanic world of Velrahn,” Malfearak revealed in hushed tones, as if he was relaying a long forgotten secret. In some ways, that’s exactly what he was doing. “The stronghold of Ashvroth is where he trained and molded his dread lords. The Ashen Spire, his seat of power, it is from these staging grounds that he waged his war against the Jedi of old.”
He realised that his breath was short from the excitement. He had studied the Black Hand’s history in excrutiating detail and now his efforts were beginning to pay off. He was closer than ever to his goal. His hand trembled as it wandered to the lightsaber hanging from his belt. A bone-deep chill settled over him as he pictured Cyris Oscura in his mind. The young, muscle-ridden Combat Master. The old, ruined sorcerer, twisted, barely human.
Alaisy’s voice caused him to gasp.
“What of the tomb?” she asked.
Malfearak ran his fingers through his beard. Indeed, the tomb was a mystery.
The mystery.
Malfearak stood up without offering an answer. Instead, with a flick of his hand he opened comms to the ship’s cockpit.
Malfearak addressed the ship’s captain, “Ordon, you will be returning to the Godless Matron without me. However, you will flag me as present in your ship’s manifest. Understood?”
“Understood, master Asvraal. Please make yourself comfortable, we will make sure no one disturbs you.”
Malfeark called upon the Force, pulling his helmet to his grasp from across the room. In one swift motion, he caught it and slipped it over his head. A hiss filled the air as it sealed around his collar.
“We’ll be taking your ship, my lady.”