Post by Kael Serasai on Jul 30, 2012 20:33:59 GMT -5
((Ok, so this is in no way related to any RP material I've written so far, nor is it intended for any other RP group. It's pretty much the first decent thing I've written in months, and the whole idea for it came to me about an hour before I decided to get it all down. It's a bit lengthy, but... I hope it's enjoyable 
I kinda saw it as a prelude to something which could lead to something much bigger, if I have the inspiration to commit to it.))
((PS, there may be mistakes that I've yet to correct, but it is late and I used Kroenen in this purely because I couldn't think of another 'main Sith' I'd rather use ))
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Prelude
The Sith Academy
Valley of the Dark Lords
Korriban
12 Years ATC (3,641 BBY)
Below the Sith Academy on Korriban, away from prying eyes and eager ears, Darth Kilvan watched with fascination as his latest discovery proved worthy of the time and effort he’d expended at great personal risk. Curling one of his facial tendrils absently with his finger, his flaming eyes followed the young Acolyte’s progress in the arena below. From on high, behind transparisteel and ray shields, the Sith Lord continued to up the ante of the combative trials. Every enemy slain was replaced with another, and thus far his Acolyte outmatched them all.
Kyota, the boy was called. Nearing his seventeenth birthday now, by all accounts, it had been six years since the red-haired youth had first come to Kilvan’s attention. Captured by his Apprentice Lord Damas, Kyota had been brought to Kilvan immediately rather than shepherded into the academy along with the rest of the slave stock. Kilvan had seen immediately the potential, both in Kyota’s apparent abilities with the Force and for having another Sith beholden to him in these troubling times.
He was stirred from reminiscence by the blood-gargling scream of the latest enemy he’d provided for the boy, transmitted to him crisply through speakers in his secure observation box. Kyota withdrew his duelling blade from the other Acolyte’s throat, a fountain of blood erupting from the wound, more running down the blade as he returned to a ready stance.
“Good. You dispatched this one quicker” Kilvan commended, knowing his voice rang out disembodied in the arena. “But he was weak, and of impure stock. Untrained Twi’lek slaves do not make for good Sith. Take his weapon and prepare!”
The Acolyte did as commanded, not even taking the time to clear the grime and blood from his face. Remarkable that none of that blood was his own. Adapting his stance to a typical jar’kai ready position, Kyota began to circle the arena as once again the lights dimmed, the only illumination provided by the security field running the perimeter of the combat zone.
Kilvan sent a coded signal to his handlers waiting beyond the security field, and three Acolytes passed into the combat zone, protected from disintegration by specialised disruptor packs. They had every advantage; protection from the security wall, the privilege of being well rested while their enemy had endured two hours of nearly non-stop combat, and one among them was a red-skinned Sith who was almost twice the size of Kyota and armed with a warblade rather than a duelling foil.
“Begin!” Kilvan commanded, and the lights returned to the arena. Before they were fully raised, Kyota had gone on the offensive, hurling his offhand weapon at the farthest Acolyte while leaping over the charging Pureblood, striking down with a blow that would have cloven through to the brain had the red-skinned giant not ducked and rolled. Kyota landed gracefully on his feet, just in time to catch his bloodied offhand weapon upon it’s return, reversing his grip and opening the third Acolyte from heart to hip.
Both Acolytes dropped together, another Twi’lek who’d been all but bisected by the thrown weapon, and the disembowelled Zabrak that Kyota had caught unawares. It left him alone with the Sith Pureblood, and Kilvan felt a slight tingle of delight at the spectacle which was sure to come. Being a Pureblood himself, he felt a pang of disappointment that his protégé was only a mere Human, but his ability could not be denied and so he was willing to overlook such matters on this occasion. Even his Apprentice, Lord Damas, was Human, and an abomination of one at that, enhanced as he was with cybernetics. Speaking of Lord Damas, where was he, anyway?
Lord Damas smoothed the front of his tunic, a deep red like the skin of the many Purebloods that comprised the Dark Council. It wasn’t often he dressed formally; he hated the pomp and ceremony that many thought it appropriate to lavish upon the Council, but as of late he had learned that the best way to appease them was by humouring them.
He had been surprised to receive his summons, at such short notice and without the presence of his Master, who was undoubtedly expecting him to stand witness to the triumphs of that Kyota boy. Some small part of him feared that the Council had discovered, at long last, the truth of the schemes being formed by his Master and Darth Zarnis, and were either about to execute him for being party to such knowledge and withholding it, or give him chance to redeem himself by killing his Master. Death wasn’t an option for Lord Damas, and he certainly didn’t think he could survive an encounter with Darth Kilvan. It wasn’t a sign of weakness that he could recognise the folly in it, either, but a sign of strength. Lord Damas had overcome the sneers and outright disdain poured on him by his peers over his cybernetics, for he knew that without them he wouldn’t be able to sustain himself. Likewise, he knew his abilities with the Force were unpolished and unable to rival many of those who’d risen to the same station as him; therefore he’d adapted, honing his lightsaber technique and adopting other weapons and tactics into his arsenal. He was a survivor, and held no illusion that his continued survival was in jeopardy as other Sith grew ambitious. Fortunately, such ambition in young Sith Apprentices often bred stupidity, and Lord Damas was gifted with a tactical mind.
The elevator platform reached it’s destination, and Lord Damas stepped into the harshly lit corridor leading to the council chambers. Curiously, there was no honour guard stationed outside, though with the rumours that the Emperor himself was preparing to travel to Korriban in the coming days, it was likely the Imperial Guard were all in training and preparation. Life in the Academy made those men complacent, Damas knew. They were trained for combat, many of them as deadly as the Sith they served, but here on Korriban they had little to do but stand and watch over things. The Republic had not yet dared attempt to wrestle Korriban back from the Sith, but if they received word of the Emperor’s supposed visit, they might need every member of the Guard to be at full strength.
Damas was about to press the entry comm when he noticed that the Council Chamber doors were already open slightly. Frowning, he put his hands in the gap, and pushed them into their recesses with relative ease. One hand on his lightsaber, he entered the darkened chamber, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The centre of the room, dominated by a diamond-shaped table with twelve seats, was illuminated by the active holocomm in the middle. Just an empty cone of red light, no figure to speak to him, to explain the meaning behind this.
Then he saw it; the crumpled form of a Pureblooded Sith, half-covered in his own cloak, dead fingers curled loosely around an ornate lightsaber hilt, unseeing eyes rolled back in his head.
“Darth Zarnis!” Damas hissed, rushing beside the corpse and quickly inspecting it. A single, neat hole through the heart was the only sign of conflict. Zarnis was a renowned duellist, so whoever had done this must have been quick, clever, or both. The back of his neck prickled with sudden fear; if he’d been summoned here simply to find a corpse, he was either being framed, or being sent a message. He stood and turned away from Zarnis’s body, and shouted in surprise, stumbling backwards over the corpse and landing unceremoniously on his backside. The holocomm was now emitting a most unwelcome sight; the harsh, scarred features of Darth Kroenen. To Damas’s knowledge, Kroenen was the only alien currently sitting on the Dark Council, which in itself was enough to earn him the ire of Damas’s Master, Darth Kilvan. But even despite his Rattataki heritage, Kroenen always seemed to be keeping an eye on the things that the other Council members missed. As he stared now into those cold silver eyes, Damas saw no contempt or triumph. Infact, Kroenen rarely betrayed his passions to any, which made Damas wonder all the more whether he was about to die here.
“The Dark Council is regrettably away on urgent summons to Dromund Kaas” Darth Kroenen said, as though relaying a message. “Darth Zarnis and I were charged with overseeing the Academy and attending via holocall. Most unfortunate, then, that they were absent at the exact moment you discovered Darth Zarnis’s plans to conspire with Darth Kilvan in supplanting many key members of this Council with Sith in their own pocket”. Now Damas was more than a little confused.
“My Lord? I…”
“You are to be commended” Kroenen interrupted, peering down at Damas, who still hadn’t risen to his feet. “Had you not acted quickly, Zarnis would likely have killed me tonight, and after declaring a state of emergency, elevated your Master to the Council and ordered the fleet to blockade entry to the Valley of the Dark Lords. Am I right so far?”
“I… Lord Kroenen, I am merely a tool in this…”
“Upon their return, the Dark Council would have found themselves accused of sowing discontent and anarchy among the ranks of our Acolytes and Apprentices with treasonous intent. The Council would have been summarily executed, leaving Zarnis and Kilvan to hand-pick and suggest their replacements”. Kroenen finally finished, fixing Damas once again with those cold, empty silver eyes. Even had they not been ringed with tattoo’s in the Rattataki tradition, or set inside a grim scarred visage, Damas felt those eyes would be forever imprinted on his mind from now until death. Which, it seemed, would be very soon.
“I beg forgiveness for my transgressions, Lord Kroenen” Damas said in as calm a voice as he could muster, shuffling to one knee and bowing his head.
“Sith do not beg” Kroenen snapped. “And as your heroic actions have saved the Council from this cataclysmic act, I see no reason why you should need forgiveness. No… as reward for your actions this day, and to exonerate you from the shadow of Kilvan’s treason, I hereby grant you the title of Darth” Kroenen said, without deliberation. “Perhaps, if you continue to show such diligence and discretion, you will even rise to the Council yourself in years to come”.
“Wait… so you murdered Darth Zarnis? You know everything?” Damas asked, rising now to his feet. “And you think you can pin it on me and threaten me?”
“I made no threat” Kroenen replied.
“I’m not an idiot” Damas snapped back, digging into his reserves to find the man he was, not the man Kroenen had cowed him into being through his confusing tactics. “This elevation… it’s to keep me quiet about your crime”.
“Without this elevation, your word holds little weight, and in the judgement of the Council you will be held responsible for the murder of one of its members, regardless of the evidence I am prepared to present against him” Kroenen said in a low voice, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly in contemplation of the newly-anointed Darth. “Of course the Council will view this as power play on my part, and I can bear the brunt of such accusations when they have little to back them up with”.
“Or you could kill me now and tell them I did this” Damas finished for him.
“Yes” Kroenen agreed. “Though that would be a waste of a resource, and whatever ill blood has passed between your Master and I, I cannot blame you for being a product of his ineptitude”.
Damas decided that was more of a pardon than an insult, and inclined his head, fixing the holographic visage with his cybernetic gaze.
“I accept your proposal, and offer gratitude for your consideration” Damas declared. It had taken him seconds to understand that this was his chance, to seize opportunity in the wake of a Sith with far more cunning and aptitude than Darth Kilvan could ever hope to possess. Kilvan was a clever being, ever scheming and putting plans into motion, but he looked too far ahead at expense of the moment. Worse, he failed to recognise warnings on account of whom they were provided by; Damas himself had suggested time and time again that steps be taken to distract the Council sooner rather than later, lest he be caught out. And now, Darth Kroenen had done just that.
“I shall relay the details of this unfortunate event after I’ve concluded my business today” Kroenen said, all courtesy and formality. “I would ask the Head Councillor to do it, however he seems to be laying dead at your feet”.
“How convenient” Damas muttered.
“There is nothing convenient about any of this, Damas. You may mark my words on that one” Kroenen warned. “Do you have any last conveyances for your former Master?”
Damas thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I don’t want him to think he ever meant anything more to me than what he was”.
“And what was that?” Kroenen asked, a look of amusement almost daring to play across that horrifically calm mask.
“A means to an end” Damas replied. “If you want to find him quickly, he’s down in…”
“I know where he is and who he is with” Kroenen said, waving off the notion that he’d be unprepared. “I would suggest you confine yourself to your quarters until you receive word from me. Oh, and kindly remove the former Darth Zarnis’s lightsaber, it is such fine craftsmanship and I would so hate for it to find its way into the hands of an undeserving Acolyte”.
Darth Kilvan’s interest was now piqued, as was his feeling of disappointment in himself for not recognising the Pureblood Acolyte’s potential much earlier. He’d outlasted any opponent that Kyota had faced so far, and even though he wasn’t as fatigued as the young Human, it was becoming increasingly clear that Kilvan had overlooked him. Perhaps, if he’d done things differently, he’d have been able to hone both Kyota and the Pureblood – Velin, he believed the name was – into a devastating duo to be wielded privately against any number of enemies Kilvan had made and would doubtlessly continue to make upon his rise to power. Unfortunately, he’d committed himself to this course of action now, and his best hope lay in the victory of whoever proved to be the stronger opponent. He just hoped he hadn’t miscalculated, allowing Kyota to be pushed to such extremes before sending Velin in to face him. Should Velin succeed in finally delivering death, it could very easily leave Kilvan with an inferior weapon in Kyota’s place.
The very thought of it brought Kilvan to the point of signalling his handlers to intervene and render both combatants unconscious, so that they may resume under better circumstances. It was only Kyota’s sudden victory that saved him from postponing.
The large Sith Pureblood had been systematically cutting off Kyota’s escapes, herding him between the corpses of the many combatants that had fallen this day, backing him toward the security barrier until there was nowhere to run. Kyota had swung his offhand blade at Velin’s waist but came up short, and his mainhand blade was parried effortlessly into the disintegrating field behind him, dissolving it upto the hilt. As the Pureblood had lunged to finish the job, however, Kyota had dived suddenly to a side and planted a hard kick in Velin’s kidney’s sending the Pureblood sprawling face-first into the field.
It had taken a moment for Kilvan to realise that all this time, Kyota had been measuring his opponent, and the missed attack at Velin’s waist hadn’t infact missed at all; he’d severed the power cord to the Pureblood’s disruptor pack, then let the larger being grow confident in what seemed like victory. Kyota had used that confidence and Velin’s heavy-handedness to seal his fate.
There was nothing left of Velin after his tumble through the security wall. All thoughts of doubt were gone from Darth Kilvan’s mind, replaced with swelling pride in himself for acquiring and training such an astounding Acolyte.
“An impressive display” someone said beside him, and Kilvan whirled around to find himself stood next to Darth Kroenen. A good head and shoulders higher than Kilvan, the Council member cut an imposing figure, for Kilvan was no short man himself. Even more disturbing was Kroenen’s ability to move undetected, almost as though he’d simply materialised next to him.
“Yes, Acolyte Kyota is proving to be a most fortuitous discovery” Kilvan said, his voice and face masking his annoyance and sheer surprise.
“Acolyte Kyota… I do not recall having heard of an Acolyte Kyota, nor seeing his name on our enlistment rosters” Kroenen pondered aloud. “But alas, our intake has increased dramatically this last decade or so, and it is difficult to keep track of things when one is bogged down with Council matters. It’s why we appoint overseers, so that we Masters may entrust the training of potentials to others while we attend to more important matters”.
Kilvan wasn’t sure if Kroenen was playing with him or insinuating anything; clearly, he knew more than he was letting on, but even the freshest of Acolytes knew it was never wise to betray one’s knowledge and secrets openly among Sith.
“He has proven to be a most valuable commodity, My Lord. Never have I seen such inexhaustible tenacity in one so young” Kilvan pointed out, hoping to distract Kroenen from overthinking the situation. It wasn’t unheard of for Sith Masters to keep multiple Apprentices, but it was generally frowned upon if those Apprentices were kept secret from the Council.
“And it would seem you have acquired an inexhaustible supply of potential Sith in pursuit of shaping this fine young man” Kroenen observed. “A pity, really… the war claims many of our number, I should hate to think our numbers fail to see replenishment simply because you were too short-sighted to realise that any of these corpses may have become powerful Sith, in the hands of any other Master”.
Kilvan glowered at the rebuke, but knew better than to challenge Kroenen on the matter. In the past decade, Kroenen had unlocked the potential of a dozen unlikely Acolytes, purposefully selecting the underdogs and slaves from various groups that were sent to the Academy, and proving time and time again that when ambition and personal tastes are put aside, it is possible to turn the most insipid, pathetic creature into a dominant scion of the Dark Side. His first, a scrawny Zelosian slave who’d been barely able to wield a training saber, now sat as Chief Overseer. His second, a mute Zabrak with too much brawn and too little brain, was now considered the turning factor of many skirmishes across Imperial-controlled space, and currently stationed on Corellia in an effort to seize it from the Republic. An effort which, if the reports were accurate, was succeeding.
Kilvan had to admit to himself now that Kroenen had a point. He’d wasted so much potential this day alone, yet when he glanced down at the young Acolyte, he could not bring himself to regret it.
“I was expecting Darth Zarnis” Kilvan said, changing the conversation. “I must confess myself surprised that he so readily shared information of our planned meeting. I hadn’t even informed him of the nature of my surprise yet”. He gestured at the transparisteel, and the view of the arena below. “Acolyte Kyota was to be my gift to him, as his last Apprentice regretfully met her end on Belsavis”.
“Darth Zarnis is buried with work” Kroenen murmered, now observing the Acolyte for himself. “I can’t imagine he’ll be leaving the Council chambers for some time”.
“Unfortunate. Well, as he’s unable to attend, there’s little sense in waiting any longer…”
“I wish to see a demonstration” Kroenen interrupted.
“I… but you witnessed his prowess upon entering” Kilvan reminded the Rattataki Sith. “As you said, an impressive display”.
“I witnessed a circumstantial end to a duel I did not see” Kroenen snapped, his voice rising for the first time, raising Kilvan’s suspicion that the Dark Lord’s unexpected presence was more personal that he’d revealed. “Humour me” Kroenen insisted, a smile playing across his lips more snide than any sneer could ever be.
“Alas, I have exhausted my crop of Acolytes. I have nobody for him to face” Kilvan sighed, dramatically. “Perhaps after the next batch arrives…”
“You could face him, surely?” Kroenen suggested. “A boy of his skill can scarcely prove to be a challenge or a threat to a Darth. I still wish to see his technique, though, and he is your pet. Go, parade him and then bring him to heel”.
Begrudgingly, Darth Kilvan deactivated the security wall from his set of master controls, and then left the observatory to descend into the arena. With obvious distaste, he plucked a duelling blade from the quagmire of gore and body parts, and wiped it clean on the hem of his robe before discarding it, freeing his movement.
“A demonstration only” Kilvan called out, his crimson face turned up toward the observatory. “As you say, enough blood has been wasted here today”.
“Demonstrations usually entail less talking” Kroenen called through the P.A system. “Begin”.
To his astonishment, Kilvan found himself instantly set upon by the young Acolyte. He’d expected Kyota to show some hesitation at the prospect of facing a Darth, but when he looked into the boy’s eyes, he saw nothing but rage. Kyota wasn’t just showcasing his abilities here, he was being fuelled by pure, unadulterated anger. Kilvan, in his eagerness to test the Acolyte, had overlooked something so important that he couldn’t possibly conceive of how he’d missed it. For years, he’d hammered the Sith Code into Kyota’s mind; taught him the cost of quelling his passions, the possibility of victory only attainable if those passions are put to use. And now, after a gruelling trial, set upon for hours by opponent after opponent, Kyota was positively burning with rage and venting it on the man who’d put him through that hell.
And it wasn’t uncontrolled rage, either; throughout the trial, Kyota had remained focused and calculated, allowing his anger to fuel him but not control him, and the same was apparent now; except now, he had no reason to hold back, to show off for his Master. Now, he was against an opponent who could easily defeat him, therefore he was throwing everything he had and more into what was supposed to be a harmless demonstration.
Kilvan parried blows which rained at him from all sides, barely able to find room to execute a counter attack. Most practitioners of duel-bladed combat would use one blade for defense and one for offense, but Kyota was committing both blades to his battering assault. And by the stars, he was fast, his footwork impeccable. More than once, Kilvan thought he’d struck a decisive blow, only to find that Kyota wasn’t even standing where he’d been but was overhead, lashing down or swinging for Kilvan’s exposed flank.
With a snarl of primal rage, Kilvan turned his frustration into something he could use, pressing the attack on the boy with sudden ferocity. He feinted left, thrust right, swung high and then low, used Kyota’s own momentum against him to aim cuts at unprotected areas, and finally scored a glancing blow against the boy’s ribs. It was the faintest of gashes, though; even with a lightsaber, Kilvan doubted it would have been enough to slow the Acolyte down. With a roar, Kilvan thrust himself bodily at Kyota, his blade set to skewer the boy through the abdomen, all caution thrown to the wind; he would not be humiliated by Kroenen, and especially not with his own Acolyte.
Quicker than he should have been able to move after hours of combat, Kyota dodged the thrust and caught the blade between his own. Whether by instinct or calculation, Kilvan didn’t know, but the boy immediately followed up with a sweeping slash that severed the tendons in Kilvan’s shoulder, causing his arm to go dead, the blade dropping to the floor. Kilvan looked for a betrayal of surprise or apology in the boy’s eyes, and wasn’t so sure it was there to be seen.
Kyota hesitated for a second, and Kilvan lunged, ploughing into the boy with his good shoulder, knocking him to the floor… except Kyota rolled through, coming back to his feet and springing with the power of the Force behind him, drilling into Kilvan’s chest and knocking him to the floor.
Kilvan groaned and made to stand up, but found himself looking down Kyota’s blades. Standing over, him, triumphant and smiling, sweaty and grimy and panting for breath, was the boy himself. Kilvan cursed him now, and rued the day he’d taken Kyota under his wing rather than casting him to the slave pens with the rest of the gutter trash.
But it would be bad form to curse such a magnificent victory infront of Kroenen, who had obviously expected this outcome. It was the Dark Lord’s way of warning Kilvan that he could see right through him and pull his strings like a mere Apprentice.
A sudden thought dawned on Kilvan then; did Kroenen know? Had he somehow divined the his intentions for this day, to seize control with Darth Zarnis? Was that the whole point behind this little charade?
“Do you yield?” Kroenen asked. He was no longer in the observatory, but in the arena, standing beside Kyota, peering down with disappointment at Kilvan.
“Yes, I yield” Kilvan chuckled, making a show of appearing proud. Silently, he planned to kill the boy in his sleep, that very night. Powerful apprentices were a rare thing to come by; now he saw the disadvantage in raising one to be too powerful. And now that Kyota had beaten Kilvan once, he’d doubtless make a play for power any day now. “A fine victory, Acolyte. You shall be properly rewarded for your tenacity”.
“Kill him” Kroenen snarled, turning away.
“What?” both Kyota and Kilvan said in union, both looking at each other with a mixture of sudden anguish and surprise.
“To let this fool continue to live would be doing this Academy a great disservice” Kroenen said, dispassionately.
“You don’t have the authority…” Kilvan growled angrily, attempting to rise, though to his chagrin Kyota still hadn’t moved his blades, despite the obvious conflict showing in his face.
“I’m fairly certain that I do” Kroenen chuckled turning to look down upon Kilvan once again. “But I must congratulate you. You see, your plan to remould the upper echelons of the Sith hierarchy has somewhat inspired me to do the same to you and your ilk. And what better, more poetic way to do it than by the hand of the boy you trained”. Kroenen was enjoying this; Kilvan could see the sadistic shine in his silvery eyes. He’d been played, Zarnis was undoubtedly dead, and his apprentice…
“What of Lord Damas? He played a part in this, surely it would be more prudent to let him take the brunt? I’d be in your debt, and much better to have a Darth in your pocket than a mere Apprentice…”
“Why, you’re right of course” Kroenen said, with a heavy sigh. Kyota looked between the two Sith, clearly unsure how to proceed, almost waiting for permission to either move or to carry out Kroenen’s previous order. Kilvan closed his eyes and breathed out with relief, his heart rate slowing to something approaching normal.
“I shall inform Darth Damas of your proposal after I present him with your lightsaber” Kroenen said darkly, nodding at Kyota. With renewed determination, the boy swept his blade through Kilvan’s throat, severing his windpipe.
“I do not enjoy this” Kroenen murmured, gesturing for Kyota to follow him from the arena. “Playing with my food, as some might call it. Some take immense satisfaction in drawing out the moment, outlining their reasoning or explaining the machinations that will lead to their victory. Crushing the spirit of the fallen before rubbing him out of existence”.
“A waste of time, My Lord, I agree. Dead is dead, gloating serves no purpose” Kyota replied with conviction. Kroenen paused mid-stride, looking the boy up and down and nodding in approval.
“Good” the Dark Lord said, putting a hand on Kyota’s shoulder. “So next time I order you to kill a man, whether he be an Acolyte or the Emperor himself, you’ll do it without question. Savour the victory for yourself, and see the job done”.
“As My Lord wishes” Kyota replied, deadpan.
“No, it must be as you wish it” Kroenen admonished. “You are destined for greatness, Kyota. Better that you adapt quickly to living in your own shadow, for it is where your enemies will strike from. Learn to enjoy victory, for it is the only way we can remain free, but don’t allow your enjoyment of it to become yet another shackle”.
“I… I think I understand, My Lord…”
“You will. Now that you are under proper guidance, you will become far greater than that corpse behind you could ever have dreamed” Kroenen smiled. “Kneel, Acolyte Kyota”.
Kyota did as bidden, lowering himself shakily to one knee. Kroenen snatched the bloodied duelling blades from him, and wiped a finger through the blood, before smearing it beneath Kyota’s eyes and at the edges of his mouth.
“Rise, Kyota Serasai, my Apprentice and one among the Lords of the Sith”.
I kinda saw it as a prelude to something which could lead to something much bigger, if I have the inspiration to commit to it.))((PS, there may be mistakes that I've yet to correct, but it is late
and I used Kroenen in this purely because I couldn't think of another 'main Sith' I'd rather use ))__________________________
Prelude
The Sith Academy
Valley of the Dark Lords
Korriban
12 Years ATC (3,641 BBY)
Below the Sith Academy on Korriban, away from prying eyes and eager ears, Darth Kilvan watched with fascination as his latest discovery proved worthy of the time and effort he’d expended at great personal risk. Curling one of his facial tendrils absently with his finger, his flaming eyes followed the young Acolyte’s progress in the arena below. From on high, behind transparisteel and ray shields, the Sith Lord continued to up the ante of the combative trials. Every enemy slain was replaced with another, and thus far his Acolyte outmatched them all.
Kyota, the boy was called. Nearing his seventeenth birthday now, by all accounts, it had been six years since the red-haired youth had first come to Kilvan’s attention. Captured by his Apprentice Lord Damas, Kyota had been brought to Kilvan immediately rather than shepherded into the academy along with the rest of the slave stock. Kilvan had seen immediately the potential, both in Kyota’s apparent abilities with the Force and for having another Sith beholden to him in these troubling times.
He was stirred from reminiscence by the blood-gargling scream of the latest enemy he’d provided for the boy, transmitted to him crisply through speakers in his secure observation box. Kyota withdrew his duelling blade from the other Acolyte’s throat, a fountain of blood erupting from the wound, more running down the blade as he returned to a ready stance.
“Good. You dispatched this one quicker” Kilvan commended, knowing his voice rang out disembodied in the arena. “But he was weak, and of impure stock. Untrained Twi’lek slaves do not make for good Sith. Take his weapon and prepare!”
The Acolyte did as commanded, not even taking the time to clear the grime and blood from his face. Remarkable that none of that blood was his own. Adapting his stance to a typical jar’kai ready position, Kyota began to circle the arena as once again the lights dimmed, the only illumination provided by the security field running the perimeter of the combat zone.
Kilvan sent a coded signal to his handlers waiting beyond the security field, and three Acolytes passed into the combat zone, protected from disintegration by specialised disruptor packs. They had every advantage; protection from the security wall, the privilege of being well rested while their enemy had endured two hours of nearly non-stop combat, and one among them was a red-skinned Sith who was almost twice the size of Kyota and armed with a warblade rather than a duelling foil.
“Begin!” Kilvan commanded, and the lights returned to the arena. Before they were fully raised, Kyota had gone on the offensive, hurling his offhand weapon at the farthest Acolyte while leaping over the charging Pureblood, striking down with a blow that would have cloven through to the brain had the red-skinned giant not ducked and rolled. Kyota landed gracefully on his feet, just in time to catch his bloodied offhand weapon upon it’s return, reversing his grip and opening the third Acolyte from heart to hip.
Both Acolytes dropped together, another Twi’lek who’d been all but bisected by the thrown weapon, and the disembowelled Zabrak that Kyota had caught unawares. It left him alone with the Sith Pureblood, and Kilvan felt a slight tingle of delight at the spectacle which was sure to come. Being a Pureblood himself, he felt a pang of disappointment that his protégé was only a mere Human, but his ability could not be denied and so he was willing to overlook such matters on this occasion. Even his Apprentice, Lord Damas, was Human, and an abomination of one at that, enhanced as he was with cybernetics. Speaking of Lord Damas, where was he, anyway?
***
Lord Damas smoothed the front of his tunic, a deep red like the skin of the many Purebloods that comprised the Dark Council. It wasn’t often he dressed formally; he hated the pomp and ceremony that many thought it appropriate to lavish upon the Council, but as of late he had learned that the best way to appease them was by humouring them.
He had been surprised to receive his summons, at such short notice and without the presence of his Master, who was undoubtedly expecting him to stand witness to the triumphs of that Kyota boy. Some small part of him feared that the Council had discovered, at long last, the truth of the schemes being formed by his Master and Darth Zarnis, and were either about to execute him for being party to such knowledge and withholding it, or give him chance to redeem himself by killing his Master. Death wasn’t an option for Lord Damas, and he certainly didn’t think he could survive an encounter with Darth Kilvan. It wasn’t a sign of weakness that he could recognise the folly in it, either, but a sign of strength. Lord Damas had overcome the sneers and outright disdain poured on him by his peers over his cybernetics, for he knew that without them he wouldn’t be able to sustain himself. Likewise, he knew his abilities with the Force were unpolished and unable to rival many of those who’d risen to the same station as him; therefore he’d adapted, honing his lightsaber technique and adopting other weapons and tactics into his arsenal. He was a survivor, and held no illusion that his continued survival was in jeopardy as other Sith grew ambitious. Fortunately, such ambition in young Sith Apprentices often bred stupidity, and Lord Damas was gifted with a tactical mind.
The elevator platform reached it’s destination, and Lord Damas stepped into the harshly lit corridor leading to the council chambers. Curiously, there was no honour guard stationed outside, though with the rumours that the Emperor himself was preparing to travel to Korriban in the coming days, it was likely the Imperial Guard were all in training and preparation. Life in the Academy made those men complacent, Damas knew. They were trained for combat, many of them as deadly as the Sith they served, but here on Korriban they had little to do but stand and watch over things. The Republic had not yet dared attempt to wrestle Korriban back from the Sith, but if they received word of the Emperor’s supposed visit, they might need every member of the Guard to be at full strength.
Damas was about to press the entry comm when he noticed that the Council Chamber doors were already open slightly. Frowning, he put his hands in the gap, and pushed them into their recesses with relative ease. One hand on his lightsaber, he entered the darkened chamber, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The centre of the room, dominated by a diamond-shaped table with twelve seats, was illuminated by the active holocomm in the middle. Just an empty cone of red light, no figure to speak to him, to explain the meaning behind this.
Then he saw it; the crumpled form of a Pureblooded Sith, half-covered in his own cloak, dead fingers curled loosely around an ornate lightsaber hilt, unseeing eyes rolled back in his head.
“Darth Zarnis!” Damas hissed, rushing beside the corpse and quickly inspecting it. A single, neat hole through the heart was the only sign of conflict. Zarnis was a renowned duellist, so whoever had done this must have been quick, clever, or both. The back of his neck prickled with sudden fear; if he’d been summoned here simply to find a corpse, he was either being framed, or being sent a message. He stood and turned away from Zarnis’s body, and shouted in surprise, stumbling backwards over the corpse and landing unceremoniously on his backside. The holocomm was now emitting a most unwelcome sight; the harsh, scarred features of Darth Kroenen. To Damas’s knowledge, Kroenen was the only alien currently sitting on the Dark Council, which in itself was enough to earn him the ire of Damas’s Master, Darth Kilvan. But even despite his Rattataki heritage, Kroenen always seemed to be keeping an eye on the things that the other Council members missed. As he stared now into those cold silver eyes, Damas saw no contempt or triumph. Infact, Kroenen rarely betrayed his passions to any, which made Damas wonder all the more whether he was about to die here.
“The Dark Council is regrettably away on urgent summons to Dromund Kaas” Darth Kroenen said, as though relaying a message. “Darth Zarnis and I were charged with overseeing the Academy and attending via holocall. Most unfortunate, then, that they were absent at the exact moment you discovered Darth Zarnis’s plans to conspire with Darth Kilvan in supplanting many key members of this Council with Sith in their own pocket”. Now Damas was more than a little confused.
“My Lord? I…”
“You are to be commended” Kroenen interrupted, peering down at Damas, who still hadn’t risen to his feet. “Had you not acted quickly, Zarnis would likely have killed me tonight, and after declaring a state of emergency, elevated your Master to the Council and ordered the fleet to blockade entry to the Valley of the Dark Lords. Am I right so far?”
“I… Lord Kroenen, I am merely a tool in this…”
“Upon their return, the Dark Council would have found themselves accused of sowing discontent and anarchy among the ranks of our Acolytes and Apprentices with treasonous intent. The Council would have been summarily executed, leaving Zarnis and Kilvan to hand-pick and suggest their replacements”. Kroenen finally finished, fixing Damas once again with those cold, empty silver eyes. Even had they not been ringed with tattoo’s in the Rattataki tradition, or set inside a grim scarred visage, Damas felt those eyes would be forever imprinted on his mind from now until death. Which, it seemed, would be very soon.
“I beg forgiveness for my transgressions, Lord Kroenen” Damas said in as calm a voice as he could muster, shuffling to one knee and bowing his head.
“Sith do not beg” Kroenen snapped. “And as your heroic actions have saved the Council from this cataclysmic act, I see no reason why you should need forgiveness. No… as reward for your actions this day, and to exonerate you from the shadow of Kilvan’s treason, I hereby grant you the title of Darth” Kroenen said, without deliberation. “Perhaps, if you continue to show such diligence and discretion, you will even rise to the Council yourself in years to come”.
“Wait… so you murdered Darth Zarnis? You know everything?” Damas asked, rising now to his feet. “And you think you can pin it on me and threaten me?”
“I made no threat” Kroenen replied.
“I’m not an idiot” Damas snapped back, digging into his reserves to find the man he was, not the man Kroenen had cowed him into being through his confusing tactics. “This elevation… it’s to keep me quiet about your crime”.
“Without this elevation, your word holds little weight, and in the judgement of the Council you will be held responsible for the murder of one of its members, regardless of the evidence I am prepared to present against him” Kroenen said in a low voice, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly in contemplation of the newly-anointed Darth. “Of course the Council will view this as power play on my part, and I can bear the brunt of such accusations when they have little to back them up with”.
“Or you could kill me now and tell them I did this” Damas finished for him.
“Yes” Kroenen agreed. “Though that would be a waste of a resource, and whatever ill blood has passed between your Master and I, I cannot blame you for being a product of his ineptitude”.
Damas decided that was more of a pardon than an insult, and inclined his head, fixing the holographic visage with his cybernetic gaze.
“I accept your proposal, and offer gratitude for your consideration” Damas declared. It had taken him seconds to understand that this was his chance, to seize opportunity in the wake of a Sith with far more cunning and aptitude than Darth Kilvan could ever hope to possess. Kilvan was a clever being, ever scheming and putting plans into motion, but he looked too far ahead at expense of the moment. Worse, he failed to recognise warnings on account of whom they were provided by; Damas himself had suggested time and time again that steps be taken to distract the Council sooner rather than later, lest he be caught out. And now, Darth Kroenen had done just that.
“I shall relay the details of this unfortunate event after I’ve concluded my business today” Kroenen said, all courtesy and formality. “I would ask the Head Councillor to do it, however he seems to be laying dead at your feet”.
“How convenient” Damas muttered.
“There is nothing convenient about any of this, Damas. You may mark my words on that one” Kroenen warned. “Do you have any last conveyances for your former Master?”
Damas thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I don’t want him to think he ever meant anything more to me than what he was”.
“And what was that?” Kroenen asked, a look of amusement almost daring to play across that horrifically calm mask.
“A means to an end” Damas replied. “If you want to find him quickly, he’s down in…”
“I know where he is and who he is with” Kroenen said, waving off the notion that he’d be unprepared. “I would suggest you confine yourself to your quarters until you receive word from me. Oh, and kindly remove the former Darth Zarnis’s lightsaber, it is such fine craftsmanship and I would so hate for it to find its way into the hands of an undeserving Acolyte”.
***
Darth Kilvan’s interest was now piqued, as was his feeling of disappointment in himself for not recognising the Pureblood Acolyte’s potential much earlier. He’d outlasted any opponent that Kyota had faced so far, and even though he wasn’t as fatigued as the young Human, it was becoming increasingly clear that Kilvan had overlooked him. Perhaps, if he’d done things differently, he’d have been able to hone both Kyota and the Pureblood – Velin, he believed the name was – into a devastating duo to be wielded privately against any number of enemies Kilvan had made and would doubtlessly continue to make upon his rise to power. Unfortunately, he’d committed himself to this course of action now, and his best hope lay in the victory of whoever proved to be the stronger opponent. He just hoped he hadn’t miscalculated, allowing Kyota to be pushed to such extremes before sending Velin in to face him. Should Velin succeed in finally delivering death, it could very easily leave Kilvan with an inferior weapon in Kyota’s place.
The very thought of it brought Kilvan to the point of signalling his handlers to intervene and render both combatants unconscious, so that they may resume under better circumstances. It was only Kyota’s sudden victory that saved him from postponing.
The large Sith Pureblood had been systematically cutting off Kyota’s escapes, herding him between the corpses of the many combatants that had fallen this day, backing him toward the security barrier until there was nowhere to run. Kyota had swung his offhand blade at Velin’s waist but came up short, and his mainhand blade was parried effortlessly into the disintegrating field behind him, dissolving it upto the hilt. As the Pureblood had lunged to finish the job, however, Kyota had dived suddenly to a side and planted a hard kick in Velin’s kidney’s sending the Pureblood sprawling face-first into the field.
It had taken a moment for Kilvan to realise that all this time, Kyota had been measuring his opponent, and the missed attack at Velin’s waist hadn’t infact missed at all; he’d severed the power cord to the Pureblood’s disruptor pack, then let the larger being grow confident in what seemed like victory. Kyota had used that confidence and Velin’s heavy-handedness to seal his fate.
There was nothing left of Velin after his tumble through the security wall. All thoughts of doubt were gone from Darth Kilvan’s mind, replaced with swelling pride in himself for acquiring and training such an astounding Acolyte.
“An impressive display” someone said beside him, and Kilvan whirled around to find himself stood next to Darth Kroenen. A good head and shoulders higher than Kilvan, the Council member cut an imposing figure, for Kilvan was no short man himself. Even more disturbing was Kroenen’s ability to move undetected, almost as though he’d simply materialised next to him.
“Yes, Acolyte Kyota is proving to be a most fortuitous discovery” Kilvan said, his voice and face masking his annoyance and sheer surprise.
“Acolyte Kyota… I do not recall having heard of an Acolyte Kyota, nor seeing his name on our enlistment rosters” Kroenen pondered aloud. “But alas, our intake has increased dramatically this last decade or so, and it is difficult to keep track of things when one is bogged down with Council matters. It’s why we appoint overseers, so that we Masters may entrust the training of potentials to others while we attend to more important matters”.
Kilvan wasn’t sure if Kroenen was playing with him or insinuating anything; clearly, he knew more than he was letting on, but even the freshest of Acolytes knew it was never wise to betray one’s knowledge and secrets openly among Sith.
“He has proven to be a most valuable commodity, My Lord. Never have I seen such inexhaustible tenacity in one so young” Kilvan pointed out, hoping to distract Kroenen from overthinking the situation. It wasn’t unheard of for Sith Masters to keep multiple Apprentices, but it was generally frowned upon if those Apprentices were kept secret from the Council.
“And it would seem you have acquired an inexhaustible supply of potential Sith in pursuit of shaping this fine young man” Kroenen observed. “A pity, really… the war claims many of our number, I should hate to think our numbers fail to see replenishment simply because you were too short-sighted to realise that any of these corpses may have become powerful Sith, in the hands of any other Master”.
Kilvan glowered at the rebuke, but knew better than to challenge Kroenen on the matter. In the past decade, Kroenen had unlocked the potential of a dozen unlikely Acolytes, purposefully selecting the underdogs and slaves from various groups that were sent to the Academy, and proving time and time again that when ambition and personal tastes are put aside, it is possible to turn the most insipid, pathetic creature into a dominant scion of the Dark Side. His first, a scrawny Zelosian slave who’d been barely able to wield a training saber, now sat as Chief Overseer. His second, a mute Zabrak with too much brawn and too little brain, was now considered the turning factor of many skirmishes across Imperial-controlled space, and currently stationed on Corellia in an effort to seize it from the Republic. An effort which, if the reports were accurate, was succeeding.
Kilvan had to admit to himself now that Kroenen had a point. He’d wasted so much potential this day alone, yet when he glanced down at the young Acolyte, he could not bring himself to regret it.
“I was expecting Darth Zarnis” Kilvan said, changing the conversation. “I must confess myself surprised that he so readily shared information of our planned meeting. I hadn’t even informed him of the nature of my surprise yet”. He gestured at the transparisteel, and the view of the arena below. “Acolyte Kyota was to be my gift to him, as his last Apprentice regretfully met her end on Belsavis”.
“Darth Zarnis is buried with work” Kroenen murmered, now observing the Acolyte for himself. “I can’t imagine he’ll be leaving the Council chambers for some time”.
“Unfortunate. Well, as he’s unable to attend, there’s little sense in waiting any longer…”
“I wish to see a demonstration” Kroenen interrupted.
“I… but you witnessed his prowess upon entering” Kilvan reminded the Rattataki Sith. “As you said, an impressive display”.
“I witnessed a circumstantial end to a duel I did not see” Kroenen snapped, his voice rising for the first time, raising Kilvan’s suspicion that the Dark Lord’s unexpected presence was more personal that he’d revealed. “Humour me” Kroenen insisted, a smile playing across his lips more snide than any sneer could ever be.
“Alas, I have exhausted my crop of Acolytes. I have nobody for him to face” Kilvan sighed, dramatically. “Perhaps after the next batch arrives…”
“You could face him, surely?” Kroenen suggested. “A boy of his skill can scarcely prove to be a challenge or a threat to a Darth. I still wish to see his technique, though, and he is your pet. Go, parade him and then bring him to heel”.
Begrudgingly, Darth Kilvan deactivated the security wall from his set of master controls, and then left the observatory to descend into the arena. With obvious distaste, he plucked a duelling blade from the quagmire of gore and body parts, and wiped it clean on the hem of his robe before discarding it, freeing his movement.
“A demonstration only” Kilvan called out, his crimson face turned up toward the observatory. “As you say, enough blood has been wasted here today”.
“Demonstrations usually entail less talking” Kroenen called through the P.A system. “Begin”.
To his astonishment, Kilvan found himself instantly set upon by the young Acolyte. He’d expected Kyota to show some hesitation at the prospect of facing a Darth, but when he looked into the boy’s eyes, he saw nothing but rage. Kyota wasn’t just showcasing his abilities here, he was being fuelled by pure, unadulterated anger. Kilvan, in his eagerness to test the Acolyte, had overlooked something so important that he couldn’t possibly conceive of how he’d missed it. For years, he’d hammered the Sith Code into Kyota’s mind; taught him the cost of quelling his passions, the possibility of victory only attainable if those passions are put to use. And now, after a gruelling trial, set upon for hours by opponent after opponent, Kyota was positively burning with rage and venting it on the man who’d put him through that hell.
And it wasn’t uncontrolled rage, either; throughout the trial, Kyota had remained focused and calculated, allowing his anger to fuel him but not control him, and the same was apparent now; except now, he had no reason to hold back, to show off for his Master. Now, he was against an opponent who could easily defeat him, therefore he was throwing everything he had and more into what was supposed to be a harmless demonstration.
Kilvan parried blows which rained at him from all sides, barely able to find room to execute a counter attack. Most practitioners of duel-bladed combat would use one blade for defense and one for offense, but Kyota was committing both blades to his battering assault. And by the stars, he was fast, his footwork impeccable. More than once, Kilvan thought he’d struck a decisive blow, only to find that Kyota wasn’t even standing where he’d been but was overhead, lashing down or swinging for Kilvan’s exposed flank.
With a snarl of primal rage, Kilvan turned his frustration into something he could use, pressing the attack on the boy with sudden ferocity. He feinted left, thrust right, swung high and then low, used Kyota’s own momentum against him to aim cuts at unprotected areas, and finally scored a glancing blow against the boy’s ribs. It was the faintest of gashes, though; even with a lightsaber, Kilvan doubted it would have been enough to slow the Acolyte down. With a roar, Kilvan thrust himself bodily at Kyota, his blade set to skewer the boy through the abdomen, all caution thrown to the wind; he would not be humiliated by Kroenen, and especially not with his own Acolyte.
Quicker than he should have been able to move after hours of combat, Kyota dodged the thrust and caught the blade between his own. Whether by instinct or calculation, Kilvan didn’t know, but the boy immediately followed up with a sweeping slash that severed the tendons in Kilvan’s shoulder, causing his arm to go dead, the blade dropping to the floor. Kilvan looked for a betrayal of surprise or apology in the boy’s eyes, and wasn’t so sure it was there to be seen.
Kyota hesitated for a second, and Kilvan lunged, ploughing into the boy with his good shoulder, knocking him to the floor… except Kyota rolled through, coming back to his feet and springing with the power of the Force behind him, drilling into Kilvan’s chest and knocking him to the floor.
Kilvan groaned and made to stand up, but found himself looking down Kyota’s blades. Standing over, him, triumphant and smiling, sweaty and grimy and panting for breath, was the boy himself. Kilvan cursed him now, and rued the day he’d taken Kyota under his wing rather than casting him to the slave pens with the rest of the gutter trash.
But it would be bad form to curse such a magnificent victory infront of Kroenen, who had obviously expected this outcome. It was the Dark Lord’s way of warning Kilvan that he could see right through him and pull his strings like a mere Apprentice.
A sudden thought dawned on Kilvan then; did Kroenen know? Had he somehow divined the his intentions for this day, to seize control with Darth Zarnis? Was that the whole point behind this little charade?
“Do you yield?” Kroenen asked. He was no longer in the observatory, but in the arena, standing beside Kyota, peering down with disappointment at Kilvan.
“Yes, I yield” Kilvan chuckled, making a show of appearing proud. Silently, he planned to kill the boy in his sleep, that very night. Powerful apprentices were a rare thing to come by; now he saw the disadvantage in raising one to be too powerful. And now that Kyota had beaten Kilvan once, he’d doubtless make a play for power any day now. “A fine victory, Acolyte. You shall be properly rewarded for your tenacity”.
“Kill him” Kroenen snarled, turning away.
“What?” both Kyota and Kilvan said in union, both looking at each other with a mixture of sudden anguish and surprise.
“To let this fool continue to live would be doing this Academy a great disservice” Kroenen said, dispassionately.
“You don’t have the authority…” Kilvan growled angrily, attempting to rise, though to his chagrin Kyota still hadn’t moved his blades, despite the obvious conflict showing in his face.
“I’m fairly certain that I do” Kroenen chuckled turning to look down upon Kilvan once again. “But I must congratulate you. You see, your plan to remould the upper echelons of the Sith hierarchy has somewhat inspired me to do the same to you and your ilk. And what better, more poetic way to do it than by the hand of the boy you trained”. Kroenen was enjoying this; Kilvan could see the sadistic shine in his silvery eyes. He’d been played, Zarnis was undoubtedly dead, and his apprentice…
“What of Lord Damas? He played a part in this, surely it would be more prudent to let him take the brunt? I’d be in your debt, and much better to have a Darth in your pocket than a mere Apprentice…”
“Why, you’re right of course” Kroenen said, with a heavy sigh. Kyota looked between the two Sith, clearly unsure how to proceed, almost waiting for permission to either move or to carry out Kroenen’s previous order. Kilvan closed his eyes and breathed out with relief, his heart rate slowing to something approaching normal.
“I shall inform Darth Damas of your proposal after I present him with your lightsaber” Kroenen said darkly, nodding at Kyota. With renewed determination, the boy swept his blade through Kilvan’s throat, severing his windpipe.
“I do not enjoy this” Kroenen murmured, gesturing for Kyota to follow him from the arena. “Playing with my food, as some might call it. Some take immense satisfaction in drawing out the moment, outlining their reasoning or explaining the machinations that will lead to their victory. Crushing the spirit of the fallen before rubbing him out of existence”.
“A waste of time, My Lord, I agree. Dead is dead, gloating serves no purpose” Kyota replied with conviction. Kroenen paused mid-stride, looking the boy up and down and nodding in approval.
“Good” the Dark Lord said, putting a hand on Kyota’s shoulder. “So next time I order you to kill a man, whether he be an Acolyte or the Emperor himself, you’ll do it without question. Savour the victory for yourself, and see the job done”.
“As My Lord wishes” Kyota replied, deadpan.
“No, it must be as you wish it” Kroenen admonished. “You are destined for greatness, Kyota. Better that you adapt quickly to living in your own shadow, for it is where your enemies will strike from. Learn to enjoy victory, for it is the only way we can remain free, but don’t allow your enjoyment of it to become yet another shackle”.
“I… I think I understand, My Lord…”
“You will. Now that you are under proper guidance, you will become far greater than that corpse behind you could ever have dreamed” Kroenen smiled. “Kneel, Acolyte Kyota”.
Kyota did as bidden, lowering himself shakily to one knee. Kroenen snatched the bloodied duelling blades from him, and wiped a finger through the blood, before smearing it beneath Kyota’s eyes and at the edges of his mouth.
“Rise, Kyota Serasai, my Apprentice and one among the Lords of the Sith”.