Vibro-swords clang all around me, cortosis-weave blades hacking through air that stinks of sulfur. Sparks spray across Fortress Vader's training pit, durasteel ground gouged by blaster burns and lava cracks, Mustafar's molten glow painting it red as a fresh kill. Initiates grunt, their sweat reeking of fear, steel slashing arcs in the haze. Obsidian spires claw the sky, Pyraeth's Chosen perched like vultures, cortosis pikes glinting. The Dojo of the Twin Paths hulks nearby, durasteel scaffolds dripping forge smoke, a den for forging steel or digging graves. Lava moats hiss, their heat licking my skin, and I grin beneath my mask.
My boots grind durasteel as I stalk forward, phrik armor, twenty-five kilos of black menace, clanking like shattered bones. The crimson rune on my chest burns, a scar of my oath to Revan, etched when his violet-red sabers humbled my pride in this kriffin' hellhole. My mask, dented from Kylo's betrayal, sits heavy, its obsidian inlays catching the lava's glow, making initiates quiver like prey. My vibro-scythe, one-point-five meters of phrik-edged ruin, slings across my back, obsidian haft blending into my armor. The pit's a living pulse, fear weaving through steel's scream. Kids, too green to bleed right, spar in pairs, vibro-swords heavy in their grips, cortosis weaves shearing durasteel with each strike. They're chasing Knighthood through the Trial of the Twin Blades, but most'll be chaff needing to be culled. Revan's code, "Passion, yet peace," is a noose I wear, but the dark's hunger, sweet as a slit vein, coils tight. His duel, that storm of balance humbling me, left my pride bare on this very grounds, forging me to his creed. I owe him balance, but these Jedi snakes, their truce a lie, make my scythe hand twitch.
A Marshal of the Embers barks orders, her armor gleaming like a Jedi's false hope, lightstaff propped as if she's above the fray. "Keep your guard!" she snaps, but her voice cracks when my gaze flays her. Ossus rot festers in her, a Jedi turned Je'daii. I'd swear: snakes slithering close, ready to bite. My mask tilts, and she flinches, eyes darting like a cornered thief. Weakness. I mark it, fingers brushing my scythe, but let it pass. For now. Initiates are raw meat—human, Twi'lek, one Zabrak with stub-horns glinting like bait. Their vibro-swords hum, blades vibrating to shear durasteel, but their forms are sloppy, fire in their eyes untested, fear ripe for harvest. I wade deeper, boots chewing durasteel, and the initiates freeze, blades trembling. A Squire, scrawny, lugging medallions, drops one, runes clattering, and fear spikes, sweet as spice in my blood. I drink it, reaper's claw flexing. "Spar," I rasp, voice a death knell, and they obey, steel clashing, eyes darting: prey scenting my blade. The Marshal shifts, lightstaff twitching, but I ignore her.
I lock on two initiates: a human boy, lanky, sweat stinking like scum I'd gut, and a Twi'lek girl, lekku twitching, grip choking her vibro-sword. Sloppy, but fire burns in them, meat to carve or steel to forge. I twist their minds with Force fear, a vibro-blade sunk deep, cold and sharp. Their pulses hammer, breaths choking, blades swinging wild, sparks showering like shattered stars. The boy's stance cracks, the girl's strikes turn rabid. I lean closer, gaze on the two's match. The Marshal steps up, voice thin: "Sentinel, they're too weak." My gaze flays her, scythe glinting. "Pain bleed the weakness from our flesh," I snarl. "Forge them into worthy knights, or I will." She backs off, eyes flickering: Jedi rot. Paranoia coils, but I focus on the initiates, their fear a harvest I can't resist. The boy's vibro-sword grazes the girl's arm, blood beading, and she hisses, lekku thrashing like a whipped beast. I push deeper, Force fear sinking like a blade deep into bone, their minds quivering like gutted prey. "Fight like it's your last moment of your fleeting lives," I rasp, and the pit's pulse roars.
The girl's blade arcs, wild, raw. The boy stumbles, guard gone, and: crunch. Her vibro-sword hacks his chest, cortosis weave shredding flesh, ribs snapping like dry twigs. Blood mists, a crimson spray painting durasteel, steaming in lava's glow. His scream chokes to a wet gurgle, knees thrusting into the ground, blade clattering. The girl freezes, lekku rigid, vibro-sword trembling, blood dripping like death's payment come due. The pit comes to a frozen moment: steel stills, initiates gape, Squires stiff as corpses. The Marshal gasps, but I'm stone, blood's iron tang flooding my senses. The girl's terror slams me, raw, sweet. My fingers twitch, dark side purring, More, but I rasp, "There is no good without evil, but evil must not be allowed to flourish," chaining the urge to lean into my instincts. This is my kriffin' mess. I pushed my Force fear too deep, reaper's claw too sharp. Revan's sabers, that violet-red storm humbling me, burn in my skull, his voice: "Wield the Force unbound." Galen's sacrifice, torching those Thalassian bastards, weighs like a noose. I failed the Order then, loosing the shadow to my flame; I won't make that mistake again.
I step forward, armor grinding, scythe's weight my anchor. The girl's eyes lock on my mask, wide with dread, fear a spice-tang in my blood. "Own your kill," I snarl, voice a death growl, "or be consumed by your guilt." Her lekku tremble, but she grips her vibro-sword, blood dripping. I glance at the Marshal, pale, hands shaking. The initiates' stunned gaze too familiar, like that first sweet moment on Krynnar, red sands, twin suns, blood pooling at my feet. A flicker of a memory I can no longer shove to the bottom.
Sweat stung my eyes, the red sands of that dust-choked hellhole grinding under my bare feet. Twin suns blazed overhead, their glare scorching the marketplace into a haze of heat and desperation. I was nine, scrawny as a starved rat, weaving through the chaos of a bazaar that reeked of spice, rot, and blaster oil. Stalls of rusted durasteel and tattered canvas lined the cracked streets, hawkers barking in tongues I didn't know, their voices sharp as the vibro-knife tucked in my ragged tunic. The blade, its grip worn smooth and crest faded to nothing, was all Ma left me before she vanished into the spice dens. That, and the hunger gnawing my gut like a living thing. The crowd pulsed: humans, Twi'leks, a hulking Hutt enforcer with a stun pike, all shoving past me like I was nothing. I wasn't nothing. I was quick, sharp, a shadow slipping through their pockets. My fingers danced, snatching a credit chip from a trader's belt, then a half-rotted muja fruit from a crate. The fruit's juice was sour, sticking to my chin as I wolfed it down, crouched behind a speeder husk. It wasn't enough. Never was. Garbage scraps and stolen bites kept me alive, but the hunger clawed deeper, a beast that wouldn't shut up.
I slunk back into the throng, eyes darting for the next mark. A Chiss merchant, blue skin glinting, haggled over a crate of kyber crystals, his purse dangling like a taunt. Too risky. A Rodian smuggler, vibro-ax slung low, counted credits under a canopy. Too armed. Then I saw him: a boy, my age, limping through the crowd. His skin was a mottled green, like swamp moss, with slits for eyes and a stump where his left arm should've been, the flesh puckered and raw. A Yrashu, rare as a clean credit out here in the Unknown Regions. He clutched a scrap of cloth, his good hand trembling, and his gaze, wide, hungry, locked on a stall piled with nuna legs. My chest tightened, a tug I didn't understand. He was like me. Alone. Starving. But I didn't know how to help, not really. All I knew was stealing, and I was kriffing good at it. I edged closer, the crowd's din swallowing my steps. The Yrashu boy didn't see me, his focus on the food he'd never afford. "Hey," I whispered, voice rough from disuse. He flinched, slit-eyes narrowing, but didn't run. "You want to eat?" He nodded, slow, like he expected a trick. I jerked my head toward the nuna stall. "Stay close." His stump twitched, and that tug in my chest grew sharper, like a hook in my ribs. I didn't have words for it then, just a kid's dumb hope that maybe I could do something right.
The stall's keeper, a wiry Vagaari with purple scars crisscrossing his face, barked prices at a buyer. His crate of nuna legs sat unguarded, grease glistening in the suns' glare. I crept forward, heart pounding, fingers itching. One leg wouldn't be enough, not for me, not for the boy. I'd need more. My hand shot out, snatching two, then a third, stuffing them into my tunic. The Vagaari's head snapped up, his yellow eyes pinning me. "Thief!" he roared, lunging over the crate. The crowd parted, and I bolted, legs burning, the Yrashu boy's footsteps stumbling behind me. Sands kicked up, stinging my calves as I ducked under a speeder, then vaulted a stack of crates. The Vagaari's shouts chased me, his boots pounding the street. I wove through alleys, their walls rusted durasteel and pitted stone, the air thick with the stink of coolant and decay. My chest heaved, the nuna legs slipping in my tunic, grease smearing my skin. I glanced back: the boy was gone, lost in the maze. My gut twisted, but I kept running, the vendor's curses closing in. An alley loomed, narrow and shadowed, a dead end with a shattered window glinting on one wall. I slid into it, pressing against a crate, vibro-knife in hand. Its faded crest caught the light, a ghost of Ma's lies about family, about belonging. I gripped it tighter, breath hitching, fear clawing my throat.
Footsteps crunched closer, slow, deliberate. My pulse hammered, the knife's weight my only anchor. The silhouette loomed at the alley's mouth, broad and hulking in the suns' glare. The Vagaari, I thought, his scarred face burned in my mind. Fear choked me, a cold blade twisting in my gut. I didn't think, just lunged, vibro-knife flashing, sinking into flesh with a wet crunch. A gasp, high and sharp, not the vendor's growl. The body slumped, and I stumbled back, knife dripping, blood pooling in the red sand. It wasn't the Vagaari. It was the Yrashu boy, his slit-eyes wide, mouth gaping, green skin paling as blood seeped from his chest. His stump twitched once, then stilled. The nuna legs spilled from my tunic, rolling into the dust. My knees buckled, the knife clattering to the sand. I stared at him, at the life leaking out, and something in me broke, snapped clean like a dry bone. The window on the alley wall caught my reflection, my face smeared with sweat and juice, eyes wide and dark, like the initiates whose fresh kill resembled this moment. My gaze no longer a kid's innocence any longer. It was a killer's, and I knew it, even then.
A shout snapped me back. The Vagaari stood at the alley's mouth, his purple scars stark in the light, yellow eyes locked on the boy's body, then on me. "Murderer!" he spat, voice trembling, but he turned to run, boots scuffing sand. Something stirred in me, not fear, not guilt: a pull, sweet and cold, like spice in my veins. More, it whispered, not my voice but something deeper, like the shadows in Ma's eyes when she'd shoot up. It promised safety, control, everything I'd never had. I liked it. Kriff, I loved it. I moved before I knew how, faster than my scrawny legs should've carried me. The air hummed, my fear twisting outward, sinking into the Vagaari's mind like a sickness. His steps faltered, eyes bulging, hands clawing at his throat as panic I didn't understand choked him. He fell to his knees, gasping, and that pull surged, More, louder, sweeter. I was on him, vibro-knife flashing, I drove it with instinct precision into his eye with a sickening crack of bone. Blood sprayed, hot on my hands, and he froze, body propped up like a begging statue, lifeless, only bones holding him upright. The knife stayed buried, its faded crest gleaming through the gore.
I stood there, chest heaving, the twin suns glaring down, their light pooling in the blood-soaked sand. The dark side rushed over me, a tide of cold fire, filling the hollow where hunger and fear had lived. It fed my longing, to belong, to be safe, to never be weak again. The Yrashu boy's body lay steps away, his slit-eyes staring at nothing, but I didn't look. I didn't need to. The More was enough, whispering promises I'd chase for years, until Revan's balance tamed its chaos. The alley was still, the marketplace's din a distant roar. My reflection lingered in that window, that killer's gaze fixed, unblinking. I didn't move, didn't run. I'm back in Fortress Vader's training grounds, Mustafar's lava glow searing through my mask's slits. The Twi'lek initiate stands rigid, vibro-sword trembling, its cortosis-weave edge dripping blood that pools black on durasteel, steaming like a fresh kill. Her lekku quiver, eyes wide, fear a spice-tang in my blood that stokes the dark side's hunger. Initiates stare, vibro-swords silent, sweat reeking of panic. Pyraeth's Chosen loom on obsidian spires, cortosis pikes glinting, waiting for my orders.
I step closer, armor grinding, mask heavy with menace. The girl flinches, lekku twitching, but fire flickers in her gaze, raw, like mine at nine. "Girl," I rasp, voice a vibro-blade, "harden up, dwell in this moment." Her eyes snap to mine, terror spiking, but that fire holds, untested steel beneath. The grounds are still, forge smoke from the Dojo of the Twin Paths drifting, its durasteel scaffolds glinting in lava's glow. "Fear's a blade you must learn to wield," I growl, voice low, "sharpen it, master it, or it will consume you." She's softer than clay, but maybe steel if I forge her right. My fingers twitch, dark side clawing to drink her dread, but Revan's path of balance burns in my skull, humbling my pride in this hellhole, forging me to his creed. I straighten, boots scuffing durasteel, and raise my voice, booming like a war drum for all to hear on the grounds. "Hear the Je'daii code, and kriffin' live it." The words scald my tongue, but I spit them, each a hammer to steel her: "There is no dark side, nor a light side. There is only the Force. I am the wielder of the flame, protector of balance." My voice trembles, restraint chaining the dark, and her lekku steady, grip tightening, eyes hardening like kyber under pressure. Initiates shift, fear easing, chaff, till they prove otherwise.
Clean-up droids skitter in, durasteel spiders with plasma torches hissing, claws dragging the boy's corpse. Blood smears durasteel, steaming, and a claw snaps a rib, the crack sharp as a blaster shot. The girl's eyes flicker, but her stance holds, fire kindled. Good. She's learning, or she'll be culled later. I turn to my Marshal of the Embers, her armor gleaming like Jedi lies, lightstaff limp. "Take her," I snarl, scythe glinting. "She's done for today." The Marshal hesitates, eyes darting, Ossus snake, stinking of rot, and my voice cuts. "Move, or there will be another accident that reeks of ex-Jedi blood," I hiss, subtext biting, and she snaps to, gripping the girl's arm, lekku twitching as they head to the Dojo's scaffolds. The grounds stir, vibro-swords clashing, but fear's thick, heavy as sulfur. Pyraeth's Chosen watch, pikes steady, their silence a blade at my back. Let them. Revan's Je'daii needs steel, and I'll reap any chaff.
I stalk into Fortress Vader's obsidian corridors, durasteel reinforcements gleaming under kyber-lit sconces, air cooler but sulfur lingering like a ghost. My scythe hums, a reaper's chant, and I mutter, "Kriffin' Tython talks." I'm Sentinel of Fire, Revan's right-hand, commanding Knights, Chosen, overseeing relic hunts, but these council chambers choke me, Jedi envoys yapping about our order's goals while my steel rusts in angst. Revan's vision burns bright for the Je'daii but meetings drag me from where I belong. I grip my scythe, and keep walking, a reaper now bound to the path of balance.