The Final match of the Grand Masters Tournament takes place on the ruins of what once served as the heart and foundation of the Dark Jedi Brotherhood. A landscape desecrated by an ancient ritual of destruction, charred buildings have been reduced to rubble. The remains of a once great temple and it surrounding discourse still “burn” to this day.

The ruins and remains of Antei around the Dark Temple are littered with rubble and decay. Tall spires have been toppled and withered with corrosion from the planet's periodic dust storms. The once great Dark Hall is mired with collapsed pillars and door frames. The last remants of life are scattered and covered in layers of ash; broken furniture, fractured machinery and combusted equipment littering the apocalyptic palette of grays and greens.

Echoes of the past haunt the now desolate graveyard of a planet. Wild winds whip through the hollow landscape with harrowing howls, a sense of death and finality hanging heavy in the air. This aura is neither dark or light, but stands as living effigy to the destructive power a sole individual unleashed on an entire system.

What better place for two fighters to decide their fate? What better grounds to determine the Grand Master's Champion?

The ramp hissed shut behind him, engines revving to life and flaring into activity as the shuttle took off. Timeros registered the ship’s departure without response, feeling the crew’s life energies retreat into a nervous tangle of emotion. Even the Iron Throne’s soldiers, experienced as they were, felt unnerved at the destructive power emanating from the Brotherhood’s black heart.

Antei. The darkest world. Twice, it had been made a home to Dark Jedi, and its history had been one of constant war and every imaginable kind of destruction. There would not be a third time. The Dark Council had abandoned its former halls, resolving to find a home away from the planet whose very name had become a curse.

Abandoned, but not forgotten. That same cursed world would now host the final match in the Grand Master’s bloodsport, its story ending as all things of the dark side would: in violence.

The reflections whipped through the Entar’s head as he set off, ignoring the windblown howls and the crackling fury of ionized storms overhead. He cast his senses forward as he did, reflecting them across the ruined landscape and honing in on a single speck of life as it moved steadily forward through the desolation.

Turel.

The pair had never interacted. Timeros had been absent from his Clanmates for over a year, absorbed with his duties as Director of the Dajorra Intelligence Agency. Turel, for his part, had left Arcona shortly after the Entar’s return to the Shadow Clan, seeking solace on New Tython. The Entar had heard tales of the younger man, but they had never so much as exchanged a word. This meeting would be their first - as far as the Arconae was concerned, it might well be their last. With the Grand Master’s ongoing purge of the Undesirables, Arcona was occupied by something more important than the lesser Clans.

The Temple of Okemi had mostly collapsed, its pyramidal shape slouched and twisted, with yawning scars exposing what little of its interior remained. The Ranger was climbing the collapsed ziggurat, his strength in the Force echoing across the Arconan’s conscience as the Jedi marshaled his powers to work his way up the damaged building.

Timeros followed suit, carefully selecting a stable-seeming pile of stone and leaping on top of it. He ascended by leaps and bounds, natural agility working in tandem with the Force to prevent him from stumbling on the unsteady terrain. Turel, on the opposite side, had already finished the four-story climb, moving far more quickly.

Atyiru called him brash, but he is more than that. He’s reckl-

He hurled himself backwards.

An crack pierced the air, temporarily overpowering the ongoing moan of Antei’s winds. Timeros had leapt from his position moments before the metallic slug embedded itself within the rubble. He broke his fall with casual grace, rising to his feet, only to find the same pile bearing down on him, its fragile balance shattered by the sudden violence of Turel’s rifle.

The Entar wasted no time in jumping aside, letting the sudden avalanche of rock tumble past him and further down. The instant he moved, however, another shot rang out, this one barely missing his thigh.

The Arconae landed, then jumped again, spiraling upwards along the temple as more shots whipped across the temple, each impact accompanied by a flash from the pyramid’s top and a miniature slide of debris. When the Adept halted, he was sheltered behind a stony outcropping, with his opponent hidden one landing up, perhaps a dozen meters away.

And that’s just the foreplay. Too bad it’s already gotten you hot and bothered.

The thought slipped into his mind, obviously not his own. Timeros ignored the taunt, instead grasping one of his blasters and using his senses to ferret out his foe’s exact location. He angled the weapon around the rock, firing blindly and spraying his enemy’s suspected location with searing bolts of plasma.

Immediately, the Jedi’s presence shifted, sidestepping the unaimed bolts before they left the Westar’s barrel. The Ranger’s return fire was no more precise: a metal slug whizzed past the slab with an audible crack. The next instant, Timeros all but flew over the outcropping, blaster already aiming as he jumped the barricade and made for the Odanite.

And fell straight into a gap in the floor, visible only from the Temple’s summit.

The Arconae spun awkwardly through the air as he took in the sudden information, struggling to land on his feet within the building’s ruined remains. The temple’s ceiling had mostly collapsed, opening its upper floor to the elements. He landed amidst ash-strewn debris, staining his robes with blackened streaks.

A sudden, deep sense of amusement appeared in Timeros’ mind.

And they say you can’t fool an honest man. The Odanite’s phantom words etched themselves across his thoughts. Then again, A’lora did say that you are as subtle as a hammer.

Timeros rose to his feet, staring intently at the ceiling. The roof blocked his adversary from view, though he knew the Jedi would be somewhere up top, slugthrower aimed for the open hole. Any attempt to leap from the building would simply result in him getting shot.

It did not matter. If Turel wished to waste his time in useless blather, Timeros was glad to oblige him. When he spoke, his words were firm and cold, their echo from the room cutting the wind like a knife.

“I am surprised she spoke at all.”

She told me plenty, Turel scoffed from above, though his thoughts held a slight tinge of uncertainty. She told me about your altered deal. Somehow I doubt the Shadow Lady approves.

Timeros did not respond immediately. For all of the Ranger’s bravado, he was correct. Atyiru was not happy with his assault on Arcona’s alliance with Odan-Urr, and recent communications with New Tython had been decidedly tense.

Turel mistook him for a man who cared.

His goal had been important. His course had been clear. His opportunity had been plain. Breaking A’lora’s body and spirit to instill the appropriate fear had been an obvious step, and the Entar had pursued it regardless of his mistress’ wishes.

And so, when the Jedi probed his adversary’s feelings, he found no more than wry contempt, tinged with fear at his own darkness. Timeros’ beliefs were a deep canyon, carved over decades by a strong and passionate river. Damming up the flow with insults did nothing to hinder the Arconae’s absolute faith in his chosen path. He had no words to waste on taunts. When the Adept responded, he did so in action.

He made a grasping motion with his empty hand, filling the temple’s innards with a bright, overpowering flash. His concussion grenade, telekinetically lifted to the ceiling just beneath where he sensed Turel, exploded in a roar that caused the rubble to groan in protest as ash-blackened rock sprayed in all directions.

Too late. The Jedi, attuned to the Force, had hastily abandoned his location by rolling to the side. Yet the attack still served its purpose: Timeros emerged from the newly-made gap just moments after the blast dissipated, kicking off against the opening’s side, lightsaber coming alight in his previously-empty hand and cutting viciously at the Jedi before he could regain his composure.

Turel was far too late to draw his saber, the still-held Karpaki Fifty the only thing at hand. Rather than attempt to dodge, he thrust the rifle forward with both hands, mentally accelerating the weapon when it left his grasp. It struck his foe across the abdomen stock-first, causing the Arconae to double over as the weapon clattered to the ground. The Entar’s swing went wild, and a cut meant to shear away the younger man’s arm succeeded only in tearing a gash in his jacket.

The Odanite reached for his belt immediately, his own amethyst lightsaber unfurling with a telltale hiss. He moved into position before the weapon finished extending, breaking a one-handed blow upon the blade’s expanding edge.

Timeros spun with the block’s direction, turning his arrested momentum into an extended spin, aiming low. Turel was forced to step back, then again as the Adept reversed his movements once more, his gleaming amethyst saber zig-zagging back and forth as it probed the Ranger’s defenses.

The besieged Jedi took one step back, then another as the Elder’s weapon edged dangerously close...

And suddenly, he found himself wavering, his concentration broken as he stepped upon a loose stone and swayed for balance. Timeros reacted immediately, leaping forward and delivering a precise kick between the Odanite’s ribs that sent him tumbling down the ziggurat.

The Equite landed in a heap one story down, salt and pepper hair stained ashen as he struggled to lift his battered limbs from the rock. Behind and above him, an approaching hum and a boothed thump signalled that the Entar had leapt after him, ready to end the battle.

Turel groaned, raising his hand to the side just before the Arconae landed. Rubble shifted in response, and Timeros’ previously-stable footing turned into an avalanche of rock whose descent was only hastened by his sudden impact on the pyramid’s landing.

The Elder slid below, struggling to keep his balance and managing to do so only by kicking off against the rubbleslide, pirouetting in midair and coming to a standstill one landing below the Ranger. He halted, hesitating briefly as he looked up, blaster in one hand and saber in the other.

Turel’s face appeared over the landing, accompanied by his still-lit lightsaber. The man’s face had been covered in soot, but his cocksure grin had not faded under the strain of combat.

“Well,” he called out, looking down confidently, “aren’t you a regular ballerina? What’s this one called, twinkle toes? The ‘dance of death’? You seem like the type to have one.”

The Arconan gave his Jedi counterpart a blank stare, emotions even and undisturbed. “No killing.” The words were punctuated with a sudden, cold wind within the Ranger’s heart, a prickling that made his hairs stand on edge. “A pity.”

“For you, maybe,” Turel retorted, feeling his bravado leave him at the sudden knot of dread within his stomach. He pressed on regardless. “Me, I’m having a great time, here. You, though, all ‘death to traitors, blah blah’. What’s the matter, having trouble pulling your punches?”

Again, there was no response. No outpouring of rage, no annoyance, no anger or contempt. The Jedi’s words might as well have been spoken to air. “Your inadequacies are of no concern to me.”

For the first time, the Jedi’s arrogant grin seemed to waver, overcome by the pit of fear in his gut and his sheer bafflement at the words emanating from the pale Arconan. Timeros had, he knew, personally taken vengeance on traitors to his Clan before - his bitterly-contested battle with the once-Arconan Halcyon was just the most recent example. “My...what? Excuse me?”

“When a boy steps into the dark and finds it frightening, it is no betrayal when he scuttles back to his mother’s skirts.” Timeros spoke the words with complete sincerity, seemingly oblivious to their insulting implications.

He gave Turel no time to answer. As soon as the words left his mouth, the Entar was already moving, his upward leap preceded by a wave of dread that briefly nailed the Ranger to the spot.

He finished his thoughts in private, consigning them to the back of his mind as he fell into the Force, ready to demolish his Jedi foe.

Odan-Urr has kindly relieved us of your ballast. My regret is that I cannot return the favor.

The passage of time seemed to slow to a crawl for the Jedi, his heart thudding in his chest; his vision narrowed into a tunnel and his limbs might as well have been duracrete for how responsive they were to his will. His chest felt like an invisible hand was squeezing it tightly, pinning him to an imperceptible wall. Turel was as frozen as a ysalamir lizard about to get its throat ripped out by a vornskr. As Timeros flew through the air towards him, the Jedi felt like a demon was approaching, not a man.

While the seconds ticked by, Turel’s consciousness screamed for him to dodge, put up his saber, do anything, but his body would not respond. The ethereal warning of impending harm reverberating through the Force finally spurned his muscles into action as the Arconan landed next to him. The Jedi only had time to reflexively raise his amethyst saber for a block.

Timeros did not miss a beat, briefly bounding once his feet touched the stone to continue his forward momentum. With a continuous motion the Arconan began a backswing for a devastating horizontal slash as he made the forward bound. Turel started to raise his saber and brace himself for the attack, but he had broken his fear-induced entropy too late.

The Arconan’s leap up to his opponent’s level and follow-on attack happened so fast that the whirring camera drones nearby could barely keep focus. The jarring force and tell-tale crackling sound of the saber impact jerked Turel out of crippling dread. He managed to parry the saber blow but failed to arrest the Krath’s forward motion. Timeros rotated his entire body, precisely following the motion of the horizontal slash to land his left shoulder into the Odanite’s chest. The whole maneuver had accomplished its intended aim of batting Turel’s saber out of the way and exposing his core for a melee blow.

Turel found himself on his back, with the wind knocked out of him, staring up at the Anteian sky before he even realized what had just occurred. In any other circumstance he would have admired the Krath for living up to his fearsome reputation, but this was no normal sparring match. The stakes were high even though outright killing had been forbidden. The entire Brotherhood was watching, his Clan was watching, Vorsa was watching. Losing was simply not an option, he had to find a way to prevail.

The former Combat Master was not about to give his opponent any respite and took aim with the pistol in his left hand.

“Oh frak!” Turel exclaimed as he lifted his still blazing saber while frantically scurrying away from his assailant, still on his back.

Timeros unleashed a steady stream of blaster fire which his Jedi adversary, in his somewhat compromised position, was only just able to deflect away. The few bolts that he did manage to deflect back toward the Elder were effortlessly swatted away with the saber in the Arconan’s right hand.

Finally Turel felt his back hit the edge of the ziggurat, he had nowhere else to run. What is Timeros doing? He wondered. He could easily attack with his saber and overpower me. Then he noticed two hovering drones idling behind the Krath at different angles. The Elder wasn’t looking for a quick win, he was putting on a show for the entire Brotherhood. While flashy displays were usually out of character for the Arconae, this had a very specific purpose. The image of the Odanite Proconsul crawling away from Timeros, essentially at his mercy, would make for powerful propaganda and further his goal of instilling fear in the upstart Clan — and any other Clans imagining themselves superior to Arcona.

A defiant spirit rose inside the Jedi that burned through the fear. Not today. He knew he had to act quickly and seize the first opportunity presented. While Timeros was surely teaching the Jedi his proper place, the Arconan wasn’t the type to entertain opponents begging for mercy or give expository monologues in a moment of triumph. He gathered the flows of the Force to him in preparation for his move.

BEEP---CLICK. The telltale sound of a blaster pistol reaching its heat limit served as Turel’s cue. He only had a matter of seconds before the pistol vented its heated gas or Timeros swapped for his second, fresh, pistol. Seizing upon the respite in blaster fire, Turel reached out through the Force and pressed toward the glop grenade hanging from the Elder’s belt. He didn’t have enough time or focus in the heat of battle to get the precision he wanted, but the distinct pulsating chirps of the grenade activating indicated the Jedi had successfully depressed the grenade’s trigger mechanism.

Timeros dropped his pistol as he frantically reached for the now active grenade on his belt. With his opponent distracted, Turel lept up and ran toward the edge of the outcropping. As the Arconan yanked on the device, he soon realized it was forcefully locked in the armed position. The Jedi had not only pressed the grenade’s trigger, but had done so with enough force to jam the trigger. Turel smiled as Timeros tossed the grenade toward him in frustration, dodging effortlessly as the grenade sailed past him and rolled down the edifice of the ziggurat, expelling its adhesive contents somewhere near the bottom.

“See ya.” Turel remarked with a mock saluting gesture and a smile for the cameras as he lept off the level to rapidly descend the structure.

He knew the faster and more agile Elder would soon be upon him, but used gravity to his advantage, almost flying down the temple. He spaced his bounds to minimize energy expenditure and risk of injury; this was sure to be a long fight. When he reached the bottom he noticed Timeros descending after him, saber and blaster in hand. Though it would be more accurate to say the Arconae was flowing down the structure like an avalanche, his movements were still graceful, fluid and seamless.

Turel had no intention of finding out what was in store for him when the Elder caught up. His eyes darted around the terrain for anything he could possibly use. He noticed the glop grenade still spewing its contents on an outcropping one level above ground. The Jedi ran toward that outcropping and crouched down just beneath it, a plan taking root in his mind.

The Jedi deactivated his saber then turned toward the hover drone nearest to him, “Be very very quiet, I’m hunting Arconae.” He uttered in a deliberately comical voice he remembered from a children’s holoprogram. Turel pointed above. “You may want to watch up there...trust me.”

---

Timeros bounded down the temple with renewed focus and icy determination. He saw Turel hide under a low level overhang then jump on top of it and take aim at him with his slugthrower pistol. The loud crack and snap hiss of slug rounds being fired filled the air as the Elder closed in on his prey. He wouldn’t get away this time and he’d soon learn to fear his betters. To the Arconae’s surprise Turel seemed to stand his ground and keep firing. He felt the Jedi’s Force signature precisely at the outcropping, so he was there. It mattered not whether he chose to stand or run, both were equally foolish against Arcona’s Red Right Hand.

The Krath landed on the platform and sliced Turel’s pistol arm clean off — it wasn’t a kill after all. Instead of the Jedi howling in pain, he simply dissipated like a puff of smoke. The exertion of battle and his singular focus on ending this engagement must have left some small crack in his otherwise durasteel mental defenses for the Seeker to exploit. He would not allow it to happen a second time. But being tricked by an illusion was the least of Timeros’ worries, as he noticed his legs were firmly affixed to the stone by the contents of his glop grenade.

A soft lavender glow emanated from below the stone platform as Turel reactivated his saber and calmly retreated from his hiding place to gloat. “You Arconae have a nasty habit of underestimating me.” He shook his head in a mocking fashion. “When will you learn—”

Without so much as a blink, Timeros aimed and took several shots at him with the blaster in his left hand. Now fully prepared for them, the Jedi deflected the bolts away with a few tight saber orbits which were the signature of his chosen Soresu form. “Tough crowd.”

The Elder was not finished, he extend his saber hand outwards, palm up, and released his grip. The still blazing amethyst blade floated upwards and seemed to take on a life of its own as it flew down and began striking at the Jedi. The Arconae made a series of fluid hand gestures as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra while the weapon danced to his will.

“Whoa, whoa! I did not see that coming!” Turel exclaimed as he frantically defended himself against the slashes and ripostes of the levitating blade.

Timeros continued to direct the motion of the saber with his free hand while taking aim at the Jedi with the blaster in his left. The blonde Human made an aggressive gesture with his open hand and the floating blade struck at Turel’s and forced the Jedi into a saber lock. The two weapons crackled and sparked at the point of contact as the Elder pushed harder through the Force to angle his opponent for a clear shot. A single blaster bolt cracked through the air and found its mark as Turel flew to the ground with a yelp of pain. Smoke rose from his left shoulder revealing a blaster burn. The shot had winged the Jedi, but it was still exceptionally painful. The Odanite winced as the smell of cooked flesh filled his nostrils. He rolled onto his right side to dodge a downward strike from the puppet blade. While the Elder’s saber was in contact with the ground Turel swatted at it with his own, sending it flying in the opposite direction.

Timeros released his Force grip on the saber and focused on aiming his blaster. His Jedi opponent had jumped to his feet and was starting to scrambled to get out of the line of fire. Turel folded his left hand under his right armpit to keep his injured shoulder steady and took off toward the temple’s ground entrance, blocking the occasional blaster bolt as he ran.

When the Jedi was out of sight, Timeros recalled his saber to his hand and set about extricating himself from the glop. Turel had trapped himself inside that temple, he just didn’t know it.

---

The Odanite propped himself up against a collapsed pillar inside the temple’s ruined atrium, panting for breath. The whirring of a hover drone echoed in the hall leading into the chamber as the automaton struggled to keep up with its target.

Turel looked directly into the lens when the drone circled around the pillar to find him. “Well I’m a little extra crispy right now, but don’t worry ladies—” He flashed a cocksure grin. “He didn’t hit my face.” The Jedi stood up to survey the ruins of what had once been a Sith lord’s tomb. “Sith architecture is so depressing.”

Timeros’ lightsaber shore through the glop with the patient exactness of a man who could afford no errors. He worked calmly, in precise slices that slowly extricated his foot from the sticky goo. He lifted it free, feeling the adhesive substance give way.

Turel had goaded him, and the Arconae had rushed into the trap. Twice. He had been overconfident, and the Jedi’s base cunning had exploited his recklessness. Somewhere, lightyears away and safely ensconced on New Tython, the Ranger’s Clanmates would no doubt be cheering.

He would silence those cheers. Will crystallized into certainty, the Arconae set off towards the atrium, preparing to give Turel the beating he had worked so hard to earn.

|-o-|

“You know,” Turel remarked as he leaned against the pillar, “if I’d known he’d take this long, I would’ve declared a bottle of whiskey to bring with my weapons.”

The camera drone to his side said nothing, though the Ranger could hear the whirring as it zoomed in on him.

The dreary architecture around the Jedi had not improved with time. In fact, it seemed even more shadowy and dark than he remembered, lit only by the ion storms that dominated the Brotherhood’s former homeland. He was sure the stern faces of Sith Lords past carved into the rock were meant to be terrifying. If so, they failed miserably.

The Ranger gave an involuntary shrug, then winced as pain shot through his perforated shoulder. “Ow,” he said, to no one in particular, although he was certain the hovering drone recorded his every move. At least the wound’s scar, properly tended, would leave him with a good story to tell New Tython’s women. Or it could, provided he could keep that arm attached to his body, which at the moment was far from certain.

“Maybe he got eaten by one of those ghosts Marick was talking about,” the Jedi continued. “Then again, knowing how these holomovie clichés work, he’s probably right about to -”

The ion storm flashed, interrupted by a whirring as the nearby holodrone turned, zooming in on a pale figure at the Atrium’s entrance. “Aww, frak.”

In the dim light the Krath looked almost like a ghost himself, a rail-thin figure holding an amethyst beam that strode so lightly among the fallen pillars he might as well have floated. Timeros paused as he noticed the Ranger, eyes narrowing coldly.

“About time you made it,” Turel called out to greet him, confidence masking his worry. Somehow, the Entar’s approach had gone entirely unregistered. Even with the Arconae right before him, his presence was like a dim candle covered in overlapping shadows, as though something vastly greater had fallen upon them both and smothered it. “We’re all out of booze, but I’m sure you wouldn’t want any.”

Timeros responded predictably: like a sociopathic mute. He gestured sharply to the side, mentally reaching for one of the hovering camera drones. The droid sputtered with mechanical outrage as it was roughly seized from the air, its fragile engines buckling beneath the Entar’s invisible weight. Then, the Adept snapped his arm forward, hurling the device at his foe.

Far away, the gathered crowds were treated to the sight of Turel's rapidly approaching form as the machine's still-functional camera sought to capture its final moments. Its lens whirred, zooming in and focusing on the Jedi’s abdomen during its airborne streak, only for the Sentinel to spin aside, lightsaber orbiting quickly about him and neatly bisecting it.

As the pieces lay in smoking ruin, he stashed his lightsaber and offered a cheeky grin to another drone. "Again, no need to worry. I'm usually much more accommodating."

By way of response, Timeros charged, seemingly determined not to give Turel the satisfaction of a reply. “E chu ta!,” the Ranger exclaimed, silently gathering his power as the gaunt Arconae surged across the gap in a gravity-defying leap. “Talking to you is like picking up women! Know why?”

”Unite them.”

For a moment, his concentration faltered, and he gazed around the darkening room. The Krath did not share his hesitation. Timeros fell upon him with all the fury of a jilted lover, saber hurtling down at the Odanite’s injured arm.

Turel weaved around the cut, barely, distraction washed away by the more imminent threat. The Entar landed crouching, one foot swept behind for balance and saber arcing out before him, aiming for the Jedi’s legs. Had Turel been less preoccupied, he would have admired the Adept. The gaunt Dark Jedi showed no hesitation, not a single instant of uncertainty. His composure was perfect.

Sucks to be him.

Turel fell to his knees, feeling the Arconae’s shock ripple through his senses as he dropped directly into the saber’s path, neck exposed to amethyst death. The glowing beam wavered, screaming to a halt as Timeros was forced to fight against his own momentum. The Entar’s absolute control betrayed him, now, and he wrenched away his lightsaber, averting an otherwise-fatal blow.

The Ranger wasted no time, raising his empty hand. For a moment, the darkness around him coalesced, growing deeper as he closed his eyes and marshaled the power he had been gathering. Then, radiance filled the atrium as he shot a brilliant flash of light directly into the Arconae’s eyes.

Timeros staggered back, howling in pain. Turel opened his eyes a moment later, drawing his lightsaber. He cut wildly, ignoring his training: the Jedi had a chance to end the battle and he intended to take it.

He might as well not have bothered. Timeros was as home wielding a saber on the battlefield as Turel was in a cantina with a fine cigarillo. Blind and hurt though he was, the dark side still wrote the Odanite’s motions into his soul. The Krath’s every muscle seemed to snap into action at once, turning him into a tempest of flailing limbs that whirled through his slash with unnatural foreknowledge.

The Entar landed several meters away, blinking against the pain, and the Ranger reluctantly broke off his assault. Patience. That koochoo is dangerous.

“You see,” he continued, trying to ignore his rapidly-beating heart, “when you don’t find a willing partner, you better have a good hand.”

”Unite them. I was going to unite them.”

Turel felt his eyes widen as the darkness around him grew overpowering, driving away his every sense. It was as before, except that where he previously could not feel the Entar, there was now nothing to feel, at all, anywhere, like a shadowy curtain that smothered his very life. He craned his neck, careful not to further hurt his wounded shoulder.

They were no longer alone.

|-o-|

Timeros blinked, seething with contempt as he fought to regain his vision, Turel’s words an afterthought to his mind. Given his earlier showmanship, the man was most likely speaking for the drones, and the Entar had little time for insipid jokes.

”Unite them. I was going to unite them.”

He did not so much hear the words as feel them. The immaterial voice broke free of his mind and pulled at his nervous system, drawing it taut like a bowstring. Fighting that voice was like fighting gravity, and he felt his head turn without any input from his mind.

There, standing in the corner, was a man made of darkness and flowing shadows. His robes were ornate, hanging silently despite the storms, and his skin seemed made of obsidian. Yet, nothing could hide the goateed face and long hair, nor the expression on the man’s countenance.

Muz Ashen stared back at them with pitch-black eyes.

Impossible.

”I was supposed to unite them!”

Timeros gasped, finding himself driven to his knees, hands planted on the ash-covered floor by the entity’s weight. Muz, the Brotherhood claimed, had failed in his final ritual, never meaning it to take place at all. It seemed the Brotherhood was wrong. Somehow, a shard of the Grand Master remained, imprinted upon Antei’s cursed surface.

Where his contempt for the Jedi had bubbled, it now boiled, escaping into his mind like a red-hot mist. This was Turel, but far worse. Muz had set himself up as the Brotherhood’s foe, pursuing his ridiculous aim of uniting the Clans through adversity. And then, when contact with reality had shattered his delusions, the Grand Master had chosen to blame the nature of the Sith instead of his own foolishness, abdicating and leaving his former servants at the mercy of a tyrant.

The Grand Master, some Arconans had snickered, has no robes. The truth was worse. The robes had no Grand Master. There was no core of strength to Muz’ philosophy. For all his power, he had simply given up and walked away rather than face his failures. In the end, his polished facade had been a mask for his emptiness and cowardice.

“You know, that’s real nice of you,” Turel remarked, to his side, “all this talk of unity coming from the guy who once tried to kill my entire Clan.”

The murky creature spun, thrusting out a hand, and the Jedi stifled a curse as he was seized and hurled across the room.

At the apparition’s distraction, Timeros felt the weight lift from his muscles, and he spun into action, bolting for the phantom Grand Master, blade tearing directly into the shade.

It was like slicing air. The being turned, lazily, as the amethyst pillar scythed through its chest, its shadowed flesh breaking apart then reforming, utterly unperturbed.

”Unite!”, it bellowed, as its hand spasmed with motion.

The world spun, ceiling and floor tumbling about the Arconae’s form as invisible hands took hold of him. He hit the ground in a battered heap, still held down, wriggling like an insect beneath the boot of a god. His lungs compressed, incapable of motion, and familiar spots danced before his eyes as the obsidian figure snarled with rage.

A crack pierced the air, sending a bolt of metal through the creature’s body. Immediately, the weight lifted, and Timeros turned to see Turel, lying down, lightsaber abandoned at his side and firing his slugthrower as fast as he could. The apparition’s attention turned, body rippling as it absorbed the slugs seemingly without harm, yet for the moment, it seemed baffled.

The Arconae snarled, dark side surging through his body, setting him alight with putrid fire as he thrust forth his hand, hammering at the phantom with his mind.

The creature shrieked as the Force-driven assault ripped into its substance, shadows dissipating and fleeing away, snaking across the ground in blackened strands. It rumbled as it faded, seeming almost mournful. Unity.

Yet, it was not completely gone. Now that his eyes had been opened, Timeros could feel the entity’s presence hovering over the ruins, like flesh torn open to reveal the rot underneath. It watched, waiting, attention focused on the combatants by inhuman passions.

“Well, that was different,” Turel groaned to his side. Timeros silently concurred, but suppressed his curiosity. The creature’s sudden appearance and equally jarring disappearance was unimportant. He had not come for answers. He had come for victory.

“Begone, shade,” the Entar spat as he climbed to his feet. Unity among the Clans? The Brotherhood would have it, he promised silently. It would have unity on the day Arcona crushed Pravus beneath the bodies of every man, woman and child that defied the Serpentine Throne. The Grand Master would drown in the blood of the lesser Clans. That was the only peace that mattered.

“Really? Do you live in a holodrama?” Turel had likewise risen, still panting with exhaustion, cradling his damaged arm.

As for you… He turned to Turel, saber ready, his verdict already cast.

The robes have no Grand Master.

Every deep pant for breath Turel took was tinged with noticeable pain. His body was bruised from being tossed around like a ragdoll by the apparition of Muz; his blaster scorched shoulder could barely move as muscles began to ache with the onset of exhaustion. The ordeal with the ethereal echo of the former Grand Master had almost made him forget about his Arconan opponent, whose attention now fully turned toward him.

Timeros had several instances where he could have landed a lethal blow, but he stayed his blade. At least that was something. And yet every time the Jedi gazed upon the pale Elder he felt as if the luxury of time afforded him by the Shadow Lady’s grace had run out and Arcona’s Red Right Hand would finally take his head for turning his back on the Shadow Clan.

As the amethyst blade of his soon-to-be-executioner burned before him, the Odanite’s eye darted to the his saber, lying on the floor several meters away, uncertain if he could recall and activate it in time to stop the Elder’s inevitable attack. Turel called upon the Force and took off toward his weapon, turning his back to his opponent. Predictably, the Arconan chased after him with demonic speed, saber at the ready. The Jedi only had a lead of a few steps before a warning of imminent danger echoed through the Force. He dove toward his objective, with Timeros’ blade passing close enough to his back to slash through the Odanite’s prized jacket.

”Too close.” He thought as pain from extending his injured arm shot up his body. He twisted horizontally in midair so that his left hand shot up in a defensive gesture, while he landed on his right. Turel rolled beside the idle hilt, kicking up a cloud of particles from the floor, and scooped it up with his right hand. Timeros leapt after him for a two handed downward slash designed to maim the Jedi before he could bring his own saber to bear. An injured left arm instinctively thrown into the air was the only obstacle in the Arconan’s path.

A low thump echoed in the chamber as the Elder’s saber struck something solid followed by a yelp of pain from Turel. Instead of slicing the Jedi’s left arm off, the blazing lavender blade struck a translucent barricade of pure Force energy that rippled like the surface of a pond as it dispersed the impact. The momentum placed too much stress on the Odanite’s burned shoulder, sending a jolt of pain that nearly broke his concentration. Timeros stumbled backwards several steps, the force of his own saber strike suddenly reflected back at him.

Seizing the momentary reversal, Turel closed his left palm into a fist, dispersing the barrier in the process as he planted his feet and pushed himself up with his right elbow. He winced with momentary agony as his left arm limped to his side and he ignited his own weapon. The Jedi was not as comfortable with a one handed grip, but he had little option. His eyes darted around the room for some kind of escape as his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. He knew he could not stand his ground against the Arconae, especially in his condition.

Despair began to take root in the Jedi’s mind. He was tired, burned, bruised and clearly outmatched. Timeros didn’t want him dead — at the moment. He merely wanted him beaten, and crawling. It was all too easy to prevent that outcome: he could simply surrender now and go home. He made it this far, damn it, and he deserved a rest. There was no need to put his life on the line any further for personal pride or the amusement of dark side sycophants.

Timeros said nothing as he slowly and deliberately paced out of reach, never breaking eye contact with Turel. The hopelessness grew stronger with each passing moment. The voice in the Jedi’s head saying ”I can’t do this” grew louder and louder. His thumb unconsciously reached for the trigger on his saber to deactivate it. Submission would be so much easier.

”If I try to keep fighting him, he’ll kill me. Better to just let him have his victory and live.”

The whirring sound of a fresh camera drone entering the chamber broke Turel’s train of thought. He glanced into the droid’s lens out of the corner of his eye and thought of all those watching on New Tython; all those who believed in him. His despondency turned to shame at letting fear get the better of him.

”Vorsa should be here, not me. I’m not strong enough.”

The drone gave no response to the Odanite’s thoughts of inadequacy and Timeros, sensing Turel’s resolve faltering, simply awaited to claim his victory. He focused on his reflection in the lens of the drone for a moment and wondered what all those watching would think if he gave in now. Neither Vorsa nor A’lora had been cast into this moment by the machinations of fate — he had. Like it or not, he was the champion of Odan-Urr and if he did not find a way to rise here, no one would.

He thought about what it would mean to the undesirables in hiding, to his clan — to her — to have a Jedi as the Grand Master’s champion. Memories of all the times the Neti had believed in him flashed before Turel’s eyes. All the times he fell and she helped him rise again, and all the times she gave him a smile in the hardest of moments.

”Do it for her.”

The Jedi’s gaze hardened on his opponent as a confident smirk slowly returned. “You know Timmy boy, you should really find some new mind tricks. This one is getting old, fast.”

Timeros gave no audible response. He had no desire to engage the Ranger in idle prattle. His infliction of raw dread upon his opponent had failed to break the Jedi’s will, but it bought the Arconae time to discreetly catch his own breath. He was practiced at hiding it, but fatigue was starting to creep in. The fight with the upstart Equite had gone longer than he had anticipated. Turel could spout whatever bravado he wanted and make his last stand. He was still the prey and the Elder was the predator.

“What’s the matter? Jedi got your tongue?” Turel was clearly showing off for the cameras again. “You give all that you are for the Shadow Clan, dealing out silent, cold, unfeeling judgment to her enemies. You’re more hollow and lifeless inside than this camera droid here. You’re nothing but a walking corpse, how can you live like--”

Before Turel could finish his mocking inquiry, an invisible fist of Force energy struck him directly in the chest, staggering him backwards. Timeros followed up the blow by propelling himself forward, but instead of going directly at his opponent, he bound to Turel’s injured side with enough speed and dexterity that the Ranger couldn’t follow. The Elder felt a sharp pain in his calf as he changed direction on a dime, aiming for Turel’s exposed, injured shoulder. He swung wide just as Turel moved out of the way. The Elder winced — probably the only break in his enduring facade Turel had seen in the whole battle — as he pushed at his opponent again, gripping his saber in one hand. Turel predictably shifted his torso, rotating his right side forward to deflect the strike and protect his injured arm. While the Jedi successfully parried his opponent’s blade, he left himself exposed to a follow-on left hook from the Elder’s free hand. The blow found its mark on Turel’s jaw causing his head to whip to the right, making the Ranger stagger backwards yet another step. He had been slowly retreating into the center of the chamber.

”ALL THOSE WHO WILL NOT UNITE WILL PERISH!”

The crushing darkness returned, causing both fighters to stop in their tracks; as if some malignant force kept their bodies frozen in place. The malevolent visage of Darth Ashen took shape in the air above them, glaring with eyes as black as the deepest void of space.

“This thing again? Seriously?” The Jedi spat a mixture of blood and saliva onto the dusty stone floor. Turel looked up at the former Grand Master’s echo. “War’s over buddy, time to move on.” He could feel Timeros gather the Dark Side to him once again, focused on the apparition. “Hey Timmy, how about we take this outside like gentlemen, clearly we’ve overstayed our welcome?”

”UNITE OR PERISH!”

Before either of them could react, the floor began to shake violently as the apparition raised both its arms high in the air. It was like nothing Turel had ever experience in his time as a Jedi. The Dark Side side swirled around him in a vortex of raw power and he felt like a candle in a hurricane.

Cracks formed in the floor beneath their feet but neither of the two men could move. The dark stones of the floor began to fall away revealing an unlit chamber below. The ground crumbled from the walls toward the center where the pair stood in arrested momentum. The overwhelming power which held them fixed in place relaxed its hold, as they tumbled into the black void of the cavern below.

---

Turel opened his eyes to find himself on his back, staring up at the last traces of light trickling in from the broken ceiling. As he sat up he could barely see what was in front of him through the seemingly endless gulf of darkness beyond where the ceiling had collapsed. From the parts he could see, the cavern appeared to be yet another elaborately carved stone chamber, only the floor beyond the rubble pile seemed to be filled with jet black sarcophagi evenly spaced apart.

”Creepy,” He remarked to no one in particular as he stood up with an audible sigh and ignited his saber, bathing the chamber in a soft lavender glow. Ghoulish figures lined the carved pillars of the room. Still he saw no sign of Timeros or Muz’s echo. The ceiling was too high to climb or leap in a single bound ”The only way out was through the burial chamber,” he thought as he carefully traversed the rubble, in search of his opponent or the exit, whichever came first.

Things were going so well.

Timeros was lying prostrate, supported by a sloped, uneven surface. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, and his lightsaber had slipped away during his fall. Moving was like struggling against a rocky blanket, and bleeding scrapes throbbed across his body as he tried.

I had him. He could not match me in a duel.

The Arconae grunted, mind aligning to familiar energies and drawing deep from the Force, soothing his ragged nerves. He reached for the surface’s slanted sides, their irregular texture serving as improvised handholds to shake himself and rid him of the rubble.

Now he’s gone, again. I’ll have to find him.

He reached for his belt, grasping his second lightsaber and thumbing its trigger switch. Light burst from the weapon, casting the stone cavern in sinister amethyst...and bringing the Entar face to face with a corpse.

The Adept, familiar with death, did not so much as blink. As his eyes adjusted to the lavender glow, he noticed he was lying atop a stone sarcophagus, partially caved in by the rubble. Its surface had been carved into the decorative relief he had used as handholds, and its smashed top revealed a mummified face, stretched into a rictus grin.

It was that smirk, mocking in its decomposed and hollow-eyed visage, that brought back a memory.

”You’re more hollow and lifeless inside than this camera droid here. You’re nothing but a walking corpse.”

It struck him worse than the fall had, more painful and real than a punch to the face. Turel had been more right than he knew. Somehow, in his condemnation of others, the Arconae had forgotten something crucial. Pleasing as it would be, defeating the Jedi was not the reason he partook in Pravus’ spectacle.

Represent Arcona. Remind the other Clans that they should fear us.

He got to his knees with agonizing slowness, feeling pain shoot through his legs. Gritting his teeth, he forced away the agony.

His motive was a lie. One he had told even himself. Arcona needed no gaudy displays to please the Grand Master - Pravus, in the Clan’s estimation, was not worth pleasing. Nor did the Shadow Clan have anything to prove.

But Timeros did.

The Arconae looked down. The corpse stared back, its grin a yawning chasm, filling his mind with silent laughter.

The Adept growled with wordless rage, saber streaking down through the sarcophagus, obliterating the mocking face. The stone shifted as he tore it apart, and he slid off the side, landing in a heap, his fury evaporating as quickly as it had risen.

“No,” he whispered softly, pulling himself to his feet on the sarcophagus’ ruined side. “I’m not dead, yet.”

Even as he struggled to remain upright, he could feel a hunger gnaw inside of him, straining to break its leash and rip Turel to shreds. He did not just want to win, he had to win. The Adept wobbled as he let go of the coffin, reaching for his face and touching a groove on his forehead. He had cuts and scrapes across his body, but this was a wound even the Force could not heal, cutting deeper than any scar.

A wrinkle. His first.

Timeros sighed, forced to admit the truth. He had fought for his pride. Fought to prove himself relevant in a Clan that increasingly saw him as an aging relic. Fought to prove that they still needed him. Or, failing that, go out in a blaze of glory, pitting himself against the Brotherhood’s greatest warriors one last time.

He stumbled forward, breathing deeply, letting some deep-seated part of his body take control and soothe away the pain, walking towards the only opening in the room that he could see. The brief respite in combat had helped assuage some of the Entar’s exhaustion, but the pooled sweat soaking his robes was a blunt reminder that any battle would have to be won quickly. He noticed his fallen saber as he stepped, pulling the weapon to his hand with a gesture and studying it briefly. The emitter had been damaged, its tines pressed inward. Any activation would destroy it. He stored the weapon in his belt anyway.

The Adept stepped over rubble with laborious care, going through the opening and down a set of decaying stairs. The light of his saber became woefully insufficient as he stepped out into a vast cavern lined with stacked sarcophagi. Unlike the corpse he had desecrated, these were apparently not important enough to warrant their own burial chambers.

“Really? Every other cave I fight in has glowing crystals or lichen or torches, but I have to fight you in the dark?”

The words snapped Timeros around just as a figure emerged from another tunnel. Turel stood half a dozen meters away from him, his saber a sharp contrast to the unlit expanse surrounding him. The younger man looked as awful as the Arconae felt, his jacket torn and his hair sweaty and matted.

“What’s it with Sith and tombs anyway?” Turel continued, walking further into the darkness and letting the glow of his lightsaber shine across the gap. “So dramatic. Can’t they let go or are they all like - ”

”UNITE!”

“...our angry ghost here,” the Jedi finished lamely, face paling as he turned to the sudden exclamation’s source. Even in the dim light, the Grand Master’s echo was somehow obvious, a darkness greater than absolute black. The light of their sabers seemed drawn toward it, forming a halo of amethyst embers that fell into the spectral form before being utterly extinguished.

“Hey!” the Ranger yelled. “You need someone to unstick your broken record? I’m tired of this song!”

The creature shrieked with rage at the Jedi’s defiance. ”YOU WILL UNITE OR YOU WILL DIE!” It raised its arms, and the sarcophagi behind it shook, taking to the air as if lifted by an invisible tide. At its gesture, one of the coffins careened through the cavern, hurtling for the Ranger.

“Frak!” Turel shouted as he dove, barely making out the black streak. It smashed into the wall behind him amidst the grind of breaking stone, skeletal remains spilling from the shattered coffin and across the fallen Sentinel.

Timeros snarled with pain and rage as he thrust a hand at the phantom. The dark side had dispersed the creature before, and he channeled his every malicious thought into the blow, wielding a mental sledgehammer that beat down upon the spirit.

It was useless. The shadowed figure did not even ripple as it absorbed the attack. All his outpouring of power gained him was eerie, high-pitched laughter as the creature turned towards him, a casket already sailing for his position.

The Adept sprung away just in time, muscles protesting in agony at his Force-enhanced leap as the sacrophagi crashed down behind him. He landed in a crouch, breathing heavily as he drew his blaster and sprayed fire in the spectre’s direction.

“UNITE OR DIE!” the creature bellowed, its arms raised, blaster bolts sailing through its ephemeral form as more sarcophagi tore themselves loose.

“Any ideas, Timmy?” the Odanite called out before ducking behind a standing casket. He was just in time. The next moment, a flying coffin crashed against it, throwing up a cloud of gravel and tossing the Jedi to the floor.

The Entar wracked his mind as he continued firing, trying to drown the phantom’s shrill demands beneath the whine of his blaster bolts. The Grand Master’s echo clearly did not reflect the entirety of his being. Even the Arconae credited Ashen with more personality.

Perhaps…

The shade had only appeared when they were together. Moreover, it seemed weaker than before, reduced to hurling objects rather than crushing the would-be champions beneath the weight of his power.

Almost as if it had weakened now that they had stopped battling each other.

Something crashed into his back, throwing him to the floor and smashing his head against the ground. Vision swimming and reddened by a trickle of blood, he pushed against the ground, managing to flop to the side as a virtual avalanche of rock descended on his previous position: the remains of a shattered casket, preceded by the single stone that had toppled him.

There was no further attack. Instead, the shade’s attention flickered back to Turel, the stone heap beside the Entar lifting and cracking to pieces, turned into an arsenal of sharp splinters that hurled themselves at the hapless Jedi.

In desperation, Timeros reached through the Force, trying to smother its connection to the dark side and preserve the Odanite’s distracting presence. The sheer scope of its power almost overwhelmed the Entar, as though he was trying to stop a tsunami with his bare hands.

The splinters clattered to the floor.

The Entar blinked in surprise. Ahead of him, Turel scrambled over, equally bewildered. “Thanks, I guess,” he said, as the echo paused, apparently dumbfounded.

Timeros climbed to his feet, keeping a wary eye on the Jedi. Of course.

He felt his memories twist, flashing back to their earlier encounter with the shade.

A Force-driven blow, hitting the shade.

And just prior to it, slugthrower bolts, ripping into the entity’s form.

It grew stronger as we fought, then weaker as we stopped. When I protected Turel, it lost its strength entirely. It doesn’t want us dead. It wants-

”UNITY!”

The echo spasmed before them, snarling as it shook off its stupor. Another sarcophagus lifted from behind it.

“Give it to him.”

Timeros tensed at the words, surprised to find he was the one speaking them.

“You attack,” he continued, “I distract. We take him together.”

Turel seemed mystified for an instant...and then grinned as his eyes lit with understanding. “You know-”

“Now,” the Adept breathed. He bolted to the side, as fast as his fatigued muscles could carry him, Westar spraying fire. Turel took off in the opposite direction, saber extinguished, a rapidly fading figure in the dark.

“I WILL HAVE UNITY, OR I WILL HAVE DEATH!”

The stone casket began to move, more slowly than before. He did not try to dodge, storing his lightsaber and reaching for its broken counterpart. He hurled the damaged saber at the phantom, letting it sail beneath the approaching coffin, then gestured sharply.

Both.

His lightsaber lurched at his command, correcting his throw before exploding into an unsightly whorl of amethyst as the weapon’s misaligned emitters tore it apart right at the echo’s center. For a moment, the creature seemed unaffected, and the Entar felt a faint tinge of worry. If Turel had used the opportunity to escape…

A flash of amethyst lit the tomb as the Jedi ripped into the creature from behind, accompanied by an inhuman shriek. The casket wobbled, then fell to the floor as the shade’s substance dissipated and the creature broke apart into tendrils of darkness.

”Unity... “ it rumbled, its voice tinged with satisfaction as it faded.

Timeros groaned, limping for the sarcophagus and sitting down at its side. He felt...deflated. Empty and exhausted. Old.

His reverie was broken by a sudden light as a holodrone whirred into the cavern, lens focused on the two combatants. A swarm of its companions followed, flitting about the burial vault and surveying the utter wreckage left in the echo’s wake.

“Oh, now you show up!” Turel exclaimed. The Jedi was swaying on his feet, pausing to breathe between limping steps. “There’s no way anyone’ll believe this.”

“No,” Timeros sighed, forcing himself to stand and reaching for his remaining saber. His hatred had been swept from him, and all he could do now was finish the battle. And he found, finally, that if he had little left to fight with, he did have something to fight for.

He did not want to punish. He did not even particularly want to win.

He wanted to go home.

Home.

For a fleeting moment both men felt the same longing for the comforts of the familiar and those whom they cared for. A lover’s embrace, the adoration of peers; what drove the pair was different, yet fundamentally similar. Each had clawed their way through grueling trials and ruthless opponents that would have broken lessor men. Both had defeated their greatest rivals and endured as the last combatants standing — the champions of their respective Clans. The living legend of the First Clan and the upstart from the youngest Clan.

In the end, there could only be one champion, and who would walk out with that title came down to the next few moments. They could almost feel weight of all the hopes, expectations and anxiety of their clanmates watching on Selen and New Tython bearing down on them across the lightyears.

Turel could sense how worn and utterly spent his opponent was feeling. A twinge of pity for his former clanmate came over him, but also a tinge of fear. The Jedi saw a glimpse of his future self in the Arconae; where his road would lead if he continued to pour himself so completely into his Clan. A shambling corpse of a man, with a stone heart devoid of any compassion or love; living only for duty’s sake. It was like looking at a reflection of the parts of himself he kept chained up inside: the angry, cold, ruthless side of him that he had leaned on throughout this tournament to survive. What he saw was what would be left if the Krayt Dragon in his heart consumed him. The thought sent a chill down Turel’s spine. He swore a momentary oath to himself that that would never happen as he reached for his inner light. He would stand in this crucial moment, but he would do so as a Jedi.

“We don’t have to do this, you know, beat each other bloody until one of us falls down. We are supposed to be allies. I bled for Arcona and would again to protect the people in it.” He wiped the sweat from his brow and corpse dust from his raven bangs. “Any chance we could walk out of here, hand in hand, and be champions, and brothers, together?”

The sound of the Arconae’s saber coming to life gave the Jedi his answer.

Well, so much for diplomacy. Turel sighed as he readied his own weapon, held firmly in his good hand, his burnt arm steadied close to his body.

The soft hum of the camera drones and the lavender glow of the combatant’s sabers broke the dark peace of the burial chamber. A single heartbeat passed as the two men tensed waiting for one to make the first move. Turel instinctively raised his saber into a defensive position as Timeros darted forward. The Elder didn’t move with the same superhuman speed as before, fatigue weighing heavily on his body. He still seemed to float as he traversed debris and lept over sarcophagi to close the distance with his Jedi adversary.

It was only by sheer force of will that Turel was standing. He was exhausted, with no cards left to play and the chips were down. This would be the last hand, he was all in, and he only had one option: he needed to bluff. The Jedi called upon what currents of the Force he could draw on in the bowels of a dead world. He had to make this count.

"UNITY!"

Timeros froze in his tracks to face the sudden reappearance of the former Grand Master’s spectre. He stopped on top of a sarcophagus and readied a blaster in his free hand.

“Oh you can’t be serious!” Turel exclaimed with clear exasperation.

The apparition wasted no time and flew toward the Jedi, striking him before he had a chance to dodge. The Odanite’s body flew backwards into a nearby pile of rubble, landing with a thud and a poof of tomb dust. Muz’s echo then turned its attention to the Arconan and circled around like a hungry predator back toward the center of the chamber.

Timeros tracked the shade’s movements, plotting his next move, but noticed something odd. He didn’t feel the same crushing darkness as before. In fact, he didn’t feel anything at all from where the spirit appeared to be. On a whim he glanced toward the camera drones, all of which were focused toward himself and Turel. None of the automata were aimed at the rampaging poltergeist.

It’s a trick. The sudden realization flashed across his consciousness like a gunshot. He focused his attention on his Jedi adversary, pushing past what his eyes were telling him. And then he saw. He saw Turel standing, slowly taking aim at him with his slugthrower pistol. At that range, the slug have a strong chance of ripping through his defenses, so the Arconae made a split second decision as the blaser pistol in his left hand shot up to meet his enemy.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as both men took aim. Turel had a head start but Timeros called upon his final bit of Force reserves to make up the difference. The Arconae pulled the trigger first, by a fraction of a second, but the Jedi fired before the blaster bolt reached him. Timeros attempted to dodge, but exhausted as he was, caught the round in the right deltoid. Turel was not so lucky. The blaster bolt struck him in the upper chest, just right of center, causing him to drop the pistol and tumble to the ground with a cry of pain.

The Elder drank deeply from flow of the dark side lingering in the temple. A last ditch attempt to dull his pain and slow his circulation as he struggled to stand back up. He could feel the hot blood seeping down his right arm and into his tunic. As he closed the distance with his downed opponent, he aimed his blaster once again. This fight was over.

Turel lay on his back, now barely able to move either arm. He had gone all in and lost. His luck in this tournament had finally run out. As his entire upper torso seemed to burn with white hot fire, he stared at the Arconae slowly limping toward him with growing anxiety. He couldn’t even muster the focus to manipulate the Force. He was done.

Timeros pointed the blaster directly at the Jedi’s head. For a fleeting moment he considering taking the man’s life but the whirring of the camera drones behind him gave him pause.

“No killing.” Turel spat out with a series of coughs and a wince of subdued agony.

“Indeed.” The Elder replied with cold indifference as he clicked the blaster to stun and fired three azure rings of energy into the fallen Jedi’s body. Turel went limp, finally, and completely out of the fight.

Timeros Entar Arconae dropped his weapons and callosped to his knees, applying pressure to his bleeding slug wound. It was finally over. He had won.

---

The amber glow of the Dark Hall burning in the distance, and the occasional flash of lighting from an approaching ion storm, lit up the night sky of the dead world. Timeros sat on the edge of the landing ramp for the Combat Master’s lambda shuttle while an Iron Legion medic worked on his shoulder.

“That should stabilize you until we get back into a proper med bay, my Lord.”

The Elder dismissed the corpsman with a wave, then stood up to walk to the base of the ramp. He watched as the Combat Master marched up the hill with a squad of soldiers behind him carrying Turel on a hover stretcher. As the procession crested the hill and approached the ramp, Marick took a position next to his former Master and folded his arms while he supervised the soldiers.

The raven haired Elder turned to his fellow Arconae. “Congratulations Timeros.”

Timeros gave a silent nod in return. Was there ever any doubt as to the outcome? “Sorenn turned out to be a worthy opponent.”

Marick nodded in agreement. “A shame his naive idealism kept him from staying in the Shadow Clan. He proved himself valuable on Korriban.”

The Entar watched in silent reflection as the last of the soldiers loaded onto the shuttle. This contest should not have been drawn out as it was. Either he was getting too old or he had severely underestimated his Jedi opponent. Neither thought was pleasant to contemplate. Still, he had emerged the victor with the entire Brotherhood watching. Neither his Arconan brethren or those of the lesser Clans would dare question his dominance now. But why did the victory feel so hollow?

Timeros took his seat inside the passenger compartment as the ramp retracted and the shuttle shook, its engines roaring to life. Turel’s words gnawed at the back of his mind.

“You’re nothing but a walking corpse.”