Holovids have replayed the conclusion of the Grand Master’s Invitational Tournament where Turel Sorenn and Timeros Ceasus Entar Arconae battled within the remains of the Dark Hall.

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.

Once, Antei had served as the seat of the Dark Jedi Brotherhood's power. As a result of an ancient Ritual of destruction invoked by Grand Master Muz Ashen, the entire planet is now no more than a barren wasteland. Charred buildings have been reduced to rubble, but ash flutters into the wind from the embers of fires that seem to burn in eternal requiem. A dark energy still lingers, and at its center, rests the once great temple known as the Dark Hall.

The Dark Hall itself is one of the only few structures to defy the full might of the Ritual. The ruins and remains around it are littered with decay. Tall spires have been toppled and withered with corrosion from the planet's periodic dust storms. The Dark Hall’s interior is mired with collapsed pillars and door frames. The last remnants 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. The stairways leading down into the subterranean levels are missing whole sections, and some simply lead to dead ends. The crypts below have been ransacked and scavenged, sarcophagi upturned and left with a mixture of mummified corpses and empty caskets.

Beyond this, scouting reports still vary when the topic of Force apparitions and ghosts is broached.

Proceed at your own risk.

The wind howled as it whipped against the folds of a long jacket. Thin strands of black hair swayed in front of too-blue eyes that studied the bleak landscape. Time had done little to soothe the damage left in the former Grand Master’s wake. Broken architecture littered the dusty, cracked earth. Grayscale desolation stretched out across the horizon, leaving only the echoes and harsh whispers of nature. The air was dry, crisp, and hauntingly devoid of the scents that accompanied the presence of organic life. It was dead, just like the rest of the planet.

Silence.

An ominous energy seeped out from the entrance to what was once known as the Dark Hall. Thin clouds of dust and ash trailed off of the hall’s stone architecture like smoke from the tip of a cigarra. The dark side was almost palpable here, like an ominous warning or challenge to any who thought themselves worthy of entering the ancient halls.

The Force did not rebuke Marick Arconae as he took a single step forward, unharmed. There was nothing to fear from the temple itself, at least. Fear was the last thing from his mind, truth be told. Instead, Marick focused on all the reasons the Lord Marshal — Damon Nix — would have had for sending him to investigate the ruins of Antei. The Combat Master had done his research when setting the stage for the Grand Master’s Tourney. He knew the landscape and the stories behind it all too well.

Beyond that, Marick was playing a dangerous game as a double-agent for the Inquisitorius. While he embraced his role as a Grand Inquisitor, he had also taken many actions that worked against the machinations of the Iron Legion. For better or worse, Marick had joined the greater game. And in that game, if you lost, you paid the ultimate price.

Definitely a trap, the Arconae assured himself as his eyes struggled to adjust to the dim corridor that lead into the Dark Hall.

Budding uncertainty slowed him to a stop before he could enter. He began to see each and every one of his doubts rise to the forefront of his mind with painful lucidity that was sharp as cut glass. While he attempted to dismiss each one with logical rhetoric, he became acutely aware of the sinking feeling that was gnawing away at the inside of his stomach.

A crushing sense of pure dread burst from the calm shores of his mind, bearing the shape of a massive tide that threatened to swallow him whole. The wave rose to its crescendo and then crashed over the Hapan’s conscious, paralyzing him in place with doubt, remorse, and regret.

Flashes of the past, present and future assaulted the Arconae’s mind. He saw the Citadel on Selen burned to ashes like the ruins of Antei. He saw his wolf, Kira, dead on the sands of Korriban. He saw a crying child huddled in the corner of a closet surrounded by broken toys. He saw the Grand Master and Lord Marshal Damon Nix standing triumphantly over a pile of dead bodies all bearing the Arcona emblem. They laughed and sneered with glee as they destroyed everything he had ever known or cared for.

A Miraluka’s head on a spike. Atyiru.

Like a coward, Marick had given up the Serpentine Throne and forced it on her. He hadn’t asked her permission or her opinion. He had simply acted on his whims. She had no choice but to accept. He did this to her. It was all his fault. Arcona was his only family. He had let them all down. Without them he was nothing. Nothing...

A separate part of the Combat Master’s mind roared and pushed back against the aura of terror that tried to bring him to his knees. He lowered himself into the familiar, iron-clad state of consciousness he had come to rely on so heavily over the years. Emotion and doubt peeled away and as crippling anxiety slowly faded, preternatural instincts and awareness returned to bright clarity.

Displaced air.

The telltale hum of a spinning lightsaber.

Incoming from above.

Marick’s reflexes flared as his shoto lightsaber leapt into his hand and activated with a snap-hiss. In the same flowing motion, the Hapan brought the pale blue blade up and around his body, just in time to deflect one side of a scything, double-bladed lightstaff.

Rebounding off of the initial contact, the lightsaff reversed direction. Its twin, crimson blades blurred together as they whirled around in a half circle before one of them lashed out at Marick’s kneecaps. The Adept shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and pushed off, bounding clear of the follow up flourish. The lightstaff followed, guided by an invisible hand.

As Marick wove his lightsaber to parry the relentless onslaught of the possessed lightstaff, he scanned the landscape to find the telekinetic weapon’s operator. Sure enough, he spotted a lone figure perched on top of one of the few remaining columns that flanked the side of the Dark Hall, eclipsed by its long shadow.

Dark robes. Pointed, grey-speckled beard. Bald head. Discolored tissue covering most of the right side of the face. An empty, drooping eye socket crossed with a wicked, mangled scar. There was no mistaking who his attacker was.

“Black Hand!” Marick called out, recognizing the Proconsul of Clan Scholae Palatinae.

“Impressive, Arconae,“ Cyris Oscura rasped, his voice carrying easily through the eerily silent ambiance of Antei. The Sith made a grasping motion with his prosthetic hand and in response, his lightsaff retreated across the long expanse and returned dutifully to it’s master’s grip. “I suppose your reputation is well earned.”

Marick did not hesitate or waste time with a response. Now that he knew his attacker, his resolve hardened like beskar. This was just another case of someone trying to kill him. The Arconae almost laughed as the familiar feeling set spark to a dormant flame in his fighting spirit. No words were needed.

Only combat.

As he augmented his muscles with the Force, Marick took three quick steps before launching himself up through the air and into a high parabola. The hum of his lightsaber was drowned out beneath the flapping folds of his jacket. Descending from the the apex of his leap, the Hapan landed nimbly in a crouch on the banking slope at the side of the Dark Hall. His eyes flared and focused on his adversary up above.

Cyris still had the advantage of range. With his lightstaff tucked back with his mechanical limb, the Black Hand stretched out his remaining, fleshy arm and hooked his bony fingers like the talons of a hawk. Streaks of lightning crackled and jolted from Oscura’s fingertips, the hungry tendrils of energy clearing the significant distance between the two Elders without much difficulty.

Marick was already in motion. He made a second jump just in time to avoid the lance of lightning that shattered the withering stone he had occupied a moment prior. The evasive leap carried the Combat Master to a pillar just below the Black Hand. While his landing was smooth, the heel of his boot forced the ancient stone beneath it to crumble. Marick felt his leg buckle slightly as he fell awkwardly to one knee.

A second flash of Force Lightning hurled itself towards the kneeling Hapan. Marick tightened his grip on the molded hilt of his shoto lightsaber. He focused on the violet-white light and moved his pale blue blade into place to intercept it.

Cyris sneered as Marick’s lightsaber caught the blast of dark energy. Oscura watched as the sizzling blade sucked up the lightning like a black hole before dissolving it harmlessly into the slipstreams of the Force.

“What do you want, Black Hand?” Marick asked simply as he rose back to his feet and kept his lightsaber at the ready in front of him.

Cyris Oscura chuckled darkly. “To remove an obstacle that stands in my path.”

Marick started to reply, but the unstable perch beneath his feet cracked from his weight and splintered in two as it began to crumble.

Ceding beneath the Gray Jedi’s weight, the pillar fractured down the middle before the topmost segment broke away entirely. Down it went, trailed by a plume of dust and plasters as it carried Marick along towards the ground. Like a perched convor, the Black Hand followed the Arconae’s downward arc without shifting so much as a finger. He could have attacked then, the lure of a quick victory calling for another discharge of Force Lightning, but the Dark Jedi would not be so easily tempted. Familiar with the dangers of arrogance, he withheld. There was no surprise when his new adversary vaulted off the crumbling structure mere moments before its crashed like thunder upon rock.

The Gray Jedi, his long coat flaring as he flipped backwards, nearly had his boots on the ground when he, by all appearances, ceased to exist. Uncertain of what he had just witnessed, the Black Hand’s one good eye darted this way and that with frantic enthusiasm as he scanned the impact site for a sign of Marick. The veil of dust kicked up by the downed pillar was not so thick as to mask what lay beyond, yet ancient debris and no small amount of rock was all there was to be found. The Arconae was gone.

Interesting, mused the Black Hand with no shortage of amusement.

One deep inhalation drew the Force inward, tethering his consciousness and focus upon the shattered plains before him. When he exhaled, the Force rushed from him like a hound, hell bent upon finding the elusive Hapan.

Cackling laughter swelled from his gut, a demented, ethereal chant that cut the forlorn silence of Antei as it melded with the wind. The annoyance, so vivid upon sensing Marick Arconae’s arrival, was all but gone now. The Arconan’s presence on Antei was a significant and frustrating setback, there was no denying it. Yet, what a thrilling twist of fate it was to face not only a man loyal to a clan he himself had once called home, but a man that, in many ways, mirrored his past self. The Force worked in strange ways and this encounter elated the Sith.

At first, he felt nary a speck of life, not one single trace of Marick. It was as if nothing had ever graced the surface of Antei, even though the Black Hand knew explicitly how false that was. As he continued to probe the landscape for the Gray Jedi, Oscura recalled with wonder the lofty, jagged spires of the Dark Hall and the labyrinthine corridors of the Shadow Academy, ever bustling with novices. His mind turning from Marick for but a moment, his thoughts wandered to the proud, majestic warrior he had once been, the memory of a man at once stronger and far more vulnerable. He had expected to feel sadness, maybe even regret even, yet it was scorching disdain that seized his black heart.

Enough.

Before long, he began to sense them—those tentative shimmers of life—less than a murmur yet, somehow, more than scream in his mind. Primeval emotions, all of them; they harkened back to an age long forgotten. They stoked the flame of passion within the Black Hand’s heart as they rushed into him.

Fear.

Anger.

Hatred.

His curiosity notwithstanding, he let them pass from his thoughts like a whisper on the wind and focused on the threat of the Gray Jedi. A single bead of a cold sweat pearled upon his brow as he redoubled the search for his enemy.

He found the dart before the man.

A tingle at the nape of his neck presented his first intimation of danger. There was the catcall of a pneumatic release and the bolt-like projectile whizzed through the air towards Cyris. At that same moment, he glimpsed Marick’s black silhouette, but with insufficient time to react all he could do was drop from his vantage point with a frustrated snarl. One knee dug into the ground as he landed. He pressed his cloak back against the column, careful to position the monument between him and his would-be assassin.

“Impressive indeed,” the Black Hand repeated himself with mirth thick upon his voice, “The shadows serve you well, Son of Arcona, but I wonder, how fare you with the festering darkness inside your heart?”

Oscura could sense his adversary in the Force as the Gray Jedi glided across terrain and ruin with the calculated, agile strides of a stalking Cythraul. Marick edged ever closer, his presence the very manifestation of focus and self-control. The Sith recognized that this was a man of devotion, and as well he should be for the task at hand would demand his all. The Gray Jedi now faced a darkness the likes of which he had never experienced before. There had been a time, when he had served as agent and personal assassin under Jac Cotelin, when Cyris had been in the Arconae’s place, thrust against an entity not unlike himself. The Black Hand knew all too well what would be required of Marick before the end. One which he had failed to meet in his own time.

Would this Marick Arconae follow the same path? The light permeated his very being. It made him weak. It limited the scope of his powers.

He could be taught. Cyris bit back a smile of excitement at that thought.

One step. Two. The Gray Jedi slipped soundlessly over the slanted bones of more pillars. Any notion of teaching or turning the Hapan vanished from the Black Hand’s mind as Marick creeped within striking distance. Such an enticing prospect would have to wait; distractions could prove fatal against an opponent like him.

The Sith‘s lightstaff spat to life in a reverberating burst of energy. The Sith brought the crimson blades around and in one fell swoop bisected the column which had served as a perch moments earlier. Oscura recoiled, drawing the Force back into him before redirecting the mythical energy outwards. With both hands atop one another, the mechanical one still gripping his weapon, he imposed the kinetic pressure of the Force upon the severed structure. With a hollow, resounding crack, the pillar shifted and broke away, careening towards his attacker.

Marick moved so quickly that Cyris nearly overlooked the Gray Jedi as he slipped out from under the collapsing monument with long, sweeping strides and a snap of his long coat. The Arconan assassin was airborne before the pillar slammed into the earth, its impact nearly rocking the Black Hand off his feet. Marick rolled end on end as he came down like a bird of prey upon the staggering Sith. Pale blue met crimson with a flare. His feet had barely grazed the ground when Marick rebounded, dug in his toes and lanced back into Cyris with backhanded swipe. Plasma sputtered as they made contact and the blue blade snaked free to make way for more treacherous a weapon.

Moving like a dancer, the Hapan ducked below the Sith’s impeding crimson blades. So sharp was the Combat Master’s wrist-blade that Oscura barely felt its bite when it sliced through cloth and nipped his left arm. Ashamed, the Dark Jedi hissed like a loth-cat as he lashed out in an attempt to drive the attacker back. Futile. Marick was already out of reach.

“You are full of surprises,” the Black Hand praised, marveling at the ingenious hidden blade.

“You have no idea.” It was an ominous promise that didn’t go unnoticed.

As if on cue, Cyris felt a faint, crawling sensation where the wrist-blade had left a scratch. What began as a centralized itch soon spread down his arm. It wasn’t long before the truth dawned on him, feeding his shame further. Poison. Though it had been decades since he had last employed such barbaric means, he had not forgotten its telltale signs. He knew not which type of poison the Combat Master smeared upon the blade—or what types even existed now, for that matter—but he knew the unnatural numbness building up along his limb down to his fingers bode ill for him. How had he not predicted this?

“Your trickery pales before the power of the dark side,” mocked the Black Hand, forcing his own foolishness out of his mind. He gathered the Force to him. Like a flock of mynocks, it surrounded him, taunted him, tempted him before he siphoned it into his being through every pore. For one fleeting moment, he was submerged by a lake, its frigid waters rushing into him without relent as he choked. He felt the dark side course through his veins, augmenting the blood flow and releasing more white blood cells as it was pumped from his heart to the farthest reaches of his body. He pictured the paltry slit as he repurposed his immune system through the Force in an attempt to weaken the effects of the poison, perhaps even weather them completely. What would happen next hinged on the poison’s make.

But for this to succeed, he would need more time.

Coiled low on bent knees, a lightsaber humming on his right and a wrist-blade protruding on his left, the Hapan assassin looked ready to bite.

“Tell me, Marick, who sent you to me?” wondered the Sith, “Or doth this boy standing before me come of his own volition?”

Marick tried to brush the Black Hand's words aside, but something about the simple sincerity in the Sith’s tone gnawed at the edges of his thoughts and gave him pause. Doubt started to curl in the pit of his stomach.

Why would he think I was sent to him? He was the one that way lying in wait for me. Was this set up by Nix, perhaps? Did Pravus order this? Could this have been a test—

Oscura noted the Hapan’s hesitation and let a tight grin pull at the corner of his lips. “What, doth the Shadow Clan fear an uprising from the Imperial Clan?” When Marick said nothing and failed to move, he continued without missing much of a beat. “The fearsome Arconae, threatened by a specter of their past joining forces with the Legacy of Palpatine?”

Marick kept his face a stoic mask. He had perfected the act years ago, and donning the unflinching visage was now no different than flexing a muscle or taking a deep breath. Instead of trying to unravel the grand mystery that Cyris was baiting him to chase, the Combat Master focused his mind on the details. Details were his anchor, his totem and tether to the world around him.

First, Marick Arconae was no longer the Shadow Lord. He was no longer a figurehead and, frankly, was no longer responsible for the politics between the Clans. Arcona had been flourishing without him. They had moved on and so had he.

Second, Marick Arconae was no great detective like Aidan Kincaid. He was not a glacial investigator like Timeros, and would probably never be able to get to the bottom of the hundreds of questions that seemed to spring from the shadows of his mind.

This has nothing to do with me or the Clans. Marick affirmed as the string of familiar thoughts eased him back into the cold center of Deadheart.

No. Marick Arconae did not have time for elaborate theories or plots. He was a Shadicar, an assassin dedicated to the craft of removing obstacles and threats. His mind was a weapon for execution, not speculation. He would have plenty of time later to piece together the more elaborate enigma of why the two Elders had been slated for this meeting. For now, there was only one thing that mattered.

He’s stalling...which means the poison is actually having an effect.

Poisons were always a wildcard when dealing with Force Users. With enough time or testing, Marick was confident in what kind of damage he could inflict. The Shadicar had not been prepared for this meeting, however, and only applied a base mixture of shadesroom and bitterbark to his wrist-blade. With the Force in the equation, things became a bit more complicated. There were just too many variables that depended on a Force User’s ability to manipulate their bodily functions. That meant that Marick had no way of telling how exactly the poison would affect the Black Hand.

What he did know was that Cyris would need to focus at least part of his attention on combating the effects of the hallucinogenic poison. That gave the Arconae something to work with. Shifting smoothly to the balls of his feet, Marick darted forward towards Cyris.

The Black Hand whipped his lightstaff into the charging Hapan’s path, plasma hissing as their blades collided. Marick rolled off of the parry like quicksilver from a jar, dipping low and raking his shoto lightsaber across the Sith’s ankles. Cyris slid backwards with textbook footwork.

Marick spun and then slashed, somersaulted and then swung, leapt and then lunged. Twirling his lightstaff into concentric coils, Cyris met each blow with clockwork precision, bending the Force to his will as he trusted in years of training and muscle memory.

The Black Hand’s defense was impregnable. The Combat Master respected that. The twin crimson edges of his lightstaff took turns deflecting each and every one of Marick’s whip-like attacks.

Every time his blade was turned away, Marick accelerated through the Force and then immediately retreated to prepare for another strike. Strafing sideways, the Hapan continued to circle his prey like a sand-serpent, daring Oscura to counter him as he alternated which hand gripped the molded hilt of his shoto lightsaber.

Plasma crackled as Marick’s blade slid and grinded down the length of Cyris’ lightstaff. The Palatinaean pushed off the parry and reached out with his free hand to grab a telekinetic hold of some loose rubble. With a curt gesture, he flung the debris at the Arconae.

Marick ducked and weaved around the volley of crumbled stone, but one of them managed to clip his shoulder. The jagged edge drew a thin line of blood as it tore through the Combat Master’s jacket. Biting down hard on his molars, Marick felt his adrenaline flare as he redoubled his efforts.

“What’s wrong, Combat Master? Doth all that paperwork for Pravus have you losing a step?” Cyris jeered as he made a few quick ripostes. “You’re barely able to land a hit against an old man.” The Black Hand continued to mock the Combat Master, but was careful to never commit enough to a counter that he would expose himself to the Hapan’s fluid assault. “And you want them to fear the name ‘Gray Fang’? Reputations like that are earned, boy.”

The taunts fell on deaf ears. Dust began to trail in Marick’s wake as he struck and then recoiled, stepped and then slid in a circular manner around Cyris. The sediment rose into the air as the Arconae maintained a consistent orbit around the Palatinaean, who was forced to twist and pivot where he stood to keep pace. As the particles coalesced into a larger cloud, the wind howled and then whipped a puft into Oscura’s face.

The Sith spat and swore as tiny granules snuck into his mouth. His good eye instinctively squeezed shut against his will. When he opened it, a strange sense of vertigo flickered across his vision. Dizzy, he swayed in place as he tried to focus on two different images at the same time. Oscura swore as he lunged forward, scything his lightstaff through the empty air at what Marick assumed was the after-image mirage of himself.

Marick waited for Cyris to wheel around and focus his attention on him again before he wrapped himself in a shroud of the Force. The Gray Fang’s body shimmered and then disappeared entirely, once more leaving the Black Hand alone with the winds of Antei.

The Black Hand shook his head as he fought to regain his composure. His eye burned and pearl water down his grizzled face as his old heart thumped inside his chest. The Combat Master had seen through his ruse and Oscura realized protecting himself against the much younger man would demand everything his ailing body could muster no matter how resilient he might be. And with his focus and control on the Force rerouted into self-defence, he had been unable to fully absorb the poison. Even now, he could feel it taking hold. The world around him was growing brighter with each passing moment, pulsing, its colors ever more saturated.

Moments before, he watched Marick disappear, yet three of him now faced him. Which was real, if any, Cyris could not tell. Even as he prodded them with the Force’s all-seeing eye, he could not discern reality from hallucination.

Fool, he thought of himself.

The Arconae’s presence on Antei had intrigued the Black Hand. The ancient man had greeted the prospect of such an assassin send after him with enthusiasm, but now the Grey Jedi was fast becoming a nuisance. The reality was clear to Cyris: it had been all too long since he had faced so worthy an opponent and he, Cyris Oscura, the fabled Black Hand, was a relic of the past. What stood before the current Combat Master was an old man past his prime, one that still clung to some semblance of past glory. Powerful though he might be in the Force, never before had it been so clear to him just how low he had fallen. Years of exile had disconnected him from that simple truth.

And now, his quest to extend the reach of the Dark Side of the force was now being threatened.

Teach the boy? He had to survive first.

He was convinced of one thing. He had not come to Antei to fight. He could not let the Arconae’s appearance or his own foolish desire to break this would-be assassin man deter him from his goals. Not now, when he was so close.

His mind snapped back to the moment when a light blue light flashed before his eye, angling in an upward arc that sliced straight through his abdomen. Oscura howled and flinched, waving his lightstaff wildly in belated defence. Before he could fully realize that he was yet alive and unscathed, more blue blades flashed into existence. The Black Hand threw his hand out and weaved the Force in a tight coil around Marick’s neck. The assassin barreled forward unhindered. Oscura managed if somewhat slowly to raise his crimson edge to meet the plasma beam, only for the weapon to pass clean through without impact or spark. Marick was once more gone before Cyris could counter.

Fool, he hissed again, hallucinations all of them. They have to be!

Another snap-hiss came from behind him and the Black Hand dug his heels in. Spinning to meet the attacker head on, the hair on the back of his neck bristled and he sensed that tingling in the Force, that fleeting hint of a warning that told him this Marick was the real one. Whether he could trust his Force-enhanced instincts or not, the old man dropped into a roll beneath the whip of Marick’s shotos.

That’s when his eye landed on the gaping mouth of the Dark Hall mere paces before him. A wise man would have gone inside instead of lying in wait to confront his assassin. He should have known that sooner or later the Iron Throne would send one of its best against him… Or was it the Resistance?

He was never one for the Dark Brotherhood’s inane politi--

Carried by the momentum of his attack, Marick danced on the balls of his feet and in one swift motion lanced out at Cyris, both blue blades aimed for the Black Hand’s gut. Oscura angled his lightstaff to deflect the forward thrust when more phantoms of Marick sprung to life around him. There were so many of them he lost track of the real one. They all moved in the same manner. Oscura’s one eye jumped from one to the next, a split-second of distraction that cost him greatly. He panicked. Howling in fury, he recklessly spun a whirlwind of crimson around him desperate to beat back his opponent wherever he might actually be. Which one was he? Where could he be? There. He pinpointed the Gray Jedi through the Force. The unmistakable, searing hiss of plasma slicing through solid matter filled the air. Twin crimson blades vanished in a fateful flash of red as the lightstaff’s hilt came apart in the Black Hand’s grip, molten metal still glowing orange where the weapon had been severed.

The world around seemed to slow to a crawl as Oscura stared dumbfounded at the jagged piece of metal still in his hand. He could not tell if it was the fear that yanked his mind out from the brink or the sheer fury that boiled in his veins, but all of Marick’s doppelgangers were gone in an instant. The world around him seemed to fade as it regained washed out, dead hues.

Marick was already following up on his masterful gambit but, fiendishly lucid, Oscura clenched an outstretched hand like the maw of a Nexu. In the span of a nano-second, the Force entwined itself around the assassin’s body, around his limbs and neck. The Black Hand clenched his fist. The Gray Jedi’s forward momentum died instantly as he was torn from his feet into the air. One flick of the Sith’s arm slammed Marick with all of his might against one of the few pillars remaining upright around them. Head met concrete with a resounding crack and the assassin slumped. Cyris released his grip and watched his enemy fall to the ground. He watched the Gray Jedi shift as he tried to push himself up. Sheer, unabated fury exploded within the Black Hand but it was not a roar that came out of his mouth, no. It was the raucous laughter of a madman.

This time, both arms came up and from the Black Hand’s fingers lanced out twin arcs of lightning. Agony filled the Anteian air as the baleful power of the Dark Side hammered Marick into the ground. The Gray Jedi’s every muscles contracted as the energy coursed through his body. Convulsing, the assassin made an attempt for one of his shotos on the ground near him. The Black Hand’s attacks redoubled in intensity as his laughter drowning out even his victim’s screams.

Again the Gray Jedi tried for the saber. His shaking hand touched the shoto. The lightning died.

Oscura had disappeared into the Dark Hall.

Marick’s muscles twitched and spasmed as the last tendrils of Force Lightning crawled away from his body. Every seared nerve ending in his body rushed frantically to inform him of the afflictions that were quickly overwhelming his senses. At the same time, his head registered the blunt trauma typically associated with being slammed against a stone pillar. His temples throbbed as the splitting, hammering sensation nearly caused him to blackout. His stomach decided to join in on the fun as well, which forced the Hapan to empty the contents of his earlier meal into the ashy dirt.

With his hands spread and knees digging into the ground, each vicious retch burned the lining of his throat and stung the insides of his nostrils. A line of spittle and bile hung from his lips as he weakly pushed himself to one knee, his ragged breath mirroring the struggle.

The vomiting seemed to help slightly. His vision blurred in and out of focus. He tasted copper on his tongue as he craned his neck back, strands of blood-matted hair parting at the middle like curtains. Marick’s eyes were just able to catch the heels of the Black Hand as he disappeared into the remains of what had once been the Dark Hall.

The Combat Master started to sway in place, but managed to regain balance. His fingers closed around the familiar, molded hilt of one of his shotos. His knuckles whitened as he squeezed it and used the pressure as an anchor point. He looked around for his second shoto, spotted it, and then gingerly crawled towards it. Once recovered, he clipped it back to his belt and again tried to prevent himself from tipping over.

Pain.

Marick Arconae was no stranger to pain. He had known it since he was a child, had learned its changing and wicked shapes. He had spent a lifetime learning to cope with the various forms it chose to manifest itself in.

Control. Focus.

Marick willed the Force to help block out the worst pains first. He focused on the incessant drumline that pounded against his skull and made it impossible to think. The Force answered his call and began to wall the pain away behind a closed door in the far corner of his mind. The rioting protests from his body slowly calmed to murmurs and whispers.

Next came his breathing. Marick inhaled deeply through his nose and held it for a few heartbeats. Then, he exhaled slowly, letting the air push out through pursed lips. He repeated the process a few more times, counting heartbeats and using the calming exercise as a focus point to gather his wits. As he did, the Force quietly answered his beckoning and began to soothe the bruising on his shoulder and mend the laceration on the side of his head.

The trickle of blood down the back of his neck stopped and he smeared it away with a gloved hand. It wasn’t a replacement for a bacta bath, but it certainly helped Marick feel more like himself than a beaten ragdoll.

The wind howled and bellowed an empty tune. By the time it finished its ghostly hymn, Marick Arconae rose to his feet. His back straightened, his eyes stared forward and he let out a long sigh of relief as Antei came back into clear focus. The Black Hand had dealt a serious blow, but he should have finished the job while the Arconae had been down.

Marick regarded the entrance to the Dark Hall. The smart thing to do in this situation would be to walk away. Oscura would be waiting for him, and knew that the Hapan would be at a disadvantage in the darkness and tighter space that would limit his mobility. Only a fool would rush headlong into an obvious trap. At that moment, however, the Hapan was surprised that he did not care.

Maybe he had hit his head harder than he thought. Or maybe, Marick actually wanted to keep fighting. It was a chance to send a message to the rest of the Brotherhood that the current Combat Master was not just a glorified administrator or a lapdog for Darth Pravus. He was the former Shadow Lord of Arcona and one of the deadliest assassins in the Brotherhood.

Marick tapped a few buttons on his holocom and sent out a message. It would take time, but he did not plan to drag the this out for much longer. A confirmation beep sounded and the Arconae ignited his shoto lightsaber and strode boldly into what remained of the Dark Hall.

---

The entrance hallway lead into the main antechamber. Statues and monuments of former legends had either toppled or eroded into obscurity. The wind was kept mostly at bay by the ancient stone fortifications that remained. Stray beams of light leaked through the openings in the ceilings and walls that had crumbled or burned away in the aftermath of the former Grand Master’s ritual. Tiny dust particles circled each other in the light, making the stray beams look like shining, tangible lances to the Hapan’s nightblind eyes. Marick ran his fingers through one of them with his free hand. The other held his shoto lightsaber tightly as it buzzed idly at his side.

As he made his way towards the center, the Arconae began to hear faint strings of laughter lilting and then echoing throughout the chamber. Marick bent his knees and leveled his lightsaber at angle out in front of his body. The fluorescent light of the pale blue blade would act as a beacon for Cyris, but Marick would struggle to see an attack coming without it. The Hapan slowly turned in place, straining his eyes to see through his dimly lit surroundings while his ears attempted to pin down the origin of the laughter.

Marick was prepared to dodge or deflect another wave of Force Lightning or some other kind of violent attack. He also knew that at least half of the Black Hand’s lightstaff was still functional despite his earlier blow. What he wasn’t expecting was the creeping grogginess that washed over his body. The room and everything around him slowed to a sudden crawl. His muscles felt heavier, as if his blood had been replaced with lead.

He tried to make a break back towards the exit, but his strides were more of an awkward, drunken stagger. Cyris Oscura stepped out of the shadows and materialized behind the glow of what remained of his crimson lightsaber.

“It’s over, Arconae,” Cyris’ voice cackled and dripped with glee. Oscura reached out and used the Force to wrap an invisible hand around the Hapan’s throat. Marick gasped for air as his face began to flush, struggling to keep his feet planted and his grip on his shoto tight. “Can you feel it all around you? This place reeks of the dark side. And now, you will understand its true power, Gray Jedi,” Cyris spat as he mimed crushing a can with his extended fist.

The veins on Marick’s neck bulged as he ground his teeth and every muscle in his body tensed in resistance. His vision became blurry at the edges. Oscura had been right; the dark side was indeed potent here in the remains of what had once been the seat of power for the Dark Jedi Brotherhood. Cyris was wrong about one thing, though.

Just because the Combat Master was a Gray Jedi did not mean that he rebuked the dark side.

Marick Arconae was no stranger to the darkness. When the Adept called out, it answered wordlessly and without hesitation. The Hapan let out a guttural growl as he tapped the Force for speed. He had timed the amplification just right. His arms flexed and then bowed outward, the disjointed motion breaking him free of the sluggish haze and Oscura’s suffocating grip. Every fiber of Marick’s being teemed with energy as his motions became a blur of dark hair and dark clothing.

The Black Hand started to call lightning to his fingertips, but Marick was quicker. His shoto lightsaber streaked through the darkness as it made two deft, precise cuts. Cyris howled in agony as both his mechanical and organic hands severed mid-forearm. In the same fluid motion, Marick planted his boot into Oscura’s sternum and kicked him into a stone statue with an augmented shove.

Cyris groaned as he struggled to sit up among the rubble. Without either of his hands, the gesture was futile. His frail body clung to the dark side in order to remain merely alert and conscious. Marick stalked towards Oscura and stopped to look down at the Sith.

“Let it be known that here, on the ruins of the old Brotherhood that the future was cast into motion,” Marick’s lilted voice was calm, clear and crisp. “Let it be known that the Black Hand fell to the Gray Fang, and that relics of the past are best left in it.”

“Finish the job then,” Cyris scowled.

“No,” Marick replied curtly.

“Coward,” Oscura rasped weakly but with all the venom he could muster.

Marick simply shook his head. “Do not mistake mercy for weakness, Black Hand. If anything, consider this a favor to your Consul. I’m sure he will send someone to retrieve you.”

With that, the Arconae turned and started to walk away, footfalls trailing in his wake. He stopped at the exit to the antechamber and glanced back over his shoulder. “If I see you again, Oscura, I will not extend the same courtesy.”

The Combat Master stepped back out into the light, leaving the Black Hand, the past, and the ruins of Antei behind.

Eager to lose his adversary, Cyris sped down the stairs into the Dark Hall’s gaping maw. So quick were his steps that he nearly lost his footing. Righting himself against the hall he pushed into the darkness. The further he drew from the surface, the darker Antei’s faint glow grew behind him. He reached the ground floor in record time. As he sidestepped around stone debris, the Sith woke clouds of dust beneath his boots. Indeed, the ground was covered in so much sand and dust it felt as if he was still walking outside.

He stopped to take in the entrance to the Dark Brotherhood’s long-abandoned stronghold. He could barely make out the walls, their intricate, engraved designs faded and chipped, lost to time. It was a pity, really, that the powers that be had chosen to forsake this place. In his long, long years, few places had felt more like home to Cyris Oscura than this place.

A gust of wind, howling as it snaked down the staircase, swerved around and past the Black Hand, lifting tendrils of dust that seemed to beckon Cyris onwards. It might have been nineteen years since he had last been here, yet he knew exactly where to go. Eastward he went, down one of three hallways, squinting his eye, hoping it could adjust sufficiently to the low light. He considered using the Force to brush away the streaking footsteps he left in his wake on the dirty floors, but decided against it. It would only waste precious time.

When Marick caught up with him, and he would sooner than later, all would be over.

Lightning was an impressive manifestation of the Force, one to be reckoned with. The seething pain could destroy a man, but this was a Combat Master he was facing; one trained to fight a Sith like himself. Besides, he had not intended to kill the Hapan.

It wasn’t long before Cyris was blindly stumbling forward in darkness. Gone from sight were his hands and his feet, the Dark Hall had swallowed him whole. He trudged forward on memory alone, sliding his fingertips against the wall’s coarse grain as a point of reference, letting mental images from another time guide him. Memories were a fleeting thing however, and too often he stumbled or miscalculated the distance he had travelled. Where he expected to find an archway, he found a solid surface. Silence was a thick as the shadows around him, the dry crunch of his boots and the occasional bleeps of his diagnostics system his only companions. No longer could he hear the baying gale of the outside world somewhere off in the distance. If he took a wrong turn, assuming he hadn’t already, he could find himself trapped for months in the labyrinthine catacombs beneath the surface of Antei.

He had beaten worse odds. By the will of the Force, he would persist once more.

Finally, just as the spectre of doubt stroked his subconscious with its long, serrated fingers, the Dark Hall exploded into artificial life around him. Decade old lights flickered and blinded him as the stronghold’s automated systems wheezed, hiccuped and roared. Suddenly, he stood two decades in the past. Chiselled columns towered above him, ending in a familiar domed roof. Intricate carvings sprawled over its entire surface and down the walls like wild vines over an ancient temple on Yavin IV. Large chunks of concrete had broken from the ceiling and now rested on the debris-strewn floor beneath it.

On the edge of this cavernous, circular chamber, he could almost see the Dark Brotherhood’s acolytes standing in rows, listening to their masters as they learned the ways of the Lightsaber. He could imagine them paired off, engaging in sparring matches. Countless alcoves lined the walls. These alcoves housed a statue, effigies of past warriors that had marked the history of these halls. So many he did not recognize, more than he could have ever imagined, and few of these statues had weathered the passing of time unscathed.

The Black Hand’s eyes stopped on one particular warrior. Even if this was a miniature imitation, he could tell this had been a man of imposing stature. Few stood prouder than he. Oscura approached to take a closer look. The chiseled jaw, the furrowed brow, the uncompromising, cold stare, it was a face he had not seen in a long, long time. A flowing mane of hair fell over his shoulders. The sculptors had done a surreal job capturing the man’s demeanor, but what caught Oscura’s eye now was the slick armor plating over the statue’s right arm. The Arm of Ashvroth, it had been called; an artifact dating back hundreds of years before the Battle of Yavin, to the days of the Dread Cult.

A small bronze plaque beneath the statue read:

Cyris Oscura
The Black Hand
4th Combat Master

“Hello, old friend,” he mused. There was a pang of sorrow in his heart. How proud and glorious he had been, a god amongst mortals, an indomitable presence that inspired fear and awe in equal parts. And what was he now? A decrepit old fool somehow swept up in the Palatinaean Emperor’s petty schemes. He was nothing more than a pawn, a disposable piece on a gameboard. This was to be the destiny of the fabled Black Hand. An ignominious death, taken by sickness in the deepest, most obscure recesses of the Dark Jedi Brotherhood.

He had come to Antei in hope of rekindling the flame in his heart. Instead, he found the undeniable, merciless truth. He was no longer the Black Hand. He was no longer Cyris Oscura. These names which he had fabricated up eons past had long lost their meaning. Now, they rang hollow in his mind.

“Oscura!”

The single word ripped through the silence like a Rancor’s ravenous teeth. Again and again and again it echoed from wall to wall, calling the fake name over and over. The old man, the shadow of the past turned around to face Marick Arconae who now stood across a ways from him. The assassin looked worse for the wear, his outfit caked with dust, and still this insufferable maggot of a man showed no emotion. The old man glanced over to the statue of Cyris Oscura and chuckled. He too had been that way once.

“How unbecoming of an assassin to announce his presence. Especially when his prey is distracted by a moment of reverie. My boy, there is so much I could teach you,” the ancient Human said as he approached his would-be assassin, arms stretched out by his sides.

Marick did not move a muscle. The hilt of his shoto was in his hand, unignited. The man who had been Cyris Oscura wondered how long it would be before the boy would cut him down.

“You wonder what you must do now. Here I am, unarmed, ripe for the plucking, yet you are a man of honor,” the old man paced slowly as he talked, his hands now crossed behind his back. In truth, he knew not if Marick truly harboured such reservations. “Oh, I have no doubt that you are a cold-hearted killer. You have sacrificed your humanity for the greater good. You have no qualms with killing me. Yet… here I stand before you with no weapons to defend myself with. What to do, what to do?”

The answer was a swift one. Marick was on the old man with inhuman speed before the Palatinaean Proconsul could utter another word. The blue blade weaved a zig-zagging series of swipes through thin air, the old man barely dodging clear of its lethal touch. The man who once styled himself the Black Hand seemed to react faster, move with increasing agility with each arcing stroke of the shoto. The Gray Jedi was clearly intending to end this once and for all and his relentless onslaught underlined that. Left, right, backhand, overhead, again and again it came from all angles. Without a lightsaber to protect himself, the Sith knew one misstep could cost him his life.

The Hapan pressed his advantage, moving faster and pushing harder. No amount of pirouettes and rolls would be enough. Pushed back on his heels until he nearly slipped, the old man unleashed every ounce of his power at once. Hands thrown forward in reckless abandon, he commanded the Force against his enemy. So intent was Marick on ending this that he was caught helpless by the incoming supernatural push. With a gasp, he was shoved back several paces, his feet screeching against the ancient floor. He came to a halt in a thick cloud of dust that swirled around him and veiled the surrounding area in a haze. Panting, he dug one knee into the ground to recover. Blue plasma died instantly.

“You should know, Black Hand,” he spat between breaths, “that I was not sent to Antei with orders to assassinate you.”

The Sith paced in circles around the recovering man, ready to retaliate at the sign of another attack. Still, the reigning Combat Master had pricked his interest.

“Do you truly believe your leaders sent you here without knowing that you would encounter the Black Hand? I had expected Sadowans, maybe even the Inquisitorius to hound me here, but your masters are playing an eccentric game.”

“You flatter yourself to think this, Cyris,” the young Hapan answered flatly. He might have been right. The old man believed otherwise. This was no coincidence. It could not be a coincidence. Two powerful beings such as Marick and the Black Hand did not cross paths against the will of the Force. And the fact of the matter was that he’d spent too many years, witnessed too many different Grand Masters to believe this wasn’t a game.

“Do you even know why you are here, my boy?”

There was a moment of silence before Marick hissed an unceremonious, “No.”

“We are threats. That is what we are, you and I. We are creatures of great power and this sits ill with those that hold our leash; the Voice, the Grand Master, the Palatinaean Emperor, they are all alike. I know you not, Son of Shadows, yet I know of you and I know what you represent.”

“You know nothing about me,” said Marick.

The Gray Jedi exploded forward, once more charging for the old man. This time the Sith was ready and prepared. Standing straight backed, arrogance oozing from his every pore, he held his gleaming mechanical hand up like clenching talons towards the Combat Master’s head. A miasma of wrenching emotions whirled in his heart and in his mind, fueling the dark energies that seeped from his withered body.

The trademark light blue of the shoto flashed into existence yet again but the Hapan did not reach his prey. Marick’s eyes went uncharacteristically wide and the Gray Jedi was forced to his knees by the sheer momentum of his attack. The old man stood over him, only a few steps away, his hand still trained on his enemy. He could hear the Hapan quivering, sucking shaky breaths through his teeth as he undoubtedly fought the unnatural terror that besieged his mind.

The Sith focused on his enemy, pouring every ounce of hatred and malice through the Force to stoke the boy’s greatest fears. He was relentless, merciless. Fear would break the boy, or the man that was once Cyris Oscura would die.

“I know of your resignation, Son of Shadow, and the weight of responsibility which you forced upon the shoulders of your protégé, the Miraluka. A coward, you abandoned a mere girl to the thankless strain of leadership.”

The Sith spoke loudly, clearly, his voice booming across the gaping hall that witnessed their final showdown. The Black Hand had made a point to keep tabs on his successors and learn of their careers through the Brotherhood. Marick Arconae’s had been particularly noteworthy. Indeed, even before they had met, the Hapan reminded him of a young Cyris Oscura.

Knowledge was a weapon as sharp as any knife.

He had to respect Marick. Many in his place had been reduced to a whimpering, moaning mess before the might of Sith’s powers. Heavy breathing and nigh on visible quivering were the only telltale signs that the Gray Jedi was afflicted by the Dark Side’s venom.

“You are, like me, a pawn in their games. Again I ask you, do you even know why you are here, my boy? You answered no before. Let me open your eyes with another question? Where do your loyalties truly lie?” The Palatinaean began pacing slowly, his good hand moving to his mechanical arm. His voice became strained as he split his concentration, “Our meeting this day is our culling. It was foreseen that we would face off within these halls and that one of us would die. They care not which, for it weakens us both.”

The old man released his grip on Marick’s mind and stepped back. It wasn’t long before the Gray Jedi shook free of his torpor and pushed himself up, but what he found visibly gave him pause. At his feet lay the Black Hand’s mechanical arm, its connectors still sparking. The Sith saw the confusion and only stirred it further when he reached to the diagnostics terminal embedded in his chest and yanked it free in a shower of sparks. A shrill, continuous beep filled the air until he threw it aside. The man that was called Cyris Oscura immediately faltered and slumped as his lungs burned in his rib cage.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the Gray Jedi, a soft tremor in his voice still present from his recent ordeal.

“I am done playing their games. Strike me down now and you leave this place a victor. Yet you risk your life in attacking me. Abstain, allow this old man to leave with his life, we both leave this insipid husk of a world victorious. Stay your hand and I no longer pose a threat to you.”

The old man edged ever closer to his would-be killer. He moved slower now, each step laborious without the aid of his robe’s integrated systems. He sucked in one long, raspy drag of air as he drew to a stop before Marick. The boy’s knuckles were white around the hilt of his shoto.

“I am no longer their pawn…” The ancient warrior narrowed his eyes as he spoke these last biting words, “Are you?”

Are you?

---

The End