A pair of massive, ancient doors loom at the entrance to the throne room. Upon opening, they give way to a large chamber with a high ceiling carved smoothly into stone. The chamber itself is the size of a professional holo-ball court but the hard-tile flooring has been sandblasted to perfection and patterned symmetrically throughout. Tall, rounded pillars frame a center dais that forms an elevator platform. Perfectly centered on the low platform is the heart of Clan Arcona's power—the Serpentine Throne. The ornate throne stands several feet above the head of even the tallest Shadow Lords. The dais is back lit by an ever glowing wall of flame that attunes itself to the order-color of the current Consul. A sable carpet trimmed with white lays down over the shallow steps and continues all the way towards the entrance doors.

The Throne Room is completely soundproofed and almost feels like entering a vacuum. Voices carry easily, but never leave the chamber. A combination of alchemy and engineering allow the room to be shut off from the rest of the Citadel while maintaining proper ventilation for the unique curtain of flame. It maintains a steady if not warm room temperature, ignorant to the climate outside and throughout the Citadel's ancient walls.

Perhaps the most defining feature of the Throne Room is the wall of flames that curtain behind the throne itself.

It was late. Night had already descended on the Citadel, its halls darkened with few still moving about in its depths. Since his return, Sashar had noted less and less Force users traversing Arcona’s seat of power. The Erinos - his family - had long since departed, going their separate ways in his absence. The Entars had similarly left for parts unknown. Arcona’s Citadel was instead haunted by their absence, new figureheads and people of import making their homes in the leftovers. Sashar had returned home a stranger, and at the heart of it all, a mundane sat on the Serpentine Throne.

His lip twisted in distaste as he stared at the near-empty glass before him, the bottle of tihaal next to it already bereft of its contents. He’d literally given his life and clawed his way back from oblivion to return home to Arcona. His brother had died, and for what? Some scum from the gutter of the core with no more familiarity to the Force or his Clan’s history, his legacy, to sit where he’d sat. To ‘lead’ the Shadow Clan. A slow burning rage grew inside him, fuelled by the clear liquor and his own righteous pride. Dajorra had been reduced to dirt. All his work, his sacrifice, his life distilled to a motley collection of misfits and miscreants playing at true power.

Sashar snarled wordlessly and downed the last of the tihaal, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood, roughly, the bar stool clattering across the floor of his quarters.

“Shab it.” he growled, and stalked from his apartments.

-=[]=-

Satsi Tameike yawned, not even pretending to hide the act from the Captain of her Guard, Bly. He was in the middle of delivering a summation of Arcona’s armed forces after having conducting several surprise inspections, and, needless to say, it didn’t paint a pretty picture. Unfortunately for her, Bly didn’t seem to think it was needless to say, and say it he did. Over and over.

Bly frowned slightly, but said nothing. Instead, he waited for Satsi to regain her composure. Of course, the Consul didn’t. She sat slouched in the Serpentine Throne, hating every facet of the ugly thing. It was hard, unrelenting, and way too big for her petite frame. The former Black Sun enforcer had draped a leg over the arm of the monochrome monstrosity, her elbow up on the other, barely supporting her head as she pretended to listen to Bly.

“So we’re karked. I get it, geez. Can’t ya skip to the part that’s got a fix for this pile of bantha dung?” She asked, irritation bleeding into her tone.

“My Lady, this isn’t something that will be corrected overnight. It’ll take months of stringent changes-”

The doors at the back of the chamber exploded inwards, knocked open by what sounded like a concussion blast. And then, all hell broke loose.

A shadowed figure stormed in, throwing a concussion rifle down before him while his arms swiftly crossed behind him n order to telekinetically slam the two Summit Guardsmen stationed at either side of the door into each other. They slumped to the floor - momentarily stunned. A dismissive flick of the wrist from their assailant sent them skidding out through the very doors they’d been guarding, their plasteel armor scraping across the marble floor.

Captain Bly took two steps forward, placing himself between Satsi and the doors, drawing his blaster pistol and knife simultaneously before firing a trio of shots at their attacker. Satsi shouted at him to get out of the karking way, but he either didn’t hear or didn’t care as he backed up, further trying to shield her with his own body from any potential incoming fire.

The figure shifted his body, twisting around the blasts which would’ve taken him in the face, neck and chest, and jutted his right arm out. A single arc of coruscating electricity shot from his front two fingers, splitting the air with a thundercrack. It slammed into Bly, sending him flying back over the throne and rolling right through the wall of burning red flames and out onto the balcony. With a final twist of his hand, Sashar Erinos di Tenebrous Arconae manipulated some unseen controls, and gigantic durasteel blast doors slammed shut between the pillars out on the balcony and behind him, shearing off the huge wooden doors. Satsi watched warily as the figure approached, shucking off his coat as he went. He unclipped his lightsaber and stood at the base of the dais, staring up at “his” Consul, his expression curiously blank.

“You’re not fit to sit there.” He said simply.

“And you are? Darlin’, I read all about you. Yes, I know, don’ be gettin’ all surprised that I can read. I heard how ya basically curbstomped this clan within an inch of its life durin’ your time, twice. And I gotta say, the kids, they don’ like you so much. Now me? I don’ even want to be here, but pigtails made me promise. So, why don’ you march your tin-plated ass up here and karkin’ make me get outta this fancy chair.”

Sashar’s expression darkened to murder for a split second before he regained control and simply returned to being overly intense.

“Do you not understand how profoundly insulting it is to have some aruetii-”

“Basic, tin man. I don’ speako mando.”

Furiously, the Consul glanced about, looking for something - anything that would serve as a suitable distraction and buy her some time. Brave and trigger happy though she was, this was an Adept able to fling Force Lightning around like it was going out of fashion, and he was definitely...upset. .

Sashar sighed, irritated at the interruption, but persevered. If he was about to assassinate another Consul, she at least deserved to know why. “You aren’t Force sensitive. You can’t begin to understand what it means to be Consul. Your being Arcona’s leader makes us look weak. You’ve got to go.”

Satsi frowned dubiously. “That’s it? I’m not some karkin’ sparkfingers, so you’re gonna off me and what? Take my place?”

Sashar shrugged, his black hair brushing his bare shoulders. “Until a suitable replacement can be found.”

The Consul burst out laughing, feigning nonchalance, still not even bothering to get up. “Darlin’, don’t try and dress this up as some ‘for the good of the Clan’ kark. You’re just like the rest of them,” Tameike used every fibre of willpower to keep the front up. As long as she affected her relaxed demeanor, she was in control. He was still a man, despite having all of the megalomaniacal tendencies which seemed to plague the spoon bending brigade. He could be played, just like any mark. She just had to find the right buttons to press.

“You’re just in it for you, hon’. You want power as badly as the next psychopath with a ‘saber and magic powers.”

“Get up,” Sashar commanded, pressing the activator stud on his lightsaber. A stubby blue blade lit his features, lending him an icy visage. “I’d rather not damage the throne.”

She leant forward, grinning, letting the cleavage of her tank top show even more, as if enticed by the thought of violence.

“Really? They’re not going to help you here.” Sashar remarked, staring frankly at her chest, as if appraising a particularly discoloured fish in the marketplace.

Kark! I forgot he’s sly. Satsi cursed to herself, forgetting her habitual flirtations for a second.

“Hon’, from the way you’re actin’, I’d say you need a good throw an’ tumble, an’ let’s face it, beggars can’t be choosers.” Her bravado took control, more irritated at herself for making such a mistake than being bothered by his stare.

Sashar made a gesture with his hand, and she was telekinetically tugged from her throne and sent stumbling down the steps, towards him. It was the opening Satsi needed. She allowed her momentum to be yanked forward, not bothering to fight it. She waited until her tumble had her feet where she wanted them and sprang up, throwing herself laterally, one of her slugthrowers spitting white hot lead at the Adept.

Caught off guard, only guidance from the Force saved Sashar. His saber moved up and knocked the slugs aside as he stepped back, lightning dancing across the fingers of his free hand. Satsi didn’t bother to wait and see what he did next. She kept going, like water running downhill: flowing and always moving.

The inevitable blast of lightning gouged a deep hole in the marble floor, scarring the Arconan sigil picked out in beautifully intricate obsidian, ionizing the air between them, barely missing her legs. Satsi scrambled to her feet and turned, firing as she went, each bullet being knocked aside almost effortlessly. It kept him from shooting more lightning up her ass, though.

A microcosm of a plan formed in her head as she kept backing up, emptying the rest of the clip at the Erinos, keeping him pinned where he was. Her back bounced off one of the huge pillars, easily ten times her width. She followed the contour of the marble edifice as Sashar approached, icy and inexorable, like an avalanche. Satsi shot around the pillar, and once she was out of his line of sight, she yanked a cryo grenade attached to her belt and slid it along the floor from the other side of the pillar.

Sashar’s eyes widened. There wasn’t time to push it back telekinetically. Instead, he threw himself backwards just as the cryo grenade erupted, instantly forming an iceberg in the centre of the throne room, and - most importantly for Satsi - a barrier between her and the Mandalorian.

Satsi crouched down and armed her other grenade - a thermal detonator, setting the timer for one minute. Hastily, the Consul kissed the quietly beeping explosive, placed it at the base of the pillar, and stepped from its other side, her reloaded Enforcer pistol up and ready.

Sashar had just rounded the ice formation between them, the light from his saber refracting wildly through its facets and stopped when he sighted his quarry. “Nice trick.” He said, tilting his head slightly. Why he wasn’t rushing in to gut her was anyone’s guess.

“Shove it up your well-serviced ass, you motherkarkin-” Satsi continued on, filling the air between them with invectives, causing Sashar’s eyebrows to raise.

“Slice, the mouth on you,” he muttered, lightning beginning to play over his fingers once again.

No no no, can’t let him get another blast off. Not yet.

Satsi opened fire, and the results were exactly the same. Sashar somehow managed to look supremely disappointed as he caught the slugs on his blade, the projectiles melting upon initial contact with the lightsaber’s argent blade, spitting molten sparks, nicking his arm, drawing a thin line of blood. She backpedalled slowly, maintaining the distance between them as he advanced once again, almost enjoying the approach of his kill.

Thirty six womp rats, Thirty five womp rats, Thirty four womp rats…

Her clip emptied and the Enforcer pistol clicked uselessly in her hand. Snarling in frustration, Satsi threw the weapon aside and drew her trademark dagger, wielding it in a reverse grip. With her free hand, she gestured obscenely at Sashar, goading him in.

Sashar was only too happy to oblige. The Force suffused him, a liquid tempest pouring through his veins, and he shot forwards, his saber raised for the kill. Satsi brought her own blade up in a parry, catching the blue blade. She grinned ferally as surprise registered on Sashar’s features that his saber didn’t simply cut straight through her weapon, then punched him in the throat and ran.

Sashar coughed and gagged. The blow had a fair bit of power behind it, but instinctively he’d drawn deeply of the Force and strengthened his skin to survive the blow. Still, it stunned and hurt.

He looked after where Satsi was sprinting full pelt; towards the other side of the chamber. Then, he heard the soft beeping coming from the base of the pillar.

“Oh, shab.”

Sashar's life had crumbled down around him so many times.

Before he could even remember, a crash had claimed his birth parents. Brothers conspiring to fight brothers had exiled him from his first home in Alvaak after leaving Dxun and the Kodiak Clan. And then, Arcona...Arcona, where he had found his family, where he had built up and protected the Erinos Clan, where he had made vode and made home and battled for it again and again and again; and the battle was not even a burden, for if Sashar lived for his family, he existed to fight.

Arcona, where he had lost his brother Zandro. Where he had traded the cost of his son's love for a chance at a few more years of life. Where he had seen that cost repaid in the slaughter of what remained of his adopted family, his other children, the non-Sensitive Erinos. It didn't matter what the tragedy or instrument or impetus for the destruction: his life fell apart, and Sashar, a soldier, a warrior, and a survivor, he survived it. He found a way. He planned, engineered, executed. He clawed and fought and refused to be discarded or forgotten, regardless of how little there was to return to.

And oh, how little now there was.

For a moment, the Mandalorian thought he would once again be faced with death, and felt a blind, bright bout of panic; what was his contingency this time? But it did not last. He overcame that fear as he did anything else, choked on it and let anger crawl up like bile to coat his throat instead.

The Elder watched even as he dove aside and dove into the Force, watched as the grenade burst like a star in supernova, all spectacle of light and fury too fine for any mortal to really comprehend. It was like a golden, bloody mist; one moment there, and the next, a void. Emptiness where once something so tangible had been.

Which was the exact moment when the marble and stone of the rest of the pillar — above the part that had been atomized — and no small part of the cavernous ceiling groaned and screamed in only the way splitting rock could and crashed to the ground not unlike a meteor falling from the sky.

Sashar would have lost his footing had he not braced himself in the Force for the shockwave that followed. A plume of fine grit and dust roiled towards him, outwards from the epicenter of the explosion, chasing the sharp, shrieking CRACKS that split the obsidian floor with each impact of crumbling masonry. The Dark Side wailed to him, and the Elder tucked and rolled again, coming upright, palms slamming into the ground that shook with the force of a boulder-sized chunk of ceiling cratered the spot where he had just been. His fingers dug into the upheaving floor with all the desperation of a man trying to hold an injured brother's spilling intestines inside his gut. The scorched Arcona sigil split up its middle, its pieces further shattering, the fine black lacquer of the floor chiming as it died, ripped apart, hemorrhaging. It was too much damage. Too much hurt. Irreparable. This time, there was no fixing it.

His Clan was bleeding out under his fingertips and it was all her fault.

The Arconae's gaze scythed to the other side of the throne room, still intact but rumbling uneasily all around them. Small bits of rubble continued to fall, a drizzle after the storm. The other pillars groaned at their brother's loss, the weight they held ungainly. Yet there was no care or concern for the damage she'd caused in the other Human's face. She was ducking low, behind another column, just daring to peek out—

Sashar moved like thought, like lightning, one synapse to another; a discharge of motion, and then, stillness. Nothing more spent than what was needed. He threw himself out of his crouch with preternatural strength, the Force singing a war cry in every single muscle and fiber of his bunching legs, his twisting torso, his straining arm. His body coiled in the air, throwing a dagger that materialized in his fingers, lightsaber held away from him as his boots touched back down.

But there was no satisfaction in the landing. His opponent had rolled laterally to dodge the thrown blade, and now stood in the open, a rivulet of blood running down her scarred cheek from where the knife had nearly found a home in her jugular. Her pistol pointed right at him from across the space of meters that might as well have been an ocean.

"The haran is this?" Sashar spat, recognizing his own training in motion, the familiarity of her form in that feint.

The woman's smile was ugly, her scoff of laughter mean. "You spent how long in this Clan teaching all your bastards and orphans and fanboys? Some of those twerps trained my brother, you idiot. And what he knows, I know."

"You don't deserve that knowledge," growled the Mandalorian. "Not a piece of it, not secondhanded, not even if it was from the stupidest excuse for a di'kut apprentice in Palatinae trying to mimic his betters. No more than you deserve to sit on that throne. You ruin it, you stinking, thieving tramp."

"At least I have good hair," Satsi mocked back in a high tone of voice before her expression grew serious. "I don't give one flying frak about your damn pride or who you think is fit for what, Arconae. I care about my family. Thought that was supposed to mean something to you. Everybody said such great things. Family man, he is. Anything for clan and country and throne, all that bantha crap. But it's so obviously all just frakking hero worship. So you died for this place? So the frak what? Dying is easy, young man. Living's harder, and you sure can't take it. Pft. You're a coward. Plain and simple."

Rage cascaded through the Adept, boiling the blood in his paper-thin veins until they burst, until the cold heat of it melted his bones and rose in a tide behind his eyes and pooled in his ears. It felt like his skin should crack and peel, like he might char and crumble at a touch. He was so unspeakably angry that there was nothing left for the rage to do but rip him open and bleed him out.

Tameike was baiting him. It was obvious.

He didn't care.

The Arconae flowed upright in a boneless motion, molten magma boiling towards the sky and rolling towards the sea; his saber arced, scintillating glacial blue, and he followed. His face was a mirthless rictus, his glare frigid, his every twitch distilled and focused into cold devastation.

And he was on her.

The faux Consul seemed to shrink under his sudden onslaught, gun falling from her grip as she struggled to catch his first clockwork strike with both hands on her dagger. His enraged barrage continued unrelenting, a whirlwind of strikes the mundane couldn't match; for every one she barely blocked, another slipped past, and the stink of burning flesh filled the choked air between them. It made his lips almost twist into a smile. More and more sizzling wounds where her skin bubbled and blackened appeared on her bare limbs, her chest, her sides. Soon there would be the perfect opening for a spearing strike that would bisect the wench.

But she still wasn't going down.

Sashar shouted, widening his stance and swinging his saber about, the rebounding, circular arc carrying all his enhanced strength and momentum behind it. Satsi arrested the blow, but it took her to her knees, and he bore down until her bones ground into the floor and a yelp hissed out from between her clenched teeth, her bleeding, cracked arms shaking. She bent backwards in a way that made some part of his mind cringe imagining the strain on her spine, and he knelt over her, pressing her low to the floor in some pantomime of an almost-embrace. His crackling cerulean blade begged for her throat, and the flat edge of her knife pressed into her skin, barely holding it back. The glow of the saber washed out her grimace, made bright the dawning realization in her eyes: that she was going to die. It stoked a pride Sashar had rarely felt since his resurrection, one more common to his former, arrogant self.

His arms trembled.

The exhaustion came in a tidal wave, brutal and cruel, flooding down his spine. His vision whitened out then blackened at the edges, narrowing to pinpricks, and his legs went weak. His grip slackened and he all but sagged.

It was only a moment to recover himself enough to respond, but it was enough. The damned mercenary kicked up, slamming a knee into his solar plexus and lifting with her hips and abdomen to throw him off of her. As he landed beside her with a pained wheeze, she took one hand off her knife hilt, reached to her belt, and activated one of the grenades strapped there. Her eyes held his all the while, steady and absolutely karking mad.

Sashar's jaw dropped slightly. There was a hiss, and then pale green, deathly gas started issuing from the device with haste even as she fiddled to get it off of her. The Elder reared back, forearm covering his mouth and nose as he swiftly sprang away, his leap carrying him well clear even with the terrible taxation on his body that his rage had brought. He breathed deeply, and the Force was with him. Even tired, he could not rest yet. Not while there was fight to be had, madwoman or no.

As if Mejas hadn't been bad enough… thought the Mandalorian wryly, watching as Satsi emerged from the noxious cloud on her knees, coughing and gasping for air to refill her lungs. She looked like she'd been run over by a speeder; or an angry Force Adept.

Still, the woman staggered to her feet, pulling herself up against the bottom step of the dias and tottering there. She bared her teeth at him, tears in her irritated eyes, nostrils flared, fists clenching and unclenching around her enchanted knife and...another grenade of some kind?

"You...you want your chair, Sashy-baby? Well, too damn bad," she managed, pivoting and hurling the explosive. It sailed true, smacking the back of the Serpentine Throne with a clatter and bouncing twice in the seat where it settled, rocking precariously.

It beeped, ticking rapidly in warning of an imminent conflagration.

No!

Sashar swore, inhaling the Force and expelling it in his will made manifest, the telekinetic burst lifting the charge high into the air and away from the dias or its flames. The flight wasn't even complete before the explosive detonated; but instead of the atomizing burst he had expected, after earlier, there was a leviathan sonic BOOM—

And then even more of the chamber was coming down around them.

It was sheer madness. A move of desperation. To detonate a seismic charge in atmosphere - in a contained room. It would kill them both and bring the whole citadel down on top of them. Sashar had no choice; he called on the Force and it answered, its very touch addictive, like an alcoholic taking his first sip of neat liquor. He lent alacrity to his flight, the Serpentine Throne mere feet away-

Yet it was too far. All sound ceased; he was suddenly aware of a single exhalation sounding ragged to his own ears before his eardrums burst, the cataclysmic eruption of pure sound overriding all of his other senses. The initial explosion of concussive force sent Sashar flying into the very thing he was trying to protect, slamming his chest against the seat of the throne. Similarly, the Consul was flung away from the dais, skidding across the cracked marble floor, her back bouncing off the ice formation from the cryoban grenade. The iceberg shattered into countless razor sharp shards, flattening into the floor just as the shockwave cut out. A cyan blue circle of raw energy swept out, blasting through every single pillar left standing. It slammed into the far walls, cracking and fissuring them.

Sashar coughed and winced, wondering if he’d fractured any ribs from the impact as dust rained down around him, matting his black hair grey. The thought was short lived. A smaller, quieter crack echoed about the decimated throne room, sending a spike of fear through the Mandalorian’s veins. It was the sound of a lot of weight shifting above him. Slowly, inexorably, the ceiling and attached pillars fell down the few inches the sonic charge had cut through, though no longer attached. It was a balancing act, and stone groaned warningly. Sashar didn’t move; he didn’t dare breathe. His eyes were locked above him, watching in growing horror, his exhaustion and injuries momentarily forgotten as the drama played out. A crack formed in the middle, where the polished marble veneer bowed under weight it was never meant to support unaided. A great jagged fissure tore steadily along the length of the hall, dropping yet more dust down into the ruined floor. Then, something shifted. Stone ground against stone, setting Sashar’s teeth on edge, and metal pealed out a protest as it tore, sheared off by the staggering weight it simply couldn’t support.

The ceiling came down like a glacier melting.

With a roar of effort, Sashar pushed both hands out above him. He drew deeply on the Force and pushed past the nauseating feeling festering in his gut. He shoved with all his might and pushed all of his will at a speeder-sized chunk that hurtled down towards him and the throne.

The boulder’s trajectory didn’t move.

He cried out and pushed deeper and deeper into the dark side, letting the desperation seep into him. It was like drinking vomit. Pushing through the disgust and with every fibre of his soul begging not to be asked to endure any more, he managed to edge the massive rock forwards, crashing into another, larger segment. With a titanic crash that would’ve knocked him off his feet had he been standing, the boulder crunched down on the dais steps before him, mere inches from his feet.

Spread out before him, the scene was mirrored. Huge slabs of cracked and battered marble slammed unevenly into the floor of the throne room, pillars collapsed like fallen trees, coating the lower half of the throne room in an uneven monument to destruction. A secondary coating of dust drifted slowly down, almost like snow, blanketing the rocky floor in a deceptively soft, cotton-like layer.

The ceiling came down. We’re no longer sealed in. The Summit Guard will work out what happened quickly and it won’t be long before they come crawling through that breach and I’m overwhelmed. I have to finish this. Now.

Shakily, Sashar stood, leaning heavily on the Serpentine Throne as he got his feet under him. The Elder Juggernaut did not bother calling on the Force to heal or numb his wounds. There was no time, and he’d just delaying the inevitable and making the inescapable come-down even worse. But going on without the Force at this point would be suicide. Instead, he let the dark side fuel his muscles with a surge of fortitude that only a rare few managed to achieve as Elders.

There was movement at the other end of the chamber. Remarkably, Satsi was standing. Wavering, battered, half-cooked and barely able to keep her eyes open, she still held her dagger in hand. Sashar shook his head in disbelief.

She must’ve taken cover by the door and somehow managed to dodge whatever was falling.

Sashar shook his head to stop his vision from swinging askew too much and went for his lightsaber. His hand stopped, falling short of reaching his hip. The weapon was missing, buried under hundreds of tonnes of stonework. Growling in frustration and letting his rage simmer to a slow boil, he instead drew a blaster pistol. Shakily, he took aim, but his hand refused to still. A bolt tore loose, missing the Consul by a few meters. He fired again, and the shot went wide. Satsi’s eyes came into focus and her eyebrows went up. She ducked down behind a rock of marble, knowing that sooner or later the Elder would find his mark.

“That was just awful.” Satsi shouted from cover, taunting her attacker, her voice oddly hoarse in her own ears.

Sashar said nothing. He walked slowly forward, picking his way across the uneven terrain, closing the distance.

Satsi swore quietly to herself. Pain was waiting, just moments away, but the adrenaline pumping its way through her more from fear than anything kept it at bay. It allowed her to continue to move, although part of her acknowledged that nothing would be better than a week in a bacta tank right about now.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’. You’re supposed to be all kinds of good with your stubby little lightstick, right? How come you din’ fillet me when you had the chance? I mean, I know I’m a karkin’ surgeon with this lil’ knife o’ mine, but c’mon! The big bad mando boy can’t even kill a mundie like me? Like my mom always used to say, ‘This smells funny, an’ I’m not eatin’ it.’”

Sashar stayed mute, focusing on her voice, keeping her location locked in his eyeline, slowly moving around a boulder.

“I reckon you ain’t got it in ya. You don’ want to ghost me. Deep down, darlin’, you know that if I’m gone, there’s nobody else to take my place, and you don’ have it in you to lead this frakkin’ Clan.”

“The Ryn’ll do.” Sashar replied, his voice seemed barely laboured.

“What, Fluffy? He karkin’ hates you Shadowy old guys! You think you’re gonna be better off under him?” Incredulity and false levity lightened her words, but she could hear still him approaching. There had to be something she could say, some trigger to get the Adept to back off, because there was simply no fight left in her.

“He doesn’t need to like me, just lead the clan.”

“In case you din’ notice, hon, I’ve been doin’ nothing but running this frakkin’ clan!”

Sashar snorted as he scaled a particularly large outcropping. “Rioting in the streets. Famine. Plague. A membership as fractured as it is ineffectual. And to top it all, fraternizing with the very Clan of Jedi who killed me. Forgive me if I don’t want to see what you can do next.”

Satsi muttered another curse. He wouldn’t be dissuaded. In an insane moment of inspiration, the Consul heard her former Cartel leader’s voice in her ear, purring and soft.

A cornered fox is more dangerous than a jackal.

She wasn’t done yet. Satsi slipped the knife back into its sheath and drew an Enforcer pistol, then rolled around the outcropping, holding the weapon steady with two hands. She immediately sighted the Mandalorian, who dropped down from a small marble cliff and into the open. Everything seemed to slow. She exhaled, taking aim down the barrel of her pistol, and gently squeezed the trigger, barely registering the mental intent to do so.

A thunderclap of sound reported the gun’s fire, and Sashar spun to the ground from a hit to the right shoulder with a grunt of pain.

Satsi smiled, her bruised and scarred visage twisting around the expression. Sashar didn’t move. It hadn’t been a fatal shot; her aim hadn’t been that good - nor her luck - but perhaps it was enough to have taken him down combined with his other injuries. She slowly approached, keeping her pistol levelled at the Elder. Eventually, she reached him and stared down at her foe. The Mandalorian was still breathing, although blood was pumping steadily from the shoulder wound and a puddle was forming around him. He suddenly looked young. The cloned body was barely into its twenties, and Satsi felt a momentary twang of guilt for wounding someone so young. Then, she remembered what he’d done to her, and what he’d do were their positions reversed. You didn’t stay your hand just because your would-be murderer looked pretty when he was asleep.

The Consul’s grip tightened and she raised the barrel up, taking aim between those brown eyes staring back at her-

Wait, staring back?

Sashar’s hand jutted out and a telekinetic heave sent her hurtling into the air. The Mandalorian’s frame grew smaller for a second until she hit the apex of her arc and started hurtling back down. With aid from the Force, Sashar hopped back up and raised his uninjured arm out, catching her by the neck roughly as she came back into range. Barely able to get her feet under her, Satsi reeled as the Adept smashed his forehead into her nose three times, then let her stagger back, her hands covering her face, her mind a dazed mess.

Sashar’s wrist flickered, and he flung a throwing knife back with all of the strength he could muster. It stabbed deep into the throne’s back, the hilt still jutting out from the crack in the otherwise pristine monochrome design. He turned back to Satsi, and grabbed her by the hair, dragging her around, his face close to hers.

“Arcona Invicta.” He snarled, bloody spittle spraying out between his bared teeth.

The savage telekinetic push was almost a relief to be free of his presence. Satsi didn’t try to fight it as she was flung like a discarded toy back towards the throne. She twisted in the air, feeling the dust-laden air whip past her, swirling in motes from her passing and slammed back-first into the seat. Only, something wasn’t right.

The Consul frowned and tried to glance down, but beyond a terrible pressure at the back of her neck, she couldn’t feel anything below her shoulders.

Oh, kark, no…

He’d thrown the knife into the throne and let her neck bounce off the hilt when she’d impacted. It had snapped her metallic spine. It was almost no surprise to see the Mandalorian smile in grim self-satisfaction and kneel down slowly, still facing her, knitting his fingers behind his head.

Distantly, Satsi heard shouts, doubtlessly from the Summit Guard, all too late.

It was strange; everything seemed distant, like a dream. Only if this were a dream, now would be the time she’d wake up. It didn’t happen. Her shattered throne room spread out before her broken body and she couldn’t even look away.

There was no sound. No sight. Just darkness.

Sashar rocked on his side, nausea so strong he nearly blacked out spilling up his throat and stopping his heart as his diaphragm contracted and his stomach heaved. He tried to swallow, couldn't, tried again. His throat was so thick, and everything spun with each twitch of his muscles or twist of his neck. His head felt like it had been disconnected and was being used in an antigravity holoball game. Somewhere, below him, his body was moving. He was reaching, grabbing. One hand was knotted in his hair. The other at his pouch, opening the kit. He fumbled, and the world tilted on its axis.

The Force was with the Adept, as part of him as he was of it, and he anchored himself in it as only one such as him could. Its hold was steadying, steadying enough that his thick fingers could close around one of the stim injectors he carried and jam its tip into his thigh, depressing the plunger. Another went in his right arm. Cool waves of mild relief followed, and then the rush of adrenaline was nearly instantaneous, and he gasped shallowly, rocketing back to his feet.

The Mandalorian jerked upright, the nausea racing after him, but he pushed it away, braced himself, and spun in place, getting his bearings as his heart galloped in his chest. His eyeballs were vibrating in their sockets and he didn't care; his body would compensate for the rush soon. He could take more than this. He had taken so much more than this.

It was all but pitch black around him. The explosive's concussive force had further disrupted the ceiling's compromised integrity, and more rubble had fallen. The air was thick with dust, and the ventilation systems for the flames had obviously been damaged, because the fire was dead and gone. The only bit of luminescence was the crack of light underneath the throne room doors, far away, obscured by detritus. Everything else was sable and silent.

But even in the deepest shadows, Sashar was at little disadvantage. No, the shadows were his home. Had always been his home. The Dark was his embrace, his bread and water, his flesh and bone and the air he breathed. It was his will, and his hope, and his despair. When he concentrated, it answered him like it always had and would, reknitting his blown eardrums, soothing the crack in his skull. In this darkness, he was alive.

And in this ruined chamber, somewhere, was his prey.

He stalked like a predator through the gloam, elegance and deadly ease. Though the Mandalorian could not see his target, he knew her: knew her creaking bones and rough breathing and the curl of her soul in his Force-guided senses.

He inhaled the Dark Side, replacing his blood with its inky slipstreams, all quicksilver and oil, the familiar taste of poison. It flooded his veins and coursed through his body, into every muscle and pore, burning and freezing. His sight sharpened, like a veil lifting, and the remains of the throne room resolved in a monochrome kaleidoscope around him. He navigated the chunks of granite and marble like a river flowing about the massive stones, unceasing.

The auretti was there, slumped over the stairs, only having crawled a little further up their slope. Her pistol and blade were on the floor, as if dropped. Small, scattered debris surrounded her. She was still like a corpse in a field, but Sashar couldn't be fooled. He knew she was alive and very much waiting for him.

He wouldn't give her the opportunity. He glanced back, scanning the floor, and his lightsaber leapt to his hand at his urging. It remained unlit, however, as he stalked closer, footfalls near-silent.

Three steps away.

His hand rested high on the hilt, almost on top of the emitter, thumb and forefinger secured on opposite sides, middle and ring fingers wrapped tight.

Two steps.

His stance widened even as he walked, heralding mighty strength. He could see the tense lines of Satsi's form, waiting, waiting.

One step.

Sashar activated his weapon and swung in a whirlwind, the squat blade aiming for her throat with supernatural speed.

Crimson flame erupted into existence, just barely catching the conflagration of his cobalt.

They glared at one another over the saber-lock, and the Arconae felt another stab of anger at her defiance. She used one of their weapons, sat on their throne, paraded around their clan...He spat at her, the spittle sizzling away on the swords between them, and she sneered back.

Whatever bravado or pretense of formidability she had performed earlier was gone; only exhaustion and pain left in its wake. She wheezed and shook from head to toe, fine tremors accompanying every rattling gasp, the welts of her burn wounds inflamed. Washed out in the dark hush around them, like a frozen forest in the night, with her features lit only by the red glow of her blade and the blue spark of his, Sashar saw there a broken being. Perhaps as cracked as him.

But he was the stronger, the survivor.

He broke the impasse with a powerful heave, shoving her and pivoting to throw her down the steps. She went in a tumble, thudding to the floor and groaning as she righted herself. Sashar's free hand flicked out in a wide arc, and then he advanced, blade scintillating to brush aside her jab with barely any effort. Not only did he have the high ground, but she fought with no finesse, no form, no substance; the lightsaber was like some rusted machete in her buffoon hands, hacking and slashing.

Pathetic, he thought, growling as much at her. The woman merely gripped her saber like a knife and stabbed at him, backslashes and and dangerous ripostes. One twist of sanguine light speared him under the armpit, a sloppy miss at his chest, and he chuffed a short, unamused laugh at her expense as he bore the searing pain and kicked her back with a boot to the chest. She staggered, air exploding out of her, and he stepped down to join her on the base level.

The Elder slashed twice high, then lashed his left hand back around in a low blow, causing Satsi to stumble in retreat or risk losing her kneecaps. Sashar smirked tightly then stabbed out with a telekinetic punch, knocking her off her feet and the saber from her hand, its scarlet splendor snuffed out. He kicked it away.

Satsi landed on her side, crying out in alarm and agony, rolling half-away only to find more punishment; embedded in her flesh from the brutal tumble were several caltrops, and she had moved onto the edge of another. The sizable metal stars he'd scattered about earlier gleamed with the glacial plasmic glow of his blade. The ex-gangster snarled at him, her neck twisting as she looked about for more, but they both knew she couldn't see.

"Anything else you want to pull out of your tits?" mocked the Mandalorian, unconvinced the witch didn't have something else conveniently saber-resistant stashed somewhere under her few clothes.

"Shadows, my brother should've killed you when he had the chance," the woman groaned instead of answering, pulling one shuriken out of her bicep. Blood spurted after it. Her teeth bared, blue-white, smiling mirthlessly, more a rictus of barely suppressed pain. "Y'know, yer gonna try to sit down on that throne you want so bad and find 'you sit on this almost as good as you sit on stick' and 'frak you' carved into the armrests. Thing's made of hard stuff, that took me like, a week," she informed him.

He surged forward and punched her right in the mouth, hearing the crack of enamel as blood painted his knuckles and splattered his chin. "I will cut off your face then wear it when I enter your damn brother," the Mandalorian growled.

As he'd suspected from her continuous mentions, the comment served to set her off. Enough so that she tried to bite his fingers off when he reached down to drag her upright by her hair, her eyes going different directions and her face swelling up. She made a bubbly noise that might have been a nexu cub growling for all its potency.

The Arconae dragged his opponent back to the middle of the walkway before the throne, over the now decimated Arconan symbol, where traitors and weaklings of ages past had awaited their judgement. He deposited the other Human there, stepping back.

"Kneel," Sashar demanded, and she made a rude gesture at him. He grit his teeth and decided to do it for her.

"Why didn' yah jus' shoot meh fr'm tha' staht?" she croaked out a laugh around her cracked teeth, her limbs snapping unnaturally as he willed them to move, the telekinetic pushes and pulls at her joints turning her about and forcing her to prostration. When he released his hold, she stayed, hunching even tighter around her middle, wheezing. "Yah 'ad ta come all struttin' up n' declahrin' kahk like a ovahd'ama'ic bastuhd."

"A Consul has a right to know why he's being murdered. Even a disgrace and a fraud like you. You wouldn't have been beaten if you hadn't known. You'd just be dead. The point is to save Arcona, not martyr you."

"I migh' be broken, buh nobody's beaten meh yeh'. An' ni'er will yah, Er'nos."

He didn't need to tell her she was wrong; he merely snorted and spun his saber about—

The Force moved him, all instinct, his body jerking back just a step.

Pain exploded sharp and ragged in his shoulder, spinning him and bringing him down to the ground with its force. His fingers clamped over the wound as blood gushed freely between them, hot and pulsing rhythmically. He growled with pain, nearly a whine, eyes darting between the hole that had been blown into his torso, perhaps an inch above an instantly fatal shot, and the woman who had shot him. She slumped over herself, bleeding profusely from her middle, her second pistol, matte black and unobtrusive, still clutched in her hand, tucked tight to her body. Her stare dared him, her smile full of secret laughter, all stubborn flash of white teeth and black gaps between red-stained splatter.

She'd shot him...through herself. And it was a good hit. He knew it because he suddenly found himself on one knee, swaying, his arm growing colder while his front grew warmer and warmer with liquid faster than even his biomedical implant could slow it.

And despite every fiber of his being, he felt something like a sliver of respect for the woman. He had had brothers who weren't half as stubborn, even Mandalorian ones, and that was saying something. The aruetyc shabuir was the mynock of all mynocks, clinging on relentlessly, not willing to give an inch, not even when it killed her quicker.

"Bic ni skana'din," Sashar muttered to himself as his face acquainted itself with the flooring, because she really, really did piss him off.

His connection to the Force grew tenuous, and a different darkness, this one familiar in an entirely different fashion, encroached in its wake. His vision dimmed back to black, and without the shine of flame nor fire, there was nothing to beat it back; just two rapidly slowing heartbeats ticking down their time.

Satsi's was going faster than his. That was bantha dung. She wasn't allowed to die second, he wouldn't karking allow it. The Mandalorian stretched for the Dark Side, stretched every bit of himself out thin, but it was so far away, and the response was only a small thing, drawn to his spite.

Still, it was something. He could sense their failing pulses synchronize, and felt a final burst of bitter smugness. He was still fighting, and it was his only joy left. At least he would again die that way.

His awareness started to slip, like when he fell asleep at night as a child, so very long ago. He hadn't slept like that since boyhood, not since he and his brother had gone to the temple on Onderon. But now it was an easy thing, warm and drifting, not so much a pull down into dreams as a gentle cradling.

Distantly, somewhere, there came a barging of light and noise, interrupting the perfect, sepulchral solitude of the dying, and he felt a brief flutter of annoyance. But then he was floating again, deeper and deeper, until even when some part of him knew Bly's voice, knew the calling of his name and his enemy's, the whole of him didn't respond. He had fought, and rejoiced, and survived through it all, until the whole galaxy had finally crumbled down with him into stillness. He'd done it.

Now...now was the time for sleep.