Despite being on the first level of the Citadel, the massive courtyard remains hidden behind towering walls of stone and sediment. An elongated central patch of neatly trimmed grass stretches out for almost fifty-meters while maintaining a twenty-meter width. At the center of the grass is a large, ovular fountain in the shape of the Arcona emblem, with water running from the tips of each pointed edge. Vegetation grows along some of the walls, and an archaic clock-face is carved into the face of one of the entryways. A small group of rotating sharpshooters are scattered across the walls as the courtyard is supposed to serve as a safe place for Arconans to enjoy some quiet time, or to meet with visitors. It has served as the venue for multiple honor duels over time and there is a significant crater off to the side of the grass left behind as a result of a contest between Marick Arconae and Wuntila Arconae. The duel had taken place prior to either Arconae serving as Shadow Lords and in a quieter time before all Arcona knew was warfare.

Towards the back of the courtyard, closer to the base of the cliff that the Citadel is constructed upon, a tall tree shoots up from the stone, its shade guarding an entrance into the Citadel proper.

The wind stirred the leaves fallen from the ancient tree - a sentinel overlooking the courtyard since time immemorial. It swept them into a miniature cyclone, dancing to and fro about Celevon’s booted feet. He stopped for a moment, pulled off his helmet and closed his eyes, simply breathing. Selen wasn’t his birth world. This high up, the usual cloying stenches of a city were gone and the air was clean. It didn’t smell of the slums of Corellia’s Coronet city where Celevon had been born. Nor did it smell of the wild jungle ranges of Onderon, where the Odanite had crashed and lost his memories. No, this was a different smell of home. It was crisp, cold and pure. There were the barest traces of moss covering some of the shadier portions of stonework around him, giving a musty undertone. On top of that, there were hints of-

Celevon’s brow creased slightly. There were hints of citrus and gun-oil. They were only detectable for two reasons; Celevon had smelled them innumerable times before, and because he was expecting them.

Opening his silvery eyes, the half-echani turned in a slow circle, keeping his hands open and by his sides. The usual guards and sharpshooters were absent. In fact, the courtyard was deserted.

“After all this time, it feels weird to call you ‘Master.’” Celevon remarked to the empty courtyard, his lip tugging into a smirk.

Silence answered him. The leaves stirred again, and the Jedi closed his eyes once more, letting that tickling, niggling voice in his head come to the fore. It was a different mind, but not a foreign one. It was barely an effort to feel Sashar’s consciousness, feel the elements of wry humour and supreme confidence.

“Alright, let’s see where this goes.” Celevon murmured to himself as he drew the kerambit.

Sashar walked from behind a pillar, twirling a throwing knife around his fingers. “Long time no see, ad’ika.” He said amiably, his dark brown eyes alight with a joke he thought only he got.

Celevon rolled his shoulders, struggling not to adopt a ready stance. “Yeah. I’m here on business for Odan Urr, but… I’m guessing that’ll have to wait.”

“Kid, you got that right.” Sashar replied, smirking.

“Battle Circle rules?”

Sashar shook his head in a negative, then twisted his head from side to side, cracking his neck. “Nah. Let’s see if that expensive cutlery you’ve got there is of any use first.”

Celevon drew the Sith dagger in his off-hand, wielding it with the blade pointing down towards the ground in a reverse grip. “Nice dagger.” Sashar remarked at the alchemically treated blade, then his attention turned to the sheathed sword. “Nice sword.”

Shrugging off his cloak, Sashar discarded the concussion rifle strapped across his back, tossing it carelessly atop the discarded material. His eyes never leaving his former apprentices’, the Mandalorian then drew his lightsaber, casually pressing down on the activation stud. The short cyan blade blazed into existence and Sashar brought it up to his face, pointing the tip at Celevon.

“What’s with you and shotos? Why sacrifice the reach?” Celevon asked as he adopted a ready stance, slowly moving to the side, mirroring Sashar doing the same.

Sashar’s smile was predatory. “It lets me get up personal with the deader. Plus, I always like being able to slap them around a bit before filleting them. Besides, you’re not one to talk with those two little steak-knives.”

Celevon grinned and twirled both of his weapons in a flourish, drawing Sashar’s eyes momentarily towards them.

The Adept’s eyebrows shot up at the motion. “You thieving little hu’tuun! That’s my kerambit!”

Celevon laughed and glanced down at the Shadesworn sigil on the blade. “I guess it was. It was very generous of you to leave it for me after you died.”

“Gar shab’ika, I left it locked in a crate in my room. That’s hardly a bequeathment now, is it?”

Celevon’s rare smile widened once more and he moved to close the distance, slashing out experimentally with the blade, spinning it on his finger like a talon lashing out. Sashar simply leant to one side, not even bothering to parry and the kerambit’s blade missed his abdomen by half a dozen inches. He was also ready for the stab from the dagger at his right arm. Again, he leant back and batted the blade away with his lightsaber. The Adept backed up a pace, keeping a little space between them as he watched his former apprentice carefully, trying to discern a pattern in his movements.

Something primal stirred within the Proconsul. He’d fought Sashar literally hundreds of times when apprenticed to him and the turnout had almost always been the same. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually managed to best the Mandalorian. But he’d grown a lot over the years; his skill was nearly that of the Elder’s. This time, he’d have a fighting chance, and they both knew it.

As one, they closed for another exchange. Celevon’s dagger slashed out twice; once at the Mandalorian’s stomach and another at his thigh. The shoto knocked aside both blows and Sashar leant back and swatted away Celevon’s outstretched arm, the kerambit scything out once more at his eyes. Instead of backing up again, the Elder stepped forward into Celevon’s space, keeping the dagger at bay with his saber and the kerambit unable to do any damage with his own arm pressed up against Celevon’s. He slammed his head down in an approximation of a Keldabe Kiss and the Odanite reeled backwards, his nose hurt but not broken. Blood poured freely down his face and Celevon smirked through it, lending him a decidedly demonic air.

“That’s why I like the shoto, ad’ika.”

Celevon swiped at the blood on his lip with the back of his arm and nodded in appreciation. “First blood to both of us, then.”

Sashar blinked, unsure if he’d misheard his former apprentice. By way of explanation, Celevon turned the kerambit’s blade around, and there was a rivulet of bright red blood running down from the tip over the Shadesworn sigil.

The Elder’s expression changed from one of confusion to incredulity and his free hand went up to his ear, feeling the new nick in the lobe where he must’ve been caught as he pulled back.

“If that was poisoned, you’d be begging for the antidote right about now.” Celevon remarked, resetting into his ready stance.

Sashar shook his head ruefully, wiping the blood off his fingers on the leg of his armour. “If that was poisoned, I’d be beating the antidote out of you.” He countered.

“Buy me dinner first, Master.” Celevon shot back, twisting the last word sardonically.

Again, they waded in, both fuelling their movements with the Force and Celevon privately marvelled. Sashar was a maelstrom in a bottle; the sheer breadth of his potency in the Force was a wonder to behold. That was not to say, however, that Sashar wasn’t secretly impressed and a little proud of Celevon’s own control in the mystical art. The Odanite matched him blow for blow, neither of them taking an advantage. Cyan blade met the even shorter dagger, sparking off the alchemically treated weapon and he moved his body around the kerambit’s lightning slashes. The exchange lasted a few minutes and they ranged around the courtyard, both looking for an advantage the terrain could offer, but neither capitalised. It ended when Sashar received a slash across his cheek from the dagger which he hadn’t moved far enough back to block and in return scored a scorch on Celevon’s thigh which came distinctly close to burning through the armour.

They both backed up, panting slightly. Sweat mingled with blood from the cut and Sashar winced, swiping at his cheek with his hand. He backed up a trio of paces, briefly glancing up at the sun, now at its zenith, beating down on them both. Wordlessly, he deactivated his saber and tossed it onto his discarded cloak, then began unstrapping his armour at the shoulders.

He stripped off the garment to the waist, then called back his lightsaber telekinetically, grinning as Celevon mirrored him, removing the plates and top of his beskar’gam.

“Too hot and boring, eh ner’vod?” Sashar asked as he watched, the lightsaber held ready but not activated.

“What’s the point of sparring when there’s no actual danger?” Celevon answered, swiping his hair from his face, sheathing both the dagger and the kerambit. Instead, he drew the Sith sword, marvelling as the sun glinted off the polished surface.

“Now you’re talking.” Sashar said wolfishly, activating his saber.

“For the record, I didn’t steal the kerambit. I found it on my bedside table after the mockery of a funeral pyre for yourself and Zandro,” the half-Echani lightly corrected his former mentor, eyes focused on the slight motions of the cyan blade. What little damage had been done to his nose had been healed during the brief respite. A small grin curved his lips as he relished the cool breeze on his bared skin. “I may be a thief, but I don’t steal from family.”

The Elder’s brow furrowed as he distinctly recalled locking the blade away—

Sashar jerked his head to the side as a whispered warning from the Force floated across his senses. As he moved, the Patriarch of the Erinos Clan heard something pass barely an inch away from where his ear had previously been. The familiar dull thunk of a throwing blade sinking into wood sounded from behind the Adept.

He risked a glance behind him, only to see that it had been embedded deep within the tree. The Arconan had seen it many times before, having developed that very technique himself: increasing the velocity of a thrown object with the Force.

This warning across his senses was unnecessary as Sashar twisted his body, bringing the shoto up to catch the alchemically altered blade with a glare. “I see my kerambit wasn’t the only thing you stole.”

“Just making sure you’re paying attention, Sash. It’s only cheating if the other guy does it first,” the latter was a statement the Elder had repeated constantly during the other male’s training. Celevon’s mercurial eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth. “Besides, imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, ori’vod.”

“That explains why you stopped shaving your chest hair,” Sashar retorted with a small leer before he pushed the Odanite away. He was curious as to how and when his former apprentice lost his arm, but decided to ask at a later date. “I love the new ink.”

In the past, the flirtatious riposte would have been enough to turn the Proconsul into a blushing, stammering bundle of nerves. However, nearly a decade had passed since the completion of his apprenticeship. The Seeker smirked back, twirling the alchemically-treated blade before he fell into a ready stance. Right foot drawn back, the sword held out horizontally and at level with his sternum. “Nice of you to notice, Master. I don’t have nearly as much time on my hands as I once did.”

The need for audible words was abandoned as the duo lost themselves to the ebb and flow of battle, a form of communication they had developed shortly after the half-Echani had become the Adept’s student.

Celevon teased the Arconan’s stalwart defenses with a rapid flurry of slashes. Sashar returned fire, increasing the stakes as he maneuvered his final cyan block to include a brutal elbow toward his former student’s jaw. The Odanite responded gracefully as he looped his arm through that of the Adept, pivoting with the momentum and pushed a small rush of Force energy to his upper torso to bodily toss the Juggernaut.

The Patriarch of the Erinos Clan spun in midair, booted feet coming to a rest as he caught the alchemically-treated blade with his lightsaber in an efficient arc. The Elder grinned, sending a small burst of proud approval through the remnants of their master-student bond as he also nodded.

This was one of the reasons, aside from his vastly superior skill at the time, that Celevon was only able to defeat his mentor a handful of times. With the telepathic bond working to Sashar’s advantage, the half-Echani may as well have choreographed his every move. In the current moment, it served to make the combat even more difficult to the pair; to the outside observer, it would appear as though mirrored images were dueling at a pace that was hard to keep up with. Whereas the Seeker’s bladed style was more offensive and flowed from motion to the next, the unarmed attacks thrown in were more defensive in nature; the Arconan was the exact opposite.

As their blades locked and the Elder sent the simple message via emotions, the Proconsul attacked when the dark brown eyes met his. “Why did you let me continue to believe you had died, Sashar?” Power laced Celevon’s purred words as the desire to answer sank within the mind of the Patriarch of the Erinos Clan.

The Arconae struggled against the Force enhanced question, as he felt the unnatural change almost immediately.

“Then, when we encountered one another on Korriban, you masked your presence from me. You know that I can keep a secret better than most. Did you not trust me?”

Whilst his former mentor was distracted with fighting off the Mind Trick, the Odanite took advantage of the moment to twist his sword. The lightsaber went flying, blade retreating into the hilt the moment it left its master’s grasp. Celevon reached out and telekinetically called it to his free hand, taking three steps back as he released the mental probe.

The Adept stared the instant he realized the attack had stopped, reaching out to catch the hilt his former student tossed his way. “What—”

Celevon gave an apologetic smile, an even more rare sight. “You said that we weren’t using Battle Circle rules. I truly don’t want to know the answer; it was just a distraction, since I had no chance of disarming you otherwise.”

As he awaited a response, the half-Echani kept the sword held loosely at his side, seemingly relaxed.

Sashar’s brow creased in disbelief as he stared at his unlit saber he’d just caught. The Erinos Patriarch couldn’t remember the last time he’d been disarmed. It was simply not done; especially not to a master of Soresu. The sheer gall of even attempting it made the Elder’s left hand twitch involuntarily.

Celevon dragged his eyes away from the weapon and stared at the floor, his shoulders rising and falling with his breathing. Inwardly, the Proconsul shuddered. He knew what was coming; he’d seen it hundreds of times before, and it always resulted in the target of his old master’s ire on the floor, bleeding and in a substantial amount of pain.

He steeled himself, bringing the sword up between them. Sashar opened himself fully to the Force, letting the mystical energy suffuse him. It burned forge-fire hot inside of him, his veins feeling like they pumped molten metal. Deciding not to wait for the beat down, Celevon shot forwards, his sword going for the artery at his old master’s thigh, his corded muscles moving like quicksilver under the skin.

Sashar’s saber sprang to life and he almost dismissively batted the strike aside, his speed in full harmony with the Force. With his right hand, the Adept slammed an open palm into Celevon’s chest. The Proconsul staggered back, feeling something pop in his chest. He blinked away the spots in his eyes and kept Sashar in his line of sight, sucking in a ragged breath. It was excruciating, but he didn’t have time to mend it with his gift. Through the Force, Celevon felt the pressure building. Inside the Arconae was a maelstrom of emotion. A tempest roiled about, contorting feelings of indignation, pride and rage.

Te’kyr; The End.

Quick as blinking, Sashar’s emotions flatlined. It was like having a door slammed in Celevon’s face. A laser focus fell on him and the Erinos Patriarch surged forwards, his eyes wide open; wild. Celevon’s free hand flickered and a throwing knife shot out, embedding into the Elder’s shoulder. He either didn’t feel it or didn’t care, as his charge didn’t abate. The shoto was swung around and Celevon barely managed to block it with his sword. Another slash came hammering down - an extremely crude application of Sashar’s usually defensive preferred style - and Celevon twisted bodily to avoid having his head split in two.

Inwardly, the half-Echani was supremely proud. Te’kyr was one of the Erinos family’s signature moves. Originally a technique of Mandalorian berserkers, the Force sensitive members of the family had adapted it to incorporate the Force, letting it fuel their rampages. It was only used in the most dire of circumstances, as the drawbacks when the onslaught wore off were dire indeed. Only one person had ever survived and bested Sashar when he fully let himself loose. That person had ended up surpassing him as Arcona’s Shadesworn and had gone on to be the Voice of the Dark Brotherhood; Marick Arconae. The fact that Celevon warranted such an extreme response was… gratifying.

He can’t keep this up for long. Sashar can only maintain this for a few moments before exhausting himself.

Celevon furiously backpedalled, leaning back, avoiding another horizontal swipe of the saber and lashed out with his sword, scoring a grazing slash across the Mandalorian’s right pectoral, but it was a glancing blow thrown in haste and did little more than break the skin. Given no time for a reprieve, Celevon jumped backwards, folding into a backwards roll as Sashar advanced silently; icy and inexorable like an avalanche.

Using the space, he threw a pair of knives out. One was batted away by the shoto, the other dug a furrow in Sashar’s cheek, marking its passage with a thin straight red line deep enough to scar just under his eye. The Elder closed the distance, savagely batted the sword aside once more with his saber and grabbed Celevon around the neck with his free hand. His strength preternaturally enhanced with the Force, Sashar lifted him off the floor, choking him, but Celevon was ready. Displaying considerable core strength, he grabbed Sashar’s wrist in both of his hands, letting go of the sword and hefted his legs up, wrapping them around the Elder’s arm. Unbalanced, they both went to the floor.

Celevon landed heavily on his back, the weight of the other man causing him to grunt. Sashar released the shoto, unable to wield it in such close quarters, and smashed his elbow into his former apprentices’ temple, then threw a brutal punch which the Odanite was barely able to turn aside. Somehow Celevon was able to get a knee under Sashar’s stomach and heaved him up, flipping the Mandalorian over his head. Capitalising, Celevon flipped around and straddled the Elder. He leant forward and grabbed both of Sashar’s wrists and let out a feral growl of his own as he stretched the Erinos patriarch’s hands above his head, pinning him, letting the Force aid his struggle.

With a sustained roar, Sashar’s arms slowly slid apart and he headbutted Celevon once again, causing the larger man to reel in pain. Shoving the Proconsul off him, Sashar threw himself at the Odanite, punching him in the jaw. He moved to follow it up with another blow but wavered and nearly lost his balance. A wave of nausea and fatigue crested and fell over the Elder, sending him to the floor. He let out a muffled groan of frustration at himself and tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but his body gave in and the Erinos collapsed back to the floor, struggling to breathe.

Shakily, Celevon stood. He worked his jaw carefully, wincing as he twisted it and spat out a wad of blood and what he thought (and hoped) was a tooth, then turned to regard his master.

“You’re getting old.” He said, smiling despite himself.

“Usenye, gar shab’ika.” Sashar managed between breaths, seemingly unable to manage speaking basic.

Celevon chuckled and telekinetically called his sword to hand as the Elder managed to sit up.

Bloodied and broken, Sashar worked his way to his feet, wavering. He mirrored Celevon and telekinetically called his shoto to hand, wincing as if he’d just done a shot of tihaar. He lit the weapon and adopted a ready stance. The emitter held close to his face, his body-side on to Celevon.

“Come on then, cyar’ika. Let’s get this over with.” He breathed, his dark eyes heavy.

Celevon grinned wolfishly and surged forwards and Sashar stumbled forwards to meet him-

The Mandalorian wavered and his saber fell from numb fingers. He stumbled forwards and Celevon aborted his charge, moving his sword out of harm’s way as Sashar crashed into him, his shoulder catching the odanite in his already-injured solar plexus. He grunted in pain but kept hold of the Arconae, cradling him close, watching his shoulders move in exertion. Frowning, Celevon followed the movement of Sashar’s left arm, stretched out, as if reaching for something, his fingers splayed out. Abruptly, the hand made a fist, and something glinted at the corner of the Half-echani’s vision. He looked up just in time to get hit in the side of the head by the hilt of Sashar’s shoto which had been telekinetically hurled at him. They both went down once more and the Arconae capitalised, twisting Celevon’s arm around. He managed himself up into a kneeling position, grinding one knee into the Odanite’s spine and twisted the captured limb savagely, causing Celevon to cry out as the joint was bent nearly to the point of breaking.

“Submit?” He taunted, leaning down, his breath hot on Celevon’s cheek.

“Lek! Lek!” The Odanite managed, his voice straining.

Grinning, Sashar released him and collapsed backwards into a sitting position, his feet tangled with his former apprentices’.

The Proconsul rolled over onto his back and propped himself up with his uninjured elbow, rubbing his hand over the shoulder Sashar had nearly dislocated, scowling.

“Not exactly fair.” Celevon groused as he rotated the joint, ensuring nothing was permanently damaged.

Sashar grinned and flopped back onto the ground, heedless of the muck, merely enjoying the cool breeze blowing over his bare skin, shiny with sweat. “When did I ever play fair, ad’ika?”

Celevon privately admitted that Sashar was right, although he’d never expected Sashar to use his own concern for his mentor as a weakness to be exploited.

“Please say you’ve got a bottle of something strong to drink.” He managed eventually.

Sashar sat up, a glint in his eye. “Sure, but you’re going to need to stitch me up.”

“Deal.”

When the reaction came, it was as swift and brutal as the previous time the half-Echani had meddled with Sashar’s mind. In that instance, it had been much more subtle and used as a prank — the Arconan had repeatedly forgotten and mutilated the name of a member of Soulfire Strike Team until he sensed his apprentice’s amusement. And discovered the underlying reason for said amusement.

It had been an abject lesson that, whilst the Elder had been inside his apprentice’s mind teaching him how to shield his thoughts, Celevon had been able to slip into his own undetected. The silver-eyed male had always been cunning in that manner.

While impressed at the vastly improved control of the mental arts, the Patriarch of the Erinos Clan was embarrassed that his own will had nearly crumbled under the attack. That embarrassment only fueled his rapidly growing ire.

The Arconan dropped the lightsaber hilt, the lightning that arced across his fingers the only warning the Odanite received. Celevon intercepted the initial burst with his sword, releasing the hilt at the moment of contact at the same time as he twisted away from the residual energy. Despite what some believed, it took several moments for all of the potency to connect unless it was absorbed by a lightsaber.

He had been unfortunate enough to discover that early on in his training with an armory lightsaber.

Though the half-Echani had dodged the lightning, it left him unprepared for the Force-enhanced shoulder that slammed into him. As he was tackled to the ground, Celevon wrapped his legs around the waist of his former master and rolled, using the Elder’s forward momentum against him. The pair came to a stop with the Odanite straddling the Arconan. Although it had been years since they had brawled, Celevon pulled back out of instinct, barely dodging the diagonal uppercut.

Sashar couldn’t help the twitching of his lips as his former student caught one wrist after the other, pinning them above his head. The Patriarch of the Erinos Clan could have easily broken the hold had he wanted. “Something about this particular positioning seems familiar to me...”

The half-Echani grinned back, matching the Arconan’s wry amusement. “As I recall, our positions were reversed last time.” Before he could get headbutted again, Celevon released the other man’s wrists and rolled off of the Arconan. As he turned back to face Sashar, a warning screamed through the Force.

An alert that came too late, as the arcs of blue-white energy connected with his torso. Although it took a matter of moments to dissipate, it felt like an eternity to the Odanite. Celevon bit through his lower lip in an effort to hold back a scream as his nerve endings were alit with agony, the metallic tang of his own blood filling his mouth.

Sashar had pushed himself to his feet, curiously watching as the fingers of the cybernetic arm moved more spastically than the flesh counterpart. The twitching lessened to slight trembling, though the half-Echani still appeared to be dazed. Perhaps he had put a bit much into it?

Nonetheless, the Elder straddled his former apprentice. “You should have learned your lesson last time, ad’ika. Stay out of my head.” A certain clench of his fist brought the triangular blade from his gauntlet. The punishment, however, was what was within the hollow of the blade.

A hallucinogenic poison.

As the Patriarch of the Erinos Clan brought down the blade and started to trace it along Celevon’s cheek, introducing the hallucinogen to his bloodstream, a small warning pulsed in the Force.

There was a shik of metal on metal before pain erupted in his abdomen. A quick glance down had the Arconae staring in surprise as the hidden blade retracted from his body back into its concealed state. Sashar’s eyes flicked back up to see silver staring back at him, a small smile on the lips of his former student.

“Touché, kiddo,” the Elder managed through gritted teeth as he lightly patted the half-Echani’s unmarred cheek, using the one with the extended blade to brace himself. “You’re likely to miss your meeting with—”

The caution that had lingered at the edge of his senses finally revealed itself as a serpent struck, sinking its fangs into his hand. The Mandalorian swore fluently as he flung the sinuous form across the courtyard, hoping that the damn thing wasn’t poisonous.

It did explain the smile, at least.