From space, Malachor seems no more than a lifeless ball of ash. In the center of an open crater, however, lies the ancient Sith Temple. This colossal pyramid of black stone is the relic of a disastrous battle between the forces of darkness and light thousands of years ago.

Though the surface of Malachor has a breathable atmosphere, the air is dead still, and there is no sign of life. The caldera housing the Temple is a tableau of the terrible struggle that took place here so many millennia ago. Scattered through the causeways and crumbling boulders are the petrified figures of the foregone combatants, their hands raised eternally against whatever cataclysm took the life from their bodies. Some still grasp their Jedi weapons, though most likely the life is gone from them too. The pallid white light of the sun spreads unhindered through the crater, but it does little to illumine the intrinsic darkness of the stones.

The Sith Temple is not a place of the light side. It is said the very stones react to the touch of the dark side. The pyramid itself is seemingly inaccessible, though its blocked entrance is associated with an old saying: “Two must lift these stones, no more, no less.” Despite its undeniable age, the crater is littered with signs of a more recent calamity; ash and debris, columns toppled outwards from the Temple, broken arches. It is as though the millennial dust stirred, briefly, then returned to its repose under the sun.

Death.

Most worlds couldn't be summed up so succinctly, but Malachor was not most worlds. The fifth planet from the system primary seemed like a great rock in space even from orbit, but on the ground it was even worse. Almost any planet one visited assaulted your senses with its own unique sensations. None of those were more pronounced than the alien scents that filled the air of almost any world, from the smells of lubricants and close packed people of Coruscant to the spicy aromas of the forests of Kashyyyk. Even Hoth, ice ball that it was, had an odor that could smell vaguely of damp tauntaun fur on occasion. Malachor smelled like… nothing. The dust that covered much of the planet didn't even smell like dust. No smells, no sounds, no feel of wind upon your face. All of those things required life, and on Malachor there was none. Only death layered upon death.

Well, that wasn't technically true. There was one spot of life that burned like a dim candle that Selika now followed. Terran Koul had of late been tracking down artifacts and information that promised guidance down the path of life after death. The whispers that had reached Selika's ears through the various channels that all fed back to her on the Godless Matron had been intriguing enough, when combined into a more cohesive whole, to pique her interest. A recent journey the Kiffar had taken to Dromund Kaas had left Selika interested, but not enough to warrant any further action. She herself had made a number of her own visits to the Dark Temple, finding little of interest after all these years. But then word had reached her that hunter's path was taking him to Malachor.

Most came to Malachor to loot the broken artifacts from its surface or to find some weapon or another. She had even heard, once, of an art collector from the Core Worlds who had wanted one of the petrified bodies of Sith or Jedi for his collection. He had, apparently, felt that it spoke to him about the true nature of pain and suffering. It took all kinds. But that which must be drawing the Kiffar here was a very intriguing idea. Amongst so much death, the untold numbers of Jedi and Sith alike who had been wiped from the face of this world during the Great Scourge, there might be at least one that remained. The great temple might hold more than the secrets that had been carved into it by its builders, it might hold secrets that had been burned into it during the cataclysm.

It was an idea that Selika couldn't resist investigating, and something of far too much potential power to leave in the hands of an outcast like Terran Koul. It had been easy enough to follow him here, though trailing him on foot from his landing site had been less comfortable than the hyperspace flight getting here.

Why is it that these relic hunters always feel the need to park several kilometers from their target and walk in? Selika thought to herself.

And yet, finally, she had found him. Picking her way through broken columns and fallen stones that marred the base of the Temple she caught sight of her quarry kneeling in the dust, focused on something in his hand.

"You won't be able to sense anything, dear," Selika teased. "There isn't much in the way of 'recent history' around here for your alien witchcraft to read."

Lost in his attempt at psychometry, Terran had not sensed her approach. Momentarily startled, he dropped the weathered bracelet held in his hand as he spun to his feet, his brown coat whirling around him. Suddenly, while he moved to face Selika, a blaster was in his hand seemingly from nowhere, spitting a golden bolt from its barrel that burned the stone four inches in front of Selika's boot.

"Well," Selika said with a sigh, looking down at the smoke rising from the ground, "my days of taking the Arconans seriously is certainly coming to a middle."

"It was a warning shot," Terran said with a smile. "You think we didn't see you following? You're not that good of a pilot, whereas mine is."

"Good for you," Selika sneered. "You should go tell him how impressed I am that his arms can reach the controls. Now."

The emphasis Selika put on the last word left no uncertainty to her intentions. "This is my scrap of nowhere. You go on and find your own," Terran replied.

"Come now," Selika replied, "this is bigger than you. A Dark Councilor is ordering you to stand down. Turn around, walk yourself out of here, and go back to some bar on Port Ol'val and toast your continued survival."

"I've never been one for listening to Councils." Terran spat back.

"This isn't a fight you want," Selika said, striding past the Kiffar while careful to stay a few meters away from the blaster that followed her movements. "Also, I can kill you with my brain."

As she said the last, Selika tapped the side of her head with her index finger. Accompanying the gesture was a subtle weaving of Force energy that coalesced just in front of Terran's face, landing a blow across his cheek. The blow wasn't very hard, more a slap than a punch, but it was enough to turn his head and leave a red mark to blossom on the side of his face.

"We expect the impossible of ourselves. We can't expect the same of others."

"And what do you expect of me?" The words were plain and soft-spoken, a counterpoint to the Kiffar's usual brashness. But the void between then could swallow a star system whole.

Her small, knowing smile broke his heart. "Only your best."

Her words were a clarion, echoing from the fallen bracelet into his mind. They called out to him across time and distance, as she did. Or maybe that was just the ringing in his ears as Selika's blow twisted his head around. Working his jaw back and forth to loosen it, he brought his free hand up to rub at it gingerly.

"Well that seems a bit uncalled for." He smirked up at the Herald, tamping down on his own unease. The odds of him winning a fair fight with the Elder - or even an unfair one - were vanishingly small. "How 'bout we both just go our separate ways. What I'm lookin' for ain't something you'll miss."

"Maybe not." The Herald's cold stare could strip the hide from a krayt dragon. "But I gave you an order. Leave. Now."

He thought about what she would do if she were here, his eyes flickering back to the bracelet. Somehow, she had been. He could feel her imprint on the discarded trinket, a feeling he knew like the breath in his own lungs. But she wasn't here now. She wasn't anywhere. That was the whole frakking point.

Terran sighed theatrically, slowly rising to his feet. He let his gaze wander over the Human from head to toe, forcing a lascivious gleam into his eyes that he didn't really feel. When her lips twitched downwards in disdain, he knew he had her. It was all about managing expectations.

"As you will."

He took a single step towards her, halving the distance between them. A stormcloud raged in her violet eyes, lightning in her violent hands. She drew herself up imperiously, and the Kiffar could feel the play of static electricity over his skin as a ball of pure current formed in the Elder's hand - a clear warning that she didn't trust him. He forced a cheeky grin onto his face and twirled his blaster in the air, catching it by the barrel. Another step, uncomfortably within her personal bubble, and he held his blaster out to her. The casualness of the gesture belied the hard glint in the Kiffar's eyes. But she quirked an eyebrow and reached out to take it. Then he slammed the butt-end of the blaster into her nose with a sickening crunch.

The lightning dissipated instantly, dissolved in a spray of blood, and Terran aimed a punch at the Herald's gut, hoping to knock the wind from her. Instead, his fist met an invisible wall, slamming into sheer willpower and bruising his knuckles. He saw the anger in her eyes disappear, stormclouds giving way to a cold, dead void that mirrored the lifeless world around them.

Sithspit!

He felt himself hurled backwards, careening through the petrified remains of an ancient Sith warrior. The collision spun him in the air and he slammed into the granite slab of the temple's base. Air fled his lungs and he felt more than heard the pop of a rib cracking. The Kiffar collapsed bonelessly to the ground, an unceremonious heap of cloth and limbs. The copper tang of blood filled his mouth as he sat up, spitting. Blood and spittle painted the stoney ground and a single tooth joined them, skittering across the surface.

Terran wrapped himself in the Force instinctively, quieting his body's protests as his eyes sought out the Councilor. She stalked towards him like a nexu, unconcerned with the blood painted across her chin and cheeks. She had drawn her lightsaber at some point, its violet blade lit and held loosely at her side, blade angled down and away from her. Selika's face was implacable, and her cold, dead eyes spoke of an unrelenting fury. Her stride swallowed the distance between them, and every petrified corpse in her wake turned and trailed after her.

The Kiffar struggled to his feet, a quick twist of his wrist bringing his saber to hand, and its amber blade snap-hissed to life. And two dozen corpses and a Dark Councilor raised their own weapons to match.

"What, you couldn't cut it on your own," the Kiffar scoffed, "so you brought your groupies?"

Selika kept her gaze level and locked with Terran's. "I must have hit you harder than I thought," she replied. "Seeing double?"

"No," he said, pointing beyond her. "I was talking about them."

"Just how stupid do I look to you, Terran?" Selika asked coyly. "You must think I was born yesterday if you think I'm going to fall for 'look behind you'."

Before Selika could close the remaining distance that separated the two combatants, a stone figure that vaguely suggested an Ithorian lashed out with its fist. The blow landed between Selika's shoulder blades, knocking her to the dirt. Rolling over to face her attacker, Selika summoned the Force to her, delivering an invisible blow that shattered the stone figure into gravel.

"What did you do!" Selika shrieked at Terran.

"Me?" the Arconan shot back, "You probably woke them up with all of your showy powers!"

Now even more of the figures moved towards the two living combatants, some carrying weapons, others with nothing by their fists. Selika's eyes darted back and forth, counting the opponents that now faced her.

"How about a truce?" she offered Terran. "Join me and you can take whatever bauble that you wanted."

Terran's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Truce, then."

Selika turned her back on her tenuous new ally. The figures hit them like a wave, flickering saber blades and stone hands slashing at the pair. It was all Selika could do to keep them at bay, each one that fell was seemingly instantly replaced by two more.

"Maybe we should cut our losses," Terran suggested.

"You might be right," Selika answered as her blade cleaved another head from its body.

"Your ship or mine?" Terran asked with a mischievous grin painting his features.

"Yours," Selika snapped back. "It's closer."

The two moved as one, exhibiting a coordination that belied how little experience they had with one another. It was probably more Terran's precognitive abilities allowing him to feel Selika's movements and react accordingly than it was any inherent skill or bond between them. Only once did Selika's blade nearly intersect Terran as the latter blocked a blow intended for her chest. Selika quickly toggled her blade off as it would have slashed through his arm, reigniting it to meet the crimson blade of one of their adversaries.

"You burned my coat!" Terran exclaimed.

"Better your coat," she called back, "than the arm underneath!"

They were just reaching the edge of the crowd of assailants when Selika stumbled, dropping down to one knee as she held her blade in a makeshift guard above her head. It was a moment before Terran noticed that she was lagging behind, and the press of bodies had begun to seperate them.

"Terran!" Selika screamed out as their enemies moved ever closer.

The Kiffar looked behind him, then back to the path he was following. There were only three of them between him and his escape. The choice wasn't hard.

"Not today," he said, turning his back on her and mading his move toward freedom.

Selika shrieked wordlessly as the storm once again filled her eyes. Lightning shot out from her hands, first once and then again. The blue tinged energy crackled across the stone skin of the petrified corpses, doing little to slow them down. They crashed down upon her, finally blocking view of her body as dust billowed out from the pile of bodies.

Terran was moving quickly now, heading back towards the landing zone where he had arrived. As his echoing footfalls finally faded, a stillness settled back down upon the dead world. Then, suddenly, the image of billowing dust and piled bodies shimmered and then faded, leaving behind the immovable stone statues just as they had been for centuries. In the midst of them stood one living being, the Herald's breath rasping in her chest as sweat plastered her hair to her head. No longer able to stand, Selika dropped to the ground and was left to stare up at the rocky ceiling.

Maintaining such a powerful illusion, made all the more real with momentary applications of creative telekinesis, had taxed her more than she had thought it would. Even projecting it into the mind of one person alone had drained her past her ability to move. All she could do was breath, barely. Her limbs hardly responded to her commands to move, only her fingers twitching slightly as she tried.

Well, she thought to herself, it worked.

So it did, little one.

Selika's mind froze at the sound of a voice that was not her own in her mind. Her eyes widened as a phantasm of Force energy seemed to coalesce from the air and dust before her. The form was that of a woman, some long dead Sith witch that had perished during the Great Scourge.

You didn't think you did all of that on your own? it asked. I haven't had that much fun in centuries. I'm so glad that you are here...

Selika could only shriek in terror as the phantom descended towards her, it's outstretched hand coming ever closer to her face.

Terran swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping away blood and spittle. He gripped his saber in both hands, his eyes tracking back and forth across the corpses slowly stalking towards him. You want to dance? he thought to himself. Let's dance.

He lunged forward, liquid limbs blurring through the air as his amber blade bisected the nearest corpse. He knew what it was, of course. He'd encountered Force illusions in the past, and no matter how masterful they were, some illusions simply defied belief. Of course, they didn't need to be believable. No, as he moved through the mob of apparitions, he could feel the stirring of fear creep into his gut. It was subtle, and slow, but it was steady as well - and the shambling pseudo-zombies were a perfect focus for the terror the Adept was slowly bleeding into him. Terran flowed through the horde with explosive precision - but the fear still rose, constricting his heart and sapping his will.

That was fine. It was all about managing expectations.

Two dozen became three dozen, then four. They fell like wheat before his blade, and still their numbers grew. He ducked beneath a Sith sword, just to backflip over a Jedi's lightsaber and land in a crouch, shearing through both opponents' legs. They dispersed as they fell, becoming mist which faded to nothingness. But three more took their place.

"Give it up. You can't win." The Herald's voice was like a silk-covered razor - unexpected, smooth, and deadly. "You're going to die here one way or another. But I'm on a time table, so if you make it quick, I'll let your friends return to Selen unmolested."

Her words were sincere. Of that he had no doubt. He heard them, accepted them into his soul. He couldn't win. And the fear grew.

The fear grew, and his heart raced. But it raced in time with her voice. Only. Your. Best. She was gone, her silver hair and silver tongue and silver heart a distant memory. But expectations fade slower, if they fade at all. He knew what she'd expect. Besides, with the chips down, his back to the wall, no hope in sight, and death a half-step away...that had always been his best.

He cleared his mind, channeling his anger and grief to burn away his thoughts, as the same emotions fueled his movements. He was a whirlwind of constant motion. He switched to a single-handed grip on his saber and drew his spare blaster. As he twisted, ducked, and dove through the phantasmic press of bodies, he dealt death on every side. His blade cut down illusions two at a time, and his blaster's staccato whine felled enemy after enemy. And each illusion dispelled brought more in their place as the fear advanced. His heart was cold as ice, his gut twisted in dread, and a silent scream tried to claw free of his throat.

Terran felt it overwhelming him. He knew Selika did as well.

He couldn't see her through the horde - they surrounded him shoulder-to-shoulder with weapons raised. He didn't need to see her to know a patronizing smile twisted her lips. He could feel her smug satisfaction through the Force. It was as real as the fatigue burning through his muscles, weakening his grip on his saber. As real as the effort he had expended, even knowing the illusions were no threat, that the terror was a fabrication. It had to be real. She was too perceptive to be fooled by anything less than the truth and her own expectations.

Three more phantoms fell, four more took their place. He flagged, his shoulders sagging, the movement of his feet becoming sloppy as his breath grew ragged. Spots flickered across his vision, and he knew he was burning more oxygen than he was taking in. With a final burst of effort, he reached out with the Force, unclipping a grenade from his belt. He spun towards the burning beacon of malevolency a dozen feet away and hurled his lightsaber. He couldn't see her response, but he knew Selika would have raised her own amethyst blade to counter. It was instinctive, the kind of thing Force users drilled over and over again. It was muscle memory. So it didn't matter that the blade shut off immediately, or that the toss was no more than middling accurate. The Adept expected to have to block it, and she acted accordingly. The glop grenade flew in the saber's wake, hitting the ground at the Herald's feet before her strained mind could react. Adhesive exploded from the device, locking her in place just long enough to deactivate her saber. Then a trio of sharp retorts fired from the Kiffar's pistol and turned her once-pretty face to slag.

The illusions disappeared immediately, snapped out of existence along with their creator. And Terran collapsed at the temple's base.

That, too, was no more than expected.