Built from the shell of an ancient foundation, the Arx Colosseum has undergone renovations to allow multiple new configurations for battle. Its spectator setup remains largely the same, with high walls, tall enough for even the most savvy Jedi to find unscalable that lead up to spectator chairs which are divided into nearly organized sections to accommodate several thousand people. At the center, an elongated platform “box” contains a central throne of stone with various seats of smaller scale lined beside it in both directions. Two large holo-projection screens are set up on each side of the Colosseum, offering different angles of the match bia holocam drones.

Today’s setup is known as The Bridges.

High-suspended walkways cross and weave through multiple levels of platforms. Some are solid, metal and duracrete crafting an unmoving foundation. Others are mere rope and wood, swaying with even the most gentle of breezes.

Below the walkways is a void filled with mist, the ground unseen for combatants and spectators alike. Periodic ripples of electrical energy can be seen through the mist, hinting to the deadly nature of the arena floor below.

A singular figure stood at the edge of the highest duracrete bridge.

Marick Tyris Arconae looked out over the arena with his ever-watchful too-blue gaze. A myriad of bridges lay below him, some duracrete and durasteel, others made of natural materials that swayed precariously. His opponent for this match could come from any direction at any moment. Too-blue eyes cast downward to look at the crackling fog in the dark abyss below, assessing the danger it likely posed. There was no way to tell what the cloud held, whether it was poisonous or contained something living that could prove more deadly than the hazard itself.

The Elder reached out through the Force, attempting to sense his foe, only to be answered by stillness and silence.

Marick’s watch was broken for a moment as a harsh breeze blew through the arena, kicking up dust and tossing the man’s cloak and ashen locks into the wind. He raised a hand for a heartbeat to shield his eyes from the assaulting detritus. When he dropped it, his opponent was standing silently on the duracrete bridge below and parallel to him.

Sivall’s sanguine eyes returned his gaze from her lower vantage point. They squinted for a moment before she pulled back the hood and mask meant to obscure her features. It was likely that Marick had identified her by the sabers visible at her hips alone, but all the same she wanted to show her face to the man she looked up to so dearly. Her raven locks, now free of the cowl, fell loosely around her features as they had been freed of their usual bun.

“Envoy Sivall,” he regarded her, his voice measured and monotonous.

“Exarch,” her reply came with a soft frown, filled with a stark contrast of conflicting emotion.

A few moments passed in silence. Marick stood with his arms folded behind him as he patiently waited for Sivall to gather her thoughts. His Chiss opponent brought her hands in front of her and began to pick at the gloves covering her fingers, her frown unwavering, eyes downcast at the duracrete surface at her feet. Once she had formulated coherent sentences, Sivall dropped her hands to her side and looked back up at her superior.

“I don’t want to fight you, Marick. I didn’t come here to fight fellow Shadesworn.”

Her intonation signified the exhaustion she felt deep in her bones and there was a roughness to her voice that was not normally present. Sivall’s last match had clearly taken its toll on the woman.

“Yet, here we are.”

Marick’s reply didn’t hold any malice or any hidden hints of blame. She could feel him urging her to think, allowing her to come up with alternative routes on her own before he supposited his. The Quaestrix’s jaw set hard, aggravated, as she sought a way to complete this match without potentially hurting another Arconan.

But then the idea came.

Sivall’s eyes snapped to the droids idly circling Marrick from a distance, no doubt trying to take advantage of the scenic shots they could get from the pairs’ positioning. They would be circling them for most of the match, happily out of range of any attacks but filming with crystal clarity for the crowd nonetheless. What if…

“Do you think that we could petition to get the holofeed of this match after the fight?”

One of Marrick’s eyebrows raised before he traced Sivall’s line of sight to the hovering droids. She hoped he would understand her intention without having to speak– prayed even. They could spar, make it dramatic, and use it as promotional material for the Envoy Society. It was the best way, in her mind, to make the fight realistic but mean something more than just fighting her clanmates for the sake of someone else’s enjoyment.

Marick’s face remained neutral as the wheels turned in his mind. Formulating. Calculating.

When the Exarch caught onto what Sivall was hinting at, there was no change in his expression except maybe, potentially, the faintest, barely perceivable upwards quirk of a corner of his mouth. As quick as it had potentially appeared, the change was gone, but Sivall could feel in the air between them, through the Force, that he understood her intentions.

“I see,” he replied, nodding once.

Sivall drew her sabers first, their white blades humming softly as she held them in a defensive position in front of her. Her grip on the hilts was reversed and the smaller Shoto saber was tucked under her full-sized blade. Marick gave her a moment to prepare, a singular moment to breathe, before he shot off his vantage point like a slugthrower bullet. His own sabers carved gorgeous arcs as black as night through the air before clashing with Sivall's. Despite fully knowing that he was coming, the Chiss woman was still caught off guard by the speed and ferocity of Marick’s attack.

She had faced off against Elders before, trained with Ruka on multiple occasions, but it did not prepare her for this fight. The crowd gasped then roared in excitement at the startling shower of black and white playing out before them. Sivall gathered all her strength and pushed Marick away, the force pulling a grunt from deep in her chest as she struggled.

Marick landed gracefully on his feet nearby, not a hair out of place. Despite it probably being inappropriate given the circumstances, Sivall still spared a moment to balk at how absolutely unfair that fact was.

A voice very familiar to both fighters and belonging to a certain white haired Miraluka called out from the stands, as if reading Sivall’s mind.

“I KNOW RIGHT?!”

The response drew a snort from the Chiss woman, who then tried her best to cover it up with a cough.

Marick turned at the sound of his wife's voice, keeping his expression neutral as he located her in the crowd. Atyiru had claimed a front-row seat and was protectively hovering over their daughter, her cybernetic arms on either side of Kirra like guardrails. The seven-year-old wore a matching sundress to her mother and peered excitedly over the reinforced railing. When Kirra noticed her father looking their way, her expression brightened like the moon on a starless night. She beamed, waved excitedly, and while it would have been hard to hear her voice over the din of the arena’s ambiance, her encouragement radiated out towards him through the Force without needing to say the words themselves.

Go-Papa-go!

Marick offered her a small, secret smile that faded almost as quickly as it appeared. Then he turned his attention back to one his top Envoys—

The Exarch stood alone among the amalgamation of arches and winding walkways. She was nowhere to be seen. It was just him and the ominous, swirling miasma below. When he listened carefully, he could hear the ghostly whistle of the wind winding through the intricate lattice of bridges.

“Mhm,” the former Shadow hummed—an acknowledgement of his own fault as much as it was a nod of respect to his now-concealed opponent. Perhaps he was getting old?

Or just tired.

Following that same sentiment, the half-Hapan rolled his shoulders to stretch the scarred skin left behind from his last match. It did not affect his mobility, but it was still sore and stiff. And itchy. Bacta was a wondrous thing, but burn marks tended to take longer to heal than cuts, abrasions, or even tears. Pain and discomfort were nothing new to him, and easy enough to be shut away.

Instead, he focused on utilizing what he knew about his opponent. As Exarch, it was his job to know each of his Envoys’ strengths and weaknesses. And he knew Zosi'val'ria’s file better than most, thanks to also tracking her progress within the Shadow Clan. He kept background tabs on many, but her progression and eventual succession to Quaestrix of House Galeres had definitely caught his attention. He also knew that weight, that burden of leadership better than most as well, having ascended the ranks in a similarly brisk fashion.

So out of respect for all that she had accomplished, it seemed fair to support her idea of using the footage from this fight to benefit the Envoy Corps. That was the kind of creative introspection the Brotherhood needed, times being what they were.

Marick glanced down at his newly crafted lightsaber and frowned. He was curious to test the new design out in a real battle, but realized that this was not the time nor place. While the Force Lord could intuit a slight advantage in technique based on his initial exchange with the Chiss, he was still more comfortable with a single saber. He clipped Resonance to his belt and tightened his fingers around the familiar, molded hilt of his Radiant lightsaber, and then silently toggled the alternate-phase emitter to its stun setting.

The hum of the black-cored blade became the only sound he heard as he focused his senses on his immediate surroundings. The crowd and the cameras faded into the background of his awareness. Now, where would she—

A glowing white blade materialized from the shadows and arched gracefully towards Tyris’ neck. The silent strike split the air with deadly precision, and would have likely landed against a less learned foe. Marick was already in motion, swerving his lithe frame around and under Sivall’s lightsaber. In the same flowing motion, he moved his own saber into the perfect position to parry the Equite's follow-up stab.

Their eyes met, crimson against sapphire. Their blades locked. Sivall regained her footing. Understanding passed wordlessly between the two Arconans as they broke apart and then met once again on equal ground.

The colosseum roared to life as porcelain plasma charged into onyx flourishes of parabolic light. This is what they had come to see.

—

Sivall knew from observing Marick’s previous fights that a prolonged engagement would favor the Elder Arcanist. If the Shadow was going to have any chance of victory or impressing the Exarch, she would need to think fast. She would need to think outside the box. And she would somehow need to catch a retired spymaster and the Brotherhood’s Gray Fang off his guard.

No pressure.

Her wrists worked from the recesses of her respective hilts, leaving more range for extension in her reverse-grip attacks. Shien was more known for combating blasters, but the Envoy remained in perpetual motion, using the full length of the bridge, the side-rails, whatever space she could utilize to lash out from disparate and diverse angles. Ataru was a prime pairing, especially as her asymmetrical blades broke up the typical, poetic pattern of a more holobook duel.

Marick’s boots wove smoothly across the duracrete plating of the winding walkway as he wound his lightsaber in tight, concentric coils that redirected her attacks away from his center. He parried each attempt to circumvent his guard with poise and patience, moving only as much as was required to keep up with her pace.

With every sweep and swing that failed to find purchase, Sivall felt her breathing become more labored. There was no break in his bulwark, no gaps in his metaphorical armor for her to exploit. His form was better. He had more experience.

But he was running out of platform.

Marick seemed to sense the sudden lack of duracrete, even as his foot failed to find solid purchase behind him. He reflexively shifted all of his weight to the balls of his feet, anchoring himself in place. In the same concurrent motion, reached out a hand towards Sivall’s waist and made a grasping gesture. The Envoy felt an unseen hand close around her like a vice, arresting her forward momentum and lifting her up into the air while the Exarch recovered his footing.

Panic flooded through her waking, conscious mind as she tried to fight the telekinetic restraint. But the sleeping mind that lay beneath it roared in defiance. It was the hard-earned instinct and persistence forged from a lifetime of hardship, everything from being sold away as a slave to her apprenticeship under Zujenia and her tutelage with Ruka. In fact, she had been drilled on this exact scenario with the Mirialan. Repeatedly. Her vacmi had prepared her for this, so she could never be collared again.

The Force surged through the Quaestrix and, simple as stretching after a long rest, Marick’s hold over her snapped and was gone. Now free, she landed adroitly on the balls of her feet, sabers at the ready.

Marick did not seem perturbed by her clever feat. In fact, he seemed pleased. As much as a stone statue could be, at least. Her heart pounded with excitement as adrenaline coursed through her. As she readied her next stratagem, her mind skidded to a sudden halt as she watched Marick wave his hand and flex his fingers in a weird, intricate pattern.

She grit her teeth and braced for some kind of assault through the Force, but nothing happened.

Sivall blinked once. Marick still stood a few meters away, his expression a neutral mask as he repeated the series of motions with his free hand.

Was he trying to flash her with some kind of...street...hutt...gang sign? Was she supposed to signal it back to him?

When the Exarch calmly repeated the gesture a third time, realization struck her like a hammer. He was using sign language to try and tell her something. How would he have known—oh, right, he had access to her file. Now that she knew what she was looking for, it made perfect sense.

My right shoulder, he was saying. She correlated that new data with what her eidetic memory recalled from his previous match with Evelyn and...was he giving her a hint at one of his weaknesses? A flush of anger crept up her neck at the idea of needing some kind of hand out, but it quickly passed as the Exarch flashed a quick grin and winked at her.

Sivall stared blankly, her frustration fading into buffered confusion. She had to have imagined that. Was it a trick of the light or her fatigue? Marick didn’t grin. Did he? She had watched so many of his briefings on missions. Did he even know what a wink was!?

Before she recovered enough to respond, the Exarch leapt towards a new bridge, one that was made of wooden slats and interlaced suspension ropes. It wobbled when he landed, but he seemed nonplussed. Then he made an inviting gesture down towards her to join him, as the crowd began to chant for more.

She would have denied the invitation if the crowd hadn’t seemed so interested with the idea. The Chiss’s face contorted into an uncomfortable scrunch causing her eyes to squint. Her stomach turned at the thought of joining the man on the wobbly wooden bridge, but what the crowd wanted, the crowd got. Her steps hesitated for only a moment before she followed Marick’s path.

The bridge wobbled upon her landing. Sivall did not land anywhere near as gracefully as the Exarch had. The medic’s arms swung in two wild windmills before she finally caught her balance. Sanguine eyes darted to the miasma below, her thoughts swarming with the possibility of what would happen should she fall.

Yeah let’s not do that.

Once Sivall was sure she had her footing, she deactivated and pocketed Mercy– the smaller of her two blades. While she had deduced that Marick had lowered himself to using only one saber against her to make things more matched, she did so to have an extra hand free in case she went careening over the very flimsy-looking rope handrails. She was not interested in finding out what lay at the bottom of the abyss. Not today. Not with her family watching.

Her stomach lurched again. Kark.

Marick, silent as the grave and as patient as death, watched for Sivall to steel her nerves once again.

Siv took a deep breath, then closed the distance between her and her opponent. She brought her blade up in an upward arc towards Marick’s right shoulder– a move the half-Hapan effortlessly blocked. Blades screamed as the lengths slid along each other and Sivall’s saber blade was forced towards the bridge. Sivall let the hit carry her downwards, keeping her left foot planted firmly, not fighting the momentum, so that she could bring her right leg up. The movement was swift and her foot connected firmly with Marick’s right shoulder.

Her planted foot adjusted its placement minutely and she landed a second hit into his ribs, exposed from the parry, only a heartbeat later.

If she knew better she could have sworn she saw him wince. It was a decently solid hit.

Marick struggled to gain his footing after the hit and was thrown into the rope guards, sending the bridge wobbling. Sivall had just begun to straighten up from her awkward stance when the bridge destabilized, sending the pale blue woman stumbling into the other side of the bridge’s flimsy sides.

Both Arconans clung for their lives as the bridge swayed and twisted. A gasp tore through the crowd.

Luminesce created shadow while life and death waltzed back and forth in a delicate dance. A thin line existed between the dark side and the light. Whether it was the Jedi and the Sith, the Son and the Daughter, balancing two diametric but codependent sides of the Force was something the Elder Arcanist had studied and pursued for years to master.

Balancing on a shaky suspension bridge, draped over a menacing miasma of mist, apparently, was much more difficult.

Marick frowned faintly as he glowered at the bridge with narrowed eyes, almost as if it was to blame for its shoddy construction. Almost as if it could have had the decency to have been built better. Nevertheless, both Arconans were obliged to grip the corded rope side railings with their respective free hands. Both widened their stances and tried to anchor themselves in place as the wooden slats beneath them slowly stabilized.

The Exarch had chosen their precarious position...poorly. While it had hopefully added some flavor to the footage they would have access to after the battle, gravity was still something even a Force Lord feared and respected. He was also acutely aware of the various camera drones hovering hungrily for more action as they streamed their feeds back to the colosseums’ vidscreens.

Marick did not have to fein discomfort as he sucked in air through his teeth and exhaled sharply. Sivall had shown once again why she had excelled since joining the Brotherhood. While his face remained its typical, stoic mask, the blossoming bruise over his rib was not enough to dampen his appreciation for her prowess. Still, it would likely prove prosperous for both the Exarch and Envoy to continue their fight on firmer footing.

Tyris gestured with his eyes towards the neighboring bridge that looked to be constructed of durasteel slats and reinforced bindings. The Shadow nodded, then took her cue to leap towards the new platform. As she did, the wooden bridge once again wobbled and twisted with Marick left as an awkward counterweight. Sivall landed adroitly with her saber at the ready, but before the half-Hapan could join her, a concerning snap drew her eyes back towards where she had stood a moment prior.

In his distraction, Marick’s eyes were late in discerning that both sides of the corded rope that held the suspension bridge in place had frayed down to their last threads. Preternatural precognition and perception were not enough to stave off the sudden sense of vertigo that accompanied the abrupt lack of solid matter underfoot. The far side of the bridge dropped and fell away into the mist. The audience gasped as Marick lurched after it, the mist swallowing and enveloping him into its cloud-like canvas.

As Marick fell, he did not fear, however. He remained calm and collected, and reached out with the Force with his mind alone to pull the half of the bridge that was still attached to the wall of the arena towards him. He reached out a hand and grabbed hold of the last possible wooden slat. He winced in pain as the tendons and muscles in his arms burned as they stretched and strained—just in time to stop himself from plummeting into whatever fate awaited him in the chasm below. His lightsaber almost met the same fate, but he reached out for it with his mind and caught it while it was still in free fall. The blade disengaged, but the cylindrical hilt floated its way back to the half-Hapan and reattached itself to his belt.

He was fairly certain that the Council would have compensated him for the loss of his Elder saber, but was quite fond of this one.

Concealed by the mist, the Elder Arcanist took a moment to catch his breath. He focused inward, siphoning the slipstreams of the Force to renew his reserves. Almost as if he were breathing in the very mist that suffused around him. The sting in his muscled faded to a dull inconvenience, and then he slowly started to climb with augmented vigor.

When he reached the edge of the mist’s domain, he managed to locate the bridge that Sivall had settled on. She was looking down into the mist and shouting something he could not hear. He could see the concern clear on her face, however.

Best not to keep her worried or waiting. Marick exhaled slowly and then pushed off the side of the arena and launched himself through the air towards Sivall’s position.

Make sure you do a cool flip at some point, he remembered his student Asani’s words.

As the mist trailed in his wake, Marick tucked into a tight ball and spun head over heels for two quick rotations before landing deftly in a hunting crouch on the bridge a healthy distance away from Sivall.

“Hello there,” Marick greeted.

A mixture of anger and relief flickered over the Chiss’ cobalt features. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“A clever tactic, cutting the ropes,” Marick replied.

“But I didn’t—”

Marick shook his head, not willing to hear any of her excuses. He drew his lightsaber and reignited the black-cored blade one again and took up a stance that indicated the duel was far from concluded.

The Exarch knew that Sivall had not done anything to tamper with the ropes. A separate part of his psyche—the paranoid part that belonged to a retired spymaster—questioned the true source of the bridge's demise. He would have time to investigate that later. If he wanted to make the most of the remainder of the fight, he needed to stoke the illusionary strife between the two combatants. He darted forward and lashed out with a flurry of feints and flashy flourishes. Sivall grit her teeth and deflected each one, weaving her wrist in deft rotations as she defied each strike. With even footing, however, it became quickly clear that she was not going to be able to keep up with the Exarch. While she did not wish to resort to trickery, and already felt guilt at the collapsed bridge situation, the Quaestrix filed through the holodex of her eidetic memory for any weakness she could exploit in a last ditch effort to win.

She spared a glance towards the stands and could only come up with one gambit. As Marick went for a lunging stab, Sivall threw herself forward and leapt over the half-Hapan with a flip of her own. She landed with her back towards him, but focused and altered her facial features with the Force before turning to face him.

Marick had not stood idle after her evasion. He spun effortlessly on his heel and readied a new attack aimed at where the Sivall would land. Instead of the cerulean cheeks and crimson eyes of a Chiss however, he was met with pale skin, faint freckles and two mismatched eyes. One was a too-blue hue that perfectly mirrored his own. The other was an opaque, milky white framed by silver hair instead of Sivall’s inky black locks. It was Kirra, his daughter, just older.

Half of the former spymaster's mind knew it was a trick. He had trained countless agents and assassins how to do the very same thing. The part of him that was still growing, the part of a father, however, hesitated before landing the finishing blow he had intended. The delay was only for a moment. No longer than a single heartbeat.

It was enough for Sivall to slip past Marick’s guard and deliver a strike of her own. It was a deliberate, delicate slice that would have carved a clean cut through the half-Hapan’s chest. Sivall stopped just before contact and let her minor illusion fade to restore her true features. Her eyes locked with Maricks.

Marick gave her a small, tight smile. Then he disengaged his lightsaber and held his hands up over his head in a sign of surrender.

“Well done,” he spoke quietly, his voice carrying only far enough so that Sivall would hear it and the feed being patched back to the arena would not.