You stand at the very top of the Shadow Academy—the great pyramid of Lyspair—in the offices of the Headmaster. A fire crackles merrily in the chamber, background noise for the battle yet to come. Two comfortable couches sit in the center of the long, ovoid room. Your eyes land on the desk opposite the fireplace, filled with datapads and forms. The yellowish glows of the flames illuminate the shelves of artifacts and holo-books surrounding the upper tier of the room. This was a private study, the place where the Headmaster of the Shadow Academy met his subordinates to discuss important matters.

Your eyes track beyond the desk, to an unassuming door which will lead directly to the Headmaster's living quarters. A side door to your immediate right leads to the more public office. The opposite door, standing on the left, leads to a private sparring room. You hear the soft rush of metal and cloth as your opponent pulls their weapon. Despite the sanctity of the Headmaster's chambers, the fight is inevitable. It was meant to be. As your hand drops down to your own weapon, you shift into a combat stance and prepare to draw.

Mirus' eyes darted around the room the moment he heard the door behind him slide open. The Dathomiri warrior, clad in the brilliant new King robes spun in teal, was here with only a single purpose: to take with him some kind of rare, esoteric knowledge on Sith Alchemy, especially with the new upsurge of its proliferation. Hammer clipped handily to his back, its weight not even a bother to his trained muscles, the Titan held no reservations about stealing directly from the office of the Headmaster. Still, it was certainly a risky venture: in moments, he had already been found out, meaning he'd have to defend himself shortly.

As the warrior spun, he saw the flight suit-clad form of Andrelious J. Mimosa-Inahj, a fellow member of Arcona, standing akimbo with a smug look on his face. His cloak rested against his form, most of his waist and upper chest invisible from the dark fabric crossing over the Imperial uniform. The pilot had originally come here intending to ask Mirus about quadanium steel for the purposes of rebuilding his old, lost lightsabers — this, however, was far more interesting than discussing metallurgy. Confronting a petty thief foolish enough to steal from a member of the Dark Council was far more entertaining.

"I didn't think you'd be this kind of man, Mirus," came Inahj's clipped, precise tones, decidedly Imperial in nature. "Skulking in the shadows and stealing from the Brotherhood does not suit a man of your stature."

"And what kind of man is that?" asked the Obelisk in return, raising a dark eyebrow as he did so. This became increasingly curious with every passing moment. He wasn't fighting yet, at the very least. A good sign.

"You are a traitor, a turncoat - turning your back on your Master. The little lion's cub forced to run with his tail between his legs." Unhesitatingly speaking his mind and rather plainly so, the Battleteam Leader was not afraid of this so-called Titan. "And here you are stealing from your superiors? Why?"

"To ascend the echelons of the Shadow Academy, sometimes desperate measures must be undertaken," hissed Mirus. This was already turning into a verbal sparring match, one he could not afford. The longer he tarried here, the greater the chances of him being caught by someone more willing to run him through with a lightsaber. Glowing blue eyes cast a desperate glance around, trying to find another way out.

A smirk followed a glimmer in the pilot's eyes. Andrelious knew he had Mirus backed into a corner, mentally. It did not take a genius to see that. "You poor fool. You are unworthy of the Shadow Clan if you are so easily caught."

Mirus activated his lightsaber by reflex, pointing it at his questioner. It was pure habit by now, when dealing with those whose tone of voice irked you. Perhaps an irrational response, but after two years of constant warfare and dealing with a snarky wife who spoke exactly like that to him, something in him snapped. "And who are you to judge me?"

Anyone with two brain cells to rub together knew that an enraged animal was considerably harder to deal with. Considerably more physically imposing than he, Mirus outclassed Andrelious in the arena of unarmed combat. Coupled with the hammer on his back, it was a dangerous visage. The Sith needed to deal with this on his own terms. To that end, he closed his eyes and exhaled deliberately, gathering to him not only his wits but the Force. He reached out, knowing his blaster and lightsaber were both covered by the billow of his cloak, unseen by those unholy eyes.

"Listen, Mirus. We're both civilized men,” he said, reaching out to assuage Mirus' mind of the building anger. It would be easier to appeal to him - and mentally manipulate him - when he appeared calm. "Lower your lightsaber and let's talk. I came here to ask your help anyway."

The blacksmith hesitated for a moment. On one hand, here he was being caught. On the other, Andrelious was an ally, a fellow Arconan - and if he only wanted to talk, then perhaps something could be done about it. Despite his reasonable mental strength, Andrelious was a master of subtle trickery, able to talk his foes into disarming. If he could force Mirus to stay away, then he could take care of him.

The teal-bladed lightsaber lowered, pointed towards the floor. In that instant, Andrelious whipped his cloak back to reveal his blaster rifle, drawing his trusted E-11 and firing it at Mirus' torso in the next instant. If it were not for a whisper in the Force, Mirus would have been shot cleanly through the heart. Instead, the warrior threw himself to the ground under the withering fusillade of crimson energy bolts, letting them scythe dangerously close to his head and into the wall behind him. An animal's roar of rage left the Dathomiri's lips - betrayal. The chosen method of the Dark Side. He was unsure who he was more angry with: was it Andrelious for being the turncoat that he had only moments before mocked Mirus for being, or was it himself for being so foolish?

Desperation kicked in immediately, the necessity of taking cover from the fire of Inahj's' blaster taking over his senses. Mirus flung his left hand out, right hand still clinging to his lightsaber. The nearest display shelf instantly came crashing to the floor, causing its contents to spill everywhere. Holocrons, relics and trinkets of a bygone age became detritus to litter the plush carpet. With little more than a moment's delay, the Dathomiri scrambled his body up and ducked behind his makeshift cover. The splash of a relentless stream of fire chewed into the steel that protected him, and the Titan realized it would only hold for moments before its protection faded away. He hated the feeling of being forced onto the back foot like this, unable to choose a place to defend himself and seize the advantage. Mirus had to do something...and soon.

Andrelious allowed a grin to spread across his face as he continued to shoot the fallen shelf to pieces. He knew that the heavyset Obelisk was hiding, and, probably waiting for his chance to strike. It was the Warlord’s job to prevent that, to end this fight as quickly as it had begun. The Sith was not one of Mirus advocates; he deemed him to be too likely to be a spy for Odan-Urr, for Ashen or even for both, and his connection to his old foe Socorra was also enough to further irk Andrelious.

“What sort of ‘titan’ cowers behind furniture?” the Sith taunted, getting an idea. Grasping the shelf, he called upon the Force, sending a short, sharp burst of electricity throughout its durasteel frame. He had noticed that the shelf had become wedged in such a way that it was not grounded, so its metallic construction carried the current, turning a safe haven into a dangerous trap. Mirus, still holed up, realised that the situation was grim. He was too large to escape without touching the now live shelving, and even if he could, Andrelious would be ready and waiting with his ancient lightsaber. The Prelate had only one option. With a snarl, he hurled the shelf away, before charging at his opponent with the determination of a hungry rancor. Mimosa-Inahj, noticing his fellow Human’s eyes glowing red, turned and began to try to run away. The Sith was far from stupid – he had studied Mirus’ duelling technique when the younger man had still been in Odan-Urr. Mirus was in many ways a traditional Obelisk. He sought to maintain a strong physical advantage, and was far stronger and tougher than the ex-Imperial. He was also a yard or two faster, and this quickly allowed him to close the gap between himself and Andrelious.

Still channeling his extreme anger into a maelstrom that further hardened his already impressive physique, Mirus went on the offensive, slashing aggressively at his enemy. Andrelious blocked the attacks with an almost flawless technique, the emerald blade blocking its counterpart at every turn. The Warlord allowed the Obelisk to continue attacking, whilst offering very little in the way of a counter. He instead focused solely on parrying and deflecting the Prelate’s varied blows, remembering recent training spars with members of Galeres. Among them, Andrelious was developing a reputation as a careful, yet somehow brutal swordsman. Now he was being truly tested.

After what had seemed an eternity, the redness in Mirus’ eyes disappeared and the drive in his attacks plummeted. Andrelious didn’t waste any time in trying to figure out what had happened. He already knew: his opponent’s tank was empty, its reserves having been stretched by his anger-fuelled attack. Knowing he didn’t have long before the Prelate would find a second wind, the shorter Human paused for a split-second. Hearing a nasty crack, Mirus found himself thrown hard into a nearby table, the base of his spine brutally jamming against its corner. His ribs felt damaged, as if he had been hit hard in the chest with his own power hammer. His spine was also incredibly sore from where it had caught against the table. As tough as he was, even Mirus Hi’ija felt pain.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Mirus warned.