Below the offices and living quarters of the Headmaster and his Praetor lies the Hall of Secrets—a room dedicated to the members of the Dark Council, and practically unknown by the rest of the Brotherhood. The spacious room is highly secured, with a curving stone ceiling and thick, stone walls. Any noise from the rest of the Academy is completely muted, the silence of this place like a tomb. You were summoned here, the note still clenched in your hand, but so far you haven't seen a soul.

There are a nine cubicles—one for each Councilor—made from transparent crystal, which divides the room evenly into sections. Glancing into one, you see that it contains a small console. You walk towards it and tap in a simple command. Immediately the crystal walls grow opaque, obscuring the interior from view and sealing you within. It seems obvious that this is a secure study for the Council, where its members come to access artifacts, holocrons, or other data, without the prying eyes of the Academy watching.

You reverse the command and step back into the Hall. Glancing around, you search for the person who summoned you. Most of the cubicles are currently transparent, but the furthest one is dark—currently in use. You step towards it just as the walls flicker back to transparency revealing a single figure with weapon in hand…

"Enjoying your new access, I take it," the Titan of New Tython remarked, even as he went for the lightsaber at his side and flicked it to life with its ever-familiar hiss. Under most circumstances, he wouldn't fight V'yr Vorsa, being friends, good friends perhaps - but there was rhyme and reason to this madness. She had invited him here with good reason: As the husband to her Praetor and still a mercenary craftsman for the Brotherhood, Mirus was far more useful alive than dead - but she needed to keep his mind on the job and ensure that he was still worthy of his task. This was his test.

Tossing the note that she had purportedly sent behind him, Mirus made a grand showing of sinking into a low stance as dictated by his choice of lightsaber style, favouring his overhead two-handed grip as he stared down the Neti before him. There were no more words for this fight; Vorsa was an intelligent creature and knew that words would not dissuade Mirus from whatever course they were running down. Instead, her only reply was to raise her lightsaber in a one-handed grip, pointing it directly at the man that threatened the sanctity of the Dark Council's private study.

Then, without another moment's hesitation, Vorsa launched her attack, staying true to the tenets of her Form's teachings - destroy.

The opening dance was little more than a test of one another's reactions, Vorsa leaping in without hesitation and unloading a powerful flurry of strikes against the Titan's solid defences. Each slash of her blade was met with a powerful defence, with the Obelisk refusing to give a single step of ground every time the Neti tried desperately to force him back. She knew, instantly, this would not happen . They had danced like this before, after all - back in Odan-Urr, when he had been one of the Knights of Allusis and she had been his leader. As fellow Praetors to the Herald, too, their skills had stayed sharp as they tested new blades together. Now, as Herald and shamed ex-Praetor, this seemed to be one final test.

Vorsa drew her blade up high, bringing her brilliant orange blade crashing down towards Mirus' head - before the Force whispered to him and bade him rush low, calling upon the Force to drive him forward with a great strength and speed to charge under her open defences. The Dathomiri drove his shoulder into her stomach, passing under her blade and sending her reeling backwards with a savage strike of nothing but his bulk and the alacrity afforded to him in that instant.

She stumbled. He recovered. In that instant, the Titan took over.

This time the Neti found herself on the defensive, turning away slash after mighty slash from Mirus' teal saber with a vicious series of parries. Whereas he took the two-handed, dominant approach, she took the more fluid and ferocious one-handed style. Their contrast was as vibrant as the colours of their lightsabers under the dim lighting of the hidden chamber. He refused to relent, knowing that giving Vorsa the chance to strike back and take the upper hand a second time was a critical mistake. Every strike of his blade was fluid and smooth yet designed to be a knockout severing of her body, aiming each strike to cleave her in half one way or another and finish the fight. For a bulky man, he moved with surprising grace. This time, however, he intended to use physical intimidation tactics - every step was pushing into her defensive bubble, trying to force her back closer and closer until she was right in range of the nearest cubicle, the one darkened by her use.

One step. Two steps. Close enough.

A titanic foot crushed down, slamming into the ground and expanding his focus. Channelling his pure physical self into the metaphysical energies around him, Mirus focused a wave of energy to knock Vorsa back, amplified not only by the sheer strength in his body but the closeness of the attack. All of his training with telekinesis in recent months focused on the ability to blow someone away with its pure destructive might - and even if she was a keen warrior it was a hard strike to resist. The Neti stumbled again, this time her back slamming into the crystalline chamber behind her.

For a moment Vorsa breathed, reclaiming her centre - in time for her to feel the Force tell her that he was about to skewer her through the chest. It was time to return the favour; despite his physical might being a telekinetic boon, what she lacked in raw strength she made up for in pure skill. This time she decided to slam him right back, blowing Mirus away as she had done moments ago. The tip of his saber was barely an inch from her chest before he was sent stumbling away, shaking his head to recover his senses as she recovered her composure too.

The two warriors positioned themselves once again, mirroring their opening guards. The dance would have to begin anew with its opening movements exchanged.

“What are you fighting for, Mirus?” Vorsa’s deep, heavily accented voice rang through the room as the two circled each other, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. The Titan’s reaction - which was nothing short of confusion - quickly turned to enmity.

“What’re you rambling about?” he replied sharply, his unnaturally blue eyes focusing intently on her expression which slowly shifted from calm neutrality into a mocking smirk. Cynicism wasn’t something Mirus was used to seeing in the Neti, up until now. She was never one for petty taunts or insults. Apparently things have changed.

“What are you now, Mirus Hi’ija,” she mocked openly, “after abandoning everything you held dear, after all the suffering you have caused? After turning on your friends and allies? They are unbecoming of the lowest scum of the galaxy, your sins.”

Mirus’ expression, indeed his whole aura in the Force, slowly shifted from irritation to anger. Who was this woman to judge him? After all he has been through? He was the one betrayed and abandoned, not the other way around? He was the one who felt alone and purposeless when he left Odan-Urr. It was Arcona that gave him purpose again, a means to gather his center and continue his life as he saw fit. Who was she to judge? Someone who lived in luxury on her own world, while he crawled through the underbelly and filth of disgrace to reach his potential.

Vorsa charged again with great alacrity. Her lightsaber as swift as it was before, but less powerful. It was more irksome than threatening to the Arconan, but he blocked none the less, knowing full well her potential for delivering swift, fatal blows. She weaved and bobbed around him, more testing his defenses than actually attacking, keeping him focused on her.

“What are you fighting for?” she let out a hint of anger through her voice. Her blade hit from on high, giving Mirus an opportunity. He blocked, holding his saber in both hands to gain leverage, and pushed the Neti’s blade upward and off balance, but she was ready. Vorsa used her newly gained momentum and enhanced her speed enough to spin her body around and smash her shin into his hamstring. Mirus staggered from the pain and stumbled back.

“You are still much too slow.” she said, ducking under his clumsy horizontal slash, aimed to sever her in half. Two backward rolls later she was far enough from him to enact her plan. Clenching her palm into a fist and pulling down in a slamming gesture, she pulled the neon lights from their fixture on the ceiling. Sparks flew everywhere, a flash of light momentarily blinded the Arconan as he regained his composure. Only the ambient light from the active datapad and Mirus’ teal blade remained.

Utter silence followed, only the occasional electrical zap from light fixtures sounded with a crack. Mirus’ blade shone a fine light in his vicinity but Vorsa was nowhere to be found. His eyes adjusted quickly, aided by the Force, but all he saw were vague shapes. Enough to see her coming? Perhaps. Nothing in the room jumped out at him momentarily so he changed his approach. He spread his sixth sense through the vicinity, and found her charging at him from behind. Just as he rose his blade to deflect the anticipated attack, a bare foot connected with his cheek, staggering him again. Anger bubbled underneath his skin, like a fire ready to burst out. She slithered back into the darkness as quickly as she came, smirking at him, amplifying his irritation.

“What are you fighting for, “Titan”?” she mocked again, her voice clearly echoing through the room. “You were once a proud warrior. A defender of the innocent. To have fallen so low.” he sensed her again, this time from the side, he dodged back, protecting his face and held his saber in front of him to keep her at bay, but she slid below his guard and delivered and kick to the groin. Mirus’ whole body shuddered from the blow and the Arconan groaned in pain as he felt the hit reverberate through every inch of his core. He pushed it all back, anger and desperation mixing into a volatile concoction in his mind, replacing the pain.

As the Neti slid back into the dark, she could feel Mirus’ rage boiling beneath the surface, inching closer to explosion and utter devastation. She pushed further.

“What are you fighting for?” Vorsa yelled now, atop her lungs and the sound carried as she charged him again. This time, though, he was ready. Sensing her approach enough to evade her fist, he grabbed her by the throat and squeezed hard. She coughed against the pressure but otherwise remained still.

“Enough.” Mirus hissed through his teeth, his anger now palpable through the iron grip. “Enough of your riddles. Enough of your perceived superiority. Enough!”

“Not...nearly enough.” she managed to say through the pressure. “You are...unworthy,” she continued, “to carry the...mantle of Titan.” she spat at him with equal anger. “You are unworthy....of the title carried by the defender...of the weak. You are nothing but a vague...shadow of what he was. A meager...existence against...the darkness in your soul.”

Mirus roared at her insult, raising the nearly foot taller woman from the floor and tossing her back into one of the cubicle walls. The glass shattered from the impact and Vorsa yelped as the blow disorientated her and shattered glass cut her rough skin. Mirus approached her, fire and brimstone filling his eyes with vengeance. He would not stand for this insult, he could not.

The Neti gathered herself quickly enough to evade his boot to her face. She rolled and jumped to her feet, gripping her wounded side with one hand, spitting sap from her mouth. She was bruised and bloodied but still able to fight.

“What are you fighting for now, Mirus?” she mocked again “For a Clan? For a Master? For yourself?” she paused a mere second, “Has the mad Kyataran truly dragged you so far from your intended purpose that you have become self-destructive? How can you not see that you have fallen so low, not because others have dragged you down, but because you have let yourself be drowned in hate and rage? The Dark Side always leads to death, Hi’ija. Always to death, never life or happiness.” she bellowed at him. Her expression was that of worry and disappointment more than any sort of anger. It was worry for a once dear friend turned destructive, on himself and others. Mirus moved towards her, a deep frown painting his face.

“What do you fight for if not for her?” she finally said and Mirus stopped, stunned by the clear mention of his wife, Rhiann. “What will you do, “Titan”? What will the failed, worthless warrior you have become do when they have a blade to Rhiann’s throat and you are unable to defend her? What then, Mirus Hi’ija?” the Neti screamed at him. “She will die if you follow the course you have taken. She will die because you have chosen the wrong path. Because you both have. You profess love through your so called philosophy but love cannot co-exist with rage and fear. Fear of losing someone so close to you you would die with them rather than live without.” her face took on a painful expression.

“You were once a defender, now you only destroy. Whatever you touch, you murder and everything you love will be destroyed because you were too weak to resist.” she yelled at him, his expression that of simultaneous shock and pain.

“If the two of you continue on this path, they will order Rhiann to kill me." her demeanor changed again, a deep frown replacing the pain her face displayed only moments ago, "And Rhiann will die, Mirus. By their hands,” her lightsaber ignited again with a snap-hiss, “or eventually, mine.”

Crystalline eyes locked upon the form of the circling Light-sider, their blades the only true light in the darkness around them. "Do you know me, V'yr Vorsa?" roared the Titan of New Tython in response. "Do you know who I am, what I was?"

Vorsa had fought alongside Mirus so long while wearing the mantle of Light - though he had worn it as a tattered rag, never truly as a blinding blade of justice. Every Odanite had ever thought that he was one of their kindred spirits, but no; he was little more than a spy. His position in the House had been specifically to watch their movements. When Muz Ashen had recalled Mirus to his side, then he had obeyed without question, recovering a Dark Side artifact on the way out - one that the Summit had thought destroyed - and delivered it to the Grand Master as tribute. Her momentary confusion at his response belied a lack of information, not shock at his retort.

"I was never loyal to Torun. Or to Kituri. Or to Odan-Urr. I was loyal to my Master and he rewarded me. He brought me back to life, in exchange for my fealty. I served the Lion. He resurrected me, Vorsa. Do you not understand that? My loyalty was never to the Light - only ever to Ashen. The man who did more than the pathetic Light Side ever could. He was a god."

"And now he is dead to me," the Titan spat, words stinging like venom against the ears of a mildly-stunned V'yr Vorsa. This fact about Mirus she had not known. His death was a quiet thing - and his subsequent resurrection at the hands of Muz Ashen and the crazed Sith magics of Clan Naga Sadow a surprising thing to the ears of many when they found out. Such a secret was known to the Summit of Naga Sadow, to Muz Ashen, to Rhiann and to Turel - none outside that circle knew of his death and rebirth. For him to scorn the man that had raised him anew was a surprising thing. "He is dead. He has failed. He is an exile, an outcast. He is not a factor in my life. I care not for him."

The teal blade levelled again, this time in a twisted, two-handed grip. Mirus talking so much was such a rarity that Vorsa was caught off-guard. The stinging barbs had only served to sharpen his senses, if anything. After all, rage was Mirus' most powerful and potent weapon. He had turned blind anger into one of the sharpest blades he could ever possibly wield. In her taunts, in her diatribe, the Herald had committed one major mistake, one she should have known very specifically not to: threaten his wife.

Neither struck yet. Vorsa was more curious as to what he had to say and Mirus sought desperately for just another moment to gather his thoughts and turn them into strength.

"What do I fight for? Myself. My family. Me, my wife and my brother, Turel," he growled, raising his blade high for a moment before he sank into the absolute darkness of his anger, the place that he belonged. Many would consider it a weakness to be blinded by rage. For the Titan, it was the greatest gift he could consider. At this point his rage was beyond compare. To seek to take the one thing he loved above all else from him was a sin. A crime. Punishable only by death. The wellspring of emotions dammed by logic burst forth in that instant, becoming his absolute everything.

"You have just threatened her. You, who would seek to elevate her. You would take her from me. Then I will kill you right now - and the rest shall fall!"

Vorsa frowned deeper. He didn't get it.

Without a single word, Vorsa shot forward, dashing across the darkened space without a single moment's hesitation. A friend forsaken, lost to eternity. A bond that, while tenuous, was still present - shattered like a thousand shards of glass. The Herald knew immediately she had perhaps committed a slight error. She should have considered his nature, his training. Had she overlooked his ability to handle such taunts by being short of information? There was only one answer to that: cut him down before he became more of a threat.

Vorsa's immediate charge was answered metaphysically as Mirus' speed immediately went to overpower her raw ability. The Arconan preferred an older trick practised in the Brotherhood, one that still held true: using telekinetic ability to deliver a physically-powered strike. When the strength of the wielder was suitably amplified, so too was the blow; and in this particular form Mirus was at his absolute physical peak. Between his exceptionally rigorous conditioning and his even more vigorous telekinetic training regimen, his ability to deliver point-blank invisible strikes was almost perfect.

But there was no time to clash blades again as Mirus stamped down while they closed, slamming her backwards without hesitation at maximum force towards her cubicle. For her to close and attack him, she had to come within his reach, meaning a perfect distance to strike through the Force. With such strength behind his onslaught against her comparatively frail body, to the Neti it felt like she had just been smashed with the mythical tank that Mirus had supposedly once grappled with. She fell back in that instant, sent flying by the pure kinetic wave - and then her body became the missile with which the crystal shattered like what friendship they had perhaps ever had.

A thrust of his hand - a second assault, moments later. A second palm strike. A third invisible blow. It was like being slapped with an entire wall, unseen and all-present.

To suffer one such disorienting strike was a difficult thing. She could feel her body reeling. Under the fury of the second she could feel bones beginning to break, her body not quite prepared to handle such raw physical might. After the third, her mind began to swim uncontrollably with bile rising in her mouth, her stomach evacuating a moment later in a rather disturbingly green and amber pile. Maybe she should not have enraged him to the point of no return - such anger could be a powerful weapon.

In her heart, she knew it would consume him. It would have his love slain by the hands of others due to his own immeasurable hubris. In time, it would serve as his undoing too; everything he had ever known would be torn from the Galaxy by the shadowy force that was the Dark Council. The longer he walked this path, the closer Mirus came to complete annihilation.

She tried, desperately, to recover her breath. Her body all but utterly refused to respond with the wind knocked out of her sails. Mirus, meanwhile, was feeling the fatigue of his rage follow through - the difference was that the Force was considerably more with Mirus at this point, given that it was taking a fair amount of energy just to control the blinding pain in what felt like every part of her body. Her lightsaber wavered as she tried to raise it but the splintered structure of her arm refused. It clattered to the floor, its orange glow dissipating to leave only the woman behind.

Mirus did not care for such minutiae. The exhaustion in his body would pass. The shattering of her spine would not.

He strode forward, lightsaber held low in two hands as those unholy blue eyes blazed with a fury even as his face looked worn and haggard, barely able to continue the fight. He was so incredibly exhausted from a long and brilliant period of channelling his anger as his weapon. But he did not care.

By the time she managed to barely stand on a shattered leg, Vorsa could see the hulking form of the Titan of New Tython - and it was the last thing she knew as he drove his blade through her heart like a savage tribal spear, claiming her life in that instant

Her severed head would make a suitable desk decoration for Grand Master Pravus - and would serve as a reminder to the Usurper that he, just like his followers, could be slain.

The Prelate’s eyes saw only red. Blatantly threatening his wife? Insults like that could never stand. This alien was no friend of his. She wasn’t even the same person as the one he knew on New Tython. Vorsa had changed since, and now something else replaced who he once considered an impregnable persona.

He lunged forward, a wordless warcry on his lips, igniting his saber as he closed the distance. His rage was powerful, shaking the very fabric of the Force inside the room. Saber crashed against saber as the Neti attempted to dodge Mirus’ mighty blows, or deflect them enough to move out of the way. Even her enhanced speed was just barely enough to keep her alive, and she knew she couldn’t last long against him.

As the juggernaut pushed her back, into one of the corners between the cubicles, he struck from on high, slashing diagonally against her block. The sheer strength of the blow buckled her left knee to the floor and her pushed back against the cubicle glass as the Titan put his weight into the hit. They were in a saber lock, one that she had to escape from. The Neti concentrated on the space between them growing ever smaller with each passing moment. Mirus pushed against her block, and sooner or later he would dismember her.

Pressure rose between them as Vorsa sent a telekinetic blast against the Obelisk, briefly pushing him backwards. In a mere moment the Obelisk's blade slashed horizontally towards her head, but Vorsa dropped below the strike, extending her legs and smashing the soles of her feet into the front of his knees with all the might she could muster. The Obelisk buckled forward in surprise just as she moved out of the way.

Stepping away from her opponent to catch her breath and plan her next move, Vorsa disengaged her lightsaber and remained hidden. Mirus span about, now recovered but still seething with fury.

“Where are you!” he bellowed at the darkness. His opponent was irksome, shifty and full of tricks. She got to his nerves, his baser feelings - jealousy, anxiety, arrogance.

”Take time to prepare, and win the battle.” her thoughts echoed in his mind. ”Know your enemy and yourself, and win the battle.” she conveyed another.

“Enough of your games, witch. I’ll murder you before Rhiann ever gets to do it. Neither you nor they will take her from me.” the Obelisk yelled, spreading his consciousness through the room. He needed not look long. Vorsa’s orange blade extended not fifteen feet from him behind the cubicle, issuing a challenge.

“Bring your enemy to their knees, and win the battle.” she completed her monologue with assured confidence as Mirus suddenly felt his whole body ache. Every muscle fiber and nerve pulsated with pain and fatigue. It was failing him, even as he faced his opponent with pride.

“Do you not see, Mirus?” Vorsa said as she walked around the cubicle towards him, “Do you not see where the Dark path is leading you?” with a rush of air she attacked the Obelisk again, giving him only mere moments to catch a breath. Now Vorsa was on the offensive, quickened by the power of the Force. She jabbed at Mirus’ titanic defenses, but the fatigued warrior could barely catch up. Slowly Peacekeeper pushed him back, towards the same corner she was in not a minute earlier.

A low jab with her saber finally penetrated his defenses and grazed his left thigh, scorching skin and robe. Not a sound escaped him, but she knew his defense was buckling. Concentrating all her attacks on his left side, Vorsa finally broke through. Her shin connected with the Prelate’s left thigh, worsening the wound already sustained. It was enough to throw him on one knee. Finally she stepped away, pointing her blade at his face.

“If this continues, one of us truly will die, Mirus. Is that what either of us want?” she asked as evenly as her condition allowed. He breathed heavily against the pain, gritting his teeth.

“If anyone’s going to die, it’ll be you.” the Prelate replied, raising his saber again.

That time was all it took for Vorsa to calm down. She deactivated her own blade in response and dropped it to the floor.

“Come then and finish it.” She said just as the Obelisk picked himself up and charged her, with as much speed as he could muster in his condition. Just as the teal blade came close enough to the Neti, she moved with inhuman speed, deftly dodging the straightforward blow. Her lightsaber jumped into her hand, activating in the air as she positioned herself on Mirus’ weak left side and behind him. She stabbed backwards, her inverted grip awkward and untrained, but efficient.

The Prelate looked in shock and horror as the orange blade pierced his abdomen, scorching his lower intestines. Vorsa tugged her blade out of her adversary, now reaching out as if to mentally choke her against all odds. Within moments he fell into a dreamless blackness.

“Will he live?” Vorsa’s raspy, accented yet familiar voice echoed through the medical bay, contrasted by the beeping and clicking of machinery. She hated the smell of it more than anything else. Disinfectants left a horrid after-smell in her nose thats he could hardly get rid of.

“Yes. He shall recover. Operative within five standard days.” the 2-1B droid replied with a mechanical buzz. “His condition is improving.”

“Good. You must not let him die.” Vorsa replied with a smile as she approached the bacta tank holding her friend. She placed a hand on the glass and hung her head. She had failed, again. She had failed her friend by not convincing him of his own doom. All the trickery and lies she told him pained her more than they had him, and even now she cursed the moment she moved away from the final blow. She cursed her foolish response which caused Mirus to be in this condition, but she knew that had she not done so she would have been dead.

”I pushed you too far, my friend. I am sorry.” she sent him a thought over the ether, though she knew he couldn’t hear her. His body twitched in response, making her back away slightly. She smiled. Did he react to her or the bacta? Who knew. But his lively response gave her hope that they will see eachother again. She would succeed eventually, and one day the Titan of New Tython would take his true place again - by her side, standing against the multitudes that threaten them.

She gave him one more look, a smile gracing her lips, as she slowly limped from the medical bay.