In the planet of dangerous myths, shocking fables and unspoken legends, there is also beauty in this world. Dispersed around the untamed planet are flaws; cracks formed through thousands of years. Water rushing and destroying cliffs, racing and scooping away the soil beneath your feet and digging crevices untouched by all but a handful of explorers from ages long past. Isolated at the southern tip of Ilum, this particular ravine close to the planet’s core darkens deeper down until the bottom remains a mystery. The benefit of this is that no-one heads directly down instead using technology to bore a tunnel from the nearby glacier. Uncharted and unexplored, this region is a place of nightmares for those who venture to its depths. The half-eaten carcasses of the explorers who met an untimely end litter the ravine’s descent, remaining as a warning to those who might venture too far. Whether these men and women fell to their deaths, or were murdered remains a question in the long-lost histories of the ravine.

In front of you is the base floor of the ravine. Opening only at random times because of the glacier sheet, you used the bore tunnel to find your way here. This level is pitch black and a headlamp was given before you left for the planet. The sides of the ravine stretch vertically, as if they scrape the whistling and snowy clouds above. On each side of the walls, various ports and alcoves distinguish in the light. Some are known to be rivers of purified water, and you can tell this by the icicles forming on the lip of the tunnel. Others were temporary shelter for climbers. But with some luck, you may find the permafrost chamber tucked into its haunted depths. A vast room of permafrost crystals rarely found, and thought only to be on Hoth.

Glinting like candlelight against the unforgiving darkness of the deep and untrodden cave, multi-coloured clusters of lightsaber crystals reflect the light into the deepest crevices from the surface. Untouched for a millennia, the value in this chamber once sparked an entire battle between the Old Republic and the Empire. Be warned - caution must be exercised, or you might find yourself joining those who came before.

Bitter, unforgiving cold crept up her bark as she sat in a lotus position, square in the middle of the massive chamber. Damp and heavy air permeated the cave like a memory from the ancient past. It was quiet and peaceful, interrupted only by the occasional drip-drop of water on ice. Like so many times before, she had come here to meditate, to this ancient chamber where so many of her Jedi companions finished their Trials of Knighthood — where she did so, as well.

The Neti General remained deep in concentration, focusing on the metallic rings and plastic components floating in front of her. The fiery orange crystal spun in front of her nose, gleaming in the pale iridescent light. The saber hilt slowly came together as Vorsa spread her senses to the rest of the cave, listening, and feeling her surroundings through the Force. She could feel him approach through the same passage she had used some time ago: a powerful presence. Unlike any she had yet faced.

Footsteps echoed in the cave as the newcomer approached and Vorsa steeled her resolve once more. The Mandalorian made no attempts to cover his approach or, indeed, his intent. It was all very clear: he was here to fight.

“Sashar Erinos,” Vorsa whispered calmly, still maintaining her concentration on the saber. “What brings you to me?”

“You know me?! Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Sashar halted a mere dozen feet from the meditating Herald.

“I know of you, Erinos,” she motioned for the hilt. With a last click of the metallic rings it lay flat in her palm, ready to be ignited. The Herald stood up in one agile motion, facing her adversary. “I have heard of your exploits, and your victories. Your prowess in combat is,” she paused for a moment, considering her words, “impressive.”

“I didn’t come here to hear praise, Jedi. I don’t need it to know who and what I am.” The Arconan shifted, shrugging out of a heavy coat, remaining only in relatively light winter clothing.

“Are you one more assassin sent by the many multitudes that think a Jedi should not seat on the Council?” she snapped back, clearly beyond any more wish for games.

Sashar paused a moment as he observed her curiously, a barely discernible smirk creasing his features. “You really think I care about those di’kutla Sith?” He nearly chuckled at the thought. “No, I’m here to see if you really are the General everyone seems to praise so much. I’m here to bash your skull in and see if you’re worth anything more than weak words.”

The Mandalorian wasn’t lying, that much was certain: his confident posture and suppressed, cocky demeanor spoke volumes. Still, this would be the toughest bout she had ever fought. Sashar Arconae was no whelp. If she had any hope in standing against Arcona one day, she had to know them. And knowing the Erinos Patriarch… Vorsa’s lips parted in an indulging smile as her saber came to life with a shrill.

“Know your enemy and win any battle, or so says the ancient dictum,” she twirled the blade around deftly, getting used to its gyroscopic effect again. “Let us test it.” The Neti charged, crossing the distance in the time it took Sashar to raise his blade.

The fiery blade slashed and pierced up and around the adept, trying to find an opening in the barrier created by his steadfast teal shoto. Sashar dodged and parried every attack from every odd angle almost effortlessly, nary a sweat drop showing on his brow. He withdrew slowly, taking the brunt of the attacks and dissipating them aside like water on rock. It was strategy. Pulling his enemy in, baiting her into an advantageous position, and she did bite.

Sashar bit down on his smirk as Vorsa trudged over slippery ice, sliding ever so slightly every several steps. They reached one of the crystal-lined walls when Sashar reached out with his free hand, gripping the crystals with a telekinetic grip. With lightning speed and force, he pulled the crystals from their place and tossed them at his assailant.

The Herald’s enhanced senses, alarmed and at attention, picked up the subtle clues. She was already shifting from her offensive stance when the assault came. The Neti flew through the air, making an elegant, inverted pirouette over the swift projectiles. She landed several feet from the adapt, quickly taking to the attack again.

Vorsa ‘s blade danced a dazzling waltz around the Adept, carving up air, ice and rock all around him, even his baggy pants and winter top, with deadly precision — but never him. He was too good, and she knew it from the start. Sashar Arconae was no easy opponent. She had studied Arcona’s Mandalorians in detail during their ‘alliance’ against O’reen: in scrutinizing detail. The man in front of her was one of their best.

Erinos blocked another attack from the left, swiftly shifting his weight to block the next one from on high. He held a perfect stance against the swift Neti, turning every blow she tried to place. It didn’t frustrate her as much as intrigue her. This, unlike many other duels, was not unlike a true battlefield where strategies had to be devised to down an enemy, and brute force or lighting speed would not suffice. To defeat a superior foe, one must gain an advantage.

The Herald withdrew, seeing her enemy’s defenses were quite impenetrable. Reaching out with her free hand and her mind, she yanked on the icicle directly above the Adept, pulling it in his direction. With a crack the large piece of ice slammed down on the slippery surface below, exactly where Sashar had been standing moments before. The Adept slid across the floor, towards his foe, and in one swift motion straightened himself as she attacked again.

The Arconae came up in an almost boneless motion, his saber arcing round, flashing actinic blue, The light from it was refracted countless times by the ice and the crystals. The Herald was able to rebound Sashar’s blade away while taking a hasty step back, eyes widening in alarm as the shorter Mandalorian invading her personal space. He smiled and nodded his compliments, whether at her hasty parry or at the dropping ice formation, Vorsa wasn’t sure.

I need some distance. If he stays close, I’ll be dead inside two minutes.

Sashar didn’t give her the chance, and kept up the pressure, forcing the Neti back. Her defence was elegant and unpredictable, and also the perfect counterpoint to her offence. The Jedi lanced an arm out, telekinetically seizing the debris from the fallen block of ice, and yanked them at Sashar’s back. It was a desperate gambit, one that could very well lose her arm, but it was worth it. His eyes widened in surprise and he reacted as only an Elder could. The Adept threw himself laterally, rolling over both shoulders, turning just in time to see Vorsa shunt aside most of the projectiles and bat away the others with her tangerine blade, each impact flashing like a miniature supernova.

“Not bad. I nearly missed that one,” he commented, rising up once more, the shoto in his hand almost an afterthought to his deadliness.

Vorsa sighed, brushing a chip of ice from her frond-like hair. “What is this really about, boy?”

Sashar chuckled and flourished his blade before adopting a ready stance, the blade held horizontally, close to his cheek, whilst his free hand pointed at the Herald “I already told you! I live for the fight. I want to test myself against Odan Urr’s finest. I love a good scuffle.”

There was something amiss. Sashar seemed amiable and genuine in his answer, but several lifetimes of experience screamed out in protest. He was lying. The Adept was shaken by something, but it couldn’t be her. She needed more time to get to the heart of this, and she knew that if they kept crossing blades, she would fall.

“You are lying, boy,” Vorsa remarked, her eyes picking out no less than eight projectiles within her reach she could fling at him.

Sashar’s barked laugh echoed throughout the cave, sharp and brittle like chips of broken glass. “This is what I do, darling. I fight. It’s the only thing I’m good at. Especially since Menat Ombo.”

The Herald’s eyes narrowed at the informality, but still, it didn’t feel right. “Menat Ombo? You’ve been to New Tython?”

Sashar’s eyes hardened, but he chopped out a nod, a mask of anger covering the pain. “Yeah, I’ve been to that pile of osik you call a Capital. I died there. I watched the stars as they fell from the sky and blew me and my brother to haran.”

Vorsa blinked in confusion, a shiver running through her that had nothing to do with the cold. “What are you talking about?”

Sashar wasn’t even looking at her: he seemed to be back in Menat Ombo, reliving his final moments. It was haunting to watch. If she’d had skin, it’d be crawling. “During the Ninth Great Jedi War, Zandro - my brother and Consul - and I, we stayed back, held off the Ge’tal Gaan long enough for the rest of the Arconan forces to pull back, then our fleet bombarded part of the city, wiping the last of those wannabe Mando hu’tuune from the galaxy. Also killed us.”

Sashar swallowed, his face drawn and ashen. “I came back. He didn’t.”

He left part of himself there on that day. He’s fractured now, like a cracked mirror. Less than he was, and desperately seeking an escape from survivor’s guilt. He’s also distracted.

The General was momentarily at war with herself. Her foe was hurting, and badly. As inconvenient and potentially lethal as this bout was, it was against her very nature to cause additional suffering, and this boy’s heart was like an open wound. Yet he’d sought her out. His initial reason didn’t hold water, though. There was something more he was after. Absolution, maybe, or even just answers. However, her own survival was more important than some soldier’s battle with his demons. V’yr Vorsa was no good to anybody dead.

She telekinetically grabbed a pair of fist-sized shards of ice, and hurled them at the Mandalorian.

Clairvoyance from the Force appeared to be his only warning. Sashar turned faster than blinking, and his shoto cut into both of them, instantly melting the ice. Steam enveloped his chest and face, causing him to take a hasty step back, but the Neti was already on him, stabbing her saber in low and at his stomach. Sashar’s agility saved him once more, and he twisted to one side, leaning away from the lunge. For his efforts, his life was saved, but a long, deep burn reddened his skin across his abdomen, charring in parts. He swore viciously and punched her in the face with his free hand, knocking her to the floor.

Vorsa rolled and managed to get her feet under her, but nearly recoiled at the sight of the Adept rounding on her, his rage showing through his expression like a cracked mask.

“Who exactly are you angry at? Me for distracting you, or you for letting me see what the real Sashar feels?” the Herald asked, readying herself for the onslaught.

Sashar’s shoto danced with all the grace of a winter wind, matched almost equally by Vorsa’s own crimson blade. The Adept pressed forward and, with every mighty blow, pushed Vorsa back. She moved around his attacks, parrying and dodging in equal measure as they danced around the massive stone pillars lining the chamber. Sashar was slower on the offense, but every time Vorsa tried to push him away and take over the dance, she was pushed back just as swiftly.

Instead, she maintained her defense, only ever jabbing at him when the opportunity presented itself. Patience was her best weapon, as well as her surroundings. Seeing a small opening, Vorsa took the last strike head on, leaning into the Adept’s guard just enough to tip his balance. The Mandalorian swiftly regained his posture but in doing so gave Vorsa enough room to escape his onslaught. With a Force-enhanced leap, she found herself far away and in one of the many alcoves lining the massive walls.

“Out of all your comrades, Sashar Arconae, I understand you best,” she spoke up, her deep voice echoing through the chamber. Sashar followed her up, but as he landed she jumped into another alcove, evading him entirely.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, dala,” he replied with an audible frustration at her game of ‘cat and mouse.’ “Stop and face me, if you’re as great a warrior as they say.”

“No,” the statement rang through the cavern, though spoken softly. Sashar followed her again and she jumped out of the way. “You came here not to fight me, but yourself.”

A growl escaped the Adept as he ricocheted off of the alcove wall directly towards Vorsa. The Mandalorian crossed the distance in a heartbeat, slamming his saber down on her. Blade caught blade as they remained in a saber lock, the stronger Adept overpowering the Neti.

“You are here to rediscover yourself, Human,” Vorsa spoke through her teeth, pushing against his monstrous strength as best she could, to no avail. He pressed her down to one knee before the teal blade grazed her hood and singed its edges. The smell of burnt cloth filled Sashar’s nostrils as he pushed further. He would kill her if need be. It was the warrior’s way, after all.

Extending her other leg underneath his own, Vorsa slid in between Sashar’s legs just as his saber was about to slice her head in two. She delivered a clumsy slash to his back, which the Adept deflected without fuss. He turned towards her again just as she delivered a blow to his iron defenses again.

Swift as a vronskr looking for prey, she attacked, seemingly from three or four angles at once. Sashar blocked and dodged. Quicker, stronger and better trained than her, he far outmatched whatever she could throw at him — but she did so anyway, because she needed to, as much as he did. Memories emerged in the Neti. Memories of times long past and friends long gone. Battlefields long since won and lost. Truly, of all people, she knew his wounds best.

“You are not the only one that knows pain, Mandalorian.” Even through her tranquil and even voice, Sashar could hear and feel what she meant. “I have died over a million deaths, and a million again. For nearly sixty years I have remained in a cycle of death and destruction the likes of which many of your self-proclaimed warriors would cower under and die.” Her eyes were as cold as the grave, dead inside whenever she recalled her many mistakes and her many regrets. They were the same as his.

“Do not tell me of death, for I have seen its toll far too many times—” she swallowed her words as Sashar delivered another punch to her face, rattling the teeth in her jaw. The Neti fell back, leaning into the blow to lessen the impact. She managed a swift slash at his saber, knocking it aside momentarily. The Neti delivered a kick to the side of his head, enough to stagger him and give her time to recuperate.

Both opponents tumbled back and away, narrowly missing each other’s blades. Sashar rubbed the side of his head as Vorsa adjusted her jaw, both their expressions remaining the same. Vorsa had respect for the man, at least. He truly was a warrior worthy of her skills — maybe even a rival on the battlefield some day. “I wish I could have been there for the Invasion of New Tython,” she spoke through the pain, adjusting her jaw some more before continuing. “It would have been...challenging battling against you then.” Her left hand dropped to her saber, gripping it tightly.

“So, I’m not the challenge you expected?” The adept’s eyes squinted.

“On the contrary, Mandalorian,” finally the General smirked with glee. “You are the challenge I have been waiting for.” She charged again.