The Resistance leader could not even scream her denial. A thousand explosions pounded her brain when the Grand Master unleashed a salvo of Dark Side energy against her consciousness, a thousand realizations of impending and unavoidable disaster. She leaped from her throne, slender hands twisting and clenching in the air as though they were trying to find something tangible to grasp, something that wasn’t there.
Atyiru’s breath rasped in labored gasps and wordless snarls issued from her gulping mouth. After a moment in which she could not calm herself, she heard one sound more clearly than the din of her own contortions. Behind her came the slight hiss of the wicked blade of opportunity. The Shadow Lady spun about there, and there stood Teylas, his face grimly and determinedly set and his blade between them.
“I had hoped that my time of ascension would be many years away,” the upstart Consul said calmly. “But you are weak, Atyiru, too weak to hold the First Clan together in the trials that will follow our-your-failure.”
Atyiru wanted to laugh in the face of her attacker’s foolishness. For some reason, though, she could not find the courage or conviction to refute her aggressor at that moment. She watched, mesmerized, as Teylas’ arm slowly reared back and then shot forward. The blade unfurled its deadly edge toward the Consul of Arcona. The teeth of the blade came on eagerly and dived into Atyiru’s flesh with all the Dark Lord’s fury behind them. Searing agony coursed through Atyiru’s body, jolting and racking her and leaving an icy numbness in its wake.
Teylas stepped over her fallen husk and climbed the perfectly ornate steps to the Serpentine Throne. Despite what would come next, he could not help but smile at the simple pleasure of being the First Consul of the Dark Brotherhood.