New Tython
Two clicks from Menat Ombo

The retrorockets from the landing ships scorched the verdant grass to a dead brown. At a dozen yards, some of the less cautious Equites had pried open the bay doors and flung themselves down, landing on the surface like a swarm of insects.

A plague of Sith.

The Jedi were less than prepared for the onslought. Only a few guardians and sentinels were working in this area, training and meditating when the ships came down. They barely had time to light their sabers before they were engulfed.

A zabrak plowed to the front of the field, pale skin and brutally manicured horns finding their way into her stomach with a cruel headbutt.

Shala Bounded backwards, bringing her turqouise blade to bear as she pushed her mind past the pain in her stomach. The zabrak smiled, flinging himself at her with orgiastic abandon, the bloodshine of his blade reflected in predatory eyes.

She deflected the first few strikes easily enough, using patience and discipline to counter the Sith's rage-fueled furnace of combat. There was another, hooded in black, watching them go through the motions with passive eyes. This must have been the master.

She pushed forward, her blade rerouting to a defensive shield of Soresu.

It was too late. The Zabrak slipped under her guard, his hand against her chest as her back grew warm. Her fingers slipped, the lovingly crafted durasteel cylinder clattering to the ground to crush blades of grass at her feet.

The last thing she saw was the cloaked one grow closer. Her mind immediately imagined the pale skull of Death behind the shadow as her vision went dark.

Leather gloved fingers closed around the prize. The wet sound of flesh hitting soil resounded beside him as the Zabrak released his prey. He turned to eye the pale and horned one.

Who was this upstart? Invictus's veiled eyes searched the Zabrak's dark robes for some sort of symbol, some clan markings. It could be Cethgus, he couldn't tell. The Sith stereotype of tatooed and pale Zabrak were just as faceless as he made himself be on the battlefield.

The Zabrak was fast, Invictus gave him credit for that. He was on him in a heartbeat, clenching fingers into the fabric at his chest while he sneered through shattered teeth.

"Mine." The words hissed from deep in the Zabrak's throat.

The Chiss moved more out of instinct and muscle memory than anything else, his blade scorching through the air at the Zabrak's throat as easily as he breathed. The hood fell back, his hair long enough to graze the cuirass of his specialized armor.

No. This couldn't be Cethgus. He wouldn't have died so easily, or as well. Invictus sneered, pulling his hood back up and moving on, the prize tucked behind his belt.

---

The Gand watched the holofeed passively, his hands flat on the table across from the Human. His hair had greyed at the temples significantly since they had last met. The hooded one swung his blade, killing a fellow Sith just for the lightsaber of the Jedi he had just killed.

Honor? Only one man in the Brotherhood had it, he had thought, and now that they were here, he had reason to doubt even that.

Michael Halcyon nodded. "You've seen this reckless hate before."

Ji made not a move.

"They need to be purged."

He watched as the Chiss raised his hood and walked away without so much as a second thought. Would this alliance kill him, kill the hope he had for Odan Urr, for redemption?

"All you need to do is say the word."

Ji turned slowly to look at the human, the sound of the atmospheric concentrator hissing beneath his voice.

"Aye."

Michael nodded, restraining a smile as he turned away, raising a communicator. Jonuss stepped forward, pushing back his hood as he stepped. "Are you certain?"

Ji looked at the Quaestor with resignation. What choice had they?

---

The whole planet was encapsulated with Sith ships, each staying with their allies, careful to not engage each other, lest the conquest become so bloody that they all be punished. Taldryan's ships mingled with Naga Sadow's above the sector of the planet they had scoped out. The Dark Council fleet was not there yet, and that surprised Consul and COmmander alike. They moved slowly, like aquatic acrobats, a few fighters decanting from the carriers as the young or powerful decided to make their way down to the carnage on the surface.

In only a moment, it became hell.

The blur of hyperspace erupted, Dreadnaughts scorching the space between ships, carbon scoring tearing hulls asunder before they had a chance to react. Fast transports shot through the blockade, hurtling to the soil with alarming speed and accuracy, threading between capital ships and avoiding fire.

---

The heavy armor seethed from the new arrivals, the classic armor painted in a million shades, yet all bearing the crimson handprint as they tore into those who would be predators.

The mercenaries bore every weapon imagineable. Crew-served blaster cannons, waist mounted heavy blasters, pistols, flamethrowers. They pierced the heart of them, surprise driving their blade into them.

No longer was this what the Sith expected.

Now it was war.

Zandro and Sashar bailed away from the front, watching as the Mandalorian armor tore through the Arconan rank, seeing them take cover, try to regroup. The commlinks were lousy with shouting and chaos. It wasn't only their own men. The bastards had sliced into their comm channels and were broadcasting senseless noise into their channels: screams and cries meant to demoralize them.

Sashar just turned it off.

Switching to atmospheric sound, he motioned at the Consul to do the same. Zandro nodded briefly in recognition.

"Did you see what clan they were from?" Sashar recognized on some level the blood-colored handprint, but he couldn't place from where. It was so familiar, but the recognition evaded him like a name on the tip of his tongue.

"Not really." Zandro checked the power cell of his favorite blaster. "Ordo, maybe?"

Sashar sneered, not that anyone could have seen it under his helmet. "Don't we know an Ordo?"

The snap of durasteel and dry foliage interrupted the thought process. They both turned to see the recent arrival. A thermal detonator.

There wasn't enough time to move, let alone pelt it away from them with the Force.

There was only time to swear.

---

New Tython
Temporary Operating Base, Clan Arcona

"HUD shows that Sashar and Zandro just got fragged, sir." Socorra turned away from the console as Wuntila moved closer.

"Life signs?" The Proconsul barked.

"Decent. Maybe unconsious?"

"By Slice, Zandro...Every single time?" Wuntila paused. "Do we still have GPS on them?"

Socorra punched her monitor savagely. "Not anymore I don't. Just went black."

Wuntila turned with a snap. "Rally Soulfire Squadron to their last known location."