**Location Redacted

Plagueis Command Centre**

The taste of ash made him want to spit. Pride kept it in his mouth, as bitter as his anger made him. The conquest of Khar Delba and Nfolgai had made them hungry. It made them remember what they were, not frightened children, tested only against ragtag militias and the occasional rogue Jedi. No.

They Were Sith.

And they would quench their steel in the blood of their foes. They followed the path of the Dark Emperor, growing their power as they stole victories at Sorzus Syn's Mausoleum, at Naga Sadow's False Citadel. They harvested their power, grew their pride.

And Sadow sowed their rage.

Tra'an had been careful so far, his counsel with Eiko and Ronovi helping him decide which of the theaters had the most advantage for himself, for Plagueis. They had been astute, moving their forces in silence, quick shuttles deploying while the others were still moving heavy battlecruisers into place. It was an advantage that they used to good effect, and the praise was heaped on them.

They would have their choice of the spoils.

But it was not their home.

The venom all but frothed from the Sadows, and it seemed that the Lion was encouraging it. Rage would drive their blades to be faster. Hatred would coat their weapons. And the chains that they had made for themselves of nobility, of inheritance, of restraint... They were breaking them. He could see it.

Sadow was coming for them.

He called them in, fewer than last time. Several hadn't reported back after Khar Delba. Unacceptabe losses, but those he would have to work around. He had heard rumors that Taldryan would be headed to the same field this time, weary of fighting Arcona. They expected an easy victory. He would have to be better than before. He would have to prove that it wasn't a fluke. He had to be ready.

---

**Sadow Palace

Sepros, Orian System**

In the dark, he coiled around the fear, feeding it until it became rage. She stood there, smiling, the sweet ichor of lazy failure dripping from her lips. Her lies meant to comfort him, to help him sleep. He couldn't. Not after Macron had disappeared to tend to his own maddening demons. Not after his Proconsul had left, seeking answers somewhere in the deep. Not after he lost another quaestor, and they had done nothing. Her words were carefully chosen to calm him.

They had the opposite effect.

She kept talking of supplication, of measured responses, of genteel discussions with the enemy. Of how victory wasn't that important. How nothing was important, compared to their birthright. That the politics of the Council would see them granted their due. That their friends in high places would undo the damage wrought upon their psyche on the battlefield. She kept talking, her Coruscanti accent somehow strange to him as the words became sounds, disembodied and formless, the ideas gone from them. She mouthed platitudes, just as she had been trained to do. Her voice kept going.

Yet all he could hear was the weakness of the sleepers.

"Tell the masters..." Locke spoke slowly, his voice as mirthless as the grave.

It wasn't a heartbeat before his hand was around her pale throat, rage burning through his blood, muscles laughing as they lifted the woman from the floor, her eyes widened by the sudden display of strength, at how quickly the Force answered the Consul's call.

"Talk will cost us our birthright."

His other hand flickered in the dark of the private chamber, her only warning before the Force erupted from his hand, the dull roar of power punctuated with the cracking of her ribcage, of the shattering of her spine. He watched her eyes well up, the pale skin of a woman bred for gentler purposes purpling under his grip, shock deadening her pain.

He dropped her, motioning for the black-armored guard to take her away as she passed out. She would have plenty of time to scream later.

The sons would not be happy with him.

It suited him well. He was not happy with them. And if they were not willing to bleed for their name, at least he would. He would embody all that he was taught, all he was raised to be. They had grown fat, complacent. They forgot the joy of combat, the thrill of victory. They had forgotten that they had to fight for their destiny. He hadn't forgotten, and he would make the Clan remember.

Locke knew where his destiny lay.

It was in conquest.

He would not fail.

---

**Belarus-class cruiser Impenetrable

Bhargebba Orbit**

Liam paced the room warily, hands clasped behind his back. His Jedi were in transport to the fleet as he stepped. He could feel their signatures getting stronger, their essences more clearly in view. The quaestor of the Brotherhood's only light sided house paused, his mind's eye reaching out across the world that spun below them.

This was his chance. This was their only chance.

This paradise would not fall under the shadow of the Sith once more. He would not allow them to defile it. He could not allow them to...

He felt the seed in the back of his mind grow, the same as he felt another of his Jedi grow nearer. To feel their deaths in the force would jar his senses, make him recall those dark times. Before.

Revak and Morotheri stood silent, watching him with eyes wrapped in bandages, the Force telling them all that his heart told him.

Fear.

Liam stopped, breathing deep, letting his mind be still for a moment, letting his breaths take the poison emotion from him, giving his heart time to remember the code.

The green gem beyond the transparisteel needed him, needed them all. The Force cried out to them, pleaded with them, demanded that they act. He shoved the fear aside. There was no death, there was only the Force.

He would not let them turn Bhargebba's grasses to dust.

---

**NSD Excidium II

Descri Wris

Hyperspace**

The Zeltron paced around the armored masses of the 31st Legion. Since reaching the rank of Dark Jedi Knight the need to truly prove his worth had become as much a part of his as the beating of his heart. This crusade was to be the single greatest opportunity of the Dark Knight’s life in the Brotherhood. Following the last two planets of failure he knew it was now or never. He could feel the peering eyes of the men around him. Soldiers took orders, but expected great leaders to deliver them. When the former apprentice of the Emperor was expected to fight along side them, Eether knew he had to deliver.

“Trying to get to know the men?” a voice rang out. It had a familiar quality yet was different enough to still be alarming to Eether. The calm eyes of Kell Dante met the Zeltron’s.

“My father worked with men in every legion we have. So have I. They know what is coming.” Dante continued.

“Do they? Do they know what really is at stake?” Eether asked. Dante laughed.

“Come on. There is a small meeting.” He gave the soldiers one last look, then followed the Zeltron through the ship, their shared silence echoing across time. They knew what was to come.

The door opened with a hushed whisper, casting pale light over the dark interior, the red holographic planet hovering before the Emperor and the Celebrity.

Xen’Mordin stared into the eyes of those who had just arrived in the conference room.

“We’ve been smashed back twice now. Enough. The Empire is strong. We grow now. I’m not about to let the Arconan’s walk away with this.” There was a fire burning in the Quaestor’s eyes. He saw it reflected each of his fellows.

“For the Empire.” Thran Occasus said with an easy grin.

“For the Empire!” Echoed Xen and the others in the room. It was do or die and each person in the room knew it. Blood boiling, Xen motioned for the greats of Scholae Palatinae move. They knew what needed to be done. War was in their very souls.

And tonight it would be let off the chain.

---

**ISD-II Eye of the Abyss II

En route to Bhargebba**

“Marick, fleet status report.”

Proconsul Marick Arconae nodded at the hologram of Arcona Consul Wuntila Arconae. “All ships in the Arcona Expeditionary Force report all stations go, Lord Consul.”

“As to be expected. Our troops?”

“Prepped and ready for deployment, Consul.”

“Most importantly, our forces?”

“All summits await your command, Consul.”

“Do you think we're ready, Marick?”

He paused and cocked his head. “Are you questioning our preparedness?”

“Not as much as I question our desire. All Clans and Houses are prepared." He paused, turning away from the display, adjusting the straps on his bracer, careful to avoid the sharpened edes of his fistblade.

"Easy victory breeds lazinees. Complacency."

Marick nodded, waiting for the man as he lowered the open faced helmet over his head. Fast hands adjusted the seals of the gorget as he continued. "If we are to claim this next prize, we must desire victory more than everyone else. Engagements between equals are won by those who thirst for victory most. Win the engagements, win the skirmish. Win the skirmishes, win the battle. Win the battles, win the war. I ask again, do you think we're ready?”

“If it's desire that you want to see, you will have more than your fill. We have five new Dark Jedi Knights since Rhelg with another three working on their trials. All desire to prove themselves worthy of their sabers. We have newly-appointed Sergeants and Second-In-Commands in Galeres. All desire to lead their troops to glory in combat. We have many new arrivals from the Shadow Academy. All desire to continue their journey on the Dark Side path. We have Equites and Elders who showed unexpected passion and energy in the recent wargames. All desire to cry Arcona Invicta over their foes' dying bodies."

Marick paused, letting the words sink in before continuing.

“So, Lord Consul, I ask you: Do you think we're ready?”

The half smile from thin blue lips was all Marick saw before the golden visor sealed the Dragon of Selen into his helmet.

“Ensign,” Marick smiled as Wuntila stepped past him. “inform all ships in the fleet to prepare for departure. Arcona is about to deliver another planet to the Dark Brotherhood...”