IC: Darth Drakul Xarxes
The Antechamber, The Tsushima
The deluge of terror in the Force was palpable for those deeply attuned. It was akin to a feeling Xarxes had only felt once before those many years ago on Korriban. In an instant, he forgot about Arach standing beside him and rushed into the next room as the Phantom of Kain dissipated.
There, he saw it: the fading form of Kain holding aloft the body of his apprentice, a bladed gauntlet sunk into the Beloved King’s side—the Lacerant Configuration, its curse turned against another. Vaer dropped to the ground as his assailant disappeared. Nearby, he heard Voidwalker breathe a sigh of relief. He was free. But Kain was gone. The trade was hardly fair.
Xarxes was stunned for a moment, attempting to process the metaphysical blade sinking into his own abdomen. The command of the Architects rang through his mind, blotting out all other thoughts. All of this, everything that he strove for, could have been lost by Vaer’s act just now. The best shot at facing the monstrous Old Ones, gone. The lives of everyone in the galaxy, Hesper, Voidwalker, those on his own planet and from beyond his reach…
Alcina!
Alcina was at risk. Xarxes knew now what it meant to Kain that Vaer had caused his wife’s death. The possibility of her loss was too palpable to him, unbearable to stand with, and his own promise echoed in his head.
Vaer had squandered that chance of mercy. There would be no more chances.
As the Kage crumpled to his knees, Xarxes spared him nothing. A telekinetic grip wrenched him from his stoop and propelled him forward, straight into the connecting fist Drakul Xarxes. The flesh of Vaer’s face exploded, flecks of blood and particles of flesh decorating the armor of his attacker. The barrage did not stop there, as blow after blow turned Vaer unrecognizable. Bone shone through what little flesh remained in a matter of moments, the ferocity of Xarxes’ strikes previously unmatched.
“
You FOOL!”
Another strike. A spray of red mist.
“
YOU’VE DOOMED US, VAER!”
Yet another. A sickening crunch.
“
I TREATED YOU AS A SON, VAER! HOW COULD YOU DISOBEY?!”
A final resounded blow. The red mist in Xarxes’ eyes dissipated, replaced by a deluge of tears as he looked at the twitching form of his former apprentice in a pool of his own blood. His face bore no resemblance to the man he had known. Bits of tissue hung from a cracked skull, a dislocated jaw with no more teeth. A limply flopping tongue dangled out of the corner of his mouth. His eyelids had been torn open, preventing him from looking away. All that Vaer could do was twitch and groan without discernibility. But he clung to life, the last vestiges of his undying hatred keeping him away from sinking into Chaos.
Xarxes stood, motioning to Darth Arach. “
Leave us, Arach. Now. I must finish what I started. You too, Jorah. This is between myself and the boy.” Darth Eschaton nodded his obtrusive head, a black tongue licking across cracked and yellowed teeth. Within moments, the room was vacant save for Master and Apprentice.
He took he in his hand his sword from its sheath, its cold blade alien even in this dark vessel. In holding it, Xarxes found some small measure of solace, a glimpse of his own sense of orderliness and composure even in the tumult of his misery. His voice, deep and resonant, broke the silence, filled with anger, disappointment, and a hint of sorrow.
“
Ah, Vaer... my apprentice, my prodigy. Look at what your hubris has wrought. In your quest for power, for glory, you have torn asunder the very fabric of our purpose. Did you truly believe your actions would go unnoticed? Unpunished?”
He paced slowly, his boots echoing in the fleshy chamber. Each step reverberated with the weight of his words.
“
You knew, Vaer. You knew the importance of Kain. A key to a lock you never understood. The Architects entrusted me, us, with the guardianship of a balance far greater than our personal conquests and ambitions. And you...you chose to throw it all into the abyss, blinded by your own short-sighted desires.”
Silence. He stopped pacing, his back turned on the near-corpse as he fought the lump in his throat. Then his expression hardened and he turned, his gaze fixed on Vaer, eyes blazing with a dark fire.
“
What pains me, Vaer, is not merely your betrayal. It's not just the disruption of cosmic plans, of destinies intertwined with the fabric of the galaxy itself. No. What grieves the core of my being is the loss... the loss of what you were meant to become. You were like a son to me, Vaer! More than an apprentice – a legacy, a continuation of a vision far beyond the mundane squabbles for power and revenge.”
He knelt beside the Kage, his voice softening as his face drew closer to Vaer’s, overladen with a sorrowful intensity.
“
In your eyes, I saw a future where the might of the Sith could be more than oppression and fear. A force to guide, to shape, to lead into an era of new strength. But that... that was a dream, a figment of a hope now as broken as your body before me.”
He removed the faceplate of his helm, revealing the face of bitter sorrow superimposed on a cold, angelic visage. He stood, turning from Vaer once more.
“
Now, I stand at a precipice, Vaer. The choice seems clear, yet it's entangled in the complexities of what was once a bond deeper than the chasms of Korriban,” His voice was clear, the Dark Lord once more in control. “
To let you live would be a folly, risking further unraveling of a tapestry too fragile, too crucial. Yet, to extinguish your life is to admit a defeat of my own... a failure in shaping you, in guiding you away from this... this abhorrent lapse.
“
Your fate, apprentice, is a mirror to my own shortcomings. But it is a mirror I must shatter to salvage what fragments remain of a grander scheme. Know this, as you gaze into the void you've so foolishly embraced: you were loved, you were valued. And it is with a heavy heart, burdened by a duty greater than us both, that I must do what is necessary."
He turned back, raising his free hand. Holy light crackled from it, bathing the room around him and forcing the fleshy bits remaining to recoil at its brightness. The power of Force Light was a truly incredible sight, signaling that Xarxes’ choice now was not only final, but was made by the most detached, painful orderliness he could muster.
“
For the greater good, for the future that must still be secured, I bid you... farewell, Vaer.”
The golden light intensified, enveloping Vaer, as Xarxes closed his eyes, a single tear escaping down his cheek. The chamber filled with a blinding light and a thunderous roar, echoing the agony of a Sith Lord torn between duty and affection, as the figure of Vaer was evaporated into ash by the purity permeating his darkness.
And Xarxes wept.
***
The Corridor, The Tsushima
Moments Later…
Darth Eschaton bowed his head as his lord reappeared in the hallway above the cargo hold, back to where he had first met on the Tsushima. “
Are you alright, my Lord? You seem under duress.” Despite being blind, Eschaton took careful note of the lightsaber and Lacerant Configuration that Xarxes now held.
“
Do not mention him, Jorah. It is not your place.” His voice was monotone, but Eschaton could still sense the anger within him.
“
Of course, my Lord. A Sith vessel awaits us outside. Perhaps you would care to travel there via escape pod?”
“
There is no time, Jorah. I will travel there as I often do. I–”
Suddenly, Xarxes clutched his chest. In the midst of all the chaos of the past several minutes, the passionate cries ravaging his mind had intensified. He went to grab at the flask at his side, the blood to dilute the spirits that caused these occasional bouts.
The flask was gone. Lost in the commotion of the night.
He nearly doubled over, clutching at his head. He could barely hear Eschaton’s voice over the ringing, like a great bell, that plagued him. The pain was intense, and with it came a sense of unease growing within him, a serpent uncoiling in the pit of his stomach. The shadows cast by the flickering lights of the corridor seem to dance mockingly, as if privy to a dark secret that evades his grasp. Thoughts, once as disciplined and ordered as legions of soldiers, now marched in disarray, besieged by a growing suspicion.
His eyes went wide, pieces of a sinister puzzle beginning to fall into place. Memories of Darth Eschaton, once viewed through the lens of trust, now reassembled into a mosaic of deceit. Each interaction, each decision involving Eschaton, replayed in Xarxes’ mind with a venomous tinge. The subtle nudges in strategy, the advice during critical moments, the whispered insights – could all these have been orchestrated maneuvers in a grander scheme?
The Dark Lord’s fists clench as he recalls specific instances - moments of vulnerability when he relied on Eschaton’s counsel. Since he slew his mother, his life had changed for the better. Was his path to power, his very ascension within the Sith, not a testament to his strength, but a path carefully paved by the treachery of another? The thought was a poison, seeping into the very marrow of his bones.
Rage began to simmer, a fiery counter to the cold, creeping dread. How could he, Drakul Xarxes, a lord renowned for his perception and intelligence, have been blind to the machinations of this Shadow? Anger at himself for his obliviousness warred with fury towards his deceitful servant. His hand unconsciously reached for the hilt of his sword, a physical manifestation of his desire to unleash his wrath.
Yet beneath the anger, there’s an unnerving sense of vulnerability. If Eschaton has been an instrument of deceit, how deep did this treachery run? What other truths lay shrouded in lies? The foundations of his belief, his decisions, his very understanding of the Force – were they all tainted by this duplicity?
In the midst of this storm of emotions, a steely resolve begins to crystallize. Xarxes knew the path of a Sith is fraught with peril, betrayal, and deception. To falter now would be to admit defeat. He must reclaim control of his destiny. No matter how painful the truth, he must face it with the full might of his will.
With a deep, steadying breath, Xarxes rose to his full height. His silhouette stood firm and imposing against the backdrop of flickering shadows. The turmoil within coalesced into a singular, unwavering focus. He will not be a puppet in the shadows any longer. He would confront this deceit, tear it out root and stem, and emerge stronger. For he is Drakul Xarxes, and his will is his own.
“
Are you well, my Lord?”
The Mqaaq’it whirled at the speaker, burrowing deep into his essence. Across from him loomed the shadowy form of Darth Eschaton, his imposing figure cloaked in darkness, his features obscured save for the disturbing visage of his mouth – lips cracked and bleeding, tongue dark as night, teeth stained yellow by corruption. What truly lay beneath that iron crown? What evil eyes, more venomous than his own, did the Black Steward bear?
“
Your deceptions are as a foul blight upon the Dark Side,” Xarxes spoke, his voice smooth and articulate, betraying a hint of the inner turmoil churning beneath his composed exterior. “
What game do you play at, Eschaton?”
Eschaton's laugh, dark and resonating, filled the room. “
Oh, my noble lord, the game? 'Tis but a mere whisper in the grand symphony of chaos,” he replied, his voice a haunting melody of malice and eloquence.
As he spoke, Eschaton moved with a predatory grace, his iron gauntlets clinking softly. The dark crown hiding his eyes made his head tilts all the more disconcerting.
“
You are naught but an echo, a shadow," Xarxes countered, stepping closer, his third eye now opening to the horrible truth. “
Reveal your true master, Phantom.”
Eschaton halted, head tilting in mock curiosity. “
So, the ‘All-Seeing Eye’ has finally unraveled the threads of truth. Yes, I am but a ghost, an emissary from the darkest depths of space. Yet, my influence is vast, shaping destinies and commanding the fates of many, including yours.”
The revelation hit Xarxes like a physical blow. His breath caught, heart pounding against his chest. The room seemed to spin as he processed the magnitude of the betrayal.
“
You are a puppet master then, cloaked in secrecy. I demand the truth! Who controls you, who speaks through your twisted words?” Xarxes asked, regaining his composure, though his voice wavered with a mix of rage and disbelief.
“
Daritha Ptolemekh,” Eschaton hissed the name with reverence, “
Lies behind this spectral facade. The True Sith, concealed within the Unknown Regions. A grand manipulator, he has steered you, mighty Xarxes, orchestrating your path from his shadowed throne.”
Xarxes felt a chill crawl up his spine. The name
Ptolemekh – a whisper from the True Sith War, a specter in Sith lore, now revealed to be terrifyingly real and alarmingly close.
“
You've been his pawn, Xarxes. My pawn! All your righteous order, your quest for justice – mere steps in his grand design,” Eschaton mocked. “
What you see as betrayal is merely another move in a much grander scheme. Embrace your role, Lord Xarxes.”
The revelation set a fire ablaze within Xarxes. His fists clenched, his own Dark Side energies crackling in response to his fury and humiliation. “
Then it is clear what must be done. Ptolemekh shall find no more use in his puppet,” Xarxes declared with a newfound resolve, the noble inflection of his voice now sharpened with a cutting edge. He extended his hand, summoning his sword to his palm with a force born of rage and betrayal. The cerulean blade shimmered, casting an aquarian hue across his anguished features. “
This revelation does not bind me further but frees me. I am a Sith Lord, master of my own destiny. No hidden master, no phantom king shall dictate my will! Your end, Eschaton, is but the beginning of my true path.”
“
Such defiance is admirable but ultimately pointless. The paths of destiny cannot be easily changed. Your resistance will prove fruitless.”
“
Pointless or not, I will choose my own path, shaped by my own hands, not as a puppet but as the creator of a new reality. Let Daritha Ptolemekh hear this - I am no longer his subject, but a force of my own, unbound and sovereign!”
Eschaton simply chuckled, a sound as vile as his cracked, bleeding smile, taking forth his crimson saber. “
Then come, noble Sith. Show your master the depth of your resolve.”
With that, the hallway erupted into a maelstrom of flashing blades and unleashed Dark Side energies, a battle not just for supremacy, but for the very soul of Drakul Xarxes.
Xarxes brandished his colossal Sword of Order – a formidable artifact whose chilling kiss promised an eternal frost. The weapon, gargantuan in its craftsmanship, sliced through the air with a grace that belied its massive form, each swing an ode to the lethal ballet of combat.
Opposite him, Eschaton, a specter cloaked in malevolence, whirled in a dance of death with his crimson lightsaber. His figure, agile and shadow-like, parried against the relentless onslaught with the precision of a seasoned duelist. But his most sinister weapon lay in his command of Darkshear: the arcane ability that wove entropy itself into waves of withering decay.
The very tiles of the hallway bore witness to their titanic struggle, quaking under the onslaught of clashing powers. Xarxes, with a warrior's intuition, wielded his icy blade not only as an instrument of destruction but as a sovereign of space, each mighty stroke parting the very air, sending shards of ice hurtling in wild abandon. The corridors reverberated with the echoes of their struggle, a symphony of destruction resonating in that plagued and besieged vessel.
Eschaton, his visage twisted in a rictus of dark ambition, sought to unravel Xarxes’ indomitable spirit with his Darkshear. The air around him crackled with the sinister energy of decaying time, attempting to sap the very life from the Sith Lord. Yet, Xarxes, undaunted, stood as an unyielding force, his every movement a testament to his superiority, a whirlwind of obliteration against the creeping death of entropy.
The dance of their blades was a tempest of light and shadow, Xarxes’ massive sword nearing its frozen touch upon Eschaton, who artfully dodged each frigid embrace. Eschaton, in a gambit of dark cunning, invoked his Darkshear to corrode the very ceiling, sending a cascade of weakened metal upon Xarxes. But with a display of sheer might, Xarxes shattered the oncoming doom with a resonating blow of his sword, turning the rubble into a storm of icy shards.
Narrowing the gap between them, Xarxes unleashed a torrent of formidable blows, each strike more fearsome than the last, pressing Eschaton into the clutches of defeat. With a final, Herculean swing, his sword thundered towards Eschaton, a harbinger of an icy, unforgiving end.
In the climactic clash, Eschaton’s lightsaber, faced with the overwhelming might of the Ostrine blade, gave way. The impact released a cataclysmic wave of frozen energy, seizing Eschaton in a crystalline prison of ice.
It was finished. The shape of the Black Steward entrapped turned a sickening blue, his face frozen into eternal anguish and shock.
As Xarxes watched, the frozen form of Eschaton began to fracture and crumble, not into flesh and blood, but into nothingness. The Phantom, a mere puppet of a far more sinister will, shattered and dissipated into the ether, leaving no trace but the echo of his last, desperate defiance.
Drakul Xarxes stood amidst the ruins of it all, his breathing heavy, his figure a lone sentinel amidst the chaos of their battle. The hallway, scarred and frosted, bore silent testament to the demise of Darth Eschaton and the unyielding might of a Sith Lord who had glimpsed the deceit woven into the fabric of his destiny, now more resolved than ever to confront the true puppeteer lurking in the shadows.
But this was not over. If this Ptolemekh could send Phantoms anywhere in the galaxy, he could seek to harm Alcina, his children…
No, Ptolemekh would be stopped. With the mirror of deception in pieces, the All-Seeing Eye was at last opened. Years of hidden truths came rushing to him. The brutal ‘Drakul’ persona, the voice of his mother and of all those slain on Raxus Secundas…
Raxus.
In the shadowed recesses of his heart, where once had dwelt the iron-clad convictions of duty and might, there now surged a tumultuous sea of lamentation. Drakul Xarxes, whose name had been whispered with fear and veneration across the star-swept dominions, stood cloaked in the oppressive shroud of his own desolation. The grievous revelations concerning Ptolemekh, like venomous serpents, coiled tightly around his soul, squeezing with relentless ferocity. How he had danced, a mere puppet, to the clandestine orchestrations of that concealed master, performing acts so vile that their very remembrance seemed to blacken the stars.
Upon the lamented world of Raxus Secundas, a name now synonymous with sorrow and atrocity, he had invoked the unspeakable. With words older than time, uttered in tones that cleaved the very fabric of reality, he had unleashed a cataclysm, an apocalyptic maelstrom borne from the darkest womb of sorcery. The skies had bled crimson, the rivers ran with the spectral light of souls torn asunder, and the very ground wept tears of molten anguish. Millions had perished, their lives extinguished like candles in a stygian tempest, their essences drawn into the voracious maw of an ancient, unfathomable rite.
Oh, how the stars had gazed down, cold and indifferent, upon that benighted world, as Xarxes, in his hubristic folly, sculpted his damned masterpiece of death and despair. Each life extinguished under the grim banner of his will now flickered like a mournful specter in his mind's eye, a ghastly tapestry of regret and horror.
As he stood, a lone figure against the backdrop of his past transgressions, Xarxes grappled with the monstrous realization of his deeds. Like a mariner lost in thought upon a sea of Stygian darkness, he pondered the grievous path laid down by Ptolemekh’s infernal machinations. The weight of his actions, a crushing yoke about his neck, threatened to drag him into an abyss of his own making, an endless night wherein hope was but a distant, fading star.
His heart, once a fortress of Sith conviction, now lay besieged by the harrowing specters of guilt and remorse. With each whisper of the wind, with each susurration of the distant stars, he heard the keening of the lost, the anguished cries of those countless innocents whose demise he had authored. In this bleak and barren landscape of his soul, where once ambition’s fires burned bright, now dwelt the cold, ashen remnants of a dream sundered, a purpose defiled by the unseen hand of a darker will.
Thus, the once-mighty Xarxes, confronted by the grim tapestry of his past, beheld the stark, unyielding truth of his existence. Torn betwixt the tempest of his internal strife and the inexorable tide of destiny, he stood, a tragic figure etched against the vast, unfeeling cosmos; a somber testament to the perilous path of power and the dolorous price of revelation.
In the somber wake of remorse, amid the ruins of a spirit once unassailable, a singular, unwavering resolve kindled within the depths of Lord Xarxes' soul. It burned like a beacon in the night, guiding him through the tempest of his tormented thoughts. With the weight of his past transgressions bowing his shoulders yet not breaking his spirit, he turned his gaze, steadfast and unyielding, toward the crystalline world of Arkania, his heart's ancient refuge.
Through the ethereal currents of the galaxy, his Apocrypha, a specter against the velvet expanse, sailed towards home. Home – where Alcina, his beloved, resided like a star amidst the darkness, her radiance undimmed by the shadows that pursued him. Home – where Ladon and Yasha, his progeny, blossomed under the light of innocence, untouched by the corrupting tendrils of Ptolemekh’s vile deceit.
Each star that streaked past his view was a reminder of the endless battles waged, of victories and defeats, of empires risen and fallen. Yet none shone with the promise of redemption like the thought of safeguarding his family. In them, he saw the possibility of salvation, a chance to mend the tapestry of his soul, torn and tattered by the machinations of a hidden enemy.
As the icy spires of Arkania loomed into view, a fortress against the encroaching dark, Xarxes prepared for the unseen war. Ptolemekh, a shadowed thorn woven into the fabric of the galaxy, would not cease his vile designs. The Phantoms and his myriad of minions, mere extensions of his insidious will, lurked in the unseen corners, waiting to strike. But they would find in Xarxes not a broken remnant of a Sith Lord, but a bastion of strength, a shield wrought of unyielding resolve and tempered in the fires of regret and wisdom.
Alcina, the one who had seen beyond the Sith armor and into the heart of the man, would stand with him, her wisdom and clarity a guiding light amidst the encroaching gloom. And in Ladon and Yasha, he saw the future – a future he vowed to protect, a spark that he would shield against the howling dark.
So it was that Lord Xarxes, the once-mighty harbinger of darkness, found within himself a new purpose. Not as a mere tool of destruction, but as a guardian, a defender of those few precious lights amidst a sea of unending night. With every step upon the frost-kissed earth of Arkania, he felt his resolve harden, the pieces of his shattered spirit coalescing into a new, unbreakable whole.
“
I am coming, Alcina,” the whisper in the Force reverberated through time and space. “
I will always be there for you.”
***
Castle Adasca, Arkania
Midnight
In the spectral stillness of the night, beneath the pallid glow of a million stars, shadows crept with sinister intent up the spiraling towers of Castle Adasca. These Phantoms, ghastly echoes of Darth Eschaton, bore the same dreadful mien that had once terrorized many a brave soul – faces hidden behind iron crowns, their mouths twisted into grotesque smiles, revealing blackened tongues and yellowed, jagged teeth. They moved with eerie silence, specters gliding through the stone corridors, driven by a dark purpose set by Daritha Ptolemekh to extinguish the lights of Xarxes' life – his family.
Inside the castle, an ambiance of peaceful slumber prevailed. The children's chamber, adjacent to the master bedroom, was steeped in gentle shadows and the soft, rhythmic breathing of slumber. Ladon, now on the cusp of his teenage years, lay entwined in dreams of distant galaxies and adventures, a peaceful countenance upon his youthful visage. Beside him, in a crib wrought of Arkanian crystal, Yasha, the infant, slept soundly, her tiny chest rising and falling in the serene tempo of innocent rest.
Alcina Adasca, the Queen-Regent, mother and protector, seemed to be in repose within the master chamber. Her form, draped in silken sheets, exuded a calm and dignified elegance even in sleep. However, beneath this veneer of tranquility, a vigilant spirit stirred.
The Phantoms, drawing ever closer to their quarry, paused momentarily outside the chamber door. Their dark presence was like a blight against the hallowed sanctity of the family's resting place. But unbeknownst to them, within the heart of Alcina Adasca, there beat not just the love of a mother and queen, but the fierce resolve of a lioness.
As the first Phantom reached for the handle, ready to unleash terror and despair, the figure in the bed stirred, and in the same instant a dagger flew through the air, piercing the hand of the reaching Phantom. With a fluid grace that belied the suddenness of her movement, Alcina rose. Her eyes, reflecting the glacial beauty and fierceness of her Arkanian heritage, snapped open, glowing with an inner fire. Though it appeared she had been asleep, she had been acutely aware of the encroaching darkness, her senses honed by years living alongside a Sith Lord.
In the dim, starlit chamber of Castle Adasca,
Alcina, Queen-Regent of Arkania, stood as if carved from the very legends of old, a vision of ethereal, daunting beauty. Her hair, dark as the raven's wing, cascaded in lustrous waves down her back, a stark contrast to the luminous pallor of her skin, reminiscent of the finest Arkanian porcelain. This juxtaposition of shadow and light not only enhanced her mesmerizing presence but also echoed the dual nature of her life, nurtured in both love and the complexities of Sith politics.
Alcina's figure, both motherly and sensuous, bore the traces of her dual heritage; the generous curves spoke of her nurturing spirit, while the elegant lines of her form whispered of a latent, graceful strength. Her eyes, striking and extraordinary, were void of pupils, like orbs of polished obsidian set into her ethereal visage, piercing through the shadows to discern truth and deceit alike.
Her fingers, four to each hand, ended in natural, delicate claws, refined yet hinting at an inherent ferocity, a reminder of the wild, untamed legacy running through her veins. Her ears, gently pointed, accentuated the noble contour of her face, lending her an air of otherworldly grace.
Clad for the night, her attire blended regal formality with practical necessity. A robe of midnight blue, embroidered intricately with the silver threads of ancient Arkanian motifs, hugged her form, its fabric whispering against her skin like a cool breeze. The robe, while majestic, was fashioned for swift movement, allowing her to transition seamlessly from regal elegance to lethal agility.
In her hand, she quietly withdrew her saber, its hilt forged from the fabled songsteel, known for its resonance with the Force. The hilt was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, inlaid with delicate filigree that mirrored the frost patterns on Arkanian windows. Her grip on the weapon was both tender and firm, a symbol of her resolve to protect her family at any cost. Her stance, poised and noble, was that of a dancer, every muscle and sinew aligned in perfect harmony, ready to unleash a storm of graceful yet deadly strikes. In the shadow-draped chamber, where moonlight spilled through veiled windows, Alcina stood with the majesty of an ancient goddess, both motherly and fiercely sensual. The Phantoms, ethereal and sinister, were like nightmares made flesh, bearing the ghastly visage of Darth Eschaton, their bloodied lips dripping with midnight ooze. They crept closer, silent save for the whisper of malice that seemed to emanate from their very being.
Alcina's lightsaber burst into life, its blade cast a glow that further accentuated her fearsome yet exquisite form - a queen, a mother, a protector, standing resolute against the encroaching darkness, her every line and movement an embodiment of refined strength and undying love. She positioned herself, not just as a queen defending her throne, but as a mother protecting her children, her heart's treasures, against the nightmare that dared to invade their sanctuary.
The light played off her elegant, clawed digits and the pointed grace of her ears. In her stance, there was the refined nobility of a queen and the deadly promise of a warrior. Her movements were a fluid, mesmerizing blend of defense and attack, a dance of light that held back the encroaching dark.
The Phantoms, six in all, did not recoil from the light of the saber, for throughout their existence, they had beheld much doom. Alcina did not falter in her gaze, her rich and noble voice, capable of both sultry and ferocious tones, took the latter as she cursed her foes. “
Shadows of deceit, you dare invade the sanctity of my home, threaten the heirs of a lineage as ancient as the stars themselves?”
The most prominent Phantom hissed. “
The lady of light speaks…but darkness cares not for her noble words.”
“
Our whispers have drowned out mighter pleas than thine,” sneered a second. “
What hope have you alone?”
The porcelain queen stepped forward, crimson blade arcing in a deadly stroke. “
Hope? I wield not hope, but certainty. The certainty that as long as I stand, you shall falter and fall.”
Her blade met the Phantoms with precision and grace, each movement a stroke of artistry against the backdrop of night. She moved like a whisper, her combat style an extension of her will, a dance ethereal yet devastating. The chamber echoed with the symphony of battle, her blade singing a lullaby of destruction.
The first, a wraith draped in midnight garb, lunged with a silence that belied its murderous intent. Alcina, with grace bestowed by the ancient blood of Arkania, danced aside, her movements a fluid counterpoint to the Phantom's jagged malice. Her lightsaber, a burst of infernal flame to contrast its heavenly wielder, sang a high, clear note as it arced through the air, severing the wraith's advance and unmaking its essence into scattered dust motes that glittered like a macabre constellation upon the stone floor.
Her form, a tapestry of lethal elegance, shifted to face the second assailant. This Phantom harbored a cruelty that radiated from its hollow, hidden eyes, a depth of darkness akin to the abyssal plains of space. But Alcina's resolve was a beacon unyielding; she parried a strike intended to maim with the poise of a sovereign whose decree was bound by neither time nor fate. A riposte, swift and precise, cleaved through the Phantom's core, its form dissipating in a silent scream that echoed the void's own emptiness.
Two others advanced not as separate threats, but as a single storm of malice. Yet, the tempest met with the mountain; Alcina, undaunted, wove her blade in patterns of intricate demise. The third Phantom, emboldened by desperation, reached with spectral claws aiming to grasp her heart. Alcina's songsteel saber whispered death, its melody a requiem that snatched away the Phantom's ambition, rendering it into nothing but a memory fading at the break of dawn.
The fourth hesitated. In that moment's breadth, Alcina's gaze, pupilless and penetrating, met the wraith's blind gaze. A truth unspoken passed between them — the inevitability of the Phantom's defeat. With a lunge that married wrath with beauty, Alcina struck, her blade a piercing lance of purity against the sullied dark. The Phantom's form shattered, an effigy of evil undone, leaving behind only the echo of its annihilation.
But even as she fought with a skill born of both training and instinct, the final two Phantoms managed to circle her, their attacks more coordinated, their forms more substantial. Alcina's eyes, lacking pupils, blazed with an otherworldly intensity, a testament to her indomitable spirit.
Just as the tide of battle seemed to shift, a new presence filled the room – a shift in the air, a change in the shadow. Drakul Xarxes, her husband, emerged like a tempest’s edge, his presence overwhelming. Clad in the regalia befitting his status, he wielded his own weapon, the Sith Sword of Order, its power palpable even in its stillness. The sword's enormous blade promised frozen oblivion to any it touched.
“
The Dark Lord himself,” croaked one of the Phantoms, a tinge of fear almost present in its voice.
Xarxes charged one of the Phantoms, sending him careening into the upholstery of the marriage bed. He stepped in line with Alcina, ready to face these final two figures. “
Let this be the hour where shadows cower,” he thundered. “Y
ou mistake her solitude for vulnerability, a fatal error.”
“
We are but emissaries,” the thrown Phantom retaliated, almost desperate. “
Our demise changes naught!”
With Xarxes' arrival, the dynamic of the battle changed instantaneously. Where Alcina was the graceful defender, Xarxes was the unstoppable force, his every strike a tempest that froze and shattered. Together, they fought back the two remaining Phantoms – a duo of darkness and light, their love and strength intermingling in the dance of combat.
“
Emissaries of doom, you are nothing but whispers in the darkness. Begone!”
With a final, powerful strike, the last Phantom fell, dissipating into shadows and screams.
As the last echoes of battle faded, Xarxes stood amidst the quietude, his gaze tracing the contours of Alcina’s form with a softness that belied his fierce nature. The room was hushed, the silence punctuated only by their shared breaths.
With a tender smile, Alcina stepped into the safety of Xarxes’ arms, her own wrapping around him as if to anchor herself in the reality of his return. “
You’re here,” she whispered, as if the words were delicate things, afraid they might crumble under the weight of too much feeling.
Xarxes brushed a lock of raven hair from her face, his touch light as a feather. “
I am,” he said simply, “
and here is where I’ll stay. The galaxy’s affairs pale in comparison to this family I must protect; its endless turmoil is no match for what we’ve built, what we guard. I lost sight of that, but never again.”
Their lips met in a kiss that was not the fiery blaze of youth but the deep, burning ember of enduring love, steadfast and sure. It was the promise of every tomorrow they would face together, the unspoken pledge that no distance or darkness would part them again.
The moment was shattered by the sudden cry of their infant daughter from the next room. Alcina pulled back slightly, her mother's instinct responding to the call. Her eyes met Xarxes’, a smile playing upon them. “
Duty calls, my lord, and it seems she will not be denied.”
Xarxes chuckled, the sound rich with love and understanding. “
Then we must answer,” he agreed. “
Our little empress commands, and we, her humble servants, must obey.”
With a final, lingering look, Alcina slipped from his embrace and glided towards the door, her silhouette a shadow of grace against the flickering lights. Xarxes remained a moment longer, watching her leave before following, the cries of their daughter drawing him back into the fold of family, back into the heart of home.
***
Veeshas Tuwan, Arkania
The Next Morning…
The first light of dawn had not yet pierced the depths of Veeshas Tuwan, the ancient Sith citadel that Drakul Xarxes had dedicated decades to restoring. In this grand library housing knowledge so arcane, so steeped in the Dark Side, that it could rend the fabric of the galaxy itself, Xarxes sought redemption — not from the Dark Side, but from the missteps of his own past.
In the citadel’s bowels, he stood before the
Eye of Typhojem, the spherical holocron pulsating with veridian energy, its surface a tapestry of otherworldly knowledge. The Eye, an echo of the Sith God’s will, whispered of the Dark, a symphony of temptation and promise. But Xarxes' focus lay elsewhere, upon the lightsaber that rested beside the Eye — a solemn relic of his apprentice, Lord Vaer.
This subterranean chamber, brimming with the residues of Sith Sorcery, was a sanctuary for Xarxes’ inner turmoil. He was a maestro of the dark arts, yet the scales of his spirit were imbalanced. The loss of Kain, the bright star in the galaxy's murky firmament, weighed heavily upon him. He knew the dark tide was rising, and he had to be the bulwark against it.
He mulled over his fractured alliances. Lady Kolasi, cunning and ambitious, had tried to undermine his relationship with Vaer, yet her power was crucial in the uncertain days to come. Empress Hesper, the sovereign whose throne loomed over all — how could he reassure her of his loyalty, when his own apprentice had fallen by his hand? And then there was Lord Voidwalker, enigmatic and unwavering, who had served Kain with a fervor that bordered on zealous. The loss of his master would either break him or harden his resolve.
Xarxes knew that words would be as brittle as bones in the harsh light of betrayal and loss. He had to offer more than mere condolences or promises of vengeance. The Sith operated in the currency of power and action. He would have to show them that Kain’s vision — their shared ambition — could be salvaged, even in the absence of its herald.
As if summoned by the silent call of his disquietude, the subtle sound of a presence approaching stirred the air. Alcina entered the chamber, cradling young Yasha to her breast. The infant lay peacefully in her mother's embrace, undisturbed by the sinister artifacts that surrounded them.
Xarxes turned, his fierce countenance softening at the sight of them. Alcina's eyes, so full of understanding, met his, and in that gaze, he found a haven as tranquil as the surface of a moonlit lake.
“
My beloved,” Alcina began, her voice a soothing balm to the turmoil within him, “
the dawn has yet to break, and already your burdens weigh heavily upon you.”
Her husband moved closer, his hand reaching out to gently caress the downy crown of Yasha's head. “
I am entwined in a web of my own making, Alcina. The galaxy reels from a wound that I inadvertently helped to inflict. I must act, but the path is as shrouded as the Dark Side itself.”
Alcina nodded, her wisdom as clear as the stars that shone beyond their world. “
Act, you must, but not in haste. The Dark Side thrives on impulse, my love. Draw instead on the bond that unites us, the strength that our family bestows. Your actions must be a beacon, for those lost in the shadow of Kain's absence.”
“
The alliances are fragile, splintered,” Xarxes confessed, his voice a deep rumble of unrest. “
Lady Kolasi, Empress Hesper, Lord Voidwalker, and others—they are uncertain, their loyalties tested.”
“
Then offer them certainty,” Alcina counseled. “
Show them that the strength of Xarxes is the strength of a legacy that will endure beyond the fleeting tempests of power and ambition. Each of them seeks a foothold amidst the chaos—be that foothold. Be the bedrock upon which the new order for the galaxy can be built.”
Xarxes considered her words, the wisdom in her counsel piercing the fog of his doubts. “
And if they do not accept? If the lures of power or despair tempt them to darker paths?”
“
Then we will face that storm together, as we always have.” Alcina's grip on Yasha tightened protectively. “
We are not simply Sith Lords, my husband. We are a family, and our power is bound by more than the Dark Side. It is bound by love, by the future we hold in our arms.”
Xarxes looked down at Yasha, her tiny form a testament to a future they would shape—a future not of darkness, but of stars that might yet shine bright. Alcina's unwavering faith in him, in them, ignited a clarity within. The Dark Side was his to command, but it would not command him. He would extend his hand in unity, and should it be spurned, they would stand united against whatever may come.
With a nod of resolute determination, he sealed his resolve with a tender kiss to his daughter's forehead and a loving embrace for his wife. Together, they would usher in an era not of fear, but of formidable strength—a legacy inscribed not in the annals of conquest, but in the unyielding bonds of family.
The Eye of Typhojem hummed, its presence a reminder of the unfathomable depths of power at his command. Xarxes would have to draw upon the ancient wisdom, the forbidden secrets that the holocron offered, to weave a new tapestry of allegiance and common cause.
He resolved to messages layered in code, symbols of his intentions. To Lady Kolasi — an acknowledgment of the past and an invitation to shape the future. To Empress Hesper, a missive encrypted with the highest reverence, coupled with a verbal tribute fitting her imperial stature and desire for her reign to remain secured. And to Lord Voidwalker, he would extend an offer to join him in meditation before the Eye, to seek guidance from the Architects once more, to find a path through the shadow of mourning.
Within the solemn confines of his sanctum, amid the relics of power and pinnacles of arcane knowledge, he prepared to reach across the void to Empress Hesper. A subtle, ambient hum pervaded the chamber as ancient machines siphoned the esoteric energies required to craft a transmission worthy of the Empress's audience.
As he composed his thoughts, his posture was one of rigid propriety, the very image of Sith dignity. With an imperious yet deliberate gesture, he activated the intricate communication device—a marvel of both technology and sorcery, the mechanisms supporting the
Palantir whirling into life with a sound like the whispering of spirits.
“
Empress Hesper, Sovereign of our Order and Warden of our most sacred creed,” Xarxes began, his voice measured and resonant. “
I, Darth Xarxes, in fealty and with unwavering loyalty, present before you an appeal for counsel and unity.”
The air shimmered with the power of his voice, and the room seemed to contract, as if in anticipation of the message's weight.
“
News of grave import compels my hand. Lord Vaer, once a loyal servant of our cause, has fallen. His betrayal, most heinous and unforgivable, necessitated his end. His ambitions, now dust and echoes, serve as a grim reminder of the price of disloyalty.”
He paused, the silence a canvas for the Empress to paint her thoughts upon.
“
Kain is gone because of that treachery. In the wake of this discord, a convergence of purpose beckons. The shadows that threaten our dominion grow long, and only through combined might can we hope to truncate their reach.”
He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of deference that betrayed no weakness, only respect for the hierarchy he upheld.
“
I extend an invitation to convene on the ancient world of Zeffo, a sanctum of neutrality and contemplation, where we may deliberate our path forward. Your guidance is the compass by which we shall navigate this storm.”
The transmission crystal, pulsing with the essence of his message, hovered before him. He regarded it as one might a vessel of fateful voyage.
“
May the Dark Side illuminate our congress, and our wills be done,” he concluded, his tone a solemn dirge for the unity he sought.
With a final, decisive motion, he dispatched the message into the ether, where it would cross the stars to reach the Empress. He did not waver as he turned his mental gaze to the horizon beyond his citadel walls—a horizon that bore the tumult of coming war and the hope of an Empire united under the Empress's indomitable will.
***
Drawing a deep breath, Xarxes now turned to compose his message to the enigmatic and formidable Darth Voidwalker, whose loyalty to the fallen Kain was as renowned as it was absolute. Xarxes' respect for such fidelity was unwavering, and it was with a rare touch of solemnity that he began to weave the intricate web of Dark Side energy required to dispatch his entreaty across the vast, unfeeling void of space.
“
Lord Voidwalker, traveller between the stars, your master's fate has cast a shadow upon us all,” Xarxes' voice resonated with a potent blend of strength and empathy, the timbre of a man who had seen much and lost more. “
I, Lord Xarxes, keeper of forbidden lore, extend my hand to you in this hour of uncertainty and mourning.”
He paused, gathering the tendrils of the Force around him like a cloak. His next words spoken into the
Palantir were carefully chosen, imbued with the gravity of the moment.
“
The Eye of Typhojem lies before me—its depths uncharted, its truths untold. It beckons us, Lord Voidwalker, to gaze into its core and commune with the Architects themselves. In unity, there is strength; in counsel, wisdom. Let us seek their guidance, to discern the weave of fate and find our path through the encroaching darkness.”
Xarxes’ hand hovered over the Eye, his fingertips grazing the artifact's surface, the Holocron reacting with a deeper luminescence as if in anticipation of the proposed communion.
“
And in the silence left by Kain's absence, let us share condolence, for even in the hearts of the Sith, the loss of a comrade, a mentor, a friend, echoes with the weight of a star's demise.”
The chamber seemed to pulse with the power of his invocation, the Force swirling with the possibility of alliance and the hope of piercing the veil of future's uncertainty.
“
Join me, and together let us seek the guidance of those who came before. Through the Architects' sight, may we find the clarity to steer our course true.”
With a final gesture, Xarxes released the message, a serpent of energy slithering into the abyss, seeking out the one known as Darth Voidwalker. He stepped back from the
Palantir, his silhouette a monument to the dark power he wielded, and the burdens that came with it.
***
Castle Adasca, Arkania
Later That Same Day
Xarxes sat upon his throne as Amaunator Adasca, bereft of his armor and mighty Sword of Order, taking instead the regal and stylish robes of a Patriarch, arrayed in a splendor of crimson and gold. Before his throne sat a table at waist level, upon which sat a holocommunication platform for sending missives. The modern technology would no doubt be more welcomed by the Witch Queen than another unsolicited mental probing. Currently, it was keyed to send a message to Darth Kolasi in her Onderonian palace in Iziz. He hoped the message he had prepared would be received well, though he knew that nothing was certain.
Yet, within himself he found the confidence in the character of the formidable Sith sorceress, the resolve she had against the powers of the encroaching Old Ones and their insatiable hunger to consume the galaxy, rending it according to their machinations.
“
Lady Kolasi, Queen of Onderon,” Xarxes intoned, his words carving through the silence with the precision of a saber's edge. “
This is Darth Xarxes, Lord of the Sith, and I extend this communiqué as a confluence of necessity and respect.”
His eyes, once the forge of rage and ambition, now held a tempered clarity. “
Our past is a tapestry woven with the threads of strife and the stain of blood, yet our future need not be cast from the same loom. A shadow, ancient and insidious, stretches across the stars, threatening to eclipse all we hold sovereign.”
He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to permeate the Holocron's memory. “
The Old Ones stir, their machinations a harbinger of ruination. You know as well as I that alone, we are but embers struggling against the night's chill. Together, we could be a conflagration that sears the coming darkness from the annals of time.
“
I propose a convening of our powers, a parley to forge a bastion against this encroaching oblivion. Let us lay down the gauntlet of our discord, to take up arms against a greater foe.”
A faint smile, uncharacteristic of the Sith Lord, hinted at the wisdom he had gleaned from recent revelations and the counsel of his queen. “
You are invited to parley on Zeffo, a place of neutrality, in the temple of Miktrull, under the banner of truce and the auspices of potential unity.”
A pause. A painful continuation.
“
Vaer is dead, Kolasi. By my hand.”
He composed himself, readjusting in his throne. He closed his message with a finality that brooked no uncertainty. “
I await your counsel, Lady Kolasi. In the balance hangs the fate of our galaxy.”
***
The decisions were made; the steps were clear. Drakul Xarxes, once a harbinger of horror, now sought to mend the fractures in a galaxy teetering on the edge. He rose from his throne, the golden light of Olim shining through the grand windows of the throne room, bathing the Patriarch in beams of heaven as he strode forth to set his plans in motion. For the Dark Side was ever a means to an end, and his end was the salvation of the galaxy he had once sought to dominate.
***
Zhaevorim, Ptolemekhis
“
Ah, the enduring dance of light and shadow.” The voice pierced the howls of ravenous beasts that crawled across the world.
“
It is as predictable as it is... tiresome. They rally against the night, brandishing their feeble lightsabers, thinking themselves beacons.”
Upon his obsidian throne, within the heart of a citadel twisted by dark sorceries and etched with the cries of the forsaken, Daritha Ptolemekh brooded. The planet Ptolemekhis, a world of death and decay, swirled with the storms of his wrath, its skies a perpetual canvas of despair.
Zhaevorim, a monument to his malice, loomed like a blight upon a blighted land, its twisted spires surrounding a colossal pyramid clawed at the void with silent malevolence.
The Daritha’s gaze, as ancient and unyielding as the stars themselves, pierced the veil between worlds, tracking the skeins of fate that bound his Phantoms to their conflict with Lord Xarxes and his queen, Alcina. With eyes that glowed like emerald fire, he watched as his ethereal minions fell before the might and cunning of the Sith Lord and his fiercely beautiful consort. Each demise was a whisper in the symphony of chaos he composed, each setback a pause before the crescendo of his grand design.
“
These Sith, these pretenders, they cling to their constructs of power and dominion. But what are they but children playing at being gods?”
Daritha Ptolemekh, whose very name was a shroud over the hearts of the mortal and immortal alike, was no stranger to the long game. The loss of his Phantoms was but a ripple in the vast ocean of his plans, insignificant before the tide that was to come. His thoughts, dark and inexorable, turned to the woven tapestry of his plot, each thread a life, a world, a star, all converging towards a single, inevitable point: galactic dominion.
“
They believe they have achieved victory, they revel in the illusion of control. But I...,” he paused, the flickers of light dying at his whim, “
I am no illusionist. I am the weaver of reality, the shaper of destinies.”
His lips, a line of cruelty upon a visage that had not known the warmth of light for eons, curved into a semblance of a smile. It was not a smile that promised joy or reprieve; it was the promise of a hunter to the hunted, the certainty of death's embrace.
“
Let the Sith celebrate their fleeting victory,” he murmured, his voice the grave-song of countless dead civilizations. “
Let them cling to their love and their light. They are but candles in the tempest of the coming night.”
With a hand that was both flesh and not, gnarled by the ravages of dark magics, he reached forth, caressing the air as one might stroke the scales of a slumbering beast. The fabric of reality yielded to his touch, revealing to him the skein of possibilities, the myriad paths of destruction that lay before him.
“
I shall weave a new web,” he intoned, and the very stars seemed to listen. “
A grander scheme, with threads of malice so fine, so intricate, that not even the most vigilant of eyes shall discern their pattern until it is far too late.”
The Daritha rose, his towering form a testament to the dread power of the True Sith, and as he stood, the shadows bowed before him, the darkness his loyal servant. His staff of sorcery, entwined with the living wood of Brylark, thrummed with anticipation of its master’s will.
“
The matrix of their complacency will shatter,” Ptolemekh declared, “
and in their desperation, they will come to see the truth. That I am inevitable.”
His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing a secret with the darkness itself.
“
The galaxy shall be mine,” he intoned, his voice carrying across the voids between stars, a vow that promised an age of suffering and subjugation. “
And all shall despair. Let them play their games. Let them scramble for their fleeting victories. In the end, all will kneel before the throne of Ptolemekh. For I am the harbinger, the genesis of their end. And this galaxy...,” he paused, a slow, malevolent grin spreading across his face, “
...this galaxy will be reborn in my image!”
With that, Daritha Ptolemekh, the shadow in the stars, the doom of worlds, turned his gaze towards the galactic tapestry once more. His figure receded into the gloom, not a creature of flesh and blood, but a force of nature, a maelstrom of darkness that would not rest until all lay within his grasp.
In the creeping silence that followed, as the first of many new Phantoms began to coalesce in the depths of his citadel, surrounded by a horde of countless millions of undead creatures, Sith and beast alike, the universe held its breath, awaiting the storm that was yet to break.
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