Chapter 9

Five Years Prior, Twinspire Keep

"S-sister?"

Retra sputtered and stumbled back, hands hovering around the beam of crimson light that jutted outwards from just beneath her breast. Her eyes darted to all corners of their quarters, as though desperately seeking comprehension, seeking to join understanding with reality. Her body collapsed to the ground; the blade fell with her. The impact deactivated the lightsaber, withdrawing its deadly energy into its hilt.

"It hurts." Retra still did not understand what had happened. "I don't … why does it hurt?"

Her eyes, her lips, her breath … they stopped in morose unison.

"Simply magnificent," whispered her master, stepping out from the shadows.

She didn't know how to respond. She realized suddenly that she was on her knees, that her friend's corpse now stained their room by her doing. By her hand, Retra was dead.

"She wasn't going to betray me. She … she wanted to save me."

Her master leaned down to embrace her. "She was holding you back. She was the reason you could not excel. Now she is gone … but you still have me, apprentice. Your master. Your family. Do you understand?"

She nodded, though her master's words barely registered. Her master lied to her. Her master deceived her. What threat did Retra pose? Why did she need to die?

Why?

"I will admit, I was not sure you would pass this test," her master continued. "But you did. You performed wondrously. Your faithful service to me has not gone unnoticed. Continue to serve me, learn from me, and we will take our rightful place as leaders of this great Empire."

Retra died for a trial? She betrayed her friend, struck down a fellow apprentice, slew a fellow Sith … for what? A test?

Her master thought she could control her. Thought she could manipulate her. Icy tendrils wrapped themselves around her heart as she steeled her will for what was to come. She would play the game, play the doting apprentice, play at fealty and allegiance.

"... yes, Master Siphon," she replied.

And then she would take her revenge. She would tear down this corrupt Sith way, and show to the Empire a new path.

Siphon stared down at her, that golden mask gleaming in the moonlight. How it embodied everything that she now hated. Everything she would see destroyed. It would be torn asunder, thrown aside, discarded. Just like her master. Just like Siphon.

And in her place, she would ascend.

"Rise then, rise an apprentice no longer. Rise as Lethe, Lord of the Sith."

3637 BBY - Siphon's Citadel, New Adasta

Why did everything in the Citadel reek of decrepitude?

Lethe summoned the turbolift to her quarters with increasing insistence, but each time her fingers jammed the buttons, they only seemed to slow the lift down. It was as though they needed to process each individual summons, each individual directive, every single point of contact between flesh and technology. She needed to return to her quarters now; she had no patience for the Citadel's quirks.

She needed to ensure the Holocron of Ancient Sorcery remained safe.

It was an irrational fear; some part of Lethe knew that already. She had fortified its hiding place with defensive measures to ensure no one could steal it without her knowledge … and yet, paranoia wracked her mind. If they could penetrate the Citadel to attack her, what was to stop them from breaking through the Holocron's defenses and seizing it from her?

She needed to be sure.

And so, while Astraad and Cyriak escorted Sierra to the infirmary, Lethe moved to ensure her prized possession remained untouched. The purebloods had arrived too late to do much else than hem and haw at their failures. It was never more clear to Lethe that her stronghold's defenses were woefully inadequate. Someone had tried to kill her. Someone had actually tried to have her assassinated.

And why had they chosen to masquerade a cyborg as a figure from the Kaggath? Unless …

… it was all connected. That accusation leveled at her in secret. The revelation of the holocrons. Vandal Pike's reappearance. An invisible thread traveled through them, joining them, weaving a tapestry of conspiracy that was just beyond her sight. Who was at the source? Who was the spider spinning the web?

The potential culprits were countless. Hadrax had ample reason to resent her. She had underestimated his loyalty to Rime, and the latter's death had not proven to be the trump card she first imagined. She did not find it hard to conceive at all, that he would want to see her dethroned. But it was not his style to contract out killing. Hadrax would settle for nothing less than single combat, displayed for all the world to see. He would want the victory for himself, would want to feel his weapon in one hand and Lethe's life slipping away in the other.

Then there was Astraad, the pureblood whose motives remained a mystery. He had supported her up until now, but perhaps their last encounter had soured him on his loyalty. She had humiliated him, something she now looked back upon with regret. Astraad might indeed be a traitor, but if he wasn't, she had definitely given him reason to turn against her. She now wished she had stayed her hand, at least until she had concrete evidence of his treachery.

But would he turn against her now? After everything he had done to secure her place within the powerbase? Clearly, he was not the strongest of the Sith within Orthas' following, or he would have seized control for himself.

This wasn't what she had envisioned for her new Empire. This wasn't what she had seen from the Holocron. She needed loyal followers, faithful disciples to spread her message and enact her reforms. She wasn't supposed to stoop to the level of common Sith, to their infighting and petty squabbles. This was the problem with absorbing Orthas' old power structure into her own … so much of it was ideologically opposed to what she wanted to bring to the Empire.

Lethe consoled herself with the fact that she had little choice in the matter. If she had not subsumed Orthas' powerbase after the Kaggath, it doubtless would have turned against her - and that was a fight she had no doubt would have put her squarely on the losing side.

At least now, she still had a chance. As long as she still possessed the Holocron.

Finally, the turbolift arrived at her intended destination. She didn't waste a minute departing the agonizing prison, whirling into her chambers, robes fluttering behind her. She activated the secret chamber in the flooring of her quarters, suppressed the urge to tear it apart as it rose upwards with all the speed of a hutt trying to climb the steps to the People's Tower. An insistent tapping caught her attention; it took her a moment to realize it was her own foot demonstrating her impatience. Still, slow as the vault was in revealing its contents, Lethe could sense the ancient power within even before her secret repository completed its ascent.

Relief washed over her in waves. Its knowledge, its power … they were still hers.

Of course they were. The rest of the galaxy didn't know she had leveraged its power, had no clue that she was so close to its mastery. They thought that the Holocron was a lie … a deception … or they thought its power was lost to time, to battle and war, to history. Only she knew she the truth.

No … that wasn't quite right. Others knew … Astraad … Thresh. What if they told? What if they spread rumors of the Holocron to others, inviting them to challenge Lethe for its control?

They wouldn't do that. Astraad had not wanted the Holocron to be known. Thresh was too much of a fool to even ponder the significance of the artifact.

But … could she trust that to keep her safe? Could she trust them?

Trust us.

Lethe picked up the Holocron with one hand. Even through her glove, the relic felt like ice on her fingertips, sapping her body's heat for its own. It whispered its desire to her. It wanted her to unlock its full potential, to give in fully to its power. To taste it on her tongue, to fill her lungs with its essence. She had to throw up barriers to prevent it from forcing itself on her, flushing itself into her veins, pulsing into her heart.

Could she control it? Or would she be the one to be subsumed?

Believe us.

The voice was stronger now, more powerful, resonant and domineering. She heard it in her mind, beckoning for her obeisance. It ached with a millenia of knowledge and experience, desperate to be devoured and to devour all at once.

It was supposed to be the answer; it was how she had gotten this far.

Obey us.

She needed it. Enemies surrounded her from all sides, appeared with every step she took. She could trust so few … and whatever their consequences, the Holocron had yet to fail her.

Perhaps just a taste more … What could be the harm?

Lethe loosed a breath, releasing her grip on the mental barriers she had summoned just moments ago. She whispered the inscription on the Holocron, so quiet that even she herself could barely hear it. And yet in her mind and in her heart, the words resonated as if projected through an orchestra. A symphony.

"Ancient is my power.
Boundless, my ambition …"

Medical Ward, Siphon's Citadel

The Citadel's medical ward was still filled with casualties from the Kaggath. Rows of kolto tanks harbored both soldiers and sith who had been incapacitated in battle; the unmoving bodies helped the room project the impression of a very clean mortuary rather than an infirmary. The mood seemed somehow appropriate. Lethe promised herself that whoever had sent that cyborg assassin after her and Sierra would pay with their life.

With everything she had just gained, that was a promise she had no doubt about keeping. The power that surged through her … she could feel it reverberating through her very core, could feel her fingertips charged to the brim.

Nothing was out of reach now.

Leaning against a nearby pillar, Lethe watched Sierra wince as the Citadel's medical staff did their work. The cyborg Pike had left a hand-shaped bruise on the girl's abdomen, a maelstrom of blacks, blues and purples upon otherwise-fair skin. The prognosis was good; only a flesh wound, fortunately. Doctor Tivan, Director of the Citadel's medical ward, had been concerned about internal bleeding.

'Concerned' was probably overstating it. Lethe doubted the medical staff cared one way or another if their sith masters lived. Skilled doctors and physicians could be used by anyone - in an invasion, smart sith would be careful to leave talented medical professionals alive; assuming victory, their services and loyalties could then be reassessed.

"I think that about wraps this up," said Dr. Tivan. "Try not to strain yourself too hard in training, unless you want to come back and see me again real soon."

Sierra nodded, stretching gingerly to test the bandages that had been wrapped around her torso. Satisfied she was adequately mobile, she offered a small smile. "Thank you, Doctor."

Lethe approached the pair. "Yes, thank you. I must admit, I did not expect the Medical Director himself to do routine examinations like these."

Tivan smiled, baring pristine teeth and stretching out a neatly trimmed goatee. It was a kind expression, of which genuine ones were not often found in the Empire. Lethe had discovered long ago that they tended to come with strings attached.

"When the Citadel's master brings her personal apprentice in, I tend to take note," said Tivan. "I trust my staff, but I find that it can be difficult trusting anyone above myself."

Lethe smiled, forgetting again that her own face remained hidden by her mask. She extended a hand to the doctor, grasped his in her own before he could think to reject it. "I'll make sure Lord Cyriak sends you an appropriate reward for services well-rendered."

"G-gratitude, Darth Siphon. Although, I'm not sure I … what I mean to say is I only did my duty."

"And I want you to know that I appreciate it," said Lethe. "Not everyone thinks the faithful execution of duty is something that merits gratitude, but I believe differently."

Tivan looked a bit confused; doubtless he had never heard gratitude expressed from the lips of a Sith. Lethe intended to change that. It was time for her and her followers to stop taking the efforts of their servants for granted. Frankly, it was time for all Sith to do so.

And I have the power to realize that change now.

"You are most generous, my lord," said Tivan, offering a deep bow. "Thank you."

"Indeed. Now, I'd like to speak to my apprentice alone."

Tivan excused himself. Lethe caught a glance at the man's face as he departed; it seemed the good doctor could not wholly rid himself of that expression of bewilderment.

Satisfied they were alone, Lethe turned back to the girl. "I don't offer gratitude easily, but it is deserved here. Thank you, Sierra. Your efforts were critical in foiling that assassin's plan."

Sierra's face flushed with pride for just a second. "Who do you think was behind that attack?"

Who indeed.

"I have my suspicions, but no concrete proof. And I'd rather not speculate wildly without it."

"Do you think it was Astraad?" pressed Sierra.

Lethe paused before finally admitting, "It is a possibility … one I perhaps invited."

"Can I say something, master?" asked Sierra after a moment. When Lethe nodded her consent, she continued. "You don't seem like most other Sith."

"I'll assume you meant that as a compliment," said Lethe, a hint of humor in her modulated tone.

"O-of course," Sierra stammered. "I … I just mean you don't act like most of the Sith Lords I've met. Miro was probably the kindest, and even he -"

Lethe's tone rose sharply. "You think I'm kind?"

Sierra shook her head emphatically. "I'm not saying this right at all. I just mean I can see how you've ascended, how you've earned your throne. You inspire something different than most Sith. Loyalty. Faith."

Lethe eyed her apprentice; her mask doubtless did not convey her skepticism. Then again, Sierra had not been witness to her low points, her conflicts on the council. "Don't tell me you've decided to follow Cyriak's path."

"My lord?"

"Flattery can be a useful tool, but it won't get you into my good graces." She turned towards the full-wall mirror. The medical center rested square in the center floor of the Citadel; it was well into the morning now, and only the occasional speeder flashed by.

"I'm only describing what I see," pressed Sierra with just a hint of indignation. "Orthas ruled by fear. But you -"

"I am different, yes. I believe in a different way." Lethe paused, turning back to face her apprentice. " … a better way."

It was time.

"Better than the way of the Sith?" asked the girl.

Lethe chuckled. " … recite for me the Sith code, Sierra."

The girl frowned, but did as instructed. "Peace is a lie; there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, power. Through power, victory. Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me."

"A shorthand recitation, but no matter," mused Lethe. "The essence is still there. Tell me … where does the code demand that petty cruelty be our method? Where in the code does it state that prejudice is our mandate? That tradition is our master?"

"Nowhere … but I have heard it said that those are inextricable byproducts of Sith philosophy." Sierra's response was tentative, uncertain. As though she was still working out her thoughts on the fly. "The code values power ... one could argue that those Sith who have achieved true power have shaped all their descendants with their methods … and those methods have been a resounding vote for terror and domination. A vote for conflict, even between fellow Sith."

"Do you believe that? Do you think the Sith should be bound to that ideology?" asked Lethe. Her gaze locked onto her apprentice now, examining her every expression, her every subconscious reaction.

Sierra considered the question for a long moment. She seemed hesitant answer, biting her lower lip and fiddling with her empty hands. It took her a moment before she realized her physiological reactions and forcibly stopped herself.

"You can be honest with me, Sierra. Speak your heart … I would know if you are who I think you are."

Sierra nodded slowly, finally revealing her truth. "I think you're right, master. There has to be a better way than what we have seen from the Empire."

Lethe smiled, hidden, victorious.

"You asked me not long ago whether we were enemies. I gave you the answer that any of our brethren would speak as truth. Sith are destined to be enemies. Master and apprentice, ally and friend … within the Empire, these relationships always end the same way. Betrayal. Treachery. Death."

She paused for dramatic effect. " … they end in weakness. They end in a diminishing of the Empire."

Lethe watched her apprentice became enrapt, hanging onto her every word. "There is a better way. Nowhere in the code does it say that there can be no unity, that there can be no reason, that destroying one's allies - and by extension weakening ourselves as a whole - that this is a Sith's destiny."

"But … is not peace a lie?" asked Sierra.

"Who said anything about peace? I only advocate that we seek conflict where it is needed. Where it is deserved. Conflict with one's peers is easy. It's right in front of you, it can always be present. But to actually grow, to gain actual power … you must seek conflict that is worthy."

Sierra looked thoughtful. "With the Republic?"

"Or the Hutt Cartel. Or the Mandalorians. There are plenty of avenues to drive conflict, to spur self-improvement, to strive for strength. Our brothers and sisters of the Empire's need not be among them."

Sierra fell quiet again, but Lethe could not let her waffle. The apprentice had proven herself against Rime, against the cyborg assassin, against the Empire's ridiculous requirements for apprentices at the Academy. This was the last test, the final question to see whether Sierra would prove to be Lethe's faithful devotee, the one she needed to truly reform the Empire. The first of many. The one upon whom all of Lethe's ambitions rested.

"Well?" she pressed. "What do you think?"

"Some would say your ideas are … radical, my lord," said Sierra. Lethe watched her apprentice stare back at her, realizing that the girl too was probing, was trying to suss out whether she was being tested, whether these words were spoken in jest or deception.

"I care not what the rest of the Empire believes," said Lethe. "In this moment, it's your opinion that I wish to know."

"Then …"

The girl was so hesitant. Every word she spoke was pregnant with deliberation. Why?! Had Lethe been wrong about her? Did she not see the reason and wisdom of Lethe's philosophy?

" … I think you're right, master. I believe your way is the way of the future. The way of a new Empire, an Empire reborn, an Empire restored. Strong. Powerful. Victorious."

Lethe wanted to burst out laughing, wanted to cackle with delight, to dance with celebratory glee. She had done it! She had found her first true disciple, her first true ally, a faithful herald of her new way. Together, they would see the Empire rejuvenated. With the Holocron of Ancient Sorcery and Sierra at her side, there was nothing that would be beyond her.

There was nothing that could stop her.

"Kneel, Sierra."

"Darth Siphon?"

"Kneel."

Sierra did as she was told.

"Weak. Powerless. Slave." Lethe spoke with her former master's imperious tone, bolstered by adrenaline, magnified by her mask. "You have stripped yourself of these titles, in favor of new ones. Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. Slayer of Rime, defender against assassins. You have proven to me your dedication and loyalty … and for that, I name you Lord."

Stunned, Sierra's eyes widened, unblinking. "M-master?"

Lethe continued, unabated, undenied. "To the rest of the world, you are Sierra no longer. Rise as Eris. Rise as a Lord of the Sith!"