Interlude

Pallas' Estate, New Adasta

"Adasta Daily News continues to receive reports of strange and mysterious rebellions, defections, and sedition across the planet. Military and political analysts now widely believe that the sheer volume of revolutionary activity exceeds the ability of the Ziost Liberation Front to coordinate. Investigations continue, but -"

Lord Pallas shut off his viewscreen and kicked his feet up onto his desk. Loosing a relaxed breath, he folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his lounge chair. What did he care for this latest news? Soon he would return to Dromund Kaas and be far, far removed from this pisshole of a planet. These latest reports only succeeded in killing his buzz, and he deserved his euphoria, after all he had endured.

Things had gone swimmingly for him since Lord Beral had been captured and detained at Siphon's Citadel; it had been many months since he last felt so in control. Once, he had only been a step away from the Dark Council. But when Darth Vowrawn abandoned his disciples to escape the Hands, all of his lieutenants - Pallas included - had been disgraced in the eyes of the Empire. His master was a traitor, they all said. He had been forced to watch as all his work crumbled to ash in his hands. The relationships he had built. The alliances he had forged. They all evaporated as soon as news of Vowrawn's disappearance filtered its way through the grapevine.

Starved of influence and practically destitute, Pallas had no choice but to prostrate himself before more powerful Sith. Sith like Beral.

How he hated her. The pureblood woman delighted in his misery, taunted him at every chance. She tantalized him with promises that always wound up conveniently forgotten. She openly worked against his efforts to rebuild his name and kept him in the dark on almost every project for which she engaged him.

Aiding Beral kept him afloat, but only just. For a man who had the ear of a Dark Councillor, to sink so low as this was nearly insufferable.

And then Beral had gotten herself imprisoned.

For these last blissful weeks, he felt once more that the world filled with possibility. That the Empire - or at least a seat of significance within it - was within his grasp. Hidden from Beral's watchful eye, Pallas had been free to restore much of his lost prestige. He had repaired his relationship with Darth Nox. His overtures to Marr's lieutenants had been well-received. And he had bought several well-positioned contacts within Sith Intelligence to keep him apprised of all the latest developments.

No more did he need to kowtow to that witch. No more could she emasculate him on a daily basis. No more.

His holocom sounded out from an unfamiliar frequency. He answered it.

His heart sank into his stomach.

"Prepare for my arrival, Pallas. My shuttle will be at your estate in a few minutes."

Pallas struggled for words. "My lord Beral! You … you escaped?"

"Of course, my friend. You didn't think I would allow myself to be jailed forever, did you? Beral, out."

No. No, no … no. No.

Pallas couldn't suffer that woman for a single minute more, much less allow her to return to dominating his life. Not after everything. Not now.

Cold understanding seeped its way into his mind. He would have to take matters into his own hands. He would have to kill her.

The problem: Pallas knew how powerful Beral was. He had seen it firsthand. He had experienced it. He was no fool. He knew that facing her in battle would likely only result in his death.

But battle was not the only way to eliminate an enemy.

He activated his comlink and directed it to the head of his kitchen staff. "Azley. Lord Beral is returning to the estate. I would like to prepare a banquet in her honor."

"A-are you sure, my lord?" asked the chef. "Lord Beral did not seem overly fond of my cuisine the last time she visited."

Pallas smiled to himself. "It will be different this time. In fact, I'm sure it will be a meal to die for."

The shuttle Beral had stolen from the Citadel landed with a groan and screech upon the shuttlepad connected to Lord Pallas' estate. As the exit hatch doors released, she watched as a ghost-faced Pallas rushed forward to receive her.

"My lord? Are you alright? How did you escape?"

Pallas' barrage of questions went unanswered. She waved away the attendants he had brought with him and strode out of the shuttle. As she walked, she glanced down to her hand to inspect the token Astraad had given her. It rested in her palm, unmoving, unremarkable.

"Take me somewhere private, Pallas," she ordered. "We need to talk. And get me something to eat."

She ignored the look of confusion on Pallas' face and marched forwards toward the meager-looking hovel that her companion called home. It took a few moments for Pallas to catch up to her, panting only slightly as he struggled to match her stride.

"Of course, my lord. My private chambers then. This way. We can get you cleaned up and off the pla - by the stars, you look horrible."

Beral offered Pallas a contemptuous arched brow. The effort was rewarded by a stammering apology. "F-forgive me, my lord. My tongue is too quick for my mind it seems."

She remained silent to allow Pallas to stew in regretful discomfort, though for the first time in a long time, she sensed something more in the air between them than cowardice and subservience. There was a hint of anger, a dash of rage that she had not felt since they first met. Pallas was bold back then, still proud even in the face of his master's humiliation. Beral had worked very hard to squash any remnant of that ego from his identity. She wondered what could have spawned its rebirth.

They reached Pallas' quarters without exchanging another word, Pallas rushing first to his personal minibar to pour them both a drink. As Beral stepped through the doorway, she immediately began removing her dirty and sweat-soaked robes, stripping down to her undergarments.

"My lord, what are you - ?! L-let me send for some clean -"

Beral ignored his sputtering. "Send for something to eat. I'm starving."

Pallas could not help but let his eyes linger over her form. Beral was not surprised. Muscle and sinew did not always hide the flesh and curves that men so often found pleasing. For her part, she did not mind the attention. A naked body served many uses: distraction. Leverage. Manipulation. How she would use it here would be to her discretion.

It took Pallas a few moments to recover. "I … as you wish. I've already instructed my personal chef to prepare a welcoming banquet for you. Is there anything in particular you … you're craving?"

"Surprise me, Pallas. Quickly. I'm losing my patience." She was careful to insert just the right amount of annoyance in her words to spur Pallas into action.

"As you say." Pallas activated his comlink and mumbled into it. Beral noted the surreptitious glances he threw her way. The difference in the man's behavior grew more stark with every passing moment. He seemed possessed with a confidence, an anger, that Beral did not have the patience to indulge. Even his mewling carried a hint of defiance.

It seemed that in her absence, Pallas had grown resentful. That would have to be rectified.

Leaving him to his tasks, Beral stepped into Pallas' lavatory. Setting her token down onto the sink, she began to wash herself, running fresh, crisp, clean water over her aching muscles and bruised skin. She cupped water in her hands and ran it quickly through the stubble atop her head, wiping away weeks of sweat and oil and dirt. She wouldn't have bothered washing, but decorum demanded a degree of cleanliness. After all, the final stage was about to begin. It would not do to greet her master while still covered in filth.

As her hands brushed the skin atop her forehead, she winced. Her time at the Citadel had earned her several new battle scars - burnt flesh that would never truly recover. She would have to remember to style her hair - once it grew out - so that the disfigurement remained visible. No sense having trophies if not to display them with pride.

She glanced at the small orb once more. Still, it remained silent. Still, it remained unmoving.

After preening herself for another fifteen minutes, she swiftly toweled off. She tucked the orb into her bra and stepped back into Pallas' personal chambers, still wearing only her undergarments. The savory scent of a lightly seared meat wafted into the room; Pallas carried a large platter with a single hand while two attendants set up a small dining table and two chairs. Beral sat down into one of them, crossed her legs, and smiled.

This was more like it.

"I've asked Azley to prepare a meal I trust will be to your liking," said Pallas. He set the platter down on a serving table and revealed two mouth-watering steaks. As the slaves dressed their dining table with a clean cloth and utensils, Pallas described what they were about to experience: "The finest cut of meat, cooked rare, garnished with some local herbs and accompanied by an exquisite mushroom sauce. I took the liberty of pairing it with a Corellian Red. I hope you don't mind, my lord."

She offered a wry smile. "Not at all, Pallas, my friend. This will do nicely. Although, I must admit I am surprised … I thought you said Ziost didn't carry much of a culinary bounty."

Pallas' attendants gently set the plates of steak down in front of them both. They had the good sense to give Beral the larger offering, the one that was still rare. Pallas' was overdone as usual. It had been too long since Beral dined on real food, textured and substantial. Siphon's forces had resorted to feeding her intravenously during her stay in the Citadel, fearful that she might free herself if they allowed her the use of her arms. She wanted to bite into something, to tear it apart with her teeth, to gnash and chew and to swallow: the simplest of life's pleasures, but one she now craved to satisfy.

"I wanted something special to represent …" Pallas paused for a second to choose his words, " … how happy I am that you've escaped Siphon's clutches."

Beral smiled. The man was a better liar than she gave him credit, but she had no doubt that the words he just spoke lacked any semblance of veracity.

The old sith dismissed his slaves and then poured two glasses of wine, offering one to her. "The steak I had imported from Kaas City. The wine we picked up while Corellia was still contested. Needless to say, it's far more rare now in Imperial space."

"How kind of you, Pallas."

"Shall we toast? To freedom?"

Beral watched as the man raised his glass to her and then took a healthy swallow of the alcohol. She reflected the gesture and then sampled the wine herself, letting it wash over her tongue. The palate was oaky and rich, a perfect complement to their meal.

Her fingers reached for the nearby fork and knife, almost by instinct, and she began cutting into the meat, savoring the feel of its resistance against the utensil as she cut a morsel free.

She had earned this.

Slowly, she brought the meat to her mouth. The anticipation was almost as good as the actual indulgence. She imagined its sensation against her teeth, its taste upon her tongue, the texture as it would feel sliding down her throat. How delectable it would feel.

Instead, she felt the token Astraad had given her begin to vibrate against her breast. And then, she felt Pallas' eyes upon her, watching her like a vulture waiting for hyenas to abandon a meal so that it could pick at the bones.

Beral set her fork down, the skewered piece of steak dripping sauce onto the tablecloth. Her knife remained in her other hand as she asked, "Aren't you going to eat, Pallas? A shame to let such a good meal go cold."

"Oh," the man fumbled. "Of course." He cut a few slices of overcooked steak and shoved them into his mouth, a little too-eagerly. With each mouthful, he would glance to her, would look straight into her eyes, watching, waiting with bated breath. But for what?

He never used to look her in the eyes before. Always, his would flit away at any chance meeting, a slave's gaze, common among Sith who could only ever aspire to mediocrity. The Sith that would content themselves in advisory and administrative positions.

The Sith that were cowards.

It seemed, no longer.

"Tell me. How long have we been working together?" asked Beral.

Pallas looked surprised. "Half a year, my lord. Is … is something wrong with the meal?"

"Not at all, my friend. But I'd like to discuss something before we eat."

Pallas rested his hands gingerly on the edges of the table, looking as though he might be ready to bolt. " … what is it, my lord?"

"You toasted to freedom. I thought we might discuss the terms to your freedom."

His bewilderment appeared genuine. "My freedom? I'm afraid I'm not sure I understand."

Beral laughed lightly. "Come now, Pallas. You don't need to put airs for me. We both know full well why you turned to us. Your allegiance was offered out of necessity, rather than loyalty. When Vowrawn ran, what choice did he leave you?"

"Have you found my service lacking?" There was a hint of both anger and fear in that question. Beral wasn't quite sure which was the stronger.

"Quite the opposite," she said. "You have been instrumental in carrying out our plans. But I can understand the desire a Sith would have not to be forever trapped under another's thumb."

Pallas stared at her, still with that defiant eye, but now his defiance was joined by uncertainty.

"Do you not wish to be free of us?" asked Beral. "To return to your politicking? To once more have the ear of the Dark Council? To be your own man?"

His response was hesitant and slow, as though he did not trust that his words would not betray him. "I … I do."

"Good, my friend. This is how a Sith should be. Bold. Brash. To see something they desire, and seize it. To take opportunities wherever they may lie. You want your freedom? I am here to offer it to you."

Pallas set his utensils down. " … just like that? No conditions? No strings attached?"

Beral smiled, wide. "Now that you mention it … there is one last thing I need your help with."

"One last thing. What is it?"

She could see it in his eyes now. The prospect of being free. Pallas salivated after it almost as much as she did the meal before her: a tantalizing offer he could not refuse. The emotion splayed itself upon his face for Beral to read. The doubt in his mind was at this very second turning into desperate hope.

"This will be the most we have ever asked of you, but it is also the last. You must steel your resolve. You must seize the opportunity. You must be ready to sacrifice. Can you do that, Pallas?"

Pallas nodded, unable to hide his eagerness. "I can, Lord Beral. I will."

She stood up and leaned forward, beckoning him to do the same with a single finger. As their faces drew close, she whispered into his ear:

"That's good. That's very good. After all … a man can have anything, if he's willing to sacrifice."

Before Pallas could react, Beral swiped her knife across his throat. Before he could react, she summoned the Force, freezing him in place, paralyzing him in stasis. Before he could react, she set down her blade, finished the rest of her wine, and then placed the empty glass beneath his neck, a chalice waiting to be refilled.

The man's eyes bulged in shock, in disbelief, in terror. Words attempted to break his lips, but they came out a gargled and incomprehensible mess. Even dying, he struggled against her will, desperate to save himself. Beral wanted to laugh. How pitiful … his mewlings reminded her of the slaves that served the Empire. Pallas thought he was her servant, but he never realized he was not even that. Not even a slave.

He was cattle. He was livestock.

The glass filled quickly. She picked it back up and released her hold over the man. He collapsed face first onto her meal, dead, eyes frozen wide in despair.

"There," whispered Beral. "Now, you are free."

She waited a few moments and watched in amusement as the side of Pallas' face touching the steak he had prepared for her began to dissolve, as though being eaten away by acid.

"Poison, Pallas?" she asked the corpse as a flash of annoyance swept over her at the lost meal. "How shameful. Sith resorting to poison. As if you could lose any more of your face."

Her stomach growled its disapproval but she ignored it. She was too close. The final step. Everything she had done, all the ire she had earned from her brethren … it had all been for this one, singular moment.

Beral cleared a space in Pallas' chambers for her to work. In the center, she placed the token. She poured half of her bloody glass' precious liquid out, but did not let it touch the ground. Instead, she caught it with the Force, forming it into a fluid, crimson sphere. With it, she commanded the Force to paint the Empire's six-arrowed insignia upon the floor, letting it congeal. She dashed the rest of Pallas' blood across that symbol, desecrating it, before seating herself in the center.

There, Beral invoked the words she had waited to speak for so long:

Ancient is his power;
Boundless, his ambition.
All who would defy him,
Know only submission.

Satiate his hunger;
Herald his paradise.
All who would strive for him,
Know only sacrifice.

The Force swirled around her, anchored by the orb in a violent vortex, hissing, screaming. And then, without warning, it fled from her side, out of Pallas' estate and into Ziost's wilderness.

Beral cackled after it, overwhelmed by her victory, stretching her arms high towards the heavens. She had done it! Against all odds, she had succeeded! She had proven herself the most loyal of her master's servants. She had made herself the harbinger of all things to come, her master's beacon! His herald!

There was no stopping him now.