The floor of Priority Visitor Hangar Bay 12 was plexoid-crystasteel, polished and buffed into a shining onyx mirror of sixty square meters. Balanced as it were atop a dark inversion of herself, Deputy Prefect Vasma Brand stood between two rows of Sith troopers, watching with no little trepidation as the star courier glided in through the bay's magnetic containment field.

The look of the ship brought up hazy memories of vessels from the time of Exar Kun, over fifty years ago. With close to a dozen wings, blades, fans, and fins splaying out from its fuselage almost like the arms of a snowflake, it was clear that its designer had been an artist as much as an engineer. That it was the property of some reclusive, imperious Sith Lord or Master was entirely appropriate.

The antique vessel's many limbs folded in on themselves as it settled down on the hangar deck. The figure that descended its loading ramp a moment later was hooded and thin as a spider in the dark cloak that she wore, and despite apparently needing a cane to walk, there was an uncanny swiftness in her movements. Taleed Crysenthia, Mistress of the Sith Arts, according to her ship's clearance packet.

Neither the name nor the style meant anything to Vasma except bad news. Over the whole course of her ten years as deputy prefect, her direct encounters with Sith—other than Prefect Olligard himself—had been few and far between, and that was how she preferred it. The Quarren valued her service and had never vented his temper on her, as his fellow occultists were known to do with their own subordinates. She was not prepared to deal with one of them in his absence.

Even worse, Crysenthia was not alone. Looming over her shoulder in the manner of a bodyguard or apprentice was a man of uncertain species. As well as a hood, he wore what looked like a stabilizer mask which was decorated with glyphs and symbols, the significance of which was perfectly opaque. The hilt of a lightsaber gleamed in plain view as it hung from his belt.

Overriding every instinct within herself, Vasma met the unexpected guests and bowed sharply. "Lady Crysenthia, welcome to Torque Highport. I am Vasma Brand, Deputy Prefect of the Gordian Reach."

"Where is the prefect?" demanded Crysenthia in the thickest, most contemptuous Coreward accent Vasma had ever heard.

"He had business on the planet below when your transmission was received. But I informed him immediately, and he's on his way back as we speak. I can assure you that he would have received you personally, had he known—"

The masked Sith interrupted her. "Do you think it was our choice to come here unannounced, worm?"

Instantly Vasma pivoted toward him, but her apology died in an empty exhalation as her throat abruptly closed. It took the deputy prefect another two tries at taking a breath before she registered the apprentice's raised fist and realized that what she had heard stories about was now happening to her. Without thinking, she started to back away, only to feel a blow like the butt of a rifle against her spine that threw her onto her hands and knees.

"Morius..."

Futilely Vasma willed her breathing to return, staring with blurry eyes into her own visage in the black mirror of the floor. One of her hands twitched toward the holdout blaster at her belt, but even as her thoughts collapsed into a wordless scream of panic, she knew full well that fighting back would only be another way of guaranteeing death.

Out the corner of her eye, she fancied she saw a few of the troopers shifting nervously—but whether she was being executed or merely humiliated, that was all they would do.

"Morius."

Black spots fled from Vasma's eyes as she sucked air in wretchedly. Then, without warning, she felt the unwelcome touch of the Force again as she was lifted up—not roughly, to be fair—and set back on her feet.

"I— I trust you will forgive my apprentice for his, ah, eagerness. To be clear, I must speak with the prefect privately, face to face. If you will take us to his office, we shall await him there."

Lady Crysenthia's tone was peculiar, almost sheepish, but Vasma barely heard the words at all. Her own helplessness, the indignity, and the sheer arbitrary, cruel pettiness of these cloaked wizards choked her thoughts. It took a long moment to master herself enough that she could raise her eyes toward the witch's shadowed face.

"As you wish, m'lady," she croaked.