The next morning, Gaius dons his new fancy armor and presents himself at the starkly imposing Imperial Palace. He waits in the gigantic antechamber to the throne room along with the other new Lords who will be invested this morning. He and everyone else milling about loiter in anxious wait for their five minutes with the Dark Lord.

The Emperor must have a busy schedule this morning judging by the sheer number of men of all ages crowding the room. Some Lords have Apprentices close at hand, and a few have laymen commonfolk representatives—usually uniformed military officers-accompanying them as aides. Gaius sizes up the crowd, ascertaining a few notables. But most he does not recognize. Clearly, there are Lords from all professions present to make their reports. And that's no surprise, for there is no aspect of statecraft that Lord Vitiate does not personally oversee.

This is how the business of the Empire has been conducted seven days a week, year after year, for as long as anyone alive can remember. The Palace is the centralized nerve center of the sprawling Sith civilization. Here is where the most powerful Lords meet to discuss issues and to advise on policy. Here is where the esteemed Lords who sit on the Dark Council make recommendations to the Emperor. It is a formal place of protocol and pageantry. A spot where decisionmakers and gatekeepers zealously enforce the hierarchy.

It is an accomplishment for Gaius to venture within these walls, for only a few colonials are ever admitted to the Palace. Fewer still are permitted in the Emperor's actual presence. That is a privilege generally restricted to the Lord class into which Gaius is about to be inducted.

It is an important day when a young man formally receives his title, and so those who helped to rear him are honored as well. The other Apprentices are each flanked by their Master. Many are also accompanied by their father and sometimes even a grandfather as well. It's a powerful visual reminder of the tribal bonds of the Sith patriarchy. And it reveals all the familial support that Gaius himself lacks. For he stands alone at the end on the periphery of the group.

Things might have been different, he knows, had he not failed so spectacularly at Korriban.

Later tonight, the others will celebrate. There will be private parties to commemorate this special day, even though wartime deployments might keep the guest lists short. Today's rite of passage will also promote other milestones for many of his peers. For upon investiture, inheritances traditionally vest and marriage contracts are often signed. But not for him. Back at his late Master's home, the cook is baking him a cake. That's it. Gaius tries not to feel envious. To cheer himself up and to pass the time, he pulls out his comlink to read again the sweet message Portia sent him early this morning. Thinking of you today, Darth Malgus, she wrote, followed by a red heart.

Finally, the throne room majordomo—a self-important man if there ever was one—ushers the group inside. At long last, he is in the presence of Darth Vitiate, the Emperor of the Sith, the very embodiment of Darkness. Vitiate is indisputably the greatest hero of the Shadow Force. He is the man who stepped up to organize what remained of their defeated people when all was desperate and bleak. Vitiate led the survivors of the last war away into hiding and kept them safe from the relentless Jedi. Slowly, he rebuilt the majestic empire of Marka Ragnos that Vitiate's vainglorious Dark Lord predecessors had lost. For a thousand years now, Vitiate has presided over the Dark Side as a firm, remarkably fair, but inveterately ruthless leader.

But for all his accomplishments, Vitiate the man is a mystery. No one sees him. No one knows him. And that's the way it has always been. The Emperor is a riddle wrapped in an enigma and hidden in a shadow. He is somehow simultaneously omnipresent in the affairs of state and yet nowhere to be found. Supposedly, the members of the Dark Council are permitted to see him, but even that is unclear. If the Council members know anything about him, they certainly aren't disclosing it.

The only thing that is certain about the Emperor is that he is ancient. Powerful Lords have long been able to extend their natural lives. Five-hundred-year-old Darth Azamin is the prime example. But Darth Vitiate takes that skill to an extreme level. There are rumors that he shifts his physical form, inhabiting one captive body and then the next. Others claim that he has no physical body, that at this point he has dissolved into being a phantom. They argue he has become the guiding spirit of the Sith, a kind of patron saint of Darkness.

Gaius doesn't know what to believe. He's not sure he cares, frankly. He's just happy to be here and hoping to make a good impression.

Inside, the throne room has simple aesthetics. Unlike the opulent adjacent waiting room, the audience chamber is decorated mostly with guards. It's very 'let's get down to business,' which strikes Gaius as appropriate decor. This is not a place where Lords are apt to linger for chit chat. It actually takes a moment for Gaius' eyes to adjust to the sepulchral gloom of the place.

The Imperial throne sits on high far above his sight line. Its occupant is a shadowy figure in a black cloak, barely distinguishable from the empty black space that surrounds him. By contrast, his supplicants are called forward to kneel beneath a single shaft of bright light projected from high above. The beam of light is deliberately intense to blind the visitor and obscure things further. From his vantage point, the reigning Dark Lord sees all but his subjects see very little. He has the high ground and the advantage, naturally.

Gaius recognizes this setup to be classic posturing. He might be a colonial, but he is a Sith born and bred so he knows all the subtle cues that promote and reinforce the balance of power in his hierarchical society. Gaius takes those cues and uses them himself. But it all boils down to this: the Emperor prevails over his Lords, who in turn prevail over their command posts and all the people living and toiling in them. But make no mistake, all power emanates from the Emperor. There is nothing he does not control, despite how much he delegates. That's why Gaius has insisted on this ceremonial moment in the throne room. He needs to get noticed by the ones who matter.

That includes the twelve members of the Dark Council who congregate at the foot of the Dark Lord's throne. Three councilors—the largest, most powerful contingent of the Emperor's braintrust—preside over matters of war and defense. Other councilors represent the Empire's economic and business interests, its trade and diplomacy activities with colonial systems, its research efforts into technology, science, and medicine, the internal police function and Imperial law courts that keep order, and the social services and education programs for the commonfolk. For good measure, there's even a priest councilor tasked with defending the faith of Darkness, but everyone knows that job is the least important. The aged Council members are mostly a decrepit lot, Gaius judges. Most lean on a cane and one even sits in a hover chair. They're all in ceremonial armor like he is, except for the cloaked and hooded priest standing next to Darth Azamin who sports the traditional sorcerer's cassock.

The Council members, like Darth Vitiate himself, are each a complete blank in the Force. It's creepy. It feels like they're not even there. And that's intentional—the Empire's most powerful Lords have long been required to cloak their Force lest their counterpart Jedi on the opposite side of the galaxy sense them. While the days of Vitiate's Hidden Empire are over, that standing order must remain in place. It's a little disappointing. Gaius would dearly love to assess the mental feel of the combined power of these men. It surely must be impressive.

Is there a delay? It seems like there might be some delay from the look on the face of the Emperor's majordomo whose job it is to keep his boss on schedule. The man keeps looking up to the shadowy throne as if waiting for a signal. Eventually, things get started when the pompous master of ceremonies walks to kneel in the spotlight. With truly impressive baritone gravitas, the majordomo croaks out, "Your Excellency, these Lords come seeking their investiture." Then, the majordomo rises and withdraws, and the ceremony begins.

Straightaway comes the speech his roommate Darth Fidel warned him about. It's one part commencement address, one part pep talk, and one part threat. It begins, like most formal addresses do, with a history lesson. For the Sith are an aggrieved people, unified and motivated by a collective grudge from a wrongdoing that occurred several thousand years ago. But the Sith being the Sith, they're still plenty pissed off.

"You are the newest sons of Darkness," the Emperor announces. "You are the latest in a long line of men of the Force stretching back to a time when exiled outcasts commingled with a likeminded warrior race. Together, our forefathers founded a new civilization here on the outermost edge of the galaxy. At first, it was a refuge free of imposed orthodoxy. But in time, it flourished to become the Empire."

Vitiate's voice is deep and authoritative, like Gaius knew it would be. His delivery is slow and surprisingly quiet. And that's fitting because this is not a man who needs to yell. Plus, at well over a thousand years old, the Emperor is not a man in a hurry. Time is on his side.

"Your forefathers were valiant men. They stood up to the Jedi and to their complicit Republic not once, but twice. They fought with cunning, with stealth, with rage, and with deceit. And while they did not achieve their ultimate aim, those men did not die in vain. Their legacy lives on today in you and in our current quest for revenge and victory."

"Now, it is your turn to fight for Darkness. Most of you are warriors who have taken up arms for me. Some of you are priests who will cast spells and tease secrets from the Force. Others will sit in judgement in my law courts or preside over civil administration here on the homefront. But no matter what your assigned role, you will serve the Empire to the best of your ability and with utmost loyalty. If you fail or you betray that trust, you will answer to me. Know that my judgement will be harsh. There is no mercy given in this throne room, only punishment."

Vitiate pauses a long moment to let that last point sink in. It fills Gaius' ears, echoes in his head, and reverberates in his chest. The Dark Lord is coating his words with a heavy dose of the Force for emphasis, he realizes.

Vitiate now pivots to a statement of creed. It's typical-the Sith are big on manifestos. Talk to a Sith Lord long enough and he will tell you everything he plans to do and why. It's usually in a tone of righteous determination like Vitiate now employs.

"Here in the Empire, we know our truths and we live them. We know that there is no shame in emotion. We embrace the power that flows from feeling. We respect order and resist chaos. We revere kinship and community. We conquer to advance our ideas and to bring prosperity and security to the common people. For it is the responsibility of the strong to dominate the weak. To guide them, to manage them, and to control them for their own good. These truths are not self-evident. They must be taught and lived. My Lords, pass on what you have learned, by your words and by your example, so that future generations will seek Dark glory."

"You are among the privileged few blessed by the Force. You were boys who grew into men, and today you are confirmed as princes of the Dark Side. But to whom much is given, much is expected. Never forget, my Lords, that the power you wield and the status you enjoy is as my proxy. All power comes from me. When you conquer new worlds, you make war for me. When you create new weapons and discover new technologies, you do so on my behalf. If you pass sentence on a criminal or make a decision on a matter of policy, your judgment is in my stead due to the authority delegated by me. Fail me with incompetence or corruption and you will expose yourself as weak and unworthy. And then you will be summoned to this throne room for punishment."

Again, the Dark Lord pauses to let that threat sink in. No one doubts that he means it.

When he resumes speaking, the Emperor is in full-on culture warrior mode. It's the usual fearmongering about the Light Side and democracy. Gaius has heard it all before. And like his peers, he believes it completely.

"With the war underway, we are no longer a hidden Empire, but a force for change in the galaxy. You will be among the first generation of Lords in a long time to personally encounter Jedi and to confront directly the Republic way of life. Do not," Vitiate intones, "be tempted by the Light Side of the Force. See through the lies of the Jedi. Resist the seduction of their feelgood promises of peace and happiness. Their cult is wrong. Their ways will only weaken you."

"Make no mistake: weakness is the ultimate result of democracy. It's sold through the bold lie of freedom. My Lords, the more choices a society offers for individual self-determination, the higher its rates of dissatisfaction and malaise, of delinquency and dependency, of suicide and depression. Why? Because people need purpose. Left to fend for themselves, many will flail around in confused uncertainty on some never-ending quest for an elusive sense of fulfillment. The pursuit of happiness devolves fast into unfettered narcissism and apathy. Soon all virtues and vices get equivocated and rationalized as lifestyle choices. All failure and personal discomfort get attributed to society as a whole, and the burden of responsibility is shifted off individual shoulders. That is a path to ruin. Giving people freedom paralyzes far too many. And in the end, it seeds a culture with disorder and dysfunction that will rot it from within."

"We here in the Empire know better. People need less freedom and more accountability. Here, young men of the Force have the proper layering of commitments to others—to family, to Masters, to colleagues, to their fellow citizens, to the Force, to the Empire, and ultimately to me. A life embedded within those relationships is the answer to all your unrequited yearnings. Purpose is the remedy for unhappiness. Achievement on my behalf will give you the satisfaction that you seek. Nothing the Jedi heresy promises could ever do that."

Is Vitiate wrapping up? It sounds like he's finishing the lecture. All that's missing so far is the reference to destiny. No speech in the Empire is complete without a reference to the invisible hand of fate. The Dark Side loves the romance of the inescapable. For all the Lords of the Sith might plot to exert their free will, they relish the intervention of the pre-ordained, Gaius knows.

"This ceremony we undertake today—the fealty you will show to me now as Master of all Masters—confirms that you accept your responsibilities. When you leave today, you leave as my vassal, empowered to do my will throughout the Empire. Many years ago, I myself knelt before Dark Lord Marka Ragnos to be invested as a Lord of the Sith. I did not know back then how my destiny would unfold. I could not foresee the trials to come. I only knew that I was grateful for the opportunity to serve and determined to do my best. Follow my example, my Lords. You and the Empire will be stronger for it."

Yep, he's through. The introductory speech is over. It's time for the ritual to begin. The Emperor's majordomo now reads out the formal introduction for the first young Lord to be invested. In typical Sith fashion, it's a recitation of genealogy. For before the Dark Lord, you are known as much for your forbearers who served him as for yourself.

The master of ceremonies calls out, "Octavius Drusus, Lord Oppress, son of Darth Rigor, grandson of Darth Toil and Darth Snape, great-grandson of Darth Daemon and Darth Blame."

The young man first in line now steps forward to kneel in the limelight, head bowed in humble obeisance, while his Master and his family members look on proudly. He waits to be acknowledged.

From high above, unseen Dark Lord Vitiate booms down, "Arise, Darth Oppress." That simple act of acknowledgement conveys that the young man has achieved full Lord status. He is now an independent, responsible adult male of the ruling class, having completed rearing by his family and training by his Master.

The new Lord Oppress rises and vacates the spotlight for the next guy. And then, the time honored coming of age rite repeats.

The other Lords invested today are all a few years Gaius' senior. Unlike him, they have all completed a full Apprenticeship. Gaius overlapped with some of them at the Naval Academy. But he can't call any of the other new Lords acquaintances, let alone friends. But while none of them bothered to acknowledge him in the antechamber, Gaius is certain they all know who he is. He knows he makes an impression. It's from his imposing physical stature and coloring that are undeniably colonial in ancestry. From his remarkable record at the Academy and in the war, too. And, of course, from his truly unique random status.

Finally, it is his turn to be invested. The majordomo has made his way down to his name as the last man on the list. "Gaius Veradun, Lord Malgus," the disdainful emcee positively sniffs.

Ignoring the paltry introduction the best that he can, Gaius steps forward to bow his head and kneel his fealty to the Dark Lord.

This is the moment he's been waiting for. Now is when the Emperor and his Council cronies get to put a face to the name Darth Malgus. He's certain that they've all read of him or heard of him by now. He's become something of a minor celebrity thanks to Korriban. So, here he is, presenting himself. He's an ambitious young man, and he knows he must make his own opportunities in life. If he waits to be called, he might never be chosen. So, Gaius will force them to notice him. This is his unique challenge—to transcend his outsider status. For like it or not, he's the main character of his bizarre life and he's determined to reclaim his agency back from the magic Force that hijacked his future years ago.

The figure up on the high throne now deviates from the usual script of ordering him to rise using his new title 'Darth.' Instead, the Emperor calls down, "Where is your Master, boy?"

'Boy,' not 'Lord.' Gaius works hard not to wince at the diss. This is not off to a good start. With enormous trepidation, he answers carefully, "My Master died at Korriban, your Excellency." That fact is in every official report and on the public newsfeeds. It's common knowledge and it is absolutely true.

"Killed by the Jedi?"

Fuck! There's the probing direct question that he has been dreading. It's the risk Darth Azamin warned him about. But whereas he did not take Azamin's advice to forego this ceremony, he will take the Sith Master's advice on how to respond. Gaius takes a deep breath and announces the truth to his Emperor and to the Dark Council: "No. He was killed by me."

A soft murmur of reaction ripples around the room. Disbelief and disapproval resonate outward in the Force.

Gaius can feel his cheeks burn bright red. He endeavors to keep his expression neutral, but he can feel his eyes flash yellow. That always happens when he feels upset or threatened. It's like the Force rallies to his defense in anticipation. Here today, the reaction has an especially hair-trigger. Maybe it's the stress of this moment, but suddenly his senses are heightened, his reflexes are poised, and every fiber of his being is mobilized to fight. Like this is combat, not a conversation. Fuck! Why is the Force doing this?

The long silence that follows his confession is deafening. Gaius stands there sweating with his power involuntarily summoned. Does it look like he is threatening the Dark Lord implicitly? He certainly hopes not. And will he get a chance to explain himself? Or will he be punished first? Maybe it doesn't matter, since an explanation might get him in more trouble. Gaius remembers now how both Azamin and Angral had regarded him like some sort of terrifying beast for his crime. And that's not at all who he is. But can the Emperor understand that? Shit! This ceremony has veered way off script, like he was warned.

The voice from above is cool and measured when it eventually speaks. "The Apprentice does not promote himself. That privilege is mine."

The comment feels like it requires acknowledgment, so Gaius respectfully yelps, "Yes, Excellency."

"Kill your Master and you do not become the Master. You merely confirm your failure as the Apprentice."

"Yes, Excellency."

"Do not fail again. I do not tolerate failure."

"Yes, Excellency," he grovels in miserable humiliation.

But the matter of Darth Vindican is dispensed with. The Emperor is apparently more curious about him than perturbed or alarmed by his actions. "If there is no Master, then where is your father?" Vitiate inquires.

"I have no father." None that will claim him, that is.

Strangely, that answer, far more so than the fate of Vindican, angers the Emperor. The voice from the high throne booms as it jeers back. "You are a child of the Force, is that it? You are the Sith'ari overlord long prophesized? You will be the one to destroy the Sith to make us more powerful? Have you come to save us all?"

The mocking words have an ugly, dismissive edge and some unknown undercurrent that Gaius does not understand.

He responds stiffly, "No, Excellency. I have a stepfather who adopted me, but he is not a Lord." With few exceptions, only Lords are permitted to enter the Palace and to be in the Emperor's presence. Dad could never attend his investiture.

"And what is your stepfather, boy?"

'What,' not 'who.' The Emperor doesn't want a name for an identity. Probably because names of colonial commonfolk mean nothing here. So, Gaius puts the best possible spin on his yeoman background. "He is a civilian biologist. He is in the Imperial Science Bureau."

"What does he do there to serve the Empire?"

"He is a zookeeper."

That reply merits a few chuckles from the others in attendance. Great, Gaius thinks, now the whole room is ridiculing him. He is being played the fool, and by his Emperor who ought to be above such pettiness.

"I see. How quaint," the Dark Lord condescends. "Well, I suppose the Force amuses itself when it sends us a random now and then."

The comment grates. And now, indignant words escape his lips before Gaius can stop them: "Sith is a creed. It's not a birthright." Meaning he's as Sith as any Lord here.

"You most certainly have no birthright," Vitiate's voice purrs. "You are a freak of nature," he accuses.

And that contention rankles, too. Belligerent Gaius lets himself be goaded. "Not really, Excellency," he dares to contradict his Emperor. "On the other side of the galaxy, the Republic must be full of randoms. The Jedi do not marry, they do not beget children, and yet their cult persists. Kill all the Jedi and you might end their religion, but you will be left with generation after generation of randoms. People like me."

"They can be dealt with. As can you."

Yikes! Gaius hastens to agree with his Emperor, even as he continues to assert his point. "Indeed, Excellency. Make the Republic Force sensitives our allies. Teach them our ways. Make them Sith. Sith is a creed, not a birthright," he insists on behalf of all the non-elites of the Empire.

"What makes you think that?"

His very existence proves his point. Gaius was raised to do one thing—kill for his Emperor—and he does it methodically and with great success. And so do the laymen conscripts and enlisted personnel he leads in his raids. They fight, bleed, and die for the glory of the Empire just like their overlords do. Why? Because they believe in the cause. They are just as Sith as their red skinned, Force-strong commanders are.

Gaius frowns up into the blinding spotlight and stubbornly contends, "It's what you sold the colony worlds on as you re-built the Empire—that they must join us or die. But if they join us, they will prosper along with us. It's the same deal we will need to sell the Republic on once we conquer them too."

Gaius has long sought to envision a role for himself within the Lords' hierarchy, focusing on his individual ambitions. But Darth Angral's idea that he might be a unique figure going forward since he combines aspects of both the Sith and the Republic mindsets has taken hold. Lately, Gaius has been thinking a lot about how the Empire is going to have to loosen up its power structure once it conquers the Republic . . . and what that might mean for him and for others.

But the unseen man on the throne responds with dismissive Kittat. "Oderint dum metuant." Let them hate so long as they fear. It's chest thumping Sith rhetoric that, like much of the Dark Side's jingoism and bravado, is stupid strategy. "I decide what it means to be Sith."

"Yes, of course, Excellency," Gaius immediately agrees. "But it will never work long term if you keep restricting importance to only pureblood Force users. You'll never keep the local systems in line. There simply aren't enough Lords to go around. If you gave every Lord his own system with direct control over his territory, there would still be far too many worlds left unsupervised."

"What you have me do?"

Is this a real conversation? Are his ideas actually being solicited? Gaius is brash and always has been. He's made a habit out of upsetting his elders and questioning the conventional wisdom and the status quo. So, in many ways, this foolhardy back-and-forth with the Dark Lord is sort of quintessentially him.

He answers, "Destroy the Jedi cult and then make their people our own in every way. First, we conquer and then we absorb and supersede them. Eventually, we put some of them in charge of their own occupation."

"So, you, the colonial random I am promoting to Lord status today, want me to one day find and train Republic randoms to promote to Lord status?"

"Well . . . yes. All Force sensitives should be taught the Dark Side and made to be Sith."

"Because Sith is a creed, in your words. You understand it to be an ideology?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"Wrong!" Darth Vitiate thunders.

Gaius can't help it. He flinches.

"The Shadow Force develops out of lived experience, boy. From grievance. From resentment. From hatred. The fearsome Lords of the Sith are made who they are by their longtime collective outcast, underdog status. The revenge of the Sith is not mere lip service, it is central to our identity. It is who we are. Our history gives us meaning. It gives us adversaries. The pureblood descendants from our wronged forefathers are those best positioned to champion our cause precisely because the outrage is their inheritance, as is the Force. Sith," the Dark Lord snarls, "is absolutely a birthright."

"Drop any colonial peasant in a Republic city and they will find a way to prosper. They will blend in with the rest. But drop a Lord of the Sith on Coruscant and watch him be hunted by the entire Jedi Order purely for the crime of his existence. For that is what we are to the Jedi—an existential threat. Consider this," the irritated sounding Emperor posits, "when the Republic came to slaughter our people in the last war, they knew who to target. Yes, they killed plenty of the commoners with famine and arms. People always die in war. But those deaths were happenstance. The genocide was reserved for the ethnic pureblood Sith. Women and children were cut down in their homes—non-combatants who posed no threat—and why? Because their skin was red! Their heritage is what identified them as a danger."

Vitiate now bellows, "People are not born equals here in the Empire. Each has their place in the hierarchy. Each must contribute. Those who lead are rightfully those with the greatest talents and the most at risk. Never forget that every red face you see-be they man, woman, or child-has their life on the line for this war. That you are invited to be included in their class by accident of fate speaks to our magnanimity. Be grateful and humble, random."

The Emperor's lecture doesn't stop there. And it only gets more uncomfortable. "It troubles me that a young man I am to promote to Lord does not understand these basic facts. But then again, you are not one of us and you did not complete your training. You killed your Master mere months into your Apprenticeship. And now, you waste my time by spouting ignorance."

Cringing Gaius keeps thinking on his feet, searching to extricate himself from the proverbial hole he has dug. But at the same time, he is unwilling to concede the point. It's just too fundamental. "I guess," he grumbles to his disapproving Emperor, "I am less concerned with the past than with the future."

Maybe it is too soon to be addressing this point—admittedly, victory is far off. But Vitiate can start to lay the groundwork now by extending some overdue acceptance to him and other loyal colonials who are doing Vitiate's dirty work for him. Is it too much to ask for some begrudging respect? Is it really so threatening to contemplate the Empire as something more than what it's always been? This is his perpetual frustration—how resistant to change the regime is.

Gaius tries to formulate into words his ideas. He knows he should probably just shut up. But he speaks anyway. "Excellency, in time the Sith shall rule the galaxy. We will be an enormous Empire of many disparate peoples united under your aegis. Surely, there will be work enough to share beyond just among those who inherit pureblood? Already the layman ranks are full of colonials who proudly fight and die for the Empire. Their contributions matter. They are Sith too. Like I am." He's not a freak of nature, dammit, he's a hero. He's the colonial they sent to kill the Jedi who were occupying the native Sith homeworld.

The Emperor sighs audibly, "My Lords, we should have made this one a lawyer, not a Naval officer. How he loves to hear himself talk."

Everyone present in the room gets another chuckle now at his expense.

"If he has his way, you might one day be taking orders from a servant or from some Jedi type we turned to the Dark Side and handed a red sword. Or maybe even an alien," Vitiate adds as a juicy, baiting afterthought.

More laughter.

"I like his fighting spirit even if he's tedious," the Emperor muses. "Azamin," he calls down to his senior war Councilor, "put this one on the front lines. If he can't slay a Jedi with his sword, perhaps he can talk him to death."

Yet again, the small crowd in attendance laughs at him.

"Enough of you. Arise, Darth Malgus," the Emperor completes the investiture ceremony that he's here for. But it's a mere side show to the humiliating colloquy they have engaged in. Many gleeful eyes now regard Gaius smugly as he rises to his feet. Gaius knows his onlookers are well satisfied that the random upstart has been put in his place.

Seething and miserable, he is now summarily dismissed. "Depart my throne room," the Dark Lord orders with maximum contempt. "Never return."