Gaius is waiting for her at the Temple as Portia pulls up in her speeder. His tall, cloaked form steps quickly out of the shadows. He offers his hand to help her alight from the vehicle.

"Did anyone see you? Were you followed?"

"No. Were you?"

"No. But I passed several patrols along the way."

"Me too. They're everywhere tonight."

Gaius nods grimly. "You can tell that Homeland Defense is on alert but they're trying not to show it."

Portia glances up warily at the cloudy, moonlit sky of Dromund Kaas, the Empire's capital world stretching back to the days of Marka Ragnos. How long until Republic gunships, fighters, and battle cruisers descend onto her home world? How long until roving gangs of Jedi assassins come to kill any and all adherents to the Dark Side? "Tonight might be the last night of peace here," she worries.

"Peace is a lie," Gaius answers with conviction. "There is either the prelude to war or the aftermath of war. There is no peace, there is just the lull between conflicts."

She nods to concur with this Shadow Force wisdom. But her contemplative, foreboding mood sticks. Tonight feels like the calm before the storm, both for them personally and for their people. "The city feels so quiet." Too quiet given the circumstances. It's because few know to fear what may unfold in the coming days. Just a select group of highly placed families like her own who are frantically making plans to flee behind closed doors.

"Look at the Palace. It's all lit up." Portia points down the Palatine Hill to the sprawling edifice that is one-part headquarters for the Sith government and one-part personal bunker for the never seen recluse Darth Vitiate.

Gaius follows her gaze. "Our Emperor must be awake."

"Who could blame him?" Portia observes. "I certainly won't sleep tonight."

What must it be like to be the Emperor tonight? To be responsible for a decision that will chart a new course for the war, one way or another? The fate of billions rests on his shoulders. And though Portia thinks she knows the final outcome of the war, it is by no means certain what the cost for victory will be. How badly might her people suffer before it's all over? What will she lose in the fight? Only time will tell.

"I'm glad I'm not him tonight. I have such a bad feeling," Portia confesses. "It comes and goes ever since I learned of Cato's injuries. It's like . . . "

"Like what?"

"I don't know. It's hard to explain. I thought it would go away after that vision today. But it didn't. If anything, it's become worse." It's why she believes the counter-invasion will happen, and that's a big part of why she's here with Gaius tonight.

He reaches for her hand and squeezes. "It will be alright."

Portia meets his eyes and echoes his encouragement solemnly. "It will be alright." This jittery anxiety may simply be a reflection of the extraordinary times she lives in. She may need to get used to a permanent sense of unease going forward. Already, the war has made inroads into the cushy, privileged life she leads. Slowly but surely, the expectations for her and everyone else are changing. It's evident in things like Apollonia's delayed wedding and her brother's recent doubts about the speed and success of the war.

"We should go inside," Gaius prods her out of her glum reverie. "How do we get in?"

"Handprint and security code," Portia replies as she takes charge. She steps past him to head for the Temple entrance.

"What if the priest is here?"

Portia concentrates a moment and deduces, "Darth Rampart is asleep in the rectory. Everyone nearby is asleep. I don't sense anyone close. Do you?" She looks to Gaius, who now concentrates in the Force as well.

"No."

"Good."

Portia finishes fiddling with the security system and announces, "We're in," as the door latch deploys with a sharp click. This Temple is hundreds of years old with giant creaky wooden doors that must be manually swung open, rather than the modern kind that slide back automatically to permit entry.

They step inside and throw back their hoods to see better in the gloomy interior. The only sources of light in the giant chamber are the flickering torches spaced high along the interior perimeter walls and the two giant candelabras that flank the altar. The meager light sources leave the majority of the sanctuary in darkness.

Gaius sucks in a breath as he walks a few paces in and peers around. "Someone's here."

She disagrees. "They always keep candles burning at night."

"The torches too?"

"Yes." She quotes him Dark Side chapter and verse: "Without Light to cast a shadow, there is no Darkness." Portia shrugs, unsurprised by her parish priest's slavish and very literal devotion to the old ways, given the ancient parish he shepherds. "Lord Rampart likes a formal liturgy with all the trappings."

"I can tell," Gaius coughs. "This place reeks of incense. It sure is old school."

Inside, the Temple walls are a striking mosaic stone pattern in shades of white, black, red, silver, and gold. They reach up high to a coffered ceiling that depicts battlefield scenes rich with Dark Side iconography. 'Glory be unto Darkness' is the incessant theme. In the vestibule corners stand open urn receptacles filled with ashes of fallen enemies. On high holy days, the faithful dip a finger into the ashes to smear them on their foreheads to remind themselves of past victories and to gird them for the fights to come. Appropo for the never subtle Sith, the giant Kittat letters 'VIS,' cover the entire back wall behind the high altar. Vis meaning Force, or power. Not coincidentally, the words are one and the same in Old Sith.

The resulting ambiance is overtly intimidating, sumptuously triumphant, and tinged with an unsettling mood of mystery. For in Temples like this is where the holiest Shadow Force magic happens. Here is where ancient rituals that are only whispered about unfold. Before this altar, Apprentices pledge loyalty, marriage vows are spoken, curses are cast, and, in bygone days, an enemy might be sacrificed. It is a sacred place of beginnings and ends, of irrevocable commitments that have deep meaning in her culture. Things done here matter, and they cannot be undone. For here is where the Dark Side of the Force combines with power, with passion, or with blood-sometimes all three—to achieve purpose. And if there ever were a civilization obsessed with goals and purpose, the Empire is it.

Portia walks forward down the center aisle of the sanctuary, leading Gaius by hand as she explains. "It's the oldest Temple in the city. It predates even the Emperor's Temple. The Palace was being built when the survivors of the last war erected it. Supposedly, they laid the cornerstone on what remained of the foundations of Marka Ragnos' Palace Temple. You know, so the new Empire would be founded on the ashes of the old Empire." Portia smiles as she recounts, "The first thing the Sith did when we finally returned was to raise a church to Darkness."

"Makes sense. Vitiate started out as a sorcerer, right? I guess he would want to build a Temple straightaway."

"They say it is a faithful replica of the original, but who knows? I guess the only person alive now who could judge is the Emperor himself."

Looking around at all the splendor, Gaius muses, "Back then, the Sith had nothing. They could barely feed their families. They must have beggared themselves to build this place."

She sees his point, but argues back, "It probably gave them hope to begin rebuilding. You know, to envision a future that was better than their present." She stops a moment to take in the empty chamber that she usually sees packed with worshippers. "A lot of people have passed through these doors. A lot of brides and grooms."

Her own groom smirks. "If only that altar could talk."

Portia giggles at the allusion to how many marriages have been consummated right here. "Oh, Gaius . . ."

They have reached the altar steps now. It's much brighter here, much easier to see as together they ascend to the dais hand in hand. She and Gaius pause in silence for a moment before the large stone table that will be the only witness to what they do together in secret.

The altar has a large, homely looking black kettle pot sitting upon it. It is very incongruous.

"Is that some old-timey cauldron?" Gaius squints. "Because it doesn't match the rest of this place. That looks like something someone boiled soup in."

Portia laughs. "If that's a cauldron, it's not the usual one." The ritual cauldron she's seen used for seances is as ornate as the rest of this Dark cathedral. "Never seen it before."

"Well, whatever. I suppose it's not in the way. Did you bring the knife?"

"Yes." Portia plucks the Metellus family wedding stiletto from her pocket. It's a thin, sharp, nasty looking knife whose blade has been forged with acid. The chemical ensures that the wounds it inflicts will scar, as is the preferred outcome for nuptial hand slashes. She unsheathes the bejeweled family heirloom with reverence and lays it on the altar.

With a deep breath, she declares, "All set," even as she turns to frown into the murky gloom of the sanctuary behind them.

Gaius senses her unease. "What is it?"

"I feel like . . ."

"Yes?"

"Like we're being watched."

She looks to Gaius, who reassures her. "There's no one here. The door automatically locked behind us."

"I know," she concedes, still troubled.

"How about I lock it with the Force to be sure?"

"Yes, please," she immediately accepts, muttering to herself, "I think my bad feeling is rubbing off on you now."

"You might be right . . . something does feel wrong . . ." Gaius now starts to peer out into the sanctuary himself. "It feels like . . . like danger . . ."

She groans, "Don't say that." Portia grips at his cloak now and looks up into his handsome, pale face. "Please don't say that. It makes me think the Jedi are coming already." Like they have fooled themselves into thinking they had time to prepare, that they had at least one night before the Republic genocide began.

"Well, maybe I'm wrong. But something does feel off."

"Could it be a Jedi?" she frets.

"Nah. It doesn't feel like a Lightsider. But if it is, we're fine. I can take a Jedi." Gaius cracks a rare smile and jokes, "I got you, babe."

"You had better," Portia mutters. Her trepidation just amped up a notch, so she attempts to refocus them both, complaining, "We're wasting time." She had envisioned this wedding as a simple, intimate, and meaningful affair, but now she just wants to get it over with. This was supposed to take five minutes but it's already been at least ten. She nervously rasps, "We're here. Let's do this and get out of here." Before a Jedi or someone else shows up.

The words come out grumpy and snappish. It's her fear showing through as anger.

"Hey now . . . " Gaius tugs her into his arms. "Not like that . . . " And oh, how good it feels to lay her head against his broad shoulder. In his embrace, Portia finds such comfort. It's a sense of security that gives her resolve even as she melts into him. "It will be alright," Gaius tells her again what he just told her outside the Temple door. "Whatever happens, the Sith will endure," he whispers into her ear as he strokes her hair. She clings fast. Lulled now by his calming touch and authoritative manner. "We will endure too. Ever shall I stand for you, Portia Metellus." The words are tender and true. Here, in this holy place, they resonate in the Force. And while Gaius has never said it, and neither has she, this moment is all the 'I love you' Portia needs.

She feels her impatience slip away. This is a moment to savor. What was she thinking trying to rush this? "I will be loyal all the days of my life, no matter what happens," she promises back. "I'm all in, Gaius."

"I will try to live up to that regard," he answers honestly. "You may need to forgive me from time to time if I let you down. I make mistakes," he suddenly sputters, flushing hard, "like with Vindican . . . There's something in me. It's always been there . . . and sometimes it makes me . . ."

"Yes?"

"I need war," Gaius confesses sounding miserable as he holds her close. He's not a humble guy, so this is hard for him. "Sometimes I need to kill. I can't explain it, and it doesn't happen very often, but it happens. I lose control—"

"I know."

"—But I will never hurt you."

"I know." This is a man who took in a stray, starving dog as a pet. He's not cruel—far from it. And if he has difficulty controlling his Darkness from time to time, that's normal for a Lord maturing into great power. Gaius isn't the only one with that issue, Portia knows. But unfortunately, he has no Master to guide him now.

Well, whatever. That complication is just one of many that come with being Lady Malgus. He's not perfect and neither is she. But Portia's fully committed anyway. "I will be so proud to be your Lady, even if it's a secret only we know."

"How did I ever convince you of that?" he marvels with a soft, husky laugh.

How indeed? Portia lifts her head to grin at him. "I'm not really sure. I think you grew on me. But mostly, it was the comlink."

Gaius laughs again, she laughs, and now he's kissing her deeply. It's the hot rush of passion that she remembers from Azamin's garden and from his bedroom. Portia is quickly swept up in the torrent their mutual desire. She arches her back to writhe again his roaming hands, willing him on to more caresses. Forget the vows and the hand slash, she thinks. Maybe they should start with the wedding night sex.

But Gaius' greedy touch soon finds her lightsaber by her hip. He grunts playfully. "That's not you."

She giggles. "That's the sword you gave me. I keep it on me."

"Good. Just . . . er . . . wasn't expecting to grab your ass and find a weapon."

She snickers and gives him a smacking kiss and some sass. "I'm fierce, remember?"

Gaius' eyes flash yellow with excitement. "Force, I want you," he answers. "I want you so much."

"Then, let's do this and go back to your place."

"I like the sound of that. Walk me through the ceremony?"

"Sure. I'll go first." Normally, the groom goes first, but it doesn't matter. Nothing about this impromptu secret wedding is according to tradition anyway. "Give me your hand." Portia holds up her left hand and Gaius matches his own larger version to it. They stand facing, palms touching palms, fingers intertwined, before a sacred altar of Darkness.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

And now, more than ever, Portia senses the eddies and flows of the Force around them both. She can feel the subtle charge in the air that signals the meaningful change which is about to happen. She closes her eyes to experience the moment . . . to cherish and remember it forever. Yes, this is destiny at work. This is fate poised to act. What they do now will matter.

"Do you feel it?" she whispers.

"I do," Gaius answers hoarsely, sounding as awed as she is. "The Force is with us."

Yes, the Force is most definitely with them. And that's why amid rampant uncertainty and in the face of long odds, she will make this momentous personal decision. If there's anything worth taking risks for, Portia thinks, it's family. This secret marriage will make Gaius her family, along with Julia and Lady Vindican too. Sure, this is ill advised under the circumstances. But Portia will choose hope over fear. She will trust in the Force.

Encouraged to thrust all doubts aside, Portia begins to speak. Her voice is low and deliberate and her eyes never leave his. "I will be your passion. I will give you strength. And together, we will gain power and victory." The arcane vows are simple, a restatement of the Code of the Sith in promises. They are a ritual thousands of years old spoken by countless other couples through the ages in this very Temple.

Gaius echoes the words. "I will be your passion. I will give you strength. And together, we will gain power and victory."

She continues: "The Force has brought us together, the Force will bind us, and the Force will set us free."

In turn, Gaius repeats, "The Force has brought us together, the Force will bind us, and the Force will set us free."

There. It's done. Now, for the knife to make the cut to seal the oath with blood. Violence being an intrinsic part of the Dark Side ethos, this part is mandatory.

So, with a steady hand and an even more sturdy heart, Portia reaches for the unsheathed knife laying on the altar. Like with the vows, she'll go first. She loosens her hand from Gaius' grip and prepares to make the wedding slash. It's the moment of pain—the symbolic sacrifice to Darkness—that will bear witness to their union. She brandishes the weapon and stares at her palm, deciding where to make a small cut. And that's when the knife is firmly tugged from her grasp by an invisible hand.

"W-What?"

Did she drop it? No. She did not. It was taken. Snatched with the Force.

"What?!" Portia looks up sharply, open mouthed at Gaius. Then, both their heads swivel in the direction of the sanctuary where the congregation sits. It's as dark as ever. But there are slow, deliberate footsteps sounding now. They ring out from the hard stone floor and echo softly in the empty room.

Someone is here. Walking towards them.

Portia gasps, "Oh no!" even as Gaius whips her behind him.

"Fuck!" he swears. His sword hilt leaps from his waist to his hand. He's poised to fight. "Show yourself!" Gaius snarls at the unseen interloper as they both peer with futility into the opaque gloom. Portia can't make out any shapes past a few meters distance.

"Show yourself! Who are you?" Gaius hollers again.

His question goes unanswered, but a man's voice speaks. "What are you doing in my Temple interrupting my work?" a cultured baritone drawls. The voice drips with condescending arrogance as the unknown speaker adds, "And where did you kids learn a locking spell that strong?"

"Go away, priest!" Gaius dismisses the unseen interloper. "We'll be done soon enough. You can come back later to do your hocus pocus."

"I see what you're up to," the voice warns grimly, "and I won't let you do it."

The footsteps continue. He's getting closer and it unnerves Portia because she still can't see him.

And now, the unseen man addresses her. "What is your name, girl?"

"P-Port-tia," she stammers reflexively.

Just as Gaius hisses, "Don't answer him!" Gaius gives her a curt nod of reassurance as he orders, "Ignore him! Let's do this."

"But he has the knife," she points out just as a cloaked figure approaches close enough to partially come into view. Their interruption turns out to be a tall Lord with his hood pulled very low like Gaius is wont to do. The habit is so that Gaius can shield his distinctive pale skin which signals his unique random status, Portia knows. What is this unknown priest hiding? She peeks around Gaius to stare at him. She's frantically trying to decide how to handle this situation.

Gaius has already chosen a course of action. "Let's do this," he urges again. "Once it's done, it's forever. We don't need a knife to draw blood."

"Has this marriage been cleared by the Palace?" the intruder goads, his tone conveying that he already knows the answer. "Do you have her family's blessing?"

"I . . . we . . ." Portia stutters, looking to Gaius for how to answer.

"Are you even of age? Girl, how old are you?"

"Ignore him!"

"But I can't feel him," Portia wails in distress. "He's like Lord Azamin!" Like a ghost in the Force. A phantom menace you cannot sense, whose awesome power must be kept cloaked lest some Jedi on the other side of the galaxy perceive his extreme Darkness. While Portia has known Lord Azamin her whole life, she has never met another Lord of his caliber. It is a very rare thing to be so powerful. And to meet such a Lord here tonight under these circumstances is thoroughly intimidating.

But not to Gaius. "I don't care! And you shouldn't either!" Gaius, of course, has little regard for the Empire's rigid hierarchy. He's never been intimidated by rank or status, and he's fully prepared to provoke conflict to get what he desires. He is by his very nature a disruptor.

The interloper now steps closer. Portia watches as he twirls the sharp stiletto knife he snatched from her grip. Its shiny metal glitters in the torchlight. She stares at it longingly. She and Gaius had been so close to pulling this secret marriage off. But now they're caught and she doesn't know what to think or do. Her heart is pounding and her blood is racing as she stands there confused.

"Look at me, girl," the unknown Lord commands her attention as he steps even closer. She can see the shadow of a full beard on his chin, which is highly unusual. So is the retro style Kittat Darth title he announces next. "I am Tenebrae, the Chief Priest of the Empire." Tenebrae, meaning Darkness.

Portia sucks in a breath at this reveal. For this is no ordinary priest. This is the sorcerer supreme of the Shadow Force, named for the power he wields as the literal Lord of Darkness. "Oooh. . . Gaius—"

"Ignore him! He doesn't matter! Let's do this! Once it's done, nothing will stand between us. There is no divorce under the law. Give me your hand." Gaius grabs successfully for her left hand.

"Foolish boy," the newcomer chides him softy with thick superiority. "There is no rule of law in the Empire, it is rule of power. That's a fight you cannot win. The Palace will object to this unsanctioned marriage and so will her parents. There will be no need for a divorce because either they or the Palace will make her a widow."

Gaius snarls back, "I won't be easy to kill!"

"A fine boast for a soon-to-be dead man," the priest observes coolly. He lifts his chin now to appraise Gaius looming over him from the high altar. "Malgus, isn't it? I remember you."

"I don't know you!"

"I was in the throne room when you were invested."

"Stay out of this! It's none of your affair!"

"You are in my Temple. Everything that happens in this Temple concerns me."

"This isn't the Palace Temple. Rampart has this parish."

"All Temples are my jurisdiction. I only use the Palace Temple for executions now. There are too many bad memories there for me." The bearded chin twists and though Portia can't see this Lord Tenebrae's face, she can sense him glare accusingly at Gaius, as if somehow that circumstance is inexplicably his fault.

"This is the Temple where I practice my craft. Late at night when I will not be disturbed," the priest purrs with a potent mix of sarcasm and resentment. "Tonight it is especially important that I consult the Force. Tonight, I auger for Darth Vitiate himself."

Name dropping the Emperor does not impress Gaius. "This won't take long and we'll be gone. Now, hand over the knife." Gaius extends his arm and makes to snatch it back with his power.

The knife doesn't budge from the priest's hand. In fact, Tenebrae begins to twirl it anew.

Portia shoots fearful eyes towards Gaius. For whoever this Lord is, he must be extremely powerful. And just look at him flicking the knife they need. It's a small gesture that feels like a silent taunt. Like a wordless means to convey the challenge to come and take it.

Portia frowns. She wonders-is this some sort of test?

"Have you kids thought this through? It won't end well."

"Shut up, priest! We've heard what you think. But you're not her family, my superior officer, or the Emperor." Gaius is arguing that this Lord should employ the same hands-off disapproval for their actions that Lords Azamin and Angral did. He turns back to her. "Let's do this now. We won't get another chance. We can burn our hands lightly with my sword for the mark."

"But he—"

"Trust me. Do you trust me? I will take care of you no matter what happens after this. I'll gladly take this risk. Everything he says is the same risk we talked about beforehand. Nothing he says is new."

Gaius' eyes are bright gleaming yellow, Portia sees. He has summoned his power in the stress of the moment. She can feel the ripple of his surging Force. Gaius is ready to fight. Is the priest ready to fight? She can't tell because he's a blank in the Force. But as she glances back, Portia sees him observing, relaxed and calm, as he silently goads them with the twirling knife. His face is still mostly hidden, so even his expression remains a cypher.

"I am the Chief Priest of the Empire. I am responsible for the Palace control over marriages. I have the full authority of the Emperor in this matter. I assure you that he will defer to my judgment."

"So, we'll pay a fine," Gaius retorts dismissively. "Whatever." He looks to her. "Portia?"

With yet another fearful glance at the objecting priest, she sticks to the plan. It was her plan, after all. "Alright," she nods. "Let's do this."

"No, my dear," the objecting priest drawls. Suddenly, Portia feels a tight constriction at her throat. She gasps and lifts her hands to her neck in fast rising panic.

Gaius lights his sword. He waves his right hand at her and instantly breaks the Force chokehold even as his eyes never leave the aggressive priest. Lifting his lightsaber to point down at the man, he growls, "Get out! Get out before I kill you!"

Will the priest pull his sword?

Will there be a duel? Right here in the Temple?

But the priest stands there, unintimidated even though Gaius has the advantage of the high ground and a lit weapon. The man speaks slowly and deliberately. "Do. Not. Dare. pull a sword on me."

"Or what?" Gaius huffs. "You going to put a hex on me? Leave now, Tenebrae, or I'll kill you!"

"You killed your Master and now you think you can kill me. You aim high, boy."

"You can live if you leave," Gaius starts bargaining. "I have no quarrel with you beyond your current presence."

The priest ignores him and addresses her. "What is your full name, Portia?"

"Don't answer!"

Again, comes the constriction at her throat. It's the not-so-subtle encouragement she needs to choke out, "P-Portia M-Metellus—"

The priest considers this reveal with a frown that twists his lower jaw and tightens his lips. "Metellus? Daughter of the late Darth Oderint?"

"Y-Yes."

The priest grunts. "You have your father's height. But none of his brains or good judgment, I see."

"You knew my father?" she squeaks.

"We were on the Council together."

"You're on the Dark Council?!" Portia looks to Gaius, but he seems unsurprised by this information.

"He's the priest on the Council," Gaius mutters to her under his breath. "Don't be impressed. He's ceremonial. He doesn't matter."

"How disappointed Lord Oderint would be to know you are in this circumstance and with this company," their interloper persists. He continues addressing her, pointedly ignoring the provocation of Gaius' buzzing red sword in his face. "What must I say to dissuade you from making a very big mistake, my Lady?"

Is that a real question? She babbles, "Uh . . . er . . ." as the full meaning sinks in for what it might portend to defy the Chief Priest of the Empire who is a member of the Emperor's inner circle.

"Any objectionable marriage must be dissolved. And since there is no divorce, by dissolved I mean that one of you must die. Your family will insist that it's him. But the Empire in all likelihood would prefer to choose you, Portia. Malgus here is at least useful in the war effort . . . for now."

The priest folds his arms and looks up at Gaius' threatening stance as he judges, "I wouldn't kill him. We might need him. With Darth Marr dead, someone in the Navy should have some cunning."

"Is that praise?" Gaius sneers.

"No. It's criticism of Angral. You're the brains, and he's the smooth polish, right? You don't have to pretend. The whole Council saw it today when Angral was alone and struggling with our questions." The priest shrugs. "So, for now, you may live. But that condemns your girl. Marry her now and you might as well kill her yourself. Because that's how this will end." The priest now offers a perfunctory apology with the Dark Side's typical 'this isn't personal' detachment for violence. "I'm sorry, my Lady, but that's how it is."

"Not if I kill you first." Gaius shoots a warning bolt of lightning directly over the priest's head.

Darth Tenebrae doesn't so much as flinch.

The ongoing standoff just escalated, even if the fight has yet to begin. The Force is jumping wildly now with erratic lurches to and fro. It buffets Portia's mind with warnings and with waves of incomprehensible feelings. They aren't her feelings. Whose feelings are they?

Dismayed, she turns to Gaius. "I don't understand," she cries as her surging adrenaline and rising fear get the better of her, "why would anyone care who you marry? You're nothing . . . you're nobody . . . with no money and no name and no prospects . . . the Palace hates you . . . everyone hates you." She whirls to demand of the priest, "Why do you care? He's nothing to anyone but me. I am probably the only person in the Empire who believes in him!"

The priest's jaw momentarily drops before he quickly recovers his poker face. But the surprise—unwelcome surprise—is clearly conveyed in his tone. "You love him . . . you really love him . . . " Portia can't see the eyes that peer at her from beneath the priest's low hood, but she can feel them boring into her . . . seeing through her and into her . . . accusing her . . .

Stepping closer to Gaius, reaching for his free right hand, she clasps it and stands shoulder to shoulder with him. "I do," she declares the awkward, most would say shameful, truth. "I do love him. And I don't care what you or anyone else thinks!"

Glowering Gaius squeezes her hand, but says nothing as he continues to stare down their opponent.

The priest now explodes in his first true display of emotion. "There is no happy ending for him! There is love! There is no marriage! Certainly not to a Metellus! I will not marry power to influence—I'm no fool! I was born in the time of Marka Ragnos. I saw firsthand what great power combined with great influence and ambition could become." It's a peevish rant that utterly confuses her.

Gaius too. "What the fuck do you care? Her family hates me anyway. Why not walk away now and take your chances that they will kill me and solve your problem?"

"He's jealous . . . " Portia realizes aloud with a flash of insight. She finally understands that the strange undercurrents of the Force are the emotions of this priest. Strong, uncontrollable, irrepressible emotions of jealousy, loss, and regret that leech out from the man who is otherwise a blank in the Force.

Why are they provoking this reaction from him? Portia looks to Gaius. "I don't think this is even about us . . ."

He disagrees. "This is absolutely about us. And it's about power. He's an administrator and a gatekeeper who wants to flex what little power he has."

"Power is all that matters," the irate priest asserts, "and I hold all the power here." It's a bold statement that sounds remarkably defensive. Insecure even. "Do not underestimate my power!" the man fairly screeches in a cringeworthy, almost maniacal moment that is over just as soon as it begins. But it's a glimpse into the true nature of the man, Portia thinks.

"This isn't about us," she grumbles again. This is likely about the whim of some petty man who was once thwarted in love and now he's determined to make others suffer like he did.

Something has subtly shifted in the confrontation. Gaius must perceive it too because he goes on the offensive. "Throw back your hood. Show your face."

When the priest hesitates, Gaius sneers, "Show what you hide or reveal yourself a coward!"

The goad works. The priest swipes back his hood. His face is uncovered . . . well, sort of. The guy looks a dissolute mess, which is very uncharacteristic for a Sith Lord. Admittedly, priests tend to be the most individualistic of the elites. Priests are the ones with the visible tattoos of arcane symbols that only they and their buddies recognize. Some of the mystic types can look downright weird with masochistic piercings and austere hair-shirt cassocks that lean into the bargain of pain for power. It's a sharp contrast to the spit-and-polish uniformity of military types like Cato.

But this guy . . . Well, he looks more likely to get arrested for vagrancy than he does to be the Chief Priest of the Empire. Nothing about the mop of greasy looking brownish greyish hair that hangs over his eyes looks remotely well groomed. Between the long, straggly hair and the wild, bushy beard, this Lord looks like a homeless peasant. His waxy white pink colonial complexion—so like Gaius'—doesn't help matters. The only giveaway for his elite status is his pair of deep-set eyes. Peeking from behind his curtain of hair in the flickering torchlight, they reflect bright feral yellow like some predator's nighttime eyeshine.

To Portia's judgement, the man looks exhausted. Sweaty and stressed out like some drug addict in withdrawal. Thin, too. For whatever this Lord desires, it certainly isn't food. Portia's been a student of grief since she was age seven, so in sizing up the priest now she guesses a deep, deep depression. Like with Mother, she suspects Darkness is more than this man's ally, it is his constant companion and longtime nemesis. Portia doesn't know how this fits in with the wild emotions she detects. But it adds to her suspicion that there is some unknown subtext at work. For something about this confrontation with the stranger priest feels inexplicably personal. Like this is payback for someone else's transgression.

Does Gaius sense any of this? Probably not. He's too dug into this standoff and ready to fight. It's what Gaius does—he fights. Each and every battle, every time. He now crows triumphant. "You're a colonial-you're a random. Like me."

That's right, Portia belatedly recalls. Cato's friend Darth Defile had told them that the Chief Priest of the Palace was a colonial.

"Wrong," the man in question denies it.

"Your skin is pale. Your hair is light." Very, very few Sith aristocrats—nowadays only those with extremely diluted bloodlines—look so ordinary and so plain vanilla human in appearance. And those types are not the elite Lords who get on the Dark Council. They're mostly the types who end up on the proscription lists.

"I was born in the reign of Marka Ragnos."

Gaius scoffs. "A thousand years ago? Come on."

"I was born in the reign of Marka Ragnos."

"And that makes you what? A Dark Jedi fresh from the fucking Exile? Is that supposed to be how you're fully human but fully powered too? Nice try. You're at least a thousand years shy of Dark Jedi status, Tenebrae. Tell that lie to someone who will fall for it."

"Don't make it worse," Portia mutters, shooting Gaius a 'shut the fuck up' look. Insulting this guy isn't going to help matters.

But the priest looks more smug than offended. "I never lie," he chides in the same composed tone from before that is much at odds with his derelict appearance. The priest brags, "I don't need to lie. And I am not a random any more than you are."

Gaius squints in confusion. "I don't understand. You look like me . . . me if I were old, grey, and dirty . . . "

"He's a random," Portia affirms. Gaius is a random and that's really the crux of the problem. It's why they're here tonight attempting a secret marriage.

The priest snorts. "I didn't inherit my father's pureblood appearance, but I inherited his Force. I look like my mother's people."

Gaius' eyes narrow even as he continues to brandish his sword. "Your mother's people-they were colonials?"

"Yes."

"So, there are colonials who have married into the Lord class . . . Portia, we won't be the first to do this . . ."

"No one's getting married here tonight," the priest insists. "Girl, how much do you know about this big swain of yours? He thinks he's a random. He's not. He's like me. He's a bastard."

"A WHAT?" she and Gaius react in unison.

"You heard me."

"A bastard," Portia whispers the awful label in horrified disbelief. It's not a word used much in polite society, making it a slur of the highest potency. It's a fighting word, for sure.

"Take that back! That's a lie!" Gaius snarls.

The priest refuses to back down. A sly, ugly little smile plays about his lips as he instructs, "Search your feelings, you will know it to be true."

Yes, Portia can feel the truth of the priest's words through the Force. Is he in her thoughts? He must be because Tenebrae now repeats, "I never lie. I don't need to lie," as he looks straight at her. "In my experience, my Lady, few things are as devastating as an unwelcome truth."

Gaius is incensed. He knows as well as she does that as opposed as her family is to his random status, it is far preferable to illegitimacy. For the Metellus clan will never welcome an out of wedlock family member. It's just too unthinkable, too low class for the ultra-conservative genealogy loving Sith elite to accept a colonial bastard. They like control too much, and they rigidly enforce standards to set an example as societal leaders.

"Take that back! I was adopted after my biological parents were killed in a speeder accident! No one knew I had the Force until I was thirteen and I killed a man and my eyes turned yellow. I am a random!" Gaius finds himself in the awkward position of defending the random status that so dogs him. He looks to her and insists, "He's lying. But I don't know why."

It's because the priest is jealous, Portia thinks to herself. But she's also pretty certain that the priest is not lying. He's telling the truth, even if it's not the whole truth.

"Do you still want to marry him? He's the disgraced Apprentice who killed his Master. And he's worse than a random, he's illegitimate. How your dead father would rightfully recoil from him."

"Been watching my career?" Gaius sneers.

The priest sniffs, "You're the slow train wreck everyone enjoys watching. The whole Dark Council is rooting for your comeuppance. Contritionem praecedit superbia, Lord Malgus." Prides comes before a fall.

"Portia—"

"How did he convince you of this marriage? Did he tell you that he loves you? It's not you he loves, it's your family's wealth and connections. He's just using you. Trust me, the man is ruthless. He's a villain."

"Portia—"

"Rather than do the honorable thing and approach your family, he lures you to a Temple at night. He will only drag you down and get you killed. Men like him get women killed. Can't you see that he's a villain?"

"Portia—"

She speaks up for herself now. "This was my idea. I wanted to get married." Glaring at the priest who has ruined their plans, she contends, "He's not a villain and I'm not a victim. Y-You!" she accuses recklessly, "You are the villain!" Shaking her head and wiping back threatening tears, she demands, "What makes you think that he's a . . . a . . ."

"A bastard?" The priest says the ugly label with irritating relish. He's enjoying this reveal far too much. And that has Portia yet again wondering what this is really about. Sure, everyone hates Gaius . . . but why does this priest hate him especially? If she didn't know better, she'd think the priest is threatened.

She demands, "Prove it! Prove what you claim!"

And there's that nasty sneer that eerily matches Gaius' nasty sneer almost exactly. The priest announces, "Gaius Veradun, now known as Darth Malgus, was born the bastard child to a Sith Lady condemned by her husband to the Palace Temple."

Portia is truly shocked now. This keeps getting worse. She gapes and breathes out, "His mother was a Temple girl . . ."

"She was a whore! Got herself pregnant by a man who wasn't her Lord!"

Portia and Gaius exchange aghast looks. Neither of them saw that explanation coming.

"In a rare moment of mercy, the child was sent away for adoption . . . never to be seen again, we all assumed. That child was you." The lines on the priest's face harden into deep disapproval. "And now, you turn up twenty years later to inflict your upstart chaos on the well-ordered Empire. We have standards! We have rules!" the priest harangues. "Rules about life, rules about marriage, rules about power, rules about war. And you, you think those rules don't apply to you—but they apply to you most of all!"

"You won't be the one to teach me a lesson," Gaius dismisses him through clenched teeth. "You're the past, old man. If you're really over a thousand years old, you're a walking, talking anachronism whose time has come and gone. You might not realize it, but the future of the Empire will look like me. When we take Coruscant and the war is won, Lords like you will need to step aside."

These are trigger words for the priest. Portia watches warily as faint blue sparks emit from the priest's shaking fist as the man again loses his temper. Gaius has been yelling with a lit sword up until now while the priest dissed him with mostly cool aplomb. But no longer. That crack about stepping aside just got under his skin. The priest says his words extremely slowly, with menacing intensity and that same maniacal look from earlier: "Watch what you say to me, boy. My forbearance has limits."

And now, Gaius who is never one to shy from conflict, brashly retorts, "You be careful, priest. The Force is with me . . . bastard or not."

The Force is with me. It doesn't seem possible, but that claim just ratcheted up the tension in the room.

Nervously looking from Lord to Lord as the Force crackles and pops about her mind, Portia now blurts out, "I don't care! Who his mother was—whatever her sins might be—they don't matter to me! He is not his parents. He is his own man."

The priest whirls on her, as if suddenly remembering that she's present and she's what precipitated this fight. Tenebrae's gleaming yellow eyes pin her down as he hisses, "The sins of his mother are EXACTLY why he is what he is. And they are why he will never marry you as long as the Empire stands!"

"Fine, then," Portia decides, a note of pout creeping into her voice. "There's another way. We flee."

"Flee?" Gaius looks to her, not comprehending. "Flee to where?"

"We'll start over someplace else," she improvises. Anywhere they can be together. Anywhere where no one will know the truth of their mesalliance and, if they did, they wouldn't care.

"Lovers on the run?" the priest scoffs. "Foolish girl! You cannot outrun the reach of the Palace."

Ignoring the priest, she appeals to Gaius. "We could try."

"There is nowhere Darth Vitiate won't find you," Lord Tenebrae thunders.

But Portia has heard enough of this old fossil deciding what she and Gaius can and cannot do. Really, Gaius is completely right that the Empire is hamstrung by its control freak, ultra conservative, unimaginative mindset. And that thought suggests to her a destination. With a reckless petulance that only a spoiled seventeen-year-old girl can muster, Portia tosses off a threat that is woefully misunderstood. Unfortunately, it is said to exactly the wrong man.

"There's the Republic," she dares to threaten. "We can run to the Republic."

For a split second, there is only silence in the room after both men suck in loud breaths in surprise at the shocking suggestion.

She says it again, with stubborn conviction. "We can flee to the Republic." And that's the last complete, coherent thought Portia makes before her life falls apart.

"Portia!" It's Gaius bellowing his objection as her body is thrown across the room to slam hard into the Temple wall.

"Ooof!" The wind leaves her lungs entirely upon impact with a soft grunting sound. Ragdoll Portia now slides down the wall to slump in a heap on the floor. Her mind is still catching up to what just happened as she watches the bolt of strange looking red Force lightning the priest shoots at her.

There is no time to react. She simply watches and waits passively.

But the red lightning never hits her. It is deflected at the last moment by a second incoming bolt of red lightning that intercepts it and sends it ricocheting away harmlessly. This time, the red lightning is from Gaius.

Her saved her! That's the last thing that goes through Portia's mind as she begins to lose consciousness. She fights to stay alert, but it's no use. As her heavy eyelids close, she sees the priest turn to Gaius with an incredulous look.

Gaius wastes no time swinging to kill.

END OF PART THREE