When her transport drops out of lightspeed into the Albarrio system, Meetra plots the course Tony devised to traverse the treacherous wild space that is the Maelstrom Nebula. There are a few close calls along the way, but her craft's military grade shielding keeps things relatively safe.

Finally, she spies her destination. Revan's prison is a freestanding space station shaped like a double helix corkscrew that houses an inner sphere. Like all non-orbital outposts, the massive object slowly turns to generate its own gravity. But has she come to the wrong place? The station is an ugly rusty brown color that looks nothing like the sleek black-and-red aesthetic of the Sith Empire. Moreover, a quick scan of the facility reveals no defenses. There's not a laser cannon mounted anywhere on it as far as Meetra can tell. She also detects no patrol ships in the vicinity. That lax perimeter strikes her as extremely odd for a maximum-security prison that houses the apex prisoner of the Sith Empire. After all, Revan is reportedly the personal whipping boy of the Dark Lord.

Wary Meetra can feel the hair on her arms stand on end as she pilots her transport to approach the station. If she still had Force sensitivity, no doubt her mind would be screaming Danger! to mobilize her power. But as it is, her adrenaline is pumping.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, it is impossible to sneak up on the station undetected. They surely know she's here. So, why haven't they contacted her? Are they fooled by the Sith Navy identification broadcast by her transport? Could they be waiting until she's in close range to reveal their weaponry to open fire? Might there be a swarm of fighters about to launch? Meetra's sense of dread increases by the moment as her small transport creeps ever closer.

When she's near enough to discern that the red and brown paint job on the station is actually an intricate alien-looking pattern, she receives an incoming hail communication. The digital message is written in Basic. It is short and to the point. Meetra is ordered to maintain her present course until the station's tractor beam can lock onto her craft. Then, she is instructed to power down her engines and let the tow land her ship in the station's hangar bay.

There is no request for identification.

There is no demand that she present a security clearance or state her business.

It's almost as if she is welcome and expected.

Now, Meetra is really feeling spooked.

This must be a trap, like Kreia warned. But if so, it's already too late. There's nothing left to do but spring the trap and hope for the best. And now, for perhaps the millionth time since Meetra embarked on this foolish rescue mission, she wishes she still had her Force.

With a resigned sigh and a muttered Jedi prayer, Meetra surrenders control of the transport and sits helpless as it is remotely drawn into a hangar bay. At least this solves the problem of how to sneak aboard Revan's prison, she tells herself.

The hangar bay is staffed entirely by droids—there's not a sentient being in sight or on her scanners. While that would be commonplace back in the Republic, it seems very odd for a Sith prison. For as a general rule, the Dark Side elite mistrust mechanicals that they cannot sense in the Force. As a result, the droid labor force in the Empire is a fraction of what it is back home.

Meetra's suspicions that that she has come to the wrong place grow as she ventures forth from her transport. With her saber in one hand and a blaster holstered to the waist of her dress, Meetra creeps past the droids that ignore her in search of an exit. Maybe if she finds someone in charge, she can explain that she has made a mistake and they will release the tractor beam and send her on her way.

After wandering around a bit, she discovers both an exit and an elevator. Which is most likely to take her to someone in charge? Meetra opts for the elevator. Ducking inside, she selects the button for the first floor. That seems like as good a choice as any. But when the elevator doors open at her destination, they part to reveal two praetorian guards standing sentry. The towering red armored bulk of the duo of expert Sith warriors standing shoulder-to-shoulder completely fills her field of vision.

Fuck! She has come to the right place after all.

Meetra reflexively lights her sword. It's her Jedi sword with a telltale blue blade. The action outs herself immediately.

"Jeddai . . .?" The praetorian on her right correctly labels her identity in Old Sith. The man is masked—Meetra can't see his face—but she registers his true surprise at her Light Side status. Whoever he is expecting, it isn't her.

"Let her pass," his companion growls back a terse command. "Those were our orders."

Neither man lights his sword. Incredibly, they both step aside to allow her to exit the elevator.

As they yield ground, wary Meetra is faced with a quandary: does she preemptively kill the pair who have offered her no violence? No, she shouldn't. That's not the Jedi way. Plus, if she starts a fight and they both engage, can she survive a two-on-one duel without the Force? Probably not. Best not to pick that battle.

So, with much trepidation, she darts past the praetorians, whirling to face them as she backs up into the hallway they are patrolling. If she still had her Force, she would push both men into the open elevator and send them down to the hangar bay. But that's not an option, unfortunately. She has only her wits, her strength, and her skills to aid her now.

"Jeddai . . . Hostis!" The surprised praetorian spits out more hostile Kittat. Meetra is mostly ignorant of the Sith ancestral language, but she can translate those two words. They are written all over every Sith temple she's ever been to: Jedi. Enemy.

"Stand down!" warns the other praetorian sternly to his aggressive colleague. His next words fill her with dread. "Remember, we only need to keep her from escaping."

Yikes! This is a trap like she has feared all along. Meetra swallows hard.

The angry praetorian now hisses at her in Sith-accented Basic. "He's down the hall and to the left. He's waiting for you."

Does that 'he' refer to Revan or to someone else? Meetra is unsure. But she nods slowly as the elevator doors close, and the two fearsome praetorians take up position in front of them. She's willing to bet that they're blocking her one way in and out of the hangar bay, which is the only escape route off this space station.

It's too late to back out now. Inhaling a deep breath and summoning her courage, Meetra risks turning her back on the two men as she strides away. She's here and she's ready for anything, Meetra resolves. Bring it on. For at this point, the only thing she has left to lose is her life.

But soon, Meetra yet again starts to wonder if she has come to the wrong place. This is the strangest prison she's ever seen. The interior of the space station looks like some Core mogul's private hideaway home, and it comes complete with an art gallery. For while on one side the walls of the carpeted hallway she stalks are floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the Maestrom Nebula, the opposite walls are hung with dramatic paintings. Like all Sith artwork Meetra has seen, the paintings are strictly representational in style. There's no abstraction here. The paintings depict actual people, places, and things.

Well, whatever. Meetra keeps progressing down the curving path that traces the exterior perimeter of the spherical portion of the station. Her sword is lit and buzzing in her hand, and that's comforting.

Revan, are you here? Are you near? I'm coming, she thinks. The Jedi and the Republic may have washed their hands of Revan like they did her, but she will not forsake him. If only she still had the Force, so she could sense his imprint and locate him easier.

Meetra quickens her pace. Now, she's jogging slowly with her long skirt caught up in her free left hand. Thankfully, she doesn't encounter any more praetorians. In fact, she doesn't come upon anyone—not even a droid. The whole place seems to be deserted and it's quiet as a tomb. When does this hallway end? It seems like she's been wandering through it forever. Could the spherical structure she's in really be this big? Why doesn't this hallway branch off in any other directions?

Worried now that the curving path she takes is making a complete circle that will retrace her steps, Meetra stops. She glances at the painting on the wall next to her in order to remember it in case she sees it again. And that prompts her to do a double take. Intrigued, Meetra approaches for a closer look.

The painting is a dramatic battlefield scene. There is laserfire incoming and fallen bodies litter the ground. Explosions are shown in the background, as well as fleeing transports lifting off. But in the forefront before a coterie of Sith Lords, physically dominating the fraught scene, stands a woman. She brandishes a sword in one hand and her other palm is upraised as if using the Force. She's Sith from the looks of her black dress and red blade. But that makes no sense. Women are relegated to domestic life in the Empire. They don't fight in battles.

Meetra squints at the distracting picture. It's all wrong. From the pale woman's streaming white blonde—blonde!—tresses, to the strange choice of a majestic gown and a twinkling crown as attire for the battlefield, it's clear that someone took a lot of artistic license. Just look at the woman warrior's steely grey eyes that glare indignantly from the canvas. Shouldn't they be yellow? And shouldn't she be red skinned?

"Like it?"

Meetra jumps and whirls at the sound of a man's voice. And look who it is. From around the curving hallway strides Darth Tenebrae, the priest who is a ghostly blank in the Force. He sneaks up on her yet again. It's unnerving.

"You!"

Did she say that with enough lack of enthusiasm? Just to reinforce the point, Meetra brandishes her lit sword. She's not foolish enough to believe that she can maintain her Lady Sion disguise in this setting, especially with this guy. This is the high-ranking priest who trolled her at Azamin's party but then helped her at the Palace. He told her to leave Sion and offered himself up as a substitute. He's got Sith eyes so putrid yellow from evil alchemy that surely they must hurt. But he has an earnest, unremarkable face that is distinguished mostly by his Jedi Master-invoking beard. If it's possible for a man to look like he adheres to both the Dark and Light religions, it is Darth Tenebrae. Meetra has never met anyone quite like him. He's at once repulsive and intriguing. But right now, he stands between her and Revan.

If the Chief Priest is surprised by her aggression, it doesn't show. He is not threatened. Softly, he assures her, "Put away your weapon. I mean you no harm."

Meetra highly doubts that. She stubbornly holds high her sword. It's very blue. Will Tenebrae comment on that? He doesn't.

"Welcome. I have been expecting you." Truly, the priest looks delighted to see her. It has Meetra confused.

Tenebrae knows it, too. He is smug as he grins, "I knew you would come." There's something mischievously boyish about his expression. It's almost endearing. And now, yet again, Meetra is confused.

The Sith clergyman looks her over, taking note of the rumpled bloodstained Palace gown she's still wearing ten days after her presentation to the Emperor. It's all that's left of her meticulously planned toilette. The perfect makeup, the coiffed hair, and the impressive jewelry are all long gone. Meetra looks like a bedraggled waif now.

"My Lady, you are not at your best," the priest notes with a look of concern, "but it is good to see you." Weirdly, his comment seems utterly sincere. "I am relieved to see you."

Huh. How should she respond? Uncertain, wary Meetra remains silent as she stands with her buzzing blade poised in classic Jedi ready position. At least, she notes, the priest isn't wearing a weapon.

Darth Tenebrae turns back to the painting she was just studying. "Do you like it? It's a copy. These are all copies." He waves to indicate the extensive collection she has just passed through. "I couldn't take the risk of keeping the originals here. There is too great a chance that you or someone else might blow up this old place."

"Uh . . . okay." Why are they talking about this? Meetra peers at the priest, her threatening lightsaber still held high, but Darth Tenebrae's full attention is on the painting. He's entirely nonplussed about her display of deadly force.

Nodding at the artwork, he explains, "That's Lady Ragnos, the widow of our first Emperor Marka Ragnos. She's the Empire's greatest heroine. The painting depicts the night she and a few valiant Dark souls made a last stand at the old Palace. It was a suicide mission to hold off the Republic invaders so the last transports of fleeing civilians could take off." Tenebrae points at the line of spacecraft shown rising into the sky while taking incoming fire.

"Most everyone left behind perished in the genocide the Jedi called justice. The first time, the Jedi were content to exile us as punishment. But the second time? Well, by then they knew the true threat of Darkness. They did their best to wipe us out." Tenebrae jeers, "The Light turned Dark that day, although the Jedi would never admit it. No one kills with more cruel relish than a Republic zealot."

Meetra has no response to this bitterness. She's not here to debate the decisions of the distant past. She won't defend the merits of the Order that threw her out. She's only here for Revan.

The priest keeps musing over the painting as though oblivious to her humming sword. "I had this painted from memory," he recounts. "It took a few tries to get it right, but in the end, the artist captured the scene just like I remember. Looking at it now, I can almost hear the explosions and smell the fires burning." Darth Tenebrae is thoughtful—and a little wistful—as he sighs. "Such a momentous day it was when the original Empire fell . . . It was the end of an era, and all of us knew it."

"You were there?" Meetra does the math. That was almost a thousand years ago.

"Oh, yes," Tenebrae confirms. "I had the artist paint me in. Here."

He points, and now, despite intentions to the contrary, Meetra tears her eyes off the priest to focus on the painting.

"There I am. That's me."

Meetra is skeptical that the blurry dark figure with both arms upraised in the background on a rooftop is in fact the priest. But even if it is, that doesn't make his story true. She challenges skeptically, "You alone survived?"

"Yes." Tenebrae does not elaborate. Instead, he resumes talking about the painting's subject. "Lady Ragnos was a remarkable woman. During her husband's decline, she ran his Empire. It was unacknowledged, of course. No one would accept a woman as Dark Lord. Once Ragnos was gone, she remained neutral regarding his successor. Mostly, she was determined to protect the Empire her husband had built. She died that day on the steps of his Palace, but not before she took many Jedi with her. Such a remarkable woman . . . I was half in love with her . . ."

Is he joking? Meetra's not sure. Darth Tenebrae is wry and dry. Plus, a lot of what he says is deliberately provoking, she suspects.

For her part, Meetra is cynical about the doomed Empress' fate. Devotion to family and to the Empire combined with violent hatred of the Jedi? Naturally, those would be the character traits of a Dark heroine. Too bad this Lady Ragnos paragon died to reaffirm the macho revenge-obsessed patriarchal system that held her back. Oh, the irony that the poor woman ultimately became a rallying cry for her oppressors' cause. She should have thrown down her sword and switched sides to join the Jedi, Meetra decides.

Incredibly, Tenebrae now leans in closer to her sword blade. He teases softly, "Want to know a secret?"

Not really, but something tells Meetra that the priest is going to divulge his information anyway.

Sure enough, Darth Tenebrae volunteers, "Lady Ragnos was a Jedi."

"A Jedi? Not a chance." Rolling her eyes, Meetra complains, "Spare me your lies."

"It's true. The first Sith Empress ran away to the Republic to live as a Jedi for many years before she returned."

"I don't believe that." It's preposterous.

"Believe it," Tenebrae insists. "Lady Ragnos was born a colonial princess with the Force. We would call her a random since she didn't inherit her power." Lord Tenebrae's deep set yellow eyes slant towards Meetra as he slyly reveals, "She and crusty old Ragnos were a dyad. Yes . . . " he purrs with much satisfaction as Meetra involuntarily stiffens, "I have seen a dyad before. I know its power."

The less said about the dyad, the better. Meetra responds by repositioning her saber right under the priest's nose.

He pretends not to notice. He gushes, "Lady Ragnos saved my life once, and she defied her husband to do it. In person, she was absolutely gorgeous. Blonde, like my mother. Very petite, like you." Tenebrae smiles absently as he reminisces on his long-ago crush, "She positively glowed with Force . . . just like you do. So captivating she was . . . "

Uh oh. Is this guy going to make another pass at her? Is this rambling monologue about a painting some longwinded leadup to Tenebrae's next romantic overture? If so, Meetra plans to start swinging her sword. This priest might not want to fight her, but the longer she's here, the greater the chance she will find someone who does. She needs to find Revan fast.

Tenebrae smirks down at her. Devilishly, he inquires, "Are you going to keep holding that sword? It's rather rude, don't you think? If you're going to kill me, get it over with. Why delay your gratification? Strike me down."

Meetra frowns and stalls. For like with the praetorians at the elevator, she is wary of picking a fight she cannot finish. But then again, is Darth Tenebrae a real threat? He cowered on the sidelines in the throne room, and he doesn't seem to be armed. Still, killing an unarmed man isn't the Jedi way . . .

"Well? Are you going to kill me? Or shall I expire of anticipation?" The priest's yellow eyes are twinkling at her. His goading feels as if he's flirting. Like he enjoys her bluster . . . and perhaps her fluster, too . . .

Long seconds pass before Meetra makes her decision. She lowers her arms and deactivates her sword. "I didn't come here for you."

A slow, satisfied smile creeps across the priest's face. "Oh, but you did. Whether you know it or not, you did, General."

General. Well, the game is up. If her use of the Light Side at Azamin's party and today's blue Jedi sword didn't give her away, something else did. Darth Tenebrae knows who she is.

The man is irritatingly coy about it. "Shall I call you General? Or do you prefer Lady Surik?"

"Does it matter?" she gripes.

"I want to please you," he counters. "But I won't call you Lady Sion. I draw the line there."

"Good. The Exile will do," Meetra snaps, not bothering with a false denial.

"You aren't an exile here. You are welcome. You are safe." Darth Tenebrae lets those words resonate a moment before he politely inquires, "May I call you Meetra?"

Wary and tense, she snarls back, "Suit yourself."

"You must call me Carl."

"That doesn't sound very Sith."

"It's not Sith."

"Are you some ancient leftover Dark Jedi?" she jeers. "Next, are you going to tell me you were around for the schism and show me some painting of you being marooned by the Order?"

"No. I was born a colonial peasant, and I have a peasant's name."

Oh, okay. Knowing what she does of Sith culture, Meetra appreciates what an admission that is. But whatever. "Good to know." She's not interested in his backstory. She's here for Revan. But first, she has to ditch this irritating priest in order to rescue him. Tenebrae is ruining her jailbreak with his chitchat. She needs to find a way to get past him without raising an alarm or getting herself killed in the process.

"I should congratulate you. I suppose I should thank you as well."

Meetra isn't following. "For what?"

"For slaying the Sith'ari. Well done, milady. You, the Jedi Chosen One, just saved Darth Vitiate's reign."

Er . . . what? Meetra tries not to react to his obvious baiting.

"I know Sion's gone. I felt it in the Force. That disturbance was unmistakable. One of you departed and since you're here, it had to be him. All hail, the Chosen One," Lord Tenebrae teases her. Those yellow eyes twinkle again. "Glory be to you, the inadvertent protector of the Empire. You know," he purrs, "the more I think of it, the more ways you remind me of Lady Ragnos . . ."

Meetra bristles. "I'm no longer a Jedi. I'm certainly not the Chosen One!" She can't sense the Force now, so how could she balance the Force? The very idea is ridiculous. Besides, the Chosen One is a myth. Well, probably a myth. There's no way to be sure.

"You truly believe that? Yes, I see that you do. Respectfully, my Lady, you're wrong. You are the Chosen One." Darth Tenebrae says this like it's a great honor that impresses him, rather than threatens him. It makes no sense.

"What do you know of the Chosen One?" Meetra demands hotly. "What does a Sith priest know of the Jedi prophet?" Especially a prophet whose very existence is controversial even among the fringe true believers of the Jedi Order?

"It might surprise you what I know of the Jedi," he counters calmly. "My Lady, if one is to understand the great mystery that is the Force, one must study it from all its angles, not just the narrow, dogmatic view of your own tradition. Tell me," his eyes slant to regard her with keen interest, "how upset are you about Sion?"

Sion. Tony, oh Tony . . . Meetra looks away, blinks her suddenly watery eyes fast, and proclaims, "There is no death, there is only the Force," with as much conviction as she can muster.

"Is that your way of saying you're fine that he's gone? Or are you brushing off my question?"

Irritated Meetra repeats herself through gritted teeth. "There is no death, there is only the Force." That's a Jedi truth she plans to cling to. It helps her feel better about Tony.

"There is no death, there is only the Force," the priest repeats her words slowly. "Well, I suppose that's sometimes true, but only for people like me and you. And Sion, for certain. Do you mourn him? Are you heartbroken? Did you love him?" the priest presses.

"No!" Well, not really.

"Are you sure?"

No. Meetra still doesn't know how to feel about Tony. He was redeemed, he came to the Light . . . and it killed him. Was that a moral triumph? Should she feel happy? Was Tony an enlightened sinner who saw the error of his ways and repented to gloriously rejoin the Force from which he came? Or, is he a cautionary tale of a toxic, unrequited love that culminated in self-destruction? And if so, does that make her responsible? Is Tony yet another life to add to her tally of lost souls?

A worrying suspicion dogs Meetra now: if Tony ultimately moved Light, does that mean she has moved Dark? Did they switch places in their dyad? Is she the evil one now?

Those are not questions she cares to think about, let alone discuss with the high priest of the Sith Empire. "Shut up!" she snarls at Tenebrae, who is peering at her closely.

"So, you liked Sion, but you didn't love him . . . " Tenebrae sounds relieved. He looms closer as he wonders aloud, "How coldhearted are you, Chosen One?"

"Stop calling me that!" Meetra re-ignites her sword and thrusts it at the priest's throat again. He dutifully steps back with hands raised in automatic surrender. But there go his yellow eyes twinkling at her again. He's enjoying the danger. He's also enjoying her anger.

Abruptly, the priest shifts gears now. He directs her attention back to the painting they're still standing next to. "Come, look closer at Lady Ragnos. The genius of this painting is in her eyes. It's best depicted in the original—this is a copy—but look closely."

"You're wasting my time!" This whole conversation is frustratingly bizarre. She's the enemy general arrived to bust out a notorious prisoner, but Darth Tenebrae doesn't seem the least bit concerned. He also doesn't seem to want to kill her. Could he be a diversion? A means to delay her until others arrive to capture her? Meetra doesn't know what to make of the priest's behavior.

"Go on. Humor me," he prods.

"I don't care about art!"

"Just look. Yes . . . you see it, don't you?" Tenebrae sounds at once sly and solemn. "If you live long enough, you will see the same eyes in different people. Behold Lady Ragnos, Jedi Empress of the Sith. You have her same eyes."

"We both have light eyes. What's your point?"

"It's not the color I'm referring to. It's the expression. Those are the eyes of a person who has seen and done far more than she ever wanted to. See how haunted she is by that burden? She was a Chosen One, like you."

More of this topic? Meetra huffs, "There is no messiah of the Light. The Order moved past that superstition centuries ago." Only a few diehards believe in that fairytale. It's taught to Padawans mostly because of tradition.

"You are mistaken."

"Yeah? Well, if she was the Chosen One, then why didn't she balance the Force? And she was Sith—shouldn't she have been the Sith'ari?" Meetra snaps.

"In fact, she was."

"You make no sense! And you're wasting my time!" Meetra has grown impatient with this guy who declines to fight, but instead seems to want to talk her to death.

"Look past the semantics. The Chosen One and the Sith'ari are the same concepts viewed from opposing perspectives. The Jedi Chosen One wants balance—which is simply a euphemism for Light Side dominance. We Sith want lasting victory for Darkness—which is the promise of our conquering Sith'ari hero. Both sides of the Force look for the advent of a transformative figure endowed with great power to make change . . . they will subdue the opposing side to unify the galaxy and ultimately the Force . . . "

"Wrong! We are nothing alike! The Jedi and the Sith are nothing alike!" Meetra is adamant on this point.

Tenebrae ignores her rant. Patiently, he explains, "Every generation or so, there is a Chosen One born. And every few decades, a new Sith'ari comes along. I know because I have seen it time and again. The Force surfaces a new favorite and gives them a chance to bring change. Sometimes, they succeed. Most fail. Some never even muster the courage to try. No—don't tell me I am wrong, because you have lived this, Meetra Surik!" Suddenly, the priest's tone is very firm. "Search your feelings-you know this truth!" he insists. "It's why you are here today at my space station!"

Revan. He must be talking about Revan.

"I thought Revan was this generation's shot. I was wrong," the priest grumbles ruefully. "Revan was a favorite of the Force, but he wasn't the Chosen One. He was merely their harbinger."

"But Revan flipped Sith. He would have been the Sith'ari," she complains, feeling befuddled.

The priest shakes his head at what he clearly views to be her overly simplistic, too literal understanding of the Force's prophecy. "My dear Lady, the concepts are one in the same. But all labels aside, Revan wasn't the one to fear. You are."

Meetra's eyes narrow. Tony had once voiced a similar sentiment. And he too believed in these long-ago prophecies that have never been fulfilled.

"Yes, it's you," the priest breathes out with reverence. "It's you. You are the Chosen One."

This creepy priest is full of crap. But one glance at the zealot's gleam in his yellow eyes convinces Meetra to play along. Because even without a sword, this guy suddenly strikes her as formidable.

"Well, I'm a failure at that too, I guess," she sniffs flippantly. She failed at being a general, she failed at being a Jedi, and she especially failed at balancing the Force. Basically, she's failed at everything she was tasked to do in life. She's doing her best to pretend not to care about it.

The priest isn't fooled. He judges, "Unclear."

Wait—what does that mean?

"Most generations, the Chosen One is one person. But on rare occasions, the Force makes them a pair. When that happens, it's called a dyad."

A dyad. Meetra's heart skips a beat at the second mention of that word. She looks down immediately.

"I know a dyad when I see one. Ragnos and his Jedi wife were a dyad. Individually, each was impressive. But together, they were unstoppable. Ragnos was our greatest leader in large part due to his wife's help. She was his closest advisor, his only confidante. She alone could argue with him and win. I know because I saw it with my own eyes. I once watched them bicker over my fate as I stood in chains before Ragnos' throne awaiting judgement."

Whatever. Who cares? Not her. Meetra edges away. Time to ditch this rambling sorcerer who knows too much even if he speaks nonsense. "That's all very interesting, but—"

"Their telekinesis was effortless! They fooled everyone but me. I could hear them arguing in the Force. Just like how I could hear you and Sion speak through your bond."

"Oh." Uh oh. Now, she's completely busted. Not only is her Jedi general identity known to the priest, but her ambitions to kill Vitiate are exposed as well.

"Yes," Darth Tenebrae confirms, "I heard it all at the party and then in the throne room."

Yikes! Meetra starts to back away fast. She mutters, "Well, that's over. Sion is dead. I'm no threat to your Emperor now. The dyad is gone." She failed at achieving Sith regime change, like she has failed at everything else.

"I know."

Things take an even more bizarre turn as Darth Tenebrae now invites, "Come, lower that sword and let's talk as friends. Walk with me. Let me show you my little outpost. I'm quite proud of it." He starts walking in the direction he came from, and he beckons to her to follow.

It's an entirely unexpected development given the context, and it's a complete non sequitur to that conversation about her being the Chosen One. After all, Darth Tenebae has just told her how dangerous he thinks she is. He's wrong, of course, but he seems to believe it nevertheless.

Worried Meetra stalls to consider her options. She can turn around and run from the priest. But that means a retreat towards the two praetorians back at the elevator. Alternatively, she can comply with the request. That means progressing into the space station alongside Darth Tenebrae, hopefully in the direction of Revan.

"Are you coming?" The priest half-turns to look back.

Yes, she's coming. Meetra decides she'd rather fight cowardly, unarmed Darth Tenebrae than the two praetorians. So, she follows, but she stubbornly keeps her sword lit.

Her host strolls along unfazed as ever about that circumstance. He starts making casual small talk. "I found this old place by accident when we were looking for the Star Forge," he volunteers. "The best minds in the Empire poured over ancient star maps and history books for knowledge of the Infinite Empire. We didn't find the Forge, but we found this. It's Rakatan too."

"I see." Where's Revan's cell? That's all she really wants to know.

"It was a wreck. It took two full years to refurbish it. I use it as my personal retreat for meditation, but I don't get here as often as I like. Duty calls, alas . . . "

Whatever. This guy needs to get to the point. Testily, Meetra snarls, "What is this about?" She is very cynical about Tenebrae's motives. "Are you going to gloat over how Sion and I failed as the tag team duo of the Dark and the Light? Or is this the part when the villain reveals his grand scheme in some big climactic monologue?"

Darth Tenebrae stops walking. He turns to inform her curtly, "I am not the villain." He seems offended at the notion.

Meetra doesn't miss a beat. "You're right," she retorts. "You're not the villain. The villain's on a throne on Dromund Kaas. You're the villain's henchman. Some second string Sith Lord who came off the bench to bore me to death with crazy grandiose theories."

The priest chuckles at her withering sarcasm. "Do I disappoint?" he teases.

"All in all, I'd rather be talking to the big boss," Meetra harrumphs, "not his gatekeeper."

"I like how feisty you are. You will keep me on my toes," the priest decides, "like Ragnos' lady did for him."

"Careful, my Lord." Meetra twirls her sword for a little impromptu badass bitch bravado. "I'm a lot to handle. You can't handle me." If this creepy priest is the one to finally kill her, she's going to be pissed. She'd much rather die martyred by Darth Vitiate than by this low-level heretic clergyman. Such an ignominious end that would be.

The priest must be in her thoughts. He frowns. "I don't want to kill you. Please don't make me kill you. Neither of us will benefit from that."

"Then, how about you step aside and let me pass?" she bargains. "I didn't come here for you. I have no issue with you. So, act like you did in the throne room and just watch what unfolds."

"I have a better idea," Darth Tenebrae counters. "How about we team up?"

"Team up . . . " Huh?

"Yes." The cowardly priest who lurked in the shadows during the battle with Lacerate has apparently experienced a change of heart. He's no longer contented to sit on the sidelines of Sith history. He plots to be a player amidst the fray. Offering his hand to her, Tenebrae invites, "Join me," with all the Dark gravitas of old Emperor Vitiate perched on his high throne cloaked in darkness.

"Whaaaat?" Meetra groans and sighs. Not this again . . . She's so over Sith politics. She's not looking for an alliance. Certainly not with a guy as out of favor and disrespected as this guy. Tenebrae is no Darth Sion.

"Jedi General Meetra Surik," Tenebrae coos her full name and title in the sardonic drawl he does so well, "exiled Chosen One from the Galactic Republic . . . ruthless destroyer of worlds and siren Light Side seducer of Sith Lords . . ."

Great. Now, he's just mocking her . . . she thinks. Well, maybe not. But either way, it stings. Meetra fumes. "Shut the fuck up, will you?" She's listened to this guy long enough.

But Darth Tenebrae is undeterred. "I can help you," he promises with the utter seriousness of a man who would never joke about power or the Force. "We can help each other. Join me, and together we will be unstoppable."