The sky above Korriban burned like a tapestry of blood and ash, woven by centuries of darkness and war. The jagged horizon mirrored the turmoil inside Zaraak, her footsteps a muted echo of battles fought and won—yet hollow now. There was no certainty left, only the weight of betrayal that coiled around her heart like a viper, constricting tighter with every breath.
Power had once been her constant—each inhale sharp and cold, each exhale a reminder of her dominion over the weak. But now, that power slipped through her fingers, like sand caught in the wind. A void gnawed at her, expanding with every step closer to the Skyhopper. Its silhouette flickered against the horizon, a distant promise of escape. Yet it offered no solace, only transport to the next inevitable trial.
As she neared, the protocol droid stirred to life, its movements precise, indifferent—so unlike the chaos that gnawed at her. The title "The Vicious" still clung to her like a second skin, but now it felt suffocating. She had earned it through bloodshed, through the dark side's promises, but the victory it represented had soured. Power, the dark side had whispered, but what had it left her with? An empty throne, a hollow legacy.
She boarded the ship, her fingers brushing the familiar cold steel of her warblade, the last remnant of the life she had known. The blade had once anchored her to her purpose, but now, it felt like a relic of someone she barely recognized. Even the weight of the hilt in her palm could not steady the growing tremor inside her soul. Varik's face lingered at the edges of her mind, his smile twisted by the memory of betrayal. His death should have been the final severing of a weakness. Instead, it left her questioning the very foundation she had built her power on.
The Skyhopper's engines thrummed to life, lifting her above the scorched land of Korriban. The landscape below fractured beneath the ship's shadow, split into jagged lines that seemed to mirror her thoughts. The Tomb of Marka Ragnos loomed ahead, dark and ancient, a monument to the Sith's eternal hunger for power. Its spires sliced through the crimson sky, a jagged wound in the fabric of time itself.
Another trial awaited her. Another test of resolve. The dark side promised her strength, and yet, it felt as though the tomb's power couldn't fill the growing chasm inside her. The more she reached for it, the more it eluded her, like a flame she could never quite grasp.
When the Skyhopper touched down, the engines sighed into silence. Zaraak stepped off the ramp, the heat of Korriban's air pressing against her like an open flame. But it wasn't the heat that unsettled her—it was the cold that had taken root deep inside, an ice that the desert's sun couldn't melt. Ahead, the tomb called to her, its shadow stretching long across the sands, but her eyes drifted toward movement below the platform.
In the distance, cages lined the perimeter of a makeshift camp, their occupants twisted, snarling beasts, mutated by the dark side's influence. Imperial troopers moved between them with mechanical precision, their armor gleaming under the sun's oppressive glare. The stench of Sith experimentation hung in the air like a thick shroud, tainting the very ground beneath their feet. Zaraak could feel the dark energy emanating from the camp, but even that power paled in comparison to the weight of Varik's absence that pressed against her chest. His betrayal had left a scar deeper than any wound she had ever received, and now, in the heart of Sith territory, she felt its pull more than ever.
She lingered at the platform's lip, her eyes scanning the bleak expanse before turning inward, drawn by the looming elevator. Its gears groaned, an ancient complaint against the stillness that enveloped the camp. Below, the low rumble of the caged creatures punctuated the silence, their presence a constant undercurrent of aggression. When the elevator shuddered to a stop, its vibrations crawled through her boots, the stones themselves pulsed with the dark side's hidden energies, throbbing beneath the weight of ages.
The surrounding atmosphere was a palpable manifestation of ambition and malice, clinging to every breath inhaled when she stepped off the elevator. A brief surveillance of the area informed the Imperial precision that met the brutal chaos of Sith experimentation: cages teeming with twisted life, half-formed constructs of science and dark magic strewn about like discarded dreams. Yellow markers flanked her descent, casting a sickly glow over the scorched ground, their light swallowed by the deeper, hungrier shadows pressing in from the valley.
The cages ahead bristled with a potent restlessness, their iron bars strained under the weight of the Tuk'ata's hulking forms. Twisted and grotesque, their bodies rippled with raw muscle and sinew, pulsing beneath scarred, disfigured flesh. These creatures were more than corrupted; they were replete with the dark side's malice, their snapping jaws echoing a violent discord into the arid air. The desert seemed to buckle in their presence, as if its very fabric was vitiated by the energy that warped around the beasts, leaving even the heat disfigured and oppressive.
Tuk'ata :
Once peaceful grazers on Korriban, the Tuk'ata were perverted by ancient Sith alchemy into their current form: fearsome, intelligent predators bred to guard the tombs of the Dark Lords. Their loyalty is compelled by the dark side, yet it is a tenuous bond. Capable of communication through unknown means, they share a cunning that belies their bestial nature. The mutations wrought by Sith experiments have not only extended their lifespan but intensified their savagery, warping them with each generation into ever more grotesque forms. Bound to their duty, the Tuk'ata remain a living embodiment of the dark side's hunger—dangerous not only to intruders but often to the very Sith who claim to control them.
Unlike the frenzied creatures caged in brutality, the woman standing among them remained a stillness incarnate, her frame taut, radiating a cold calculation. Her face, a mask of disdain, betrayed no more empathy for the beasts than for the dust beneath her boots. Zaraak recognized the look with an uncomfortable intimacy; it was a visage forged in the same crucible of cruelty that had once shaped her own. The unspoken tension between them—palpable as the air—needed no meeting of their eyes to ignite.
Renning, hunched over his grim workstation at the camp's center, moved with meticulous precision. His hands, gloved and methodical, danced over the dissected remains of a Tuk'ata, tracing mangled muscle and sinew as though handling relics of a bygone age. The stench of his work—rot mingled with the sharp tang of blood and the acrid decay of tissue—clung to the space like a festering wound. Heat wrapped itself around it all, insuperable and thick, turning each breath into an effort against the ambient decay.
He straightened, his demeanor unshaken by the grotesque tableau before him. Thin lips curled into a brittle smile, offering no warmth, only the faintest shadow of satisfaction. His beard, neatly trimmed into angular lines, framed the hollows of his sunken cheeks, accentuating the deep cracks that marred his face. Beneath his pale skin, dark veins throbbed vividly, pulsing with the telltale energy of dark side corruption. His vermillion eyes gleamed with fervid obsession, burning brighter than the decaying remains splayed out on the table.
His fingers traced the exposed sinew of the Tuk'ata, his movements delicate yet firm, as though each severed fiber held the key to some grand revelation. His eyes never left the dissection, but his words cut through the thick air with the precise edge of a scalpel.
"A fresh young acolyte, come to witness my work?" His voice, oozed with smug certainty, seemed to mock the very idea of an outsider grasping the depths of his experiments. "Good."
He didn't turn to face her, as though her presence required no acknowledgment beyond his own condescension. The faint snarls of the creatures caged outside barely penetrated Zaraak's focus, eclipsed by the magnetic pull of Renning's voice. The stench of putrefaction filled the outpost, yet even that seemed insignificant next to the gravity of the exchange unfolding.
"I trust the sight of a messy operating table doesn't disturb you," Renning mused, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, eyes still trained on the lifeless creature.
"I have no fear of dead things," Zaraak responded, her voice steady, though her eyes gleamed with an unspoken challenge. The tension between them deepened, a silent force drawing their wills together, coiled and ready to snap."
Renning chuckled, a low, hollow sound that chilled the space. "All fine and good—but lack of fear and genuine interest are not the same." His hand hovered over the cadaver with a reverence bordering on fanaticism, as though the mangled corpse before them held secrets that transcended the mere physical. "This used to be a Tuk'ata—the hound-like creatures infesting Korriban's tombs," he continued, his tone now shifting into the cadences of a lecturer. His zeal was undeniable, seeping into every syllable he uttered. "On the surface, nothing special. But I alone can see this creature as an expression of pure dark side energy—aggression made manifest."
Zaraak's posture remained rigid, her gaze unflinching as she met his obsessive fervor with quiet skepticism. "If you're the only one who can see, maybe it isn't there."
For the briefest moment, Renning's smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed and glanced at her presence, their intensity deepening. "The ignorant often questions the perceptions of the wise," he hissed, pride unraveling through his words. "You require enlightenment."
He straightened further, casting a long shadow over the dissection table. His hands pulled away from the remains as if his very presence commanded attention more than the grotesque display of flesh beneath him.
"The Force is alive. It expresses its will in the physical world. This Tuk'ata was one such form."
Zaraak's mind whirled at the implications, parsing his words with a growing sense of wariness. Her response came, clipped and cold, cutting through the doctrine Renning tried to impress upon her. "Are we another of these 'forms'?"
His eyes glimmered with an almost reverential zeal, his voice unwavering. "Sith are the highest manifestation of the Force's will."
The statement hung between them, heavy and absolute, not just a belief but an axiom that Renning had carved into his very being. His fingers drummed lightly on the dissecting table, each tap underscoring the gravity of his words, as though they alone could animate the lifeless flesh beneath him.
"I've dissected hundreds of Tuk'ata, forging a direct connection to the dark side. Each beast I examine advances me toward perfect unity."
Unity. The word stirred something deep within Zaraak, a current she hadn't fully acknowledged until now. For her, the dark side had always been a weapon—an external force to bend, to control. But Renning spoke of it as though it was something more… a living entity, shaping and guiding all life. His words threatened to unseat the foundation of her beliefs. She had always believed in mastery over the Force, in bending it to her will to become stronger, to conquer. But now—what if it wasn't mastery, but unity, that led to true power?
The notion both intrigued and unsettled her. She had never considered herself a mere instrument, not until now. Her mind fought against the idea, clinging to the dominance she had always relied upon, but the dark side within her… it hungered for more. It craved the surrender Renning spoke of, the deeper communion with the very essence of power.
Renning's voice, suddenly laced with frustration, shattered the moment, anchoring her back to the present. "I now stand at a new frontier but find myself thwarted. My most perfect specimen—a Tuk'ata mutant—escaped to the tombs before I could analyze it."
The air thickened, his words no longer didactic but confessional, laced with a simmering frustration that hinted at his obsession's cost. Zaraak felt the pull of an opportunity—laden with promise but fraught with peril.
"The galaxy is a harsh place," she remarked, her voice neutral, almost indifferent.
"You don't understand," Renning snapped, his tone now taut with urgency, a stark contrast to his earlier calm. "I've lost a vital key to unlocking the dark side's true essence."
His eyes locked onto hers, not with anger, but with the fervor of a man who believed the solution to his plight stood directly before him. "You acolytes delve those tombs on your trials. You could hunt that Tuk'ata for me and retrieve its perfect brain."
He gestured toward the far end of the camp, where the woman Zaraak had seen earlier stood by the Tuk'ata cages, her presence lingering like a specter of unfulfilled ambition.
"My apprentice Malora saw which tomb the mutant beast fled into. Find out what she knows, assist me, and you will be rewarded."
Zaraak's eyes flicked to Renning's apprentice whose disdain for the experiment radiated in her icy stare. Contempt etched her sharp features, reflecting the very skepticism Zaraak felt—a shared distrust of Renning's obsessive quest for knowledge. "Why not send your apprentice to recover this beast?"
Renning exhaled, shaking his head, his irritation barely restrained. "She is more suited to the laboratory than the tombs. She lacks your fire, I'm afraid."
His tone shifted, adopting a more persuasive edge. "Ask Malora where to seek the Tuk'ata and return to me with its brain."
Renning's words lingered, a fog of unsaid implications that weighed heavily upon Zaraak's mind, though her focus was drawn to the solitary figure by the cages. She traversed the desolate landscape a silent sylph, the tension from Renning's colloquy melting away to be usurped by the immediate and visceral undercurrent electrifying the space between her and the apprentice, Malora. Zaraak strode towards her, the Tuk'ata's cacophonous snarls a primal war drum punctuating the stillness.
The apprentice stood erect as a tombstone, her regal bearing radiating a tangible loathing, a bitter frost that crystalized the air with unspoken challenges. Her visage was a mask of icy disdain, her porcelain features resolute in their indifference as Zaraak breached her perimeter, a silent sentinel of scorn. Her dark eyes, devoid of warmth and burdened with the toll of disillusionment, finally crossed paths with Zaraak's. Beneath the still surface of the apprentice's stare, the venom of contempt marinated in the cauldron of her unuttered thoughts.
"Seeking Lord Renning's lost pet, are you?" The words, a cutting crescendo of derision, emerged from Malora, cleaving through the guttural snarls of the penned Tuk'ata. "Don't waste your time. That fool's research is as hollow as his promises."
Zaraak's fingers danced across the hilt of her warblade, the edge thirsting to kiss the apprentice's throat. "I stalk a deadly beast, not some harmless vermin."
Malora scoffed, her lips curling into a faint sneer. "That may be, but you still risk your life for nothing." She cast a glance back at the unholy menagerie behind them, the thrashing, snarling beasts within serving as grotesque marionettes, miming her barely-restrained irritation. "Renning deludes the Dark Council into believing he's advancing Sith knowledge. The truth is he wastes the Empire's time and resources dissecting mindless animals."
The bitterness in her voice seeped like poison, each word a coiled viper striking from the shadows of long-buried resentment. She glided closer to Zaraak, her presence an oppressive weight, her tone sinking lower yet dripping with disdain.
"But if his experiments were discredited, he would be banished-and I would be rewarded."
A shroud of suspicion draped itself over Zaraak, her stare a looming specter in the face of deception. "You're just scheming to get rid of your master."
Malora's expression didn't falter, her gaze hardening in response. "I have a greater destiny than serving as a research assistant in this pathetic excuse for a laboratory." Her voice gained a steely edge, underlined by her clear ambition. "Look, just a minor alteration to the mutant Tuk'ata's brain would allow me to reveal my master as a fraud."
Her voice dropped further, becoming almost conspiratorial. "Bring me the brain before delivering it to Lord Renning, and I'll make it worth your while."
Zaraak's stance remained unyielding, her voice cold as she answered, "Scheming in the shadows is not my way."
Malora's lips tightened, her desperation beginning to seep through the cracks of her carefully composed mask. "All I ask is that you give me the chance to do what we both know is right." Her eyes flicked to the snarling beasts again, as though seeking some validation for her claim.
"The mutant Tuk'ata escaped to the tomb of Marka Ragnos," she continued, her tone now more measured, almost persuasive. "It's much larger than the others, so it's easy to spot."
Her eyes locked onto Zaraak's with renewed intensity. "Return to me with the brain before you see Lord Renning, and I'll take care of the rest."
Zaraak turned from Malora, the apprentice's words still simmering in the air, sharp with ambition, veiled in the brittle sheen of disdain. Yet beneath that bravado, a serpent of doubt coiled through Zaraak's thoughts, sinuous and insidious. Malora's scheming echoed too familiarly—a shadowed whisper in the dark corridors of power, tempting her to weave once more the eternal web of Sith treachery. The words slithered around her mind like gossamer tendrils, tightening their grip: Alter the brain, reveal the fraud. Cast aside my master's will for ambition.
Could Malora's ambition outweigh her utility? Her plea to tamper with the Tuk'ata's brain gnawed at Zaraak, as if a parasite had burrowed deep within her brain. Would discrediting Renning serve her purpose, or was this beneath her, a pettiness unbecoming of her blade? Scheming in the shadows wasn't her way; her victories were won in the heat of battle, not through the dishonorable deceit of manipulation. Yet the path of the Sith demanded power games, alliances forged and broken in the same breath. The decision loomed, doubt carving a deep gash beneath her ribs.
The snarls of the Tuk'ata faded into the background as Zaraak ventured deeper into the blood-red valley, a scar on Korriban's surface—an apt reflection of the endless rifts within the Sith Order. The dark side pressed against her chest, thickening the air, a suffocating reminder of the path she had chosen. But her thoughts no longer lingered on the beasts. They circled back to Malora's proposition like buzzards drawn to the scent of carrion. The apprentice's hunger for power was evident, her disdain for Renning raw as the beasts' fury behind those bars. But the question gnawed at Zaraak—was she truly any different?
Above, the sun blazed down, casting jagged shadows that sliced across the canyon walls like ancient runes. Yet its heat was distant, inconsequential compared to the fire stoked by Malora's insidious offer. The apprentice had cloaked her ambition in a righteous veil, her words a draped pretense of justice. Was Renning's work truly a farce, a mockery of the Empire's time and resources? Or was this merely Malora's way of clawing, rabid and desperate, at the chains of her own apprenticeship?
Betrayal was a familiar specter, ever-present in the halls of the Sith, lurking behind every uttered word. It whispered in Malora's voice, but there was another ghost haunting Zaraak's thoughts—Varik. His memory rose unbidden, a wound that had never closed. He had not schemed for power, not like Malora. His betrayal had been softer, a defection of ideals, a fracture in the dream of her future. Varik's naive vision of peace—free of violence, ambition, bloodshed—had been nothing more than a fool's hope. She had ended it—ended him—for that folly. Yet his presence clung to her thoughts, a reminder of what could never be.
What would Varik think of her now, standing at the precipice of another betrayal? Not just of Renning, but of everything she had once believed in. His voice—so maddening in life—echoed louder in death, threading through her thoughts like a wisp of dying breath. This isn't what he would have wanted for me.
The Valley of the Dark Lords pressed in on her, its serrated spires an emblem of the insatiable ambition and guile that bled the Sith into existence. Zaraak had risen through combat, her victories forged in blood, not schemes. Malora's proposition reeked of treachery masquerading as ambition, and Zaraak knew there was no honor in it. Varik—naive though he had been—would have been ashamed.
A flash of white caught her attention—a glint amidst the rust-colored sands. Zaraak approached cautiously, her eyes sharpening as the shape clarified into a weathered skeleton, its bones sprawled haphazardly, forgotten against a boulder. Three metal crates lay scattered nearby, their surfaces scarred and dented by time's relentless hand.
She crouched beside the skeleton, her gaze sweeping over the scene. The bones were brittle, bleached white by the blistering sun. Three metal crates surrounded the remains, one half-buried in the sand, while a datapad lay atop it, its surface dusty but otherwise intact.
Zaraak's fingers brushed the device, and it instantly flickered to life, casting a cold blue light over the desolate sands. A sputtering hologram emerged—a weary Imperial officer, gaunt and haggard, his eyes sunken deep into his skull, marred by exhaustion and defeat.
"Sergeant Garus—turns out the rumors were true. Some of the sentries we lost down here aren't dead… they lost their minds, just like the acolytes."
Zaraak's frown deepened as she listened, her mind wandering briefly to the endless tragedies of the dark side. Another group of soldiers undone by ambition and madness, their purpose twisted until nothing remained but mindless husks. The officer's voice continued, rattling off the logistics of securing code cylinders and unlocking the crates, but the message faded into background noise.
It was just another symptom of this planet's insatiable hunger—a reminder of the relentless cycle of madness that had claimed so many lives on Korriban. As the hologram blinked out, Zaraak straightened, casting one final glance at the ivory remains cluttered at her feet.
The Wilds: Nowhere on Korriban does the dark side fester more insidiously than in the lower wilds. The air thrums with malevolent energy, a quiet cacophony that burrows beneath the skin, amplifying every stray thought, every unguarded moment of weakness. The faint ringing in the ears never fades, intensifying until it gnaws at the mind, twisting perception and warping the senses. Even seasoned Sith have been driven to madness in these forsaken dunes, their wills consumed by the planet's insatiable hunger.
The dark side here doesn't merely linger—it thrives. Legends whisper of ancient Sith spirits, their collective malice bound to the land itself, feeding on the agony of those who venture too deep. The whispers claw at the mind, promising power, only to leave ruin in their wake.
Though the true source of this madness remains unconfirmed, some believe it to be an ancient artifact, buried beneath the blood-red sands, its influence so potent that even the strongest fall prey to its pull. Others suggest the canyon itself is a wound in the Force, where centuries of hatred, conquest, and betrayal have coalesced into a single, corrupting force. Whatever the truth, it is clear that here, more than anywhere on Korriban, the line between life and death, sanity and madness, is perilously thin.
The valley stretched before Zaraak, a narrow conduit flanked by serrated cliffs that seemed to press inward, funneling her toward the abyssal heart of Korriban's tenebrous pulse. Towering statues loomed over the landscape, their colossal forms hewn from the same stone as the cliffs. One had been decapitated, its severed head long eroded by time, while the other stood intact—both had their fists clenched in eternal defiance, their carved visage hard as the cliffs they mirrored. Zaraak could feel the silent challenge etched across their granite expressions emanating strength and dominance—a reflection of her own ethos: control through force, the act of annihilating opposition in a single, decisive stroke.
Beyond the statues, an oppressive darkness seeped from the structure ahead. The wind carried whispers—faint, fleeting, and twisted by the echoes of the dark side. It called to her, not in words, but in a pulse of power that reverberated through her bones. Marka Ragnos… the name drifted through her mind like an old memory, a presence that clung to the very air.
The threshold of the tomb stood before her, a yawning maw of stone, its silence unnerving yet familiar. There was no need for confirmation—the dark side itself revealed its truth. She was standing at the entrance to one of the greatest legacies in Sith history. Zaraak felt it in the weight of the shadows, in the heavy breath of the tomb that beckoned her forward. The tomb of Marka Ragnos.
The Tomb of Marka Ragnos:
Strength, power, and strategy were the hallmarks of Marka Ragnos' reign—a reign that lasted over a century, defying the natural cycle of Sith ascendancy and betrayal. Born of the bloodline that merged the native Sith with the Dark Jedi exiles, Ragnos was destined for greatness, though it was his ruthlessness and cunning that ensured his legacy. While many of his rivals were consumed by infighting, Ragnos manipulated them from the shadows, turning ambition against ambition, never revealing his own hand until the time to strike was perfect. His conquests were not measured in blood alone, but in the quiet destruction of enemies he never met on the battlefield.
Ragnos understood the fragility of the Sith Empire, balancing on the edge of internal destruction. He strengthened the Empire from within, not only by crushing rivals but by ensuring that it was prepared for external threats—threats of which few Sith were aware. He alone knew of the Republic, of the Jedi Order, and of the conflicts to come. Yet, he chose patience over war. It was Ragnos who saw that the greatest wars were not fought with armies, but with the blade of manipulation and control, pitting his challengers against one another and letting ambition devour ambition.
It is said that the golden age of the Sith began to decay the moment Marka Ragnos drew his last breath. His empire—seemingly invincible—crumbled beneath the weight of lesser wills who fought for his throne. Though dead, his influence lingers. His spirit, preserved by the tomb's dark energies, waits, bound to this ancient crypt. There are whispers that Ragnos' spirit still seeks a worthy successor, testing any who dare enter his tomb. Some say those who fail become eternal thralls, bound to the Valley of the Dark Lords, their souls chained to his will.
The tomb itself, a silent monument to his power, is more than a grave—it is a testament to his strength, his caution, and his vision. Even in death, he remains one of the most feared Dark Lords, his name etched not just into the stone, but into the very lifeblood of the Sith Order. Here, among the shadows of his eternal resting place, his spirit waits, vigilant, judging all who seek the strength that defined his reign.
Zaraak's approach to the tomb was heralded by the dissonant clamor of crazed raucousness in the distance. Their wild shouts and the skittering echo of blaster fire told a story of chaos that weaved itself into the oppressive air. Each step she took seemed to sink into the pulse of their madness, turning the once barren path into a haunting prelude of the battle to come.
The Imperial soldiers—what remained of them—shambled through the outcrop, their uniforms tattered, their insignias buried under the weight of dust and madness. These berserk troopers, their minds shattered by Korriban's malevolent energy, staggered aimlessly with wide, unfocused eyes. Their twitching bodies bore the fragmented memories of former lives, but their wills had long since been consumed by the insatiable hunger of the planet.
To Zaraak's right, a cluster of broken soldiers leaned against the canyon walls, their backs seeking solace in the stone. Their eyes, however, were hollow—mere reflections of Korriban's insidious hunger. Zaraak scarcely spared them a glance. They were nothing more than vestiges of sanity, fragments lost to the dark side's pull.
Ahead, a psychotic officer knelt beside a shattered crate, his trembling hands sifting frantically through its splintered remains. Incoherent muttering spilled from his lips, but it was the raw desperation etched in his movements that spoke louder. Nearby, another Berserker trooper crouched, his body twisted grotesquely, locked in futile defense against an invisible menace.
Without hesitation, she raised her hand, the Force thrumming through her veins. The troopers lifted helplessly from the ground, like broken marionettes caught in a gale. A flick of her wrist sent their bodies hurtling into the canyon walls with a sickening crunch.
"Out of my way," she muttered, her voice a cold dismissal.
The valley yawned wide at the base of the slope, an austere gallery of red sands embraced by fierce, jagged cliffs. To the west, a duet of bridges declared their defiance against the gaping chasm, their silhouettes etched onto the towering cliffs as a monument to ambition. Below, the Berserk troopers wandered, specters in armor, a grotesque ballet of spasmodic twitches hinting at a discipline feasted upon by madness. On the east, a platform pierced the cliffside, secured by the lavender kiss of an energy barrier. At the fringe of this desolate theater, stairs wound their serpentine path to a higher stage, a tableau of foreboding architecture pulsating with the dark pulse of Sith legacy. Upon this stage stood a silent monolith. The tomb awaited, its brooding silhouette laced with an ancient dread.
When Zaraak dared the stairway ascent, the air coiled around her, a palpable shroud woven from unseen threads. Tuk'ata prowled in the twilight's embrace near the entrance, their monstrous forms cradled by the comforting cloak of shadows. Their eyes, feral embers ignited by dark energy, pierced the gloom. Each beast she had slain before bore a kinship to these, yet a stark difference lingered. These creatures were not the mutated horror Malora had spoken of—larger than the others, unmarred by Renning's experimentations. No, these were of normal size, mere sentinels, not the quarry she sought. But even so, they were not just guardians; they were the tomb's silent heralds, terrestrial extensions of an unseen, malevolent will.
And yet, even in their silence, Zaraak could feel it—their quiet presence was a prelude, a herald of something far greater lurking within the tomb's depths: the mutated abomination. Each creature, though still, carried with it the promise of violence within the heart of the tomb, an unspoken warning that the darkness she sought to conquer was aware of her, watching, and would not let her pass without exacting a toll.
And just like that, the toll was demanded.
The first of the Tuk'ata broke from its stillness with lethal grace, claws scraping the stone as its voracious maw distended, thirsty for blood. But Zaraak was a tempest honed by years of conflict. Her warblade met the creature's charge, a feverish comet in the tomb's half-light, bisecting the beast's corrupted form. It split the Tuk'ata, and for an instant, the abomination hung there—suspended between life and oblivion—before collapsing into the dust, a forfeit to the darkness that governed this place.
A second Tuk'ata, standing beside its fallen comrade, was ignited by a storm of unrefined fury. It had witnessed its companion's demise and, consumed by a primal urge for vengeance, it attacked with relentless rage. But when Zaraak fell the feral beast, a whisper, faint and fleeting like a dying ember, echoed in her mind.
"Murderer…"
A phantom murmur, vanishing as swiftly as it surfaced amidst the chaos. Only the faintest imprint was left on her consciousness.
For a fleeting moment, the acolyte dismissed it as a trick of the wind, a spectral jest carried on the breath of the tomb's biting gales. Yet traces of its echo lingered: an accusation. She knew what she had heard, the damning claim penetrating the corners of her mind.
Gathering the fragments of her composure, she drew upon her resolve like a shroud, steeling herself against the ominous grandeur that lurked ahead. The sacred site of Marka Ragnos loomed, a behemoth of megalith and hushed legends, its entrance gaping like the ravenous maw of some timeless leviathan, starved and ready to swallow her whole in its stygian belly. The dark side whispered from every crevice, insistent now, urging her onward. Its malevolence woven itself with each breath she drew, suckling on her fear and doubt.
A chilling anxiety of silver needle threaded down her spine. Unbidden, faces of madness surfaced—the berserk troopers' vacant stares, their minds consumed by the corrosive chaos gnawing at their reasoning until they were but splintered shards of forgotten selves. The truth struck her, ice stabbing her ribs: she too could dissolve into the sand, a brittle husk adrift in the desert winds.
The thought cracked her resolve, a hairline fracture running through her quickened pulse. But she refused to shatter. She would not unravel. With a sneer, she crushed the doubt underfoot, grinding it into the dust like the bones of the weak. There was no room for pity—not for those whose minds had crumbled, nor for herself. She was no frail acolyte, no weak-willed soldier led into madness by incessant ramblings in the dark. She was Zaraak Reth, forged in the furnace of suffering, tempered by hatred and ambition.
She invited herself past the gate's threshold with open arms, allowing the tomb's miasma to devour her. She could feel it rising, the ravenous howl of the stone-sealed heart repelling her, the void of buried spirits resisting her passage. Still, she pressed on, her will a shard of obsidian cutting through the suffocating presence. She would not be denied, neither by these specters of the past nor the doubts of her present.
Beyond the gateway, a steep slope tilted her forward. With each cautious step she took that plunged her inwards, the light receded from her periphery, its fading tendrils seemingly sucked into the abyss' cold embrace. She unsheathed her warblade from the confines of her back, her fingers tightening on its hilt. Its faint crimson streaks barely pierced the murk and instead cast ghostly shadows that pranced from wall to wall, mocking her every move. Each breath she took felt like inhaling dust-laden syrup; centuries of decay clung to her lungs, making each inhalation laborious. She pressed herself against one wall to steady her nerves, only to recoil at its chilling surface confining her movement.
Two forsaken crates rested abandoned at the base of the incline, their metallic surfaces tarnished by time and the pervasive dampness of the tomb. Zaraak approached them guardedly, her warblade at the ready, half-expecting some hidden trap or lurking danger. But they held nothing now, pillaged long since by scavengers or tomb raiders who had braved the treacherous pull of the Korriban Wilds.
To her right, the chamber narrowed into an intersection ahead, a corridor where its walls glistened with moisture and the faint sheen of luminescent lichen. The soft skittering of claws against stone echoed from within, a familiar sound that set her nerves on edge. K'lor'slugs—three of them stalking the passageway. The oversized insects were a constant presence in the catacombs of Korriban, drawn to the dark side energy that permeated the burial sites. Zaraak had encountered them before, their chitinous armor and venomous spit a mere nuisance compared to the greater dangers that lurked within.
But as she observed their movements, an idea bloomed. If Malora was speaking truth, then the malformed Tuk'ata would have been a prowling these halls, preying on the k'lor'slugs. It might have even adjusted its palate to consider these critters as its favored nourishment. In this light, the slugs weren't just pests; they were her lure. It was time for a bug hunt.
The warblade reveled in sadistic glee as its lethal red streaks cleaved through slug entrails. But when Zaraak lifted one of the dispatched creatures, she realized these would be insufficient bait for an overgrown Tuk'ata like Renning's pet. At the corridor's terminus, a chamber bathed in an unearthly glow beckoned to her. Within, the bloated silhouette of a significantly larger k'lor'slug—likely the hive queen—lurked, an ideal lure for her monstrous quarry.
Marching towards the mother, her steps filled with self-assured poise, a flicker in her periphery suddenly drew her attention—something that defied logic. It was then she heard a soft rustle, akin to the rustling of scripture.
"Zaraak…"
The voice caressed her senses, intimate and familiar. A transient image—a face she knew but couldn't identify—skated across the tomb's gloom. With her warblade held aloft, she pivoted, but her gaze was met only by crumbling effigies and decayed masonry. Her heartbeat quickened, breath snagging in her throat, yet she scoffed at the intrusive anxiety attempting to ensnare her. They were mere illusions, products of the tomb's spectral lightshow. But the feeling persisted, a watchful entity nestled just beyond her perception.
The tomb was observing her, biding its time.
In the passage ahead, the constricting artery of the corridor swelled into a gaping husk of decay, illuminated in the spectral blush of a scarlet requiem that bled from the etched cavern walls. The atmosphere was pregnant with the acerbic bite of decomposing vitality, a morbid perfume mingling in an unholy matrimony with the sulphurous stench of burgeoning existence. It was an aroma that clung to the depths of one's lungs, exhaled by the chamber with an inexorable persistence, as if the room itself were a sentient being, breathing its corporeal essence into the world.
At the heart of this stygian womb, a single incandescent sphere hung in a celestial suspension from a chain of rusted iron, a vestige of a mechanical umbilical cord tethered to a vent in the ceiling. Its shimmering luminescence, though frail, radiated a sickness-touched warmth, an ethereal cradle to the embryonic miracles that lay beneath. This inconsistent beacon cast a capricious ballet of shadows, cavorting across the moss-slicked walls in a spectral masquerade, the silhouettes twisting into grotesque jesters, heralding the impending grotesquerie of birth.
Beneath the scaffold of oxidized iron, translucent eggs nestled in a cluster, their surfaces glistening with the viscosity of primeval amniotic life. Ensconced within their gelatinous sheaths, embryonic life forms twitched, pressing against the slick confinement of their shells, their gestating shapes mere phantoms straining for release. Each ovum was slick with the thick, nebulous ichor that slowly meandered into stagnant pools, their sanguine mirrors rippled with an electric anticipation.
Presiding over the primal domain was the Brood Mother, an ethereal queen of the cavernous depths. Her engorged belly, a living shrine to her fecundity, undulated with a maternal ardor that belied her her grotesque form. Ivory talons, razor sharp yet imbued with a tender delicacy, grazed the domed surface of each translucent egg, her emanated warmth cocooning the unborn larvae nestled within.
The lesser k'lor'slug larvae, humble acolytes in the court of their sovereign, scuttled in reverential homage. Their segmented bodies skittered across the stone floor in a rhythmic ballet of duty, their staccato clicks a percussive chorus echoing in the sacred silence. Unswayed by their devoted performance, however, the Brood Mother remained absorbed in her silent vigil, her primary purpose being the custodial care of her progeny. Her mandibles clicked with a primeval lullaby, a subsonic serenade that thrummed gently through the bedrock, lacing the chamber with a soothing harmony. Her tender grip orchestrated the meticulous adjustment of each egg to bask uniformly under the life-giving light in this subterranean night.
All the disparate elements of the chamber—its walls, its shadows, the eggs, and the larvae—were woven together in a harmonious performance, orchestrated by the Brood Mother's every movement. Her talons, grazing across the eggshells, served as the baton in this grotesque symphony, directing the rhythm of life pulsing through the room. The sporadic light from the bulb swayed in rhythm, casting shadows that fell into lockstep with the soft clicks of her court of larvae. The very walls seemed to resonate with each tremor of the gestating life within the eggs, as though the stone itself had joined the chorus, its ancient cracks humming in tune with the mother's quiet authority. This was more than a nest—it was an opus of creation, with the Brood Mother as its maestro, her movements the silent notes that coaxed new life into being. And in this sacred concert of existence, every sound, every shadow, and every shimmer of light bowed to her will, awaiting the climactic moment of birth.
The power of one… the power of two… the power of many…
But then the harmony fractured.
A wail, shrill and desolate as the keening wind through the age-old catacombs, tore through the serenity, trailed by a gut-churning thud. The Brood Mother tensed, her talons arrested midair in an abrupt ballet of dread. Gradually, as if weighted by the heavy mantle of dread, she pivoted, her myriad eyes contracting as they grappled with the spectacle birthed from the womb of unexpected chaos.
In the ruined tableau of her guardian's remains, a figure, crimson as the blood-drenched skies of Korriban, stood defiant. A horned specter—a Zabrak, her warblade lodged in the viscera of a slain larva, a grotesque mockery of a mother's tender cradle. Her lips, the hue of fresh wounds, curled into a smirk of self-satisfied triumph.
A smirk born from arrogance.
GRRRKKK!
The Brood Mother's fury erupted in a guttural roar that shook the chamber, grave dust raining from the ceiling. Her mandibles slammed down, but Zaraak was quicker. She sidestepped, a crimson blur, when the ragged jaws snapped shut a hairsbreadth from her face. Shards of stone sprayed past her horns, but she didn't flinch.
One step, two. She moved like a shadow given form, her warblade a scarlet streak aimed at the Mother's head. The beast reared back, narrowly evading decapitation. The blade struck stone with a sharp clang, sparks flying.
Around them, the larvae scuttled frantically, their clicking bodies a chaotic din. To Zaraak, they were vermin—distractions at best.
With a snarl, she planted her foot and channeled her rage into the ground. The dark side surged through her, exploding outward in a shockwave. The floor buckled. Larvae tumbled in all directions, their fragile bodies crushed by the force.
In a single, fluid motion, she swept her warblade in a wide arc, cleaving through the survivors. Twitching remains littered the ground, and the chamber fell into silence.
Now, it was just her and the Brood Mother.
The queen lunged again, talons outstretched. Zaraak rolled beneath the slashing claws. Coming up in a crouch, she thrust her blade up, scoring a deep gash along the creature's underbelly.
Ichor splattered the stone, hissing where it fell. The Mother screamed, mandibles clacking in rage and pain. Zaraak allowed herself a feral grin. First blood to her.
They circled each other like adversaries in a sacred dance, Zaraak's heart pounding in sync with the queen's rhythmic slithering, each pulse echoing the primal drumbeat of predator and prey entwined in fated choreography.
The Brood Mother's movements were a symphony of wrath, each gesture a staccato note in a rising crescendo of fury. Her engorged abdomen swayed with the pendulous weight of her unborn progeny, a grotesque metronome keeping time to the rhythm of her rage. The air crackled with the electric ire emanating from her chitinous hide, a palpable force that sent motes of corpse dust skittering away in fear.
She circled Zaraak with a hunter's poise, her talons gouging deep furrows into the stone with each deliberate step. The scrape of keratin against rock echoed through the chamber like the rasp of a blade being drawn from its sheath—a promise of violence to come. Her mandibles quivered with barely restrained malice, dripping with venomous bile that sizzled where it hit the ground, a caustic testament to the depths of her hatred.
Zaraak met the Mother's baleful glare with a smirk of pure smugness, reveling in the chaos she had wrought. The Zabrak's eyes glinted with malicious amusement, drinking in the anguish that radiated from the queen like a fine wine. She twirled her warblade with a casual flourish, the scarlet blade painting crimson arcs in the air, each lazy rotation a mocking reminder of the carnage she had unleashed upon the Brood Mother's children.
"Aww, did the big bad Zabrak squish your babies?" Zaraak taunted, her voice a silken purr of false sympathy. "Don't worry, Mommy Dearest. I'll make sure you get a nice family reunion… in pieces."
She punctuated her words by grinding the heel of her boot into the twitching remains of a larva, relishing the wet crunch of carapace giving way beneath her weight. The Brood Mother let out a keening wail of despair, her anguish stimulating shivers of delight down the acolyte's spine.
Zaraak's laughter cut through the air, cold and sharp as her blade. "What's that? Speak up, I can't hear you over the sound of your offspring's guts smearing across my boot. Don't fret though, you'll be joining this lovely family portrait soon enough. I do so love making art."
Twitching mandibles framed the Brood Mother's silent anger, a trembling requiem for her fallen brood. Kaleidoscopic mirrors of primal rage in her multifaceted gaze primed the lightning before the storm. The callous massacre had wound her spring of anger, coiling it to a breaking point. With a seismic surge, the spring snapped, propelling her in a tempestuous charge towards Zaraak.
Zaraak's smirk blossomed, her satisfaction mirrored in the gleam of her primed warblade. She drank in the fury-infused rampage like a potent brew, her grin a silent beckoning to the storm. "Come and get it." Her eyes sparkled, a taunting echo of the storm she'd summoned.
'The Vicious' was no longer just a moniker; it was her covenant with the universe.
Every fiber of her being tensed, vibrating in sync with the fury of the Brood Mother's charge, the air itself crackling as if the tomb could hardly contain the violence ready to burst forth. Her muscles coiled, her heart a savage drumbeat to the sacred ritual of their impending clash.
And then—it fractured.
"You're not welcome here…"
A voice slid into the charged atmosphere, unraveling the air like a single thread loosening the seams of reality. The words slithered through Zaraak's thoughts, not a sound, but a sensation —cold and intimate, intruding fingers prickling her spine, burrowing icy streaks into her consciousness.
The tomb seemed to shift, as though the floor itself had suddenly become fluid beneath her feet, the violent rhythm of the moment halted, frozen in midair. The atmosphere thickened, the charged violence choking into something far darker. Zaraak's breath caught in her throat, the air no longer obeying her lungs. The energy that had surged within her, ready to explode into motion, dissipated into a stifling, syrupy stillness, as though time had been swallowed by the tomb's maw.
The Brood Mother was forgotten—everything was forgotten. The air itself twisted, reality folding inward, warped by that voice. The walls shimmered, pulsing as if alive, as if they had always been watching, waiting for the moment to reveal themselves. Her heartbeat faltered, no longer matching the drum of war but instead mimicking the slow, suffocating pulse of something primordial and unseen.
Before her eyes beheld an abhorrent vision - the vermin queen's face began to metamorphosize, its once arthropodal countenance liquifying into an undulating mass of molten flesh; mandibles melted into protruding eyeballs that blended imperceptibly into each other in phantasmagoric, shifting swirls—creating an ethereal landscape reminiscent of the cursed ruins of Malachor itself. The edges of her vision warped as though reality itself were peeling away, the walls of the tomb sagging into a rancid haze. Then, the Brood Mother's shape twisted into something far worse— him . His face.
The human boy.
The one who had shattered her spirit. The one she had torn apart in return.
His grin stretched unnaturally across the towering, warped face—a vile smirk she had once carved from his flesh, now crudely stitched together in a caricature of a smile. Blood wept from the exposed muscles around his cheeks, the skin stripped away in tattered shreds. His eyes, once gleaming with depraved amusement, now bulged from their ruined sockets, staring at her with a vindictive, mocking leer. His arms, mangled and torn from their sockets as they had been on that night, dangled uselessly, perverse mementos of the power she had wielded over him.
The specter sneered down, a mutilated echo of her vengeance. His mouth, half-formed and gaping, spat words dredged from the depths of her past, dripping with venom and decay.
"Freak…"
The word slithered through the air, a guttural, fractured sound, reverberating like a curse spoken in the language of nightmares. It burrowed deep into the very marrow of her bones, a phantom claw that scraped at the fragile seams of her sanity, threatening to tear her open once more.
Zaraak staggered, her warblade trembling in her grip, her pulse pounding relentlessly in her skull—rising, drowning beneath the tide of venomous memory. The boy's shattered face loomed larger, the gory wreckage of his ruin confronting her, each macabre detail clearer than before. His jaw, once left hanging by shredded tendons, snapped open and closed in a sickening mimicry of life—a mutilated mockery of how she had left him.
Her lips curled in a snarl, but it felt brittle, trembling at the edges like a splintered mask. Beneath her rage, she could feel fear crawling beneath her skin, a familiar helplessness she had thought long buried. Her voice, thick with malice yet laced with fragility, clawed its way up from the pit of her being.
"Dead… You're dead… I… I made sure of it…"
The words dripped from her lips, not a threat but a curse flung at the memory that refused to die. The despoiled girl she had been—the ravaged child who had lived through that nightmare—surfaced within her once more, dragging the facade of 'The Vicious' down with it, leaving only the mortifying indignity she had spent decades hiding.
But her curse echoed off the unfeeling stone, a brave defiance crumbling under the weight of the tomb's pitiless malice. From the crevices, darkness trickled, a visual malady infecting the floor, pococurante to her resurfacing fears. It was the herald for her next act of torment—the dead larvae, broken and strewn around her, began to twitch. Their shattered forms jerked unnaturally, bones snapping back into place, flesh knitting itself together in defiance of death.
But they were no longer larvae.
They rose, their bodies stretched, elongating and warping into burlesque parodies of her tribe—her people. The boys she had once laughed with, trained beside, and trusted. Their once-familiar faces contorted into monstrous visages of enmity, horns sharpening into hellish spikes penetrating their gaunt, emaciated flesh. Tribal markings writhed as blackened veins pulsing with a vile, corrupted vitality.
Their eyes—those same eyes she had once known—now hollow and devoid of any semblance of life, stared back at her with cruel mirrors of contempt. Each gaze was a deep searing slice through the thin veneer of pride she clung to, pulling back the suppurating pus of their betrayal. Speaking in unison, a discordant chorus bled from their throats, a grating eldritch voice.
"Abomination…"
The word echoed, a chilling dirge threading through the sepulchral chamber, a damning verdict issued from spectral lips long sealed by death's icy kiss. Zaraak's breath stuttered, a feral cadence, her heart hammering a frantic tattoo against the confines of her ribs. She shook her head in fervent denial, a futile rebellion, yet the phantoms only pressed closer, their vacant eyes tunneling into her soul.
"No, no, nonononono!" Her plea tumbled forth, a shattered litany, a desperate entreaty for a mercy that dwelled far beyond her reach. The revenants of her past surged in, a relentless tide, their grotesque countenances a tempest of persecution and contempt. Withered, gnarled hands reached for her soul, their fingers morphed into talons, poised to drag her into the suffocating chasm of her own buried shame, an eternal night of degradation and depravity.
Her rabid swings cleaved naught but the oppressive air, the phantoms cackling in hollow, mocking tones that restrained her like ethereal chains. Her vision blurred, the fringes of her sanity peeling like a heretic's blistering skin beneath the scourge of their burning hatred. One final swing—harder, more desperate—her warblade slicing through the void, a futile resistance against the rising tide of purging fire, their rejection searing through her as if she were the demon they believed her to be.
Then, something collided with her blade. A shockwave of force exploded from the point of contact, an unseen hand striking her with such violence that her body was flung backward, slamming into the stone wall with a sickening crack. The air rushed from her lungs in a gasp, pain radiating from her spine as she crumbled to the floor, dazed and broken.
For a moment, all was still. Her breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, her warblade clattering from her grip as her body folded into itself. Eyes fluttering open, she braced for the accusing faces of her past—the boy, her tribe, the ghosts that had torn her apart—but they were gone.
The boy was gone. Her tribe, their faces twisted in revulsion, vanished. The crawling whispers of the past dissipated like smoke in the wind. She blinked, her vision sharpening, and all that stood before her was not the phantoms of her mind but the Brood Mother—no longer a twisted amalgamation of her nightmares, but a hulking, monstrous beast, and very much alive. The queen's multifaceted eyes gleamed with that familiar hatred, not the infernal damnation of divine judgment, but the primal, physical rage of a creature bent on revenge. Her talons scraped the stone with a sound like metal against bone, and she reared back, preparing to strike.
Zaraak's heart, once wild with memory and panic, began to slow. Her lips twitched, almost a grin forming as she pulled herself upright. No spirits. No demons from her past, no fractured memories clawing at her sanity. Just a crazed animal. Tangible. Killable.
"Good."
This, she could break.
Zaraak lunged, her warblade a crimson blur. The Brood Mother reared back, sluggish and predictable. Too slow. Zaraak's blade sliced through the bloated belly, ichor erupting in a violent spray.
The beast shrieked, but Zaraak didn't flinch. She moved as a katana—swift, inevitable.
Another strike. The blade met chitin and flesh, cutting clean through the neck with a wet snap. The Brood Mother staggered, her massive body crumbling, collapsing like a felled titan.
Zaraak stepped back, her heart steady now, her breath calm. She watched as the queen's carcass slumped into the pool of its own lifeblood.
"Broken," she whispered. Her satisfied smirk returned.
But as the final echoes of the beast's death rattle faded, so too did the adrenaline that had carried her through the fight. Exhaustion slithered into her muscles, dull and insistent, the battle's toll wrapping tight round her bones. Her limbs felt heavier with each breath, the fury that had driven her now ebbing away like the tide retreating from a bloodied shore.
She stumbled, her hand shooting out to brace against the cold stone wall. The rough surface bit into her palm, anchoring her to reality as the world threatened to tilt on its axis. The fight was over, the demons of her mind banished to the shadows once more—but their echoes still lingered, gnawing at the corners of her thoughts. She knew what she'd seen. The faces from her past, their voices a cruel reminder that no matter how far she ran, the scars they left would always follow.
She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly, willing her mind into silence. There was no room for weakness, not when she was so close.
With a grunt, she pushed herself off the wall, legs trembling but refusing to buckle. She approached the Brood Mother's massive corpse, eyes narrowing as her warblade sang the melody of unsheathe once more. In one fluid motion, she drove the blade into the beast's side, slicing through the thick hide to carve out a large chunk of flesh.
She hefted the bloodied bait onto her shoulder, its weight threatening to drag her to her knees. But Zaraak stood tall, her spine rigid despite her fatigue. She had work to finish.
She had a tuk'ata to hunt.
At the junction she had came from, she veered right, her path spiraling into the tomb's cold heart. Her boots struck the stone with muted thuds, each step a faint pulse through the cavernous passageway. The darkness ahead seemed endless, devouring the dim light that barely clung to the crumbling walls, their etched Sith runes, long forgotten, whispering secrets to no one. But it wasn't ancient history gnawing at her mind—it was the faces.
The visions from the egg chamber clung to her, refusing to dissolve. The leering grin of the human boy—no, the monster—who had brutalized her once. His face had been so vividly real, as though the past and present had collided into one, and she was still that helpless girl two decades ago. But there had been more—faces buried even deeper, her very own tribe she had long tried to forget. The Zabrak boys who had joined him. Who had watched. Who had reveled in her suffering. Their bigoted eyes returned full of spiteful zealotry, casting condemnation she had never understood, for sins that were never hers.
Why now? Why them? Was the dark side stirring these phantoms, manipulating her mind and dredging up the past to fuel her fury, to stoke the fires of her power?
Zaraak's lips thinned as she crossed the metal walkway, the structure groaning beneath her weight. Above, the statue of a long-dead Sith Lord loomed in silent judgment, its face carved into an eternal sneer. Was this the dark side's design? To rip her apart from within, to hollow her out until all that remained was anger and destruction?
For the first time, she wondered if Varik had been right. If in her quest for strength, she had lost everything else.
Tuk'ata are a manifestation of the dark side, Lord Renning had told her, a living expression of its will—just as we are. Now, the same Force that had twisted those creatures seemed to twist her, feeding her visions of torment, fanning the embers of long-buried pain and trauma. Was this the fate the dark side offered her? To be shaped and reshaped, like the tuk'ata, until all that remained was a monster—spite incarnate, engulfed by ravenous bloodlust?
Or was this the power destined for her all along? To command the dark side as the ancient alchemists had commanded their creations— twisting it, molding it, shredding its very essence into ash and reforging it to her will. The Force wasn't a burden; it was a mirror, reflecting the fractures, the fault lines. It stirred old wounds not to debilitate, but to illuminate one's vulnerability—what needed to be eradicated. She was not its servant—she was its master. Always had been.
Her fingers clenched around the blood-slick hide of the Brood Mother—the bait—dragging at her shoulder. She pressed on, flinging doubt aside. What mattered now was the hunt. The tuk'ata. A tangible challenge, not the ghosts lingering in shadows.
For now, she would prowl. For now, she would kill. There was no room for questions. No room for fear.
For now, she had a tuk'ata to hunt.
SKLAKKT!
Metal met flesh when Zaraak slammed down the Brood Mother's blood-slick tendril on a nearby crate. The metallic clang reverberated through the chamber, swallowed quickly by the heavy silence that followed. She wiped the back of her hand across her brow, smearing sweat and the faint trace of bile rising in her throat. The air was foul—Tuk'ata dung, its stench clinging to the back of her nose like rot in a crypt.
But her focus remained fixed ahead: the nebulous chasm at the back of the chamber.
It loomed, an obsidian maw—wide enough to swallow a full-grown bantha, its edges seething like the froth of a ravenous beast. There was no mistake—Lord Renning's pet lay within. Pebbles shifted near the crater's lip, accompanied by a faint scrape of claw against stone.
She unclipped her warblade, the familiar hiss of its ignition cutting through the stagnant air, its bloodied phosphorescence bleeding carmine vines across the rock face.
Her confidence coalesced—a forgotten god stirring amidst her anima.
"Bring it on, motherkriffer."
But in the echo of a heartbeat, she sensed it, the frigid tendrils of dread, a forgotten whisper burrowing into her flesh. She knew this sensation, an unwelcome guest, when the ghosts of her past had clawed their way into her consciousness earlier. Now, however, she was prepared against the intrusion.
Her grip on the warblade tightened, the instrument of her defiance molding into her hand. The air morphed, growing dense, shadows twisting in an arcane waltz as the moment constricted, a shroud of conflict descending.
"You were a mistake."
The words seeped through the chamber's hidden corners, dripping with venomous contempt. Zaraak's heartbeat surged, the fine hairs at her nape prickling in the chill. The voice, a spectral echo, brushed against a recollection buried in the catacombs of her memory. Not quite recognition, but a proximity that stirred discomfort. Unsettlingly close.
"I should've ripped you from my womb."
Her heart stumbled, a beat out of sync. That hit too close to home. But no—merely another phantom. Another lie. Another conjuration designed to unsettle her.
She was a stranger to her human mother, her only inheritance a cruel tale passed down by Tremel: a violent genesis. A legacy of violation. A cursed existence. A burden.
Her breaths turned shallow, yet she held firm, iron-willed, even as the voice probed for cracks in her armor. It knew where to dig. It knew her.
Zaraak brandished her blade high, lips parting in a defiant sneer. "I'm not afraid of ghosts."
But then, from the side—a raw, primitive snarl.
The guttural sound rumbled through the chamber like thunder cracking the silence. Her instincts flared, muscles tensing, but she was too slow. The hulking mass burst from the shadows, a chimera of razor talons, the beast's noxious stench ensnaring her.
She barely had time to turn.
A flash of fangs.
Pain exploded in her chest as the Tuk'ata's jaws found their mark, the world spiraled, cascading into the bliss of oblivion.