"The dark side is in all of us. The sooner you realize that, the stronger you'll become."
Darth Revan's words, spoken in a time long past, resonate in the present—a galaxy on the brink of war, driven by the darkness within every being. In the year 3,660 BBY, the galaxy stood on the brink of all-consuming war, a war fueled by that very darkness.
Across countless star systems, the Sith Empire and the Galactic Republic were locked in a relentless struggle for dominance. The Sith, rising from the ashes of defeat, spread their influence like a creeping shadow, seeping into every corner of the galaxy. Worlds once bright with hope and prosperity now found themselves smothered under the weight of the Empire's ambitions, their skies darkened by the looming threat of Sith power.
Yet, the Republic, once the shining beacon of peace and justice, found itself struggling against the tide. The ideals that once defined it were eroding under years of unyielding conflict, its leaders forced to compromise, and its citizens left to wonder if the price of survival was worth the cost to their very souls. The dark side, insidious and ever-present, wove itself into the fabric of the galaxy, fanning the flames of hatred, fear, and ambition on both sides.
It was in this era of turmoil and uncertainty that a young Zabrak, Zaraak Reth, began her journey on the desolate world of Korriban. The ancient Sith Academy, carved into the jagged cliffs of the planet's crimson landscape, stood as a monument to the Sith's enduring legacy. The air was thick with the scent of blood and dust, the very ground soaked in the hatred and ambition of countless acolytes who had come before her, each one eager to carve their own path to power.
Within the cold, dimly lit chamber deep inside the Academy, Zaraak stood before a steel door, its edges glowing faintly red, as if the heat of the hatred that forged it still lingered. The flickering torchlight cast a faint, crimson hue across the rough stone walls, casting long shadows that danced with the flames.
Overseer Tremel, a man of stern, almost statuesque features, stood beside her. His graying hair, cut close to the scalp, contrasted sharply with the deep lines etched into his face—a map of the years he had spent shaping acolytes into Sith. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, studied Zaraak with a mix of expectation and something darker—perhaps a recognition of the pain that she carried with her into this moment. The pain that had shaped her into the being she was now, standing on the precipice of her first kill.
Zaraak's red skin, a distinctive trait of her Zabrak heritage, glistened with a thin sheen of sweat despite the cold, the faint light highlighting the intricate patterns of her facial tattoos—marks of her people, now twisted by the darkness she had embraced. Her horns, sharp and formidable, cast small, jagged shadows across her forehead, and her green eyes, once bright with hope, now burned with a simmering rage.
Her breaths were shallow, each inhalation drawing the cold from the chamber into her lungs, chilling her blood yet stoking the fire in her veins. The glow from the door cast sinuous shadows across her face, accentuating the fierce curves of her horns and the hardened set of her jaw. Her hands flexed at her sides, fingers itching toward the hilt of the training sword at her waist—a crude weapon, a far cry from the lightsaber she one day aspired to wield. This blade was no symbol of prestige but of raw, unrefined potential, a reminder of how far she had yet to climb. Yet, even with such a basic weapon, her fury was a tangible, seething force, ready to be unleashed.
The door to the chamber hissed open, the sound sharp and final. Zaraak hesitated at the threshold, her breath catching in her throat. The chamber was dimly lit, the flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows across the cold, unyielding stone walls.
Tremel, a silent, looming figure, stepped aside without a word, his eyes locked on Zaraak. The expression on his face was unreadable, his cold gaze cutting through her, making it clear that whatever was about to happen, she would face it alone. Without hesitation, he shoved her forward, and the door slammed shut behind her with a resounding thud, the echo lingering in the air like a death knell.
Zaraak stumbled, her heart hammering in her chest as she caught her balance. The chamber was eerily silent, save for the faint, almost imperceptible sound of breathing—someone else's breathing. Her eyes darted around the room, searching the shadows.
And then she saw him.
He was standing in the corner, half-hidden by the darkness. A human boy, no older than seventeen, with a lean frame that had once seemed harmless but now exuded a sinister menace. His pale skin was sallow, almost sickly, and his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes that had once looked down on her with twisted pleasure—gleamed with the same predatory hunger she remembered all too well. His dark hair was matted and unkempt, hanging in greasy strands over a face marred by a sneering grin that sent a cold shiver down her spine. His lips curled up at the corners, revealing teeth stained yellow by neglect, a grotesque contrast to his youthful appearance.
The sight of him standing there, unrestrained, with that same vile smirk, brought the memories flooding back with a force that nearly buckled her knees. The ghost of his touch crawled over her skin, the echo of his cruel laughter ringing in her ears.
Panic surged through Zaraak's veins like ice. Without thinking, she spun around, pounding on the door that had just sealed her fate. "Let me out!" she screamed, her voice raw and desperate, fists slamming against the cold metal. "Please, let me out!"
But the door remained unforgiving, the walls seeming to close in on her as the weight of her fear pressed down on her chest. She was trapped, just like before—no escape, no one coming to save her.
Behind her, the boy's laughter slithered through the air, a chilling reminder of the power he had once held over her. "Scream all you want, little freak," he taunted, his voice dripping with sadistic glee. "No one's going to save you now. Save your voice—you'll be needing it soon."
Zaraak's heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst from her chest. Her hands, trembling and slick with sweat, pressed against the door as if sheer force of will could pry it open. But it was no use. Tremel's cold indifference, the locked door, the suffocating darkness—everything was designed to break her, to force her to confront this horror head-on.
The boy took a step forward, and Zaraak froze, her breath hitching in her throat. His steps were slow, deliberate, savoring her terror as he closed the distance between them. She turned around, backing away, her legs shaky, her vision blurred by tears that she couldn't hold back any longer.
"Please... don't," she whimpered, her voice a broken plea as she shrank to her knees, arms raised in a futile attempt to shield herself. "Please... just leave me alone..."
But the boy only sneered, his grin widening as he loomed over her. "There, there, Zaraak. Dry those eyes. Remember how intimate we were? Your desperate moans of passion, my companions sampling your exotic red flesh, so tantalizingly soft... mhm. We'll relive those moments, don't worry - all night long."
Zaraak's sobs wracked her body, each breath a desperate gasp as the world around her narrowed to the memory of that night—rough hands grabbing her from every direction, cruel laughter echoing in her ears as they tore away her dignity, their collective weight crushing her into the cold, unyielding ground. Every detail was still fresh, as if it had happened yesterday—the groping, the leering kisses, the jeering voices that left scars deeper than any physical pain. The faces blurred together in her mind, a grotesque mass of cruelty. Her own voice, hoarse from screaming, begged for mercy, only to be met with sneers as she was used and discarded like a broken toy.
She was that helpless girl again, so small and frightened, surrounded by predators who saw her as nothing more than prey. All she had wanted was to be loved, to be safe. But safety had always been an illusion, dangled just out of reach, only to be ripped away, leaving her to face the harsh reality that she was utterly alone, trapped in a nightmare from which there was no escape.
Why? her mind screamed, echoing with the innocent question of her past self. Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?
The boy's hand reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, and Zaraak flinched, a whimper escaping her lips as she tried to recoil further into herself. Memory surged—a slap, a kick, the cold, unforgiving ground of Dathomir beneath her as she was shoved into the dirt. The sharp sting of rocks cutting into her skin, the taunts of those who saw her as nothing more than an object of scorn. As a child, she had cowered in the shadow of the twisted trees, hiding in the crevices of ancient ruins, her small frame trembling with fear and shame. That scared little girl, whimpering in the filthy corners of her homeworld, disgusted her.
The boy's fingers lingered on her cheek, his touch a sickening reminder of the torment she had endured. Zaraak's mind spiraled, each vile word he uttered a knife twisting deeper into the raw wounds of her memory.
Why? Her inner voice was no longer a frightened cry, but a quiet, seething question. Why did they see me as nothing?
More memories clawed their way to the surface. She recalled the jeers of those who had tormented her, the cruel laughter echoing through the dense, shadowed forests of Dathomir. Nights spent huddled in the hollowed-out trunks of ancient trees, her small body trembling as she tried to hold back the tears that would only earn her more pain. No one had come to help her then, just as no one would save her now.
Why did they choose me to break?
The girl she had been, that small, vulnerable child, had always asked that question in the depths of her soul. She had been too weak to understand, too innocent to realize that her suffering was not her fault. The unfairness of it all gnawed at her, a festering wound that had never healed.
But now, that pain was changing. The more she thought of her past, of how she had been crushed underfoot by those who believed themselves stronger, the more something within her began to shift. The helplessness she had felt as a child started to twist into something darker, something that had been lying dormant within her all along.
The boy's voice droned on, each word dripping with cruel mockery, but Zaraak was no longer listening. Her mind was no longer the mind of that frightened girl cowering beneath the twisted roots of Dathomir's forests. It was the mind of a young woman who had endured—who had survived. And with survival came a new understanding.
It wasn't my fault.
That thought was the first true spark of something raw. The rage she had buried, the anger she had never allowed herself to feel, began to rise within her. It started as a low, simmering heat in the pit of her stomach, growing stronger with each passing moment, each vile memory that resurfaced.
It wasn't my fault. It was theirs.
The boy's laughter grated on her nerves, every syllable a provocation. His presence was a reminder of the powerlessness she had once felt, but it also fed the growing fire within her. She had been powerless then, but she wasn't anymore.
Her breath, once ragged and desperate, began to steady. The trembling in her hands ceased, replaced by a slow, deliberate clenching of her fists. The tears that had streaked her face dried, leaving only the hardened expression of someone who had begun to see through the veil of her own fear.
No more. The thought was stronger now, more resolute.
She wasn't that broken girl anymore. She wasn't going to let him, or anyone else, break her again. She could feel the rage burning away the last remnants of her terror, transforming her from the inside out.
No more.
Zaraak's eyes, still wet with tears, began to narrow, her gaze hardening as it fixed on the boy before her. The fear that had gripped her heart began to melt away, replaced by something hotter, something fierce and unforgiving. She could feel it, that heat spreading through her limbs, tightening her muscles, focusing her mind.
The memory of that helpless girl was still there, but now it served as fuel, driving her forward. She wouldn't be weak anymore. She wouldn't cower. She wouldn't let him—or anyone—take her power away again.
The boy took another step closer, oblivious to the change in Zaraak, his grin widening as he prepared to take what he thought was his. But this time, as his hand reached out, Zaraak didn't flinch. Instead, she met his gaze head-on, the fire in her chest burning brighter than it ever had before.
No more.
The fear had been replaced by something else entirely.
Rage.
Zaraak's rage was no longer a simmering ember; it had become a roaring inferno, burning away the fear that had once held her in chains. Every cruel word, every vile touch, every haunting memory now fueled a singular, focused intent. She would not be the victim any longer.
A fleeting whisper of her former self—the girl who had cowered in the shadows, desperate for mercy—surfaced for the last time. But it was quickly silenced by the roar of her fury, the darkness surging within her, demanding retribution.
Her hand, still shaking with the last vestiges of fear, instinctively moved toward the hilt of her training sword. The crude weapon that had once felt inadequate now seemed like an extension of her wrath. It wasn't about the blade itself; it was about what it represented—her defiance, her refusal to be broken again.
The boy's smug expression faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion as Zaraak's low growl echoed in the chamber. Her whispered words, "No more," cut through the thick air like a blade, carrying with them the weight of a decision made in the depths of her soul. She had been the prey for too long, and now the roles were about to reverse.
His laughter died in his throat, replaced by a brittle silence as he realized too late the mistake he had made. "You think you can frighten me?" The boy's pitiful attempt at bravado crumbled under the force of Zaraak's transformation—a predator's grace in the way she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The boy's back met the cold stone wall, his eyes widening with the first taste of the terror he had once reveled in inflicting.
Zaraak moved with the lethal precision of someone who had embraced the darkness within her, who had harnessed it into a weapon more powerful than any blade. She could feel it coursing through her, a seething river of hatred and pain that had been dammed for too long, now breaking free in a torrent of fury.
Without a word, she grabbed his arm, her grip like iron. The boy's attempt to pull away was feeble, his strength no match for the rage that fueled her. Zaraak's eyes, once clouded with fear, now burned with a cold, merciless fire.
In one swift, brutal motion, she tore his arm from its socket. The boy's scream echoed off the chamber walls, a shrill, piercing sound that was music to her ears. The wet, tearing sound of flesh and bone was followed by a spray of blood, painting the wall behind him in a gruesome mural of his own suffering.
He crumpled to the ground, clutching the gushing stump where his arm had been, his eyes wide with agony and terror. Zaraak stood over him, her breath steady, her expression cold and detached. The boy, once so confident in his power over her, was now nothing more than a broken, quivering heap at her feet.
"Are you frightened now?" Zaraak's voice was calm, almost gentle, as she looked down at him. But there was no compassion in her words, only a chilling detachment that belied the storm raging within her.
The boy tried to crawl away, his remaining hand scrabbling against the blood-slick floor, but Zaraak was relentless. She reached down, her fingers curling around his other arm with a deliberate slowness, savoring the fear in his eyes as he realized what was coming next.
"Save your voice," she whispered, echoing his earlier taunt as she tightened her grip. "You'll be needing it."
With another savage twist, she tore his second arm from his body. The scream that followed was raw, primal, the sound of a creature finally understanding the depths of its own helplessness. Blood pooled beneath him, his strength ebbing away with every heartbeat, but Zaraak wasn't done. Not yet.
She knelt beside him, her expression one of cold calculation as she placed her hand over one of the gaping wounds. She focused, feeling the heat of the dark side surge through her, willing the wound to seal itself. The blood ceased its flow, but the pain remained, sharp and excruciating, forcing the boy to remain conscious.
"Remember this," Zaraak whispered into his ear, her voice soft but laced with venom. "Remember every moment of this night, just as I remember every moment of what you did to me."
She rose to her feet, the training sword in her hand now feeling like an extension of her wrath. The boy's moans of pain were music to her ears, a fitting accompaniment to the symphony of vengeance she was conducting. She circled him slowly, savoring the power she now wielded, the reversal of roles that had once seemed impossible.
Outside the sealed chamber, Overseer Tremel stood motionless, the faint, muffled screams filtering through the cold metal. He closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him like a symphony. His lips curled into a small, satisfied smile.
But beneath that satisfaction was a simmering anticipation. He had seen many acolytes break in these chambers, but Zaraak... she was different. There was something raw, untamed about her rage. He could mold that. Yes, she would be a weapon—his weapon.
Yes... a weapon. The words echoed in his mind, a whisper of dark promise as he envisioned the potential she held.
Inside the chamber, Zaraak's hand trembled as she tightened her grip around the hilt of the training sword. The boy's face was a mask of terror, his earlier swagger completely dissolved as Zaraak advanced. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest, but its cadence had shifted—it was no longer a rhythm dictated by fear. Instead, it echoed like a war drum, signaling the imminent release of pent-up fury.
She raised the sword, her green eyes narrowing as she prepared to deliver another blow. But she paused, savoring the moment, wanting to draw it out just a little longer. Her rage had reached its zenith, every fiber of her being consumed by the need to make him suffer, to make him feel every ounce of the pain he had inflicted on her. With deliberate slowness, she brought the blade to his cheek, the edge biting into his flesh. Blood welled up, trickling down his face as he whimpered, his eyes wide with horror. Zaraak's breath came in harsh, ragged gasps as she slowly carved a thin strip of skin away from his cheek, savoring the sound of his screams.
Outside, Tremel's eyes opened, dark satisfaction gleaming within them. "Rage," he whispered, the word hanging in the air like a command.
Zaraak's movements grew more erratic, her cuts deeper and more brutal. She carved into his flesh, each slice sending blood spraying across the walls. The boy's screams echoed in the chamber, louder, more desperate, as Zaraak's fury built into a relentless storm.
"Rage," Tremel repeated, his voice more insistent, feeding the darkness within her.
Her strikes became faster, more vicious. The sword hacked through muscle and bone, severing the boy's leg with a sickening crunch. Blood splattered across her face, her hands, painting the chamber in a dark, sticky red. The boy's wails rose to a fever pitch, a raw, primal sound that filled the room.
"Yes... Fury," Tremel intoned, as if he were conducting a dark symphony.
Zaraak was lost to the fury now, her blade moving with deadly precision, slicing through his lungs and intestines, reducing him to a quivering, bloodied heap on the floor. She hacked into his torso, the blade sinking deep into flesh, tearing through his vital organs. Blood and gore coated her, drenching her from head to toe, but she didn't stop. Her rage drove her, each strike a release of years of pent-up anger and pain.
"Power," Tremel whispered, the final note in his dark mantra.
Zaraak stood over what was left of the boy, her breath coming in deep, ragged gasps. Her body trembled with the aftershock of her unleashed fury, the sword dripping with blood. The boy was nothing more than a mangled, unrecognizable mass of flesh, his remains scattered across the chamber in a grotesque display of violence.
She spat on the boy's remains, a final act of contempt. The chamber was silent now, save for the dripping of blood from the walls. Organs lay strewn about, chunks of flesh scattered like a grotesque mosaic.
The door to the chamber slid open. Tremel stepped inside, his face expressionless but his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he surveyed the carnage.
"Good," he said simply, his voice calm and approving.
Zaraak didn't need his words. She had proven herself, not to Tremel, but to herself. She had faced her demons and emerged stronger, more ruthless, more powerful.
She looked down at the boy's remains one last time, her gaze cold and unfeeling.
"No more," she whispered, her voice low but firm, a final seal on the nightmare she had just ended.
Without a backward glance, she stepped over the boy's remains and walked out of the chamber. The weight of what she had done settled into her bones, but instead of guilt, there was only a cold, hard satisfaction.
This was only the beginning. She had severed the ties to her past, forged herself anew in the crucible of her rage. Whatever lay ahead, Zaraak Reth would face it, not as a victim, but as the master of her own fate.