The Imperial Sanctum was not a building.
It was a scar carved into the very flesh of Dromund Kaas.

Etched into the black rock of the mountainside, the temple stood like a misshapen silhouette between storm-laden skies and crackling forest. The air was thick, saturated with static and malice. Obsidian spires pierced the heavens like the fangs of some ancient, ever-hungry beast.

Inside, no natural light ever reached. Violet torches pulsed along the walls, fueled by a blend of Sith technology and channeled suffering. The walls whispered constantly. Indistinct murmurs, forgotten words, backward prayers.

And at the heart of this void—him.

The Emperor.

Scourge walked forward with calm steps. Yet under his boots, each stone slab seemed to weigh a hundred times more. The pressure in the Force was absolute—like the temple rejected all light, all peace, all will other than the one emanating from the throne at its core.

It was a place where the "weak" would die instantly, their life siphoned out like a breath ripped from their lungs. Even Scourge—his Fury—felt the crushing weight of this domination.

He knelt.

— "Master."

The voice responded—not from a single point, but from the temple itself.

— "You have returned. Speak."

— "The mission on Quesh is complete. The former Sith held no further value."

— "And yet you did not kill him."

— "I found something more important."

Silence.

— "The Jedi."

Scourge dipped his head slightly.

— "Strong. Centered. Cloaked in a clarity that shields him from doubt. He recognized me as a potential threat but did not strike."

— "And you?"

A pause.

— "I recognized him. From ancient visions. From dreams. Centuries spent awaiting this moment."

The silence deepened. Even the stones seemed to freeze.

— "You knew."

— "For a long time. Since you made me your Fury."

A low rumble vibrated through the columns.

— "And you kept it hidden. For three centuries."

— "I prepared."

— "To betray me?"

Scourge did not raise his head.

— "To understand. To see if he was real."

A cold, mirthless laugh echoed through the walls.

— "You think this Jedi is your deliverance? Your salvation? You believe you are still capable of faith, Fury?"

Scourge answered calmly.

— "No. I feel nothing. Since Quesh, since the silence returned, the dreams have stopped. Even the stranger… she's no longer there to stir whatever escaped me."

— "And you regret that?"

A long silence from the Sith this time.

Then:

— "I don't know."

The Emperor seemed to shift upright. The air grew even heavier, like a black tide rising.

— "Let us speak of her. Still floating in her bath. Still alive. What have you learned?"

— "She is different. Her connection to the Force is not of this world. Not Sith. Not Jedi. Older. More… instinctual."

— "And you feel something near her."

Scourge chose his words with precision.

— "I perceived anomalies. Echoes. A faint reversal of my limitations. But it fades with distance. My default state has returned. I am what you made me."

The Emperor was silent for a long time. Then:

— "I intend to shape her. Make her more than you. A perfect Fury. Unbound by limits, yet loyal in thought."

Scourge finally raised his eyes.

— "And if she resists?"

— "You will destroy her."

— "Yes, my master."

But deep within his chest, where no heart had beat for centuries, something stirred. A flicker. A silent, wordless refusal not yet born into thought. A glimmer of dissonance.

And for the first time in a long time, Scourge wondered if he would truly be capable of obeying.