The Emperor did nothing without purpose.
Every action, every decision, every movement across the galaxy followed a calculation so vast that no one dared try to grasp its full design.
Illaoï's transfer to his personal dreadnought was no exception.
She was removed from the Kolto sarcophagus in utmost secrecy, kept in a deep coma, transported in an opaque emerald containment pod. Medical systems sustained her artificial breath; electrodes monitored her muscle rhythm. The vessel, named Absolution, waited above Dromund Kaas, as silent as an orbital graveyard.
Scourge was aboard.
He hadn't protested. He hadn't needed to. The Emperor had ordered him to oversee the ritual. And, as always, Scourge had obeyed.
But now, alone in his quarters, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the black void scarred with lightning, he questioned.
How long had his master known? How long had he suspected the betrayal Scourge had nurtured for three long centuries?
Was it a trap, a subtle test to probe his loyalty? Or a mind game, designed only to preserve fear?
Scourge fumed inwardly at the not knowing.
But what infuriated him more was the pull.
That faint tether to the stranger.
The feeling that he had left something unfinished when he departed for Quesh.
That pull returned now as they neared her again. Not as strong, not as vivid as before—but there. Dormant. Persistent. And that… angered him.
He had believed himself above such things. Immortal. Detached. Hollowed out.
And yet.
He returned to the essentials.
The mission.
Stopping the Emperor—at all costs.
The alliance with the Jedi was the key.
But they had to strike at the right moment, not too soon.
Failure would be irreversible. The ritual to bind the stranger would take time… but not forever.
He couldn't act alone. He had to wait.
If only that damned Jedi would return…
As if summoned by thought, the alarms blared.
Scourge lifted his head, eyes narrowing. Red sirens cast the corridor in a bleeding hue.
"Intrusion detected. Sector Three. Hangar C. Enemy battalion onboard."
He needed no further information.
The Jedi was here.
With him—his crew, members of the Jedi Council.
The attack had begun.
Fate surged forward like a breaking wave.
And Scourge didn't know whether to rejoice… or panic.
Was he ready?
Did he even understand the full extent of the Emperor's power?
Or was this the end—written in blood and oblivion?
No more time to ponder.
He moved.
He had to be there. At the Emperor's side.
As the faithful shadow he was supposed to be.
The blast doors opened before him with every step.
He passed through bridges and halls like a missile.
Soldiers were flung into walls, technicians trampled underfoot—he didn't stop. He didn't slow.
Then—a whisper.
A breath.
Faint. Distant.
"The moment is not yet."
He froze. Just for a second.
His heart—or whatever still remained of it—seized in the echo.
Her.
She had sensed it.
And she knew.