Time moved differently aboard the Absolution. A vessel carved from shadow, ruled by a will so absolute that even the clocks seemed to slow under its weight.
Weeks had passed since the Jedi's defeat. Since that brutal, definitive failure of liberation. Since hope had been strangled before it could even breathe.
The ritual meant to subjugate the foreigner had been suspended—officially, to allow repairs on the damaged sectors of the ship. Unofficially, the Emperor had simply deemed his attention needed elsewhere for the time being.
And Scourge, as always, watched.
The captured Jedi—Loewen, Tol Braga, Kiwix, and others—had been reshaped. Their minds reduced to ash, rebuilt according to the twisted blueprint of their Master. And in their total submission, they had exceeded expectations.
They had been tested.
They had executed.
Interrogations. Massacres. Forced conversions. They were unleashed across nearby worlds not as emissaries... but as predators. Riders of an apocalypse no one had seen coming.
And Scourge watched.
Not as a judge. Not as a savior. But as a historian of horror.
And in that theatre of ruin and blood, a thought echoed in him—persistent, insidious: had he ever been any different?
He remembered the austere halls of the Korriban academy. The statues eroded by sand, the screams of the weak, the lessons of the Masters. The metallic scent of first victories, the guilty thrill of watching a rival fall.
He had been a brilliant student. Cold. Precise. The pride of his mentors, the honor of his bloodline.
He had believed in the Empire. In Sith greatness. In strength through suffering, merit through pain. He was convinced that power built order, and fear was sacred.
And now...
He saw them. These broken puppets in black. These once-bright faces twisted by obedience, hollowed out. Dolls wound up by someone else's will.
And he wondered: had he been worse?
At least they'd been broken. He, once, had given himself willingly. He had served with pride.
And if he hadn't seen—perhaps it was because he hadn't wanted to.
He had to admit—without joy, without rage—that his Master possessed a talent for cruel irony. He had turned Light upon itself. And feasted on it.
Scourge might have admired such brilliance...
If he weren't the one silently plotting its end.
The stranger—Illaoï—still slept.
He visited her sometimes. Sat without reason in the chamber where her body floated, suspended in Kolto like a lost relic.
But now, he felt nothing.
No pulse. No connection.
As if she, too—despite all her strength—had lowered her arms. Had given in. A nameless soldier in a war that offered no victory.
And somehow... he missed it.
He didn't understand what it had been—this pull, this tension, this resonance—but its absence left a void unlike the others. A void that brought him back, again and again, to the burning question:
Was she still there?
But he wasn't the only one fraying at the edges.
The Jedi.
Sometimes, in a gesture. A breath. A twitch. Something shifted.
A flicker. Minuscule. Too brief to be noticed by others. Too faint to alert the Master.
But Scourge saw it.
And for the first time in ages, he wondered if it was time to stop waiting.
Maybe destiny had to be pushed. Helped to its feet. Given back its blade.
Even if it meant risking everything.