Bright Shadow Chapter 4

Previous Chapter:  Chapter 3 - Nihility of Purpose 

 Chapter 4 - Neophytes of Darkness 

One year later

The Sith Academy was the ultimate epicentre of the dark side on Korriban. The planet was naturally rich in malicious energies, but presence of thousands of Sith in one place had created a focal point for the darkness to manifest itself. A place that the Jedi feared most of all. A place the zealous masters would tell stories about to their padawans to warn them of the horrors that the dark side wrought. Rumours and legends surrounding the Academy haunted the minds of Jedi younglings for thousands of years. Some said that the dark side was so powerful there that a Jedi would turn to ash should they step inside the Academy halls. Another rumour told of an ancient superweapon built into the great pyramid that would be activated and petrify all those within a hundred-mile radius. And another told of a ritual the Sith would perform to resurrect their armies. At the very least, the latter would have explained how the Sith were able to hold out against the Republic invasions for so long.

But one story haunted the very footsteps of the Jedi: a rumour that claimed the Academy was guarded by a three-headed monolith wielding a light-whip who could summon an army of the dead to fight by its side. All the stories, of course, were untrue. Ancient mythologies and lore of the dark side that were embedded into it's history. Despite the falsities, the Sith cherished being able to bathe in the fear of their enemies. They felt the terror from across the galaxy as the Jedi younglings told each other stories of the horrors found at the Academy. All of the legends were warranted given the Academy’s reputation as the place where the Sith first came into existence.

The Academy was one of the oldest pieces of architecture in the galaxy, dating back all the way to when the Sith were founded some thirteen-thousand years before the Republic’s genocide on Korriban. The pyramidical building towered above all other structures in the Valley, standing at about two-thousand feet tall. Even the mountain ranges that surrounded the academy and engulfed it into the Dark Canyon were eclipsed by the scale of the monstrous building. So much so that one could be forgiven if they mistook it for Mount Wrensk, Korriban’s tallest peak.

Its walls were built from concrete bricks fashioned from locally sourced rocks, giving the Academy a natural, red aesthetic that allowed it blend into the sands of Korriban. Parts of the exterior walls were lined with obsidian glass that reflected the harsh sunlight that beat down on the planet’s surface. On the underside of the great pyramid were sculpted statues of naked, faceless humanoids being crushed underneath the weight of the Academy. Some of the hand-crafted humanoids tried to hold up the weight of the academy whilst others laid on the floor accepting their fate and embracing their fear. The horror and desperation of the identity-deprived people was a testament to the core values of the Sith: there are always people to command and always people to be subservient to. The impressive yet horrific art of the Sith was on full display wherever they had a stronghold and the Sith Academy was no exception.

Inside the academy there was a massive display of dark side art. A great shrine stood in the centre of the main hall that was rumoured to have been hand-crafted by the Sith founder himself. Rumour had it that the dark side was so pure and undiluted near the shrine that those weaker in the dark side would find it hard to breathe if they got too close to the monument. Another rumour was that a group of sadistic acolytes once kidnapped a slave and forced him to touch the shrine, only for his body to shrivel up and his life force to be drained by the dark side itself, much to the amusement of the acolytes. Even the Sith had rumours of their own to terrify their younger members and this helped keep the weak in line. The Sith’s greatest tool of fear was, once again, being wielded against them by themselves.

Only the strongest Sith were allowed entry to the shrine room and only the twelve Dark Council members were allowed to touch the shrine, for within the obelisk lied a great horror: trapped inside the shrine were hundreds of disembodied voices of the dead. Jedi who had been sacrificed or executed in the shrine room as an offering to the dark side by early Sith Lords. The Sith of the new Empire had learned that these petty offerings served no advantage in battle and no longer executed their prisoners in the shrine room. Still, the floor of the shrine room was so drenched in centuries-old blood that its original colour had been buried and long forgotten. Now all that remained was a simple dark red floor. It stank of decayed bodies and dried blood, which helped constantly fuel those in the room who were hungry for war. Sometimes a Sith master would take their apprentice to breathe in the stale air of the Shrine room, as they said it would help re-embolden the demotivated and may have even helped heal wounds.

More lies, of course. This was, however, the Sith way; to lie and cheat and hope that no one notices the cracks in their extremely flawed design.

Running down the endless halls of the Academy were massive paintings of the Sith that came before, from the half-forgotten to the greatest of all time. From the founder of the Sith to the first Emperor, Anaxun. Along the walls were a group of slaves that were placing a new painting of Emperor Kalluux; painted after his glorious victory against the Republic after the great siege was broken.

It had been four years since the siege of Korriban was lifted and the Empire had already become almost as big as it was during the Golden age of the Sith. The Empire had reclaimed their ancient spaceways and trade routes, using their newfound territory to become industrious once again. They continued to build up their ever-expanding fleet which had been hiding in the unknown regions during the Republic blockade. Kalluux had attempted to keep this a secret to the public as he knew there would be an uproar if they found out the fleet of the Sith was hiding in unknown space.

But Kalluux had his reasons; he knew the power of the Republic fleet was unmatchable and, in many ways it still was. The victory four years prior had been due to ingenious tactics by the Sith Navy and adept timing. The Republic had become so obsessed with the destruction of the Sith they were caught completely off guard when the massive fleet of Decimator 1-class battle cruisers arrived and chased them out of the sector. Since then, the Sith had occupied many other worlds in their space and the Republic was completely clueless to their expansion.

Since the end of the siege, the Republic had not returned to their world since the end of their genocide. The rumours that were being spread by street preachers in Vortem and the now rebuilt Malcivum were the truth, despite missing out a few crucial details: two Imperial spies posing as Republic journalists had stumbled upon Korriban by accident and documented everything that they saw: the massive blockade, the Republic fleet descending into the planet’s atmosphere and even the huge explosions from the battle below. When the 'journalists' reported this to the Republic they were imprisoned by the government and sentenced to life for their ‘illegal actions’.

But, much like the Sith being the victim of their own strength, fear, the Republic was similarly the victim of their own strength too: compassion. The two spies had received massive amounts of support from the people of Coruscant and hundreds of humanitarian organisations across the galaxy. The people petitioned for their release and an end to the illegal occupation of Korriban. After a few years they were successful. The Imperial spies had been freed and the Republic leaders in charge of the invasion were punished severely. Supreme Chancellor Nil’ron had stepped down from his position and due to the amount of scandals that resulted in his impeachment. The Republic had a leaderless coalition government, and a demilitarised navy. The people of the Republic no longer trusted their leaders and the tedious process of democracy was making it hard for them to find a new leader. In their current state, the Republic would be helpless against an attack from a resurgent Sith Empire. They had thought that through their compassion and seeking justice for the Sith people, they would be able achieve some sort of peace.

But the damage from the Republic’s pathological altruism had already been done. Despite the demotion and imprisonment of the Republic generals and commanders who led the attacks, it was still a mass genocide. Almost half the native population had been wiped out in half a millennium and the seeds of vengeance had been sewn. The Sith had been united by the reckless actions of the Republic and now they had a taste for revenge.

*            *              *

Similarly, it had been one year since the young Vycerant was drafted into the Sith training regimen. Despite being much younger than the rest of the acolytes, his heart was pure, and his Force powers were unnaturally strong. However, he was still not disciplined enough for his abilities to shine and so he was less than proficient with channelling the Force to do his bidding, but his abilities to wield a blade were unmatched by any other acolyte. So much so, that he wielded a double-bladed training staff; a unique sight in the Academy where most other acolytes used only single blades for their training.

The now sixteen-year-old Vycerant had become much more physically stronger in the short year he had been at the dreaded Sith Academy. His physique and skills was that of a brawler. His proficiencies were specialised, and, despite his relatively short height, he was able to hold his own, even against the toughest of the other acolytes.

Initially quiet and reserved, Vycerant often spent his early months at the Academy never talking to the other acolytes. He thought that if he grew friendly or even compassionate of the other acolytes he would be stabbed in the back and never survive the training pits.

Still, he had been able to find friendship within the ranks of the training regimen; another young acolyte that Vycerant had found who fulfilled his lack of skill in the Force. A young Miraluka male named Belushi. Similar to humans in almost every way, Miralukas were distinguished by their masks that covered where their eyes would be. In essence, Miralukas were blind as a Corhesian Death Bat but used their inherent Force sensitivity to see with their enhanced other senses. Still, the blindness was a natural disadvantage to Belushi’s ability to wield a blade, which often handicapped his performance in the training pits. Despite this, he was extremely proficient in using the Force and had learned the dark sorcerous ways of the Sith faster than any other acolyte. In many ways, Belushi completed Vycerant and Vycerant completed Belushi. Their different abilities complemented each other like pieces to a puzzle.

Belushi was nineteen years of age and had thin, brown hair tied in a short ponytail. The rest of his hair was roughed up due to the months of endless training. He was slightly less heavily built than Vycerant had become; he much preferred speed and stamina over brute and brawn. His taller and slender physique helped him evade the blades of his rival acolytes during practice duels.

Belushi rarely used his blade and so his training sword had become dull and rusted. In his mind, his power in the Force was far too strong for him to waste time on learning blade training. The Miraluka had a miniscule ego, but he was still confident in his abilities. The instructor cared not for what his students chose to learn, as long as they were able to kill Jedi mercilessly with their abilities.

Deep underneath the Sith Academy was a vast network of halls and dorms, all belonging to the Neophyte Council. These underground lairs provided a place where the future generations of the Sith would build their strength and perfect their abilities. The dark side pulsed here like a racing heartbeat whenever the acolytes would duel each other. Every day, their powers grew like bacteria on a petri dish. In the middle of the underground series of halls was a massive fighting pit. Resembling that of a gladiatorial colosseum, the acolytes would duel each other during the day, helping to weed out the weak amongst their ranks. Those who fell behind either perished by the blades of their fellow acolytes or the Sith instructors themselves.

Initially containing twenty acolytes when he first arrived, Vycerant’s group of acolytes had been cut down to only twelve. The horrors of the Sith Academy were quickly introduced to the neophytes. There was no silver lining to the acolyte life. No special privileges. No redeeming qualities. Even the lowest ranking ensigns in the Sith military had a higher rank than the would-be Sith. When they were not being bossed about privates and cadets, the rest of their time was spent fighting each other in the pits. Learning new force techniques and harnessing their skills and hatred filled almost every second of free time they had.

Luckily for the dozen remaining acolytes in Vycerant’s group their session had finished early for the day: Seven out of the twelve acolytes were human, all of them with the same, pinkish exhaustion on their faces. Amongst the four other non-humans were Belushi and another Miraluka; a male with a slightly darker toned skin and black hair, a male Nikto, a female Kage with grey skin and a white hue to her complexion. Vycerant had never been surrounded by so many members of other species. His red skin made him feel like an outsider on his own homeworld.

Another day of training passed in the fighting pits. Blood of all different colours painted the fighting pit floor as every single one of the acolytes groaned in pain after nearly ten hours of training. Rivalries were rife in the training pits and the would-be Sith Lords had no problems putting them on display to intimidate other acolytes. There were very few rules in the fighting pits. The objective that was laid out by the Sith overlords was simple: survive. Acolytes murdering each other was commonplace and was completely acceptable in the arena.

Some acolytes were more brutish than others, in particular one of three human brothers that dominated the pits with an iron fist. The male Nikto and the Kage woman both laid at the feet of this thuggish brawler who stood in front of his two brothers. Doran, a shaven head human with a series of aged scars running along his left cheek narrowed his eyebrows and sighed. The dominant warrior in the fighting pits was disappointed in sudden end of the session. He was having too much fun besting every fighter in the pit and was looking forward to finally getting some killing done. Out of spite, he kicked the sand of the pit into the eyes of the Nikto, who cried out in pain as his iris’ burned with the stinging of a thousand tiny sand grains settling into the jelly of his eyes.

In a fit of rage, the Nikto summoned his training blade to his side and attempted to attack the thuggish brother as he walked away. Doran was fully aware of the Nikto’s actions and was ready for the vengeful assault; he spun out the way of the Nikto’s metal blade and ran his training blade up the back of the spike-faced alien. The Nikto shouted out of anger more than pain as Doran and his brothers laughed at his suffering. The Nikto looked up to the Sith Lord that observed the fighting pits; the same red skinned woman who chased Vycerant through the streets of Vortem a year beforehand.

Dulcia looked down at the bullied Nikto who’s eyes begged for help in his dire situation. Blood flowed out from his back from his hip to his lower ribs. Dulcia knew better than to ruin the fun of an acolyte’s rise to power, for she had once been in Doran’s position, completely dominating the fighting pits and annihilating every opponent in her way. She was impressed with only Doran and, much similar to how Zhen felt about Vycerant when he found him, sensed that Doran would go on to do great things for the Empire.

“No one is going to help you in the battlefield Qirsk,” she said to the poor Nikto as he laid on the floor in pain. "You must learn to focus the dark side to fuel your anger and strike back with precision and skill, otherwise you will never survive this academy.”

“But Lord Dulcia," protested the Qirsk. “He attacked me after the bell had been rung!”

“You seriously call having sand in your face being attacked?” mockingly asked Dredge, one of Doran’s two brothers. The third brother, Damor, tossed no insults and instead laughed heartily at the Nikto’s excuses.

“You just wait when a Jedi picks up a boulder of rock with the Force and crushes you with it. You’re not Sith material,” Dredge said, insulting the honour of the Nikto, who was by now just waiting for the mockery and humiliation to end.

All throughout this interaction, Vycerant was listening intently. The now sixteen-year-old acolyte was letting his hatred for Doran and his brothers fester and grow inside him like a raging plague. He was letting the darkness fuel his bodily functions to dull the pain a gash that ran down his left bicep; a wound inflicted by none other than Doran. Blood flowed effusively from the gaping wound as Belushi tied a bandage around the injury. Vycerant was skilled but still very young in comparison to the other acolytes. Doran and his brothers were the dominant force in the pits and Vycerant’s wound was inflicted by alpha of the thuggish brothers; Doran was a brute. The bully in the playground. His head was clean shaven, as was his brothers, which set him apart from the rest of his fellow acolytes. His left cheek and jawbone were tattered by scars from skirmishes and fights years-passed. He was muscly and sturdy, as well as a proficient wielder of Force energies. Against him, many of the other acolyte stood no chance at defeating.

Vycerant shut his eyes tightly and breathed heavily through his nose, letting the hate flow through him and allowing the fading adrenaline to numb his painful affliction. The dark side’s volatility was so embroiled in the basis of evil that even the most powerful Dark Lords could not use its power to heal. The dark side was designed to destroy, not build.

Qirsk stood up, hallowing in his shame and self-loathing as he limped away from the taunting of Doran and his brothers. Belushi finished bandaging the wound on Vycerant’s upper arm, seemingly proud of his medical prowess.

“This is the third time this week my friend. You gotta make sure that this wound does not get infected,” Belushi advised his young friend. He spoke with a strong and exotic accent and Vycerant hung onto every word he said.

"Trust me, Belushi,” replied Vycerant. “Nothing's more infectious than listening to you babble on about how one little cut is gonna kill me."

Vycerant’s blind bastion chuckled at his comment as the two walked over to the crowd of acolytes, Vycerant's wound now draped in white wraps. They were still laughing when Damor approached Dulcia at the edge of the fighting pits. The young acolyte rested his arm on the barrier that separated the sandy arena from the concrete spectator area and gave the Sith Lady a thirsty look.

“So, Darth Gorgeous, enjoyed the show?” said Damor with zero allure in his voice. Dulcia refused to give in to his incantations, but she was a prime trickster who not throw away an opportunity to manipulate Damor’s mind.

“You were adequate,” she said, not even taking the time to look at the ballsy acolyte. She wanted him to take more chances, to go further and further until the point where she could humiliate him in front of every other acolyte.

“Only adequate? Well that's, ah, rather disappointing. Perhaps there is a way I could show you my true potential. Maybe a private sparring match between yourself and I?” asked the keen acolyte as the rest of the acolytes listened intently, including Damor's brothers.

“If you were as skilled as Doran then perhaps I would take up your offer,” said Dulcia, her voice soothing and seductive, yet piercing and harsh at the same time. Doran raised one eyebrow and sighed at the Sith Lady’s words. He knew what Dulcia was doing and his brother was playing right into his trap Dulcia looked past Damor’s shoulder to Doran, her come-hither smile entrapping the elder brother’s gaze.

Damor was becoming jealous and desperate; just as Dulcia wanted him. In truth she had no interest for a relationship with anyone, let alone a few meagre acolytes. Although it was entertaining to tease weak-minded individuals like Damor, it annoyed her when her own students flirted with her. Dulcia’s undeniable beauty had become a liability on training the next generation of Sith.

Vycerant watched the situation unfold from the small crowd of acolytes he had just fought. In any other situation the others would have ripped him and Belushi apart. However, they were briefly united in their hatred of the brothers and they all stood together to watch Damor embarrass himself. Vycerant still held an amount of respect for Dulcia, remembering the teachings of his father, Harkus. She was the epitome of what the Sith species should have striven to become, and that now they were a dying species slowly being replaced by other beings, Dulcia became the object of many men’s dreams.

The more he thought about it, the more he found that Dulcia vaguely reminded Vycerant of his mother; same skin tone and the same attitude. Dulcia even sported the same kind of bone spurs that ran down his mother’s chin. Talia was strict on Vycerant, occasionally beating her son for mistakes he made. Yet she still loved him. The pain she sometimes chose to inflict on her child was out of her duty to protect Vycerant from the evils that lurked in the galaxy. If she wanted her son, and more importantly, her bloodline, to survive, Talia would have to morph him into someone who could defend himself against the many dangers of the galaxy.

Talia was no Sith Lord however, and her death was ultimately meaningless to the Empire. Dulcia on the other hand was an experienced tactician, serving the Empire for more than twenty years. Her skills in dual wielding lightsabers were unmatched by any other Sith and she vied for the day when she could quit the Neophyte Council to become the Empire’s Blademaster: an extremely prestigious rank currently held by Darth Lamin on the Dark Council.

Damor unwisely pressed on with his advances to Dulcia. “If a private training session won’t please you then perhaps something else? I have a fresh bottle of Mandalorian Ale straight from Concord Dawn in my quarters. Maybe you and I could…”

Dulcia punched Damor square in the nose before he could finish his sentence. The legs of the shocked acolyte gave out and he fell to the floor of the fighting pits, blood gushing from his now broken nose. The crowd of onlooking acolytes erupted into laughter as Damor rocked back and forth on the ground in agony. Even Dredge, Damor’s other brother, laughed at his sibling’s suffering. Doran, on the other hand, simply watched in shamed silence; an expressionless face of disgust came over him. He was appalled by his brother’s weakness and shook his head in disbelief.

Dulcia leaped over the short barrier that separated her and Damor, the laughing of the acolytes immediately ceased when the Sith Lady entered the arena. They all wondered to themselves if they would be punished for laughing at the incident. Dulcia, however, only went to Damor who looked up at her in fear; his lust for her had disappeared.

“Next time you try something like that, I’ll break a part of your body a little more precious to you," she whispered coldly into the acolyte's ears.

Dulcia turned away from the crowd that watched her and exited the sandy arena. As she left, she wondered to herself if she had killed the cloud of desire that the male acolytes had for her or if she merely inflated it. She felt that it may have been the latter and cursed under her breath as she left the arena. Such a display of dominance would be a massive hook for any male Sith in training.

As the captivating Sith woman exited the hall, another Sith entered the arena to take her place. The acolyte’s attention immediately turned to him as they quickly formed an orderly assemblage of themselves, four by three, facing the mighty Lord that had just entered the room. Darth Oddisor was the leader of the Neophyte Council, dubbed the "Master of Acolytes". He was in charge of overseeing all new acolytes and he was very keen on this group in particular. It was a matter of routine that Oddisor would visit each of the groups after their sessions, but this time the regularity was broken for he had brought another Sith Lord with him.

Darth Zhen walked in stride with Oddisor as they entered the arena, pleased to see the amount of damage the acolytes had inflicted on each other. Zhen split from his Oddisor’s direction of walk and sat in the spectator stands, his bald head and crimson tattoos catching the eyes of the acolytes, most of whom had never seen him before. Zhen analysed the situation, observing the amount of blood had been spilt during the day’s session. He felt the pain that each of the acolytes inflicted on each other. He was pleased with their performance.

Oddisor stood before the group of twelve acolytes, all of who had redrawn their attention to him. In his old, wrinkled hands he held a scroll which he unravelled and began to read with his aging eyes.

“Darth Dulcia had provided me with her assessment for the week. She said that there is much room for improvement for most of you. However, she also there are a select few among this group that she believes are advancing quicker than others”, he bellowed to the group of acolytes.

The trainee Sith all shuffled with a mix of excitement and nervousness. The acolyte who Dulcia deemed the best were granted special privileges for the next week; better robes, better sleeping quarters, better food. The life of a fully accomplished Sith soldier.

“Only one of you will be granted access to the special quarters this week. And that acolyte is…”, Oddisor began to say, deliberately prolonging the reveal of the acolyte who performed the best. Doran stood tall, certain that he would be rewarded the honour. Vycerant cared not for the prestige he would gain. All it would mean would be more acolytes trying to kill him out of jealousy or strategically organised murder to elevate their own positions.

“… acolyte Kristina”

Disappointed frowns and confused gazes all pointed towards the girl in the corner of the front row, all wondering what was so special about her. It quickly came to be seen that Kristina one of the more pretty female acolytes; her face was untarnished by any scars or marks on her. She was unscathed by any blade throughout the week and what scars she did display were aged from the previous fights.

Kristina exhibited red, thin hair, the same colour as Vycerant’s skin. Within her red hair were strands of black that had interwoven themselves within her crimson flows. She was thin and agile, nowhere near as muscly as Vycerant or Belushi and was of average height in comparison to the other acolytes. Her eyes were piercingly blue; deeper than the oceans of Kamino and clearer than the skies of Naboo. She could feel the envious eyes of the other acolytes on her and, much like Vycerant, knew that this was nothing to be pleased of. Now she knew she had to deal with the harassment of jealous acolytes looking to tarnish her reputation and steal the special privileges for themselves.

Amongst the eyes that looked in her direction despising everything about her, she felt another pair of eyes appreciating her form: Vycerant was one of the few acolytes that looked at Kristina with congratulatory intentions. She smiled as she felt his warm, appreciatory gaze run up and down her long hair. She looked behind herself swiftly, her hair swaying heavily as she caught Vycerant staring at her. Vycerant quickly threw his head back into forward-looking position, embarrassed by his friend catching him looking at her. Kristina’s smile turned into a playful grin as she too looked back at Oddisor, who had been talking the whole time.

“You are dismissed,” Oddisor said in a voice so formal and monotone it could put a nocturnal beast to sleep.

Kristina went to look at the red-skinned boy who she caught staring at him only for him to have disappeared from the group in an instant. Even Belushi, who was standing right next to his friend, was surprised when he could no longer sense Vycerant’s presence next to him so suddenly. Vycerant had speed-walked to the edge of the arena towards Darth Zhen who, as always, wanted to speak to his student after the session. Kristina briefly thought about going after Vycerant but knew better to not get in the way of Zhen’s personal business. Instead she made her way out of the arena quickly, avoiding the creeper stares that she would have received by the three human brothers.

Zhen watched as Vycerant approached him, he could sense Vycerant’s indifference to the day’s session, as had his feelings been the past month.

“Seems like you’ve lost the spark in you, acolyte,” Zhen said to him bluntly.

“When will you start calling me by my name?” Vycerant asked his master.

"When you’ve earned it”, Zhen retorted. Vycerant lowered his head, jaded and fuelled with anger, but not towards Zhen. The bald Sith Lord was of great importance to him and often valued him as an acquaintance. However, much like Zhen’s relationship with other Sith, they were not friends. Zhen treated Vycerant like an acolyte and he, in turn, was treated as a Dark Lord by Vycerant.

“Tell me,” Zhen continued after Vycerant remained silent. “What do you think of Dulica?”

Vycerant was taken aback by the question. Zhen never often considered his opinion for anything.

“She’s a good teacher I suppose. Strong and full of spirit,” Vycerant admitted.

“Do you trust her?” probed Zhen.

“No master. I do not,” Vycerant said confidently.

Dulcia was Vycerant’s master in title only. Zhen had taught him more things about life and the Force than Dulcia ever had and ever could. He considered Zhen his true master. His differing sentiments between the two Lords were undoubtedly influenced by the encounter in Vortem one year prior; Dulcia had chased Vycerant through the streets with the intention of murdering him and Zhen had essentially rescued him from her wrath. Vycerant did not owe anything to Zhen, however. By Zhen conscripting the young boy into the Sith training regimen, Vycerant had suffered a fate worse than death.

“I see,” Zhen said to Vycerant’s response, sitting upright on his seat. “In that case, what do you think about acolyte Kristina?”

Vycerant’s confidence evaporated with the unexpected question. He was genuinely unsure of how to answer, for any answer could make his master disappointed. If he lied about his attraction to the red-haired acolyte Zhen would sense it; he was simply that powerful. But if he told the truth about how he felt towards her, he may be berated by his master for harbouring weak feelings.

Vycerant made his decision on which answer would get him in the least trouble; “I have no feelings for Kristina, master. We are merely acquaintances,” he said to his master, lying through his teeth.

Zhen took a moment to think about the acolyte’s answer. Vycerant’s particular use of the word acquaintance struck him deep inside, for he and Dulcia were once in the same position as Vycerant and Kristina: two acolytes forbidden to have feelings for each other by the society around them. Their time together as students of darkness turned them from the best of friends to the worst rivals. Zhen knew that Vycerant was lying to him, which made him happy. His would-be apprentice was finally embracing the Sith way.

“An interesting answer, young one… I had assumed you would tell me the truth,” he said.

Vycerant took a small step back from his master, fearing Zhen would punish him for attempting to deceive his own master, “I-I’m sorry master,” he stammered.

“No need to apologise, Vycerant,” Zhen said slowly. Vycerant’s eyebrows narrowed and tilted his head in confusion and surprise as he retook the step he had lost. Zhen had finally called him by his name.

“You are finally getting the gist of what it means to be Sith”, Zhen said. “You lied in the hope that the end result will yield the outcome that would benefit you the most. This is a core tenant of the Sith paradigm and you did it without a push; under your own free will. You chose to use deception to your advantage.

“You are slowly but surely building your understanding of the Sith way beyond any of the other acolytes. And so, acolyte Vycerant, I believe you have earned the right to have your name be heard.”

Vycerant was filled with pride at the notion. It was not much, but it was something that brought him and his master closer together. All the positive feelings that he felt buried the confusion within him; no Sith, especially not a Lord, had ever granted Vycerant the right for his name to be heard. He wondered why his would-be master was so different to the other Sith in the Temple. All these thoughts ran through his mind like a great deer being chased by a Korr-wolf. But there were still lingering questions in his mind.

“But master, is it not weakness to harbour emotions like love within you? Surely, they hold us back?”, the boy inquired.

Zhen let the words strike at his very core once again. He thought briefly about Dulcia and how he was denied her love by the Academy.

“It depends if you let the emotions control you, or you control them. Your fury and anger will fuel you briefly but there must always be something else driving that energy. Hatred for the sake of hatred is meaningless. Killing for the sake of killing is worse. This is our greatest unspoken weakness, Vycerant. That the dark side, by default, has no end goal. When we return to the Republic and conquer the galaxy, what then? Where do we direct our hatred once the Jedi have been eradicated? There is only one place the path of destruction will lead us; we will destroy ourselves if we cannot keep ourselves in check. Remember the code I have taught you.”

Vycerant rummaged the recesses of his mind to recite the Sith Code, ''Peace is a lie. There is only passion.''

Zhen nodded at his apprentice, as if reading his thoughts. “Exactly. We must always use our passions to guide us for they are our basic primal instincts. That is why the Sith will always exist. But the Sith as an Order will die if we cannot embrace all aspects of passion. Anger and hatred, yes, but love and friendship are just as vital to our survival,” he said.

Vycerant thought deeply about his master’s words. He could not wrap his mind around the contradicting nature of Zhen versus the other instructors. Dulcia taught him that compassion was a weakness that would get him killed and Oddisor instructed him to hate everything that he saw.

“Why is it only you that hold these views, master?” Vycerant asked his mentor.

“I see the Empire for what it is: strong on the surface but rotten to the core. My old master was the manifestation of that rot,” Zhen paused for a moment, thinking his next words through carefully. “That is why he lays dead and decaying on the old battlefield. A symbol of the dying past in favour of the birth of a new Empire.”

Vycerant slowly nodded his head as he listened to his master, “I think I understand. We must use all our emotions together, not just the negative ones.” he said.

“Precisely”, said Zhen. “Although I cannot stress the importance of keeping this a secret. If we are to reform the Empire from within and achieve true victory against the Republic and the Jedi we must work underground; fix the Empire’s rotten core and reshape the Sith way.”

Vycerant felt all the pieces coming together. “So that’s why you rejected the seat on the Dark Council. So that you could train the next generation of Sith to be more like you”, he said.

Zhen nodded at his apprentice’s accurate thesis, “And when the Empire is reformed, we can build a truly glorious kingdom. No one will oppose us. We will no longer lose the ones we care about to the endless cycle of war,” he exclaimed. “Can I trust you with this secret?”

Vycerant breathed deeply, filling his lungs with a bold declaration of belief in his master. “Of course, master".

Zhen raised a cautious eyebrow. “I hope so”, he said. “Trust is like a Dxerrin orchard. It’s a beautiful yet fragile thing. It requires the right conditions to exist. To blossom. Under perfect conditions it grows and thrives. But when the conditions are tampered with, when someone alters the parameters of its surroundings, it dies”.

Zhen’s short yet gloomy monologue set a new mood for Vycerant. He remembered his mother watering the Dxerrin orchards in their garden in his old home. A wave of misery suddenly swept over him as his mind abided with the memory of his long-dead family. His shoulders slumped, and his head lowered as if bowing to a great king.

“Your thoughts dwell on your mother. Your father,” Zhen said, once again proving his ability to decrypt the mind of the red-skinned acolyte.

“Half my species would still be alive if it was your Empire as opposed to this one,” he said distantly. “If you really are gonna do something to this Empire, do it fast. I’m an outsider on my own homeworld."

With that last cold statement, Vycerant turned his back on Zhen and walked in the direction the other acolytes went, back to the living quarters.

Zhen let his apprentice go without another word. Watching Vycerant exit the arena Zhen found himself all alone in the stands. He looked down to his hand and clenched his fist, showing a golden ring engraved with a shining red kyber crystal. Zhen sighed as a sea of memories hit him like a torrent of waves. He was no stranger to the struggles of being a lost child.

*            *              *

''The boy stood at the foot of a great smithy’s works. The great architectural masterpiece towered above him like a monument of epic proportions. Looking up to the sky, the boy saw the unmistakable outline of a Republic star-destroyer, eternally present in the planet’s orbit along with dozens of other ships, continuing their seemingly endless siege of the planet. The wind that thrust itself against the boy’s thin legs indicated the oncoming presence of a sandstorm. Truly it was a night to be fearful for a young human boy on Korriban, but the boy had a job to do.''

''The boy was sent by his drunkard mother to fix one of her many rings which had been snapped in twain by a night of drinking. The abusive parent had ordered her son to go to the smithy like a Sith to the enslaved; no questions asked. The boy refused to risk asking questions. He had been beaten far too many times to bother.''

''One could have been forgiven if they mistook the young boy for a slave; ragged, brown clothes that offered little protection, let alone warmth from the cold Korriban nights. His head had little hair to show for; what hair he did have was combed back and tied into a short ponytail. No older than fifteen, the boy had seen more than his fair share of hardships, explicitly detailed in the multiple scars that ran up and down his arms and shoulders which were both exposed by his poor clothing.''

''He entered the small opening between the front door, curious as to why someone would leave their workplace unguarded. Within the shop was a vast array of tools and pottery; mallets, pincers and hammers littered the walls as they hung from their metal hooks. A small flow of molten ran around the edges of the workshop like a thick, pasty river.''

''In the middle of the workshop sat the man he was looking for; the infamous local blacksmith. His skin was crimson red and scarred. Each partially healed cut detailed years of experience with working in his fishing smithy. His hair was tied untidily in a messy ponytail, no doubt to prevent it from being set ablaze from the molten lava he worked with. His beard of cardinal tentacles, however appeared to have fallen victim to the intense heat; it looked crusty and scabbed, most likely from an accident while working, which, judging by the half-healed burns running up his left arm, he was no stranger to. There was no greater dishonour to a Sith black-smith than burning yourself with your own tentacle beard.''

''The big man sat in the centre of his workshop, his eyes closed in a deep, entranced sleep. He still had one hand on the massive sledgehammer that stood almost perfectly vertical beside him as he slept. Such a tool would be used to mould even the most unmalleable materials. His lower half was covered by a black set of worksman’s bottoms, though his upper half was covered by nothing, other than a utilities belt wrapped around his shoulders.''

''The boy approached the front desk in the workshop and rung the bell, jarring the sleeping blacksmith from his sleep and making him stand up almost immediately. He held the sledgehammer in attack position at the boy who looked back at the Sith man with fear. The boy didn’t step back or cry out in terror; he just stood there; staring back at the large blacksmith and analysing the many wounds on his body.''

''“Wha’dya want?” the blacksmith asked with a brogue and drawly accent. Most members of his species, whether poor or rich, usually spoke like nobility and class. The boy knew from his many interactions with Sith people that this blacksmith must have been an outcast of some kind; shunned from Sith society for some minor form of dishonour or for breaking the extremely strict conventions of his culture.''

''“My, um… my mother sent me to you to fix her ring,” the boy said nervously as he placed the snapped ring on the desk between him and the blacksmith. The Sith man briefly picked up the broken piece of jewellery and looked it it’s break, dwarfing the ring in his ginormous hands. ''

''The blacksmith looked down at the boy, who was standing with his head pointed down at his feet. The man knew that something was afoot. “Do ya get along wit’ yer muther, kid?” he asked. ''

''“It’s not my place to answer, sir,” the boy replied. The blacksmith’s suspicions were vindicated. He hated the antagonistic and borderline abusive nature of the Sith culture and fled it to live a life of his own fruitions. He saw the scars and bruises that ran down the boy’s arms, just like his own. He felt the boy’s pain but knew that it was different; much less thoughtful than the ways Sith women would beat their kids. At least the mothers of that species would beat their children to make them stronger and more capable for living on such a harsh world; the blacksmith knew that this child’s beatings were senseless and drunken.''

''It had been weeks since he had a customer in his shop. The slander and lies from the other Sith had destroyed his reputation. However, he was an opportunist and saw that he had a chance to turn his life around. He saw it in this boy.''

''“See this ‘ere place is fallin’ apart,” the Sith man said to the boy, pointing his thumb to the crippled ceiling of his workshop. “I could use a bit o’ help ‘round ‘ere.”''

''The boy looked up at the decerped walls and torn roof of the smithy. He knew the words of the blacksmith was true. The man was muscular yet malnourished at the same time. It was clear that it had been days since he had eaten.''

''“What do you want me to do?” the boy questioned. "I'm only twelve." ''

"Oh, it’s quite simple, kid. You join me in my li’l smithy ‘ere, ‘n I’ll ‘ave you paid for your efforts,” the blacksmith said.                                                                                                                                         

''“And if I refuse?” the boy asked after taking a moment to consider the blacksmith’s proposal. ''

''“Well, could go back to yer muther ‘nd… continue to be beat by ‘er. But I think we bot’ know the answer to that,” said the blacksmith, sitting back down in his chair. ''

A twin-forked path laid before the boy; he could choose to go back to his violent, alcoholic mother, or join this stranger in a life of craftsmanship.

Needless to say, the boy never returned to his mother with the ring she wanted.

''“I accept,” the boy said after only a few seconds of consideration. ''

''A smile spread across the face of the Sith man. “Marvellous!” he bellowed. “The name’s Toras," he said extending his hand out to the boy offering a handshake. “What’s yours?”                                                 ''

An excited smile spread across the boy’s face as he shook the hand back, “My name is Zhen.”

Next Chapter:  Chapter 5 - Twilight in the Barracks  Copyright Jacob Burbidge 2019