Chapter 17: A Master’s Shadow

The cold, unforgiving landscape of Korriban blurred behind Zorin as the shuttle lifted off from the planet's surface. The once-familiar red dunes and jagged cliffs of the Sith homeworld shrank away, the oppressive atmosphere of the temple and the endless trials fading with the distance. But the tension inside him grew as they soared into the void.

Korriban was behind him, but Zorin knew the real test was only just beginning.

He sat quietly in the shuttle's rear compartment, feeling the hum of the ship's engines vibrate beneath his feet. Around him, a few other acolytes sat in uneasy silence, each of them no doubt contemplating their own futures in the Sith Empire. But Zorin wasn't focused on them. His mind was on his new master.

Darth Malios, a name whispered in fear among the acolytes of Korriban, had chosen him—plucked him from the ranks of initiates like a predator eyeing its next meal. Zorin knew little about the Sith Lord, only that he commanded a fleet and was deeply involved in the war against the Republic. Some claimed Malios had once been a Jedi, though the Sith Lord had risen in power quickly, adopting the most ruthless of the Empire's tactics. Whatever the truth, Zorin knew this much: Darth Malios did not tolerate weakness.

It was rumored that Malios had trained apprentices before, but none had survived long under his brutal tutelage. Zorin clenched his fists as the thought lingered. His path had already been stained with blood—Kael's face flashed briefly in his mind. If he were to survive what lay ahead, he could not afford any sentiment.

He would prove himself again. Not to the acolytes of Korriban, but to the Sith Empire itself.

The shuttle's cockpit door slid open with a soft hiss, and the pilot turned to address them. "We've reached orbit. Prepare for hyperspace jump."

A moment later, the stars outside the viewport elongated, and the ship rocketed into hyperspace, leaving Korriban behind.

Zorin leaned back, exhaling slowly. His mind wandered, thinking of what awaited him. Darth Malios had summoned him personally—a rare honor for any acolyte, especially one so newly blooded. It wasn't long after his duel with Kael that the message arrived, the other masters coldly handing down the directive without fanfare. His fate had already been sealed.

"Zorin," a voice interrupted his thoughts. One of the other acolytes—Vadris, a tall, dark-haired human with calculating eyes—leaned over, studying him carefully. "What do you think Malios wants with us? It's rare for a Sith Lord to pluck fresh acolytes off Korriban."

Zorin's eyes narrowed, scanning Vadris. He had learned not to trust anyone, especially his peers. "If you're afraid of what's coming, then maybe you should have stayed behind."

Vadris smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not afraid, just cautious. We're not being sent into battle for nothing. The Empire is at war, and we're the next generation of weapons. But do you really think Malios needs weapons like us? Or something more?"

Zorin remained silent, his mind sharpening on Vadris's words. It was true; the Sith Lords rarely trained acolytes personally unless they saw something unique in them. If Malios had selected him, it wasn't just for raw power—it had to be something more dangerous. More complex.

Suddenly, the ship lurched, and the pilot's voice came over the intercom. "Prepare for landing."

They exited hyperspace, and before them loomed an Imperial dreadnought—The Obsidian Spear. Its massive hull bristled with weaponry, and fighters patrolled its perimeter like a swarm of deadly insects. Zorin felt a surge of anticipation. This was not just a simple warship; it was a command center for one of the most feared Sith Lords in the galaxy.

As the shuttle docked, Zorin felt the dark presence of Darth Malios before he even saw him. It was like a weight pressing down on his chest, suffocating, as if the very air within the dreadnought was infused with malice. The ramp lowered with a hiss, and Zorin stepped into the ship's hangar, his eyes scanning the rows of troopers and officers moving with military precision.

Two Sith guards in black armor awaited them, their faces concealed behind masks. One stepped forward, voice cold and clipped. "You are to meet Lord Malios in the war room. Follow us."

Zorin and the other acolytes followed in silence, the metallic clank of their boots echoing through the dreadnought's corridors. The ship was a testament to the Empire's military might—walls lined with holodisplays detailing battles across the galaxy, officers barking orders, and an air of efficiency that spoke of countless wars fought and won.

They reached the war room, and the doors slid open to reveal a dark chamber lit only by the flicker of a massive hologram displaying the galaxy's battlefronts. Darth Malios stood at the center, his back turned to them, cloaked in shadow. The war map illuminated his tall, imposing figure, and Zorin could feel the pulse of power emanating from him like a storm held at bay.

The acolytes knelt without being commanded, heads bowed. Zorin felt the weight of Malios's gaze settle on him, though the Sith Lord had not yet turned to face them.

"Rise," came Malios's voice, deep and calm, but undercut with a menacing edge. Zorin obeyed, standing tall, his gaze locked forward.

Malios turned, and Zorin saw the face of his new master for the first time. His features were sharp, angular, with eyes that burned like embers—cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of mercy. A deep scar cut across his face, a reminder of battles long past.

"Each of you has been chosen because you have shown strength where others have faltered," Malios began, his voice commanding. "But strength alone is meaningless without purpose. The war we wage against the Republic is not merely a conflict of arms—it is a war for the very soul of the galaxy. And you will serve as instruments of that war."

Zorin kept his expression neutral, though inside, his mind raced. What would his role in this war be? What did Malios see in him?

"I am taking each of you into my service," Malios continued, his gaze sweeping over the acolytes. "You will fight under my banner, serve my command, and if you survive, you will rise within the Sith hierarchy. Fail, and you will be cast aside like all the others."

His eyes landed on Zorin, locking onto him with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. "Zorin," Malios said, voice softer but no less dangerous. "You have killed to reach this point, and yet I sense you are still untested in true war. You will follow me to the front lines, where the real crucible awaits."

Zorin nodded, though his thoughts swirled with anticipation and a touch of unease. The warfront was a different arena than the duels on Korriban. There, the stakes were survival, but on the battlefield, the scope of power and death was far greater.

Malios stepped closer, his presence looming over Zorin. "You will learn what it means to serve the Empire's will. You will kill not just for yourself, but for the Sith. You will be forged in the fires of war, and only then will you understand the true power of the dark side."

Zorin felt the weight of those words. He had embraced the darkness on Korriban, bled his saber, and killed his rival. But the path of a Sith was far from complete. The war would be his true test.

Without another word, Malios turned toward the hologram, eyes fixed on the battle unfolding across the galaxy. "Prepare yourselves," he commanded. "The fleet leaves for the Corellian front in two days. You will be given your assignments shortly."

The acolytes bowed and left the chamber, but Zorin lingered for a moment longer, watching the holographic map display the chaos of war. His mind raced, not with fear, but with cold determination.

Whatever lay ahead, he would not fail. He had survived the trials of Korriban. Now, he would conquer the galaxy itself.

And if Darth Malios thought to make him a tool of war, Zorin would ensure he became the sharpest blade in the Empire's arsenal—or die trying.