A Knights’ Fall, A Sentinel’s Rise

The void beyond the Night Buzzard's viewport gapes like a Sarlacc's maw, stars choked out like prey in a rancor's jaws, but it don't dim the fire in my gut. Lysara's flimsi scrawl, stashed in my satchel with Kalia's holo-image. Ushar's relic hangs silent in the front viewport, no ghosts muttering today. I clutch it, its twisted metal nicking my glove, and let the ship's pulse thrum through me. The cockpit's a warlord's lair, its old Knights of Ren durasteel buffed to a smuggler's gleam, Zakuulan crystal conduits weaving under Je'daii runes that shimmer like myrkr fog, chanting that Code: No dark, no light, just the kriffin' Force. Nerf-leather seats, smooth as a Corellian gambler's bluff, groan under my 25-kilo armor, phrik and obsidian, crimson rune slashing my chest like a scar. Spice-mist wafts from refreshers, sharp as a Twi'lek dancer's perfume. A holo-suite, dim now, could cough up nav charts or a pazaak game for Rim scum. The Tho Yor Nexus console sputters, its Force-sensitive nav hazed with static: Je'daii gear, still rough as a kath hound's hide. My mask snarls low, but my dark brown eyes blaze with Lysara's plea: Find us on Zehara, hidin' from this galaxy's filth.

Zeht sprawls at the co-pilot's station, her red Zabrak skin bold against the cockpit's shine, black tattoos curling like a nexu's stripes. Her cortosis-laced armor, lean, etched with a lone Je'daii rune, fits like a second skin. As my Sentinel of the Flame, she forges initiates into weapons at Fortress Vader's Training Grounds, but here, she's my blood, my steel. Her yellow eyes, keen as a blaster's aim, scour the Zakuulan holo-display, its purple-red haze mapping Zehara: a 100-km stray rock, no orbit, its industrial sprawl a tangle of docks, smelters, and tunnels crammed with womp-rat exiles, smugglers, droid-riggers, galaxy's castoffs. Her burned forearm, seared by Mustafar's wrath, gleams under the sconces, a badge of Exegol's hell. Astra's holo-orb flickers, lashed to the Tho Yor Nexus, its prototype glitches like a droid on bad power cells. "ETA to Zehara: twelve standard hours. Long range sensors detecting encrypted comms noise. Population estimate: fifty thousand, mostly rogue. Stealth approach recommended." The VI's voice, sharp but jerky, slices through the cockpit's recycled air's sting, the Zakuulan thrusters' rumble shaking my boots like a Mustafar tremor.

As Revan's Sentinel of Fire, I've led 61 blades, Knights of Revan, Pyraeth's Chosen, through relic raids and bloodbaths, carving trails from Lehon's ruins to Nar Shaddaa's gutters. But this hunt, blessed by Revan's nod, ain't for the Je'daii. It's for Lysara's spice-wind scent, Kalia's fire. Lysara's scrawl claws my mind: Kalia, fierce, stubborn like you, her eyes, my eyes, glaring from that holo-image. My gnarled hand, scarred from Unknown Regions slaughters, shakes, hope roaring louder than a starfighter's engine. Zeht's fingers halt on the holo-display. Her voice, warm as a Kashyyyk dawn, carries our decade of blood, "We'll hunt 'em down, Vicrul. No secret hides from us for too long. From relics to ghosts." Her words anchor me, our truth a blade forged in years of having each other's back. I stalk to the holo-table, its projection of Zehara's grid, docks, vents, tunnel-maze, whetting my reaper's edge. My boots clang on the cortosis-plated deck, the Night Buzzard's scars, Exegol's soot, Mustafar's molten kiss, bleeding into mine. Zeht stands to follow me, her yellow eyes locking with mine, and steps near, her burned forearm glowing under the sconces like a ritual brand. Her voice dips, thick with a mentor's pride, "I'm honored you chose me for this, my Sentinel. Few would trust their squire, Lysara, Kalia, all of it, with something that cuts so deep." Her words strike like a turbolaser, echoing Lysara's scrawl, her scarred forearm a map of her vow. "You ain't just another soldier, Zeht. You've carved your kriffin' place to be right here by my side out of nothing." The Night Buzzard's pulse surges, Zehara's shadow closing, and the memory of her pledge flashes as she holds my stare, a dreadnought's hall, six squires swearing blood under Kylo's glare, swallows me like a Hoth blizzard.

The dreadnought's hum clawed at my bones, a low growl like a krayt dragon's throat, as I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with my brothers in that cavernous hall. Crimson torchlight flickered, casting shadows across the durasteel walls, their runes carved deep as a Hutt's greed. The air stank of oil and smoke, thick as Nar Shaddaa smog, stinging my nose like a Tatooine sandstorm. The First Order's flagship was no pleasure barge; it was a beast of war, its pulse a reaper's drumbeat. Kylo Ren loomed on his dais, a sithspawn storm in black robes, his throne-like chair gouged from battles, flanked by banners bearing the Knights' crimson claw. His mask's red glow bled into the gloom, his hand resting on his saber's hilt, fingers twitching like a predator itching to strike. The other Knights, Cardo, Ushar, Trudgen, Kuruk, Ap'lek, stood in a semicircle, their armor glinting. Each a reaper in their own right, we watched the squires, paired two per Knight, ready to spill blood to join the Ren. The ritual circle, a 10-meter scar of durasteel pocked with ash and blood, was a coliseum for Kylo's ambition. Only one squire would rise per Knight, the other left to rot like womp-rat carrion. The air hung heavy, the overseer, a hooded figure, maybe some Sith-spun cultist from the shadows of Exegol, chanting rites that twisted my gut like a Kessel maelstrom. First Order officers, silent as durasteel, lined the hall's edges, their eyes cold, judging. The torches flickered, their crimson light dancing on the squires' weapons, vibro-blades and axes gleaming like mynock screeches in the dark. My reaper's mind churned, sifting these squires for blades or fodder.

Kylo's voice cut through, distorted by his mask's vocoder, a snarl laced with venom and a tremble of doubt, "This galaxy's weak, choked by Jedi lies and Sith rot. The Ren'll burn it clean. Prove you're worth my shadow, or you'll be buried where you stand." His words snapped like a slaver's whip, but a pause, heavy as a Hoth blizzard, betrayed him: Snoke's chains, the light's whisper, gnawing at his core. His hand tightened on his saber's hilt and I caught the tilt of his mask, like he was staring through us, at his own ghosts. The duels kicked off, a blood-soaked cantina brawl in a durasteel pit. Cardo's squires, a Twi'lek and a human, collided like starfighters, vibro-swords sparking. The human's blade ripped through the Twi'lek's gut, blood gushing like a busted coolant line, her scream swallowed by the dreadnought's hum. Ushar's Rodians danced a brutal jig, knives slashing, one crumpling with a blade in his chest, green ichor pooling. Trudgen's pair, a human female and a Zabrak, hacked with vibro-axes, the Zabrak's skull splitting under a wet crunch, brains splattering the ash. Kuruk's and Ap'lek's squires followed, their kills cold, vibro-blades slicing throats, vibro-spears punching through ribs, bodies dropping like spice-runners in a Hutt ambush. The squires fought without mercy, eyes hollow as a Kessel mine, each strike a claim to the Ren's dark. The circle's ash drank blood, the durasteel pocked with fresh scars, the air thick with death's reek.

Zeht knelt at the circle's edge, her red Zabrak skin blazing under the torches, black tattoos coiling like a nexu's hide. Her twin vibro-axes, fresh from some Dathomir forge, gleamed, edges sharp as a mynock's cry. At 20, she was wiry, unscarred, her yellow eyes burning like blaster bolts, horned scalp bare in the crimson glow. A Dathomir outcast, her fire matched Lysara's, spice and starship fuel, a spark I would keep buried deep. Her opponent, a human male, broad as a Gamorrean, gripped a vibro-sword, its hum a taunt. His scarred face sneered, a Corellian thug's swagger, like he'd already carved her tomb. The overseer's chant peaked, a guttural drone like a sarlacc's gullet, and Zeht launched, her axes a storm, her eyes flicking to me for a heartbeat before she struck. The duel was a kriffin' bloodbath, every move a dance of death in that 10-meter circle. Zeht weaved left, her boots skidding on ash-slick durasteel, as the human's vibro-sword slashed, missing her throat by a centimeter, the hum buzzing my ears. She countered, her right axe swinging low, catching his thigh, blood sprayed, a hot arc splattering my boots, the wound deep. He roared, stumbling back, his sword arcing high, aiming to cleave her skull. Zeht ducked, rolling right, her left axe hooking his blade, metal screeching like a TIE's engine. The circle's edge was a hard line, two meters from the Knights, three from the officers, caging their fight. She sprang up, her horns glinting, and drove her right axe into his shoulder, bone cracking, blood gushing like a Tatooine geyser. He swung wild, his sword grazing her bicep, a shallow cut leaking red, her snarl louder than the dreadnought's pulse.

Zeht pivoted, her boots grinding ash, and tackled him, her wiry frame slamming his bulk to the durasteel with a thud that echoed off the rune-carved walls. Her left axe pinned his sword arm, the blade biting flesh, while her right hovered at his throat, blood dripping from its edge. The hall froze, the torches' crackle and the overseer's chant the only sounds. The other squires had killed fast, throats slit, hearts pierced, bodies piled like the coming battlefields. But Zeht paused, her yellow eyes locking on me, fierce as a krayt dragon's glare. She dropped to one knee, axes crossed over her chest, tattoos stark under the crimson light. No other squire dared. Their kills were greedy, blood sprayed without thought, bodies left for the droids. Zeht's kneel was a blade of loyalty, forged in Dathomir's fire, offered to my reaper's shadow. My mask growled, my mind sifting her against the galaxy's rot. I stepped forward, boots crunching ash, the circle's blood slick underfoot, and gave a slow nod, my reaper's seal. "End him. Claim your place in the Ren." She rose, her right axe slashing down, cleaving the man's neck in a wet spray, blood and sinew splattering the durasteel, his head lolling like a broken droid. The stench of iron and sweat choked the air, her kill a reaper's offering. The Knights stirred, Ushar's grunt low, Cardo's cannon clanking, Kuruk's eyes unreadable. The officers' cold stares flickered, a ripple of fear or awe. Zeht stood, axes dripping, her breath ragged but steady, her gaze fixed on me, a fire no blood could douse.

Kylo's hand twitched on his saber's hilt, his mask tilting toward Zeht, his vocoder spitting a sharp grunt, "Bound by blood. Rise now for the Ren now runs in your veins." His voice cracked, a pause heavy with Snoke's shadow. His gaze lingered on Zeht's kneel, as if it stirred something, Ben Solo's ghost, maybe, clawing at his dark. The overseer's chant faded, the ritual circle a graveyard of six corpses, the surviving squires blood-soaked but alive. Zeht's voice cuts through hailing traffic control, "This is Night Buzzard. Requesting docking clearance." A gruff voice crackles back, could be a droid, could be a spice-runner with a bad day, "State your purpose." Zeht's jaw tightens, her reply sharp and final, "Je'daii business." A tense pause stretches long as a Kessel run, my hand twitching toward my scythe, itching for action. Then clearance snaps through, "Bay 7, Night Buzzard."

Astra's holo-orb flickers at the console's edge, its prototype lag a stutter in the ship's steady pulse, "Docking sequence initiated. Bay 7 coordinates locked. Low gravity detected, magnetic boots advised." The Night Buzzard glides into the durasteel port, rusted cranes looming outside like skeletal fingers clawing at the void, vents belching thick smoke. The ship settles with a soft thud, thrusters whining down to silence, and we rise from our seats, boots clanging on the deck. We exit the cockpit, the faint scent of spice-mist lingering in the air, and make our way to the armory, a compact chamber lined with cortosis-plated racks. My vibro-scythe gleams under the low light, 1.5 meters of phrik and obsidian, its ultrasonic hum a reaper's heartbeat thrumming in my grip. Zeht's axes rest beside it, their notched edges telling stories of battles won and scars earned. A holo-display hums to life, projecting Zehara's tunnel grid in neon lines, tangled corridors sprawling beneath the asteroid's crust, a labyrinth of durasteel and desperation. An uncomfortable silence falls, heavy as a Kessel mine's depths. Zeht's hand pauses on her left axe, her gaze flickering. She knows this hunt could shift everything, could drag me out of the Je'daii or bury me deeper in it. I meet her eyes, my mask growling low and rasp, "Ready to meet what's out there, Zeht?" She nods, her voice a low rumble, "Always, my Sentinel." The silence lingers a moment longer, a blade's edge between us, but we strap on our gear, magnetic boots, utility belts, weapons, and let the moment slip away like a starship jumping to hyperspace.

We descend via a rattling elevator, magnetic boots gripping the durasteel grates as Zehara's underground swallows us whole. The air slams into me, thick with sulfur and oil, a gritty haze lit by flickering neon lights strung along narrow tunnels, 1.5 meters wide, 2 meters high, durasteel walls scarred and pocked from decades of use. Stalls line the corridors, smugglers hawking blasters, spice, and scavenged droid parts, their voices a chaotic blend of galactic tongues, Basic, Huttese, something guttural I can't place. Rodians barter over dented crates, Twi'leks whisper in shadowed corners, droid scrappers clank past, their optics glowing red as they scan for salvage. Holographic signs buzz overhead, advertising cantinas with names like Sarlacc's Rest and black-market mods promising "untraceable tech." Surveillance drones hum through the crowd, their red eyes sweeping over exiles and outcasts alike. The low gravity makes every step a deliberate clank, magnetic soles locking to the grates, the underworld's pulse a relentless rhythm. We move single-file through the throng, my scythe humming at my back, Zeht's axes ready, her yellow eyes scanning every face, every movement. The tunnels twist and branch, forges roaring like rancors in the distance, their heat bleeding through the durasteel walls and warming the air. We pass a mag-lev platform, its tracks humming beneath a rusted sign, and weave through a crowded street, exiles jostling, a Devaronian barking at a protocol droid over a bad deal, the air thick with the stench of spice and sweat. My Force sense tingles, a prickle like a vibro-knife grazing my spine. I glance at Zeht, her nod sharp: she feels it too, her eyes narrowing as she adjusts her grip on her axes. We turn down a narrow alley, durasteel walls closing in tight, neon casting shadows across the grates. The crowd's din fades to a low murmur behind us, the alley stretching ahead, empty but for the hum of a distant vent. No ambush comes, no blaster fire, just a sudden, deafening explosion ripping through the alley's far end. Durasteel shards scream past, smoke chokes the air, and screams echo off the walls. The blast's heat sears my mask, my scythe's hum drowned by the roar, and I'm yanked into blackness.

Ash choked my throat, thick as Tatooine's worst dust storm, and the Sith Citadel's cavernous belly spun: a hell of twisted spires and lightning like a Sith's wrath clawing through cracked skylights. My vibro-scythe skittered across the floor, its bulky durasteel blade humming a dying whine, lost in the chaos a few paces off. My Knight of Ren armor, heavy and scarred, creaked as I gasped, my shoulder screaming like a starship's core about to blow. Kylo Ren stood close, his black robes tattered, face unmasked, eyes burning with a traitor's fire. No saber in his grip, just hands raised, the Force rippling like a Kessel maelstrom, holding my brothers at bay like womp-rats caught in a trap. The ground shook, the Resistance and that sithspawn Final Order tearing the sky apart above, their blaster roars and starship screeches seeping through the citadel's rune-scarred walls. My mask growled low, muffling my ragged breaths, my eyes locked on Kylo, the man I'd sworn to, the leader who'd cut down Ren to claim us, now a kriffin' betrayer. My brothers, Cardo, Ushar, Trudgen, Kuruk, Ap'lek, closed in, a tight ring around him, their vibro-weapons flashing like mynock cries in the gloom. Our squires, six green fools, hung back a few steps, their vibro-blades and spears twitching, eager to prove they weren't bantha fodder.

I clawed my way up, boots grinding ash, my vision swimming like a spice-dream gone sour. Kylo's hands dropped, and a blue saber flashed in his grip, conjured like some kriffin' Sith trick, its hum a starship's roar cutting the chaos. I didn't know where it came from, some dark sorcery, maybe, or the Force spitting in my face. The blade's glow lit the chamber, steady and deadly, nothing like the spitting red saber he'd carried as our master. His stance shifted, shoulders squared, legs braced: a warrior's form, brutal and wide, ready to reap. Cardo charged, close enough to smell his sweat, his arm cannon blasting plasma that scorched the air. Kylo's saber flicked, deflecting bolts with a hiss, then slashed across Cardo's chest, the blade carving a deep, smoking gash, flesh charred black, the reek of burned meat. Cardo's body crumpled a step away, his cannon clanking dead on the durasteel. Ushar roared, a pace from Kylo's flank, his vibro-club swinging like a Hutt's fist, heavy enough to crack ribs. Kylo pivoted, his saber arcing upward, slicing clean through Ushar's neck. His head rolled, steaming, landing a pace off, the stump cauterized. Trudgen, shaken but charging, closed in from a few steps away, his vibro-blade flashing, sparking against the floor. Kylo's Force wave hurled him into an alcove, ribs snapping like dry branches, the crash echoing off the spires. Kylo's saber thrust then pierced Trudgen's heart, a scorched hole smoking, his body slumping against rubble. Kuruk, perched high on a broken ledge, took a shot with his rifle, bolts grazing Kylo's arm, blood trickling down his sleeve. Kylo spun, saber deflecting with a scream, then slashed Kuruk's torso, a wide gash, guts steaming like Mustafar's core, body collapsing across the chamber. Ap'lek's vibro-axe swung, close enough to graze Kylo's robes, but Kylo ducked, his saber cleaving both legs at the knees, stumps charred, Ap'lek's scream cut short as he fell near me.

The squires, reckless as womp-rat scum, rushed in, blades and spears flailing like they thought they could matter. A Twi'lek squire, bold as a Corellian gambler, grazed Kylo's thigh with her vibro-blade, blood dripping like spice in a cantina brawl. Kylo's saber slashed her throat, head lolling back, cauterized, her lekku twitching as she dropped a step away. A human squire thrust his vibro-spear, missing Kylo's chest by a breath, but Kylo's saber pierced his sternum, a charred hole smoking, body falling close, his scream silenced. Three more, two humans, one Rodian, charged into the fray, their vibro-blades and spears sparking against durasteel. Kylo's saber danced, another's torso split, steaming guts spilling, the Rodian's throat slit, their screams echoing like Kessel's deepest mines. Their bodies piled in the chamber's heart, a heap of bantha fodder, cut down for getting in Kylo's way. My breath rasped, my mask's growl faint as a dying droid, as I staggered up, scythe heavy in my grip, its weight dragging like a starship's anchor. I swung at Kylo, close enough to feel his saber's heat, the durasteel blade humming a reaper's dirge, aiming for his ribs. He parried, his saber's blue glow melting my scythe's haft, sparks stinging my eyes like Coruscant's undercity flares. The durasteel buckled, useless against that plasma blade, its edge screaming death. His thrust came fast, piercing my shoulder, right where Luke's scar sat, burning like a blaster bolt through my bones, the wound cauterized, a smoking gash that roared agony. I collapsed, ash choking my throat, my mask dimming as Kylo's gaze slid past, cold as a Hoth night, thinking me dead, another fool reaped. My vision blinking in and out short at first but start to grow quicker in succession.

Zeht staggered across the chamber, blood dripping from a charred gash across her ribs, Kylo's saber having grazed her in the fray, her lighter armor no match for its plasma edge. Her red skin was pale, her yellow eyes dim but fierce, her chipped vibro-axes dragging, one slung, the other barely gripped. Kylo's Force wave had caught her, hurling her against a spire, her ribs cracked, blood seeping from vibro-cuts on her arm. Near death, her Dathomirian fire burned, her weak connection with the Force flickering as she hurled a busted relic at Kylo, forcing him to duck, his saber slashing empty air. Her instincts, honed in Dathomir's wilds, drove her forward, crawling a few steps through ash and rubble, her axes clanking, blood trailing like a Tatooine geyser. Kylo, a shadow across the chamber, ran toward another hall, his saber blazing blue, where cultists' chants droned like a sarlacc's throat, rushing to some fight I couldn't see. The ground shook, Zeht reached me, her bloodied hands grabbing my arm, her grip iron despite her wounds. Her voice hissed, faint but sharp as a vibro-blade, "My Knight hold on, or we're sithspawn fodder!" My vision blackened, pain like a rancor's bellow swallowing me, my scythe clattering as my limbs went slack.

A crackle tears through the black haze in my skull, a sound seared into my bones. My eyes flutter, Zehara's alley a blur of neon and smoke, sulfur and oil choking me like a Hutt's den after a sour deal. Pain claws my shoulder, the explosion's heat still singeing my mask. I'm slumped against a durasteel wall, narrow as a smuggler's bolt-hole, its scarred surface cold through my evolved Knight armor. The alley stretches ahead, a tight gut of flickering neon, shattered crates, and twisted metal, crunching under my magnetic boots in Zehara's low gravity. The underworld's pulse thumps, forges roaring like rancors in the distance, their heat bleeding through the walls. My vibro-scythe lies a step away, its phrik blade humming a reaper's dirge, calling me to rise, to harvest. My head swims, the crackle echoing. I blink, vision sharpening, and see it: crimson blade alive in the grip of a gaunt figure in tattered black robes, Kylo's crossguard saber, his dark side aura thick as a sarlacc's throat. Darth Xytherion, a Sith Eternal snake I'd glimpsed in my Ren days, slithering through Exegol's defeat. His eyes glint like a nexu's under a ragged hood, his sneer sharp as a vibro-knife, lips curled like he's already reaped my soul. Zeht lies a pace off, her cortosis-laced armor dented, blood trickling from vibro-cuts on her arm, ribs cracked from the blast. Her yellow eyes flicker, fierce but fading, her twin vibro-axes scattered, their chipped edges catching neon like dying stars. Her red skin, stark under the glow, is pale, tattoos coiling like Coruscant's undercity veins.

The alley's walls close in, neon signs buzzing overhead, Sarlacc's Rest, Untraceable Tech, their light dancing on shattered crates, debris crunching underfoot. Sulfur stinks, oil coats my throat, the distant crowd's murmurs a low hum, cut by screams from the explosion's wake. Surveillance drones, their red eyes dead, lie smashed in the rubble, Zehara's underworld holding its breath. My shoulder throbs again, Lysara's note, her spice-wind scent, Kalia's eyes, burning in my satchel, a fire keeping me alive. Zeht shifts, her hand twitching toward an axe, her gaze locked on Xytherion, defiance burning through her pain. I try to rise, boots skidding on ash-slick durasteel, but my limbs are lead, the explosion's shock still rattling my bones. Xytherion's saber arcs, its crackle a death knell, aimed straight for Zeht's throat. I lunge, a desperate scramble, boots grinding debris, but I'm too kriffin' slow, my reaper's speed betraying me. The blade slices clean, a cauterized arc, charred flesh steaming as Zeht's head snaps free, her body rag-dolling to the ground, eyes frozen in a moment of defiance, horned scalp stark under neon's glare. The stench of burned meat chokes me, her axes clattering. Grief rips my gut, a blade sharper than any I've wielded, her frozen eyes haunting me like Lysara's holo-image, my reaper's heart torn between vengeance and the Code's call. I roar, "ZEHT!" the sound tearing through my mask, raw as a Kessel mine's echo, the dark side boiling like a starship's core gone critical.

My hand snaps out, the Force yanking my scythe to my grip, its phrik blade humming like a TIE's scream. I swing, close enough to smell Xytherion's rancid sweat, the blade aiming for his chest, a reaper's harvest for Zeht's blood. He parries, his saber's quillon vents grazing my phrik armor, scorching a black mark, the plasma's heat stinging like a Hutt's blaster burn. Sparks fly, sharp as Coruscant's undercity flares, the alley's walls ringing with the clash. I pivot, boots grinding a shattered crate, and thrust at his flank, the scythe's weight true, slicing a durasteel panel behind him, sparks hissing. Xytherion twists, his saber meeting mine, phrik holding where durasteel would've melted, the screech like a mynock's cry splitting the air. He counters, a Force push slamming me a pace back against the wall, ribs creaking like a busted freighter's hull, breath knocked out in a grunt that echoes off the neon-lit durasteel. His Force pull snatches my scythe, yanking it to his grip, its hum mocking me as it spins in his hand. Xytherion's laugh cuts through, cruel as a slaver's whip, his voice dripping venom like a Nar Shaddaa deal gone sour, "Fell for that sleemo's note, eh, Reaper? You Knights were always a dumb lot. The Je'daii'll kneel to the Sith Eternal with their General now brought to heel." His words a slice deeper than his saber ever could be.

Hatred roars, the dark side a furnace in my veins, my vision red as Exegol's lightning. Zeht's body lies still, her axes silent. I clench my fists, the alley's sulfur choking me, neon flickering like a dying star, and feel the Code whispering: No dark, no light, just the Force. I rise, boots clanking on durasteel, my mask growling like a rancor's bellow, and unleash a Force shockwave, the alley shuddering, crates rattling, Xytherion stumbling as his saber and my scythe clatter to the ground. The dark side surges, but clarity cuts through, a balance, sharp, the Je'daii Code holding me like a lifeline. Another wave slams out, pinning Xytherion to the wall, the Force grinding him like a smuggler's vice, his robes flapping, his breath a ragged gasp. I stalk forward, neon casting shadows across my armor, and snarl, "Where's my child and her mother?" My voice is low, a reaper's growl, the alley's walls echoing my rage. 

Xytherion's laugh cackles, a gut-wrenching rasp like a Hutt gloating over a rigged sabacc game, "That nightflower was a wild kriffin' ride, and that squirt of hers fetched a nice price when we pawned them both off on Hutt slavers." My silence grows heavy in this moment, a reaper's quiet before the harvest, and I see it: concern flickering in his nexu-like eyes as his laugh falters to a quiet whimper, his smirk faltering as my mask glow in the fire from the explosion. I flinch my wrist, the Force releasing its vise, and Zehara's low gravity takes hold, Xytherion's body drifting down slow, robes billowing like a Tatooine dust devil. Mid-fall, his boots a pace from the ground, I snap my hand out, yanking Kylo's crossguard saber from the rubble, its hilt heavy as a rancor's claw slapping into my palm. I ignite it, the red blade crackling like Exegol's storms, its unstable kyber spitting fury, a reaper's song. With brutal precision, I lunge, boots crunching shattered crates, and thrust the saber straight through Xytherion's heart, the plasma searing, cauterized, pinning him to the durasteel wall with a screech like a mynock's cry. His body jerks, eyes wide, his dying breath a boiling rasp, like a starship's vent choking on ash. I hold the thrust, neon casting shadows across his gaunt face, watching the light drain from his nexu eyes, another soul claimed for my reap.

I twist the hilt, deactivating the saber, its crackle fading to a hiss, and Xytherion's body slumps, thudding to the durasteel like a broken droid, robes tangling in rubble. The alley falls silent, save for the neon's buzz and the distant roar of forges, sulfur thick as my grief. I stare at the saber, Kylo's, now mine, its weight a vow in my grip. My gaze shifts to my scythe, its phrik glinting in the neon, then back to the saber, heavy as Zeht's loss. Her frozen eyes burn in my mind, her loyalty a fire beside Lysara's spark, Kalia's eyes. The Code rises, a torch in my darkness, and I recite, low and guttural, "I am the holder of the torch, lighting the way. I am the keeper of the flame, soldier of balance. I am a guardian of duality. I am Je'daii." The saber ignites, its red crackle flaring, claimed in blood and fire, its unstable kyber singing my duality. I turn, lowering it to my side, the alley's neon flickering, sulfur still stinging my throat. I mutter a promise, "I'll find, you two, to the ends of the galaxy. I will not rest."

THE END