Chapter 5: Two Eyed Lyra

[Lyra Vess's POV]

The shuttle shakes as it pierces Dromund Kaas's atmosphere, the perpetual storm clouds welcoming me home with flashes of lightning that illuminate the cockpit in harsh bursts. My hands grip the controls tighter than necessary.

Failure tastes like acid in my mouth.

Two weeks wasted tracking Vaelix Draal to that miserable jungle planet Arorua. Two weeks of meticulous planning reduced to a bloody, inconclusive mess. The wound in my chest throbs despite the bacta treatment, a constant reminder of my incompetence.

'I didn't check her pulse.'

The thought has haunted me since I woke in the bacta tank aboard my return transport. Such a basic, elementary mistake. I'd left her bleeding out on the forest floor, my lightsaber carved through her body, but I'd been so focused on my own injury, on escaping before I bled out myself, that I'd failed to confirm the kill.

"Shuttle LV-792 requesting landing clearance," I say into the comm, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. Professional. Controlled. As befits a true Sith.

The automated response grants me permission to land at the private hangar reserved for those in Master Nohr's service. At least that small courtesy remains intact. For now.

"She's dead," I whisper to myself as I guide the shuttle through the storm. "No one could survive that wound without immediate medical attention."

The lie sounds hollow even to my own ears.

I ease the shuttle down onto the landing pad, rain immediately pelting the viewport. Dromund Kaas, eternal storms, eternal darkness. After the suffocating humidity of Arorua, the familiar gloom feels almost comforting.

My datapad chimes with a notification, Master Nohr requests my immediate presence. Of course she does. No time to rest, to collect myself. The summons carries the subtle threat that has defined our relationship since I was first brought to the academy as a child.

I gather my things methodically, each movement precise despite my exhaustion. My reflection in the shuttle's burnished interior panels shows a woman composed and dignified, exactly as I need to appear. Only the faint darkness beneath my eyes betrays my fatigue.

The rain soaks me the moment I step off the shuttle ramp, plastering my white-blonde hair to my skull. I don't hurry. Let the rain wash away the stink of failure, of doubt. By the time I reach the speeder waiting at the edge of the landing pad, I've convinced myself of the story I'll tell.

Vaelix Draal is dead. The abomination, the experiment, the object of Master Nohr's inexplicable fascination, eliminated as expected between fellow apprentices. My mission was a success despite my injury. Despite the lack of a body. Despite the voice in my head that whispers otherwise.

The speeder carries me through rain-slicked streets, towering monoliths of Imperial architecture looming on either side. Lightning fractures the sky above, nature's applause for the Sith Empire's capital. I rehearse my report mentally.

I arrive at Master Nohr's compound on the city's eastern edge. Unlike the ostentatious displays of other Sith Lords, Tarren Nohr's residence speaks of restrained power, practical, efficient, deadly.

Black-armored Sith troopers stand at attention as my speeder approaches the main gate. Their helmets gleam in the rain, visors revealing nothing of the men beneath. I straighten my back, ignoring the stab of pain from my wounded chest. Weakness has no place here.

The gate slides open silently. One of the troopers steps forward, his salute crisp despite the downpour. "Apprentice Vess," he acknowledges, voice modulated through his helmet. "Master Nohr awaits you in her office."

I stride through the compound, my boots echoing against the polished stone floors. Guards stand at attention as I pass, their eyes averted. They know better than to stare too long at Master Nohr's apprentice.

The doors to her office slide open as I approach, as if the very building anticipates my arrival. Her sanctum lies before me, elegant, and meticulously organized like the Falleen woman herself.

Master Tarren Nohr sits behind her desk, her emerald-scaled skin catching the dim light. Those ancient yellow eyes lock onto mine, measuring, calculating. I feel the weight of her scrutiny like physical pressure.

"Apprentice Vess," she says, her voice silky and controlled. A smile that doesn't reach her eyes curves her lips. "Or should I say, Apprentice Slayer Vess?"

I bow low, maintaining the proper form despite the pain lancing through my chest. "Master Nohr," I respond, keeping my voice steady. "I am pleased to report that Vaelix Draal is dead."

The words hang in the air for a heartbeat before chaos erupts. Master Nohr's fist slams against her desk with such force that datapads scatter to the floor. The elegant composure shatters like glass.

"LIES!" she screams, her voice cracking with raw anger. The temperature in the room plummets as her fury manifests through the Force. "Do not insult me with such transparent deception!"

I stagger back, genuinely shocked by the ferocity of her reaction. My mental shields falter momentarily.

"I can sense your anxiety from here, Apprentice," she hisses, rising from her chair. "Your uncertainty bleeds into the Force like an open wound."

Fear floods my system, primal, instinctive terror that I cannot suppress.

"I... I struck her down myself." I insist, though my voice lacks conviction now. "No one could survive…"

"And yet," Master Nohr says, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "you're unsure if you actually killed my favorite pupil."

Her words slice through me like a vibroblade. Favorite pupil. The designation burns in my chest worse than my physical wound.

"She was an abomination!" I snap, frustration boiling over. My composure shatters as years of resentment surge to the surface. "Not only was she created in a laboratory like some experiment, but she never stopped rambling about that man in her visions, her precious Ty-Lar!"

I spit the name like poison, remembering how Vaelix would go into trances, muttering that name with disgusting reverence. How Master Nohr would watch her with fascination instead of disgust.

Master Nohr's yellow eyes narrow. "Those visions gave her passion, Apprentice. They fueled her connection to the dark side in ways you could never understand."

"Attachment is a weakness!" I shout, abandoning all pretense of control. My voice echoes off the walls of her office. "You taught me this yourself! How could you encourage such pathetic sentimentality in her while demanding I purge all connections?"

"PEACE IS A LIE, CHILD! THERE IS ONLY PASSION!" Master Nohr roars, the Force swelling around her like a storm. The objects on her desk rattle violently. "Or have you already forgotten the Code?"

"Through passion, she gained strength," she continues, stalking toward me. "Her passion, however it manifested, gave her power that you clearly lack. If you had half her potential, you wouldn't be standing before me with excuses instead of her corpse!"

The truth of her words stings more than any physical blow. For years I've trained, sacrificed, purged every weakness from myself to become the perfect Sith. And still, I stand in the shadow of Vaelix Draal. A manufactured Sith.

"I failed you," I admit, the words bitter on my tongue. "But I will rectify this mistake."

Master Nohr's expression shifts suddenly, her rage giving way to cold, calculating amusement. A laugh bubbles up from her throat, starting as a chuckle before expanding into full-throated mirth that echoes off the walls of her office.

"By all means, Apprentice," she says between fits of laughter, wiping at her yellow eyes. "Go find her. Kill her or get killed. The outcome matters little to me."

I stand frozen, confusion washing over me. "Master?"

Her laughter subsides, but the cruel smile remains. "Don't you understand yet, Lyra? This is how we progress. The strong survive, the weak perish. As long as I have whoever proves stronger at my side, nothing else matters."

The casual dismissal of my years of service stings worse than any physical blow. I've given everything to her, and she regards me with the same detached interest one might show a fighting animal in a pit.

"I understand, Master," I say, bowing my head to hide the hatred burning in my eyes.

I turn to leave, my mind already racing with plans to track Vaelix again, to finish what I started. But something compels me to stop at the threshold. A question that's gnawed at me since I first heard Vaelix mutter that name in her sleep.

"Master," I say without turning back, "do you believe he exists? Ty-Lar?"

The silence stretches between us. I can feel her eyes boring into me, evaluating my question from every angle.

"No," she finally answers, her voice thoughtful. "He is merely a fantasy, a manifestation of her desires shaped by the Force."

I nod, relief washing through me.

"However," she continues, her tone dropping to something almost like reverence, "if he does exist... Force help you, Lyra. You wouldn't stand a chance against the depths of her emotion."

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache, but I offer no response. There's nothing left to say. I walk out of her office, the doors hissing shut behind me, sealing away her smug satisfaction.

"Frak."