Mother Talzin found Wanda in the meditation courtyard, where pale moonlight filtered through Dathomir's perpetual mists.
"Ah, Wanda." The Nightsister matriarch's greeting was warm, but her eyes—those luminous, knowing eyes—missed nothing. "Welcome back. I heard your meeting with the western clans was productive."
Wanda turned, her expression carefully neutral. "It was... complicated."
"Oh?" Talzin's head tilted with predatory curiosity. "How so?"
Wanda took a breath, choosing her words with care. "The clan leaders mentioned a name. Gethzerion. Do you know anything about her?"
The reaction was immediate and terrifying.
Mother Talzin's entire body went rigid. Her eyes flared with an intensity that made the air itself seem to crackle. For the first time since arriving on Dathomir, Wanda witnessed something she'd never seen in the ancient sorceress: genuine fear.
"Where did you hear that name?" Talzin's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of mountains.
"The clan leaders in Ros Lai's territory." Wanda stepped closer, concern overriding caution. "They said she's apparently returned. Or at least, there are signs—"
"Are you certain?" Talzin's composure cracked further. Her fingers trembled slightly, and in the moonlight, she suddenly looked old—ancient in a way that had nothing to do with years.
"Most of the clans are forming an alliance specifically to deal with her," Wanda confirmed. "They mentioned something about preventing another incident like what happened in Zalem."
Talzin was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice carried layers of pain and hatred that seemed to echo across centuries. "If there is any possibility—any whisper—that Gethzerion walks again, you must return to those clans immediately. Learn everything they know. Every rumor, every sighting, every shadow that might be her."
"You know her." It wasn't a question.
"Know her?" A bitter laugh escaped Talzin's lips. "She is our foremother. Our progenitor. The blood in our veins traces back to hers." The matriarch turned away, staring out at the mist-shrouded landscape. "But where we chose discipline, she chose chaos. Where we built clans, she built an empire of fear. Where we honor the ancient pacts, she betrayed everything our people held sacred."
Wanda waited, sensing there was more.
"We are practitioners of the dark arts," Talzin continued, her voice hard as stone. "We do not shy from power or from what others call evil. But we have rules. We have loyalty to clan, to kin, to the sisterhood. These are sacred laws shared by every witch of Dathomir, written in blood and shadow over millennia." Her hands clenched into fists. "Gethzerion spat on those laws. She consumed her own sisters for power. She enslaved entire clans...."
The sentence died unfinished, but the horror in Talzin's eyes completed it.
"The Nightsisters will stand with the other clans," Talzin said, turning back to Wanda with iron resolve. "If she has returned, if she draws breath in my world, we will unite to destroy her. Barbarism and depravity will not be permitted to corrupt Dathomir again."
Wanda nodded slowly, processing the implications. If Mother Talzin—arguably the most powerful being on this planet—was this afraid...
"Where is Ventress?" Talzin asked suddenly.
The change in subject caught Wanda off-guard. "We... had another argument."
Talzin's expression hardened. "You must—"
"How many times do I have to explain why I can't stand her?" Wanda's voice rose despite her best efforts. "She's tried to kill my friends. My team. She stood with our enemies while we—"
"Despite your differences, you need to—"
"Need to what?" Wanda interrupted. "Trust her? Work with her? She's my enemy, Talzin. I don't care about the Republic or the Separatists or any of their politics. What I care about is that your 'sister' tried to murder people I love. Including my brother."
"I understand your anger," Talzin said, her tone shifting to something gentler but no less firm. "But anger is a luxury we cannot afford. Not now."
"The galactic war means nothing to me," Wanda shot back. "I'll tolerate her presence. That's the best I can offer."
"That may not be enough." Talzin stepped closer, her presence suddenly overwhelming. "If Gethzerion truly lives, we will need every weapon at our disposal. That means you and Ventress must find a way to work together. Not as allies, perhaps, but at least without trying to kill each other every time you meet."
Wanda opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She knew where this was heading.
"And consider this," Talzin added, her voice taking on a calculated edge. "Merlin and Illyana. Their mother, their aunt. They see you as their protector, Wanda. What message does it send when you cannot find peace with their cousin? Their family?"
The words hit home. Wanda's jaw tightened.
"I can't promise anything," she said finally.
"I'm not asking for promises." Talzin's smile was thin. "Only effort. Now go. Think on what I've said. And when you return to the western clans, learn everything about Gethzerion's return. Everything."
Wanda left without another word, her mind churning with complications she hadn't anticipated.
Meanwhile, deeper in Dathomir's wilderness, Asajj Ventress was doing her best to not think about Wanda Maximoff.
She'd found a grove of dead trees—twisted, withered things that had succumbed to Dathomir's harsh climate—and proceeded to demolish them with methodical violence. Her lightsaber hummed through the air, carving through petrified wood. When that wasn't enough, she reached into the Force, crushing and splintering the remnants with telekinetic fury.
It felt good. Cathartic.
When the grove was reduced to splinters and ash, Asajj deactivated her lightsaber and stood breathing hard, feeling marginally more in control.
Just avoid her for the rest of the day, she thought. No confrontations. No arguments. Just... peace.
She started back toward the Nightsister stronghold, following a path she'd walked dozens of times. But as she crested a rocky ridge, something caught her eye.
A ship.
Or what was left of one. The wreckage was old—ancient, judging by the design—half-buried in Dathomir's unforgiving soil. Vegetation had claimed much of it, but the hull's distinctive shape was still visible.
Curiosity overrode caution. Asajj altered her course, approaching the derelict with the careful steps of a predator investigating unknown territory.
Then she heard voices.
Instinct took over. She dropped into a crouch, moving silently through the undergrowth. The voices were coming from inside the wreck—multiple speakers, their words carrying through gaps in the damaged hull.
"Focus your minds." The first voice was old, weathered, carrying the weight of authority. "When practicing these techniques, the Force flows through your body like water through a channel. Overuse will leave you vulnerable, exposed."
Asajj's brow furrowed. That voice was familiar, but she couldn't place it.
"You must let your emotions fuel your strength." This voice was younger, male, carrying undercurrents of pride. "Channel your passion into power."
"But do not let it control you," the older voice cautioned. "That way lies slavery to the dark side. You must be master of your emotions, not their servant."
"We're trying, Master Kreia," a third voice responded—female, young, struggling. Illyana.
"Yeah, this is really hard," another familiar voice added. Merlin.
Master Kreia?
The name triggered something in Asajj's memory. She'd heard it before, read it in ancient texts during her training with Dooku. One of the legendary Sith Lords from the Old Republic era. But that was impossible—Kreia had been dead for millennia.
Unless...
Asajj crept closer, using every stealth technique she'd learned. Through a gap in the hull, she finally saw inside.
Her breath caught.
Illyana and Merlin stood in a cleared space within the wreck, sweat glistening on their faces, clearly exhausted from whatever exercise they'd been performing. But it wasn't them that made Asajj freeze.
It was the holocrons.
Two of them floated in the air between the young Nightsisters—one burning crimson, the other pale as bone. But these weren't ordinary holocrons. The pyramidal crystals pulsed with dark side energy so concentrated it made the air shimmer. And from each holocron, a holographic figure projected outward.
No. Not figures. Presences.
These weren't simple gatekeeper programs designed to dispense information. These were souls—ancient, powerful, trapped within their crystalline prisons for thousands of years. Asajj could feel them through the Force, vast and terrible, like standing at the edge of an abyss that stared back.
The hooded figure—the one that had been speaking as "Master Kreia"—suddenly went still. Its translucent head turned, and despite having no true eyes, Asajj felt its gaze lock onto her hiding spot.
"It seems we have an observer."
Illyana, Merlin, and the other spirit stopped mid-motion. When Illyana's eyes found Asajj through the gap in the hull, her face lit up.
"Ventress!" She gestured excitedly. "Come in! Masters, this is my cousin, Asajj."
"Ah. So this is the one." The second spirit—the male one—studied her with obvious interest.
Asajj hesitated, then slowly emerged from her concealment. She approached the wreck's entrance cautiously, every instinct screaming warnings about the power contained within those holocrons.
When she finally stood before them, the two ancient Sith spirits regarded her with expressions she couldn't quite read.
"We have heard much about you, Asajj Ventress," the hooded figure said. "The Nightsister who walks the path of darkness. The apprentice who seeks to slay her master."
Asajj's hand went to her lightsaber hilt reflexively. "You're not ordinary gatekeepers." Her voice was steady despite her racing heart. "Holocron gatekeepers are AI constructs, programmed to test those seeking knowledge. But you..." She shook her head slowly. "You're something else."
"Perceptive," the male spirit said with approval. "We are not mere guardians. Our souls reside within these holocrons—bound there through techniques lost to time."
"A difficult art," the hooded figure added. "Few in any era possessed the knowledge and power to transfer their consciousness intact. Most who tried became mad shadows of themselves."
"I often wonder if the Force was testing my patience," the male spirit continued, "forcing me into this crystalline prison as punishment for my hubris. But here I remain, thousands of years later, still conscious, still aware."
Asajj swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
The male spirit straightened, and despite being nothing but light and shadow, he radiated pride that had survived millennia. "I am Ajunta Pall. Dark Lord of the Sith. I was among the first to turn from the Jedi Order's stagnant dogma, seeking truth in the dark side. We—my brothers and sisters who followed the same path—we created the Sith as you know them. We gave purpose to the darkness."
Then the hooded figure spoke, and her voice carried layers of complexity—bitterness, wisdom, dark amusement. "I am Kreia. Some knew me as Darth Traya, the Lord of Betrayal. I was mentor to Revan, to Darth Nihilus, to Darth Sion. I taught the Jedi Exile, Meetra Surik, how to hear the Force in ways the Council could never comprehend." A pause. "My name echoes through history, child, though history rarely understands what it echoes."
The weight of those revelations crashed over Asajj like a physical force. These weren't just ancient Sith—these were legends. Ajunta Pall, the first Dark Lord. Darth Traya, who'd manipulated both Jedi and Sith with equal contempt.
Asajj dropped to one knee, bowing her head in genuine reverence.
"I am honored beyond measure," she whispered. "To stand before the Dark Founder and the Lord of Betrayal... I never imagined..."
Ajunta Pall chuckled—a dry, rasping sound. "Finally. Someone who offers proper respect."
"If you weren't so hostile to Wanda, maybe you'd get more respect from others," Merlin muttered.
Pall's spectral form flickered with irritation at the mention of the Scarlet Witch. Asajj couldn't help a small, vindictive smile.
"Maximoff," she said carefully. "Does she know about you two?"
"She was the one who found us," Kreia replied, her tone unreadable. "Her power awakened us from the dormancy that had claimed us. We drew on her chaos magic to sustain ourselves, preventing our final dissolution after millennia of slow decay."
"The only useful thing she's done," Pall grumbled.
Asajj's smile widened. A Sith Lord who disliked Wanda Maximoff? Perhaps Ajunta Pall wasn't so bad after all.
But while Asajj was enjoying this shared animosity, she failed to notice how intently Kreia was studying her. The hooded spirit's eyeless gaze tracked across Asajj's form, reading her in ways that had nothing to do with physical sight.
"Interesting," Kreia murmured. "You have an unusual connection to the Force, child. Similar to what I sense in Wanda Maximoff, yet fundamentally different."
Asajj's attention snapped back to the Lord of Betrayal. "What... what do you mean?"
"There is power within you." Kreia's holographic form drifted closer, her presence suddenly overwhelming. "Something that exists at the boundary between the Force and something else. I cannot name it, cannot categorize it. It is strange."
"You can sense it?" Asajj's voice cracked with sudden hope. "Then you can help me access it? I've been trying for months—"
"This is not the kind of power you think it is, Ventress." Kreia's interruption was gentle but firm. "What you carry is beyond either of our full understanding."
Hope crashed into despair. "You can't help me?"
"I did not say that." Kreia tilted her head. "I said we don't fully understand it. But understanding is not always necessary for guidance." She paused, considering. "Tell me—when does this power manifest?"
"When I'm dying," Asajj said flatly. "Three times in my life, always when death was imminent. It surges through me like—like lightning, but different. Blue-white light. Incredible strength. Then it vanishes before I can grasp it."
Ajunta Pall hummed thoughtfully. "An ancient technique, perhaps. There were methods in my time—ways of channeling the Force that have been lost. Even in my era, most were already myth."
"What are you saying?" Asajj demanded. "Does this power have a name?"
Both spirits exchanged a look—as much as beings of light and shadow could.
"If it does," Kreia said slowly, "the name has been lost for nearly ten thousand years."
"Ten thousand years?" Asajj's voice rose. "That's impossible. How can something that old still be—"
"The Force is eternal," Kreia interrupted. "Its manifestations are infinite. What seems impossible to you may simply be forgotten truth waiting to be rediscovered." She drifted even closer, her presence pressing against Asajj's consciousness. "In my time—approximately four thousand years ago—there were already legends of ancient Force techniques that predated even the Jedi Order's founding. Powers that worked through the Force but were not entirely of it."
"Seventeen practitioners," Ajunta Pall added. "In all recorded history, across nearly ten millennia, only seventeen beings have been documented as possessing abilities that match what you describe. Most were dismissed as myth. A few were hunted by both Jedi and Sith as aberrations."
Asajj felt the ground tilt beneath her. "Ten thousand years. Seventeen people. And you're saying I might be... what? Number eighteen?"
"Or you might be something else entirely," Kreia said. "The Force moves in patterns, child, but it is not bound by them. What awakened in you may be completely unique—a new expression of an old truth, or an old expression returning for reasons we cannot fathom."
"Then how do I master it?" Frustration crept into Asajj's voice. "How do I call on it when I need it, not just when I'm about to die?"
"That," Kreia said with something that might have been sympathy, "is the question you must answer yourself. We can teach you the old ways, the techniques that might create the right conditions. But the power itself..." She trailed off significantly. "That is between you and the Force. Or between you and whatever lies beyond the Force."
Asajj stood there, surrounded by ancient Sith wisdom, and felt more lost than ever.
The Avengers. Ultron. Her impossible quest to kill Dooku. And now this—a power within her that even ten-thousand-year-old Sith Lords couldn't fully explain.
"Can you at least teach me what you do know?" she asked quietly. "Even if it's not the complete answer?"
Kreia and Ajunta Pall exchanged another glance. Then, in unison, they both smiled—dark, knowing expressions that sent chills down Asajj's spine.
"Oh, child," Kreia purred. "We can teach you many things. Whether you can survive the lessons... that remains to be seen."