"My lord, we will be exiting hyperspace shortly," Lieutenant Quinn's voice echoed through the ship's wide comms system, halting the duel Jasea and her Master had been engaged in for the past hour, their training sabers still humming with residual energy.
The trip to Dromund Kaas from the orbit near Ziost—the planet Nyâsh'hyal had chosen for the first month of her training—was a several-hour journey, the Vibrant Crown's hum a constant backdrop to training. After her Master had outlined her future progression plan, he offered to begin with the more practical aspects of her training, an opportunity Jasea seized with eager anticipation.
She felt a pang of disappointment however, when his lesson focused on one of the most basic defensive skills shared by both Jedi and Sith: Force Barrier. Known by a dozen names—Bubble, Wall, Aura—the principle remained constant: layer oneself in a barrier of Force energy. This technique prevented other Force users from simply ripping a lightsaber from another's grasp, or choking them with Force.
It was a skill she had already learned during her time with the Jedi, and she had thought her barrier—crafted through practice on Tython—was quite good compared to the other initiates she'd trained with, a point of quiet pride.
Her Master swiftly showed how much she still needed to learn. His Shatterpoint ability made finding every small weakness in her barriers as easy as a pirate spotting an undefended transport, his sight piercing through her defenses with unerring precision. Each time she tried to reinforce the deficiencies, he exposed another.
The struggle to master her barrier had become rage-inducingly frustrating, pushing Jasea to the brink as she battled to overcome its elusiveness, each failure stoking a fire within. She fought hard to rein in her rage, clinging to her Master's lesson that anger and rage were the crutch of lesser Sith, their weakness a shadow she refused to cast. Several times, she shackled her fury, diving into other emotions, the dominant one a fierce pride that roared through her—a pride in rising above the timid girl she once was on Tython, a pride in being the Apprentice of the formidable Nyâsh'hyal. She harnessed this pride to drive herself forward, patching the flaws in her barrier with each effort, her resolve hardening with every triumph. Through Victory, my Chains are broken, the Sith Code's mantra pulsed in her mind over and over again.
After several hours, her Master had nodded, acknowledging her progress, and declared they would repeat the exercise daily until he could no longer spot static weaknesses. Her growth fueled a deeper pride, strengthening her connection to the dark side, a quiet surge within her.
Shaking her head, she brought herself back to the present, loosening her muscles and drawing deeply on the Force to dull the small aches and rejuvenate her energy. Across from her, Nyâsh'hyal mirrored the action, his red-skinned form steady with practiced ease.
Nyâsh'hyal nodded in approval and moved toward the cockpit, his presence a steady pull. Jasea fell in step, their boots clanging against the durasteel flooring, a rhythmic tone reverberating within the hull of the ship. As they entered the cockpit, the blue swirl of hyperspace travel glowed outside the window, its mesmerizing vortex illuminating the entire room. Her Master gave a nod to the Imperial officer before stopping behind him, then turned to gaze at her, his volcanic yellow eyes piercing.
"I want you to remember today, you are my Apprentice," he said, his voice firm with intent. "You are to watch carefully and find lessons whenever you can." She gave a nod as he continued, "You will meet many from the military; do not forget that you technically outrank anyone from the Imperial Armed Forces. As I have accepted you as my Apprentice, in the eyes of the military, you are a Sith. They are expected to treat you with the same respect and deference as they would any Sith. Only a Sith of a higher rank can overrule you."
Jasea felt the reminder ignite something primal within her, a thrilling chill that cascaded down her spine like a cascade of dark energy, stirring a cocktail of emotions she was only beginning to name. There was exhilaration, sharp and electric, the heady rush of authority that made her heart quicken—a far cry from the subservient whispers of her Jedi days, where power was a chain rather than a crown. Beneath it lurked a flicker of uncertainty, a quiet, fleeting whisper of the girl who had bowed on Tython and Alderaan, questioning if she was truly ready to command respect from hardened Imperial officers. Yet overriding it all was a burgeoning pride, warm and fierce, blooming like a Korriban storm as she envisioned herself not as a padawan, but as a Sith—unyielding, commanding, her presence alone bending knees. The Force amplified these feelings, pulsing through her veins with a seductive hum, urging her to embrace the chill as fuel.
"I remember, Master," she replied, a satisfied grin blossoming across her face. He gave a nod, his own mouth crinkling into a smirk, a subtle acknowledgment as he no doubt sensed her drawing deeply on the dark side, its energy threading through her. As the moment hung between them, the blue swirl of the hyperspace vortex dissolved abruptly, unveiling the brooding expanse of Dromund Kaas—a planet cloaked in perpetual storm clouds, their dark tendrils writhing against the sky like living shadows. Lightning splintered the gloom, its jagged bolts illuminating the Vibrant Crown's viewport with fleeting, harsh reflections, while the cockpit air grew heavy with a tangible tension, the dark side reverberating with the planet's ancient, energy, a primal welcome to from its shadowed depths.
The Imperial Fleet guarding the Sith capital loomed enormous, hundreds upon hundreds of ships encircling the spacelane of Dromund Kaas, their silhouettes a formidable wall of durasteel and firepower against the planet's stormy shroud. Among them, the sleek, dagger-like forms of Gauntlet-class corvettes patrolled with predatory grace, their ion cannons glinting under the lightning's flash. Towering Harrower-class dreadnoughts dominated the formation, their massive hulls bristling with turbolaser batteries, a testament to the Empire's unyielding might. Interspersed were the angular bulk of Terminus-class destroyers, their reinforced frames hinting at recent drydock enhancements, while agile Centurion-class battlecruisers darted between the larger vessels, their shields shimmering faintly. It was a sight to behold Jasea would freely admit.
Far off to the right of where they had emerged from hyperspace lay their destination: one of the many Imperial Drydocks, a sprawling structure of durasteel. This drydock, tasked with constructing and maintaining Terminus-class destroyers and Harrower-class dreadnoughts, was operated by Taerub Starship Manufacturing, a company technically owned by the Imperial Navy. Yet one could be forgiven for missing that detail, as the drydock proudly bore the iconic Ŧ, the centerpeice of the companies stamp.
As they drew closer, the drydock hailed the ship, its signal piercing the steady hum of the Vibrant Crown's engines. Their pilot pressed a button on the console before a voice came across the comms system.
"This is Taerub Drydock. Identify yourself," a sharp male voice with a thick Imperial accent sliced through the cockpit, its clipped tone carrying the weight of protocol and a hint of suspicion.
Her lord replied smoothly "This is the Vibrant Crown. We are expected. Sending clearance codes now." Her lord replied smoothly as he nodded to Quinn to do as the officer on the drydock requested.
The Lieutenant pressed several buttons on the console, he moved with a practised ease of a man who had done this a thousand times. After a moment, a small chime sounded, it echoed briefly off the hull of the ship, confirming the codes were transmitted.
The comms fell quiet for a few moments, the communication officer no doubt scrutinizing the codes against the drydock's database, his silence a tense pause as the Vibrant Crown hovered in the shadow of Dromund Kaas' fleet.
"Apologies, my lord. You are clear to land at landing pad V12." the voice finally relented, its edge softening into deference as the call began to disconnect, only for the voice to add a rushed, panicked "Welcome to Taerub Drydock."
"It is clear this facility rarely gains a visitor of your rank, my lords," Quinn said, his voice dripping with a sharp sneer that he wielded like a vibroblade against the bumbling Imperial fools who faltered before Sith presence. The words carried the sting of a man who'd seen too many officers grovel ineptly, their ignorance a blight on military discipline.
"Not everyone is as diligent as you, Lieutenant, when it comes to understanding correct procedures," Nyâsh'hyal replied, a faint smirk curling on dark crimson lips.
"Clearly, my lord," Quinn shot back, his tone laced with derision, a sharp edge cutting through the cockpit's air. He shook his head lightly, his usual professionalism reemerging on his features. "Apologies, my lords. I will keep further ridicule of the station to myself," he added, his voice softening.
Her lord gave a shake of his head, before turning and heading toward the exit ramp, his black robe billowing with his spin. He tossed a casual "as you were, Lieutenant" over his shoulder as Jasea moved to follow him, her steps falling into rhythm with his for the two dozen steps it took to arrive at the ramp.
Jasea reached out with the Force, she could sense it would take several more minutes before the ship entered the landing bay. She would rather not stand in silence, so she turned to ask her Master a question that had been simmering in her thoughts for some time.
"Master, why is rage and anger as powerful as it is? I know you have said that it is the tool of lesser Sith, but I have seen Sith in the past use their anger, and they were exponentially more powerful then they otherwise would of been." she ventured, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and challenge.
Nyâsh'hyal tilted his head slightly, his yellow eyes locking onto hers with a piercing intensity. "It can appear that way, yes. However, to understand why rage seems as powerful as it does, you need to grasp a key component of the dark side. The dark side does not feel emotions itself nor does it understand emotions as we do. Because of this it does not differentiate between emotions. To the dark side, it simply gives back what you provide it. Including the intensity." he explained with a heavy pause on the final word he had spoken.
Intensity.
Jasea's eyes widened in comprehension, a flicker of understanding dawning. "Anger is an emotion that is inherently intense."
Her Master nodded, confirming her realization with a measured tilt of his head.
"Indeed. Anger is easy. People can be slighted over the most minuscule things. Anger, however, can become all-consuming. When you are filled with it, there is nothing else there but anger. Yes, it is a fire that burns hot and quick, but if instead you use pride as you do, you can draw more deeply on the dark side. Pride never stands alone—envy, greed, desire. With these added emotions, the intensity outstrips the fleeting flare that rage provides."
The young Apprentice found herself continuing from where her Master left off, her tone rising with a high-pitched realization that cut through the air. "Anger is reactive. Pride is self-focused."
Her Master shot a proud smile, his crimson visage softening for a moment, a flicker of warmth piercing his usual sternness. "Correct, my Apprentice. Correct. What is better, to rely on a fuel source completely dependent on someone else or to secure your own independent well of power?" he asked, his tone making it clear, the question was rhetorical.
Jasea made to probe further, her curiosity itching to unravel more of the impromptu lesson, but before they could continue, she felt the ship decelerate and touch down onto the landing pad, the subtle shift accompanied by the magnetic clamps of the landing gear locking into place with a solid, reassuring thud to secure the Vibrant Crown.
A moment later, the landing ramp opened with a hiss, a sharp release of pressure that carried the acrid tang of ozone and burned oils into the air, a scent that tugged at Jasea's memory of the droid repair bay at the Jedi Temple. As they strode out, the familiar yet alien smell mingled with the drydock's industrial pulse, and as they reached the bottom of the ramp, she spotted a squad of Sith troopers in their black and red armor marching toward them, their boots striking the durasteel with a rhythmic, militaristic echo. All but the lead trooper wore their helmets, their visors glinting faintly under the drydock's harsh, flickering lights, casting brief reflections of lightning shooting across Dromund Kaas' atmosphere.
The lead trooper was a Chiss, his build masculine and unusually large for his kind, his deep azure blue skin contrasting sharply with his red, pupil-less eyes, a striking figure that commanded attention even among the armored ranks. His shoulder bore the insignia of a Commander of the Imperial Marine Corps.
Her Master chose to wait for the soldiers to approach them, his black cloak settling around him like a shadow, its folds rippling faintly in the drydock's artificial air. The squad halted their approach five meters away, standing in unison to attention and delivering a crisp Imperial salute, their movements synchronized like a well-oiled war machine.
The Chiss took a small, measured step forward, offering a second salute with precision as he spoke in a rich, cultured accent that was unfamiliar to Jasea. "My lord, my lady, it is a pleasure. I am Commander Mitth'ecte'clarr. Feel free to call me Hectec if you wish. I am to lead you to the Commodore."
The blue-skinned alien motioned toward the large doorway across the hangar bay, its large grey durasteel frame looming under the drydock's harsh lights. "If it pleases you, my lord?"
Her lord peered at the Chiss, his fiery amber eyes narrowing slightly, before nodding once with a deliberate grace. "Lead the way, Mitth'ecte'clarr."
It was hard for Jasea to tell, but she caught what seemed a fleeting look of surprise flicker across the Commander's azure face before it vanished, masked as if it had never been. From what she had come to understand from the Sith within the Empire, they tended to despise aliens for one reason or another. She knew her Master did not subscribe to that way of thinking.
The Chiss gave a quick chop of his hand and the troopers formed up in two lines, one on each side of them, their black and red armor aligned with such precision that it would be clear to any onlooker this was an honor guard, a testament to the Empire's reverence for their Sith lords. The Chiss began to walk ahead, his posture oozing military discipline, every step a study in control, his dark black hair swept back and waxed down so that not a single strand dared stray.
After a few minutes of walking in a tense silence, broken only by the echo of their boots, her Master spoke, his voice cutting through the tension. "A son of both Mitth and Clarr families. I'm quite surprised that either Patriarch allowed you to serve in the Empire in a military capacity. The Ruling Families are known to keep those of its line on Csilla."
Jasea had no idea what Nyâsh'hyal was talking about, his mention of the Chiss and their Ruling Families leaving her confused as they walked. She had learned a significant amount about many cultures during her Jedi training, but the Chiss were unsurprisingly absent from her education, due to their firm alignment with the Empire, the Jedi seemed to think it would be a waste of focus to learn about their culture and practices. It was a gap in her past knowledge that she would look to rectify as soon as she could.
The Chiss turned, and this time he couldn't hide his surprise, his red, pupil-less eyes widening briefly as a flicker of shock broke his composure. "You surprise me, my lord. Very few in the Empire have any understanding of the Chiss and our ways." In a blink of an eye, Hectec's shocked expression shifted, his military discipline snapping back into place as he straightened, his voice steadying before he continued. "As for your question, my lord, it was a personal desire of mine, and as one of the Blood, I was afforded the luxury of following this path."
Her Master nodded once, the gesture crisp, his eyes squinted, seemingly doing calculus of Chiss meritocracy. "Ah, you are of direct relation to the Patriarch, then. It would no doubt please him greatly if you were to showcase—to not only the Empire but to the Ascendancy as well—the heights of what his blood can climb to. Especially in what many of the other Ruling Families would consider a hostile environment."
"Your analysis is correct, my lord. My father is the Patriarch of the Mitth family; my mother, the firstborn daughter of the Clarr Patriarch. My cultural superiors expected me to ascend into naval command—a role I have claimed, from a certain point of view." A small, razor-thin smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, gone almost before it formed. "When I declared my intent to serve the Empire, only my father endorsed the enlistment."
Her Master gave a low, resonant hum of acknowledgement—more vibration than sound, "You have my thanks for satiating my curiosity, Commander Mitth'ecte'clarr."
The Commander gave a crisp nod before pivoting forward, his posture snapping back to unyielding focus as he resumed the lead.
They wound through corridor after corridor of unadorned durasteel—floors scuffed by countless boots, walls etched with faint weld lines and the occasional stenciled Taerub Ŧ, all bathed in the harsh, unrelenting glare of overhead white lumen-strips that left no shadow unclaimed. The air grew thicker with the metallic tang of coolant and the low, omnipresent thrum of the drydock's life-support systems, a mechanical heartbeat echoing off the bulkheads.
At last, the hallway spilled into a wide docking port, its broad transparisteel viewport framing the void. Nyâsh'hyal and Jasea halted side by side, her breath fogging faintly against the durable glass-like metal as she drank in the sight beyond.
There, cradled in the skeletal embrace of magnetic clamps and scaffolding, hung the Terminus-class destroyer—a dagger of Imperial fury forged in durasteel and menace. Its hull stretched just under a kilometer in length, a sleek wedge tapering to a knife-edge prow that sliced the starfield like a vibroblade through silk. The angular superstructure bristled with turbolaser turrets, their barrels clustered in dorsal and ventral ridges like the spine, each one capable of laying waste to the surface of cities. Freshly manufactured plating gleamed along the midsection, while running lights pulsed in crimson along the flanks, syncing with the drydock's heartbeat. Shield emitters dotted the surface in precise arrays, their nodes humming faintly even at rest, and the massive sublight engines—twin clusters of ion thrusters—glowed with restrained blue fire, venting wisps of plasma that danced against the void.
To Jesea, It was beautiful.
The hiss of air lock engaging tore her focus. When the doors opened to her right, two figures stepped out.
One was a woman Jasea didn't recognize. Human, average feminine build, dark black hair scraped into a severe ponytail that gleamed like polished onyx under the viewport's glare. Her eyes were a cold, striking blue, rimmed in deep violet shadow. The black naval uniform hugged her frame with snuggly, every crease knife-straight, the rank plaques on her collar flashing the three red-and-gold bars of a Captain.
Beside her, a half-step forward, stood another human who Jasea was more familiar with: Commodore Orzik. Stripped of the holocall's blue wash, his hair revealed itself as thin, light-brown wisps edging from beneath his naval cap. The beginnings of age lines etched his face—subtle creases at the eyes, mouth and nose that spoke of stress and hard work.
Her Master strode forward to meet the Commodore. When only a few paces separated them, both Imperials halted in perfect unison and snapped into a deep, formal bow—one hand pressed flat across the chest, the other rigid at the side, spines curved in precise deference before slowly straightened back to a more relaxed stance.
Orzik's gaze flicked to Jasea for the barest instant, lingering on the curved hilt clipped at her belt, before snapping back to her Master.
"My lord," Orzik said, dipping his head to Nyâsh'hyal, then turning the gesture toward Jasea. "My lady. I thank you again for making the journey. I promise this will be more than worth your time."
Her Master inclined his head and swept one crimson hand toward the destroyer framed in the viewport. "Then let us waste none. I'm eager to see how the warship performs."
Orzik gave a single, curt nod before wheeling toward the squad of troopers, who had faded into disciplined stillness against the bulkhead. "Commander, you have done as bid. Stand at ease and return your men to their posts."
Hectec snapped to full attention, his salute cracking like a whip. "At once, sir." He pivoted to the troopers and jabbed a gloved hand toward the airlock. "To your posts."
"If you would follow me, my lords," Orzik said, his voice pulling Jasea's focus back as he gestured toward the docking umbilical. "I will lead you to the bridge."
As they walked, the Commodore introduced the woman as Captain Sylas. She had served on the Black Talon during the operation her Master had led. To Jasea, Sylas seemed loyal but unremarkable. Her Master introduced Jasea as his Apprentice. The officers' emotions hit her through the Force like twin currents: Orzik's respect was hot and deferential, laced with the sharp tang of fear that made her skin prickle; Sylas's was cooler, a calculated awe edged with survival instinct, steady but submissive. The blend sent a sharp, intoxicating thrill racing down her spine.
They finally came to a large bulkhead that snapped open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the bridge of the Terminus-class destroyer—a long, narrow command trench carved along the ship's dorsal spine, stark and unforgiving.
The space stretched forward like a rifle barrel: a single, straight central aisle flanked by two parallel crew pits, port and starboard, recessed into the deck. Dim crimson lighting bathed everything in blood-tinted glow, casting sharp shadows from the low overhead bulkheads.
Consoles lined the pits in neat rows, their screens flickering red with data streams—helm and navigation forward, weapons, shields, and sensors aft—each manned by officers standing rigid at attention, fingers dancing over physical toggles and holographic overlays.
At the aft end rose a command platform, elevated by half a dozen durasteel steps impeded with bands of red lights, holding two swivel stations: one for the captain, one for the executive officer. A compact cylindrical holoprojector hung dormant from the ceiling, ready to descend.
The forward viewport, however, dominated the bridge. It spanned from bulkhead to bulkhead, deck to overhead, a single seamless pane of heavily reinforced transparisteel that framed Dromund Kaas's roiling storm in jagged bolts of lightning and churning black clouds.
The four of them stood in comfortable silence, gazes fixed through the vast transparisteel on the churning void beyond.
Orzik broke it first. "I had intended to wait until we took the ship on her maiden voyage, but I believe now is better." He turned fully to the Sith Lord. "After my promotion, I was offered command of a small fleet. Once, when I was a raw officer, fresh out of the academy, I would never have passed it up. Instead I made a counteroffer to high command. I requested one thing: to fly under a Sith Lord's banner."
"Yours."
A pin-drop stillness rippled through the Force as understanding struck Jasea. This man, this ship—her Master had seen this. When he had spoken of the Shatterpoint he saw when the Commodore had made his invitation.
She tilted her head toward him.
His expression remained blank, his eyes staring at the Imperial and his expression still as if carved from crimson permacrete.
Yet in the Force, Jasea could feel the triumph rolling off him in dark, victorious waves.
Her Master's stoic mask shattered—just a hairline fracture—as he dipped his head in a single, decisive nod. "Talonpoint." The word rang like a verdict. "That will be this ship's name."
Joy detonated across Orzik's face, raw and unrestrained, before he slammed into a salute so fierce his glove cracked against his brow. The bridge erupted: every officer snapped to attention, boots crashing, uniforms hissing, the sound of a thunderous wave of devotion that slammed into Jasea's senses and left her pulse roaring.
"Commodore." Nyâsh'hyal's voice cut through the charged air like a lightsaber igniting in silence, low and unyielding. "Register Talonpoint with Naval Command. Then set course for the Atravis Sector—Western Reaches. My Apprentice is to begin her trials."