"Again."
The sharp tone of Nyâsh'hyal's voice reverberated off the durasteel walls of the combat training room they had appropriated after the Vibrant Crown landed within the belly of the Talonpoint, its hangar bay swallowing the smaller vessel whole as their hyperspace journey commenced. The chamber was a spartan affair typical of Imperial warships: a rectangular hold retrofitted with reinforced plating scarred by countless blaster scorches and saber singes, the air thick with the acrid ozone of energy discharges and the faint metallic tang of sweat. Overhead, crimson emergency strips cast a bloody glow over the scene, shadows dancing like wraiths as the ship's sublight engines hummed distantly through the bulkheads.
For the last several hours, her Master had pushed her to limits she hadn't known existed in lightsaber combat. Unlike their previous session of direct saber-on-saber clashes, this time she was encircled by half a dozen small spherical remote training droids, their repulsorlifts whining softly as they bobbed and darted like angry insects. Each one hummed with low-power bolts ready to deliver a burning sting, forcing her into constant motion—deflect, parry, anticipate. Nyâsh'hyal stalked around her, arms tucked behind his back, his dark robes billowing with every step.
He had said that her current way of fighting with a lightsaber was insufficient, his words a blunt vibroblade to her pride. He had correctly identified her reliance on Form VI: Niman, the balanced style that wove Force techniques into bladework but often lacked the raw aggression of true Sith combat—versatile for Jedi diplomats, but a chain on the raw passion the dark side demanded. During her time among the Jedi, her lightsaber lessons had covered only the basics of Form I: Shii-Cho—the Way of the Sarlacc, all sweeping fundamentals—and Form VI: Niman, the Diplomat's Form, versatile yet criticised for its moderation. Her former master, Noman Karr, had favoured Djem So—Form V's power strikes, channelling aggression into overwhelming offence—but it had been a poor fit for her slight frame and lack of brute strength, leaving her reliant on Niman's equilibrium rather than dominance.
Instead, her Sith Master had begun training her in the basics of Soresu—Form III, the Resilience Form, a defensive masterpiece that turned an enemy's aggression into their downfall through unyielding patience and precision. Under his watchful gaze, the style unfolded like a shield of living durasteel: economical movements that conserved energy, blade angles honed to deflect rather than dominate, each parry a calculated invitation for the foe to overextend. He believed that dismantling an opponent who relied on brute offence would align more closely with her primary fuel for the dark side—pride—transforming their futile assaults into a mirror of her own superiority, her ego swelling with every redirected strike as the enemy unravelled before her unassailable defence.
She wasn't feeling a whole lot of pride currently, however. Instead, exhaustion clawed at her like the relentless pull of a black hole, sapping her will with every laboured breath. The six spherical remotes whirred back to life, their repulsorlifts emitting a high-pitched whine as they resumed their predatory orbit around her—tiny harbingers of pain, their laser emitters glowing faintly orange in the room's crimson haze. Jasea drew in deep, ragged gulps of air, the recycled tang of the Talonpoint's atmosphere burning her lungs, laced with the sharp ozone from deflected bolts and the salty sting of her own sweat.
Her arms hung like leaden weights at her sides, muscles quivering from the ceaseless deflections Soresu demanded—tight, economical circles of the blade that turned offence into futility, but at the cost of unyielding endurance. Her thighs screamed with fatigue, locked in the low, grounded stance the Resilience Form required: knees bent, center of gravity sunk like an anchor against a storm tide, every shift a fire in her quads and hamstrings. And her bare midriff—exposed by the revealing outfit she had chosen to wear—bore the evidence of her lapses: several angry scorch marks, red welts blistering against her skin where the remotes' bolts had slipped through, each one a stinging reminder of her failures.
She needed to draw more power from the dark side into herself, to let its currents flood her like a coursing river.. Her pride and ego weren't working, not in this crucible of sweat and scorched flesh—their flames too dim to fuel what her Master was demanding. She could call on her anger, that simmering cauldron bubbling just beneath the surface, close enough to touch with a mere thought, its heat promising a quick surge of raw might. She would not, however. She would be better, stronger than the lesser Sith who leaned on rage like a crutch.
Instead, she decided she would attempt to replicate the way she had felt her Master call upon the Force during their first duel on the homeworld of the Hutts which felt as if it was a lifetime ago—Hutta's fetid swamps a distant echo in her mind, where Nyâsh'hyal's presence had been a storm of controlled passion, unbridled yet precise, drawing from depths beyond mere emotion. She would pull on her passion to succeed, that burning core of ambition forged in the fires of her fall; her desire to improve, a relentless hunger that twisted through her like the dark side's own vines, promising not just survival, but mastery. As the remotes whined closer, their orbits tightening like nooses, Jasea centered herself, letting that passion swell—steady, unyielding, a dark tide rising to meet the assault.
She fell into the Force, letting its dark currents envelop her like a shroud, anticipation sharpening her senses to a fine edge—every hum in the air, every flicker of energy, a whisper of what was to come. She moved quickly, each motion honed with as much efficiency as her weary limbs flooded with the dark side could muster: a tight pivot here, a minimal blade arc there, conserving strength in Soresu's unyielding rhythm, her lightsaber a humming extension of her will rather than a tool.
One of the remotes suddenly rocketed upward, soaring above her head in a maneuver it hadn't attempted all session, its spherical form glinting under the crimson lights as it unleashed two orange blaster bolts in rapid succession—twin lances of energy crackling downward like a diving drexl. She could feel pulses of danger screaming through the Force, raw and insistent, warning that the other remotes' own shots were closing in from every angle: left flank, right low, rear high, a deadly web tightening around her.
Jasea stopped thinking. She had no time to think. Instead, she acted. Her body surrendered to the dark side's instinctive surge—a seamless fusion of passion and precision that propelled her into motion without hesitation or doubt.
Her lightsaber ignited in a blur, the crimson double-sided blade whipping upward to intercept the overhead remote's twin bolts with a pair of economical deflections, the energy scattering harmlessly against the durasteel walls in sparks of ozone-laced fire. Pivoting on her heel, she flowed into Soresu's resilient core: a low sweep to bat away a flanking shot from the left, the blade angling just enough to redirect rather than clash; a subtle twist to parry the rear assault, her stance grounded like an unmovable pillar amid the storm. The remotes swarmed closer, their whines escalating into a frantic buzz, bolts crisscrossing in a deadly lattice—yet she was the eye of it all, her passion to succeed blazing like a forge, fueling each efficient movement with unyielding desire, turning exhaustion into fuel and vulnerability into triumph.
"Enough." Her Master's voice sliced through her fatigue like a vibroblade through silk. The remotes froze mid-orbit, their repulsorlifts powering down with a collective whine, before dropping to the scorched durasteel deck with dull thuds.
Jasea let her lightsaber drop to the ground as she fell to her knees, the hilt clattering against the durasteel with a hollow echo that seemed to mock her exhaustion. She panted harshly, each breath a ragged rasp that burned her throat, sweat pouring from every pore of her body in rivulets that soaked her training garb and pooled beneath her on the scorched deck. Despite her utterly depleted energy reserves—muscles trembling, limbs leaden as if weighted down by an island—her mind was a whirl of exhilaration and revelation. She had never felt the Force like she had in those final moments, a surge so profound it eclipsed her Jedi training. It had felt so complete, so all-encompassing, as if the dark side had unfolded its full tapestry before her. For that brief instant, it was as if she had touched real power—not the restrained whispers of Tython, but the raw, unbridled essence that promised dominion over the galaxy itself.
Across from her, Nyâsh'hyal knelt gracefully, his lithe form folding with the elegance of an Imperial noble preparing a tea ceremony. His crimson lips curved into a satisfied smirk, the expression etching deeper lines into his red-skinned features under the training room's harsh crimson glow. "You felt it, did you not? The dark side at its fullest. Hot, intense, smothering."
Jasea dragged her weary body into a cross-legged sitting position, her muscles protesting with a deep ache that echoed through her bones like the aftershocks of a planetary quake. The durasteel deck felt cool and unforgiving beneath her, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her scorched skin and the lingering ozone in the air. Her breaths came in haggard gasps, ragged at first but gradually steadying into a normal rhythm, each inhalation pulling in the metallic tang of the Talonpoint's atmosphere mixed with the faint, acrid scent of her own exertion. "Yes. I…I felt it. I do not know how to truly describe it."
Her Master nodded in understanding, the gesture slow and measured, his burning eyes gleaming with a flicker of approval that sent subtle ripples through the Force. "Most of the Sith of the modern era have never had the pleasure of feeling the dark side in the way you did just a moment ago. Most are anchored by rage and hate. Powerful emotions, to be sure, but emotions that allow no room to interact with the dark side on a more fundamental level."
He paused to allow her to process his words, the training room's crimson lighting casting elongated shadows across his features, the air still heavy with the ozone tang of deactivated blaster bolts and the faint, metallic echo of her fallen lightsaber. The Talonpoint's distant engine hum vibrated through the deck plates, a constant reminder of their journey through hyperspace's blue void.
"In that moment, you did not feel simple fleeting emotions but a true melting pot of what passion truly is. Desire. Ambition. Desperation. Confidence. It burned through your veins with the heat of a thousand suns." His voice rose with an intensity he rarely showed, each word resonating through the training room like the crackle of Dromand Kass' atmospheric lightning, the dark side itself seeming to amplify the timbre, wrapping around Jasea in a cocoon of raw, unfiltered power that made the air hum.
He gave a nod, deliberate and approving, his smouldering eyes locking onto hers. "Well done, Jasea. Well done."
A fire danced up her spine, a searing cascade of dark-side ecstasy that twisted through her core like the tendrils of a Force storm, and she had to stop herself from arching her back in pleasure, her body instinctively craving to yield to the sensation. Her name on his tongue, mixed with approval, was an intoxicating elixir—intimate, commanding, laced with the subtle undercurrent of possession that only he could wield. If her cheeks were not already flushed from the physical exhaustion, they would be now, a deep crimson bloom spreading across her skin like the glow of a lightsaber's ignition.
She spent several nights contemplating whether her Master would be interested in a step of a more physical nature to their relationship—restless vigils in the dim confines of her quarters aboard the Talonpoint. She had not seen him seek out companionship, which did not overly surprise her; Nyâsh'hyal was a man of knowledge at his core, his essence forged in the crucibles of ancient Sith lore and arcane rituals, his crimson form often silhouetted against the glow of his data terminal in his private sanctum, where he pored over forgotten texts from Korriban's tombs or refined his command of the Force through meditations that warped the very air around him like heat haze over a volcanic plain.
Perhaps due to her success in the lesson—the way she had touched the unbridled essence of the dark side and earned his rare, fervent praise—she felt as if this would be an opportune moment to ask, to bridge the invisible chasm between apprentice and something deeper, more entangled, where power and passion intertwined in synergy. Before she could, however, the chime of the comms system echoed from the speakers embedded in the walls of the training room, a sharp, melodic trill that pierced the heavy silence, scattering her budding resolve like dust in a Tatooine sandstorm.
"Apologies for the interruption; however, a holocall is coming through. One of my comms officers checked the ID, and it is coming from The Empire's Fist: Darth Marr's flagship." The voice belonged to Commodore Orzik—clipped and deferential, laced with the faint static of internal ship communications, underscoring the urgency of a summons from one of the Dark Council's most formidable members.
A quick look of contemplation flashed across her Master's face, a fleeting shadow that danced over his crimson features like the brief eclipse of a Korriban moon, before settling into a mask of quiet comprehension—eyes narrowing ever so slightly, the molten yellow depths reflecting some inner calculus only he could perceive. Jasea was not sure what sort of revelation he had glimpsed, but it did not look like something he was unhappy about; if she were to guess, perhaps it was a fracture in the future unveiled by his Shatterpoint ability, those prophetic glimpses of destiny's weak points that only he could perceive.
"Very good, Commodore. Where would the nearest holo-terminal be from my current location?" her lord replied into the air, his voice steady and commanding, projecting toward the unseen speakers with effortless authority.
A few moments passed, the silence broken only by the soft whir of the ship's ventilation systems recycling the stale atmosphere, before the man replied, his tone crisp and deferential, laced with the polished cadence of an Imperial officer who knew the peril of displeasing a Sith. "There is a conference room a corridor away from you. Proceed to your left, turn right at the first chance, and enter the door on your immediate right. I will transfer the call to the holoprojector inside."
"Good. As you were, Commodore." Nyâsh'hyal's words dismissing the bridge officer effortlessly..
Her Master gracefully rose from his kneeling position, his lithe form unfolding with the fluid poise of a Sith Lord emerging from meditation—robes settling around him like shadows, the faint rustle of fabric echoing softly in the training room's confines. The crimson lighting overhead cast his red-skinned features in deeper relief, his volcanic yellow eyes gazing down at her with a mixture of appraisal and subtle warmth, the Force humming faintly between them like the residual charge after a successful unspoken trial. "You may stay here and continue to catch your breath if you wish," he said, his tone measured yet laced with a quiet pride, offering her the space to recover amid the scorched durasteel deck and scattered remotes, the air still thick with the ozone tang of their session and the distant thrum of the Talonpoint's engines.
She shook her head, the motion sharp and resolute, strands of sweat-dampened hair clinging to her forehead like the stubborn vines of Dxun's undergrowth, her breath still steadying from the exertion of their session. This was a meeting with a Darth—a summons from the shadowed echelons of the Empire's power, a member of the Dark Council no less, whose armoured visage and unyielding will evoked the ancient spectres of Sith lords like Freedon Nadd or Ludo Kressh, architects of empires long crumbled to dust.
Darth Marr, the indomitable enforcer of the Empire's military might, the leader of the Sphere of Defence of the Empire—a masked colossus whose armoured silhouette evoked the unyielding dread of ancient Sith warlords like Naga Sadow or Marka Ragnos. His flagship, The Empire's Fist, was a leviathan of durasteel and turbolasers, a Terminus-class Destroyer bristling with quad laser batteries and hangar bay teeming with interceptors, a symbol of unrelenting conquest that had crushed Republic fleets from the glittering spires of the Core Worlds to the lawless fringes of the Outer Rim, leaving behind asteroid fields of wreckage and the echoes of defeated foes.
She would obviously not be a participant in the conversation—apprentices bowed in silence before such titans, their words unbidden unless commanded, shadows in the presence of the Dark Council's iron fist—but this was an opportunity very few in the Empire had. She would not miss it.
"No, Master," she replied, her voice firm despite the lingering fatigue, rising to her feet with a deliberate grace that mirrored his own, her muscles protesting but her will unyielding, fueled by the dark side's lingering embrace from their training. "I will be fine."
He nodded, a subtle inclination of his crimson, before turning to make his way to the conference room—his black and purple robes swirling behind him, the faint whisper of fabric against durasteel the only sound in the hushed corridor. Jasea fell into step behind him, her legs still trembling faintly from the training session's rigours, the dark side's lingering hum in her veins urging her forward despite the ache, a reminder that a true Sith endured.
It took less than a minute to arrive at their destination, the Talonpoint's internal layout a model of Imperial efficiency: tight, angular hallways designed for rapid deployment, walls lined with access panels etched in Aurebesh warnings and the omnipresent cog of the Empire, the air humming with the low vibration of life-support systems and the distant roar of the hyperdrive propelling them through the swirling blue void toward the Western Reaches. They passed only a single person—a trooper clad in his sleek black Imperial armour, the plasteel plates gleaming under the corridor's crimson emergency strips, his DLA-13 heavy blaster rifle slung on his back with parade-ground precision. He stopped dead in his tracks upon sighting them, snapping to attention with a crisp salute, gloved fist thumping against his chest plate in a rhythmic echo that reverberated like the drumbeat of a trooper march, his helmeted gaze fixed forward in unwavering deference to the Sith before him.
The conference room itself was a generic meeting space, emblematic of the Empire's utilitarian ethos—functional over ostentatious.. In the center stood a large rectangular table in Imperial colours: glossy black durasteel edged in blood-red accents. At its heart rose the holocommunicator, a sleek cylindrical projector with glowing blue emitter nodes. The table was flanked by a dozen high-backed chairs, their synth-leather upholstery unadorned save for the embroidered Imperial emblem on each headrest, arranged in precise symmetry. On two of the walls hung the flag of the Empire—crimson banners emblazoned with the jagged black hexagram of the Sith Order, fluttering slightly in the recycled air currents.
Her Master gave a casual wave of his hand, the gesture deceptively simple as he channelled the Force with effortless precision—a subtle ripple in the dark side that hummed through the conference room. The chairs on one side of the table responded instantly, scraping across the durasteel floor with a low, metallic groan before aligning neatly against the wall, stacked in orderly formation as if drilled by an Imperial quartermaster. He moved to stand squarely in front of the holoprojector, positioning himself at the table's leftmost side. Jasea, meanwhile, slipped to the corner just to the left of the entrance, her back to the durasteel bulkhead, its cold metal giving a soothing cool to her tired muscles.
Her Master fiddled with the holoprojector for a moment, his crimson fingers dancing over the control panel with practised ease—no doubt adjusting the encryption protocols or privacy filters to dictate what was viewable from the other end, ensuring that only his image projected across the void. Satisfied, he pressed the flashing green accept button, the device whirring to life with a soft chime that echoed through the chamber, the blue emitter nodes igniting in a cascade of holographic light as the connection bridged the gulf of hyperspace to Darth Marr's dread flagship.
The figure of Darth Marr appeared before them, materialising in a cascade of shimmering blue holography that flickered to life from the holoprojector's emitter nodes, the device humming with a low, resonant thrum. The projection solidified into a towering, armoured colossus—life-sized and imposing, as if the Dark Councillor himself had stepped through the veil of hyperspace from the bridge of The Empire's Fist.
His figure was just as intimidating as his reputation implied: clad in the iconic black-and-red battle armour, his mask—featureless, obsidian void save for the glowing crimson slits where eyes should be—radiated an aura of inexorable doom, a visage that had stared down Jedi Grand Masters and Imperial traitors alike, unblinking and unforgiving. Broad shoulders capped with spiked pauldrons seemed to strain against the confines of the projection, his cape a digital cascade of shadow that billowed as if caught in an unseen wind from Dromund Kaas's eternal storms. Even in a hologram, the Force seemed to coil around him, a palpable weight pressing on Jasea's senses—cold calculation blended with the dark side's iron resolve, a presence that commanded fleets and shaped the Empire's defences.
"Lord Nyâsh'hyal. Good of you to answer my call. I do not like my time wasted." Marr's voice rumbled through the speakers like the thunder of Dromund Kaas's eternal storms, gravelly and inexorable, each word a decree etched in durasteel.
Her lord gave a slight bow of the head, the gesture measured and respectful, his volcanic yellow eyes never wavering from the hologram's crimson slits, the Force rippling faintly around him. "Darth Marr, I apologise if you were waiting long. A lesson to one's apprentice should not end before their lessons are learned." Nyâsh'hyal's tone was smooth as polished obsidian.
Darth Marr was silent for a moment, the hologram flickering slightly as if processing the weight of the response, his masked visage unchanging—a void of expression that had stared down the likes of Jedi Master Orgus Din or Republic Admiral Numinn during the Cold War's bitter stalemates. Then, he gave a single nod, the motion heavy with calculated approval, his cape shifting in the projection like the wings of a mynock unfolding in the dark. "Indeed. I have heard of your accomplishment in obtaining your apprentice. Defeating Jedi Master Noman Karr was no small feat. Your bloodline is also well known; however, I am a man who believes merit trumps blood. The dark side cares not for your birth, only your life."
Her Master said nothing, merely listening, his posture a study in poised restraint—arms loosely at his sides, the Force coiling around him in subtle currents that Jasea could sense from her vantage: a blend of vigilance and quiet triumph, much like the strategic patience he had employed during his hunt for her across the stars, from the serene halls of Tython to the treacherous courts of Alderaan.
"It was due to this—and Commodore Orzik's request to be placed under your command—that truly piqued my interest in you. When I read through the reports of your handling of the operation surrounding the Black Talon, I decided that you were worthy of my attention. Your time on Korriban proved you are a Sith of practicality. Of forethought. A rarity amongst those of the Sith trained after the Treaty of Coruscant. It is due to these factors that I petitioned Darth Vengean—Darth Baras' direct superior—for you to be transferred to be under my direct command." Marr's words carried the weight of Imperial decree.
The conference room seemed to constrict around her, the holoprojector's blue glow casting flickering shadows across the Imperial flags and the polished black table, the air heavy with the low hum of the device's emitter nodes.. Jasea remained in her corner, her back pressed against the cool durasteel bulkhead, her scorched garb still clinging to her sweat-dampened skin from the earlier session—a stark contrast to the poised intensity of the moment, where the dark side's currents swirled thicker, amplified by the convergence of this moment.
Her Master rarely spoke of Darth Baras, the enigmatic spymaster whose web of intrigue had ensnared the galaxy from the shadows of Dromund Kaas, his rotund form and masked visage a symbol of cunning that had orchestrated the Treaty of Coruscant, forcing the Republic to its knees after the Sacking and buying the Empire precious time to rebuild amid the Cold War's fragile peace.
What little Nyâsh'hyal had said was that he respected Baras and his accomplishments to a degree—the way the Dark Lord had manipulated opposing Jedi or woven deceptions that toppled Republic strongholds—but found him a Sith who did not see true power in the Force, but in politics, a labyrinth of whispers and alliances that paled against the raw, unbridled might of the dark side, as exemplified by ancient masters like Darth Nihilus, who devoured worlds through sheer Force hunger, or Tulak Hord, the legendary duelist whose bladework conquered empires without a single schemed betrayal.
Something her Master insisted that one truly powerful in the Force could bypass any political machination—shattering chains of intrigue with raw power and knowledge, much as the Emperor himself transcended mortal politics to forge the Sith Empire from the remnants of Naga Sadow's failed invasion.
This was why her Master had been as excited as he had when Orzik had said that Darth Marr had been the one to call, his earlier flash of comprehension now crystal clear in Jasea's mind: he had long since seen that by accepting the Commodore's invitation, it would sever him from his service to Darth Baras, a shatterpoint in the tapestry of the Force. He must have been apprehensive about who would do the severing—perhaps fearing a lesser Councillor like Darth Ravage, whose Sphere of Expansion favoured brute conquest over strategic depth—but Darth Marr was clearly someone whom he respected, the masked enforcer whose merit-based ethos mirrored the ancient Rule of the Strong.
Through Victory, my Chains are broken—the Sith Code's mantra echoed in her thoughts like a thunderclap, a vow etched in her soul since Hutta's swamps, now manifesting in this pivotal moment, where her Master ascended under Marr's banner.
Her lord gave a deep bow, his left arm sweeping across his chest so that his hand came to rest firmly against his right shoulder—a gesture of profound deference rooted in the ancient traditions of the Sith Empire. "You honour me deeply, my lord," Nyâsh'hyal intoned, his voice a resonant timbre that carried a controlled intensity, his eyes meeting Darth Marr's crimson slits without flinching. "I would happily commit myself fully to your service and the continued defence of the Empire." The words hung in the air like a vow sealed in the dark side.
The leader of the Sphere of Defence of the Empire nodded, the motion deliberate and armoured, his holographic cape shifting with a faint digital glitch. The room felt heavier under his implied scrutiny, the Imperial flags on the walls standing as silent sentinels, their jagged hexagrams a reminder of the Emperor's eternal edicts. "Good. The Commodore informed me your heading is the Atravis Sector. There is next to nothing of import in the sector." He did not ask; the question was implied, his gravelly voice a thunderous undercurrent that brooked no evasion.
Her Master gave a nod, measured and unhurried, his crimson-skinned features betraying no more than the calculated poise. "The planet of Mustafar is our destination. There is a Midwantsawak on its surface." The term rolled off his tongue in the guttural cadence of ur-Kittât, the ancient Sith language, a dialect Jasea had begun studying in her apprenticeship, piecing together its arcane lexicon amid the Vibrant Crown's dimly lit archives.
Jasea went through her lessons of ur-Kittât in her mind and came up with a translation: Embodiment of Power. She wasn't exactly sure what that meant—perhaps an ancient relic, a nexus of dark-side energy or a site where the Force converged in raw, unbridled might—but Darth Marr clearly did, as he almost tilted his head in what Jasea assumed was surprise, the hologram flickering slightly as if the Councilor's armored mask concealed a rare crack in his stoic facade.
"Interesting. It matters not. The Force has seen fit to align your new orders with your own personal ones. The Empire has recently begun exporting a significant amount of raw materials from the planet Mustafar. Only last year, a local explorer found a great deposit of metals of significant quality. The natives chose to reach out to us. Due to this, however, we have seen an uptick in what is believed to be pirate attacks on our transport ships along the Rimma Trade Route. I suspect it is the Republic, not pirates. Your mission will be to locate and destroy the disruption. Am I understood?" Marr's directive cut through the air like a turbolaser barrage. Jasea felt the weight of the assignment settle over them, the conference room's utilitarian austerity amplifying the moment's gravity.
Her Master nodded, the gesture a subtle affirmation, his crimson-skinned features reflecting a quiet surge of triumph. "Of course, my lord," he replied, his voice steady and resonant. "Your will be done."
Darth Marr nodded once, the motion deliberate and armored, his holographic form holding for a heartbeat before the holo-call disconnected with a soft chime. The blue light winked out of existence, leaving the conference room bathed in its original crimson glow, the emitter nodes powering down with a faint whine that faded into the ship's ambient hum.
The silence lingered for several moments, thick and contemplative, neither moving as the weight of their new station settled over them like the oppressive atmosphere of Dromund Kaas. Jasea decided to break the ice, her voice light yet laced with the budding confidence of an apprentice who had succeed in every task her Master had set for her.
"Looks like we are moving up in the world, Master."
Her Master snapped out of his silent contemplation, his crimson-skinned head turning toward her with the deliberate grace. The conference room's crimson lighting cast his features in stark relief, shadows playing across the folds of his black robes.
"Indeed," he replied, his voice a resonant rumble laced with the quiet satisfaction. "Being under Darth Marr's command is a valuable opportunity, as the Sphere of Defense of the Empire is a broad Sphere. It is not just defense using military means but also spiritual." He paused briefly before continuing.
"This changes the immediate direction of your training,"His gaze appraising her with a mentor's scurtiny, "The trials will be the same, but I had intended to make the syllabus of your lessons focused more around pure offense, as I had suspected it would be Darth Baras' own master who transferred me—and by extension, you—to his command. Instead, we will move in a different direction."
He turned fully to face her, pivoting with the fluid precision of a Sith duelist shifting stances in a Korriban arena, and took several measured steps until he stood directly across from her—close enough for Jasea to feel the subtle heat of his crimson-skinned presence, a radiant aura laced with the dark side's lingering intensity.
"That is for later, however," he said, his voice a low. "For now, go bathe and rest. You have earned it."
Jasea nodded in relief, the tension uncoiling from her weary muscles like the release of a Force grip, her scorched skin and aching limbs craving the solace of a hot soak—a luxury aboard the Talonpoint's utilitarian quarters, where sonic showers or bacta-infused tubs awaited.
A hot soak sounded perfect.