The drumming of distant war horns echoed through the blood-chilled tunnels beneath Dathomir, a rhythmic pulse that matched the beating of my own heart. Every step I took carried me closer to the moment I'd long feared — or perhaps hoped — would come. The arena loomed ahead, a vast pit carved into ancient stone, its walls alive with the roar of millions. Cheers and jeers blended into a thunderous tide, hope and dread tangled in the thick, cold air.
At the arena's edge, the Pale Father stood—a shadow given form. His robes, black as the void and streaked with crimson like fresh wounds, writhed around him as if they had a life of their own. The fabric pulsed, cold and venomous, swallowing light like a wound that refused to heal. His obsidian mask was cracked, jagged like broken bone, hiding a face no sunlight had touched for centuries. Rumors whispered that beneath it lay a visage carved from the shattered remains of his enemies, marked by scars born of betrayals and ancient wars.
He didn't move like a man anymore. He moved like a predator savoring the scent of fear before the kill. Every breath was a promise of torment; every glance, an unspoken threat. His presence pressed on the crowd, suffocating and heavy—like decay settling in, rotting hope from the inside out. Beside him, General Trax's eyes burned with cold calculation, the silent hand guiding this nightmare. Yet, it was the Pale Father who was the puppeteer—the architect of cruelty who delighted not only in conquest but in watching spirits break like glass beneath his touch.
The announcer's voice cut through the roar, sharp and unforgiving, slicing the air like a vibroblade. "Your challenger… Domenico Maxwell." My brother's name hit the arena like a blade twisting in a wound. Domenico. Blood bound to me by birth. My enemy by fate. The crowd fell silent, the tension so thick it choked the air. Eyes widened. Hearts pounded as if the mere mention of his name spelled doom for us all.
Our lightsabers ignited simultaneously, crimson blades humming with raw power. His words struck as hard as his strikes: "You're weak, Lorenzo. You always were." Pain and rage fueled my every move, each clash echoing with a history of betrayal and loss. Then, with a final, desperate thrust, my blade pierced his chest. The arena's silence was absolute. I stared down at my brother's lifeless form. The weight of what I'd done crashed down on me like a star gone supernova. From the shadows, Trax's gaze never wavered — cold, dissecting, as merciless as the blade at my side. He was a predator cloaked in polished armor, patiently studying his prey. Later, in a narrow corridor where the walls seemed to close in like iron coffins, his voice slid into my ear — not a threat, but a promise wrapped in steel. "You've impressed the Pale Father... and me." His words hung heavy with contempt beneath their civility. "But favor is a leash for lesser men. The Pale Father demands loyalty. He rewards strength. But loyalty fades. Strength breaks. Only power endures." He stepped closer, and I felt a cold so deep it clawed at my bones. His breath was steady, his tone quiet, but every syllable was sharpened steel. "I'll be watching, Lorenzo. Not to protect you. To wait for the moment you fall. And when you do…" His smile was slow, cruel, a butcher's grin beneath silk words. "I will be ready."
The roar of the arena faded behind me, replaced by a hollow silence that settled deep in my chest. The Emperor's voice echoed in my mind: Rule the galaxy by my side, Lorenzo. Fulfill your destiny. Destiny was no gift. It was a blade — unforgiving, ever-sharp. I had already tasted its edge.
The Pale Father's shadow stretched across the stars, his whispers sharper than any blade, colder than the void. I was no longer the man who mourned his brother. I was the Emperor's executioner — his will made flesh.
A year passed. A year stained with blood and relentless training. Each mission left me more ruthless, a sharpened instrument in the Pale Father's hand. Darkness was no longer a burden — it was power, and I wielded it without hesitation. Larnous still haunted the Outer Rim, a ghost slipping through shadows, a poison to the Empire's veins. Hunting him became an obsession that consumed every waking thought.
"Strength demands sacrifice," General Trax's voice crackled over comms, venom wrapped in silk. "Doubts weaken. The Pale Father expects perfection." His words were a tightening noose, squeezing every shred of mercy from me. Every enemy crushed brought me closer to Larnous — but the shadows were vast, and he was clever. The day I found him, there would be no escape. The corridors of the Imperial warship were cold metal and darkness, pierced only by the distant alarms and the hum of engines. I moved like a ghost, my crimson saber a silent promise of death. Ahead, movement flickered — Larnous and his crew. Their faces twisted with fear and defiance. Weakness. I unleashed fury. The saber sang through the air, slicing through armor and flesh with merciless precision. Screams echoed, then silence. One by one, his crew fell, swallowed by the void.
Only Larnous remained — bloodied, cornered, but unbroken. "You're finished," I said, voice low and unyielding. His ragged breath, pain etched in every line, didn't break his defiance. "This isn't over. You'll regret this." I smiled coldly. "No regrets. Only the Pale Father's justice." My saber struck, carving a wound that should have ended him. Yet he lived — barely I turned away, victory bitter on my tongue. Larnous was broken, left bleeding in the cold heart of the ship. An emergency pod waited — my silent escape to Coruscant. The hunt was far from over. But now, the advantage was mine. As the pod launched into the void, I stared into blackness. Larnous would run. But I would find him. And when I did, the darkness would consume him completely. The chamber was cold and silent, thick with shadows like congealed smoke. The air reeked of old blood and something fouler — a rot that festered beneath iron and bone. Crimson light bled faintly from cracks in the stone, pulsing like veins in a dying heart. The fortress itself seemed alive and breathing. At its center, the Pale Father stood. His cracked obsidian mask hung loose in one skeletal hand — discarded like a broken relic. Beneath it, his face was no face. Pale, bone-white, almost luminous against the dark. No eyes. No mouth. Just a gaping maw, ragged and dripping with thick black blood. Needles of teeth gleamed inside, far too many for any sane creature. His skin twitched as something writhed beneath — a body that did not belong to itself.
A predator incarnate. A nightmare made flesh. He did not look at me. His gaze was a weight, pulling breath from my lungs. Speak, his voice echoed — not spoken, but was. Cold. Cruel. Ancient. "I…" I swallowed bile. "He's gone. Larnous escaped." Silence thickened. Then violence. The Pale Father's hand lashed out like lightning, a pillar of black iron twisting from the floor and shattering the wall with bone-crushing force. The chamber bled — stone cracked and blood poured like a living wound. He turned slowly, mouth stretching into a grotesque grin, teeth clicking like blades. "Good." His hiss was a venomous promise. "Let the hunt begin anew. Let the blood flow. Let the game consume us all." The pool at his feet rippled — not water, but something thick and dark, pulsing like a dying heart. It clung to him, hissing acid, trying to pull him down. His feet bled where they touched it, but he did not care. "Bring me his head," he commanded — his voice layered, one cold and commanding, another gurgling, ravenous beneath it. "Or bring me his soul." And then, softer than breath, a whisper beneath the darkness:Or I shall take yours.