History speaks of the origin of the Clone Wars on Geonosis, and the first major clash between the Jedi and the Sith. The Colosseum draws inspiration from the fabled Petranaki arena, certainly, but was built with a more contemporary audience in mind. Located on the planet that serves as the new seat of the Brotherhood's central power, [REDACTED], the structure was rebuilt and renovated from the shell of an ancient foundation that had barely weathered away against the planets ever-changing climate.

High walls, tall enough for even the most savvy Jedi to find unscalable, line a large field of ancient sand and sediment the size of a holoball field. The spectators' chairs are divided into neatly organized sections with seats bunched close together to accommodate anywhere up to a few thousand people. At the center, an elongated platform “box” has been constructed with a central throne of stone with various seats of smaller scale lined beside it in both directions.

Two large holo-projection screens are set up on each side of the Colosseum, offering different angles of the fight via Holocam Drones.

While unassuming at first glance and looking very much like an archaic gladiatorial arena, the Colosseum features a medley of traps and surprises built into the floor and walls at random intervals. These obstacles include, but are hardly limited to: retractable nozzles that can shoot out gouts of flame; battery-coils that can spit out tendrils of electric current; receding floor panels with electric shock panels; deep pits with sharpened spikes and more. At some points, the ground can simply erupt upwards and create a concentrated, if not impromptu angular-platform that could be used as a springboard or temporary high ground. While seemingly random, these obstacles are handled and triggered by a manned-operator in a control room within.

Outside the fighting arena, the Colosseum features on-site, state of the art medical facilities that can bring nearly anyone back from the brink of the death and offer a full team of trainers, doctors, and rehabilitation units. There is also a neatly kept armory a basic training center with mechanical-dummies, and private sparring chambers.

Heat radiated off the duracrete walls, baking the Kiffar beneath his chestnut duster as he moseyed towards the entrance to the Colosseum floor. He focused inward, tapping the wellspring of calm within himself, and briefly contemplated lowering his body’s temperature to compensate. His awareness spread out around him as he considered, the clamoring lifebeat of thousands of beings pulsing against him. There were pockets of light - or, at the least, temperance - interspersed among them, but more often than not their violence and thirst for power battered his resolve. He felt that darkness viscerally, and a near-tangible chill scaled his spine. No, Terran thought to himself. Today is definitely a day to enjoy the heat.

As his mind played over the raucous spectators that packed the stands, he felt a familiar presence. Though he couldn’t sense the creature’s thoughts, he knew the warm, arboreal crests of Isshwarr’s emotions and took comfort in them. That meant the tiny pocket of ursine aggression near her was Kolot. He complained after the cave-in cut the last match short, the Arconan mused, stopping just shy of the tunnel’s exit. His eyes tracked across the stands to locate the pair. Though small and indistinct at a distance, he could swear Kolot was sitting on Isshwar’s shoulders. Probably couldn’t see over the crowd. Hopefully he feels like the show is worth it this time. For a brief moment he forgot the cacophony of the crowd.

Then he sighed and the crowd snapped back into focus, pressing against him and setting his skin crawling. I don’t know how Issh talked me into this. Even if she’s right and it does convince our target to let us get closer, no amount of credits is worth—. The thought cut off abruptly as the spectators roared, no doubt signalling Turel’s entrance into the arena. Shaking his head - and firmly imagining piles of credits - the Kiffar palmed a glop grenade and strode out onto the Colosseum’s floor.

The roar of the onlookers washed over Terran, galloping through his chest. He looked out to the far entrance, but his Odanite opponent was just a smear of color in the distance. Plastering on a crooked grin, Terran settled into his best roguish drawl and turned towards the Dark Council’s dias on the right. Slapping a fist to heart, he bowed to the group with faux solemnity, focusing on the incongruously white-robed figure at their center. “Grand Master, we who are about to die salu—”

“I said no deaths, Arconan!” Pravus’ Force-fueled voice echoed across the arena, dampening the clamor of the crowd.

So much for showmanship, the Kiffar opined as he turned back towards the Arena’s far entrance. Let’s start things with a bang. He raised the glop grenade, preparing to hurl it down field with a bit of luck and a not inconsiderable bit of telekinesis.

A wordless whisper filled his mind and Terran sidestepped to the left with preternatural alacrity. Fire whipped across his bicep and a concussive boom cracked against him, knocking the grenade from his hand as the slug from the Jedi’s sniper rifle buried itself in the duracrete wall. The Gray Jedi threw himself to the right, ducking into a roll. Calling on the Force, Terran quenched the flames that licked his nerves, deadening the bullet’s graze. He drew his blasters as he rolled to his feet, turning on instinct and firing a salvo of golden bolts at the figure in the distance. He had no illusions that they would hit the Ranger, but they might buy him a few precious seconds.

The Kiffar pivoted towards the far end of the opposite wall and ran, his path deliberately skewed to keep the Odanite from tracking him as he closed the distance. He loosed another volley of blaster fire at Turel in an effort to pin him down and the onlookers’ jeers warred with the blood pounding in his ears. A meter wide depression caught his eye, just a few steps away. Growling to himself, Terran leapt over the potential trap, somersaulting as he hit the arena’s sandy floor. Then a shrill, whirring noise accompanied a sudden metallic grip on his ankle and he felt himself jerked unceremoniously backwards.

The Arconan tumbled face-forward, eating a mouthful of sand as he felt himself dragged back towards the depression. Spitting dirt, Terran flipped over onto his back and gawked at the robotic tentacle that was hauling him towards the now-revealed pit. He thumbed one of his blasters to kill and unloaded a trio of blue bolts into the mechanical appendage. The metal limb seemed to soak up the blasts and the gap began to emit a buzzing whine as the tentacle snaked its way past his knee and up his thigh. Sweat popped from the Kiffar’s brow and he couldn’t help wondering if the tournament’s moratorium applied to the Colosseum’s traps.

Let’s not find out, the Arconan thought, tossing his blasters to the side. A flick of his right wrist activated the spring-loaded sheath on his forearm and he caught his lightsaber with practiced ease. Digging in his heels and flexing his abdomen, Terran forced himself into a sitting position and grabbed the tentacle with his free hand, pulling himself towards the pit. On the bright side, the Arconan thought sardonically, there’s no way Turel can get a clean shot with all this writhing around.

As if the thought had summoned him, the Human’s dry voice rang in Terran’s ears. “First the fluffy tag-alongs, and now you’re playing with tentacles? At this rate, you really ought to transfer to Plagueis.”

Gritting his teeth and ignoring the taunt, the Kiffar leaned forward over the pit’s edge, still struggling against the appendage. A nest of wires and electrodes lined the base of the mechanical maw, arcing current across the pit in a shower of sparks. The tentacle itself sprouted from a mess of servomotors and improvised connections halfway down the hole’s side.

Terran’s ochre blade snap-hissed to life and he hacked at the tentacle, but his lightsaber rebounded ineffectually. Fighting panic, the Kiffar’s eyes swept across the arena. The audience’s jeers had grown louder as he fought helplessly against the trap, and he could feel near-hilarity radiating off them at his predicament… hilarity that seemed strangely at odds with the earlier bloodlust he had sensed.

Sithspit!, he cursed to himself as his eyes darted first to his Jedi opponent - striding calmly towards him across the Colosseum's sandy surface - and then to the oversized holo-projector above the arena’s far entrance. The view, captured from a drone a dozen meters above and behind the Kiffar, showed the tan- and teal-robed Jedi approaching Terran, a posterboy-perfect smile on his lips, as the Kiffar struggled frantically on the ground, fighting against thin air. With a snarl that was more than half embarrassment, the Arconan channeled his anger and shame, railing against the semblant snare and shattering it around him.

The Jedi was less than ten meters away. Lightsaber unlit but at the ready, Turel’s lips quirked derisively as Terran regained his footing. Instinct took over and the Kiffar’s left arm raised, summoning his blaster to hand. He aimed and fired in a single smooth motion, and a hailstorm of golden bolts pelted the Odanite. Turel’s amethyst blade sprang to life in response, squelching the squall and sending a handful of the bolts back at Terran. The Arconan dove to the right, still firing, and rolled to his feet, his back to the Dark Council’s dias. Terran’s blaster fell silent as he charged the Human, his ochre blade lending a rusty tint to his skin, and he saw the Jedi take a step back, raising his amethyst lightsaber in a horizontal guard across his svelte frame. Then the two men met in a maelstrom of blazing plasma.

The Kiffar’s saber beat a violent staccato against the Guardian’s amethyst blade, ochre flame whipping against the Jedi’s whirlwind defense. Ignoring the taste of silt and gravel in his mouth, Terran forced an impish grin. “Come on, Sorenn! Is that the best you’ve got?”

“Not by half,” the Proconsul replied, but the words rang hollow in the Arconan’s ears and he could see the Ranger’s eyes dart towards the empty seat on the dias - towards the one where Vorsa would have been seated, had she not defied the Grand Master.

Sensing an opening, Terran feinted with an overhand slash. As Turel spun his blade in line to parry, the Kiffar flipped the blaster in his left hand, grabbing it by the barrel and slamming it across the Odanite’s face with Force-fueled fury. The Jedi’s jaw shattered with a bone-gnawing crack and he fell to one knee, blood spattering across the clean sand. Now to really screw with his head.

“It’s too bad your...what? Girlfriend? Mistress? Either way, it’s too bad she had to leave early. You won’t be seeing her again.”

Vorsa. Turel’s thoughts turned to woman who was so much more to him than any simple label could convey. A split second of concern gave the Guardian pause as he reached for the connection that bound the two Jedi through the ether. He could feel her light somewhere below the arena. She was safe for the moment, which is more than could be said about him.

The arena reverberated with the raucous cheers of the crowd. Turel could feel the multitude of eyes upon him, feeding off his physical pain and humiliation. Jedi were not held in high esteem by most members of the Brotherhood and mostly certainly not in the eyes of those who would gleefully spectate the Grand Master’s blood sport. The Guardian’s will became a rock battered by a relentless tide of malice from the audience. Strangely, he felt only a cold indifference from his opponent.

The Proconsul shifted his still blazing saber to his left hand so he could plant his right palm on the ground to steady himself. The ground faded in and out of focus as the Jedi’s equilibrium slowly returned. He spat more blood onto the sand and barely suppressed an incoherent, gurgled moan of agony. The inferno of pain that blazed across his face was nearly overwhelming but not unfamiliar. Turel had had his proverbial bell rung in enough bar fights to know his jaw was in pretty bad shape. Every miniscule movement of his jaw was pure agony. It was a small miracle that the blow didn’t knock him out cold.

Terran circled just outside of striking distance of his stunned opponent like a predator toying with its prey. He stopped, leaned over and tilted his head in a mocking manner. “What’s the matter? No pithy retort?” The Arconan stood up straight and raised his pistol high in a dramatic gesture for the crowd. “Who knew this is all it would take to shut you up?” He savored the fickle will of the mob swaying in his favor for a change.

** Keep talking to the crowd, you arrogant prick. ** The Jedi’s mind raced to find a possible solution to his current predicament. He had gotten out of tougher situations to be sure, but this easily ranked in the top ten. As a calculating calm began to replace panic, the Guardian noticed various parts of the arena floor shifting. Sand poured off previously buried metal doors as pits appeared. Solid durasteel obstacles rose from ground like metallic plants reaching toward the midday sun. A plan began to coalesce and with it the seeds of hope took root.

** “Oh it takes more than that to shut me up.” ** Turel’s voice echoed in Terran’s mind. The Kiffar stood in momentary awe as the Jedi glared up at him with burning defiance in his emerald eyes. The Human slowly rose to his feet and tapped the side of his temple with his right index finger in a taunting gesture. A disturbing smile began to form across his swollen face and blood dripped down his chin like he had just bitten off a raw chuck off a Bantha’s hide. The Jedi resumed a two-handed defensive grip on his saber hilt.

Terran recoiled in momentary disgust at his opponent’s unsettling visage. It wasn’t frightening as much as it was just plain gross, not to mention pathetic. It was time to end this fight so he could get closer to his target and get off this rock. The Kiffar tightened his grip on his weapons and tensed his leg muscles in preparation to launch another attack. The prey was already wounded and the predator would soon feast on victory.

Turel held his saber directly in front of him and closed his eyes tight. Before his Arconan opponent could process what was happening, a blinding flash of light seemed to emanate from the amethyst blade. The Kiffar threw up his own saber reflexively in defense, his vision momentarily washed out with white glare. He could both hear and feel Turel rushing toward him, then past him. As his vision cleared he saw a seemingly empty arena floor dotted with barriers and pits. “Tricks again? You got a mighty cheap opinion of me if you think i’ll fall for that again.”

The Jedi crouched behind a nearby durasteel wall. He clutched a glop grenade that his opponent was kind enough to leave lying around.

Terran blinked repeatedly, willing the last chromatic spots to fade from his vision as he surveyed the drastically altered arena landscape. Precarious pits and wearisome walls had sprung up at sporadic intervals, but no more than a few meters seemed to separate the obstacles as far as he Kiffar could see - which, given the numerous obstructions, wasn’t particularly far. A quick glance towards one of the Colosseum’s oversized monitors suggested the same was true throughout the arena, though none of the quickly-cycling views showed his foe. Now, where’d that womprat run off to? He’s slipperier than a dianoga in a sewage line. The thought of the seven-tentacled cephalopods set his spine itching and, for a brief moment, the bounty hunter-turned-Arconan debated searching out his second blaster. As Kolot liked to say, more firepower was always better. No time, Terran opined, shaking his head in mild frustration.

Stretching out with the Force - and trying to ignore the tumult of the crowd - the Kiffar felt the telltale coalescence of energy and will that signalled a Force User’s presence. The Odanite was fast. He had traversed the arena before Terran’s vision cleared. The Arconan still wasn’t sure how Turel had recovered so quickly without deadening his nerves - he hadn’t felt the Jedi draw heavily on the Force until he sped away. Maybe Vorsa smacks him around a lot in bed? The Aedile shrugged away the thought, focusing instead on the direction in which his quarry had gone to ground. He knew roughly where the Jedi was located, but the dozens of walls and outcroppings that had sprung up throughout the arena would make a linear path impossible. If he could follow the Human’s footsteps, however…

He spotted a path of depressions, but the tizzying tread the pair had tracked across the Colosseum’s floor intersected in a half dozen places before it passed the first durasteel obstacle. Frustration rose in the Kiffar’s gut and the color seemed to wash from his vision in response. He felt his eye pulled towards the one patch of bright color - crimson splattered on boot-churned tan - and the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. A few steps brought him to the evidential swatch, and, deactivating his lightsaber, he knelt and extended the first two fingers of his right hand to the spatter of bloody spittle from his foe’s ruined jaw. The Force bled out of him as colors flooded back in and the Jedi’s coursing figure ghosted across his vision.

Grinning now in earnest, Terran trailed time’s shadow, following the translucent image of his Odanite opponent as it navigated around obstacles and leapt over spiked pits. “You can run,” the bounty hunter muttered to himself, leaping over an open shaft and dodging around a column of rotating spikes, “but you can’t hi—”.

The Arconan’s murmurs cut off in a painful crunch as he rebounded off something solid, his nose crunching sickeningly in protest.

“Sithspit!” the Kiffar growled, focusing on the pain just long enough to deaden the cluster of nerves responsible for olfactory scents and sensations. “What the frak hit me?!”

As the pain cut out - and with it, the coppery smell of blood and the sour stench of a thousand sweaty bodies - Terran looked up and groaned. So intent had he been on the human’s trail, he hadn’t seen the near-soundless shifting of the arena’s obstacles. Some of the walls and obelisks had retracted, while a new batch had sprung up in their stead. He had little doubt the spiked pits had done likewise, drastically altering the landscape of the Colosseum — and rendering his primary advantage useless. Grumbling, he clambered to his feet and kicked the durasteel wall with his boot. The clarion ring of the eight meter tall plinth echoed around him and an idea began to take shape.

Turning his gaze upward, the Kiffar spotted the metallic glint of a holocam drone whizzing by overhead. With a grasping gesture, he reached out to it with the Force, pulling against the hovering droid and dragging it down towards him. It resisted his efforts, but Terran knew that if size mattered not, neither did momentum. Whirring in protest, the drone reached a point a meter above the Arconan’s head. Relaxing his telekinetic tug just enough to keep the drone stabilized in midair, Terran bent his knees and channeled his energies into his limbs. He leapt atop the droid, bouncing lightly off its metallic skin, and crested the metal obstruction. The Gray Jedi could feel his Odanite foe on the far side of the arena, hiding in nearly the same spot. Turning towards the sensation’s source - and savoring the feel of the Force coursing through his extremities - the Kiffar leapt a half dozen meters to the next durasteel wall.

With the Force to guide his steps, Terran moved swiftly from barrier to barrier like a stone skipping across the surface of a pond. Avoiding the pits and traps that littered the arena floor, the Arconan’s Force-fueled leaps ate the distance to the arena’s edge like a Hutt gobbling crunchbugs. As he neared the Colosseum’s perimeter, the durasteel walls shifted again and he saw his next target recede into the arena’s sandy floor. Tucking in his limbs, the Kiffar hit the ground hard, rolling to absorb as much of the impact as possible before flowing fluidly to his feet.

Shaking his head - and knowing he’d be covered in a single, giant bruise come morning - he tried to push the litany of aches and pains from his mind and focus. He could see the ethereal outline of Turel running for a spot a dozen meter away, but of the Jedi himself there was no sign. Even the Force was suddenly bare, devoid of the Proconsul’s signature. Alright, time to lure him out.

“I once tracked a Krayt Dragon through Tatooine’s Dune Sea with nothing but a compass and a canteen,” shouted the Kiffar, slowly stalking in the outline’s wake. Splitting his concentration, the Arconan dampened his own Force signature. No reason to give him an edge if he’s not in a position to see me. “Don’t think I can’t find you,” he called, resheathing his lightsaber and pulling the remaining glop grenade from his belt. “Why don’t we settle this face-to-face, like men?”

Terran was nearly to the outline’s endpoint when he heard a shuffling of sand behind him. The Kiffar spun on a cred chit, leveling his blaster and firing off a trio of golden bolts before his eyes could register the origin of the sound. When his mind caught up to his hands, he groaned internally, knowing he’d been out thought. A pair of metallic tendrils protruding from two different holes lay flaccidly on the ground, apparently stunned by his blasterfire. Sonuvabantha! He felt himself tense for the blow he knew was coming…but it didn’t fall. A second shuffling sounded, again from behind him, and the Arconan spun to find five more of the tentacles, each rising from separate equidistant pits.

“Really?” the Kiffar japed, his voice rife with disappointment and irritation. “Haven’t we done this number already? I mean, what’s the deal with you and tentacles? Does Vorsa have some vines hiding under those robes?”

Gathering his concentration and letting his presence-concealing veil falter, Terran took another step and pushed against the illusion. It refused to budge, and the durasteel dianoga’s tentacles slithered closer to him. Sighing, he ignored the sensory sham and took another step forward. A sharp click was his only warning before a burst of white adhesive coated his legs. His blue eyes darted down to the glop grenade mostly buried in the arena’s sandy floor, and he cursed his own inattentiveness. He must have tossed it over here and buried it telekinetically, setting it off the same way. At least the sand helped mitigat— Then the tentacles seemed to leap towards him, wrapping swiftly around the Aedile and pinning his arms in place. Seriously? Why bother maintaining the illusion now?

Ahem. The thought popped into Terran’s mind just as the metallic tendrils began to tighten around the Kiffar’s chest. That’s not me, he heard as his Jedi foe stepped into view, somehow still grinning around the blood and drool that coated his mangled jaw. With a half-strangled groan, the Arconan tried to force his lungs to breathe past the tentacles’ crushing weight. Turel’s amethyst saber snap-hissed to life, humming arcs around the captured Kiffar, and the pressure on his ribcage lessened as the decapitated appendages fell free.

This, the Human taunted, cocking back his free arm, on the other hand, is. The Proconsul’s fist pistoned forward, repeatedly pummeling Terran’s jaw. The Kiffar fought to keep his eyes open, to deaden the pain even as it washed through his vision, painting the world a sickly red to match the Jedi’s bloody snarl.

A tide of malice and bloodlust surged from the audience and, for a few moments, Turel let it wash over him. He could feel them willing every strike, as he inflicted the same pain and humiliation Terran had inflicted on him minutes prior. The excruciating pain that flared in his shattered jaw with every breath only served to fuel his need to exact blood for blood. Turel’s lavender saber deactivated as he brought its pommel to bear in a single blow right between the Kiffar’s eyes. The soft tissue of the Arconan’s nose gave way to metal resulting in a howl of pain. Now we’re even, he thought as he reveled in his opponent’s suffering.

Before Turel could land another blow he was knocked back two paces by a desperate telekinetic shove to the chest. The Kiffar was free of the metallic tentacles but his legs were rooted by the thick adhesive. Though less effective when mixed with sand, it was still enough to form a firm, yet breakable, cement-like mixture. The now hardened substance cracked and gave way with sufficient force. It would take a few seconds of struggling before he could evade, seconds Terran didn’t have.

Undaunted, the Odanite quickly closed the distance to resume his unarmed attack. The dull roar of the arena seemed to pause in anticipation as Turel drew back his arm for the opening blow. The Jedi could feel the Jensaari drawing on the Force as he approached and hoped to strike before his opponent could take advantage of it. His first swing missed as Terran leaned backwards and out of the way. With a continuous motion he grabbed the Jedi’s forearm with both hands and held tight. The Human started jerking his arm back when violet tendrils of Force energy shot into his flesh. With Terran pumping electricity directly into his body, Turel had no chance to dodge or deflect the attack. Blood and spittle flew from the Jedi’s broken mouth as he let out a guttural cry of agony. The attack lasted for what seemed like minutes, when only seconds had gone by.

Terran slumped over at the waist from the physical and emotional exhaustion of the lighting attack, his legs still rooted in place. He had to tap into a deep well of fear and anger to manifest the currents of raw energy. It may not have been the most efficient use of his stamina but it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances. Turel lay on the ground next to him, nursing his now smoking right forearm, barely able to to move after the sustained muscle spasm across his entire body. The roar of the crowd returned like a surging tide, electrified by yet another reversal in an exciting match.

The Kiffar instinctively brought his left hand up to his now broken and bloody nose. “Ahh-that smarts.” He slowly lifted his head to face his stunned opponent, still cupping his crushed nasal cavity and struggling to keep his swelling eyes open. “That wasn’t very Jedi of you,” he spat with as much sarcasm as he could muster for the cameras. The Human only offered a low moan in retort. Terran smiled. “That’s what they all say.”

Turning his attention to the makeshift cement at his feet, the Arconan willed his leg muscles to fight through the fatigue and finish breaking free. He started with his right leg, slowly pulling it through the cracked adhesive then using the heel of his free boot to crack the cement on the other leg. Terran wobbled and nearly fell forward once both legs were free. Steadying himself, the former Jensaarai focused inward for a moment to center in the Force and replenish some of the reserves he expended.

By this time Turel was fighting off the effects of the attack and struggling to sit up. Terran walked over and placed his boot on the Human’s chest, applying just enough pressure to hold him down. “Whoa there extra crispy, take a rest.” The Kiffar noticed the Human reaching for the saber he had dropped after taking a few excruciating seconds of Force lighting. “I’ll just borrow this,” he taunted as the saber flew into his outstretched hand and out of the Jedi’s reach.

An echo in the Force drew the Kiffar’s attention to the saber. A mental whisper at best, but one that seemed to speak to his core. The sensation was a familiar one as he could extract truths impressed into objects by their owners. For him to be drawn to an object in this way, the associated memory must have been significant to his opponent. With Turel literally underfoot, the Arconan indulged his curiosity and let his mind flow.

The translucent currents of time and the Force coalesced into a vision. Turel paced in a room Terran could barely distinguish. He felt the Human’s anxiety and smoldering rage, contained only skin deep. A roar of many-lingual voices echoed faintly in the very stone around him and it made the Human jump in his boots.

As suddenly as Turel’s anger rose, it subsided, tempered and pushed back by something...deeper. His Master stepped out from the shadows, her presence filling the room instantly. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on your way to the cell blocks?” Terran heard the Human speak, in dull and muffled tones, like out of a dream.

A look of deep concern came over the Neti’s face. “In due time. You need my attention more.” Her galant form approached her apprentice, like specter walking through smoke, and gently placed a hand on his cheek. “You are letting your need for revenge consume you. Let it go.”

The human seemed to wince, the rage lingering on his features even under his Master’s touch. “All those innocents she killed...I have to make her pay somehow. Terran is just in my way.”

“Do not forget why we are here. Selika will be dealt with, but not today. The prisoners below will be executed if we do not do something about it. Preserve life, then bring justice.”

The anger receded like ice melting in spring. As the Human looked into the Neti’s eyes Terran could feel the profound depth of the connection between the two. It wasn’t something he could put into words, to call it love would cheapen it.

Soundless words were passed, only their eyes speaking a conversation the Kiffar could not understand, as Vorsa leaned over and kissed Turel on the forehead. “I believe in you.”

The Kiffar snapped back to reality. Still processing what he had just seen and felt, he neglected to notice he moved away from his opponent. The Jedi still lay on his back, only waving one free hand in the air. I’m beaten, you’ve won. Go claim your victory. Turel’s words reverberated inside Terran’s mind, slowly eroding any doubt.

“Victory is mine.” The Kiffar stated with growing confidence to himself as he turned around to face the Dark Council, brandishing the Jedi’s saber high in the air. “Victory is mine!” He barely registered the Human’s Force signature disappearing from the edges of his perception. What did it matter anyway? The match was over.

The sensation of cold durasteel against the back of his head and the unmistakable sound of a slugthrower’s safety disengaging snapped Terran back into the moment. “Sithspit!” He cursed himself for falling for such a novice mental trick.

Turel stood behind his opponent with his attention firmly focused on one spectator in particular. Pravus silently folded his arms, seemingly making no effort to prevent a violation of his no kill edict. The whole crowd waited with baited breath to see whether the Jedi would murder his opponent in cold blood. He was too far away from the stands to see for sure but he could feel Selika’s smirk, willing him to pull the trigger. It was either pull the trigger or resume the fight, there was no other way out of the stalemate. In Turel’s current condition, Terran would surely prevail if the fight resumed. This was his final gambit.

The Guardian called on the last of his Force reserves to deaden the nerves in his jaw. He wanted everyone to hear this.

“You win.”

Turel tossed the pistol aside, never breaking eye contact with Pravus. “I’m done with this farce.” A chorus of boos erupted from the crowd. Terran gave the Guardian a puzzled look as he followed his line of sight, only to lock gazes with the Grand Master himself. He turned and saw no fear in Turel’s eyes, only defiance.

As the Jedi turned to leave Terran muttered, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He tossed the saber back to its owner, knowing he’d need it to help his master down below.

Don’t get yourself killed in here. Celevon needs you, take care of him for me. Terran smiled at his opponent’s words and gave a mock salute.