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.

A warm breeze stirred the sands of the arena, washing over the crimson stains left from previous combatants. More blood would be spilled this day, Turel felt it in his very core. The Grand Master was as unquenchable as the sand itself — no amount of suffering and death seemed enough to sate him and his esoteric goals. The crowd likewise yearned to see the Jedi bleed once again, their collective malice pricking him though Force like thousands of tiny needles.

The colosseum floor was clear of the various traps and obstacles that had appeared in the prior rounds, but Turel knew the treacherous venue would not stay that way for long. As he stepped forward into the center of the arena, the roar of the crowd slowly rose like a rolling peal of thunder.

The ruby glow of the evening sun in the Odanite’s gaze made it difficult to see through the shifting sands. As he shielded his eyes and squinted, a violet- and olive-hued figure took shape in front of him, her lower robes fluttering in the breeze like blooming branches of a willow tree. Selika Roh Di Plagia, the reason Turel had come to this tournament in the first place. He had eagerly anticipated this moment for months. This was a chance to strike back at her for all the senseless suffering she had caused on New Tython, all those lives lost. Fathers, daughters, sons, brave members of the city watch, all swept away in the Di Plagia’s ongoing game against Turel and Vorsa. They were mere pieces on the board to the Krath heiress. She cared not for their stories or the loved ones they left behind. That callous indifference fueled an anger within the Jedi that few things could. And Selika not only knew that, but counted on it.

That same anger threatened to consume the Jedi since that fateful encounter. He had recited the names of the victims like a prayer for justice each day in the weeks leading up to the tournament. In truth, this quest was about vengeance, no matter what lies he told himself. That lust for vengeance had driven him through all the horrors and tribulations of the Grand Master’s tournament. The moment he envisioned, facing down his nemesis, had finally arrived. He had thought he was done with the arena when he threw down his weapon and walked out last round. He had thought he had resisted the stirring krayt dragon inside that was his righteous fury.

He was wrong.

Selika couldn’t help but flash a mischievous smile as she tasted Turel’s barely restrained fury rippling through the Force. The fact that he struggled so vehemently to contain the flames of his passion made it that much more delicious. She had awaited this moment with growing anticipation as well, a chance to finish what she started on New Tython, to corrupt one of the Jedi councilors of Odan-Urr in front of the entire Brotherhood, to make a man who shunned his own darkness see just how wrong he was.

The whirring of hover drones grew louder against the dull roar of the crowd as they struggled to keep steady in the evening breeze. For a few tense moments, the two combatants just stood opposite each other in silence, theirs a conflict that spanned far beyond any one arena. The winds died down with such perfect timing that it was almost as if the Force itself had ordained the grand struggle between darkness and light to play out between the two.

Selika broke the silence first. “I can feel your anger, Turel.” She brought her free hand to her bosom in a mocking gesture. “I’m touched you’ve been thinking about me all this time.”

For once in his life, the Odanite didn’t have a witty retort on hand. Vorsa’s earlier charge to him replayed in his mind: “You are letting your need for revenge consume you. Let it go.” He took a deep breath and focused on his connection to the Neti. Her heartache as she watched from the Dark Council dais was palpable to him. Their mission to save the prisoners below had failed, and he had allowed himself to be captured to cover her escape and protect her identity. Now, he was forced back into the arena and she had to watch in silence. Her anxiety resonated through their bond, but so did her light, her unshakable faith in him, even when he didn’t believe in himself. He basked in that glow and steeled his resolve. He would prevail, but he would win as a Jedi. He would not succumb. His true enemy in this arena was not the Di Plagia — it was himself.

Turel unclipped his saber from his belt and held it at his side unactivated. “You’ll have plenty of time to think about me after I beat you and send you back to your Dread Lord with your tail between your legs.”

The Krath held her own saber tight in her right hand as she laughed playfully at her opponent. “Such tough talk,” she cooed. “You really do believe you’re some kind of hero. Oh, this will be more satisfying than I could have possibly imagined.”

Before Turel could reply, he caught Pravus making a noticeable hand gesture out of the corner of his eye. The floor of the colosseum shook violently as ancient mechanisms sprung to life all around them beneath the surface. The screech of rock grinding against rock filled the arena as circular sections of the floor slid aside to reveal four chasms equidistant from the arena’s center leading to the chambers below. As the grating continued four stone obelisks rose from each of the open holes. Finally, the arena’s shifting stopped as round platforms rose from the open maws and clicked into place one meter off the arena floor. Each of the four plateaus had an onyx colored-stone obelisk in its center with humanoid figures chained to each of their four faces. Sixteen hapless souls found themselves unwitting participants to the unfolding contest.

Surprise gave way to horror as Turel recognized the faces of the very undesirables he and Vorsa had been trying to smuggle out in shackles before him. Vorsa’s pain and anguish hit him across their connection as she came to the same realization. The tidal wave of emotion battering him was almost too much to bear: the prisoner’s terror, the crowd’s bloodlust, his own shame and anger.

Then, he felt it. He felt Selika’s near giddiness at this turn of events. The perfect tool for tormenting her Jedi opponent had been thrown into her lap. Turel looked dead into the Di Plagia’s eyes as the dragon inside him roared and tore at its psychic chains.

A scheming smirk shot across Selika’s dark lips. “Catch me if you can.” She raised her free hand toward the Odanite who flicked his saber on in turn. Before the Jedi could bring his blazing amethyst weapon to bear, a single bolt of raw Force energy leapt across the distance between them, finding its mark in Turel’s chest. With her opponent stunned on the ground, smoke rising from the burn mark on his clothes, Selika took off toward the obelisk closest to the Dark Council’s dais. She wanted Vorsa to see this as well.

A quartet of amber-furred Cathar lined the facets of Selika’s targeted obelisk. Their similar markings and matching, albeit filthy and torn, gray clothing made their familial relation readily apparent. The largest one, an adult male, was covered in blood and bruises, nearly unconcious. A slightly smaller adult, visibly female, drew blood from her wrists as she desperately pulled at her chains to reach her two cubs restrained behind her on adjacent faces of the obelisk. The cubs mewled for their mother in a terrified and almost incoherent manner. Their fear only served as fuel for the approaching Krath’s fire.

Turel struggled to will his frozen muscles to move and get up. The roar of the crowd reached a crescendo after the excitement of the opening blow. He had no choice but to play the Grand Master’s sick game. He had to subdue Selika or innocents would die.

Selika closed the distance between herself and her target quickly, taking a moment to steal a glance at the dais where V’yr Vorsa, Herald of the Brotherhood, stood alongside the Grand Master. The woman’s face was once against steeled into the angry look that Selika saw all to often, but the turmoil underneath was still evident

Good, Selika thought.

Then, with a suddenness that was almost jarring, a tingling sensation erupted at the base of Selika’s neck. Having long ago learned how to interpret the vague warnings through the Force that were what passed for her vision of future events, Selika threw herself sideways to the ground. In the same instant she moved, the crack of Turel’s slugthrower filled the arena. His projectile whizzed through the space that her legs had just vacated, ripping through the lower robe that trailed from her waist. Hitting the ground with a roll, Selika sprang back to her feet to face her attacker, a translucent barrier solidifying slowly in front of her outstretched palm.

“You’re shooting low,” Selika said mockingly as the wind began to pick up once again. “Don’t you trust yourself not to accidentally hit one of your precious prisoners?”

Turel made no reply. His weapon, held in a two handed grip, pointed square at Selika’s chest now that she was no longer in line with the Cathar atop the obelisk.

“Or maybe it’s something else,” the Plagueian continued conspiratorially as the setting sun dropped below the arena walls. “Maybe you don’t know if your bloodlust will get the best of you. What’s the matter, Turel? Feeling like you might take some…draconian action?”

Turel’s eyes narrowed as Selika felt the anger within the ranger struggle once more to assert itself, but he kept his symbolic dragon in chains. “Don’t think I won’t put you down if you turn your back, woman.”

The self-assured smirk that had dominated Selika’s face slipped as she realized the truth of what Turel said. Before, when they had faced one another in the streets of Menat Ombo, Turel had gone to a dark place that had made him powerful. It had taken all she had to give to best him in their fight, and all the false bravado she could muster to project an air of confidence at its conclusion. She had seen the introduction of the prisoners as her advantage, the Grand Master using her as a tool to exact some retribution after Turel’s behavior in the prior round. Instead, those prisoners had changed the rules of the game. Turel was no longer shackled by Darth Pravus’s decree that no lives would be taken in his tournament, and Selika had been deprived of the protection that the rule had offered in her effort to turn the Odanite councilor. Selika suddenly realized that Turel was now quite capable of achieving his revenge in a way that would allow him to remain devout to the light, not as cold blooded murder, but in the defense of others. It was a realization that quickly progressed to fear.

“You’d shoot a woman in the back?” Selika inquired, managing to project a level of poise that she didn’t actually feel. “How very un-Jedi like.”

Turel’s only answer was to discharge his weapon again. The flash of the muzzle was followed almost instantly by the impact of the slug, a force so violent that it sent cracks radiating outward across the face of the shield that Selika projected. A slugthrower was notoriously harder to saber-block than a blaster, and her limited skill in creating Force barriers meant she would be able to do little else other than protect herself from his shots. Moving again towards the prisoners was out of the question. In fact, the only real option was not one that Selika usually favored.

Thumbing the activator on her saber, Selika leapt forward towards Turel as her violet blade snapped to life in the dim twilight. The twenty meters that separated them evaporated in the face of Selika’s long strides. Turel fumbled to pull his saber from the place on his belt where he had clipped it after switching to his pistol. The di Plagia opened with a wild, sweeping Djem So attack that zeroed in on his upper torso as Turel ignited his weapon. Still seeking to holster his slugthrower with his left hand, Turel’s one handed saber block with his right was awkward and weak. Selika battered aside his weapon and was able to slash at him again by reversing the direction of her blade. Only by dropping forward to his knees was Turel able to avoid the saber, but the rifle slung across his back was not so lucky. The violet beam sliced across the firearm’s receiver at an angle, nearly cleaving it in half. While still technically in one piece, it would now be impossible to fire.

With both hands now firmly on his hilt, Turel rose to his feet after Selika’s blade had passed. His saber lashed out to crash against Selika’s weapon, the two blades locking together leaving the adversaries nearly face to face. Trying to find a quip or taunt to fling at her opponent, Selika found that none were forthcoming.

“You’re sweating, dearie,” mused Turel, a look of grim determination contrasting with his sarcastic tone.

Breaking the lock, Selika sent her saber arcing toward Turel’s left arm. The two weapons slammed together a second time, but the sound of their meeting seemed to reverberate into the distance with far more strength than it should. Suddenly realizing that the sound was thunder, Selika looked up to see dark clouds rolling in quickly over the arena from the horizon opposite the setting sun. Her focus on the Odanite had left her oblivious to the oncoming tempest. As the storm front passed over them, warm desert rain began to pelt the arena. At first it was only a drizzle, but it quickly grew in intensity. Jedi and Sith continued their conflict, their sabers dancing through the water while leaving wisps of vapor in their wake as droplets flashed into steam upon contact with the blades.

The arena lights sprang to life, banishing darkness in order to keep the spectators entertained. Along with them, whoever was at the controls of the various obstacles set to work as well. Selika and Turel were now dodging arcs of electricity or gouts of flame as well as one another’s attacks. The combatants, both skilled in the defensive arts of Soresu, were like two immovable objects, neither yet able to assert their dominance as the irresistible force.

“So you are capable of a stand-up fight,” Turel said mockingly, his almost playful affectation speaking to how he was now more in his element. “We weren’t sure you had it in you.”

“Shut up!” Selika spat in reply. Trying to do anything to break his focus, she twisted tendrils of the Force into an illusion of a blast of flame coming out of the ground at Turel’s feet. The Jedi simply stood within the image, his head giving a subtle shake.

“Really?” he asked dismissively, his weapon thrusting towards her chest.

Selika deflected his blade aside as the arena was filled with a blinding flash and the sky above them was split with thunder. The storm had let loose a massive bolt of lightning, seemingly mocking Selika’s opening move. The bolt slammed into the arena structure opposite the Grand Master’s dais, energy crackling along inadequately shielded conduits. Lights flashed, holo display screens went dark, and the arena floor began to rumble.

The arena’s systems, overloaded by the energy, were deploying all their obstacles at once. Massive stone obelisks rumbled from the ground as fire and electricity filled the arena. Selika and Turel both were forced apart, too much of their attention needed to prevent the arena from killing them to waste time with one another. Selika dropped to roll under a flame burst as she caught electricity on her blade. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the mechanisms ground to a halt. The arena was now a tangled maze of stone and metal constructs, a veritable forest. Selika looked out to where she felt Turel standing, a narrow path clear of obstructions allowing her to see the Ordinate standing with a look of wide-eyed shock that surely mirrored her own. Then, all at once, the lights flickered out as all power failed and the entire arena was plunged into darkness.

Now unable to see her adversary, Selika sensed the shift in his emotions. The bond flowing between him and Vorsa was almost glowing in the Force. Selika’s mind tumbled to what had happened a few moments after Turel’s had.

The power...all the security systems are down. He’s going to make a play to free them.

The rules of the game had shifted once more. Turel now had a path towards the victory he really wanted: the freedom of the Undesirables.

A cacophony of shouting erupted from the crowd as the spectators either scrambled for shelter or resisted the Royal Guardsmen attempting to keep order. The chaotic noise of the crowd was blunted by the soothing sound of heavy rain and peals of thunder across the sky. The sporadic flashes of light from the storm revealed the Dark Council, minus Valhavoc, sitting stoically under the protective awning which covered the dias. The Fist was out in the rain, coordinating his guardsmen to maintain the venue’s security. Of the assembled Dark Councilors, two remained fixated past the surrounding chaos and on the arena floor, Pravus and Vorsa. Neither needed light to see what was happening below as the eternal conflict continued to play out.

A profound sense of urgency drove Turel’s muscles as he ducked and darted through the metallic forest of shattered obstacles. Errant flashes of lighting illuminated his path as he raced to take advantage of the brief opportunity. Lives were at stake and time was not on his side. He arrived at the obelisk restraining the Cathar family from earlier. The cubs shivered in the pouring rain as they stretched to hold each other’s hands across the corner of the stone edifice. The father remained unconscious while the mother had collapsed to her knees with her arms suspended in the air. The cubs cried in terror as Turel ignited his amethyst saber, the rain making a hissing sound as the droplets dissolved upon the plasma blade. With a few swift strikes the entire family was free of their chains.

“Can you walk?” the Jedi inquired of the terrified family. He removed his black leather jacket and handed it to the female, whose amber fur grew darker as it soaked up the rain. “It’s not much but it’s all I’ve got.”

The mother ushered her cubs to her while her mate leaned on her shoulder for support. “Yes, I think so. Where do we go?”

Turel pointed his weapon toward the entrance Selika had come from. “There’s an exit that way, just follow the wall if you get lost. Watch out for openings in the ground. The entrance ramp should keep you out of the storm.” He deactivated his lightsaber lest he draw too much attention to himself.

“But then what?” the female inquired with a fear in her voice that only a mother could muster.

“Just get out of here before the lights come back on. Everything will be fine,” he lied. He knew deep down this was a futile gesture. Pravus would never let an undersirable walk out from under his nose. It was one of the hardest lies he had ever told in his life, but it was one he had to tell. He had to try to get these people out, no matter how slim the odds.

After the family scurried off with his prized jacket, the Jedi rushed toward his next target, hoping to save four more before the lights came back on. He felt Selika in front of him — she had gotten there first. But he also felt four very terrified sentients next to her.

It was a trap, and he had no choice but to spring it.

Turel ignited his lavender blade a few paces away from the obelisk. A flash of lightning revealed Selika standing on the platform, her already revealing attire now clinging tightly to her every curve. Her face remained flat and devoid of emotion as she ignited her own blade in turn. The soft amethyst glow from the Krath’s saber illuminated two male and two female Miraluka, all adults with matching blonde hair.

The dragon inside returned as Turel steeled himself to make a move. Selika had harmed innocents in his presence before just to get to him, and he had no doubt she would do it again. “IF YOU HARM SO MUCH AS A HAIR ON THEIR HEADS, I’LL TEAR YOU APART WITH MY BARE HANDS, YOU WITCH!” he cried out through the raging storm. A second burst of lighting reflected the intensity in his eyes. It was no idle threat. The psychic chains which held his wrath at bay were nearly broken.

Then he felt it. The Jedi felt the Krath’s genuine fear. She dared not move and though her face remained outwardly calm, her growing horror was palpable through the currents of the Force. Part of the Odanite reveled in it. The woman who had caused him pain and humiliated him before was now under his power.

The momentary intoxication brought on by the Di Plagia’s fear quickly passed before Turel was struck by the ramifications. Selika held no regard for mundane life. Her wickedness and wanton infliction of suffering in pursuit of her goals was near legend. Yet when she caught a glimpse of his true nature, she recoiled in fear. What kind of monster am I that a despicable witch like her fears me? He had felt Vorsa’s light dim, eclipsed by sadness, as his fury threatened to take him a few moments prior. Anger gave way to hesitation as the two opponents continued their standoff amidst the tempest.

Selika could sense Turel’s growing reluctance overtake his righteous fury. She had indeed feared what he was capable of, but now he waivered. An idea came to her: the same smug Jedi indignation that gave him strength and crystalline focus could also be turned to attack his resolve. All she had to do was keep sowing the seeds of doubt.

Both combatants were nearly blinded as the emergency lights in the arena flickered to life in a series of flashes before bathing the field in a steady stream of harsh white light. The Krath waited until her opponent made eye contact with her before raising her saber high. The Jedi tensed like a nexu ready to pounce, but before he could move Selika brought her saber down.

The chains fell from two of the very unharmed prisoners. A second flick of her saber saw the other two freed. Never breaking eye contact with Turel, she deactivated her saber and watched the look of utter shock on his face unfold.

“Get out of here,” Selika commanded when the Miraluka prisoners hesitated. She cared little for their mundane lives, but letting them go served her aims and drove wedges in the Jedi’s cracked psyche. She could feel her opponent’s confusion and growing inner turmoil at her sudden display of mercy.

Turel pointed his saber at the Di Plagia, desperately trying to regain some measure of control over the situation and make sense of what was happening. “This changes nothing between us,” he stated, his voice lacking the unshakable conviction of earlier.

“You misunderstand me.” Selika pushed ever so slightly at the edge of Turel’s mind, just a small nudge toward sympathy.

The Jedi shook his head as if resisting the intrusion. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but—”

The exchange was interrupted by the sound of crimson-clad guardsmen marching into place around the ring of the arena. Both combatants recognized them as sharpshooters of the Royal Guard. Selika’s gesture of mercy had not gone unnoticed by the Grand Master.

“Execute them,” Pravus’ Force-enhanced voice bellowed through the arena, cutting through the raging storm.

Selika and Turel both felt twinges of fear as they instinctively stood back to back with their sabers out, ready to deflect incoming bolts. They, however, were not the designated targets of the kill order. The guardsmen opened fire on the two remaining obelisks and the alcoves where the freed Miraluka and Cathar were hiding. The volley lasted only a few seconds, but their aim was precise. Not a single prisoner remained alive.

Turel fell to his knees as the sixteen deaths resonated through the Force. Selika felt it as well, but she was largely immune to such things. She started to back away from the Jedi for a moment as she sensed a maelstrom of emotion battering her opponent’s resolve. She reconsidered as she realized she was not the target of his ire this time.

“You may resume,” the Grand Master commanded in an almost nonchalant manner. Clearly, the prisoners were pieces he’d placed on the board of this contest. When Selika didn’t use them in the way he anticipated, he had them removed from play.

Seeing an opportunity, the Krath deactivated her saber and approached her reeling adversary. She gently placed a hand on his face and reached out through the Force to his mind. “I am not your enemy here. Pravus is.”

The sentimental rollercoaster the Jedi had been through during the fight had clearly left his mind vulnerable as he repeated Selika’s words as if sleepwalking, “You are not my enemy here, Pravus is.” Turel rose and began a deliberate march toward the Dark Council’s dias.

Selika gripped her saber tight as the distracted Jedi turned his back to her. She shadowed his footsteps like a patient predator, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Selika stole a glance up at the dais, her narrowed eyes seeking out the Grand Master. Pravus could be so very infuriating at times. On the one hand, her performance while setting the prisoners free had been convincing enough for Pravus to swallow. On the other hand, he had then acted on that belief in the ham fisted manner that most in possession of absolute power often did. In shooting down the prisoners, Selika had been deprived of the tools that she required for her aims. The sentients who Turel had been desperate to protect had offered avenues to inflict pain more lasting than what could be inflicted by a lightsaber. Now, however, they were gone. Yes, Pravus’s action probably restored the protection offered by the rules he had imposed, but those benefits were far outweighed by the wrench thrown into Selika’s plans.

Worse yet, Pravus had now taken her place in Turel’s mind as the evil to be fought. Pravus was the grand, cliched evil that was easy for the Jedi to fight in a way that fit within his precious moral code. It wasn’t the visceral, personal anger that Selika created in him. It was, most importantly, not a path to the dark side. Although Selika would not admit it, even to herself, her mind trick sending Turel against the Grand Master was probably at least partially motivated by wanting to inconvenience Pravus in retaliation for his meddling. The lie she told herself was that it was more about witnessing Turel being thoroughly manhandled.

Selika’s eyes returned to watch Turel as he made his way through the arena towards his new target. She smiled at his gait, akin to that of one of Nar Shaddaa’s most accomplished drunkards. Then, as if the ancient gods themselves were speaking, a sharp voice reverberated through the Force.

“FOCUS!”

V’yr Vorsa’s sharp command was loud and clear in the Force, traveling along the bond that joined her and Turel. Selika only heard it clearly due to how physically close she was to the intended recipient, but most of the Force sensitives within the arena felt something even if they could not discern the words.

“Your true enemy stands behind you,” Vorsa continued, her eyes closed and mouth unmoving. “It is not Pravus’s time, yet.”

Selika had just the barest of moments to reignite her lightsaber before Turel’s weapon swung around as he spun to face her. The blades clashed together once more before Selika disengaged her block and slashed at his legs. As Turel parried her strike and followed with one of his own, Selika began to silently berate herself. She’d had the man at her mercy, battered in spirit if not in body. Instead of taking the simple path towards victory in the struggle that Pravus had placed before them, she’d instead sought out another way to achieve her goal of bringing about the Odanite Councilor’s downfall. She had also underestimated the strength of the bond between the Neti and Human.

As the two fought, they slashed gouges in the arena’s obstacles, their weapons finding metal or stone but never flesh. The twin amethyst blades refracted their light through the sheen of falling rain, appearing like an expressionist reimagining of the great Mon Calamari ballets. The crowd, many having returned to their seats regardless of the rain, watched with rapt attention. Their cheers rose with every grand blow and fell as each in turn was blocked or pushed aside by the combatants, the tension rising along with their bloodlust. Selika knew that she and Turel were nearly equal in the form both of them favored, but she could feel Turel beginning to slow as the combat began to wear on him.

Let him wear down, she thought. Just what you always do - let him tire and then you can strike.

Just as Selika had decided on a final strategy, the rug was quite literally pulled out from under her feet. Taking a step backwards to avoid one of Turel’s slashes, Selika’s left foot encountered rain-slicked metal instead of the more stable arena floor. As opposed to a firm step, her boot slipped across the metal surface and she toppled to the ground. Selika dropped her weapon in an effort to try to shield her head with her arms. Even with that, stars seemed to burst momentarily before her vision upon impact. Rolling over onto her back as her vision cleared, she found Turel standing over her with his blade pointed down at her. Selika’s hand, held palm upwards before her face to shield it from the rain, was inches away from the blade’s tip.

“I would suggest that you capitulate,” Turel said, his voice still a bit unsteady.

Selika’s mind raced as she searched for some sort of stratagem to turn the tables back in her favor. Her eyes looked to Turel, then darted to the crowd. She saw Darth Pravus sitting forward in his chair, watching with interest to see the conclusion of the match. Her eyes moved again to those seated near the Grand Master and then stopped suddenly. There: that was the face that promised her a way to victory, and perhaps to her ultimate goal as well.

“Well?” Turel asked.

Selika said nothing, drawing the Force to her. With a few seconds’ worth of concentration, she was ready to act. As Turel shrugged his shoulders and moved to make a disabling strike, Selika squeezed her eyes shut and released the energy held within her. A flash of light erupted from her palm like a solar flare, blinding all those looking towards it. Turel’s vision was no different, momentarily given over to featureless white. Selika rolled aside as Turel’s wild blow slashed through the ground she had lain upon, picking up her discarded weapon as she did so. Getting to her feet, she ran quickly towards the Grand Master’s dais while projecting her most potent Force command into the mind of her new target.

“Climb down to me. Use the obstacles nearest you.”

Turel’s vision cleared and revealed that Selika was gone. He still felt her presence in the arena, moving somewhere along the edge of the pit. He could just sense that someone else was now with her, but he could not make out the details amidst the roiling emotions of the crowd.

“So, you finally showed me your weakness,” Selika’s telepathically amplified voice echoed through both the arena and his mind as he moved towards her. “I should have known. Your weakness and my true adversary.”

Turel said nothing, instead closing the distance that separated them.

“Why do you think Pravus forced her to place me on her staff, hmm? It was so that at some later time, I could do this.”

Turel stepped around a stone pillar into a sheltered, open space surrounded by metal and stone obstacles. Within it, he saw what appeared to be his enemy holding her saber blade to Vorsa’s throat. His mind confused from being jerked first one way and then another, his link to Vorsa muddied, Turel now let loose his chained inner dragon and charged, his weapon leading the way. Only one thought now filled his mind.

Monsters like you don’t deserve to live!

Turel buried his saber into the torso of his target nearly to the hilt. All Selika could do was smile.

“Oh, honey…” she mocked him as she allowed the momentary illusion to fade.

Selika had not been holding her blade on Vorsa. She had taken a different hostage, a boy charitably appearing to be nearly twenty years old. The illusion she’d projected had mirrored their positions, so Turel now found his blade impaled into the chest of an innocent instead of his enemy. And worse, an innocent he knew.

“Walsh,” he whispered.

Brin Walsh, only son of Keth Walsh, had come to see Turel beat the woman who had killed his father in their small inn near the center of Menat Ombo’s Visulu Marketplace. The boy had been devastated by the death of his father, the first death that Turel had witnessed at Selika’s hand, the first Turel had allowed to happen. Selika had used her mental trickery to coerce Brin down into the arena and set him up as a target for Turel’s rage. The shocked expression on the boy’s face reflected the utter horror on Turel’s like a funhouse mirror. Selika released her grip on the boy, allowing him to drop to the ground in a heap. Turel fell to his knees along with him, the tears streaming down his face hidden by the rain.

Walking out from the small theater-like enclosure where she had staged the final drama of the evening, Selika saw a determined Vorsa hurrying to her apprentice.

Selika smirked. “I wonder if you’ll be able to put him back together again,” she chided Vorsa, the Herald glaring angrily as she passed.