To walk upon the surface of Nancora is to take a path akin to a death sentence. That is how it earned its moniker: the Badlands. The Nancora system's star scorched the earth long ago, leaving a barren, sun-bleached surface behind. The soil remains as nothing but dust and left to the winds mercy. But there is none, as dust storms can form without warning and charge across the wastelands as roaring behemoths. The only shelter to be found lies scattered in the form of ruins of a time long past.

Spires and wreckage claw up through the cracked surface, giving the appearance of a planet-spanning junkyard. It is there that the Technocratic Guild gathers much of their resources, repurposing what once was into materials for new fabrications. At the same time, the most dangerous of these ruinous death-traps show the signs of the Technocratic elite's rigorous training. With a central spire rising from beneath a mound of wreckage, fresh scorch marks pocket the landscape of rising dunes in a circular clearing alongside the sand scraped remains of those who failed. A labyrinthian ring of partially unearthed structures closes in this area, providing some semblance of cover from the passing storms but nearly as dangerous themselves due to their weakened state. One wrong step can lead to collapse.

Very few come to the Badlands of Nancora. Fewer still make it out again.

Has it really been two years?

A cloaked figure stepped over the remains of a collapsed durasteel storage shed. Eclipsed beneath the shadow of an armorweave hood, thin strands of raven hair veiled a pair of too-blue eyes that were squinting against the harsh sun overhead. The figure knew from experience that the dust storms came and went as they pleased. So, it was just a matter of being patient. He was not in a rush, but swallowed dryly and ground his teeth against the tiny granules of sand and sediment that had somehow gotten in his mouth. Yet even with the whipping winds of the Badlands tugging roughly at the edges of his grayscale cloak, an odd sense of familiarity seemed to permeate from the planet itself.

Nancora was much more than the barren, cracked terrain beneath his boots, afterall. While the Collective presence on the scorched world had all but faded, Marick Tyris could still feel the echoes of the Great Jedi War that had raged across its surface through the Force. It had not just been a major event for the Dark Brotherhood, but for the then-Voice as well.

Following the loss of the Brotherhood’s former flagship—the Suffering—Marick had personally lead a deep cover operation to infiltrate the Collective ranks. His goal had been to gather intelligence on the new rival organization and to determine their effective threat level. Looking back, however, that had not been Tyris' sole motivation. No. Marick had wanted revenge against this so called Collective for what they took from him. Who they had taken from him, that was.

In the years that followed, he had dedicated his every waking minute to fighting and combating the existence of the Collective. And while the former Voice’s watch was now over, he still felt drawn back to the place where it had all seemed to begin. Perhaps there were answers here. Perhaps—

As Marick passed beneath a metallic overhanging attached to a worn-down building, a warning flare from the Force flooded his awareness. Years of hard-earned reflexes lurched into action as the half-Hapan leapt up into the air, and tucked his knees into his chest. As he somersaulted through the air to safety, a heavy metal chassis, vaguely humanoid in shape, crashed down into the spot he had occupied a moment prior.

Marick landed deftly in a hunter's crouch a few meters away, the hilt of his lightsaber appearing in his hand but remaining inactive. His hood fell back, revealing a handsome man with smooth, pale skin and tightly trimmed full beard. He looked no older than thirty, but the dark creases under his eyes seemed to tell a different story.

His attacker, clearly a droid, was a different story. Marick quietly appraised what he knew to be a MagnaGuard. He idly took note of its obsidian paint job and what seemed to be a standard configuration of the popular prototype. The Master Assassin had battled his share of IG-100 model bodyguards before and was more than familiar with their coveted skill sets. Its lifeless eyes locked onto Marick as it pointed an accusatory metallic finger and spoke.

“This town is not big enough for the both of us,” the droid drawled in a robotic tone. It paused, somewhat dramatically, before finishing its statement, “Partner.”

Tyris blinked once. Had the heat had gotten to him, or had he been transported into one of Wyndell’s terrible old holofilms? The half-Hapan was not sure which scenario unnerved him more.

“No matter,” Marick muttered as he darted forward, his lightsaber hilt trailing out and to the side just below his hip.

Static energy crackled from the tips of the MagnaGuard’s now activated electro-staff. It spun the double-edged weapon adroitly around its long limbs before starting forward, eager to engage in close quarters combat with its quarry. It waited until the gap between them closed before staggering its grip and thrusting one end of its electro-staff out to intercept its charging adversary. Meanwhile, the droid’s sensors and programming prepared to capitalize on a calculated and anticipated lateral evasion for follow through.

Marick did not dodge to one side or the other. Instead, the Assassin darted low to the ground and with a surge of preternatural speed slipped under the extended tip of the electro-staff. In the same fluid motion, he ignited his lightsaber and sliced upwards into the MagnaGuard’s elbow. The violet blade with a black-core cut cleanly through the droid’s light-alloy plating. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the lightsaber blade retreated back into its emitter with a hiss. The MagnaGuard’s severed limb fell to the ground with a metallic thump.

To its credit, the IG-100 unit maintained its grip on its weapon with its remaining arm. It snapped the crackling staff downward in front of its body, forcing Marick to peel back from a potential follow up slash. Unperturbed, the MagnaDroid followed up with a frontal kick that, while it didn’t fully connect with the half-Hapan’s chest, still clipped his hip and forced him backwards.

“Challadan, stand down!” a powerful voice commanded. Both Tyris and the droid halted mid-movement and turned to address the speaker.

“Should have known it would not be that easy,” a tall Zabrak male stated as he shook his horned head. Stepping out from behind a pile of discarded junk and scrap metal, the Sith wore what could—by stretch of the imagination—be considered Journeyman-issued robes. They seemed to be lacking coverage for most of the Knight’s torso and arms, however.

Marick quickly scanned the Zabrak’s features as if he were a new display in a familiar market. The half-Hapan did not seem to need much else to identify him.

“Karran Val'teo,” the half-Hapan said as if he were reading directly off of a dossier from his datapad. His calm, lilted voice carried easily over the desolate terrain. “Spectre Cell, House Galeries,” he continued.

“And you must be him. Marick Tyris—former Voice, Combat Master, and...Shadow Lord?” the Zabrak replied, clearly straining his memory to keep from seeming unprepared. “I figured you would be older.”

“I am,” Marick replied, with a hint of weariness. His attention never left the Zabrak's waist, the bodies center of motion. He kept his unlit lightsaber hilt at the ready in front of him. “Who sent you?” he asked. “ Vasano? Rhylance? The Arconae?”

“No. I came on my own,” Val’teo replied. Marick could tell that banter was not his preferred avenue of communication, but his confidence never seemed to waiver in the slightest. “Talk is cheap. Everyone has told me what I should think of you. They have told me who you are, what you are, and what you did both to and for Arcona. Seeing as Arcona has become my home, I wanted to get the answers for myself.”

Karran held out his own lightsaber and thumbed the activation switch, the blade casting a faint crimson glow against his tanned skin. “So. Who are you?”

Marick did not offer a response. Karran grit his teeth, letting the beast within stir but not come fully to the surface. Brute strength would not win him this bout. That much was apparent after watching the initial exchange.

Val’teo glanced sideways over at his droid. “Challadan, do not interfere further. This is my fight—”

The Zabrak shifted his attention back towards Marick, but the cloaked man seemed to have vanished into thin air.

“Sithspit,” Karran swore as he focused his vision, looking for the telltale shimmer or ripple of light that would give away his opponents positions. It would not be the first Shadow he had faced since joining the Brotherhood, but Val’teo was beginning to get a bad feeling about this idea to seek out the former leader of the Inquisitorius

Karran swiveled his head around, looking for any sign of Marick. He turned his body, trying to maintain a position from which he could defend from all sides. But attempting to protect every angle only proved to divide his attention and make him dizzy. He stopped moving and planted his feet. The Zabrak shifted slightly, pushing the sand up in a pile next to his boot. He kept his lightsaber lit and gripped it in both hands defensively.

Val’teo closed his eyes and opened himself up to the Force, allowing it to flow through him and open his senses to his surroundings. The wind whipped around his body; it pulled at his robes, and caused his loose fitting pants to snap in the air current. Karran tensed his muscles and prepared for his opponent’s attack. He was beginning to think that perhaps Marick had cloaked himself and made an escape, instead of wasting his time with an opponent he felt was beneath him, until, that is, warning lights flashed in the back of his mind and he felt Marick’s presence behind him about to strike.

The violet blade erupted from its emitter as the assassin’s cloaking dropped away. Karran brought his blade over his head and aligned it with his spine to block the attack before he parried it away. He turned, pivoting on his left foot, dragging his right through the sand, and returned an overhanded strike diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip. The Sith’s blade passed through the air as he turned to face his opponent and found that the Shadow had once again disappeared from sight.

Karran growled in frustration at Marick’s tricks and felt the rage inside of himself stir once again, but again pushed it down. Once again, the Knight waited and opened himself up to the Force to gain a sense of awareness of the coming danger. He was not disappointed as it came. This time Marick struck from the right side. Karran blocked and parried once again, this time countering with a stab. Marick twisted his blade to parry the Zabrak’s thrust. He could not match the Zabrak’s strength, but was able to move the Sith’s saber enough to avoid being skewered. Sparks flew as he slid along the crimson blade, until the former Voice twisted his body around to bring the saber slashing across the Zabrak’s body. Karran took a hand off of his saber to reflexively summon a shield of Force energy. The black-cored lightsaber struck the barrier and reflected off as Marick continued his movement and spun off, disappearing into thin air once again.

Now that he had seen where his opponent had disappeared from, Karran focused on that spot, scouring it for any sign of movement. It came in the form of two small puffs of sand being kicked up, prompting Karran to lash out in the space he believed his opponent to be. Once again, he connected with nothing, which elicited another frustrated growl from the Sith. Karran felt warning lights in the back of his mind again and turned to face the threat. He came face to face with Marick rushing toward him. The Zabrak extended a hand toward the Shadow and with a moment of focus, pushed a wave of telekinetic power out toward his attacker.

Marick was thrown back by the wave, but with a catlike grace landed on his feet before sliding back about a meter. This momentary interruption allowed the Juggernaut the chance to mount an offensive against his opponent. Karran quickly closed the gap between the two and unleashed a barrage of strikes, executing combinations that he had practiced over and over. However, muscle memory could only serve him so well against a seasoned opponent like Marick. The Master flowed like a river, dodging Karran’s strikes, using his single blade to block and parry, giving ground to the Zabrak, for ground would not win this duel. All the while he was examining his larger opponent, looking for an opening, a minor hesitation, that he could exploit to end the engagement as fast as possible. He mentally categorized Karran’s weaknesses in descending order of most easily manipulated.

Firstly, the Juggernaut wore no armor; in fact, he wore very little in the way of clothes at all, leaving a majority of his torso exposed. Surely this was due to overconfidence in his martial prowess and reliance on his own Force powers. Secondly, his evaluation of the Zabrak’s fighting style led him to believe that he had specialized in the Djem So form. This meant that while his offense was strong, the only defense he had available was primarily in the form of blocking and countering in a fluid motion. If he could overwhelm Val’teo’s defense, removing the option of a counterattack, then he would be able to eliminate his opponent’s defensive capabilities.

Marick was beginning to feel himself tire, but could not notice any signs of exhaustion in the Zabrak. This Sith must be like a Ronto among men. Marick began calculating Karran’s strengths that he would need to overcome or counter. His primary concern was the Knight’s focus on martial skill. His Sokan style, which lacked a direct form, was useful for outmaneuvering opponents when the terrain was varied and uneven. However, in this flat wasteland, he was at a marked disadvantage. Second, his opponent was stronger and better built for a drawn out melee. He was faster though, and he could still outmaneuver the Sith. He would have to find a way to break Karran’s barrage soon or be overwhelmed.

As this final thought crossed through his mind, he saw Val’teo’s crimson lightsaber pass in front of his face in a downward arc. In the heat of battle, the leather string around his neck had separated from his body just enough for the Sith’s blade to cut it from around his neck. The wolf tail tip that hung from it fell down into the sand and was quickly covered with a light coating of sand. Marick quickly disengaged from the fight and looked down where it had fallen, then back up to his Zabrak opponent. He blinked once, then twice. He dashed toward Karran, then shifted his trajectory, looking to pass by him, briefly engaging him, then flanking his side. His movement concealed his hand drifting down to his belt where he drew and palmed a Sith dagger. All he needed was to get one cut on the Zabrak’s unarmored skin and the fight would be his.

Karran had not intended to strike down the curious heirloom hanging around Marick’s neck, but the act seemed to have a desirable impact. Val’teo batted aside Tyris’ lightsaber with relative ease, emboldened by the lack of force he was feeling behind his opponent's blows. Marick continued to attack with the lightsaber in his left hand while keeping the Sith Dagger just out of sight in his right.

The Elder Force Disciple could sense the surge of excitement coursing through the young Knight’s blood, no doubt fueled by the thrill of facing a worthy adversary. He was more than aware that for Karran, most fights ended quicker than they started. This often put someone built like Karran in a precarious position. Speed would always trump brawn straight out of the gate, but once a fight moved beyond that, the match would inevitably favor the stronger and more powerful fighter. Karran knew this, and had no doubt learned to endure through the initial blows to lure bouts onto his preferred playing field where he would emerge victorious.

What Karran had yet to fully grasp, however, was the true power of a Master Assassin.

Marick became a blur of dark robes and dark hair, his lightsaber flashing in a flurry of flourishes. What they lacked in raw impact per hit, they made up for in repetition and precision. The half-Hapan’s saber lashed out again and again at the Zabrak’s defenses like the fangs of a serpent. Karran worked his blade in a tight defensive coil, meeting each strike with the textbook discipline. Like the mighty Krayt dragon his lightsaber form was attributed to, Val’teo would weather the Gray Fang’s onslaught.

Karran was so focused on Marick’s lightsaber that he never saw the Sith Dagger in Marick’s right hand cut a clean line across his ribs. The Force screamed a delayed warning in his mind, but the damage had already been done. It was a shallow graze, one that the Juggernaut barely registered until his eyes caught up with the Shadow’s movements.

The Gray Fang slashed again for the exposed skin of the Zabrak’s abdomen. Karran twisted away on reflex and brought his saber down in front of him like an anvil in an attempt to create seperation. It was not enough. Marick’s lightsaber launched from his grip and split the air between the two fighters. Val’teo swung his crimson blade at the flying saber, but it came back again like an angry, guided missile and swung for his ankles. He hopped over the swing and ducked under the follow-up sweep for his neck.

Karran felt his body starting to slow as he struggled to keep up with the telekinetically-guided lightsaber. He could see Marick directing the blade with an extended hand as he sheathed his Sith Dagger so he had both hands free. Val’teo should have been able to keep up, but something felt off. His eyes narrowed as he spared a glance at the slash wound on his side.

Just as Val’teo realized what was wrong, Marick closed the distance between the two. His lightsaber returned to his outstretched palm while a hidden stiletto blade on his bracer extended and dug into the muscular tendons of Karran’s shoulder. Blood squirted out around the wound and caused Karran to drop his lightsaber to the ground.

The Zabrack hissed but endured the sudden pain blossoming across his focus. He grabbed ahold of the half-Hapan’s wrist before he could retract the hidden blade from his body. It seemed that it would take more than a simple inhibiting poison to bring Karran Val’teo down; you didn’t spend as much time as he had around the Shadow Clan without training for such things, afterall.

Marick tried to pull away but was too close to land a hit with his lightsaber to try and counter. The Juggernaut let out a feral shout as he slammed a meaty fist into the Shadow’s gut. Karran’s knuckles were rewarded with a satisfying crunch that sent the smaller framed fighter flying backwards. Marick hit the ground hard and skidded to a stop a few meters away.

The former Voice of the Brotherhood lay still on the ground. He could taste blood filling his mouth but refused to spit it out. Perhaps, if he lay still enough, his opponent would think he was incapacitied. That might have worked against a common guard, but Val’teo was a burgeoning Sith that would know better. Unless Marick masked his own presence in the Force, of course.

Just as he was about to do just that, Marick felt something soft brush against his hand. His fingers brushed through the sand until he gripped the familiar shape of the wolf tail tip that had once belonged to his one true friend.

Kira...

Marick remembered a white wolf cub with mismatched eyes. The runt of the litter. Cythraul, the Hapan had called them. A unique species of wolf that formed a unique bond with their chosen master. He saw her, in memories, fighting alongside him across the various forgotten Sith worlds for the Brotherhood’s Dark Crusades. He saw flashes of another desert, another world, just like this. Another Great Jedi War. He saw the limb body of the same Cythraul, older now, laying in the sand with blood staining her otherwise immaculate white fur coat.

Sorrow swallowed his memories as he thought back to his shelved grief, even back then. He had pushed through it, then. The mission always came first. The wolf tail necklace was all he had left of Kira now. The heirloom had been a gift from Atyiru before she had died. She knew how much it meant to him. Yet she, too, had left him. Why was it that anything he cared about was stripped away?

That was why he had come back to this dreaded place, wasn’t it? He had never intended to fight anyone, but it seemed like there was no way for him to escape his past, no matter how hard he tried. Marick had come for answers, and the only way to get to them was through Karran Val’teo.

He had come to Nancora for one reason and one reason alone. He needed answers. He needed to find out how to bring her back. He would not be denied. Not by the Force, not by the Badlands, not by a Knight of Arcona.

Marick’s willpower wrapped around him like a hardened shell. He begged the Force to numb the pain in his body, just for now, just for a bit longer. When he pushed himself back to his feet there was no temper or frenzy drawn across his sand-smeared visage. Sweat matted his hair against the sides of his face while errant strands veiled the cold intensity of his too-blue eyes. He locked his gaze on Val’teo’s and held it stoically. All that remained was a cold dispassionate mask.

Emotion had no place in battle.

“Good, you’re still standing,” Val’teo growled as he took a step forward.

Marick cast aside his cloak, revealing two full rows of throwing knives around his belt. He pulled them out, one by one, and cast them down into the sand. He dropped his lightsaber, both of his Sith Daggers, and even the bracer on his wrist that held his hidden blade and kicked them to the side. Now weaponless, he held his empty hands out to the sides. He used every ounce of control and training to disguise the contusions and potentially broken bones in his ribs.

Val’teo took the bait.

“Yes...a real fight. For honor!” Karan felt the beast inside stirring. While he was able to resist the poison to a certain degree, he knew that without the aid of the beast within he would be defeated. And so the Juggernaut charged, letting the dark side of the Force surge through him to lend him renewed strength.

Marick waited calmly as the Zabrak roared and closed in. He waited until the last possible moment before sidestepping and calling his lightsaber back to his hand. Fast enough. Like quicksilver rolling from a jar, the Master Assassin ignited the blade, slashed upwards along the Knight’s back, and then disengaged the saber. Just enough.

Val’teo howled in a mixture of fervor and fury before he collapsed face-first into the embrace of the sandy ground. Marick felt a strange sense of vertigo as his vision blurred in and out of focus, but he remained standing on his feet. His breath came in ragged heaves as the silence of the wind wilted and sung around him.

There were no such thing as honor. Only life and death, victory or defeat.

---

The IG-100 MagnaDroid known as Challadan approached the body of its fallen master. It looked down at the Zabrak, then over at the man that brought him down. The same man that had cost it a limb.

“This is the antidote to the poison I used,” Marick Tyris explained as he carefully removed a vial from the kit stashed away in his belt pouch. He tossed it at the droid, who snatched it deftly out of the air with its remaining hand. “He will die if he’s not treated soon. Go.”

The droid stared at Marick for a few moments. It bowed its head slightly, and lowered itself down to Karran’s side.

When the droid looked up again, Marick was nowhere to be seen, a ghost in the desert of the Nancora Badlands.

A flurry of strikes. A shower of sparks. Two lightsabers flashed and danced around the two men wielding them.

Marick was not one who was prone to fits of anger or rage. Everything he did was calculated and surgical. But when he saw the one thing he had allowed himself to feel an attachment to fall into the sand and become buried, something snapped. It was crisp and clear, like stepping on a twig in a snow-covered forest. It echoed in his mind.

He moved quickly around the Zabrak, moving to outflank him, strike, then move again. He was quicker than the Sith. More agile. But his enemy seemed to have a honed knowledge of combat. Where he couldn’t block with his saber, he used the Force to augment his defense. So their dance continued, Marick maneuvering and Karran defending. That was when he saw it. His eyes scanned the Zabrak’s face, looking for tells in his next move, and there it was. For the first time since meeting him, which granted, was no longer than six minutes and twenty-three seconds, the Sith was smiling. Karran was a man built for battle. He did not fight because he was forced to. He sought it out because it was his true home.

Their sabers locked. Karran had brought his lightsaber down in both hands, and Marick had blocked it. Unable to parry or disengage, he was forced to plant his feet in the sand. The Zabrak’s muscles flexed, rivulets of sweat running down his biceps and across his tattoos. Marick had maintained his dagger palmed in his offhand, while wielding his saber in his right. Karran had not seen the dagger yet, and was now locked in with him, saber to saber. Now was his opportunity to gain the upper hand.

As Karran pushed his crimson blade down toward the Shadow’s unmarred face, there was a flash of movement from his opponent’s left hand. A cutting sensation sliced through the underside of the Zabrak’s right bicep, followed by a cold, numbing feeling that slowly spread through his arm. The Knight broke the engagement and stepped back. Holding his lightsaber in his right hand, he reached up with his left to touch the area where he had felt the blade cut in and pulled it away. Blood was smeared on the fingertips. The numbness in his arm continued to spread down his arm until it reached his right hand. Pins and needles stabbed into his entire limb as he lost feeling and strength in his arm.

He quickly took the lightsaber in his left hand and adjusted position. He turned his left side toward Marick and once again returned his blade to the prepared position.

“Poison? I should have expected as much from one of your reputation.” There was no disdain in the Zabrak’s voice, only a hint of disappointment as he regarded the dagger in Marick’s left hand.

“I had expected it to spread further and faster.”

Karran took a deep breath to center himself. “I apologize for removing your token. I hope you understand it was an accident.”

Marick blinked again. Apologize? Accident? Was he hearing Val’teo correctly? What kind of Sith was he? His research had not led him to believe that he was the type to do this. He was a Sith, and a warrior. Was he attempting to throw off his focus? Mindgames are not uncommon among Sith, but this Zabrak did not seem the type. That Tir’eivra, however, was a different story. These thoughts raced through the former Voice’s mind like a ship jumping to hyperspeed. He offered no more words to his enemy. He sheathed the dagger, its utility exhausted at its moment of revelation. With his hand behind his back, his fingers nimbly reached into a pouch and drew another dagger, this one perfectly balanced for throwing.

In an instant, Marick reached his arm out toward the Sith, allowing the small blade to leave his hand and fly through the air. The Zabrak moved to knock the blade away, but relying on his offhand proved difficult. As he slashed through the dagger, he overestimated his movement and lost his balance for a moment. Marick took this opportunity to dash forward, once again swinging at Val’teo; this time he sought to wound his leg. His strike landed true, exactly where he wanted it. The tip of the blade cut and burned through his left thigh, just above the crook of his knee. This brought the muscled Zabrak down to his knees. Just a flesh wound, but a painful one.

Karran roared as the lightsaber blade cut into the meat of his thigh. He struggled to maintain a grip on his weapon as he tried to turn to face the Shadow who had already passed by him and was preparing for another strike. He held his blade up toward the half-Hapan. The beast inside him clawed at his gut. It was desperate to get out. To brutally beat this enemy into the sand and leave him for the carrion birds to pick away at.

His hand shook. The red blade retracted into the emitter. The hilt dropped into the sand. Karran hung his head. Many times, he had been beaten. Ruka, Sera, Alaisy had all beaten him. But for the first time, he was defeated. Still, though, the beast clawed. It roared like a dragon in the dune sea of his homeworld.

Marick strode toward the kneeling Zabrak. He looked down at him and saw something familiar. A simple leather thong around his neck. His gaze followed the strip down to what it held. A carved piece of bone with a symbol engraved into it. It was a line, with three points that rose off of it, getting taller as they spread from the center. The Shadow racked his brain for every symbol he had ever seen and was familiar with. He took it in his hand and took it away from the Sith’s chest.

“What is this?” his voice grew more curious than cold and calculating.

“A symbol. The last reminder I have of my family and my clan.”

Marick regarded it and straightened his posture, now looking down his nose at his opponent. With a quick pull, he broke the leather strap and threw the token into the sand in the distance. He held his violet blade at Karran’s shoulder, in line with his neck.

When Karran felt the leather break, it was as if all sound became muffled. It was like the aftermath of being too close to an explosion. He heard the wind, but it was overpowered by the rhythmic thump of his two hearts pounding in his ears. A ringing pierced his eardrums that quickly grew into a bestial roar. In an instant, the beast inside of him broke out of its prison. The fire that raged inside of his chest burned out of control. His vision narrowed into pinpoints as left arm drew back and he summoned a wave of telekinetic force and violently shoved Marick. The Shadow flew back, his lightsaber slipping from his grip as his body unceremoniously hit the dirt and tumbled across the sandy surface.

Karran stood, his wounded leg shook at the weight he put on it, but his fury pushed him on. His twin hearts pounded. His body flooded with adrenaline and rage. His Zabraki heritage held him on his feet. He reached out toward the prone half-Hapan and focused his rage and imagined the lithe man in his grip. He channeled his power in the Force and lifted the assassin up and summoned him back to his grip.

Marick struggled in the grip as he was forced down to his knees. He looked up at the Sith and where previously he had seen soft, light brown eyes, he now saw bloodshot whites and burning gold irises. Karran took the Elder’s hair in his left hand, kneeled down in front of them, and reared back his head before driving his horned forehead into the unmarked face of Marick. Over, and over again, he drove their heads together, until the Shadow went limp in his grip.

As Val’teo’s vision returned to normal, he looked down at his hands, which still held Marick in his grip. In a moment of shock, he let go, letting the man drop into the sand. The Zabrak backed away. His chest heaved, and his wounded leg gave out from under him.

---

When Marick awoke, he was laid out on a cloak that wasn’t his. A fire had been made, and he saw a kettle on it, its form curious, like that of a dragon. On the other side of the fire sat a familiar Zabrak, his wounds bound in makeshift bandages. Then he felt his face. It was suddenly as if he had been clotheslined by a durasteel beam while riding a swoop bike at full speed. He raised his hand to his face and after a quick jolt of additional pain, decided against further investigation. He looked down to the ground beside him and noted a completely used bacta canister.

Karran, now that his former opponent was awake, stood up, favoring his wounded leg. He limped to the fire and gingerly knelt down beside it. He took the teapot from over the fire and poured its contents into two cups. Once again, he stood and limped over to where Marick was laying. The Sith knelt down in the sand, placed a cup in front of the former Voice, and set the other beside himself. He then bowed deeply, touching his horns to the ground and stayed like that for a moment before he spoke.

“Master Marick, I must offer my deepest apologies for my actions. I have little to offer, but I hope you will accept this tea which I cultivated in my own garden. I know it is a paltry offering, but at the moment it is all I have besides these.” The Zabrak sat up before taking out his lightsaber and placing it next to the cup before he bowed again. “I offer my lightsaber as a symbol that I will not take up my weapon against you again.” Once again the Zabrak sat up and from inside of his robes presented a tuft of fur that once hung around Marick’s neck before he returned his gaze to the ground.

Marick blinked.