Lightning shatters the sky and strikes the spire atop the cloning complex towering before you as you step off your ship and onto the rain-slick landing platform. Kamino, the Planet of Storms, is known for its roiling seas and constant torrential downpour.The fall of the Galactic Empire hit the planet’s primary export of military cloning projects extremely hard, but the Kaminoans remained afloat, both figuratively with contracts to galactic warlords, and literally with the brilliant engineering of their iconic seaborne cities.

The initial landing pad is a wide circle designed to accommodate a variety of ships, and is connected to a series of other platforms as well. Every surface is slick with rain, but avoids flooding due to the sloped edges that allow the water to run off into the sea below and away from the centerpoint.

The cloning facility’s exterior is characterized by similar slopes, and raindrops rapidly transform into steam as they touch against the series of lightning rods around the platform, much like they would if they dripped onto a lightsaber blade. You wonder which is deadlier as you observe the violent arcs of electricity course through the pylons.

History tells of the fateful encounter between Obi Wan Kenobi and renowned Bounty Hunter Jango Fett. The doors of the facility are sealed, which means that whatever challenge awaits you, will have to be faced in the heart of the omnipresent rainstorm. What history will you write?

Her eyes burned.

The feeling was hollow and hungry, like the burnt-out shell of a conflagrated corpse. It was not a sensation she was accustomed to, so resistant was her sylvan frame to the natural calamities of time and rigor. She could not recall if she had ever felt such an altogether all-consuming emptiness before. She could not recall many things: when last she had slept, what rest felt like, what feeling was at all.

She couldn't feel anything.

She couldn't feel anything without him.

Her eyes burned, but her sap-like tears were long dried up, like all her words, turned to ash on her oaken tongue. Water sluiced down her timber body in sheets, smaller rivulets running through the cracks in her bark skin. She stood in the deluge and stared, unblinking, almost unseeing, out at the expanse of glint and gloom before her, platforms of interconnected metal capped in spires of pure white set like islands over the dark sea below.

She stared at the lone, unflinching figure that weathered the maelstrom with her, a pale reflection in the night. A halo of wild, white hair whipped around the other woman’s head, tangled into thick, wet ropes that fell like lashes. Her face was unmasked and unsmiling, cold and impassively serene as carved stone, benevolence left in its curves only by the will of chiseled birth, not by any warmth from within. She wore robes of white and gilt, soaked nearly into transparency and clinging to her shivering frame.

The eyeless Seer stopped some few feet before the listless Vanguard, standing in too-deep silence. The sky rent itself apart and screeched around them, the ocean roiling, but still they stood, staring at one another in their own fashions, one sightless, one unseeing.

Lightning struck a rod close by, so close that its heat and light sucked all noise and color away, leaving them in a perfect white void for a fraction of a heartbeat.

The boom of thunder that followed was too loud and deep for the Neti’s auditory canals to process. She felt it more than heard it, rumbling in her chest and vibrating her sap in her veins.

She felt it…

“Vorsa,” the other woman said, flat and smooth as glass.

Did she have a voice? She searched for it, in her throat, her stomach and chest. “Atyiru,” Vorsa replied gratingly, her wooden lips struggling to form the word.

The Miraluka’s head dipped forward at the mention of her name, a flash of white in her dark face hinting at bared teeth.

“Why?” the Arconan Consul’s voice was brittle, just shy of broken — or perhaps shattered already.

“Because your people killed him,” Vorsa answered without thought, the phrase long having slept on her still tongue.

“They weren’t ordered to. I specifically forbade it.”

“And so it is all the more your fault.”

“Then why him?” Atyiru cried over the roar of the torrential gale. “If it’s my fault that Turel died, why did Marick have to die too?”

Vorsa looked away, off into the impenetrable dark of the clouds above. “Because you failed.”

“So it was deliberate?”

The Neti Councillor looked back at her former ally. “I gave the order. Your sin was a failing of command. Mine was one of weakness.”

The Miraluka gave a howl of anguish, tearing at her own hair. “WHY COULDN’T YOU HAVE JUST KILLED ME?!” she shouted. “WHY DID YOU HAVE TO HURT HIM?”

Her hands dropped from her red-stained silver tresses to the blade at her belt. She brandished it, a spear of celeste piercing the gloom. ”Say something, Vorsa!”

Vorsa just stared.

The shape of the world was lost to her, to the numbness. She couldn't find the Light anymore, couldn't feel its pale embrace or its purifying fury. She couldn't taste the spring air rolling cold off the mountain peaks of Menat Ombo, or bask in the sun warming her roots. She couldn't lull her heartbeat to the rhythm of the world around her, her breathing to the currents of the Living Force that flowed in everything and everyone.

Her heart was gone. Her lungs, her eyes, gone. Her faith, her dreams, her loyalty and will, gone, gone, gone.

It was all still there, but without him, it was empty.

There was nothing for her left. Nothing left of her.

But there was this.

This, buried deep, deep in her sepulchral chest, but still there. Rage. Sorrow. Pain so vast and unspeakable, fury so immense that it turned white and blank. There was this woman before her, responsible, no matter how indirectly, for the murder of the man she loved. This woman whom she had, in turn, wounded.

It had brought her this far, to this rain-drenched platform. It had lifted her limbs like puppet strings, danced her body across the stage of the Galaxy to here and now, under spotlights cast in lightning.

Carry all as one, she had always told her beloved apprentice. It was a sentiment she and Atyiru had shared, once, in the fragile and joyous days following their two Clans’ clemency.

When you can't walk, you crawl.

Vorsa blinked, slowly, the oaken lid of her left eye, so long unmoving, creaking under its shell of stiff moss. She lifted her hand, stiff and unsure, as if a statue awakening from sleep. Looking at the rain-drenched woman across from her, brilliant in her mourning, she found the strength to reach for her belt and take up her blade.

As the Neti watched, Atyiru's whole frame seemed to tremble and crack at its seams, a dormant mountain splitting itself apart, bleeding flame and ash. The Miraluka deliberately brandished her saber, shaking hands finally stilling on the hilt as she slid one foot behind her, turning. A claw of lightning flashed directly overhead, and in its tumultuous radiance, Vorsa saw Atyiru bleached in white, a phantom given form by the ties of life that she could not let go.

When you can't crawl...

A feral, caterwauling sound tore into the thunder-deafened darkness, and Vorsa dimly realized it was her own scream of agony, of rage and desperation, her opponent's fearsome cry echoing in response.

Their lightsabers burned through their black existence, lights in the Void, beats to their hearts, and they charged each other in wild abandon.

Bloody amber and crystalline blue met, plasma crying and screaming, giving voice to the anguish of their wielders. The two grieving women danced, blades crashing together in fulminations of light and heat, so much like the lightning around them. Vorsa lunged forward, her whole body swaying into the swing, and Atyiru pirouetted to meet her on rain-swept feet.

"'Carry all as one?' What is that even supposed to mean, Master?" Turel had asked, years ago.

And she'd answered, "When you can't walk, Apprentice, you crawl. When you can't crawl..."

They carried each other, blades dancing, deep into the storm and the night.

Incandescent light shining upon the clear metal surface of the wet, slippery platform matched the electric storm raging above almost perfectly. Blow for blow of the gleaming blades echoed thunder strike for thunder strike landing cleanly on the metal rods encircling the stage they stood upon. The storm’s deafening symphony was a perfect allegory for the sadness boiling in the Force around the two women.

A palpable energy, almost alive in its fury, unfurled from the rivals, the Force screaming under their relentless, merciless rage. Blade clashed on blade as lightning struck again, creating an almost sorrowful tune: a lament to the fallen and the living alike. The Force cried in sorrow for two former friends; two former allies slowly murdering each other, body, mind and soul.

Her footfalls were as quick and energetic as ever, her arms as swift as they had ever been, yet they felt heavy and sluggish. Her mind was as sharp as the day she sprouted four hundred years ago, yet it felt dizzy and bilious, taken over by fury and despair. She felt every blow of the saber reverberate through her core, like nausea forcing her to vomit. The fury, the rage, the agony, all burned her soul and her spirit. Burned it to cinder and ash until there was nothing but darkness left.

“Do you feel it, Atyiru?” Vorsa bellowed over the thunderous sounds of the storm and in between blows. “You feel everything! Do you feel this?” The Neti projected all her emotions outward, towards the Seer, towards the world. She wanted it all to burn under her broken heart, until the universe itself was as dead as he was, in memory and pain.

“He was my friend too! He was my family! What gives you the right?” Atyiru countered with equal intensity, her soaked eye cover trickling tear-like droplets down her cheeks. Her anguish was no less virulent than the Neti’s. They were every bit a perfect match for each other, together in their agony.

“HE WAS MY EVERYTHING!” Vorsa howled, releasing every emotion she felt straight at the Seer, all at once. The Force answered her command, invisible hands pushing her adversary with the ferocity of a thunderbolt. Atyiru flew backwards, smacking into one of the lightning rods towering above the platform. She gasped for air as it escaped her lungs with a burning sensation. Her head and back throbbed from the blow but she recovered quickly enough to watch her adversary approach, dark energy swelling inside and around her, equally as violent as the storm above them.

“What right do I have?” Vorsa echoed. “I have every right! I have every right to make you pay for what you sick Arconae wretches did to my Turel! Every right to kill, and maim, and murder, and destroy you!” Her visage appeared even more menacing as lightning struck behind her, silhouetting her golden-fiery eyes in complete darkness.

“And when I’m done with you, I will do the same to your whole Clan. Every one of them will feel this sorrow. They will know their sins, just like Marick did before I burned him to ash!” Her maniacal laughter reached through newly formed tears, madness taking over what was once pure and tranquil.

With a howl of defiance, Atyiru lashed out, saber aimed at the Herald’s head. Vorsa parried deftly, counterattacking with a slash of her own. Atyiru deflected, sidestepped, and lunged from a new angle, only to be repelled by the Herald’s swiftness. Their brutal conflict persisted as each took control and relented in turn, driving one another to the very limits their bodies could handle.

Elbows smashed into cheeks, knees dug into bellies and fingernails tore at skin in a relentless torrent of blows. The two women were almost a match for eachother, Atyiru making up her lack in martial skill with her extraordinary healing ability which seemed to close her wounds as swiftly as they opened. But the Herald was quicker, and stronger.

The straight jab came as rapidly as sound, Atty’s nose cracking against the pressure. The Seer’s soft cartilage bent and broke under the force of the blow as another swift kick to her chin made her stumble. Her celestial saber flew from her hand with a flick of the Neti’s wrist.

Vorsa’s eyes turned a deep red with lust and power as her opponent faltered. Her crimson blade dove towards the Miraluka’s exposed throat — only to stop mere inches from it. The Herald seemed to look through her adversary for a mere moment before spasming in agony. Atyiru saw the Neti’s mind breaking in twain, her spirit shattered and broken. The Shadow Lady saw it all in perfect clarity.

Where once there was only light, darkness ruled supreme as its opposing half whimpered in the recesses of the Neti’s mind, trying desperately to call out for help. Its influence seemed to pain the Herald more and more the louder its outcry became. It was an outcry for mercy that flowed from the deepest reaches of Vorsa's psyche, Please, someone end it! It was an outcry Atyiru heard all too clearly, as she observed in utter horror the ruin of her old friend.

Like a hurricane the Neti’s emotions billowed; rage mixed with sorrow and hopelessness as tears streamed down her cheeks like unrelenting rivers. Vorsa screamed at the world in desperation, begging for someone to bring back what she had lost. There was a battle inside of her where darkness and light fought once again for domination, like so many times on so many battlefields before.

Without a moment’s pause, the Miraluka stood firmly on her fragile feet, grounding herself as best she could, while the Neti jerked around, screaming incoherently, fighting against herself. Atyiru drew on every bit of that emotion she felt; that rage she carried inside of her, that sorrow for the death of the man she loved beyond words, and that hate for the woman that killed him. She drew on every ounce of power she could muster as the storm itself seemed to answer her call with loud thunderous sound. The Force swirled around her in arcing tendrils of pure power as the Shadow Lady aimed her fingers at her enemy and let it all out.

Cascading bolts of lightning flew from her fingers and struck the Neti head on. The sheer force of the energy and emotion, her opponent had gathered, sent the Herald flying into the middle of the platform. She tumbled and somersaulted until she came to a reluctant stop, skin smoking from the onslaught even against the heavy rainfall. Atyiru groaned, clearly drained by her display of power, but she would not relent. This woman had to die for what she did to her, she had to die for Marick and she had to die so none of her family would ever be hurt again. Arcia, Celevon, Kordath, K’tana, Timeros, Morgan, Satsi, Uji, Samantha: all of them in danger as long as she lived. Madness consumed Vorsa, and the Shadow Lady would not allow her evil to spread further. The Seer reached for her discarded saber, flickering the blade into existence once again as she advanced.

Vorsa picked herself up on shaky arms, skin burnt and smoking. The blow was enough to kill lesser beings. But not her. Not when she had so much more to do on this world before she died. She stared down her adversary with a deadly look in her eyes, forcing every ounce of concentration she could gather into the Force. As the pressure rose higher and higher, Atyiru slowed to a crawl. She could sense the Neti’s rage escaping her like a torrent.

Vorsa reached for the lightning rods, mental fingers gripping them tightly. There was a squeal of metal and duracrete as the towers bent towards the two combatants. Vorsa’s storm-defying roar was as loud as the storm was fierce, fueling her passion and her fury beyond limits as she pulled relentlessly on the pillars. One by one they came crashing down, hanging only on loose wires and metal piping.

“What’re you doing?!” Atyiru yelled over the storm, but Vorsa ignored her completely, focusing only on the task at hand. As the towers heaved closer, towards the middle of the platform, they seemed to form a cage with the two women trapped inside. The Seer’s mind raced as she realized what was going on. She’s insane, Atyiru thought as she lunged at the irate Neti, saber held high.

Lightning struck the rods as the cascading arcs of power split into thousands of tendrils of light and energy that streamed through the metal, down into the two women. Atyiru’s hastily contrived barrier shattered under the impact as pure electricity coursed through her body, burning her skin and shaking her to her core. Vorsa’s skin blackened as her fingers absorbed what little energy they could, the rest singed her bark and set her leaves aflame. She was burnt beyond recognition now: a black husk of what was once a proud warrior.

The two women looked at each other, still alive but barely able to stand, their hate and rage still tireless and unyielding. This battle was far from over, they both knew; it would not end until one of them was dead and ash.

She inhaled. Her lungs burned. She could feel them, like flaming parchment, old and aged in the Praxeum's libraries, crumpling and falling apart in ashen pieces. She exhaled. Her eyes followed the charred breath: she could see it, stirring ripples on the silver sheen of water over the metal under her cheek. She lifted a hand — to catch the little waves, to push herself up, to stand — and her littlest charred finger broke up and crumbled along the red-hot lines that corrugated her blackened bark skin.

Burnt beyond pain, she could not feel it.

She inhaled, wishing that the air tasted like sunlight, wishing for many things: sleep, death, deliverance, an end of any kind. But most of all, she wished for him back. And because she could not have him, she wished, in her grief-stricken madness, for pain.

She exhaled. It burned.

Rain battered her body in frigid droves, dazzling spears of incandescence that flashed for mere seconds the only thing breaking up the of frozen perdition of the storm. Nearby, in the cold, she felt a shadow, a mangled wretch of candle flame and darkness. It hovered close, the very instrument of light and black that burned her bones and scorched her soul. The shadow whispered to her though she could not hear it, and she whispered back though she had no lungs to form words with.

She and the shadow watched and whispered soundlessly as the stars fell screaming down around them. They struck nearby, and faraway, and they struck her and they stuck the shadow and they ate their hearts and they burned, burned, burned.

She breathed.

No, not stars...lightning.

A hand, blistered raw and trembling, closed gently over hers. More of her fingers collapsed into bits of slurried ash at the touch. Vorsa’s scorched eyes flickered from it and the tiny refractions of thunderbolts breaking themselves against the water up to a face so near hers. Atyiru had no eyes that her gaze could bore into, but nonetheless she stared.

The fingers over her husk slowly warmed with pale glow, a wash of energy swirling up the Neti’s ruined arm and lapping over her body with all the gentleness of a memory of light, an echo of a dream. Internally, she screamed. She screamed inside her own head to feel that light, to know its radiance and feel it ripping her apart. Darkness raged against it, raged and roared with cannibalistic hunger.

Inside her, the two crashed against each other and incinerated what of her soul the lightning had not.

Externally, she gasped in agony, gasped and then keened. The more her oaken flesh knit itself back together in root and stem, the more her pain grew in her awareness. Vorsa thrashed and spasmed where she laid, trying to tear away from the affliction consuming her, but the Miraluka’s grasp was like Mandalorian iron, unrelenting.

Atyiru was speaking. The Councillor could just hear it, and she cast her mind out to the other murderess’ voice, lashing herself to it like a mooring in a hurricane.

“...and you know, he never let up about it. Him, then my brother Timeros, always the same lessons. To use my hate and anger. To be sure, strong. To kill. That was it, really. And I know Marick always wondered. He always knew exactly how to push me, exactly how to get me to see whatever it was he was trying to teach. The first time, it was on a rooftop, our first fight. And the last—” Her voice cracked like glass and she whispered on, “But this once, he just said, ‘There will come a time when your abilities will not be enough. Would you kill to save a life?’”

The hand around Vorsa’s own tightened, grip changing.

“And I had to find that answer for myself. I will not let you hurt anyone else, Vorsa. I will kill you here and now, I will.”

With a sharp heave, Atyiru yanked the Neti’s splintered, seared arm nearly out of its socket, dragging her to her knees so that their noses brushed. Rain sluiced down their faces, facsimiles of tears neither had left.

All they had left was their perdition in this suffering paradise of Light and Shadow. All they had left was each other…

“But I don’t think I want to,” the Consul was saying in tremulous, desperate tones, nearly against the Councillor’s wooden lips. “I don’t want you dead. I want you alive to hurt with me. I want you to pay for your failures too.” A sneer appeared on Atyiru’s mouth, and she flung Vorsa away. Standing on trembling legs, the prison of steel and storm the Neti had wrought forming a halo around her, the Miraluka took up their fallen sabers, tossing Vorsa hers.

Celestine plasma leaped into existence, and the Seer stabbed its crystalline blade at the Vanguard where she knelt.

“Forget the Clans, the brethren. These are our sins, and we’re going to flay for them, us and us alone. Get up, you wretch. I know Turel didn’t die for the love of a coward.”

Vorsa’s four remaining fingers on her right hand closed around her blade with a bellowing cry of malignant wrath. She launched herself forward with the heedlessness of the condemned, saber arcing to meet Atyiru’s. The two exploded against one another, crimson and cerulean, a song of storm and fire.

Crash.

They chased the light.

Crash.

They fell to dark.

Crash!

The alliance, the promises, they were not enough.

Crash!

The love they had, the people depending on them, they were not enough.

Crash!

But this…

Atyiru spiraled away from Vorsa’s leaping reach, both of their movements smothered and cut short by the miniscule space provided them. The Miraluka’s sopping tresses touched one of the rent lightning rods as the Neti hounded her further backwards, steam hissing and popping to the stench of burnt hair. The Seer’s cobalt blade scintillated in ceaseless circles, warding away Vorsa’s sweeping half-strikes.

The Councillor shrieked again, pressing her advantage and driving her rival further back, watching smoke rise from the Miraluka’s clothed shoulders and savoring the other woman’s scream as electricity seared her weak flesh once more.

Vorsa took one step, hand snapping out, and knotted a fist in Atyiru’s hair at the base of her skull, throwing the Arconan back to the slick platform with a Force-fueled heave. The Seer cried out, and the Neti stalked towards her, lifting her lightsaber high again, rage thundering in her veins like the rumbling sky far above.

“You wish for pain?!” she screamed at Atyiru as the Miraluka staggered to her feet. ”I WILL RIP YOU ASUNDER!”

Howling, they charged once more.

Blade clashed on blade as lightning struck again, staggering both women for mere moments before they were at each other’s throats again. Every blow after Force-enhanced blow drained their strength, and the more strength they lost the more they relied on the Force. Their mortal conflict, so perfectly intertwined in a symphony of death and destruction, seemed to reverberate through the Force itself. Neither would relent while the other was alive. Neither would stop for breath nor slow down until their enemy was utterly destroyed — or they were.

The fury of the battle carved into the fabric of the Force, making it bleed the dark waves of disturbance like an ethereal ooze. It stuck to the two women and smothered them, burying them until there was nothing but fury left in their souls; nothing but the whites of their eyes and the glow of their blades glistening in the darkness, reflecting their rage and hatred.

They were exhausted, both of them. Barely able to hold their sabers, even still they fought. Still their frenzy blinded them to the world. There was only this moment and the pain it had wrought. The Herald and the Shadow Lady stared each other down across their saber blades. Panting hard against the fatigue, Atyiru could barely catch her breath. Her concentration was divided between her wounds and the warrior-woman in front of her, making her legs shake and her fingers quiver. It was too much.

Vorsa’s left eye was closed, bloodied and cut by a luckily placed slash of the celestial blade. Even though she had lost three more fingers on her right hand, the grip on her saber never wavered in her left. Her body felt old and tired beyond centuries. She felt as if she had lived too long to bear. Her very soul was rent in twain by the colossal battle inside of her. And now, a small part of her just wanted to lay down and pass on. It was all she was good for, now. But the darkness would not give way. It held her in a steel grip and kept her focused on the goal.

Atyiru would not last for long against the grizzled warrior. She knew this from the start, but everyone had a weakness, and exploiting Vorsa’s would unhinge her even more. It would put her off balance and perhaps give the Arconan a chance. This was it. Her only shot.

Entar angled her body against Vorsa, awkwardly replacing her saber into her left hand. “You know,” she spoke in soft, hushed tones, barely audible against the rain and thunder. “Turel was not just my family.”

Vorsa’s red, corrupted eyes stared her down, making the Seer choose her words carefully. The Herald was on a spring, ready to pounce at any moment. “He told me many times of his love for you. His admiration. His devotion.” The Arconan shifted, spiraling around the former Jedi in a wide circle, placing Vorsa between herself and the edge the Neti was standing next to.

“He told me all of it many times over.” She bit down on her lip, preparing for the over reaction to come. “You think he wanted to be with you? Truly? You’re deluded, Vorsa. He never wanted you. He never once yearned for you.”

“You’re lying!” the Neti spat through her teeth. Tendrils of delusion crept into her mind, though she didn't even have the strength to notice them.

“Am I?” Atyiru purred, a wicked grin flashing over her features, so unlike the charming and friendly smiles she used to give the Herald in the past. Atyiru pointed a finger at the Neti as she spoke. “Oh, he never wanted to be with you, because,” she paused again as lightning struck above, “Because he was with me all along.”

Atyiru’s words pierced the Herald like a blaster bolt. ”No. It-it couldn’t be. He was...always...only mine. No.” She stumbled several steps. “You’re lying.” Her face still revealed shock and anger in equal measure.

“Oh, if only I was. But I could never forget those hands on my skin, or those lips on my bosom. It was nothing short of beautiful.” The Shadow Lady’s provocation had worked perfectly. The General’s mind was fragmented so much that she couldn’t even defend against a simple Mind Trick.

Vorsa ‘s internal conflict rose up again, boiling to the surface like a storm. She muttered to herself incoherently, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether Atyiru was right or not. She couldn’t wrap her head around it all. All the pain she had endured, all the suffering. Was it all for nothing? Did Turel really love another, instead of her?

”Impossible.”

But then again, he never did try to approach her. Was she deluding herself? Or was she just mad because she had never managed to do the right thing. She had never approached him. Yes. She was to blame. After all, it was her decision not to have attachments.

But she was attached. She was attached so much that she could never let go, but never really embrace her true feelings either. And in her weakness, Turel chose another — the very object of her disdain and hatred — over her.

Vorsa’s eyes snapped back to Atyiru as she clenched her saber tightly again. It was all the Seer was waiting for. Atyiru’s hand moved again, words of command oozing through her teeth. “Is this really what Turel would want? You have become everything he hated now! Look at yourself! He would have despised you!” The Herald stopped again and The Seer sensed she had broken her this time.

Vorsa’s crimson saber fell from her grasp as she saw an Turel in her mind: a hallucination created by her own fractured psyche. The face of the man she loved seemed so distant now, full of contempt for what she had become. She could barely look at him, but he stared her down until she collapsed her knees and, finally, lowered her guard.

Without remorse or even a second thought, Atyiru pulled her blaster from its holster, aimed at the Neti’s chest and pulled the trigger. Somehow Vorsa’s instinct kicked in as she called upon the Force in defense. It absorbed much of the energy, but not enough. A red bolt of plasma seared the Neti’s bark as smoke billowed from the burn. She was still conscious; still looking at her adversary, eyes wide in shock and disbelief. Suddenly, she tumbled over backwards, limping over the edge of the massive platform without so much as a hushed cry.

The Shadow Lady observed the silent fall of her enemy, deep into the dark depths below. She spread her consciousness through the aether, searching for any glint of life the Neti might have left behind, and sure as day she found it. Vorsa would live on, and they would meet again on some distant field. Atyiru wondered if she would live to see that day. Her vengeance was nowhere near complete.

The Seer stood up with hushed groans and dragged herself towards her shuttle, sitting on the landing pad several hundred meters away. She would have to prepare, and quickly.

This was not over.