Oricon, the base of the ancient Dread Masters and nearly lost to time is steeped in the Dark Side, echoing the influences of both the Dread Masters and Darth Vitus before them. The landscape is an unforgiving nightmarescape of lava flows and volcanic rock dotted with strange plants and starship wrecks from a battle thousands of years ago. The smoky, sulfuric air of the surface nearly chokes most humanoids as it forces their eyes to adjust to the foggy haze illuminated by the soft glow of the lava flows. Tall, luminous blood ferns adorn the landscape, surrounded by vicious predators hardy enough to survive the intense conditions. Trenches and outcroppings formed from flowing lava serve to make footing uneven, adding yet another treacherous element to this already dangerous world. In the distance, the ruins of an ancient tower call out to those that can sense its terror—the fabled fortress of the Dread Masters. Remnants of ancient cults can be seen here and there, from wrecked huts to blood-stained altars and crumbling oubliettes.

Ernordeth Puer-Irae’s herculean frame leaned against the cold, dull walls of his quarters inside his ship, unsheathing his personal datapad. As the green hue danced upon his red face mimicking holiday ornaments, a sigh escaped from his pursed lips. An Arconan civil war had begun. Usually this type of tension would fuel the fire burning within his soul. The type of fire that raged in the heat of battle; flickering and engulfing the Battlelord into an unstoppable rage.

This conflict, however, was different.

Arcona had altered him in a way he never would’ve thought to be possible. Slipping through cracks in a wall built up to keep others out, they had become like a family to him. The type of family that he had never known. This home was something he intended to protect and fight fort to further his Clan’s stability and legacy, instead of only being a power hungry Sith bent on destruction, only searching to satiate the endless appetite that his heart grumbled for. His decision was the only logical choice possible, but the satisfaction of it would always waver within him.

The Sith’s ship landed on Oricion, and even the hostile envirioment of the planet couldn’t interrupt his brooding thoughts. Peers he had called friends were now the very leaders the Iron Loyalists sought to dismantle. Atyriu had been an Aedile in Galeres when Ernordeth became Quaestor of Qel-Droma. Now she was the Consul. The Krath had advised him during his tenure and they had, along with Cethgus, built a peace between the two Houses that hadn’t been seen in years by spreading the value of living as one Clan.

Uji, the sitting Proconsul, had joined the same day as the Battlelord. The Seer had been competition to the Praetor. They sparred and would trade victories in combat training. Racing towards recognition and advancement, they had been friends for years. These weren’t two he was used to being foes with, but rather allies.

The former Quaestor of Qel-Droma had served as an Aedile in Galeres as well. There were few that had gotten to know both Houses and truly believed in a Clan united. However, he did not agree with the Consul’s current plans of opposing the Grand Master. The Jedi were enemies of the Brotherhood and Arcona. Their deaths were something to rejoice in, not go to war over. This could destroy Arcona, Ernordeth knew. Qel-Droma had blossomed under his rule. Galeres was unstoppable since he had joined. He felt this absolved him of any crimes to the Clan in the Arconae’s eyes. Now he needed to join the Iron Loyalists once he discovered how.

Ernordeth still hadn't adjusted to the smoke-filled atrocious air of Oricon. The sulfur searing his yellow eyes, beads of sweat beginning to pearl on his red forehead, the entire environment of this wretched planet was a test to his formidable endurance, one he vowed to prevail in. The Battlelord had been asked to investigate a remote signal emitting somewhere on the planet by Arcona’s Summit. After stumbling around in the treacherous terrain, he had narrowed down the beacon’s location somewhere inside one of the wrecked craft inside the starship graveyard. The gratuitous glow of lava made it difficult to discern his surroundings, but the Force guided him closer to his target.

As Ernordeth made his way into the graveyard, a lone ship began to descend from the atmosphere closer to Oricon’s surface. Ernordeth darted forward towards the source of the signal. His cloak snagged on a blood fern, leaving a small piece of fabric behind. The Battlelord entered the long forgotten ship, his chest beginning to inhale deeply as he breathed in the stale but less smoky air inside the ship. His yellow eyes adjusted quickly as the hidden small base built into the ship came into view. There were datapads, star charts, and a light blinking on a comm system near the screen across the room. The Praetor walked across to start to play the message but it was encrypted.

Ernordeth Puer-Irae sensed he wasn't alone. His lightsaber flew to his hand from his belt. The blade hummed to life as two twin blades sprang to life behind him. The Battlelord leapt back as the sabers crashed against each other. The Praetor was shocked to see that his Quaestor was his opponent.

“What are you doing here? What do I have to do now?” Braecen pondered aloud.

The Praetor’s brute strength started to push the Adept backwards.

The Adept disengaged in retreat from his foe. His mind furiously buzzed of thoughts of betrayal. Here – on Oricon – he had thought his operation would be shrouded in secrecy. The molten lava and crippling air a deterrent to any upstart Champion of Atyiru whom would seek out the truth behind their recent bad luck with the One Sith and the Perdition. ‘It is too soon to reveal my hand’, Braecen thought, before it was driven from his mind.

The invisible fist of a Force blast slammed Braecen in the chest and sent him flying back, his breath groaning from his lungs and his lightsabers deactivating from the severity of the blow. He tucked his chin, then fought to hold it there as he struck the durasteel hull of the ship’s outer wall. The Elder had learned the perils of allowing his head to snap back during a telekinetic strike on a previous occasion. Braecen almost wished that he had been knocked unconscious. Stinging needle-thrusts of pain clawing his spine as his vertebrae rocked beneath the impact. He dropped to the floor, fighting to keep his pain from carrying him down into oblivion – to darkness.

Power seeped into his being, beckoned by his need, and summoned by his mastery of the Dark Side of the Force. The power sickened him so severely that he doubled over in anguish. It was an avalanche of fire that tore at his gut and pressed up to his heart. Each heartbeat pushing the Dark Side through his veins like molten iron. Power, raw and unnatural, radiated from him as it swept about him in a tempest of malice and ambition. It was an unholy union, the power he craved and needed in trade for his life force each time he used it. It bolstered him. And it was killing him.

Ernordeth reveled in the Elder’s unwillingness to simply die. He was almost caught unawares of how his opponent could sustain a powerful Force attack like that and counter with his own. Braecen’s hands shot up, the fingers splayed and pointed in Ernordeth’s direction. Crack! The crimson-hued Battlelord barely brought his lightsaber around in time to absorb the blue-white forks of lightning that came dancing towards his chest. The Elder straightened himself, while spilling more lightning at the junior Sith, before he took a single step forward. Then another.

Ernordeth feinted an attempt to roll forward. Braecen redirected his display of raw power to block the assault. The moment he shifted the lightning to block him, Ernordeth brought his free hand up and gestured towards his right shoulder, using the Force to hurl him back through the door – back into the harsh terrain of the desolate planet. Ernordeth sprung through the door in pursuit. But Braecen was just ask quick, forgoing his Force lightning in favor of his lightsabers. The snap-hiss of the blade betrayed the Elder's location a moment too early. Ernordeth heard, then saw, a fan of white light arcing toward him out of the corner of his right eye and spun toward it, blocking and kicking in the same move. Braecen grunted as his boot caught him somewhere above the waist, but behind his white blades, he was no more than a gray-black blur, and it was impossible to tell where the kick had landed.

“Damnit, Kaeth,” Puer-Irae grumbled, “why do you have to make this so frackin’ difficult?”

The Dark Adept lowered his weapons toward the ground. His gaze studying the man before him, visibly chewing over his words, deciding if he could win this engagement. "When did Atyiru issue the order to kill me?"

Ernordeth Puer-Irae stood brooding in his armored Vode robes trimmed with a deep Sith red, covered by his pitch black hooded cloak. The red hued humanoid looked across the horizon of Oricon, his yellow eyes piercing his Quaestor, combing through him for weaknesses. The Praetor’s herculean frame pushed through the fabric trying to make its escape to the smoke riddled air. His red bladed saber rested in his palm. He had been overjoyed at the impeccable quality of the crystals inside of it. The hum it emitted was more menacing than that Geonosian bug zapper of a training saber he had first received upon arrival to the Shadow Academy. He had long since abandoned his double edged blood stained blades he’d grown accustomed to before joining the Brotherhood. He missed the demonic growl the saberstaff emitted and the seraphic power he felt as the gyroscopic vibrations pulsed through his hands, but it was far inferior than his current lightsaber.

His objective had been simple: explore the signal being relayed from the Starship Graveyard of Oricon and report his findings and any other information that could be used.

Silence echoed across the harsh landscape. They were broken by the occasional bubbles of lava smacking against each other, as the Adept contemplated the Battlelord’s words and what his next move would be. Ernordeth stepped towards the Quaestor, cutting the distance between them.

“Atyriu hasn’t given that order. Nobody knows what I’ve found,” the Praetor replied.

A buzz emitted from Ernordeth’s comm link. The comm beeped louder demanding a response. The Elder’s eyes focused at the Equite’s belt.

Braecen’s arms reached out again as electricity crackled, burning the oxygen of Oricon, as the bolts danced towards the Equite. The Praetor’s crimson blade rushed to meet its partner. A melody of humming and lightning was the Sith’s favorite song.

The Elder’s arms fell to his side. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Braecen and the Battlelord were working towards a stalemate. Ernordeth’s blade snapped towards the hilt.

“Are you the Iron Lord?” the Equite asked.

Kaeth sensed the question was out of curiosity and not betrayal. “Yes, my friend.”

The Battlelord’s comm link cried like an infant, begging for his attention. He couldn’t ignore it’s incessant chirping again or Atyriu would grow weary.

The red-hued human composed himself out the oval shaped disc and opened the channel. A blue image of the Shadow Lady arose from the device, conquering the reddish orange environment of Oricon.

“Lord Puer-Irae, how kind of you to answer. I hope you were busy scouring that graveyard to relay your findings to the Summit” the Consul said bluntly.

Ernordeth glanced at the Galeres Quaestor. “The environment had affected a long abandoned ship and caused the disturbance. This errand was pointless, Atriu,” the Battelord replied.

“Very well,” the blue holo mumbled as the image faded away.

The Praetor returned his attention to Braecen. “I’m going to need you to hand over your lightsabers to make sure you don’t try to kill me again,” he smirked. “Let me join the Iron Loyalists.”

“Of course,” the Elder replied.

Ernordeth walked towards Braecen. The Adept’s thumb slid to the activator as his white blade hissed from the emitter through the Battlelord’s body. The Praetor crumpled to the ground.

“I’m sorry my friend,” Kaeth mumbled. “I can’t risk my secrets being exposed.”

Braecen felt a boot slam into his ribs – an instant before he saw it coming through the Force – and the breath left is lungs. He countered with a head-high backslash and brought his own foot up, landing a Force-enhanced snap-kick between the legs of the crimson armored blur attacking him. The blow drew a pained grunt but failed to even stagger his foe.

A thick elbow slammed up under his chin, rocking him onto his heels. Then, finally, Braecen felt a familiar tingle in the back of his mind, and she saw the image of a blood-red blade slashing at his vulnerable side. He swept his own lightsaber down across the front of his body in a desperate reverse block that barely caught the attack in time to prevent it from slicing him in two, then whirled into a spinning back kick that landed squarely in the foe’s stomach and drove him back just a mere two steps.

It was enough.

Ernordeth gazed upon an enraged Elder. Gaunt-faced with eyes as blue and cold as steel, nostrils flaring red with anger and exertion, a thin-lipped snarl filled with confidence and disdain. Even as Braecen leapt forward weaving a basket of lightsaber slashes, Ernordeth sprang back out of the way, launching himself into a high Force flip designed to put as much distance between himself and the attacker as possible.

The Marauder set his feet, then flew after Braecen, not even bothering to try for the high position, simply coming up under him with a wild slash combination that was anything but subtle or deft or even tricky; just pure relentless ferocity. Braecen had to stretch himself out belly-down in midair to meet the attack, and even calling on the Force to bolster the strength in his arms, it was all he could do to keep the powerful strikes from knocking his guard aside and leaving him wide open.

They traded a trio of lightning fast blows that left Braecen’s hands stinging and his heart racing. The last time he had fought someone of equivalent tenacity and skill he barely managed to survive. Now, in lesser shape from repeated telekinetic attacks, he had to prevail. There would be no mercy at the last minute from the Battlelord. After a third exchange, Braecen and Ernordeth came to rest in a small clearing of level ash ringed by volcanic rock. The air hung above them laced with smoke and sulfuric acid; a byproduct of the molten rivers of lava that wound around them.

Ernordeth caught the injured Elder unaware once again, pushing his palm forward. An instant later, the unseen hammer of a Force blast caught Braecen in the sternum and threatened to drive him not over, but through the boulders at his back. With but a whisper of warning, he had discarded both of his blades. As they slowly rotated in freefall to the ground, he raised his hands, splayed his fingers and willed a fortification between himself his red-skinned opponents strike.

Ernordeth still had his lightsaber – and he needed it. He brought the weapon up just as blue-white lightning came slicing down toward him. Ernordeth caught it on his crimson blade, then straightened his arm, and prepared to launch himself for a coup de grace.

There was no time to leap or loose another bolt of Force lightning, and the arena was particularly poor for evasion. Braecen’s only hope rested not in what he could do, but what he could limit his opponent from doing. His arms still outstretched he rocked them back in unison, as he rolled his shoulders, and pushed his ill-intent through the Force towards his foe. A tsunami of malice crashed over the Equite and wrapped him in a wet blanket that choked his connection to the Dark Side. Without the telekinetic boost, Ernordeth’s assault fell short of its intent. And directly into the path of the Sith Adept.

As the Battlelord attempted to regain his momentum, his opportunistic opponent swept his legs and accelerated his descent to the ashy floor. Braecen reached for his weapons and moved to put more distance between himself and the Praetor.

“When did she issue the order to kill me?” Braecen hissed. “And why would she send only one of her Champions to defeat me?”

“You only need one of me,” Ernordeth retorted, “to overcome a withered, old Sith who is far past his prime. Step aside, Kaeth, and let Pravus’ New Order rise.”

The calculating eyes of the Adept chewed over his foe’s words. Truly, if Ernordeth was an advocate of the Grand Master, he had made assumptions in error. He had considered the most likely scenario for discovery, but he had not taken the time to consider all of the individuals that might be interested in his subterfuge within Dajorra.

“If you are truly for Pravus, prove it,” Braecen carefully demanded.

“You first,” the unrelenting Praetor retorted.

“A truce then,” the Elder offered, “until we can get back to my ship. I have an encrypted message from the Grand Master that will prove the weight of my words. What can you offer?”

The Battlelord deactivated his blade, then tossed the weapon to the Quaestor, before he simply said, “My life.”