So named because it is located one thousand, three hundred, and thirteen levels from the core of Coruscant, Level 1313 is distanced from the politics of the upper levels. Overlooking the chasm burrowing further into Coruscant’s core, one can watch freighters transporting their illicit cargo between levels. One misstep would send the careless careening into the bottomless pit, or aid the local gangs in staging “accidents.”

Weathered duracrete forms the retainer along the chasm wall, built in concentric rings that descend down an untold height. Strengthened with solid durasteel braces, maintenance has not been needed this far into Coruscant for a long time. Nevertheless, droids pre-programmed to fill in the cracks and crevices that might form in the walls float on repulsorlifts without drawing attention from the criminal gangs; themselves, being focused on their next smuggling operation or struggle for control over Coruscant’s scum-filled underbelly.

"My Lady, please, be reasonable—"

Another bolt of plasma made molten, paint-splatter artwork out of the thin sheet of metal between Braecen Kaeth and increasingly possible doom. He eyed the smoking hole next to his head with icy-hued eyes that had seen stars born and planets die and grimaced slightly.

He tried another tactic, goading, hoping to push his sudden foe into forced decisiveness and cease with her tantrum, "Lady Arconae, I will not hesitate to kill you."

This time, the shot singed his hair. The Corellian sighed.

"This is ridiculous!"

"Hum? Why, I think I heard something. Sounded like some ungrateful son of a biscuit whining like a loth kitten! Or, oh, maybe it was just the rain, nothing but the rain!" shouted an irate voice from a distance away, echoing down around the duracrete ring the Elder was pinned down on from a level above. It was not, in fact, raining, not anything but sniper shots.

Braecen Kaeth did not encounter surprises. He did not go blindly or recklessly even one step forward. He moved through life climbing deliberately, surely, constantly higher and higher, always to new peaks, always careful and mindful of the tremor, the potential fall or rise, in every move. He did not get caught off-guard, did not face challenges that he could not analyze, process, turn to his advantage and conquer.

He did not, evidently, put enough weight behind Atyiru's penchant for unpredictable madness. He had last taken a knee before her throne, many months ago. So many of her idiosyncrasies, he had observed, even respected, enough so to serve her command even as he, loyal to rightful masters of the Brotherhood, had time and again fought and tested her rebellious champions. It was a fine balance the Elder and the Consul had struck, but one they had walked, crown and blade. That tremulous state had eventually crumbled, their paths diverging as their usefulness to one another waned, but for all that, the Corellian had not departed the Shadow Clan on poor terms...

He was meant to be on a brief operation here, a rendezvous with a contact on behalf of Scholae Palatinae who claimed to have information on the Pravus' whereabouts, and nothing more. He was meant to be in his shuttle and on his way already. He was not meant to walk into some vertical stone hellhole of a trap and be shoot at by a young upstart and former colleague.

"You left without saying goodbye!" continued the angry Miraluka from her presumably comfortable crouch behind the blaster rifle she had aimed his way. The Force sunk chill claws into his spine, lighting his nerves with warning, and he jerked his body a inch to the left shortly before another streak of deadly light bit into the duracrete underfoot.

Then again, what were such sensible sentiments in the face of a scorned friend?

Braecen inhaled, and with that inhale, the Dark Side flooded him, bursting through his veins, bubbling in his stomach, churning his gut with nausea and aching deep in his bones. Its cold venom collected under his skin until he felt as though a breath would shatter him, release the storm within. He counted silently, one heartbeat, two, waiting for his senses to scream, waiting while the Force tore him apart—

Atyiru shot again. Braecen rose, whirled, pivoted, a living hurricane of motion and intent, and threw out his arm, fingers out stretched, lightning leaping from his fingertips. The talons of burning white light arched through the air, towards the white-haired figure of their prey some meters above. They dwindled as they traveled, but still bit, piercing flesh and metal and tearing free a pained shout that bit off, strangled, as soon as it came.

The Elder spared but a breath, no more, to wilt slightly, the attack having taken some part of him with it when it ripped free. And then, movement. He ghosted forward, off of the causeway and under the overpass of a duracrete ceiling. Time was precious. He knew Atyiru's strengths. She would mend any wounds his attack had inflicted.

It was, perhaps, wiser to think: by the time she recovers, I will be gone. But Braecen cared not for such capitulation. He would not leave without claiming what he had come for, and he would not leave the challenge the woman had issued unanswered. They had taught each other some few lessons.

It was time, so it seemed, to teach her yet another.

Atyiru Caesura Entar Arconae is a High Priestess of the Force. She is devout in her love and fealty to both gods, Ashla and Bogan, the light and the dark. The Shadow Lady of Arcona, she serves as the Matriarch of the Shadesworn - a Clan pledged to the power of absolute darkness. Yet, dark cannot exist without light, and she serves as the light within Arcona. A beacon to which others are drawn, the Clan’s power grows as her radiance burns brighter and brighter. For, as all know, the brighter the flame the deeper the shadow. Despite her aura of innocence, she is capable of unleashing a terrible, wicked tidal wave of Dark Side power against her foes.

Braecen knew this better than most. He had once proudly served in her cabal - the Prison of Elders - despite his loyalty to the Iron Throne. She had been compassionate, too. Genuinely, she cared about the individual, not just what they could provide the Clan in the immediate here and now. Always diligent, she sought out the best in people, finding strengths in them that they knew not that they possessed. The Adept has been spiraling within the Rogues, destructive and bitter, before she had latched onto him. She had shown him that he still had worth despite a diminished legacy. She had given him purpose once more.

He rushed through the concrete jungle towards his rendezvous point. His head swiveled left and right as he took in the names of the establishments. As he quickened his pace, he mumbled the names of the businesses, “The Drunken Dragon, E-Wok Express Eatery, Coffey Cup.” He veered towards the last establishment with a peculiar look on his face. “Clearly, not how you spell coffee.” He shouldered through the door and entered a brightly lit den permeated with the strong brew of caf. The smell overpowered his nasal cavity and left him noseblind for several moments as his eyes adjusted to the light.

In the trappings of a Sith Elder, he attempted to discreetly edge his way between two tables. Ungracefully, he jarred both tables and sent the contents within the patron’s cups sloshing over the edges. Braecen grimaced. Life outside of the Brotherhood seemed so preposterously difficult. He unceremoniously tossed several credits down and apologized for the disturbance. As he approached his contact, the man bolted in fear. He raced towards the front door. The Elder sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not. My. Day.”

Falling into pursuit, Braecen converged on the man as he pushed through the portal leading back into the underbelly of Coruscant. The pair tumbled end over end until they were both sprawled on their backs on the duracrete street. His world turned upside down, Braecen’s blue eyes swam for a moment before snapping back into focus.

Even introverted, he recognized the person standing over him. His eyes ran up the dark, copper skin of her legs until they met her skirt, corseted top, and favored turquoise cloak. An intricate braid of platinum hair swung over her shoulder. Her frame, willowy and lean, did not diminish her presence in the moment. Her confusion gave way to amusement as she broke into a wide grin at the scene before her. “You shouldn’t be laying around on the job, Braeby.”

She lifted a hand towards Braecen’s contact. An elaborate, twisting thread of the Force snaked from her hand toward his mind. Her touch caressed his defenses, lulling any willpower he may have to resist her into submission. The strike was sudden, and immediate, her will violently dominating his mind. She fed on his emotions, aligning his fear of the Sith Adept with her own intent to lash out at her former Quaestor.

Braecen rolled onto his side and struggled to his feet in time to be intercepted by his contact. In a full lunge, the man tackled him at the waist and forced him to the ground. As he struck the ground, a sharp pain shot up his back and neck. Irritated, Braecen screamed at his harasser, “Damnit, Atty! Stop!” He shoved the man off his prone form and moved to find his stance.

“Why would I do that?” His scorned friend said in blase tone.

She reached for her SoroSuub blaster tucked in her twin belts. The Elder bit his tongue and responded with the snap-hiss of a lightsaber. Then a second one.

They were a storm of bolts and blades.

Blue and white plasma rained like starfall, screaming and sparking. It was a spectacle too frightening and radiant, blinding anyone who looked too long; Braecen's quarry fled.

It was not a thought the Elder could spare. He was a focus of fury, a tempest of motion as both his blades whirled, powerful and swift. His body flowed with them, the Force feeding the cyclone of his arms and twist of his torso. Opposite him, Atyiru was immovable, a mountain, erupting with a steady stream of bitter light that could only blind and burn. She stood straight, her hand steady, the trigger of her pistol depressed without care or aim.

The Corellian grit his teeth, blocking shot after shot and wondering, peripherally, whether or not the Consul's blaster would sputter in her grasp before he was given reprieve. His sabers, held tight and fast, responded to his every command, but he was growing bored of this clash.

It was time for him to end it.

Braecen dove into the Force, threw himself into its poison tides. It filled him, obliterated him, and when he was gone, he was the Dark. He directed that, an easy flicker of his own thoughts as he advanced forward resolutely.

That thought was directed at Atyiru. Its mission simple.

Across from him, the Miraluka gasped, a cry torn from her chest and blaster clattering from her hand as she recoiled, stumbled, stuttered, fell to one knee. It was all the opportunity the Elder needed. He surged forward, flipping his trailing blade forward and, leaping, brought both his sabers crashing down in a devastating strike—

Plasma screeched as her seraphic sword clumsily caught his. Her block was sloppy, her arm trembling as she bent low, catching herself on her free hand. Her face was a pale-lit expanse, smoothed from its brief upset save the rictus of her clenched teeth behind parted lips. Braecen pushed, and all three humming blades sunk closer to her skin, but she resisted.

"Did you think," the Miraluka hissed, "that no one had ever blinded me before? It's unlike you to miscalculate so." A faint smile passed over her lips. "If you're feeling your years, you're welcome to retire back home. Selen has lovely villages."

"I think it might be you who's lost touch, Atty," countered the Corellian as he beared down. "If you think I'd ever really retire."

"No, my friend, I suppose not," she managed, just as her arm buckled and she let the momentum take her, throwing herself into a roll and springing gracefully upright while the Adept's blades carved through the duracrete underfoot. Her lightsaber lifted before her, a humming prelude to a ceaseless whirlwind of woven song, and he knew, then, that he would not breach her defenses again, not directly.

"You won't walk away?"

"No more than you. You'll have to stop me." That faint smile returned. "Best hurry, before your acquaintance finds some hole you can't flush him out of."

"Don't worry. I'll hunt him to the ends of the galaxy. I always win," Braecen returned, but what he really said was, I won't stop. I can't.

Atyiru laughed and then vaulted forward, saber scintillating as it spun high. The Elder didn't budge, not so much as a flicker, throwing the full, domineering force of his mind at her instead of the might of his blades. He centered only on that, on stopping her, and—

It was a crash with no impact. The Miraluka froze in place, her hair and clothes ripping forward and fluttering about her with her arrested momentum even as her body remained as stiff as stone. She couldn't open her mouth to croak, couldn't twitch a brow or finger; she was an angelic, avenging statue, captured mid-strike from the scene of some ancient battle.

The Corellian stayed focused on that even as he deactivated his weapons and belted them, retreating slowly, pace by pace. He kept his gaze fixed on her form, his will on the task at hand and nothing else. It was agonizing.

Her voice whispered in his mind, I'll see you again soon, clever boy.

But it was a victory.

Braecen did not grin, too concentrated. He simply released his grasp, pivoted, and ran, tearing off into the hive-like streets in search of his target.

He would win both battles yet.

Atyiru knew the Elder’s propensity for violence. She also knew that if Braecen had subdued the man before her, he had value. As long as he was alive. A wicked grin split her lips and she coerced the man to move between the Elder – his twin sabers at the ready – and herself. She flourished the blaster and began to nimbly move left and right triggering her blaster. The shots went wide of the contact, but landed dangerously close to Braecen’s feet.

She adjusted her stance and the bolts began to zero in on the center mass of the former Quaestor. “Now, why should I let you have your cake and eat it, too?” Atyiru halted her assault and brought the barrel to bear on the head of Braecen’s contact. The sparkle was removed from her eyes. Braecen knew that now was not the time to play coy with the Shadow Lady.

“He has information on Pravus, Darth Pravus.” The Elder looked abashed that he let the intel slip to another Clan. Obviously, he had been entrusted with this task by his Consul, Xen’Mordin Palpatine, as the Executor of Scholae Palatinae.

“Interesting,” Atyiru pondered the significance of the Dark Lords whereabouts. Then she slammed the butt of her blaster into the man’s head. He collapsed like a bag of rocks. He hit his head on the concrete with such force that both Force Users cringed. “Tell you what, Starbuck, let me have him.”

“I can’t,” he said in a most conflicted tone.

“I know.”

She drew her own lightsaber and ignited its blade. A brilliant azure flame erupted and hummed with angelic might. The two combatants circled each other in the makeshift ring, sabers held out before them in standard ready stances. The last time he faced the woman, Braecen had been intimidated by her innocence. Now he simply ignored the façade.

Braecen lunged out with a simple overhand strike, but Atyiru responded with a quick parry to deflect the blow to the side. Instead of the loud clang of melee weapons, there was the crackle and hum of blades of pure energy crossing. Immediately the combatants spun away from each other and resumed their ready positions.

Braecen rushed forward, his first blade ascending diagonally from right to left in a long, swift arc. Atyiru managed to redirect the impact with her own weapon, but lost her balance and stumbled back. Braecen tried to press his advantage, following with his second in an arc upward from left to right. His opponent spun out of harm’s way, backpedaling quickly to create space. Braecen broke off his half-completed sequence and settled back into the ready position.

Against weaker foes, individuals without the Force, his latent abilities with the Dark Side had allowed him to anticipate and react to the moves of his foes. In the Brotherhood, however, every opponent enjoyed the same advantage. As a result, victory required a combination of the Force and physical skill.

Braecen had worked on acquiring that physical skill over the past years. As this ability grew, he was able to devote less and less of his mental energy to the physical actions of thrust, parry, and counterthrust. This allowed him to keep his mind focused so he could use the Force to anticipate his opponent’s moves, while at the same time obscuring and confusing his enemy’s own precognitive senses.

Atyiru, despite her awe-inducing persona, was smaller and lighter than her opponent. Physically outmatched by the brute force of Braecen, she was forced to rely on the defensive style of Soresu to keep her larger opponent’s overpowering attacks at bay.

Spinning his sabers in a quick flourish, Braecen leapt high in the air and came crashing down from above. Atyiru parried the attack but was knocked to the ground. She rolled onto her back and barely managed to get her saber up in time to block Braecen’s next slashing attack. A chorus of cracks and thrums rang out as Braecen’s blows descended like rain. The Sephi kept him from landing a direct hit with a masterful defensive flurry, then swept Braecen off his feet with a leg-whip, leaving them both supine.

“Done yet?” Atyiru panted.

The larger man gasped for air. His skin aflame from exertion. “Maybe?”

“Promise to share what you learn?” The Consul of Arcona knew he would be true to his word.

“Absolutely… My Lady.”