Actinic blue lightning flashed throughout the throne room, heralded by a manic roar of unrestrained rage fuelled by mania and the pain of betrayal. Like a font spewing forth apostate bile, Mejas Doto, di Primus Tenebrous Arconae shouted an inarticulate challenge, one hand holding bloodfang, his signature double-bladed lightsaber dormant, whilst his other directed the lethal coruscating currents.
There were five equites arrayed before him, their resolve unwavering despite the onslaught. Malidir Erinos, a tank of a man and a warrior of unparalleled fury wouldn’t leave the throne room the same. He’d sustain an injury which took months of recovery, and never again would he wield a weapon with the same artless finesse. Still, Sashar, his brother, had brought him into this fight, this coup. For the result, he’d gladly have paid the price again, had he known. A bargain, Malidir would later remark.
Strategos and Timeros had readily agreed to depose Mejas in such a fashion. It was one of the few times the Erinos and the Entars had seen eye to eye. The insane Zabrak was Consul, yes, and had made each of the five Arconae, but he was leading the clan down a path it wouldn’t survive. His obsession over the arcane spelled ruin, and it was their sworn duty to protect the clan from any threat - from outside or within.
Finally, there was Zandro Erinos and Sashar himself. Sashar had endured the Zabrak’s mentorship, and endure was the closest he could come to referring to it. Mejas Doto was infatuated with control and destruction. He’d only ever taken one apprentice, his Proconsul Sashar, and he demanded a high price. Sashar had forsook his family, pledging himself fully to the blue-skinned maniac, gritting his teeth as the Dark Jedi Master literally tore through his mind, telepathically twisting, unravelling his sanity to the absolute brink.
It was unending. Mejas would delve into his memories, humiliating him with his failures, shaming him with his most intimate thoughts for days on end, always scratching away at his protege’s resolve, stripping away his dignity and humanity until his very soul felt exposed, like a live wire.
Sashar had suffered.... Indignities for months for just this moment. Later, on reflection, he’d barely be able to recall the details of the battle, as Mejas had thrown more than lightning and screams their way. His true power came in the whispers and scrying of their most base, animal fears, then assaulting them with unending visions of those very fears. He was a personified nightmare, a mausoleum of hatred and vindictive spite, grasping and clawing at their minds. It distorted perception in the moment, and after the fact, it was hard to tell what parts were real.
Afterwards, there were only four of them left standing. Two Entars, Two Erinos. Between them, Mejas knelt, pinned to the floor, bellowing commands even as they slid the beskar collar around his neck, wrought just for him. Abruptly, there was silence. A silence that would last two blissful years until Mejas broke free and once again tore through Arcona, only this time vengeance was to be his only goal. The abrupt disconnection from the Force scarred Mejas Doto far more than any physical wound could. It was like surgically removing his legs. He was rendered speechless in shock and bereavement, and with his shock came an end to his crawling through Sashar’s mind.
Peace.

-=[]=-

Sashar was awake almost instantly. That nightmare was a familiar one, and after so long, it was reassuring just to remember that the darkest days of his life had long since passed. Only, something was different.
He swatted for the lightswitch on his nightstand, taking note of the cold sweat adhering him to his sheets. The mandalorian paused halfway through the gesture, sitting bolt upright. Something was probing his mental defences, testing for a weakness. Years of allowing a foreign mind to touch his had built his psychic walls high and thick with a will like a bar of beskar. But like a river carving through a mountain over millenia, everything wears down eventually. A trickle could become a torrent.
“No, no no…” Sashar muttered as he threw back the sheets and got up, running from the bedchamber to the central room of his small quarters. He threw open the balcony doors, the thin curtains billowing about him, his bare feet slapping on the cold stone and looked up with mounting dread.
It was a clear night, stars shining down like pinpricks in the raiment of heaven. Dancing amidst them was a shuttle, coming in for a landing.
“He’s back,” Sashar whispered more in disbelief than anything.
Emanating from the shuttle like a pulsar was the presence of a man Sashar had personally given a carbonite bath. There was no way he could blast his way out of that.
Still, despite all evidence to the contrary, there was no refuting it: Mejas Doto had returned.