We have faced these Demons before.

They came with swords of fire, they came with torrents of energy, and they came with corrupted beasts. They came to murder us, to break our wills, to harvest our breath. The Old Ones that brought us here did not prepare us for them. Our defenses were laid to waste, our soldiers scattered like leaves in a whirlwind. The Demons thought they ended us.

Yet still we stand.

We drove them back each time. This was our home, and they could never take that from us. They left their scars on us, their corruption tracing lines in our flesh, in our hearts. Their hatred infected us, driving kin against itself, brother to brother, mother against son, daughter against father.

Yet still we stand.

We found the Love within the Rage, those Seeds of Hope that made the Hatred burn so hotly. We nourished the Love, we helped it to grow, fed it our hopes and dreams. We used it as a wall against our fears, against our own sorrows. We used Love to end the Blight of Darkness that the outsiders brought. Our sons no longer cut their flesh, our daughters no longer cowered in fear. We listened to the Heart of our world, the whispers of our home as they beckoned us toward the path of Love.

The Demons came back. They brought their poisoned hearts to our door again, the hatred dripping from their lips. We Loved them, hoping that they could see where their rage grew from. We showed them that we were not slaves. That we were not afraid. We showed them that even as they came with a rising tide of sorrow and fear, that we still had Love.

What do Demons know of Love?

They only knew hatred. They slaughtered us, drove us deep into the ground, hiding from their rage. Our Ancestors knew then that they were not like us. They had no Seeds of Hope, only blind fury. Deep in the Heart of our world, our grandfather's grandfathers knew that we were almost broken, made deaf by the screams of our Love dying, drowning in the blood of our children.

Yet still we stand.

Our Ancestors knew that you can not defeat a demon with Love. Just as you can not keep your children alive with only embraces, you must occasionally spill blood to survive. When they came back out of the Heart of our world, we still knew Love. But we vowed to never show the Demons that Love again. We showed them that we use our Love for each other as a weapon against those who would separate us, against those who would end us...against those who don't know Love.

We know now that the Demons have returned. They have crossed our borders, hatred in their eyes, blood on our lips. And we showed them how strong our Love is. But it is not enough. They have come to our home. They gnash their teeth, they bang their blades, they roar in the darkness. They scream their heart's desire, to see us break. We have seen these Demons before, brothers and sisters.

Yet still we stand.

15 ABY
ASN Sleepwalker
Wild Space

She stared at the doctor again, blue eyes betraying her calm by widening. The paths erupted in her mind, all the varied outcomes playing out in infinite detail.

"You're sure?" She spoke after what seemed an eternity.

The doctor nodded, turning the datapad around. "We ran the test twice."

She let her breath out slowly, then looked back up at him. "Thank you."

He nodded at her, smiling as she turned and walked away. The door slid open in front of her, exposing the curved hallways of the Dragon-Class to her eyes. She traced the route down to the docking bay in her mind's eye. Long legs carried her through the halls, down the turbo lift, her mind on autopilot as it raced through possibilities and memories.

And then he was there.

He looked up from the datapad the soldier showed him, the long hair swinging out of the way as he gazed in her direction, eyes as dark and enigmatic as space. There was a half smile across his lips as she paused, trying to still her mind before getting any closer to him, to his mind.

He looked back down at the datapad, speaking a few words of broken Autoch to the man as she approached. She touched his shoulder, letting her thin hand rest there for a moment as she moved past him. She could feel memories flowing through her mind, the good times overshadowed by the shows of brutality, the Universe itself shuddering and letting him take command as he tore enemies asunder with not much more than a gesture. The bloodlust, the cackling madness that he tried so hard to restrain. It would come again. She looked at him, his eyes rising up to hers for a moment.

She knew how this would end.

She let her hand trace across his back as she moved away from him, continuing her path away, the clacking of her boot heels echoing in the corridor.

He pointed at the icons of the datapad, spitting a loose stream of broken Autoch words at the man and sending him on his way, his head turning to watch her walking away. He felt it build in his eye before it fell, salt and water caught on his lashes before dropping to his cheek.

20ABY
B'omarr Monastery
Cerodross

The transports landed roughly, the sudden jarring of soil meeting the landing gear shocking their systems as the gangplank opened and let the desert air in to scorch their senses. He looked over at him, the tsuba he wore over his eye glinting in the bright sun. He nodded once at him before storming out, the curved sliver of good steel spinning into his hand from the saya at his side. Muz followed, his saber screaming to life as he stepped into the endless brown of Cerodross. The others followed him, lining up behind the Herald of the Brotherhood and his Brother, a warlord of Sadow. The banners flapped in the desert wind as they advanced toward the monastery, hearts set on their prize.

He felt it from orbit, the organic crystal formation, carefully formed into a perfect shape, coated in rare metals and engraved with ancient glyphs, a holocron of the ancient orders. The monks kept anything that they felt would bring them to enlightenment, but lacked the skill to open the holocron. And yet, they refused with vulgar epithets the polite offer to purchase it from them. Muz smiled as he watched the monks fall to blaster and blade, making their way through the gates, leaving a trail of broken droids and shattered men.

The courtyard was large, small hydroponic greenhouses lining the walls. He watched as his brother walked, the blade in his hand spinning and leaving a path of destruction along his route. They moved quickly, fighting in tandem, precise strikes coordinated with each other over a hundred thousand repetitions. They fought as one, a dragon with two heads, striking out and rending foes from their lives.

The door to the tower fell to two quick strokes of his saber, the narrow steps within taunting them, calling them forth. Manji smiled at him, the subtle nod inviting him to go first. He returned the gesture, bolting forward up the steps two at a time. Another door fell to his blade, exposing the narrow room, primitive furniture and a young boy, fresh stripes up and down his back weeping blood, staring at him, his hand outstretched.

The wave crashed around him, the dust swirling up from the floor, the walls. It congealed, the Force bashing him backwards to the wall, knocking the wind from his lungs. In a moment, it was done, the bewildering gaze of his brother punctuating his footsteps as he bounded toward the boy, dropping to a knee as he looked into his face. Muz moved, his blade singing a dirge as he did so.

Recognition bloomed in his heart as it crossed his brother's face. It was the eyes. Those violet eyes seemed to burn with power, all but glowing in the half light. He looked too familiar, like a dream he didn't remember, yet the Force sang to him the truth of things. It couldn't be, it had to be, yet it mustn't be. Muz raised the saber, the vectors playing out in his mind, the path of the blade mapped.

"Stay your blade." Manji's words rang out against the stone. Muz's arm shifted direction, the violet hum still scorching the air as Manji stood, turning to face him. "Feel, brother. Understand."

Muz let it reach him, allowed the emotion room to breathe. There was no joy here, only a stark understanding of the path going forward, the hell and the pain moving onward. He would be helping this boy to end it before it began, to keep him from it. He looked down at him, purple eyes wide, staring into his own dark pools. There was no fear there. He looked closer, seeing the remnants of horn buds ground down to the scalp, flesh torn around them, shorn hair matted into the wounds.

He didn't know what that meant. He only remembered his father in half measures, the concept of the man stern and strong, a figment of his own mind's recreation. He barely remembered his name, but he remembered the man who took him away, who raised him, who indoctrinated him into the half-life he had lived. What business did he have with trying to do better, with taking responsibility for another?

Manji straightened, his hand on his hilt tightening. "You know what he is."

Muz nodded, the blade of his weapon retreating into his hilt. He turned, stepping to the doorway, pausing as Manji motioned for the boy to go with them. The one-eyed dragon sneered at him, threads of Force flailing wildly between them in unsaid emotions and words.

"Train him." He finally said. "It's the least you can do."

23 ABY
Autoch 7

She looked up at him, and it looked like accusation burning through his heart. She held her boy in her arms, the blood soaking her robes as he struggled to breathe, the hooks of the enemy's embrace having drawn lines of ruin across already scarred flesh. He had no response, watching her pattern wobble, hovering on the edge of loss.

Muz got on one knee, his hand pushing hair out from in front of his eyes, the flickering of his eyelids showing that he was trying to hold on, fighting the dark that was crawling through his vision, trying to drown him in the long sleep. She watched him, letting him touch her son, their son. She held him tight, feeling his heartbeat stumble and race, trying to keep with them.

Muz stood, turning away, the datapad in his prosthetic arm sliding open to track the medical crew that was en route. He turned, looking back at them over his shoulder. He looked like a man, but he knew better. A full year, he had been lost to them, bleeding for their sport. It was nothing any child should have to go through, and yet he brought him to it, to them. The demons from outside of the universe who came for them. Taken while he was busy trying to escape himself, escape the hell he had brought them all into. Always another blade at their throat, always another threat to keep them from each other. Duty crippled him, kept him from what he wanted, and yet he embraced it out of fear, out of fear that he would pass on his hell.

It was already too late. He should have ended it on Cerodross.

The hissing of hydraulics came, the quick footsteps of medics running toward them before the ship completely stopped moving. Doses of bacta filled their hands as they stormed through piles of corpses, the wind tossing his warcoat and hair as he watched them approach. They slid into place, working as if by rote, efficiency that came from so many iterations guiding their hands as they worked on the boy.

His datapad screeched, a message from the throne. He stepped away, his eyes meeting the holographic blue of the man who wished he was his master. He listened to the words he said, the orders given, the plans relayed. Always more enemies that he was to stand against, to fight for a common ground that the clans wouldn't come together for. It was the cycle of things. Someone always stood there, between them like the medics did now. Jedi, Sith, mercenaries, fools and kings, all the same. In the end, he'd have his duty, and his boy would get older until he didn't. Muz shuddered, turning back to look at them, his mind spinning wildly.

There were only two paths forward from here.

He chose wrong.

32 ABY
The Dark Hall
Antei

The death throes of a billion life forms scorched his senses, the blinding light of hatred searing through eyes already too black to betray him. The earth moved beneath his feet, the shockwaves of the devastation echoing in every nerve, every cell of his being. It was too much, and yet not enough. He felt the collapse of stone, the withering of desert grasses, the failure of everything, from that one day on the Sleepwalker through to now.

This world was dying, and he stood at the heart of it all, the weapon of Gods and yet still a man. He hoped it was just a meditation, a vision. He hoped that he would rise a younger man and understand, make changes. That it was all a fiction, writ by a madman with too much liquor and not enough sleep. That he would wake and find himself somewhere better, someplace where he would have a better chance at living.

As the pillars collapsed around him and he felt Cotelin fade through hyperspace, he stood, walking away from the cursed throne, its own power fluctuating like the wings of a dying bird. Droids lifted it from the spot, shuffling it down the corridor as the building began to list. He followed them as the reports from his sources began to come through. Lists of the lost, those unaccounted for, and those who had decided to stand against him.

He stopped outside, watching the ISD burning up as it re-entered the atmosphere, flashes of fire erupting across its hull, a shell without men to guide her. She fell, the years of work of many men who built her piece by piece wasting to the uncaring entropy of this world. The roar of Ante was omnipresent, screaming as if to remind him of history, of all the death that ever was, and of that which was soon to come.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander. A small house nestled deep in the forest. She was there, sitting next to him as he bounced the boy on his knee, nonsense and giggles flowing from his young mouth. The smells of hearth and roasted meat, the warmth of a home lived in. The feeling in his heart was unfamiliar to him, like a color in a spectrum he couldn't see, but somehow knew all the same. It was just an echo, the cruel ghost of a path he never learned to walk.

The commlink sounded, alerting him of the movement toward Korriban as he blinked away the illusion, stepping up the ramp to his ship, pausing to look back at the ruins one last time. There was only one path now, and he had to see it through.

It was too late for otherwise.

Manually added by Seer Locke Sonjie

Manually added by Seer Locke Sonjie

As the heat fell from his skin, he turned. The work was done for a moment, Malik's surrender not unexpected. The man always was a bit of a martyr, and stepping between the Keibatsu and their prey was never advisable, even for an elder. He always did move with a clear purpose.

Muz stopped for a second, letting his mind catch up to things, reaching out with his senses, with his heart. He could feel them, feel Sildrin's resonance on the tapestry, on the universe where they were. The threads tied her to two distinct places, a weavery constructed with deft mind and great skill. He smiled. He knew she would be trying her hardest, but to what end, he only had half an idea. There was too much bad history behind her blind eyes.

Shikyo nodded at his transceiver, then deftly stowed it in the same motion. "We're en route."

Muz looked up at him for a moment, his youngest brother, his apprentice, his Herald. There was never any real contention between them. Sometimes the others, with their challenges, their grasping to step out from the shadow that he never cared to cast. He understood them, that need. It never bothered Shikyo. He learned many lessons in practicality from the mercenaries, from his years on the Dark Council. It wasn't like Manji, who's dogged persistence in backing the Heir of the Sadow name almost cracked the bloodline in two. He stared back at him, one eye shielded under the Kyataran handguard tied about his head. They hadn't sat and talked for some time. It seemed too obvious, some things, that they never needed said. And yet, still it itched at his psyche.

He let the words go out to him.

Are we all that's left?

Manji shifted his weight, his head moving slightly in affirmation. Muz made no reaction, counting down the names in his head. Shin'Ichi had left the 'Spear after the War, retreating on a long overdue holiday to the core. He never checked in at the Gilmarin Condos, so he must have had somewhere else in mind. He hadn't responded to any communiques, either. While that normally would have bothered him, it was rather his modus operandi as of late, growing more and more distant. Sanjuro had gone to ground at Kuroshin, rarely leaving their compound there, exhausted from the constant infighting that the Brotherhood seemed to espouse more and more. Shimura was long gone, stopped responding to them more than a decade ago, and they could not tell if he still even drew breath.

Macron gave up his affiliation years ago, almost in defiance to the Family when Ashia was Consul. Manji probably still hadn't forgiven him for that, as he was the one who adopted him. Macron's bitterness and impulsive behavior led him to many a drastic act, which explained why he was backing the usurper knight. He could feel the madman, not far from the area that Locke was designating. He was enjoying the battle too much, reveling in destruction and the fear he sowed in the younger ranks. It was too much, the posturing. Fear only made so good of a motivator, and after that immediate threat has passed, they find ways to come at you sideways. He saw it all too many times. Could Macron learn that lesson? It was a question that would have to be answered soon.

Which left Tsainetomo. Muz felt him out there, a brilliant point of light on the dull rock, unable or maybe even unwilling to conceal himself. Muz cracked his neck, considering options. He had thrown down the name of the blood some time ago, threw in his lot with the Long. Was it a desire for power? Vexatus - No, Xanos - He hadn't earned that title. Xanos offered much, but it was, as it always ever was, illusion, built to pretend at primacy, to honor his mad master. What Xanos had to offer was only ever lies, and Sai had to know that, somewhere deep in his heart. The ritual he sought, the shards he was trying to accumulate, the power he was trying to wrest from the long dead; they were not what Vexatus believed. The Falleen thought he was researching Vitiate, by way of Tiamat, but instead found a broken version of Ergast's work. Sai had to know.

If so, then why would he bother throwing his lot in with them. There was pride there, certainly. Love of combat, and the seeking to challenge. Steel sharpens steel, the saying went, and perhaps the half-Korun felt that his steel would be tested more harshly than if at his side. But no, that didn't make much sense either. It was too much ego, too much narcissism to think he was the cause for that. He shunted it aside in his thoughts, knowing the price of ego as a Dark Lord.

Malaise? Could boredom and a lack of self preservation drive him to this? Muz stared at nothing at yet everything, watching the world move by millimeters as his brain dissected the situation, trying to unravel the puzzle that his cousin had become. There was more to this than anything he could see from here, and it curled his lip.

Shikyo looked up at him, at Ashia and Manji. "Ready, then?"

Muz twisted his arm, the display sliding open, bathing his eyes in the luminosity of the datapad built into the prosthetic. The holocomm projector lit up under his unseen hand, and he looked up at his Herald, nodding once.

Go ahead. I'm right behind you.

He let the connection reach out to the old frequencies, encrypted in ways that Sildrin had tested against her own skills when she was his Seneschal. He let the connection begin, feeling the power trace itself up into the network, then vanish out of his visualisation. He stood there, eyes closed as he felt along the edges of this shattered world, letting his senses touch everything he could. Past the journeymen, past the scared soldiers, past the fear of what was coming, or the lust of what might happen. And found him.

He felt his heart twist as he found the communicator.

Soon, there would be an understanding.