Nar Shaddaa

The gleam of new construction was barely visible above the glare of neon lights and new filth that crusted the ground, as if the huge buildings had grown like rotten horns from the Vong-formed soil of the Hutt moon. It was but a frail shadow of its former self, but it still attracted smugglers and criminals like dung attracted carrion beetles.

He pulled his collar up around his ears, slouching his head down so far that it seemed like he had lost his neck. He weaved between bars and clubs, between dens of vice and ramshackle offices offering worse. Even with all the illicit money coming in to reclaim this moon, there would still be misery aplenty. Gambling had more than just winners, and those who lost more than they should would find themselves out on the street, burning trash to stay warm in the cold nights. He passed a few of them, his eyes watching them. He analyzed their movement, deconstructing their clothing. Could that coat hide a blaster, was that armor beneath the tatters?

He had reason for the paranoia. Not a single month had passed in the last two years without an attempt on his life. He changed his face, hid his name, burned old clothes and started anew, changed ships, changed planets, and yet they were always right around the corner, licking their teeth for a chance to kill the famed Michael Halcyon. He vaguely wondered if the Iron Throne was merely toying with him, throwing their weak at him to see how long it would be until he cracked.

It never took long before the dread set in.

He had been here too long.

Three days was enough. He had done what he had come to do, and now it was time to get out of here, try to make his trail go cold. He had traded in the old Headhunter he came to Nar Shaddaa with for credit at a sabbaac table, and with his ally he had tripled the money over the course of a few nights, buying up a new transport ship to get off-world with. Nothing fancy, he didn't want to draw attention.

Maneuvering through the streets toward the makeshift dock, Michael gave a quick glimpse over his shoulder. There was more there that he couldn't see. He saw revenge in the faces of those who lined the boulevard, hatred against him, his ways. No, that couldn't be. It was only three days, and Antei was forever away.

The Force whispered to him, singing its tale of woe and horror into his ear. Michael wasn't entirely sure if it was true, if it was the Force, or his own hyperactive imagination. There was no harm in changing his plans, throwing off the scent again. He keyed in his datapad, sending the droid captain an order to take off and pick him up in an hour, ducking himself through an entryway to a small courtyard, watching the heavy ship's engines fire as it took off. He pulled out a pair of electrobinoculars, watching the ship, scanning the roofline, the windows that opened up towards the launch site.

He felt the clone before he saw him. The other expatriate. Michael grimaced. The man had escaped Antei without the hatred of the Brotherhood. He didn't have to hide, he didn't have to deal with the incessant waves of attempts on his life. Then again, he had just vanished, rather than try to forcibly convert or redeem them. Michael wanted to hate him.

The whirring sound of a rocket was almost lost in the booming thunder, a shoulder-mouonted weapon screaming toward the fuselage of his ship. The explosion bloomed, casting warmth and debris to the ground as the payload demolished the transport.

On any civilized world, there'd be sirens and chaos. Here, there was only fire. Michael looked at the other expatriate, disappointment and fear tinged with resignation playing across his face before turning back to watch the embers smolder.

Yridia IV

The transport waited patiently, the markings and lights showing it as a Brotherhood vessel, the symbol of the newest house of the Brotherhood painted on the landing ramp as more and more stepped aboard.

Odan-Urr.

The lightsiders. An island of neutrality and compassion in a sea of naked ambition and brutal execution of ideals. Bloodfyre mused to himself as the waves crashed around the edges of the landing pad. His spies had tracked down any of the remaining sympathizers from Tarentum, and they were summarily reassigned to the new house. He was equal shares of bitter and angry. Angry that Tarentum was losing yet more manpower, bitter that he hadn't had the chance to deal with them himself.

The Fist stood passively, watching to make sure no acts of violence would happen on this action. This was one of the last stops he had to make. He was aggravated that he was tapped to play babysitter on this, rather than given another chance to take out the targets in the Core. Fremoc spit, watching the saliva fly off into the sea. Failure had a price. He knew this all too well, having paid for the death of Dante and his failure to kill the target three times over in his own reckoning.

The last of the sympathizers filtered onto the transport, Bloodfyre watching their every movement. He watched the Fist out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to leave.

"That's the last of them." Bloodfyre shifted his weight, the wind tearing at his robes and hair.

"That you know of." Fremoc's response was quick and terse.

Bloodfyre turned his head slightly. "There's no reason for them to hide anymore." Odan-Urr, and the Grand Master's odd protection of them had seen to that, despite many arguments to the contrary.

"Then where does that leave us?" Fremoc uncrossed his arms, heading for the transport without waiting for an answer.

**The Dark Hall

Antei**

Korras let the crimson and sable guards hold the doors for him as he moved into the darkness. The stone beneath his boots gave way to carpeting and the doors slowly ground shut behind him. It only took a second for his eyes to adjust to the torchlight, the Force telling him the guestlist before his eyes did.

The Quaestor of Taldryan acknowledged the Master at Arms first, nodding quickly before turning back to the Dark Lord. The Krath had his back to the room, standing somberly next to the Iron Throne. Korras wondered for a moment, recalling that he had never seen the Grand Master seated on the ancient seat of power.

The room went silent with the exception of shuffled boots and the crackle of torches. This was not the Council chambers, it was not democracy. It was a plea.

Muz turned slowly, eyes falling on the Taldryan Quaestor as if to bid him to speak.

"We've lost too much already. Why do we allow the Jedi to live?" Sidarace wanted to ask why Muz had allowed them to live, but he was too fond of breathing.

"Forgive our lack of understanding, lord." The masked assassin spoke quickly, adding his words to the air. Siderace breathed easier, the Revanchist's pleasantry hopefully taking any teeth out of his hastily worded question.

"Of course you want war." The Lion of Tarthos turned slowly, letting his eyes glide across the room.

Orv stepped forward somberly, his armor tinted crimson by the natural light. "Michael Halcyon still lives." That was not news to the Grand Master, but it bore repeating in front of the rest of the council.

Muz raised an eyebrow at the Seneschal. The pieces fell into place. He was waiting there, beyond his senses. The bait wass swallowed. All that remained was to set the hook.

Korras had to speak up. "Your assassin failed?" Each of them had sent some of their favorite killers after the traitor, and somehow he still managed to survive. There were probably a dozen attempts on the Jedi's life in the last two weeks.

"As did yours." Orv muttered. "And House Revan's."

Muz touched a panel on the arm of the throne, letting the holotransmitter bathe them all in its laserlight.

"For thousands of years, the Jedi have committed outright genocide on our people. On anyone who dares believe the way that we do..."

**The Headmaster's Chambers

Lyspair**

Taigikori set the spanner down, the fingers of his other hand still holding the side of his face where the boltheads hid, holding the heavier prosthetic to his jaw. He ignored the itch at his jawline, the newer bit of armor the only gear he would deign to wear. It was thirty grams heavier, but he'd get used to it. It was far better than letting a clumsy battlefield movement destroy the articulated jaw he had been gifted with.

The Sith sat cross-legged in the center of the room, beads of sweat forming on his brow as he concentrated on the weapon in front of him, raising the parts from the floor to hover at eye level, just out of reach in an exercise of power.

He examined the power cell, twisting wires around the terminals with the invisible hand of the Force. He knew the enemy well, it was not the first time that he had faced Jedi. The orders were clear. The Lord had placed a rich bounty on the sabers of the enemy. The Houses and Clans would swarm the fields of New Tython before the date changed. His orders were slightly different, rallying to coordinates specified with the rest of the fifth fleet. He had questioned this logic, and was irritated that this would likely keep him from availing himself of a portion of the prize money. But commands were commands, and Taigikori knew well the folly of defiance.

The parts spun in the air before him, eyes narrowing as he aligned the glowing red adegan into the crystal chamber. The panels slid together with a solid clack as it turned, the beads at his brow drawing lines at his temples. This was not just a weapon. It would be his paintbrush for this masterpiece. Crimson blood and blackened bile, he would craft his magnum opus there on the field of battle.

He knew his orders.

He would kill well.

**Temple of Qel-Droma

Arconae Primus**

The air was filled with the sounds of War, echoes carrying through the vast halls of Qel-Droma's temple as a lone Arconae stood surveying the troops he had been tasked with marshalling. Ever the stoic figure, Sashar Arconae oversaw the preparations with his arms crossed and his legs at shoulder-width as he watched the soldiers around him. A sound buzzed in the confines of his helmet and he answered the call, still unmoving to the eyes of those around him.

“Sashar.”

The voice that responded was that of his half-brother and Consul, the clipped tones of the Yaga Minoran filling his helmet.

“We're en-route to the Throne room now; the Clan is already there and we'll be telling them what has transpired shortly. How are the troops looking?”

Sashar allowed himself another look around, watching the Arconan soldiers as they cleaned and loaded their weapons, as efficient as they were impressive in their gleaming white armour.

Yet to see real combat.

Sashar opted to quell such thoughts, instead choosing to assuage his brother's fears.

“Impressive, although their weaponry is a bit...outdated.”

“They're well trained, and their weapons may be old but they will still mess up someone's day just as much as a state-of-the-art blaster, and at much less cost.”

Sashar scoffed at that, a smirk tugging at his lips as his dry response rasped through the comlink.

“Not like you to worry about finances and penny pinching.”

“Shut up.”

A low chuckle from the elder Erinos before his mood darkened slightly and the humour left his voice.

“This won't be easy you know.”

“Maybe not but when has that stopped us before. I'm there now, it's time to talk to the Clan. I'll see you on the field ner'vod.”

“I look forward to it.”

The conversation ended and Sashar resumed his silent vigil, his eyes watching the troops as they prepared for battle.

For the first time in almost 3 years, Arcona prepared for War.

**Imperial Palace

Ohmen City, Judecca**

Xen'Mordin moved quietly through the hall, the stone visages of long-dead Sith Lords peering down upon him. Naga Sadow, crowned and defiant. Plagueis, hidden Muun features under the brim of his hood. There were other houses, clans formed to honor those failed Lords. Xen glanced at them as he passed, feeling the pressing motion from Ood as they walked. This ritual was important, a linking to the past that could aid them in the future. Ancient tomes linked the house to the Royal Guard, their named derived from the training grounds of those who would protect ancient Emperors and Dark Lords. To this concept, they would remain true.

They came to a stop at the end of the corridor, three statues glaring down at them. The hidden face of Darth Revan seemed to look proud across from the grimace of Darth Bane. Ood took a knee, dropping a fist to the floor. Xen'Mordin followed suit, as did the all of the others with them.

The Lord that looked down on them was the only one who actually succeeded.

Palpatine.

It was his legacy that they sought to protect. It was his blessing they all desired before going to war. It was he whose actions killed more Jedi than a hundred Sith Lords before him combined. It was in his name that they would spill more Jedi blood.

Traitors, all.

**Quaestor's Office

Kr'Tal**

Shaz'air tightened the armor around his midsection, the cuirass crumpling the thin robes beneath it. The holo replayed the words of the Grand Master behind them, the holoprojector keyed into the Antei Holonet channels, where the orders and his speech recycled every fifteen minutes.

"...Blaming us for the nerve of those few who sought to even the score..."

Benevolent fixed the collar of his robes, looking back to the two others in his office. Shadow stood off to the side, sliding a shortened bryar rifle into a holster at his hip. Running fingers through his hair, he grimaced. One more ritual left for him. His fingers closed around the hilt of one of his sabers, the snap-hiss of energized adegans following soon after as the Obelisk sheared off his locks to battlefield shortness. The smell of ozone and burnt hair immediately filled the room. Howlader, sitting in a seat with feet propped up on the desk made a face at the odour as he opened his eyes. Whiner grabbing his hat before stepping from the Office, the two veterans following close behind as the doors slid closed, interlocking to form the Seal of the proud House of Taldryan.

Shaz'air turned as the holo came to it's end, the "Old Folks" waiting just outside his office as he strode out. The Exarch nodded at each in turn, briskly moving on toward what was to come.

**Kuroshin Castle

Kyataru**

The former Nightsister rubbed her finger in the black tincture. The mixture was meticulously crafted by her own hand, the traditions passed down through generations of Dathomiri Force Witches. The secrets of which plants to choose at what time, how to grind them into powder and what sap to use to make them into paste were kept secret from all but those few outsiders raised by their own hands. She drew her finger across her face, leaving a dark line beneath her eyes.

"Don the colors of your rage..."

The Dark Lord himself was only a few paces behind her, sliding his sabers into hidden holsters on his belt and adjusting them to precise angles. She wondered what his plan was, waiting for the clans to draw down upon the Jedi well ahead of the Dark Council. Why he was preparing for action when it would all surely be finished by their arrival. Finally satisfied with the angle of his sabers, he slipped the heavy leather of his warcoat over his shoulders, pausing in his movement to stare at his trophies, the one space in the middle left open, except to his memory.

**Deep Ice

Undisclosed location**

"Two thousand credits." Eiko set the communique down, looking up at his Aedile.

The journeyman raised an eyebrow at him in silent question.

Eiko leaned forward in his chair. "The Dark Council has placed a two thousand credit bounty on each Jedi Lightsaber retrieved as a trophy from New Tython." Eiko clasped his fingers in front of him. It was either brilliant or...

"What is our move? Do we need the money?"

Eiko tapped the side of the chrome mask in thought. "We go where we are sent. Anything less might get construed as Treason."

"The Raken Protocol?"

"Not just yet." Eiko stood slowly. "But if our people want to avail themselves of any prize money, that's up to them.

Abyss Station

Halcyon and Vodo stamped through the corridor, turning down a broad hallway and stopping in front of a reinforced doorway. Slipping identcards in front of readers on both sides, the resonant clack of disengaging locks within the structure echoed through the facility. Slow gears turned and pulled apart the blast doors, revealing rows of weapons.

Even here, in the home of the Antei Combat Centre, the message played loud. "Let the blood of our enemies taste sweet on our lips..."

Halcyon Taldrya moved quickly toward the back wall, pressing his hand against a hidden catch, waiting for the biometric scanner to confirm him. Vodo sneered. There were secrets in his domain that even he did not know, and the Sith Lord was making sure that he was aware of it.

A drawer pushed out from its concealed spot in the wall, transparisteel sliding back to reveal Halcyon's custom weapons. Emerald blasters, designed to fit his hand and none other, with older styling reminiscent of the shortened Bryar rifles Taldryan was so well known for. The master raised one, sighting down the barrel at the door, feeling the weight in his hands before tucking it into its home.

**Parade Grounds

Sepros**

The small office was dim, save for the blue glow of the hologram fading out. The Korun turned his head a slight degree, eyes calmly regarding the Consul. The unspoken question went without an answer. It needed none.

Even if the Pepoi was not ...compromised, the damage was already done. He wasn't the same after Fremoc and his brood recaptured him. The process of reintegration was difficult, and continued daily. The former Consul winced, remembering the kind of treatment that required.

It didn't matter now. The Korun nodded, standing slowly. The damage had already been done. The Clan thought he was compromised, even if he wasn't. They needed this, they needed him. His self-imposed exile would have to be postponed, even if just for a little while longer. He pushed the chair back in, opening the narrow door and sliding out to the roar of the crowd.

Heavy bootfalls resounded behind the throb of the crowd as he positioned himself at the center of the promenade, climbing up the podium with the megalithic swords of long-dead warlords crossed behind him. He looked out across the field, eyes gliding across the members of the Clan. The time was here.

The crowd died down as the words of the Grand Master, a Son of Sadow himself, played across hidden loudspeakers. He waited for the words to finish, the speech of his Cousin to end.

The pause grew pregnant, the murmured words of the crowd born out of the whispers and concerns about war.

Tsainetomo let the hilt of his saber fill his hand as the Force scorched his throat with power.

"For Sadow!"

The words reverborated across the crowd, a simultaneous cheer erupting with the upraised fists of the darksiders, the words repeating with equal parts fury and love.

New Tython

Ji stood at the top of a hill overlooking the small trading post. The movement of the grass soothed his eyes, his mind.

There is no emotion, there is only peace.

Odan Urr taught him of Peace. Today would test his devotion to the ancient words. He knew it in his bones, as sure as the wind that made the grass dance before him.

The blurring of space into the clouds above the city almost went unnoticed by the Gand. His commlink chirped at him, no doubt the summons of the converted Sadow. Jonuss was invaluable, handling the fledgling house while heworked to build allies in the core, build up their resources. He ignored the buzz of the commlink, watching the miasma of clouds above it all.

The buzzing renewed persistently.

That was no storm.

The clouds burst, a stream of fighters screaming into the atmosphere, raining fire down into the trees. A plume of smoke erupted with the blast of a torpedo.

The grass stopped waving.

Ji's saber snapped to life, unbidden.

It was time.

The Dark Brotherhood goes to war.

---

THE WAR IS OPEN.

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Above all, have fun.

Thanks again,

--

Muz