The sands of Korriban blurred past them as Alexander guided their speeder toward the Valley of the Dark Lords. Maelis sat behind him, gripping the edges of the seat as he pushed the machine to its limits. The wind tore at her robes, and the landscape dissolved into streaks of red and shadow. She couldn't see a thing at this speed—all she could do was place her trust in Alexander's instincts. The only reason she'd let him drive was because he had demanded it—without words, without explanation, only the certainty that arguing would have been pointless. Still, she hoped his talent with the Force would keep them from crashing to their deaths before the trial had even begun.
Her stomach lurched as Alexander pulled the speeder into a sharp turn. She cursed under her breath, nearly losing her grip before pressing herself firmly against the seat—using the Force to anchor herself and keep from being flung off. The world slowed just enough for her to lift her head, ready to snap something sharp at Alexander—until she felt it.
The Valley of the Dark Lords pressed down on her senses like a shroud. The air seemed to taste of blood and rust, the weight of centuries of violence lingering like an iron fog. It was only an illusion an echo of what had been but the darkness here had seeped into the very stone. Countless Sith, thousands of Dark Lords, rituals and sacrifices too old to be named; all of it had stained this place until it felt almost alive.
Her thoughts scattered when Alexander cut the engine and stepped off the speeder, parking near an ancient entrance. Without pause, he strode toward one of the tomb mouths that yawned open into the labyrinth of tunnels beyond. Maelis hurried after him, forcing her voice to sound calm.
"Alexander, do you know where we're going? If not, I can lead us. We might reach the tomb before the others do."
He didn't turn to face her. His gaze stayed locked ahead, voice even and quiet.
"No. I know where we need to be—and we don't need to be there yet. Once the rest arrive, we'll follow them in and begin the trial. Until then, I'll explore the tombs."
He said it as if it were obvious, and she understood the rest without needing it spoken aloud. Maelis dared not wander alone into the Valley—her skill wasn't enough to keep her safe here. Staying by Alexander's side was her only real chance to survive, even if she suspected the experience would be far from comfortable.
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He stirred as the intruders crossed the threshold of his tomb—two small flames guttering in the endless dark. Yet one of them was no small flicker: it was a roaring blaze, vast and searing, contained by the walls of its bearer's will.
The girl barely caught his notice: she trembled in the Force, wary and respectful in the ancient hush of the tomb. But the boy—no, the young man—he moved differently. Confident. Casual. His presence rolled across the old runes and dormant wards like water over stone, neither testing nor fearing them.
Interesting, thought the ancient spirit, amused despite himself. The wards should have stirred, but they did not. They felt… confused, as if uncertain whether they had truly been trespassed.
He followed them deeper through halls of red stone and shadows older than empires. The boy was not aimless; the spirit could sense his mind at work, sharp and relentless, prying apart each veil of secrecy not with raw power, but with a delicate, almost scholarly interest.
So that is what you seek, the spirit realized at last, studying the strange pattern that shimmered faintly around the boy's thoughts. Shapes in the Force. Not crude barriers or wild telekinetic thrusts, but precise, stable forms—a square sharpened into a blade that could shear flesh and bone; a cylinder to wrap the body and shield it from heat, gas, even spirit fire; lattices that could trap or crush.
It was clever. And dangerous. Such rigid constructs required will like tempered steel, and a mind capable of holding geometry against the roaring tide of reality. Few could master it; fewer still could create new forms.
As the boy reached the heart of the tomb, the spirit saw the holocron: his own, nestled atop a pedestal of black stone veined with silver sigils. The spirit waited, ancient hunger stirring. So many centuries starved of sensation. Now, perhaps, he could feed again—live again.
The boy reached out. The spirit lunged—poured itself into the holocron, flung open the old, forbidden gate to pour whispers into the boy's mind. Secrets of Sith alchemy, of draining life and binding souls. Promises of power enough to shape entire armies from dust.
But then — Nothing.
The boy's mind did not recoil. It did not burn, or scream, or even truly hear. It opened, cold and infinite. The spirit felt himself falling, as if stepping off a pier into a silent, bottomless sea.
And the boy ate him. Not with fury or hatred—but with the serene, curiosity of someone picking up a venomous serpent just to see how its scales felt against his palm.
The last thing the ancient spirit understood was that the boy was not learning from him. He was studying how it felt to consume a will that had once moved armies, measured empires, and laughed at death.
And the boy found it… interesting.
Then, nothing remained but silence—and the holocron now dull and empty in the boy's hand.
The girl beside him, Maelis, did not understand what had transpired. But the spirit did, in the instant before oblivion: this was no ordinary Sith, no mere initiate hungering for power. This was something far worse.
This was a young mind experimenting. And the galaxy itself was to be his laboratory.
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As we walked back toward the exit, I flexed and shaped my will into forms—triangle, square, cylinder—again and again, testing the new knowledge the Force had revealed. It was an elegant refinement of my earlier talent: shaping the Force into tangible constructs. The mind I'd torn it from had offered useful insight, letting me experiment further.
For instance: it was possible to create many smaller shapes to form a single larger construct, allowing finer control. I could detach individual pieces, slip them through a target's throat, and rejoin them seamlessly. It also made things more efficient: rather than crafting a broad platform to hover, I could create two minuscule shapes beneath my feet, then anchor myself to them with the Force no more "carpet" technique.
More intriguing was the discovery that these shapes could interact with what lies beyond: the realm of the Force, or the soul—whatever name one gives it. I tested this on a K'lor slug: slicing into its essence rather than its flesh. The effect was immediate and profound. One cut left it writhing in agony; the second paralyzed it completely. The Force suggested this wouldn't happen with most natural creatures.
What did that imply about the K'lor slug? Likely alchemical in origin, its creators may have focused entirely on physical power, neglecting to weave strength into its spirit. Logical, if its role was merely expendable fodder, clearing the path for more valuable servants of the Sith.
While I contemplated the intersection of alchemy and soulcraft, Maelis tapped my shoulder, interrupting my floating. I landed silently on the sand, turning from the now-motionless K'lor slug to find her gaze fixed on me—equal parts fear and reluctant resolve. That meant only one thing: the others had arrived.
I reached out, casting a Force spike deep into the tomb, brushing aside ancient wards and lingering spirits. Yes—the other twelve initiates had entered, and Varrin, predictably, was already in the process of killing one of them. Interesting that he hadn't been the one to start the fight.
I glanced at Maelis. "It's time to enter the tomb. Follow if you wish. I'll collect the tablets my way; you may try as well—but know you needn't."
Turning back, I spread my senses through the ancient hall, charting my course. The spirit of the tomb's master had already been consumed; what remained might yet hold value. Perhaps I'd visit his shattered library. A former Jedi Master skilled in alchemy—yes, that could be worth the trouble.
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Maelis kept pace behind Alexander, careful to stay just close enough to feel the edge of his presence in the Force a cold, silent bastion that repelled the valley's shadows as if by contempt alone.
At first, she couldn't quite see what he was doing. His hands barely moved, his expression unchanged, but through the Force she sensed it: shapes folding and hardening, floating geometric blades of will. Then, with a controlled flick of intent, he guided a fragment of power through the air like a surgeon's scalpel, and what lay before them was revealed not as a mere K'lor slug but a Broodmother—bloated with the dark potential to spawn hundreds more.
The sight made her breath catch. The Broodmother convulsed as Alexander's will sliced into something deeper than flesh. It shuddered once, tried to cry out without a voice, and then fell to the ground entirely still.
Maelis didn't recoil, that'd long been trained out of her, she analysed instead. It wasn't the raw strength that caught her attention, but the precision: the deliberate shaping of power to dissect rather than simply destroy. A technique that was refined—something she'd only read about in fragments hinting at Sith alchemy or the sculpting of living weapons.
The other initiates had begun to enter the tomb proper—she sensed Varrin's restless malice, felt violence already cracking through the ancient halls. Alexander, once she alerted him, meanwhile, brushed aside the lingering wards like brittle cobwebs, his presence unsettlingly calm.
For a moment, Maelis felt the edge of dread—but she forced it down. This was also an opportunity. His shadow, cold and razor-edged though it was, gave her shelter from the valley's unseen horrors.
And under that shelter, she could dare something she never had before.
She had always been cautious, careful not to draw too much attention. But now, with Alexander's presence tearing open the path, perhaps she could do more than merely keep up. Perhaps she could take something for herself: power, knowledge—proof that she could claim more than survival.
She watched him stride ahead, sand curling around his boots like smoke, and swallowed the last taste of doubt. Determination coiled tight in her chest.
Yes, she would risk it. While the others fought and died, she would follow in his wake—and in doing so, she would reach for something greater.
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Hello author man here just here saying that this was supposed to be done way earlier but my hands started screaming in pain specifically my fingers and it was incredibly unpleasant so I took a while off since it took a while for them to stop screaming at me. It still stings but ain't hurt that much so here's the new chapter so yeah. Update schedule will be chaotic but other than that tell me what yah like and want to see and shit and maybe I'll do that.