Eli Kaen had faced fear before. The Purge. The slaughter. The loops. He had tasted death more times than he could stand—but this was different.
This wasn't fear.
This was dread.
Thick, suffocating dread.
The wind had died. The night, once restless with insects and distant hums of nocturnal life, had gone silent. Only the rhythmic, mechanical rasp of the figure's breathing remained—punctuating the air like a slow, deliberate countdown.
Breathe.
Eli stood motionless, the coarse grass brushing against his legs like warning whispers. He dared not blink, dared not speak. Even the Force seemed to recoil from the presence before them—twisting unnaturally, distorted by an unrelenting, ancient malice.
The figure in black didn't move. He didn't need to. His presence filled the world around them.
Eli's lightsaber hummed to life in his hand, but the sound was pitiful next to that breath. That sound was wrong. Like metal inhaling grief. Like hatred fed through a machine.
Beside him, Ryen shifted. Calm, deliberate. But Eli could feel it. The tension running through the older man's body. The sharp, focused intent. He wasn't calm—he was calculating. Choosing where to die.
He didn't look back at Eli. He didn't need to.
"Stay behind me," Ryen muttered, voice hard. "No matter what happens, run if I say run."
Before Eli could reply, Ryen moved.
The green blade in his hands sliced through the darkness, fast and precise—angled for the side of the Sith's chest. But the dark figure did not ignite a weapon. He didn't even raise his arms.
He turned. Barely.
And Ryen's strike hit air.
Eli's breath caught. There had been no defense, no clash—just absence. As if the blade had never been close.
Ryen recovered fast, pivoting for a follow-up slash—but the Sith ignored him entirely. He walked forward. Silent. Deliberate. Toward Eli.
The weight of his presence was crushing. Each step radiated a pressure that curled around Eli's lungs. Panic flared. He raised his blade with trembling hands and swung in desperation—clumsy, wild.
The Sith raised a hand. No words. No flare of energy.
Eli's saber ripped from his grip like it had been snatched by a god. It spiraled across the dirt, landing with a thud far from reach.
Eli stumbled backward, hands empty, heart pounding. His eyes locked onto the dark figure. The breathing. The cold. The sheer gravitational pull of power.
It was like staring into a collapsing star.
"Eli!" Ryen shouted.
Ryen surged forward again, behind the Sith now, his green blade arcing down with every ounce of strength in his body. It should have struck. It should have ended something.
But it didn't.
The blade froze inches above the armor—suspended mid-air.
Ryen grunted, pouring his strength into the attack. The saber vibrated, humming under resistance, but refused to move. Something held it. No visible barrier. Just will. Will made manifest through the dark side.
The Sith turned. Slowly. Unconcerned.
A crimson blade hissed into being.
And then it moved.
One stroke. Clean. Elegant.
Ryen didn't scream. His body collapsed silently, crumpling to the grass like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Eli watched in horror, a scream caught in his throat.
"Ryen—!"
He scrambled forward on hands and knees. His fingers dug into the dirt. He reached the body, grasped for his mentor's hand—but it didn't move.
Ryen's lightsaber lay extinguished beside him. His face slack, his chest still.
Eli shook his head, denying it even as the truth screamed at him through the Force.
"No—no, no—get up—please—"
The world spun. His mind fractured under the weight of it. This wasn't supposed to happen. They had trained. Prepared. Hid. Ryen had promised they'd be ready.
And yet he was gone.
Tears burned Eli's eyes. His chest rose and fell with sharp, shallow breaths as anger began to eclipse grief.
"You killed him," he whispered.
The Sith turned, cloak rippling like smoke behind him. Slowly. With finality.
Eli's fists clenched. "You killed him!"
The words echoed across the rocks, carried by wind and fury. The pain swelled in his chest—raw and red-hot. The loss, the helplessness, the guilt.
Something in him snapped.
He roared and charged.
Bare hands. No blade. No plan.
He didn't care.
But the Sith didn't flinch.
A single, gloved hand rose.
And Eli rose with it.
His body lifted off the ground, flailing, feet kicking against open air. An invisible grip closed around his throat, cold and absolute.
The Force twisted, a violent clamp crushing his airway. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
He clawed at nothing, mouth wide in a silent scream. His eyes bulged, tears spilling freely as the pressure mounted.
The Sith stepped closer. Closer still.
Eli's vision dimmed at the edges.
His lungs burned. His limbs spasmed.
His mind screamed against the inevitable.
The Force was there—but it was locked away, drowned beneath the weight of the Sith's will. He reached for it, but it recoiled, afraid.
And still the breath continued.
That awful, mechanical breathing.
Inhale. Exhale.
Slow. Merciless.
Eli's mind blurred, red and black creeping into his vision. His head pulsed with the weight of unconsciousness.
Then came the voice.
"Your trust in the Jedi has failed you."
Deep. Distorted. Inevitable.
The words struck harder than the choke. They carried weight. Finality. Judgment.
The grip tightened.
His vision shattered into darkness.
He thought of Ryen.
Of Tavi and Niyala.
Of Master Tallis, of the Temple.
He thought of all the lives lost, all the loops endured.
And then—
Nothing.
Silence.