Lava fields sprawl like a slaughtered beast, molten rivers gouging obsidian valleys, their fire-glow searing the twilight sky, a haze of ash and blood. Sulfur stings my throat, sharp as a vibro-blade, heat warping the air till it burns my leathery skin through my mask's slits. Fortress Vader looms, spires clawing the haze, kyber-lit sconces pulsing like fading stars. The Ritual Grounds throb: a durasteel platform, three meters wide, reinforced with cortosis weave, gleams in the blue-green glow of a kyber-fueled pyre, flames roaring with a hunger I know too well. Ash falls, black as scorched bone, dusting my phrik armor, its crimson rune smoldering, a mark of my oath to the order. My vibro-scythe rests heavy across my back, obsidian haft blending into my silhouette, its hum a reaper's hymn itching to sing. I stand on an obsidian ledge, boots grinding stone, overlooking this kriffin' crucible: Trial of the Eternal Flame, a forge to temper initiates into steel or cull their weakness. The air's thick, sulfur and molten metal, the pyre's heat licking like a slaver's whip. The Chamber of Equilibrium hulks nearby, carved from volcanic rock, durasteel scaffolds dripping forge smoke, its walls etched with Je'daii runes that catch the firelight. The kyber crystal fueling the pyre, fist-sized and pulsing with the Force, hums in my bones, a heartbeat stoking the dark side's whisper. More. The dark still pulls, but Revan's Gray code holds it at bay, his vision shaping me into the Sentinel of Fire, protector of the Je'daii.
The Twi'lek girl from her training accident weeks ago stands on the platform, robes frayed from spares, blue skin slick with sweat, lekku twitching like coiled serpents. Her eyes are half-closed, lips chanting the Je'daii Code, voice thin but fierce: "There is no dark side, nor a light side…" Her Force shield shimmers, a frail veil buckling under the pyre's heat, flames licking inches from her flesh. Without control, this trial, Revan's echo of his stand against the Sith Emperor, sifts worthy from the chaff. Fifteen percent don't walk away from this, their final test into Knighthood a testament to their dedication to the path of the gray. My Vanguard of Balance encircle the grounds, cortosis pikes glinting, matte-black armor swallowing the firelight, visors hiding their eyes. Silent as tombs, they watch, loyalty to Revan a vibro-blade at my back. The Je'daii code, "There is only the Force," is my center, not my chain, a path to strength Revan showed me when his sabers humbled my pride. The girl's resolve wavers, flames surging, and my fingers twitch. Her fear's a spike in my blood, but I master it, the Je'daii code my anvil, shaping my hunger into clarity.
Tyree, the Ritual Warden, stands at the platform's edge, grizzled, human, his durasteel armor scarred from trials past. He grips the Bow of Balance, rune-etched durasteel strung with crystal filaments, blue arcs of Force-energy crackling as he fires shots skyward. Illusions weave: a throne of kyber pulsing with dark promise, a village burning, screams sharp as blaster bolts. The girl's lekku quiver, her chant faltering—"There is PASSION, yet PEACE"—but she holds, her shield against chaos flickering. Tyree's voice, steady as a hyperspace beacon, chants, "Through struggle, balance is earned," sanctifying this ritual. The Bow's shots, precise as a sniper's bolt, mean nothing to me, just another tool, like my scythe, to carve away what's weak. The pyre roars, kyber's hum vibrating my armor, and the girl's sweat sizzles on the platform, her breaths jagged, desperate. I lean forward, armor clanking, mask's weight heavy, dark brown eyes boring into her through its slits. My Force sense probes her resolve, her fear a pulse I could harvest, but I seek her fortitude, not her fall. She's worthy or cannon fodder, and I'm the reaper who'll render judgment.
The throne illusion shifts, a shadow crowned with spikes, offering power I'd have seized at her age. The girl ain't me, but her lekku steady, her chant rising—"I will do what I must to keep the BALANCE"—and I growl, respect cracking through. Her control makes her resolve steel, and she's fighting for it with every breath. The pyre's flames surge, blue-green tongues clawing higher, kyber's pulse hammering like a starship's core. The platform's cortosis weave glints, scars from past trials, shattered will, burned flesh, etched deep, a map of the weak. The Chamber's runes glow, Je'daii sigils carved when Revan rebuilt this order, their lines sharp as his vision. Forge smoke curls, its tang blending with sulfur, and the Vanguard's pikes stand rigid, their silence louder than the pyre's roar. The girl's front buckles, flames grazing her robes, singeing fabric black. Her lekku thrash, a scream choking in her throat, but she digs in, knees locked, Code spilling faster: "There is no good without evil, but evil must not be allowed to flourish." My scythe hums, eager, but I stay rooted, my authority in this hellhole, watching her temper her destiny.
Tyree steps to my ledge, Bow slung, gray eyes calm but piercing like a kyber's edge. "She's grown, my Sentinel," he says, voice low, "The Force within her is raw and unfiltered, but still caged." My snarl tears free: "A connection with the Force is meaningless without control, Warden. She'll sharpen her will or will become just a number for us." He doesn't flinch, kriff him, just tilts his head. The girl's lekku steady, sweat steaming, and the illusions shift again, burning village fades, a shadow warrior wields a crimson saber, taunting defeat. The dark side purrs, my hunger stirring, but I redirect it, Revan's lessons my strength, not my cage. The girl's chant rises, "There is SERENITY, yet EMOTION," her voice cracking but fierce, fire blazing in her eyes. The pyre's heat warps the air, kyber's hum shaking my bones, and I lean closer, ash from the volcanic air settling on my mask.
Minutes grind to a halt, the trial's hour dragging like a Hutt's dinner party. The platform gleams, its cortosis weave scarred by failures I've seen too often, charred robes, broken spirits. The Vanguard stand like durasteel, pikes steady, but I sense their murmurs behind closed doors, trial's too harsh, they'll whisper, when peace seems like the only reality. Let them. Revan's Je'daii needs warriors, not weaklings. The girl holds, her will roaring against her oppressive tests, illusions hammering away at her deepest skeletons. Her lekku quiver, but she stands, Code spilling like blood: "There is CHAOS, yet ORDER." My fingers twitch, dark side tempting, her fear a harvest I could unleash to quell the hunger, but I master it, Revan's words forged in my skull. The pyre surges, a final roar, kyber's pulse deafening, flames licking the platform's edge. The girl—a star in the haze—and her voice rises, "I am the wielder of the flame, the protector of BALANCE." Tyree fires a last Force-energy shot, blue arc slicing the air, and the kyber dims, flames receding like a tide. The girl stands, unburned, robes singed but whole, lekku still, eyes blazing triumph. "I am Je'daii," she declares, voice ringing over the grounds, a declaration of defiance.
The Vanguard lower their pikes, Tyree slings the Bow, and silence falls, heavy as ash, sulfur lingering like my own tempered hunger. I don't move, boots rooted, scythe heavier, armor grinding into my bones as I shift. Her triumph reaches deep, her drive mirroring mine when I was raw, first kneeling to Ren's creed. Freedom, he called it, his voice a dark hymn, my mind then slips, Ren's eyes buried deep into my reverence. I was scrawny, barely twenty, my tattered tunic soaked with sweat, vibro-knife trembling in my grip. My dark brown eyes, sharp as a predator's, darted to the shadows, paranoia clawing my gut like it had since my awakening to the Force at nine, when blood first stained my hands. The Unknown Regions spaceport, Varnak, they called it, thrummed beyond the alley, cantinas spilling raucous laughter, speeders whining, and spice dens choking the air with their sour tang. I'd killed the thug for a stolen credit chip, enough for a meal or two, but the dark side whispered More, a cold fire in my veins. Footsteps crunched, slow and deliberate, and my pulse hammered. I crouched, vibro-knife raised, the blade's hum a faint comfort against the alley's din.
Four figures emerged from the haze, their matte-black armor swallowing the neon, weapons glinting like teeth. The leader, broad and scarred, wore a dented mask, his crimson lightsaber unlit but heavy at his belt. Ren, they whispered in the cantinas, a shadow who carved his own path. The others, hulking, silent, one with a vibro-axe, another with a blaster slung low, flanked him, their presence a blade at my throat. I snarled, Force instinct spiking, a raw push hurling crates against the wall, durasteel screeching. Ren tilted his head, mask's slits glinting, and his voice rasped, low and cutting: "The darkness clings to you, boy." I froze, vibro-knife steady, but my chest tightened, the dark side's pull sweeter than spice. "What do you want?" I spat, voice raw, wary as a cornered rat. Ren laughed, a guttural sound that stirred my hunger, and stepped closer, his boots scuffing blood-soaked durasteel. "You kill to live," he said, "but you could kill to be. Join us, wield true power." His words hit like a blaster bolt, promising what I'd craved since my Ma, power, belonging, a blade sharper than hunger. The Knights of Ren, their reputation, took what they wanted, feared no Jedi, no Empire. Freedom, they called it, and I wanted it, kriff, I needed it. But paranoia gnawed, nothing came free, not in this galaxy. "What's the cost?" I growled, knife twitching.
Ren's mask tilted, as if amused, and he gestured to the cantina across the street, its neon sign flickering Black Nebula. "Show us you're worth as payment," he said. "The Rodian with the scar there. His enforcers guard him, but your focus is only on the spice trader." He paused, lightsaber hilt glinting: "Do it, and enter our ranks, one more squire added to our numbers." The dark side surged, a tide of cold fire, my Force fear instinct clawing to be unleashed. I glanced at the others, silent, watching like vultures. Ren's offer was not only a temptation, but the promise of power, of a family of actual belonging. I nodded, once, and slipped into the shadows, blood's iron tang in anticipation of what I would do. The cantina's air hit like a fist, thick with spice clouds and sweat, the hum of a jizz-wailer band drowning the clink of credits. Patrons, humans, Twi'leks, a hulking Besalisk, crowded sabacc tables, their laughter sharp as broken glass. The Rodian dealer sat in a corner booth, scar slashing his green snout, three enforcers looming, vibro-blades at their belts. My boots scuffed durasteel, vibro-knife hidden in my tunic, and I wove through the throng, heart pounding. The dark side purred, my Force fear spiking, a cold blade sinking into the enforcers' minds. One, a human, clutched his throat, eyes bulging; another, a Zabrak, stumbled, vibro-blade clattering. The Rodian's head snapped up, blaster drawn, but I was on him, too fast for him to catch, vibro-knife flashing, slicing his throat with a wet woosh of motion. Blood sprayed, steaming on durasteel, and the cantina froze, screams cutting through the band's wail. I stood, chest heaving, the dealer's corpse slumped, his credits spilling like offal. The dark side roared, filling the hollow where hunger lived, and I grinned, a reaper's smile as I was his life slowly drain out as the crimson that now pooled at his corpse.
Ren's boots echoed as he entered, Knights flanking, their armor a black tide. Patrons parted, fear thick as spice, and Ren's mask fixed on me, his rasp cutting the silence. "Well done, boy," he said low, and skidded a crate over to me, durasteel, heavy, etched with jagged sigils. I caught it, opening to a crude mask, its slits sharp, and armor plates. Then he handed me a vibro-scythe, durasteel, its blade a meter long, humming with ultrasonic death. "You are now my Knight Reaper," Ren declared, voice a dark hymn—"Death's cold answer when debts come due." The words burned, a brand on my soul, and I donned the mask, its weight muffling my snarl, the scythe's hum singing in my blood. Cardo stepped forward, vibro-axe slung, and growled, "Move, squire or bleed from my blade," shoving me toward the alley where the blackness devoured us. The memory fades, Ren's rasp and the scythe's hum swallowed by the sulfurous haze of Mustafar. I stand on my obsidian ledge, boots grinding stone, the Ritual Grounds pulsing below, lava fields sprawling like a slaughtered beast. The durasteel platform, three meters wide, its cortosis weave glinting, steams where the kyber-fueled pyre burned, its blue-green flames now a faint glow, the fist-sized kyber crystal dimmed but humming in my bones. Ash falls, black as scorched bone, dusting my phrik armor, its crimson rune smoldering, a mark of my oath to Revan. My vibro-scythe, 1.5 meters of phrik-edged ruin, rests heavy across my back, obsidian haft blending into my silhouette, its hum a reaper's hymn tempered by the Je'daii code. The Twi'lek girl stands before the platform, robes singed but whole, blue skin slick with sweat, lekku still, her eyes blazing with the fire that carried her through the Trial of the Eternal Flame. Her triumph, her drive, stirred my memory of Varnak, of Ren's creed branding my soul as his Knight Reaper. But this ain't Varnak's blood-soaked alleys. This is Fortress Vader, the Chamber of Equilibrium looming nearby, its volcanic rock walls etched with Je'daii runes, durasteel scaffolds dripping forge smoke. My Vanguard of Balance encircle the grounds, cortosis pikes lowered, matte-black armor swallowing the firelight, their silence a blade at my back. Tyree, the Ritual Warden, stands at the platform's edge, his Bow of Balance slung, gray eyes calm but piercing, watching me, not her.
I step forward, armor clanking, mask's weight heavy, dark brown eyes boring through its slits. The air's thick, sulfur and molten metal, the pyre's heat a fading lick against my leathery skin. Her fear's gone, replaced by a pulse I sense, steel, forged in flame, like mine under Revan's sabers. The Je'daii code, my anvil, shapes my hunger into clarity, not chains, and I'll forge her the same. "Knight," I growl, voice raw, unmodulated, a vibro-blade's edge, "recite the code. Bind your soul to balance." She straightens, lekku steady, voice fierce despite the trial's toll. "There is no dark side, nor a light side," she begins, words ringing over the grounds, "There is only THE FORCE." She continues, unwavering: "I will do what I must to keep the BALANCE. There is no good without evil, but evil must not be allowed to flourish." The kyber hums, soft now, its pulse syncing with her chant, and I nod, respect cracking through my paranoia. "There is PASSION, yet PEACE," she says, eyes locked on mine, "There is SERENITY, yet EMOTION. There is CHAOS, yet ORDER." The code scalds my tongue, even now, its duality a forge for my dark side's pull, and her fire mirrors it, raw, barely controlled. She finishes, voice rising, "I am the wielder of the flame, the protector of BALANCE. I am the holder of the torch, lighting the way. I am the keeper of the flame, soldier of balance. I am a guardian of duality. I am Je'daii." Silence falls, heavy as ash, the lava's hiss a distant beast. Tyree's gaze lingers, his calm chafing my reaper's soul, but I ignore him. The girl's done her part, her oath binding her to the Je'daii Order, as mine did when I declared us Remnant Knights as Revan's. I unhook my vibro-scythe, its phrik blade gleaming, obsidian haft warm in my grip. The Vanguard stiffen, pikes rising slightly, but I'm no debt collection for Death here, not today. I step to her, boots scuffing durasteel, the platform's cortosis weave scarred by trials past. Her eyes widen, lekku twitching, but she holds. I raise the scythe, its hum a low chant, and swing it slow—for honor—the blade's edge grazing air above her shoulders, first left, then right. The motion's deliberate, a reaper's grace forged by the Je'daii code, no longer bound to Ren's bloodlust. The scythe stills, and I plant it, haft thudding against durasteel, the sound sharp as a blaster shot. "Rise as Je'daii, protector of balance," I declare, voice booming over the grounds, a war drum forged in flame. She stands, lekku steady, eyes blazing, a Knight of Revan now, her Je'daii path burns brighter.