At the imperial command center at night the room is dimly lit, filled with holographic star maps and glowing control panThe cold metal cuffs bit into Dom's wrists as he sat slumped against the rough stone wall of the Imperial detention chamber. His breath came shallow and uneven, the sterile air thick with the scent of oil and decay. Across from him, the shadowed figure of the Blackened Death moved with quiet, predatory grace. Cloaked in dark robes that seemed to absorb the light, the Inquisitor's cracked obsidian mask gleamed ominously.
Dom's eyes flicked to the crude mechanical arm hanging heavily at his side — a constant reminder of pain, loss, and the price of defiance. The Blackened Death circled slowly, voice low and venomous. "You fought well, Jedi… for a time. But even now, your war is over. Your friends are gone. Your brother… forgotten."
Dom said nothing. His jaw tightened, a quiet defiance burning behind tired eyes. Tell me, Dom, the Inquisitor hissed, "how did you come to lose that arm?" The words were almost casual — but the intent was clear. To remind, to weaken. Dom's gaze hardened. The memory came unbidden. The battlefield had been a storm of fire and fury beneath the burning twin suns. Blaster bolts whizzed, exploding droids sparked and crumbled, and the air was thick with smoke and ash. Dom faced the Pale Father — a nightmare clothed in shadow and crimson light. Their blades clashed violently, each strike sending shards of light piercing the darkness. But then, with cruel precision, the Pale Father's red saber sliced through Dom's left forearm. The pain was immediate, searing, a white-hot fire racing through his nerves. Dom felt his grip falter. The world spun as blood spilled onto scorched earth.
He'd barely escaped, staggering through the smoke, clutching the stump where his arm had been severed. The bitter taste of iron filled his mouth, and the echo of his brother's voice urging him to survive lingered in his mind. Back in the present, Dom's voice was low but steady. "That arm was lost fighting the darkness you serve." The Blackened Death stopped, tilting his head. "Such loyalty… so predictable. Yet futile." He stepped closer, the hum of his crimson blade filling the space between them. Suddenly, the chamber erupted. Dom sprang up, igniting his own blue saber with a snap-hiss that echoed like thunder. The air crackled with tension as the two combatants faced off, shadows dancing across the cold stone walls.
The Blacken Death struck first — fast, brutal — a blur of deadly precision. Dom parried, each clash sending showers of sparks flying. Pain flared in his stump as the Inquisitor pressed the attack, testing every weakness. Dom's mechanical arm whirred with effort, the servos grinding as he fought to keep pace. Each movement was a battle — not just against his foe, but against his own body's limits. A sudden, vicious strike caught Dom off guard, knocking him to the floor. The Inquisitor loomed over him, blade poised to end the fight. But Dom's spirit refused to break. With a burst of raw determination, he twisted, seizing the Inquisitor's wrist and wrenching the blade aside. Using the momentum, Dom slammed his mechanical fist into the Blacken Death's chest. The impact staggered the Sith agent — but not for long. The Blacken Death recovered quickly, delivering a crushing blow to Dom's side, sending him crashing against the wall. Pain blossomed, breath rasping from his lungs.
Chains clattered as guards poured into the chamber. Enough! the Blacken Death commanded, stepping back with a cruel smile.Dom's saber faded as his strength failed. The guards closed in, binding him tightly once more.The Inquisitor's voice was a venomous whisper. "You are broken, Jedi. Soon, you will serve the Empire's true power. The Pale Father will have what he desires — your loyalty, or your soul.Dom met the gaze behind the cracked mask. "I am no one's pawn."
The chamber's cold shadows swallowed him as the guards dragged him away, the taste of defeat bitter — but beneath it, a spark of hope remained.That is why you supply them with just enough to stay alive? Larusen yes. The rebellion survives only to bleed. and When they bleed... they grow desperate. desperate enough to fall into our traps. Sharl you walk a dangerous path, Laursen. Betrayal wears many faces. Laursen but none as convincing as my own. sharl nods slowly, then gestures toward the hologram. Sharl the emperor is patient. He watches shadows move like chess pieces. and you... you are his pawn.
A rebel base war room night trax stands before a war table, surrounded by worn rebel commanders. He looks hardened, ruthless. Trax larusen's intel shows an imperial convoy ripe for attack. This could be the break we need. One commander hesitates. Commander or it could be a trap. Trax (voice low, cold) we have no choice but to strike. Victory demands sacrifice. At the Imperial command center larusen's office at night larusen watches the same convoy on a holomap, marked with red explosions. Laursen (into commlink) the trap is set. let them fall. He smiles quietly.
space battle night rebel ships surge toward the convoy, only to be met with overwhelming imperial fire. Explosions rip through the rebel fleet. int. rebel base war room later trax returns, battered, fury and pain etched on his face. Trax (angrily) you knew. larusen, you knew this was a trap. Larusen (calm, unflinching) yes. you survived. you're stronger because of it. imperial dungeon night dom sits, shackled, bruised but resolute. He watches the shadows, listening to the distant echoes of war. int. imperial palace sharl's chambers night sharl and lorenzo, now sith-adorned and menacing, stand together. Lorenzo, why keep Larussen alive? His games weaken us all. Sharl (smiling darkly) his games serve the emperor's will. patience, lorenzo. The war is far from over. imperial prison cell night larusen approaches dom's cell. Larusen (softly) blood will stain this galaxy, jedi. but even in crimson, hope flickers. He turns, leaving dom alone in darkness. fade out.
Far from Dom's cold cell, in a dimly lit chamber aboard an Imperial warship, Lorenzo stood silently before a polished obsidian table. His reflection wavered in the dark surface — once a rebel, now a prisoner of his own doubts. Before him lay a set of pristine Imperial armor, gleaming ominously in the low light.
The Pale Father's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Blood ties… loyalty… they crumble before necessity, Lorenzo. Your brother's fate is sealed. Serve me, and you may yet save what remains of him."
Lorenzo's fingers brushed the cold metal, hesitation and rage flickering behind his eyes. Why should I trust you? Why should I believe there is anything left to save? Because, the Pale Father said softly, "I offer power. Purpose. The galaxy bends only to those strong enough to shape it. You have hatred. The pain. Let it fuel you. Lorenzo's gaze hardened. "I once fought for hope. But hope is a weakness I can no longer afford.
Meanwhile, in a shadowed war room cluttered with star maps and blinking holo-projectors, Trax paced before a group of Mandalorian leaders. His expression was colder now, eyes sharper — the weight of loss chiseled into his features. One Mandalorian commander spoke bluntly, "Your Jedi friend is lost. So is his brother. Why continue this war for ghosts?"
Trax stopped pacing, voice low and resolute. Because someone has to finish it. A pause. Then, almost to himself, "Mercy is a luxury we can't afford." He reached beneath his cloak, revealing the crimson blade of a weapon — no longer a Jedi's light, but something far darker. His hand lingered there, a silent promise. We fight shadows," he said, "and sometimes you must become the darkness to drive them out."
The commanders exchanged uneasy glances. Trax's transformation was no secret, but the consequences were only beginning. Back in his cell, Dom's thoughts drifted. His friends — his brothers in arms — were slipping away, pulled by forces darker than any enemy's saber. He clenched his jaw, vowing silently that he would bring them back — or die trying.