Zen and Tif's shuttle hummed through the empty void, its engines steady and low, a quiet rhythm against the vast black. Zen sat at the helm, hands light on the controls, eyes distant yet alert. Tif crouched opposite him, knees drawn close, one hand brushing the edge of her saber's hilt as if drawing comfort from its presence.
They exchanged no words at first. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was a shared understanding, a space carved from trust and the knowledge that the danger ahead demanded every ounce of focus.
Finally, Tif's voice broke the quiet, soft but firm.
"Zen… you feel it too, don't you?"
He glanced at her, the green of her eyes catching the faint reflection of the console lights. He nodded once, tight, controlled.
"Nox… he reached out. Force call, urgent. He needs me. The coordinates are clear. Korriban."
Her lips pressed together briefly. She gave a small, reassuring squeeze of his shoulder.
"Then we go. Together."
Zen's gaze hardened, voice low and measured.
"Tif… Nox reached out to me asking help for the first time. The only one who can truly be a challenge to Nox is Darth Vrakus. If he's involved, we could be facing the sith master himself. It's not safe for you. This… this is my fight."
Tif's eyes narrowed, resolve flaring.
"Every fight of yours is mine too, Zen. You don't face him alone, not ever."
Zen exhaled, torn between caution and the pull of her defiance.
"I… I cannot risk losing you."
"I won't let you," she said, slipping her hand into his.
"Not now. Not ever."
The crimson glow of Korriban bled across the viewport as Nox's flagship cut through hyperspace. He stood in the command chamber, fists clenched at his sides, eyes fixed on the world below. Anger roared in him like a living thing, not at his enemies, not at the Republic, but at Vrakus, the master who had nurtured and betrayed him both.
Each calculated misstep in the previous assault now burned in his mind. He knew there would be no mercy if he faced the Sith Lord here, in the very cradle of their order.
Korriban unfolded beneath him like a living relic. Jagged cliffs rose from scarlet sands, cragged spires silhouetted against a blood-orange sky. Ancient tombs, black as obsidian and etched with runes older than the Republic itself, lay half-buried in the dunes. Wind whispered through the valleys, carrying with it the weight of a thousand forgotten Sith, their power lingering like an echo in the stone.
As the flagship descended, Nox felt the pulse of the planet, the raw, endless hunger of the dark side seeping into his bones. Here, the air itself seemed to hum with memory, with ambition, with violence. It was a place where destiny was carved into rock, and where only the strongest could survive the shadows that stretched like fingers across the deserts.
He ran a hand along the rail, eyes scanning the landscape. Tombs rose like jagged teeth from the sands, each a monument to the lords who had come before. Storms of red dust swirled across the valleys, painting everything in a surreal, almost sacred light.
Nox's jaw tightened, if he was to face Vrakus, it would be here, where the echoes of the past met the fury of the present.
Steeling himself, he muttered under his breath, almost a vow, almost a prayer: "If he wants my death… he will find that Korriban does not yield to the weak."
His boots sank into the warm grains as he approached an ancient Sith temple, a monolithic silhouette rising from the desert like a jagged crown. Shadows pooled in its carved recesses, and the air thrummed with the memory of ancient dark rituals, lingering echoes of power that had outlasted empires.
He entered the temple's vast hall, the smell of old stone and burnt incense clinging to the walls. Torches flared to life along the sides, casting the carved bas-reliefs of Sith champions in harsh, dancing light.
At the far end, on a raised dais, Vrakus stood, calm, commanding, and every inch the master who had once shaped him.
"You come willingly, or foolishly, Nox," Vrakus said, voice smooth and sharp.
"Either way… it ends here."
Nox's hand hovered near his lightsaber, eyes narrowing. His voice cut through the stillness, raw and demanding.
"Why, Vrakus? After all I've done… why did you choose to end me?"
Vrakus sneered, circling like a viper.
"You were strong once. But your brother's Jedi rot infected you. I gave you cold missions, brutal orders, to burn the weakness out. But it lingered. You softened. And now… you die."
Nox laughed, loud and bitter.
"You sent your pawns, your traps… yet here I stand. You thought to test me, to weed out the weak. But you've underestimated one thing, master: I am not the same apprentice who trembled at your shadow."
Vrakus's lips curled into a thin smile.
"Good. Your pride will make the reckoning… satisfying."
The shuttle descended through the copper sky, Korriban's jagged cliffs rising like the bones of a dead god. Dust storms crawled across the horizon, and beneath the shadow of broken statues, the ancient temple loomed, black stone jutting upward, scarred by centuries of wind and blood.
Inside the cockpit, silence hung heavier than the planet's air. Zen's gaze lingered on the temple ahead, the pulse of the Force carrying Nox's presence like a beacon wrapped in anguish. He drew in a long breath, then turned to Tif, his voice quiet, private, meant only for her.
"If the world takes me," he said, a faint tremor in his calm,
"carry the rest of my days."
The words lingered between them, unspoken layers wrapped inside their meaning. Tif's hand tightened around his; her eyes softened, but her reply was firm.
"You're not leaving me with only days to carry. Whatever comes, we face it together."
The shuttle's ramp hissed open, and the heat of Korriban's desert swept in. Sand crunched under their boots as they stepped out, the oppressive weight of the planet pressing against their senses. The Force here was alive with whispers, echoes of ancient Sith, the promise of violence yet to come.
Together, they crossed the threshold of the temple. The air grew colder, shadows thickening as though the stone itself resisted their presence. Along the walls, faint inscriptions of long-dead Sith Lords flickered in the dim glow of crimson torches.
Zen halted suddenly, his hand raised.
"Traps," he muttered.
The Force rippled with malice, unseen snares laid with deliberate cruelty. Vrakus had prepared for this, anticipating rescue, weaving the corridors with devices both mechanical and darkly alchemical.
Blades of energy cut through the air as auto-turrets emerged from hidden alcoves. Statues shuddered, splitting to reveal droid guardians infused with Sith sorcery, their eyes glowing a sickly red. The very floor quivered underfoot, ready to collapse into pits of seething fire.
Zen and Tif moved as one, blades igniting in a hiss of light, the hum echoing through the death-stilled halls. Every trap was a test, every guardian a barrier meant to delay. The deeper they pressed, the heavier the dark presence became, until Zen could feel his brother's turmoil, a clash of rage and survival reverberating through the temple's heart.
Tif glanced sideways at him, her jaw set.
"He's close."
Zen nodded once. His grip tightened on his saber.
And so is Vrakus..