In the aftermath of the Nemoidian Crisis....
In the catacombs beneath the Sith Citadel of Dromund Kaas, where light itself dared not linger, where walls still wept from rituals long since spoken in forgotten tongues, something stirred. Here, in the Sanctum of the Shikkari, a place few within the Kainate had ever seen, and fewer still departed alive, the stone bled with oaths. The air stank of burnt oils, thick incense, and something older. The Hall of the Nameless pulsed with unseen intent. It was here, beneath braziers burning violet fire and walls inscribed with the forsaken pasts of the assassin-priests, that the first ripple was felt. The report had arrived minutes ago. A coup. The Trade Monarch Lodd Grimmin, seized in the heart of the Great Palace of Cato Neimoidia. Smoke, shattered glass, and betrayal driven like a blade. A new Vicelord crowned amidst the rubble. For any other power, it would demand a political response. Diplomatic channels. Economic threats. Fleet movements. But this was no senate. No mere nation state. This was the Kainate, and Lodd Grimmin, whether the Trade Federation understood it or not, was valued.
Darth Prazutis stood unmoving at the center of a great obsidian dais beneath the crimson lens of the Eye, while a silence deeper than silence crawled across the chamber like the draping of a burial shroud. Yet across the hall, over a dozen shadowy figures froze in place, their words dying mid breath as stillness settled like poison in their lungs. The lights above flickered, then failed entirely. Only the floor's runes pulsed dimly, crimson, ancient, casting long, unnatural shadows that twitched a fraction off beat from the men who cast them. Somewhere far below, a deep, resonant groan echoed through the Sepulcher of the Embalmed. Not a sound, it was a pulse. It was as if the Citadel itself had inhaled. The ground beneath the Dark Lord's armored feet shivered. Crimson vapor hissed upward from the ritual-etched armor, trailing like smoke from a pyre. It was as if something vast had awakened, and it was listening.
Then he moved. One hand rose, slow, imperious. "The Kas-Kissai." The Shadow Hand ordered. No door opened. No hiss of entry. There was no sound. The High Priest of the Shikkari simply was, now standing beside him, clad in layered bone-silk, face hidden behind a mask of screaming iron. The masked figure didn't speak, he didn't even bow in his appearance, he didn't need to. "I release the Sixth Nome. I release the Silent Fang." The Shadow Hand said, voice low and final. "They are not to kill. Not yet." He turned, gaze falling upon a reliquary embedded in the wall, an ancient obsidian vault. After a mere thought, it opened, hissing like a dying breath. Deep within these halls sat seven blades unlabeled and unnervingly still, each belonging to a Quo-Kissai of the Sixth Nome answering to a Dut-Kissai. Each had drawn blood in his name. "Let them circle. Let their presence fester in the walls of Cato Neimoidia. Let the Vicelord Haako feel watched when alone. Let his dreams twist. Let the stars dim when he looks skyward. But do not let him die." The floor shifted once more, as unseen engines deep beneath the Blooded Cloister spun into motion. From high above, the Eye brightened, not with light, but with sight. Its gaze had already turned.
A Sentinel of the Eyes of the Dyarchy stood at attention, silently awaiting command, visible only because the Dark Lord allowed it. "Haako speaks of sovereignty." The Mortarch said. "Let him learn what it means to be surveyed. I want the name of every child he feared in his sleep. I want the hymns sung in the wombs of his ancestors. I want the birthweight of his regrets. I want everything." The Sentinel nodded once. Then vanished from view, utterly, as if he had never existed within the room at all. It was as if he appeared at the will of the Dark Lord and vanished when his dismissal was required. Then the Hands came. Out from the cracks in the stone, from the sacred darkness drowning the Citadel's veins, they came one after another. Black robed. Shrouded. Silent. Not one. Not ten. Dozens. They lined the edges of the Oathfire Pit like statues carved from shadow. They didn't kneel. They didn't blink. They simply stood, still as death, waiting for a command they had always known would come. "You are not to interfere." The Mortarch said at last. "You are not to strike. You are simply to watch. Stand at the edge of every mirror. Be the footsteps no one hears until it's far, far too late. Let Haako feel the edge against his throat every morning, unsure if it is memory…or mercy. Until it is time to excise him from this world." Only then, in a voice like frost against bone, did the Shadow Hand whisper his truth.
"Lodd Grimmin was ours, and now the stars will darken until he is again."
