ᴅᴀʀᴛʜ ᴍᴇᴛᴜs
ALTIER
The Threaf Homestead
The Threaf Homestead
The fields had always been a comfort to Vor Threaf. Rows of golden stalks stretching toward the horizon, a testament to years of sweat and steady hands. The soil was dry but kind, the kind of earth that rewarded patience and punished greed. The wind that morning carried the faint scent of rain, though the skies were clear. To the people of this quiet world, it was another day in the steady rhythm of life.
To Vor Threaf, it was the end of peace.
The Threaf Homestead sat at the edge of a sleepy plain, its fences bowed by time, its roof stitched with repairs made from the wreckage of an old freighter. No one remembered much about the ship anymore. Vor had sold it off long ago, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to tell its story. When neighbors asked, he had spoken kindly, spinning a tale of a man seeking simplicity after years in the Core. His wife, Yara, would smile beside him, her hands still scarred from work she never spoke of. They built a life together. Raised their sons. Buried the past beneath harvest after harvest.
But the past has roots deeper than the soil.
By midday, the homestead felt alive with easy laughter. A young traveler named Acier had passed through their land, his tone polite, his manners careful. Vor welcomed him without suspicion. They ate together on the porch, a humble meal of fresh grain bread and roasted roots. Acier shared tales of distant worlds, and the old couple listened with genuine warmth, their sons vanishing into the fields to gather more from the vines. It was an ordinary kindness. A moment of peace carved from the ordinary fabric of life.
Then the air changed.
It began as a pressure, subtle and cold, a feeling that sank into the skin before the mind could name it. The wind stilled. The birds went silent. Even the insects fled the open air. From the edge of the field, the crops bent under an unseen force, their color draining to ash. The ground cracked, the roots shriveled, and the stench of rot rose in their place...He had arrived.
A tall figure, cloaked in black. His armor gleamed like oil beneath the folds of his robe, the faint lines of crimson runes pulsing along its edges. He did not walk as men walked. Each step seemed to drink from the land, to pull its life into him. His hood was drawn low, but the darkness beneath it moved like a living thing. When he exhaled, the very air trembled.
The first sound to break the silence was a laugh. Low, cruel, and humorless.
Moments later came the sounds of breaking bones. Two sharp cries, then quiet.
Inside, Yara clutched Acier’s arm with trembling fingers. “Go!” she whispered. “Go now.” Vor reached for the old blaster above the mantle, his hands steady despite the fear in his chest. He had known this day would come. He just prayed he’d have more years before it did.
Outside, the Demon waited.
Darth Metus stood in the shadow of the dying field, arms folded across his chest. The Dark Side clung to him like a storm. It rippled in the air around him, unseen but undeniable. When he spoke, his voice carried the gravity of judgment, calm and merciless.
"Such a lovely hovel you've built for yourselves." His tone was steady, deep enough to make the very boards of the homestead groan. “Almost as if...you thought I was lying. Almost as if you thought I'd let you die of old age. Ha!”
He took a slow step forward, his words cutting through the stillness.
“Sadly...I am a man of my word.” he said, his voice growing darker, heavier. “And your debt is long past due.”
The fields around him smoldered in silence. The soil cracked beneath his boots. And from the edge of the homestead, as if the world itself were holding its breath, the Demon’s gaze fell upon the door.
To Vor Threaf, it was the end of peace.
The Threaf Homestead sat at the edge of a sleepy plain, its fences bowed by time, its roof stitched with repairs made from the wreckage of an old freighter. No one remembered much about the ship anymore. Vor had sold it off long ago, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to tell its story. When neighbors asked, he had spoken kindly, spinning a tale of a man seeking simplicity after years in the Core. His wife, Yara, would smile beside him, her hands still scarred from work she never spoke of. They built a life together. Raised their sons. Buried the past beneath harvest after harvest.
But the past has roots deeper than the soil.
By midday, the homestead felt alive with easy laughter. A young traveler named Acier had passed through their land, his tone polite, his manners careful. Vor welcomed him without suspicion. They ate together on the porch, a humble meal of fresh grain bread and roasted roots. Acier shared tales of distant worlds, and the old couple listened with genuine warmth, their sons vanishing into the fields to gather more from the vines. It was an ordinary kindness. A moment of peace carved from the ordinary fabric of life.
Then the air changed.
It began as a pressure, subtle and cold, a feeling that sank into the skin before the mind could name it. The wind stilled. The birds went silent. Even the insects fled the open air. From the edge of the field, the crops bent under an unseen force, their color draining to ash. The ground cracked, the roots shriveled, and the stench of rot rose in their place...He had arrived.
A tall figure, cloaked in black. His armor gleamed like oil beneath the folds of his robe, the faint lines of crimson runes pulsing along its edges. He did not walk as men walked. Each step seemed to drink from the land, to pull its life into him. His hood was drawn low, but the darkness beneath it moved like a living thing. When he exhaled, the very air trembled.
The first sound to break the silence was a laugh. Low, cruel, and humorless.
Moments later came the sounds of breaking bones. Two sharp cries, then quiet.
Inside, Yara clutched Acier’s arm with trembling fingers. “Go!” she whispered. “Go now.” Vor reached for the old blaster above the mantle, his hands steady despite the fear in his chest. He had known this day would come. He just prayed he’d have more years before it did.
Outside, the Demon waited.
Darth Metus stood in the shadow of the dying field, arms folded across his chest. The Dark Side clung to him like a storm. It rippled in the air around him, unseen but undeniable. When he spoke, his voice carried the gravity of judgment, calm and merciless.
"Such a lovely hovel you've built for yourselves." His tone was steady, deep enough to make the very boards of the homestead groan. “Almost as if...you thought I was lying. Almost as if you thought I'd let you die of old age. Ha!”
He took a slow step forward, his words cutting through the stillness.
“Sadly...I am a man of my word.” he said, his voice growing darker, heavier. “And your debt is long past due.”
The fields around him smoldered in silence. The soil cracked beneath his boots. And from the edge of the homestead, as if the world itself were holding its breath, the Demon’s gaze fell upon the door.
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