"Victory, I have learned, is merely the space between two wars."
—Darth Caedes, ruminations...
T R I U M P H
I watch from the terrace; a shadow amongst shadows. Dappled light makes odd shapes across my face, briefly illuminating high cheekbones and the glimmering of fine, reptilian scales. Around me, music drifts through the expansive chambers of Jutrand's assembly halls, emanating from below where Sith and Mandolorians celebrate their victories in dance and mutual intoxication. An unlikely sight, I would have once thought. The Sith and Mandolorians, gathered together, sharing in both vision and good cheer.
I'd been here since the first glass of heady wine was poured, merely content to let the evening unfold around me. I'd sampled the various foods, partook in the lesser spirits, and wore
whichever face best suited the air of privacy I'd been trying to cultivate for myself and the Lady
Revna Marr
this night. Like this, I passed by conspiratorial whisperings and surveyed unsuspecting conversations as they transpired throughout Jutrand's storied halls; a specter, passing from one shadow to the next.
Smoke from incenses, burners, and exotic death-sticks waft up through the air, curling 'round one another and mingling with the otherwise pervasive smells of body sweat and braised meats. Presently, I raise a hand to ward off the attentions of a dutiful serving girl approaching me on the balcony's upper levels, denying her silver trey of delicacies and sending her elsewhere. She curtsies, and I watch her go, absently considering how jarring it feels to be waited upon by flesh and blood servants (rather than the
Jen'ari of Korriban); each here alive, and each full of their own ambitions, secrets, and hidden loyalties. My eyes narrow to that of a glare, and the girl vanishes back into the swaying masses, carrying her trey away to the next wanting dignitary. How exhausting, I thought—to be left considering the quicksilver allegiances of each and every servant here, scuttling about across the palace floors, each one a liability, a loose end, a wagging tongue. I scowl and allow myself to miss home, a place I have not returned to since the fleet's arrival over Atrisia, and these subsequent celebrations on Jutrand.
When
Srina Talon
speaks my name, the crowd turns to point and whisper, trying to locate me. Some in admiration; others in jealousy and the more typical Sith brands of suspicion and sedition. Still, many know not where to direct their attentions, unsure of exactly where I am, and which face I wear now. Days earlier, I'd been told that my anonymous habits to peruse the palace floors in the guise of lesser beings had created a sense of intrigue within the Courts' denizens. Rumors and varied folk tales had begun to take flight, wherein the mysterious King of Korriban was believed to be everywhere and nowhere. One could never be sure they were not bandying words with the King himself, it was said, hidden behind the plain face of a serving girl or the toothy grin of a supposed laborer, or guard, or handmaid. Few dared even whisper their fantasies of betrayal to one another, never confident they were not speaking to Caedes himself.
Dark Councilor, I consider, rolling the wine 'round in my goblet from where I lean against the bannister's railing. The title is a tool, I decide to myself, studying the crowds dancing beneath me. A long
neglected tool, improperly used by the dullards and dandies who had previously occupied the role before me, and one in desperate need of its proper use now.
The Order was a fractured thing, split at the seems and straining against the pull of too many disparate ideologies. Too many pompous and self important personalities, each yanking in some different direction than the rest of their peers. A futile display of individuation for its own sake. I search the crowd, attempting to locate these... personalities.
Darth Strosius
and his Wonosan cults, emaciated, yet nevertheless resilient in their stubborn persistence and odd moralities. The far-gone Eternalists and the dregs of a dismantled Tsiss'Kaar, spent and fictitious ideologies, grasping for relevance and assimilation, fighting not to be forgotten and left behind amidst the winds of change.
Darth Carnifex
and
Darth Prazutis
with their emboldened Kainate regime, a central pillar to the Empire, unchallenged by and unsympathetic to the ideas of change which now crop up like weeds in the loam of a shifting Order. The skin tightens 'round my eyes. For how much longer would I be made to bask in the Shadow of Carnifex, I wonder? A recluse, hidden in the funnel-web of his Malsheem. Now I bear the mantle of Councilor; of Necromancia, of the Black Gate, Lord of the Dead, and King of the Sith's most precious home-world. Now, I command the kind of power most cannot fathom well enough even to dream of, the kind of power few Sith before me have ever achieved. My influence stretches out across the breadth of the galaxy. The destructive force of uncountable armies rests comfortably in my palm. No longer, perhaps, could he make commands of me in public. No longer can I be seen as some meddling Apprentice from days long passed, or even merely the heir of his peer, Empress Matsu Xiangu. By any metric, I have achieved a meteoric greatness the likes of which even
he must come to respect. And yet, I resent, I have not tested my strength in the Force against his own in quite some time. Moreover, I am not certain of how such a clash would unfold were it to occur, and at what personal cost his destruction would come to me. It should not matter to me so much as it does, I am aware, yet his continued superiority over me itches like a spreading rash. Alas, for now, the tenuous alliance of Carnifex is a useful instrument I have learned to play for still greater reach into the workings of this Empire, still greater access; though I am not so foolish as to consider the thought unique between the two of us. Surely, he considers me in a similar light. Someone useful, someone he so loves to keep leashed and tightly bound.
So many fractured pieces of one Empire, I return my thoughts, splintering like shattered glass, each shard and sharp end pointed inward upon itself. Unity, I consider, at least of the kind I am most familiar, would only come through shared focus. A single purpose.
Revna stands at my side, her presence grounding as it so often is. Here, so far away from the cold light of Horuset, she is my home. Our hands brush against one another, seeking the comforts of smooth skin, fingers at play, embroiled in a language of touch we seem to be so often starved for. Yet the events of Alvaria run rampant through my mind. They've precipitated a kind of withdrawal from her which feels new and alien between us. I can only hope she does not notice. That she mistakes it for the burden of newfound power. I remember the screams of her family, of a House Marr under siege, the orders to burn them to the ground, and the shame of my silence makes it difficult to hold her gaze. With them gone, I'd told myself, there would be one less string of loyalty keeping her from me; from being
truly mine. Now, when I look upon that beautiful, porcelain face, I feel a fool. I need not steal her away, I realize. As fully as I have given myself to her, she has done the same for me. Yet now a secret lies coiled between us, a poisonous serpent I dare not tread upon. How many secrets and lies would I be asked to keep from her in the coming days? How many versions of myself would I be asked to inhabit. And which one was the
real Caedes, anyway?
I glance at her now, daring myself to grin a simple grin. A hungry expression, a deep purr in the back of my throat drowned out by the noise of music and merry-making. I have sharp teeth, one of the few features I cannot mold with the rest of my body, and I feel their fangs rest atop the full cushion of my bottom lip now.
"Reminds me of when first we met," I say, quietly, nothing at all the matter.
I raise my glass to her in a private cheers.
"To progress," I suggest.
"To us."
Naniti
