Private He Who Was Promised

[Rhaen Dresk]

With: Darth Prazutis ​

Thunder crashed off in the distance.

The air hung heavy, thick with smoke and swirling ash that blurred the ruins that once housed hundreds. Where once stood the proud compound of those devoted to The Obsidian Hand, only shattered remnants remained. The ground was scorched and cracked, a scarred testament to fire and devastation. The sacred place where Darth Prazutis had been worshipped as a god was now nothing but ashes and silence.

For years, tales would swirl about the cause of the devastation, whether it was a cataclysm of nature or the wrath of their god finally unleashed. History books agreed on only one grim fact and it was the total count of the fallen. One hundred and nineteen members of The Obsidian Hand perished that day. Only two survived. One vanished without a trace, disappearing into the shadows of the galaxy, never to be seen again.

The other remained, his loyalty unwavering, bound by unshakable devotion to their god.

Rhaen Dresk knelt in the wreckage, the scent of scorched stone and blood clinging to the air. His skin was a map of agony, marked with jagged symbols and ancient runes that had been carved deep into his flesh over the years, each one a testament to suffering in the name of his god. The scars were not clean; they were ragged, raw in places, white and raised where the wounds had long since healed without mercy. His body was no longer his own. It was a relic, stitched with pain and faith, a sacrifice made living.

He had been bred for prophecy, the same promise whispered to every child of The Obsidian Hand from the moment they could speak. One would be chosen. One would be taken by Darth Prazutis himself, raised from ash to stand at his side. None within the cult truly knew if their god even knew of their existence, if he heard their chants or saw their offerings. But still, they believed. Blindly. Fiercely.

Faith was their foundation.

He had been raised to catch the eye of their god before he could even walk. Sparring with vibroblades against other youths was routine and blood on the floor was just part of the lesson. Each week, he was brought before the cult's elder and his Force potential was tested. The Obsidian Hand didn't raise children, they forged offerings. And within his family, hope burned like fire. The hope that Rhaen would be the one. The chosen. The one who would be seen.

Thus he waited, in the wreckage and ash.

Just as the prophecy he'd been fed his whole life demanded.