Private How High You Climb

[Calyx Sundrift]

T H R O N E -S P I R E
T H E -D R E A D -F O R T R E S S

The spiral staircase of the central tower was wide enough for twelve men to climb beside each other. It coiled endlessly upward, its heights bathing in the crimson glow of bloodpane windows. Far above, the upper tiers burned in scarlet light. Down here at the base, there were only shadows.

The tower itself was an allegory for the Sith power structure. The stronger you became, the more esteem you earned, and the higher you were permitted to ascend.

And Calyx stood at the very bottom. Just another acolyte clawing for survival within the Covenant.

It had been a year since the vampiric Sith had abducted him. A year since his forced recruitment into their ranks. The assignments, punishments, and endless drills had been brutal, but Kessel had hardened him long before the Covenant ever laid hands on him. His Jedi training had helped as well, though he kept those instincts buried best he could.

But survival had little to do with the work itself. The true danger came from the people around him.

The overseers demanded constant gratitude for the privilege of learning under them. Those like him, who were quite poor with authority, often dealt with their ire. Meanwhile, the acolytes formed vicious little packs, circling anyone who stood out too quickly. They flocked to strength, playing cutthroat games that reminded Calyx uncomfortably of the gang wars back on Troithe.

On Thrantin, anyone new who showed too much promise rarely survived the month. The academy’s reputation as the deadliest in the Covenant had been earned many times over.
Yet somehow, Calyx had endured.

With streaks of cunning, he had eliminated every rival who came after him. Some had fallen publicly, broken in sanctioned duels. Others had simply disappeared. A year of defiance on Thrantin had earned him this - a transfer to the dark stronghold of Byss. Doomed to serve. A slave again, no different from what he had been on Kessel.

Never again.

He had made that vow long ago.

I’d rather die.

So he set his mind upon one final act of defiance. A last insult hurled at the path fate had forced upon him.

He placed a foot upon the first blackstone step.

Then the next.

And the next.

Confident. Chin raised. Eyes challenging the crimson above him.

He would climb as far as they allowed him. And when they tried to drag him back down, they would have to do it by force.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Calyx Sundrift​

'Twas no secret The Ascendant Spiral did not welcome descent. Given the architects and doctrine, they understood something essential about power: that it moved upward, always upward, and anything moving against that was either brave or lost. The kyber strips embedded in the walls bled their red light, breathing, the way a sleeping dragon breathes. Byss suited The Prince. The very thought arrived without pride..

The audience above had concluded to everyone's satisfaction, which meant it had concluded to no one's. Three Lords of middling rank, their ambitions arranged before Lysander like cards on a table, each believing themselves the dealer. And well, letting them believe it cost nothing. The residue of the meeting still clung to the inside of Lysander's chest. Politics at this altitude had a rather particular texture.

The figure appeared two tiers below.. ascending, alone, unhurried in a way that was entirely different from Lysander's own unhurriedness. An acolyte.. [erhaps a new transfer, by the cut of the uniform.

The gap between them closed. The acolyte did not slow, did not angle toward the wall, did not perform any of the small physical courtesies that the Spiral's hierarchy demanded of those ascending toward those descending. Most acolytes who refused to yield did so from arrogance, a quality Lysander found quite tedious. Arrogance, in his experience, was only ambition that had not yet learned patience.. a fire that burned visible and hot and therefore would only burn itself out.

Three steps remained between them when Lysander stopped. Not stepped aside; nay, stopped. Hands were loose at his sides, regarding the acolyte. The red light pooled in the hollows of the young face below him.

"You climb as though the stairs belong to you," unfurled from the emissary. The words came out conversational, carrying none of the freight that an inferior Sith would have loaded into them. "I find I'm curious whether that's a philosophy or a habit."

 

[Calyx Sundrift]

T H R O N E -S P I R E
T H E -D R E A D -F O R T R E S S

His footsteps seemed to echo on the blackstone stairs as he ascended. Outwardly, Calyx appeared unconcerned. His pace remained leisurely. His expression dull and indifferent, as though this ascent were no more significant than a walk toward another lecture hall. Inside, however, his stomach twisted itself into knots.

He had never openly defied the directives of the Sith before.

Because he had seen what happened to those who did.

His gaze flicked upward as a dark-robed figure descended the staircase toward him. Custom demanded that he’d move out of the way in a courtesy. No - custom demanded that he’d not be there at all. Tradition enforced it. Survival depended on it.

Will overruled trained instinct.

Calyx continued, unhurried. Step by deliberate step. Not a word nor gesture exchanged. Until there were only five steps left between them.

Four.

Three.

At that distance, both men stopped.

I’ve seen him before. A Lord, maybe?

His face betrayed nothing, but the knot in his stomach crystallised into genuine fear now, an unignorable cube of ice that sat cold and heavy beneath his ribs.

If I bow, maybe he’ll let me off with a warning.

But he didn’t bow. Calyx looked up and met the Sith’s discerning gaze.

No lies today.

He hated truths. Always had. Truth cornered people. Stripped them bare. Forced them into shapes they could not escape. Lies, at least, were merciful.

”What is a habit,” he asked quietly ”but a philosophy expressed?” The calmness in his own voice surprised him.
A faint smile even touched his lips, though whether from courage or resignation, he could not say. ”I’ve found that I have no desire to play at the pursuit of power.” The words sounded almost sacrilegious within those walls. ”And without that desire, what value do these steps hold?” Saying it aloud was like writing his own death sentence.

Calyx found, strangely enough, that he did not regret it.

If these became the words on his tombstone, then at least they would remain every bit as vexing as he himself had always been.

”And now, by resisting the hierarchy forced upon us, by carving my own path, I somehow stand here. Where my fellow Acolytes may take years to set foot- if at all.” The smile grew more profound and the genuine absurdity of it all. ”There’s something beautifully ironic about that, isn’t there? That by rejecting the ideal entirely… my chains are broken? ”

Except it would not be the Force that set him free.

It would be a crimson lightsaber, parting head from shoulders.

And there was every possibility that the lightsaber destined to separate his head from his shoulders belonged to the man standing before him now.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Calyx Sundrift​

A tilt of the head acknowledged Calyx’s words without haste; perhaps this was the only sign of attention in an otherwise.. still frame.

One brow quirked upward, eyes narrowing with leisure. A crisp exhalation preceded the first words. “A reluctance to pursue authority,” Lysander began, “would strike most observers as a form of self sabotage. Common wisdom among acolytes insists that power becomes the only language worth learning. Wouldn't you agree?”

But then, most acolytes crumbled beneath such expectation; apologies surface, lies emerge, obedience unfolds like clockwork. He’d witnessed it on Korriban, and as well on Desevro time and again. The new academy on Coruscant hadn’t changed that either. But this one, neither apology nor falsehood crossed this young man’s lips; this was a rarity that ignited a hint of intrigue. Something inside this young man refused standard molding.. or else some force harsher than the Covenant had shaped him long ago. Questions he might surely find the answer to soon. Being unpredictable could be sharper than any dagger's edge.

Fingertips flexed once against the seam of his ensemble. The Emissary’s voice emerged once more. “What an arresting turn of phrase, to frame habit as philosophy. Countless acolytes mistake structure for purpose, climbing rungs of hierarchy in pursuit of so many empty ideals. Admittedly, renouncing power inside these halls reads like heresy.”

A hand lifted momentarily, palm open. “But from where you stand, I see one unbroken by Sith customs and surprisingly untested by fear. So I wonder then, what forged you before the Covenant ever laid claim. Was it their failure?” A slight incline of the head next. “Or someone else’s success?”

His tone remained neutral. “Liberation and danger often share a boundary so thin that many mistake it for freedom. If fear no longer guides you, what does?”