“Your sssshuttle is primed in the hanger, Admiral.”
“Excellent. Captain Ag-ro-na, you have command of the Omen in my absence,” Elmindra ordered, moving with a purposeful stride across the long center platform to the other side of the command deck, expecting Kasir and Naamino to fall in line with her.
“Yesss, Admiral,” her Rajakzânkut captain acknowledged.
“Resssceiving transsssmission from Dark Counssscilor
Gerwald Lechner
,” the comms officer hissed.
The Falleen woman paused before she reached the blast door, turning to the comms officer.
“Patch him through,” she commanded, curious what the Dreadwolf had to say.
“Lord Commander,” she greeted him, and received his greeting in turn. She listened carefully as he spoke, weighing his words and studying the deeper meanings within them.
The Dreadwolf was a Dark Councilor, a leader in his own right, and this
was his campaign to lead after all. Still, Elmindra rankled at his
suggestion that she and her forces attend to the task of cleaning up the resistance in the outer continents, shrouded as it was in niceties. She had grown accustomed to the power and influence she had on Korriban. She had not taken
orders from anyone in a long time, not even her King.
Darth Caedes
didn’t
dare order her about. He treated her as an equal, despite the performance of their roles. However, she did understand the importance of working
with the other leaders of the Sith Order in order to accomplish the greater ambition of taking back the Core.
Putting her pride aside, she squared her shoulders and delivered her response in a level cadence to match his own—one leader addressing another.
“Perhaps we can.” She mimicked his cordiality, a hint of amusement in her tone.
“I think you will find Korriban’s leaders to be of the same mind when it comes to collaboration.” She paused, letting the meaning of her words settle between them before formalizing her agreement.
“We will bring stability and order to the outer continents,” she predicted as if it was already set in stone.
“Korriban’s fleet will remain in orbit. Contact me if we can be of further use to the cause. May your efforts at the capitol prove successful, Warmaster.”
With that, she waved dismissively to the comms officer and exited the command deck to make good on her claims.
***
Sith landing craft cut through Chalcedon’s upper atmosphere in tight, disciplined waves, their hulls glowing as volcanic ash and superheated wind buffeted durasteel. Below, the outer continents spread out in fractured expanses of black glass plains, magma fissures, and jagged industrial sprawl—old syndicate outposts, slave depots, forgotten ports that had thrived in the absence of oversight, now marked for transformation.
The first barracks rose where neutrality once lingered.
Engineers and
Rajakzânkut laborers worked side by side beneath the watchful presence of armed detachments, erecting prefabricated fortresses atop elevated basalt ridges. Shield generators were anchored deep into the rock. Turbolaser emplacements crowned the high ground. Crimson banners bearing the sigil of the Sith Order and Korriban’s Horuset were unfurled and welded into place so that even Chalcedon’s constant storms could not tear them free. What had once been transient space became fixed, brutal, and unmistakably owned.
Resistance announced itself quickly—and died faster.
Irregular militias, syndicate enforcers, and self-styled planetary defenders attempted ambushes in ruined transit hubs and in canyons carved from rivers of magma. They were answered with overwhelming force. Sith troopers advanced in silence through ash and smoke, supported by
heavy assault walkers that crushed volcanic glass beneath alusteel feet. Strafing runs scoured entire settlements suspected of sheltering insurgents. Prisoners were taken selectively—not for mercy, but for information and example. Bodies were left where they fell, warnings etched into the landscape itself.
Elmindra Xitaar was always at the center of motion.
Where her command shuttle landed, resistance collapsed. Her presence bent the atmosphere around her—fear sharpening into obedience. She did not shout orders. She did not need to. Her will alone was enough to direct her troops. Entire formations repositioned at
Naamino Zuukamano
was unleashed.
The zabrak moved at Elmindra’s side or just ahead of her, his apprenticeship written in blood and broken bodies. He was sent first into contested zones, into kill corridors and fortified slave compounds where defiance still flickered. Each engagement stripped away another layer of restraint, refining him into something sharper and more dangerous. His survival was never in doubt. His evolution was the point.
Kasir Dorran
followed like a blade drawn for ceremony and execution alike.
The Champion of Wanosa led purge actions with methodical brutality—systematic sweeps of industrial warrens, dockside warrens, and subterranean markets. Under his command, resistance was not merely defeated; it was erased. Records were seized. Leaders were publicly executed. Entire networks vanished overnight, leaving only fear and silence in their absence. Where Kasir passed, order followed—not the gentle kind, but the kind that endured because no one dared challenge it.
Within days, the outer continents were transformed.
Barracks became command hubs. Supply lines hardened. Patrol routes locked into place. New rules were imposed on the populous: curfews enforced by orbital surveillance, compulsory registrations, forced labor quotas tied directly to obedience. Chalcedon’s long habit of lawlessness fractured under the weight of consistency.
***
Elmindra stood within the central command chamber of the newly established outer-continental fortress, a structure of blackened durasteel, stained with volcanic ash. A holo-projection hovered before her, displaying the continents in segmented grids. Each grid pulsed with updated data—population centers, remaining resistance pockets, suspected sympathizer zones.
She clasped her hands behind her back and regarded the map with cold satisfaction.
“We have established an effective foundation but the illusion of resistance yet remains,” Elmindra said calmly, the quality of her commanding tone slicing through the room without effort. “That cannot be allowed to persist.”
She pressed a button and several regions flared brighter red.
“Naamino,” she said, not turning.
“You will take a strike detachment into these sectors.” The projection zoomed in on a chain of industrial settlements near a magma transit artery.
“They are harboring fugitives and spreading the idea that the Sith presence is temporary.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a predatory cruelty simmering behind them.
“Prove them wrong. Level the settlements. Execute anyone found bearing arms—or sheltering those who do. Leave survivors only where their fear will travel faster than our ships.”
She shifted her attention to another cluster.
“Kasir,” she began.
“You will oversee population compliance across the southern continent,” Elmindra continued.
“Implement public executions for any failure to meet labor quotas. Confiscate food, power, and water from districts that fall behind. I want entire regions to understand that survival is conditional.”
She turned then, facing them both. The red light caught the sigils along her armor, making them glow like embers.
“There will be no martyrs,” she declared. “No symbols. No hope. Resistance will not be remembered as noble—it will be remembered as futile.”
Her gaze settled briefly on Naamino, measuring.
“You are not here to inspire loyalty,” Elmindra said.
“You are here to extinguish defiance.”
Then to Kasir, her tone ironclad.
“And you are here to make obedience routine.”
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“Carry this out without hesitation. The populous will be compliant—or they will be replaced.”
The orders hung in the air, heavy and final.
Elmindra turned back to the projection, already thinking several moves ahead, confident in one immutable truth: the Sith had come to stay, and the Chalcedon would adjust accordingly.
CT-312
Darth Hydra
