Xeykard
The Scales Tip
Though he'd passed through eight checkpoints without incident, it was this last step that brought Xeykard the most unease. The Great Hall was lavish, comforting -- minutes ago a silent servant had come to offer him some refreshments. He'd refused. His mind was awash with fear. He suspected, now, that the Saaraishash were poring over his file for anything out of place.
Part of him wished he'd been attacked on the way in. The armed guards were almost a comfort; he knew where the enemy might be. Now there was just fear. He studied the shadows for movement, and found none; it only increased his unease.
And yet, why would the Dark Lord need such things as deception or ambush? Xeykard was nothing in the face of such power.
He recalled the first -- and only -- time he'd seen the Dark Lord in person. He had just become a full-fledged Inquisitor; the Dark Lord himself had blessed him (and a massed group of thousands of other Sith warriors and soldiers) with his presence, if only for a moment. Xeykard could not remember the words he'd said, but he remembered his eyes, his face; there was a strange beauty there, and in equal measure a terrible fear and pain. Even the sight of the Dark Lord had been difficult to bear. Xeykard remembered bowing down low, as though fearing that if the Dark Lord's gaze would pierce him, tear him raw once more, and reveal every flaw in his being.
Now he had brought himself here, so close to the Dark Lord -- he even deigned to speak in his presence.
The way in had been a surreal experience. Not a few decades prior he remembered the fighting he'd seen against the Imperials, how every city seemed burned in the wake of their battles. Now the city seemed full once more, and the fortress stood tall. He'd passed through the first checkpoint -- local security forces. They hadn't questioned him much once he'd shown his saber. He'd kept cloaked through the second and third checkpoints; the Gelian Sentinels were thorough, disciplined, and unsettling in their work. He was watched every second through into the citadel.
By the fourth they'd taken his cloak, the fifth his handprint, the sixth his weapon. By the time he'd arrived in the Great Hall, he had nothing but an armored Inquisitor vest; they'd offered him garments to make himself presentable in some way, but he'd refused. Now he felt naked, vulnerable, and awaiting a storm.
He was left to his thoughts and fear for some time; he lost track. But eventually the doors opened, and he fell to a knee.
"My Lord," he said.