Shadow Hand
The stars outside Port Nowhere didn't flicker. They simply vanished.
One by one, like candles snuffed out by the breath of something deeper than the void, they disappeared beneath the silhouette of the approaching ship. It glided on wings of shadow, sleek, dagger shaped, and silent, the Nycthemeron, its hull etched in whispers of crimson script that flared only when caught by the blink of a distant pulse beacon. To most, it was invisible. A ghost that materialized out of the void of space. Even to those watching for it, it appeared as nothing more than a shadow against the black. But to the sentries of Port Nowhere, those who knew what to fear, it was seen and immediately given berth. No challenge issued. No demands made. For this wasn't a visitor one interrogated. This was an arrival foretold in half whispered rumors and encrypted communiques, and the name whispered was his: Darth Vornoth.
The docking arms extended, reluctant and groaning, as though even the station itself hesitated to welcome this new arrival, to embrace it with a caressing touch. When the boarding ramp hissed open, no fumes poured out. No theatrics. Only silence and something far worse, an oppressive pressure that crept like frost through the metal, threading into the bolts and circuitry. The presence that stepped into the station's airlock wasn't loud. Not thunderous. It was quiet, eerily so, but it commanded the space as if gravity itself bowed to accommodate it. Darth Vornoth emerged wreathed in muted blacks and smokey silks, his silhouette was ghostlike beneath a layered travel cloak that moved as though it shuddered and breathed. The figure's skin was pale as bone, like the shade of soft ash in low light, and his very eyes shimmered faintly with an unnatural luminance, not glowing, but reflecting things unseen, they were like mirrors that knew your secrets before you spoke them. He didn't walk across the deck. He flowed. Each step was deliberate, noiseless, graceful, more suggestion than action, his boots never quite seeming to strike the deck, his pace neither fast nor slow but perfectly measured to control the rhythm of the room.
A pair of Port Nowhere enforcers, one a battle scarred Weequay in riot armor, the other a tattooed Zabrak with bloodstained gauntlets, waited uneasily at the airlock. Their orders were to escort the envoy. Neither spoke. Neither moved until Vornoth's gaze passed over them like a scalpel made of ice. Whatever bravado they'd summoned to withstand a Sith's presence evaporated with that glance. Wordlessly, they turned and led the way into the labyrinthine arteries of the station. The journey wasn't a short one. The station itself was a massive thing. They passed through the congested veins of Deck 6, where sparks of illegal welding rigs and the roar of hidden engines lit the corridors in hellish flashes. Half finished ships hung in suspended cradles, while cloaked figures haggled over crates of forbidden tech, cybernetic organs, and more. The stench of fuel and burnt ozone clung to every surface, masked only slightly by the pheromone haze of exotic chemicals leaking from the vents, pushed ceaselessly into every room and hallway. Droids watched with blank eyes. Slaves hurried with bowed heads. All through it all, Vornoth walked untouched, unnoticed, yet undeniable. Even the chaos seemed to move around him, unspoken currents parting in silent deference.
They ascended through a private turbolift, one of the few still functioning with precision, guarded by biometric locks and retinal scanners hacked only by the syndicate's inner circle. As the lift ascended, the howls and clangs of the lower decks faded, replaced by a quiet so complete it rang in the ears. When the doors parted, it was into a different world entirely.
Deck 1. Executive & Elite Services.
The air was cooler here. Cleaner. The lights were warm, golden, filtered through polished transparisteel and decorative lattice screens etched with alien motifs. Private security droids patrolled in pairs, their chassis gilded with thin bands of chromium, their red sensors scanning everything. Murals of ancient crime families adorned the walls. One corridor led to a sealed sabacc chamber, another to a private wine lounge with views of simulated nebulae. Everything here was carefully curated for those with the wealth, and influence to hold dominion here, to entertain others here. It was a degree of luxury most would dream of, catering to every need of those who controlled the criminal underworld. But Vornoth's path ended at a circular blast door of reinforced obsidian steel, guarded by two silent figures clad in sculpted armor bearing the sigil of Black Sun, two muscular Falleen standing vigil.
Without a word, the doors parted.
Inside was a private negotiation chamber, spacious, but it wasn't to the extent that it could be considered ostentatious. Dark velvet walls absorbed sound and ensured privacy. A curved window projected a false starfield outside, subtly shifting with time, casting slow moving light across the crystal negotiation table right at the room's center. It was beauty all its own. A single empty chair awaited the Kainate representative, another positioned across from it would soon sit one with the authority to deal. Darth Vornoth entered without pause. He didn't speak, didn't pace or loudly demand for attendance. The Sith's presence was announcement enough. The Voice of the Dyarchy had arrived.
Now the games would begin.
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