The air shifted subtly just enough to prick the edge of Aliza’s awareness. Not threat. Not Force signature. But presence.
A moment later, the soft hiss of the door breaking its seal gave way to the quiet steps of a tall figure robed in muted black and crimson—one of Sabine Delacroix’s thralls. The kind that spoke little and revealed less, yet always moved with an eerie, unshakable purpose. This one wore a polished half-mask of bone over their face, etched with delicate runes barely visible unless one looked too closely.
They bowed—not deeply, but with the measured grace of one enacting a ritual, then spoke in a voice flat and reverent.
“Lady Delacroix requests your presence. Your next session begins now on Nathema.”
No title was offered. No mention of where. Those were details that didn’t need speaking. If one was summoned, they went. The thrall merely turned, pausing with the expectation that Aliza would follow—no further words, no flourish, just that same sense of inevitability that always followed when Sabine moved the pieces on her board.
The castle loomed like a wound carved into the flesh of Nathema a silhouette of obsidian spires and silent ramparts, untouched by time and untouched by life. No banners flew. No torches burned.
When Aliza arrived, the gates parted with neither fanfare nor delay, as though the structure itself recognized her. The threshold was cold, unnervingly so, but not merely in temperature this was the chill of memory, of pain calcified into stone. The corridors beyond were lined with statues, some broken, some whole, all watching. None bore names.
Sabine did not meet her in the hall.
Instead, the familiar presence pulsed ahead low and thrumming in the Force like a second heartbeat. The same thrall who summoned her before appeared again at the far end of the corridor, silent, waiting. No words were needed. They turned, leading Aliza deeper into the stronghold through arched doorways, past sealed chambers and etched walls covered in runes not seen in Sith temples but in places older, more secret.
At last, the path ended in a chamber of black stone, lit not by flame, but by slivers of pale red light filtered through a circular skylight above. It shone down upon a dais at the chamber's heart.
And there stood Sabine.
She had discarded her hooded robes in favor of high-collared black silk, its fabric catching the faint crimson light like oil across still water. Her white hair was braided down her back in a long, severe twist, her eyes fixed on Aliza not with warmth—but with measure.
"Nathema greets you in silence," she said, her voice echoing with unnatural clarity against the stone.
She descended the dais step by step, slow and deliberate.
"You've come far, Aliza. But power without discipline is a candle in a storm." Her tone sharpened, not cruel, but heavy with expectation. "Here, there are no illusions. Only what remains after the Force itself has been bled dry."
She paused in front of the younger Sith, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
"You wished to learn, so you will. In a place where the force will not hear you so easily. Here you will be reliant on your own power." Sabine stepped to one side making her way to a chamber off on one side. Sabine said nothing more as they approached the chamber, her footsteps barely audible on the polished floor.
The entrance was an arched threshold devoid of door or frame, shaped instead like a jagged tear in the stone. Beyond it, the chamber itself yawned open in stark, unnatural stillness.
It was circular and wide, sunken slightly into the earth. The floor was a mosaic of polished onyx and deep gray stone, etched with patterns that held no recognizable script—neither Sith nor Nightsister but something more primal, more ancient. The lines drew the eye in spirals and broken loops, as though the space resisted being understood.
At its center sat a smooth, flat slab of dark stone, shaped like a low altar or seat, wide enough for meditation but far too cold for comfort. There were no cushions, no tapestries, nothing to soften or distract. The walls curved up into a dome overhead, lined with thin spines of bone-white metal that seemed to hum at the edge of hearing.
At the apex of the dome, a single shaft of blood-red light fell like a blade across the center of the floor, illuminating the altar in stark relief. There were no windows, no visible source—only the sensation that the light wanted to be there.
And in that room, the Force was distant. Not gone, but faint. Muffled. A whisper behind thick glass. Power could be reached—but only if one had the strength to reach past the silence.
Sabine stepped aside, gesturing toward the center. Her voice echoed low in the emptiness.
"Sit. Listen. Not to the Force—but to yourself. What you find there… will determine when you are ready."
