Darth Carnifex
Veradun Sharr
Darth Nefaron
Ala Quin
Feng Huang
Jax Thio
Connel Vanagor
Balun Arenais-Dashiell
Jairdain felt the shift in the corridor almost immediately, not as a sudden escalation, but as a gradual tightening in the fabric of the Force itself, a subtle compression of intent that signaled the battle was entering a far more dangerous phase.
The arrival of Balaya's presence and the way it began to draw on the lingering residue of violence were registered not as spectacle but as distortion. Energy was being gathered, refined, and repurposed with deliberate precision, feeding upon pain and loss with unsettling efficiency. This was no longer destruction for its own sake. It was harvesting. Cruelty shaped into methodology.
She did not allow her awareness to linger there. There was no luxury in observation.
Her focus remained anchored to the shrinking circle of survivors clustered behind her, to the intricate lattice of defenses she had constructed through constant adjustment and restraint. The barriers were no longer static constructs, but living structures of intent and discipline, reshaping themselves in response to every fluctuation in hostile pressure, every probing movement, every surge of destructive force that brushed against their edges.
Darkness offered her no disadvantage. Vision had never been her guide.
Even with emergency lighting extinguished and shadows consuming the corridor, the Force remained saturated with information. Fear, rage, desperation, and predatory focus flowed through it in dense, overlapping currents that she navigated with practiced precision. Where others were stripped of orientation, she remained immersed in a complex sensory landscape that mapped danger long before it became physical.
When the Wendol's attention narrowed toward the group she protected, she felt the convergence of its intent before it moved, a tightening spiral of hunger and focus that sharpened with unnerving clarity. In response, she altered the geometry of her defenses, introducing subtle distortions that redirected momentum and disrupted spatial expectation. The creature's first advance collapsed into debris rather than flesh.
Each correction demanded more from her. Each refinement drew further upon reserves already thinning beneath relentless pressure.
That cost was accepted without hesitation, without resentment, and without doubt. Hesitation would have been far more dangerous than exhaustion.
Crimson energy continued to lash through the corridor, each surge carrying enough destructive potential to shatter her protections if allowed to strike unfiltered. She intercepted what she could, guiding excess force into surrounding structures, dispersing heat and momentum through reinforced supports and deck plating, integrating the spire itself into her defensive network through careful grounding and redirection.
The strain accumulated steadily.
Maintaining such adaptive constructs under sustained assault required constant recalibration, relentless focus, and emotional discipline that bordered on painful restraint. Her breathing grew shallower. Her concentration demanded deliberate reinforcement. Every aspect of her awareness remained stretched to its limits, balancing physical fatigue, emotional containment, and precise Force manipulation.
Beneath the layered chaos of clashing energies and overlapping intent, there was another presence that could not be ignored, no matter how determined she was to keep her attention fixed elsewhere.
Not as a figure. Not as a voice. But as a gravitational distortion within the Force itself, vast and oppressive, bending the currents of power simply through its existence. Carnifex. The name did not need to be spoken for its meaning to register.
She did not linger on that awareness. She did not analyze it, measure it, or attempt to quantify it. Most importantly, she did not permit herself the luxury of fear. To acknowledge the full weight of his presence would have fractured what little stability she had carved out, and stability was the only thing keeping the people behind her alive.
Instead, she turned inward.
Her signature was compressed, folded tightly into itself even as her defenses were reinforced. She lowered her perceptible profile within the Force, presenting herself not as a challenger, not as a focal point for destruction, but as something quieter and more difficult to isolate. She became structure rather than spectacle. Resistance rather than defiance. A stubborn obstruction embedded within the flow of violence.
In the midst of that relentless effort, while maintaining barriers that demanded constant recalibration and emotional control, she reached for Jax.
As someone who was frightened and refused to allow that fear to dictate her actions.
Jax…
The thought traveled along their bond, stripped of ornament and restraint, carrying only urgency and honesty.
He's here. Your father is here with us. I'm holding people, but it's taking everything I have. I don't know how long I can keep this up. I need you. Please be careful.
There were no instructions embedded within the message.
No tactical assessments. No attempt to manage his response. Only truth. Only need. Only the vulnerability she would not allow herself to expose anywhere else.
When she withdrew from the connection, her focus returned immediately to the present. Another assassin tested the perimeter, its strike sliding harmlessly into redirected space rather than finding a living target. With subtle precision, she adjusted the flow of energy once more, closing the gap before it could widen into catastrophe.
"Stay close," she murmured softly, threading steadiness through the Force along with her words.
The effect was immediate. Breathing slowed. Panic softened into fragile control. Those nearest her steadied without understanding why, clinging instinctively to the calm she projected.
Around them, monsters were unleashed, and power was harvested, violence refined into something calculated and efficient. Yet within her narrow sphere of resistance, people still breathed, still clung to one another, still possessed a chance that had not yet been extinguished.
There was no hunger for recognition in her actions. No illusion of heroism. No belief that resolve alone could rewrite the outcome. This was not a moment for grand gestures or dramatic defiance. It was a moment for endurance, adaptation, and unwavering restraint.
Every decision was weighed against consequence. Every adjustment was calculated with care. Every fragment of remaining strength was spent with deliberate purpose rather than desperation.
Moments were stretched into narrow margins of safety through persistence and discipline. Those margins were shaped into fragile chances for survival through patience and precision.
And survival, fragile and hard-won, remained the only victory she allowed herself to seek.
Mercy
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Corazona von Ascania
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Gavin Restur
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Glissara
