Son of Begeren
The sun of Archais bled its last light across the grasslands, staining the endless savannas in hues of amber and dying gold. The tall grasses swayed like a sea beneath the evening wind, rippling over the low hills and broken plateaus that marked the land. Rivers cut silver scars across the plains, their waters glimmering as they snaked toward villages huddled beneath the shadow of the plateaus. Once these people had been left to their own peace, forgotten at the edge of the galaxy's wars. But peace was no longer theirs to hold.
Imperial banners were raised across the planet, their scarlet cloth fluttered against the wind. The stormtroopers patrolled the now-conquered cities and markets. Their white armored figures were visible in every street and plaza across the planet. TIEs howled across the skies in hunting patterns, their shrieks rolling across the horizon like carrion birds. The Empire had come, and with it the slow strangulation of all things left free.
Apophion's shuttle descended through the last light of the day, its black frame casting a long shadow that stretched across the savanna as it came to rest upon a plateau. The air hissed as the ramp lowered, and the Sith Lord stepped into the evening. His black cape trailing in the dust, he surveyed the plain, his gaze drawn not to the farmers or merchants scattered along the roads, nor to the watchfires burning on the distant ridges, but to something further, something heavier pressing at the edge of his senses.
The Jedi.
Some had managed to flee here, thinking themselves hidden among the plateaus, shepherded by sympathetic locals, praying the grasslands would swallow them and the Empire's reach would falter. But his personal quest for revenge did not falter. He could already sense them, their presence flickering in the Force like candles in the wind. The Jedi would be found, one way or another. They would fight, as they always did, convinced their deaths meant defiance. And then they would die, as they always did, feeding the Hollow Cycle with one more turn of its wheel.
The locals watched from the shadows of their doorways. Some with bowed heads, praying silently that the Sith would pass them by. Others with clenched fists, their rage smoldering but unlit, for they knew no fire would burn long against such a storm. It did not matter. To Apophion, they were nothing but reeds in the wind, bent whichever way the storm chose to blow.
The hunt was all that mattered. The Jedi had chosen their refuge, and he had chosen his quarry. Soon, the grasslands of Archais would drink their blood, as the soil of Coruscant, of Arkania, of Tython already had.
The Sith Lord did not look back at the shuttle, nor to the soldiers that followed him at a distance. His eyes remained on the plateaus where the last light pooled, where the shadows lengthened. Somewhere in that gathering dark, the Jedi waited.
And he would find them.
