Enemies:
Lysander von Ascania
Allies:
Mykel Dawson
Jonyna Si
Shade did not move when he entered the junction.
The corridor was littered with bodies—civilians who had run too fast or been in the wrong place when the Sith carved his way through the city. Smoke from ruptured conduits curled around the ceiling, low and heavy, catching glimmers of red from emergency lights. The metallic tang of ozone and spilled coolant stung the air, but Shade stood at its center, unbothered, her silhouette cutting clean through the chaos. Storm-grey armor hugged her frame like shadow-forged plating, her stance quiet, balanced, and coldly attentive as Lysander approached with deliberate, predatory calm.
She hadn't expected him to pause. But he did.
His presence rolled ahead of him like a cold tide—precise, honed, shaped by darkness but not sloppy with it. A creature built for violence who wore destruction like a second skin. She marked the way his boots tracked through streaks of blood without hesitation, the way his breath never changed even with fresh death on his heels. Every detail was observed, catalogued, and compartmentalized in the space of a heartbeat.
Shade stepped forward once, measured, controlled. Fingers curled lightly around the hilt of the matte-black combat knife she had drawn moments before his arrival. She didn't brandish it; there was no need. Her blade rested low beside her thigh, the way an artist might hold a brush before the first stroke—intent contained, not wasted.
Her crimson eyes lifted to meet his, unflinching.
"You're right about one thing." Her voice cut through the charged silence like a fine-edged scalpel—soft, precise, devoid of fear.
"I know exactly what stands in front of me."
She let her gaze travel over him, not in awe, not in disgust, but in professional assessment. The longsword. The stance. The way his entire being coiled around intent. The Force curled around him like a serpent, cold and sharp. He was powerful—undeniably. But Shade had lived too long in the aftermath of monsters to be impressed by one.
Her next breath was slow, even, settling her center of gravity as she allowed her weight to sink through the balls of her feet.
"You mean to cut this city open." Not a question. A statement of fact. Her knife shifted subtly, blade angled just enough to catch the emergency light—a brief, flickering glint.
"But you are not going any farther."
She didn't posture. Didn't threaten. Didn't fill the air with empty promises or bravado. Honor demanded clarity, not noise. She stood there, knife loose and ready, body relaxed in a way that was more dangerous than any rigid stance.
Behind her, the cloud layer far below rumbled under the weight of the battle, tearing across the floating city. The air smelled of burning insulation and fractured metal. Somewhere distant, a civilian scream echoed and was cut short. But Shade did not waver.
"You want to measure yourself against someone?" Her chin lifted a fraction, enough to mark resolve without arrogance.
"Then measure yourself against me."
The corridor between them felt very small now, compressed by intent and inevitability. Shade's expression remained composed, almost serene—an assassin's stillness, a soldier's certainty, a survivor's clarity.
She did not ignite in the Force. She didn't need to. Her presence was a blade drawn silently in the dark.
"This is where your path ends."
Not shouted. Not demanded. Just spoken as if it were a fact.
And with that, she shifted one foot back—just enough to anchor. Just enough to prepare.
Just enough to signal the truth: Shade had chosen her ground. And she would not give him another step.
Connel Vanagor
