D U M B
Rain fell in a steady curtain over Dromund Kaas, turning the jungle paths into dark ribbons of mud and reflection. Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the canopy, distant enough to be constant rather than disruptive, a familiar presence that blended into the rhythm of the world. The air carried the scent of wet stone and living growth pressed close together, heavy with the quiet pressure of the dark side that never truly receded from this place.
Aerik Lechner moved along the approach without haste.
The stronghold rose from the jungle like something grown rather than built, its black surfaces slick with rain, edges softened by creeping moss that had learned long ago where it was permitted to take hold. He had walked this path many times, yet the awareness never dulled. Every visit carried the same quiet tightening in his chest, not born of uncertainty, but of memory. Lessons here had never been abstract. Expectations had never required explanation.
He did not come lightly.
Brosi lingered at the edge of his thoughts, not as noise, but as a steady presence. The moment of bleeding the crystal had left its mark, a subtle tension that remained whenever his awareness brushed the weapon at his side. The blade felt different now, warmer in a way that did not fade, as though it retained some echo of the strain that had shaped it. He carried that change without display, knowing it would not go unnoticed.
Servants along the outer corridors lowered their eyes as he passed. Acolytes stepped aside without needing instruction. The atmosphere within the stronghold felt as it always had, ordered, deliberate, the quiet hum of the Force woven through stone and shadow in a way that demanded attention whether one sought it or not.
Aerik noted each detail without allowing his gaze to linger.
He had not been summoned. There had been no message, no directive carried through the channels of the Order. The decision to come rested entirely with him, and that fact alone shaped his posture as he moved deeper within. His master valued initiative, but never without scrutiny.
The corridor leading to the audience chamber felt narrower than its dimensions suggested, the ceiling high yet somehow close, as though the space encouraged focus. Rain tapped faintly against the windows set deep within the walls, a steady rhythm that filled the silence without softening it.
He paused briefly before the threshold, not from hesitation, but from habit. Breath steady. Thoughts aligned. Nothing left unattended.
Then he stepped inside.
The chamber remained severe, each line precise, every surface maintained with exacting care. The air carried that familiar pressure, a subtle reminder of the presence that commanded the space long before words were spoken. Aerik crossed the floor with measured steps, aware of where he stood in more ways than one.
He stopped at a respectful distance.
“Master.”
The single word was offered without flourish. He kept his hands relaxed at his sides, neither concealing nor presenting the lightsaber at his hip. The faint unrest of the crystal sat quietly in his awareness, a detail he did not attempt to mask.
Aerik held his posture, attentive and composed, carrying with him the calm of someone who understood both the privilege and the danger of standing exactly where he was.
And he waited.