Shadow Hand
The storm had no beginning.
There was no point in the sky from which it poured, no horizon where the thunder began. It simply was. The skies above Dromund Kaas roared eternally with the wrath of the dark side, casting jagged bolts of red and violet lightning across the boiling cloud layers. Ever since the very first day the Kainate darkened the surface of the world; ever since the Mortarch unleashed the Umbral Maw and restored true power to Dromund Kaas. Beneath that apocalyptic canopy, the world churned in perfect, controlled suffering.
New Kaas City stretched across the continent like a scar carved by the Force itself, a continent-spanning labyrinth of fortress towers, ritual spires, and industrial monoliths lit by blood red signs and flickering propaganda holoscreens. Blackstone towers clawed at the sky like the fingers of the dead. Legions marched through screaming avenues. The masses of the faithful who lived their lives in service to the Kainate, to the Sith Order. From the lowest slums to the penthouse balconies of Sith lords, every breath was measured, recorded, and judged. The air reeked of ozone, iron, and incense. New Kaas City was among the greatest cities forged by Sith in all of galactic history, a utopia of the Shadowed Dominion of the Kainate that eschewed Imperial values for the undisputed supremacy of the Sith. A city of such might and splendor even smaller, it stood in stark competition with the likes of Jutrand itself. Deep at the city's center, the apex of this colossus of order, rose the Sith Citadel.
It pierced the heavens like a blade of obsidian and void, its silhouette lost within the stormclouds it seemed to command with an iron fist. Every inch of its surface was etched with Sith runes, glowing faintly beneath the downpour as though the Citadel itself bled thought. Statues of ancient Dark Lords loomed over its many battlements. Ships, dropships, and airborne patrols carved red lines through the clouds as they circled it like flies around a wound, a storm of activity that the city itself gave a wide berth to. It was far more than a seat of power, for the citadel was like its own realm, its own dimension separating one world from the next all behind those colossal walls. Even the force felt different when one crossed the barriers.
The Citadel was alive. It watched. It waited. Entry was no a grand affair. The outer halls were stark and silent, blackstone and dark iron corridors lit only by the crimson glow of wall-etched runes, dimly glowing braziers casting haunting shapes among the shadows. Overhead the banner of the Kainate flew in blood red. Occasionally one would see mosaics, statues and other decoration. The sheer size of the structure defied all comparison, all thought, all reality. Many said it was double or even triple the size of all predecessors, perhaps larger still than even the Imperial Palace on Jutrand. A place truly fitting as the seat of power for those who led and influenced the Sith Order with guiding hands for well over the past half century or more. The inner complex contained enough military force to withstand any siege, armies of the black iron warhost stood a silent vigil, constantly on a hyper alert of all intruders, infiltrators, prepared for every eventuality. No immense greeting. No overt displays. A simple entourage of Crownguard, a silent attendant to ensure the woman's needs were met, that the storm never touched her form. The silence did not invite reverence, it demanded it.
As one descended, the great arteries of the fortress twisted inward, narrowing through deeper layers of command zones, vaults, ritual halls until even architecture obeyed the logic of the dark side. It was a dizzying display of every whim of its master catered to. Doors sealed behind. The light dimmed. The shadows moved just a little too independently. The air grew heavier and heavier. Eyes gazed back from within the darkness, towering creatures lumbered through distant hallways. Those who tread here did so with a purpose, all under the watchful eye of its guardians, and technology so advanced it bordered on magic.
Past the Grand Council chambers. Past the Sanctuaries of Strength, Power, and Passion.
Deep beneath the foundations of the throne amphitheater, hidden even from most Sith who called the Citadel home, lay a chamber sealed by layered rituals, security gates, and psychic locks keyed not to simple access codes, but to something greater. It was called the Mind's Crucible. A chamber not for training, but unmaking. Here, the very floor was a mirror of black glass that pulsed with veins of red. The air trembled. The silence throbbed with clear anticipation of what was to come, it was as if the stone itself held its breath. Towering spires lined the outer ring, etched with scenes of betrayal, ambition, triumph, and death, each etched from inside, as if clawed from within the stone. All the while looming right at the center, a throne of woven abyss and scorched will. He was already here.
The Shadow Hand. The Lord of Lies. The Once-Emperor. The Elysian Grandeval Mortarch. The Dark Lord of the Sith, Shadow Hand of the Kainate. The Sovereign of Dromund Kaas. Darth Prazutis. The giant sat motionless, silent, a god clad in living shadow, black robes breathing with abyssal weight trailed in pulsating crimson runes. The chamber would greet her. The Crucible would see her. It would remember everything, her blood, her scars, her brush with death itself, her failure to save the one she loved. It would breathe with the scent of Exegol's ruin, Vesta's final scream echoing faintly beneath the stone. It would show her nothing, but ask everything. It would be the battleground that would challenge her.
Only when she walked through those doors and chose to speak would it all begin.
