Chapter Text
Trin descended to the ground floor of the temple and emerged back onto the streets of Orrea in a daze, attempting to hold the image in her mind, to recall more details until she was unsure of what she had actually seen and what she had invented or extrapolated since. The object she had seen was similar to the one that had been on the altar in the Shrine. The hand; whose was it? Whoever the owner was, she had seen through their eyes. They had been connected somehow. Through the Force? Why? What did this mean? Were they nearby in Orrea? Giddying possibilities swam through her mind.
Thoughts of mystical conundrums were overpowered by the sights and smells of the market. The Noryath meatbreads were back and judging by the odor wafting over from Reya's stall, tasting better than ever. Jerik's choice today though, so she'd be lunching on Old Faye's curry.
Trin was still negotiating a path through stalls - have to watch for that chicken seller - when the chimes of the Greater Arc bell reverberated down the valley, a low boom marking the eighth hour. She was going to be late.
Orrea town sprawled up one side of Mount Ertis and was divided into two separate environments: on Arc and on Mountain. The Arc was a semi-circular band, about two hundred meters in diameter that projected from the side of the mountain, suspended above the valley floor. Surveys had confirmed that it was a complete circle, one half embedded in the rock, one half in the open air, constructed millennia ago from something resembling ferrocrete, probably by the Je'daii. The band was wide enough to accommodate moderately sized buildings and the paths to join them, and the structure had been judged to be strong enough to build upon, so as the town had expanded and become more prosperous, this most unusual and desirable real estate had been put to use. The original On Arc constructions had served as adjuncts to the Temple, for meditation, ceremonies and a belltower, but these days most had been converted to private houses for the region's most wealthy individuals, providing an uninterrupted view of the valley, removed from the bustle of the town.
Everyone else lived and worked on the side of Mount Ertis. Trin raced down a steep, stepped path towards the Academy; a set of squat, domed buildings at the fringes of the town, near one of the points where the Arc met the mountainside and disappeared into the rock.
Ascending the last of the steps to the entrance, her stomach sank; the central hall was empty and silent, her footsteps echoing around the white walls and vaulted ceiling that mimicked the classical style of the Temple. That meant that the rest of the students were in class already. Hurry! Teela was going to give her hell over this; she'd taken it upon herself to tame Trin's wayward temperament, which was no easy task. Bag thrown into her nook fast, then through the arch at the back of the hall that led to the classrooms. This morning was devoted to combat training, so she marched quickly down the corridor towards the largest and most distant hall.
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The acolytes skulked by the entrance of the loading bay, a critical mass of scowls and sneers that might at any moment trigger a runaway chain reaction of hostility. Clothed in an enormous variety of shades and textures of black, a gallery of bitter, haunted looks lurking under hoods or trapped in scalding stares, holding their stories of suffering close to hearts as black and hard and hot as coal in flames. Their hate sulked in silence behind a spiky antagonism that threatened to impale any servitor foolish enough to pass by. None did.
How best to make an entrance? Aestra opted for a casual sashay towards the bunch of losers, strutting a languid swish of the hips before unclasping her cape to toss it with a theatrical flourish onto an unidentifiable rusting hulk of machinery. She stood hand on hip, chin raised, back arched a little; a pose she'd seen in some old static about one of the naughtier Nightsisters and liked how it looked.
Arun, a big Dathomirian, targeted her with a burning, yellow eyed gaze. "You think you're so fucking marvellous," he spat, lip curled.
"I am fucking marvellous," Aestra confirmed for the record.
"I despise you. We all do," he scoffed with an extra helping of loathing.
She scanned the group until she met light grey eyes too gentle for the severe, angular face they were trapped in, a few locks of silver hair spilling across them. Rem's tall, rangy form lounged casually against a wall, wearing his usual roughed up sweater loose over thermals, regarding her with a suppressed half smile.
She tilted her head: True?
He raised an eyebrow and confirmed with a shrug: Such is the Way of the Sith.
Aestra checked the crowd of glowering faces that regarded her with looks of undisguised, simmering contempt. Confirmed then: she was still one of the more popular students.
She turned back to Arun. "You'd be crazy not to," she assured him and took a step closer, her eyes level with his. "But Arun, I understand you. It's ok," she soothed.
"You can't resist the hotness," Aestra breathed, lifting her chin a little higher, exaggerating the arch of her back a little more, "So you desire me."
She moved closer still, "Then you hate me for making you feel that way."
She watched him swallow hard, and - fuck, what an easy target he was - his eyes flicked over her body. Dathomirians were their own worst enemies. She could almost feel sorry for him. Almost, but he deserved a little extra humiliation, and if they were sparring anytime soon, it would be nice to have a psychological edge over him.
"And you hate yourself for wanting it. When you meditate on your hate-center, I bet you see my face. What a poor excuse for Sith you are," she sneered.
A couple of sniggers from the gallery, and Arun took a step back, glancing to his side.
"Better than you," he hissed, "You'll never ascend. Never. And you want it so much. I'm going to laugh so hard when Inferna picks Tor."
Fucking Tor. As if she needed reminding.
He was watching of course, from a far corner, looming over the other students, his red-rimmed eyes blazing at her from a pale, scarred, hairless head, the lower part of which was covered by a bulky metal respirator. Each rasping breath caused the control panel perched on top of bulging, black wrapped pecs to rise and fall in time with the creak and clink of the armor plating strapped to his enhanced musculature. From the tip of his ugly bald head to the toe of his spotless black boots and all the shiny black bits in between, he was a walking cliche. A medley of Sith Hall of Famers, the Dark Side's greatest hits. But damn, he knew the Force and his saber technique was flawless. He played the game perfectly, looking and acting as if he'd already ascended to Sith and it was a mere formality that Darth Inferna would select him as their apprentice.
But she had to ascend. Had to. Or all those years scrabbling in the dirt and the shit, the debris of the shattered dream of Exegol, all the bitter, angry tears swallowed up by the dust and chaos of the struggle to survive, would have been for nothing.
She needed a reason for all those wide eyed nights spent wrestling the gnawing, writhing fear that filled her empty belly; that they would be next, that the heroic fucking Lightsiders, who never, ever stopped hunting them would appear, gleaming too bright to look at, and they would kill her right there where she lay on filthy cold stone, just a skinny beaten girl, too tired to run, too scared to fight and so very alone.
A reason for all those mornings where fleeting, blissful moments still wrapped up in scraps of sleep, warmed by a memory of a whisper with a gentle touch, curdled into a sickening dread of the day ahead, and she had to push those fantasies down, hold them under and drown them in the depths, lest they drag her with them to suffocate in an ocean of tears.
There had to be a reason why the Force had found her, stoked the dying embers that filled her skin where there had once been a girl, fed the fury until it pulsed hot through her veins, giving her the strength to rise, again and again, to endure, to bring her to this moment. Ascending, learning at Inferna's side, gaining the strength to one day surpass them, the kind of strength that could kill Jedi, take the fight to the Republic and bring about the Age of Shadow. That was the only path that made sense of it all, the only reason. Otherwise, why? The Force had decided, and here she was, ready to serve and make the galaxy right once more. She would find a way to beat Tor and ascend, somehow.
Before the morning's convivial banter with Arun could continue, the acolytes' attention was drawn to the scraping groan of massive metal doors being dragged open. They parted to reveal a black robed, silver skinned Zabrak, hands clasped behind his back, regarding the students with a piercing red eyed stare and a sly smile. Master Xate. The horns atop his head radiated inked designs that resembled sharp, angled branches and told a story of a distinguished lineage gone astray.
"Let us begin," he announced and stood aside, motioning for them to enter the hall. In the facility's previous life, centuries ago, It had been a loading bay. Now it was a wide open space, perfect for combat training, open on one side to one of the vast Terracrafting chasms that dove deep into the planet, its gloom pierced by shafts of grimy grey light from the surface a short distance above.
Massive, discarded machinery of unknown origins and purpose lined the training area. Inside stood Master Dziet, a tall Arkanian, her white hair cut down to a silver stubble that complemented deathly pale skin to contrast starkly with the filmy black robes that flowed around her slender form. The pupil-less silver orbs of her eyes watched them (Aestra assumed - it could be hard to tell, and occasionally embarrassing) take their places uneasily. She usually took theoretical and meditation classes while Xate taught combat, but here she was, looking even more pensive and tense than usual.
Aestra glanced again at Master Xate's smile; an uncommon and unnerving sight. What tortures did he have planned this fine morning?