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Yesterday, 01:02 PM
Korriban.
The wind was dead when she began.
Saarkha worked in silence, stacking thorned wood and heavy stone until her arms shook. Bark bit into her palms, splinters embedding beneath her nails. Ash and dirt smeared the sweat that crawled down her forearms. Each breath was a jagged blade of iron, blood and old smoke, threatening to cut her throat from within.
At the pyre’s base the beast waited, trussed with cord, eyes rolling white. It knew. They always knew.
She scored her own wrist first. The blade drew a slow crimson line, deliberate, until warmth slicked her hand and dripped into the dust. She pressed the knife to her lips, swallowed copper, and whispered the names of the Gods. Those whose presence she sought in the dark. Then she laid the edge against the animal’s throat.
The cut was ugly. A violent tearing more than a clean slice. Blood erupted hot against her face, soaking her collar. Her hair. She held the body steady as it spasmed, guiding the flow of deep crimson into the waiting bowl, then thrust her bleeding arm through muscle and sinew, stirring until their lives were indistinguishable.
Until their tithes were indistinguishable.
Fire licked the pyre as she split the carcass further, hands burrowing through wet warmth until entrails spilled like ropes across the timber. Smoke rose heavy, choking, and she bent her head over the gore, searching for a pattern.
Whispers slid between her ears — brittle, mocking.
Daughter of scars. Always on your knees. Always begging. Searching for a path in the dust. What will you trade this time?
Her lip curled. “Enough,” she said, voice raw. “I bleed. I burn. I keep your name alive while the rest forget. No more riddles.”
She thrust her cut wrist deeper into the wet, forearm parting muscle, mixing her blood with the beast’s until the surface beneath churned black-red.
“I am Saarkha of Mharn,” she hissed. “I will not crawl. You will speak plain, or I’ll scatter this offering to the sand and curse your silence.”
The air tightened, as if the sands themselves held their breath. The smoke thickened, shaping itself into shadowed figures, vast and watchful. The voices came again — not mocking now, but edged with iron. With warning.
Then hear, scar-born. You are the hand that steadies the hammer. Guide your brother, or break him before the line is lost.
Heat clawed her face. The entrails shifted in her shadowed vision, blurred with sweat and soot and delirium, forming a chain around a sword, a woman’s shadow keeping it from snapping. She felt a terrible clarity settle in her bones. A weight. A terror. The price of daring to demand.
Her body trembled, but not from fear alone. From realisation.
They had listened. They had answered.
She fed the remains to the flames, pushing them down until bone cracked and sparks burst skyward. Blisters rose on her palms; she didn’t release the pyre until her task was complete.
When only embers remained, she stood among them, slick with blood and smoke. The Gods — or her own madness — had answered, and now her path was laid bare.
She would be the shadow behind Qailan’s throne, the unseen spine in the House’s back. Should he falter, she would drive him straight — or into the fire.
Saarkha turned from the pyre, leaving the smell of burnt marrow behind. Whatever claimed her tonight had accepted her terms.
But she knew.
It would demand more.
The wind was dead when she began.
Saarkha worked in silence, stacking thorned wood and heavy stone until her arms shook. Bark bit into her palms, splinters embedding beneath her nails. Ash and dirt smeared the sweat that crawled down her forearms. Each breath was a jagged blade of iron, blood and old smoke, threatening to cut her throat from within.
At the pyre’s base the beast waited, trussed with cord, eyes rolling white. It knew. They always knew.
She scored her own wrist first. The blade drew a slow crimson line, deliberate, until warmth slicked her hand and dripped into the dust. She pressed the knife to her lips, swallowed copper, and whispered the names of the Gods. Those whose presence she sought in the dark. Then she laid the edge against the animal’s throat.
The cut was ugly. A violent tearing more than a clean slice. Blood erupted hot against her face, soaking her collar. Her hair. She held the body steady as it spasmed, guiding the flow of deep crimson into the waiting bowl, then thrust her bleeding arm through muscle and sinew, stirring until their lives were indistinguishable.
Until their tithes were indistinguishable.
Fire licked the pyre as she split the carcass further, hands burrowing through wet warmth until entrails spilled like ropes across the timber. Smoke rose heavy, choking, and she bent her head over the gore, searching for a pattern.
Whispers slid between her ears — brittle, mocking.
Daughter of scars. Always on your knees. Always begging. Searching for a path in the dust. What will you trade this time?
Her lip curled. “Enough,” she said, voice raw. “I bleed. I burn. I keep your name alive while the rest forget. No more riddles.”
She thrust her cut wrist deeper into the wet, forearm parting muscle, mixing her blood with the beast’s until the surface beneath churned black-red.
“I am Saarkha of Mharn,” she hissed. “I will not crawl. You will speak plain, or I’ll scatter this offering to the sand and curse your silence.”
The air tightened, as if the sands themselves held their breath. The smoke thickened, shaping itself into shadowed figures, vast and watchful. The voices came again — not mocking now, but edged with iron. With warning.
Then hear, scar-born. You are the hand that steadies the hammer. Guide your brother, or break him before the line is lost.
Heat clawed her face. The entrails shifted in her shadowed vision, blurred with sweat and soot and delirium, forming a chain around a sword, a woman’s shadow keeping it from snapping. She felt a terrible clarity settle in her bones. A weight. A terror. The price of daring to demand.
Her body trembled, but not from fear alone. From realisation.
They had listened. They had answered.
She fed the remains to the flames, pushing them down until bone cracked and sparks burst skyward. Blisters rose on her palms; she didn’t release the pyre until her task was complete.
When only embers remained, she stood among them, slick with blood and smoke. The Gods — or her own madness — had answered, and now her path was laid bare.
She would be the shadow behind Qailan’s throne, the unseen spine in the House’s back. Should he falter, she would drive him straight — or into the fire.
Saarkha turned from the pyre, leaving the smell of burnt marrow behind. Whatever claimed her tonight had accepted her terms.
But she knew.
It would demand more.
