Darth Serus

Posted on Sun Apr 26th, 2026 @ 10:18pm by Darth Serus & Bomoor Thort

8,055 words; about a 40 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IX: The First Verse
Location: Near the old Elenca Settlement, Öetrago
Timeline: Night, Day Four (After "Thane of Caanus" and "Son of Öetrago")

The ground softened long before the trees came into full view.

What had begun as dry, fractured earth at the edge of Elenca gave way beneath Bomoor's weight to something darker and more saturated, the soil holding the recent breath of the storm even where no rain had yet fallen. Each step pressed moisture upward in shallow, soundless shifts, the surface yielding and settling again with a quiet resilience. A faint mist had gathered across the low ground, not thick enough to obscure, but sufficient to soften distance and blur the hard edges of what remained behind them. The former settlement of his mother's people receded into it quickly, its broken lines dissolving into pale suggestion, until only the suggestion of structure lingered in the air.

Ahead, the copse stood as a darker concentration within the haze, its outline uneven and organic, untouched by the deliberate shaping that defined even transient Ithorian settlement. The trees did not grow in ordered spacing, nor did they follow any visible pattern of cultivation. They had risen where they wished, their trunks bending and angling with quiet independence, roots pushing through the saturated ground in thick, exposed lines that caught the dim light in dull, wet sheens. Their canopies interlocked above in irregular layers, thinning the already limited light into a muted, violet-grey wash that settled low between them.

The air shifted as they approached it. Cooler, first, then heavier. It carried the scent of damp bark, soil, and something older beneath it. No insects called here and no distant movement answered the pair's passage - it was as if they would dare disturb the dark duo. The only constant was the soft compression of earth beneath them and the faint, persistent whisper of mist shifting between trunk and root.

Thane walked ahead of him. The red light came first, before the man himself fully resolved in the dimness. It cut through the low mist in a clean, narrow line, staining the vapour in deep crimson as it passed, the bloodshine-red lightsaber held high and angled slightly outward from his body. The edge of it remained precise despite the moisture in the air, its glow and lower-hum steady and self-contained, casting long, distorted shadows that stretched and broke across the uneven ground.

Bomoor could see the way Thane moved within it; there was no hesitation in his stride, now, his gait adapted, even with whatever pain he must still be experiencing and each step was placed with intent. The slight instability that had marked his movement to his mother's hut had diminished, not entirely absent, but contained beneath something firmer. His shoulders held more evenly now, the line of his spine no longer betraying the same immediate fragility, though Bomoor could still sense the strain threaded through it. Even with the Force, dark side and this renewed sense of certainty, there was no way to entirely sidestep the catastrophic injuries the Human had suffered.

The cloak shifted around Thane with each step, its dark fabric absorbing whatever little ambient light there was, leaving the red glow of the blade and the faint, unnatural glint of the ocular implant as the only clear points of definition.

The bond between them, however, remained open, and the impressions carried through it unbidden - not as thoughts, but as a sort of presence, as it often had been since Ossus, albeit changed in new and different waves, as if observing a recording with a different setting. Something within Thane had resolved into a single, forward-driving intent that allowed little space for anything else. The turbulence Bomoor had felt from Thane when he was within the hut and before had not vanished, but it had been drawn inward, compressed into a form that no longer spilled outward in instability. It was sharper now - narrower and focused.

The container at Bomoor's side shifted slightly with his movement, the contents within responding to the subtle changes in pace and terrain. Even in their dormant state, the three holocrons did not fully quiet themselves. Their presence remained distinct, each carrying a different weight within the Force, layered but separate. The angular certainty of Bane’s device, rigid and absolute. The altered, more fractured resonance of Krayt's, carrying its own interpretation of power and failure. And beneath them both, the Telos Holocron, deeper and more complex, its presence less defined in shape and more in depth, as though it extended beyond the boundaries of its physical form.

The proximity of all three created a pressure of its own, but it did not interfere with Thane’s movement. It did not draw his attention outward. If anything, the convergence seemed to sit in quiet alignment with the direction he had already chosen, as though their combined presence merely reinforced something already decided rather than influencing it. The distinction between the objects and Bomoor's friend seemed, now, less defined..

They crossed the threshold of the copse without pause. The light diminished further here as the canopy closed more completely overhead, the mist thickening slightly where the air cooled beneath the cover of leaves. The ground rose in subtle, uneven gradients, small shifts that disrupted any straight path through the trees. Stones began to appear more frequently here, not scattered at random, but placed in patterns that resisted immediate interpretation. Some lay half-buried, their surfaces worn smooth by time and exposure, while others stood more prominently, rising from the earth in narrow, vertical forms that leaned at slight, deliberate angles.

The first of the older structures revealed itself between the trunks, but it did not announce itself as architecture in the conventional sense. There were no clear walls, no intact form that suggested habitation or defence. Instead, it existed as a collection of worked stone that had once belonged to something greater, now reduced to fragments that retained their intention without their function. Curved surfaces intersected at unnatural angles, their edges too precise to be the result of erosion alone. Faint markings traced across them, shallow grooves and geometric patterns that caught the red light of Thane’s blade in fleeting, distorted reflections.

They did not resemble Ithorian work; the forms were older and harder, less concerned with harmony and more with something darker and more ancient. The stones had been set here to endure, not to integrate, their placement asserting itself against the natural growth that had since risen around them. Roots had not sought to reclaim them, as if the ancient energy within them repelled the vegetation. Yet, the natural movement of the land had still obscured much of what had once existed, although the underlying structure remained evident beneath it all. Bomoor recognised, now, some of the fragments as carrying Rakatan aesthetics, knowing full well how far their interstellar empire had spread in aeons past.

Thane did not slow at the sight of the old architecture, showing no sign of whether he recognised their significance and history or not. He passed the first of the stones without turning his head, the red light sliding across its surface and revealing more of its form for a brief moment before leaving it behind. The path ahead narrowed further, the trees drawing closer together as they drew closer to the centre.

Beneath his feet, the soft ground began to feel stiffer, more compact. Bomoor sensed that even more of this structure lay buried beneath their feet, unseen for millennia. Its original purpose was long since concluded but now it would serve them in a new purpose.

As they walked on, more crumbled walls and standing stones encircled them, pushing them onwards. Inwards.

Ahead of him, Thane stopped. His lightsaber hummed, satisfied as it observed the area. Encircling them now were a series of larger stone pieces: set like standing stones in a ritual circle. Perhaps this was once a central chamber but now it stood as a glade in the woods; an eye in the storm of trees and stone that surrounded them.

Bomoor's eyes peered upwards as he slowed his pace: above, the first few stars of the oncoming night were becoming visible. Here, in this little clearing on Öetrago, the vast galaxy would soon be on display to them and they would be on display to the galaxy.

"This place..." Bomoor broke the silence of the evening with a simple acknowledgement, "We will witness you here."

The hum of the blade lingered for a moment after Bomoor spoke, low and steady within the shallow clearing, its resonance crisp. The red light held where it was, cast across the uneven circle of ancient monoliths, catching the edges of worn carvings and the damp sheen of exposed root before bleeding away into the surrounding dark. The stars had begun to pierce the thinning canopy above, faint at first, then sharpening as the last light of day receded entirely, their cold distance settling over the clearing with quiet indifference.

Only then did Thane shift, his blade angled downward a fraction, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly before his thumb moved across the switch. The crimson line collapsed in on itself with a sharp, final hiss, the light vanishing at once and leaving the space to the dim wash of starlight and the faint, steady glow of his ocular implant. The absence of the blade changed the atmosphere immediately. The mist reclaimed the ground between them, softening the edges of what could be seen, while the ancient stones seemed to recede slightly into themselves without the ethereal illumination to define their edges.

He turned to bring Bomoor into his field of view, who had now placed down the container and opened it, revealing the three device within. For a brief moment, the Caanan said nothing. Thane’s posture remained upright, composed, though the effort beneath it had not entirely vanished. The subtle strain returned in small, involuntary corrections along his spine, in the faint tightening of his shoulders as his body resisted the stillness more than the motion that had preceded it.

His gaze settled on Bomoor, the molten gold of his remaining eye steady, the red lens beside it unblinking.

"Are you certain," he said at last, the words measured, carried through the respirator with a softened, controlled distortion that struggled to fully convey the nuance behind them, "that you wish to stand here?"

The tone was quieter than it had been since Sleheyron. Not diminished, but drawn back, as though he were forcing the words through a narrower channel than usual. The respirator caught the edges of it imperfectly, flattening certain inflections, sharpening others, but the intent remained beneath it, clear enough. He took a step closer.

"This place," he continued, his gaze shifting briefly to the circle of stones before returning, "and what follows within it... is not required of you. You have stood with me through the unraveling of all that came before," he said, the words gaining a slight weight now, though still held carefully in check. "Through leaving the order. Through Jericho and through Korriban.. through Bastion, and, now, through Sleheyron." The last name carried a faint tightening beneath it, the respirator catching the strain as it passed. "You know what I have decided... and what it demands."

The mist shifted between them, disturbed slightly by the movement of air, curling low around their feet and the base of the standing stones.

"And yet," he said, quieter still now, "this is where the path ceases to be shared by necessity."

The bond between them stirred faintly as the words settled, not pushed, but present, carrying the underlying truth of what he was offering. He held Bomoor’s gaze steadily.

"You do not need to be here for what I intend to do."

The statement was not framed as anything about permission, but more as a gesture of understanding or loyalty. For a moment, something shifted in his expression, but it was subtle, barely perceptible. The corner of his remaining eye tightened, a faint crease forming that might once have accompanied the beginning of a more familiar expression, but it could not complete itself. The respirator concealed what little movement might have followed, and the moment passed almost as soon as it formed, leaving only the merest suggestion that it had existed at all.

When he spoke again, the tone carried a slight fracture, not of certainty, but of effort, as though the act of shaping the words required more from him than the content itself.

"You have been... steadfast," he said, the word chosen with care, its delivery slowed slightly by the mechanical assistance of his voice. "More than I had any right to expect. If you choose to remain," he continued, the control returning to his tone, flattening it once more into something cleaner and more defined, "then you do so knowing what this is." There was an intentional pause as his friend examined him, his form so different from the young boy he had met two decades before on Coruscant. "And if you do not," he added, quieter, more contained, "then nothing of what we have endured together is diminished by it."

For a moment longer, Thane did not move, as though the words themselves had taken something from him that required a measured recovery. Then, without ceremony, his hand shifted beneath the folds of his cloak. The motion was deliberate, slower than his earlier precision, the stiffness in his shoulder briefly betraying itself before being forced back. When his hand emerged, he held the familiar form of Loren’s lightsaber between them, offered for the Ithorian.

The hilt was worn but intact, its leather-wrapped grip darkened by age and use, the metal at either end bearing the faint, honest scarring of a weapon that had been well-used. It sat in his grasp with a quiet weight, unactivated, inert, and yet carrying something far heavier than its form suggested. Thane regarded it only briefly before extending it toward Bomoor.

The action as an admission stood cleanly on its own, placed between them with the same finality as the weapon itself. His gaze lifted to Bomoor once more, unflinching despite the faint tightening beneath the respirator, as though this, more than anything spoken before, was the point at which what he had become could no longer be implied or inferred. If there was any sense of guilt of what he had done, or at his prior lack of admission to Bomoor, it was as fleeting as the smile that failed to take moments before.

Bomoor recognised the hilt immediately. The sight of it made him forget his task of setting out the holocrons. He stepped forward, the mist shifting around his feet and reached out with both hands, taking the weapon as though it were something fragile and living, like an insect caught between his palms. His fingers closed around the worn leather, feeling the faint warmth of Thane’s touch still lingering there.

He did not speak. His eyes fell shut and, for a moment, the clearing seemed to hold its breath with him. In that stillness, he thought of what the gesture meant: the admission of something that he had come to understand ever since Jericho, though he had never found the strength to name it.

When his eyes opened again, they were darker again, the haze receding and the quiet sadness within them tempered by acceptance.

"I did not know at first," he said, his voice low and heavy like the mist that clung to the forest floor, "But, I have come to see that it was the only outcome that ever made sense."

He looked down at the hilt again, thumb brushing the edge of the emitter, "Loren... Loren would have never yielded. Not because she no longer cared, but from her sheer conviction. She would have pursued us forever and turned us in. Not because she wished us harm, but because she was so dedicated to duty. She was stubborn, passionate to a fault and she would have fought to do her duty, flawed though it was."

He lifted his gaze to Thane, meeting the steady glow of the ocular implant, "You made a difficult decision. Not out of fear or love or cruelty, but because she could not coexist with the future we are building."

The words hung between them, heavy but unflinching, "It is not something that can be rationalised," Bomoor continued, "But it is truth. Something I must accept."

He drew a slow breath, feeling the weight of the galaxy above, "So when you ask if I wish to stand here... I do. Because if I turn away now, I am saying I too have no place in that future. I understand now what it means to be Sith. It is not blind obedience to dark teachings or adherence to long dead scripture. It is a commitment to one's full self: wholly and without reservation. To say: 'I will no longer be ashamed of what makes me powerful'."

His gaze deepened, the sadness in it shifting toward resolve, "You will always be Thane to me," he said, "But Thane does not represent what comes next. The future lies with Serus and this transition, this sacrifice, cannot be complete without someone who knows you as I do, recognising you fully and what this means for you."

He turned back to the holocrons, their glow pulsing faintly in the damp air, "These echoes of the past will provide the ceremony," he declared, "But it will be me who truly witnesses the moment."

He then looked upward, the stars now fully visible above them, "Me... and the galaxy itself.”

Silence settled again, broken only by the faint whisper of wind through the trees and the distant thrum of unseen nocturnal life beyond the grove.

Then, quieter still, he added, "And I will be here as a reminder that, when it is all over, there will still be Thane and Bomoor; the ones who remember what Loren stood for, and what her sacrifice meant."

He extended the hilt back toward Thane, his grip steady now, his voice sure, "That is why I will witness you now."

Thane took the hilt back. For a brief moment, his grip tightened around Loren’s weapon as it passed between them again, the worn leather settling into his palm with a familiarity that did not belong to him, something inherited through act rather than right. Then, without ceremony, he lowered it to his side. His other hand rose, slower, more deliberate, and came to rest against Bomoor’s shoulder, the contact firm but not forceful, the weight of it carrying more than the gesture itself. It lingered only a moment, his gaze holding the Ithorian’s in silence, measuring and confirming something that no longer needed to be spoken, before the hand withdrew with the same restraint.

He turned from him and moved to the centre of the clearing. The mist shifted outward as he stepped forward, disturbed not by wind but by presence, the space itself seeming to recognise and accommodate the act. The stones around them formed no perfect geometry, but there was a convergence within their placement that resisted coincidence, a focal point where intention, however ancient, had once been imposed upon the land. It was there that Thane stopped, his posture settling into stillness that did not relax but held, every adjustment of his body controlled despite the strain that still threaded through it.

Behind him, the holocrons remained where Bomoor had set them. Thane did not look back as he extended his will. The Force answered immediately, precise and obedient, lifting the three devices from the ground in a measured, deliberate rise. They separated from one another without contact, drifting outward to form a loose circumference around him, each settling at a point that required no correction. Their inactive surfaces caught what little light remained, edges sharpening as they aligned not just with space, but with the pressure now gathering between them.

Around them, the mist thickened, no longer drifting but held in place, as though suspended within an unseen structure. The faint sounds of the forest beyond withdrew, not silenced but distanced, pushed outward until they no longer reached the centre.

Thane stood within it, unmoving.

The Force no longer sat within him as a contained current. It moved outward freely, unrestrained, flowing into the holocrons and through the space they defined, carrying with it the full imprint of what had brought him here. Sleheyron, the fall, the breaking of his body, the refusal to die, the shaping of that refusal into something directed - and, finally, the imposition of his will upon the crystal itself.

His voice followed, low and controlled, shaped through the respirator with deliberate precision.

"I have summoned you."

For a moment, there was nothing. Then, the first presence took form.

It did not descend or emerge from distance, but condensed within the space itself, a density of red luminescence forming at one point along the circle, thickening until it resolved into shape. Darth Bane stood there, fully realised in a way that surpassed any previous projection. The orbalisk armour encased him completely, the living mass shifting in slow, parasitic motion as the creatures layered over one another, pressing up to his throat before halting. His head remained bare, bald and scarred, the tattoos around his eyes stark against weathered skin, his expression fixed in a permanent state of hard assessment.

His gaze found Thane immediately and did not waver.

Opposite him, another presence unfolded.

Where Bane had condensed into being, this one assembled itself with precision, a cooler, blue-white luminescence layering into form. Darth Plagueis emerged from that ordered construction, tall and composed, his hood casting long shadows across the elongated planes of his face. His hands were clasped before him, his posture exact, his presence controlled to a degree that made the surrounding distortion seem almost incidental.

He regarded Thane with quiet recognition.

A third figure appeared without transition: one moment there was empty space, the next it was occupied. A young man stood there, his form edged in a faint, pale glow that did not extend beyond him, self-contained and precise. His hair was copper-toned, his features refined and composed, his height unremarkable but his bearing anything but. Darth Sidious glanced between the others briefly, a faint flicker of private amusement passing across his expression before his attention settled on Thane.

A fourth presence gathered at the edge of the circle with none of the gradual assembly that had marked the others, its form seeming to force its way into coherence rather than accept it. A darker, more irregular luminescence clung to it, shifting between muted crimson and a sickly, earthen tone as it stabilised. The silhouette resolved into armoured mass, the contours of Vonduun crab plate layered and asymmetrical, grown rather than forged, its surface ridged and alive with faint, organic texture. The helm obscured much of Darth Krayt's face, though the mismatched eyes beneath it were visible in the low light, set deep and watchful, carrying a weight that did not align cleanly with the others present. The figure stood slightly apart in its bearing, not withdrawn, but unconcerned with alignment, its attention fixed forward without any immediate acknowledgement of the surrounding presences.

Near it, another manifestation formed with far less resistance, the light coalescing into a steady, neutral glow that held neither the oppressive density of Bane nor the clinical precision of Plagueis. The figure that emerged was entirely Human in appearance, middle-aged, composed, his greying hair kept short and neat, his features unmarked by excess or distortion. This less familiar figure, that of Darth Vectivus of the same line as Bane, Plagueis and Sidious, bore a posture that was relaxed, almost at ease within the space, hands loosely held behind his back as though this convergence were not entirely unfamiliar to him. The faint gold in his eyes marked him unmistakably despite the otherwise unassuming form, their tone warm rather than severe, observant rather than imposing. He regarded the circle with a measured calm, his presence neither pressing outward nor withdrawing, but occupying its place with quiet certainty.

The final presence did not so much appear as arrive, its form stepping into existence with a sharpness that contrasted the more fluid manifestations before it. The light around it burned a deeper red, clean and direct, resolving quickly into the tall, defined frame of a Twi'lek whose stance carried immediate clarity of purpose. His skin bore a deep, saturated hue, the musculature beneath it evident without exaggeration, his posture upright and balanced in a way that suggested constant readiness rather than stillness. The lines of his Kas'im, the Sith blademaster that had trained Bane prior to his ascent to mastery, were precise, economical, his presence anchored not in weight or spectacle but in control. Even in stillness there was an implication of motion held in check, as though every aspect of him existed in relation to action yet to be taken, his gaze steady and unbroken as it fixed upon the centre of the circle.

Bane spoke first, his voice low and heavy, carrying with it the same uncompromising force as his presence. "You arrive at this conclusion only after you have been broken by it," he said, the statement delivered not as criticism but as fact, immovable and unsoftened. His gaze passed briefly over Thane’s form, taking in the damage, the reconstruction, the evidence of failure made permanent, before returning to his eyes. "You should have understood this sooner." A brief pause followed, not hesitation, but calculation. "Yet, you understand it now," he continued, and there was something approaching approval in the shift that accompanied the words, though it did not soften his tone. "You have removed the illusion that strength lies in restraint. Axion is not your rival - he is an obstruction. You will eliminate him, and you will not mistake the act for anything greater than that."

His attention shifted, briefly, to the space around Thane, to the absence where an apprentice should have stood.

"And you stand here alone," Bane added, the weight of the observation settling heavily into the clearing. "No successor. No continuation. That is a failure you will correct immediately. The Rule of Two does not permit delay. If the Nautolan cannot be reclaimed, then you will find another. Younger - more enduring. One who will outlast you and carry this forward when you cannot."

Plagueis spoke without raising his voice, yet the clarity of it cut cleanly through the density Bane imposed. "And yet he stands," he said, the words measured, the cadence deliberate, his gaze fixed entirely on Thane. "Not diminished by the experience, but refined by it. You have not simply endured what was done to you, young man. You have analysed it, internalised it, and extracted from it a more efficient state of being. You no longer confuse survival with success, nor do you mistake restraint for control," Plagueis continued, his tone carrying a quiet, intellectual approval. "You have begun to understand the Force not as doctrine, but as system, and yourself as an agent operating within it. That is... progress."

His attention moved briefly, acknowledging Bomoor without fully turning.

"And you have chosen to be witnessed," he added, the faintest suggestion of interest entering his voice. "Not for validation, but for clarity. That is a more sophisticated decision than most of our kind ever make."

Sidious exhaled softly, the sound faintly dismissive, though not entirely without interest. "You look dreadful," he said, his tone light, almost conversational, as his gaze traced the lines of Thane’s altered form with open scrutiny. "Truly. I cannot imagine allowing myself to be reduced to such a state without terminating the situation far earlier." A slight tilt of his head followed, the faintest smile touching his lips as his assessment continued. "Although," he went on, more thoughtfully now, "there is a certain efficiency in it. Fear, when properly cultivated, is not merely an emotional response. It is a structural advantage. Pain, likewise, has its uses, provided it is directed rather than endured - Darth Vader would appreciate you, I'm sure." His eyes then sharpened. "The one who did this to you has taken your apprentice," Sidious continued, the earlier levity receding into something colder. "That alone necessitates his destruction. But, you would be a fool to treat this as a simple act of retribution. He has is soon to achieve something you have not yet fully understood - that knowledge should be yours before he dies."

A brief pause, his gaze narrowing slightly. "For if you limit yourself to restoring what was lost, you will remain exactly what you are now. And that would be disappointing. Heretical, even, if we are to use such misplaced words in this setting."

The space between them tightened once more, the collected presences settling into their positions, distinct in philosophy, unified only in their focus upon the figure at the centre.

Kas’im’s gaze shifted, not to Thane at first, but to Bane. The movement was slight, but deliberate, the red-lit stillness of his form sharpening with a recognition that ran deeper than simple acknowledgement. When he spoke, it was not with deference, but with a rare, measured respect.

"So," he said, voice low and even, "the pupil did not squander the lesson." His eyes held on Bane a moment longer, as if measuring the distance between what had once been taught and what now stood before him. "You cut away the weakness of numbers. You imposed structure where there was only noise. Kaan’s empire of many was always destined to collapse under its own indulgence." A faint tightening followed, not quite approval, but something close enough to recognise. "In this, you were correct. The title you claimed... the line you restored... has endured."

Only then did his attention return to Thane.

"You have chosen correctly, boy," he continued, the earlier note of recognition giving way to the same precise, uncompromising clarity that defined him. "Not because you have embraced power, but because you have ceased to dilute it." His gaze flicked once, briefly, to the hilt in Thane’s hand, then back again, assessing not the weapon, but the one who held it. "A blade that resists its wielder is a failure of mastery. You have resolved that failure. Now you will learn what it means to carry that resolution through every motion, every strike, every decision that follows."

Krayt's armoured body shifted as the others spoke, eyeing them carefully with clear attention that was almost certainly an unnecessary detail for the holocron projection. He even eyed Bomoor a moment longer than most, before he settled finally upon Thane at the centre of the copse.

"You have done more than that," he said, his voice low but unyieldingly clear, "You have undergone a transformation, an evolution from what you were before. Pain forged you, but it does not define you. What matters now is what you choose to build from the ashes of what you have cast aside."

He grasped an arm, resettling a chitin plate on his armour with simulated discomfort.

"You have broken the chains of the Jedi, of the Republic, and even of your own flesh. Do not seek to rebuild what was. Too many Sith have clung to the ruins of old orders. Replace them. Shape what your Sith Order will become: stronger, unified, and born of purpose rather than tradition."

He eyed Bane briefly, before adding, "And, once you are ordained, before you rush to reclaim or replace your lost apprentice. Consider this: You have only just reforged yourself. Do not fracture your focus by chasing what is not yet aligned with your purpose. You are ascending. Build your foundation before you extend your hand. Before you seek an apprentice, you must consolidate the power already loyal to you."

His head tilted back to Bomoor just a fraction as he spoke the last words.

"Indeed," another voice punctured the gloom, refined yet showing the strain of age, "You have delved far into darkness and now you must surface and consider how you might build something sustainable from it. Your path thus far has been tragic but the Sith path need not remain so and it need not be walked alone."

The visage of Darth Vectivus stepped forward. His features bore no scars, no corruption, no signs of a life spent in conquest. Only the faint glow in his eyes betrayed the truth of him: a subtle, steady halo that marked him as Sith, though without the fevered intensity common to their kind.

"You chose wisely to be witnessed in this moment," he continued, straightening his formal, practical attire as he spoke to Thane, "Isolation leads to a lack of accountability and the loss of perspective. Remember that the dark side is a tool, not an ally. It will not pull you back from the brink, nor will it ground your decisions."

Thane did not answer immediately, but the silence that followed was not hesitation. He turned his head first toward Bane, his first Sith mentor, the motion measured, the red and gold of his gaze settling fully upon the architect of the doctrine that had outlived empires and annihilated its own precursor lineage to endure. He regarded him as one would regard a foundation - something necessary, something brutal, something that had made all of this possible. Then, slowly, his attention shifted. Plagueis, composed and exact, the mind that had sought to understand rather than simply dominate. Sidious, Plagueis' own wayward pupil, sharpened ambition given form, the culmination and failure both contained within one life. The others followed in turn, each carefully examined. The line was there before him in full, not as myth or abstraction, but as symbols of mastery and legacy - forebears.

When his gaze returned to the centre, his posture had not altered, but there was a finality to the stillness now, the faint mechanical cadence of the respirator settling into a steady, controlled rhythm that cut cleanly but almost imperceptibly, through the damp quiet of the copse. The pain remained within him, present in every held position, every breath drawn and released through his new altered structure, but it did not disrupt in this moment.

"I understand," he said at last, the words low, shaped carefully through the respirator, their distortion slight but unmistakable, lending each syllable that sharpened edge Bomoor was quickly growing familiar with. "Not as I did before - not as something to be weighed against what I was." His gaze shifted briefly, as though examining something in the middle distance. "I was insufficient," he continued, the statement delivered without inflection, without any attempt to soften or justify it. "Restraint failed... Fury failed. Both were incomplete; both permitted mere survival where there should have been victory. I chained myself."

A faint tightening followed beneath the mask, not visible in full, but present in the line of his remaining eye.

"Sleheyron was not a loss," he said, quieter now, but no less certain. "It was a correction."

The mist shifted low across the clearing, disturbed by nothing more than the subtle change in air as he drew breath again, deeper this time, controlled and unbroken.

"What I was," he went on, "remains. It is not forgotten." The words were deliberate, placed with care, as though defining the boundary rather than erasing it. "But it does not govern what follows." His head lifted slightly, the red glow of the photoreceptor intensifying as it caught the starlight, now seeming brighter for this moment, the gold of his natural eye holding beside it, unified rather than opposed. "Thane was a condition - a necessary one. It produced what stands before you." A brief pause, precise, intentional, his eye almost catching Bomoor for the briefed of moments. "But it is not the truth of me."

The space seemed to narrow as he spoke the next words, not through any visible change, but through the weight they carried as they settled.

"I am Sith."

There was no rise in volume, no emphasis beyond the clarity of the statement itself. It did not ask for recognition. It did not require it.

"I am Serus."

The name did not echo. It did not resonate outward in any dramatic sense - it simply existed, placed within the circle with the same certainty as everything that had preceded it, as though it had always been waiting for articulation rather than creation. He did not move as he continued, his gaze remaining level, his stance unbroken.

"The mantle you established," he said, his attention returning, briefly, to Bane without yielding to him, "does not pass by permission. It is not granted by lineage, nor by survival alone." His eyes, such as they were, shifted again, encompassing them all now. "It is taken by one who is capable of bearing it without fracture." The words sharpened fractionally, not in aggression, but in precision. "I have been broken, and I have removed what permitted that to occur. What remains does not permit it again." The respirator gave a faint, controlled exhale, the mechanism adapting to the gesture quicker than before. "The Sith are not relics," he continued. "Nor are we a collection of doctrines to be preserved or debated. We are will, imposed upon a galaxy that has proven incapable of governing itself." His tone did not rise, but something within it hardened, the edges of the words settling into something more absolute. "What exists now is decay masked as order; systems that reward weakness, that enable corruption, that permit entities such as Axion and GalactaWerks to arise and flourish unchecked, or even rewarded and encouraged, in the guise of equality or freedom." A slight shift of his head followed, enough to suggest the direction of that judgment without turning from it. "This is not complexity or enlightenment. It is failure." He drew breath again, steady, controlled. "It will be corrected."

The statement landed without force, without embellishment, its inevitability carried entirely in the absence of doubt behind it.

"Axion is not my equal," he said, the words aligning cleanly with Bane’s earlier assessment, though not echoing it. "He is a deviation... a corruption of purpose that mistakes puerile quests for transcendence as purpose or meaning." Disgust minorly returned to the Caanan's voice, carried with surprising clarity via his artificial voice. "He will be ended. His knowledge will be taken or discarded, having clearly failed him."

The mist shifted again, the circle holding, the stars above sharpening further as the canopy thinned at its highest point, as if each were watching this ascendant lord in his declarations.

"The structures that enabled him," Thane continued, "will be dismantled. The weaknesses that sustained them will be excised." His gaze remained steady, unbroken, the red and gold of it fixed within the circle. "Not through reform and not through negotiation. Through removal." The word was placed with exact care, its meaning left unsoftened. "This age does not belong to compromise. It belongs to those willing to define it."

A final pause followed, longer this time, not uncertainty, but conclusion.

"It belongs to the Sith."

His thumb moved across the hilt of his lightsaber as it returned to his hand.

The blade ignited with a low, decisive snap-hiss, the crimson light flooding outward at once, cutting through the mist and staining the circle of stone and presence alike in deep, saturated red, seeming even deeper than before, infecting everything. The hum settled quickly into a low, steady resonance, clean and unwavering, the weapon no longer resisting, no longer misaligned, its form an exact extension of the will that held it.

For the first time since his appearance, the Sidious facsimile did not smile. The faint amusement that had lingered at the edge of his expression stilled, not replaced by anger, nor even by open approval, but by something narrower and more attentive. His head tilted a fraction, the motion subtle, almost imperceptible, as though reassessing a calculation that had shifted beyond its initial parameters. The light of the blade caught across his features, and for a brief moment, the mask of easy superiority fell just enough to reveal something closer to interest than mockery.

For a moment after the blade ignited, none of them spoke. The circle held in a strange, suspended stillness, the red light settling across each of the spectres in turn, catching on orbalisk sheen, coral plate, pale skin and shadowed hood alike. There was no uniform reaction, no shared gesture, and yet something shifted between them all the same. Bane’s gaze remained hard, but no longer dismissive. Plagueis inclined his head by the barest fraction, not in deference, but in recognition of a conclusion reached. Sidious’ earlier amusement still did not return, replaced instead by a narrow, attentive stillness. Even Krayt, Kas'im and Vectivus, disparate in origin and philosophy, seemed to draw into a quiet, unspoken alignment. Not agreement in doctrine - but acceptance of outcome.

Plagueis spoke first.

"So be it," he said, his voice low, precise, carrying cleanly through the space without force. His gaze did not leave Thane. "What you were is no longer relevant. The inefficiency has been removed... The contradiction is resolved." A measured pause followed, not hesitation, but placement. "Thane is discarded," he continued, each word exact, clinical in its certainty. "And here you stand."

The faint blue luminescence around him deepened slightly, as though the act of naming carried weight even within the projection.

"We anoint," Plagueis said, the phrase not ceremonial in tone, but definitive, the conclusion of a process rather than its performance. "You... are the Dark Lord of the Sith."

There was a moment - brief, but absolute - where nothing moved. Then, as one, they gestured.

Bane’s arm lifted in a rigid, deliberate motion, the orbalisk mass shifting subtly across it as he extended it toward the centre. Plagueis inclined forward, one hand opening with precise control, as though presenting something already secured. Sidious’ movement was smaller, almost understated, fingers turning outward with a faint curl, the suggestion of a smile absent now, replaced by something colder and more exact. Kas'im bowed his head and placed a fist against his chest, whilst Krayt closed his eyes and Vectivus offered a form of bow. Each gesture was distinct - each shaped by their own understanding of power and succession, yet all directed toward the same point.

Their voices did not strike together in perfect unison, but layered over one another. The name came from different timbres, different cadences, overlapping slightly, echoing out of sequence, as though spoken across time rather than in it. The effect was not harmonious, but cumulative, each iteration reinforcing the last until the sound settled into something singular and immovable within the clearing.

"Darth Serus."

At the centre of it, he did not move.

The title did not alter his posture, nor did it provoke any outward display. He stood as he had before, blade held steady, shoulders squared, breath measured through the respirator in a quiet, controlled cadence. And yet, something had shifted in a way that required no motion to perceive.

The fragmentation that had defined him - restraint against fury, doubt against certainty, survival against intent - was no longer present. It had not been suppressed - it had been resolved, or so it seemed. What remained was singular, aligned, without contradiction or internal division. The will that had driven him through pain and betrayal, through losses and sacrifices, through failure and through reconstruction, now existed without opposition within him. There was no excess and no instability bleeding outward through the bond to Bomoor.

The Force responded to it immediately, drawing tighter around the Sith Lord, settling into a more efficient configuration, as though the uncertainty that had once diffused its expression had been removed. It did not gather wildly, but focused, as if growing in orders of magnitude. The space around him seemed to hold more firmly, the mist no longer drifting so freely, the air itself carrying a faint, almost imperceptible pressure that centred on his position within the circle.

Through the bond, Bomoor felt it, but not as emotion, nor as thought, nor even as the turbulent impressions that had once marked Thane’s presence in the Force. There was no confusion within it - no conflict to interpret. What reached him instead was something far more difficult to name: a vast, steady weight, not pressing outward in dominance, but existing with such certainty that it defined the space it occupied. It carried with it the unmistakable sense of completion, not in the sense of an ending, but of something having reached its intended form at last.

It was less overwhelming and more absolute.

Where once there had been Thane - shifting, striving, divided between what he had been and what he sought to become - there was now something unified, indivisible, and directed with a clarity that allowed no ambiguity. The bond remained, but it had changed in nature, in some obscure way, on a fundamental level that was hard to articulate. It no longer bridged two uncertain states, having resolved into something certain, almost totemic.

The galaxy, distant above them, twinkling silently, seemed smaller for it.

Bomoor stepped forward now.

Not far, but just enough that the circle of ancient Lords acknowledged him. The crimson light glistened in his eyes and all along his form where moisture had settled. He held his posture steady with a quiet resolve as he looked at Serus, feeling him in their bond: steadfast, sharpened and aligned.

His voice entered the charged air with a weight, not of the Sith, but with a depth just as powerful and certain, as though the universe itself was awaiting them to complete the ritual.

"Darth Serus."

The gatekeepers reacted, not with disapproval, not even with any change in expression, but with a subtle, resonant flicker of their output as though something new and primal was forever etched deep within each of them. Then, one by one, the projections collapsed inward, their forms dissolving into shards of luminescence that folded back into their crystalline containers.

The glow dimmed, pressure easing just slightly as the circle emptied. Serus' lightsaber extinguished in the same breath, collapsing back into the glistening hilt.

Darkness reclaimed the copse but Bomoor could still see him. Not with his eyes, but in the Force. Serus shone there, bright and unwavering, the red that had bathed the clearing now burning within his silhouette. A figure lit from inside, not by blade or holocron, but by will.

Bomoor moved toward him slowly.

The soft earth yielded beneath each measured step, moisture pressing from the blades of grass down into the hungry earth. His hands remained at his sides, open and honest. He stopped close to Serus and bowed his wide head just faintly - not in subservience, but in recognition.

"You spoke well," he said, quieter now but nonetheless certain, "You did not yield to them, yet they saw you were worthy on your own merit. I too recognise what you are and what being Sith now demands. Now, we will end Axion and forge a place in this galaxy. Something better than the successive failures that brought us here to this moment..."

He paused, the mist shifting around his chest as he drew a slow breath.

"But here," he continued, voice rising again with earnest conviction, "This is where I differ from the Sith."

He stepped closer. Close enough that he could not only hear the faint pulsing breath of Serus' respirator but the beating of the heart that it maintained deep within.

"I will not discard Thane."

The name hung between them, almost bitter in the air like a taboo only Bomoor could overcome.

"You have carried both selves for longer than anyone should. You tried to be Thane and Serus at once, and the weight of it nearly broke you," His voice softened, but did not waver, "So, I will do what a Sith cannot: I will carry Thane for you..."

Bomoor's orb-like eyes once again collapsed into dark depths of clarity,

"...until the day you need him again."

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