The Master's Mercy

Posted on Fri Jul 3rd, 2026 @ 9:30pm by Mange & Hollow & Verse & Kelderesh jai Nektus

3,846 words; about a 19 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IX: The First Verse
Location: Bothan Transport Ship, en route to Bothan Space
Timeline: In the days after "Hollow Pursuits"

The freighter smelled of overheated circuitry, stale air and frightened people.

Rows of mismatched crash seats lined the cargo hold, occupied not by refugees but by cultists. Some sat in silence with heads bowed, whilst ohers quietly checked weapons or meditated behind closed eyes. A pair of Bothan corpses lay strapped into the rear-most restraints, hidden beneath emergency blankets to complete the illusion should anyone glance through a viewport during docking. Somewhere aboard, an automated distress beacon repeated its endless cycle into the void, broadcasting a desperate plea for medical assistance in fractured Bothese and Basic.

The deception was crude but effective, especially in the chaos gripping Bothan Space.

Only a few days earlier, Verse had expected to remain within the enclave. Her attention had been devoted elsewhere; to training Hollow, studying old records concerning Caanus, and considering how a future sanctuary dedicated to the Dark Master might one day take shape upon that antiquated world of her fallen master. Between lessons, meditation and the slow work of understanding her apprentice, she had found a new purpose, even if a niggling sense still troubled her unknown. Then, Lord Mange had summoned the Herald without explanation. Hours later, Verse found herself aboard a disguised refugee vessel alongside her apprentice, hurtling toward a relief station with a force of armed cultists preparing for slaughter.

Following the Cracking of Bothawui, as it was already known, tens of thousands had been displaced across neighbouring sectors - a small number against the billions that had already died in the slow death of their homeworld. The destruction had become a political wound throughout the Third Republic and Outer Rim Alliance alike. Whilst Bothawui itself had never formally joined the Alliance, it had sided with them during both failed wars against the Republic. In the aftermath, special concessions had permitted ORA humanitarian missions to operate beyond their traditional jurisdiction. Refugee stations, medical convoys and supply hubs had sprung up throughout the region. Officially, they existed to save lives. Unofficially, they had become symbols of cooperation between factions that increasingly distrusted one another.

One such facility now drifted ahead of them. Its defenders were not insignificant, though. A contingent of Rift Jedi had been assigned to oversee security and relief operations under the command of First Guardian Jan Varsk, among the most respected warriors and leaders within the Rift Order. Once the master of Jedi Master Hale Dunrar himself, Varsk possessed a reputation built across decades of war, diplomacy and survival. Alongside her operated Republic Judicial personnel and aid workers from dozens of worlds. More importantly, however, she possessed something else.

Gnayuh - an 'architect droid'.

Nearly nine centuries old, the machine had been created during the Grand Proclamation era as part of the Reborn Jedi Order's efforts to recover knowledge lost during the New Galactic Dark Age. Built around incomplete and corrupted fragments of data recovered from another legendary architect droid that had served the Old Jedi Order around lightsaber construction, Gnayuh had become a living repository of crystal lore, lightsabers, archaeological records and forgotten Force traditions. During the Second Outer Rim Conflict, it had fallen into Rift Jedi hands and never been returned. Since then, it had become indispensable to them.

And now Axion wanted it.

The reasons were obvious; the Dark Master sought knowledge as eagerly as he sought power. Every recovered Kaiburr shard brought him closer to whatever impossible apotheosis awaited at the end of his great design. If Gnayuh knew anything of ancient crystals, forgotten repositories, or lost traditions connected to the Force, then it would belong to Him before the day was done.

A warning tone echoed through the hold and the pilot's voice crackled across the internal speakers.

"Approaching station perimeter. Distress signal acknowledged. Docking clearance received."

A few seats down, Kelderesh stirred at the acknowledgement from the pilot and unfastened himself from his seat. Verse's eyes fell on him as he walked back along the centre of the vessel towards the small cockpit.

He passed Mange wordlessly, but slowed as he came alongside the Nautolan and her Muun acolyte. Below his bone mask, his eyes narrowed as they looked at her. Not with aggression or mistrust, but with a focus that seemed to look past the cultist exterior and to Amare within her. Verse kept her closely segmented inside her, but shuffled uncomfortably at being seen.

"It is nearly time," he stated, voice level but with his usual raspy undertone, "As this is your first time serving the master's will in the field, I expect you to follow my command."

He let the words settle before continuing.

"I have selected a number of other promising acolytes for this operation. You will stand with them, not above them. There is no contest here, only our mission. Remember: there is no ego, only Axion."

"His will be done," Verse said evenly with a curt nod. "Just know that I will hold you and the others to the same standard. No exceptions."

The freighter settled against the station with a heavy metallic thud that reverberated throughout the hull and then the docking clamps locked fully into place.

For several seconds, nothing happened and no one spoke. The automated distress beacon had long since fallen silent, leaving only the low vibration of reactors and life-support systems humming through the deck plating. Around the hold, cultists rose from their restraints. Some adjusted robes and others checked blades or secured masks. A few whispered prayers to Axion beneath their breath, though whether they sought blessing or absolution was impossible to say.

At the forward end of the compartment, a small amber indicator flickered above the primary loading ramp - docking seal confirmed, atmosphere equalised... and atmosphere equalised. Access granted.

Mange rose first. The enormous albino Wookiee had spent the approach seated upon a reinforced cargo crate that visibly bowed beneath his weight. Now he stood to his full height, towering over every other living thing aboard the vessel. The arm that had been severed by Hollow had been repaired; new cybernetics, so like the original, had been woven into sinew and bone. If there was any discomfort or frustration, he appeared not to notice or care.

His other hand reached downward and unclipped one of his oversized razor-edged lightsabers. The crimson blade erupted into existence with a violent hiss.

No speech followed; there was no declaration or battle cry. Lord Mange simply began walking, and the loading ramp groaned as it descended before him, cold white station lighting spilling into the darkness of the freighter hold. Beyond waited a reception bay filled with medical personnel, volunteer workers, security officers and station staff expecting injured refugees and desperate survivors.

Several took a step forward as the ramp lowered and one Bothan medic opened her mouth to speak - and Mange accelerated. The first swing removed her head, and the second bisected the Human security officer rushing toward his holstered sidearm.

Behind the Wookiee, the gathered cultists surged - not charging as a disorganised mob, but advancing with terrifying purpose. Some ignited lightsabers, whilst others drew rifles, slugthrowers, vibroblades and axes. One cultist calmly emptied a blaster pistol into a cluster of fleeing technicians before stepping over their bodies without breaking stride. Another seized a screaming station worker and hurled them bodily from an upper gantry.

Panic erupted instantly and screams followed. There was blaster fire and running bodies. Blood sprayed across sterile deck plating, as Mange also favoured the metallic edge of his hilt to slice at his victims. Within moments, the docking bay had become a slaughterhouse.

Kelderesh cast a glance at the chaos before turning back to the others.

"Go, purify the bay and secure it - we must hold this place until the droid is delivered so we may swiftly away," he gestured to the cockpit, "I will ensure our pilot is jamming their communications and then will join you for the-"

He stopped as he suddenly jerked aside as the attempted blaster bolt from a trembling young Bothan Defence Force member shot past him and impacted the far wall of the shuttle. In response, Kelderesh cast back an arm and summoned the Bothan's form towards him with great force - limbs bruising and breaking as they impacted the rails and seats along his summoned path. When he was but a few feet from the Kaleesh, the dark sorcerer's vermillion blade ignited and impaled the foolish warrior, who spluttered momentarily with full body before the weapon shut off and his body fell to the floor.

Kelderesh turned his face back to Verse and Hollow, eyes flashed with anger, but voice still controlled, "I shall join you for the hunt."

With that, he swept himself on, leaving them to join the battle.

Verse was rather smitten with Kelderesh's pull and stab technique. She burned exactly what she saw into her mind for future practice.

"Time to prove our worth, apprentice," Verse said over her shoulder as she ignited her lightsaber and strode into the fray.

"Yes, mistress."

The acknowledgement came immediately as Hollow neither hesitated nor questioned. Her rusted-red blade ignited beside Verse's own with a low, guttural hum as she stepped from the freighter and into the carnage beyond. She remained close to the Nautolan, not crowding her, but maintaining a careful distance that allowed her to react instantly to any command or movement. The relationship was already apparent to anyone watching; the Muun's eyes rarely left her mistress for long, constantly reading posture, direction and intent before adjusting herself accordingly.

Most of the reception bay had already been reduced to chaos, though. Bodies littered the polished deck plating and emergency medical equipment lay overturned and smashed. A nurse crawled desperately behind a supply trolley before a cultist calmly placed a blaster bolt through the back of her skull. Nearby, another acolyte stood over two wounded security personnel reciting a prayer to Axion before methodically executing them both.

Hollow passed them without reaction as a teenage Human, perhaps sixteen standard years old at most, burst from behind an overturned reception terminal and sprinted for a side corridor. His civilian clothing was stained with blood, his face wet with tears. He never even saw the Muun looking at him as a thin stream of crimson lightning leapt from Hollow's fingertips.

The discharge was small compared to Verse's power, precise and almost delicate. It struck the fleeing boy squarely between the shoulders. His body seized instantly before collapsing face-first onto the deck.

Verse visibly seemed unconcerned with Hollow's swift takedown of the youth, but inwardly she found it to be a waste, yet did not disapprove. Atrocities were a small price to pay for paving the path towards Axion's apotheosis. One boy's life was trivial in comparison, but still did not sit well with her.

Ahead, another station worker had nearly reached the primary blast controls when a shadow crossed over him. Mange's cybernetic hand closed around the air and the man was violently ripped backwards off his feet and dragged screaming across the deck toward the Wookiee. Before he could even draw breath, Mange's oversized lightsaber hilt swept sideways. The jagged metallic edge removed the worker's head in a shower of blood and shattered teeth, but the corpse continued sliding several metres before coming to rest.

The blast door controls remained untouched and Mange solved the problem permanently. A nearby berthed starfighter tore free from its moorings under the influence of his will. The craft screamed through the docking bay like a launched missile before smashing directly into the doorway. Metal folded and fire erupted from ruptured fuel lines - the doorway would never close now.

The Wookiee released another thunderous roar as flames and debris cascaded from the ruined entrance.

It was then that Verse noticed movement; a Bothan technician, older and silver-haited, had taken shelter behind a stack of cargo canisters during the initial assault and now, seeing the Nautolan approach, desperately kicked one of them away from cover. The container rolled rapidly across the deck plating toward her position, yellow warning glyphs spinning into view as it bounced over scattered debris that read 'HAZARDOUS MATERIAL' in clear Aurebesh lettering.

The technician bolted in the opposite direction without looking back as the container continued rolling directly toward Verse.

With a sweep of her free hand, Verse cast aside the dangerous container, then calmly said for Hollow's ears, "The aged man should stand firm in the face of death and be prepared to die for his family."

She thrust the same hand forward, seeking the older Bothan until she could feel her will through the Force physically touch his shoulders. She pulled, emulating what Kelderesh had done moments ago, but instead of pulling the technician to her as she had hoped, she simply pulled him down hard flat on his back mid-sprint, almost as if he had slipped on a wet puddle. Still, it was effective as the Bothan struck his head hard coming down and was out cold.

"Cowardice does not befit a man who bears the wisdom of years to know better," she added as she and Hollow strode past. "Running is for the young and the helpless. A man should stand and fight on death's ground, or face his end with steel in his eyes and pride rising from his bosom. Do not sully your blade on such men, my apprentice. They are unworthy of the honour."

The last echoes of blaster fire were fading, replaced by the hiss of ruptured coolant lines and the distant wail of alarms deeper within the station. The cultists were already spreading out, stepping over bodies, dragging aside debris, securing the exits. The hangar, once a comforting entryway into sanctuary, now belonged wholly to Axion.

It was then that Kelderesh appeared once more beside them, his stride unhurried, vermillion blade extinguished but still in hand. He surveyed the carnage with the detached scrutiny of a craftsman inspecting the rough draft of his pupil’s work.

His masked face turned toward Verse and Hollow as they regrouped near the ruined blast doors.

“The bay is ours,” he announced, voice low and rasping but steady.

He looked for a moment at Verse and Hollow, then at their work, before turning to another pair of acolytes, “You two will hold this place from those who would seek to reclaim it. The rest of us will continue the hunt for our quarry. Ready yourselves.”

He turned back and stepped closer, eyes narrowing behind the bone mask as they flicked briefly to the unconscious Bothan Verse had felled.

“Your work here is sufficient,” he said, neither praise nor criticism, simply assessment. “But this was only the threshold. The true resistance will be deeper within. I hope you are both ready. Those cornered, facing death, will fight against it with every ounce of their being.”

A distant tremor rolled through the deck as emergency bulkheads attempted but failed to seal. Another of their counter-measures already taking effect. Kelderesh tilted his head, strangely familiar with Verse in particular as he divulged his knowledge.

“The droid we seek – I have reason to believe it is in the critical medical wing. Axion’s favour would smile upon the one who secures it for him first.”

Hollow remained close beside Verse as they walked, her rusted-red blade lowered but ready, long strides unconsciously matching the Nautolan's pace. She had listened carefully to every word spoken since entering the station, from Verse's observations on courage to Kelderesh's revelation regarding the droid. As they passed the unconscious elder foe, her gaze lingered upon him for a brief moment before returning to her mistress. There was no sympathy there, nor disdain. Merely quiet acknowledgement, as though another lesson had been observed and filed away.

"The Dark Master has many servants," she said softly, lowering her voice so that it did not carry beyond Verse. "Lord Mange possesses strength. Kelderesh possesses wisdom. Others possess devotion." The firelight from the ruined docking bay danced across her dark eyes as she looked towards the deeper corridors of the station. "But you are His Herald. If this machine carries knowledge that serves His divine purpose, then it should be you who places it before Him."

A faint smile touched her lips then, genuine and almost youthful despite everything around them. "I think it must be you, mistress. The Master would be pleased." She straightened once more and fell half a step behind Verse, returning naturally to her place at the Herald's side, ready to follow wherever she was led.

Kelderesh's red lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile as he turned back to Verse, again seeming to peer at something deeper inside the Nautolan.

"Out of the mouths of babes..." he spoke quietly to her before turning away and heading towards where Mange was readying himself by the main hangar door.

Verse shook her head, soundlessly sighed, and turned to Hollow with narrowed eyes. "I see your ambition, cloaked in a desire to serve and to please our divine Lord, though be wary that it does not beget our undoing this day." She strode forward past the gathered throngs of cultists and Cult Lords, thrust one hand out to a nearby ruptured storage case with various maintenance kits exposed, telekinetically summoned it to her and caught it deftly by its handle, and added over her shoulder, "Follow close, apprentice. Your eagerness has thrust us into the vanguard. There, you'll learn your next lesson."

She popped open the case and pulled out what looked to be a datapad attached by a network cable to a data port rod. She switched on the pad and turned to her stalwart companion, "Take this, listen carefully." She stopped and handed Hollow the pad and rod and pointed. "There is an access panel there by the door. Press the rod into the open port, turn to the right and use the dial on the pad to set frequency 140.85. Then you will learn where true power comes from."

Hollow accepted the datapad and cable immediately, cradling both with the same care she afforded her lightsaber. There was a fleeting awkwardness to the way her long fingers settled around the equipment, not uncertainty exactly, but the slight unfamiliarity of someone far more accustomed to ritual, meditation and weapons than circuitry. Even so, she neither questioned nor hesitated.

She crossed to the indicated panel at once and knelt beside it. The access cover was opened, the rod inserted, and after only the briefest pause to locate the correct control, she turned the connector precisely as instructed and adjusted the frequency to 140.85. Her movements were careful rather than elegant, but flawless all the same. Once the connection was established, she rose and returned the pad to a ready position against her chest, awaiting whatever lesson her mistress intended to reveal next.

"Done, mistress," she said simply, falling back into place at Verse's side.

Verse attuned a commlink she carried to the frequency and spoke, her words carried loud and all through the internal sound system.

"For those of you who still carry the breath of life, know that what has been given to you shall be reclaimed. Your resistance shall deny you a future, a future that we, the heralds of the one true Lord of Lords, our Great Master Axion, holds sway. You may yet redeem yourselves, acquit your hearts to Axion's merciful divinity, and serve Him for the remainder of your lives. There is no greater honour, of this I can assure you. If, however, you so choose to hold tight to your weapons, to cling to the futility of hope and pride, then you shall not know life beyond this day. No quarter shall be given, no mercy shown. You have two minutes to surrender and open the main hangar door. Otherwise, prepare for your judgment."

Mange's lip curled slightly as Verse's ultimatum echoed throughout the station.

The great Wookiee released a low, dissatisfied huff through his nostrils and muttered something guttural in his native tongue, the rough cadence making no effort to disguise his opinion of negotiation. His claws tightened around the hilts of his twin weapons and for a moment it seemed as though he might simply ignore the proclamation altogether and tear through the bulkhead himself.

Yet, he did not move. Instead, the Madclaw remained where he stood beside the sealed hangar entrance, broad shoulders rising and falling slowly as he waited. The crimson glow of his lightsabers reflected from the damaged blast doors before him, bathing his white fur in bloody light. Around him, several lesser cultists shifted impatiently, feeding from his aggression and mirroring it unconsciously, but none dared advance whilst he remained still.

For all his brutality, Lord Mange obeyed.

"They are a stubborn lot," Verse said to her fellow cultists as the moment passed. "That is good. Hollow, come close." She spoke softly to her apprentice and closed her eyes, "Concentrate and extend your will forth and comb through their feelings. Reach out, and focus on their fear and anger. Absorb it. Know where they stand and drink it in. Feel your power grow and plan your attack. Our bond shall bring us together as one mind, focused through the dark side. We will know how to end them all before the first pull of their triggers."

Hollow obeyed at once. Whilst Mange and many of the other cultists surged forward in anticipation of the coming assault, she instead stepped closer to Verse and lowered her head. Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed as she reached outward exactly as instructed, extending her awareness beyond the ruined hangar and into the vast labyrinth of corridors beyond.

At first there was only noise. Fear. Panic. Pain.

Hundreds of emotions overlapping one another as refugees, station personnel and security forces scrambled through the facility. Hollow felt them all. The desperate attempts to organise defences. The frantic movement of the wounded. The trembling resolve of those preparing to fight despite knowing they were outmatched. Anger burned brightly in some. Terror in others. Everywhere, uncertainty.

Then, the pattern began to resolve.

Through Hollow's perception, Verse felt corridors and choke points, defensive positions hastily assembled. She sensed groups rallying around authority figures and security teams moving toward likely breach routes. The station's defenders were attempting to impose order upon catastrophe.

And at the centre of it all...

Light - a genuine beacon within the Force.

The presence stood apart from the fear surrounding it like a star amidst storm clouds. Around it gathered other minds; disciplined, focused, resolute. The Rift Jedi. Their emotions were controlled, but unmistakable. They knew what was happening. They were preparing themselves.

And beside that radiant presence there was something else - something mechanical and artificial.

It was the droid they were seeking - Gnayuh.

Hollow's eyes opened. For the briefest instant, a faint pinkish-red glow lingered within them, mirroring the corruption buried deep within Verse's own eyes.

"The light is there," she whispered softly. "And the machine stands beside it."

TBC

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