Sith Initiate Maelis Korr
They were weak. Most of them stumbled off the shuttle like stunned animals, blinking against the dry red glare of Korriban. One broke down sobbing. Another fool from the alleys of Nar Shaddaa tried to act tough, picked a fight with a Pureblood, and got an arm cut off for the effort.
Typical.
The Purebloods were better, of course. Varnis, from some lesser house, carried himself as the tombs had already anointed him. He strutted around quoting doctrine like memorising it mattered. He has skill with a blade, I'll give him that, and the Blademaster seems to think he has potential. But I doubt he has the subtlety to survive long-term. Maybe a month. Two, if someone protects him. If not he'll become another casualty for Korriban.
But him? Alexander?
He was already on the shuttle when I boarded. The first one there, sitting in the back, half in shadow. Asleep. Not meditating. Not nervous. Just... asleep. Like none of this mattered. He only woke when we dropped out of hyperspace above Korriban. No fear. Just a slow, measured gaze through the viewport, like he had been waiting for this. His eyes held wonder and cold, curious hunger.
Back then, his presence in the Force was wild and unchecked raw and deafening. It didn't whisper or creep like most untrained initiates. It screamed. Like a storm given form, like something dragged from the edge of the galaxy and loosed upon the rest of us. It reminded me of a void serpent from the Outer Rim only louder, hungrier, less patient. It didn't posture or threaten. It simply existed, and in that existence, it demanded the universe acknowledge it. All of us felt it. All of us knew, instinctively, that it was measuring us... and finding most of us lacking.
Even the Overseers noticed. He asked questions, but always the right ones. Always measured. Close enough to the line to make people twitch, but never cross it. He studied the tombs, the statues, the instructors and the rules. Especially the rules. He wanted to understand the cage before deciding whether to slip the bars or melt them down.
Then something changed. The rawness vanished. His presence didn't fade it condensed. Hardened. Like a razor sheathed in silk. He built a mental shield so perfect it felt natural. Cold, precise, impenetrable. Now, he watches everything. Listens. Still curious but no longer open. No longer readable. And when he moves, he does it without wasted effort. Without hesitation. Brutally efficient. Like he was made for this place.
Which means he's dangerous. A threat.
But threats can be useful. If I can align him to my side before the trials begin, he could be the blade of my will. He doesn't seem to care for politics yet, too focused on whatever he's calculating behind that still expression. Maybe I can guide him through that world. Teach him who's truly pulling the strings in this academy and how to make them dance.
And if he turns on me? Then the Conclave acolytes will back me. They have to. My father's influence runs through their credits and coffers like blood through veins. I'm too valuable to let die. If Alexander becomes a liability, they'll crush him to protect their interests.
But if he stays useful? If we work together? This academy might not be ready for us. With him I'll prove my worth. I'll show them all I am worth it.
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Overseer Kolvax Thren
Fifteen arrived on the shuttle. Fourteen remain. One was found dead this morning. Either these initiates are lucky or skilled considering most are still alive. Of these 14, four stand out as worthy of closer scrutiny.
Varnis Taan, Pureblood scion, brash and loud. His arrogance is a blade with two edges sharp, but just as likely to get him killed as elevate him. Still, there's no denying the raw potential in him. His bloodline carries strength, and while his technique lacks refinement, there's a natural aggression in the way he moves. With proper discipline, he could push through the first trial, perhaps even thrive if his pride turns out to be more than just noise. He's adequate no more, no less but one of the academy's blademasters has already taken notice. They see in him the makings of a duelist worth shaping. Whether that shaping takes hold or he burns out trying to impress them remains to be seen.
Then there is Maelis Korr, another Pureblood quieter and more calculating than Varnis. She watches with cold eyes, weighing every word and movement. Her patience is deadly, though it may cause her to miss the moments that truly matter. Not that it will matter in the end. Her father holds connections strong enough to bend the ear of the Darth overseeing the Sphere of Ancient Knowledge. He's sponsoring her training personally, and the faction backing her all but guarantees she'll be carried through these trials like a pampered brat. Whether she earns her place or not, I'm being forced to pass her.
Still, there are always enemies those who'd like nothing more than to strike at her father or his allies by proxy. If she stumbles too openly, even the Dark Council's protection may not be enough. After all, anything can happen in Korriban's ruins.
The third is Joren Halak, the street-born acolyte I observed earlier. Reckless and defiant, but raw fire runs through his veins. He fights like someone with nothing to lose wild, unpolished. His survival will depend entirely on how quickly he learns restraint and strategy.
Already, he's begun weaving a net of favours and quiet alliances. He's made himself familiar with the garrisoned troopers stationed near the outer tombs, sharing drinks, jokes, and smokes. I've even heard whispers of him moving goods through the lower halls, bartering stolen rations, spice, and equipment among the other initiates. He's already tapped into the black market that festers in the academy and positioned himself well within it.
He doesn't fight like a proper Sith. He uses blasters, gas, grenades whatever gives him an edge. Improvised weapons, dirty tricks, ambushes. No honour, but plenty of instinct. He's no traditional apprentice, but rogues like him sometimes survive by sheer adaptability. It just depends on how far that adaptability takes him and whether he has someone, or something, to bail him out when it finally fails.
And finally, the one who arrived under the most curious circumstances. No one knows how he boarded the shuttle there are no records of his assignment, no chain of command, no sponsorship. Just a name: Alexander. He slept through the entire voyage, undisturbed by the others, and only stirred when we dropped out of hyperspace above Korriban. He emerged calm, alert, and oddly curious like a scholar stepping into a ruin rather than a slave dragged to his fate.
His presence is unsettling. The other initiates feel it too, even if they can't put it into words. It doesn't sit quietly in the background it presses against the walls, and hums in the air, like thunder building just out of sight. There's a weight to it, something vast and coiled, like a scream being held back by sheer force of will. It gnaws at the edges of the room, not with fear, but inevitability like something that already knows how this ends.
His curiosity remains, but it's no longer innocent if it ever was. It's sharp and surgical. Every question he asks feels like a blade, slicing into the foundations of what he's being taught never disrespectful or dangerous, but always deliberate.
And behind that curiosity, there is silence. Not absence restraint. Contained, focused. Like a storm forced into a single breath. His mental defences are impeccable, far beyond what should be possible for an untrained acolyte. Whatever he is… he did not come here to learn. He came here already knowing something.
I have my suspicions. Someone wiped his trail clean. Records don't vanish like that unless someone high wants them gone Dark Council high. I don't know if he was sent here as a test, a pawn, or a weapon. But I know this: he doesn't walk like prey. He doesn't even walk like a predator. He walks like he's free for the first time in his life, rather ironic considering where he is.
There's darkness in him, not rage, not hatred, but something it's contained. Controlled. It's there beneath the surface, waiting to be used not flaring wildly but focused, purposeful. If he survives the tombs, he will become another Sith ready to bring ruin to this galaxy.
Soon, their first trial will begin. The tombs await. They do not care for names, bloodlines, or promises whispered by powerful fathers. The tombs remember only strength, cunning, and will.
Some of these acolytes may impress in sparring rings or training, but the tombs demand more. They test the mind as much as the blade, and they do not forgive hesitation. Spirits linger. Traps reset. Creatures skulk in the shadows. One misstep, one moment of weakness, and the sands will claim another failure.
Four show promise. The rest are already fading into irrelevance. Some will die quickly others more slowly, eaten by fear, betrayal, or each other. That's the true measure of a Sith: not how loudly they shout, but how ruthlessly they endure.
By the end, the weak will be nothing more than dust beneath Korriban's sands. And the strong? If they live… they may yet earn the right to call themselves Sith.