𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐄 » 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗇

𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

THE ILLUMINATION from the moon was replaced by a blinding light that flickered periodically. Faeyth raised a hand to block out the brightness, feeling groggy with sleep. Her mind spun dizzyingly, trying to keep herself calm and controlled.

Then, she noticed her bare arms, her sleeves rolled up, ones that were a lot thinner and had burn marks scattered across them, with a couple cuts from training. Her vision wasn't tinted nor hindered by the T-shaped visor, it was just normal.

Reluctantly, she slid off the table she was sat on, spotting a large mirror on the left wall, walking over to it. Faeyth wished that she had baggier trousers to stop people from seeing her knocking knees, frowning slightly.

Her face dropped when she saw herself. She was age six with a long scar trailing from her forehead to cheek, running over her eyelids and through her thick eyebrows. She was scrawny and small, having not been fed properly for her stay in one of the Empire's lab. Her dark, jet-black hair was cut unevenly, similar to a grown out mullet, unruly in all of it's curls. It was one of the last bits of individualism she had left. Faeyth had learned to cherish it.

It had been a couple of months since the supposed death of her mother (she had actually been looking for her daughter since she had been taken), and two years since she had been captured by the Empire, starting to be trained as a Sith Lord, which was fun. Note the sarcasm.

Despite being malnourished half to insanity, she had a fair bit of muscle on her, from the intense training her Master insisted that she did. Her fingers ran through the curls on her head, staring at the wide caramel-coloured eyes of her younger self. They had a spark she hadn't seen in a long time, meaning that this memory, flashback, whatever it was, was before the Empire had completely demolished her kind spirit.

Her armour was shiny and new, the Emperor requesting the finest Armourer to make her set. The parts were all a dark, blood red colour, which matched her new Sith lightsabers. Her pauldron had golden imperial symbol painted on it, that she tried to wear with pride, but she missed her old Clan Vizsla emblem. Not that she knew what it meant.

The new symbol served almost as a reminder that she belonged to the Empire. As for her helmet, there was a line of gold around her visor, both the deep colours contrasting the jet-black attire which was skin-tight.

She felt so vulnerable without her usual added heaviness of her daggers, the weight feeling alien to her, sorely missing the comfort of her navy helmet and the security her weapons gave her.

She felt so weak.

On the floor beside her was her discarded helmet, and a chain with the emblem of Clan Vizsla attached to it. It was a stylized shriek-hawk, or jai'galaar in Mando'a. The necklace had been given to her by Lumiya (her Master), who had found it after she killed the remaining Mandalorians who resided on one of the moons of Mandalore. She had tossed it to her so carelessly that she wondered if he knew the significance of it. Obviously she did, otherwise she would've just discarded of it.

Maybe she saw the same emblem painted on her old helmet (it was pretty hard to miss) and connected two and two, but Siths were not supposed to be nice. Yet, she still thanked her silently, any relic of her past life was to be cherished.

Carefully, Faeyth slipped on her helmet, then picked the pendent up, thumbing it gently as tears brimmed in her vision. It was her mother's no doubt, the subtle differences in colour distinguished her mother's and her father's necklace. Either Lumiya had killed her and took it, or she found it after she had been killed by her troops. The first idea made anger light in her chest, begging to be released, building up until it became almost unbearable.

A faint scream only made the rage double.

The thing about every lab she had been to was the constant humming of tormenting devices in the near distance. There was always something happening there, whether it was cursing, screaming, crying or torturing. Having spent the last year in these conditions, she'd almost grown accustomed to this daily occurrences.