Step Into Your Power

He stands in the center of the observation deck, surveying the training arena below through the thick panels of glass.

Two young figures clad in thin, featureless garments move back and forth over the black metal grating of the floor: one a hulking Dowutin male, the other a lithe human female. They swing and jab at one another with narrow staffs crackling with white electricity—less deadly than the electrostaffs favoured by Purge Troopers, but every bit as painful. The Dowutin wields the training staff in one hand like a club, striking down at the girl with reckless blows that shake the arena. The girl moves in a blur, dodging and rolling with practiced precision, but it simply isn't enough to counter her opponent's brute strength. Guffawing with glee, the Dowutin makes a wide swing that catches her mid-jump, sending the girl skidding limply across the floor.

The girl lies there for an instant with smoke rising from her clothes. She pushes herself to her feet, the staff rising from the ground to meet her open hand as she brushes back a single stray lock of platinum-blonde hair with her other. Her voice comes through the speaker on the control panel, calm and emotionless.

"Again."

"How many times do you want me to beat you to a pulp, Twelve? Aren't you tired of losing yet?"

The Dowutin's tone is taunting, dismissive. He charges forward with a sardonic grin, the muscles of his massive arms rippling under his greenish skin as he spins his staff in front of him. The girl stands her ground, holding her own staff above her head in a defensive stance. As her opponent sweeps his weapon at her legs, she leaps backward, tumbling deftly over the blow as she makes a swift counter-jab while in mid-air. The tip of her staff connects with the Dowutin's shoulder, drawing out a sharp bellow of pain and rage. He smashes down at her with a fist but catches nothing as she feints just out of reach, her feet bouncing lightly across the grating below. With another roar, the Dowutin leaps forward with a savage upward swing, but the girl bends backward, avoiding the staff with perfect accuracy.

"Enough with your tricks!" the Dowutin yells as he redirects his momentum into a follow-up swing.

The girl's only reply is another deft sidestep that causes the staff to meet the floor in a burst of sparks.

He watches with quiet satisfaction. He's seen this scene repeated many times before—the opponent always fighting to win, the girl fighting only for practice.

The girl is special. She was the youngest Initiate to ever set foot in the Fortress Inquisitorius. Though she looks human enough, he knows she is not. Indeed, the girl is the last of her kind. He's made sure of that.

The girl's guard finally breaks as she attempts to parry blow after earth-shaking blow from the other Initiate. With a triumphant laugh, the Dowutin hits her with a backhand that sends her to the floor. Rising methodically to her feet, the girl dabs at the blood streaming from her nose with impassive movements of her sleeve. The staff flies unerringly back into her open left hand.

"Again."

He presses a gloved finger to a button on the dashboard to cut off the speaker as the sounds of sparring resume in earnest. His heavy footfalls and the rhythmic echoes of his mechanically-assisted breathing are the only sounds in the dark control room as he turns from the window, descending the steps to the lower level. Approaching the sliding doors to the arena interior, he takes a moment to scrutinize the semi-circular lightsaber hilt in his hand through the red-tinged eyepieces of his helmet.

The lightsaber of an Imperial Inquisitor is a deadly device. The grip is long, versatile, the right length to wield comfortably in one hand or both. The circular guard unfolds into a guide rail that allows the dual emitters to rotate freely about the handle. But this lightsaber is more than just a weapon—in an Inquisitor's hands, it is a symbol of the Empire's might.

Until yesterday, this one belonged to Trilla Suduri.

It is time for the girl's final test.

He steps past the threshold as the doors slide open with a whirr, boots clanking as they meet the metal of the arena floor. The dark walls are lit molten orange by the channel of fresh magma flowing underneath the strip of grating bisecting the arena. His cape billows around his calves as the cool air of the control room rushes toward the heat of the chamber.

The sparring Initiates react instantly to his entrance, dropping their staffs to stand stiffly at attention.

"The Second Sister is no more," he intones, his voice coming deep and granular through the filter of his mask. "There is need for a replacement to take her place among the ranks of the Inquisitors."

The Dowutin stares back with open hunger in his Sith-yellow irises, a grin spreading over his face as his sweat-soaked frame heaves with eager anticipation.

Opposite him, the girl is still as a statue, her face betraying no hint of emotion. Blood drips intermittently from her nose to stain the coarse grey fabric of her shirt. Her pale skin is marred with scratches and bruises, her cerulean eyes sharp and cold.

His respirator is the only sound in the silent arena. He moves to hold the lightsaber out in front of him, proffering it to the empty air.

The Dowutin Initiate's eyes lock immediately onto the weapon. The girl doesn't move.

"The one who leaves this arena alive will have earned the title of Inquisitor."

The lightsaber plummets.

The Dowutin reaches for it, drawing the weapon through the air into one massive hand before it even has the chance to hit the floor. A screeching blast resonates across the arena. The horns protruding from the Dowutin's chin cast shadows over his eyes as they are lit red from below.

"I will show you who is worthy, my lord!" he shouts as he whirls on the girl, cleaving the saber down upon his adversary.

The girl doesn't move until the last possible moment. She raises a single hand, splaying her fingers upward. The humming, white-hot blade stops a hair's breadth from the top of her head, as if meeting an invisible barrier. The Dowutin grunts in surprise, baring his teeth in a grimace of exertion as he struggles to complete the swing.

He never gets the chance.

The girl flicks her fingers forward, and the other Initiate is sent flying into the opposite wall of the arena with a thunderous clap.

The glow of the magma below dims perceptibly as the girl begins striding across the arena floor toward her adversary. Her hands are clawed at her sides, clutching the air as if to strangle it. A wind begins to stir in the chamber, fine white crystals darting through the air in turbulent paths. There is a faint crackling sound as a coat of gleaming frost creeps over the metal beneath her bare feet.

A hint of fear creeps into the Dowutin's once-smug expression as he pushes himself upright. He ignites the other end of the lightsaber, holding the twin blades in front of him like a shield.

"Your tricks won't save you!" Spinning the sabers in a droning blur, he lets out an animal roar.

The girl says nothing. As the other Initiate advances on her, her hands clench fully into fists. He's upon her now. The air thickens with whirling shards of ice until only the hot glow of the lightsaber blades remain visible through the blizzard. The sabers scythe down once, twice, spewing sparks and bits of molten metal as they strike the ground.

Then the blades fizzle out. The Dowutin screams. The wind dies suddenly as each individual snowflake drifts to a stop in mid-air, revealing the girl standing motionless at the centre of the frozen storm. A jagged, three-meter stalagmite of clear ice juts from the ground at her feet, stained black by the rivulets of blood seeping from the Dowutin's chest.

"What… are you?" the Dowutin chokes out, staring in horrified disbelief at the iridescent spear impaling his body.

The girl opens her hand and the lightsaber flies into her grasp from where it has fallen on the floor. The saber ignites as she steps forward. The plasma blade rips through the air with a sharp buzz.

The Dowutin Initiate's head thuds to the arena floor. The lightsaber blade extinguishes with a hiss.

The girl drops to one knee with her head bowed, still clutching the lightsaber hilt in her hand. The crystals dissipate in the air around her as the glow of the magma under the floor returns to full intensity.

"It is done," she states softly. A drop of blood falls from her nose, meeting the ground with a metallic plink.

He steps forward until he towers above the girl.

"From this day forward you shall be known as the Twelfth Sister."

He ignites his own lightsaber, bathing the girl's pale face in blood red. He touches the blade to her shoulders, first her left, then her right. The edge of the saber sizzles as it burns through cloth and skin. The girl does not flinch.

"Rise, Inquisitor. That weapon belongs to you now."

He extinguishes his lightsaber and returns it to his hip.

The girl stands slowly, raising the half-circle of the Inquisitor blade in front of her. She angles the hilt, studying it from every angle with a reverent gaze. Her thumb slides up the handle and the weapon ignites with a flash, first one blade, then the other. The crimson light casts the contours of her pale face into sharp relief.

With the flickering heat of the twin blades reflected in her eyes, the corner of the girl's mouth lifts in the barest hint of a smile.