Anatori strolled the ancient streets of Mhorikka, his gaunt face and pale robes aglow with the twin moons’ ethereal light, lending him the ghastly appearance of an apparition. The old Jedi silently wound his way along the abandoned shop fronts and brothels, his slippers kicking up puffs of dust that followed at his heels like ghosts in a funeral procession. Behind, dark figures began to emerge from alleys, following slowly as he approached the City Square where Darth Ma’hal stood motionless, his head encapsulated in a black, battleworn full-faced helm, and clad neck to foot in black leather armor. He patiently awaited the old master—the last of the Ghost Blade Jedi Order. As Anatori stepped into the square, the Sith apprentices at his back split their ranks, encircling the two masters.

“I’m surprised you came back, Anatori. You are the last.”

“I am aware, Ma’hal.”

“Of course you are. Shall we begin, then?”

“As you will.”

Anatori brushed the length of his robe back to reveal the bone-white hilt of his lightsaber, lightly touching the pommel with the tips of his fingers. Along the Square’s perimeter, bright red lines stretched from the hilts of each of the apprentices’ sabres, tearing through the quiet. Anatori drew his eyelids down over his milky eyes until they nearly shut and inhaled deeply, gathering focus to his center, then exploded into a run of such incredible speed that he became nothing but a pale blur stretching in a wide arc along the ring of Sith apprentices, his white blade slashing the twelve would-be assailants almost simultaneously. He stood before Darth Ma’hal once more, having returned to his original position, saber re-sheathed, again tickling the pommel as if he had never left the spot. All seven apprentices fell in heaps to the dirt, their sabres extinguished.

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“Impressive.” Darth Ma’hal slowly drew his saber. “It’s no small wonder that you are the last of your kind.”

Darth Ma’hal lunged at Anatori, lazily. The old Jedi flicked his wrist and his saber leapt into his hand, white blade crackling to life. He parried Ma’hal’s strike effortlessly as the two began stepping in a wide circle. Ma’hal casually slashed at Anatori. Anatori easily leaned out of range. They continued circling.

“In truth I wish you could be spared. I have always held you in high regard. You should have accepted the Emperor’s offer. A seat on the council is a privilege reserved for a select few.”

“Privilege? You think the subjugation of those who only wish to live out their lives in their own ways a right that can be granted? What affords you such privilege, Ma’hal?”

“Power.”

“Then let us stop curtsying about and we shall test the limits of that power.”

Anatori lashed out at Ma’hal, their lightsabers clashing repeatedly as they circled the square, increasing in speed until both became but streaks of color followed by the barking of their blades. Dust whirled into a tempest as the two danced: lunge, parry, riposte; lunge, parry, riposte, whirling faster and faster until Anatori suddenly vanished in a swirling cloud. Ma’hal slid to a stop, frantically searching the torrent of particles for the light of Anatori’s blade. Behind, Anatori emerged from the whirling dust and skewered the dark master between his shoulder blades. The Sith Lord looked down at the glowing blade protruding from his breast as his sabre tumbled to the ground.

“Impossible.” 

                With a graceful pirouette, Anatori decapitated Darth Ma’hal, his helm tumbling away with his head into the torrent as the rest of him slumped to the dirt.

“Farewell, Ma’hal.