All is dark. The air is stale and stifling. Her eyes are closed, her hands folded over her chest as her heart races with anticipation. Their voices are muffled, but she has long since memorized the words they chant. Long desired and dreaded to hear them as she does today.

Every initiate must pass through the fire when their nonage is at its end and face the judgment of their goddess. Most emerge unscathed, but some are found unworthy and thus reduced to ash. She fears that possibility—shudders at the thought of it. She is so cold, lying there on her back as still and silent as the dead. Awaiting Vahl's verdict.

"From the ashes of our empire, an ember emerges," the priestesses intone, the powerful tongue of her people filling the chamber. "From the darkness of our destruction, a blade is born. It spares none and serves only one."

The voices begin as a low lamentation, a couple of them wailing as the others murmur. Her heart beats faster. Her chest tightens, her insides twist into knots, and her fingers curl against her clavicle. The ritual has begun in earnest now.

"Wielder of the Flame, Champion of the Chosen, awaken from your slumber!" they command, their voices climbing in volume and pitch with each verse. They mourn nothing now, the chorus becoming a battle cry whose echoes seem to multiply their number.

Are they echoes? she wonders. Or are they the cries of our ancestors?

"Arise!" the coven shouts with vehemence. "Arise! Go forth and vanquish in the name of Vahl!"

Drums beat, the ground quakes, and the lid of the sarcophagus cracks down the middle. There is a distinctive whoosh that's followed by the crackling of flames as Veera opens her eyes and takes a breath. Her time has come.

She lifts her hands from her chest, presses her palms against the cool stone, and shoves. The heavy slabs fall away, and she instinctively shields her face as she's blinded by the blaze. But the intensity and proximity of its heat doesn't scorch her skin. In fact, it causes her no pain at all when she sits up and gazes into the towering flames that surround the sarcophagus. As plumes of black smoke ascend into the darkness above, Veera squints and peers through the firewall, discerning the outlines of the flamedancers as they twist and contort their bodies on the other side.

The priestesses repeat the final verses of the chant over and over again, practically screaming them while she grips the sides of the sarcophagus and pushes herself upright. Her legs tremble violently beneath her. Her mouth is dry, and she suddenly feels dizzy, the weight of the moment—the burden of a name dishonored—settling upon her shoulders. Threatening eternal shame and obscurity.

This is it. The moment of truth. There's no going back now. The only way—whether it is life or death that awaits her—is forward.

Steeling herself, Veera lifts her right foot and slowly puts it forward. It passes through the fire, followed by the rest of her leg. And then she's climbing out of the sarcophagus and walking through the flames. They lap harmlessly at her, caressing her cheeks and dancing across her black fiber armor. The fear that she has transformed into fuel begins to fade, supplanted by a rush of relief and confidence, and it takes every ounce of will she possesses to keep the corners of her lips from curling into a grin.

She is worthy. She is worthy.

A trail of burning coals lies before her, and Veera steps onto them without hesitation. She feels only a pleasant warmth beneath her bare feet, and she holds her head high with pride, keeping her gaze fixed upon the face of the Nova Priest who waits where the trail ends. Initiates, bladeborn, firebrands—all have gathered to bear witness to her coming of age, as is tradition amongst the Vahla. They line the path she walks, standing respectfully still and silent on her left and her right as she passes between them.

The drums beat louder—faster. The hounds pound them relentlessly with their heavy fists, their white skull-like masks weaving to and fro in the darkness as firelight flickers against the walls. Veera's gaze drops to the twin sai Vedrana holds in her outstretched hands, crafted from finest cortosis. Their sharpened edges gleam and glisten, and she notices that intricate designs and enchantments have been carved into them.

The chant and the drums suddenly cease. A reverent hush washes over the room, and Veera kneels before the Nova Priest. She bows her head and keeps it there, unwilling to risk so much as a glance up at the older woman until the ritual is complete.

"Vahl favors you this day, Veera, daughter of Varya," the priestess declares, and oh, how her heart swells at that even as part of her recoils at the mention of her mother. "The hour of your hunt draws nigh. But first, you must renew the vows you swore to the Ember of Vahl when you became an initiate."

Vedrana crosses the sai over her shoulders, and Veera does not flinch. "Do you pledge your life and undying loyalty to the service of Vahl and the enforcing of her divine will?"

"I do," she answers.

"Do you pledge to never defy or disobey a directive given to you by the Chosen of Vahl?"

"I do."

"Do you swear that you will never steal from a coven sister or brother?"

"I do."

"Do you swear that you will never kill a coven sister or brother?"

"I do."

"Do you pledge to never wed or otherwise bind yourself to an outsider?"

"I do."

"Do you pledge to never betray the Ember of Vahl, its secrets, or the location of this flotilla to an outsider?"

"I do."

"So let it be. Praise be to Vahl."

"Praise be to Vahl," the crowd echoes.

"I hereby pronounce you bladeborn," the high priestess decrees.

And without so much as lifting a finger, she severs the strip of lavender fabric that has bound up Veera's hair for all eighteen years of her life. Freed at last, thick black locks whose ends are streaked with white tumble down her back and cascade over her shoulders. She rises, standing tall and looking down into Vedrana's pale gray eyes for the first time since approaching her. The Nova Priest offers the sai to her, and Veera accepts them as a lump forms in her throat. Her days of training with daggers are over. Now, she carries a weapon bestowed only upon those who have achieved the rank of bladeborn.

Sheathing them at her lower back in the wide belt that is wrapped around her waist, she watches as Vedrana withdraws a datapad and a comlink.

"Hunt well," the high priestess tells her with a gleam in her eyes.

"I will not fail," Veera assures her, taking the items.

She turns to leave—

And freezes when the Nova Priest's callused fingers curl around her wrist. She glances over her shoulder in surprise, and Vedrana leans in close, the sharp angles of her face accentuated in the firelight.

"Savor it," she urges, her voice just above a whisper. "You only get to experience the primal thrill of your first hunt once."

"If only it would be my first kill as well," Veera replies before she can stop herself.

Vedrana releases her, and she bows her head in shame. Vahl curse me and my quick tongue! she thinks, and without giving the high priestess a chance to scold or comfort or whatever she intends, she swiftly departs the ritual chamber.

Veera strides through the empty black corridors, white glow panels stretching across the segmented ceiling and slanting down the upper sections of the walls. Machinery hums and thrums around her, her boots thudding against the floor as they carry her toward the nearest turbolift. Her heart still pounds, and blood keeps pumping wildly through her veins. Her thoughts are racing at lightspeed, and she feels so much all at once—fear and excitement and danger and opportunity.

This is where her life—her real life—truly begins.

"Veera, wait up!"

She stops and turns. It's Vana, breathless and running to catch up. Strands of fiery red hair have come loose from where the rest of it is coiled atop her head, her light brown cheeks are flushed with exertion, and her pale blue eyes are wide and frantic. She skids to a halt in front of Veera, bending over and huffing with her hands on her knees. When she finally straightens, Veera tries not to smirk—her much shorter best friend has always complained that she walks too fast.

"You didn't think I was going to let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?"

Veera smiles through the guilt that arises at the realization that she'd been so preoccupied with her thoughts that saying farewell to Vana or any of the others hadn't even crossed her mind. "I knew you'd catch up."

"Well, here I am," Vana says breathlessly, spreading her arms wide. Her eyes sparkle with curiosity as she glances down and points at the datapad. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Go ahead," Veera shrugs, handing it over as she starts walking again.

Vana falls into step beside her and taps away at the screen. "Ah, here we are! Your target is Rix Korden—a human male. He's a moisture farmer on a planet called Tatooine."

Veera nods. "I've heard of it."

"Apparently, he's wanted for the egregious crime of—" She giggles. "—tax evasion."

"Dead or alive?"

Vana's brow furrows as she stares down at the screen, and she hesitates before following Veera into the turbolift. "It says dead."

The doors close with a hiss, and they begin their ascent.

"That seems a bit…harsh," Veera muses. "But I suppose that isn't part of the job, is it? Asking questions."

"You didn't take a vow of silence," Vana replies mischievously, "only of obedience. When you meet the client to get the fob, perhaps you can pose a question or two."

Veera can't help but meet her conspiratorial grin with one of her own. "Perhaps."

Vana returns the datapad to her, and seconds later, the doors slide open again. They step out into a vast hangar lined with sleek black starfighters, one of which has already been prepped for launch. Veera's is a Se'kari-class fighter, wingless and as sharp as the sai that are sheathed at her back.

"Well," she sighs as they come to stand beside it, "I guess this is goodbye."

"For now," Vana adds stubbornly, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm so jealous, Veera. You'll have to tell me all about it when you get back—what the Outside is like."

"I will," Veera assures her. "And it won't be long before it's time for your first hunt. Then we can hunt together."

She laughs and grins from ear to ear. "The galaxy trembles at the thought! We will be unstoppable."

Veera laughs with her as she climbs into the cockpit. Settling into the narrow space, she checks the contents of her pack once more and ensures that her blaster is still tucked under her seat. Everything seems to be in order.

"You deserve this, Veera," Vana says suddenly, and she looks at her in surprise. "You've earned it. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. We are not responsible for the sins of our parents."

Veera swallows hard, blinking to keep tears from welling in her eyes. "Thank you, Vana. I'll see you soon."

She nods and gives her an encouraging smile. "Goddess guide you."

The cockpit closes and seals as personnel deactivate the hangar's shields—the final barrier between herself and an infinite field of stars. The engine hums to life, and when Veera glances down at her friend one last time, she sees her raising her left hand in a gesture of farewell. Retracting the landing gear as she steers the ship into the air, she engages the thrusters, and the Se'kari fighter streaks out of the hangar.

Practicing her flying out amongst the stars is the closest she's ever come to leaving the flotilla, and it's a more than eerie feeling when she finally ventures beyond the range of its cloaking devices for the first time. The Raa'ga and its accompanying cruisers vanish from sight and sensors, and Veera is suddenly alone, hurtling through the vast emptiness of space. She knows, however, that if she were to simply reach out and—

No. She stops herself before the thought can carry her any farther down that path which she has sworn to avoid. Every Vahla is Force-sensitive, and every Vahla possesses an inherent connection to that which they call the Shadow. It is immensely powerful, capable of terrible destruction, and she fears it with every fiber of her being. It is the darkness inside her—the reckless, violent parts of herself that she cannot control.

So she keeps it locked away. And while other Vahla embrace their bond with this arcane power, she shuns it. A bladeborn is all she will ever be—all she ever can be.

Veera enters the coordinates into the navicomputer and then sits back, takes a deep breath, and watches as the stars stretch into streaks of light. The Se'kari launches into the swirling blue void, and it's one thing to experience the jump to hyperspace from the bridge of the Raa'ga, but this—

This is what it feels like to be on the precipice. To take the plunge. To know that adventure—her adventure—is finally at hand.

She has a couple of hours to rest, to think. She eats a nutrition bar. She drinks some water. She double-checks the fighter's systems. And all the while, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional beep of the console are the only sounds in the silence of space.

Veera glances down at the long waves of hair falling past her shoulders, and an idea occurs to her. Braiding is a centuries-old tradition amongst the Vahla. It is a visible symbol of a hunter's skill, their history, and their victories. One braid for every kill.

After embarking on their first hunt, newly anointed bladeborn would always return with a braid in their hair as a sign of their success.

But she isn't like the others. This isn't her first kill. She broke one of the Ember of Vahl's six tenets long before she ever took her vows as an initiate. It didn't matter that it had been an accident. Actions had consequences, and she was still paying for her lack of discipline that day. If she hadn't lost control, if she hadn't snapped, her father would still be here. He would've lived to see her become bladeborn, to see her bring honor back to their family.

There it is again—that dull, lonely ache she can never rid herself of.

Reaching up to the crown of her head, Veera begins to weave a thick braid from the center of her hairline all the way down to the base of her skull, her nimble fingers working until she ties all of her hair back from her face. Only two shorter sections are left hanging loose, one on each side of her face, and she fastens them with two tiny silver clasps at the level of her eyes. She's done it before she even consciously realizes, and when she does, her heart drops like a stone.

It was something her mother always used to do, and as a little girl, she'd thought it was so pretty. She'd wanted to grow up to look just like her, to be just like her. And now—

She wants to tear the clasps from her hair and cast them out into the void. It's what she should do. And she almost does, her fingers stopping mere centimeters from them. But she can't because part of her, as much as she wants to deny it, still loves and misses her mother more than anything. No matter what she did. No matter what became of her in the end.

Veera's hands return to the controls as the Se'kari suddenly drops out of hyperspace. And there it is—Tatooine. The orange, cloud-speckled sphere fills her viewport, and it's growing immensely larger with each passing second. Here we go, she thinks, squeezing the yoke so tightly that her gray knuckles turn two shades lighter. She knows it's irrational, but she can't help but wonder if she's going to crash into the planet's exterior like an immovable wall. Never mind all her studies of worlds and their atmospheres—there is no logic to be found in the fear that grips her now.

She jumps when the console beeps with an incoming transmission, and she gulps as she presses the button to accept it.

"This is Mos Eisley Tower. We're tracking your approach," a male operator says in Basic, his voice crackling with radio static. "Head for bay eight-seven. Over."

"Understood," Veera replies, locking on to the designated hangar.

Goddess preserve me, she prays as the ship shudders and the temperature inside the cockpit noticeably rises. Sweat beads on her temple, and she can't see anything beyond the layers of clouds rushing past the viewport. Every muscle is tensed, her jaw clenched and her eyes wide as her heart slams against the confines of her chest.

But then the Se'kari bursts through the white canopy, and her mouth drops open at the sight of a sprawling city far below her, nestled in the midst of mountains and canyons, and beyond that—an endless desert. Its simple structures are almost completely camouflaged against the surrounding landscape, and Veera spares them as many glances as she possibly can while she makes her rapid descent. She's filled with awe and wonder and absolute disbelief that she's actually about to touch down on a real planet with places she's never been and species she's never seen. Some she's read about and seen holograms of—but to actually meet them and speak to them—she's ecstatic at the thought of it.

Finally, Veera's forced to tear her gaze away from the fascinating sights when she approaches the hole in the ground that is apparently bay eight-seven. Slowly, carefully, she lowers the Se'kari until it settles on a bed of sand. Breathing a sigh of relief, she settles back and starts shutting down the fighter's systems.

"I can't believe it," she marvels to herself as she mashes buttons and flips switches. "I've made it—I've made it—and in one piece too! Let's not forget that important bit…"

She fastens an extra belt around her waist that has two satchels on her left hip, one carrying her rations and the other her credits, and on her right hip is a holster that holds her blaster pistol. Blasters are a last resort for any member of the cult—they're crude and inelegant and require less skill to wield than a sai or a sword, and thus, they are avoided unless their use becomes absolutely necessary.

Now she's gathered her gear, Veera opens the cockpit, hops down, and grins when the impact of her boots sends up a small cloud of dust. She's standing on ground—real, solid ground. A dry breeze caresses her face, and the hot air is a far cry from the perpetual cold of space. She's accustomed to the artificial gravity of the Raa'ga, but this is different. Everything feels…heavier. A bit slower.

She crouches and scoops up a handful of sand, and it feels soft at first as she brushes her thumb over it. But when the grains begin to separate and trickle through the gaps in her fingers, they feel coarse and scrape against her skin. Interesting. She turns over her palm, and some of it sticks to her hand. Her brow furrows, and she tries to shake it off.

"You all right there, ma'am?"

Startled, Veera straightens and turns to see a green-skinned, bipedal alien with a pair of eyestalks and a beak-like mouth ambling toward her. Two rusty droids lumber alongside him with stooped shoulders and long arms that hang all the way down to their creaking knee joints.

"You don't look like you're from around these parts," the alien observes, stopping a couple of meters away from her and cocking his head with curiosity.

"I'm not," she answers uncertainly. But then she squares her shoulders and raises her chin, reminding herself that she's a bladeborn, not a frightened child. "I'm looking for someone."

"Oh?" he blinks his reptilian eyes at her. "I'd be happy to help you with that, but first—" He sticks out a three-fingered hand. "—that'll be thirty credits for the docking fee."

Thirty? Veera thinks incredulously. I've only got a hundred. She huffs and withdraws the designated amount from her satchel.

"Name's Drue, and this is my hangar," he says proudly as she approaches and places the Imperial credits in his leathery palm. "You're lucky it's open today—it's the local favorite of any pilot worth their salt."

"I'm Veera," she replies with a small smile. She isn't sure why, but she likes him and his gruff, forthcoming manner.

"A pleasure," he nods. "Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Mos Eisley spaceport. You got any cargo you'd like my droids to unload for you?"

"No, I just need information. I'm supposed to meet someone at a place called Chalmun's Cantina. Do you know where I can find it?"

He chortles at that. "Oh, yes. I know it. Everyone around here does. Just go straight a ways once you leave the hangar, and when you see a big junkyard on your left, you'll know you're there. There's always a live band goin' in that place. You'll hear it when you start gettin' close."

"Thank you," she responds with a curt nod, breezing past him and heading for what appears to be the exit.

"Watch yourself in there," Drue calls after her, causing her to stop and look back at him. "Fights have been known to break out every now and again."

"I can handle myself," she states calmly before going on her way.

Stepping out from under the large archway on the far side of the hangar, Veera emerges into blinding sunlight. She instinctively recoils, shielding her face with her hand. The sand is white, and the buildings are so bright that it's difficult for her to even keep her eyes open. She's lived her whole life in the darkness of space and the dimly lit halls of the Raa'ga.

But her curiosity outweighs her discomfort, and she peeks through the gaps in her fingers, catching the briefest glimpse of two fiery orbs blazing against a blue expanse. Sky, it was called. One sun burned with a yellowish tint, and the other was a raging red.

A steady wind rustles the ends of the black tunic she wears beneath her fiber armor, her hair whipping around her face and shoulders as she starts walking down a wide, dusty street lined with a mixture of domed and flat-roofed structures. Strange contraptions whine and creak on top of them as they turn in the breeze. Weathered tarps ripple and flap, merchants and traders and customers gathering beneath them as they exchange goods. She sees Twi'leks, Rodians, Duros, Ithorians, and so many others that she can't name.

But the humans pique her interest more than all the others. They look so akin to her people and yet…different. Most of them are a bit shorter, for one. Some are brown-skinned like many Vahla, but others are fair, and none of them are gray like her. They're dressed simply, in loose fitting shirts and tunics and trousers that look like they've seen better days. And to Veera's dismay, she notices that they and all of the other species walk quickly with their heads down, like they're trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Like they want to be invisible.

It doesn't take her long to figure out why.

Men and women wearing white clunky armor and strange helmets are patrolling the streets, carrying rifles in their hands. Stormtroopers, she realizes. Soldiers of the Empire that rules the galaxy. She's seen them before on the HoloNet broadcasts she watches on occasion. But she's never paid them much mind, for the Vahla ignore any and all ruling powers apart from their own. The Empire is just another government, another structure whose purpose was to enforce law and order and prevent crime from running rampant—just like the Galactic Republic had been meant to do.

It had failed spectacularly, and she wondered if the Empire would fair any better. But it didn't really matter to her either way. The very survival of her people depended upon their ability to operate within the criminal underworld, whether it be through thievery, piracy, bounty hunting, or assassinating, and those things would always exist. Because if there was one truth she was absolutely certain of in this ever-changing universe, it was that the fires of war, of conflict and corruption, were impossible to stamp out.

Where there was law, there would always be lawlessness. Where there was order, chaos. Where there was creation, destruction.

Two stormtroopers look at her as she passes them by, and Veera stares back at them. She keeps her head held high, and she walks with deliberate purpose, refusing to scurry away like a rat into the shadows.

Finally, she sees the junkyard on her left—discarded ship parts, droid limbs, and other scrap metal piled high next to a single-story structure with a sandblasted exterior. Its doors hiss open as someone enters, and she hears strange but cheerful music filtering out into the street.

"Looks like this is the place," she murmurs to herself as she approaches it.

Three small, hooded figures are sitting near the entrance, and Veera wonders if they are children. They peer up at her with glowing yellow eyes and jibber something at her in a fast language that she doesn't recognize.

"Er, I don't understand," she replies in Basic. "Sorry."

They try to motion her over to some open crates filled to the brim with a variety of odds and ends. Now she understands.

"Uh, not right now. Perhaps later," she declines politely, spinning as one tries to sneak around behind her. "Hey! Go on now."

The little cloaked figure squeals and throws its hands in the air before hurrying back to its friends, and Veera keeps one hand on the pouches at her belt as she enters the cantina. The doors close behind her, and she blinks as her eyes adjust to another drastic change in lighting. It's dark in here and a bit cooler, and she already feels more comfortable than she did out in the scorching heat and sunlight.

She follows a short passage around the corner and then stops in her tracks. Her eyes go wide and suddenly can't find a place to rest, roving over a room filled with more aliens than she's ever seen in her entire life. Snivvian, Sullustan, Arcona, and Kubaz. Zabrak, Weequay, Quarren, and Aqualish. They're clustered around circular tables, crowded together at the bar, and squeezed into booths in the alcoves of the cantina.

A band of black-eyed, bulbous-headed beings blow into instruments that look like long pipes as they dance in time with the music. Voices high and low squeak and growl, hiss and roar. There are claws and paws, beaks and snouts, scales and fur.

It's all so exciting that Veera almost forgets why she's here, but she soon comes back to herself and remembers the instructions the client had entered into the datapad. "Meet me in Chalmun's Cantina. I'll be in the third booth on the left."

Her gaze swivels to the designated spot, and she sees that it's empty save a male Devaronian. He's already watching her, and he gives her a subtle nod as he lifts his drink to his lips. She scans the room once more before making her way down a short set of stairs and over to the horned patron.

"You must be the hunter," he says, looking her up and down. "The Vahla."

"That's right," she replies, cautiously lowering herself into the booth across from him. "And you are?"

"Vruhk." He frowns and looks almost…disappointed as he continues to scrutinize her. "I've gotta admit, you aren't exactly what I was hoping for."

Veera bristles but reminds herself to remain calm and composed. She wants to earn his credits, not his ire. "What do you mean?"

He glances pointedly at her breastplate before meeting her gaze again. "Your armor—it's clean. No dents or abrasions or blaster burns. And as for you—you might just be the most fresh-faced, wide-eyed kid who's ever walked into this place."

Her fingers curl in her lap, hidden beneath the table, and his dark eyes narrow as he leans toward her.

"You ain't ever seen any action, have you?"

She glares back at him, her insides boiling with anger. But her voice is as cold as ice when she answers, "I am no child. I am a weapon. You will never find a warrior, hunter, or assassin whose abilities surpass those of my people. We have a reputation for a reason, and you would do well to respect it."

"I do," he says, seeming satisfied as he sits back. "That's why you're here."

He withdraws a small, blinking device and puts it on the table.

"Here's the fob. When the job's done, meet me back here to receive your payment."

Veera picks it up and thoughtfully turns it over in her hand. You didn't take a vow of silence.

"The target—" she ventures hesitantly, "—you want him dead for tax evasion."

Vruhk's brow furrows with disapproval. "Bit more to it than that. But questions are unbecoming of a hunter."

She swallows but remains otherwise unflinching as they look at each other.

"You'll find his homestead about forty kilometers southeast of here. Should be a simple enough task for someone of your skill."

He's mocking her. She can see it in his eyes—in the ghost of a sneer that fleetingly crosses his lips. It's a challenge, and she accepts.

"I won't be long," Veera says promptly, rising and briefly staring him down before she turns and weaves her way out of the increasingly crowded cantina.