Darth Talon: Crimson Fury by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Darth-Talon-Crimson-Fury-1317504126?file=1

Darth Talon: Crimson Fury ANIMATION

The Grave of Whispered Crowns

Obsidian dust tasted like the copper of dried blood against Darth Talon’s tongue, a gritty reminder that even the air on the moon of Vahl was dying. She moved through the throat of the sepulcher not as a thief, but as a predator reclaiming a stolen kill. Her red skin, etched with the jagged black runes of the One Sith, seemed to pulse in the gloom, the tattoos acting as heat-sinks for the malice radiating from the walls. Every few paces, the lekku trailing down her back would twitch, sensing the shift in atmospheric pressure as the tomb breathed. It was a slow, shallow breath, heavy with the scent of ozone and ancient rot.

Behind her, the entrance to the Ossuary of the Unspoken had already vanished, swallowed by a door of solid shadow that defied the physics of the physical universe. She was alone. This was by design. Darth Krayt had sent his Hand not because he doubted the strength of his legions, but because the sepulcher was a selective parasite. It did not feast on flesh; it dined on the reach of a soul. To bring an army was to provide a banquet. To come alone was to offer a single, exquisite vintage.

"You walk with the gait of a conqueror, little ember," a voice hissed, though Talon’s ears caught no vibration. The sound resonated within the marrow of her bones. "But this place was built by those who conquered the conquerors. Do you think your yellow eyes see the truth, or merely the reflection of your own arrogance?"

Talon did not break her stride. Her hand hovered near the hilt of her lightsaber, the hilt a jagged tooth of durasteel and synth-crystal. "I see a ghost who talks because he can no longer act," she replied, her voice a cool blade of silk. "I am Darth Talon. I am the Hand of Krayt. I am not here for philosophy. I am here for the Shard of XoXaan."

The darkness ahead curdled, thickening into the silhouette of a man who was both too tall and too thin to be human. He was draped in rags of frozen smoke, and where his face should have been, there was only a flickering void. This was Lord Vaneer, the Keeper of the Threshold, one of the many who had died trying to claim the power of the First Apostate. He was not truly dead, nor was he alive; he was a memory with a hunger.

"Krayt," Vaneer spat, the name sounding like a curse caught in a throat full of glass. "The pretender on the Dragon Throne. He seeks to heal his rotting body with the Shard, does he? He sends a beautiful weapon to do a god’s work. Tell me, Hand, does he love you, or does he simply find you a convenient vessel for his shadow? I can see the way your ambition burns. It is a delicious, violent thing. It tastes of spice and betrayal."

Vaneer drifted closer, the temperature dropping until Talon’s breath misted in the air. He did not attack. He circled her, his spectral form brushing against her shoulder like a lover’s caress. The touch was agonizing, a flash of absolute cold that felt like a needle driven into her soul. Talon stopped, turning her head slightly to meet the void where his eyes should be. She did not flinch. She let the Dark Side coil in her gut, a serpent ready to strike.

"He does not love," Talon said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "He commands. And I do not obey out of fear, ghost. I obey because his will is the only thing in this galaxy worth serving. You speak of ambition as a weakness. To a Sith, it is the only muscle that matters."

"Is it?" Vaneer laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across a tombstone. "Look upon my legion, little ember. Look at what ambition bought for those who came before you."

With a flick of his translucent wrist, the walls of the corridor dissolved. Talon found herself standing on a narrow bridge of bone-white stone, suspended over an abyss that seemed to go on forever. Beneath her, in the swirling mists of the pit, she saw them. Thousands of spectral warriors, their armor shattered, their bodies translucent and weeping shadow. They were locked in an eternal, silent war, slaughtering one another in a frantic cycle that had no end. They fought for nothing. They screamed without sound.

"The Army of the Hollow Kings," Vaneer whispered, his voice now pressed directly against her ear. "They all had ambition. They all had masters. They all had 'wills worth serving.' Now, they feed the sepulcher. They are the fuel for the relic you seek. To touch the Shard is to invite them into your mind. They will sense your desire to rise, to be more than a Hand, to perhaps one day hold the
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