The mask is burnished bronze. The smooth metal is peppered with tiny, hammered divots. The eyes are black glass. There is no nose or mouth—though where the mouth should be is a line of black rivets.
“The mask of Viceroy Exim Panshard,” he says, giggling. “A mask made of meteoric metal and containing the screams of a hundred innocents slaughtered for the viceroy’s pleasure. Masks have power. Some are worn in the grave. Others worn in life. This, like the others in my collection, has gathered the darkness of the living Force! Wear it. You are anointed, Kiza of Corellia.”
“I…”
The others stare at her. Some, in awe. Others balefully.
Remi’s gaze is poisonous. He says, suddenly: “I should have that.” And he reaches for the mask—
Tashu snaps at him. Literally. His mouth opens and closes on open air, the half-broken teeth clacking together as Remi’s hand recoils. “You do not deny the wishes of the venerable specters,” Tashu hisses.
“I…”
“Also, the lady needs a weapon. Does she not?” Tashu’s eyes twinkle with a special kind of madness as he reaches down and snatches the lightsaber hilt from Remi’s belt. He places it gingerly in her hand.
It throbs with power. She knows not to turn it on—not yet. Its red glow could give them away. But its potential thrums against her palm. And as she lifts her chin and lets the mask rest upon her face, she feels a wonderful darkness sweep over her. It is a consumptive void and with great hunger it chews into her fear and swallows it in great, greedy gobbets. With the fear gone, her anger emerges anew. It springs forth like a living thing inside her. A vicious creature hatches within her heart.
Time moves strangely. She blinks and it has begun. She’s there, now, at the outpost. I’m not alone, she thinks. The others are here. They have their mundane weapons: clubs and machine shop blades and ugly chop-axes, all painted the red of blood, the red of Sith. Republic fools scream and flee. One comes toward her and the red blade extends from its hilt in her hand—she can feel its vibration up through her elbow, all the way across the bridge of her shoulders and into her very teeth. A swipe of the blade cuts one scream short. Another takes the legs out from under a fleeing woman. Hate pulses in her. Her heart beats so hard, it feels as if it’ll shatter her breastbone in twain.
Kiza moves with little precision. She swings and swipes with the blade. The Force does not move through her, but the weapon is still unlike anything else she’s ever seen—it cuts through flesh, bone, metal. The light leaves streaks of itself burning across her vision. It thrills her.
Then she’s down. Something slams into her. Her head snaps against the ground. New Republic scum! Anger not entirely her own threads up through her like braiding vines, and as she rolls over she sees it’s not a Republic soldier at all.
It’s Remi.
His face is pale and struck with fury. As he yells at her, spit flecks from his mouth. “You aren’t worthy. That’s mine. Everything you have been given, I gave you! You weak stripling! You coward! You thief.”
Her hand is empty. The lightsaber hilt is gone. She paws at the ground, kicking at him with clumsy feet as he descends upon her. Remi’s long-fingered hands find her neck and close around it. He’s weeping and laughing as his grip tightens. She gags trying to get air. Her own hand bats at the wet grass, finding no lightsaber. Above them is the darkness of the outpost landing platform, and she hears the screams and yells of the Acolytes and their victims. Someone falls off the edge and lands nearby—thud.
Everything starts to go black.
Her eyelids flutter.
Then she finds it. Her fingers close around cold metal.
It happens fast, but feels slow. She jams the unignited blade against Remi’s temple. His eyes are round and suddenly afraid.
The red blade spears through his skull. His eyelids strain open. The eyes themselves cook and go red before burning to cinder.
He drops.
Kiza stands, adjusting her mask.
Then she lets the anger take her anew, and she resumes her assault. Soon, the outpost falls. Soon, the Acolytes claim triumph.
War is coming.