He dreamed of Begeren.
Great temples, statues, and palatial estates towered over the rocky desert. Chants and blood oaths echoed in the vaulted chambers, spoken by Sith clad in black robes. The dream was twisted. The red sky was a roiling sea of fire and ash. Starships fell like meteors, leaving massive plumes of smoke as they fell further, choking the sky. Monoliths wept molten stone. Temples where Apophion once walked in respect and reverence lay in ruins. His brethren lay in piles of burnt bodies strewn across sulfurous plains.
In the name of Light and Balance, they came. Jedi.
Clad in gilded robes and armor. Their faces, all the same, were covered in white, mirrored steel. Blades of searing judgment raised high. One by one, his brothers and sister Sith were cut down. No rage. No anger. No mercy. The broken bodies were cast upon the pyre to fuel the flames that burned this world.
Then came the sound.
Deeper than thunder. Older than thought. Deeper than thunder. Older than thought. Ancient gears churned and ground away slowly and deliberately. Their true purpose was concealed beyond time and space. The void itself turned with the movement of this ancient clock. The stars themselves were dragged by invisible chains; like prisoners, they were pulled toward some unseen mechanism of annihilation. And then, in the vast nothingness, he saw it: a celestial clockwork, forged not by hands but by will alone, its purpose unknowable, its presence undeniable. Each tick of its unseen pendulum moved the gears to its final moment in a new epoch.
The burnt bones of his brethren whispered to him a name.
Calladene
Apophion awoke, gasping for air, his chest heaving. His chambers were dark and empty, but he could taste smoke and iron. His body was cold and drenched with sweat; his covers clinged to him like a funeral shroud. He sat in the darkness, unmoving, the echo of the gears still rattling in the corners of his mind. He did not understand the portance of the dream, but it was no doubt an ancient vision of some kind. A warning of memory yet to be written. Or the end of a great age. He could not tell.
Great temples, statues, and palatial estates towered over the rocky desert. Chants and blood oaths echoed in the vaulted chambers, spoken by Sith clad in black robes. The dream was twisted. The red sky was a roiling sea of fire and ash. Starships fell like meteors, leaving massive plumes of smoke as they fell further, choking the sky. Monoliths wept molten stone. Temples where Apophion once walked in respect and reverence lay in ruins. His brethren lay in piles of burnt bodies strewn across sulfurous plains.
In the name of Light and Balance, they came. Jedi.
Clad in gilded robes and armor. Their faces, all the same, were covered in white, mirrored steel. Blades of searing judgment raised high. One by one, his brothers and sister Sith were cut down. No rage. No anger. No mercy. The broken bodies were cast upon the pyre to fuel the flames that burned this world.
Then came the sound.
Deeper than thunder. Older than thought. Deeper than thunder. Older than thought. Ancient gears churned and ground away slowly and deliberately. Their true purpose was concealed beyond time and space. The void itself turned with the movement of this ancient clock. The stars themselves were dragged by invisible chains; like prisoners, they were pulled toward some unseen mechanism of annihilation. And then, in the vast nothingness, he saw it: a celestial clockwork, forged not by hands but by will alone, its purpose unknowable, its presence undeniable. Each tick of its unseen pendulum moved the gears to its final moment in a new epoch.
The burnt bones of his brethren whispered to him a name.
Calladene
Apophion awoke, gasping for air, his chest heaving. His chambers were dark and empty, but he could taste smoke and iron. His body was cold and drenched with sweat; his covers clinged to him like a funeral shroud. He sat in the darkness, unmoving, the echo of the gears still rattling in the corners of his mind. He did not understand the portance of the dream, but it was no doubt an ancient vision of some kind. A warning of memory yet to be written. Or the end of a great age. He could not tell.
