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She gazed at her image in the mirror as Muura’s clever fingers braided and pinned her long, light brown hair. The intricate vor’shandi face markings had already been painted on. Their history predated the Sith presence on Kesh. Each mark of the brush dipped in the dark brown nectar of the s’rai plant had deep significance and was bestowed with heavy ritual. Vestara admired the delicate tracery of a dalsa flower and its trademark thorns trailing up her neck and across her cheek, then frowned a little as the leaves merged with the scar on her mouth. She always ordered the artists to disguise her scar with a design whenever possible. At least this way she could minimize her disfigurement.

She distracted herself from her self-criticism by wondering for the thousandth time why she was being summoned before the Circle of Lords. At first, when the summons had come to her and her parents yesterday, borne by no lesser a figure than a Sith Master in full formal robes, she had thought it had something to do with her application to become an apprentice. But then the summons had stipulated that she appear, alone, at the High Seat in Tahv. If it had been something as traditional as taking on the role of apprentice, she would have been summoned to the Sith Temple.

Her father, Gavar Khai, himself a Sith Saber, exuded surprise and puzzlement in the Force. Lahka, her mother, wasn’t Force-sensitive at all, but even she couldn’t miss the tension and mystery. She glanced worriedly from husband to daughter, but held her tongue. This was Sith business, and not for her to know about.

Vestara’s father had questioned her at length that night, his presence affectionate but concerned. Had she said anything to displease anyone of significance? Had she broken any of the rules Tyros vowed to obey? Perhaps slacked on her training or studies?

Mute with apprehension, Vestara had shaken her head. She had done none of these things.

She did not mention the conversation she’d had two days previously with Ship.

In fact, the subject of Ship had not been mentioned at all, by anyone. Shortly after Ship’s arrival at the Temple, security had taken to the air and demanded that everyone clear the skies around the area. All training had been postponed, and the Temple was closed until further notice, save to those who lived there. No doubt, the Circle of Lords was discussing the strange vessel and what it meant for them, but ordinary Sith had no idea as to what was going on. It was all as mysterious as Ship itself.

Vestara shivered, even though the air circulating through the room was warm. She extended a hand, and a glass of water floated into it. She sipped the cool liquid from a straw so as not to mar the vor’shandi markings so close to her mouth while Muura finished up.

“There,” Muura said, smiling, meeting Vestara’s eyes in the mirror. “You look lovely, mistress!”

Vestara did not answer. She turned her head this way and that, then rose to view the formfitting green dress that was slit up the side to showcase her long, lean legs. Her arms, sleek with muscle, were also adorned with vor’shandi markings, and every finger on her hands sported a ring of some sort. The markings, painted on by artists who had studied for years under their masters as Vestara would study under hers, would wash off tonight in the bath, leaving her skin pristine and undamaged. The jewelry that dangled from her ears was draped around them, not inserted in the lobes.

Vestara was a member of the Tribe, and as such she would never dream of deliberately disfiguring herself. Her hand again went up to touch the scar on her mouth, then she clenched her fist and deliberately brought it down. All that could be done to remove the scar had been done, and she would simply need to become accustomed to it.

And make sure that every opportunity she got, she covered it up with beautiful artwork.

She glanced over at Muura, who beamed up at her happily from her shorter height, and sighed. Unadorned with jewelry or cosmetics, and wearing only the