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Even then she was not unconscious. She saw, the edges of her vision blurring, the dismantling of her tribe.

Wherever a Witch commenced a spell, Sith lightning or an unarmed blow from one of the dark-robed strangers interrupted its weaving. The Nightsisters who charged forward with weapons saw lightsabers brought to life, and those energy blades cleaved the ancient tribal weapons into useless junk. Blows of hands and feet, knees and elbows put the Nightsisters on the ground in a matter of moments.

And those were the merciful attacks. No mercy was shown to the rancors. Sith leapt past the beasts, glowing blades flashing, severing lower leg or hand or neck. Few of the rancors even had time to roar. Most made noise only as their huge, awkward bodies slammed into the ground, never to rise again.

In moments it was done. The Sith moved impassively among their more numerous foes, flicking smaller bolts of lightning into the Nightsisters to keep them pained, inert, and helpless, then began attaching metal shackles to their hands and feet.

The lavender-skinned leader stood over Dresdema. He studied her and offered her a gentle smile that was somehow not reassuring. “Welcome to school.”

Hurt and dizzy as she was, she still managed to find her voice. “I curse you and all your—”

Lightning flashed from the hand of the woman who’d emerged with Lord Gaalan. It crackled against Dresdema’s temple and she knew no more.

By the time Vestara Khai reached the edge of the meadow, only one shuttle remained—one shuttle, two Sith, and eighteen rancor bodies visible.

Vestara set Halliava down at the forest’s edge and, relieved of that burden, hurried forward. Even at this distance, even in the uncertain moonlight, she could recognize Lord Gaalan, whom she did not know well but at least knew by sight. She saw him note her arrival, though he did not nod or otherwise acknowledge her at first.

Of course he did not. He was a Sith Lord.

As she neared him, she was struck by his physical beauty, by the perfection of form and feature that was so common among high-ranking Sith, a perfection she would never share. She put that thought away. Perfection was not her goal this night; survival and profit were her objectives. She saluted the Sith Lord and awaited his pleasure.

“Vestara Khai. You have not told us the truth.”

His words chilled her. Any failure could cause punishment, even fatal punishment, from a Lord, and being caught in a lie was among the most dangerous forms of failure. But she tried to keep her voice calm. “My lord?”

“There is one fewer savage here than you indicated.”

“Ah. Yes. The last one is at the forest verge.”

“Very well, then. And you know you smell very bad.”

It took her a moment to realize that, though stone-faced, as severe of manner as Sith Lords and Ladies usually were with apprentices, Lord Gaalan was joking with her.

She hesitated, then offered a slight smile acknowledging his humor. “Yes, my lord. Protective coloration among the natives. I long for a good cleansing.”

“Shall I send someone to fetch the last captive?”

Another test. If she said yes, she would be showing weakness—not only that, but probably causing a Sith outranking her to perform her chores, earning that individual’s enmity. “No, my lord. I will fetch her directly.”

“First, the data.” He extended his hand.

She placed her data tablet into it. “All the navigational records of the dilapidated conveyance that brought me here. It will guide you from one approach into the Maw to the station where the dark power waits.”

“Not I, sadly. I am to conduct this cargo of savages back home. But I will see to it that the data reaches the correct hands. Now fetch your captive.”

Much as Vestara wanted to know who those correct hands belonged to—who else was part of this Tribe expedition, if there were any friendly faces to be found here—she knew far better than to ask. One did not show weakness or vulnerability, not ever, unless it was to lull someone into a false sense of superiority.