Stellan blinked, calling on the Force to grant him the strength he no longer felt. Sheltering the others had already exhausted him; it was all he could do to keep his lightsaber from shaking. If Maramis noticed, he didn’t say anything, the captain of the royal guard standing like a statue, kiavene lowered, ready for action. Stellan could feel his anticipation, as well as the power coiled in the muscles of the chancellor’s targons waiting for the enemy to rush them, Matari to Stellan’s left and Voru to the guard captain’s right.

“Are you ready?” Stellan asked as five figures appeared in the smog; lumbering shades carrying outrageously large weapons.

Maramis didn’t waste time with an answer but instead pressed a hidden trigger on his kiavene, a bolt of brilliant disintegrator energy shooting from the tip of the blade. There was a flash of light deep within the fog and five figures became four, the odds evened.

So there was more to a kiavene than met the eye. Stellan hoped that could be said of all of them as he raised his lightsaber into a defensive position. In days gone by, the merest hum of his blade had been enough to have potential enemies lay down their weapons, but the Nihil were different. They didn’t respect the Order. They didn’t respect anything.

Maramis didn’t wait for their opponents to emerge from the smoke, disappearing into the fog like a wraith. The targons followed, leaping in after him with a growl, but Stellan kept his ground. A Jedi never attacked, only defended. Instead, he tried his best to send out a warning through the Force, anything to avoid further bloodshed.

You don’t want to do this. This is wrong. Surrender and you will live.

He heard the roar of targons, the slash of Maramis’s blade.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

The smoke parted in front of him, a vibro-ax slashing down, ready to cleave his skull in two.

The way was set.