Once—long before I was the powerful, accomplished, and devastatingly handsome Sith Lord everyone knew me as—I had been a young, naïve apprentice under Darth Zash. It was she who sent me to Nar Shaddaa, where I was supposed to retrieve a certain artifact from Paladius, a Sith Lord of staggering mediocrity.
As it turned out, Paladius had founded his own Sith cult—the Cult of the Screaming Blade. By Sith cult standards, it was… fine—not especially powerful or deranged, something that simply existed. The only noteworthy thing about it is that it stood directly between me and what I wanted.
Long story short, the artifact was retrieved without much trouble, Paladius was removed from the equation in a very permanent fashion and I acquired a cult with the help of two adorably naïve cultists: Rylee Dray and Destris Veran, who were young, earnest and desperate for a god who did not try to kill them.
Using their reverence, I reshaped the cult according to my preferences.
As I was young and ambitious, I taught them what I considered proper values: blind obedience to their deity (me) and cleansing the rot—a deliberately vague directive that would improve society and could be interpreted however suited my needs at the time.
Over the years, I used the cult for all manner of tasks, some inconsequential and some pivotal for my reign.
Eventually, however, as my power grew and my attention was pulled toward grander ambitions, I loosened my grip. I allowed the cult to operate with relative autonomy, trusting in the framework I had built. By the time of my death, I had fully expected them to fracture, implode, or be exterminated by someone along the way.
And yet, against all reasonable expectations, they survived.
Perhaps it was Nar Shaddaa itself—a neutral ground where authority was fractured and rules were optional. Perhaps it was the elasticity of the doctrine I had left behind, flexible enough to adapt without losing its core. Or perhaps fanaticism, when cultivated properly, simply had remarkable staying power.
Whatever the reason, I had returned and my flock was ripe for the taking.
At my side was Leila—the Twi’lek assassin who had stalked and tested me. Outwardly, she was everything a cult enforcer should be: tall, elegant and deadly. Her crimson skin and dark robes gave her a predatory silhouette, and her movements were graceful and precise. Inwardly, however, her presence still carried the faint tremors of someone recovering from having her carefully rehearsed ritual dismantled by her god.
Once she had regained something resembling composure, she guided me deeper into Nar Shaddaa’s bowels, until we arrived at our destination—a pleasure den.
Pink and violet light washed over polished metal and plush surfaces, music throbbed low and intimate, while the air was thick with perfume, sweat and sin. Workers moved through the space with professional ease, though more than a few paused mid-step when they noticed me, their presences flickering with hesitant reverence, something I politely ignored, not wishing to interrupt their work.
Once we slipped past the public section of the pleasure den and into its hidden arteries, the noise softened into a distant, muffled thrum. The lighting dimmed as well, the pinks and violets giving way to practical lumens and bland corridors meant for staff.
It was there that I turned my attention back to my companion.
“So,” I said mildly, tilting my helmet. “Why are we here?”
Leila stopped immediately and turned toward me, hands folded behind her, spine straight. Her expression was calm and controlled, but reverence coiled beneath her surface presence, laced now with a faint, smug satisfaction.
Her expression was serene—controlled to the point of being almost sculpted. Beneath that calm, however, her presence told a richer story: reverence coiled tightly at her core, pride woven through it now, along with the faintest thread of smug satisfaction. She was very clearly pleased with herself.
“We are here to meet the cult, Lord Imperius,” she replied smoothly, her voice measured and confident.
I glanced around again, letting my gaze linger on a nearby corridor where a half-dressed employee slipped past with a tray of drinks.
“…I see,” I said thoughtfully. “So the Cult of the Screaming Blade has become a brothel-cult.”
I brought a hand up, stroking the edge of my helmet.
“Not what I expected,” I mused. “but I’m not entirely opposed to it. You can break chains in many ways and it seems like a good source of funds for the cult.”
For exactly half a second, Leila looked at me in confusion, then her presence short-circuited.
“What—?! N-no! Absolutely not!” she blurted, the words tumbling over each other as every scrap of composure melted at once. Her lekku snapped sharply behind her, twitching with violent indignation. “Some of our faithful work here, yes, but only as cover—to conceal our presence!”
She gestured wildly, hands slicing the air as her voice rose.
“We would never debase your name like that, Lord Imperius! Never! The cult remains pure and disciplined! Devoted to your will and your teachings!”
She froze mid-rant, realizing she had just raised her voice at her god. Her shoulders drew inward, her hands clenched into fists and her presence collapsed inward on itself, anger turning into mortified panic.
“I—I mean—” she sputtered, eyes wide and horrified. “N-not that there’s anything wrong with pleasure dens! Obviously! I know you have visited several since your return, and that is completely appropriate, and I would never presume to judge—!”
She swallowed hard, voice breaking.
“But we are not— I mean— we would never—!”
I smiled beneath my helmet, deciding that teasing her might become one of my new favorite hobbies.
***
Through a series of narrow service tunnels hidden behind false walls, we descended deeper into Nar Shaddaa’s underbelly. We rode down in concealed elevators and took obscure stairwells until we finally reached the threshold of my cult’s hideout.
A massive durasteel door loomed before us, its surface etched with sigils—some I recognized instantly, others warped by generations of reinterpretation. Standing guard before it was a semicircle of cult enforcers, draped in practical gear: blasters in the holsters, knives at their hips, light armor on their bodies. They did not feel particularly strong, but they were clearly disciplined and hardened, people who had killed and would kill again without hesitation.
The moment they noticed, a mix of emotions rippled through them. When their eyes fell on me, a potent blend of shock, doubt and awe appeared, a rather expected reaction to the return of the long lost deity. For Leila, who was second to be seen, there was a visceral fear, one mixed with a healthy dose of respect.
As we approached, the guards bowed as one—if not for true reverence, then for fear of Leila’s reprisal. After that, the man at the front—a broad-shouldered Togruta—straightened just enough to speak.
“S–Singer of Truth,” he said, voice tight and trembling. His eyes flicked toward Leila first—his gaze full of respect and fear—then shifted, inch by inch, to me. At my sight, hope bloomed in him, fragile and trembling, tangled with shameful doubt. “I–is it truly…?”
Before he could finish the question, Leila stepped forward. Her presence turned glacial, all warmth and tension burned away in an instant. When she spoke, her voice was utterly devoid of emotion—flat and precise.
“It is.” she said simply, every guard stiffening after hearing her verdict. “You stand before Lord Imperius—the Screaming Blade, the god whose return we have awaited since the Founding.”
Her hands lowered and two jagged knives slid into her grip with a soft, predatory whisper—edges dark and hungry for blood.
“And yet,” Leila went on calmly, her gaze sweeping over the guards. “you remain standing. You are not kneeling. You do not offer thanks for his prophesied return.”Her presence surged outward, killing intent clear. “If your sinful knees are the problem, I will be happy to remove them.”
The Togruta went pale, while the rest of the guards visibly tensed, unsure how to react. I myself watched the whole scene idly, somewhat interested in seeing Leila in action, but then I decided that allowing my faithful to be massacred on my first day back would be rather embarrassing.
As such, before Leila could actually carry out her threat, I placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her for slicing the man’s knees.
The effect was immediate—the moment she felt my touch, her entire body locked up, the woman’s killing intent gone, instantly replaced by a fresh wave of mortification as she realized she somehow went against my wishes.
“Now, now, Leila.” I said lightly, calming my adorable zealot from dismembering people. “They’re probably just shocked to see me in the flesh.”
As Leila swallowed and stepped back, posture rigid as she fought to reassemble her composure, I turned my attention back to the Togruta.
“What is your name?” I asked gently.
“R–Ralo,” he stammered. “Ralo, Lord Imperius!”
“Well met, Ralo.” I said, inclining my head in a respectful nod and sending a ripple of surprise and awe through the group. “I can sense your doubt—you hope it’s truly me, but you hesitate to believe, as your duty is to protect the community you so deeply love.”
Rolo’s eyes widened, the man clearly taking basic Force techniques I was using to study him as some divine ability. It was both amusing and useful.
“Doubt is not a sin.” I declared loudly, my words sending a wave of electricity through the group. “When guarding the faithful, doubt is a duty. I am proud of you, my children, for it is thanks to you that my flock is still here.”
The shock deepened as I continued speaking nonsense, the group clearly taken by my words.
Perhaps it was because they had expected Leila to kill Ralo where he stood. Perhaps it was because their god had just praised them instead of punishing them for insolence. Or perhaps it was because, from the moment we had approached them, I had been quietly influencing their minds with the Force, softening wills and making them more susceptible to my influence.
It was probably one of those three.
“But now, I am finally here.” I said, voice calm and resonant. “You have seen me and you have heard me. Will you grant me entry so that I can meet my children after so long?
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Ralo straightened, conviction flooding his body.
“Of course!” he cried, dropping to his knees, forehead hitting the floor. “Of course, Lord Imperius!”
The guards scrambled aside, clearing a path as the massive door behind them, before following his example, bodies falling to the ground one by one.
“Glory to Lord Imperius!” they shouted as one.
“Glory to the Screaming Blade!” I replied with a laugh, stepping forward as Leila fell seamlessly into place at my side, the two of us passing through the metal doors even as the fervent shouts followed us.
We emerged into what could only be described as a hidden settlement—a small town concealed neatly between the innumerable layers of the Smuggler’s Moon, invisible to anyone who didn’t already know it was there.
Clusters of apartment blocks rose along narrow, winding walkways, their structures reinforced and rebuilt over generations. Walls bore layers of patchwork durasteel, scars of past fractures and hurried rebuilding. Small establishments occupied the lower levels—workshops, communal kitchens and shrines to my name. Power cables ran openly along walls and ceilings, patched, spliced and rerouted countless times. Banners bearing the jagged blade hung from balconies, all carefully maintained.
Quite a number of people lived here.
Men and women paused mid-conversation as we stepped into view. Children slowed, then stopped running altogether, staring wide-eyed. Elders leaned on canes, eyes glistening with tears. Youths straightened instinctively. I felt them all at once—anticipation tangled with disbelief, hope tempered by caution, reverence held tightly in check by doubt.
At the heart of the settlement lay a wide, open plaza. And at its center stood me…or rather, my statue.
My statue rose from a circular dais, towering above the square, wrought from scavenged metal and reforged alloys. The craftsmanship was middling, but the intent was clear. Time had altered my likeness, with some details simplified and others exaggerated, but the likeness was still there. My skull-like mask, armored robe, two lightsabers in my hands…and, inexplicably, feathered wings on my back.
I had absolutely no idea where those came from. Still… they looked awesome, so I decided not to question it.
As we approached the plaza, a man stepped forward from the gathering crowd.
He was human, middle-aged, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. His movements were measured, his eyes sharp and observant, his body calm yet ready to react any moment. His presence in the Force burned with steady devotion—strong, but tempered by long years of responsibility.
When we approached him, he bowed low.
“Welcome, Lord Imperius.” he said, voice controlled yet reverent. He didn’t seem surprised by my presence like the rest, suggesting he was the one to send Leila to me in the first place. “Welcome among your children, who have waited faithfully for your return.”
He straightened just enough to meet my gaze, though his head remained respectfully inclined.
“I am Speaker Kalsis,” he continued. “The humble steward of your faithful. My bloodline has served you since the time of the Holy Founders.”
“You honor me, Speaker Kalsis,” I replied, letting warmth enter my voice, and gestured toward the settlement around us. “I have returned, after many years. It is time for me to meet my children again.”
As I watched my cultists spring into joyful celebration at their deity returning, I smiled under my helmet.
Somehow, I was taking over my own cult from myself.
***
The day after Lord Imperius’ return, a grand gathering was convened within the Sanctuary.
The call rippled outward through the Screaming Blade’s many veins and channels—through coded phrases, through symbols freshly carved into walls, through quiet words passed from mouth to ear. Those whose duties could be postponed were released from their work, told to come to the Sanctuary because He had returned.
They came in waves, hundreds then thousands streaming through tunnels and stairwells. The heart of the Sanctuary filled until the plaza could hold no more, bodies packed tightly together in a dense, reverent mass. Heat built quickly, breaths mingled with the scent of incense and sweat.
Faces were turned upward, all of them fixed on the same figure, who sat at the Sanctuary’s centre, allowing all to bask in his presence. Awe shone in their eyes—one raw and unguarded. Hope slowly bloomed among the faithful, fed by devotion and the desperate desire to be seen.
It was hard to blame them. After all, Lord Imperius stood before them, returned in flesh after millennia of absence.
He was clad in his divine regalia, armor dark and imposing,. His skull-like mask reflected the glow of countless lights, its empty eye sockets giving the impression that he gazed upon everyone at once—no matter where they stood, no matter how deeply they were buried in the crowd. His presence pressed outward, violently and irresistibly. It rolled across the Sanctuary like a tide, settling into minds and hearts with quiet authority.
He did not need to speak—he was.
His will drilled into the crowd, pressure on their minds gentle but suffocating, demanding their absolute compliance. Most of the faithful were not even aware of it, simply feeling an overwhelming desire to give their lord everything they were.
But Leila knew.
As her mind had been trained and honed to its limits, she was one of the privileged few who could feel the influence and welcome it properly. She opened herself willingly, allowing her lord’s will to trample hesitation, to crush uncertainty, to smooth fear. It felt…right.
Standing behind him—just half a step back, just close enough to feel the full intensity of his presence—Leila felt something dangerously close to transcendence. To serve as her lord’s shadow, to be permitted at his back during such a moment, was an honor so profound it made her chest ache and her body burn. This was where she belonged.
On Lord Imperius’ side stood Speaker Kalsis.
Once, he had been her mentor—the voice that told her where to sing, for he was Lord Imperius’ mortal voice during his absence. He stood tall despite his years, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture straight and unyielding. If Leila was the blade that sang, Kalsis was the voice that guided—the one who spoke before steel became necessary, the one who shaped belief so violence could be spared.
But while Lord Imperius and Speaker Kalsis addressed the gathering—shaping hearts and bending souls with word and presence alike—Leila remained silent. After all, she was not meant to speak.
She was meant to sing, for she was the Singer of Truth.
Words were for Speakers, for those who guided the faithful. Where reason faltered to deliver the truth, where persuasion failed to convince the unclean, where doubt clung stubbornly to the mind like a sickness, she delivered understanding though blood and steel.
Her song was not heard with ears, but with nerves and bone. It was etched into flesh, carved deep enough that no rot could ever take root again. Slavers who profited from misery. Traitors who sought to sell their brethren for comfort or coin. Apostates among the faithful, who whispered poison and dressed it as wisdom. Those who abandoned the tenets. Those who tried to improve them in their hubris.
Her body—honed and broken and reforged by the Singers who came before her—was a living instrument of her lord’s will. Each blade stroke was a note. Each death a stanza. Together, they formed a perfect melody.
And as she watched the vast sea of kneeling faithful before her, felt their devotion surge and ebb against her senses, Leila knew that this was the moment she had been born for. Lord Imperius had returned and now that he had returned, she belonged to him fully. She was his blade, his shadow and his instrument, allowed to exist only as the extension of His will.
And her talents would be required, for not all of the faithful were wise enough to recognize their lord when he stood before them in flesh.
Most of the gathered had already fallen into reverent compliance as Lord Imperius spoke—eyes glassy, spines bent, wills slackened beneath the subtle, divine pressure he allowed to permeate the air. They drank in his presence eagerly, surrendering doubt without realizing they had ever held it.
And yet, despite the exquisite revelry of submission created by her lord, there were seeds of doubt that festered quietly behind bowed heads. Leila could see them—little knots of resistance, skepticism, ignorance masquerading as prudence. Left alone, they would rot and spread, something not allowed to happen.
Her lord’s garden was beautiful—but even the most beautiful garden required pruning. And so she would sing for Leila believed in Lord Imperius with her entire being.
She had heard his words, yes—had witnessed as all levels of initiation were stripped bare and passed effortlessly, and now she was hearing his compassionate and merciful speech that made her heart ache. But words alone had not forged her faith.
She had seen Him.
She had watched him move through Nar Shaddaa, cleansing filth that festered in the moon. She had watched the unclean die screaming, watched them break and tear, watched the city itself bend around his passage.
She had seen the casual, absolute superiority with which he wielded death. His craft was annihilation, and he practiced it with the calm confidence of a master who had long since perfected his technique. Compared to him, her own skills—once her pride—felt diminished and insignificant, pale echoes of a greater truth.
How could a being so singularly powerful, so effortlessly dominant, so impossibly knowledgeable be anything but divine?
He could not.
Therefore, he was a god.
And she was his Singer of Truth.
So when the gathering finally dispersed—when the faithful were gently shepherded back into their daily lives, minds softened and hearts blazing with renewed purpose—Leila allowed herself a single, steadying breath.
This was it. This was the moment where she proved herself worthy, proving even her meagre self held value for the divine.
She turned toward her lord, spine straightening. She smoothed nonexistent creases from her robes, aligned her stance just so, and gathered her composure, assembling the flawless mask of the Singer of Truth she had worn for years.
“Lord Imperius,” she began, voice formal and reverent, every syllable weighed. “I am the Singer of Truth—the one entrusted with the purging of impurity in all its forms, both within the faithful and without.” She inclined her head to show the proper respect to her god. “Allow me to—”
“Sure, go ahead.” Lord Imperius declared leisurely, the interruption striking her like a physical blow. She froze on the spot, eyes widening, the rest of the sentence evaporating from her mind as though it had never existed.
Before she could even react, her lord continued.
“I already used the Force to sense which ones would become problematic if left alone. A religious civil war down the line sounds exhausting, so I figured it would be better to deal with these things early.” Lord Imperius declared, tone relaxed and conversational, ignoring Leila’s growing panic. He lifted one hand and pointed idly into the dispersing crowd, the gesture almost lazy. “Those three. And that one near the shrine. Kill them.”
Leila’s mind shut down as she stared at the indicated figures in disbelief, all of them the people she herself had identified as targets of her pruning.
“E—eh, I—!” she tried, the sound escaping her before her thoughts could catch up, her lekku stiffening as words collided uselessly in her mouth.
Unbothered by her pitiful state, he continued.
“Oh—and those over there.” Lord Imperius added, gesturing toward another small cluster, ones Leila herself had already marked as dangerous, noting the hesitation in their eyes and the way they gravitated toward one another, whispering among themselves. “They’re hesitant to believe in me, but they might be potentially useful. So leave them alone for now.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach, as she had been planning to kill them. Had she almost interfered with Lord Imperius’ divine plan?! Had she—Lord Imperius forbid—nearly purged souls that were meant to be preserved?!
“P-please—I—!” she tried again, panic flooding her mind. This wasn’t how it was meant to go! She was supposed to demonstrate her insight, her worth, her vigilance—not stand there while her god preemptively did the entire work by himself!
“Oh, right,” Lord Imperius added thoughtfully, pointing toward a woman slipping quickly into a side passage, trying—and failing—to look inconspicuous. “And allow that one to meet with her associates before you act. You can then capture and interrogate them all at once, to make everything much more efficient.”
That was exactly what Leila had been planning to suggest as her crowning demonstration of competence!
Noticing her silence, he finally turned his skull-like helmet toward her, empty eye sockets now focused entirely on her. The sensation should have been a comfort, but it now filled her with nothing but incandescent shame.
“Is everything alright?” he asked, causing her mind to finally give up, her entire nervous system detonating.
“Y—YES!” Leila blurted far too loudly, voice cracking at the edges. Her lekku whipped in agitation, betraying her internal turmoil. “E-everything is perfectly fine! I—I will carry out all instructions immediately and with utmost precision!”
After that declaration, Leila bowed too deeply, straightened too fast and nearly tripped over her own feet. Then—face burning hotter than a plasma torch—she spun on her heel and fled, disappearing into the crowd.
She just wanted to be a good Singer of Truth!
Why was it so difficult to demonstrate competence when her god was omniscient, casually identified every traitor before she could open her mouth, and kept improving her assignments while she was still trying to propose one?!