“For what they have done and continue to do, I see no limit to the horror to which Mankind is heir, Men hovering forever on the brink of secret, abyssal oceans of supernatural terror, severed from the next world by a thin veneer which will soon be rent.” ~From The Journal of Lord Nyax

Arhul Hextrophon sat alone in his study, staring into space, cogitating on the inveterate, ceaseless stream that was time. How long had this ignescent galaxy been consumed by the dying rage of the mad and monstrous?

Restless, Arhul arose and went to the large bay windows. The decrescent Chandrilan moon, now dissolving in the pastoral fields of chicory and lyris that grew wild upon the sweet-scented valleys he knew, spurred on his mordant brooding. Its fading light touched briefly on his tawny beard and shaggy hair before vanishing. Was peace only reserved for those for whom all endeavours ceased, or were the dead embroiled in yet other toils? He thought upon Mon Mothma and others long departed who had given their lives to ensure that freedom from bondage and fear could be shared by all, a cause he once fervently shared before he started to wonder if it was all na?ve idealism. What purpose did all the suffering and bloodshed serve if to achieve only a few years of peace before another evil arose to take the place of that which they’d fought so bitterly to defeat??

He opened one of the dark glass bottles sitting atop the cabinet. The impressive collection, from a more fortuitous time, had sat there for years, intended mainly for guests. He knew that even the help of the many decades-old Segir Reserve wouldn’t push aside his doubts, but he savored the honey-wood, slightly fenneled whiskey as he recalled the words of the Lurmen Chief, Wag Too, who he’d once interviewed, accusing the New Republic of being only slightly less militaristic than the Empire, quoting from the Sylphe King of Sainte-Evan?flore who’d written, “War only feeds the violence, engorging the bloated death-worm that cares nothing for ideologies or sides.” That brought to mind the famous quote from The Challenge of Peace, written by the Nuiwit Council of Elders, which said, “In war, there is no good and evil, only spilt blood and shattered bones,” and the quote from Cody Sunn-Childe, who denounced war as, “The most fervent expression of the Father of Shadows, serving nought but him and those who serve him.”

Had the Alliance and its successors actually prolonged war as their most outspoken critics contended? He rejected the notion. The Emperor was evil incarnate. The suffering of the galaxy would have only increased exponentially had his reign been allowed to stand.

The mournful cries of the Silverwing broke through the indigo night, reminding Arhul of a book he’d read of dispossessed younglings in search of paradise. There were, of course, long stretches of peace in the galaxy and worlds that had rarely seen conflict, but that seemed abstract at the moment, a fleeting bit of fortune; their odds of continuing as such was a bet not even the most hardened gambler would take. His own youth, characterized by peace and contentment, had been visited by an act of violence so extreme, it forced him to grow up far quicker than he otherwise would have.

It was that road that led him to early service with the Alliance. He was not a warrior, but a man of science and letters, and so he made a name for himself as a historian, then archaeologist, then Master Historian before becoming a mentor for two very bright students who he felt were far cleverer than he… and more circumspect.

For most, that would have been enough.

But the appetite for truth doesn’t care about accolades, reputation, or comfort. It scorns all such notions as the luxuries they are. Even worse, it seeks to be shared despite the fact that most in the galaxy have little patience for it, and some take pleasure in deriding it.

So be it. If, by his sacrifice, some find some measure of courage, hope, or peace, it would have all been worth it. That had been his objective, after all: to shine a light on the darkness… Only a fool would fail to know the darkness would respond.

Finishing the last glass, he now poured himself a dram of saqua, breathed it in, and took a sip, allowing the liquid to rest on his tongue for a few seconds before swallowing. Smokily aromatic and warming, he filled up the tulip-shaped snifter.

As the evening hours drew to a close, his hackles rose as the enervating fears returned, with all the courage he’d felt in the nobility of his fate fleeing before him. Nervously rubbing his thick stubble, he glanced at the enigmatic crystal skull upon his desk: Why sacrifice so few precious years if nothing awaits beyond the grave but endless seas of black oblivion? If eternal nothingness is the abiding place of the departed, were not the hedonist philosophers right in laughing at all notions of hope and struggle as the province of fools?

He knew a dolorous end lay in wait just outside the door. Arhul did not imagine himself Force-sensitive, but he didn’t have to be. He’d known for some time that his doom was at hand and had tried to prepare for it. Steeling himself against the realization that it had come at last, he forced his focus upon the moon-blanched hills of loosestrife and iris that lay before the scattered gambrel roofs and creeping moss that grew in abundance upon the ornate rails and marble statuary that stood as mythic sentinels for whom the ages held little sway. In this bucolic terrene, amidst the deeper realities of the natural world and what he knew must lie beyond, Arhul strengthened his resolve to overcome the thanatophobic dread, resigning what fate lay before him to the providential hands of the greater Force.

He felt, rather than heard, movement inside the house. They had the ability to ambulate without being heard, so that what little sounds they made were affectations de-signed to escalate terror. The door of the study opened laggardly, seemingly of its own accord. He saw nothing beyond the opening lintel but the expanding gloom.

A moment of panic set in when he discerned the silhouettes of several manlike forms standing in the shadows. Such things had never been men; they were of shadow, embodiments of old and impossible myths too terrible to be believed. But for the burning glow of their eyes, he’d have seen nothing but the rapidly diminishing light until it was too late and they’d glided through the dark to torment their prey, lying paralyzed in bed.

Not many months earlier, he’d have scoffed at the very notion, bound as he’d been to institutional creeds and conventional wisdom. How much easier it had been to believe in a finite universe that one could study and measure—in which the only monsters were the figurative ones, the mentally-shattered, avaricious, and power-mad.

Gathering his wits, he spoke without preamble, “You’re too late. That which you seek has already been reproduced and distributed.”

The shadows seemed to slide closer. What passed as arms grew outstretched; what appeared as fingers elongated into long, sharp hooks. He could no longer move, though whether from fright or some benumbing power they possessed, he couldn’t say. Although frozen in body, his spirit and mind were yet free, and they went to work, refusing to yield to the engulfing umbra of fear and death.

Those that stood before Arhul were not accustomed to speech, and the voices they emitted were as dry, hollow reeds and whispers extruded from long, underground crypts, “You believe we have come for that which you prize sooo dearly; of that knowledge which only the ancients knew…”

“Well, you didn’t come all this way for nothing.” He would give them neither the satisfaction of dismay nor the acquiescence of despair.

“Nooo, Arhul Hextrophonnnn… We are the Emissaries of Shadow,” spoke another thin, old, derisive voice from behind him. “We exact the penalty of violation.”

“For whom? Your masters sleep, bound in chains,” Arhul charged.

“We serve not Dread Typhojem,” said another that stretched out from the right of him, “nor bow to the ossuary kings of Xanthiir and Oozultharoum. The Father of Shadows alone commands us… and he is very much active!”

To his left, a penumbral face drew near, taking the shape of his late father, and scowling, it said: “You stall to protect those who would expose the secrets of the Shadow Worlds. They will die tooo, and your own eyes will watch as they wriiithe in agony, knowing you are to blame for their suffering, as you are for our deaths!”

Arhul knew their ploys and refused to be baited. He had less fear for himself than for his friends. He dared not even think of them now, lest the Shadow Beings prove able to penetrate his thoughts. Defaulting to his curiosity, he puzzled over the bizarre physiognomy of beings that could fluctuate from solid mass to impalpable, ectoplasmic forms. It occurred to him then that neither they nor their masters were all-powerful or allknowing.

“You think you are protecting the truth; that you and your pathetic droid probed the secrets of kings and gods… It is we who allowed you to travel our domain, we who imparted the wisdom of our great masters, and we who will guide you on your final stage. You need only open yourself to us… Yesss, we know you have suffered in solitude. You need not be lonely any longer… We will give you all that you desire…”

“You?!” he spat.If they could not destroy the work, they would discredit it. They needed only a body. They could not possess one whose mind had not been weakened, whose spirit had not been darkened. But together, they could kill him, drain his blood, and, thereupon, take his corpse as an animated puppet. With his name held in ignominy, none of what he recorded would be regarded as anything but the ravings of a lunatic.

“You,” he spat as anger welled up in him, “are nothing!” And with this denial of their prize, he sealed his fate.

They fell upon him. Arhul Hextrophon heard the sounds of subsonic shrieking, certain they were being rent from his own throat as death drew near.

Then, the pain stopped.

In the room beyond, another being walked into sight, taller and different in bearing than these others. Their master? he wondered. As he approached, however, Arhul realized that he was not a shadow but a man of indeterminate age dressed somberly in the rich and elegant garb of a century prior. There was something unsettling in his eyes. Unlike the flaming orbs of the elongated Shadow Men, his glowed like a nyctaloptic pittin, luminescent and redolent of things terrifying and remote, as if the gulf of ages were but a transitory passing of seasons. For some reason, he terrified Arhul even more than the Shadow Beings.

As the Shadows turned, hissing and roaring with rage upon the being that entered the room, the being stretched out his arm, causing everything to swirl in black and crimson.

Then Arhul heard nothing more.