Ochi looked down at it. Like the Sith wayfinders, like the weird mask the leader of the cultists was wearing, the dagger looked like the product of another age entirely. The weapon was a dull silver, and while the blade was straight, it was lobed, shaped with two bulbous sections separated by a short, squarish serrated portion. The edges of the weapon were bright, like they were freshly machined. The blade itself was plain, the hilt a short, thick curve of metal.

Ochi looked up at the cultist’s bandage-wrapped face.

“What is this?”

The cultist did not speak, but they held the dagger forward.

Ochi looked at the masked woman. “Is this for me?”

The black mask inclined in acknowledgment. “Take the blade.”

Ochi shrugged and reached for the weapon, expecting the cultist to hand it over by the handle. Instead, they moved the weapon again so the blade remained pointing at Ochi.

“Take the blade,” said the woman.

“Yes, but, I don’t understand—”

“You will. Take the blade.”

Ochi found himself cowering under the commanding order. He reached forward, both hands carefully taking hold of the blade, mindful to keep the cutting edges clear of his palms.

That was when the cultist pulled the knife back and up, toward themselves. Ochi cried out, first in surprise, then in pain as he realized what the cultist had done. He collapsed onto his knees, cradling his cut hands, curling them into fists to try to stop the blood that was now beginning to ooze out between his closed fingers.

“What did you do that for?” he yelled up at the woman in the mask. “You’ve nearly crippled me.”

“Your wounds will heal,” said the woman, “and this blade will tell.”

She gestured to the cultist. Ochi turned to watch, his injured hands still pressed tightly against his chest.

The cultist held the dagger out, tilting the blade down so it caught the light.

As Ochi watched, the blade began to glow, softly at first, but then with a light that deepened to a red—the same red as the woman’s lightsaber. The light spiraled then began to coalesce, almost like particles of dust spinning around the blade. The light was sucked in toward the blade, and then a pulse traveled along the blade, Ochi’s blood vanishing, like it was absorbed by the metal itself as the light slowly moved along it, leaving in its wake lines of densely packed symbols, intricate and delicate, the light engraving them in the surface from hilt to tip. When the light reached the point, it flashed and was gone, leaving the dagger’s blade smoking slightly in the air.

Ochi dipped his head, the agony of his injured hands refusing to abate. He closed the irises of his cybernetic eyes, this time thankful for the peaceful darkness, and shook his head.

“What must I do?” he asked, finally.

“Find the girl,” said the woman. “Bring her to Exegol. There the Sith Eternal will guide the galaxy to its destiny and you shall find that which you seek.”

Ochi shook his head. “Even if I find this girl, how do I get to Exegol? I need to know. You need to tell me. Show me the path. Give me the coordinates, or a beacon, or something. Give me a wayfinder.”

“When the time is right,” said the woman, “the blade will tell. Keep it with you, always. The blade is your key.”

Ochi opened his eyes.

He was alone.

He stood, letting his hands fall to his sides, the blood continuing to drip onto the decking. As he looked around, he heard a hissing sound and detected the faint rise of steam.

He looked down. The blood from his hands was dripping down onto the dagger, which lay on the decking. As each drop hit the blade, it hissed, like the dagger was white-hot, the blood vanishing as it evaporated.

No, it wasn’t evaporating. The blade was absorbing it.

He bent down and grimaced against the pain as he opened his hand and picked the weapon up, by the handle this time, which was pleasantly cool against his burning hands. The blade was clean, the engraving on it looking as old as the weapon itself, like it was part of the original design. He recognized the script. He’d only seen scraps of it in his texts, and he’d never been able to translate it, but he knew what language it was.

Ur-Kittât. The old tongue of the Sith, forbidden since the days of the Old Republic, inscribed in the unique runic alphabet that Ochi had also seen engraved on the walls of the Sith Citadel on Exegol.

As he held the dagger, Ochi felt…something. Not a presence as such, but something smaller, if just as malevolent. The feeling was, he realized, coming from the dagger itself, like the relic was somehow…alive.

Alive, and hungry. For blood. For death.

For killing.

Find the girl. Bring her to Exegol.

The blade will tell.



Star Wars Shadow of The Sith Chapter 5