Sarynth moved through the dim, shadowy expanse of Coruscant's lower levels, her footsteps echoing faintly against the durasteel floor. The air was thick with the pungent mix of engine grease, burning spice, and the acrid tang of desperation. Neon signs flickered erratically, casting jagged patterns of sickly green, blue, and red light across the alleyways, illuminating her scaled visage for fleeting moments before plunging her back into obscurity.

Her draconic wings, cloaked for subtlety, rested against her back, blending seamlessly with her dark, iridescent robe. Her tail, hidden beneath the folds, flicked impatiently as she scanned the row of run-down establishments, each more decrepit than the last. Music and muffled laughter spilled out from the entrance of a particularly seedy bar, its sign barely legible under layers of grime and flickering lights: The Slag Pit.

"This will do," she murmured to herself, her voice a low growl that carried the weight of command. She strode forward, the twin sabers at her hips hidden beneath the long sweep of her robe.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the chaotic hum of conversation. The clientele was a mix of species—some grizzled and scarred, others fresh and desperate—but all had a look of hardened survival in their eyes. The dim lighting did little to disguise the peeling walls or the sticky floors, but Sarynth paid no mind. She wasn't here for comfort. She had business to attend to.

Near the back of the room, a man rose from his seat as she approached. His appearance was striking: short, curved horns protruded from his head, framing a face that bore the wear of years spent navigating the criminal underworld. His eyes were sharp, studying her as she approached, but there was no mistaking the flicker of recognition—and fear—that crossed his expression.

"Well, I'll be," he said, his gravelly voice carrying just enough reverence to mask his unease. "Ms. Crimson, didn't think you'd grace us with your presence tonight."

The nickname made her lips curl into a faint, predatory smirk. It was an alias she'd adopted among the lower levels, one that commanded respect and kept her true identity cloaked in shadow.

"I go where I'm needed," she replied, her voice a silky, measured purr. "And tonight, I'm needed here."

The man nodded, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Well then, if it's business you've got, I won't waste your time. What's the game, Ms. Crimson?"

Sarynth didn't sit. Instead, she leaned forward, letting the faint glow of her violet eyes catch the light as she fixed him with a piercing stare. "The game, Zarnik, is one you don't want to lose."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken menace, and the man's grin faltered slightly.

This would be an interesting night.

-

"You're looking for your Crimson Dawn," the horned man said, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the muffled chaos of the bar. His curved horns caught the faint neon glow of the room as he glanced around warily, his sharp gaze darting to the door and windows. "Word's out. Coruscant's been... a bit of a mess since you arrived. Clones are poking their noses into places they shouldn't. They've been asking about you."

He leaned in closer, his breath carrying the sour tang of cheap liquor. "Everywhere," he added, dragging the word out for emphasis.

The man had disguised himself well—an unassuming face marked by years of grime and toil, his horns filed down to appear smaller than they truly were. He called himself Ivar, a name whispered in the back alleys of Coruscant's lower depths, known for getting people what they needed—information, protection, and occasionally, a way out. Yet there was something about him that unsettled Sarynth. It wasn't fear—he was too inconsequential for that—but the way he oscillated between servile charm and predatory cunning was, if nothing else, irritating.

Still, he had his uses.

"Follow me," Ivar said, straightening up. "We'll talk where prying eyes can't see."

Without waiting for her approval, he began weaving his way through the crowded bar, his movements precise and practiced. Sarynth followed, her piercing violet eyes scanning the room with an almost imperceptible flicker of suspicion. The patrons averted their gazes, sensing her presence without understanding it, as though a primal instinct warned them of a predator in their midst.

Ivar led her to a dimly lit back room, its walls lined with aging, creaking shelves cluttered with dusty bottles and forgotten relics. At the center of the room sat a figure cloaked in shadows, his hood pulled low over his face. The edges of his crimson cape glimmered faintly in the weak light, hinting at intricate Sith-like embroidery.

"This," Ivar said, gesturing with a flourish and an exaggerated bow, "is Mr. Maul." His tone was dripping with mock grandeur, though he quickly straightened, realizing his words carried more weight than he intended. With that, Ivar took a step back, offering a brief, unsettling smile before retreating, leaving the two alone.

Sarynth crossed her arms, her scaled tail curling slightly behind her. The weight of the Force was palpable in the room now, thick and oppressive, the shadows seeming to stretch and writhe with unspoken tension.

"Maul," she said, her tone measured, neither surprised nor impressed.

The figure shifted, raising his head just enough for the dim light to catch the unmistakable red and black markings of his face. His yellow, predatory eyes burned with intensity, locking onto her own.

"Sarynth," he replied, his voice a low rumble, sharp as a blade. "I've been expecting you."