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The needle was piercing her grey skin regularly, in unison with the drums beating outside. She winced but swallowed the whimper that raised in her throat, clutching her teeth. Most of the time, the pain was bearable, but the tattoo artist had just reached one of the profound scars that were streaking her back, where the flesh was more sensitive. Nevertheless, she would not utter a sound. The tattoo was part of her coming of age and she had to prove herself worthy by standing tall through all the trials.
She had just turned seventeen, the age at which rattataki youngsters were considered adults by their peers. The yearly ritual gathered people of all the clans enslaved on Korriban. It was tolerated by the sith but kept under very close watch. The celebrations started with fights in the pit. On Rattatak, they would have had weapons, lethal ones. But here they were only allowed sticks and bare hands. They were slaves, and armed slaves became dangerous for their masters.
Most of her opponents had been strong, brutal. Those qualities were highly valued in her culture and if strength had been all that mattered, they would have outmatched her by far. But she was cunning and quick, and more than anything, she did not see defeat as an option. She had been wounded several times. She had tasted her own blood mixed with dirt and sweat more than once. But she had won her fights and when the tattoo drawing lines on her back and her head would finally be completed, she would join the others for the final ceremony.
Like every year, someone would declaim the story of her people and remind them how Darth Vich's insurrection had costed them their freedom. Like every year, the young would swear that they would break free of their bonds. And like every single year, the Sith monitoring their ceremony would address them with a patronizing smile and grant them a look full of disdain and certitude that none of them would fulfill their oath.
But she would. Steeling herself against the pain that the needle was still inflicting her, she opened the palm of her right hand where she held the small trophy she had kept from her last fight, a buckle she had torn from her opponents cloths. Concealing her hand in her lap, she concentrated. The piece first quivered, then slowly started levitating and she smiled. It was her secret. As secret she would use to get her way out of slavery.
Her name was Nyx. That day, she still wore the collar that made her a slave. But that day, she swore that she would break her chains. She did not know how long it would take, but she would rise and would not stop before reaching the top. She would make them see that they were wrong to underestimate her kind.