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It was an entirely different experience to enter a Sith Temple as a Sith.
It felt stronger than any he’d encountered before, emboldened, perhaps, by the presence of himself and his new Master, the temptation of its secrets a crescendo in his head. That was not the problem that it once would have been; Dooku had freed himself of the need to guard himself against such knowledge. He sought it now, and the Temple was all too willing to offer it to him, no longer its adversary but its disciple. As long as he proved himself a strong enough Sith to take its secrets.
Sidious entered first, and Dooku followed behind. As he crossed the threshold, the Temple pressed down on him, almost suffocating him, scratching at his mind, seeking a way in.
If Sidious felt it, he didn’t show it. Dooku would not falter either. He would not show weakness to the ghosts of this place. After all, they, unlike him, had succumbed to the ultimate failure of death. That alone proved they were weaker than he.
At the Temple’s center, Sidious spoke.
“This Temple requires…a sacrifice, my apprentice.”
The implication, of course, that Dooku must be the one to provide it. Understandable. This was not to be one of the paltry trials of the Jedi, all empty illusions, but something real, to test his true strength.
Dooku took up the knife on the pedestal, and pressed its blade against his other arm. He dragged it along, bringing an agony that was not merely from the rending of his flesh. But still, proud, he did not flinch from his task or cry out even as blood flowed into the Temple and pain stole his sight.
He did not know who was more pleased: the Temple or his Master.