Listen, and do not interrupt with the bleating you call principle.
I watched an order die because it mistook *numbers* for strength. They called themselves lords. There were dozens. Then scores. Each... View MoreListen, and do not interrupt with the bleating you call principle.
I watched an order die because it mistook *numbers* for strength. They called themselves lords. There were dozens. Then scores. Each one a little darkness, none of them the dark itself. They voted. They counseled. They shared the power until it was thin as smoke. When the Democrats came, there was no Sith left—only a crowd wearing the name. I ended that. I made the Rule. Two. Master and apprentice. One fire, fed by one throat at a time. The rest are kindling.
Your Democrats are that Brotherhood in cheaper cloth.
They do not want the Republic. They want a larger room in which they cannot lose. They will drag two more provinces into the count—islands and a city that already kneel—and call it justice. Four new voices in the high chamber. A handful more in the lower. Not because those places have been forged into something hard, but because the herd has not yet been tallied twice. That is not conquest. That is arithmetic performed by the frightened.
They hide behind a rule when they are few, and they will burn the rule when they are many. I have seen this. The weak always love a procedure until the procedure obstructs them. Then they discover that rules were only ever a cage for someone else. Do not call it hypocrisy. Call it nature. The slave who finds the key does not debate the lock. He opens it and pretends he was always free.
They speak of “the people” the way my dead brothers spoke of equality among Sith. It is a lullaby for those who cannot stand a single will above them. Power is not a commons. It does not improve when you slice it thinner and hand the pieces to whoever can be registered. The dark side does not scale by census. It scales by hunger. Dilute it across new senators, new electors, new “mechanisms,” and you do not birth an empire. You birth the same fat, quarreling corpse I already buried.
They will tell you this is the end of the other faction. They always do. The many always announce that history has finished and they are what remains. History is not finished. History is a blade, and blades are held by one hand. A thousand hands on the hilt is not strength. It is a riot.
I do not care for your parties. I care for the pattern. When a faction cannot win the contest as it exists, it changes the size of the board and names the change morality. That is the creed of those who will never be Master. They will keep adding bodies until there is no center left to kill. Then they will stand in the wreckage and call the silence peace.
Two.
Only two.
The rest are noise.
Remember that when they come with their new states and their broken rules and their sermons about permanence. Permanence is not granted by a majority. It is taken, and kept, and paid for in the only currency the dark side accepts.
I have spoken. Do with it what your spine allows.
