I stand at the war table in Vader's Fortress, its newly etched Je'daii runes flickering under the lava's glow, each pulse a defiance against this planet's scorched will. The chamber, once Vader's altar to dread, clamors with the noise of a settlement I have forged in these past months' fever. Merchants barter datacrons at the hall's edges. Droids haul crates through air that stinks of ash and ambition. Knights in cortosis cloaks shout orders across the floor, their voices competing with the groan of cargo lifts and the distant percussion of the forges I have built into the fortress's lower levels. The heat never relents, as if Mustafar loathes the life I have grafted onto its bones. My mask remains a cold, constant weight against my face, the way it has since the day I first put it on before the Mandalorian Wars and understood that the face beneath it was less important than the symbol above it. The redeemed saber at my side serves as a steady anchor, its twin an ever-ready symbol of authority. I trace a rune's curve on the table, half-hearing the squabble before me. A merchant, jowls trembling, clutches a datacron the way a drowning man clutches a spar, while an overseer, hands blackened by forge grease, looms across from him. Their voices grate, vibroblades hacking at my patience, but their faces fade into the tide of this order I have wrought. Too many have come, too fast, their names dissolving into a faceless swarm that threatens to drown me. Their demands drag at me the way Vitiate's chains had dragged, a millennium of stasis gnawing at my chest, the same suffocating grip of being needed by more people than one soul can hold. Bastila's voice flickers in my mind, "You carry too much, love," and I bury her light beneath the dark I have tamed. I flatten my hand against the table, the runes biting my skin, grounding me in this moment.
"Trade routes to the Core will fill our coffers faster to sustain this growth!"
The merchant barks. His eyes dart to me, pleading for salvation.
"We can't squander the credits on power grids here when the real wealth is out in the stars!"
The overseer's fist slams the table, rattling a holoprojector.
"No grids, no forges to make your goods! Workers are collapsing in this hellhole, and your ships will become paper weights without fuel or plating to patch their hulls!"
They turn to me, expectant, as if I were a god to carve their truths from nothing. I meet their gazes, gray eyes steady behind my mask, their need a familiar gravity I have borne since Dantooine's fields, when the Council had set me on a path and called it destiny and I had been young enough to believe them. Galen Marek stands to my right, now my Sentinel of Shadows, lean and wound tight in black leather. A little over a month sober, his gaunt frame burns with a fire grief has not quenched. A smirk tugs at the rough scar on his cheek. He knows the cost of legends, as I do, and his presence is a tether in this sea of faceless demands.
"Well, my Herald?"
The merchant urges, his voice a shrill plea that frays my nerves further. I straighten, my cloak whispering against the table, and the hall falls silent. Even the droids halt, their whir lost to the gravity of my gaze. My voice cuts through, low and deliberate.
"The star burns for both dawn and dusk, yet neither claims its fire. Let trade fuel labor, and labor anchor trade. Divide your strength, and you will sunder the Force itself."
The merchant blinks, his datacron sagging in his grip. He opens his mouth to protest, the calculation of a man who has spent his life measuring profit against risk flickering behind his eyes, but the overseer steps forward first, his scowl softening, his fist unclenching as the logic takes hold in him. The merchant sees the shift and swallows his objection. They nod, murmuring agreement, not because my words were magic but because neither of them wants to be the one who defies the man in the mask in front of a hall full of witnesses. I have seen the same capitulation on a thousand faces across four thousand years. The words matter less than the authority behind them, and the authority matters less than the willingness to enforce it, and I am willing, and they know it, and that is the machinery of leadership stripped to its gears. I feel no triumph, only the ache of truths that cost too much, each syllable a chain forged on Malak's betrayal, when I had learned that the people who followed me did so for reasons I could not control and the moment I believed otherwise was the moment I became Vitiate. The hall empties, boots shuffling, robes rustling on the warm air. I turn, my steps slow with the marching cadence of all the years I have carried, and sink into Vader's throne. Its dark stone bites my spine, cold despite the heat that radiates from every wall. Faded Sith runes glow under my fingers, whispering power I have long forsaken. I close my eyes, exhaling centuries of war, the mask's steel a reminder of vows that never rest.
Galen lingers against the volcanic glow.
"Even legends carry regrets, don't they, Herald?"
His voice is rough, warm, worn smooth by care, cutting through the smoke of my exhaustion. Something eases in me, fleeting, his words piercing my guard the way only honesty can. Before I can rise to answer, the Force yanks me from the throne, a whip-crack of intent. Instinct surges. I twist mid-air, cloak flaring, and flip over the war table, landing in a crouch. My redeemed saber snaps to my hand, its amethyst blade igniting to life, steady and true.
"Marek, I have no time for your games today."
I grin despite the fire in my veins. My stance low and ready, the hall's lava glow painting my shadow across the runes. Galen's dual sabers ignite, white-blue blades crackling with unstable energy in his underhand grip, their kyber crystals singing chaos under his mastery.
"Death doesn't knock when convenient, Revan. It's out there, honing its attack, and you're lounging around like a Hutt on a throne."
His lunges slash with lethal intent, held just shy of the edge. We dance, light and shadows weaving through the hall. My violet saber arcs, meeting his strikes with precision, sparks raining as blades clash, their heat a fleeting sting in the air. His sabers crackle, the unstable storm he wields with iron control, but I feel his hunger to learn, to sharpen against my will. I parry, sidestepping a low cut, the Force guiding my steps, a river of balance I have fought to master across more lifetimes than any living being should have to account for. The lava's glow paints us in fire, our shadows flickering the way shadows had flickered on the training floors of Dantooine's enclave, where I had sparred with Malak before the Wars, when we were both young enough to believe that skill at arms meant wisdom and that winning a duel meant we were right.
"Balance, Marek."
My voice steady as I feint left and spin right, my blade grazing his guard, a whisper of contact.
"The Force flows, force it and it becomes only rapids."
He laughs, raw and rough, a sound that echoes the cantinas of Nar Shaddaa.
"Balance? You're preaching to a man who's crawled his way out of the abyss!"
His blades drive harder, slicing air inches from my cloak, testing the legend I have become. The duel is alive, burning away the drag of this throne, this order, if only for a moment.
A hard crack splits the air. Two lightsaber pikes slam into the floor, their white blades, forged with kyber crystals shimmering violet and blue, humming a resonant chord that silences the hall's echoes. Kaelith and Feryn, of my Pyraeth's Chosen, stand at the entrance, their dark armor gleaming with gold inlays, etched with angular runes like ancient Sith ceremonial plate, yet light enough for a Force warrior's grace. Their visors hide their eyes, but their stance is iron, forged in Mustafar's volcanic storms, proof of the trials I have set for them.
Dren'var, a young Chiss whose determination has earned him the role of my squire, steps between them, his red eyes glowing like embers in a stern face framed by a crisp tunic. A datapad, its runes glowing softly, rests in his hands.
"My Herald." His voice clipped with Chiss precision. "Vicrul and Zeht have returned from their hunt. They insist on delivering their report directly, and their urgency has been noted per their request."
I snap my saber off, its hiss fading into the hall's heat. Galen does the same, stepping back with a smirk that does not reach his eyes.
"Knights always ruin the fun. Getting rusty, Revan. One day, I'll catch you."
I clip my hilt to my belt, the grin fading to the drag of centuries I have carried.
"The Force bends the soul that seeks stillness, yet in its tension, we are molded to its will."
Flanked by Dren'var, Kaelith, and Feryn, I stride from the hall, the Chosen's pikes at my back. The meeting chamber awaits, and with it, whispers of a galaxy that refuses to kneel.
The meeting chamber's dark walls drink the volcanic light, their etched runes glowing like a heartbeat caged in stone. I stride through the arched threshold, Kaelith and Feryn at my heels. The grand holotable dominates the room, its surface etched with Je'daii sigils, casting long shadows across the four figures already within. Soryn and Vaelith, two more Chosen, stand at attention near the far wall, their armor the same dark, gold-veined plate as the others, worn light despite its weight. Vicrul and Zeht wait by the table, their silhouettes carved against the red haze filtering through slit windows. I dismiss Dren'var, his red eyes unyielding as he exits, the chamber's blast door sealing behind him. Kaelith and Feryn lower their pikes in a crisp salute to Vicrul, now as my Sentinel of Fire. Soryn and Vaelith bow deeper, a deference honed by his command, but Kaelith's grip firms on her pike, a flicker of wariness at Vicrul's contained storm. I had named him my fire for this reason, honed now by our creed, but the dark side in him still ready to snap at any moment.
I stand at the holotable, its black surface scarred with Je'daii sigils, heat and old secrets settled into every groove. The fortress's stone bears down against my cloak, but it is the confinement that chokes me. These walls are a tomb for a soul that has roamed galaxies. I lower myself into the chamber's head chair, its stone cold against my spine, anticipation twitching in my veins.
"What did you find at this Echo Relay the Jedi pointed us to?"
Vicrul's scarred hand slams the holotable, and a holo flares to life. Lehon's black spires claw at a storm-fractured sky, their stone alive with a hunger that claws at my mind, a Rakata hymn I had heard in dreams and in waking, on the beaches of Lehon where I had stood with Bastila and Jolee and faced the temple that held the Star Forge's key.
"The Jedi's Relay tip was gold, my Herald. A fortress of white spires and gold veins, stranger than even the Rakata's madness."
The holo's glow casts hard shadows across the Chosen's visors, their kyber humming faintly, a chord that stirs the air. I lean forward, the mask grounding me.
"The Covenant and the Eternal. Spit it out, did you find their role in this cosmic mess?"
Vicrul's dark eyes meet mine, a hunter's gleam honed by months at my side.
"The Covenant is up in arms over Rakata maps the Eternal swore to deliver, charts to cities like the one given to us by the Jedi."
He nods to Lehon's spires as the holo flickers.
"That Chiss kid they were holdin' was to twist the Eternal's arm, but the maps they were hopin' for never came before that Jedi escaped with him. The Eternal's furious, claimin' the Covenant's intel is a maze of lies, and they're sayin' it's deliberate sabotage."
Zeht shifts, her stillness anchoring Vicrul's burn, her eyes locked on the holo's fractured sky. I follow a spire's curve, my mind flashing to Galen and Shepard's raid, their artifact torn from the Revan Legion's grasp.
"The Legion."
My voice low, honed by centuries.
"Their role?"
"The Legion, the Eternal's rabid dogs."
Vicrul spits.
"Shuttled artifacts for the Covenant, quick and dirty, until they stopped holdin' their end of the deal. Whatever they're lookin' for, it's a needle in a haystack."
My voice cuts like cortosis. I recall more of the Jedi's intel.
"What is this 'awakening' of the 'great ones' the Covenant chases? I need something solid, Vicrul."
His voice dropping to a low rasp.
"The Covenant is huntin' the beings tied to the ice moon destructions, older than the Rakata, their power locked in frozen prisons."
He taps the holotable again, the holo shifting to two star maps, Jedi-supplied and Legion-stolen, their lines glowing like veins of molten gold.
"Our efforts have shattered the Rakata's veil."
His voice rises.
"These maps lead to two locations no archive can name. Their description from the maps bein', Zha-Korran, Lehon's lost crown capital, a Rakata city hidden deep within the jungles. And Archeon, a drowned planet hidden by seas no foreign star has ever touched."
The words stir a memory. Rakata whispers of lost seas, relics I had glimpsed in Lehon's ruins when I had walked those halls with a mind wiped clean by the Jedi Council, not knowing I was retracing my own footsteps, not knowing that the hunger I had felt in those corridors was recognition, not ambition. Their call echoes the Star Forge's pull, that same gravity of something ancient and powerful reaching across the dark between stars. The old hunger stirs, the mask cold and immovable against my face, the vow burning anew. The holotable's sigils flicker, their light cutting against my lungs.
"You did not drag me here for a half-completed debrief, Vicrul."
My voice a low growl, every buried war behind it.
"What else did you find?"
Vicrul leans forward, his scarred hands flat on the holotable's edge, his resolve unyielding.
"The maps aren't the end, my Herald. Shepard's in Zha-Korran. My gut's sure. The Legion's teleporter from 1313 has to lead there."
The idea tears through me. Months without Shepard. Months without that presence beside me in the war room, the man from another galaxy entirely. I remember the night we had sat in this very fortress, the lava glow casting our shadows long across the floor, and he had told me about the Reapers. About Sovereign descending on the Citadel. About the choices he had made on Virmire, on the Collector base, on Earth. And I had told him about Malachor V. About the Mass Shadow Generator and the moment I had given the order and known that the cost would follow me further than any Mandalorian fleet. We had sat in silence after that, two men who had carried the burden of extinction-level decisions, and the silence had been the most honest conversation I had had in longer than I could remember. That is the man Vicrul is telling me has been alone in a Rakata ruin for months.
"Shepard is not a man who stays quiet for long."
My voice raw with skepticism.
"Where is your proof, Vicrul?"
"The Legion used that teleporter in 1313 to move relics for the Covenant, fast, secret, straight to Zha-Korran's heart. Shepard was huntin' their caches when he vanished. The intel's clear. His trail ends in that city."
The holo flickers, Zha-Korran's spires rising sharp as Lehon's ruins, a shadow of the Star Forge's hunger I had faced long ago. I lean forward, the holotable's sigils flaring under my hands.
"You are betting his life on a guess, Vicrul. Tell me you have more."
Vicrul's jaw sets, his voice steady but laced with urgency.
"It's a solid lead. The 1313 cache was a hub, Rakata tech, wired to Zha-Korran. Shepard was scannin' their tech. When we hit their den, that Rakata device took him. I've traced every lead, every scrap. It all points to that city."
The chamber's air grows close, the holo's spires glowing fierce, impossible to ignore.
"If you are right, he has been out there, alone, for months."
"We didn't know. The teleporter's trail was buried in the Relay's glyphs. It took weeks to crack. Once we had that thread, we saw Zha-Korran's name as a possibility. I'd have torn the galaxy apart myself if I thought it'd bring him back faster."
His voice softens.
"You trusted me to find him. I'm tellin' you now, Herald. He's there."
The cost of his words sinks into me, drawn taut as the fortress's walls. Vicrul's gut had been our guide, his finds forging the Je'daii from dust to reality. I trust him, not just as my Sentinel but as a brother who has proved himself over and over now. I rise, my cloak sweeping the floor, resolve burning through me.
"I am going myself then. This fortress will not keep me gated while he is out there."
Vicrul bares his teeth and steps back, his voice laced with intrigue.
"Landing Bay 004, my Herald. Soryn and Vaelith are settin' it up. You'll see what's waitin'."
He gestures to them, and they step forward, raising their pikes in a subtle arc. They follow Vicrul and Zeht out, the blast door sealing behind them, its clang a spark to my blood. I stand flanked by Kaelith and Feryn, their pikes steady. Zha-Korran and Archeon fill my mind. Mustafar's grave can hold me no longer.
The corridors of Fortress Vader swallow me, their dark walls deadening the volcanic light, each step echoing on the metal floor like a vow I have yet to keep. My chambers loom ahead, once Vader's sanctum, the door opening to reveal a space that bears the scars of the man who built it and the marks of the man who has claimed it. I step inside, the door sealing shut, the chamber's air sharp with the sulfur sting of the planet that never stops burning. The walls tower, etched with runes that glow with a slow, banked light, relics of Vader's reign. Serrated Sith holocrons line alcoves in the stone. A massive throne of dark metal stands against the far wall, its angles honed enough to cut. Banners woven with crystal-threaded sigils cast shadows that writhe in the scarlet glow, the only softness in a room designed to punish comfort. A meditation dais rises from the center, its black stone polished to a mirror's sheen, flanked by racks holding my violet and red sabers. I lift the mask, its metal chilling my fingers, and set it on the dais. My face, bare, feels the chamber's oppressive quiet close against my skin, a rare vulnerability in a room built to forbid it. Bastila's voice echoes from Lehon, "Find your balance, Revan," her light a flicker from the Star Forge's shadow, urging me to hold fast. My reflection stares back from the dais, scars tracing a life of war, a map of choices I have both claimed and lost.
I sink onto the dais, crossing my legs, the Force a current pulling at my soul. My breath slows, the chamber's runes flaring, their light swelling around me. Meditation comes, the Force surging, a vast sweep of light and shadow carrying me beyond Mustafar's tomb. The Je'daii's future burns vivid. A galaxy balanced, its chaos forged into harmony. I see Tython reborn, its temples gleaming under twin moons, the Je'daii's sigils blazing as our home and capital, knights clad in gold-etched armor, their will a beacon for a fractured cosmos. The vision swells, stars bending to the order's light, a path I have carved from centuries of war.
Then, a veil sparks, drawing across the path, the Force trembling as a fork emerges. Two roads stretch before me, their outcomes clear but shrouded in a darkness I cannot pierce.
One path roars with chaos and death, my will as Herald forging an empire, the Je'daii's way conquering the galaxy to bind its wounds in balance. I see myself as I had been. Darth Revan, crimson saber raised, worlds kneeling to the order's might, a galaxy reshaped by my hand. The memory is not abstract. I had stood on the bridge of the Interdictor flagship above Malachor V and watched the Mass Shadow Generator crush the planet's surface, Mandalorian and Republic fleet alike pulled into the gravity well I had sanctioned, thousands of voices screaming through the Force before they went silent, and I had told myself the cause was worth it. I had stood in the Star Forge's heart and felt its power pour through me like a river of liquid fire, and the hunger it fed was not the dark side's hunger but something worse, the certainty that I could reshape the galaxy if I was willing to pay the price, and I had been willing, and the galaxy had paid. The Force sings of power, of chaos tamed, and the vision shows the Je'daii's sigils burning across a thousand worlds, balance imposed by will alone. Yet the vision flickers, a shadow of cost veiled in dread, a price I cannot name, and I know from long and bitter experience that the price I cannot name is always the one that destroys me.
The other path glows softer, a quiet pull drawing me toward sacrifice. I see the Je'daii free, its sigils shining without my influence, knights forging their own destiny as I release my hold on power. My essence fades, merging with the Force, a final act of surrender to the balance I have preached. I had been close to this before. The Jedi Council's mind-wipe had been a kind of death, the erasure of everything I was, and I had walked Dantooine's fields as a stranger wearing my own face, not knowing that the dreams of Malak and the Star Maps were memories leaking through the grave the Council had dug for me. Vitiate's imprisonment had been another death, slower, crueler, centuries of consciousness trapped inside a prison built from my own mind, where the only companion was the Force itself, playing back my choices without mercy until I understood each one from the inside out. I had survived both. But this was different. This was not death imposed by enemies. This was choosing to let go, and the letting go was the hardest thing I had ever been asked to contemplate. A veil hides this path too, a spark of loss I cannot grasp.
I stand, the dais cold beneath me, Bastila's echo fading but her presence urging me forward.
I lift the mask, cold against my face, the weight of my vow settling back into place. My armory waits, a narrow chamber off my quarters, its walls lined with metal racks, the air cut with cortosis and oiled leather. I stride inside, the door closing behind me, and approach a workbench cluttered with tools and kyber shards. My violet and red sabers now hang at my belt, their weight a constant vow. I unclip the violet saber, its hilt cool in my hands, and set it on the bench, fingers tracing its worn surface. The emitter matrix gleams, but dust from Mustafar's air clings to its edges, the planet's grit working its way into everything the way it had worked its way into Vader's lungs and my patience. I pry it open with a hydrospanner, the kyber crystal within glowing amethyst, its alignment slightly off from months of use. I adjust it with a micro-tuner, the crystal's hum tightening. This is the ritual. Not prayer, not meditation, but the act of preparing the weapon that will keep you alive. The red saber comes next, its hilt scarred from battles I have tamed. I clean the lens assembly with a microfiber cloth, the motions precise. A cortosis vambrace, etched with Je'daii runes, joins my gear, its silver gleam light but unyielding, the craftsmanship proof of the smiths this order has drawn. A black cloak, woven with crystal-threaded sigils, drapes over my shoulders, the Herald's mantle settling into place. The workbench's tools gleam in the chamber's light, my sabers reassembled, their song a chorus of resolve as I clip them back to my sides.
The armory's door opens, and I step into the hallways of Fortress Vader, the dark walls smothering the volcanic glow, my boots striking the metal floor in a steady cadence.
Landing Bay 004 looms ahead.
Vicrul and Zeht stand waiting, their silhouettes carved against the bay's red-lit frame. Vicrul's matte black armor gleams with dark shards, runes burning along its plates like his tempered fire, his scarred face alight with a warrior's grin. Zeht, her red Zabrak skin stark against her cloak, stands silent, yellow eyes steady.
"My Herald."
His voice a low rasp.
"We tracked a relic through a Rakata ruin in the Unknown Regions, half-dead by the end, but it led us to something worth the trouble."
I meet his eyes, the mask cold against my face, skepticism sharp.
"You had better not be wasting my time, Vicrul. What is behind these doors?"
"You'll never guess what that lead brought us to."
His tone laced with glee as he slams a fist against the control panel, and the blast doors groan, parting with a rush of steam and ash, revealing Landing Bay 004's cavernous expanse.
The Ebon Hawk stands before me, its trident silhouette gleaming under red floodlights, a piece of my past reborn from my ashes.
The sight strikes me with a force that has nothing to do with the Force. The hull, once scarred and patched and held together by Canderous's stubbornness and Mission's prayers, shimmers with cortosis plating, its curves buffed to a mirror's shine. Twin ion cannons jut from its flanks, kyber-fed shields glowing faintly along its frame. The cockpit's viewport blazes with holographic readouts, a quantum navicomputer's light spilling through.
Memories flood back. Not the generality of memory but the specific, tactile truth of it. Bastila at the helm, her hands steady on the controls while Sith fighters screamed past the viewport and the fleet crumbled around us, her voice calling coordinates through the interference with a calm that had no right to exist in that chaos. The way the Hawk's engines had screamed when she pushed them past their limits, and the way I had trusted her to push them because she had never once, in all the time I had known her, failed to land us alive. The cockpit had smelled of hot metal and fear and the particular burnt-circuit smell that meant the Hawk's shields were one hit from failing, and Bastila had laughed, once, a short sound that was not humor but defiance, and I had loved her for it in the way you love someone who is willing to die beside you without making a speech about it.
Now, the Hawk stands transformed. I step forward, the bay's floor cold beneath my boots, ash swirling around me.
"The Hawk."
My voice low, awe cracking through my mask.
"How...?"
Vicrul laughs, a raw, triumphant sound, and gestures toward the boarding ramp.
"Our engineers worked miracles, my Herald. Come aboard. See what the Je'daii made of your old ship."
Zeht follows, a step behind and watchful, as we ascend the ramp, the Hawk's interior unfolding before us. The main hold stretches wide, its once-cramped space now smoothed to a glossy finish, holographic consoles lining the walls, their azure light casting sigils across the floor. Crew quarters branch off, expanded with sleek bunks and banners bearing the Je'daii's mark, the air alive with phase-shift thrusters deep in the ship's core. The cockpit glows with the quantum navicomputer's readouts, its controls a far cry from the patchwork panels I had known, the panels Canderous had cursed and Mission had rewired and Bastila had operated with a precision that made the cursing and the rewiring irrelevant. Vicrul points to upgrades with pride.
"Cortosis hull, tough as a rancor's hide. Kyber shields that'll shrug off a cruiser's barrage. Thrusters that'll dance through hyperspace the way your saber dances through a duel."
I run a hand along a console's edge, its holographic display flickering under my fingers, Bastila's memory lingering, her hands on the old Hawk's controls.
"It is more than I ever could imagine."
My voice low, the ship's transformation a mirror to the Je'daii's rise.
"You pulled this from a ruin?"
Vicrul's expression hardens.
"An abandoned Rakata outpost, half-collapsed. The Hawk was buried in its guts, fried but whole. Our scientists saw its bones and dreamed bigger."
Zeht's eyes flick to me, a wordless nod to the labor that has reborn this legend. A voice crackles over the intercoms, sharp and familiar, laced with biting sarcasm.
"Statement: This vessel surpasses your primitive crew, Master. Observation: Your presence suggests chaos is imminent."
I freeze, the corner of my mouth lifting.
"HK!?"
My voice warm, a spark of light across millennia.
"Hope you are still stirring trouble, old friend."
"Clarification: This chassis is vastly superior to my former shell, Master."
HK-47 retorts, his tone dripping with disdain.
"Observation: Your tendency for reckless ventures endures. Addendum: I have not missed the Mandalorian's attempts at piloting."
Vicrul chuckles, leaning against the holotable.
"Shepard's stories about his EDI runnin' the ship keener than any soul stuck with us."
His tone softened by camaraderie.
"When HK's droid body proved unsalvageable, we wired him into the Hawk's core. Made 'em the ship now."
I nod, the warmth fleeting but bright, HK-47's voice a bridge to a past I had thought lost. Vicrul straightens, his humor fading to purpose.
"HK, take us to what's lyin' in orbit around the moon."
His eyes flick to me. The deck hums, the Ebon Hawk coming alive, HK-47's control seamless, phase-shift thrusters engaging deep within.
"Affirmative: Engaging thrusters. Destination: Orbital rendezvous point Delta-Gamma 412."
HK-47 intones, the cockpit's readouts flaring. The engines roar, the Hawk surging from the landing bay, slicing through Mustafar's ash-choked skies. The fortress's spires shrink below. I stand in the lounge, the holotable's sigils glowing in the same chord as the vision I carried out of meditation, bright and uncertain and worth fighting for. The Hawk climbs, its cortosis hull gleaming, kyber shields shimmering as we break Mustafar's orbit, the moon's mystery ahead.
The viewport awash with the planet's molten glow, the ash-choked skies fading below. The ship's deck vibrates beneath my boots, HK-47's neural core weaving through its systems with a precision that Canderous would have envied and Mission would have tried to hack. The Hawk glides forward, its phase-shift thrusters purring, the viewport's stars blurring as we round the moon's edge. The Force surges, an ancient storm of conquest veiled in shadow, its rhythm familiar yet vast, a power I had felt in battles long past. Awe stirs as a shape looms ahead, massive, its silhouette blotting out the starlight.
Vicrul's look turns dry and cunning.
"My Herald, this is the surprise."
The Hawk clears the moon's shadow, revealing a massive capital ship, a Zakuulan dreadnought reborn. Its crescent hull stretches over three thousand meters, ion spires jutting like a predator's fangs, cortosis plating gleaming under Mustafar's molten light. Scaffolding clings to its frame, Je'daii sigils burning amid welders' sparks, the ship dry-docked in orbit, its retrofits unfinished yet awe-inspiring. The open docking port yawns glowing with light.
The shape of it claws at something buried deep, a thing I had felt only once, in the long dark of Vitiate's prison, when his mind pressed against mine and let slip the shadow of an empire even his own Sith never knew. An ancient power that only briefly came to be, and should not be here.
My voice low, barely my own.
"You… didn't. How?"
"Our engineers outdid themselves."
His voice steady, pride banked behind his fire.
"Found it derelict near Rekkiad, half-dead but still whole. Dragged it here under a cloak even that washed-up Starkiller would envy."
Zeht's eyes flick to me, a quiet nod to their secrecy. The Hawk banks, HK-47's control precise, gliding toward the docking port's embrace.
"Statement: Docking initiated, Master, your old allies' clumsiness is not missed."
HK-47 quips, the ship easing into the port with a steady precision as I step closer to the viewport, the holotable's sigils flaring behind me. This is more than a ship. It is what I need to reclaim Tython's promise, a vessel to carry the Je'daii's creed across the stars, to balance a galaxy torn by chaos.
"This..."
My voice a low rumble.
"This could help reshape the Je'daii's destiny."
Vicrul's eyes burn, his voice rising with purpose.
"My Herald, the order needs a spear to face all those who stand in our way, and to carve balance for the galaxy beyond."
He gestures to the docking port, the Hawk now nestled within, its ramp opening.
"Welcome to the Star of Ashla."