Mustafar's molten heart throbs through my boots, a low snarl that claws up the obsidian walls of Fortress Vader's grand hall. I stand at the war table, its newly etched Je'daii runes flickering under the lava's crimson glare, each pulse a defiance against this planet's scorched will. The chamber, once Vader's altar to dread, pulses with the clamor of a settlement forged in these past months' fever—merchants bartering datacrons, droids hauling crates through sulfur's sting, knights in cortosis cloaks shouting orders. The air chokes, thick with ash and ambition, as if Mustafar loathes the life I've grafted onto its bones.
My mask, its durasteel a cold weight against my face, ever-present like the vow I swore. The redeemed saber at my side, 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 like it's his last breath. 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've wrought. Too many, too fast, their names dissolving into a faceless swarm that threatens to drown me.
"Trade routes to the Core will fill our pockets to sustain this growth!" the merchant barks, his eyes darting to me, pleading for salvation. "We can't squander credits on power grids when wealth waits in the stars!"
The overseer's fist slams the table, rattling a holoprojector. "No grids, no forges! Workers are collapsing in this hellhole, and your ships will rot without fuel or durasteel to patch their hulls!"
They turn to me, expectant, as if I'm a god to carve their truths from the void. I meet their gazes, gray eyes steady, but their need presses like Vitiate's chains, a millennia of stasis gnawing at my chest. Bastila's voice flickers—"You carry too much, love"—and I crush it, burying her light beneath the dark I've tamed. My fingers tighten on the table's edge, the runes biting my skin, grounding me in this moment.
Galen Marek stands to my right, my Sentinel of Shadows, lean and coiled in black leather. A little over a month sober, his gaunt frame burns with a fire grief hasn't quenched. His dark eyes, scarred by his family's fall, flick to mine, reading my silence. A smirk tugs at the jagged scar on his cheek, a blade's echo. 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 presses, 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 hums swallowed by the weight of my gaze. My voice cuts through, low and deliberate, a saber sheathed in velvet. "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 sunder the Force itself."
The merchant blinks, his datacron sagging in his grip. The overseer's scowl softens, his fist unclenching. They nod, murmuring agreement, as if my words have unraveled their knot without spilling blood. I feel no triumph, only the ache of truths that cost too much, each syllable a weight I've carried since Dantooine's fields and Malak's betrayal.
"If that's all," I said, raising a hand, my voice softer now, worn by the endless tide of their needs.
The hall empties, boots shuffling, robes rustling like ash on Mustafar's wind. I turn, my steps heavy, and sink into Vader's throne. Its obsidian bites my spine, cold despite the lava's heat. Faded Sith runes pulse under my fingers, whispering power I've long forsaken. I close my eyes, exhaling centuries of war, the mask's weight against my face a reminder of vows that never rest.
Galen lingers, a shadow against the crimson glow. "Even legends carry ghosts, don't they, Revan?" His voice is rough, warm, a blade dulled by care, cutting through the fog of my exhaustion.
A smile tugs at my lips, fleeting, his words piercing my guard like a saber's hum. 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. I land in a crouch, my redeemed saber snapping to my hand, its amethyst blade humming to life, steady and true.
"Marek, I've got no time for your games today," I say, grinning 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, Revan. It's out there, sharpening its blade, and you're lounging around like a Hutt on a throne." He lunges, his slashes humming with lethal intent, yet held just shy on the edge.
We dance, light and shadow weaving through the hall. My violet saber arcs, meeting his strikes with precision, sparks raining as blades clash, their cauterizing 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 parried, sidestepping a low cut, the Force guiding my steps, a river of balance I've fought to master. The lava's glow paints us in fire, our shadows flickering like the ghosts we carry—Bastila, Malak, Juno, all the names we've buried.
"Balance, Marek," I said, my voice steady as I feint left and spun right, my blade grazing his guard, a whisper of contact. "The Force flows, not overruns."
He laughs, raw and jagged, a sound that echoes the cantinas of Nar Shaddaa. "Balance? You're preaching to a man who's walked both sides of the abyss!" His blades press harder, slicing air inches from my cloak, testing the legend I've become. The duel is alive, burning away the weight of this throne, this order, if only for a moment. I'm no Prodigal Knight or Darth Revan—just a man, saber in hand, meeting the fire of another.
A sharp thrum splits the air. Two lightsaber pikes slam into the obsidian 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 obsidian 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, a testament to the trials I've set for them.
Dren'var, a young Chiss who's determination has placed him as my squire, steps between them, his red eyes glowing like embers in a stern face framed by a crisp tunic. A datapad, its runes pulsing softly, rests in his hands. "My Herald," he says, 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 snapped my saber shut, its hiss fading into the hall's heat. Galen did the same, stepping back with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. "Knights always ruin the fun. Getting rusty, Revan. One day, I'll catch you napping."
I sheath my blade, the grin fading to a weight I've carried across millennia. "The Force bends the soul that seeks stillness, yet in its tension, we are honed," I say, the words a truth I've bled for, forged in the fires of Malachor and the Star Forge, a reminder of the balance I chase for this order.
Dren'var clears his throat, his datapad's glow casting shadows on his angular face. I nod, the burden settling back onto my shoulders like a cloak of durasteel. Galen inclines his head, my Sentinel of Shadows turning toward the hall's exit, his steps silent as he melts into the fortress's labyrinth, off to weave his webs of intel.
Flanked by Dren'var, Kaelith, and Feryn, I stride from the hall, the Chosen's pikes humming faintly at my back. The meeting chamber awaits, and with it, whispers of a galaxy that refuses to kneel.
The meeting chamber's obsidian walls drank the lava's crimson glow, their etched runes pulsing like a heartbeat caged in stone. I strode through the arched threshold, the Pyraeth's Chosen—Kaelith and Feryn—at my heels, their pikes' faint hum a heartbeat in the sulfurous air. The grand holotable dominated the room, its durasteel surface etched with Je'daii sigils, casting jagged shadows across the four figures already within. Soryn and Vaelith, two more Chosen, stood at attention near the far wall, their obsidian armor gleaming with gold inlays, etched with angular runes like ancient Sith ceremonial plate, yet light for a Force warrior's grace. Vicrul and Zeht waited by the table, their silhouettes sharp against the crimson haze filtering through slit windows.
"Dren'var," I said, my voice low, worn from the hall's squabbles. "You're dismissed."
The young Chiss squire, his red eyes unyielding, inclined his head. His datapad's runes flickered as he turned, boots clicking on the durasteel floor. He exited, the chamber's blast door hissing shut behind him. The Chosen shifted, Kaelith and Feryn lowering their pikes in a crisp salute to Vicrul, now my Sentinel of Fire. Soryn and Vaelith bowed deeper, a deference honed by his command, but Kaelith's grip tightened on her pike, a flicker of wariness at Vicrul's tempered storm. I named him my fire for this very reason, honed now by our creed, but its embers still burned.
I stood at the grand holotable, its surface a black void scarred with Je'daii sigils, the air thick with sulfur and secrets that clung like ash. The fortress's heat clawed at my cloak, but it was the confinement that choked me—these walls, a tomb for a soul that had roamed galaxies. Settling into the chamber's head chair at the holotable, its obsidian cold against my spine, anticipation starting to twitch, "What did you find at this Echo Relay the Jedi pointed us to?" I asked, my voice cutting through the sulfurous haze, my fingers brushing the table's runes.
Vicrul's scarred hand had slammed the holotable, and a holo flared to life—Lehon's black spires clawing at a storm-fractured sky, their stone pulsing with a hunger that clawed at my mind, a Rakata hymn I'd heard in dreams. "The Jedi's Relay tip was gold, my Herald," he'd said, his voice a controlled burn, tempered by our teachings. "A fortress of white spires and gold veins, alien to even the Rakata's madness."
The holo's glow had cast jagged shadows across the Chosen's visors, their kyber humming faintly, a chord that stirred the air. I'd leaned forward, the mask's weight grounding me. "The Covenant and the Eternal—spit it out, did you find their role in this cosmic mess?"
Vicrul's dark eyes had met 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'd said, nodding to Lehon's spires as the holo display flickered. "That Chiss kid they were holding was to twist the Eternal's arm, but the maps still never came before that Jedi escaped with him. The Eternal's furious, claiming the Covenant's intel—is a maze of lies and they're claiming is deliberate sabotage."
Zeht had shifted, her silence anchoring Vicrul's fire, her eyes locked on the holo's fractured sky. I'd traced a spire's curve, my mind flashing to Galen and Shepard's raid, their artifact torn from the Revan Legion's grasp. "The Legion," I'd said, my voice a blade honed by centuries. "Their role?"
"The Legion, the Eternal's rabid dogs," Vicrul had spat, "shuttled artifacts for the Covenant, quick and dirty, until the maps stopped turning up. Whatever they're looking for, it's a needle in a haystack."
The chamber's heat had pressed harder, the runes' pulse quickening like a warning. "What's this 'awakening' of the 'great ones' the Covenant's chasing?" I'd demanded, my voice sharp, remembering more of the Jedi's intel. "Give me something solid, Vicrul."
Vicrul's gaze sharpened, his voice dropping to a low rasp, heavy with the weight of battles we'd fought side by side. "The Covenant is hunting the beings tied to the ice moon destructions—older than the Rakata, their power locked in frozen prisons."
He struck the holotable again, the holo shifting to two different star maps—Jedi-supplied and Legion-stolen, their lines glowing like veins of molten kyber. "Our efforts have shattered the Rakata's veil," he said, his voice rising, a tempered flame that could've lit the void. "These maps lead to two locations no archive can name. Their description from the maps being, Zha-Korran, Lehon's lost crown capital, a Rakata city hidden deep withing the Jungles. And Archeon, a drowned planet veiled by seas no foreign star has ever touched."
The words stirred a memory—Rakata whispers of lost seas, relics I'd glimpsed in Lehon's ruins, their hunger echoing the Star Forge's call. My breath caught, the mask's durasteel pressing harder against my face, a vow that burned with every pulse. The holotable's sigils flickered, their light sharp as the sulfur stinging my lungs, the chamber's durasteel floor cold beneath my boots. "You didn't drag me here for ghost stories, Vicrul," I said, my voice a low growl, heavy with wars I'd buried. "What else?"
Vicrul leaned forward, his scarred hands gripping the holotable's edge, his fire tempered but unyielding. "The maps aren't the end, my Herald. Shepard's in Zha-Korran. My gut's sure—the Legion's teleporter from 1313 leads there."
The idea tore through me. Months without his biotic prowess, that alien storm rivaling the Force. We'd stood together, forged a bond through blood and chaos, his grit a mirror to my own. "Shepard's the kind of person that won't stay quiet for long," I said, my voice raw, skepticism cutting through the haze. "Where's your proof, Vicrul?"
He held my gaze, unflinching, the fire in his eyes honed by months at my side. "The Legion used that teleporter in 1313 to move relics for the Covenant—fast, secret, straight to Zha-Korran's heart. Shepard was hunting their caches when he vanished. The intel's clear—his trail ends in that city."
The holo flickered, Zha-Korran's spires rising sharp as Lehon's ruins, a shadow of the Star Forge's hunger I'd faced long ago. Archeon glowed beside it, its seas shimmering with alien light, a mystery no archive could name. The chamber's obsidian walls loomed, their chill a cage I'd outgrown, Fortress Vader's durasteel floor a tomb for a soul that had roamed stars. Kaelith's pike shifted, a faint hum from its kyber crystals, a silent vow stirring in the Chosen's ranks, their gold-etched armor catching the holo's glow. Soryn and Vaelith stood steady, visors hiding their eyes, their presence a weight I'd shaped.
I leaned forward, the holotable's sigils flaring under my hands, sulfur choking my lungs. "You're betting his life on a guess, Vicrul," I said, my voice low, heavy with the bond we'd forged. "Tell me you've got more."
Vicrul's jaw tightened, his voice steady but laced with the urgency of a man who'd bled for this truth. "It's a solid lead, my Herald. The 1313 cache was a hub—Rakata tech, wired to Zha-Korran. Shepard was tracking the Legion's moves. 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 thickened, the holo's spires pulsing like a heartbeat I couldn't ignore. "If you're right, he's been out there, alone, for months."
Vicrul's eyes flickered, a rare crack in his fire. "We didn't know, my Herald. The teleporter's trail was buried in the Relay's glyphs. It took weeks to crack once we had that thread, to see Zha-Korran's name as a possibility. I'd have torn the galaxy apart myself if I thought it'd bring him back faster." He paused, his voice softening, a bond forged in shared loss. "You trusted me to find him. I'm telling you now—he's there."
The weight of his words settled, heavy as the fortress's walls. Vicrul's gut had been our guide, his finds forging the Je'daii from dust to reality. I trusted him, not just as my Sentinel but as a brother who'd proved himself over and over. The holo's flicker stung my eyes, Zha-Korran's spires sharp as Lehon's ruins, a call I'd answered long ago. Archeon's seas glowed beside it, a mystery that whispered of secrets. The Chosen stood silent, their pikes' kyber crystals humming faintly, a vow etched in their stillness, their gold-etched armor a testament to the order I'd built.
I rose, my cloak sweeping the durasteel floor, resolve burning through the haze. "I'm going myself, Vicrul," I said, my voice a vow, heavy with the weight of this grave. "Shepard's no myth to mourn. This fortress won't continue to keep me gated while he's out there."
Vicrul's grin flashed, sharp as a vibroblade, tempered by the creed we'd forged. "Landing Bay 004, my Herald," he said, stepping back, his voice laced with intrigue. "Soryn and Vaelith are setting it up. You'll see what's waiting." He gestured to them, and they stepped forward, raising their pikes in a subtle arc, the kyber crystals thrumming a low chord that cut through the chamber's sulfurous air. They followed Vicrul and Zeht out, the blast door hissing shut, its clang a spark to my blood.
I stood flanked by Kaelith and Feryn, their pikes steady as my pulse roared. Zha-Korran and Archeon seared my mind. Mustafar's grave could hold me no longer. The stars had roared, and I'd answered with a saber in hand, ready to carve my path.
The corridors of Fortress Vader had swallowed me, their obsidian walls drinking the lava's crimson glow, each step echoing on the durasteel floor like a vow I'd yet to keep. Zha-Korran and Archeon burned in my mind, their names a pulse that matched the Je'daii's future—a future I'd forged from Mustafar's ash, now heavy on my shoulders. My chambers loomed ahead, once Vader's sanctum, their blast door hissing open to reveal a space as dramatic as a Sith Lord's wrath.
I stepped inside, the door sealing shut, the chamber's air thick with sulfur's acrid sting. Obsidian walls towered, etched with crimson runes that pulsed like a heartbeat, relics of Vader's reign—serrated Sith holocrons, a massive throne of jagged durasteel, tapestries woven with kyber-threaded sigils—casting shadows that writhed in the scarlet glow. A meditation dais rose from the center, its black stone polished to a mirror's sheen, flanked by racks holding my violet and red sabers, their kyber crystals humming faintly. The mask's durasteel chilled my fingers as I lifted it, setting it on the dais, my face bare, a rare vulnerability in the chamber's oppressive quiet. Bastila's voice echoed from Lehon—"Find your balance, Revan"—her light a flicker from the Star Forge's shadow, urging me to hold fast. My reflection stared back from the dais, scars tracing a life of war, a map of choices I'd both claimed and lost.
I sank onto the dais, crossing my legs, the Force a tide pulling at my soul. My breath slowed, the chamber's runes flaring, their crimson light weaving with the sulfurous haze. Meditation came, the Force surging, a cosmic symphony of light and shadow carrying me beyond Mustafar's tomb. The Je'daii's future burned vivid—a galaxy balanced, its chaos forged into harmony. I saw 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 pikes humming with kyber, their will a beacon for a fractured cosmos. The vision swelled, stars bending to the order's light, a path I'd carved from centuries of war.
Then, a haze sparked, a cloudy veil swallowing the path, the Force trembling as a fork emerged. Two roads stretched before me, their outcomes clear but shrouded in a storm I couldn't pierce. One path roared with fire, my will as Herald forging an empire, the Je'daii's way conquering the galaxy to bind its wounds in balance. I saw myself as I'd been—Darth Revan, crimson saber raised, worlds kneeling to the order's might, a galaxy reshaped by my hand. The Force sang of power, of chaos tamed, yet the haze flickered, a shadow of cost veiled in dread, a price I couldn't name.
The other path glowed softer, a quiet tide pulling me toward sacrifice. I saw the Je'daii free, its sigils shining without my shadow, knights forging their own destiny as I released my hold. My essence faded, merging with the Force, a final act of surrender to the balance I'd preached. The order lived, its roots deep, no longer tethered to my will. The haze clouded this path too, a spark of loss I couldn't grasp, the galaxy's fate a whisper in the mist. The vision shook me, my breath ragged, the runes' crimson glow dimmed as Tython's light lingered.
I stood, the dais cold beneath me, Bastila's echo fading but her soft presence urging me forward. I lifted the mask, its durasteel cold against my face, the weight of my vow settling back into place. The Je'daii's future hung in the balance, its paths unclear, but Vicrul's gut feeling called me to act.
My armory waited, a narrow chamber off my quarters, its walls lined with durasteel racks, the air sharp with cortosis and oiled leather. I strode inside, the door hissing shut, and approached a workbench cluttered with tools and kyber shards. My violet saber and its red twin hung at my belt, carried from the day's duties, their weight a constant vow. My first mission as Herald demanded precision. I unclipped the violet saber, its hilt cool in my hands, and set it on the bench, fingers tracing its worn durasteel. A ritual of focus, the emitter matrix gleamed, but dust from Mustafar's air clung to its edges. I pried it open with a hydrospanner, the kyber crystal within pulsing amethyst, its alignment slightly off from months of use. I adjusted it with a micro-tuner, the crystal's hum sharpening, a vow of clarity for Zha-Korran's shadows.
The red saber came next, its hilt heavier, scarred from battles I'd tamed. I disassembled it, cleaning the lens assembly with a microfiber cloth, ensuring the crimson blade would cut true. A cortosis vambrace, etched with Je'daii runes, joined my gear, its silver gleam light but unyielding. A black cloak, woven with kyber-threaded sigils, draped over my shoulders, its weight the Herald's mantle, forged for this mission without tradition's binds. The workbench's tools gleamed in the chamber's crimson light, my sabers reassembled, their hums a chorus of resolve as I called them back to my sides.
The armory's door hissed open, and I stepped back into the chamber, the runes' glow casting my shadow long across the durasteel floor. The hallways of Fortress Vader then bled into shadow, their obsidian walls swallowing the lava's crimson glow, my boots striking the durasteel floor with a rhythm that echoed my pulse. Landing Bay 004 loomed ahead, its blast doors scarred by Mustafar's heat, Vicrul's promise a spark in the dark. My violet and red sabers hung heavy at my belt, their kyber crystals humming faintly, the cortosis vambrace on my wrist a cold anchor. The Je'daii's future—Tython's reborn temples, the fork of empire or sacrifice—burned in my mind, a vow I'd carry into the stars. The sulfurous haze clung to my cloak, the fortress's tomb no longer my cage but a threshold to destiny.
I paused before the doors, their durasteel expanse towering, the air thick with ash and anticipation. Vicrul and Zeht stood waiting, their silhouettes sharp against the bay's crimson-lit frame. Vicrul's matte black armor gleamed with obsidian shards, crimson runes pulsing like his tempered fire, his scarred face alight with a warrior's grin. Zeht, her red Zabrak skin stark against her cloak, stood silent, yellow eyes steady, her resilience a quiet pillar. The Chosen were absent, their pikes left behind.
"My Herald," Vicrul said, his voice a low rasp, heavy with secrets he'd bled for. "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 scars." His grin widened. Zeht's silence held, her gaze fixed on the doors, a nod to Vicrul's lead.
I met his eyes, my mask's durasteel pressing against my face, skepticism sharp. "You'd better not be wasting my time, Vicrul," I said, my voice cutting through the haze. "What's behind those doors?"
"You'll never guess what that lead brought us to," Vicrul said, his tone laced with glee, a spark that lit the sulfurous air. He slammed a fist against the control panel, and the blast doors groaned, parting with a hiss of steam and ash, revealing Landing Bay 004's cavernous expanse.
There she was, The Ebon Hawk stood before me, its trident silhouette gleaming under crimson floodlights, a ghost reborn from my ashes. My breath caught, the sight striking me like a saber's hum. It was my ship—yet not. The hull, once scarred durasteel, shimmered with cortosis plating, its curves polished to a mirror's sheen. Twin ion cannons jutted from its flanks, kyber-enhanced shields pulsing faintly along its frame. The cockpit's viewport glowed with holographic readouts, a quantum navicomputer's light spilling through. Memories flooded back—Bastila at the helm, her voice steady through Sith storms, guiding us past Taris's ruin. Now, the Hawk stood transformed.
I stepped forward, the bay's durasteel floor cold beneath my boots, ash swirling in the haze. "The Hawk," I said, my voice low, awe cracking through my mask. "How…?"
Vicrul laughed, a raw, triumphant sound, and gestured toward the boarding ramp. "Our engineers worked miracles, my Herald. Come aboard—see what the Je'daii made of your old freighter." Zeht followed, her silence a steady anchor, as we ascended the ramp, the Hawk's interior unfolding like a dream.
The main hold stretched wide, its once-cramped durasteel now polished to a glossy sheen, holographic consoles lining the walls, their azure light casting sigils across the floor. Crew quarters branched off, expanded with sleek bunks and kyber-threaded tapestries, the air humming with phase-shift thrusters deep in the ship's core. The cockpit, ahead, glowed with a quantum navicomputer's readouts, its controls a far cry from the patchwork panels I'd known. Vicrul led the way, his boots ringing on the durasteel, pointing to upgrades with pride. "Cortosis hull—tough as a rancor's hide. Kyber shields that'll shrug off a cruiser's barrage. Thrusters that dance through hyperspace like a blade through silk. The engineers outdid themselves, weaving Je'daii tech into every bolt".
I traced a console's edge, its holographic display flickering under my fingers, Bastila's memory lingering—her hands on the old Hawk's controls, plotting our path to Dantooine. "It's more than I ever imagined," I said, my voice heavy, the ship's transformation a mirror to the Je'daii's rise. "You pulled this from a ruin?"
Vicrul's grin sharpened. "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 flicked to me, her silence a nod to the labor that had reborn this legend.
We reached the lounge, its circular durasteel table replaced by a sleek holotable, sigils pulsing in its surface, the space open and airy, a far cry from the Hawk's old clutter. I paused, the weight of centuries settling, when a voice crackled 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." HK-47. My old assassin droid. I froze, disbelief cracking my mask, a grin tugging at my lips. "HK," I said, my voice warm, a spark of light across millennia. "You're still stirring trouble, old friend."
"Clarification: This chassis is vastly superior to my former shell, Master," HK-47 retorted, his tone dripping with disdain for lesser constructs. "Observation: Your tendency for reckless ventures endures". Vicrul chuckled, leaning against the holotable. "Shepard's stories about his EDI running the ship sharper than any soul stuck with us," he said, his fire softened by camaraderie. "When HK's droid body proved unsalvageable, we wired him into the Hawk's core. He's the ship now".
I nodded, the warmth of the moment fleeting but bright, HK-47's voice a bridge to a past I'd thought lost. "Shepard was right," I said, my quip light but grounded in his tales. "EDI ran his ship better than any soul—and you're no slouch, HK". HK-47's hum vibrated through the deck, a silent acknowledgment, our bond forged in wars long since fought.
Vicrul straightened, his grin fading to purpose. "HK, take us to what's waiting between Mustafar and its moon," he said, his voice steady, eyes flicking to me. The deck hummed, the Ebon Hawk coming alive, HK-47's control seamless, phase-shift thrusters pulsing deep within. "Affirmative: Engaging thrusters. Destination: Orbital rendezvous," HK-47 intoned, the cockpit's readouts flaring.
Engines roared, the Hawk surging from the landing bay, slicing through Mustafar's ash-choked skies. The bay's crimson floodlights faded, the fortress's obsidian spires shrinking below, sulfurous haze swirling in our wake. I stood in the lounge, Vicrul and Zeht at my side, the holotable's sigils glowing like the Je'daii's future. The Ebon Hawk climbed, its cortosis hull gleaming, kyber shields shimmering as we broke into Mustafar's orbit, the moon's shadow a mystery ahead. The stars burned bright, and I was home, ready to carve my path through their dark.
Mustafar's orbit had swallowed us, the Ebon Hawk's viewport awash with the planet's molten glow, its ash-choked skies fading below. I stood in the lounge, the holotable's sigils pulsing faintly, Vicrul and Zeht at my side. The ship's durasteel deck hummed beneath my boots, HK-47's neural core weaving through its systems. The Hawk glided forward, its phase-shift thrusters purring, the viewport's stars blurring as we rounded the moon's edge.
The Force surged, an ancient familiar storm of conquest veiled in shadow, its pulse familiar yet vast, a power I'd felt in battles long past. My breath caught, awe stirring as a shape loomed ahead—massive, formless, its silhouette drinking the starlight. "What is that?" I said, my voice low, the weight of Lehon's Star Forge echoing in my bones, a fire kindled for the Je'daii's Gray Era.
Vicrul's grin flashed, dry and cunning, a spark in the haze. "My Herald—this is the surprise." He nodded to the viewport, and the Hawk cleared the moon's shadow, revealing a massive capitol ship.
It was colossal, a Zakuulan dreadnought reborn, its crescent hull stretching thousands of kilometers, ion spires jutting like a predator's fangs, cortosis plating gleaming under Mustafar's molten light. Scaffolding clung to its frame, Je'daii sigils pulsing amid welders' sparks, the ship dry-docked in orbit, its retrofits unfinished yet awe-inspiring. The open docking port yawned, a rune-etched maw vast as a cruiser's bay, glowing with crimson light, a beacon in the void. I'd faced fleets at Lehon, but this dwarfed them all. "How…" I began, my voice heavy, marveling at Vicrul and Zeht towing this ancient relic to Mustafar unseen, the logistics a feat that baffled even my war-honed mind.
"Our engineers outdid themselves," Vicrul said, his voice steady, pride tempered by his fire. "Found it derelict near Rekkiad, half-dead but whole. Dragged it here under cloaks even Galen couldn't sniff out." Zeht's eyes flicked to me, her silence a nod to the secrecy they'd woven, a testament to their cunning.
The Hawk banked, HK-47's control precise, gliding toward the docking port's rune-etched embrace. "Statement: Docking initiated, Master—your old allies' clumsiness is not missed," HK-47 quipped, the ship easing into the port with a steadiness that cut through the haze. The viewport framed the massive ship's hull, its Zakuulan curves scarred by eons, now reborn with Je'daii sigils, a monument to the Gray Era I'd vowed to forge.
I stepped closer to the viewport, the holotable's sigils flaring behind me, sulfurous air stinging my lungs. This was more than a ship—it was what I needed to reclaim Tython's promise, a vessel to carry the Je'daii's light across stars, to balance a galaxy torn by chaos. My past stirred, the Star Forge's shadow a memory of conquest, but this was different—its hull a vow to the order I'd built, a promise to this new era. "This…" I said, my voice a low rumble, "this could reshape the galaxy."
Vicrul's eyes burned, his voice rising with purpose. "My Herald, the order needs a spear to face those wail-spawning, ice-moon-shattering creatures head-on—and to carve balance for the galaxy beyond." He gestured to the docking port, the Hawk now nestled within, its ramp hissing open. "Welcome to the Star of Ashla."
I stood, my cloak sweeping the durasteel deck, resolve blazing through me. The Je'daii's future—Tython's temples, the Gray Era—lay within this ship's frame, a path I'd forge with sabers in hand. The Hawk's hum faded, HK-47's core steady, as we prepared to board, the Star of Ashla's crimson glow a call to destiny.
The Ebon Hawk rested in the Star of Ashla's docking port, a sleek trident dwarfed by the dreadnought's rune-etched maw. Mustafar's molten glow bathed the scene, its ash-choked skies a stark contrast to the void beyond, where the moon's shadow framed the Zakuulan giant. Scaffolding crawled across the Star of Ashla's hull, Je'daii engineers weaving sigils into cortosis, their welders' sparks flaring like stars. The ship stood unfinished, a titan poised to rise, its ion spires piercing the dark, a spear for a galaxy teetering on the edge. The Je'daii's light burned within, a vow to balance the chaos, its destiny written in the stars above.