Mustafar's molten heart throbbed through my boots, a low snarl that clawed up the obsidian walls of Fortress Vader's grand hall. I stood 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, pulsed with the clamor of a settlement I'd forged in these past months' fever: merchants bartered datacrons, droids hauled crates through sulfur's sting, and knights in cortosis cloaks shouted orders. The air choked, thick with ash and ambition, as if Mustafar loathed the life I'd grafted onto its bones. My mask, its durasteel a cold weight against my face, remained ever-present, like the vow I'd sworn. The redeemed saber at my side served as a steady anchor, its twin an ever-ready symbol of authority. I traced a rune's curve on the table, half-hearing the squabble before me. A merchant, jowls trembling, clutched a datacron like it was his last breath, while an overseer, hands blackened by forge grease, loomed across from him. Their voices grated, vibroblades hacking at my patience, but their faces faded into the tide of this order I'd wrought. Too many had come, too fast, their names dissolving into a faceless swarm that threatened to drown me. Their demands pressed like Vitiate's chains, a millennia of stasis gnawing at my chest. Bastila's voice flickered in my mind, "You carry too much, love," and I crushed it, burying her light beneath the dark I'd tamed. My fingers tightened on the table's edge, the runes biting my skin, grounding me in this moment.
"Trade routes to the Core will fill our pockets to sustain this growth!" the merchant barked, 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 slammed 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 turned to me, expectant, as if I were a god to carve their truths from the void. I met their gazes, gray eyes steady behind my mask, their need a weight I'd borne since Dantooine's fields. Galen Marek stood to my right, my Sentinel of Shadows, lean and coiled in black leather. A little over a month sober, his gaunt frame burned with a fire grief hadn't quenched. His dark eyes, scarred by his family's fall, flicked to mine, reading my silence. A smirk tugged at the jagged scar on his cheek, a blade's echo. He knew the cost of legends, as I did, and his presence was a tether in this sea of faceless demands.
"Well, my Herald?" the merchant pressed, his voice a shrill plea that frayed my nerves further.
I straightened, my cloak whispering against the table, and the hall fell silent. Even the droids halted, their hums swallowed by the weight of my gaze. My voice cut 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 blinked, his datacron sagging in his grip. The overseer's scowl softened, his fist unclenching. They nodded, murmuring agreement, as if my words had unraveled their knot without spilling blood. I felt no triumph, only the ache of truths that cost too much, each syllable a weight I'd carried since Malak's betrayal. The hall emptied, boots shuffling, robes rustling like ash on Mustafar's wind. I turned, my steps heavy, and sank into Vader's throne. Its obsidian bit my spine, cold despite the lava's heat. Faded Sith runes pulsed under my fingers, whispering power I'd long forsaken. I closed my eyes, exhaling centuries of war, the mask's weight a reminder of vows that never rested.
Galen lingered, a shadow against the crimson glow. "Even legends carry ghosts, don't they, Revan?" His voice was rough, warm, a blade dulled by care, cutting through the fog of my exhaustion. A smile tugged at my lips, fleeting, his words piercing my guard like a saber's hum. Before I could rise to answer, the Force yanked me from the throne, a whip-crack of intent. Instinct surged. I twisted mid-air, cloak flaring, and flipped over the war table, landing in a crouch. My redeemed saber snapped to my hand, its amethyst blade humming to life, steady and true.
"Marek, I've got no time for your games today," I said, 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 ignited, 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 lunged, his slashes humming with lethal intent, yet held just shy on the edge.
We danced, light and shadow weaving through the hall. My violet saber arced, meeting his strikes with precision, sparks raining as blades clashed, their cauterizing heat a fleeting sting in the air. His sabers crackled, the unstable storm he wielded with iron control, but I felt 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'd fought to master. The lava's glow painted us in fire, our shadows flickering like the ghosts we carried: Bastila, Malak, Juno, all the names we'd buried.
"Balance, Marek," I said, my voice steady as I feinted left and spun right, my blade grazing his guard, a whisper of contact. "The Force flows, not overruns."
He laughed, raw and jagged, a sound that echoed the cantinas of Nar Shaddaa. "Balance? You're preaching to a man who's walked both sides of the abyss!" His blades pressed harder, slicing air inches from my cloak, testing the legend I'd become. The duel was alive, burning away the weight of this throne, this order, if only for a moment. A sharp thrum split the air. Two lightsaber pikes slammed into the obsidian floor, their white blades, forged with kyber crystals shimmering violet and blue, humming a resonant chord that silenced the hall's echoes. Kaelith and Feryn, of my Pyraeth's Chosen, stood 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 hid their eyes, but their stance was iron, forged in Mustafar's volcanic storms, a testament to the trials I'd set for them.
Dren'var, a young Chiss whose determination had earned him the role of my squire, stepped between them, his red eyes glowing like embers in a stern face framed by a crisp tunic. A datapad, its runes pulsing softly, rested in his hands. "My Herald," he said, 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 didn't reach his eyes. "Knights always ruin the fun. Getting rusty, Revan. One day, I'll catch you napping."
I sheathed my blade, the grin fading to a weight I'd carried across millennia. "The Force bends the soul that seeks stillness, yet in its tension, we are honed," I said, the words a truth I'd bled for, forged in the fires of Malachor and the Star Forge, a reminder of the balance I chased for this order. Flanked by Dren'var, Kaelith, and Feryn, I strode from the hall, the Chosen's pikes humming faintly at my back. The meeting chamber awaited, and with it, whispers of a galaxy that refused 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, 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 runes like ancient Sith 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. I dismissed Dren'var, his red eyes unyielding as he exited, the chamber's blast door hissing shut. Kaelith and Feryn lowered 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 had named him my fire for this reason, honed now by our creed, but its embers still burned.
I stood at the 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. I settled into the chamber's head chair, its obsidian cold against my spine, anticipation twitching in my veins. "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 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 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 cast jagged shadows across the Chosen's visors, their kyber humming faintly, a chord that stirred the air. I 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 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 said, nodding to Lehon's spires as the holo 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 saying it's deliberate sabotage."
Zeht shifted, her silence anchoring Vicrul's fire, her eyes locked on the holo's fractured sky. I 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 said, my voice a blade honed by centuries. "Their role?"
"The Legion, the Eternal's rabid dogs," Vicrul 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 pressed harder, the runes' pulse quickening like a warning. "What's this 'awakening' of the 'great ones' the Covenant's chasing?" I demanded, my voice sharp, recalling 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 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 light 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 within 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. "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. 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 urgency: "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." His voice softened, 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. 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.
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 corridors of Fortress Vader 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.
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. I lifted the mask, its durasteel chilling my fingers, and set 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 haze clouded this path too, a spark of loss I couldn't grasp. I stood, the dais cold beneath me, Bastila's echo fading but her presence urging me forward.
I lifted the mask, its durasteel cold against my face, the weight of my vow settling back into place. 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 and red sabers hung at my belt, their weight a constant vow. I unclipped the violet saber, its hilt cool in my hands, and set it on the bench, fingers tracing its worn durasteel. 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 scarred from battles I'd tamed. I cleaned 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. 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 into the hallways of Fortress Vader, 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. 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. "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." 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. 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. 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. 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. 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 glowed with a quantum navicomputer's readouts, its controls a far cry from the patchwork panels I'd known. Vicrul pointed 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."
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. "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. 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. I froze, 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. "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 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, our bond forged in wars long fought.
Vicrul straightened, his grin fading to purpose. "HK, take us to what's waiting between Mustafar and its moon," he said, 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 fortress's obsidian spires shrank below, sulfurous haze swirling in our wake. I stood in the lounge, the holotable's sigils glowing like the Je'daii's future. The Hawk climbed, its cortosis hull gleaming, kyber shields shimmering as we broke into Mustafar's orbit, the moon's shadow a mystery ahead.
Mustafar's orbit swallowed us, the Ebon Hawk's viewport awash with the planet's molten glow, its ash-choked skies fading below. 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 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, 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. "My Herald, this is the surprise." The Hawk cleared the moon's shadow, revealing a massive capital ship, a Zakuulan dreadnought reborn. Its crescent hull stretched 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 glowing with crimson light.
"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 their secrecy. The Hawk banked, 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 quipped, the ship easing into the port with a steadiness that cut through the haze. 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. "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.