Chapter 30: The First Order, Expansion Pack
The star map hovered in front of me like an accusation.
Blue light bled across the command deck, washing over durasteel consoles that had once belonged to a navy so cautious it had built two hundred dreadnoughts and then hidden them out of embarrassment. The Katana Fleet's flagship—my flagship, apparently—was quiet in the way only very large, very armed things ever were. Not peaceful. Just waiting.
At the center of the hologram, a cluster of systems glowed faintly green.
TERRITORIES (WORKING TITLE)
I had typed that myself.
That felt important. Or incriminating. Possibly both.
I leaned back in the command chair, boots propped against a console I was ninety percent sure had once been illegal to touch. The chair was designed for an admiral with posture problems and a God complex. I fit the first one disturbingly well. The second was a work in progress.
"Okay," I muttered to no one in particular. "This is not an empire. This is… a temporary administrative inconvenience."
The Force, which had been very chatty since Korriban, declined to comment.
Oh, who am I kidding?
All I wanted was to dress in all black, take over a planet or two, and be loved and admired by all? How did this spiral into me becoming an emperor, with an army of robots, and a whole fleet of system conquering ships?
The doors hissed open behind me with theatrical timing, because of course they did. I didn't turn. I didn't need to. The shift in the air, the familiar prickle at the back of my skull, the faint sense of impending sarcasm—Maris had entered the room.
She stopped beside the hologram, arms folding as she studied it. Pale skin, red makeup stark against the blue glow, horns catching the light like punctuation marks. She didn't say anything at first. That was never a good sign.
Then the title flickered.
TERRITORIES (WORKING TITLE)vanished, replaced by something bolder, sleeker, and infinitely more smug.
THE EXPANSE
A little skull icon appeared beneath it. Just one. Stylized. Tasteful. Somehow deeply insulting.
I closed my eyes. "You renamed it."
Maris's satisfaction rolled off her in waves. "I improved it."
"It was fine."
"It was cowardly."
I opened my eyes again. The skull pulsed once, as if in agreement.
"This is not an expansion," I insisted, hoping if I repeated it long enough, it would come true. "This is… preemptive housekeeping."
Maris tilted her head, considering the map again. "You're right. Housekeeping. On a galactic scale. Very minimalist. I love what you've done with the void."
I pointed at one of the systems. "That planet is literally uninhabited."
"Was uninhabited," she corrected. "Now it's ours. See? Progress."
Before I could argue semantics, the deck vibrated faintly as a droid approached. Heavy footfalls. Deliberate. Loud enough to be a threat, even on a warship.
HK-47 stepped into the light, photoreceptors glowing a cheerful, homicidal red.
"Statement: Master, I am pleased to report successful compliance across multiple designated territories."
I waved a hand. "Yeah, great. Meaning?"
"Clarification: No resistance was encountered."
"That's… good?" I said cautiously.
"Addendum: This was due to one of three primary factors."
Maris leaned closer to the hologram, interest piqued. "Oh, this should be fun."
"Factor one," HK-47 continued, "the planet was uninhabited."
I nodded. "Okay. That tracks."
"Factor two: all previous inhabitants had already evacuated."
I frowned. "Why?"
"Supplemental explanation: ecological collapse, economic failure, or the presence of hostile megafauna. In one case, all three."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Of course."
"Factor three," HK-47 finished, "the planet was already a disaster zone, and our arrival marginally improved conditions."
There was a pause.
"Assessment: This was unexpected."
Maris laughed. She didn't bother hiding it. "We're gentrifying the Outer Rim."
"We are not," I said automatically. "We're stabilizing it."
C-3PO cleared his throat with the kind of prim precision that suggested he'd been waiting for an opening. "If I may interject," he said, hands clasped in front of his chest, "this approach is actually quite sound."
I stared at him.
Maris stared at him.
HK-47 stared at him, which was alarming for entirely different reasons.
"Oh no," I said slowly. "Don't tell me that."
"The selection of worlds with minimal strategic value in the immediate term," Threepio continued, "reduces the likelihood of hostile engagement while allowing for infrastructure development at a manageable cost. Symbolic acquisitions also tend to provoke discussion rather than retaliation."
He inclined his head toward the map. "In short, it is a very sensible way to expand one's influence without alarming the major galactic powers."
Maris's grin sharpened. "Hear that? Even the protocol droid thinks we're geniuses."
"I did not say that," Threepio replied primly. "I said you were being sensible. There is a difference."
I rubbed my face. Somewhere in the galaxy, my father was probably feeling a disturbance in the Force that manifested as a headache.
"I'm not trying to expand influence," I said. "I'm trying to buy time."
"Time for what?" Maris asked.
"For things to calm down," I said, gesturing vaguely at everything. "The Hutts. The clones. Mandalore. The Republic collectively losing its mind. The Confederacy on the rise. This is… a holding pattern."
She looked at the map again, eyes tracing the green systems, the thin hyperspace lines linking them back to Tatooine, to Mos Eisley, to the absurd reality that this had all started with freeing a spaceport and buying a droid from a very patient woman on a moisture farm.
"This is how nations start," Maris said.
"No, it isn't."
"It absolutely is."
"Empires start with conquests and bloodshed," I argued. "This is just… logistics."
"We did start with bloodshed." she shot back. "Remember? It was around the time you fed Jabba to a rancor. Look, it's nothing to be ashamed about. You did good! We did good. All we're doing is keeping the party going."
I didn't like how easily that slid into place.
HK-47 shifted slightly. "Query: Shall I begin preparing administrative frameworks for long-term governance?"
"No," I said immediately. "Absolutely not."
"Observation: You are hesitating."
"I am not."
"You are," Maris said. "You're doing that thing where you pretend the future doesn't exist if you don't name it."
"I am perfectly aware the future exists," I snapped. "I just refuse to schedule it, or make my plans around it. We live in the present. What we do now, shapes our future."
Believe me. I'd know.
She studied me for a moment, expression unreadable. Then she waved a hand, and the map zoomed out. The green cluster looked small now. Insignificant. A handful of systems in a galaxy that barely noticed them.
"Relax," she said. "We're not conquering Coruscant. We're picking up abandoned furniture."
"That's how it starts," I muttered.
"That's how it continues," she corrected. "How it ends depends on whether you stop pretending this is temporary."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again.
Because the problem was that I didn't know if she was wrong.
The Force hummed faintly around the dreadnought, a low vibration just beneath conscious thought. Not a warning. Not approval. Just… awareness.
Maris leaned against the console beside me, casual as anything. "So," she said lightly, "what happens when the Republic notices?"
I stared at the star map. At The Expanse. At the skull icon pulsing gently like a heartbeat.
I thought about Obi-Wan standing in a Mandalorian council chamber, trying to keep the galaxy from tearing itself apart with words and patience and that infuriating calm. I thought about Ahsoka on Coruscant, juggling lies and droids and Anakin Skywalker's complete lack of chill. I thought about clones who were people, no matter what anyone said, waiting to see if anyone would admit it out loud.
I thought about two Sith teenagers sitting in a stolen admiral's chair, pretending this was all very funny.
"…something?" I said finally. "Look, let's cross that hyperspace when we get there."
Maris's smile was sharp and fond and deeply, deeply worrying.
"Sure," she said. "That's worked great for us so far."
The skull on the map pulsed again.
Somewhere out there, the galaxy hadn't noticed yet.
But it would.
...
Hoth was quiet in the way only dead planets ever were.
Not peaceful. Not calm. Just aggressively empty, as if the world itself had decided that sound, warmth, and joy were all optional features it would be uninstalling.
Maris stood on the ice shelf and watched the wind try to kill her.
It screamed across the flats in shrieking white sheets, lifting powder-fine snow and hurling it sideways with enough force to scour paint from durasteel. The sky was a hard, unbroken gray, the kind that made depth perception a theoretical exercise. Horizon, ground, and atmosphere blurred together into one endless, hostile suggestion.
She loved it.
The outpost construction zone sprawled behind her in a mess of half-buried equipment, prefab structures, and HK-series droids marching in precise, miserable lines. Drills screamed as they bit into permafrost older than most civilizations. Power generators thrummed angrily, clearly offended at being asked to function in this environment.
"No sentient life detected," one of the survey droids reported cheerfully over the comms.
Maris smiled beneath her rebreather.
"Liar," she murmured.
As if on cue, the Force twitched.
It wasn't subtle. Hoth wasn't subtle. The planet's presence in the Force was a vast, cold absence punctuated by sharp, territorial spikes of intent. Hungry. Curious. Offended.
Very offended.
A warning klaxon blared.
"Alert," an HK announced. "New data acquired. Revising previous assessment."
Another pause. Wind howled. Something large moved beneath the snow, sending a ripple through the ice field like a slow breath.
"Correction: Sentient life detected."
Maris turned, eyes bright.
"How sentient?" She asked mildly.
The ground exploded.
A mass of white fur and muscle burst from beneath the ice in a storm of snow and rage. The wampa rose to its full height with a roar that rattled sensor towers and sent several construction droids skidding backward. Yellow eyes locked onto the nearest cluster of metal intruders.
It bared its teeth.
Maris tilted her head. "Oh, you're very sentient about this."
Blaster fire immediately lanced out—disciplined, precise, non-lethal by HK standards, which meant "theoretically survivable." Red bolts splashed against thick fur and icy hide. The wampa roared again and charged.
"Statement," an HK unit announced calmly as it advanced, weapon raised. "We come in peace."
The wampa responded by swatting it into a generator.
Maris laughed, sharp and delighted, the sound muffled by her mask.
Diplomacy was her favorite genre of comedy.
More shapes emerged from the snow. Another wampa. Then another. Massive, territorial, and extremely unimpressed by the concept of hostile takeovers conducted by polite murder-robots.
"Clarification," an HK continued, undeterred. "Peace is non-negotiable."
The next wampa grabbed it by the head and tried to tear its arms off.
Maris leaned against a crate, arms folded, watching the chaos unfold with the satisfaction of someone who had known exactly how this would go.
The Force swirled around her, cold and sharp, feeding her amusement. The Dark Side loved inevitability. Loved plans failing in predictable ways.
Her comm chirped.
"Maris," Ben's voice came through, already tired. "Why am I getting combat alerts?"
She glanced at the nearest wampa, which was currently trying to eat a sensor tower. "Because we're in combat?" She shrugged. "Keep up, Ben."
A pause. Wind howled. Blaster fire crackled.
"…Maris."
"There are a few locals," she said. "They're big. Furry. Emotionally expressive."
Another pause, longer this time. She could picture him rubbing his face, boots sinking into snow he was absolutely not dressed for.
"Are they attacking the outpost?"
"Yes."
"Did we attack first?"
"No."
"…Did the droids attempt diplomacy?"
She watched an HK extend one hand placatingly while firing with the other.
"Yes."
Ben exhaled. "Okay. New rules."
She rolled her eyes, already knowing what was coming.
"No wampa genocide," he said firmly. "Heated shelters for personnel. Proper supplies. Non-lethal deterrents only."
Maris snorted. "You're no fun."
"I'm practical."
"You're soft."
"I'm alive," he shot back. "And I'd like to keep it that way. A great way to do that is to not make everyother luminous being in this galaxy my enemy."
"How about half?"
"Maris."
She watched as an HK deployed a stun net that wrapped around a charging wampa, sending it crashing into the snow in a heap of furious limbs. The others roared, clearly communicating something that translated roughly to these metal things are rude.
"Fine," she said. "But if one eats a droid, I'm not apologizing to it."
"That's fair," Ben agreed. "Also—Maris?"
"Yes?"
"Please tell me the fleet isn't doing anything dramatic."
She glanced up.
The Katana Fleet hung in low orbit above Hoth, a wall of ancient dreadnoughts blotting out the sky. Two hundred warships, bristling with weapons, their silhouettes cutting through cloud cover like a threat made manifest.
They were so unnecessary it was almost obscene.
"It's just hovering," she said innocently.
"Why are all two hundred of them there?"
"Morale."
"For who?"
"For me."
He groaned.
Maris cut the channel and turned her attention back to the planet.
Once the immediate chaos settled into a manageable level of violence, she got to work. Listening posts went up along the ridgelines, their sensors piercing deep into hyperspace lanes. A relay array rose from the ice, its dish turning slowly, quietly announcing Hoth's new status to anyone who knew how to listen.
This wasn't conquest. This was infrastructure.
She moved through the outpost like a shadow, directing droids with clipped commands, her mind already mapping the possibilities. Hoth was useless to most people. No cities. No trade. No political leverage.
Which made it perfect.
The cold preserved everything. Equipment. Secrets. Bodies, if it came to that.
The isolation meant no one stumbled in by accident. Anyone who came here meant to.
And the Force… the Force was strange here. Quiet, but not empty. A blank canvas. A place to strip away distractions and see what remained.
Training.
Storage.
Hiding things that should not be found.
She smiled beneath her mask.
Ben trudged up beside her some time later, snow clinging to his boots and cloak. He looked small against the endless white, dark robes stark against the ice. The Force around him felt warm by comparison, a steady, stubborn presence that refused to be extinguished.
He stopped, took in the scene—wampas herded at a cautious distance by stun fields, HKs reinforcing shelters, the sky filled with impossible ships—and sighed.
"This place hates us," he said.
"It hates everyone," Maris replied. "Don't take it personally."
He shook his head slowly. "This is insane."
She glanced at him. "You're the one who approved it."
"I didn't expect… this."
"Liar."
He huffed, but there was a smile there, faint and reluctant. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
They stood in silence for a moment, wind screaming around them, the Force humming low and constant.
"This works," Ben said finally. "I mean it. Hoth works."
She arched a brow. "Admitting I'm right? On record?"
"Don't get used to it."
She laughed softly. The sound was lost almost immediately to the storm.
Somewhere beneath the ice, a wampa roared in frustrated defiance.
Above them, two hundred dreadnoughts watched in silence.
Hoth was theirs now.
Cold. Quiet.
And absolutely perfect.
...
Dantooine felt wrong in a way Hoth never could.
Hoth was honest about it. It screamed its hostility from the moment you arrived. The cold tried to kill you. The ground tried to swallow you. The wildlife tried to eat you and felt morally justified about it.
Dantooine was quiet.
Green fields rolled under a pale sky, broken by low hills and scattered settlements that had been rebuilt so many times they no longer remembered what "original" meant. Farms, power lines, irrigation canals—life, stubborn and practical. If you squinted, if you didn't listen too hard, it almost felt peaceful.
And then the Force brushed against me.
Old. Bruised. Bruised in the way something gets when it has been certain it was right, and then discovered the universe disagreed violently.
"Ruined Jedi enclave detected," an HK unit reported from the ridge line. "Recommendation: orbital sterilization to prevent ideological contamination."
"No," I said immediately.
The word came out sharper than I'd intended. The droid paused, head tilting a fraction.
"Clarification requested."
"No orbital sterilization. No looting. No digging. Mark it off-limits."
Maris turned slowly to look at me.
I didn't meet her eyes.
The enclave sat half-sunken into the hillside, ancient stone cracked and overgrown, its architecture unmistakably Jedi even after centuries of neglect. Columns lay shattered like broken teeth. Training grounds had collapsed inward, the Force echoing faintly where hundreds of initiates had once practiced forms they believed would save the galaxy.
The Force hummed there still. Not loudly. Just enough to be noticed. Like a bad memory you never quite stopped carrying.
Locals had gathered at a cautious distance from our landing zone. Farmers, traders, a few militia types with blasters they didn't look confident holding. They whispered to one another, eyes flicking between me, Maris, and the HK units fanning out with mechanical precision.
I could practically hear the assumptions forming.
They're Sith.
This is it.
We're dead.
One man finally stepped forward, hands raised. Brave, or stupid. Sometimes the same thing.
"We don't have much," he said, voice tight. "If you're here for tribute, we—"
"We're not," I interrupted.
That threw him off enough that he actually blinked.
"…You're not?"
"No mass executions," I added, because apparently that needed clarifying. "No slavery. No burning villages. Today's agenda is infrastructure repair… and a minor case of global domination."
Silence.
"And before you say anything, please know, I have a mechanical army, and two-hundred dreadnaughts in orbit." Said army was still mostly on Tatooine, but they didn't need to know that.
Maris snorted softly beside me.
I gestured to the HKs. "Repair power relays. Reinforce the spaceport. Establish a trade hub. Anyone who wants to sell goods can do so without being shaken down."
The man stared at me like I'd started speaking Huttese.
"And the… ruins?" he asked carefully, nodding toward the enclave.
I swallowed.
"Those are closed," I said. "Historical site. Hazardous. Don't go near them."
That, at least, made sense to him. He nodded quickly, relief warring with confusion, and hurried back to the others.
The HKs logged the order without comment.
"Designation updated," one announced. "Jedi enclave classified as: historical hazard. Entry prohibited. Reasons include but are not limited to: latent Force anomalies, structural instability, and religious extremism."
Maris grinned. "See? Even the droids get it."
I exhaled slowly and forced myself to look at the ruins again.
I hadn't trained here. I'd never even visited. But I knew places like this. The Temple on Coruscant. Training halls. Meditation chambers where they taught you to empty yourself until all that remained was obedience dressed up as serenity.
No attachments.
No fear.
No anger.
Funny how many ruins those ideas left behind.
We walked the settlement as repairs began, HK units rerouting power and stabilizing shields with mechanical efficiency. People watched us warily, but when lights came back on and water pumps restarted, the fear shifted into something else.
Hope, maybe. Or at least confusion.
Maris kept pace beside me, boots crunching softly in the grass. She didn't speak at first. She never pushed when she knew something mattered.
Eventually, she said, "You hate this place."
I didn't answer right away.
"I don't hate it," I said finally. "I just… don't like what it represents."
She hummed. "Dead Jedi?"
"Dead certainty," I corrected. "Jedi, Sith. They built temples like they were permanent. Like they couldn't imagine a future where they weren't right."
"And now they're ruins," she said lightly. "Tragic."
"And loud," I added. "In the Force."
She glanced at me sideways. "You're quiet."
"Am I?"
"For you," she said. "Yes."
We stopped near the edge of the enclave's perimeter. The Force pressure was stronger here, a low vibration under my skin. Not Light. Not Dark. Just… unresolved.
"Think they should've put up more signs," Maris said, staring at the fallen columns. "Like: Warning. Hubris Ahead."
I snorted despite myself.
"Or Do Not Build Galaxy-Spanning Institutions Without a Backup Plan."
"Exactly."
The humor faded, though, and she studied me more closely.
"You don't want to be here," she said.
I didn't deny it.
"This is your idea of mercy," she continued. "You fix things. You protect the ruins. You don't let anyone touch them, including yourself."
"Someone should remember what they were," I said quietly. "Without repeating it."
She considered that, then shrugged. "Fair."
The HKs finished setting up perimeter beacons, red lights blinking softly to mark the enclave as forbidden. Trade ships began to trickle into orbit, drawn by the promise of stability and the absence of extortion.
A Sith Lord establishing squatters' rights.
The galaxy was going to love this.
As we headed back toward the landing zone, the Force shifted again. Subtle. Easy to miss. Like a breath held just a moment too long.
I paused.
Maris felt it too. Her hand twitched near her saber, though she didn't draw it.
"You feel that," she said.
"Yeah."
It wasn't a threat. Not yet. More like… attention.
I looked back at the ruins one last time.
"Log everything," I told the HKs. "Any anomalous readings. Any Force fluctuations."
"Affirmative," they chorused.
As we lifted off, Dantooine shrank beneath us—fields, settlements, and the quiet bones of a fallen order.
We hadn't conquered it.
We'd claimed it.
And somewhere deep in the Force, something old and patient took note.
Maris leaned back in her seat, smirking faintly.
"You know," she said, "for Sith, we're really bad at the whole terror thing."
"Give it time," I said. "We're still in early access."
She laughed, and the ship jumped to hyperspace, leaving the ruins behind—untouched, humming, and very much not forgotten.
...
Jakku did not care.
This was Maris's first and most enduring impression as their shuttle descended through a haze of sand and atmospheric dust so thick it felt actively judgmental. The planet didn't recoil from their presence the way Hoth had, nor hum with buried history like Dantooine. Jakku simply… existed. A vast, sun-bleached landfill of a world that had long ago decided that nothing new, impressive, or apocalyptic was worth reacting to.
Sith Lords arrived? Fine.
Ancient dreadnoughts in orbit? Sure.
The galaxy's balance of power quietly shifting overhead? Cute.
Jakku remained aggressively unimpressed.
Below them stretched scrapyards that weren't so much organized as accreted—mountains of starship carcasses, half-buried hulls, snapped wings, and reactor shells picked clean and reassembled into shelters, towers, and marketplaces. The sandstorms rolled through them like tides, revealing and burying metal bones at random, as if the planet itself couldn't commit to what it wanted to remember.
Maris leaned forward slightly in her seat, watching scavengers already moving toward their landing site.
"They're not running," she noted.
Ben, seated opposite her, glanced out the viewport. "Should they be?"
"They should at least pretend," she said. "We brought two hundred dreadnoughts. That's supposed to mean something."
The shuttle touched down with a hiss of sand and heat. The ramp hadn't even finished lowering before the first local approached—thin, sunburned, wearing goggles and a grin that suggested a lifetime of bad ideas had finally paid off.
"Welcome to Jakku," the man called cheerfully. "You here to buy or sell?"
Maris blinked.
HK units deployed around them, blasters down but ready, optics scanning. The man didn't flinch.
"Sell what?" Ben asked, sounding genuinely curious.
The scavenger gestured broadly, encompassing the scrapyard, the horizon, and possibly the planet's entire sense of self-worth. "Ship parts. Hull plating. Hyperdrive couplings. I've got three reactors that only mostly explode."
Another scavenger jogged up beside him, dragging a repulsor sled piled with twisted metal. "I heard you got old ships in orbit," she added. "Dreadnaughts, right? Classic stuff. We can take some of that off your hands."
Maris stared.
"They're trying to sell us our own fleet," she murmured.
Ben rubbed his face. "They're entrepreneurial."
"Someone hurt you as a child," she decided, ignoring the fact that they were both still technically children, and that someone was probably her.
Within minutes, more scavengers had gathered, each more enthusiastic than the last. Offers flew fast and loud—salvage rights, exclusive contracts, promises to definitely not steal anything that wasn't nailed down. One particularly bold individual claimed to already own a dreadnought by "finder's law," despite it still being very much in orbit.
Maris watched Ben listen.
Actually listen.
He asked questions. Clarifications. What they needed. What they traded. How water worked here, which turned out to be a deeply upsetting conversation involving condensation traps, recycled coolant, and hope.
"You're negotiating," Maris said flatly, stepping closer to him. "With scavengers. On Jakku."
"They live here," he replied. "And they're not hostile."
"They tried to sell you a ship that hasn't landed."
"And I respect the hustle."
She opened her mouth to argue—
—and then the sky darkened.
It wasn't sudden. Not dramatic. Just… gradual. A creeping shadow that rolled across the scrapyard, dimming the sun until conversations faltered and heads tilted upward.
The dreadnought moved into low orbit.
One of the Katana Fleet's ancient behemoths slid overhead, its silhouette vast enough to blot out the sky, hull plates catching the light like the edge of a blade. It didn't fire. It didn't threaten.
It simply existed.
The effect was immediate.
Scavengers froze. Someone dropped a hydrospanner. A few people ran. Most just stared.
A local warlord—identifiable by the extra armor, extra weapons, and extra confidence—burst from a nearby tower, shouting orders that dissolved into panic halfway through.
He made it three steps toward them, took one look at the dreadnought, and fell to his knees.
"I surrender," he said loudly. "Whatever it is. I surrender."
Maris smiled.
"Fear," she said softly, "is so muchcheaper than loyalty."
Ben sighed, long and resigned, but he didn't argue. Not when the results were kneeling in the sand.
They set up fast after that.
HK units secured the immediate area, not through violence but presence. The dreadnought remained overhead like a celestial reminder of consequences. Ben walked the site, issuing orders that made scavengers stare at him like he was malfunctioning.
"Clean water stations," he said.
"Power grids," he added.
"A neutral trade zone. No extortion. No monopolies."
Someone raised a tentative hand. "So… does that mean Jakku's part of your government now?"
That was a fair question.
Maris watched Ben pause, thinking, eyes drifting briefly toward the horizon where the wreckage fields stretched endlessly.
"No," he said finally. "It means you're under our protection. Not our rule."
Silence followed.
"…What's the difference?" someone asked.
Ben hesitated. Just a fraction.
Maris felt it—the moment where this whole thing teetered between accident and intent.
"The difference," he said carefully, "is that you get to leave if you want. And so do we."
That seemed to satisfy no one and everyone at once.
As infrastructure went up—modular generators, water purifiers, comm relays—Maris walked the perimeter, boots crunching through sand and scrap. Jakku buzzed now, not with loyalty, but with opportunity. Traders arrived. Smugglers circled. Information flowed.
A neutral zone under Sith protection.
Absurd.
Effective.
She glanced skyward again at the dreadnought, obscene and unnecessary and perfect.
Ben joined her, arms folded, expression tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical strain.
"You're building something," she said.
"I'm preventing a mess," he replied.
She smirked. "That's how it always starts."
He didn't deny it.
Somewhere behind them, a scavenger was loudly explaining how he'd always believed in Sith-led infrastructure reform.
Jakku, trash world that it was, adapted instantly.
Maris decided she liked it.
Even if the galaxy was absolutely going to hate them for this.
...
Dathomir felt alive in a way Maris hadn't expected.
Not alive like Coruscant—too loud, too layered, a thousand conflicting rhythms smothering each other to death. Not alive like Korriban either, where the ground itself remembered screaming. Dathomir breathed. Slow. Deep. The air was thick with spores, mist curling low over crimson soil, the jungle looming with predatory patience.
The Dark Side here wasn't sharp.
It was domestic.
Maris stepped off the shuttle and felt it recognize her.
Not consciously. Not with words. Just a subtle click in the Force, like a lock turning somewhere behind her ribs. The Nightsisters were already waiting—tall silhouettes half-hidden by fog, bone charms and talismans clinking softly as they shifted. Green magick flickered faintly around their hands and eyes, a communal current rather than individual sparks.
One of them inhaled sharply.
"She is Zabrak," the witch said, voice low and reverent.
Another tilted her head, eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but appraisal. "And female."
The tension in the clearing changed instantly.
Maris barely had time to register it before she was surrounded.
Hands touched her shoulders. Her horns. Her face. Fingers traced ritual patterns in the air around her like they were checking for cracks in a blade. Voices overlapped, a chorus of interest and approval.
"Strong blood."
"Sharp presence."
"She walks with shadow easily."
"Not broken."
"Not owned."
Maris smiled despite herself.
This was… nice.
Someone draped a heavy cloak over her shoulders—woven fibers, warm, smelling faintly of ash and resin. Another pressed a cup into her hands, the liquid inside dark and steaming. She didn't ask what it was. That felt rude.
They led her forward like she belonged there, like this was overdue rather than unexpected. Celebration wasn't loud—no cheers, no sudden movement—but it was unmistakable. A subtle straightening of posture. A shifting of attention. She was being received.
Behind her, Ben froze.
Maris didn't need to turn around to feel it. The Force around him went very still, like a prey animal realizing it had wandered into the wrong clearing.
He followed a step behind, hands carefully visible, posture deliberately non-threatening. No helmet. No weapon drawn. No Force theatrics.
It did not help.
The witches noticed him the way predators noticed an unfamiliar shape in tall grass.
Slowly. Collectively.
With interest.
One of them sniffed. Literally sniffed the air around him.
"Male," she said, displeased.
"Human," another added, tone flat.
Several sets of eyes slid over him, measuring height, bone density, muscle. One witch circled him once, then again, fingers twitching as if testing how easily his spine might snap.
"Soft," someone murmured.
Ben swallowed.
"I'm just visiting," he said carefully.
Maris bit her lip.
A low, rippling sound passed through the group. Not laughter. Something closer to anticipation.
"Killing him would be simple," one witch observed conversationally.
"Yes," another agreed. "But wasteful."
"Cursing him could be educational."
"Keeping him might be useful."
Ben's shoulders tightened by a fraction.
Maris finally turned, grinning openly now.
"Oh, don't tease him too much," she said lightly. "He's fragile."
That earned her several approving glances.
Ben shot her a look that managed to convey betrayal, resignation, and a silent you're enjoying this all at once.
She absolutely was.
They were led deeper into the settlement—Maris at the center of attention, Ben trailing like a condemned man who hadn't yet been assigned a sentence. The Nightsisters spoke to Maris directly, asking questions that were half ritual, half gossip. Where she trained. Who she killed. What power she carried. Whether she bled easily.
Ben, notably, was not asked anything.
He was discussed.
At length.
Maris caught fragments as they walked.
"…not strong enough to keep her safe alone."
"…but clever. Dangerous in a different way."
Each one made Ben flinch. Maris loved it.
They reached a central clearing where a fire burned green instead of orange, smoke curling upward in unnatural spirals. A matron stood there—older, taller, presence dense enough that the Force bent slightly around her. Her gaze settled on Maris first, approving, satisfied.
Then it moved to Ben.
It was not hostile.
It was worse.
"You carry power," the matron said calmly. "And power attracts teeth."
Ben inclined his head respectfully. "I've noticed. Lots of things have tried to eat me, on occasion. Including Maris."
Maris snorted before she could stop herself.
The matron's lips twitched. Just barely.
"You do not belong here," the matron continued, eyes never leaving him. "But you walk beside one who does."
"I'm very aware," Ben replied. "I'm trying not to touch anything."
That earned him a low chuckle from somewhere in the crowd.
The matron turned back to Maris. "You are welcome," she said simply. "Our halls are open to you. Our magick will answer you."
Maris felt it settle into place—another thread woven into her growing web of alliances. Not obedience. Not ownership.
Recognition.
Then the matron looked at Ben again.
"If she dies," the matron said gently, "Dathomir will come looking for you."
The clearing went very quiet.
Ben didn't react right away. No flinch. No denial. Just a slow, careful breath.
"I understand," he said at last.
Maris studied him from the corner of her eye.
He wasn't afraid. Not really. He was cataloging risk, consequences, lines that could not be crossed. He was doing what he always did—deciding how to survive a future threat without escalating the present.
She felt something warm and sharp twist in her chest.
Dathomir approved of her.
Dathomir tolerated him.
That, somehow, felt exactly right.
...
The Katana Fleet truly was a sight to behold.
Two hundred dreadnoughts hung in tight formation outside the viewport, their ancient hulls scarred but proud, lights burning steady as a constellation that answered to me now. Not the Republic. Not the Sith Empire of old. Me. Us. The First Order—still a ridiculous name, still provisional—but today it felt real in a way it hadn't before.
I leaned back against the command rail and let myself breathe.
Maris had her boots up on a crate she absolutely did not need to be sitting on, cloak tossed aside, horns catching the low light as she watched the fleet with a satisfied, predatory calm. She looked… happy. Or whatever the Sith-adjacent equivalent was. Fulfilled, maybe. Like the galaxy had finally confirmed something she'd always known about herself.
"We did good," I said.
She tilted her head, considering that like it might be an insult. "We didn't die. That's my baseline for 'good.' Everything else is gravy."
"That's the most inspiring speech I've ever heard."
She smirked. "You're welcome."
HK-47 stood a few steps away, arms folded, photoreceptors glowing with their usual murderous cheer. "Statement: This unit calculates a ninety-seven percent probability that 'celebration' will reduce combat readiness. Suggestion: We celebrate by executing a symbolic enemy."
"There are no enemies left in the room," I said.
"Correction: There are no approved enemies left in the room."
C-3PO cleared his throat, which was impressive, considering he didn't have one. "If I may interject, Master—oh dear, is it Master or Lord now? I was never quite briefed—"
"Ben," I said automatically.
"—Ben," Threepio continued, sounding relieved. "I believe it is statistically significant that this has been, by all reasonable organic standards, a very successful day. Several planets have pledged cooperation, trade access has increased dramatically, and no one has attempted to dismantle me for parts even once."
Maris glanced at him. "Give it time."
He stiffened. "I do wish you wouldn't say things like that."
I smiled despite myself.
Four planets. Five, if you counted the Tusken agreement properly—which the Republic absolutely wouldn't, but that was their problem. Add Dathomir's… conditional interest, Jakku's grudging compliance, Tatooine's outright revolution, and suddenly we weren't just playing warlord anymore. We were doing infrastructure. Diplomacy. Logistics.
Empire-building, it turned out, wasninety percent paperwork and ten percent terror.
"Yavin IV still bothers me," I said.
Maris looked over. "The temple?"
"The idea of it," I said. "An abandoned Sith site just sitting there, unclaimed. We really should take it, at some point. Otherwise, it's like leaving a loaded blaster on the table and hoping no one irresponsible walks by."
"You say that like you wouldn't be the irresponsible one."
"Rude," I said. "Accurate, but rude."
HK-47's head tilted. "Observation: The meatbag displays attachment to future violence. This unit approves."
I pushed off the rail and stretched, the weight of the day finally catching up to me. "We should head back to Tatooine. Lock things down. Make sure Mos Eisley doesn't immediately set itself on fire."
"Again," Maris added.
"Again," I agreed.
I hesitated, then reached for the comm.
"It's been a while," I said, mostly to myself. "I should call Ahsoka."
Maris's expression softened just a fraction. "You miss her."
"I worry," I corrected.
The channel chimed as it connected—
—and then the Force hit me.
It wasn't pain. Not exactly. It was pressure. A sudden, vast distortion, like a chord struck so hard it rattled every other string connected to it. My breath caught, hand tightening around the console as the room seemed to tilt.
Mandalore.
The name wasn't a thought so much as a certainty, stamped into my awareness with cold clarity. Fear. Anger. Violence coiling tight around something important. Someone.
Satine.
I didn't know how I knew. I just did.
Maris was on her feet instantly. "Ben."
"I felt it," I said hoarsely. "Something's happening. On Mandalore."
The fleet outside the viewport burned steady and silent, unaware that the galaxy had just shifted again.
I had the sudden, sinking sense that whatever came next… we were already late.