The stars themselves held their breath from the silent screams that had shattered several other moons much like Yavin 8's fate. Every occurrence left those sensitive in the Force broken. On Ossus, winter's frost had bled into spring's tentative bloom. Far from its melting, snow-dusted spires, the Star of Ashla hung in Lehon's orbit. Its obsidian-lined hull, reborn and fully forged with cortosis plating, caught the light, yet its interior remained a raw crucible of retrofitting, conduits sparking under droid welders' torches, etched with runes that caught the worklight. Three thousand one hundred meters of crescent-prowed menace, a testament to the Je'daii's relentless ambition, rushed from dry dock to hunt the entities that now threatened more ice moons throughout the galaxy.
Lehon itself lay quiet, its Prime Echo Relay site abandoned since the Veiled Covenant's retreat. Only stray scouts, cloaked in stealth, darted through the ruins on rare occasions, their presence a fleeting thorn in the alliance's side. Jedi and Je'daii teams, led by Ezra Bridger and Rey Skywalker for the former, Vicrul and Zeht for the latter, had been scouring the planet for months, excavating for Zha-Korran's fabled city. The Rakata star map, a fragmented relic of glyphs and starlines, offered no clear path, its clues as elusive. Each mission returned with empty hands, the jungle's rot and durasteel decay mocking their efforts. Yet the Star remained, steadfast, its orbit a silent vow to the discovery of this city of the Rakata. The heart of the Star was its grand conference room, a chamber of stark durasteel and obsidian, its ceiling a vaulted expanse where Zakuulan chandeliers cast a hard, angular light. A holotable dominated the center, its surface flickering with Lehon's topographic scans, the Rakata map's marks blinking in vain. Revan stood at the table's head, his red and silver-gray mask a cold mirror to the room's severity, his redeemed lightsaber a silent weight at his hip, with its twin always near. Across from him, Rey Skywalker leaned forward, her hand resting on her saber's hilt, her hazel eyes sharp with diplomatic resolve. Ezra Bridger, blue and gray-streaked hair framing a weathered scowl, gripped the table's edge, his slate-blue robes dusted with Lehon's jungle grit. Vicrul, Sentinel of Fire, loomed at Revan's side, his armor shining in polished black obsidian, his vibro-scythe sheathed but ever-ready.
A new arrival pierced Lehon's orbit. The Fulcrum's Dawn, a sleek frigate, its tapered durasteel hull painted white with gray-blue accents, caught the starlight. Quad laser turrets, nestled in polished housings, sat clean with Rebel-era elegance, their barrels unmarred by rust. A stealth cloak blurred its approach, fading as docking beacons guided it to the Star of Ashla's public bay. Ahsoka's ship settled, its ramp lowering with a hiss of hydraulics, the bay's expanse opening to take it in.
The docking bay sprawls vast, pitted floor stretching under harsh floodlights, load-lifters groaning, repulsors whining, voices barking in tongues I have heard on a dozen worlds. My white lightsabers hang heavy at my hips, their silver hilts catching the glare. The air carries a low vibration I feel in my montrals, like Coruscant's old shipyards. Rune-carved cranes swing crates with eerie precision overhead. Je'daii crews in threaded tunics dart between fighters and freighters, their steps too keen, too hungry, for my liking.
The Republic's ambition felt like this once, before it cracked under its own weight.
I trust this alliance. But the Je'daii's relentless drive prickles my lekku, a warning I cannot shake. Tayra's soft tread follows, her orange-red skin dulled in the glare, saberstaff clipped tight. Huyang's ancient frame stands beside her, photoreceptors sweeping the bustle with a droid's calm.
A Chiss approaches through the crowd, red eyes piercing the floodlights, formal and impassive. My chest tightens. Not Korrin's eyes, but close enough to ache. Korrin, stirring on Ossus. Tionne's healing hands bringing him back. The boy's recovery is a sign of hope I clutch as the stranger bows, his black tunic marked by a single Je'daii rune.
"Greetings, Master Ahsoka. I am Dren'var, squire to Revan."
An administrator's tone.
"I'll escort you to where your party is staying."
I nod. I parse the bay's din, clanging tools, hissing vents, a droid's whir. The Je'daii's order feels Zakuulan. Too precise. Too grand. Dren'var's brisk pace cuts through the terminal, holoscreens flickering with docking logs, sentries in cortosis armor standing like statues. He leads us into a corridor that stretches deep into the Star's heart. Wide. Walls polished to a cold sheen, their surfaces etched with runes traced along the edges. Too perfect. Unlike the Jedi's Ossus halls, warm with kolto's familiar scent. Crews surge past, hauling datacores or clashing with training blades, laughter keen against the reactor's steady drum. But I catch the contrast. These guest-bound corridors gleam, pristine, finished. Distant clatters and the orange flash of welding torches through side passages tell a different story. The Star's skin is complete. Its guts are still being stitched together.
"Ancient knowledge, modernized."
Tayra's words come quietly. Her scholar's mind finds solace in the fusion of old runes and new engineering. Her shoulders ease. Mine do not.
My lekku twitch, catching a chant from a distant chamber. A Je'daii ritual, its cadence built for something heavier than meditation. I have heard war hymns dressed as prayers before. I wonder if Revan's balance can hold what their intention boasts of, or if this machine will consume us all.
The corridor opens to a crew deck, a sprawling nexus of activity. Je'daii scholars debate in alcoves, star charts alive on holo-displays. Chosen sentries stand rigid, pikes catching the light, their armor pristine in these polished zones. Droids haul crates of datacores that tell of Rakata secrets. The bustle is relentless, a pace that outstrips the Jedi's spareness by leagues. I catch the reactor's drum again, deep in the ship's belly, a power Ossus wishes it could match. Dren'var leads us to a turbolift. The ascent is smooth, the interior gleaming under recessed lights. The lift opens to a narrower corridor, colder, lined with holopanels and carved arches, leading to the VIP guest quarters.
The quarters are stark metal softened by Tythonian tapestries, their star-woven patterns catching the dim light of wall sconces. Dren'var opens one of the doors in a row. Kesh reaches me before I am through the threshold. The Lothal wolf's amber eyes fix on me, tail wagging, nudging my hand with a Force-tinged joy that cuts through the Star's Zakuulan chill and feels like home. She circles to Tayra and Huyang, her fur a soft anchor. Beyond him, Tai sits cross-legged on a bunk, her meditation breaking at the sound of boots, dark hair framing a braid, her calm a mirror to Ezra as his padawan. Jiruna, Rey's apprentice, looks up from a diplomatic holocron, pointed ears perking, silver-streaked hair falling across emerald eyes that carry Rey's poised intensity even in youth.
Tayra's shoulders hunch, a flicker of unease in unfamiliar quarters, but her gaze warms as Kesh settles against her leg. Tai's shy glance and Jiruna's eager nod meet my eyes, but the room feels hollow without their masters.
"Where are Ezra and Rey?"
My voice low but firm.
His red eyes flicker, formal and steady.
"They're still meeting with Revan in the grand chamber."
Tai's head lifts.
"They've been at it for hours."
Jiruna nods.
Revan the myth. His masked presence a warning in my thoughts for months now. Every report from Ezra, every datachip, every debate in the Council chamber, and still I have no read on the man. That ends now. I turn to Dren'var.
"Take me to this meeting."
He bows, clipped and precise, gesturing toward another corridor. I excuse myself with a brief gesture, leaving Tayra and Huyang with the padawans and Kesh, their figures fading into the chamber's warmth.
The corridor is vast, lined with more holopanels and carved arches, Je'daii scholars debating in alcoves, their tones clipped. Revan's honor guards stand rigid at intervals, pikes catching the light, a formality the Jedi rarely match. Dren'var leads upward through another turbolift. The corridor beyond grows colder, the metal unyielding, leading to the grand meeting chamber. Two guards flank the door, cortosis pikes at attention, their armor marking them as Revan's honor guard. I pause at the threshold. My fingers graze the door's carved frame. Then I step through.
The chamber looms like a tomb dressed as a throne room. Black stone walls eating the light, the vaulted ceiling aglow with Zakuulan chandeliers that cast knife-edged shadows across the floor. A holotable stands at the center.
And there he is.
Revan stands at the table's head. The red and silver-gray mask catches the chandelier's light, and for a moment I am not here. I am on Malachor, staring up at another mask, black and angular, the breathing apparatus hissing, Anakin's eyes buried somewhere behind it. I am on Mortis, the Son's face shifting between light and shadow. I have faced masked men before. I know what masks hide. Certainty they cannot afford to show. Or absence where a person used to be. His Force presence hits me and I stop mid-stride, cataloging. Not light. Not dark. Something I have only felt once, on Mortis, where the Force itself lived in balance so absolute it bent reality. Revan's signature carries that same impossible equilibrium, but more raw. His lightsabers rest at his hip, a silent weight, and his bearing reads military. Straight spine. Hands still. The posture of a commander who has sent people to die and remembered every name. I have seen it in clone captains. In Rex. In myself.
Herald of the Je'daii, or a fraud poised to burn the galaxy all over again? I intend to find out. His Sentinel of Fire looms at his side, obsidian armor matte against the glare, vibro-scythe sheathed but the menace radiating. Chosen guards flank the walls. Rey leans across the holotable, her voice measured. Ezra's scowl cuts deep, his fingers stabbing at the map's fragmented lines.
"I see that I'm late."
My amber eyes lock on Revan's mask. Bold. Direct. A Chosen guard steps forward, pike twitching, helm runes flaring. Revan's hand rises, stilling him, the mask pressing his brow as he meets my gaze. I feel his assessment, quick and thorough, a mirror of my own. Good. Let him look. I have nothing to hide.
"Tell me what's been discussed. What is our plan moving forward?"
He gestures to the holotable's marks. They have pulled fragments from the Prime Echo Relay. More datacrons hinting at a possible location for Zha-Korran, but scattered, some running in circles. A triangulated site for the next excavation, but the lead is thin.
Rey nods, her diplomat's calm masking a flicker of doubt. Ezra's fingers freeze.
"It is another dead end."
Ezra's distrust plain.
I step closer.
"Then we are lucky I arrived when I did. Kam found something while digging through the Old Republic records in the archive."
My voice carries a general's tone.
"An old Jedi holocron, from after your imprisonment, Revan. It names the Temple of the Ancients as where we should look next."
The effect is immediate. Revan's mask does not change, but his Force presence shifts. A tremor, deep and fast, like tectonic plates grinding. He catches it. Controls it. But I felt it. Whatever the Temple of the Ancients means to this man, it is not just a ruin.
The Temple of the Elders, Lehon's heart, the Rakata supercomputer, something I buried long ago. Shock claws my chest, memories surging. Malachor V. The Star Forge's pull. The gravity of my sins. My stare lingers at Lehon on the holodisplay. Malak's shadow now at my side, the Black Rakata kneeling. I had sworn to destroy the Star Forge, but pride drove me to the temple's peak, the computer's cold voice offering secrets I could not refuse. I betrayed the Elders, fed the Forge's hunger, and sparked the Jedi Civil War, my hubris torching worlds. Redeemed, I returned years later, siding with the Elders to access that same computer, its data opening the path to Malak's ultimate fall. But the temple's influence still clings, my betrayal, now in the dark side's whisper. The chamber's silence presses, the holotable's glow a cruel mirror to my past. I step forward, my voice low and raw, as if the galaxy itself listens.
"The Temple of the Ancients."
The words a confession.
"Yes. I walked its halls twice, once as a conqueror, once as a penitent. I betrayed the Rakata Elders, swore to end the Star Forge, but claimed its power instead. That choice ignited a war, cost lives I will never be able to repay. The supercomputer gave me its secrets, but its price was my soul. Redeemed, I returned, used it to stop a Sith Empire. In my madness, I fired on it, dreadnoughts tearing its stones apart. Its state now is certainly a ruin, jungle-choked, the computer likely dead. I doubt we can even reach it, but if it holds answers to Zha-Korran, it might be better than these excavations that yield no results. Be warned, Jedi. The Force wanes in Bogan's favor there. You will be tested."
My voice steadies, resolute yet heavy, the burden of centuries laid bare, a caution carved from my mistakes. Rey's eyes flicker, cautious. Her diplomat's mind sifts my words.
"We need certainty. Not more excavations that only seem to serve you Je'daii."
Ezra's scowl tightens.
"Your history's a liability, Revan. Why should we trust this may be the place when we have a better location triangulated?"
Ahsoka steps closer, her fire unyielding.
"I agree with Revan, it's our best shot. The worst is we go, and don't find a way in. Then we're right back to here, turning the planet upside down with no results."
Rey's caution layered atop Ezra's distrust, while Ahsoka's defiance drives them forward. I see it will take time, their words a tangle I cannot cut through. The Chosen stand silent, pikes steady, their helms still catching the chandelier's light. Vicrul's eyes burn, awaiting my will, while Dren'var, at the chamber's edge, inclines his head. I raise a hand.
"Vicrul, Dren'var, prepare the excavation teams to direct efforts toward the temple. Chosen, with me."
Vicrul and my Chosen bow.
"As you command, my Herald."
The guards part, filing out, their boots echoing on polished metal. I turn to Ahsoka, Rey, and Ezra.
"Whoever is coming, ask to be taken to my personal hangar. We shall make ready there."
Before any of them can respond, I've already left the room, Vicrul in tow. The corridor beyond is vast, its walls cold, polished to a sheen that reflects the chandeliers' dying light. Crews bustle, hauling crates through arched doorways, their footsteps relentless against the ship's drone. The Star's ambition dwarfs the passage, its corridors stretching like the veins of a beast I forged, yet it feels hollow against the temple's imminent presence. I move through a dojo, training blades clashing, the air sour with sweat, the floors scuffed by countless duels. A holocron vault follows, its shelves dim, datacores humming, their kyber cores a whisper I push aside. The crew deck sprawls next, tables crowded with Je'daii eating, laughing, their voices a din against the reactor's beat, the walls vibrating with the Star's life. A turbolift carries me upward, the ascent smooth but heavy, the drone of machinery a faint echo of the Star Forge's song.
The bridge doors part, and the Star of Ashla's command deck stretches before me, its vastness pressing against my chest like the pull of Lehon's past. My boots echo on the scuffed floor, the sound lost under the chatter of the Star's crew and the steady vibration of consoles, their voices a hum in the half-light. Conduits dangle from the ceiling, sparks flashing where droid welders fuse panels, the ship's retrofit a work unfinished, its heart still raw. The viewport looms, a slab of transparisteel framing Lehon's jungle-green orb. The Temple of the Ancients, its name continues to claw at me. I hold it in, but my breath goes shallow, the Force's irony whispering. What if that machine still lives, ready to pass judgment again?
Star Warden Pirana Vesh stands at the bridge's heart, her human frame poised, her blonde hair pulled tight, her Force aura calm. Her gray eyes meet mine, sharp with loyalty. She steps back from the command console.
"My Herald, the bridge is yours."
I raise a hand.
"Resume your duties, Star Warden."
She nods, confidence in her stride as she returns to her station. Her presence a quiet anchor amid the bridge's bustle. I move toward the Astral Cartography, its Zakuulan console rising like a cathedral spire, holographic planets turning in the air, Ashla and Bogan symbols flickering to mark their balance. The operator stands rigid, her Force-sensitive gaze fixed on the holo-display, her fingers hovering over the console's sleek controls.
"Herald, I am ready for your coordinates."
My voice low. The temple's location burns in my mind like a wound.
"Lehon, sector 7-3."
Her eyes flicker, recognizing the gravity in my tone, and she inputs the data, the console waking as droids chitter, pulling feeds from cloaked probes. The holo-display shifts, Lehon's surface zooming in, jungles parting to reveal the temple, a ruin, its spires shattered, arches choked with vines, barely a shadow of the sanctum I knew. My breath catches, a sigh escaping.
"It is worse than I feared. Scan it."
I order, holding steady against the dread of what awaits me on the surface. The operator's fingers dance, the Star's sensors, GEMINI-derived, meant to pierce worlds, whining as they probe. The operator's voice cuts through, calm but taut.
"Scanners are still only at half-capacity, my Herald. The retrofit is still incomplete, sensors can't penetrate the overgrowth."
The holo-display flickers, showing only static, ruin, no trace of life or tech. I clench my fist, the temple's decay a mirror to my doubts.
The supercomputer, its cold voice a memory of when I stood before the Elders, their ritual parting the temple's force field. I had freed a prisoner from the Black Rakata, earned their trust, but their eyes burned, seeing my betrayal from years before, swearing to destroy the Star Forge, only to claim it. The computer's data had opened Malak's end, but Bastila's duel atop the summit, her dark-side pull, had tested me. I had refused her, my redemption holding, but the machine knew my sins, its Rakata logic implacable. If it lives now, against all odds, what will it see? The Force loves its irony, and I fear a spark of Rakata tech, some Force-bound core, might still flicker in those ruins, ready to lay bare every world I burned, every oath I broke.
The Je'daii might accept my path, their balance forged from my mistakes, but the computer could judge our forming Order's ambition, see my pride mirrored in the Star's iron heart. The Force-scream that continues to shatter those moons, could it know its source? The Rakata's lore, vast as the Infinite Empire, might hold answers. The burden overwhelms me, answers dangling just beyond reach, but exposure looms. My sins. My Order. Laid bare. I push the thought down and turn to the bridge.
"Star Warden."
My voice cuts through Pirana's background orders to her crew, coordinates for probes, checks on the retrofit. She turns, her aura steady.
"The Force has laid a path. We are breaching the Temple of the Ancients, ruins or not. Prepare the ship for support operations."
Her nod is firm. Her voice a low command to the helm.
"Navigation, ready orbital drift. Engineering, prioritize excavation efforts to the temple."
I step closer, steadied by the deck around me.
"You have the ship and command, Star Warden."
Pirana's eyes meet mine, loyalty unyielding.
"In balance, my Herald."
She resumes her post. Her orders a steady rhythm as her crew moves. Droids spark in the retrofit's gaps. I turn from the bridge, the viewport's green glare fading as I enter a command corridor, its alloy walls cold. My boots echo, the Star's vastness pressing close, the quiet sharpening every doubt I carry. A command deck follows, officers poring over holo-charts and datacrons. Dren'var shadows my steps, his Chiss precision a quiet presence.
"Any update from Galen?"
My voice low. The Sentinel of Shadow's absence a noticeable drag on my thoughts. Dren'var's red eyes flicker. His tone clipped.
"Negative, my Herald. No report since his last transmission."
I nod, the Force's silence unsettling.
"Dren'var, inform me the moment you hear from him."
He inclines his head, a vow unspoken. The command office lies just off the bridge, its door sliding open with a hiss, revealing a spartan chamber, a durasteel desk, a single chair, a viewport framing Lehon's shadow. I settle into the chair, its cold frame biting through my robes, and activate the comm.
"HK, prep the Ebon Hawk for takeoff. I will be there within the hour."
The droid's voice crackles through.
"Query: Must I ready the ship for another of your spectacular Lehon crash-landings, Master? The last was most inefficient, though I enjoyed the chaos."
I smirk beneath the mask, his jab a keen echo of that descent out of ancient history.
"Just be ready, HK."
I cut the link. The ready room's silence closes in, Lehon's ruins looming beyond the viewport.
"We can't just dedicate our full efforts, Ahsoka."
Rey's voice calm but edged.
"We need a plan, entry points, structural risks. If those halls collapse or dark-side traps trap you all there, what's our next move? Revan's own account of what happened doesn't inspire confidence."
Her pragmatism anchors us. But I feel her weighing the temple's ruin, its jungle-choked spires Revan blasted millennia ago, against the months of empty-handed excavations that brought us here. Ezra leans against the table, his scowl a mask for something softer. A grudging respect for Revan's legend buried beneath his rebel edge.
"He fired on it himself. Dreadnoughts. Plasma. What does he think is left but vines and rubble?"
His gestures falter, a pause that speaks louder than his words, as if Revan's resolve tugs at him despite himself. I step closer, the worn glyphs catching my eye.
"Kam's holocron does tell a different story on the value of that place."
My voice firm.
"The Temple of the Ancients weighs on Revan, even now. His past haunts him. This is our chance to test our new allies. If he's a fraud, hell-bent on another empire, the Force will show it. If he's this Herald of the Je'daii, we'll see that too."
My mind flashes to Malachor. Its Sith temple whispering through the Force, guiding my steps where machines failed. Mortis was stranger, its nexus shifting under my touch, but I found the way by feeling, not scanning. This temple will be no different. Its secrets live in the Force, not Revan's datacores.
"I'm no stranger to walking ancient tombs."
I meet Rey's gaze.
"The Force calls me to go. The dark side's there, sure, but so's the truth."
Rey's brow furrows, her caution iron.
"Intuition's not enough, Ahsoka. We need better scans. We need a credentialed team. If there's a dark-side nexus..."
Ezra's scowl softens. His hand pauses mid-gesture.
"If it's only a ruin, we're chasing our tail again. Efforts should be on what's left in the Relay and identifying viable ruins, not digging up Revan's past."
His voice carries weight, but his eyes flicker. A spark I have seen in rebels who follow legends despite themselves. I hold both their gazes.
"I'm going."
Rey straightens, diplomat's calm shifting to iron.
"Fine. One of us needs to stay, the padawans should not go and will need to be watched. I can coordinate with Ossus from here, but I want guarantees, scans, a plan, results."
Ezra's jaw tightens. His fingers curl.
"I'm not sitting this out."
Rey's eyes narrow, weighing his words. Then she relents, her nod grudging as we leave the chamber, its doors hissing shut behind us. The corridors feel different now. Not because they have changed, but because I am not sightseeing anymore. I am preparing.
The VIP guest quarters open before us, tapestries catching the dim light. Kesh bounds forward, amber eyes bright, her nudge against my hand a Force-warm anchor, tail wagging. She brushes Ezra's leg, a growl of approval rumbling, her instincts already sharpening for what lies ahead.
Tayra stands near a bunk, clutching her datapad, teeth gritted as Lehon's artifacts dance in her eyes. She knows. She can feel where this is heading.
"You're staying aboard."
My voice firm but soft. I meet her eyes.
"All of you."
Tayra's knuckles whiten. Her objection swallowed by duty, but the grit in her teeth betrays her longing for the ruins' secrets. She nods, once, the discipline I taught her holding. Tai steps forward, dark hair framing a worried frown, padawan braid swaying. Her voice trembles. Her concern raw.
"Master Ezra, you're going without me?"
Ezra's hand rests on her shoulder. His tone gentle.
"You'll be safe here, Tai. Rey needs your help coordinating with the Je'daii."
Jiruna lingers quietly, silver-streaked hair catching the light, her diplomatic poise mirroring Rey's as she nods, accepting her role without protest. Huyang's photoreceptors brighten, his ancient frame steady.
"The Force guides us, but wisdom prepares us. Check your gear carefully."
Rey's hand brushes mine. A Jedi farewell. Her eyes resolute.
"May the Force be with you."
Dren'var waits outside, red eyes sharp, four of Revan's Chosen flanking him, cortosis pikes steady, their presence a weight I respect but do not trust.
"Take us to Revan's personal hangar."
Dren'var nods.
"This way, Master Tano."
The Chosen move in step. The corridors pass faster now. I am not cataloging the Star's architecture anymore. I am running mission logistics in my head. Entry points. Escape routes. How Revan moves, how Vicrul positions himself relative to his Herald, where the threat lines fall if this alliance fractures inside a possible dark-side nexus. A turbolift carries us downward. Hangar access corridors open wide, holo-displays flickering with flight paths, crews moving with purpose. The personal hangars section looms ahead, faint runes etched into the frame. The temple's secrets press in the Force, closer with every step.
The hangar doors part with a grating hiss, revealing Revan's personal bay. And there sits the Ebon Hawk. Its Dynamic-class silhouette perches in this private berth like a relic given new bones. Cortosis-plated hull polished to a mirror sheen, Zakuulan holo-lights casting a clinical glow from the cockpit viewports. The retrofit is flawless on the outside, thrusters sleek with their Je'daii craftsmanship. But the hull carries a history no polish can hide, battle damage worn into the metal like laugh lines on an old soldier's face. My hand drifts toward the hull as I pass. I catch myself. Pull it back.
Ezra follows, slate-blue robes swaying, saber clipped to his belt. His eyes narrow as he scans the Hawk, his usual scowl losing its edge for one breath. He catches himself too. We are both old enough to know what legends cost. Kesh pads at his side, amber eyes keen, a low growl rumbling through the Force, reading the ship's weight as keenly as I do. Huyang's servos whir, his ancient frame steady. His photoreceptors sweep the bay.
"A fine vessel with history."
Calm but probing, like a scholar sizing up a holocron. The Hawk's ramp lowers with a soft groan. We step into the lounge, its circular design sleek yet heavy, Zakuulan panels glowing where ancient consoles once stood. The air is cool, sharp with hot alloy and coolant, the ship's heart alive but unfamiliar. A stranger's home. The metal feels worn beneath my boots, etched with battles, Revan's defiance rolling through the Force like a distant storm. A droid's voice slices through the comm. Cold and sardonic, like a Separatist general plotting ambush.
"Warning: The temple's dark-side traps are likely more functional than its crumbling halls, Jedi. Survival odds are suboptimal."
My hand moves to my lightsaber hilt. A reflex. Clone Wars instinct, wired deep, the kind that fires before thought catches up. Droids with that tone meant betrayal once.
"Noted… thanks, droid."
Low and guarded. Ezra's gaze flicks to the comm, his silence heavy, a rebel's skepticism sizing up the voice. Kesh's growl deepens, wary, tail rigid as she paces, sensing the droid's bite. Huyang's photoreceptors whir. His tone dry as a Tatooine wind.
"I'm too familiar with ancient relics like you, droid, and far less talkative. Mind your circuits."
The exchange hangs. Tense. Caution binding us tighter than humor. I drift to the lounge's holo-table, its glyphs tracing Lehon's coordinates, my fingers hovering over the display. Revan's scans paint a grim picture. Vines strangling stone. Halls collapsed under his own plasma fire millennia ago. The Force will yield a path where these scans show only rubble. I will feel its pulse, find its heart, prove Revan's truth or lies where his treachery began. Footsteps echo up the ramp. Heavy and deliberate.
Revan enters. The red and silver-gray mask a cold mirror to the lounge's glow, his presence pressing the air, that impossible equilibrium I felt in the meeting chamber, weathered and steady and unreadable. His Sentinel of Fire follows, obsidian armor catching the light, his menace a shadow beside Revan's command. He gives a sharp nod, a silent dismissal, and moves toward the bridge, leaving Revan to host us.
"Find a seat."
Low through the mask. He gestures to the lounge's curved benches.
"HK, take us in. We are all here and ready."
His gaze meets mine. A mystery. Fraud or Herald. The Force will be my judge. The droid's voice crackles from the ship's comm system.
"Statement: Course set for the temple's rubble heap. I recommend bracing for structural collapse, or the dark side's embrace."
The Ebon Hawk's thrusters roar. The deck shudders as we settle, Kesh curling at Ezra's feet, her growl softening, Huyang's servos humming faintly. I move near the cockpit's edge, my senses parsing the hum of Zakuulan navs, their Force-sensitive note strange, a harmony unlike any ship I have flown in. The hangar blurs outside the viewport, droid welders flashing, Je'daii fighters fading as the Hawk lifts. The docking bay's jaws part, the Star's interior raw and half-welded behind us, sparks trailing from droid repairs. Yet its reactors drum, a fortress orbiting Lehon's green haze, its ambition unbroken despite the unfinished heart.
The Hawk surges free. Stars streak past. Lehon's surface swells in the viewport, a jungle canopy thick as night, broken spires piercing the green, their dark-side aura bleeding through the Force like a warning. My breath steadies.