The Sanctum of Shadow was a cathedral of ash and iron, its obsidian walls pulsing with crimson-gold Je'daii runes that flickered like dying stars. I stood on the raised dais, the Bogan rune beneath my boots, a jagged crescent moon, radiating a dark aura that clawed at the edges of my soul. The plasma crucible roared before me, its sealed Mustafarian core a vortex of volcanic fury, cortosis-lined conduits channeling heat that warped the air into ghostly shapes. Steam hissed from coolant vents, mingling with the acrid sting of ash that coated my throat. The durasteel ceiling, etched with Tython's moons, glowed faintly, casting the chamber in a shroud of myth and menace. Alcoves cradled relics, Juno's blood-stained coat, its synth-leather a wound I couldn't close. Sith holocrons, their kyber long dead, shattered saber hilts, mute witnesses to forgotten wars. The air thrummed with the Force, a discordant hum that pressed against my bones, as if the sanctum itself judged what unfolded below.
Three initiates knelt before the cortosis anvil, their gray tunics clinging to sweat-slick skin, hands clutching kyber crystals, cortosis ore, and durasteel hilts. Bralen, the Twi'lek smuggler, held his materials with cocky bravado, lekku twitching like a vibroblade's edge. Havok, the Mirialan bounty hunter, gripped hers with ruthless focus, green eyes cold as a blaster's muzzle. Erynn, the human orphan from Nar Shaddaa's slums, clasped her components with quiet resolve, knuckles white, her breath steady despite the crucible's sear. Their faces, lit by the furnace's blood-red glow, were masks of defiance and dread, each aware that death loomed closer than the shadows.
Zevra Tyn stood before them, her Twi'lek poise a blade's edge, violet eyes scanning the initiates like a predator. Vren, with a sniper's eye, flanked her, his scarred hands steady on the crucible's controls, his calm a silent testament to our order's cost. PROXY prowled the chamber's perimeter, his photoreceptors glowing red, holographic projectors humming as he prepared to weave their nightmares into being. I'd briefed him before the ritual, drawing on the initiates' emotions and my Force sensitivity, getting a glimpse of their deepest wounds. A subtle nod to PROXY, my will relayed, set the test in motion.
I adjusted my stance, the Bogan rune scar on my left pectoral throbbing beneath my tunic, a reminder of my own oath to this cause. Boba Fett's death, his beskar shattered, skull crushed under my will had burned away the drunkard I'd been, leaving only the Sentinel of Shadows. No longer Starkiller, no longer the Galen Marek broken by Juno and Sera's loss. I was the Je'daii's blade in the dark, forged in balance, and these initiates would either join me or fall. The Force hummed in my chest, Ashla's clarity and Bogan's fire entwined, my resolve a cortosis wall. I stood silent, my presence a vow that needed no words.
Zevra's voice cut through the crucible's roar, sharp as a blade. "In shadow we strike, in light we shield. Prove your balance—or be lost to chaos."
The initiates' hands moved, aligning kyber crystals within cortosis-durasteel hilts with the Force, the forging a sacred act of Je'daii will. Sparks flew, the plasma core's heat warping shadows into specters that danced across blood-stained stone. I sensed their emotions, Bralen's fear a tightening fog, Havok's rage a searing flame, Erynn's sorrow a biting frost, each a storm I'd glimpsed before, now amplified by the sanctum's crucible. The runes pulsed like heartbeats, kyber shards in alcoves humming discordantly, ash swirling as if conjured by the dead.
PROXY's projectors flared, and a hologram coalesced before Bralen. A Hutt crime lord, lekku scarred, vibro-axe gleaming. "You ran, leaving my kin to burn," it snarled, voice a blaster's crack. Bralen's fog thickened, his crystal trembling, lekku twitching. PROXY shifted to Havok, projecting a man, gentle eyes bloodied, tunic torn. "You chose your own ambitions over me," he said, voice a pleading wound. Havok's flame surged, her hilt sparking, jaw clenching. For Erynn, a frail girl appeared over PROXY's frame, slaver's brand on her cheek, tattered dress clinging to bone. "You failed me," she whispered, voice a knife through frost. Erynn's sorrow spiked, but her lips moved, murmuring softly, "Balance holds, shadow and light as one," a Gray Code prayer anchoring her will.
Zevra's command echoed. "Focus or fall." The crucible flared, sparks raining, runes pulsing discordantly. I sensed the initiates' resolve fraying, Bralen's fog choking, Havok's flame flickering, Erynn's frost steady but brittle. PROXY circled, his photoreceptors analyzing sweat and tremors, my earlier triggers guiding his projections. The sanctum's grandeur pressed in, ash stinging my eyes, Tython's moons map impressions on the ceiling glowing like a distant warning.
PROXY's second cycle began, his voice as the crime lord harsher. "Your cowardice doomed us all, Bralen," it growled, axe raised, eyes blazing. Bralen's crystal slipped, his hands shook, his kyber shard wobbling as PROXY's crime lord loomed closer, its holographic bulk filling the sanctum with menace. "You thought you could run?" it roared, his lekku thrashed, focus splintering. He then turned to Havok, PROXY's hologram morphed before her again—a stern Mirialan woman, gray hair braided tight, eyes wet with disappointment. "You chose blood over me," the mother whispered, voice soft but piercing. "My daughter, lost to murder." PROXY's form shifted once again into the man with gentle eyes, a lover's plea deepened. "I waited in vain, alone," he said, hand outstretched, blood dripping. Havok's flame dimmed, longing cracking her focus, hilt sparking. PROXY's frame flashed again, Erynn's sister sobbed, "You let slavers take me," her branded cheek glistening. Erynn's chant softened, "Balance holds, shadow and light as one," her hands trembling but steady.
The crucible's roar surged, Zevra's voice hardening. "In shadow we strike, in light we shield." Vren shifted stance, adjusting plasma flow, steam hissing. I sensed Bralen's fog collapse, a memory flash, a Hutt's sneer, syndicate flames. Confirming his betrayal to his former loyalties. His crystal fell, clattering on the anvil, fear now betraying him. PROXY, flickering form back as the crime lord, lunged in, cortosis fiber cord gleaming. The cord snapped around Bralen's throat, his gasp choked, lekku thrashing, eyes bulging. Blood trickled down as his life slowly faded, body crumpling by the anvil, faint pooling crimson reflecting runes from where the wire embraced it's victim. The sanctum's runes flared, as if Bogan drank in his failure.
Havok's flame wavered, shaken by corpse that now lay next to her, her eyes flicking to his staring gaze. Erynn's frost held, her prayer a faint thread. Zevra's command cut through, "In balance, or fall to chaos." The crucible sparked, ash swirling like ghosts, runes humming discordantly. I sensed Havok's longing deepen, a flash of her lover's bloodied face. PROXY's third cycle struck, the lover's voice a desperate cry. "You left me to die, alone," he said, eyes pleading. Havok's hilt sparked, her hand reaching instinctively, kyber crystal clanking onto the anvil, a flame collapsing into ash. PROXY lunged as the lover's form, vibroknife flashing, and drove it into her heart. Her cry echoed, blood soaking her tunic, body falling beside Bralen's, their blood mixing in a crimson tide. The sanctum's glow dimmed for her love's betrayal.
Erynn alone remained, her lightdagger nearly complete, sister's specter sobbing, "You're no sister. You left me to be used and to die at their hands." Her frost surged, but her prayer grew louder, "Balance holds, shadow and light as one," a defiant chant, the Gray Code her shield. I sensed a flash, her sister's branded cheek, slaver's chains—her sorrow a storm but her will unyielding. Her crystal locked, the lightdagger igniting with magenta plasma, banishing the specter. PROXY stepped back, silent, photoreceptors dimming, the sanctum's runes humming approval.
The crucible's roar softened, steam hissing. Zevra approached, her voice steady. "Step forward, initiate." Erynn rose, lightdagger in hand, its glow casting shadows across her gaunt face. I descended the dais, the Force steady in my chest, my silence breaking, voice resonant, "Now recite to me your duty that you now forge." Erynn voice shaky but with a resolute confidence echoed in the chamber, "By Ashla's light and Bogan's shadow, I swear to serve the Sentinel of Shadows. We are the blade of vengeance, the justice of the dark, holding Bogan close so that Ashla may shine afar. In balance we strike, in silence we endure, our will forged in the Force's eternal crucible. For the Je'daii, for the galaxy, we are Shades—unseen, unyielding, unbroken."
Her voice clear over blood-stained stone, her fallen fellow initiates' bodies looming, their deaths a silent warning. The oath settled like duracrete curing, binding her to our order, her frost tempered by fire. I lifted the kyber-forged Bogan rune brand, its crescent moon glowing, heat pulsing. "Kneel," I said. Erynn obeyed, lifting her tunic to bare her left pectoral, pale skin slick with sweat, trembling but sound, her defiance a mirror to my own. The brand seared, flesh sizzling, pain a white-hot scream in the Force. She didn't flinch, eyes blazing, jaw set, the cauterized scar a jagged vow over her heart. My own scar throbbed, tying me to her sacrifice, the bodies' presence amplifying her triumph.
"Rise, Shade Erynn," I said. She stood, sheathing her lightdagger onto her belt, its hum fading. Zevra and Vren stepped forward, fists pressed to pectoral brands, heads bowed. "Bogan's blade, Ashla's shield," they saluted, Erynn joining, her voice firm. I mirrored the gesture, fist over scar, the sanctum's heat a testament to the Je'daii's promise.
Zevra led Erynn and Vren from the chamber, their footsteps fading, leaving me with PROXY. His photoreceptors dimmed, his silence loyal. Cleaner droids, sleek Zakuulan models with servos buzzing, glided in, dragging Bralen and Havok's bodies, blood smearing the floor, their staring eyes a final accusation. I watched, the crucible's embers dying, ash settling, the sanctum's silence a weight in my bones.
The air stung with ash and ozone, the Force humming discordantly, pressing against my bones. Juno's blood-stained coat hung in an alcove, its synth-leather frayed, a wound I couldn't close, flanked by Sith holocrons and shattered saber hilts, mute relics of forgotten wars.
Erynn's defiance lingered in my mind, a spark against the dark. One Shade stronger, but two lost to their own chaos. The cost of balance was never clean. My scar throbbed beneath my tunic, a mirror to my new Shade's, tying me to the ritual's truth: we were forged in fire, or we burned. I turned from the dais, boots echoing, and stepped into the cortosis-lined passage beyond, leaving the sanctum's heat for cooler air that carried the faint tang of kyber and steel.
The passage was a vein in the Star of Ashla, its Zakuulan retrofits gleaming under flickering kyber conduits that pulsed like a faltering pulse. Half-finished durasteel panels exposed wires, a reminder of the Je'daii's ambition to reshape this dreadnought into a bastion our order deserved. A scorched Wookiee braid hung in a recessed alcove, its blackened strands a ghost of Kashyyyk's fall, stirring memories I'd buried. The Force whispered, and I saw Vader's black helm looming, his crimson blade igniting wroshyr trees, my father's scream cut short. I was a boy then, ripped from home, forged in pain. The trial I'd just witnessed, Bralen's fear, Havok's longing, Erynn's resolve, echoed my own under Vader's shadow, but where he broke me to serve, I'd given my Shades the choice to embrace Bogan. The weight of their deaths pressed harder still.
A faded mural of Ashla and Bogan adorned the passage's end, their intertwined forms, light and dark in eternal dance. I paused, fingers brushing the stone, the mural's balance a mirror to my own. Vader's trials had no such grace. On Kamino, lightning had seared my skin, his voice thundering, "Fear is your chain, boy. Break it or die." I'd faltered, like Bralen, my screams swallowed by storms, but endured, fear forging rage. On Raxus Prime, he'd taunted my love for Juno, his saber slashing as he hissed, "She makes you weak." I'd bled, like Havok, longing a wound I couldn't cauterize, yet fought on, defiance my shield. On Mustafar, I'd stood in a forge's heat, lava's roar deafening, his command absolute: "Prove your loyalty." I'd forged my saber, like Erynn, resolve a cortosis wall, but at the cost of my soul. The Shades' ritual was my answer to his cruelty. A crucible of choice, not chains but Bralen and Havok's blood proved the cost was never light.
The passage opened to the Sentinel's Sanctum, a grandiose chamber that bore the weight of my title. A towering cortosis desk, etched with Je'daii runes, dominated the space, its surface scarred from saber cuts, a testament to battles past. A scorched beskar shard, Fett's, taken from the spire's ruins lay beside a kyber shard in a cortosis case, its Kashyyyk hum a faint echo of home. Sera's bracelet, woven with Wookiee thread, hung pinned beside Juno's Rebel insignia on a durasteel wall, their glint a quiet ache. Polished Zakuulan panels, their retrofits nearly complete, gleamed under kyber sconces, but exposed conduits hinted at work unfinished, like the Je'daii's dream. A viewport framed Lehon's surface below, stars glinting like Rakata eyes, the air heavy with ozone and the sanctum's lingering ash.
I sank into the chair, the desk's scars rough under my fingers, Lehon's stars a cold expanse beyond. Erynn's branding burned in my memory. Her jaw set, eyes blazing, a mirror to my own forging. But Bralen's gasp, Havok's cry, their blood mixing on the anvil, gnawed at me. I'd built the Shades to balance Ashla and Bogan, to be justice where Vader was tyranny, but inner chaos had claimed two potentials. The Force hummed, a discordant thread, and I wondered if balance was a lie we told ourselves to justify our ends.
PROXY stepped from the shadows, his photoreceptors glowing dimly, durasteel frame glinting. "Master Galen, unless you plan to brood till the stars burn out, our mission for Zha-Korran awaits," he said, his voice a cold, sarcastic jab, the loyal rust bucket's wit cutting through my haze. I shot him a glance, the corner of my mouth twitching despite the weight. "Careful, PROXY. I might reprogram you to clean the sanctum next." He whirred, unperturbed, and retreated, his words pulling me back to just a few days ago, to a briefing that had set the mission ahead.
The Haven of the Chosen was a plush lounge for us higher ranking Je'daii, its cortosis-inlaid tables and kyber-lit sconces a stark contrast to the sanctum's dread. Revan stood at it's center, his masked presence commanding, voice resonant with the charisma that had rallied armies and broken empires. Vicrul, the Je'daii's Sentinel of Fire, stood beside me, his obsidian armor a symbol of his role as my counter part. Revan's words were a blade, sharp and mythic: "Tython is the Je'daii's to claim, and we will inherit our birth right. The supercomputer will have its temple, a sanctuary for the Rakata's legacy after the planet's is ours." That bargain he struck with the Rakatan consciousness, Zha-Korran's location for a home, his strategic genius weaving allies from ancient machines. The mission was clear. My Shades would infiltrate networks, sabotage outposts, lay groundwork for Tython's reclamation. But Revan's gaze, piercing through his mask, fixed on me. "Galen, you and Vicrul with Shepard will join me on Zha-Korran. These Thalassians will not be allowed to continue with this unknown terror that they orchestrate."
My chest tightened, the weight of absence pressing. My Shades' networks, fragile webs across Nar Shaddaa, Corellia, beyond—needed my hand to guide them. Zevra's poise, Vren's calm, Erynn's new fire, along with the others, all were my blades. Leaving them felt like abandoning Juno all over again, a betrayal of the order I'd built. Yet Revan's vision, his balance of light and dark, had revived the Je'daii from ashes like a Pyraeth. I trusted his lead, his centuries of war and redemption a map I couldn't draw. Vicrul's silent nod, grim but resolute, sealed the moment, and I'd agreed, the mission's cost a shadow I couldn't shake.
The holo-terminal buzzed, snapping me back, Shepard's voice crackling through like a blaster shot. "Done playing syndicate boss, Marek?" His dark humor, honed through the Reaper wars he spoke of, was a lifeline, sharp but warm, the kind of jab that grounded me. I leaned forward, voice weary but firm. "Initiations aren't games, Shepard. Planned months ahead. We're one Shade stronger."
A pause, the comms hissing. "Three stronger, I thought?" His tone shifted, unease creeping in, a friend sensing uneasy in my tone.
"Two lost to chaos," I said, the words hard, final. Bralen's gasp, Havok's cry flashed in my mind, their blood a consequence of reaching for a sun to only be consumed by it.
Shepard exhaled, quick to deflect, his voice lighter but strained. "Thane's ruthlessness kept him alive. You would have an admirer in him." The nod to his former companion's skills in the shadows, his way of pulling me back, a friend's hand on my shoulder. I could almost see his smirk, the grizzled Spectre leaning against the Ebon Hawk's console.
"Wrapping up," I said, exhaling, his camaraderie a cortosis shield. "I'll meet you at the Ebon Hawk soon." The comms cut, the terminal's glow fading, silence swallowing the room.
I leaned back, fingers tracing the desk's scars, each groove a battle, a loss. Juno's insignia glinted, Sera's bracelet beside it, their threads fraying like my own resolve. Lehon's stars burned beyond the viewport, cold and unyielding, like the path to Zha-Korran. Vader's shadow—his lightning, his taunts, his forge—loomed, but I was no longer his weapon. Revan's trust, Shepard's friendship, the Shades' purpose—they were my crucible now, forging a balance Vader was just out of reach of in his final days. The beskar shard gleamed, Fett's defeat a reminder: I'd carved my own path, and I'd carve another wherever the Force takes me.
The Star of Ashla hung in Lehon's orbit, a fortress of cortosis and kyber, its corridors shimmering with the Je'daii's iron will. The Ebon Hawk slipped from its hangar, a polished blade of cortosis-kyber alloys, its Zakuulan-retrofitted systems humming as it carved through tropical clouds toward Zha-Korran, a Rakata city nestled in Lehon's equatorial archipelago. Minutes folded into a quiet descent, the faint hum of kyber conduits weaving a thread of anticipation. Revan stood at the cockpit's holo-map, Tython's moons casting pale shadows across his mask, ambition burning in his stance like a star reborn. Galen Marek, Sentinel of Shadows, gripped his twin lightsabers, the absence of his Shades settling like ash in his chest. Shepard clenched his Wraith shotgun, jaw tight, a quip stifled in his eyes, tension coiling like a spring. Vicrul, Sentinel of Fire, inspected his silver phrik bladed Vibro-Scythe, his black armor catching the console's dim glow, loyalty to Revan's vision a flame that rivaled Galen's resolve. Ahsoka Tano sat cross-legged, montrals twitching as her Force senses probed the jungle shadows below, white lightsabers steady at her belt, a beacon of vigilance. Beside her, Huyang pored over Jedi tactical archives, photoreceptors unwavering, strategies unfolding for the trials ahead. The Ebon Hawk's restored grandeur, free of the scars of old wars, bore the Je'daii's defiance, a spear thrust into the heart of Rakata ghosts.
Beneath Lehon's suffocating jungle canopy, Zha-Korran lay hidden, a massive Rakata city cloaked from scan's prying eyes, its spires and domes only revealed by the supercomputer's coordinates, a whisper traded for a temple's vow. The Causeways of Triumph stretched beneath the green veil enclosed megastructures of obsidian and kyber, once mag-lev arteries pulsing through Lehon, now half-entombed, vines weaving through shattered arches like veins of a forgotten god, bioluminescent fungi casting ghostly light in tunnels collapsed by time's weight. Kyber-veined obelisks pierced the canopy's shadow, their faint pulse a breadcrumb trail to the city's gates, where warlord boots once echoed and slaves faltered. The jungle's humid breath, thick with screeching creatures, carried the weight of Rakata hubris, cities that defied the stars, undone by their own strife now a challenge to the Je'daii's will. The Ebon Hawk threaded through overgrown arches, its hull a flicker in the green gloom, the crew poised—Revan's ambition a star burning through his mask, Galen's unease a shadow cast long, Shepard's grip a vow etched in iron, Vicrul's pike a flame held steady, Ahsoka's senses a storm held quiet, Huyang's archives a silent scroll woven into the causeways' decay, per your ritual's imagery and pacing lessons.
The Ebon Hawk settled onto the established beachhead, its thrusters searing the earth, kyber beacons pulsing like heartbeats near Zha-Korran's shattered gates, a foothold carved days ago by Je'daii excavators under Revan's command, defiant against the jungle's creeping tide. The landing zone gleamed with excavated Rakata slabs, slick with dew, rubble strewn like the bones of a lost empire, vines curling like veins eager to reclaim their prize. Humidity hung heavy, laced with the distant cries of unseen beasts, the air thick with the weight of Rakata history, a city hidden yet stirring. HK-47's core guided the ship to rest, its systems humming with lethal precision. The crew stirred, a tableau against the causeways' ancient decay.
My ship's ramp hissed open, a weary sigh lost in the humid roar of Zha-Korran's beachhead. I stepped into Lehon's equatorial jungle, boots sinking into Rakata slabs slick with dew, their cortosis veins glinting like fractured stars beneath the bioluminescent haze of vines coiling like jealous serpents. The Causeways of Triumph loomed. Obsidian megastructures half-choked by time, their shattered arches clawing at the sky like a god's broken fangs. The air was a living wound, thick with fungal rot, the shrieks of unseen beasts, and the electric hum of kyber pulsing through the ruins. The Force thrummed, heavy with Rakata malice, a cold judgment clawing at my skin beneath the mask.
The crew fanned out, their presence a jagged tapestry in the Force. Shepard, eyes slicing the gloom, his smirk a thin veil over the unease of a man far from his stars. Galen stood with twin lightsabers at his hips, his recent balance hard-won. Vicrul, clutched his phrik scythe, black armor drinking the kyber's glow. Ahsoka moved with a warrior's poise, montrals twitching. Huyang shuffled behind, photoreceptors scanning a data-slate, muttering about relics like a master scolding padawans.
Je'daii excavators had forged a path through the jungle's grip, their kyber beacons casting violet pools across the rubble with shattered cortosis spires, toppled obelisks, vines curling like veins starving for blood. Plasma cutters hissed, droids whirred, the clink of kyber shards against durasteel a faint pulse in the humid air. A figure emerged from the haze, gray robes dusted with ash, her Miraluka blindfold etched with Je'daii runes flickering like dying embers. One of my Sages of History, her Force presence a quiet flame, bowed low. "My Herald," she murmured, voice trembling with awe, "the gate stands ready… but its runes remain silent." Her hesitation hung, a crack in her reverence, as if Zha-Korran doubted our worth. I tilted my mask, testing her resolve. "Guide us, Sage," I said, voice low, masking the unease her words stirred.
She led us through the excavated trail, the beacons' violet glow fading into the jungle's pulse, their hum swallowed by screeches and rustling vines. Kyber-veined obelisks loomed like silent judges, their faint hum a warning stitched into the Force. The path snaked through collapsed arches, cortosis scarred by millennia, fungal spores drifting like ghosts in the heavy air. Shepard muttered, "Jungle's worse than a batarian backwater dive," his grit a spark that drew a low chuckle from Galen. Ahsoka's montrals twitched, her glance flicking to the shadows, a warrior's instinct honed by Sith and war. Vicrul's scythe glinted, his silence a coiled threat, his glare lingering on Ahsoka, his distrust of Jedi across his face. Huyang's servos whined, his voice sharp, "These obelisks predate the Republic—tread lightly, lest you shatter history." His pedantry earned a scowl from Vicrul, but we pressed on, the Force tugging us toward the gate.
It rose before us, a cortosis monolith that devoured the light, its seamless face etched with Rakata runes pulsing like a star's dying breath. No hinges, no cracks—just a wall of judgment, towering over the jungle's rot. Jagged, traffic-like symbols, angular and cruel, marked this as Zha-Korran's entrance, yet it stood unyielding. The Force coiled around it, a tide of whispers clawing at my skin. I knelt, gloved fingers grazing the stone, and sank into the Force, the jungle's screech fading to a hum. The gate's judgment surged, 'only the worthy may pass'. A Rakata will, woven into kyber and cortosis, tested the soul. I rose, voice steady, resonant with the weight of fallen empires. "The gate bars the unwanted. The Rakata will alone decides who enters."
Galen muttered, "Mystic locks—always a pleasant treat," his bitter wit a jab at the galaxy's endless trials, his glance at Shepard sparking a smirk. Ahsoka's eyes lingered on me, wary, montrals still, as if sensing the gate's weight in my words. Vicrul shifted, scythe tapping the ground. The jungle's pulse thrummed, beasts screeching beyond the vines, their cries a chorus to the gate's silence. Shepard's omni-tool flared, orange light clashing with the runes' violet glow. "This gate is being feed by a dual power source," he said, voice clear with discovery. "Collective kyber readings under us, another inside the city, wired like an explosive if mishandled. Trip one wrong, and we're stuck staring at this wall forever."
Vicrul stepped forward, grip tightening on his phrik scythe as his eyes narrowed at the monolith. "Just tell me when you're ready rip through these walls, Revan," he growled, voice raw, a blunt demand laced with impatience. His stance shifted, ready to tear through stone. Shepard crouched, his omni-tool's orange flared, shot him a sidelong glance. "Easy, big guy," he said, trying to mask the tension, "this thing's got two cores—trip one wrong, and we're stuck here till the stars burn out." His words, realism cutting through the jungle's ambiance.
Huyang bustled closer, data-slate clutched, photoreceptors narrowing as his servos whined. "Must you treat Rakata archaeology like sparring dummies?" he snapped, tone thick with ancient indignation. "This is knowledge, not your—" Vicrul cut him off, scythe jabbing the air. "Can it, droid," he snarled, frustration boiling. Insects whined, the scent of rot thickening as Shepard's grin flickered. "Let the professor gripe, Vicrul—we'll need his ancient circuits to not blow this thing up." Huyang's servos twitched, his silence a grudging pause, the jungle's screeches filling the gap.
I raised a hand, voice low, steady with the weight of fallen empires. "We must find the core that's on this side. And not by bulldozing our way through, Vicrul." The Force pulsed, the gate's judgment a cold prickle against my skin. Shepard's omni-tool pinged, its scan locking onto a cortosis hatch half-buried in jungle rot, its kyber etchings pulsing faintly, mirroring the gate's runes. Vines clung like jealous spirits, their bioluminescent tips flaring as he hesitated, fingers hovering over alien glyphs, his brow furrowing at the readings. Vicrul jostled forward, phrik scythe raised, cutting away the jungle's growth. "After you, commander," he muttered, voice tight with impatience. Shepard's jaw twitched, but he pried the hatch open, the creak drowned by a beast's distant screech. "Thanks, but be careful not to bury us with your gardening though, Vicrul." He shot back, descending into the hatch's opening.
Vicrul followed, his mutter sharp, "Your gadget better find this core, commander." Huyang trailed, data-slate clutched, his voice biting with indignation. "Fools—history deserves better than this desecration!" His servos whined, fading into the hatch's dark maw. The jungle's pulse surged, screeches swelling, the air heavy with humidity and kyber's ozone tang. Ahsoka, Galen, and I stood before the gate's stoic face, its Rakata will a silent judge.
Ahsoka's montrals flicked, her gaze piercing my mask, voice low, sharp. "Your order isn't the only one with a history from Tython, Revan," she said, words quiet, barbed, slicing at goal of claiming Tython for the Je'daii. "I stalled the council from learning of your deal and intent by sending the envoy to Ossus to report in person. Your Rakata machine's ultimate fate is not going to go over well. But we're here now to stop whatever these Thalassians are, not crown your order as the galaxy's new authority. If this alliance is going to hold, you must start playing this galactic game of dejarik with us. Not side step us." Her skepticism burned, a warrior's weariness embolden by her council member's status.
I paused, the Force sensing her resolve, a faint guilt whispering, Tython's cost may break us but my voice stayed smooth. "A smart move Tano—a shame the council's debates will still be ongoing by the time we finish here and we have stopped this galactic threat that's before us now." The words tested her, a veiled nod to her cunning. Her eyes narrowed, montrals still, her reply iron-clad. "That planet doesn't hold anything for us, Revan. Je'daii or Jedi. The past does not get to demand who we will be." Her tone was a clash sparking like sabers, the air thickening with unspoken stakes.
Galen's laugh sliced through, bitter and sharp, bouncing off the cortosis. "Classic Jedi and their waiting game," he shook his head, voice dropping to a mutter. "I handed them Vader on a silver dish, only for Dantooine to go up in flames after they couldn't hold a simple prisoner. The Empire would of never held onto its galactic power if your predecessors had executed him under wartime measures rather than debate on giving him a trial after all the atrocities he committed." Ahsoka glanced his way, jaw tight, but said nothing. Galen's mouth twisted into a smirk, no real humor behind it. "Different faces. Same boring dance." The words hung—an old wound reopened, the jungle pressing in around them. The Force stirred, faint, like the Rakata gate's runes tasting his resentment, a judgment humming beneath my senses. He turned away, eyes on the solid gate, leaving the memory to settle in the humid air. Shepard's voice then crackled through the comms, sharp, urgent. "Uh, we found something."
Below, those who stumbled in the dark would soon discover that Zha-Korran guarded its dead as fiercely as its secrets.
"Shepard, what have you found?" The comms crackled in, Revan's voice sharp, cutting through the dank reek of Zha-Korran's underbelly. I crouched in the tunnel's gloom, my omni-tool's orange glow casting jagged shadows across a scene straight out of a nightmare. Bodies littered the cortosis floor, the Veiled Covenant and their liquid metal armor shimmering like oil, veiled eye sigils glinting under faint kyber light. Flesh charred, eyes hollowed, as if their life had been sucked dry from the inside out. My gut churned, not from the stench, but from the realization. Whatever hit them was still humming within these walls.
"Revan, we've got Covenant down here," I said, voice low, gritty with the edge of a man who'd seen too many battlefields. "Dead, fresh. Something fried them—maybe Rakata security. My omni-tool's picking up the gate's kyber signature ahead." Vicrul loomed behind, his phrik scythe glinting, black armor swallowing the light, his silence a coiled threat. Huyang shuffled nearby, data-slate clutched, photoreceptors darting over the corpses, muttering, "Such reckless desecration of history!" His fussiness grated, but I let it slide, my focus was on the trail of bodies leading deeper, toward a pulsing violet glow.
"Proceed with caution, Shepard," Revan's voice came back, neutral but laced with concern, a leader weighing his team's lives. I half smiled, though he couldn't see it. "Caution's my middle name, Revan." Vicrul grunted, kicking a corpse aside, the veiled eye sigil catching the light. "We need to move, commander," he growled, impatience raw, an urge to act itching. I shot him a look—easy, big guy—and pushed forward, omni-tool pinging, locking onto the kyber core's signal.
The tunnel narrowed, cortosis walls scarred by millennia, fungal rot clinging like a disease. The violet glow intensified, and there it was. The kyber core, a massive crystal pulsing with a dark energy signature, its jagged facets embedded in a Rakata altar, humming like a caged beast. Violet arcs danced across its surface, the air thick with ozone and a low, menacing thrum. My omni-tool flared, data scrolling fast. "This is it," I muttered, fingers dancing over the interface. "Let's crack this bastard open." The Rakata system fought back, a snarl of alien encryption that made Cerberus firewalls look like child's play. A kyber pulse flickered, the same dark defense that charred the Covenant leaving my tool to spark, critical warning lights flashing. "Come on, you son of a—!" I hissed, sweat beading, heart pounding. The dead around us loomed, a reminder of failure's cost. Then, a click, code broken, the core's hum shifting to a steady pulse. "Piece of cake," I breathed, grinning despite the ache in my jaw.
A distant groan echoed, the ground shuddering. Revan's voice chiming in over comms, urgent. "Shepard, you've done it. The gate's open! Get back here with haste." I opened my mouth to respond, but the ceiling exploded—cortosis shards rained, kyber screaming, rubble choking the tunnel. Vicrul shoved me aside, a slab grazing my shoulder. "Commander!" he roared, scythe slashing debris. Huyang stumbled, servos whining, dodging a falling chunk. "My frame wasn't built for this type of maintenance work!" he snapped, indignation cutting through dust. The path back was gone, a wall of shattered stone trapping us. My chest tightened, but I swallowed it, gripping my pistol at my side. "That was close," I said, voice steady, though my pulse said otherwise.
"Everyone still breathing?" My voice raw. Huyang's photoreceptors dimmed, fingers tracing a shattered glyph. "Centuries crushed… does anyone ever pause before they act?" His grief hung, unanswered. Vicrul's gaze swept the ruin, defiant, his voice low. He crouched, fingers tracing a cortosis seam, pausing at a faint kyber etching, breath hitching as if reading a secret carved by the Rakata. "They never build one way out," he muttered, voice a blade honed by years hunting relics in forgotten ruins. His hand lingered, testing a cracked slab, then moved to another, his search methodical, each motion a testament to surviving ruins deadlier than this. He moved to kneel by a pile of debris, his fingers brushing a rusted vent's edge, half-hidden under a Covenant husk's twisted arm, its veiled eye sigil smeared with blood and ash. He paused, tracing a worn glyph, muttering, "Rakata hid their service exits… you just gotta know where." The words carried a tomb-raider's reverence, his instincts a fire against the dark. He tapped his scythe twice as if daring the ruins to defy him, then pried the vent open, the cold echo of water rising from a dark pool below, glinting with kyber flecks—the only way out. He stood, meeting my eyes, a challenge in his gaze. "You coming, commander, or staying with the dead?" His voice cut, less taunt than test, then he jumped, the splash sharp, his shadow gone.
I glanced at Huyang, eyebrow raised. "Your move, professor." He narrowed his photoreceptors, voice a mix of pedantic fuss and sarcastic bite. "This exceeds my protocols, commander!" He leaped, servos whining, splashing into the water with grudging grace. With Revan's comms buzzing out in my ear, I muttered to myself, "Vicrul's got no style, but he's got the right idea." My omni-tool dimmed as I jumped, the cold water swallowing me, the kyber core's hum fading as darkness took hold.
The city above didn't care who bled in its shadows. It kept breathing, ancient and unbroken. Dead bodies and ancient bone part of its scenery as if designed into the city's architecture.
Lehon's jungle canopy smothered the sky, yet Zha-Korran defied it. Cortosis spires pierced the green veil, their kyber veins pulsing violet, domes glinting like forgotten moons. Vines snaked across cracked plazas, bioluminescent tips flaring like watchful eyes, fungal spores drifting in humid haze. The Force thrummed, a discordant pulse of Rakatan hubris and slave despair, prickling my montrals until they twitched with its weight. I'd walked ruins before, Malachor's ash-choked temples, Mandalore's scarred halls—but Zha-Korran was something I never would of expected, its grandeur unbowed by millennia of decay.
Revan strode ahead, his masked silhouette sharp against the mist, his gait commanding, as if the city bent to his will. "Eternity was the Rakata's ambition," his voice cool beneath the mask. "But nothing lasts forever—not even empires built in blood and fear." The words stirred my unease, his Tython deal coiling in my mind like a warning. My montrals caught a subtle strain in his tone, a ripple of restraint in the Force, perhaps doubt, though his mask hid all but the weight of his presence. Galen Marek paced beside me, his weathered frame coiled, twin saber hilts glinting at his hips. "Rakata built a tomb and called it a city. All this power, and it still smells just like a graveyard you'd expect," he muttered, his voice a blade, sardonic, laced with gallows humor that barely masked a raw edge. His eyes flicked to a kyber obelisk, its runes glowing like old wounds, and the Force tightened with grief, sharp and cold. I didn't pry, his pain was his own and I wasn't one to probe minds without cause.
The plaza sprawled into shadow, causeways fading into the jungle's pulse. My montrals caught a faint hum, sharper than the city's drone, a kyber resonance tugging eastward. I paused, fingers grazing a cortosis pillar, the Force stirring with a vague echo: trembling hands, a slave's warning scratched in stone, a trap for the unworthy. "East," I said, my voice steady, stepping forward to lead. "There—feel that resonance? That spire's no monument. It's a control node." Revan's mask tilted, his silence heavy, the Force taut with calculation. Galen cracked his knuckles, a smirk twisting his lips. "Good place as any to trigger the next Rakata deathtrap waiting for us." His voice cut through the tension, but his stance betrayed restlessness, a spark ready to ignite. I moved first, my choice a quiet claim, we'd need to navigate this city with caution.
The spire loomed as we approached, a cortosis monolith etched with jagged runes, its halls pulsing with violet light that stung my eyes. Ozone hung thick, kyber conduits thrumming like a beast's heart. A console stood at the center, its cracked kyber crystal glowing faintly, runes tracing conquests across stars. The slave's warning lingered in the Force. A trap, a test. "Stay sharp," I reminded the others, montrals twitching, hands hovering over my saber's hilts. Revan approached the console, his gloved fingers tracing the runes, his posture deliberate, the Force edged with a shadow I took for unease. "The Rakata didn't just boast about their glory—they fortified it. Even in death, their eyes watch us now." he said, his voice low, strategic, as if weighing moves beyond our sight. I watched, my unease sharpening, his ambition burned too fiercely, a flame that could sear the whole galaxy.
Galen circled the chamber, his boots scuffing the cortosis floor. "Found our way forward, here. If we're lucky, it's not rigged to fry us. We're never that lucky." He called, crouching by a kyber conduit embedded in the floor, its faint glow aligning with the console's pulse. His instincts cut through the ozone-heavy air. I nodded, stepping closer, my Force sense locking onto the resonance, a sharp tug in my chest. "We move together—nobody breaks from the line. This place wants us divided in more than just one way," I said, my voice firm, a leader's call to bind them. Revan pressed the console's runes, his gloved fingers steady, the cracked kyber crystal flaring. A holographic map bloomed, Zha-Korran's sprawl, causeways coiling, domes glinting, a subterranean cathedral marked as the portal network, a teleporter hub where warlords conducted their trade with other worlds instantly. A Rakata warlord's hologram took over the console, its voice a blunt accusation. "Interlopers detected. All subjects evacuate the area immediately." The console pulsed red, kyber snares snapping from wall conduits, violet arcs lancing toward us. I spun my sabers, Jar'Kai precise, crossing blades to intercept an arc's source, redirecting its energy with a tight counter-parry. My off-hand saber spun, catching a second arc. Galen's sabers snapped down in his underhanded grip, severing a conduit in a hiss of sparks, his cuts swift, fueled by barely-leashed fury. Revan's Force push deflected a third arc, his breath sharp, the Force taut with strain.
We exited the spire through a cortosis arch, stepping onto a broad flooded causeway, its expansive cortosis bridge swaying under jungle weight, mag-lev tracks worn by slave labor glinting faintly. I tightened our formation, keeping Galen from ranging too far ahead, Revan just behind me, his gaze flicking between the path and the slave reliefs along the pillars. Galen's steps were tense, his breath sharp as if genuinely expecting a trap in the suspended trust of the bridge. Revan's gaze swept the path, his posture mythic, as if the city were also his to claim. Kyber snares sparked from vine-draped pillars flanking the bridge, and I angled my main saber to slice a conduit's pulse, my off-hand blade parrying another arc with a practiced spin. Galen's blades carved through tangled vines ahead, his cuts sharp, each a defiance of the city's weight. "More Rakata traps. Because nothing says hospitality like a bridge designed to kill you." He muttered, his voice a low sigh. "Always a kriffing welcome." I shot him a glance, "Just keep your eyes forward, Galen." My jaw tight, holding our formation close.
Revan stepped to a pillar's slave relief, chained figures at a teleporter altar with warlord's whispers starting loom in the distance. His pause halted us, his silence a weight in the Force, stirring unease I took for guilt, though I couldn't place the confusion that lingered with it. My patience thinned, his grandiosity testing my lead. "Revan, we're not here to chase the ancient sins of a fallen empire. The hub's ahead—unless you want us to wait around for more of those Rakata defenses," I said, my voice dry, a challenge to his mind drifting away from the mission at hand. He turned, mask unreadable, and countered, "Some histories are more than warnings, Tano, not just lessons we avoid to become who we are." The words hung, his step slow to rejoin our line. Galen snorted, rolling his eyes aimed at us both, and I let the rising silence linger, my glance sharp, the Force taut with unspoken friction.
The causeway funneled us into the city proper, the broad bridge narrowing as we slipped between crumbling facades strangled by vines. The city breathed, its pulse a low thrum in my montrals, vine-choked ruins flickering with starlight beyond the causeway's pillars. I paused, scanning the street ahead, my focus a blade forged by Cal and I's vow to each other we made on Ossus. His steady hand, his promise to stand with me, to face whatever came next for us. That vow drove me to lead now, to bind this fractured team for the fate of the galaxy, for him, for the children we raised. Revan's ambition surged like a storm I had to steer, Galen's pain a spark I couldn't let out of control. I gestured forward, saber hilt firm in my grip, urging our tight line through the cramped city street, its cortosis facades crumbling under vines. Galen shifted, restless, his saber tapping his thigh, a jab at my caution. My nod held him close, the Force taut with our unspoken disagreements.
A guttural roar ripped through the street, my montrals burning with a familiar strange hum in the Force I'd felt before. The street tightened, walls pressing in. I pivoted right, sabers igniting, white blades hissing to face a narrow alley choked with vines. A flash of liquid metal armor glinted, five meters ahead. Galen lunged forward, saber roaring to life with unstable plasma, his snarl raw. Revan activating his violet blade with a snap-hiss, hesitating, mask tilting to the alley, doubt a weight in his stance. "Back!" I barked, voice iron, plasma blades crossed in a Jar'Kai. Our line held, sabers cascading light, painting the street's debris in defiance.