The galaxy stirred with unrest.
Despite the Galactic Empire's grip over the Core Worlds, cracks were beginning to show—hairline fractures that, if ignored, could split the very foundation of Palpatine's rule. Yet the Dark Lord of the Sith did not waver. He had foreseen the rebellion, the uprisings, the treacherous idealism of those who clung to the old ways. It was not fear that guided him now—but obsession. An obsession not just with dominion, but with the fundamental truth of the Force itself.
In the shadows beneath the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, Palpatine moved deeper into the newly unlocked Jedi Archives. These weren't the public records that had once educated generations of Knights. These were the sealed vaults—buried beneath encryptions and warnings, known only to the Grandmasters of the Jedi Council and the ancient order before them.
With a whispered code and a gesture that made the air itself bleed with dark energy, the final seals broke.
Holocrons flickered to life, old Jedi Masters and obscure philosophers speaking in ancient tongues. But Sidious ignored them. His focus shifted to a single, dust-cloaked chamber—a repository dedicated to beings who had long been spoken of only in myth.
The Ones. The Force Incarnate. The Mortis Trinity.
The Father, the Daughter, and the Son—avatars of balance, light, and darkness. Palpatine's breath slowed as he watched fragmentary records of Jedi explorers who had glimpsed the Mortis realm and returned broken or silent. He saw crude depictions of their godlike power and the schism they represented within the Force itself.
Then he found what he truly sought: a forbidden manuscript wrapped in binding talismans of Bendu origin. A record of something beyond the Ones—beyond balance. A creature cast out by them.
Abeloth.
A being of chaos and hunger, imprisoned in the furthest reaches of the Force. An ancient servant twisted by her desire to be part of the Ones' eternal family—now a threat that even the combined power of light and dark once feared.
Palpatine's smile grew thin.
"Immortality is not the end," he whispered. "Ascendance lies in control of the eternal will. I must not merely rule the galaxy—I must command the Force itself."
He closed the records with a wave, the echoes of Abeloth's scream still reverberating through the chamber. He would need more than Sith alchemy. More than artifacts. The Emperor needed a new understanding of creation.
He turned, his black cloak dragging across the marble. A new directive formed in his mind—one that would send ripples across the stars.
The Rebellion Grows
Across the galaxy, resistance quietly took root.
In Corellia's forgotten drydocks, Mon Mothma and Bail Organa met under false identities, surrounded by rusting starships and sympathetic engineers. These facilities—once used for the Republic's naval production—were now stripped down, scavenged for parts, and operated under the noses of the Empire.
"We can't just fight them with hope," Mon Mothma said, her voice steel. "We need fleets. We need weapons. And we need allies who are willing to risk everything."
Bail nodded. "We've already moved thirty ships under the radar. Corellia's shipmasters are with us, but it won't stay secret for long. The Empire tightens its grip every day."
Their message spread—encrypted through slicers, relayed through smugglers, and whispered in cantinas. A dozen systems pledged ships. A few promised manpower. Even fewer dared hope.
But Palpatine heard.
From the security chamber aboard his personal Star Destroyer, he watched intercepted transmissions with narrowed eyes.
"So the seeds sprout at last," he murmured. He turned to his loyal enforcer, Grand Moff Tarkin.
"You will implement Operation Cinder's Seed. Strike hard, strike clean. Show them the cost of rebellion."
Tarkin bowed slightly. "I will begin with Corellia."
"No," Palpatine said, voice cold and slow. "Begin with their allies. Let Corellia burn after it realizes its error."
The War Machine Grows
In orbit above Exegol, a hidden fortress churned with fire and black metal.
Palpatine stepped into the massive chamber of the Star Forge, the ancient Rakatan engine of endless war that he had personally claimed. It had taken years to power the structure, months more to unravel the secrets, but now it obeyed him—recast in Sith runes, fed by energy drawn from dying stars.
The industrial giants of the galaxy—Sienar, Kuat, Rendili, and others—had been quietly co-opted. Under his command, they diverted materials, schematics, and engineers to "black sites." What wasn't sent legally was smuggled.
Palpatine did not need oversight.
He needed dominance.
The Star Forge consumed these offerings, reshaping starship components, droid frames, and weapons into instruments of fear. Massive fleets were forged—not crude tools of occupation, but spectral warfleets made from dark alloys and imbued with Sith alchemy.
"Send the first dreadnoughts to Exegol's moon," he ordered the overseer. "Prepare them for stasis. Let the fools in the Rebellion think they've seen the Empire's full might."
His vision went beyond war.
He remembered his master's promise—Darth Plagueis' dream of eternal life, of reshaping the Force. Palpatine had achieved much already: clones, puppets, secrets locked away on Exegol. But none yet perfected the miracle.
Until now.
Experiments in the Dark
In the deepest laboratories of Exegol, shielded by Force-imbued obelisks and protected by living shadows, Palpatine's scientists and Sith alchemists worked tirelessly. Using his own genetic code—and that of Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One—he sought to create the vessel that would surpass both master and apprentice.
The early results were unstable. Imperfect. Flawed.
One such clone—a pale, trembling humanoid barely conscious of its existence—was preserved in a stasis chamber, marked only by a glyph: "Son."
Not yet a true heir, but a step closer.
"Not you," Palpatine whispered, studying the twitching failure behind the glass. "But one day, from your line, perhaps…"
He saw flashes—visions rippling through the Force. A girl. Born from shadow. Torn between light and darkness. The legacy of the Sith, born not in fire but in the quiet spiral of destiny.
Across the Stars: Whispers and Wars
On Dagobah, the fog-covered swamp world steeped in the dark-side nexus, Grand Master Yoda stirred. He had felt the ripples in the Force. The scream of the holocrons. The awakening of something unnatural.
"He twists the balance," Yoda muttered. "Beings not meant for return… tampered with, they are."
He reached out carefully, brushing against the void with the Force. He felt the darkness of Exegol—not just Palpatine's will, but the forging of a storm that would one day swallow the stars.