The air in my old chambers stank of sulfur and memory, a bitter tang that clung to the back of my throat. Mustafar's molten heartbeat pulsed beyond the obsidian walls, a low rumble I'd once mistaken for Vader's breath when I was a boy—small, scared, and forged into something sharper than fear could dull. I sat cross-legged on the cold floor, hands resting on my knees, eyes closed against the flicker of lava light seeping through the viewport slits. Meditation was my anchor, the only tether left when the galaxy spun too fast. These past few days, though, it felt like trying to grip smoke.
No liquor bottle weighed my hand now. I'd sworn it off—three days sober, a record since Juno's blood stained Kashyyyk's soil and Sera's scream cut short under Fett's blade. The urge still gnawed, a phantom ache in my chest, whispering promises of numbness. Here, in this hellhole where Vader broke me into Starkiller, the call was louder. Every shadow held his silhouette; every echo carried his rasp. But a I don't buckle. Not when something ancient—older than Sith or these Reapers—loomed out there, a threat Shepard wouldn't shut up about. I couldn't be a drunken wreck when fate knocked. So I breathed, slow and deep, chasing peace through the Force's currents.
Footsteps shattered the quiet—heavy, deliberate, scuffing ash across stone. My jaw tightened, but I kept my eyes shut, reaching out with the Force. A presence slithered into the room, jagged and dark, like a blade dragged through gravel. Vicrul. I'd know that festering grudge anywhere, even without the memory of Nar Shaddaa's haze. His vibro-scythe's hum prickled the air, a low growl that matched his mood.
"Still hiding in your head, Starkiller?" His voice was a guttural sneer, warped by that dented helmet of his. "Thought you'd be drowning in rotgut by now, not playing monk."
I exhaled, slow, and opened my eyes. He loomed in the doorway, all matte-black armor and crimson runes, his scythe propped on one shoulder like a hunter taunting prey. The jagged scar on his left shoulder—Kylo Ren's parting gift—caught the lava glow, a reminder of his own ghosts. Behind him, the corridor stretched empty, no sign of Zeht or the other Knights of Revan. Just us, then. Good.
"Vicrul," I said, voice flat, rising to my feet with a crack of stiff joints. "Didn't hear Revan put you on babysitting duty. Or is this about your pet Zabrak almost getting her neck snapped?"
His grip tightened on the scythe, knuckles whitening beneath gauntlets. "Zeht's worth ten of you, drunk or not. You don't even remember me, do you? Nar Shaddaa, thirty-two ABY—me and my Knights bleeding in that filthy alley while you stumbled off, laughing."
I tilted my head, squinting as if that'd dredge up the memory. Nothing but a blur of neon and the tang of cheap liquor surfaced. "If I laughed, you must've been worth the joke." A smirk tugged at my lips, deliberate. "Refresh me—did I break your toy scythe back then, too?"
His eyes narrowed behind the helmet's slits, a flash of fury I could feel without the Force. "Keep talking, Marek. Let's see if sobriety's made you any less sloppy."
The scythe swung down in a silver arc, its ultrasonic edge slicing the air with a scream. I sidestepped, twin hilts leaping from my belt to my hands, igniting with a snap-hiss. White-blue blades flared, unstable and spitting sparks—raw kyber, unpolished, just like me. The chamber shrank as we circled, lava light painting us in blood and shadow.
He lunged first, scythe whipping low to catch my legs. I vaulted over it, Force propelling me into a spin, sabers slashing down in a crisscross. Vicrul twisted, phrik blade meeting mine with a shrieking clash—sparks flew, but the damn thing held against lightsabers like it was forged to spite them. He'd gotten better since... whenever. I landed in a crouch, grinning despite myself.
"Not bad," I said, dodging a backswing that grazed the wall, showering ash. "You've been practicing for me. Flattered."
"Practicing to gut you," he snarled, charging with a Force push that rattled my ribs. I countered with a Force push of my own, boots skidding back a meter, the collision rippling heat through the room. He didn't let up—scythe twirled in a blur, high then low, forcing me to weave between strikes. Each block sent a jolt up my arms; each parry tested my grip. He fought like a storm, chaotic but precise, nothing like the sloppy brawler I now vaguely recalled.
I flipped backward, landing atop a cracked plinth—some relic of Vader's, no doubt. "Still don't remember you," I called, deflecting a thrust that carved a gouge into the stone. "Was your helmet shinier back then, or just your ego?"
"Laugh it off, Starkiller!" He leapt, scythe arcing overhead, and I met it midair, blades locking with a screech that echoed off the walls. We hit the ground hard, rolling apart, ash stinging my eyes. He was on his feet first, scythe spinning in one hand like a taunt. "I'll carve my name into that thick skull yet."
Tension coiled tighter, a wire ready to snap. I surged forward, sabers whirling in an underhand flurry—left blade high, right sweeping low. Vicrul parried the first, ducked the second, and answered with a scythe hook that nearly took my head off. Nearly. I twisted, Force lightning crackling from my fingertips, snapping toward him. He rolled aside, the bolt scorching his armor's edge, and came up swinging, his own dark tendrils snaking out—fear manipulation, clawing at my mind. Juno's face flickered, Sera's scream echoed, but I snarled and shoved it back. Not today.
The chamber rang with our clash—lightsabers against vibro-scythe, Force against Force. I drove him toward the viewport, lava glow framing his silhouette, then feinted left and spun right, sabers slashing in a helix. He blocked, grunting, and countered with a brutal upward strike I barely caught, the impact jarring my teeth. We were mirrors of fury, neither yielding, neither bleeding, just pushing the edge of control.
The air shifted, heavy with the hum of unseen currents, as eyes turned from questions to the chaos spilling across the table.
The command center smelled like burnt circuits and ash, a far cry from the Normandy's sterile hum. I leaned over the holo-table, its glitchy blue light flickering across my N7 armor, picking at a data chip one of Revan's scouts had dragged in—some half-dead kid who'd barely made it back from some region known as the Core Worlds. The intel was a mess: garbled audio, static-smeared holos, and cryptic chatter that made my skin crawl. Revan stood across from me, mask catching the glow like it was forged from it, arms folded as he stared down the mess with that quiet intensity of his.
"Poor kid picked this up from a smuggler's den," I said, zooming in on a distorted signal—harsh syllables I couldn't place, maybe Sith, maybe nonsense. "Something about a 'remnant' stirring up trouble. Scout caught wind of a meet on this Coruscant place—lower levels, real deep. Talk of a 'rebirth.' That's all I've got—sounds like a fight waiting to happen."
Revan tilted his head, slow and deliberate, like he was sifting through a thousand years of wars in that skull of his. "A remnant," he mused, voice rolling deep and steady, the kind that made you listen even when you didn't want to. "Vicrul's rants about Exegol—35 ABY, their cult's big swing and miss—line up with this. Galen's muttered about Palpatine too, some dead emperor they tried to prop back up. If they're moving again, it's not for old times' sake. They're hunting a new power."
I grunted, scratching my jaw. "Palpatine's a name I've heard tossed around—Galen's half-drunk stories mostly. But Coruscant? I'm flying blind here. Big city, right? Lots of shadows? That's all I've got to go on."
"More than a city," Revan said, a faint edge of dry humor creeping in—our way of cutting through the grim since I crashed the party days ago. "A hive of steel and secrets. Fortress logs hint at it—galactic heart turned rotten after the Empire's fall. If they're there, it's a bold play."
I smirked despite myself. "Bold's my specialty. Still, this intel's thin—'remnant,' 'rebirth.' Could be anything. We need boots on the ground to figure out what's brewing."
A tremor shook the floor—not much, just enough to rattle the holo-table and make my hand twitch toward my Predator. Revan went still, mask snapping toward the corridor like a hound catching a scent. His shoulders tensed, a tell I'd learned meant something was pinging that weird mystic radar of his. Me? I just felt the shake and a vague itch, like static on a dead comms line.
"Galen and Vicrul," he said, voice flat but laced with that knowing tone he got when those two were at it again. "Squabbling like hounds over a bone. Vicrul's been itching for a fight since Marek showed up."
I sighed, falling in step as he headed out, boots crunching ash. "Yeah, well, Vicrul's got a glare that could melt durasteel. Can't say I blame him—Galen's not exactly a ray of sunshine."
We hit Galen's chambers fast, the air thick with sulfur and the sharp crack of metal on energy. Vicrul's vibro-scythe screamed through a swing, locked against Galen's twin sabers—those wild white-blue blades spitting sparks like a busted engine. Galen was all sweat and grit, fighting like he was born to it, while Vicrul moved like a predator, armor glinting red in the lava glow. The room was trashed—ash scorched black, a stone slab split clean through. Looked like they'd been at it long enough to work up a grudge into something ugly.
Revan stepped in, presence hitting like a shockwave—calm, heavy, the kind of weight that made armies snap to attention. I hung back, arms crossed, feeling out of my depth but damn if I'd show it. "Cease this squabble," he said, voice a deep roll that bounced off the walls, not loud but carved from a lifetime of bending millions to his will. "You waste your blades on petty grudges when a fracture widens beyond these walls. Stand as warriors, or fall as fools."
Vicrul dropped to a knee fast, scythe clanging down, head bowed like Revan was some god-king out of a holo-drama. Loyalty poured off him, thick and real—then he stood, gaze flicking from Revan to Galen, a silent "we're not done" in the tilt. Galen killed his sabers with a hiss, chest heaving, eyes darting between us like a cornered varren. I gave him a nod—soldier to soldier, a quiet thread we'd spun over late-night talks.
"Vicrul, perimeter duty," Revan said, sharp and final. "Eyes sharp." Vicrul stalked out, scythe slung over his shoulder, leaving a wake of simmering heat. Revan turned to us. "Command center. Now. The scout's intel can't wait."
Galen trailed us back, silent but coiled, like a man wrestling something he couldn't name. The holo-table flared up again as we filed in, that same garbled signal looping its eerie hum. I punched it up, letting the static fill the quiet. "Scout didn't get much," I said, keeping my tone even. "Whispers from Coruscant's underbelly—'remnant' rallying, talk of a 'lost lord' and a 'rebirth.' Points to Level 1313, whatever that is. Could be a wild goose chase, could be a damn war."
Revan's fingers tapped the table once—a rare crack in his calm. "The Sith Eternal, maybe," he said, piecing it slow. "Vicrul's tales of their Exegol flop hint at it—Galen's scraps too. They're not done chasing ghosts. Could be a new master they're after."
Galen leaned against the wall, arms crossed, voice rough. "Sith Eternal? Thought those crazies burned out after Exegol. What's this 'lost lord' nonsense?"
"Don't know," I said, honest. "Intel's a fog—could be a name, a myth. Level 1313 sounds like a hole to hide in, though. Deep, dark, messy—my kind of spot."
Revan's mask dipped, decisive. "Then we move. Shepard, you lead—your knack for cutting through chaos fits this. Galen, you and PROXY go too—your strength and his tricks will crack it open. Coruscant's the key. Find what they're building before it finds us."
Galen nodded, short and sharp, still lost in his haze but game. I clapped his shoulder—old habit from the Normandy days. "Let's roll, Marek. PROXY's probably pacing a trench by now."
We split off, leaving Revan's shadow behind as we hit the hangar. The Rogue Shadow sat there—a 30-meter stealth ship, its scorched gray durasteel hull patched but solid. Three days of sweat had stitched her back together, a battered relic turned lifeline. PROXY stood by the ramp, yellow eyes blinking, holo-emitters twitching like he was mid-rant.
"Commander Shepard, Master Marek," he said, voice dripping with that dry bite of his. "Off to poke another galactic wasps' nest, I presume?"
"Wouldn't be us if we didn't," I shot back, climbing aboard. Galen took the pilot's seat, his hands on the controls—sabers clinking at his belt as he settled in with a grunt. I strapped into the copilot's chair, feeling the hull shudder as the engines growled to life, ash shaking loose. Mustafar's lava plains shrank below, swallowed by the black void as Galen punched us skyward.