"—sent from Ossus to babysit a myth?" Ezra's voice cut like a blaster bolt, sarcasm honed by decades of rebellion. "The Council's scraping the bottom of the barrel if they think I'm here to salute a ghost in a mask."
I stood in Fortress Vader's war chamber, my mask a cold weight against my face, Mandalorian steel etched with centuries of scars. Mustafar's air was a furnace, thick with sulfur that clawed the throat, each breath tasting of ash and molten stone. The obsidian walls pulsed with a volcanic red, fissures spidering like veins of old wounds, leaking the lava fields' glow. Shadows writhed through narrow slits, twisting as if alive, their dance a silent scream of anguish baked into the stone. The heat pressed like a forge's hammer, relentless, but the Force was heavier—brooding, not stirring, a tide of unresolved pain that clung to every surface. This was no mere stronghold; it was a crucible, forged in blood and betrayal, where the galaxy's darkest choices lingered like ghosts.
The war table between us was a relic of ruin, its surface scorched black, gouged by lightsaber strikes and the weight of fates decided. Ezra stood opposite, his lean frame coiled with defiance, eyes blazing with a fire undimmed by age. I knew nothing of him—only that Ossus had sent him, a Jedi's envoy to probe my intent. His words marked him as no pawn, but a man who'd carved his own path, mistrust woven into every syllable. Beside him, a woman—Tara, introduced as his padawan—stood watchful, her hand resting on a Loth-wolf, Kesh, whose amber gaze pierced me, reading truths beyond flesh. My Knights flanked me: Vicrul, bristling with barely-leashed fury, his vibro-scythe a low hum; Zeht, leaning against the wall, her calm a thin veil over readiness. The Force thrummed, taut as a bowstring, binding us in a moment poised to shatter. I didn't flinch. Stillness was my shield, a discipline forged through Jedi vows, Sith betrayals, and a millennium's stasis. My hands rested loose at my sides, my breath steady, but I studied him—every twitch, every flicker of doubt beneath the bravado.
"No myth, Bridger," I said, voice low, carrying the weight of centuries. "The Force jolted—you felt it on Ossus. That's why you stand here, not some Council errand."
Ezra scoffed, pacing a tight arc, boots echoing on obsidian. "Ossus felt that wail, sure. Yavin 8's gone, and here you are, squatting in Vader's tomb with the old Ren lackeys." He jabbed a finger at Vicrul, then Zeht. "What's the play, huh? Raising a new empire from this ash pit?"
Tara's voice slipped in, soft but sharp. "It wasn't just a shake. Felt... off, like the Force itself was screaming."
I nodded, honesty my blade. "I felt it too. But I've no name for it, only questions, same as you Jedi." Ignorance was no shame; the Force revealed truths in its time. Kesh growled low, her amber eyes locked on me, reading what words hid.
Ezra's pacing quickened, then stopped. He gestured at Vicrul and Zeht, grin sharp as a shiv. "Sith leftovers, huh? New masks, same old stench. I've scrapped with Inquisitors, Palpatine's pets—your crew's just another rerun."
Vicrul lunged a step, scythe humming, voice a snarl. "Mock me again, drifter, and I'll carve your tongue to ribbons."
"Enough." My tone sliced the air, the Force rippling with it. "He's wrong, Vicrul, but doubt's a defense he's earned." Ezra's fire mirrored my own, long ago—before Mandalore, before Malak. I saw it in his glare, the refusal to bow to legends or lies.
Ezra's smirk turned brittle, eyes locked on mine. "Vader's fortress, Ren's discarded pets—smells like a Sith encore to me. You're no different, just another warlord in a dead man's chair." He spun, boots thudding toward the chamber's arch, voice dripping scorn. "I've seen this holodrama—pass."
Sith. The word was a lash, ripping open wounds —Malak's shadow, Vitiate's chains. I'd worn that title, bled for it, broke it. Ezra's scorn dragged me back, and I'd had enough.
I stepped into the lava's crimson glow, mask blazing like forged durasteel, clutching the Jedi holocron I'd pried from Vader's hidden vault days ago—its silver cube pulsing with runes. "True, this was Anakin's fortress," I growled, voice a blade unsheathed. "A Sith's lair, steeped in rage. But Anakin was more than Sith—he defied his master for his son, light and dark as one. Raw but resolute. I sought his past here after taking refuge in this forsaken sanctuary, expecting hate. Found a father's vow instead—a holocron, etched with an ancient order's truth, older than Jedi or Sith, who balanced the Force's heart." I raised it, runes flaring blue and red, an ancient force user master's voice whispering: "The Force is one." Vader's rasp echoed: "For Luke, I seek this path."
Jolee's words stirred memories buried deep—old Bindo, the gray hermit of Kashyyyk, who once walked the shaded paths beneath towering wroshyr trees and spoke quietly of truths the Jedi refused to see. On Dantooine, beneath open skies painted by twilight, he'd murmured about light and dark intertwined, scoffing gently at the rigid creeds of the Jedi Council. Back then, I'd brushed aside his wisdom, too arrogant and too eager for battle, my eyes fixed only on victory. I chased war, believing myself righteous and blind to the shadows closing around me.
It took Malak's betrayal—his blade cutting deeper than any wound—and Vitiate's cold embrace, imprisoning me within a fortress of my own making, to open my eyes. Centuries spent suspended in stasis, dreams of failures and victories alike replaying endlessly, forged an understanding that Anakin Skywalker merely glimpsed in his fall.
The holocron's truth lay before me now, its subtle glow offering balance, clarity born from acknowledging all I'd endured. But Ezra bridled at the notion. "Sith like you don't find balance—just another throne to claim!"
"Not Sith, Bridger—never again!" My voice roared, shaking the chamber's bones. "Before Jedi chained the Force for it's own gain, before Sith bled it for power, the Gray stood—older than stars, keepers of its truth. I am their heir, forged by the Force's will!" The Code rose up within me, a vow etched in my soul. "There is no dark side, nor a light side. There is only THE FORCE. I will do what I must to keep the BALANCE. There is no GOOD without EVIL, but evil must not be allowed to flourish. There is PASSION, yet PEACE. There is SERENITY, yet EMOTION. There is CHAOS, yet ORDER. I am the wielder of the STORM, the protector of BALANCE. I am the holder of the torch, lighting the way. I am the keeper of the flame, soldier of balance. I am a guardian of duality. I am Je'daii!"
The holocron's kyber hum erupted, ash swirling from the Sith fortress' walls, Mustafar's vergence answering the call. Vicrul dropped to one knee, scythe clanking, head bowed. Zeht followed, then the Knights, a unified fall, not to me, but to the Force's truth.
Ezra froze mid-step, halfway to the arch, smirk erased, eyes wide as stars. Kesh rose, padding to me, her kyber collar aglow like starfire, nudging my leg with a Loth-wolf's weight. Her amber gaze locked on Ezra, unyielding, a Force-born truth cutting deeper than words. Ezra's voice cracked, awe bleeding through. "Alright, Revan. The Force speaks through you—I feel it, Kesh does too. But I'll need more than words to trust you."
"You know of what I speak," I said, mask hiding the fire that burned within, forged across ages. "I sense it in you. Dancing that edge, Bridger—light, dark, never theirs. Stand with us, to seek what lies beyond."
Tara's hand rested on Kesh, her grin crooked but warm. "Kesh says he's just as stubborn as you."
Ezra exhaled, rubbing his neck, a half-grin flickering. "Wolf's smarter than me." He met my gaze, wary but open. "—let's try this. I'll share what Ossus knows, but don't expect me to bow or sing your Je'daii hymn."
"No hymns," I said, voice steady. "Only what we find together."
Ezra reached into his cloak and pulled a datachip, its scuffed edges catching the lava's glow. He tossed it with a quick flick, precise but guarded, like a rebel sizing up a truce. I caught it, the chip's metal cool against my palm, a faint hum in the Force hinting at secrets locked within.
"Ossus archives," Ezra said, voice firm, eyes meeting mine with a mix of defiance and curiosity. "Quinlan Vos dug up a lead—a dying Revan Legion soldier, babbling about Lehon, 'active gateways' stirring something old. No clue what it means or what hit Yavin 8. Your turn—what's has this new Order of yours discovered?"
I turned the chip, its weight a question shared. The name—Revan Legion—echoed my scout's intel, a thread pulling taut. "No fortress secrets," I said, voice steady, mask lending it depth. "Shepard and Marek—chased a lead on Coruscant, Level 1313, a contact linked to a so-called Revan Legion, using my name for their own interests. It may have something to do with your gateways, your Lehon, but I know no more." I extended the chip, not a toss but an offer, a bridge. "This Legion, my impostors. We hunt them together, Jedi and Je'daii, one step toward truth."
Tara stepped closer, eyes flicking to the lava slits, its light wavering. "Kesh feels it," she said, hand on the wolf's fur, tense now.
Kesh's amber gaze didn't waver, fixed somewhere beyond us. Fortress Vader's obsidian walls seemed to lean in, sulfur heavy, lava's pulse a low thrum beneath our feet. Vicrul stood still, scythe quiet, loyalty forged in fire. Zeht's fingers rested, calm but ready. Ezra held his ground, defiance a spark, kindled by the name—Revan Legion—ringing between us, the first thread of a hunt shared.
The war chamber held the fading heat of a pact forged in fire. Sulfur stung the air, Mustafar's molten breath seeping through obsidian walls cracked by time. Across the stone table, its surface scarred by lightsaber gouges, Ezra Bridger packed his gear with a steady hand, each motion honed by years of defiance. His gray-flecked hair caught the lava's red glow, but his eyes burned sharp, a rebel's spark undimmed at sixty-two. Tara stood beside him, cloak drawn tight, her fingers grazing Kesh's fur. The Loth-wolf's amber gaze fixed on me, unyielding, as if reading truths I hadn't spoken.
In Ezra's grip was a datachip—Ossus's gift, Quinlan Vos's dying whisper of Lehon's active gateways, a shadow stirring in the Force. It answered the intel we'd shared. The chip was no mere token; it was a thread tying Jedi to Je'daii, a bridge built on mistrust but holding—for now. Ezra's scorn had cut deep, his fire a mirror to my own, long ago, when I'd burned through Jedi codes and Sith lies. Stasis had forged me for this—a millennium's anvil, shaping duality's edge to face shadows. The envoy would carry our pact to Ossus, a seed in unsteady soil, and I wondered if Bridger saw the same risk I did.
I stood still, my mask a steel veil, the chamber's glow tracing its edges. Ezra glanced up, his face guarded, then gave a single nod, a flicker of respect beneath the doubt. Tara murmured to Kesh, guiding her toward the corridor, the wolf's eyes lingering on me until they passed from sight. The Force hummed, a faint echo of our accord, binding us to a hunt neither fully understood.
I turned, striding from the war chamber, its sulfur-heavy air clinging to my armor. The obsidian corridor stretched ahead, Fortress Vader's black heart carved from Mustafar's molten core. Walls gleamed with the sheen of cooled magma, scarred by lightsaber burns and blaster bolts—echoes of battles fought under Vader's shadow, or perhaps older, from eras when this planet was a Sith crucible. Lava flickered through narrow slits, casting shadows that writhed like specters, their shapes hinting at fallen warriors or my own ghosts from centuries past. The air was thick with ash, each breath a bite of heat and sulfur, Mustafar's pulse throbbing beneath my boots, a living rhythm of unrest. Faint glyphs, half-erased, glinted on the walls—Sith runes, Imperial codes, or something ancient, their meaning lost to time but their weight pressing against the Force. The corridor twisted, its design deliberate, meant to disorient, to trap, a testament to Vader's paranoia or a deeper, older malice. A shattered viewport loomed to my left, its frame warped, revealing a molten river churning below, its heat a pulse against the cracked transparisteel. The fortress seemed to watch, its walls narrowing, testing my resolve, whispering of choices forged in fire.
Vicrul's boots echoed behind me, steady but heavy, his presence a storm trailing my steps. He'd been at the meeting, a silent blade among my Knights, his scars a map of loyalty etched in blood. As the corridor curved, Ezra's envoy now out of sight beyond the chamber's threshold, Vicrul's voice broke the silence, like a wire pulled tight. "Master," he said, urgency sharpening his tone, no longer restrained. "We need to talk—before you bury yourself in meditation."
I paused, turning to face him, my mask's slits meeting his scarred gaze. The lava's glow caught his face, harsh and unyielding, a warrior's fire barely leashed. I nodded once and resumed my stride, Vicrul falling in step, his scythe swaying at his hip, its hum silent but ever-ready. The corridor's weight pressed closer, Mustafar's unrest mirroring his own, and I let it guide us to the meditation chamber, his words a tide I'd soon answer.
The chamber opened, a stark circle carved from necessity. Its stone dais stood bare, walls traced with faded sigils—Vader's, or older, their meaning lost but their presence heavy. A single slit framed the molten fields, their glow a knife's edge against the dark. I entered, boots silent, and set my mask on the dais, its steel catching the light. My face, unmasked, felt the Force's quiet hum, a stillness earned through centuries of trial. Vicrul paused at the threshold, his silhouette sharp against the corridor's flicker, then crossed, scars stark in the lava's gleam. He was loyalty and fire, a blade I'd tempered but never dulled. "Speak your mind," I said, turning to him, voice calm. "Here, we only speak truth."
Vicrul's laugh was sharp, a spark of his volatile core, and he began pacing, boots scuffing stone, his movements jagged, restless. "Bridger's a rat," he spat, voice dripping disdain, scars tightening as he spoke. "Dodged my scythe on Corellia—slipped through a vent, taunting me as he ran, left me swinging at nothing. Now he's here, smirking like he owns your war chamber, calling us fossils." He stopped, jabbing a finger toward the corridor, eyes blazing. "And those Jedi with him? Weaklings, groveling to a dead code, preaching peace while blood remains on their order's hands. This alliance is vapor, master—it'll drag us to ruin."
I stood on the dais, hands folded, eyes steady on his scars—marks of a man who'd pledged himself and his order to me. "You see a rat," I said, voice even, probing. "I see a flame—wild, raw, like you were when I found you. What else drives your anger, Vicrul?" He froze, jaw clenched, scars pulling taut, his breath a hiss. "That chip he flashed—Lehon's gateways, his Legion talk—it's bait," he growled, voice rising, fist tightening as if to crush the thought. "He mocks our Code, laughs at the truth we've built, then hands us a key like we're fools? I'd carve his smirk off, master, if you'd just say it." His eyes blazed, loyalty a fire warring with rage, held back only by my will. "He's a rebel, not a warrior—runs from fights, hides behind words. Corellia proved it, and now he's playing you, tying us to that Jedi who'll fold the second this great threat emerges."
Bridger's defiance tests us, as Exegol tested Vicrul. Stasis forged me to guide such flames, not to break them. I rose, stepping into the lava's light, unmasked, my face open but resolute, the Force a faint ripple behind my words. "Doubt is a blade, Vicrul… Trust is not given blindly; it's earned through action, through leading where others stumble." I said, voice calm but firm. "Wield it without care, and it cuts your own hand. But honed, it carves truth. Bridger's no ally—not yet—but his fire isn't false. His rage is ours, turned inward, a mirror to your own. The Jedi falter, as I did once, but they seek, as we do. Lehon's gateways, the Legion—they're threads in a web we must trace, not a trap to fear. Trust is not given blindly; it's earned through action, through leading where others stumble. You've burned for me, Vicrul—channel that fire to see what Bridger might become, not what he was."
Vicrul's fists stayed tight, his voice dropping to a low snarl. "He's a risk, master. Now he's got your ear, and I don't trust him. His Jedi are worse—soft, hiding behind old vows that broke long ago. What if Bridger and his Order bolts when whatever caused that wail shows its teeth, leaving us to face it alone?"
"Then we endure," I said, voice a quiet blade, honed by centuries. "We lead where they fall. Trust my path, Vicrul—not Bridger's, not Ossus's. Mine." He exhaled, fire banking, and nodded, slow, conviction settling. "Always, master."
A chirp sliced the silence—my comms unit, clipped to my belt. Shepard's signal. Vicrul shifted, boots scraping, his hand brushing his scythe, ready to step back.
"I'll leave you," he said, reluctance heavy, scars softening but tense.
"Stay," I commanded, raising a hand, voice unyielding. "We face this together."
I activated the comms, Shepard's voice crackling through. "Revan, it's Shepard. Neon Angels was a shitshow. Syndicate goons, spice haze, the works. We confronted a thug claiming Legion ties—Galen handled him."
A rough laugh broke in—Galen Marek, voice raw, edged with irritation, like he was leaning over Shepard's shoulder. "Handled? I ended him, Shepard." His tone was clipped, self-critical, a warrior's edge tempered by regret.
Shepard's tone stayed even, cutting through Galen's heat. "Point is, we found something—Sith artifact, old as hell, part of a star map. Also got a tip about some stronghold on Nar Shaddaa, and a name, The Veiled Covenant. It's real, Revan, and it's tied to those fools who keep using your name who's also held up in an outpost here on 1313. We're heading there now."
Vicrul's eyes narrowed, scars steady, the mention of the Legion stirring his fire, a name he knew from his First Order days, though he mentioned they've been long dead since Exegol. I stood still, lava's glow framing the slit, Mustafar's pulse a low thrum.
"Understood," I said, voice calm. "Stay sharp, both of you."
Galen's voice faded, a low huff. "Sharp's all I know."
Shepard snorted. "Says the guy who smashed half the brothel. We're out." The comms fell silent, the chamber's weight rushing back. Vicrul shifted, urgency flaring, his fist clenched, eyes glinting with purpose.
"Bridger needs to know," he said, voice eager. "I'll track him down—shove this Covenant news in his face before he bolts for Ossus."
I lifted my mask, its steel cool in my hands, and turned to him, voice low but final. "No, Vicrul. Ready the Knights—sharpen their focus, let them meditate on our Je'daii path. I'll find Bridger in the guest chambers myself."
He nodded, conviction settling like stone. "Your will, master." Vicrul's boots echoed as he left, the corridor's dark swallowing him. I stood alone, mask in hand, facing the lava's slit. The molten fields churned, a fire that never slept, and I knelt, setting the mask beside me. The Force stirred, a quiet hum, anchoring me. Bridger's spark, Vicrul's blade, Shepard's hunt—they met here, threads in a shadow's weave. Lehon whispered, Nar Shaddaa waited, a Legion's search for ancient artifacts, an unfaced foe with only a name. The Je'daii Order awakened, I, their herald, forging a new path through the light and dark as one.