My name is Vougal Vorran, Second of My Name, Duke of Volantis, Warden of her moon Vorr, Lord of Harvest.
I was born on the seventh rotation of the green moon's summer. 52 years Ago.
They said the rains stopped when I drew my first breath. I have never believed in omens—but I have always believed in weather.
Weather feeds men. Weather kills them.
My father taught me that there are only two truths in this galaxy: fear and hunger. The wise man learns which he can control.
All my life, I have sought to master both.
They call Volantis a paradise, a world where the light falls soft and even, where the seas rise only to bless the fields. The Republic calls it an agriworld, a simple designation meant to turn majesty into ledger columns. But I know what Volantis truly is: not a paradise, but an instrument of power.
The Core Worlds think they are eternal—cities of light, untouched by need. Yet every gleaming tower, the senate Chamber, even the temple of the Jedi rests on the back of a farmer's hand.
Remove a single harvest and Coruscant chokes on its own breath. Remove two, and the Republic collapses.
That is the truth of empire. Not fleets, not credits, not the hollow speeches of senators.
Provision. The silent dominion of necessity.
I rule a planet of dirt and sunlight, and the galaxy bows for it.
It was not always so. When I was young, my tutors spoke of the Vorrans as caretakers—guardians of the soil, faithful vassals to the Senate's will. But I read older records, the ones kept hidden in the vaults below the Citadel. They tell a different story: of how my ancestors fed the expansion fleets of the Old Republic, how they starved their enemies into surrender, how they turned entire systems into clients by controlling the flow of grain. The Vorrans did not conquer; we purchased obedience one loaf at a time.
My father, Veigar the Third, understood this. He said to me once, "The Republic fears war, but it dreads hunger. If you wish to rule men, control their tables."
I built my life upon that truth.
I have seen senators crumble at my table, their words sweetened by the scent of my harvests. I have watched Jedi Knights eat from my plates, ignorant of the irony. They claim to serve balance; they serve hunger, just as all men do. They speak of peace, yet they thrive in war. Every generation of Jedi births its own conflict—its own crusade dressed as righteousness.
And now the cycle repeats.
One month ago, on a desert world called Geonosis, the Republic unsheathed its newest toy: an army of cloned men bred in secret. I watched the holofeed of their march through the Arena of Execution—identical faces, identical resolve. The Jedi lead them as generals. Peacekeepers turned warlords.
They claim defense. I see ambition.
The galaxy fractures; systems break away; lines are drawn. My council ask which side Volantis will choose, as though sides matter in this farce. The Republic and the Separatists are two merchants haggling over a corpse.
I will not choose between them.
I will sell to them both.
Let the Core and Rim exhaust themselves in the blood of soldiers and the smoke of burning fleets. In the end, both will crawl to me for sustenance.
Still, there is a restlessness in me tonight. I find myself staring too long at the plains below the Citadel—the low hum of droid engines bringing in the first sheaves of summer grain. There is peace in the rhythm of work, yet my thoughts turn to my sons.
Korel, my firstborn. A man of strong back and weak foresight. He leaves soon for Corellia, to take a commission in the Republic Navy. He believes duty to the Republic is honor to our house. He will learn that the Republic devours its loyal men first.
Tarn, my youngest. Born with the sensitivity that cursed so many across history. The Jedi came for him when he was six. They left empty-handed. I will not give my blood to their superstitions. I have trained him instead with the Undying, that he might learn loyalty and discipline, not dogma. Yet I see in his eyes the hunger that plagues every child who seeks approval. He will break himself on that need.
And Parmesia, my daughter—too much heart for a galaxy that has none. The Senate made her a darling; the holonets call her the Pride of Volantis. She thinks kindness a virtue. I think it a liability.
None of them are what I would have chosen, yet each is a part of me I cannot discard.
The night wind is rising. From this tower, I can see the transports lifting off toward Coruscant—silver trails threading the sky, carrying grain to feed the Republic's markets. The scent of burnt ozone mingles with the sweetness of soil.
It reminds me of fire.
And fire, like hunger, always spreads.
My family built this world from the bones of famine. We turned survival into empire. And empire, once tasted, can never be relinquished.
Soon...I Will be Emperor.
—End of entry.
Vougal deactivated the holobook. The soft blue light faded, leaving only the amber glow of the wall sconces and the low hum of the air recyclers. For a long moment he sat perfectly still, the quill stylus still between his fingers, the scent of polished stone and dataparchment filling the study.
Below his window, the plains stretched out like an ocean of fireflies—the night harvest underway, columns of lights drifting in perfect formation. Each one a harvester droid or repulsor barge, each one a heartbeat of the machine that was his world.
He took a slow breath and let the moment settle. The quiet before business.
The door behind him slid open with a soft hiss of hydraulics.
"Your Grace," said a voice, deep and metallic.
Vougal didn't turn. "Captain."
The armored figure of Captain Rhest stepped forward. His armor was dark bronze trimmed with dull gold, polished but practical. A half-cape of green draped from one pauldron, marked with the sigil of House Vorran.
He removed his helmet and bowed. His face was weathered, lined from years of service. "Forgive the intrusion. There is news you will wish to hear."
Vougal gestured for him to continue.
"Lord Korel has departed Vorr's dockyards. He is bound for Corellia to assume command of a Republic vessel—the Astute."
"Already?" Vougal asked, tone flat. "So eager to serve."
"He believes the war will be short," the Captain said carefully. "He wishes to distinguish himself before it ends."
Vougal gave a humorless chuckle. "The only short wars are massacres. And there are none short enough to spare fools."
The Captain hesitated, then: "Shall I send him a message of blessing, my lord?"
"Send him silence," Vougal replied. "It will last longer."
The Captain inclined his head, accepting the command. "There is another matter. The Separatist Council requests your presence. A secure holo-channel has been established in the conference chamber. They await your convenience."
"Their timing is apt," Vougal said, rising. He smoothed the folds of his dark robe, its fabric heavy with thread-of-gold embroidery. "Have the link opened. Inform them I will attend shortly."
"Yes, my lord."
When the Captain withdrew, Vougal turned back to the window. He could see Volantis hanging in the sky—green and against the black. The entire Planet was one massive Farmland.
Volantis and Vorr, grain and ore—one fed the galaxy, the other forged its chains. Together they were the twin hearts of his dominion.
He rested his hands behind his back, fingers interlocked, eyes distant.
The galaxy burned at its edges.
And here, in the still center, he would make his profit.