The galaxy held its breath as if the stars themselves recoiled from the silent screams that had shattered Yavin 8 along with several other moons like it since. Every occurrence leaving those gifted in the Force shattered. On Ossus, winter's frost had bled into spring's tentative bloom, mirroring the slow awakening of Korrin, the Chiss youth whose blood carried secrets no longer buried. Tended by Cal Kestis in the Jedi Healing Medical Center's sterile wards, Korrin stirred from his coma, his recovery a fragile thread binding hope to dread. Far from Ossus's melting snow-dusted spires, the Star of Ashla hung in Lehon's orbit—an ancient Zakuulan dreadnaught reclaimed for the Je'daii, its obsidian-lined hull reborn, fully forged and gleaming with cortosis plating, yet its interior still a raw crucible of retrofitting, conduits sparking under droid welders' torches, etched with runes that pulsed like a caged heart. Three thousand one hundred meters of crescent-prowed menace, a testament to the Je'daii's relentless ambition, rushed from dry dock to hunt the moon-shattered entities in Lehon's shadow.
The Star was no mere ship but a crucible of rediscovery, its durasteel bones, salvaged from Rekkiad's orbit, thrummed with Zakuulan reactors that drank starlight and exhaled power, though their conduits sparked under the torches of droid welders. Cortosis plating, forged in Mustafar's forges, clad its completed exterior and corridors, shrugging off blaster fire as if it were rain, while interior panels gaped, half-installed amidst the retrofit's chaos. Rakata cloaking fields, torn from ruins, wove shadows around its frame, rendering it a ghost to scanners, even as engineers toiled to stabilize its pulsing systems. Inside, Force-sensitive navigation arrays—guided by algorithms whispered from ancient Je'daii holocrons—plotted hyperspace lanes with a precision that mocked the galaxy's charts, their holo-displays flickering with the retrofit's haste. Engineers and scholars, clad in rune-stitched robes, labored at breakneck speed amid sparking conduits, their discoveries fueled by the Je'daii's reclamation of their lost order. Rakata datacores, pried from Lehon's jungle-choked tombs and beyond, yielded secrets of star-forging and teleporter webs, while Je'daii texts, salvaged from Tython's excavation efforts, taught balance in the Force's raw chaos. The Star was a monument to this progress, every bolt—finished or raw—in defiance of the galaxy's scars.
Lehon itself lay quiet, its Prime Echo Relay a ghost town since the Veiled Covenant's retreat. The white-gold fortress, once alive with Headmaster Varnis' scaled menace, stood abandoned, its conduits cold, its glyphs dim. Only stray Covenant scouts, cloaked in stealth, darted through the ruins on rare occasions, their presence a fleeting thorn in the alliance's side. Jedi and Je'daii teams—led by Ezra Bridger and Rey Skywalker for the former, Vicrul and Zeht for the latter—had scoured the planet for months, excavating for Zha-Korran's fabled city. The Rakata star map, a fragmented relic of glyphs and starlines, offered no clear path, its clues as elusive as smoke. Each mission returned with empty hands, the jungle's rot and durasteel decay mocking their efforts. Yet the Star remained, unyielding, its orbit a silent vow to the discovery of this crown of the Rakata.
The heart of the Star was its grand conference room, a chamber of stark durasteel and obsidian, its ceiling a vaulted expanse where Zakuulan chandeliers cast jagged light. A holotable dominated the center, its surface flickering with Lehon's topographic scans, the Rakata map's glyphs pulsing in vain. Revan stood at the table's head, his red and silver-gray mask a cold mirror to the room's severity, his redeemed lightsaber a silent weight at his hip with it's twin always never too far away. Across from him, Rey Skywalker leaned forward, her saber's hilt glinting, her hazel eyes sharp with diplomatic resolve. Ezra Bridger, blue and gray-streaked hair framing a weathered scowl, gripped the table's edge, his slate-blue robes dusted with Lehon's jungle grit. Vicrul, Sentinel of Fire, loomed at Revan's side, his armor shining in polished black obsidian, his vibro-scythe sheathed but ever-ready.
As spring's light touched Ossus, a new arrival pierced Lehon's orbit. The Fulcrum's Dawn, a sleek frigate, its tapered durasteel hull painted white with gray-blue accents that caught the starlight. Quad laser turrets, nestled in polished housings, gleamed with Rebel-era elegance, their barrels unmarred by rust. A stealth cloak's faint shimmer cloaked its approach, fading as docking beacons guided it to the Star of Ashla's public bay. Within the Star, life pulsed with purpose. Crews in cortosis-threaded tunics moved through cavernous hangars, where the Ebon Hawk—its cortosis hull gleaming—rested inside of Revan's personal hangar bay. Meditation chambers, their walls etched with Tho Yor sigils, hummed with the Force's cadence, while dojos rang with the clash of training blades. The medical bay, stocked with kolto vats, stood ready for the wounded, its air sharp with antiseptic. Quarters, plush with Tythonian tapestries, housed the Je'daii's growing ranks, from squires to Knights to Chosen, their loyalty forged in Mustafar's fire and now sparking the order's fire on other planets beyond. Ahsoka's ship settled, its ramp lowering with a hiss of hydraulics, a shadowed maw opening into the bay's expanse, sealing the frigate's arrival in a final, mechanical embrace.
The Fulcrum's Dawn's ramp hissed beneath my boots, a familiar weight settling as I stepped into the Star of Ashla's public docking bay. My white lightsabers hung heavy at my hips, their silver hilts catching the bay's harsh glare, a reminder of battles etched into my bones. The air thrummed, a pulse that hit my montrals like Coruscant's old shipyards—load-lifters groaning, repulsors whining, voices barking in tongues I'd heard on a dozen worlds. The bay sprawled vast, its durasteel floor scarred by endless treads, walls climbing into shadows where rune-carved cranes swung crates with eerie precision. Je'daii crews in cortosis-threaded tunics darted between fighters and freighters, their steps too sharp, too hungry, for my liking. The Republic's ambition had felt like this once, before it cracked under its own weight. I trusted this alliance, but the Je'daii's drive prickled my lekku, a warning I couldn't shake.
Tayra's soft tread followed, her orange-red skin dulled in the glare, her saberstaff clipped tight. Huyang's ancient frame glinted, photoreceptors sweeping the bustle with a droid's calm, his scars polished by centuries of service. A Chiss approached through the crowd, his red eyes piercing the floodlights, formal and unyielding. My chest tightened—Korrin, stirring on Ossus. Cal's steady hand would guide him, but the boy's recovery was a sign of hope, one I clutched as the stranger bowed, his black tunic marked by a single Je'daii rune. "I am Dren'var, squire to Revan," he said, his voice clipped, an administrator's tone. "I'll escort you to where your party is staying." I nodded, my montrals parsing the bay's din—clanging tools, hissing vents, a rune-etched droid's whir. The Je'daii's order felt alien, too precise, too grand.
The terminal buzzed, holoscreens flickering with docking logs, their polished Zakuulan interfaces gleaming, seamlessly installed, though faint sparks from distant corridors hinted at unseen work. Je'daii sentries in cortosis armor stood like statues, their rune-etched plates flawless, a testament to meticulous craftsmanship. Dren'var's brisk pace cut through, leading us into a corridor that stretched deep into the Star's heart. The passage was wide, durasteel walls polished to a cold sheen, their pristine surfaces etched with runes pulsing faintly along their edges, a precision that felt too perfect, unlike the Jedi's Ossus halls, warm with kolto's glow. Crews surged past, hauling datacores or clashing with training blades, their laughter sharp against the reactor's hum, its steady pulse echoing through polished conduits, though distant clatters suggested ongoing labors elsewhere. The Star's scale pressed against me, its ambition a tide that dwarfed our Order's restraint. "Ancient knowledge, modernized," Tayra murmured, her voice soft, as if the Star's rune-etched panels, flawlessly aligned, could bury her apprehension. "Rakata relics, Zakuulan reactors—it's like stepping into a holocron." Her shoulders eased, her scholar's mind finding solace in the fusion. I glanced at her, the unease still there, subtle but stubborn, and kept walking. My lekku twitched, catching a chant from a distant chamber—a Je'daii ritual that felt foreign, built for war, not peace. I wondered if Revan's balance could hold, or if this machine would consume us all.
The corridor opened to a crew deck, a sprawling nexus of activity, its durasteel floors polished to a mirror sheen, their seamless finish unbroken save for faint echoes of mechanical clatter from deeper levels. Je'daii scholars debated in alcoves, their star charts glowing on sleek holo-displays, while Chosen sentries stood like statues, pikes glinting with cortosis, their armor pristine in these polished zones. Droids whirred, their chassis etched with runes, hauling crates of datacores that hummed with Rakata secrets, their paths smooth across the deck's finished expanse. The bustle was relentless, a machine of ambition that outstripped the Jedi's spareness. My montrals caught a reactor's pulse, its kyber core a faint thrum, a power Ossus's kolto-lit calm could never match, its steady hum resonating through gleaming conduits, though a distant spark betrayed work beyond these halls. Dren'var's brisk pace cut through, leading us to a turbolift that hissed with machined grace, its polished interior gleaming under recessed lights, a flawless shell despite the faint hum of distant tools. The lift's ascent was smooth, but the Star's weight lingered, its corridors stretching like the arteries of a beast, pristine in these guest-bound paths yet shadowed by unseen labors.
The turbolift opened to another corridor, narrower, its durasteel colder, lined with holopanels and rune-carved arches, their surfaces pristine, glowing softly under fully installed fixtures. The VIP guest quarters lay beyond, stark durasteel softened by Tythonian tapestries, their star-woven patterns catching the dim light of polished sconces. Dren'var then led us through one of the doors in a row of other rooms. Tara sat cross-legged on a bunk, her fair skin and dark hair framing a padawan braid as she meditated, her calm a mirror to Ezra's fire. Jiruna, Rey's apprentice, leaned nearby, a near-human with pointed ears and emerald eyes, her silver-streaked hair falling over a diplomatic holocron she studied, invoking Rey's poised intensity. Tayra's shoulders hunched, a flicker of unease, but her gaze warmed as Kesh bounded forward. The Lothal wolf's amber eyes gleamed, his tail wagging like he'd found a long-lost friend, nudging my hand with a Force-tinged joy that felt like home. He brushed against Tayra and Huyang, his fur a soft anchor, circling with Lothal's loyalty. Tara's shy glance and Jiruna's eager nod met my eyes, but the room felt hollow without their masters.
"Where are Ezra and Rey?" I asked Dren'var, my voice low but firm, cutting through the quarters' hum. His red eyes flickered, formal but unyielding. "They're meeting with Revan and Vicrul, in the grand chamber." Tara's head lifted, her voice soft. "They've been at it for hours." Jiruna nodded, her diplomatic poise faltering with youth's impatience. "They're trying to find Zha-Korran, but I doubt they'll find it here on this ship." —Revan, a myth I'd never met, his masked presence a shadow in my thoughts. I turned to Dren'var. "Take me to this meeting." He bowed, clipped and precise, gesturing toward another corridor. I excused myself, my gesture brief, leaving Tayra and Huyang with the padawans and Kesh, their figures fading into the tapestries' glow.
The corridor was vast, lined with holopanels and rune-carved arches, Je'daii scholars debating in alcoves, their tones clipped. Revan's honor guards stood rigid, their pikes glinting, a formality the Jedi rarely matched. The Star's scale loomed heavier, its bustle relentless—crews hauling star charts, droids whirring with rune-etched tools. The Je'daii's ambition was a machine, its cogs turning toward war, and I felt its shadow on my path. Dren'var led upward, through a turbolift that hissed with precision, its walls etched with star charts. The corridor beyond grew colder, durasteel unyielding, leading to the grand meeting chamber. Two guards flanked the door, their cortosis pikes gleaming, rune-etched armor marking them more of Revan's honor guard, their presence a silent vow.
I paused at the threshold, my fingers grazing the door's rune-etched frame, and stepped through. The chamber loomed like a Sith's vault, its obsidian walls drinking light, the vaulted ceiling aglow with Zakuulan chandeliers that cast jagged shadows. A holotable stood at the center, its flickering glyphs tracing Lehon's scars, their pulse a cruel echo of ruins. Revan dominated, a myth made flesh, his red and silver-gray mask a cold mirror to the room's weight, his lightsabers a silent threat that stirred awe and wariness in equal measure. I'd heard of him—Jedi, Sith, Prodigal Knight—but his presence hit like a Force wave, a balance I couldn't read.
The chamber's air grew heavy with unspoken fates, and within its obsidian embrace, a Herald's gaze, forged in light's ruin, held the alliance's fragile fate.
The holotable's glow stung my eyes, its flickering glyphs tracing Lehon's scars like wounds I'd carved long ago. Rey Skywalker leaned across, her voice measured, urging caution on our latest excavation plan. Ezra Bridger's scowl deepened, his fingers stabbing at the map's fragmented lines, his slate-blue robes dusted with jungle grit from too many fruitless treks. Vicrul, loomed at my side, his obsidian armor swallowing the chandelier's jagged gleam, his silence a coiled blade. Chosen guards flanked the chamber's obsidian walls, their cortosis pikes steady, their rune-etched helms catching the Zakuulan chandeliers' cold fire. The Star of Ashla's durasteel heart pulsed beneath us, its vastness a weight I'd forged, yet the alliance's thread frayed with every word. I stood at the table's head, my mask a cold shield, hiding the ghosts that stirred within.
The chamber's doors hissed open, and a Togruta stormed through, her lightsabers glinting at her hips, montrals high, lekku striped with a fire that burned through the air. "I see that I'm late," she said, her voice sharp, slicing the hum like a vibroblade. "Tell me what's been discussed. What's the plan moving forward?" Her amber eyes locked on mine, bold, reckless, a defiance that echoed Malak's in another life. A Chosen guard stepped forward, pike twitching, his helm's runes flaring. "It's great to meet you too, Ahsoka." My hand rose, the mask's weight pressing my brow as I met her gaze. Ahsoka Tano—her name carried the galaxy's scars. I remember her well from my briefings on the Jedi Council. Clone Wars hero, liberator of Ryloth, conqueror of Mandalore's fall. She survived Order 66, a Jedi shadow weaving through the Purge's ash. Whispers called her Fulcrum, a rebel's ghost toppling Imperial spires. She'd help forged the New Jedi Council on Ossus, her defiance a beacon for a broken Order. Her recklessness mirrored my own, a fire that could burn worlds or save them, and I admired her for it, though pride whispered caution—could she wield that flame without shattering?
"We've pulled fragments from the Prime Echo Relay," I said, my voice low through the mask, gesturing to the holotable's glyphs, their pulse a faint echo of Lehon's ruins. "More datacrons, hinting at a possible location but they're scattered, some even in circles. We've triangulated a possible site for our next excavation, but the lead's thin, barely worth the dust it was buried in." Rey nodded, her diplomat's calm masking a flicker of doubt, her eyes weighing risks I'd seen in Bastila's long ago. Ezra's fingers froze, his scowl cutting through. "Another dead end," he muttered, distrust plain. Ahsoka's lekku twitched, her gaze unyielding. "Kam found something while digging through the Old Republic records in the archive," she said, her voice commanding, a general's edge honed by decades. "An old Jedi holocron, from after your imprisonment Revan. It names the Temple of the Ancients—a place you know better than anyone." The words struck like a turbolaser, my breath catching.
The Temple of the Elders. Lehon's heart, its Rakata supercomputer a ghost I'd buried long ago. Shock clawed my chest, memories surging—Malachor V, the Star Forge's hum, the weight of my sins. I saw Lehon, my boots grinding its sands, Malak's shadow at my side, the Black Rakata kneeling. I'd sworn to destroy the Star Forge, but pride drove me to the temple's peak, the computer's cold voice offering secrets I couldn't refuse. I betrayed the Elders, fed the Forge's hunger, and sparked the Jedi Civil War, my hubris torching worlds. Redeemed, I returned years later, siding with the Elders to access that same computer, its data opening the path to Malak's ultimate fall. But the temple's shadow clung—my betrayal, the dark side's whisper. My followers made it a fortress only for me to fire on it from a dreadnought, its arches crumbling under plasma, stone and steel swallowed by jungle. It must be a ruin by now, its halls choked with vines, the computer's circuits likely fried by my last visit, dead under centuries of neglect. I doubted it was even accessible, its corridors collapsed, yet Ahsoka's words burned—the best lead, staring me in the face all along.
The chamber's silence pressed, the holotable's glow a cruel mirror to my past. I stepped forward, my mask hiding the storm, my voice low, raw, as if the galaxy itself listened. "The Temple of the Ancients," I began, the words a confession, baring the Prodigal Knight's scars. "I walked its halls twice—once as a conqueror, once as a penitent. I betrayed the Rakata Elders, swore to end the Star Forge, but claimed its power instead. That choice ignited a war, burned worlds, cost lives I'll never repay. The supercomputer gave me its secrets, but its price was my soul. Redeemed, I returned, used it to stop Malak's Sith Empire, but the temple's shadow never left me. In my madness, I fired on it, dreadnoughts tearing its stones apart. Its state now certainly a ruin, jungle-choked, the computer likely dead. I doubt we can even reach it, but if it holds answers to Zha-Korran, it's it might be better than these excavations. Be warned, the Force wanes in Bogan's favor there; you will be tested." My voice steadied, resolute yet heavy, the weight of centuries laid bare, a caution carved from my mistakes.
Rey's gaze flickered, cautious, her diplomat's mind sifting my words. "We need certainty," she said, her voice measured, like a saber's edge. "Another ghost chase." Ezra's scowl sharpened, his tone biting. "Your history's a liability, Revan. Why trust this temple now?" Ahsoka stepped closer, her fire unyielding. "It's our best shot. The worst is we go, and don't find a way in, we're right back to here. Turning the planet upside down with no results." Their voices wove, deliberation stretching, Rey's caution added to Ezra's distrust, while Ahsoka's resolve drove them forward. I saw it would take time, their words a tangle I couldn't cut through. The Chosen stood silent, pikes steady, their helms glinting in the chandelier's light. Vicrul's eyes gleamed, awaiting my will, while Dren'var, at the chamber's edge, inclined his head. I raised a hand, the mask's weight grounding me. "In balance," I said, my voice firm. "Vicrul, Dren'var, prepare the excavation teams to direct efforts toward the temple. Chosen, with me." Vicrul bowed, his low "As you command, my Herald" a quiet vow. The guards parted, my team filing out, their boots echoing against the durasteel.
I turned to Ahsoka, Rey, Ezra, the chamber's shadows pooling at their feet. "Whoever's coming, my personal hangar will be ready once you're assembled." My mask hid the dread, but the temple's ghost clung, a weight heavier than the Star's steel. The corridor beyond was vast, its durasteel walls cold, polished to a sheen that reflected the chandeliers' dying light. Crews bustled, hauling crates through arched doorways, their footsteps a relentless pulse against the ship's hum. The Star's scale loomed, its corridors stretching like the veins of a beast I'd forged, yet it felt hollow against the temple's shadow. I moved through a dojo, training blades clashing, the air thick with sweat, durasteel floors scuffed by countless duels. A holocron vault followed, its shelves glowing faintly, datacores humming, their kyber cores a whisper I pushed aside. The crew deck sprawled next, tables crowded with Je'daii eating, laughing, their voices a din against the reactor's pulse, durasteel walls vibrating with the Star's life. A turbolift carried me upward, its walls etched with star charts, the ascent smooth but heavy, the hum of machinery a faint echo of the Star Forge's song. The corridor to the bridge stretched cold, durasteel unyielding, and I walked, my boots steady, the temple's ruin a weight I'd carry to Lehon, my mistakes a fire that never died.
The bridge doors parted, and the Star of Ashla's command deck stretched before me, its vastness pressing against my chest like the weight of Lehon's past. My boots echoed on the scuffed floor, the sound swallowed by the hum of consoles and the chatter of Je'daii crews, their voices a steady pulse in the half-light. Conduits dangled from the ceiling, sparks flashing where droid welders fused panels, the ship's retrofit a work unfinished, its heart still raw. The viewport loomed, a slab of transparisteel framing Lehon's jungle-green orb, its ruins hidden beneath vines that choked my thoughts. The Temple of the Ancients—its name clawed at me, stirring memories of Elders, a supercomputer. My mask hid the storm, but my pulse quickened, the Force's irony a whisper, what if that machine still lived, ready to judge me again?
Star Warden Pirana Vesh stood at the bridge's heart, her human frame poised, her blonde hair pulled tight, her Force aura calm as Akar Kesh's dawn. Her gray eyes met mine, sharp with loyalty, and she stepped back from the command console, her voice steady. "My Herald, the bridge is yours." I raised a hand, the mask's weight grounding me. "Resume your duties, Star Warden." She nodded, confidence in her stride as she returned to her station, her presence a quiet anchor amid the bridge's bustle. Crews in cortosis-threaded tunics darted between holo-displays, their fingers tracing star charts, while droids whirred, their chassis half-welded, trailing sparks. The Star's scale loomed, its durasteel bones alive yet incomplete, a mirror to my own fractured path. I moved toward the Astral Cartography Nexus, its Zakuulan console rising like a cathedral spire, holographic planets shimmering in the air, Ashla and Bogan symbols flickering to mark their balance.
The Nexus operator, a Je'daii Journeyer, stood rigid, her Force-sensitive gaze fixed on the holo-display, her fingers hovering over the console's sleek controls. Her robes bore Anil Kesh's sigil, science woven with intuition, and she meditated faintly, as if feeling Lehon's pulse. "Coordinates," I said, my voice low, the temple's location burning in my mind like a wound. "Lehon, sector 7-3, the Temple of the Ancients." Her eyes flickered, recognizing the weight in my tone, and she input the data, the console humming as droids chittered, pulling feeds from cloaked probes. The holo-display shifted, Lehon's surface zooming in, jungles parting to reveal the temple—a ruin, its spires shattered, arches choked with vines, barely a shadow of the sanctum I'd known. My breath caught, a sigh escaping. "It's worse than I feared," I murmured, the jungle's grip a barrier we might not breach.
"Scan it," I ordered, my mask hiding the dread. The operator's fingers danced, the Nexus's Zakuulan sensors—GEMINI-derived, meant to pierce worlds—whining as they probed. Sparks flashed from a nearby conduit, a droid welder pausing, the retrofit's gaps mocking our efforts. The operator's voice cut through, calm but edged. "Scanners are at half-capacity, my Herald. The retrofit is still incomplete—sensors can't penetrate the overgrowth." The holo-display flickered, showing only static, ruin, no trace of life or tech. I clenched my fist, the temple's decay a mirror to my doubts. The supercomputer—its cold voice had judged me once, when I stood before the Elders, their ritual parting the temple's force field. I'd freed a prisoner from the Black Rakata, earned their trust, but their eyes burned, seeing my betrayal from years before—swearing to destroy the Star Forge, only to claim it. The computer's data had opened Malak's end, but Bastila's duel atop the summit, her dark-side pull, had tested me. I'd refused her, my redemption holding, but the machine knew my sins, its Rakata logic unyielding.
If it lived now, against all odds, what would it see? The Force loved its irony, and I feared a spark of Rakata tech—some Force-bound core—might still hum in those ruins, ready to lay bare every world I'd burned, every oath I'd broken. The Je'daii might accept my path, their balance forged from my mistakes, but the computer could judge our Order's ambition, see my pride mirrored in the Star's durasteel heart. And the Force wail—that scream shattering moons—could it know its source? The Rakata's lore, vast as the Infinite Empire, might hold answers, tying the wail to dark-side echoes like the Star Forge's corruption this whole time. The weight overwhelmed me, answers dangling just beyond reach, but exposure loomed—my sins, my Order, laid bare. I pushed the thought down, my mask a shield, and turned to the bridge.
"Star Warden," I called, my voice cutting through Pirana's background orders to her crew—coordinates for probes, checks on the retrofit. She turned, her aura steady. "The Force has laid a path. We're breaching the Temple of the Ancients, ruins or not. Prepare the ship for support operations." Her nod was firm, her voice a low hum to the helm. "Navigation, ready orbital drift. Engineering, prioritize excavation efforts to the temple." I stepped closer, the bridge's hum grounding me. "You have the ship and command, Star Warden." Pirana's eyes met mine, loyalty unyielding. "In balance, my Herald," she said, resuming her post, her orders a steady rhythm as crews moved, droids sparking in the retrofit's gaps.
I turned from the bridge, the viewport's green glare fading as I entered a command corridor, its durasteel walls cold, half-installed panels exposing wires like veins. My boots echoed, the Star's scale pressing, its unfinished state a mirror to my doubts. A command deck followed, officers poring over holo-charts, their voices a murmur against the ship's pulse. Dren'var shadowed my steps, his Chiss precision a quiet presence. "Any word from Galen?" I asked, my voice low, the Sentinel of Shadow's absence a noticeable weight. Dren'var's red eyes flickered, his tone clipped. "Negative, my Herald. No report since his last transmission." I nodded, the Force's silence an unsettling feeling. "Dren'var, inform me the moment you hear from him." He inclined his head, a vow unspoken. The command office lay just off the bridge, its door sliding open with a hiss, revealing a spartan chamber—durasteel desk, a single chair, a viewport framing Lehon's shadow. I settled into the chair, its cold frame biting through my robes, and activated the comm. "HK, prep the Ebon Hawk for takeoff. I'll be there within the hour." The droid's voice crackled, laced with sarcasm. "Query: Must I ready the ship for another of your spectacular Lehon crash-landings, Master? The last was most inefficient, though I enjoyed the chaos." I smirked beneath the mask, his jab a sharp echo of that descent out of ancient history. "Just prep it, HK," I said, cutting the link. The ready room's silence closed in, Lehon's ruins looming beyond the viewport, the temple's ghosts waiting, their judgment my next trial to overcome.
The Star's durasteel arteries echoed with distant labors, but within its core, a warrior's heart beat, ready to unravel the Herald's enigma.
The meeting chamber's obsidian walls pressed against me, their cold weight a shadow of Malachor's ruins, stirring memories I'd buried under decades of war. Rey's measured voice, Ezra's sharp retorts, the holotable's glyphs pulsing like a wound. Even with Revan's exit, his masked silhouette still lingered, his confession of betrayal and ruin echoing in my mind. The Temple of the Ancients—Kam's holocron had named it, a place that held Revan's past like a bad tab, and I'd stake everything to prove him true or false. Herald of the Je'daii, or a fraud poised to burn the galaxy again? I intended to find out. The Force would show me, as it had in Mortis's halls, Malachor's depths.
Rey stood across the holotable, her hazel eyes sharp with a diplomat's caution. "We can't just dive in, Ahsoka," she said, voice calm but edged. "We need a plan —entry points, structural risks. If the halls collapse or dark-side traps trigger, what's our move?" Revan's history doesn't inspire confidence." Her pragmatism anchored us, but I felt her weighing the temple's ruin, its jungle-choked spires Revan had blasted millennia ago. Ezra leaned against the table, his slate-blue robes dusted with Lehon's grit, his scowl a mask for something softer. "It's a waste," the tension in his stance betraying an uncomfortable spark. A grudging respect for Revan's legend, buried beneath his rebel edge. "He fired on it himself—dreadnoughts, plasma. What's left but vines and rubble?" His gestures faltered, a pause that spoke louder than his words, as if Revan's resolve tugged at him.
I stepped closer, my lekku twitching, the holotable's glow stinging my eyes. "Kam's holocron tells a different story," I said, my voice firm, a general's edge honed by years of defiance. "The Temple of the Ancients weighs on Revan, even now. His past haunts him—Star Forge, betrayal, war. This is our chance to test him. If he's a fraud, hell-bent on another empire, the Force will show it. If he's this Herald, we'll see that too." My mind flashed back to Malachor again, its Sith temple whispering through the Force, guiding my steps where machines failed. Mortis had been stranger, its nexus shifting under my touch, but I'd found the way by feeling, not planning. This temple would be no different—its secrets lay in the Force, not Revan's datacores. "I've walked ruins before," I added, meeting Rey's gaze. "I'll find the path once we're there. The dark side's there, sure, but so's the truth."
Rey's brow furrowed, her caution unyielding. "Intuition's not enough, Ahsoka. We need scans. We need a team. If there's a dark-side nexus…" Ezra's scowl softened, his hand pausing mid-gesture. "If it's a ruin, we're chasing ghosts again. Efforts should be on the Relay and identifying viable ruins, not Revan's past." His voice carried weight, but his eyes flickered—a spark I'd seen in rebels who followed legends. I held their gazes, my resolve a blade. "I'm going," I said, no room for doubt. "Who's with me?" Rey straightened, her diplomat's calm shifting to resolve. "One of us needs to stay, the padawans should not go and will need to be watched. I can coordinate with Ossus from here, but I want guarantees—scans, a team plan." Ezra's jaw tightened, his fingers curling. "I'm not sitting this out—it's worth seeing through." His pause lingered, then insisted, his skepticism sharp but wavering, pushing to join me on Lehon. "You're better here, Rey," he said, his tone softer, almost pleading. "I've got to see this temple, ruin or not." Rey's eyes narrowed, weighing his words, but she relented, her nod grudging.
We left the chamber, its durasteel doors hissing shut, and moved through a command corridor, the Star's grandeur marred by its unfinished state. Conduits snaked across the ceiling, sparking under the torches of droid welders, while half-installed holo-panels flickered, casting jagged shadows. The exterior hull, complete and gleaming in Lehon's orbit, had been rushed from dry dock, a fortress ready for war, but the interior lagged—reactors thrumming yet corridors raw. Crews bustled, their cortosis-threaded tunics catching the light, voices echoing through arches as they hauled star charts. The Star's scale impressed, its durasteel bones alive, but the exposed wiring and scuffed floors spoke of haste, a ship forged for battle before its heart was whole.
The VIP guest quarters opened before us, stark durasteel softened by Tythonian tapestries, their star-woven patterns glowing faintly. Kesh bounded forward, his amber eyes gleaming, his nudge against my hand a Force-warm anchor, his tail wagging. He brushed Ezra's leg, a growl of approval rumbling, his instincts sharp for the temple's dark-side whispers. Tayra stood near a bunk, her orange-red skin muted, clutching her datapad, teeth gritted as Lehon's artifacts danced in her eyes. "You're staying aboard," I said, my voice firm but soft, meeting her gaze. "All of you—." Tayra's knuckles whitened, her objection swallowed by duty, but the grit in her teeth betrayed her longing for the ruins' secrets. Tara, her dark hair framing a worried frown, stepped forward, her padawan braid swaying. "Master Ezra, you're going without me?" Her voice trembled, concern raw. Ezra's hand rested on her shoulder, his tone gentle. "You'll be safe here, Tara. Rey needs your help coordinating with the Je'daii." Jiruna lingered quietly, her silver-streaked hair catching the light, her diplomatic poise mirroring Rey's as she nodded, accepting her role.
Huyang's photoreceptors gleamed, his ancient frame steady. "The Force guides us, but wisdom prepares us," he said, his voice a calm thread. "Check your gear carefully." I adjusted my lightsabers, their weight a comfort, while Ezra tested his saber's condition, Kesh pacing at his side. Huyang's servos whirred, his tools secured, ready for the unknown. Rey's hand brushed mine, a Jedi farewell, her eyes resolute. "May the Force be with you," she said, Ezra echoing softly, Kesh's growl sealing it. The quarters' hum faded as we stepped out, my heart heavy but sure, the temple's shadow calling.
Dren'var waited outside, his Chiss red eyes sharp, his black tunic marked by a Je'daii rune. Four Pyraeth's Chosen flanked him, their cortosis pikes gleaming, rune-etched armor silent as honor guards, their presence a weight I respected but didn't trust. "Take us to Revan's personal hangar," I said, my voice cutting through the corridor's din. Dren'var nodded, clipped and formal. "This way, Master Tano." The Chosen moved in step, their silence a vow, as we entered a guest corridor, its durasteel walls half-paneled, droid welders sparking above. A turbolift followed, its doors half-welded, humming as it carried us toward the hangar bays. The Star's reactors pulsed, their power a steady thrum, but exposed conduits trailed like veins. Hangar access corridors opened, wide and bustling, holo-displays flickering with flight paths, crews hauling crates past fighters. The Star's grandeur held, its completed hull a shield, but the retrofit's scars told of battles yet to come. The personal hangars section of the ship loomed ahead, durasteel etched with faint runes. My montrals caught the hum of engines, the temple's secrets a pulse in the Force.
The hangar doors parted with a grating hiss, revealing Revan's personal bay, a vast durasteel cavern bathed in the harsh glare of flickering floodlights. My boots struck the scuffed floor, each step a hollow echo swallowed by the bay's expanse, my lightsabers' silver hilts catching the light at my hips. The air thrummed with raw energy—droid welders sparking along tangled conduits, their arcs flashing against half-installed panels, the Star of Ashla's interior a maze of unfinished steel and wire. My montrals twitched, parsing the clatter of tools and the hum of other custom starships nearby in other bays. There stood the Ebon Hawk, its YT-2400 silhouette a legend reborn, perched in this private berth like a relic of Revan's wars. Curiosity flickered, subtle, a whisper in the Force, but wariness clamped it down.
Ezra followed, his slate-blue robes swaying, saber clipped to his belt, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the Hawk, a guarded reverence softening his usual scowl. Kesh padded at his side, amber eyes glinting, his low growl rumbling through the Force, sensing the ship's weight as keenly as I did. Huyang's servos whirred, his ancient frame steady, photoreceptors sweeping the bay with a droid's precision. "A fine vessel with history," he said, his voice calm but probing, like a scholar sizing up a holocron. The Hawk's ramp lowered, a soft groan beckoning us aboard, its cortosis-plated hull polished to a mirror sheen, Zakuulan holo-lights casting a clinical glow. The retrofit was flawless—Zakuulan holo-displays shimmering in the cockpit, Force-sensitive nav systems pulsing from the cockpit, thrusters sleek with Je'daii craftsmanship. Yet the durasteel felt worn, etched with battles—Revan's defiance humming through the Force like a distant storm.
We stepped into the lounge, its circular design sleek yet heavy, Zakuulan panels glowing where ancient consoles once stood. The air was cool, sharp with ozone, the ship's heart alive but unfamiliar, a stranger's home. A droid's voice sliced through the comm, cold and sardonic, like a Separatist general plotting ambush. "Warning: The temple's dark-side traps are likely more functional than its crumbling halls, Jedi. Survival odds are suboptimal." My lekku stiffened, wariness flaring—an artificial mind running this ship. I gave a guarded quip, my voice low, honed by Clone Wars instincts. "Noted, droid. Let's hope your piloting's better than your predictions." My hand brushed a lightsaber, a reflex from days when droids meant betrayal. Ezra's gaze flicked to the comm, his silence heavy, a rebel's skepticism sizing up the voice, his thoughts on Revan's scans—jungle-choked ruins, spires shattered by dreadnoughts, a gamble we'd face soon enough. Kesh's growl deepened, wary, his tail rigid as he paced, sensing the droid's edge. Huyang's photoreceptors whirred, his tone dry as a Tatooine wind. "I'm too familiar with ancient relics like you, droid, and far less talkative. Mind your circuits." The exchange hung, tense, caution binding us tighter than humor.
I drifted to the lounge's holo-table, its glyphs tracing Lehon's coordinates, my fingers hovering over the display. Revan's scans had painted a grim picture—vines strangling stone, halls collapsed under his own plasma fire millennia ago. Malachor's Sith temple had whispered paths through the Force, Mortis's nexus bending to my touch, guiding me where maps failed. The Force would yield the same through this temple—I'd feel its pulse, find its heart, prove Revan's truth or lies where his treachery began. The Force stirred, a ripple of anticipation, but footsteps echoed up the ramp, heavy and deliberate. The legend himself, Revan entered, his red and silver-gray mask a cold mirror to the lounge's glow, his presence a weight that pressed the air, a Herald's enigma I'd yet to unravel. His Sentinel of Fire followed, his obsidian armor gleaming, vibro-scythe clipped, his menace a shadow beside Revan's command. His nod was sharp, a silent dismissal as he moved toward the bridge, his steps a quiet vow, leaving Revan to host us. "Find a seat," Revan said, his voice low through the mask, gesturing to the lounge's curved benches. "HK, take us to the temple." His gaze met mine, a mystery I'd face in Lehon's ruins—fraud or Herald, the Force would judge.
The ship's droid voice crackled, edged with scorn. "Statement: Course set for the temple's rubble heap. I recommend bracing for structural collapse—or the dark side's embrace." The Ebon Hawk's thrusters roared, the deck shuddering as we settled, Kesh curling at Ezra's feet, his growl softening, Huyang's servos humming faintly. I moved to near the cockpit's edge, my montrals parsing the hum of Zakuulan navs, their Force-sensitive pulse strange, a harmony unlike any ship I'd flown. The hangar blurred outside the viewport, droid welders flashing, Je'daii fighters fading as the Hawk lifted, its cortosis hull catching the Star's floodlights. The docking bay's durasteel jaws parted, the Star's interior raw—half-welded panels, conduits snaking like veins, sparks trailing from droid repairs. Yet its reactors thrummed, a fortress orbiting Lehon's green haze, its grandeur unbroken despite the unfinished heart. The Hawk surged free, stars streaking past, Lehon's surface swelling in the viewport—a jungle canopy thick as night, jagged spires piercing the green, their dark-side aura pulsing through the Force like a warning.
My breath steadied, Lehon's ruins closer now, a trial I'd face with the Force as my guide, Revan's truth or lies waiting in the temple's crumbling embrace