The void shimmered as Spectre-One exited hyperspace just beyond the gravity well of Ossus. Cloaked in layers of dark-field quantum mesh, the stealth vessel was invisible to both sensors and sight. Taliya stood alone at the helm, her armor seamless and quiet, her breath slow and measured. Before her lay a world drenched in the lingering pulse of Jedi legacy, its surface fractured by time, war, and secrets the Order buried in stone and silence.
She touched the obsidian console, and the ship responded with a nearly imperceptible shift. No sound. No motion betraying its descent. They had planned every detail—coordinates plotted to avoid orbital patrols, approach vectors aligned with natural magnetic fields, landing zones buried beneath ancient rockfalls left undisturbed since the Old Republic.
The ship settled without noise deep within a canyon cloaked in red mist. Taliya disembarked and moved across the broken terrain like a shadow reborn. Her presence in the Force was buried under suppression fields woven into her armor's inner layers, an innovation fusing Rakatan cloaking matrices with Mass Effect biotic dampeners. Not even a Jedi meditating in orbit could sense her presence.
Reaching the ruins, she paused.
The Temple had once been a sanctuary of knowledge. Now it stood as a tomb, maintained only as a ceremonial research site. The surface buildings were sparse—mostly reconstructed domes atop deeper vaults hidden beneath the mountain's spine. She descended, disabling perimeter drones with silent code injections via her bracer. The Force vibrated around her, thick with history, memories, and warning.
She was not alone.
Two Jedi Guardians, their presence restrained but focused, waited near the entrance to the Holocron vault. They turned as she emerged from the shadows, lightsabers igniting with a synchronized hum. Green and yellow. She did not speak. Nor did they.
The fight was swift, clean, and vicious.
Taliya's twin sabers flickered to life—one crimson, the other silver with a red core—and she flowed between her opponents like smoke. She didn't strike to kill. Serion had instructed her clearly: the Jedi must not die, only falter. Every move she made was calculated—measured cuts, glancing blows, Force-driven feints that knocked the Guardians unconscious without permanent damage.
Moments later, the door to the inner sanctum hissed open under her fingers. The vault's biometric and genetic locks had been subverted through samples recovered months earlier—courtesy of HK units embedded on Coruscant. Inside, the chamber glowed faintly with hololights. Ancient Holocrons lined the alcoves, each whispering secrets in the Force. She retrieved three—each encoded with forgotten Jedi philosophies, Force rituals, and long-lost Sith warnings recorded as cautionary parables.
She vanished before dawn, the Spectre-One lifting into the upper atmosphere and disappearing into the stars.
Thousands of light-years away, deep within the Eclipse Imperium, another operation unfolded—quieter than the strike on Ossus, but no less vital. In biotanks the size of freighters, the first generation of Spartan clones began phase-two development.
Months ago, Serion had ordered the fusion of ancient Mandalorian genes with cutting-edge enhancements harvested from outlaw Kaminoan schematics. But these were no ordinary soldiers. Their bones were laced with forged durasteel composites. Their muscles reinforced with artificial myofibers. Neural augmentation, aided by nanite mesh implants, gave them the reflexes of a Jedi—but without the restrictions of the Code. Each was trained in simulations pulled directly from real wars: the Mandalorian conflicts, the Clone Wars, the Jedi-Purges.
Out of the original thousand clones, six hundred reached combat readiness. Two hundred exceeded it.
Serion observed their trials from a suspended command dome above a volcanic test world. Spartan units operated in coordinated squads, displaying flawless communication, adaptability, and brutal efficiency. In simulated planetary seizures, they outperformed entire battalions of droid armies in under four minutes.
Satisfied, Serion gave the order for limited deployment testing—deep infiltration of pirate enclaves, disabling Outer Rim black markets, and recovering lost Rakatan tech under false flags. They were shadows—stronger than clones, more disciplined than mercenaries, and loyal only to the Eclipse Imperium.
While the outer galaxy spun on in blind routine, the heart of the Republic began to unravel.
On Coruscant, the Galactic Senate held emergency hearings. Rumors had reached them of increased Mandalorian activity, inexplicable resource disappearances, and reports from the Banking Guild of unexplained credit shifts. Though Serion's web of disinformation had blamed rogue Mandalorian resurgence and Separatist sleeper cells, too many incidents had stacked without clear resolution.
Valorum stood at the center of it all, his leadership questioned by senators from the Core and the Mid Rim alike. Bail Organa voiced concern over the Chancellor's inaction, while Orn Free Taa demanded martial reinforcement for vulnerable trade lanes. A contingent from the Rim petitioned for independent fleet deployment, accusing the central Republic of negligence.
The Jedi Council offered calm reassurances but withheld their own internal findings. Master Mace Windu spoke cautiously, noting the Jedi's growing sense of unease. Ki-Adi-Mundi suggested the Separatist threats were disorganized—"Ghosts chasing their own shadows," he claimed. But Master Yoda, silent until the final hour, offered a warning that lingered in every chamber:
"Shrouded, this darkness is. Deeper than war. Not all wounds are made by blade."
The Senate took no unified action. Factions formed, rhetoric grew hostile, and Valorum lost nearly half his support by the week's end. The Jedi, bound by their neutrality, chose inaction—hoping to observe rather than interfere.
Back in the dark recesses of Eclipse space, Serion sat alone in the Forge's observatory.
His hand hovered over the starmap. Red strands of influence webbed out like veins—traced to Ossus, the Mid Rim, Coruscant, Kamino, and beyond. The Holocrons from Ossus now glowed in a containment field behind him, slowly decrypted by KESHL's processors. The Spartans had returned from their first covert strike—zero casualties, two pirate fleets obliterated, and no traceable links.
Serion allowed himself a rare, quiet smile.
No fleets had moved. No bombs dropped on cities. No declarations of war.
And yet…
They bled.
And when the next strike came, the Republic would never know what hit them.