The Jedi Council convened in somber silence, a rare, unplanned session drawn by growing disturbances in the Force. The Ossus incident—believed to be a structural malfunction—had left two Guardians unconscious and three Holocrons missing. No signs of entry. No breach on record. But Master Yoda felt it, even before the report crossed his desk.
"Silence, not stillness," he whispered as the Council gathered.
"I sensed no death," said Plo Koon, his fingers steepled. "Only... precision."
"The Guardians awoke with fragmented memories," added Shaak Ti. "They described a figure—blurred, cloaked in shadow. Fast. Controlled. It didn't feel like the Dark Side, not fully."
Mace Windu leaned forward. "We're being watched. Tested."
"By who?" Ki-Adi-Mundi asked. "Sith? Rogue Jedi?"
"Neither," said Yoda. "Not yet."
They agreed to investigate—quietly. No Senate alert. No public panic. Jedi Watchmen would be deployed to observe ancient sites, review records, monitor for similar patterns. But as they spoke, shadows moved faster than their wisdom.
In the outer systems, far from Republic lanes, a Spartan strike force descended upon the Hutt-controlled world of Nar'Thul. Though technically neutral, the world had become a hub for stolen Rakatan tech and illegal AI experimentation. Serion had marked it a year ago as a threat to be consumed—both for its data and as a proving ground.
Twelve Spartans deployed from low orbit in magnetic drop pods—silent, heat-dampened, untraceable.
They struck at midnight.
The Hutt enforcers never saw them. Communications were silenced in the first six minutes. Power grids failed within eight. Within twenty, the primary data vaults had been sliced open by nanite-augmented drills and AI-echo worms coded by KESHL's subroutines.
Tactical footage streamed to Eclipse Command in real-time. The Spartans moved like ghosts—no chatter, no hesitation, covering each other like mirrored minds. Their mission was extraction, not conquest. Two prototypes, six datacores, and twenty-two prisoners were taken for evaluation. All of it vanished without trace.
By the time Republic intelligence received any report, it was too late. What few survivors the Hutts retained were either too terrified to speak or convinced it had been a Jedi assassination strike.
In the Imperium's inner sanctum, the drop ship returned. Taliya stood by as the Spartans disembarked—taller, bulkier, faceless under their matte black helmets. They saluted her, even though she outranked none of them. Respect was not commanded. It was earned.
When she finally entered her master's private chambers, Serion stood alone, watching a simulation of galactic political drift.
"You've returned earlier than projected," he said without turning.
"We were not challenged," she replied.
He finally looked at her. "That's more concerning than if you were."
Taliya hesitated. "Do you fear the Jedi are too quiet?"
"I fear silence with thought behind it," Serion replied. "They've noticed. I can feel it in the way the stars hum."
She removed her helmet and stepped closer. "The Spartans are loyal. The Forge is stable. The galaxy still sleeps. We have time."
Serion didn't answer. Not immediately.
He moved to the dark holomap where veined crimson threads spiderwebbed across the galaxy. One thread now pulsed at Nar'Thul, flickering, echoing outward in barely visible waves.
"I once believed fear was the lever of power," he said. "But now I see—perception is stronger. We've done more with illusion than armies."
Taliya said nothing. She knew her master was no longer speaking to her—but to something deeper. Something distant.
In the Core Systems, beneath the glittering towers of Coruscant, Chancellor Valorum met with crisis after crisis. Trade routes faltered. Scandals surfaced. And the once-quiet whispers of incompetence turned into rallying cries. Power slipped from him like grains of sand.
In this vacuum, a quiet man rose.
Senator Palpatine of Naboo moved in perfect cadence with the storm—offering compromises, proposing trade security councils, and subtly suggesting a stronger hand was needed to manage intergalactic commerce.
His master watched from the shadows.
"You have positioned Nute Gunray well," Darth Sidious whispered through encrypted Sith channels.
"He is greedy, easily manipulated. But he serves our needs," came the dry reply.
"Then promote him," Sidious said. "Make him Viceroy. Control the Trade Federation from the shadows. Let the galaxy see greed as weakness... so we may rise behind it."
As Gunray took his seat as the new Viceroy, the Trade Federation's influence ballooned. Sidious watched as more systems fell under its economic sway—unknowing puppets on strings not yet visible.
Meanwhile, deep in Muunilinst's sterile halls, the Banking Clan's plan unfolded with chilling elegance.
Jedi Master Scyclodiad—respected, brilliant, known for his pragmatism—had long warned that the Republic was vulnerable to fracture. Quietly, the Muun reached out. They offered a solution: a limited defense force, based on dormant Kaminoan clone technology thought lost after the Old Wars. A security force, only for emergencies. Funded off-book, commissioned as a contingency.
Scyclodiad, worn from Senate inaction and Jedi deadlock, authorized preliminary support through quiet Republic channels. His recommendation opened the gates.
He never lived to see what followed.
An explosion at a diplomatic transport—blamed on Separatist extremists—erased Master Scyclodiad and eight aides en route to Kamino. No one questioned the official story.
But someone did mourn him.
Master Dooku stood in silent disbelief at the Council's memorial. They spoke of Scyclodiad as a hero, a stabilizer. But Dooku saw something else: the creeping rot of bureaucracy, the silencing of vision. Scyclodiad had tried to act—and was gone.
The seeds were planted.
In Eclipse Command, Serion returned to solitude. His vision was working—perhaps too well. The Jedi remained stagnant. The Republic cannibalized itself. Sidious, unknowingly, advanced Serion's goals as much as his own.
And yet…
Something felt wrong.
He closed his eyes, reaching into the Force—not to manipulate it, but to listen. The ripples were... off. Not resisting. Not surging. Just watching.
As if something ancient had woken.
He had always thought immortality would make him fearless. But now, as he stood with the stars humming around him, Serion felt the pressure of time.
Two years. Two years before the blockade at Naboo would bring the galaxy to its breaking point.
That was when the storm would begin.
And he would be ready.