The molten rivers of Mustafar snaked through its scarred crust, their crimson veins casting a restless glow across the jagged obsidian spires of Fortress Vader. Once a mausoleum to a Sith lord's fury, the citadel stood reborn, its silhouette sharpened by a week of relentless transformation under hands that refused to let it crumble. Revan's arrival had shattered its ancient stillness, his duel with Vicrul a week prior echoing through the sulfurous haze—a clash of violet and red sabers against vibro-scythe that ended with a mask reclaimed and a new order forged. Three survivors—Vicrul, Zeth, and a wounded Knight—had knelt in the ash-streaked courtyard, their blood staining the stone as they pledged to become the Knights of Revan. Now, eight warriors moved within its walls, swelled by five more drawn from the galaxy's fringes, lured by whispers of a legend's return or the promise of power amidst chaos. Their shadows danced against the lava's blaze, a symphony of purpose rising from the clang of vibroblades, the sharp crack of salvaged blasters striking durasteel targets, and the guttural shouts that cut through the oppressive heat.
The fortress bore the marks of its rebirth, no longer a relic of Darth Vader's rage but a forward operating base pulsing with defiance. Its cracked spires gleamed with lights torn from a gutted First Order shuttle, the craft's skeletal frame hunched by the gates, its innards scavenged to fuel survival. Rubble had been cleared from the inner sanctum, replaced by crude fortifications: warped durasteel plates bolted over breaches, their edges glowing faintly from the lava's heat, and sensor arrays perched atop the highest tower, their rhythmic pulses slicing through the haze to scan for threats. The lava moat churned below, its deep roar a constant heartbeat beneath the stone, a natural ally that shimmered with heat waves, blurring the line between ruin and renewal. Revan stood at its edge, his mask a stark silhouette against the glow, its red and silver scars catching the light as his robes billowed in the scalding wind. The violet saber hung at his side, its red twin sheathed—a duality of light and dark reaching out through the Force, probing the currents of Mustafar's harsh embrace. His meditation deepened, a stillness amid the chaos, as he sensed the threads of fate converging on this fiery world.
Shepard paced the courtyard's perimeter, his biotic field flickering blue against the lava's red, a marvel of Mass Effect's science amidst the fortress's rugged rebirth. He knelt beside a turret scavenged from the Knights' downed ship, its barrel glowing orange as his omni-tool fused circuits with precise bursts, the hum of technology blending with the clang of training blades. His M-11 Wraith shotgun rested across his back, its cerametal frame scratched from Reaper battles, while the M-3 Predator pistol hung at his hip, ammo clips clinking with each step—a soldier's rhythm born of Earth's streets and galactic wars. A week had forged his skepticism into action, his strategic mind shaping the base's defenses, though Revan's fiery resolve had welded the crew into a fragile unity. He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, and cast a glance toward the horizon where lava met ash-choked sky. Memories of Yavin 4 flickered—synthetic-organic hybrids clawing through jungle ruins, the colossal entity's roar as it tore Yavin 8 apart, and the shuttle escape with Revan. Now, on Mustafar, he recalled their first days here: hauling debris, rigging sensors, and debating tactics over a flickering holomap as the Knights swore allegiance. Revan's calm certainty had steadied him then, a bond forming through shared survival, though the haunting echoes of Yavin 4's destruction lingered in his soldier's instincts.
The Knights trained under Revan's watchful gaze, their movements a blend of Ren brutality and his imposed discipline. Vicrul sparred with Zeth, the Zabrak's vibro-axes flashing against the warlord's evolved vibro-scythe, sparks raining onto the stone as their roars echoed. The Twi'lek knight, her twin blades a blur, drove a mercenary back, his rifle stock splintering under her assault, sweat beading on his face. Two cloaked figures lingered apart, hands hovering near weapons, their silence heavy with anticipation as they studied Revan's masked form. His presence had reignited their purpose where Kylo Ren's had faltered, the mask's scars a beacon of redemption amid Mustafar's dark legacy. Vicrul, now Revan's right hand, moved with a predator's grace, his armored suit glinting with obsidian shards, though his eyes flicked toward the fortress gates with a paranoia honed by years of betrayal. Shepard caught the look, a wry grin tugging at his lips—Vicrul's loyalty was a blade balanced on trust.
Beyond Mustafar's orbit, the Rogue Shadow breached the atmosphere, its battered hull shuddering as it descended. A week's journey from Corellia had left it scarred—sparks flared in the cockpit where Galen Marek wrestled the controls, his gray-streaked hair matted with blood from a Pyke brawl, Juno's coat torn at the shoulder, an empty liquor bottle rolling at his feet. The vision of Revan's victory on Mustafar had pierced his drunken haze, driving him here despite a failing hyperdrive. The ship groaned, engines coughing as it skimmed the lava fields, its shadow rippling over the fortress. Galen's Force senses flared, brushing against Revan's presence, a ripple of recognition tinged with suspicion. He stumbled to his feet, sabers clattering at his hips, and peered through the cracked viewport as the fortress loomed. Revan turned, sensing the disturbance, and strode toward Vader's old quarters, the obsidian walls whispering with ghosts of rage now silenced.
The command center thrummed with a low, grating hum, a jagged pulse grinding from the broken Empire consoles, their screens flickering with static that clawed at my eyes like a Cerberus hack tearing through the Normandy's systems. I leaned over one, its durasteel edge biting into my palms, the cold sting grounding me as I synced my omni-tool, its orange glow flaring while I wrestled data from the stubborn wreckage of its circuits. Nine days of this crap—nine days on this lava-choked rock, and the screens spat back nothing but silence, a void that mocked me worse than a Reaper's smug roar. Beyond the viewport, Mustafar's crimson haze churned, molten rivers twisting the light into shadows that danced like husks I'd gunned down on Earth, a quiet menace that tightened my gut with every passing hour. My neck ached, a dull throb from muscling a turret into line earlier in the courtyard, my omni-tool's steady light guiding its barrel into a reliable arc—a lifeline of tech I could trust amidst this saber circus, its hum a faint echo of the Citadel's guts that'd kept me breathing through hell.
Days of sweat and grit had turned this Sith ruin into something I could call a stronghold, a forward operating base I'd carved out with N7 precision, bolting turrets and sensors into a net that buzzed with potential, their pulses cutting through the sulfur haze like a flare in the dark. Revan's crew had grown to eight, a pack of blade-swingers drilling in the courtyard below, their vibroblades shrieking against each other and blasters barking at scrap targets with a rhythm born of raw survival, the air thick with scorched metal and their grunts. Tech was my edge, though—not their steel. I'd learned that lesson in blood against Collector swarms and Cerberus traps, where a drone's zap or a biotic shove had flipped the odds when everything else went to hell. Up here, the fight was slipping—screens looped useless scans, energy flickers dying fast like spent thermal clips, no trails to chase, just a silence that burned hotter than the lava outside. My pistol sat on the console, grip worn smooth from battles past, a casual weight within reach, while the shotgun stayed racked downstairs—no need for heavy firepower pacing a spire when my omni-blade could slice through trouble, though my biotics snapped back hard in this Force-drenched air, their flare a fleeting jolt that drained me fast, a reminder of Mustafar's unforgiving pull since we arrived.
Revan had left the courtyard earlier, striding toward Vader's old quarters with that masked purpose of his, the obsidian walls swallowing his silhouette as he chased some ripple I couldn't feel. These past few days with him had cracked open this wild galaxy just enough to keep me steady, but it was the soldier's trauma between us that'd forged something real—a bond I hadn't seen coming, growing stronger with every shared scrape. I'd tagged his lightsabers "glowsticks" on day one, a smirk thrown his way as we split a ration pack under the lava's glow, a jab to slice through the mysticism that felt so foreign to my boots-on-the-ground world. "They cut deeper than your words, Shepard," he'd said, voice like stone with a flicker of amusement under that mask, catching me off-guard and sparking a camaraderie that stuck. It grew through late watches, ration packs split in the courtyard, the lava's heat a constant pulse as we swapped tales of beating the odds.
The Force was no joke—raw and wild like my biotics but smoother, a power he wielded with a grace that left me floored, something I'd respect even if its depths dodged my grasp, as alien as a relay jump but as real as the kick in my veins. Hyperspace beat relays hollow, a bone-rattling leap that'd jolted me raw when that First Order scout ship punched through on day one. Revan had matched my pace, sharp as a blade, dubbing my omni-tool "glow tech" on day three, his cool voice hooked as he watched me tweak a turret, its orange light jagged across the stone. "Your glow tech rivals the Force," he'd said, eyes on the hum, a marvel that hooked him like his tricks hooked me, a mutual respect kicking in. "Just elegant tech—no magic," I'd fired back, smirking, but his nod had built a bridge between our worlds, forged in the shared grit of surviving the impossible.
He'd dig into N7 like he could taste the ash of Arcturus Station, the brutal training that'd sharpened me into humanity's edge. Day four, patching a durasteel plate over a breach in the east wall, the air thick with molten tang, he'd called it "finest blade of your kind," sizing up the fights and scars with a strategist's eye. Spectre hit on day six, atop a spire as we calibrated a sensor, its pulse faint against the lava's roar. "Unseen hand," he'd tagged it, nailing the Council's shadow game with a precision that echoed his own past, a galactic pivot point. "A commander who shapes fate from the shadows," he'd said, mask tilting my way, and I'd felt my battles echo in his tone, a bond of burdens carried. Day seven, splitting a stale ration pack in the courtyard, lava shadows stretching long, I'd vented about Reapers—galaxy-eating machines that'd scarred my soul, invaded my mind, their red beams haunting me like Palaven's fall. "Machines of imbalance. Your war's like mine," he'd said, mask aglow, words hitting like a punch, a shared crucible under different stars. "Guess we're both suckers for lost causes," I'd muttered, ration crumbling, his nod sealing us tighter, two commanders forged in annihilation's heat.
We'd clicked fast, rough and real, a partnership of scars. I'd poke at his mask—target or beacon?—half-joking, half-probing, and he'd hit back, "Both," steady as ever, earning my respect. He led like a general who'd played every hand, while I patched this place like a grunt who'd built forts from rubble, hands steady on turrets and sensors. My biotics flared blue when I got pissed, a shimmer I'd used to nudge a datapad on day eight, but here they snapped back fast, the Force's weight on Mustafar draining me quicker than a firefight on Omega, a lesson I'd learned shoving a crate aside on day one. Against his crew, it was a gamble—my biotics threw off their Force tricks, giving me a split-second edge, but they'd counter with mental stabs that hit like a Reaper's whisper, a balance I rode with gritted teeth and a soldier's stubbornness.
His Knights hung on his every word, all eight, their eyes glinting with a zeal that grated on me, too cultish to trust in a real scrap. The original three held tight—Vicrul's sneer now a focused burn, barking orders with a raw edge, the others hardened under Revan's fire. Five more had joined over the week, a rough crew I'd sized up during drills: wild blades and sharp aim, their grit undeniable even if their devotion made my skin crawl. I tapped the console, pulling scans of Mustafar's haze, the red glow pulsing thicker each day, a taunt that clawed my gut like a Cerberus trap primed to blow. A hum rattled the air, sinking into my chest like a warning from Palaven's skies, setting my teeth on edge. "Give me something," I growled, syncing my omni-tool, its orange flare straining as circuits sparked, glitching out before I could grab anything solid. Over a week of nothing since Yavin 4, where that moon's wreckage had screamed of a shadow Revan swore was galactic-scale. No wrecks, no screams—just silence, a noose tightening with every dawn, a slow bleed I despised, a threat lurking blindside.
The door hissed, and Vicrul strode in, boots scuffing stone, armor scratched from drills, sweat gleaming, his presence steady from Revan's forge. "Shepard," he rasped, voice honed by Exegol's ruin, eyes sharp. "Scouts are back. Nothing out there."
I glared up from the console, static dancing in my eyes. "Nothing?" I pressed, voice tight, N7 instincts clawing for a lead.
He smirked, resolve unbent. "No, but the Force doesn't lie," he said, certain. "Revan feels it building."
"Great," I said, leaning back, arms crossed, tension coiling my shoulders like Omega's streets. "Revan's gut and a hunch again. We're short on guns, men, everything, and I'm chasing ghosts with a half-dead scanner." My omni-tool sparked, orange flickering, and I shook it off, letting it clatter onto the console with a thud that echoed, days of dead ends ringing out. "Tell him we need ships, firepower—not just blades and hope. This place won't hold when that shadow hits."
He nodded sharp, boots echoing as he left, his grit a flicker I couldn't deny. Crazy bastards, but they'd kept this ruin standing, a resilience I'd seen in my own crew against Reapers. Revan's call had pulled those five—Force vibes or underworld buzz, didn't matter, as long as they fought. Eight wasn't an army, though—Earth had taught me numbers mattered, not just guts. I grabbed my pistol, its weight steadying me, needing air—these screens were a cage, their glare tightening like a trap I'd felt too often. I stepped to the viewport, glass cool against my forehead, lava glowing red below, its restless boil a pulse matching my heart, Mustafar's haze a Reaper's shadow over a doomed world. "Something's coming," I muttered, breath fogging the glass.
Traffic control pinged—a ship dropping from hyperspace, no IFF, just a scarred wreck breaching the atmosphere, engines coughing as it banked with combat-honed skill toward the east bay. It skidded across the pad with a screech, smoke trailing, but held steady—a gutsy landing screaming defiance. "Revan's got company," I said, The Knights would be there, blades itching, and before I could hit the comm, Vicrul's voice cut through static. "Ship landed, old bay. Checking it."
"Hold 'em," I snapped, voice sharp as a Normandy order, urgency crackling. "I'm coming down—no fights 'til I see who's dumb enough to drop in unannounced." I cut the line and jogged for the lift, its drop lurching my gut as black stone and red light blurred past. That ship was trouble—Revan's kind of chaos magnet—and I'd be damned if I missed it. The lift hit bottom, and the courtyard surged, Knights peeling east, vibroblades glinting, their pack instinct sharp, air thick with molten tang and anticipation, preparing for whatever stepped off that wreck.
The wreck's engines sputtered out, a final groan swallowed by Mustafar's molten breath as shadows stretched long across the bay.
The Rogue Shadow shuddered beneath me, a dying beast clawing through the void, its cockpit a shadowed pit of flickering consoles and the sour reek of rotgut soaking my tattered coat like a shroud. Sparks slashed the gloom, jagged bursts from the nav panel as Mustafar's molten rivers bled into view through the viewport, a crimson wound that ripped at my chest with memories I couldn't drown—Juno's steady hands on these controls, Sera's laughter echoing in the hold, both snuffed out too soon. A week had dragged since Corellia—seven days hauling this wreck through sublight after the hyperdrive choked mid-jump, seven days lost in a liquor haze while Revan's vision gnawed at my skull like a vibroblade's hum. His voice, ancient and unyielding, had pierced the fog—"Rise beyond the stars"—and behind it, a shadow loomed, vast and frigid, threading the galaxy's edge like a noose, its chill a mirror to the void their deaths had carved in me, a wound bleeding fresh with every ragged breath. My hands gripped the controls, trembling from the bottle but steadied by the Force, its pulse a beast I'd tamed long ago, roaring through my veins despite the liquor's drag, surging with the dark side nexus pulsing beneath Mustafar's crust, a power that amplified my grief into rage.
"Stay with me," I rasped, voice a thick slur, wrestling the stick as Mustafar's atmosphere hit, heat clawing the hull like a beast, the ship bucking with a ferocity that mirrored my fractured soul, its lava moat rising as a barrier I'd once mastered under Vader's iron gaze. The bottle at my feet rolled, empty and cruel, its amber drained hours back in a haze of despair, leaving a burn in my throat and a fog in my head that dulled the ache but not the ghosts—Juno's stern gaze pulling me from Vader's shadow, Sera's small hand in mine. PROXY slumped beside me, his dented frame whirring as he pawed at a sparking console, optics dull in the red glow bathing the cockpit, reflecting the molten rivers below, their heat seeping through the hull. "We're doomed, Master," he muttered, flat and hollow, his voice worn by my ruin, a companion who'd seen me shatter and still stayed, his loyalty a tether I didn't deserve after dragging him through years of despair. I smirked, a bitter twist, shoving the stick as the ship bucked again, engines rasping a groan that shook my bones, their protest echoing the ache of a heart hollowed by loss.
Mustafar loomed, its spire's jagged claw piercing the haze, and I felt it—a pulse, dark and deep, thrumming through the Force, pulling me back to Fortress Vader, a nexus of agony where I'd been forged, where the Knights had once heisted the Screaming Key under shadows I'd long buried. Home once—a boy torn from Kashyyyk, broken in that black stone hell under Vader's fist; now it hummed with Revan's mark, a call I couldn't ignore, a vision swearing they waited. The descent slammed me, turbulence rattling my teeth as I banked hard, engines wheezing but clinging to life, each jolt a memory of battles fought in this ship's hold—Juno's calm voice guiding me, Sera's giggles as she'd "helped" PROXY patch a panel. PROXY braced, silent, a skeletal shadow in the firelight, a quiet anchor through my storm. The landing bay swelled into view—rusted gantries, cracked stone, a path I'd walked as Vader's blade, broken and rebuilt in that crucible, my screams echoing as he'd shaped me with the fortress's dark power. The Rogue Shadow hit, skidding with a screech that split my skull, metal grinding stone as smoke curled from the hull, settling with a groan matching my ragged exhale, a sound heavy with years of torment.
I slumped back, chest heaving, the liquor's haze swirling with the sulfur stink seeping through the cracks, dragging me back to a childhood of pain—Vader's mechanical rasp, Juno's fading whisper, Sera's cry cut short, the Jedi I'd hunted in these halls, their echoes a chorus of shame. "Not dead yet," I muttered, voice a slur, kicking the bottle aside with a dull clink as I hauled myself up, my coat dragging heavy with Corellia's grime and blood, its weight a testament to the Pyke brawl I'd left in ruins, their broken bodies a flicker of the fury still burning in me. The ramp hissed open, heat blasting my face like a furnace's breath, Mustafar's reek a fist in my gut—sulfur, ash, molten tang, a scent that hurled me back to a boy's torment under Vader's unyielding will, the lava moat a barrier I'd crossed in chains. I staggered down, boots crunching scorched stone, each step a fight against the liquor's sway, the ache in my skull a relentless hammer syncing with the temple's dark pulse, a rhythm sinking into my bones like a chain I couldn't snap.
PROXY clanked behind, servos whirring in the heat, a loyal shadow in a world that'd taken everything—Juno, Sera, my purpose—his presence a quiet lifeline amidst my storm. Eight figures loomed ahead—cloaked, armored, vibroblades glinting red in the lava glow, closing fast with a predator's grace honed by desperation. Revan's crew, no doubt, their presence a challenge on ground I'd bled for—my home once, Vader's dark heart mine before it was theirs, where I'd been shaped into Starkiller, a name buried in bottles and shadows. A Zabrak stepped forward, horns flaring through a tattered hood, vibroaxe raised as she ordered, "Step back or yo—." Her words choked off as my hand snapped up, the Force wrapping her throat like a vise, its power surging with the fortress's dark energy, a beast roaring through me, liquor haze be damned, a storm that burned with clarity no bottle could touch.
She lifted, boots kicking air, blade clattering to stone with a metallic clang as her claws scraped nothing, a wet rasp gurgling free, her eyes wide with terror I'd wielded a hundred times under Vader's command—a fear I'd honed into a weapon. The others froze, blades twitching, eyes sharp under hoods—anger, fear, it didn't matter, their emotions a flicker against the storm raging in me, fueled by years of loss and this nexus's dark pulse. Then a voice cut through, sharp and guttural, laced with venom—"You." A figure shoved forward, human, lean and monstrous, his black armor jagged with obsidian shards, a vibro-scythe gleaming in his grip, its edge notched. His face twisted, a sneer burning with pride and rage, eyes locking mine with a fury that pierced the fog—a man I didn't know, his hate a scar I'd left without memory. "Drop her, Starkiller," he snarled, voice a blade of hate, "or my oath to Revan won't save you."
The Force flared hotter, my grip tightening as the Zabrak's gasps sharpened, her face purpling, but his words—Revan's oath—stayed my hand, a splinter of doubt in the storm. A drunken brawl flickered in my mind, a helmet dented under my heel, buried in rotgut, but one he'd carried like a wound. I smirked, bitter and jagged, flicking my wrist to release her, the Force recoiling through me with Mustafar's dark surge, a power I still owned. "Revan's dog?" I rasped, voice thick, stepping forward as the liquor swayed my stance, taunting a stranger whose rage I didn't recall, his scythe twitching with a pride I'd test 'til it broke or choked him under that oath. She fell, but a blue shimmer caught her—not mine, smoother—easing her down steady, her coughs echoing as she hit her knees, the air thick with sulfur and fear, my head tilting at the strange power snapping back from her frame.
A voice broke in, cool and sharp, cutting the tension—"Easy, Zeht! Who the hell are you? Answer fast, or we're done talking." A human stepped up, broad-shouldered, armor scarred but sleek, boots planted with a soldier's stance, his pistol drawn and leveled at my chest, steady as stone. His eyes locked mine, green and unflinching, a smirk tugging his lip, a soldier's grit that echoed Juno's resolve, twisting the knife in my chest. I squinted, the liquor haze tilting as the Zabrak gasped to regain her breath, my skull pounding, but his words anchored me—answers, not blood, that's what I'd clawed here for, a purpose to bury the grief of Juno and Sera. "Talk?" I rasped, stepping forward despite the sway, the ache a dull hammer stoking the fire in my gut, their ghosts whispering—"Fight, live." "Fine." He tilted his head, sizing me up, smirk holding, a soldier who'd faced worse wrecks. "Name's Shepard," he said, voice even, an edge cutting through like a blade through flesh, a name heavy with battles I could feel. "Ship stays, droid too. Step inside and we'll sort this it."
He nodded at PROXY, who'd clanked up, optics whirring as he scanned the Knights, his dented frame a testament to our scars. "Stay, tin can," I muttered, waving him off, the liquor screaming for answers—Revan, the vision, this place pulling me like Juno's ghost, Sera's echo a thread in the Force I couldn't cut. PROXY shuffled back, a low hum rising, his sass sharp despite the years. "Stay? Last time I saved you from that scythe-swinging lunatic," he droned, optics flicking to the wiry figure, a jab at a past I didn't recall but one he'd logged in his circuits, clanking to the ramp with a resigned whir. I smirked, bitter, the banter a faint echo of our old rhythm, a lifeline through my ruin.
Shepard led, steady despite my stagger, his pistol holstered at his hip, floating just a hair off his side. I squinted through the haze—Still drunk, or does that thing hover?—the liquor blurring what my eyes swore they saw. No saber marked him Jedi or Sith, yet he wielded some power beyond the Force. That blue shimmer had caught the Zabrak as she fell, flickering fast but easing her down, a marvel I couldn't place, alien to the Force's storm. It left me staring, awe cutting through the fog, a fractured mind grappling with a power I'd never known.
The monstrous figure trailed close, scythe low but eyes blazing, his pride a live wire between us—a wound I'd dealt in a haze I couldn't grasp, his oath to Revan a leash I'd push 'til it snapped. The halls twisted up, narrowing to a chamber I knew—Vader's quarters, obsidian thick with ghosts and that dark pulse, sinking into my bones like a weight I couldn't shed, echoing my fractured heartbeat. Here he'd broken me, lashed me 'til I stood, the Force a tool of pain I'd turned to power, my screams ringing as a boy; here he'd choked me as a man, discarded me—"You've outlived your purpose"—a betrayal burning hotter than the lava outside. Now, a figure stood in its core, cloaked in black, mask scarred—red and silver jagged as lightning, catching the glow like blood on steel, a myth made flesh. Revan, the vision's voice alive, his presence a storm of light and dark, two kyber crystal humming—a red echo of his Sith past, a violet pulse of redemption—their bond a balance I could sense through the Force, stirring my own storm like a tide I couldn't resist, awe and rage tangling, a fire the liquor couldn't dull, a reckoning I'd face in the heart of my old cage.
The chamber's dark pulse flared, a nexus threading past and present, its shadows bending under the weight of two storms meeting.
The meditation chamber thrummed beneath my boots, its obsidian walls a silent echo of centuries past, their dark pulse a current I'd navigated through wars and redemptions, a nexus sharpening the Force's whispers. Vader's quarters—stood as a relic of unyielding wrath, its air heavy with a will I'd felt ripple across the stars, a shadow I'd mirrored in my own fall on Malachor V, now steadied by the balance I'd forged from ruin. I stood at its heart, mask reflecting the dim glow—red and silver scars a testament to battles endured—violet saber at my side, a quiet weight of resolve, the red sheathed, a past I'd overcome. We'd molded this broken fortress, its spire a bulwark against a shadow stirring beyond Mustafar.
He crossed the threshold, coat bloodied and heavy, steps faltering under liquor's weight, its sour stench cutting the sulfurous air, despair clinging like a shroud. His eyes, bleary yet fierce, met mine, and the Force surged—rage, jagged and raw, pulsing as he scanned the chamber, a pain I knew, echoing my own betrayals, a wound bleeding with loss I sensed. "Who's in my home?" he rasped, voice a slurred edge, and before I could respond, his hands snapped to his hips. White-blue sabers flared, wild and gripped underhand, lunging—a warrior driven by grief, his power a tempest roaring through the Force, heightened by the nexus beneath, a storm of ash.
I stepped forward, violet saber igniting with a hum that split the air, meeting his charge in a clash bathing the stone in light, a duel of fury and resolve fueled by the chamber's dark energy. His first blade slashed high, a feral arc of defiance—I parried, violet flowing through Niman's precision, redirecting it as sparks cracked against the walls, the Force trembling. His second swung low, fast and reckless—I pivoted, violet tracing a smooth arc, catching the blow with a hiss that shook the air, scorched energy sharp between us. His strength roared, unyielding despite the liquor's influence—rage in every strike, a fire piercing the fog, a warrior shaped by loss I could feel in the Force, mirroring my own path through ruin. I pressed, violet whirling tight, locking his first blade—a twist, and it flew, clattering to the stone with a dying snarl. His second surged up, a desperate flare—I sidestepped, seizing his wrist, halting the blade inches from my mask, its heat a breath against steel, the nexus amplifying our clash. Five moves, a breath held—the chamber stilled, his storm breaking against my calm.
"Focus," I said, voice low and steady, cutting his haze, the Force nudging him—a subtle lift, not a strike, a tether from despair, steadied by the chamber's pulse. "Or you're lost to it." His eyes flickered, the blur sharpening, rage cooling as he staggered back, chest heaving, one white-blue saber clutched, its glow dimming as exhaustion bled through. My violet blade retracted, its hum fading into the stone's rhythm—resolve, not aggression. He stood, a wreck aflame with a fire I knew—light and dark warring, scarred by loss, a focus cutting the haze, reflecting my own crucible. Shepard lingered at the threshold, green eyes steady, a soldier unshaken. Zeht stood beside him, horns glinting under her hood, vibro-axes tense, a guardian poised. Vicrul loomed nearby, scythe low, eyes burning with a grudge, waiting for his chance against the man before me.
"I am Revan, and I am this fortress' Master," I said, stepping closer, mask tilting to gauge him—not to break, but to weigh, the Force whispering his potential. "You felt my pull through the force—why heed it?" His gaze narrowed, liquor's fog clinging, but his voice steadied, rough as shattered stone, pain threading the Force. "Pulled me through the bottle, the black, back here—this place... Vader broke me in these walls. What is it—the cold I felt?" His words faltered, raw and unguarded, the fortress a wound reopened, explaining the fury that had driven his blades, a vulnerability piercing the haze.
I turned, pacing the chamber's edge, stone cool beneath my boots, its scars a map of wrath and resilience, each step heavy with wars borne—the Mandalorian Wars, my Sith fall, the redemption that reshaped me. "Nine days past, Yavin 4 quaked," I said, voice a quiet edge, tracing a moment felt across the stars. "The ground split, tombs trembled—the Force recoiled, a shadow waking as I did, timed with Shepard's arrival, its silence since an unease looming beyond." I paused, Yavin 8's ruin flashing—its moon torn, a mass spat into the void. "Then Yavin 8 shattered, a tear spilling something vast—a presence gnawing at the Force's weave." I faced Shepard, his silhouette steady. "He felt it too, beyond the Force—a soldier's instinct," I said, voice firm.
Shepard shifted, arms crossed, voice sharp and worn, green eyes cutting through. "Whatever it was hit like a gun shot—no fancy lights, just a bad feeling that won't go away." he said, his tone clipped, a commander's warning forged in battles I sensed, a grit paralleling my own struggles, his war against Reapers a mirror to my fight for balance. Zeht's gaze flicked to him, horns catching the light.
Galen's brow creased, haze parting as he straightened, boots scraping stone, his presence a storm pulsing with each breath. "Every attempt to drown the past in a bottle ends the same way—right back where the nightmare began." His voice rasped, eyes drifting as if chasing the vision's edge, saber trembling, its twin cold on the floor—a warrior stirring.
I stepped closer, mask casting a faint glow across his face, its scars a testament to wars endured, violet saber a steady presence at my side. "A fracture," I said, voice firm yet laced with the weight of the Jedi Civil War, a crucible that tempered me. "Beyond this fortress, beyond the stars—a tear in the Force, growing, its shadow a disturbance I've sensed since waking. You've felt its chill, pain threading your words, a vision guiding you here." I turned to Shepard, his gaze a grounding force. "He's felt its echo—a soldier's instinct," I said, acknowledging the resilience I'd come to rely on over the days since our meeting.
Galen slumped, his frame sagging under the weight of liquor and loss, white-blue sabers wavering in his unsteady hands—then, with a sharp twist of his wrist, one blade retracted with a hiss as the other whipped back to his belt in a single, practiced motion, instinct cutting through the drunken fog like a blade through mist. A Force-borne screech then suddenly ripped through my mind, a jagged wail like a kyber shard splitting, a voiceless howl that gnawed at my core with icy claws. His eyes flared wide, dread slicing through the liquor's fog as he lurched upright, breath catching, a fear I'd tasted amid the Sith Wars' chaos. Shepard jolted, jaw tightening, a sharp hiss escaping as the wave hit—his hands flexed, unease creasing his brow. Zeht stiffened, horns tilting as her grip tightened, a low growl rumbling from her throat, eyes flicking to me with fierce readiness. Vicrul shifted, scythe dipping as the screech grazed his own rough-hewn Force sense—his lips curled, a flicker of surprise in his predator's stare, a power he'd honed from scraps since Exegol, now trembling under this unseen blow.
The Force quaked again, a void pressing against the equilibrium I'd forged, its weight deepened by the nexus beneath. Galen's frame shook, a ragged gasp breaking free, his pain a live thread twisting in the currents. Shepard's stance hardened, dread etching lines across his face, a soldier braced for a fight he couldn't see. Vicrul's eyes narrowed, a snarl tugging his mouth, the Force stirring in him—a raw, self-taught spark, unsteady but sharp, honed in Mustafar's crucible. I stood, resolve a steel core within me—the mind-echo pulsed, a summons to a conflict we couldn't yet face, its grip coiling around us, fates bound by blood and shadow, a threat lurking beyond our grasp. Through the Force, I saw it—a fracture widening, not just a tear but a hunger, stirring with my rebirth and Shepard's arrival, its silence a coiled promise of chaos yet to break.