The galaxy sprawled beneath a shroud of scars, its fabric torn by war's unyielding claws, a vast expanse where ruin and resilience wrestled in the void. Seven years had passed since Exegol's fiery collapse in 35 ABY, the First Order's twisted husks strewn like broken relics across the stars, their Sith Eternal embers snuffed by a defiance that carved a steep price into history. Hosnian Prime lingered as a silent grave, its once-thriving pulse reduced to ash and shattered duracrete, the New Republic's remnants drifting like ghosts of a vision extinguished in an instant. Yet defiance flickered amid the wreckage: Jakku's dunes churned with scavengers' uprisings, their hands forging freedom from rust; Bespin's swirling mists cradled miners' whispers, their resolve sharpening in the clouds; and Crait's salt-crusted plains bore the echo of Luke Skywalker's stand, a light that refused to fade. Coruscant festered under syndicate dominion, its gleaming spires fractured yet enduring, their neon-lit depths humming with a fragile stillness where ambition and desperation clashed in shadowed corners.
Ossus rose defiant, a sanctuary forged from the ashes of chaos, its arid plains stretching beneath cliffs jagged with time, ancient forests whispering of Jedi and Sith whose legacies sank deep into kyber-rich soil. Seven years after Exegol, by late 42 ABY, the New Jedi Council had taken root here—a rebirth etched in the "Council's Dawn," when survivors of a fractured galaxy melded stone from crumbled ruins with steel hammered beneath starlit skies. The temple's spires pierced the heavens, their kyber heart thrumming with a resonance that pulsed through the Force, a beacon woven into the galaxy's fragile veins. This was no mere refuge; it was a living bastion, its halls alive with the hum of training sabers, the murmur of diplomats threading alliances with wary worlds, and the quiet steps of spies tracking shadows that gnashed at the light. The council's name, tethered to Skywalker's enduring legacy, had grown into a clarion call, its pacts a lifeline for a galaxy teetering on the edge—a flame the void hungered to extinguish.
The sky above Ossus hung heavy, its golden dust swirling in a restless dance, the air thick with the weight of unseen currents. Abruptly, a guttural wail erupted through the Force—a primal, bone-shaking screech, vast and untamed, slashing the stillness like a vibroblade striking kyber. The temple trembled, its stones cracking as dust rained in jagged streams, the kyber within answering with a mournful resonance that rippled across light-years. It was a wound older than the Sith, a howl tied to the chaos that had sundered Yavin 4 nine days prior, when Revan's awakening and an outsider's alien power had loosed a fracture in the stars. Now, that shadow stretched toward Ossus, its scream a summons felt only by those attuned to the Force's deep song.
Deep within the temple's sanctum, a chamber hummed with the focused energy of younglings, its ancient stone walls carved with swirling Jedi runes that glowed faintly under the flicker of kyber-lit sconces. The air carried a sharp tang—ozone from saber drills mingling with the mineral breath of polished stone, a scent that clung like a memory of battles past. At the room's heart stood a figure draped in slate-grey robes, their fabric weathered to a soft sheen, edges frayed from Ossus's biting storms and stitched with blue leather threads that hinted at a distant artisan's hand. A flowing shroud of muted grey cascaded from their shoulders, its hem brushing the floor like a shadow of authority, steadying the initiates as their small fists clenched around practice blades, trembling with effort and awe.
Beyond the chamber's arch, a courtyard unfurled beneath a dust-hazed sky, its cracked flagstones bearing the scars of countless drills. A silhouette moved among older apprentices, clad in robes of deep grey, their weave toughened by years of wear, brown leather trim curling at the cuffs like weathered bark. A mantle of coarse fabric hung across their back, its edges singed from saber sparks, lending a quiet gravitas as they guided precise strikes, each form a dance of discipline. At their side, a tiny droid skittered, its white plating chipped and streaked with red, chirping sharp notes that pierced the wind, its lenses glinting like twin stars in the golden light.
In the embassy wing, a chamber glowed with the cold blue of a holotable, its light casting jagged shadows across walls draped with Coalition banners. A figure stood poised there, wrapped in robes of creamy beige, their weave stained with faint streaks of Jakku sand, grey-blue accents shimmering like veins of kyber. A mantle of heavy cloth framed their shoulders, its intricate stitching weighed down by the burden of governance, their posture taut as they traced diplomatic threads to Coruscant's fractured lords, fingers brushing a hilt etched with desert grit—a relic of survival turned symbol of rule.
Farther within, an office thrummed with the murmur of a briefing, its walls lined with data panels flickering in the dimness. A figure sat enshrined in robes of rich brown, the deep hue softened by age, black Noghri leather tracing the collar and cuffs in stark, jagged lines. A mantle of muted tones cloaked them, its frayed hem slashed from forgotten skirmishes, a silent testament to unyielding resolve. They leaned into the glow of a holopad, absorbing whispers of a nascent intelligence network, their stillness a fortress against the galaxy's swelling chaos.
Beyond Ossus's orbit, another roamed the stars, their form shrouded in robes of dark green, the fabric patched with Nar Shaddaa scraps, its leather accents curling like tendrils of smoke. A cloak of roguish cut flared behind them, its edges singed and tattered from distant hunts, a shadow trailing whispers of the Revan Legion Remnant through the void's uncharted depths, their absence a void felt faintly within the temple's walls.
The kyber core at the temple's foundation thrummed, a low pulse weaving through stone and air, its light a trembling beacon against the wail's fading echo. An unspoken thread lingered, faint as a shiver in the Force, stretching between the courtyard's dust and the younglings' chamber—a resonance born of decades, etched into a small red bead's runes. The council's presence held firm, a lattice of wills tempered by loss, poised against a shadow older than the stars, its summons a tremor in the void's vast silence.
The Force surged through me, a wild river I'd ridden since before these younglings had gasped their first breaths, its currents a torrent of echoes—Christophsis's blaster storms flashing molten streaks across my memory, Mandalore's sieges staining my hands with the earth's crimson grief, the Purge's cold claws raking hope from my soul. I stood rooted in the temple's youngling chamber, boots braced on stone smoothed by seven years of relentless will, the air heavy with the raw scent of ancient soil and the electric hum of kyber threading Ossus's marrow. The sanctuary towered around me, its walls clawed back from ruin after Exegol's fall in 35 ABY, steel forged under starlit toil, spires rising like jagged sentinels of defiance. My lekku bore the galaxy's wounds—faint burns from Christophsis tracing blue-white scars across their curves, vibroblade cuts from Mandalore etched like runes of a lost age, each mark a testament to a time when Jedi burned as the galaxy's unyielding flame, when Anakin's feral grin cut through chaos and Obi-Wan's steady gaze anchored me against the storm. The Purge had stolen them, leaving me to carve survival from the shadows with Rex, to stoke rebellion's fire in the open, and now, in late 42 ABY, to stand here—a weathered sage shaping these initiates into a light the galaxy couldn't extinguish.
Their training sabers sang, blue and green arcs slicing the chamber's dimness like sparks flung from a fading star, their hum a fragile thread woven by hands still groping for the Force's wild pulse. I shifted, the slate-grey robes brushing my calves, their weathered weave softened by Ossus's storms, blue leather stitching glinting faintly as my Grey Master's Shroud settled across my shoulders, its flowing hem a quiet weight steadying the room. Twelve younglings—war's cast-offs, hardened by Dantooine's windswept plains, sharpened by Kashyyyk's tangled wilds—circled the dais, their steps raw but fierce, a jagged dance born of survival. A girl, all sharp elbows and Kashyyyk-born ferocity, met a boy's wild swing, her stance quivering yet defiant, their blades clashing with a snap that echoed off the rune-etched walls like thunder's first crack. His eyes, narrowed to prairie slits, blazed with Dantooine's stubborn resolve, the Force flickering around him like a gathering squall, untamed but alive. I paced the edge, arms crossed, lekku swaying against the shroud's folds, my gaze a blade forged through decades of war and loss, cutting through their movements with a predator's precision.
These weren't the Jedi of old—not yet, not as I'd been, tempered in the Clone Wars' crucible—but they carried that spark, a fire I'd nursed since Malachor's abyss, where I'd turned from the Order with Anakin's voice ringing in my skull: Snips, you're better than this. That defiance, that wildfire spirit, had fueled me through the Rebellion, through Ezra's lost trail, through Sabine's hunts for Thrawn, burning brighter with every scar I'd earned. I'd been too far to stand with Luke on Ahch-To, too late for Crait's red salt where his projection defied Kylo Ren's rage, a guilt that gnawed at me like a vibroblade's quiet twist. But here, on Ossus, I'd forge that light anew, in a temple we'd dragged from ruin with sweat and steel, its kyber core a war drum refusing to fade, a beacon for a future I'd sworn to shield.
The ground shuddered, a tremor rippling through the stone, and a spectral howl tore into my mind—a jagged, primal screech that slammed through the Force like a hammer on kyber. My knees buckled, the chamber tilting as the sound clawed at my senses, older than the Purge's silence, older than Anakin's anguished screams on Mustafar, a dread vast enough to unravel time itself. The walls blurred, stone bleeding into shadow, the younglings' sabers dimming as if choked by the void. A boy gasped, his breath a sharp hiss cutting the air, the girl's fierce spark snuffed by terror, her hands trembling as the wail sank into her bones. I straightened, hands snapping to the silver hilts at my waist— dual blades thrumming with kyber's purified song, their white glow a mark of redemption wrested from Sith corruption, cold with the weight of instinct honed through slaughter. The floor cracked beneath me, fissures snaking outward like shattered veins, the kyber's pulse faltering under the howl's relentless weight.
My senses flared, piercing the archway where the sky hung heavy, its golden dust swirling with a menace I'd felt brewing for weeks—fractured comms from distant worlds, whispers of unrest since Exegol's embers cooled seven years ago, a shadow haunting my dreams I couldn't name. The wail deepened, a ravenous dirge threading the Force, its hunger a void clawing awake across the stars. Footfalls echoed behind me, steady and familiar, cutting through the chamber's haze. I turned, eyes locking with a figure emerging from the shadowed hall—his robes deep grey, their weave toughened by years, brown leather curling at the cuffs, a mantle singed at the edges draping his shoulders like a storm's aftermath. Dust clung to him, red with Ossus's ochre stain, his red hair streaked with grey like clouds over Bracca's wastes, his gaze sharp with a fire I'd known through decades of shared scars. A small droid skittered at his heels, white plating chipped, red streaks glinting, its chirps a staccato against the silence.
He brushed a hand over his hilt—the kyber within singing a steady blue, a beacon of protection forged on Ilum's frozen caves, a reflex from nights we'd survived together—and nodded toward the younglings, their small forms huddled near the dais, quivering under the wail's fading echo. His presence thrummed in the Force, a rhythm etched in battles fought side by side—Imperial outposts raided, young lives snatched from the Empire's grasp. A memory flickered—his steady grip pulling me from a collapsing ledge on Bracca, a warmth he buried beneath the weight of duty, while I let it drift in my nomad's fleeting shadow. The kyber pulsed again, faint but unyielding, and I met his eyes, the unspoken thread between us humming like a faint echo.
The wail clawed at my senses, a relentless scrape through the Force, its ancient pull a summons I couldn't pin down, a ravenous edge threading the air with a threat that set my nerves alight. I exhaled, steadying the storm in my chest, my gaze locked with his. "It's not a guess this time, Cal," I said, my voice cutting sharp yet weighted. Our eyes held, his steady grip bracing me as an Inquisitor's blade hissed too close, a silent pact etched in blaster smoke and bloodied earth. "Emergency meeting. Now." He fell in step, his stride deliberate, a rhythm pulsing in sync with mine, an unspoken tension weaving through the space between us as we moved toward the council chamber.
I tapped the comm on my wrist, its faint chime slicing through the chamber's haze, a signal rigged into the temple's kyber-laced walls—our lifeline since we'd built this haven, a call that would ripple to every corner where the council stood watch. The wail's echo still clawed at my mind as Cal and I crossed the temple's shadowed halls, our boots striking stone in a rhythm. The younglings' fear still clung to me, their wide eyes a weight I carried, and the galaxy beyond felt unsteady, teetering on an edge I couldn't yet see. The council chamber's doors parted with a low groan, revealing a cavern of weathered stone, the air humming with kyber threading its walls. I stepped to the dais, slate-grey robes trailing, the shroud across my shoulders settling as Cal took his place beside me, his deep grey robes dusted red, mantle swaying faintly from the courtyard's rush.
"The wail hit us all," I said, my voice a steady strike cutting through the stillness, a call tempered by decades of command. "It's shaken the Force—here, everywhere. We need to know what we're facing."
Cal leaned forward, hands braced on the table, his tone rough with urgency. "It's not just us—the apprentices felt it, mid-form in the courtyard. One froze, saber slipping, staring like she'd glimpsed the void. We can't leave them open to this." His gaze met mine.
Footfalls snapped from the corridor, quick and sharp—a figure swept in, beige robes faintly gritty, grey-blue accents glinting, her mantle rustling as she strode from the embassy wing, the wail's jolt and my comm chime cutting through her call with Coruscant. "Rey," I said, nodding as she stepped up, her voice flaring with defiance. "I was on with a Mid Rim envoy—he screamed for help, then static, dead air. It's tearing through the galaxy, and we're blind to it." Her hands twitched, restless with the need to act, her words sharp with the chaos she'd heard.
A heavier tread followed, firm and measured, from the office halls—a silhouette in brown robes edged with black leather, his mantle swaying as he entered, summoned by the same signal that had pierced his briefing. "Kam," I said, meeting his steady gaze as he took his spot, his voice calm but weighted with revelation. "The wail's not all, Ahsoka—Yavin 8's gone. Obliterated. Intel came in a few hours ago—no faction claims it, and no debris pattern fits blasters or bombs. Two shuttles were identified taking off from Yavin 4 as the sister moon shattered. Something else did this, and whoever escaped that catastrophe may know something we don't" His hand rested near his hilt, a quiet anchor grounding his words, his news landing like a stone in still water.
The holofeed burst to life with a harsh crackle, flooding the chamber with blue light and static. A fifth figure resolved amid the distortion—Quinlan Vos, clad in tattered robes of deep green and black, each seam frayed from months on the rim. Wind ripped at his cloak, ash and soot caking the folds. His face was drawn tight, the lines of old scars and fresh burns carving across his cheekbones like half-finished maps. Behind him, Ziost's jagged skyline loomed like shattered spears beneath a sky hemorrhaging cold light. The background wavered as the signal struggled, but Quinlan's voice cut through, shaped by both urgency and defiance.
"Quinlan," I said, steadying myself instinctively against the energy he brought.
He didn't wait, voice low but charged. "The Revan Legion's on the move. I got a name from a dying scout—just a whisper, barely coherent—but enough."
He held up a scorched piece of gear, its surface humming faintly with residual tension. "This spoke louder. A Force echo—strong, jagged. History soaked into the metal. When I touched it... Ziost bled into me. Flashes of panic. The scout screaming before the trap hit. Two words surfaced through the noise: 'Lehon' and 'gates.'"
He tracked each other council member's eyes. "Someone's trying to open something. Doors that should've stayed sealed. And whatever's buried on that world—it isn't just stirring. It's trying to claw its way out."
Kam Solusar stood motionless, arms folded, expression unreadable. His voice was calm, but it landed with weight. "If Lehon is active, we're not just dealing with Sith legacy—this is Rakata infrastructure. Pre-Republic. Pre-Jedi. That kind of ancient power doesn't just resurface by accident. It was locked away with good reason. We need the archives—cross-referenced sources, symbolic linguistics, anything that gives us a shape."
Rey stepped forward, golden light catching in her eyes, her voice flaring hot. "Archives won't stop a cataclysm. Kam, I respect your caution, but we've seen the signs. Entire sectors going dark. Uncontacted systems. Force silence across star lanes. We don't have time for analysis paralysis. Yavin 8 was a warning shot, and we can't continue to ignore it."
Cal Kestis stirred from the shadows, his tone gravel-worn, almost bitter. "And what of the lives here? This temple is a sanctuary, but also a cradle—we have younglings, padawans, barely beyond their first trials. If we fracture our strength now, we leave them exposed. That wail through the Force wasn't an invitation. It was a blade to the throat."
Quinlan let out a coarse, unfiltered laugh—seasoned by years of conflict and loss. "Waiting passively—hoping clarity will arrive on its own—is precisely how civilizations collapse. That planet? It's vibrating with the cadence of impending conflict. Ignoring it would be willful negligence." He leaned forward, his voice lowering into something deliberate and arresting. "If we remain inert, we risk witnessing the destruction of yet another world."
Their voices spiraled around me like a stormfront—Cal's steady shield, Rey's stormlight, Kam's tempered stone, Quinlan's wildfire. Each offered truth. Each was incomplete alone. I let them clash. I let the weight of their conviction settle into the quiet.
"We divide the load," I said, voice measured, deliberate, cutting clean through the argument. "Rey, activate our networks. Send word to the Coalition, to outposts beyond the rim. Alert anyone still listening that something is on the horizon. Kam, dive into the Ossus archives. I want every recovered reference to Rakatan portals, planetary signatures, and any precedents for this kind of emergence. Cal, double our patrol rotations. Get with Finn on reinforcements from the guard. Fortify the inner sanctum. Our younglings will not be left defenseless. Quinlan, I want you deep on Ziost. Not just surface scans—I need names, rituals, glyphs. Find me the why."
I let the pause hang long enough to signal what came next mattered most.
"I will take Korrin and Tayra," I continued. "We go to Lehon directly. If there is something rising, it must be seen—measured at its root. We will face it while it's still casting its first shadow."
A stillness fell, the kind that only comes before irrevocable things.
Cal's eyes flicked to mine, steady and searching. "You're set on this, Ahsoka?" His voice dipped, a quiet weight threading through it, a concern born of years at my side.
I nodded, lekku shifting. "The Force has already shown me the path. I'm following its flow."
Rey lifted her hand, a gesture halfway between blessing and farewell. "Force be with you, Ahsoka."
Kam's nod came swift, his tone solid. "I'll have answers if you need them, Ahsoka—my blade's ready."
Quinlan's grin cut through the static—his eyes were dead serious. "Go fast, Ahsoka—before the drums get louder. I'll push here."
I turned, boots scraping stone as the council doors groaned open behind me. The chamber's silence gave way to the low hum of the temple corridors, but just as the tension began to fade, Cal's voice caught me mid-step. "Ahsoka."
I glanced back, meeting his gaze. In his eyes, I saw a reflection of shared battles, silent understandings, and unspoken fears.
"Come back whole—with the young ones" he murmured, a plea wrapped in hope.