The galaxy screamed.
Holos of burning ships flickered across the Jedi Temple's war table. Clone generals barked fragmented orders. Jedi voices—usually calm and measured—spoke with sharp edges now, taut with unease. Reports from the Outer Rim were growing erratic: Republic convoys gone silent, starfighters disappearing mid-patrol, wreckage floating in orbit without a trace of who—or what—had struck.
The Jedi Council convened, but not in harmony.
"Another detachment lost near Sullust," said Master Agen Kolar, tapping data into the holoprojector.
"There was no signal. No survivors," Ki-Adi-Mundi added. "Again."
"This is not Separatist work," Shaak Ti said quietly. "The droids do not operate this cleanly."
"They're not even in the system," Mace Windu muttered, arms crossed. "Whoever's doing this… they want us looking in the wrong direction."
But Yoda said nothing.
Not in that moment. Not as the storm gathered.
Later, in the silence of midnight, while blaster fire lit up a dozen worlds, Yoda descended alone into the archives—beyond the polished floors of main halls, below even Jocasta Nu's guarded vaults. He moved through coded gates and ancient biometric locks few remembered still existed. And finally, into the Undercircle—a forgotten wing, sealed off after the Hyperspace Wars.
Dust blanketed the shelves.
He lit no lamp.
Instead, he let the Force lead him.
He passed old scrolls etched in High Galactic, faded Mandalorian chronicles, forbidden Sith tomes under triple-seal stasis. But deeper still were the scrolls no one ever dared read—the censored records of ancient Force wars. Things not taught. Not spoken. Erased from the Council's curated memory.
And yet…
He felt them stir now.
He stopped before a cracked holocron, its casing warped, protective matrix long since decayed. With a breath and a wordless push of the Force, it hissed to life. A projection flickered—a Jedi, long forgotten, speaking in broken tones.
"They were not Sith… not truly. And yet… darker. As if time forgot them, but they remembered us. The Rakata feared them. The Jedi purged the record. But I saw—saw what waited beyond the stars, what whispered beneath our skin."
Yoda narrowed his eyes.
The vision shifted—symbols distorted by data corruption, names half-vanished: Seri— … The Obliv— … Flesh of time unmade—
He reached deeper into the holocron. But the image flared—then shattered into silence.
Gone.
His hand trembled faintly.
Not in fear.
In knowing.
Something returns. Not new, this shadow. Old, and angry. Hidden from even the Sith.
A chill wind passed through the still vault, and he turned slowly, gaze piercing the dark.
The galaxy believed the war was about droids and clones, systems and control.
But war was only the surface.
Beneath it… something moved.