The ground shook beneath his feet as ancient turbines—silent for millennia—groaned back to life.
Dust fell from the ceiling in long curtains, and distant lights flickered deep within the tunnels, casting strange geometric shadows against the metallic walls. Darth Serion stood still at the epicenter of the structure, his black robes stirring in the growing wind as vents released gouts of pressure and heat. The foundries were awakening.
"Good," he said under his breath. "You still remember how to breathe."
He raised his hand, palm open toward the control altar—a triangular slab of black stone now glowing with golden circuits. A tendril of Force lightning danced across his fingers, not in violence, but in resonance. The Rakatan systems weren't just mechanical—they were living machines, bound to the Force like artificial extensions of will. They didn't just respond to commands. They obeyed intention.
With a gesture, he reached deeper, through the system's ancient pathways—his mind slipping into a vast network of logic, language, and wrath. Holograms spun into the air: forge-locations, schematics for war machines, cloning vaults, aerial dockyards suspended in the planet's magnetosphere.
SYSTEM RESTORATION: 9%PRIMARY FORGE CORE: STABILIZINGAI OVERSEER "KESHL" REBOOTING…
The voice of the foundry's intelligence emerged, feminine but fractured.
"...Designation accepted. Sith profile recognized. Protocol override: Emperor-level access granted."
Serion smiled.
"That's right," he whispered. "I am your Emperor now."
Behind him, the vast circular walls began to open, segment by segment. Platforms rose from the ground. Racks of incomplete battle droids, armored walkers, and skeletal starfighters rotated into view—designs long thought extinct. One of them, a hybrid between a TIE interceptor and a Basilisk war droid, made him pause.
"With a few upgrades," he murmured, "these could make fleets kneel."
A surge of the Force pulled at his attention.
It came from outside.Someone was approaching.
He turned, stretching out his senses like invisible fingers through the dust and heat. A presence flickered at the edge of his perception—wounded, cautious, and familiar in a way only the Force could explain. Not Sith. Not dark, not yet. But touched.
He stepped to the edge of the forge, peering into the long corridor that led through the buried ruin. Footsteps echoed faintly, boots dragging slightly. The presence grew stronger.
A figure stumbled into view—cloaked, thin, armor scorched. A lightsaber hilt hung loosely from her belt, exposed as her robe flared. Her face was bloodied, eyes unfocused, but burning with something deeper than pain: rage. Or perhaps guilt.
Serion didn't move. He simply waited.
She froze as soon as she saw him.
"...You," she rasped. "You called me."
Her voice was cracked, raw from exhaustion. She fell to her knees, struggling to keep her composure.
Serion tilted his head slightly. "No," he said. "You heard me. There's a difference."
She looked up. Her face, despite the grime and blood, was striking—young, but aged by war. The braid she once wore as a Padawan was half-scorched off. Her saber was Jedi standard, but modified—something built after exile.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"A shadow," Serion said. "One that was forgotten… and now remembered."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're no Jedi."
"Neither are you."
That made her hesitate. Her hand drifted to her saber, but didn't ignite it. Not yet.
Serion descended the steps, one slow, controlled stride at a time. "You left the Order," he said. "Or they cast you out. The wound in your Force signature speaks volumes."
She didn't respond.
He stopped just short of her, and now the light of the forge caught the edges of his face—pale, angular, and carved with lines of power. His eyes glowed faintly with amber fire.
"What's your name?"
"…Taliya," she answered slowly. "Taliya Marr."
That stirred something in Serion's inherited memory. A Marr had once stood among the Dark Council of the old Sith Empire. Perhaps fate had a sense of irony.
"Taliya," he said. "You were a Jedi. You saw the cracks in their Order. Their blind faith. Their denial of passion."
Her jaw tightened. "I saw them let a colony burn to protect a treaty. I begged them to act. They sent me away."
He offered a hand—not out of charity, but invitation.
"Then come see the future, Taliya Marr. Walk the path they abandoned. Witness what true balance looks like."
She looked up at him, torn between suspicion and… curiosity. The Force between them pulsed. She felt it—his power, but not consumed by madness. Controlled. Focused. Her fingers twitched toward her saber again, then stopped.
"You want to build something," she said.
"No," Serion replied. "I want to forge something."
Behind him, the forges blazed to life. Flames erupted upward in perfect columns as ancient metal arms began assembling shells of war machines, droids, and armor. The noise was thunderous, but Serion's voice cut through it with clarity.
"The Jedi fear emotion. The Sith worship it. Both are weak."
"And you?" she asked.
"I understand it. I wield it."
He turned and began walking through the rows of awakening war machines.
"You've seen their hypocrisy. I will show you purpose."
She stood slowly, her body aching, but her mind sharper than it had been in weeks. Something in her—once shattered—aligned itself just slightly. She looked at the rows of droids powering up, the shadows of ships being lowered into bays, the heat of the forges that pulsed like the heartbeat of a god reborn.
And she followed.