The corridors of the Star Destroyer trembled with the hum of low-frequency hyperdrive engines dying, a noise Mara Jade had once related to military attack. It was mere background noise now to the continental divide reorganizing itself within her. Her forearms were propped against the cold obsidian plating of the wall past Vader's sanctum, tracing the joint where durasteel and reinforced transparisteel met. Her face flashed back—tension-taut green eyes, tightly coiled red hair, the careful calm of a predator metering out ground. Sanction. The Emperor's blessing. It didn't matter. She was Mara Jade, tempered in darkness and lies, not some Coruscanti debutante thrilled with a court ruling. And still, the lightness in her chest lingered. Real. It made it real.
The door creaked open. Vader stepped through, helmeted head cocked a degree towards her. His armor, darker than the vacuum, reflected the antiseptic sheen of the corridor—not clanking life-support gibbet of a cripple from Mustafar, but burnished armor plate over healed bone and muscle. Decision. Sign. Power worn as carelessly as his cape.
"You heard?" His vocoder voice, stripped of its earlier mechanical grit, had an unsettling smoothness to it.
"Every word." Mara climbed down from the wall, falling into step beside him. Her stride met his without trying. "Palpatine's blessing. How... convenient."
"Convenience implies accident. This was plotting." Vader did not falter. "He needs to know how I've gained so much power and was not seen. He needs leverage. The harem is something he feels he can control."
Mara's lips were a thin line. "And Shaak Ti? Does she realize she's bait in a Sith game?"
Vader came to a stop alongside a viewport showing the churning cobalt nebula beyond. "Shaak Ti knows how to survive. She knows the cost of defying forces larger than Jedi or Sith." His helmet swung around, the emotionless lenses focusing on Mara. "So do you. The Emperor's indulgence means nothing here. It simply removes Imperial interference."
Mara's gaze met the emptiness behind those lenses. "I didn't need his permission."
"No," Vader concurred, the undertone of something very like approval underlying the controlled tone. "But you possess it. And Shaak Ti remains alive. There are others who will follow. My hunger is... great."
Mara's jaw tightened. "And I'll still be the best."
A gentle tremor hummed through the helmet—not mechanical, but the echo of a laugh. "Confidence looks good on you, Jade." He proceeded. "Prepare to leave in an hour. Palpatine's agents are already hovering."
Vader thought of the change as he headed to the hangar bay. Assets. Tools. And that's how he'd thin them out first—Mara, the Emperor's Hand, a sword sharpened by Palpatine himself; Shaak Ti, the Jedi Master who wouldn't die, her obstinacy evidence of the stubbornness of the Force. Tools for Shu'ulk'Tarath's ceremonies, vessels for the elder thing's endless appetite for experience. Padmé's spirit had stuck around too long, though, a spectral appendage throbbing in the Force. Letting her go, truly releasing her into the cosmic currents after that confrontation with Palpatine… it had created a vacuum. And into that vacuum, unexpected warmth had seeped. Mara's fierce loyalty, sharpened not by fear but by a grudging respect. Shaak Ti's quiet strength, her acceptance devoid of judgment. They weren't Padmé. They were something else entirely. Something present. Something that Shu'ulk'Tarath's presence enabled him to experience without the crushing burden of yesterday. It was… natural. Necessary. Like the armor on his shoulders—no longer bondage, but a second self announcing mastery.
He didn't know if it was love. Most likely not. But it was his. And Shu'ulk'Tarath sanctioned.
**
Shaak Ti perched on the highest balcony of the Obsidian Veil, her lekku streaming in the wispy, mineral-tainted breeze. Below, the fortress stretched across serrated peak like spilled black ink—obsidian walls devouring starlight, defense turrets like silent sentinels over bruised-purple sky. Isolation. It had been her life since Vader brought her here, and claimed her. Made her his. The Jedi Purge wasn't old history; the smell of burning archives, screams in Temple halls—fresh wounds. And Anakin Skywalker… no, Vader… had arranged it. But there she remained, her lungs full of air he gave, her robes he provided, her skin still vibrating from the memory of his skin an hours ago. The jarring was a stinging in her gut.
The thud of heavy metal footsteps of armor-boots echoed off the balcony stone. She didn't look.
"You don't like this place." Vader's low, smooth voice cut over the wind.
"It functions," Shaak Ti responded bluntly, looking out over the barren, volcanic wasteland to the horizon. "Isolation. Safeguarding. A cage made of need."
"A cage?" Vader walked beside her, a looming black-armor monolith set against the nebula's streaked sky. He was gigantic, and strangely held in check—no smothering Dark Side presence, no creeping Force hum. Just... solidity. Power contained. "Seclusion is a shield, Master Ti. From Palpatine's interrogators. From Jedi fugitives who would kill you for being loyal to me. From anyone who would be a threat to what is mine."
Shaak Ti finally turned. Her black eyes clashed with his constant red lenses under the mask. "Protection? Or possession?"
Vader's helmet leaned infinitesimally. "Does it matter? You are here. You are alive. You are… mine."
He advanced, closing in on her. The naked physicality of him was menacing—not so much his resumed height, with its animal strength, but the strategic ferocity that emanated from the suit. It was no longer necessary to life; it was a declaration. A statement. *See me. Know what I am.* Shaak Ti could feel the all-too-familiar snarl of caution creeping in within her chest, blended with something uglier, hotter. The chest plate of the suit reflected back at her—tranquil Jedi serenity overlined with tension.
"You doubt," Vader declared. Not a question.
Shaak Ti's eyes never blinked. "The youngling killer stands before me. The destroyer of the Order to which I devoted my life. That killer… and the captor who holds me in his fist. They share the same air. Wear the same armor."
Vader's hand went up, not to threaten, but with purpose. Gloved fingers, articulated plate glinted dully, hovered an inch from her cheek. Shaak Ti did not blink. She knew.
"That man," Vader's modulated speech fell to a near-whisper imposed upon by the vocoder, "was engulfed in weakness. In fear. In a Master's deceptions. He is lost." The glove stroked her cheekbone, tracing the angle of her jaw with a disconcerting gentleness. "What is left is strength honed in darkness. Purpose given by forces beyond Jedi understanding. And you, Shaak Ti… you are a part of that purpose. You are essential."
His touch lit a warm fire smoldering low in her stomach. It was infuriating. It was unstoppable. He wielded his body as a weapon, an instrument of seduction and conquest more powerful than any lightsaber. The sheer magnetic force of his recovered state, combined with the dark shadow of the armor, presented a paradox that could not be thought out and found its home deep within the heart primal.
"Essential?" Shaak Ti inhaled, her tone tighter than she'd meant. "To satiate your appetites? To serve your... patron?"
Vader's thumb followed her lower lip. "To know the range of life," he corrected, his voice vibrating with disturbing self-assurance. "Pain. Ecstasy. Submission. Domination. The Jedi did not believe in passion. They forbade it. They atrophied." His other hand on her hip drew her close to the cold, unyielding ridges of his armor. The contrast was disconcerting—hard durasteel against the softness of her robe and skin. "I accept it. We accept it. It is life refined. It is power purified."
He leaned in, the helmet looming large. Shaak Ti was touched by the chill of the mask against her forehead. "And you," he panted, the vocoder buzzing against her skin, "you hunger for it too. Under the Jedi discipline, under the survivor's prudence… you seethe with it. You seethe with me."
It wasn't a statement. It was a fact. A command woven into reality. Shaak Ti shut her eyes. The caution did not vanish, but was buried beneath the wave of feeling—the cling-ing possessiveness on her hip, the cold mask on her brow, the unmistakable warmth radiating from his core through the suit. He was right. The paradox did not resolve; it became one. Anakin Skywalker, the lost hero. Darth Vader, the Dark Lord. This woman in front of her—restored, defended, exuding awful life. They were two sides of the same impossible diamond. And fighting its might was hopeless.
Her breath caught. Not from fear. From surrender. "Yes," she breathed, the word slipping out like a sigh on a summer wind.
Vader's hand moved from her hip to the curve of her back, pushing her against him. The other hand grasped the back of her head, fingers folding inward at the base of her lekku. He did not kiss her—the mask was in the way—but he surrounded her, a living force shield of black intent and holding hunger. Shaak Ti yielded to it, pressing into unyielding armor, her own hands tracing the sculpted plates of his chest. Cautiousness continued to linger, a whispered caution in the shadows, but it was overshadowed by the resonant beat of bonding, of being forged in fire and darkness. He had "reminded" her. Again. And she accepted. Again. And became his. Again. The Obsidian Veil, the stone that had been forgotten, was her sanctuary and prison, and he its guardian.
He held her so for an incredibly long time, the wind whipping around them, the fortress a silence that watched. When he finally spoke, his tone was softer, an unfamiliar note—something akin to satisfaction.
"The seclusion ends."
Shaak Ti eased a fraction of tension, searching for the unyielding lenses. "Ends?"
"Palpatine," went on Vader, the word without its normal venom, "has approved my purchases. My... harem." He paused, letting the old, careful word dangle in the precarious air. "Officially. Imperial Decree 7-7-Alpha. Jedi are no longer hunted on sight if they belong to me."
Shaak Ti stood still. The inference slammed into her like the crash of an iceberg. Sanctioned. Not merely endured in secret, but approved by the Emperor himself. Her new status changed from furtive shame to… what? Guarded possession? Acknowledged concubine? The audacity of it took her breath. The Emperor had known she lived. Knew that she was here. With Vader. And had found it acceptable. The cage door was not simply open; the entire construct had been deemed extraneous.
"The Emperor… knows?" Her words barely above a whisper.
"He knows Mara Jade serves me of her own free will. He knows Jedi survivors might… find shelter… under my protection." Vader's grip still on her back. "He sees usefulness. Leverage. A means to keep me in check. Seize my power. He does not perceive the truth."
"The truth?" Shaak Ti repeated, still stunned.
"That you are not leverage," Vader's voice hardened, his words humming with untainted confidence. "You are mine. Mine to understand. Mine to protect. Mine to spoil." He swept his arm broadly across the barren landscape before him. "You are free of this rock, Shaak Ti. The galaxy is yours. With me."
Shaak Ti gazed out once more. The lethal summits, the roiling nebula, the choking silence—it had been home. Her very hell on earth. Her haven. Now… a fortress. The Emperor's decree a double-edged vibroblade. Freedom given, stained by its origin. And still the raw, gut-wrenching relief that flooded her could not be hidden. No longer cowering. No longer confined behind walls of obsidian. She could walk among stars again. Walk beside him. The paradox swelled, thickenings tighter. Freedom given by the Dark Lord to whom she was wedded, ordained by the Emperor she loathed. It was… dizzifying. Dangerous. Exhilarating.
She relaxed into him, her face against the chill chest plate. The subdued thrum of his reawakened power shuddered through the metal. "When do we take off?"
"Soon," Vader growled. "Mara readies the ship. Our destination nears." He fell silent, then continued, a controlled emphasis in his tone, "You will ride with me. Both of you. Always."
Shaak Ti shut her eyes. Freedom. Possession. Sanctuary. Cage. The distinctions dissolved until they were gone. There was simply wind, the fortress, and the Dark Lord's unyielding hold. She nodded against his armor. "Always."
**
The Obsidian Veil's central hangar bay consumed sound. The cavernous room, sculpted out of the volcanic bedrock itself, rang with only the low thrum of the Lampda shuttle's repulsorlifts spooling up. A bland standard ship—dull, functional, easily forgotten. Ideal for going through Imperial patrol matrices without being noticed. Mara Jade leaned against the bottom of the ramp, her red flight suit colorfully isolated amid the hangar darkness. Her eyes ranged across the huge room, lingered in the shadows where maintenance droids waddled like metallic insects. Her hand lay loose on her hip, close to the blaster holster. Always weighing. Always prepared.
Shaak Ti emerged from the arched entranceway, her stride measured, her expression composed. She wore simple grey robes—functional, unadorned, a stark contrast to the ornate Jedi attire she once favored. Her lekku draped over her shoulders, still. Her black eyes met Mara's emerald ones. A silent acknowledgment passed between them—rivals bound by the same chain. Mara's lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. Shaak Ti's gaze remained steady, unreadable.
Vader fell from above the hangar, his movement noiseless, a shift of air rather than sound. He glided with the disquieting ease of an animal restored to its prime, the black armor seeming to absorb the harsh hangar light. He paused beside Mara, helmeted eyes sweeping the shuttle, then settling on Shaak Ti as she appeared.
"Ready?" Mara snapped, curt.
Shaak Ti nodded. "Yes."
Vader's helmet shifted infinitesimally toward Mara. "Double-check the cloaking systems before we make the dash across the edge of the nebula. Palpatine's observers are watching."
Mara's sneer firmed. "Already double-checked three times, Lord Vader. They'll detect no more than stellar dust."
"Good." Vader's gaze returned to Shaak Ti. "Your arrival will be noticed. Be cautious."
Shaak Ti nodded. "Understood."
Vader motioned toward the shuttle ramp. Mara spun around, walking up with assured professionalism. Shaak Ti trailed behind, moving steadily. Vader took an additional moment, a dark protector of his territory. The Obsidian Veil—a testament to excess, power, and secrecy. All of those secrets would be wrung out of it. He turned and climbed the ramp.
In the shuttle's main bay, Mara was already buckling into the co-pilot seat, fingers flying through pre-flight checks. Shaak Ti reclined on a padded acceleration couch against the back bulkhead. Vader walked past Mara and sat in the pilot's seat. Gloved hands, unexpectedly dexterous for the armor, cycled primary systems. Lights flared on, consoles vibrated with power, casting a cold blue light over the cockpit.
"Seal the ramp," Vader ordered.
Mara knocked a control. The ramp hissed closed, trapping them inside. Outside, the hangar bay's massive blast doors were creaking open, showing the churning violet and indigo depths of the nebula beyond.
"Hyperspace charged," Mara said. "Make for Ord Mantell."
Vader did not react at once. He hit a backup comm panel, the holoprojector on it crackling with static. He entered a highly sophisticated, coded sequence of frequencies—something Mara knew nothing of or had no data on. She saw his fingers move, a flicker of interest in her sharp eyes before she denied it, intent on her console.
Shaak Ti remained in the back. She observed Vader to turn on comms. She observed the careful command. She observed the burst of the holoprojector. She was familiar with procedure. He was calling someone. Someone other than Mara. Someone other than herself. Someone... else. The wariness, ever-present, growled. Who needed to be called now? Before they left? Who deserved such caution?
Vader's helmet was expressionless. He waited. The shuttle ascended on repulsors, moving soundlessly out of the hangar bay and into the turbulent nebula gas. Stars blazed past as Mara flew them from the fortress moon on sublight thrusters.
The holoprojector settled. A blue, shimmering image materialized—not clear, distorted by subspace interference, but identifiable. Starkiller. Galen Marek. The Apprentice. He was not reclining in a cockpit or command chair. He stood in a dim workshop filled with tools, scrap metal, and half-finished parts. A faint glint of heat haze clung to the air around him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He held a cylindrical piece between his hands—a lightsaber emitter assembly, wires hanging down—and was tightening a component using a hydrospanner. His concentration was fierce, brow furrowed, muscles tensed by the effort. Air hissed quietly about him, filled with raw Force energy condensed into the precise task.
Vader stood before the hologram in quiet. He said nothing. He made no introduction. He merely waited, a dark figure from light-years distant.
Starkiller completed the part into place, wiped sweat from his forehead with the inside of his forearm and stared upwards. His intense, piercing eyes scanned the workshop out of habit. They landed on the blue shimmering sight of Vader's helmet. He was frozen in shock. The hydrospanner crashed to the metal workbench.
"Master." Starkiller's tight voice was panting with exertion, seasoned with surprise and instant obedience. He stood up, quickly blotting his dirty hands on his filthy tunic. "You summoned me."
"I did." Vader's measured voice echoed through the shuttle cockpit, sleek and unembellished by the distortion of the hologram. "Report."
Starkiller's eyes dropped to the incomplete lightsaber on the bench. "Kazdan Paratus," he growled. "Murdered. As commanded. The junk fortress is trashed."
"Self-evident." Vader's helmet tilted slightly. "Your work?"
Starkiller pointed to the emitter assembly. "The dual blades… under construction. The focusing crystals… they will not synchronize." Frustration began to creep into his tone. "Power requirements… staggering."
"A test," Vader said. "Of will. Of control." His eyes seemed to sear through the hologram. "Control you must learn. For your final test."
Starkiller's eyes returned to the vision of Vader. "Final trial?" A glint lit in his eyes—excitement, urgency. "But I'm ready now, Master. The Emperor… Palpatine… he sits vulnerable! His pride blinds him. My training is done! Order me, and together we shall destroy him!" He slammed a fist on the workbench, and tools went flying. "The throne is ours!"
Silence succeeded Starkiller's tirade. Not just the lack of noise, but an ill ease that distorted the static of the hologram. Mara Jade, guarding navigation from the co-pilot's chair, stiffened. Her hands still hovered above the console. Shaak Ti, sitting at the back couch, felt a chill seep into her bones through the heat of the shuttle. The Apprentice's passion was felt, transmitted through the hologram.
Vader remained motionless. His helmeted head did not shift. His armored shoulders did not loosen. And yet the silence grew, heavy as tar, bearing down on Starkiller's holographic form. The crackle of Force energy that surrounded the Apprentice seemed to falter, crushed by the dead, crushing weight of Vader's concealed presence.
"Ready?" Vader's voice broke the silence at last. Smooth. Rich. Absolutely uninflected. It wasn't a question. It was a pronouncement. "To confront Sidious?"
Starkiller leapt backward, literally. Raw confidence wavered. "I… I am, Master. My power—"
"Is uncontrolled," Vader cut in, his voice cutting through Starkiller's denial as a vibroblade cuts through armor. "Unfocused. Raw anger is not strength. It is weakness applied." He leaned slightly forward in the pilot's seat, the hologram looming larger in Starkiller's workshop. "You think the throne is the goal? The climax?"
Starkiller glared, frustration struggling with bewilderment on his face. "It… it is, Master! Always been the goal! To depose the Emperor! To reign supreme in the galaxy! Together!"
Vader's helmet leaned, the slow, deliberate motion unnerving. "Your dream," he announced, the modulated voice ringing with finality, "has shifted."
Starkiller recoiled as though slapped. His eyes went wide, incredulity flooding his face. "Shifted? What… what do you mean? How? Why?"
"The throne," Vader went on, above the wave of questions, "is no longer the goal. It is… irrelevant."
Starkiller remained frozen. The hydrospanner still on the bench. The uncompleted lightsaber did not matter. His whole universe—his mission, designed in agony and vengeance—had just been reduced. "Irrelevant?" He drew in a ragged breath, his voice full of emotion. "But… my life… everything I've ever done… trained for…"
"You will see," Vader said, his tone admitting no debate. "In good time. Your path branches out."
Starkiller's fists had tightened. Knuckles turned white. Air around him snarled furiously again, tools humming off the workbench. "Branches out? To what? What else is there?"
"Power." Vader's fingertips inched fractionally along the armrest of the shuttle. "Real power is not in domination of ashes. It is in serving powers beyond Sidious' understanding." He was quiet, letting the enigmatic words hang suspended in the static-heavy silence. "Your mission is still. Your target is altered."
Starkiller gazed, aghast, lost. "Target? Whom?"
Vader's helmet was unyielding. The hologram fluctuated by a fraction. When he spoke, the name was frosty with finality:
"Quinlan Vos."
Starkiller's breathing caught audibly. "Quinlan Vos? The... the Jedi Shadow? The Kiffar?"
"Find him," Vader ordered, his deep voice vibrating with implacable command. "Track him. Kill him."
Starkiller's head reeled in shock, ingrained obligation fighting back. "But... why? He's a ghost! He disappeared after the Purge! What threat does he represent?"
"Threat?" Vader's calm tone had an edge of something Starkiller couldn't quite place—contempt? Amusement? "He is your crucible. Your ultimate test. Kazdan Paratus was a shattered mind grasping for illusions. Rahm Kota was an old man grasping for honor. Quinlan Vos." Vader paused for emphasis. "He is at the brink. He knows darkness just as well. He grasps to it. He utilizes it. He is not shattered. He is not old. He is... dangerous."
Starkiller was resolute, a flame of his former rebelliousness igniting. "Then I will kill him."
"You will attempt, to put it politely," Vader cut in, his tone assuming a chill. "He will resist you in ways no other has. He will prod you to the limits of your very patience. He will drive you to understand the Dark Side not as a tool, but as your being. Your survival is dependent on it."
Starkiller's jaw gritted. He looked at his grease-soiled hands, still grimy from oiling the lightsaber assembly. "The Dark Side… I have embraced it!"
"Not quite," Vader answered, the absoluteness of his tone allowing for no misinterpretation. "Not as Vos has. To kill him…" Vader leaned forward once more, the hologram directing all its power into Starkiller. "You will require the totality of the Dark Side. Unleashed. Unbridled. Become the darkness that eats all light. Only then will you live."
Silence. Starkiller gazed upon the holographic form of Vader, the significance falling upon him. This was no longer about the deposed Emperor. This was about... becoming something different. Something to be feared. Something... powerful. The spark of rebellion extinguished, replaced by rising, horror-stricken comprehension. This was other. This was worse. This was necessary.
He struggled to swallow a thick glob of phlegm. "Where… where do I start?"
"Start where darkness falls," Vader replied enigmatically. "Where information withers. Nar Shaddaa. The Smuggler's Moon. He prowls the lower districts. Find the rumors in shadows." The hologram flared more erratically, subspace interference bloating. "Do not dissapoint me, Apprentice."
The transmission broke apart into static, and then was gone. The cockpit went silent. Mara Jade slowly turned her head from her console, her green eyes wide and fixed on Vader's masklike face. Shaak Ti was frozen in place in her seat, black eyes still fixed on the place where Starkiller's image had briefly stood before, a chill creeping through her bones. The Apprentice's blaze of fire, his confusion, his cold resignation—it resonated through the hull of the shuttle.
Vader sliced the comm panel. He did not glance at Mara or Shaak Ti. He engaged the shuttle's hyperdrive. Outside the viewport, the roiling nebula spread into starlines that seemed to extend on forever.
"Ord Mantell," Vader declared, his voice smooth, deep, weighed with galaxies. "Engage."