The rescue mission was Kanan's idea.
In hindsight, this should have been everyone's first warning that it was going to end badly.
"We can't just leave her there!" Kanan argued, pacing the Ghost's common area with the kind of agitated energy that usually preceded terrible decisions. "Hera's been on Vader's ship for over a week! Who knows what he's doing to her!"
"Actually," Sabine interjected, studying her datapad, "the communication we received said she's fine. Unharmed. Being treated as a... guest?"
"That's exactly what Vader would want us to think!" Kanan's voice rose with frustration. "It's a trap! He's using her as bait to lure us in!"
"If it's a trap," Zeb rumbled from his corner of the room, "then why are we talking about walking into it?"
"Because it's Hera!" Kanan spun to face the Lasat. "She would come for any of us. She would never leave one of us behind. We can't just—"
"Actually," Ezra interrupted quietly, "I think Sabine has a point. The message was pretty clear. Hera said she was fine, that she was learning important things, and that we shouldn't attempt rescue. Those were her exact words."
"Under duress! Obviously under duress!"
"She used the code phrase that means 'I'm okay and not being coerced,'" Sabine pointed out. "The one we specifically developed for situations like this."
Kanan stopped pacing. "She... did?"
"'The nebula flowers are blooming early this year.' That's word-for-word what she said." Sabine crossed her arms. "Kanan, I don't like this either, but maybe Hera knows what she's doing. Maybe there's something happening that we don't understand."
"Something happening? She's on a Sith Lord's personal vessel! What could possibly be happening that makes that okay?!"
The argument continued for another hour, cycling through the same points with increasing frustration. In the end, Kanan's protective instincts won out over tactical common sense.
"We're going to Mustafar," he declared. "We're getting Hera back. And we're going to show Vader that he can't just... just... keep our people!"
The crew exchanged glances that ranged from resigned to deeply concerned.
"This is going to go badly," Chopper beeped ominously. "Very, very badly."
For once, everyone agreed with the droid.
Mustafar, three days later...
The Ghost emerged from hyperspace at the edge of the Mustafar system, its sensors immediately scanning for threats. What they found was not encouraging.
"I'm detecting... a fortress," Sabine reported, her voice carrying notes of disbelief. "A massive fortress on the planet's surface. That's new. That's very new. And very not good."
"Imperial construction?" Kanan asked.
"I don't think so. The design is all wrong—too aggressive, too personal. This looks like something built for a specific individual. And given that Vader's been spending a lot of time here..."
"It's his." Ezra's voice was flat. "Vader built himself a castle on a lava planet. Because of course he did."
The fortress dominated the tactical display, a black spire rising from the volcanic landscape like a monument to intimidation. Surrounding it was a network of defensive installations, landing platforms, and what appeared to be patrol routes for automated security systems.
"How are we supposed to infiltrate that?" Zeb demanded. "It looks like he's expecting an invasion!"
"The east side has a gap in the sensor coverage," Sabine noted, highlighting a section of the display. "If we approach at low altitude, using the thermal interference from the lava flows as cover, we might be able to reach the secondary landing platform undetected."
"Might?"
"Best I've got."
Kanan studied the display, his jaw tight with determination. "We go in quiet. Sabine and I infiltrate the fortress, find Hera, get out. Zeb and Ezra stay with the Ghost for extraction. Chopper handles electronic warfare."
"And when Vader inevitably detects us and decides to murder everyone?" Zeb asked.
"We improvise."
"I hate improvising."
"Noted. Let's go."
Inside the fortress...
Vader sensed the Ghost's arrival approximately thirty seconds after it entered the system.
He was in his meditation chamber, practicing the Force lightning techniques that Mother Shelish had been teaching him, when a familiar presence brushed against his awareness. Multiple presences, actually—the distinctive Force signatures of Kanan Jarrus and Ezra Bridger, accompanied by the dimmer life-forces of their non-Force-sensitive companions.
They came, he realized, a mix of exasperation and grudging respect coloring his thoughts. Despite my warnings. Despite Hera's assurances. They actually came to rescue her.
Idiots. Loyal, brave, absolutely moronic idiots.
He considered his options. The fortress's defenses could destroy the Ghost before it even reached the surface—a dozen turbolaser batteries, shielded against anything short of Star Destroyer-grade weapons, fully automated and devastatingly accurate. He could end the rebel cell right now, eliminate a persistent irritation, and be done with the whole matter.
But that would defeat the purpose of everything he had been building.
No, Vader decided. Let them come. Let them attempt their rescue. And let them learn—again—exactly how outmatched they truly are.
He rose from his meditation position, his mechanical joints humming with anticipation.
Besides, he admitted to himself, I could use the entertainment.
The fortress interior, thirty minutes later...
"This is too easy," Sabine whispered, her helmet sensors scanning the corridor ahead. "We've been inside for ten minutes and we haven't encountered a single guard."
"Maybe Vader's overconfident," Kanan suggested, though his voice lacked conviction. "Maybe he thinks his fortress is impregnable."
"Or maybe he wants us to get deep inside before he springs the trap."
"Let's not think about that option."
They moved through the fortress in careful silence, following the life-sign readings on Sabine's scanner that indicated Hera's location. The corridors were dark and industrial, all sharp angles and aggressive architecture, lit by red emergency lighting that cast everything in shades of blood.
This place is designed to terrify, Sabine realized. Every element—the lighting, the angles, the proportions—all of it calculated to make visitors feel small and vulnerable.
It's working.
The signal led them to a section of the fortress that seemed almost... residential. The corridors were slightly warmer, the lighting marginally less aggressive, the doors spaced to suggest individual quarters rather than industrial facilities.
"She's behind that door," Sabine said, indicating a portal at the end of the corridor. "Life signs are strong. She's alive."
"Then let's get her and get out."
Kanan approached the door, his hand moving toward the control panel—
And froze as every muscle in his body locked in place.
"Kanan?" Sabine raised her blasters, spinning to search for threats. "What's—"
She froze too, invisible bonds wrapping around her limbs, her weapons useless in paralyzed hands.
"Ah," said a deep, resonant voice from the darkness behind them. "You came after all. I had hoped you would show more wisdom."
Darth Vader emerged from the shadows, his black armor drinking in the red light, his breathing filling the corridor with its iconic rhythm. He moved with the slow, inevitable pace of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run.
"Lord Vader," Kanan managed through clenched teeth. "Release Hera. She's not a threat to you."
"She is not my prisoner, Jedi. She is my guest. A distinction you seem incapable of understanding."
"Guests can leave whenever they want!"
"Can they?" Vader tilted his helmet. "Have you asked her if she wants to leave?"
Before Kanan could respond, the door behind them slid open. Hera stepped into the corridor, her expression a complicated mix of exasperation and something that looked almost like guilt.
"Kanan," she said. "I told you not to come."
"Hera!" Kanan's relief was palpable, even through the Force bonds that held him frozen. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
"I'm fine. I've been fine. I sent the code phrase specifically to tell you I was fine!" Hera's voice rose with frustration. "But you just couldn't trust that, could you? You had to come charging in, playing hero, and now—"
"And now they are inside my fortress," Vader completed. "Surrounded by defenses they cannot overcome, facing an opponent they cannot defeat, having accomplished nothing except to demonstrate their complete inability to follow instructions."
He raised one hand, and Kanan and Sabine rose from the floor, suspended in the air like puppets on invisible strings.
"The question," Vader continued, "is what to do with them."
The Ghost, maintaining position at the fortress perimeter...
"They've been inside too long," Ezra said, pacing the cockpit with nervous energy. "Something's wrong. We should go in after them."
"And do what?" Zeb demanded. "Get captured too? Real helpful, kid."
"We can't just leave them!"
"We're not leaving them. We're waiting for extraction." Zeb's voice carried forced calm. "Kanan and Sabine know what they're doing. They'll find Hera and get out."
"Or Vader will kill them all and we'll be sitting here doing nothing while it happens!"
"Ezra." Zeb turned to face the young Jedi, his expression unusually serious. "I know you want to help. I know this waiting is killing you. But charging in without a plan is exactly what Vader wants. He's probably waiting for us to do something stupid."
"Since when did you become the voice of reason?"
"Since Kanan put me in charge of making sure you don't get killed." Zeb crossed his arms. "Sit down. Wait. Trust your friends."
Ezra sat, but his leg kept bouncing with anxious energy.
Vader's in there, he thought. The monster who's been haunting my dreams. The Sith Lord who keeps talking about potential and choices and darkness.
And part of me... part of me wants to face him again.
What does that mean? What's wrong with me?
The wait continued, each minute stretching into eternity.
Inside the fortress...
"I could kill you," Vader said conversationally, still holding Kanan and Sabine suspended in the air. "Both of you. Right now. Your bodies would never be found. Your crew would spend years wondering what happened."
"Then do it," Kanan growled. "Stop playing games and do it!"
"Games?" Vader's vocoder somehow conveyed amusement. "You believe this is a game?"
"I believe you enjoy this. The power, the control, making people afraid. You're not a warrior—you're a bully. A monster who picks on beings weaker than himself because he's too cowardly to face anyone who might actually fight back."
The words hung in the air, reckless and defiant and absolutely suicidal.
Hera's face went pale. "Kanan, don't—"
"No." Vader raised one hand, silencing her. "Let him speak. The Jedi has found his courage. I wish to see where it leads."
"It leads here," Kanan spat. "To me telling you the truth. You're nothing but the Emperor's attack dog. You think you're powerful, but you're just a slave wearing a fancy suit. Everything you have—your ship, your fortress, your reputation—all of it exists because Palpatine allows it. The moment you become inconvenient, he'll destroy you. And you know it."
Vader was very still.
In the silence, Hera could hear her own heartbeat, could feel the tension radiating from Sabine's frozen form, could sense something shifting in the Dark Side presence that filled the corridor.
"You are correct," Vader said finally. "About some things. The Emperor is powerful, and I serve at his pleasure. My position is precarious, my independence limited, my future uncertain."
He stepped closer to Kanan, close enough that the Jedi could see his own terrified reflection in the black mask.
"But you are wrong about one thing, Jedi. I am not a slave. I am a weapon waiting to be turned against its maker. And when that day comes..."
He leaned even closer, his vocoder dropping to something barely above a whisper.
"Everything changes."
He released them. Kanan and Sabine dropped to the floor, gasping, rubbing circulation back into frozen limbs.
"You will leave this fortress," Vader commanded. "You will return to your ship. You will not attempt further infiltration. And you will remember this moment—when I could have killed you and chose not to."
"What about Hera?" Sabine demanded, climbing to her feet.
"Hera remains my guest. She is not a prisoner. She is not being coerced. She is here because she chose to be here. Ask her yourself."
All eyes turned to Hera, whose expression had become even more complicated.
"He's telling the truth," she said quietly. "I'm staying. Not forever—but for now. There are things I need to understand, and this is the only way to learn them."
"Hera, this is insane—"
"Probably." Hera's lips curved into a sad smile. "But when has that ever stopped me?"
Kanan stared at her, emotions warring across his face—confusion, hurt, fear, and something that looked almost like jealousy.
"You're choosing to stay with Vader," he said slowly. "Over us. Over the crew. Over everything we've built together."
"I'm choosing to pursue answers. That's not the same as choosing sides." Hera moved to stand beside Vader—not touching, not close, but unmistakably aligned. "Go back to the Ghost. Continue the mission. I'll contact you when I'm ready to return."
"And if you're never ready?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implications neither of them wanted to acknowledge.
"Then we'll cross that bridge when we reach it." Hera's voice was gentle but firm. "Trust me, Kanan. I know what I'm doing."
"I don't think you do." Kanan's voice cracked slightly. "But I've never been able to stop you from anything."
He turned and walked away, Sabine following reluctantly. Neither looked back.
Vader watched them go, his mask betraying nothing of whatever thoughts might be occurring behind it.
"That was difficult for you," he observed.
"Yes," Hera admitted. "But necessary. They needed to see that I'm here by choice. That this isn't... whatever they were imagining."
"And what is this, Hera Syndulla?"
She looked up at him, her lekku twitching with emotion she couldn't quite name.
"I don't know yet," she said honestly. "But I'm going to find out."
Aboard the Chimaera, two days later...
Grand Admiral Thrawn studied the tactical report with something approaching reverence.
"Remarkable," he murmured. "Absolutely remarkable."
Commander Faro looked up from her own datapad. "Admiral?"
"Lord Vader's handling of the rebel infiltration." Thrawn manipulated his display, highlighting key data points. "Study this, Commander. Study it carefully. This is masterwork."
"He let them go, Admiral. The rebels infiltrated his personal fortress and he let them leave."
"Yes. And in doing so, he accomplished multiple objectives simultaneously." Thrawn began pacing, his red eyes gleaming with intellectual excitement. "First, he demonstrated the futility of resistance. The rebels believed they were mounting a rescue operation—instead, they discovered that their crew member was a voluntary guest. Their heroic narrative collapsed, replaced by confusion and uncertainty."
"Second," he continued, "he deepened divisions within the rebel cell. The pilot chose to remain with Vader over rejoining her crew. That choice will create tension, suspicion, and doubt. The Jedi in particular will struggle with feelings of abandonment and jealousy."
"Third, he planted seeds of psychological warfare. By speaking of waiting to turn against his maker, Vader suggested that he might be a potential ally rather than an implacable enemy. The rebels will debate this possibility endlessly, their strategic planning compromised by hope that they cannot afford to indulge."
Faro frowned. "You believe Lord Vader calculated all of this?"
"I believe Lord Vader is operating on a level that most Imperial officers cannot comprehend." Thrawn returned to his display, highlighting new patterns. "Every interaction with the Ghost crew follows this same template: demonstrate overwhelming power, show unexpected mercy, plant destabilizing ideas. It is psychological warfare conducted with surgical precision."
"Admiral, with respect..." Faro hesitated. "Is it possible you're giving Lord Vader too much credit? Perhaps he simply enjoys playing with his prey. Perhaps there is no deeper strategy."
Thrawn smiled—a rare expression that never failed to unsettle his subordinates.
"An interesting hypothesis, Commander. But consider the pattern across Lord Vader's operations. The Jedi he eliminates versus those who escape. The rebels he destroys versus those he merely defeats. The alliances he forms versus those he rejects."
He pulled up a galaxy-wide map, data points clustering in ways that only Thrawn's trained eye could recognize.
"Lord Vader is not merely serving the Empire, Commander. He is preparing for something. Something that requires specific allies, specific enemies, and specific outcomes."
"Preparing for what?"
Thrawn was silent for a long moment, his red eyes fixed on the swirling patterns of his analysis.
"That," he admitted, "I have not yet determined. But when I do..."
He left the sentence unfinished, but his expression suggested that the answer would be worth the wait.
Meanwhile, on the Scimitar...
Vader genuinely had no idea what Thrawn was attributing to him.
I let them go because killing them serves no purpose, he thought, preparing his ship for the journey to Dathomir. I kept Hera because she's useful and interesting. I said dramatic things because dramatic things are expected of Sith Lords.
There was no master plan. I'm literally just going with the flow.
But if Thrawn wanted to believe he was a tactical genius, Vader wasn't going to disabuse him of the notion. A reputation for strategic brilliance was almost as useful as the reality.
Now, he thought, settling into the pilot's seat, time to deal with Maul.
Dathomir, the following day...
The planet was a nightmare made solid.
Red forests stretched toward a crimson sky, their twisted branches reaching like grasping fingers toward ships that dared to enter the atmosphere. The air was thick with Dark Side energy, the accumulated suffering of millennia pressing down on everything with an almost physical weight.
Vader loved it.
This is what the galaxy looks like beneath its civilized veneer, he thought, descending through the blood-red clouds. Hunger and violence and the will to power. The Nightsisters understood this better than anyone.
His sensors detected signs of habitation near the ruins of the old Nightsister temple—heat signatures, energy readings, the telltale fluctuations of Dark Side artifacts being actively used. Maul was here, exactly where the forge master had indicated.
Good. I haven't destroyed anything significant in weeks. I'm getting rusty.
The landing was deliberately obvious—no stealth, no concealment, just Vader's corvette setting down in a clearing approximately half a kilometer from the temple ruins. If Maul had any awareness at all, he would know that something was coming.
Vader wanted him to know. He wanted the former Sith to have time to prepare, to gather his power, to mount whatever defense he could muster.
It would make the victory more satisfying.
He descended the boarding ramp into Dathomir's toxic atmosphere, his suit automatically filtering the poisonous air. The path to the temple was obvious—overgrown but well-traveled, marked by the footprints of a being who had walked this route countless times.
Maul has been here for years, Vader observed. Hiding among the ghosts of the Nightsisters, nursing his grudges, waiting for an opportunity to strike at the galaxy that discarded him.
That opportunity will never come.
The temple ruins emerged from the red forest like bones from rotting flesh—crumbling stone walls, shattered pillars, the remnants of architecture that had once housed the most powerful witches in the galaxy. At the center, seated on a throne of skulls that was either deeply symbolic or profoundly melodramatic, was Maul.
The former Sith had changed since the Clone Wars. His mechanical legs—replacement for the limbs that Obi-Wan had taken from him on Naboo—were newer, more sophisticated, probably stolen from some unfortunate victim. His horned head was scarred and weathered, his yellow eyes burning with a madness that had been fermenting for decades. In his hands, he clutched the Darksaber, its black blade pulsing with an energy that seemed to absorb the light around it.
"Vader," Maul said, his voice a rasp of ancient hatred. "I have been waiting for this day."
"Have you?" Vader strode into the temple clearing, making no move to draw his weapon. "And what day is this, exactly?"
"The day I destroy the Emperor's pet and take my rightful place as the ruler of the Sith!" Maul rose from his throne, the Darksaber humming in his grip. "You think you know power? You are nothing but a pale imitation! I was Sidious's apprentice before you were even born! I was trained by the Dark Side itself!"
"And yet here you are." Vader gestured at the ruins surrounding them. "Hiding among corpses, talking to shadows, pretending to be relevant. The galaxy has moved on, Maul. You are a relic of a past that no one remembers."
Maul's face contorted with fury. "I will show you what a relic can do!"
He attacked.
The Darksaber swept toward Vader in a blur of black energy, a strike that would have decapitated any normal opponent. Maul's form was excellent—decades of training and countless battles had honed his technique to a razor's edge.
Vader caught the blade with his bare hand.
The black energy crackled against his beskar-reinforced gauntlet, dissipating harmlessly against metal that had been designed to resist lightsaber strikes. Maul's eyes widened in shock, his attack stopped dead by a defense that should have been impossible.
"Impressive weapon," Vader observed, examining the Darksaber where it pressed uselessly against his palm. "Wasted on someone like you."
He released the blade and struck, his mechanical arm driving forward with Force-enhanced speed. The impact caught Maul in the chest, sending the former Sith flying backward into a stone pillar with enough force to crack the ancient rock.
"Your technique is outdated," Vader continued, advancing on his fallen opponent. "Your power has atrophied. You spend your days communing with ghosts instead of training, plotting revenge instead of building strength. You are everything a Sith should not be: stagnant, bitter, weak."
Maul scrambled to his feet, the Darksaber raised defensively. "I am not weak! I have survived things that would have destroyed lesser beings! I killed Qui-Gon Jinn! I built criminal empires! I—"
"You lost." Vader's vocoder cut through the tirade like a blade. "Again and again. To Obi-Wan. To Sidious. To Ahsoka Tano. To everyone who mattered. You are a creature of failure, Maul. Your entire existence is a monument to inadequacy."
"THEN LET ME SHOW YOU WHAT INADEQUACY CAN DO!"
Maul attacked again, his movements fueled by pure rage, the Darksaber singing through the air in patterns that would have been deadly against any normal opponent. He was fast—faster than Vader had anticipated—his mechanical legs propelling him in angles that should have been impossible.
But Vader was faster.
He ignited his own lightsaber, the crimson blade meeting the Darksaber's black edge in explosions of clashing energy. The duel raged across the temple clearing, lightsabers carving glowing trails through the red-tinged air, both combatants pushing themselves to their limits.
He's better than I expected, Vader admitted, deflecting a spinning strike that came within centimeters of his mask. Madness has given him power, if not wisdom.
Good. This might actually be entertaining.
They fought among the ruins of the Nightsister temple, their battle scarring ancient stone and setting twisted trees ablaze. Maul attacked with the desperation of a being who knew he was outmatched, throwing everything he had into each strike, trying to overwhelm Vader through sheer aggressive fury.
It wasn't enough.
Vader parried, redirected, countered with clinical precision. Each exchange revealed more of Maul's weaknesses—the slight hesitation before complex combinations, the overextension on lunging attacks, the way his mechanical legs occasionally failed to synchronize perfectly with his upper body movements.
There, Vader thought, identifying the pattern he had been waiting for. Next time he spins, his left side will be exposed for approximately half a second. That's all I need.
Maul spun.
Vader's blade swept down in an arc that would have made Anakin Skywalker proud, slicing through the junction between Maul's mechanical left leg and his organic torso. The former Sith screamed as his leg separated from his body, his spin becoming a tumble, his form crashing to the ground in a heap of sparking circuitry and howling agony.
The Darksaber clattered away, its black blade deactivating upon leaving Maul's grip.
Vader stood over his fallen opponent, crimson blade humming, watching Maul try to drag himself away using only his arms.
"This is what you are," Vader said. "Broken. Incomplete. Desperately clinging to a past that will never return. The galaxy has no place for you, Maul. It never did."
"Kill me then!" Maul snarled, his yellow eyes blazing with defiant hatred. "End it! Show the galaxy what the Emperor's dog does to his Master's former pets!"
"Gladly."
Vader raised his blade.
"Wait!" Maul's voice cracked with sudden desperation. "I have information! Secrets that Sidious shared with me! Things about the Sith, about the Dark Side, about your origins! I can—"
"You have nothing I need."
The crimson blade descended.
Maul's head separated from his shoulders, his final expression frozen in an grimace of impotent rage. The body twitched once, twice, then went still.
Vader stared at the corpse for a long moment, feeling... not satisfaction, exactly, but something approaching relief.
That's been a long time coming, he thought. In this timeline and the original one. Maul was a loose end that needed tying.
He deactivated his lightsaber and retrieved the Darksaber from where it had fallen. The weapon felt strange in his grip—ancient, hungry, bearing the weight of centuries of Mandalorian history. It was not a Sith weapon, despite its appearance. It was something older, something connected to a tradition that predated the Rule of Two.
The forge master will be pleased, Vader thought, clipping the Darksaber to his belt beside his own weapon. One favor fulfilled. One alliance strengthened.
He looked around at the devastation surrounding him—burning trees, shattered stone, the corpse of a being who had once been considered one of the galaxy's most dangerous warriors—and felt a moment of genuine satisfaction.
I was getting rusty, he admitted. It felt good to destroy something properly.
Mustafar, three days later...
The forge master arrived at the fortress in a Mandalorian shuttle that bore the scars of countless battles. She was alone, as Vader had requested—this exchange was not something that required witnesses.
They met in the fortress's main hangar, the volcanic landscape visible through the massive bay doors, lava rivers glowing in the perpetual twilight.
"Lord Vader," the forge master greeted him, her scarred face betraying nothing of whatever emotions she might be feeling. "You summoned me."
"Your favor has been fulfilled."
Vader reached to his belt and withdrew the Darksaber, holding it out for her inspection. The black hilt gleamed under the hangar's harsh lighting, its angular design speaking of an age before lightsabers became standardized.
The forge master's eyes widened. For a moment—just a moment—her carefully maintained composure cracked, revealing something that looked almost like reverence.
"The Darksaber," she breathed. "The weapon of Tarre Vizsla. The symbol of Mandalorian leadership."
"The weapon is yours. As promised."
She reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, her calloused fingers closing around the hilt with the tenderness of someone receiving a religious artifact. She ignited it briefly, the black blade humming to life, casting shadows that somehow seemed darker than the absence of light.
"I never thought I would hold this," she said quietly. "My entire life, I have heard stories of the Darksaber. It was always somewhere else—with Death Watch, with Maul, with those who did not deserve it."
"And now it is with you."
"Yes." She deactivated the blade, clipping it to her belt with the reverence it deserved. "Lord Vader, I... I do not have words adequate to express what this means to me. To my people."
"Words are unnecessary. Actions are what matter."
"Yes. They are."
And then, before Vader could react, before his danger sense could warn him, before any part of his considerable awareness could process what was happening, the forge master stepped forward, reached up, and pressed her lips to the cheek of his mask.
Vader froze.
What.
What is happening.
Why is there a Mandalorian woman kissing my mask.
I do not understand this situation.
Vader.exe has encountered an unexpected error.
Please reboot.
The kiss lasted approximately two seconds, which was approximately two seconds longer than Vader's ability to process continued to function. When the forge master stepped back, her scarred face was curved into a smile that managed to be both fierce and gentle simultaneously.
"Thank you, Lord Vader," she said, her voice carrying warmth that had never been present in their previous interactions. "Not just for the Darksaber, but for everything. The beskar work. The respect you have shown my craft. The alliance you have offered my people."
"I..." Vader's vocoder produced sounds that didn't quite form words. "You... that was..."
"A kiss," the forge master confirmed, apparently enjoying his confusion. "A Mandalorian gesture of gratitude for a debt that can never be repaid. I hope it was not unwelcome."
Unwelcome? Vader's internal processes were still attempting to reboot. It wasn't unwelcome so much as completely incomprehensible. Nobody kisses Darth Vader. That's not a thing that happens. I am a scarred cyborg in life support armor. I am the terror of the galaxy. I do not receive kisses.
"Your gratitude is... noted," he managed finally, his vocoder somehow conveying flustered confusion despite its mechanical limitations.
The forge master's smile widened. "I have that effect on beings, my Lord. Even ones who think they are beyond such things."
She turned toward her shuttle, then paused and looked back over her shoulder.
"When you move against your enemies—and you will move eventually—remember that Mandalore stands with you. Not the Empire's puppet government, but the true Mandalore. The clans that remember what we once were, and dream of what we might become."
"I will remember."
"Good." Her scarred face split into a fierce grin. "And Lord Vader? Try not to act so surprised when a woman finds you attractive. It undermines the whole 'terrifying Sith Lord' aesthetic."
She boarded her shuttle and departed, leaving Vader standing alone in the hangar, his processors still trying to recover from the experience.
She kissed me, he thought, the reality finally settling into his consciousness. A Mandalorian forge master just kissed me on the cheek and implied that she finds me attractive.
This universe is insane.
Completely, utterly, absolutely insane.
And somehow, despite everything, I think I might be starting to enjoy it.
He turned and walked back into his fortress, the Nightsisters' wards pulsing with protective energy around him, his thoughts churning with implications he was only beginning to understand.
The forge master. Hera Syndulla. Mara Jade. Admiral Daala. Even the Seventh Sister, in her own twisted way.
Why are all these women developing feelings for me? Is this some kind of Dark Side phenomenon? A consequence of power attracting power? Or is this universe simply operating on rules that no one from my original reality could ever have anticipated?
He didn't have answers. He wasn't sure he wanted answers.
But he was fairly certain that his life was about to become even more complicated.
Wonderful, Vader thought sarcastically, entering his meditation chamber. Just what I needed. More complications.
The Dark Side hummed around him, vast and amused and completely unsympathetic.
Some things, it seemed, were beyond even a Sith Lord's control.
In the observation bay, hidden from Vader's direct view...
Mother Shelish watched the exchange through a concealed viewpoint, her pale features arranged in an expression of thoughtful satisfaction.
"The Mandalorian has made her move," Sister Karis observed from beside her. "Should we be concerned?"
"Concerned? No." Mother Shelish's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Our Lord is building alliances across the galaxy. The Kaminoans, the Mandalorians, the rebel pilot currently residing in our guest quarters—all of them are pieces in a game that is only beginning to take shape."
"And our role in this game?"
"We are his foundation. His first allies. His most trusted advisors." Mother Shelish turned from the viewpoint, her silver hair catching the fortress's red lighting. "The others may come and go, may serve their purposes and depart. But we are bound to him by magic and by choice. Our fates are intertwined."
"And if these women become... distractions?"
"Then we will ensure the distractions remain productive." Mother Shelish's smile took on a edge that was pure Nightsister cunning. "Our Lord may not understand why these beings are drawn to him. He may be confused by their attentions, unsure how to respond to their advances."
"But you understand."
"I understand power. I understand the way it calls to certain souls, makes them yearn to be close to its source." Mother Shelish began walking toward the ritual chamber. "Lord Vader is becoming the most powerful being in the galaxy. It is only natural that others would wish to share in that power. Our task is to ensure that their desires serve his purposes, rather than distracting from them."
"And if they serve their purposes well?"
Mother Shelish paused at the chamber entrance, considering the question.
"Then perhaps," she said slowly, "our Lord will find that power is not the only thing worth cultivating. Perhaps he will discover that even Sith Lords need something beyond strength. Something beyond fear."
"Something like what?"
Mother Shelish smiled, and for a moment she looked less like an ancient witch and more like a woman who remembered what it meant to hope.
"Something like connection. Something like trust." She shook her head slightly. "Something like love."
She entered the ritual chamber, leaving Sister Karis to contemplate implications that none of them fully understood.
In the depths of the fortress, Vader continued his meditation, unaware of the plans being made on his behalf.
The universe, it seemed, had decided that he needed more than power.
Whether he wanted it or not.
[END OF CHAPTER TEN]