The scout ship clawed its way into the fiery abyss's atmosphere, its rusted hull groaning under the assault of volcanic winds that roared like a wounded beast unbound. I gripped the co-pilot's seat, the Force surging through me, alive with this molten world's dark heartbeat—a raw, pulsing storm of rage and torment woven into its molten veins. The ship, a relic from some faded empire's silent years in Bay 17, trembled with a faint echo of intent I'd felt on Yavin 4—a whisper of purpose now swallowed by the inferno below.
Shepard hunched over the controls, his scarred hands wrestling levers he'd damned since we claimed this craft. "Come on, don't fail me now," he growled, voice tight with an unyielding grit. "Older than the damn Council and twice as cranky." His omni-tool flared orange, its tendrils straining against the ship's crude dash, but the thrusters sputtered, choking on the sulfuric haze that clawed my lungs through the hull's breaches. The landing gear whined—a pitiful protest—and refused to budge.
"She's fighting us," Shepard snapped, slamming a fist on the console. A shrill beep taunted him, sharp and defiant. "Where's the autopilot when you need it?" His frustration was a honed edge, forged in a galaxy of sleek machines that obeyed his will, not this stubborn beast demanding sweat and curses.
I reached out with the Force, my will threading through the chaos to steady our descent. This world's dark nexus pulsed around me—a fierce, hungry tide I respected yet bent, its power feeding my own. The ship steadied for a fleeting moment before its age betrayed us. "This craft heeds no flattery," I said, my voice a calm anchor amid the storm, recalling our dry exchange amid Yavin 4's collapse—a bond forged in the fire of survival.
He shot me a glare, green eyes flashing through the sweat streaking his face, a warrior's fire unbroken. "I'd trade this junker for the Normandy any day!" His omni-tool dimmed as the ship bucked hard, spiraling toward the scorched plateau below a towering dark citadel. "Brace yourself—this is gonna hit like a pissed-off krogan!"
The ground surged upward, a jagged expanse of black stone glowing with crimson lava veins, fierce as a dying star's embers. I tightened my grip, the Force flowing effortlessly, a balance of light and dark honed across centuries—this molten tide only sharpened it. The ship crashed with a grinding roar, skidding across volcanic rock. Sparks sprayed past the viewport like fading constellations, the hull shrieking until it slammed into a basalt outcrop. The engines coughed their last, a death rattle lost to the planet's restless growl.
Shepard unstrapped himself, exhaling a bitter laugh. "Two for two on this rig trying to kill us," he muttered, wiping grit from his brow. "First that hyperspace punch, now this."
I nodded, unease deepening. Rising, I closed my eyes, the Force unfurling like a storm across the void. Seven presences stirred within the citadel ahead, their auras raw and jagged, steeped in the dark side—hungry, unrefined, a bitter taste like ash on my tongue. "They're inside," I said, my voice steady. "Seven of them, strong in the dark."
Shepard stood, pulling a weapon from his side—a compact, alien device that clicked and shifted, its barrel glowing faintly before snapping to his armor's hold. "Seven on two," he said, tone grim yet resolute, a commander weighing the odds. "Let's make this quick."
The ramp hissed open, and the planet's wrath slammed into us—a blistering wall of heat that seared my throat through the breath mask, ash crunching beneath my boots, the ground trembling with distant lava flows. My robes, frayed by millennia, snapped in the sulfur-laden wind, the twin sabers at my hips humming a quiet vow—the violet crystal a steady song, the red a dormant ember I held in check. Shepard's N7 armor gleamed red and black, its helmet sealing with a hiss against the toxic air, scars whispering of battles beyond my stars. The dark citadel loomed ahead, its jagged spire piercing the haze, a monument to fury I'd once echoed—and transcended.
This world's dark tide flowed through me, a strength I'd wielded on countless battlefields lost to time. Whatever waited within—those seven shadows clutching my mask—I'd face them with the balance that defined me. The galaxy hung on a precipice, and here, in this fiery crucible, we'd carve its fate.
We stepped onto the plateau, my breath mask rasping against the toxic air, the ground shuddering like a beast rousing from slumber. Shepard's helmet gleamed, its visor filtering the sulfuric haze, his armor's barriers flickering faintly under the heat's assault. My senses sharpened, the Force amplifying every detail—the acrid sting of sulfur, the deep rumble of lava carving the crust, the faint hum of kyber buried in the stone. I felt a fierce defiance ahead, my mask's legacy—the silver-gray visor claimed on Cathar, cracked yet alive with my path through light and dark. This was a crucible of wills, a clash to reclaim what was mine.
We pressed across the ash-strewn plateau, boots scraping glassy obsidian, heat shimmering in waves that stung my eyes through the mask. A rift split the earth, and lava fleas erupted—armored shells flashing like embers, mandibles snapping with a shrill menace that clawed my nerves. I thrust my hand out, the Force surging sharper than ever, a telekinetic wave smashing three into the rock. Their shells burst with a crack, vaporized ichor hissing into steam, the stench of charred sulfur biting my senses.
Shepard lunged beside me, his biotic field flaring blue—then faltering, a lurch that yanked a curse from him. "What the hell?" he growled, shotgun barking instead, slugs shredding the creatures' hides into steaming husks. He crushed one on his arm, its mandibles screeching against cerametal before a wild pulse smashed it flat.
A geyser roared, crimson lava arcing like a serpent's strike. I raised a Force barrier, the molten spray sizzling against unseen walls, steam swirling like specters. "That was close," Shepard muttered, reloading with a click, his scatter-cannon tearing the last flea into goo. "Keeps the pests off." His voice carried a wry edge, unbroken by the fray.
The citadel's shadow deepened, its spires clawing the haze. An ash storm howled up, a gray veil stinging my face with embers, blinding us through our masks. We reached its threshold—cracked obsidian gates framing a scarred courtyard beyond. Traps flared—kyber shards in the stone glowed crimson, their blast a deafening pulse that shook the ground. My foresight sang, the violet crystal steadying me, and I pulled Shepard back, his boots skidding. "Kyber crystals," I warned, nodding to the shards. "One misstep, and they'll rend us asunder."
His omni-tool flickered, casting an orange glow as he scanned the entrance, frustration carving his features. "I'd have this cracked in seconds back home," he grumbled, "but with this crude tech, it'll take a minute." Time bled away, shadows shifting in the haze.
The courtyard opened before us, a scarred arena of obsidian spires and glowing fissures, its air thick with molten tang. Silence hung heavy, a stillness too deep for this restless world. "It's quiet," I murmured, the Force prickling my senses. "Too quiet." Shepard nodded, shotgun raised, his helmet's visor glinting as he scanned the gloom.
Then the Knights of Ren struck—six warriors bursting from the shadows, vibro-weapons gleaming with desperate ferocity, their ragged war cry echoing off the walls. A wiry figure darted at me, vibro-dagger flashing silver. My violet saber ignited with a snap-hiss, its hum a hymn of resolve, parrying with Makashi's grace. The blade seared through his weapon and chest, flesh cauterizing in a hiss of vapor, his form crumpling to the stone.
Another fired from a spire, blaster bolts cutting the ash. Shepard ducked, his biotic throw surging—then collapsing, rubble crashing short as he snarled, "Damn it, not now!" His pistol barked, toppling her perch in a cascade of rock, her cry lost in the din. A hulking warrior roared forward, vibro-hammer pounding the earth. I sidestepped, Force-pushing him into a lava moat—his bellow drowned as molten stone swallowed him, the air thick with seared flesh.
Two flanked us, whip and spear weaving through the haze. I snared the whip with the force, violet saber slashing the spear-wielder's chest, armor parting like silk, flesh sizzling beneath. Shepard's shotgun thundered, shredding the whip-user into a charred heap. The violet crystal sang, guiding each strike with centuries of war honed anew.
A Zabrak charged, dual vibro-axes whirling with fierce will. Shepard met her, biotic charge blazing—then stuttering, fading as he stumbled. "Not again!" he snapped, omni-blade flashing orange to clash with her steel. Sparks flew, the hard-light edge trembling under her blows but holding. He slashed her thigh, flesh searing, and she reeled, rising with a snarl, unbroken.
I moved to aid him, but a darker presence surged—raw, unyielding, a storm breaking from the fortress' heart. The violet crystal pulsed, steadying me, the red one stirring—a whisper I stilled. "Enough," I murmured, turning to face it, my blood alive.
The molten heart throbbed beneath my boots, a dark rhythm quickening as Vicrul strode from the citadel's shadowed maw—a grizzled warlord, his scarred face a testament to battles carved in hate, sneer twisting like a wound festering with pride. His vibro-scythe glowed red in his grip, phrik blade etched with runes that flickered like embers of ruin, its ultrasonic hum a low growl splitting the sulfurous air. My mask dangled from his belt, silver-gray and cracked, swaying like a stolen fragment of my soul—its faint Force hum clawed at my senses, a call from Cathar's blood-soaked fields now profaned in his grasp. Ash swirled around his boots, the blistering wind stinging my face through the breath mask, sweat beading as lava's deep roar pulsed through the stone.
"I am Vicrul!" he bellowed, voice a tempest of venom, raw with the dark side's unbridled surge. "Lord of this molten hell, reaper of your decayed galaxy! This mask is mine, you rotting specter—kneel, or I'll grind your bones into the ash you crawled from!" He unhooked my mask, dangling it before me with a sneer that could curdle blood, then tore off his own—a dented obsidian helm scarred by betrayal—and slid mine onto his face. The fit was a grotesque parody, its silver visage clashing with his jagged aura, and rage erupted within me—a storm igniting deep in my core. The red saber's kyber crystal pulsed at my hip ever louder, its fierce whisper urging me to strike, to rend my past from this dark-side wretch. I silenced it, fingers brushing the violet hilt instead, its steady song anchoring my resolve.
"You claim what you cannot comprehend," I declared, voice a resonant blade forged in centuries of war, cutting through the wind with the weight of a galaxy's turning. "That mask is a crucible of light and shadow, tempered by a will you'll never grasp—yield, or face the fire that forged it." The violet saber flared brighter with a sharp hum, its song a shield of purpose piercing the haze, my robes snapping in the scalding gusts as ash stung my eyes.
Vicrul's laugh was a jagged wound, swallowed by the planet's roar. "Your fire's nothing but ash!" He lunged, scythe slashing a lethal arc, crimson runes flaring as the blade tore the air. I met it with violet, the clash a thunderclap that shook the courtyard, sparks cascading like shattered stars. The Force surged through me, a torrent of will flinging him back—his boots skidded across obsidian, lava geysers erupting in his wake, their molten spray sizzling against the stone. He rolled, snarling, my mask glinting mockingly on his face as he rose, scythe spinning with renewed fury.
Shepard flanked me, slugs from his shotgun hammering Vicrul's evolved armor—phrik plating dented but unyielding. His biotic field flared blue, then faltered, cursing under his breath, helmet's visor glinting as he pivoted. "Stay sharp!" he growled, but the Zabrak—charged from the shadows, dual vibro-axes whirling with lethal grace. Her thigh wound from earlier oozed beneath her snarl, pain fueling her fury, her dark eyes blazing with defiance beneath a cracked mask. Shepard met her, omni-blade flashing orange, its hard-light edge clashing against her steel in a shower of sparks. "Not now, damn it!" he snapped as his biotic charge stuttered again, forcing him to weave and parry, locked in her relentless assault.
Vicrul seized the moment, scythe slashing a vicious crescent toward my chest. I twisted, violet saber parrying with Makashi's precision, but the tip grazed my ribs—a searing bite through fabric, cauterizing as it cut. The shadow within roared, red crystal pulsing like a heartbeat unbound, and I listened—crimson igniting with a hiss that rent the air, its wild hum a counterpoint to violet's calm. Dual blades spun in my hands, light and dark forged into a brutal dance, the Force surging through me like a river breaking its banks. I unleashed it—a shockwave through the Force erupted, cracking the obsidian beneath Vicrul's feet, hurling him back as lava flared higher, ash whipping into a frenzied storm. The planet trembled under my reborn power, a harmony of opposites I'd mastered through centuries of trial.
He staggered, scythe slashing wildly, and I advanced—violet parrying his thrust with surgical grace, red carving a brutal arc across his arm. The phrik blade met crimson, sparks exploding like dying suns, and his armor split, flesh searing beneath in a hiss of vaporized tissue. Vicrul grunted, pain fueling his rage, and lunged again—scythe arcing low, aiming to sever my legs. I leapt, Force-enhanced, landing behind him, violet slashing his flank, red hammering his shoulder in a relentless flurry. Each strike was a testament to my will, centuries of war distilled into this moment—light tempering dark, dark fueling light, a balance he couldn't fathom.
Across the courtyard, Shepard ducked the Zabrak's axes, his shotgun thundering, slugs tearing into her arm—she snarled, bloodless wounds smoking, but pressed on, forcing him back. "Tough bastard!" he spat, omni-blade flickering as Mustafar's interference seemed to slow his tech. She roared—"For Vicrul!"—and swung, driving him toward a glowing fissure, their duel a mirror to our own.
Vicrul circled, breath ragged, my mask trembling on his face as he gripped the scythe with both hands. "Kylo Ren bled us dry at Exegol—his cowardice burned my brothers while you slept in your tomb!" His voice cracked, venom giving way to a raw, buried wound—a betrayal that had forged him in this fiery ruin. "I rose from his ashes—you're nothing but dust! Zeth, kill the other one!" Vicrul barked, his voice a hoarse lash as he circled, scythe spinning with renewed fury, and I caught it between crossed sabers—violet and red locking the blade, the Force surging through my arms as I twisted, wrenching it from his grasp. It clattered across the stone, runes dimming, and I drove forward—violet slashing his chest plate, red hammering his thigh, armor parting like silk, flesh sizzling beneath.
He stumbled, crashing to his knees, eyes wide beneath my mask as awe shattered his scorn. "Both... as one," he rasped, voice breaking, the dark fire in his aura flickering against the weight of my presence. The Zabrak froze mid-strike, axes stilled as Shepard's shotgun pressed to her back—she turned, staring, her defiance wavering. The courtyard held its breath, lava's glow casting long shadows, ash spiraling like a requiem.
I towered over Vicrul, sabers weaving trails through the haze, the Force a living current within me—raw, unbowed, whole. "Knights of Ren," I intoned, voice a clarion forged in war's crucible, resonating through the heat with destiny's weight. "You stole my mask from Yavin 4's tomb, fleeing as Yavin 8 crumbled—a weak master that betrayed you, a force you call Kylo Ren. His echo is a wound I feel—dark, broken, lost. I am Revan—Jedi and Sith tempered into one, reborn from dust to face you here. You clutch my legacy, chasing his ruin—yet within you burns a spark unclaimed by light or dark. I've walked both paths, forged them into fire, and it's led me to this crucible. Rise with me, wield the Force as it truly is—whole, unbound—or fade into the ashes you've sown."
Vicrul's hands shook as he tore my mask free, staring into its cracked visage—then extended it toward me, head bowed. "Kylo was a coward," he growled, voice raw with rage and revelation, the heat searing his breath. "Slaughtering my kin at Exegol, too weak to wield the force's storm. You're no ghost—you're the Legend whispered in shadows, no longer dust." Vicrul's voice fractured, reverence slicing through his venom as he extended my mask, head bowed in the ash-strewn glow. Beside him, Zeth dropped to one knee, her axes clattering to the stone, her defiance yielding to a flicker of awe. A third shadow stirred—the Knight staggered by Shepard's earlier shockwave, his armor fissured, cauterized wounds steaming faintly in the heat. Grit hardened his ragged breath as he hauled himself upright, resolve burning through his pain, and lurched forward. In unison with Vicrul's lead, Zeth and this survivor struck their knees against the obsidian, the stone cracking beneath their combined surrender—a trinity bound not by defeat, but by a spark rekindled in this molten crucible.
"We're done with Ren," Vicrul rasped, the citadel's spires quaking as if the planet itself bore witness. "Kylo's shadow ends here—his betrayal forged us in ruin, but you've ignited a flame we'd forgotten." His words trembled with raw conviction, the heat searing his breath as he looked up, eyes meeting mine through the haze. "We rise anew, sworn to you—not as echoes of a broken past, but as heralds of what's to come."
I stepped forward, the Force flowing through me like a quiet river, steady and deep, its currents whispering of paths yet untraveled. My mask settled into my palms, its warm scars a pulse of promise reborn—not a trophy of conquest, but a beacon for what these Knights could become. Sliding it on, the silver-gray visage fused with my will, its ancient hum amplifying my voice as I spoke. "This is no end, but a beginning," I said, words resonating with the weight of destiny, tempered by centuries of shadow and light. "You've cast off a fractured chain—now forge a purpose whole and unbound. The ember kindled here will blaze beyond this fire."
As one, they rose—Vicrul first, Zeth and the wounded Knight following, their knees lifting from the shattered stone in a silent vow. "We stand as The Knights of Revan," Vicrul declared, his voice steady now, an official mantle claimed with the strength of their shared resolve. "Forged in this flame, pledged to your path." The lava flared behind them, casting their silhouettes against the citadel's jagged spires, a nascent order stepping from the ashes into a future I'd glimpsed in the Force's quiet song.
Shepard stepped forward, helmet retracting with a hiss, green eyes narrowing through the ash with a skeptic's edge, yet trust held firm—a bond tempered in this alien hell. "Hell of a fight," he muttered, shotgun lowering. "You sure they're on our side now?"
"They are," I replied, standing tall, mask aglow, the Knights' oath a heavy mantle—a new order born in fire, its shadow stretching beyond this crucible, whispering of a third path yet to rise.
The ash swirled thick, a shroud that carried the weight of the now Knight of Revan's words into the molten glow.
The shotgun's barrel scalded my glove as I eased it down, heat seeping through my N7 plating like a slow burn. Ash choked the air, clawing my throat raw with every breath, the acrid mix of sulfur and scorched steel hitting like a slug to the gut. I stood firm, boots grinding ash into the obsidian courtyard, watching Revan cradle that mask, its crimson-silver scars slicing through the haze like a flare in the dark. Three figures—Vicrul, Zeth, and that battered third Knight—rose before him, their jagged armor catching the lava's glow, dented and scarred but unbroken. Their eyes burned with a resolve I'd seen in turian holdouts on Palaven, staring down Reaper husks—fierce, remade. Revan had flipped their allegiance from chaos with a speech that landed like a biotic shockwave, shattering their defiance, and damn if it didn't rattle me too. A smirk tugged at my lips, ash gritting my teeth with a sharp, bitter bite—I'd nearly snapped a salute myself, and I don't bow, not to Cerberus, not to the Council, not even when the galaxy was cinders.
"Well, shit," I rasped, voice like gravel scraped raw, slinging the shotgun over my shoulder. Its weight settled against my back, thermal clip still humming with heat. "You've got yourself a squad, mask man. Didn't peg you for the 'rally the troops' type." My head was already working it: He's half-cocked, no question, but he bends wills like I bend barriers—mask's back, and they're hooked like it's some ancient relic pulling levers. I eyed the Knights—Vicrul's rough edge, Zeth's horns piercing her shredded hood, her stare cutting like a blade, and the third's quiet steel. Three left from seven we'd faced—two against that odds wasn't shabby, but it still felt like we'd skated a razor's edge, one misstep from a Citadel-sized collapse.
The fortress hulked around us, its fractured spires and blackened stone etched with the fight's scars—split from Revan's Force blast, scorched by my slugs. Lava simmered below, veins of fire threading the floor like a beast stirring beneath, its heat baking my armor raw. This place thrummed with a tension I couldn't shake, like it was holding its breath, waiting to spit out the next threat. That thing from Yavin 4—the colossal shadow that smashed Yavin 8 and vanished—still gnawed at me, a weight Revan seemed to feel too, though he hadn't said it. My omni-tool stayed quiet, no scans to pin it down, but my gut screamed trouble, same as it did when the Reapers first hit—too big, too wrong. This wasn't just a mask grab anymore; whatever we'd stirred back there, three Knights and two beat-up vets like us weren't enough—not against a force that could crack moons and leave the wreckage smoking.
"An army, huh?" I said, stepping up, nodding at his mask—its scars flared in the lava's light like a map burned in fire. "Guess we're recruiters now. Hope they're as nuts as you." My mind churned: Three's a fireteam, not a fix. We're outgunned, outmanned, and this galaxy's game doesn't match mine. Revan threw around "Force" and "balance" like it was basic training, while I was still wrestling how his tricks meshed with my biotics. I'd fought wars—Reapers tearing fleets apart, Collectors snatching colonies into nothing—but this felt heavier, messier, like we'd need more than guts to hit back. An army, forged tough enough to face that Yavin monster—that's what we were chasing, and the thought sent a chill through my plating, even as the heat chewed my joints.
Revan turned, his scarred face steady, mask alive in his grip—its hum buzzed the air like static before a strike. He tilted his head, that spark of wonder flaring in his eyes, like a guy who could twist the stars. "The ember ignites the flame," he said, voice low and sure, like some old vow carved in stone. "We begin here."
"Yeah, long as the flame doesn't render us ascender," I shot back, smirking through the unease twisting my spine. "Next play—point this crew at whatever's still out there. That thing from Yavin's not done with us." My gut tightened, a soldier's hunch I couldn't shake, and I shifted my grip on my pistol, its thermal clip a solid weight in my hand. Three Knights at our backs, a fortress thick with echoes, and a threat lingering out there—bigger than anything I'd tackled, even with the Normandy's guns blazing. Revan's calm was a lifeline, but that mask felt like a loaded charge, and I couldn't tell if we were lighting a signal or priming a blast.
The air grew heavy, lava casting jagged shadows across the Knights' rising forms—Vicrul's rasp, Zeth's fierce silence, the third's battered resolve all fixed on Revan. "We stand as The Knights of Revan," Vicrul had vowed, and their eyes carried it—reverence laced with grit, like they'd seen a legend turn warlord. My omni-tool hummed low, scanning the fortress walls—heat from the lava flows, no life beyond us. The fight had left its scars—shattered stone, my shotgun's scorch marks—but the real war waited out there, that Yavin shadow Revan swore we'd face. Three Knights with blades pledged to him, sure, but I'd learned on Palaven's ash-strewn fields that numbers don't win alone. Strategy, firepower, maybe a damn break—that's what we'd need.
I closed the gap, boots grinding ash into the floor, heat seeping through my soles. "So, what's the move?" I asked, keeping it light despite the storm in my skull. "You've got your posse—where do we take this fight? That thing from Yavin's still out there, and I've got a bad vibe it's circling back." Revan's silence stretched, mask catching the light, and I wondered if his Force could feel what my instincts screamed—a war brewing beyond the stars, bigger than us both.