NEW REPUBLIC POV
Location: Alliance Council Chamber, Home One Capital Ship
The table was crowded—commanders, aides, envoys. A dozen worlds were being discussed. Most were hesitant. Some were open. A few were waiting to see if the Empire would stay dead this time.
Leia sat near the head of the table, arms folded, listening intently as Admiral Ackbar reviewed updates from Sullust and Chandrila.
"...And the provisional council on Ithor is requesting protection before they declare formally. They're watching the Mid Rim closely," he said, glancing toward Mon Mothma.
Before she could respond, a comm chime interrupted.
"Ma'am," said a junior officer, stepping in. "Apologies. We've intercepted something that requires immediate attention."
Everyone turned.
"A broadcast," the officer continued, holding out a datapad. "Civilian-origin. Picked up by a Bothan slicer an hour ago. It's spreading fast across Outer Rim relays."
Ackbar frowned. "What kind of broadcast?"
"You need to see it," the officer said, already transferring it to the room's holoscreen.
The lights dimmed. The footage began to play.
[BEGIN PLAYBACK: CIVILIAN DISTRESS SIGNAL – FILE CORRUPTED]
The holoscreen stutters. Static. Then picture.
A shaky feed. Ground-level. City in flames.
Whoever's filming is running—camera jerking with every step. Firelight washes over broken duracrete and collapsed buildings. Shadows flicker across smoke-choked streets. The air's alive with screams—raw, panicked, layered over each other like a crowd stampeding.
Blaster fire cracks nearby. Loud. Sudden. The audio peaks and distorts.
The camera swings hard to the side—no control. The person behind it is fleeing. Breathing fast. Stumbling. Dirt and ash streak the lens.
Then he steps through the flames.
Tall. Black armor. Moving slow—too calm for the chaos around him. A red blade snaps to life, its light cutting through smoke and fire. He doesn't speak. Doesn't rush. Every step looks deliberate, like this is all part of some plan.
Then—a flash.
A bolt from offscreen hits the camera operator. The feed lurches. There's a choked sound, then a crash. Dust fills the view. The camera lands crooked, half-buried in rubble.
Still recording.
Bootsteps now. Heavy. Synchronized. Fading in, then out.
Smoke curls past the lens. For a second, it clears—just enough to catch a silhouette in the sky.
An Imperial Star Destroyer. Hovering. Watching.
No bombardment. No orders.
Just watching.
The screen glitches again—colors twist, data fragments flicker—
[END PLAYBACK – SIGNAL LOST]
The lights came back up. No one spoke.
"Where did this come from?" Leia asked, her voice low.
"Bothan slicer scraped it from the net," the intelligence officer said. "No metadata, but we're suspecting it is Ord Mantell. Not verified."
Mon Mothma leaned forward. Her voice was quiet. "Another warlord?"
Leia's eyes didn't leave the screen. "No. This isn't about power. He's not trying to take control. He's making a point."
"A point of what?" asked one of the envoys.
Leia folded her arms. "Finality. this I think is a statement of intent this reads as old Imperial tactics before Yavin."
The officer cleared his throat. "We ran a analysis. Closest match is one of Vader and the old Inquisitorius. Records are spotty. No positive ID."
Leia inhaled sharply, then nodded once. "Send this to Luke. He's off-world, scouting Jedi sites—old temples, libraries. If there's anyone who can make sense of this, it's him."
Mon Mothma looked across the room. "And if he can't?"
No one answered.
Outside, in the hangars and corridors of Home One, the buzz of a recent victory still lingered. Worlds were talking, commanders planning. A future was being drawn in fragile outlines.
But here in the war room, something darker had taken root.
The Emperor was gone.
But the darkness wasn't finished.
Not yet.
WARLORD ZSINJ POV
Location: Aboard the Iron Fist
Zsinj watched the footage on loop, swirling a glass of Corellian brandy. The holoscreen flickered across the scarred metal walls. Onscreen, the black-armored figure moved with inhuman precision—slow, deliberate, lethal. Fire roared behind him. Screams filled the air. But the man at the center radiated absolute control.
Zsinj scowled. "Another pretender. They're multiplying like rodents."
An ISB attaché cleared his throat, datapad trembling slightly in his hands. "Sir... our analysis section flagged something. A pattern match."
Zsinj didn't turn. "With who?"
"No one alive, sir. It matches... a rumour."
Zsinj raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "A rumour."
The attaché nodded. "From deep black-level chatter. Not intel—just whispers. Codename: The Shadow. Some kind of phantom. Supposedly the Emperor had something off the books. Not even Vader had clearance apparently. No proof. Just stories."
Zsinj turned to the frozen frame. The figure stood unmoving amid flame and ruin.
"So. We're not just fighting warlords. We're fighting a ghost story a bloody myth."
He drained the brandy in one motion and set the glass down with a large thud.
"Recall all forces from the Mid Rim. Cut ties with what's left of the Council. I'll build my own Empire—no myth! or shadow is going to stop me."
He faced the viewport, stars drifting past.
"Have our slicers watch every channel. Every anomaly. If this Shadow is real… I want to know what he wants. And whether he's coming for me."
GRAND MOFF KAINE POV
Location: Aboard the Reaper, Flag Bridge
"Sir," the aide said cautiously, "we've confirmed the rebellion on Ord Mantell has been... extinguished. Violently. There are scattered survivors, but they're too terrified to speak. Whole districts are silent — burned out or cleared. It wasn't a suppression. It was a purge."
The holoscreen above the command dais flickered into life, casting a pale light across the bridge. Raw, unfiltered orbital footage filled the screen — the unmistakable silhouette of the First Brother, lightsaber humming with restrained fury, surrounded by the broken remnants of an uprising. Stone shattered, bodies crumpled like discarded armour. In the backdrop, a series of firestorms painted the skyline in hues of crimson and black. The city had not fallen; it had been erased.
Kaine stood motionless, one hand resting against the cold edge of the console. "So it begins," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The words carried a finality the crew felt but dared not echo. The command bridge quieted, the air thick with implication.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and the memory returned — the Emperor's voice, grainy, private, layered with meaning. If the worst comes... my friend, and you ever need assistance, you are to contact him. He may be the last thread of order left. The last one who will act without question.
Kaine had dismissed it as a formality at the time. A precaution tucked away like a data crystal in a vault. The Inquisitorius was dissolved. The First Brother was a shadow. But now the shadow had shape — fire, steel, and command.
He turned to his aide, slowly, gaze sharp. "Open a channel. Not to the Bastion — he's not there. He made his move on Ord Mantell. Find the vector. Trace it. I want to know where he fell back to."
The aide swallowed. "And if he doesn't answer, sir?"
Kaine didn't hesitate. "Then we send a delegation. Carefully armed, heavily shielded, and polite. We don't provoke him — we ask. We offer. If the galaxy is breaking into fragments, we will not be the ones left clutching dust."
He walked forward a few steps, looking up at the paused holofeed. The image of the First Brother remained — crimson, unmoving, imperious.
"He was always meant to be a weapon. A reserve blade buried deep within the Empire's spine. Now the sheath is gone."
Kaine's voice dropped to a near-whisper.
"And I intend to be standing beside him — not beneath him — when the blade descends."
LEONIA TAVIRA POV
Location: Aboard stolen ISD, mid-escape
"You lied to me!" Tavira shrieked, her voice rising above the rumble of hyperspace as the view-port dimmed to accommodate the brightness of reentry. Behind them, her world receded—its surface glowing from the after-burn of false alarms. The supposed Rebel fleet had been nothing but a diversion, a smokescreen spun by liars and cowards, and she'd been lured into abandoning everything for the promise of salvation that never came.
She had packed everything she could — crates of stolen gold, priceless artifacts, loyal crew, mercenary captains, data-banks full of blackmail files, and even salvaged art from abandoned worlds — all stuffed into the cavernous hangars of the commandeered Imperial Star Destroyer. It was a flying treasure vault, her last bastion of power, wealth, and leverage, she is a survivor.
Now, hurtling through hyperspace with her knuckles white on the command railing, she gave the order to drop out. The blue tunnel shattered into stars. Ord Mantell unfolded below them, its atmosphere scarred and smouldering, cities still glowing with residual heat signatures from fresh bombardment.
Buildings that had stood for centuries were nothing but slag. Industrial towers had crumbled like ancient temples. Smoke still drifted through the upper stratosphere. The orbital relays caught a single broadcast on repeat, but unmistakable:
This world is now under True Imperial occupation.
Tavira's breath caught. Her blood ran cold. "Get us out of here," she snapped, then hesitated, eyes narrowing as the reality fully hit her. "No — wait. Hold position. Keep us in low orbit. Amplify external sensors. Let's see who this butcher really is and hopefully make a deal."
Her crew didn't move, silent as they stared at the holomap, which now displayed a grim detail: a full Imperial fleet loomed just ahead, weapons armed, formation tight. A blockade in all but name.
Tavira's expression darkened. "If he's the next warlord, I want to know how he treats his trophies. If he's something worse... then we need to decide whether to run, or kneel. And if we kneel, we better offer something worth mercy."
LUMIYA POV
Location: Vjun, Bast Castle
The dark side screamed.
She felt it the moment Palpatine died — a gaping silence in the Force then pain, like a sun extinguished in an instant. When her Lord Vader's presence faded into nothingness, she mourned, but this... this was something different. Colder. Older. More precise in its malice.
A tremor echoed across the void — not just grief, but fury. Wrathful, ancient, laced with authority and judgment. It did not call for vengeance. It promised it.
Lumiya's breath caught as she dropped to her knees within the meditation chamber of Bast Castle. All her teachings, her manipulations, her climb from obscurity — they faltered under the weight of what she now felt. Not a resurgence. A reckoning.
And then, in the stillness, the Force whispered a name she hadn't heard in decades: First Brother. A relic name. A codename that hadn't been spoken aloud since the final days of the Purge. Buried under classified orders and sealed archives. A shadow even among the shadows.
"Impossible," she breathed, but the Force did not relent.
Her eyes opened, burning faintly with sickly crimson light. Moments later, her starfighter launched from Vjun's subterranean hangar. She didn't know where it would take her — only that the dark side demanded her movement. It did not offer a destination, only an imperative:
Fight.Follow. Witness. Serve — or perish.
IMPERIAL SHADOW COUNCIL POV
Location: Coruscant, Imperial Palace – Throne Level, then Hidden Chamber
I woke up drowning in silence.
The Imperial Palace was too quiet — no shuttles overhead, no ceremonial procession echoing in the atriums. No voice. No command. No him.
Palpatine was dead. Sheev, my friend, my master, the man I had served longer than most senators had drawn breath, was ash.
I rose from the bed in his private quarters — the same quarters where I had once stood by his side, offering counsel as he shaped the galaxy. The bedding still smelled faintly of oils and incense, the kind he used before facing the Senate. Everything was untouched. No staff dared enter. Perhaps they knew the throne was mine — or perhaps they feared it.
Emperor Pestage. The words meant nothing.
I wandered through the corridors in a daze, marble silence stretching like a tomb. Gilded pillars rose on either side like grave markers. The murals of victory, the sculptures of domination — they seemed hollow now. Like echoes of a dream I was never meant to inherit.
When I reached the main hall, I paused under the great statue of Vader. I used to joke it was an indulgence. Now it felt like a warning.
And then the summons came.
The Shadow Council had convened.
In the hidden chamber beneath the Palace, the few that remained sat around the blackstone table — admirals, COMPNOR directors, oversectors, all waiting for me to declare order. I stood at the head, but said nothing. My mind was still drifting in mourning.
That's when the holofeed started.
Static. A screaming city. And then — him.
The First Brother.
Walking through fire, dragging crimson justice behind him. Vader's fury. Palpatine's power. Coalesced into him..
I felt my bladder release before I even realised it. Warm. Humiliating. No one said a word.
"He was third... and now he's first," I whispered.
Somewhere behind me, the chamber erupted.
"Pledge allegiance before it's too late!" shouted one voice.
"No! He'll gut us all like traitors!" another yelled.
Fists slammed tables. Blasters were drawn. Someone began screaming prayers to the Emperor.
I stood motionless, staring at the last frozen frame — the First Brother, surrounded by smoke, staring skyward. Toward us.
He was no longer off in some distant corner of the Galaxy.
He was coming.
COMPNOR POV – Expanded Civil War
Location: COMPNOR Headquarters, Federal District, Coruscant
The holoscreens flared to life in a burst of static. Reports flooded every console—Ord Mantell, razed to the foundations. The First Brother, alive, active, and broadcasting authority not seen since the days of Vader. The return of such a myth fractured COMPNOR's fragile unity in an instant.
"He is the heir!" shouted one official, slamming a gloved fist on the control desk. "The Emperor's silent hand! We must submit—immediately—before he brings judgment on us!"
"He is a traitor!" bellowed another, leaping from his seat. "A ghost in armour! The Emperor is dead—this man is a usurper! A pretender using fear and shadow to steal what remains!"
Arguments escalated into shouts. Holo-feeds of fire and blood looped in the background, casting crimson light across the chamber.
Then came the first blaster shot. It wasn't clear who fired.
Screams erupted. Officers dove behind terminals. Loyalists and dissenters alike began turning on one another—slowly turning into open conflict. Desks were overturned. Sealed doors were breached.
In less than three minutes, COMPNOR's command floor had become a micro-civil war.
Some called out for order. Others called out for mercy. None were heard over the roar of collapsing doctrine and loyalty torn in half.
Entire wings of the facility began to fracture along ideological lines. Floor by floor, entire departments declared rival allegiances. Some raised banners of the old Empire, others daubed black sigils and invoked the First Brother's name as a prophet of vengeance.
A COMPNOR security director attempted to initiate lockdown procedures — only to be shot by his own second-in-command. A propaganda bureau office detonated from within, set ablaze by extremists refusing to let their secrets fall into 'heresy'. Encrypted data cores were stolen or destroyed. Dozens of officials fled down maintenance shafts, some dragging children and spouses, others carrying black vault cases marked with Imperial glyphs.
It was no longer a debate.
It was civil war.
And the war did not stay contained.
The fighting spilled out of COMPNOR's towers into the Federal District. Pedestrian skywalks became battlegrounds. Gunships scrambled in confusion as conflicting clearance codes were transmitted. Fires leapt from tower to tower. Citizens fled as turbolifts jammed and blast doors locked. The Archives burned. The ISB Central Analysis Wing was bombed by loyalist saboteurs, its upper floors sheared open to the sky. Dozens of agents died in fire or fell to their deaths, reports lost forever.
And still it spread.
Some of the fighting pushed toward the edges of the Imperial Palace grounds—but the Palace itself stood firm. Its outer walls bristled with turbolasers and energy shields. Entire regiments of stormtroopers deployed in phalanx formations. Gunships hovered like vultures above the plaza. The Royal Guard patrolled the upper spires in silence.
Yet even here, the cracks had formed.
Within the barracks, whispers spread. Among the red-armoured elite, there were those who remembered him. The First Brother. Not by name, but by presence — by the silence that once followed him down shadowed corridors. He was the Emperor's unseen hand, second only to His Majesty and Lord Vader, a figure wrapped in mystery and fear.
Two of the Royal Guard deserted that night, slipping through emergency access routes and vanishing into the city.
They left no messages. Only a single datachip with coordinates and one phrase burned into its surface:
"The rightful one has returned."
And blood poured freely within the Imperial Center as it fell into chaos.
GILAD PELLAEON POV
Location: Aboard the Star Destroyer Chimaera
The lift hissed open.
Twelve COMPNOR and ISB operatives staggered into the command deck, flanked by stormtroopers. Their uniforms were torn, some stained with blood. A few had stripped off insignia entirely. One officer collapsed the moment his boots touched durasteel.
Crates followed them—dozens, sealed and marked with classification codes Pellaeon hadn't seen since before. Burned-in Imperial red. Deep black glyphs. And on three of them: the personal seal of the Emperor.
Pellaeon watched from the holotable, hands behind his back, face unreadable.
Behind him, Coruscant burned.
COMPNOR Headquarters—the Palace Annex—was live on every screen. Fires raged across the Federal District. Civilian feeds had cut to static, but internal military nodes still streamed. Blaster fire in the halls. Officers shooting each other in meeting rooms. Propaganda towers crumbling to slag. Screams in corridors once used for parades.
The Empire's center of ideological power had turned on itself.
A former ISB attaché stepped forward, shaking, cradling a datapad against his chest.
"We barely got out," he said hoarsely. "It's all gone. Command structure. Chain of control. Pestage is under siege in his own office. Half the Council's dead or fled."
Pellaeon gave him nothing.
"And the crates?" he asked coldly.
"Everything we could carry," the man said. "Black archives. Disavowed files. Deep metadata. And... this."
He held out the datapad.
"The Emperor's vault. The complete contents. Project codenames, research, final contingency protocols. And confirmation. On him."
Pellaeon raised an eyebrow. "The First Brother you mean yes?."
The attaché nodded. "He is real. More than that— we have actual proof old mission dossiers and his latest mission within the New Territories."
A silence fell over the bridge.
Pellaeon slowly took the datapad, his eyes scanning the file headers. There were hundreds. Each tagged, locked, sealed in archaic script overlays and military-grade encryption.
He looked back to the officers.
"You didn't defect, you are no traitors," he said. "You made a decision because this... changes everything."
The officer nodded. "We saw the footage. So did the rest of COMPNOR. That's what started it."
A transmission broke through — live. Security drone footage showed a second team breaking from the wreckage, dragging another set of crates and coded cylinders. The camera caught one figure holding a fluttering Imperial flag upside down — a symbol of surrender and plea.
Pellaeon turned to his aide.
"Seal the hangar. Lock down the deck. These crates are now under our protection under the Chimaera."
"Yes sir."
"And bring me a secure line. I want every transmission node monitored for references to the First Brother. Any system. Any ship."
He looked down at the datapad, the encryption burning faintly under his fingers.
"You've delivered the Empire's final memory," he said quietly. "And perhaps... its future."
The ISB man dropped to one knee, not from ceremony—from exhaustion.
"We didn't know where else to go," the ISB man said, voice cracked with fatigue. "You're our last hope — the only one left who still stands for what the Empire was truly meant to be."
Pellaeon turned to the viewport, the cityscape of Coruscant flickering beneath the pall of smoke and distant explosions. It wasn't just the capital burning — it was a legacy unraveling, a thousand promises collapsing into ash.
"No," he said quietly, eyes distant. "I'm not the last hope. I'm just the last one who remembers what the Empire was supposed to be — before the corrupt Moffs the politicians."
He let the silence settle like dust over the command deck. The officers behind him waited, breath held. The datapad still burned in his hand — not with heat, but with memory.
"If this First Brother is the Emperor's true legacy," he said at last, "then we'll find him. And we'll determine whether he's the Empire's final act... or its rebirth."
[End]