The fortress was complete.
Vader stood on the highest observation deck, watching the twin suns of a distant star system set behind Mustafar's perpetual volcanic haze, and allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. Three years of construction, countless billions of credits, and more logistical nightmares than he cared to remember—but it was done.
The structure rose three hundred meters above the volcanic plain, a spire of black durasteel and volcanic stone that seemed to drink in the light around it. Its architecture was deliberately intimidating—all sharp angles and aggressive lines, a visual statement of power that could be seen from orbit. The exterior was reinforced with materials that could withstand orbital bombardment, while the interior contained everything a Dark Lord could possibly need: training facilities, meditation chambers, artifact vaults, living quarters, and an arena specifically designed for therapeutic violence.
But the true defenses were invisible.
The Nightsisters had woven their magicks throughout every level, creating barriers and wards that would confound even the most determined attacker. The fortress existed in a state of partial dimensional displacement—a technique that Mother Shelish had spent months perfecting—meaning that anyone trying to breach its walls without proper authorization would find themselves walking in circles, their sense of direction hopelessly scrambled.
"It is magnificent," Mother Shelish said, appearing at his side with the silent grace that all Nightsisters seemed to possess. "A worthy seat of power for the Lord of Shadow."
"It is adequate," Vader replied, though his vocoder couldn't quite hide the satisfaction in his voice. "The real value is not in the structure itself, but in what it represents."
"Independence."
"Precisely." Vader turned from the viewport, his cape swirling behind him. "When I am here, I am not the Emperor's apprentice. I am not an Imperial enforcer. I am simply... myself."
Mother Shelish's pale lips curved into a knowing smile. "And who is that, Lord Vader? Who are you, when no one is watching?"
It was a question that Vader had been asking himself for years now. The answer remained elusive.
Marcus Chen died arguing about Star Wars on Reddit, he thought. Darth Vader was born in fire and pain on this very planet. But what exists now—this fusion of knowledge and power, of memory and identity—what is that?
"I am what I need to be," he said finally. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
"A practical answer." Mother Shelish inclined her head. "The sisters have completed the final warding rituals. The fortress is now fully protected. Even the Emperor himself would struggle to breach our defenses."
"Good. Because I suspect our independence is about to be tested."
He gestured toward a holographic display that materialized in the air before them, showing a star map of the Outer Rim territories.
"Imperial intelligence has identified unusual activity in the Lothal sector. A rebel cell has been operating with increasing boldness, disrupting Imperial operations, stealing supplies, and—most concerning—inspiring other systems to consider resistance."
"A minor nuisance, surely. The Empire has crushed countless such cells."
"This one is different." Vader highlighted a specific data point on the display. "They have a Jedi."
Mother Shelish's eyes widened slightly. "A survivor of the Purge?"
"Apparently. A Padawan named Kanan Jarrus, who escaped Order 66 and has spent the intervening years in hiding. He has now emerged, training a new apprentice, and leading a crew of rebels who have become symbols of hope for dissidents throughout the sector."
Kanan Jarrus, Marcus Chen's buried consciousness noted. Caleb Dume, actually. And his apprentice will be Ezra Bridger—the street kid with the blue lightsaber. The crew of the Ghost. The beginning of what will eventually become the organized Rebellion.
"The Emperor has assigned me to deal with them personally," Vader continued. "He believes their Jedi represents a threat that the Inquisitors cannot handle alone."
"And what do you believe?"
Vader considered the question carefully.
In the original timeline—the one that Marcus Chen had watched play out across multiple seasons of animated television—the Ghost crew had been a persistent thorn in the Empire's side. They had survived encounters with Inquisitors, with Vader himself, with threats that should have destroyed them dozens of times over. They had been protected by plot armor and the needs of an ongoing narrative.
But this was not a television show. This was reality—or whatever passed for reality in a universe where Marcus Chen had been reincarnated as Darth Vader.
The question is not whether I can destroy them, Vader thought. The question is whether I should.
The Ghost crew had been instrumental in the formation of the Rebel Alliance. Their activities had inspired countless others to resist, had provided the spark that eventually became a galaxy-spanning movement. Without them, the Rebellion might never have coalesced into the force that would eventually destroy the Death Star.
But I don't want the Death Star destroyed, Vader realized. Not if it means Alderaan being destroyed first. I need the Rebellion to form, but I need it to form in ways that don't require planetary genocide to motivate it.
It was a delicate balance. Let the rebels flourish too much, and they might actually threaten his plans. Crush them too thoroughly, and the timeline diverged in unpredictable ways.
I'll have to be surgical, he decided. Eliminate specific threats while allowing others to survive. Shape the Rebellion rather than destroying it.
"I believe," Vader said aloud, "that this mission will require a careful touch. The rebels must be defeated—but not destroyed. Their survival serves a purpose that the Emperor cannot see."
Mother Shelish studied him with ancient, knowing eyes.
"You are playing a longer game than even I suspected, Lord Vader."
"I am playing the only game that matters." Vader turned toward the exit. "Prepare the fortress for my absence. I may be gone for some time."
The Lothal System, two weeks later...
The Ghost was exactly where Imperial intelligence had predicted it would be—hiding in the asteroid field on the system's outer edge, its crew apparently planning their next operation against the local Imperial garrison.
Vader observed from the bridge of his personal corvette, the Scimitar—a heavily modified vessel that he had acquired through channels that existed nowhere in Imperial records. It was smaller than the Devastator, more maneuverable, and equipped with stealth systems that rendered it virtually invisible to standard sensors.
Perfect for operations that the Emperor doesn't need to know about, he thought. Also perfect for hunting rebels who think they're safe.
The crew of the Ghost was visible through his ship's enhanced scanners. Six beings, moving through their vessel with the easy familiarity of long association. He identified each of them from Marcus Chen's memories:
Hera Syndulla—Twi'lek pilot, daughter of a famous resistance leader, the heart and soul of the crew. Her figure, like every woman in this universe, was spectacularly improbable, her flight suit doing nothing to conceal curves that would have caused traffic accidents on any civilized world.
Kanan Jarrus—the Jedi, a human male in his late twenties, carrying a lightsaber that he had kept hidden for years. His Force presence was muted but unmistakable, a beacon of Light Side energy that Vader could sense from kilometers away.
Sabine Wren—Mandalorian artist and explosives expert, barely into adulthood, her armor painted with colors that somehow only emphasized her own developing figure. Even the Mandalorians, Vader sighed internally. This universe is consistent in its absurdity.
Garazeb Orrelios—Lasat warrior, one of the last of his species, a towering figure of purple fur and barely contained violence. Not a woman, thankfully, which meant Vader didn't have to process any additional anatomical impossibilities.
Chopper—an astromech droid with a personality that could charitably be described as "hostile." Vader felt an immediate kinship with the cantankerous machine.
And finally, Ezra Bridger—the new apprentice. A boy of perhaps fourteen, strong in the Force but completely untrained, his potential flickering like a candle in a windstorm.
The child, Vader thought, studying Ezra's Force signature. He's the key to this whole situation. Kanan is teaching him, shaping him, turning him into a Jedi. If I want to influence the Rebellion's development, I need to influence him.
The question was how.
Killing the boy would be easy but counterproductive. A martyred child would only inspire greater resistance. And there was something about Ezra's Force signature that intrigued Vader—a darkness lurking beneath the Light, a potential for power that the Jedi would never allow him to explore.
I could turn him, Vader realized. Not now, not directly, but over time. Plant seeds of doubt, expose him to truths that the Jedi would hide, gradually erode his faith in the Light Side.
It was a long-term strategy, requiring patience and subtlety. But Vader had developed considerable patience since his awakening, and subtlety was becoming one of his specialties.
First, though, I need to introduce myself. Establish the legend. Give the boy something to fear.
"Take us in," Vader commanded. "Disable their hyperdrive. I want them trapped, not destroyed."
The Scimitar surged forward, its weapons systems locking onto the Ghost with surgical precision.
Aboard the Ghost, chaos erupted.
"We've got company!" Hera shouted, throwing the ship into evasive maneuvers that would have been impressive if their attacker's targeting systems weren't quite so advanced. "Imperial corvette, closing fast!"
"Imperials? Out here?" Kanan rushed to the cockpit, his hand moving instinctively toward the lightsaber hidden at his side. "We weren't detected. I would have sensed—"
He froze, his face going pale.
"Kanan?" Hera glanced at him, concern cutting through her focus on piloting. "What is it?"
"We need to run." Kanan's voice was barely a whisper. "We need to run right now."
"I'm trying! But our hyperdrive just went offline—they hit us with some kind of precision strike!"
The Ghost shuddered as ion blasts connected with its hull, systems flickering and dying throughout the ship. Ezra stumbled into the cockpit, his young face confused and frightened.
"What's happening? I felt something—something cold—"
"It's him," Kanan said, his eyes fixed on the approaching corvette. "The one they call Vader. The Emperor's enforcer."
Ezra had heard stories about Darth Vader. Everyone had. The monster in black armor who killed Jedi like they were nothing, who could stop blaster bolts with his mind, who left no survivors.
"What do we do?" Sabine asked, appearing behind Ezra with her blasters drawn. "Fight? Surrender?"
"Neither," Kanan replied, his voice hardening with resolve. "We protect the crew. Hera, get everyone to the escape pods. I'll hold him off."
"Kanan, no—"
"There's no time to argue!" He ignited his lightsaber, the blue blade casting shadows across the cockpit. "Get them out. I'll buy you as much time as I can."
"You can't fight him alone," Ezra protested. "I can help—"
"No." Kanan's voice was absolute. "Ezra, listen to me. Whatever happens, do not engage Vader. Do not even let him see you. If he senses your potential—" He stopped, unable to finish the sentence. "Just run. Promise me you'll run."
Before Ezra could respond, the Ghost shuddered again—this time from the impact of a boarding vessel connecting to their airlock.
He was here.
Vader strode through the Ghost's corridors with the inevitable patience of a natural disaster.
The ship was interesting—cobbled together from multiple sources, modified extensively, showing signs of years of use and affection. It was a home, he realized. Not just a vessel, but a place where a family had formed from people who had nothing else.
Like the Jedi Temple was for Anakin, some buried part of him noted. Before he destroyed it.
He encountered Garazeb first—the Lasat warrior charging at him with a bo-rifle crackling with electricity. It was a brave attack, driven by protective fury, completely futile.
Vader caught the weapon mid-swing, wrenched it from Garazeb's grip with mechanical strength, and drove his knee into the warrior's midsection with enough force to crack ribs. The Lasat collapsed, gasping, and Vader stepped over him without a second glance.
Not dead, he noted. Incapacitated. The distinction matters.
Sabine was next, appearing from a side corridor with both blasters blazing. Vader deflected the bolts with casual sweeps of his hand, not even bothering to draw his lightsaber. When she threw a thermal detonator, he caught it in the Force and hurled it back toward her, detonating it close enough to knock her unconscious but not close enough to kill.
Mandalorian, he thought, studying her armor as he passed. Good craftsmanship. I'll need to visit their planet soon.
Chopper rolled into his path, emitting a stream of electronic profanity while extending a welding torch. Vader found himself almost amused.
"Brave," he told the droid. "But futile."
He reached out with the Force and simply switched the astromech off. Chopper collapsed into inert metal, his photoreceptor dimming.
I'll turn him back on later, Vader decided. A droid with that much personality deserves to survive.
The cockpit was just ahead. Through the Force, Vader could sense Kanan waiting for him, lightsaber ignited, fear tightly controlled behind a mask of Jedi serenity. And behind Kanan—hiding in the escape pod bay—were Hera and Ezra.
They're not running, Vader observed. The pilot refuses to leave her crew, and the boy refuses to leave his master. Loyalty. Foolish, but admirable.
The cockpit door slid open, and Kanan Jarrus stood before him, blue blade raised in a defensive stance.
"Vader," the former Padawan said, his voice steady despite the terror that Vader could feel radiating from him. "I won't let you hurt them."
"You are in no position to prevent me from doing anything," Vader replied, his vocoder dropping the words like stones into still water. "But I am not here to hurt them. I am here for you."
"Then take me. Let the others go."
"Such noble sacrifice." Vader tilted his helmet slightly, studying the Jedi before him. "Your master taught you well, Caleb Dume."
Kanan flinched at the sound of his birth name—the name he had abandoned when Order 66 stripped away everything he had been.
"That name has no meaning for me," he said.
"Then we have something in common."
Vader ignited his lightsaber, the crimson blade casting blood-red shadows across the cockpit.
"Defend yourself, Jedi. Show me what you've learned during your years of hiding."
Kanan attacked first—a lunging strike that Vader deflected with contemptuous ease. The former Padawan was skilled, Vader had to admit. He had clearly continued training during his exile, maintaining his abilities despite having no formal instruction.
But he was not remotely in Vader's league.
Their blades clashed again and again, crimson against blue, each exchange demonstrating the vast gulf between them. Vader wasn't even trying—he was simply testing Kanan's defenses, probing for weaknesses, learning the man's style.
"Interesting," Vader observed, deflecting a series of rapid strikes. "Form III foundation, modified with elements of Form V. Practical, if unimaginative."
"I don't need imagination to defeat you," Kanan growled, pressing his attack.
"No. You need power you do not possess, skill you have not developed, and allies who are not currently unconscious." Vader caught Kanan's blade in a lock, their faces inches apart. "You are brave, Caleb Dume. But bravery is not enough."
He shoved Kanan backward with a Force push that sent the Jedi crashing into the cockpit's rear wall. Before Kanan could recover, Vader was on him, blade sweeping in an arc that sliced the lightsaber from his grip, the Force pulling the weapon across the cockpit.
Kanan lay on the ground, disarmed, defeated, staring up at the monster that had destroyed everything he once believed in.
"Kill me," he said, his voice rough. "But spare my crew. They're not Jedi. They're not a threat to the Empire."
"I know what they are." Vader loomed over him, crimson blade humming at his side. "Rebels. Terrorists. Criminals. Every one of them deserves death by Imperial law."
He raised his lightsaber.
And stopped.
"But I am not here to execute criminals," Vader continued, lowering the blade. "I am here to send a message."
"A message?"
"To the boy." Vader turned toward the escape pod bay, his enhanced senses locking onto the two presences hiding there. "I know you're listening, Ezra Bridger. Come out. Face me."
Silence. Then, slowly, the door to the bay slid open, and Ezra Bridger emerged.
The boy was shaking—Vader could see it in his posture, feel it in his Force signature. But he was also angry, his fear transmuting into protective fury at seeing his master defeated.
"Leave him alone," Ezra demanded, his voice cracking slightly. "He didn't do anything wrong!"
"On the contrary. He committed the gravest crime possible in this Empire." Vader studied the boy with clinical interest. "He survived. He trained a new generation. He gave hope to those who should have none."
"Hope isn't a crime!"
"Everything is a crime when the Empire decrees it so." Vader stepped closer, and Ezra instinctively stepped back. "But I am not interested in your master's crimes. I am interested in you."
"Me?"
"You have power, Ezra Bridger. Power that your master is only beginning to help you understand." Vader's vocoder dropped to something almost gentle. "But the Jedi way is not the only path. There are other teachings. Other traditions. Other sources of strength that Kanan Jarrus will never show you."
"You're trying to turn me," Ezra realized, his young face twisting with disgust. "You want me to join you."
"I want you to understand what you are." Vader raised one hand, and Ezra felt the Dark Side brush against his consciousness—not attacking, just... present. A reminder of the power that lurked within him, waiting to be claimed. "The Jedi will tell you to suppress your anger, your fear, your passion. They will tell you that the Dark Side is evil, that it must be avoided at all costs."
"Because it is!"
"Is it?" Vader tilted his helmet. "The Dark Side is power, young one. Power to protect those you love. Power to destroy those who threaten you. Power to reshape the galaxy according to your will. The Jedi called it evil because they feared it. Because they knew that those who embraced it would no longer need their guidance."
"You're a monster," Ezra spat. "You killed Jedi. You kill anyone who opposes you."
"I killed those who would have killed me first. I killed those who stood against the inevitable. I killed those who could not adapt to the galaxy as it is, rather than as they wished it to be." Vader paused. "But I did not kill your master today. I did not kill your crew. I did not kill you."
"Why?"
It was the question Vader had been waiting for.
"Because potential should not be wasted," he said. "Because you have a choice before you, Ezra Bridger. A choice that will shape the rest of your life."
"I'll never join you."
"I did not ask you to join me. I asked you to think." Vader began walking toward the airlock, his cape trailing behind him. "Consider what I have said. Question what you have been taught. And when you are ready—when you have seen enough of the galaxy to understand what power truly means—find me."
He paused at the airlock threshold, turning back to face the frozen tableau of rebels.
"Your hyperdrive will repair itself within the hour. Leave this sector. Continue your petty resistance. But remember this moment, all of you. Remember that I could have killed you and chose not to."
He stepped through the airlock, leaving behind a crew of traumatized rebels and one very confused Padawan.
Seeds planted, Vader thought as his corvette detached from the Ghost. Now we wait and see what grows.
Three months later, in the Lothal sector...
The Ghost crew had, predictably, not heeded his warning.
They had continued their operations, growing bolder with each success, inspiring other cells throughout the sector. Imperial reports crossed Vader's desk weekly, documenting their various acts of sabotage, theft, and rebellion.
And Ezra Bridger's Force abilities were developing rapidly—faster than they should have, pushed by the fear and urgency that Vader's visit had instilled.
Good, Vader thought, reviewing the latest intelligence. Fear is a powerful teacher. The boy is growing stronger.
But the Ghost crew was not his only concern in the Lothal sector. The Grand Inquisitor—Vader's nominal subordinate in the hunt for surviving Jedi—was becoming increasingly frustrated by his failure to capture or kill the rebels. His reports were taking on a desperate edge, his requests for additional resources becoming more frequent.
He's afraid of failing, Vader realized. Afraid of what I'll do to him if he can't deliver results.
It was a reasonable fear. Vader had cultivated his reputation for punishing failure with lethal consequences. But the Grand Inquisitor's desperation was making him sloppy, his tactics becoming more aggressive and less effective.
He'll die eventually, Vader predicted. Kanan Jarrus is not skilled enough to defeat me, but he's more than capable of handling the Inquisitor. When that happens, I'll need a replacement.
The thought led him to another piece of intelligence that had crossed his desk—a report from the Unknown Regions, detailing the activities of an Imperial officer who had been exiled to the frontier for reasons that the official records carefully obscured.
Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Or, as the humans preferred to call him, Thrawn.
Now there's an interesting prospect, Vader thought, studying the report. A tactical genius of the highest order, currently wasting his talents in the Unknown Regions because the Imperial hierarchy can't stand the idea of a non-human achieving prominence.
In Marcus Chen's memories, Thrawn had been one of the most compelling characters in the Star Wars universe—a villain who succeeded through intelligence rather than brute force, who treated warfare as an art form, who respected his enemies even as he destroyed them.
He would be a valuable asset, Vader concluded. Someone who could manage the military aspects of my operations while I focused on Force-related matters. And unlike most Imperial officers, he's not a sycophant or a fool.
"Set course for the Unknown Regions," Vader commanded. "I wish to meet with Commander Thrawn."
The Chimaera, Unknown Regions...
The Star Destroyer was impeccably maintained, its corridors clean, its crew alert and professional. Vader noted the difference immediately—this was not the casual discipline of most Imperial vessels, where officers performed their duties out of fear rather than purpose.
This was a ship that believed in its commander.
Thrawn was waiting in his private gallery, surrounded by art from dozens of worlds. The Chiss officer was exactly as Marcus Chen had imagined him—tall, blue-skinned, with glowing red eyes that seemed to analyze everything they saw. His uniform was immaculate, his posture perfect, his expression revealing nothing.
"Lord Vader," Thrawn said, inclining his head in greeting. "This is an unexpected honor. I was not aware that my humble posting had attracted the attention of the Emperor's apprentice."
"Your posting is a waste of your talents, Commander." Vader studied the art surrounding them—sculptures and paintings from across the galaxy, each piece carefully chosen and displayed. "The Empire needs officers of your caliber at the front lines, not exiled to the frontier because of narrow-minded prejudice."
"An astute observation." Thrawn's expression remained neutral, but Vader sensed a flicker of interest in his voice. "I have long believed that the Empire's treatment of non-human species is counterproductive. But changing institutional prejudice is a... gradual process."
"It could be accelerated. With the right sponsorship."
"And you are offering such sponsorship?"
"I am offering opportunity." Vader moved through the gallery, examining the art with what might have been genuine interest. "The Lothal sector requires attention. The current command structure has proven inadequate. I need someone capable of coordinating Imperial forces while I handle specific high-priority threats."
"You want me to hunt rebels."
"I want you to destroy a resistance movement while preserving the infrastructure it threatens. The distinction is important." Vader turned to face Thrawn directly. "Most Imperial officers solve problems by destroying everything in the vicinity. I require more precision."
Thrawn's red eyes gleamed with what might have been appreciation.
"You wish to defeat the enemy without creating martyrs. To demonstrate Imperial strength without inspiring greater resistance. To win through superior strategy rather than overwhelming force."
"Exactly."
"An intelligent approach." Thrawn moved to a star map that dominated one wall of the gallery. "I have studied the Lothal situation from afar. The rebel cell you describe—the one led by the Jedi survivor—is more dangerous than most Imperial officers realize. They are not merely criminals; they are symbols. Each victory they achieve inspires others. Each time they escape destruction, they demonstrate that the Empire is not invincible."
"Your analysis is accurate."
"Then the solution is not to destroy them immediately, but to control the narrative around them." Thrawn traced patterns on the star map. "Allow them small victories that serve Imperial interests. Feed them intelligence that leads them into carefully prepared traps. Transform them from symbols of hope into cautionary tales of futility."
Vader felt something approaching admiration. Here was someone who understood warfare as he understood it—not as simple violence, but as a complex interplay of force, psychology, and strategic manipulation.
"You have a sophisticated understanding of the situation, Commander. Most Imperial officers would simply request more Star Destroyers."
"More Star Destroyers solve nothing if they are deployed without understanding." Thrawn's voice carried the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how capable he was. "I would be honored to serve in the Lothal sector, Lord Vader. But I must ask—what is your personal interest in this matter? The Emperor could assign any senior officer to handle a minor rebel cell."
It was a perceptive question, and Vader appreciated the directness.
"The Jedi survivor has an apprentice," he said. "A boy with significant potential. I have... plans for his development."
"You wish to turn him to the Dark Side."
"I wish to present him with options that the Jedi would deny him. The choice will be his own." Vader paused. "But for him to make that choice, he must survive long enough to grow. Which means the campaign against the rebels must be calibrated to pressure them without destroying them."
"A delicate operation." Thrawn nodded slowly. "I understand. And I accept your offer, Lord Vader. When do we begin?"
"Immediately. Your transfer orders will be processed within the week." Vader turned toward the exit. "One more thing, Commander. My involvement in your assignment is not to be discussed with anyone. As far as the official records are concerned, your transfer is a routine personnel decision."
"Of course, Lord Vader. Discretion is a skill I have cultivated extensively."
Vader departed the Chimaera with the satisfaction of having acquired a valuable asset. Thrawn would handle the Lothal situation with the intelligence it required, freeing Vader to pursue other objectives.
Speaking of which...
Mandalore, he thought as his shuttle entered hyperspace. It's time to upgrade my armor.
Mandalore, the Sundari undercity...
The Mandalorians were not having a good decade.
The Empire had occupied their world, stripped away their weapons, dismantled their warrior traditions, and installed a puppet government that existed solely to ensure compliance. The proud clans that had once terrorized the galaxy were now scattered, broken, reduced to hiding in the shadows of their own civilization.
But they were not destroyed. Not yet.
Vader had done his research before arriving. He knew that the resistance movements on Mandalore were fragmented, that the surviving clans distrusted each other almost as much as they hated the Empire, that obtaining beskar steel through official channels was virtually impossible.
Fortunately, he thought, descending into the industrial depths of Sundari, I don't believe in official channels.
The forge he sought was hidden beneath seventeen levels of abandoned manufacturing facilities, protected by traps and guards that would have killed any normal intruder. Vader simply walked through them—disabling the traps with the Force, incapacitating the guards without killing them, projecting an aura of such absolute menace that several defenders simply fled rather than face him.
The forge master was waiting when he arrived—a Mandalorian woman whose armor bore the marks of a hundred battles, whose helmet was removed to reveal a scarred face and calculating eyes. Like every woman in this universe, her figure beneath the beskar was geometrically improbable, but Vader had long since learned to ignore such details.
"Darth Vader," she said, her voice flat. "I wondered when the Empire would send its monster."
"I am not here on Imperial business," Vader replied. "I am here on personal business."
"And what personal business does the Emperor's enforcer have with a Mandalorian forge?"
Vader reached into a compartment on his belt and withdrew a data chip.
"Five hundred kilograms of beskar steel, refined to the highest purity. Payment in full, plus a thirty percent premium for discretion."
The forge master's eyes widened slightly as she accessed the chip's contents.
"That's... a considerable sum, Lord Vader. More than considerable."
"I want the work done correctly. And I want it done in absolute secrecy."
"What work, exactly?"
Vader transmitted a second file—detailed schematics of his armor, annotated with specifications for the modifications he required.
"I want my suit reinforced with beskar plating. Internal and external. I want the vulnerable points—the joints, the life support connections—protected by the strongest metal in the galaxy."
The forge master studied the schematics with professional interest.
"This would require extensive work. Your suit is... complex. Integrating beskar without disrupting the existing systems would take weeks."
"I have weeks."
"And if the Empire discovers that I'm working with their enforcer? That I'm improving the armor of their most feared weapon?"
"The Empire will not discover anything." Vader's vocoder dropped to its most threatening register. "Because if word of this transaction reaches anyone—anyone at all—I will return to Mandalore and ensure that this forge, and everyone who has ever worked in it, ceases to exist."
The forge master should have been terrified. Any sensible person would have been terrified. But Mandalorians were not sensible people—they were warriors, bred for battle, conditioned to respect strength above all else.
"You threaten like a Mandalorian," she said, something approaching approval in her voice. "Very well, Lord Vader. I accept your commission. But I have conditions of my own."
"Name them."
"When the work is complete, you will owe me a favor. Nothing specified, nothing immediate, but when I call on you—and I will call on you—you will answer."
Vader considered the request. Owing favors to Mandalorians was traditionally a bad idea—their concept of appropriate requests tended toward the dramatic and dangerous.
But he needed the beskar. And more importantly, he saw an opportunity.
"Agreed," he said. "But understand that my favors come with... expectations. Whatever you ask, I will provide—but you will owe me a favor in return."
"A cycle of debts." The forge master smiled, a expression that transformed her scarred face into something almost beautiful. "Very Mandalorian indeed. You may have a warrior's soul beneath that armor, Lord Vader."
"I have many things beneath this armor. None of them would please you."
"You might be surprised what pleases me."
Is she flirting with me? Vader wondered, genuinely baffled. I just threatened to destroy everything she's ever worked for, and she's... flirting?
This universe makes no sense. Absolutely none.
"Begin the work," he commanded, retreating to safer conversational ground. "I will remain on Mandalore until it is complete."
Three weeks later...
The beskar integration was perfect.
Vader examined himself in the forge's polished metal surfaces, studying the way the new plating caught the light. Externally, the changes were subtle—his armor looked almost identical to before, the beskar woven into the existing structure in ways that enhanced without obviously altering.
But internally, everything had changed.
His suit was now virtually lightsaber-proof. The vulnerable points that had always been potential targets—the joints, the connections, the areas where a skilled opponent might slip a blade—were protected by metal that could resist even the most powerful plasma weapons. His life support systems were reinforced against damage, his mechanical limbs strengthened by beskar-enhanced components.
Palpatine designed this suit to be a prison, Vader reflected. To keep me weak, dependent, in constant pain. But piece by piece, I've been transforming it into something else.
A fortress. A weapon. An extension of my will.
Between the Nightsister modifications that had reduced his pain, the Kaminoan enhancements to his mechanical systems, and now the beskar reinforcement, Vader's suit was becoming something that the Emperor had never anticipated. Something that might survive a direct confrontation with Palpatine's Force lightning.
Not yet, Vader reminded himself. I'm not ready for that fight yet. But someday...
"The work is complete," the forge master said, approaching with a data chip. "All modifications documented here, along with maintenance specifications. The beskar will require periodic treatment to maintain optimal performance—I've included the necessary protocols."
"Excellent." Vader took the chip, storing it in a secure compartment. "Your craftsmanship is impressive. The Mandalorian traditions deserve better than Imperial suppression."
"On that, we agree." The forge master met his optical sensors directly. "Remember your promise, Lord Vader. When I call, you answer."
"I remember my promises. All of them."
He departed the forge, ascending through the industrial levels toward the surface, his enhanced armor moving with a fluidity that would have been impossible before the modifications. The beskar added weight, but the reinforced servos compensated easily.
One more piece of the puzzle, Vader thought as he boarded his shuttle. One more step toward independence.
On the journey back to Mustafar, he reviewed the reports that had accumulated during his absence. The Lothal situation was developing as planned—Thrawn's transfer had been approved, and the Chiss commander was already implementing strategies that were producing results. The Ghost crew was under pressure, their operations becoming more difficult, their victories harder-won.
And Ezra Bridger was growing stronger in the Force, his potential expanding as he faced greater challenges.
Everything proceeds according to plan, Vader concluded. The fortress is complete. The army is growing. The armor is enhanced. My allies are in position.
Now we wait for the next phase to begin.
His shuttle entered the Mustafar system, and Vader allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction as his fortress came into view—a black spire rising from the volcanic landscape, a monument to ambition that belonged to no one but him.
Palpatine thinks he controls everything, Vader thought. He believes I'm still his broken, obedient weapon.
He has no idea what I've become.
And by the time he realizes the truth, it will be far too late.
[END OF CHAPTER SEVEN]