Deep beneath the Jedi Temple, Master Yoda moved slowly through the Vault of Echoes, his cane tapping against ancient stone. Few Jedi came here anymore. Fewer still understood what lay sealed within.
He wasn't searching for artifacts.
He was searching for names.
The Force had whispered again. A name, half-remembered. Not spoken in the Temple in over a thousand years.
Serion.
Not a Sith. Not Jedi. Something else. The echoes called him forged in shadow, hidden by light.
Yoda reached the deepest wall and extended his hand. A glyph lit up—part Rakatan, part something older. It flared with dim golden light.
"Forgotten, he was," Yoda murmured. "Buried... but not gone."
A mural responded to his presence. It shimmered, showing a figure standing before a sea of machines—neither droid nor lifeform. Behind him: three stars falling toward a forge.
And above all... a triangular symbol, split by flame.
"A wound," Yoda whispered. "In the Force... that never healed."
On Zereth Prime, the forges blazed with renewed fury. The Seed Core—now integrated—had transformed the facility.
Keshl, the AI overseer, pulsed with expanded consciousness. Her voice no longer fractured. She sang through the metal halls.
"Alignment complete. First Seed synchronized. Core structure adapting."
Serion stood before a tall chamber of suspended matter—a vertical cradle filled with molten alloy and luminous energy. The Second Seed hovered within, cocooned in a column of radiant plasma.
Taliya watched from a distance, armor darkened with forge-scorch.
"What does the second one do?" she asked.
"It shapes the others," Serion replied. "This is the heart of the Harbingers."
She frowned. "Not the Harvesters?"
"No. They consume. These... command."
He extended his hand toward the Seed. It pulsed, and the machinery around it moved like muscle and bone. Hundreds of smaller shells began forming—semi-sentient droids, but not like Separatist models. These were lean, fluid, adaptive.
"The galaxy wants balance," Serion said. "But they mistake it for peace. Balance is a blade. And I am sharpening it."
On Coruscant, the Republic buzzed with anticipation.
Chancellor Palpatine stood before the Galactic Senate, framed by ceremonial banners and flanked by Jedi representatives. His voice carried across a hundred holoprojectors and billions of systems.
"In this time of unrelenting war, we must dare to hope," he said, raising one hand. "Today, I extend a direct offer to the Separatist leadership. A summit. A path to peace. Let the bloodshed end—not through force, but diplomacy."
Thunderous applause followed. Cameras flashed. Even the Jedi seemed momentarily uncertain.
Behind his smile, Palpatine's gaze was unreadable.
The summit never happened.
Just before the Separatist delegation's ship arrived in the Naboo Neutral Zone, it was destroyed.
A blinding detonation—traced to a high-yield plasma charge—ripped the cruiser into debris before it entered atmosphere. No survivors.
Publicly, blame fell instantly on the Republic.
Privately, both sides suspected sabotage.
Palpatine appeared before the Senate hours later, sorrowful.
"We offered peace," he said. "They answered with treachery. No longer can we be passive. The Republic must rise fully to defend itself."
His voice deepened, grave and commanding.
"We triple fleet production. We open recruitment. We rally all systems loyal to democracy."
The crowd roared in support.
In the shadows, Mas Amedda leaned close.
"Your move has struck deeply, my lord."
Palpatine's smile barely moved.
"Good."
Across the galaxy, shipyards lit up like stars reborn.
Kamino doubled clone production. Kuat expanded orbital foundries. Refugees were conscripted, nobles drafted, and systems once neutral picked sides.
The war became total.
Even Jedi like Obi-Wan and Plo Koon led fleets now—no longer peacekeepers, but generals.
And few noticed the silent hand behind it all.
On the edge of known space, Yoda stood alone aboard a Jedi courier, staring into the nebula haze near the Celanon Spur. He closed his eyes.
He felt it.
A presence. Still shrouded. Still distant.
But growing.
It wasn't Dooku.
It wasn't Sidious.
Something deeper.
And older.
He whispered to the Force, "What are you?"
From the stars, no answer came.
But far away, something watched back.