The violet glow of Anakin's new lightsaber still flickered in the reflection of Martus Vorran's eyes as the blade powered down with a soft hiss. The forge chamber returned to silence, save for the steady hum of the ship.
Anakin stepped off the platform, holding the newly constructed hilt in his hand.
Martus reached out, took the saber, and turned it over slowly—examining the Earth-forged alloy, the seamless casing, the pulsing violet kyber beneath the core chamber.
When he looked back at Anakin, his voice was quiet, but filled with pride.
"You've done well… my apprentice."
Anakin's chest rose with the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Those words—spoken clearly, directly—meant more than any Jedi title.
Martus returned the saber to his hand. "This blade isn't just yours. It's your voice, your will, your identity. And you forged it in balance."
"I didn't feel like I was building it," Anakin said softly. "It felt like… it was building me."
Martus nodded once.
"That means you're ready."
Anakin looked up, brow furrowing. "Ready for what?"
"For the next step in your training," Martus said. He turned toward the navigation console and input a sequence of ancient coordinates. "We're going off-world. Not to fight. Not to test your strength. To learn. From them."
"From who?"
Martus tapped the final command.
The screen illuminated red. Coordinates locked.
Planet: Dathomir.
Dathomir – Hours Later
The ship descended through blood-colored clouds, its hull cutting through the mist like a knife. Dathomir was alive with tension—its trees twisted, the sky pulsing with red and black.
Anakin stood at the ramp, eyes wide, hand resting on his new saber. The moment the doors opened, he felt it—an overwhelming presence in the Force. Not light. Not dark. Just… wild.
"This place feels alive," he muttered.
Martus stepped beside him. "It is. The Force runs unchained here."
The forest was still.
Until it wasn't.
Mists swirled.
And from the shadows, they emerged.
The Nightsisters—robes black and red, faces pale and painted, eyes glowing with spirit-sight. They moved without sound, surrounding the ship like the forest itself had come alive.
From the path ahead came their leader.
The High Priestess of the Nightsisters.
She was tall, radiant, and pregnant—a visible swell beneath her crimson-etched robes. Her tattoos glowed faintly, woven in runes that pulsed like starlight.
She stopped ten feet from Martus, arms folded, chin high.
"Martus Kael Vorran," she said. "Earthborn. Grey Brother. You return."
Martus did not bow. He met her gaze with respect.
"I've come for your wisdom, as I did many years ago. But this time… I bring my apprentice."
He stepped aside.
"Anakin Skywalker."
The Sisters murmured—recognition flashing in their eyes.
"The slave-born…"
"The boy of prophecy…"
"The galaxy's tether…"
But the High Priestess silenced them with a glance.
She stepped forward, studying Anakin.
"He holds too much power," she whispered. "Too much conflict."
"He holds everything," Martus said. "He is the Chosen One."
The High Priestess placed a hand over her belly.
"I carry one of prophecy too. Life born from darkness. Magic made flesh. Perhaps the Force has begun to stitch the final threads…"
She stepped back and raised her voice.
"Prepare the Shadow Basin."
The Ritual of the Veil
The fire pits blazed. The basin was filled—black water, unnaturally still, ringed by bones and stone runes. The Nightsisters chanted low, their voices layered, rising into harmonic power.
Anakin stood at the edge, wind tugging at his robe, his saber hanging at his belt.
The High Priestess spoke.
"Step forward. The basin shows not what you want to see… but what the Force needs you to know."
Anakin stepped in.
The water shimmered. The reflection changed.
He didn't see himself.
He saw his mother. Shmi Skywalker, radiant and strong.
Beside her stood a man of light—a figure cloaked in starlight, faceless but filled with presence.
The Sisters' chant shifted—the Force spoke through them:
"The prophecy was broken by fear.
The Jedi sought a weapon.
The Sith sought a vessel.
But the Force created a son."
Martus stepped closer, watching in silence.
Anakin fell to his knees.
"What is this?" he whispered. "What am I seeing?"
The High Priestess answered.
"You were not born by chance. Not by Sith science. Not by Jedi prophecy. Your mother was chosen."
She placed her glowing hand on her stomach.
"The Force took form. It loved. It gave—not out of strategy or control… but out of devotion."
Anakin's breath caught.
"My father…?"
Martus knelt beside him. "The Force itself. Not a metaphor. Not an accident. A being. A soul. It became flesh… and loved your mother."
Tears welled in Anakin's eyes, not from sorrow—but from a truth finally spoken.
"I'm not a weapon," he said.
"No," Martus said. "You're a child. A son. A bridge. You were never meant to destroy the darkness… but to understand it."
The Sisters' chant slowed, then ceased.
The basin faded.
The vision was complete.
Anakin stood, a new weight on his shoulders—but this one… felt like wings.
"I know who I am," he said softly. "And I know what I have to become."
The High Priestess smiled faintly.
"Then your true journey begins."