A shuttle descended through the haze, its engines humming a low, predatory note. When the ramp lowered, the stormtroopers stationed at the entrance snapped to attention, their white armor gleaming under the fortress's floodlights.

He stepped out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A dark robe draped over his frame, the hood pulled low, casting his face in shadow. The only thing visible was the faint glint of a lightsaber hilt at his belt—and the unmistakable weight of his presence, pressing down on the air itself like a coming storm.

The Inquisitors were already waiting in the main hall. Five of them, their red blades unlit but their postures rigid, their eyes lowered as he passed.

Vader paused at the center of the hall, his head tilting slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear. The Inquisitors exchanged glances, uncertain.

Then, beneath it all—so faint it might have been imagined—a pulse. A breath of something familiar in the Force. A thread of light, frayed and fading, but unmistakably alive.

Vader's hand tightened at his side.