Dragostea
Unofficial Star Wars Retelling
By Noah C.Z
Part 1: The Warmth of Home
Before he was a Sith, before the rage and ruin, Greider Shaden was a boy with wide eyes and a bright spirit. He was born beneath the thunderclouds of Jebarro, a mid-rim world marked by violet skies and fields that shimmered under the twin moons of Naeli and Corus. Rain was a near-constant companion, but it was gentle, a presence more nurturing than cold.
He lived with his parents in a small home built of local stone and alloy, nestled near the edge of a valley. It wasn't luxurious, but it was warm. Real. The scent of wildflowers always drifted through the windows, and the low hum of insects was like a lullaby in the evenings.
His mother, Alina, was the heart of their home. A healer, not in the Force-bound sense, but through herbs and instinct. Her hands were always stained green with plant dyes, and her laugh was soft, but quick to come. Every evening, she would sing Greider to sleep—songs of far-off stars, ancient Jedi myths, and the legendary peacekeepers that protected the Republic. Her voice had a way of settling his racing mind, even on stormy nights.
His father, Dorn, was tougher. A trader and part-time pilot, he was gone often, moving shipments from Jebarro to nearby systems. But he never left without telling Greider he loved him. Never missed a chance to ruffle his hair, to lift him high into the air and call him "sky-boy." When Dorn was home, he'd take Greider fishing by the glowing lakes, their surfaces alive with blue light and glittering plankton.
Life was good.
Greider had friends, a little Tooka kitten named Flix, and a place at the local learning hall. The other children admired his energy. He was quick to defend those who were bullied, even quicker to take dares that sent him climbing trees or leaping into riverbeds. The teachers called him spirited. Alina called him her spark.
Even then, though, strange things happened.
He'd wish for a book across the room, and it would fall from the shelf. Once, when his father tripped and nearly fell off the fishing dock, Greider had screamed—and Dorn had stopped in midair, held aloft by invisible force before landing safely on the wood planks. No one understood it. Not fully.
But they didn't fear him. They loved him.
Then the Sith came.
They arrived without warning. No Republic notice, no planetary council approval. Just a dark shuttle streaking across the sky at dusk, casting a shadow that seemed to drain the color from the hills.
From the moment they stepped out, the world felt colder.
There were three of them: two silent guards and one cloaked figure, tall and skeletal, skin pale like marble, with eyes that glowed a sickly yellow. He said his name was Lord Vinthar. That the boy's potential had been sensed across the galaxy. That he was being summoned to the Sith Academy on Korriban.
Alina protested. Dorn stepped forward, fists clenched. "You're not taking our son."
But the Sith does not request. He declares.
Greider stood by the door, wide-eyed and shaking as Lord Vinthar turned toward him. "You feel it, don't you, child?" he said, his voice like rusted iron. "That power inside you. That fire. It belongs to the Sith now."
They tried to hide him. Tried to run.
It didn't matter.
The guards found them by morning. Alina clutched her son, whispering prayers. Dorn tried to fight, and was slammed against the wall with a flick of Vinthar's hand. His head bled. He didn't move.
Greider screamed.
His voice echoed through the valley as the ship's ramp sealed shut, drowning out Alina's final words—"We love you. Don't forget who you are."
The ship lifted. Jebarro shrank away, until the skies turned to stars.
And everything warm disappeared.
Part 2: Korriban's Embrace
The descent into Korriban was like falling into a nightmare. Where Jebarro had been alive with rain and color, Korriban was a world choked in dust and death. Its sky was rust-red, the sun a sickly eye peering through thick clouds. Jagged mountains carved the horizon, each one scarred by time and war. But what Greider noticed most—what settled into his chest like a stone—was the silence.
It wasn't quiet. The wind howled like the dead, and far off, beasts growled within ancient tombs. But it was empty. The kind of silence that came from a world long past caring whether you lived or died.
The Sith Academy loomed like a fortress built from shadow and hate. Its walls were carved from the native black stone, adorned with crimson banners and the graven faces of long-dead Dark Lords. Statues of warriors stood on either side of the entrance, each larger than life, sabers held in rigid salute.
Greider, still only six, walked among them with eyes wide and heart pounding. His hands trembled. No one comforted him.
The moment he stepped through the gates, he ceased to be a child.
The instructors called them acolytes—children brought from across the galaxy, Force-sensitive and eager to prove their worth. There were dozens of them, boys and girls of different species and backgrounds. But there was no camaraderie here. No warmth. Only rivalry. Only fear.
"The weak will perish," Overseer Talrix had said on Greider's first day. A towering man with silver tattoos etched across his bald scalp, he carried a staff tipped with vibro-blades and eyes that had seen thousands die. "You will learn to kill, or you will die. It's that simple."
And it was.
Greider learned quickly.
Each morning began before dawn with combat drills, followed by mental trials, obstacle courses, meditation inside ancient tombs, and written tests on Sith history and code. At night, they were confined to cramped stone chambers with nothing but a cot, a ration pack, and their own thoughts.
If you failed to spar well, you were beaten.
If you showed mercy, you were punished.
If you complained, you bled.
He watched children starve because they were too slow to reach the food line. He saw a girl electrocuted to death during a Force trial—her screams were used as a lesson.
There were no second chances.
And yet... Greider endured.
Somehow, the spark his mother once saw in him did not go out. It hardened, dimmed, and changed shape—but it burned still.
He learned to fight like a predator, to channel his emotions into power. He let anger replace fear. When he remembered Jebarro, he used the memory to fuel his rage. When he thought of his parents—his mother's arms, his father's laughter—he used the pain like a blade, cutting through his hesitation.
But even as he rose through the ranks, something gnawed at him.
There were moments, in the quiet hours between sleep and exhaustion, when he would close his eyes and pretend he was still home. He'd whisper his mother's lullabies to himself, just softly enough that no one else could hear. He'd dream of rain. Of warmth.
He kept a small stone from Jebarro hidden in his boot—a round one he'd found in the garden as a boy. It was the only thing he'd been able to sneak with him, and he would hold it tight in his fist whenever the darkness felt like it might consume him.
But over time, even that began to feel like a relic from another life. Something that belonged to someone else. Someone weaker.
By the time Greider turned twelve, he had learned how to win. How to kill. How to keep secrets.
And how to hate.
Part 3: A Secret Within
By the time he reached fifteen, Greider Shaden had made a name for himself at the Academy.
He was no longer the trembling boy from Jebarro. The Overseers spoke his name with a note of wary respect, and other acolytes avoided provoking him. He was taller than most of them now, shoulders broad, voice deepened with time and command. He moved like a weapon honed to lethal perfection. He didn't speak unless he had to. When he did, people listened.
He had learned to cloak his emotions in silence. To let his rage simmer beneath the surface rather than boil over. It gave him power. Made him dangerous.
But inside… something else had begun to stir.
It started with glances.
At first, they were subtle. His eyes would linger too long after sparring matches—not just on the pretty girls, but on the boys, too. Especially the ones who carried themselves with confidence, with grace. There was one acolyte named Darris, a dark-haired, sharp-jawed boy a year older than him. Every time Greider caught sight of the muscles beneath his skin, the way his body moved with effortless precision, he'd feel his stomach twist.
He didn't understand it. Or maybe he did, but he didn't want to understand.
The Sith did not speak of love. Certainly not of this.
They spoke of conquest. Domination. Control. Desire was a tool, a weapon to be used and discarded. Intimacy was weakness. Affection was dangerous.
Greider hated himself for even thinking it.
He tried to bury it, to smother the thoughts with training, with fury, with ice-cold discipline. When he caught himself admiring another boy's form, he punished himself in the meditation chamber, forcing his mind through punishing mental trials until his body ached. When he dreamed of tenderness, of being seen and wanted and held, he slammed his fists into stone until they bled.
He told himself it would pass. That it was just confusion. A test of discipline.
But it didn't pass.
The more he fought it, the more it seemed to grow.
It wasn't just about attraction. It was about connection. He craved it. The way he once felt on Jebarro, in his mother's arms. Safe. Whole. The brutal solitude of Korriban was cracking him from the inside.
And worst of all—he had no one to talk to.
He couldn't trust anyone. If he said the wrong thing to the wrong person, he could be mocked, beaten, executed for "deviance." There were no allies here. No friends. Only rivals and predators.
So, Greider kept his secret buried like a dying ember beneath the ashes of rage. He told himself it wasn't real. That he would outgrow it. That he didn't need anyone.
But he did.
Desperately.
Sometimes, late at night, he would stare at the ceiling of his stone cell and imagine what it would feel like to be held. To be kissed. To be understood. To be loved.
Then the image would vanish, like smoke on the wind.
And he would wake with clenched fists and shame tightening around his throat like a noose.
What he didn't know—what he couldn't know—was that fate was already shifting.
That soon, the ember he tried so hard to extinguish would spark into a wildfire.
And its name… was Corian.
Part 4: Corian
Greider was eighteen the first time he saw him.
It was early morning in the southern training courtyard, just before the suns had fully risen above the jagged peaks of Korriban. The stone tiles were slick with dew and blood from the night's dueling matches, and the air stank of ozone and sweat. Greider stood at the edge of the ring, arms folded, watching the younger initiates pair off. He was a senior acolyte now—almost ready for selection. Nearly a Sith.
But something in him still felt hollow. Days bled into nights, and his victories no longer tasted sweet. His rage had dulled into cold apathy. He wore the mask of the warrior, but behind it, he was still searching for something. Anything.
That's when he saw him.
Corian.
At first glance, he didn't look like he belonged there. Small-framed, lithe, with delicate features and pale, almost translucent skin that caught the morning light like glass. His long, white-blonde hair spilled just past his shoulders, and his silver eyes glinted like twin moons. He stood with a vibroblade in hand, posture elegant and precise—not brutish or violent like the others, but fluid, as if his very stance was poetry in motion.
Greider's breath caught in his throat.
Corian moved differently. He wasn't trying to dominate. He wasn't angry. He danced. And when he caught Greider watching him across the courtyard, he offered the faintest smile—just a soft, curious little tilt of the lips.
That smile was a spark. One that would burn through every wall Greider had ever built.
They didn't speak that day. Or the day after. But Greider watched. And slowly, Corian began to notice. He'd glance back during training. Sit near him during meditation. Nothing was said—no words, no gestures—but there was something there. A current between them. Quiet. Electric.
The first time they spoke was in the library.
Greider had been studying an ancient Sith codex, trying to translate a passage on Force bindings when a voice behind him said gently, "You're holding it upside down."
He turned sharply, defensive out of instinct—but there Corian was, standing with hands behind his back, a wry grin on his face and those silver eyes glowing with quiet mischief.
"I know Sith bindings," Corian said. "And I know ancient Sith. That page is about rituals of unbinding. Quite the opposite of what you were hoping for, I imagine."
Greider didn't answer at first. He just stared. It was the first time in years someone had spoken to him without venom or fear.
"…You talk too much," Greider muttered eventually.
Corian smiled again. "You think too loud."
From that moment, they were drawn to each other like gravity. What began as cautious conversation became secret meetings. Hidden walks along the outer cliffs. Shared meals in shadowed alcoves. Corian always brought a softness with him, a peace that slipped past Greider's defenses like sunlight through cracks in stone.
"I know what you're hiding," Corian said one night, their backs pressed together beneath the twin moons. "I see it in your eyes. That pain. That longing. I see it because I feel it too."
Greider's voice had nearly broken. "You don't know anything about me."
But Corian had only turned, reached up, and gently held Greider's face between his hands. "I know what it means to want something you're told you shouldn't. To feel like you're broken because of it. But you're not, Greider. You're not broken."
It was the first time anyone had said those words to him. The first time he believed them.
From that night on, they were inseparable. In a world built on cruelty and fear, they created a sanctuary only they could enter. Greider found himself laughing again—really laughing. He would lie awake at night thinking of Corian's touch, his voice, the way he smelled of old books and forest wind. He didn't understand how someone so gentle had survived so long in this place.
But Corian had his own kind of strength.
When Greider's anger surged, Corian would calm him with a whisper. When Greider doubted himself, Corian would take his hands and press them to his heart.
"They can't take this from us," Corian said one night as they lay in an old, abandoned chamber deep in the tombs. "They can't take us."
They spoke of escape. Of freedom. Of leaving Korriban behind and finding a place in the stars where they could live without fear. "Anywhere," Corian would say, eyes full of dreams. "We could go anywhere, Greider. As long as you're there, I'll be home."
And Greider believed him.
For the first time in years, he felt like he had a future. Not one forged by blood and war, but by hope.
He didn't know then that fate was watching.
And that it was cruel.
Part 5: Shadows Overhead
Korriban was ancient. Its sands had buried thousands of secrets, but none stayed hidden forever.
For a while, Greider and Corian managed to live in the illusion of safety. Their stolen moments in shadowed corners, the quiet nights beneath crumbling stone arches, the way Corian would whisper soft nothings in Greider's ear when the weight of the world became too much—these were lifelines. Little fragments of peace carved into the tombstone of their lives.
But the Sith watch everything.
And envy is a sharpened blade.
It began with rumors.
Acolytes whispered in the corridors. Instructors lingered too long with their gazes. Greider started noticing eyes on them—lingering, leering, calculating. Some said it was just jealousy. Greider was strong, favored by the Overseers. Corian was too clever by half. But it was more than that.
"Do you hear what they're saying?" Corian asked one day, his voice tight with worry. "They think we're… involved."
Greider tried to brush it off. "Let them think what they want."
But Corian just stared at him, silver eyes dimmed with fear. "They'll kill us, Greider."
There was no love in the Sith Code. No tolerance. Affection was weakness. And their kind of love? It wasn't just forbidden. It was despised.
Greider's rage returned with new purpose. Not just at the world, but at himself. He had let his guard down. Had become vulnerable. His heart—once sealed like a vault—had been cracked open, and now his enemies smelled the blood inside.
He tried to pull away.
He told Corian they should stop meeting. That it was too dangerous.
But Corian only shook his head and held him tighter.
"You're not losing me," he whispered. "Not like this. I'd rather die holding you than live pretending I never knew you."
And Greider—foolishly, selfishly, beautifully—believed him.
They grew more careful, meeting in silence, speaking through glances. They shared plans of escape like children trading fairy tales. Corian had found a possible way—a hidden cargo ship, an old contact, credits scavenged and hoarded in secret. "A few more months," he'd said. "Then we vanish."
But the shadows were already moving.
One night, Greider returned to his chamber to find his belongings torn apart. His cot slashed open. The stone floor etched with the word abomination in crude, bloody script.
The message was clear.
He went to Corian that same night. Found him trembling beneath the old temple ruin where they'd first kissed. "We have to leave," Greider said. "Now. Tonight."
Corian nodded. He was pale, but his eyes burned with determination. "I'm ready."
They made it halfway to the hangar before the ambush came.
A group of acolytes—half a dozen at least—stepped from the shadows like wraiths. Their faces were twisted with hatred and mockery, their weapons drawn, voices dripping with venom.
"Look at the little lovers," one sneered. "How sweet. Maybe you'll kiss each other goodbye before we teach you a lesson."
Greider moved first, a blur of red and fury—but there were too many. He cut down one, two, but the others swarmed them. He felt the jolt of a stun baton crack against his spine, then another blow to his ribs. Corian cried out. Greider turned in time to see them grab him—hold him down.
Then… they made him watch.
Part 6: The Breaking
Greider's screams echoed off the stone walls of the ancient corridor, but no one came. No Overseer. No master. No mercy.
They held him down with the Force, his limbs pinned, eyes pried open by invisible hands. He struggled until his muscles tore, until blood slicked his mouth from biting down on his own rage. But nothing could stop them.
And Corian…
Corian was so small, so quiet. He didn't cry. He didn't beg. He just looked at Greider.
Even as the first blow landed.
Even as they kicked and beat him, as they screamed slurs and spat on his face, Corian's gaze stayed locked on Greider's—silver eyes dim but unbroken.
Greider begged.
"Please… please stop—please!"
He would have given anything. His place in the Academy. His power. His future. His life. He would have burned the galaxy to ash just to shield Corian with his own body.
But the Force held him still.
And when the final strike came—when Corian stopped breathing, his broken body crumpled in the dust like something discarded—Greider felt something inside him snap.
The acolytes laughed. One of them leaned close, still panting, blood on his knuckles. "Should've known. Love makes you weak."
And in that instant, they sealed their fate.
Because Greider didn't scream anymore.
He didn't beg.
He breathed—once, deep and cold—and the Force surged like a black tidal wave.
The bonds holding him shattered.
He rose from the ground, a blood-soaked silhouette against the flickering red lights of the tomb corridor. His saber ignited with a hiss, casting crimson light across his face—but his eyes… they weren't angry.
They were empty.
The first acolyte died with a single, wordless strike—his body torn in half.
The others barely had time to turn.
It wasn't a battle.
It was an execution.
The Force bent to Greider's will like never before. Stone cracked. Flesh ignited. The air screamed with the fury of the Dark Side unleashed. One tried to run. Greider dragged him back through the air by his throat, whispering, "You watched him die. Now you'll feel it."
He didn't stop until every one of them was dead.
When the silence returned, it was suffocating.
Greider dropped to his knees beside Corian's body. Blood slicked his arms, his face, his soul. His hands trembled as he cradled Corian close, pressing his forehead to his. Still warm. Still soft.
"Wake up," he whispered, over and over. "Please, Corian… I'm here. I'm here…"
But the silver eyes never opened again.
He held him for hours. Until the blood dried. Until the tremors stopped. Until everything that once made him human had been drained out like water from a broken cup.
And when he finally rose, he left the Academy without a word.
Not a single acolyte dared to stop him.
Not even the Overseers.
Because they all saw what he had become.
Not a warrior.
Not a Sith.
Not even a man.
But something else.
Something broken.
Part 7: Ashes of Vengeance
Greider left Korriban in silence.
No one stopped him. Not the gatekeepers at the hangar. Not the instructors who had once sung his praises. Not the other acolytes who had once feared his presence. They watched from shadows and doorways, hollow-eyed and wordless, as he walked the blood-stained halls, Corian's pendant clutched in one hand, his lightsaber swinging at his hip like a noose.
They didn't ask questions. They didn't speak.
They knew.
The carnage he had left behind was not a secret. It had been swift, brutal, righteous in a way that even the Sith feared. Six acolytes, slaughtered. The corridor walls still bore the scorch marks of his fury. Some whispered that the tomb spirits had stirred that night—that the ancient Dark Lords themselves had watched in silence as the young warrior tore through flesh and bone with more hate than any blade could hold.
But Greider didn't feel powerful.
He didn't feel righteous.
He felt hollow.
He took a stolen shuttle. Didn't even know where it was bound. He flew it out of the Korriban system on pure instinct, hands trembling on the controls. He didn't plot a course. He didn't care. He just needed to get away.
The stars blurred outside the viewport like tears running down glass.
He didn't sleep that first night in space. He couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Corian's face—those silver eyes, not afraid, just… sad. He remembered the way his hands felt, the way he used to hum when he was nervous, the way he would whisper, "You're more than they say you are."
Greider had wanted to believe that.
But now?
Now he was a murderer. A failure. A lost cause.
He'd thought vengeance would feel like justice. That when the acolytes died, the weight in his chest would lift. That some part of him would be whole again.
But vengeance was a lie.
Because Corian was still gone.
And no amount of blood could bring him back.
He drifted for weeks, hiding in derelict cargo ships, on Outer Rim backwater planets, doing odd jobs for shady traders who asked no questions. He took no name. Told no stories. When he was alone, he would sit in silence, thumbing Corian's pendant between his fingers like a prayer.
Once, on the edge of Hutt Space, he found himself in a cantina filled with scum and smugglers, all too drunk to notice the haunted figure in the corner. A Twi'lek girl tried to flirt with him, her voice light and teasing.
He looked at her, saw Corian's ghost in the lines of her face, and nearly collapsed.
He stumbled out into the rain-soaked alley and screamed until his voice broke.
He didn't want to be a Sith anymore.
He didn't want to be anything.
The Dark Side still clung to him—he could feel it in every breath, every step—but now it didn't roar with power. It whispered. Cold, coiling, reminding him that he'd already fallen. That there was no way back.
Greider had nothing.
No home.
No future.
No love.
And yet… something kept him moving.
Maybe it was Corian's voice, echoing in memory.
Maybe it was guilt.
Maybe it was hope, in its last, dying breath.
But somewhere in the endless dark of space, Greider made a silent promise.
He would never let another soul suffer the way Corian had.
Not while he still had strength in his limbs.
Even if he was broken.
Even if he was alone.
Part 8: A Flicker in the Dark
Time lost meaning in the Outer Rim.
Greider drifted from system to system like a phantom, his name long abandoned, his presence felt only in the silence he left behind. No allegiance. No destination. He slept on metal floors, ate what he could steal or trade, and trusted no one. The galaxy was wide and cruel, and he had nothing left to offer it but the hollow ache in his chest and the lightsaber at his side.
But even ghosts need shelter.
It was on the mining moon of Telres IV where he finally stopped running—if only for a moment. The world was little more than a scarred rock orbiting a dying sun, its settlements cobbled together by scavengers and laborers just trying to scrape out survival. Greider arrived with a trader caravan, quiet and unassuming. The locals didn't ask about the man with the sharp eyes and the worn-out armor. In places like this, questions got you killed.
He worked odd jobs for a while—hauling scrap, repairing machinery, even guarding shipments through the dust storms. He rarely spoke, but his presence was respected. Not because he was friendly. But because he was dangerous—and there was a sadness in him that made people keep their distance.
Still, it wasn't all silence.
There was a girl named Yula—half-Zabrak, all nerve—who ran the moon's only medbay out of a rusted prefab shack. She didn't scare easy. The first time Greider came in, blood dripping from a blaster wound after breaking up a barfight that turned too real, she barely looked up from her tools.
"You want help, take off the armor. Otherwise, bleed outside."
He liked her immediately.
Over time, she chipped away at his quiet. Not through questions, but through presence. She didn't need to know what he'd done. She saw the way he winced when children laughed nearby. The way he flinched when people touched him without warning. The way he sat in corners, always facing the door.
"You've seen hell," she said once, binding his ribs. "The kind you don't come back from."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
But it was her, more than anyone, who gave him a word he hadn't felt in years.
Purpose.
One day, she came to him in a panic—there had been an attack on a refugee transport crash-landing outside the mining field. Raiders had gotten there first. She needed help. She had no one else.
Without a word, Greider followed her.
The next hour was blood and fire.
He moved like death, his red saber a storm among the raiders. He fought not to destroy, but to protect—a distinction that shocked even him. He shielded the weak. Held the line. Watched over the injured while Yula worked.
And afterward, when it was over, he stood in the ash and ruin with his chest heaving—and felt something new.
Not peace.
But… clarity.
He had power. That much was undeniable. The Sith had forged him in fire and pain. But what he did with that power… that was still his choice. The Force wasn't just a weapon. It was a voice. And it still whispered to him—not as the Dark Side alone, but something older. Something deeper.
Corian had always told him there was more.
Greider had never listened.
But maybe now… maybe now he could try.
He stayed on Telres IV for a while after that. Helped when he could. Spoke a little more. Laughed once or twice. It didn't heal him. Nothing ever would. But the pain didn't control him the way it once had.
And at night, when the moons rose over the jagged hills, he'd sit alone outside the outpost and hold Corian's pendant in his hand.
"I don't know where I'm going," he'd whisper. "But I'll try to be the man you saw in me."
A flicker in the dark.
The smallest spark of hope.
And in the vast emptiness of the galaxy… sometimes, that's enough.
Part 9: Phantom and Flame
Word spreads, even in the Outer Rim.
A former Sith. Rogue. Warrior. Killer. Protector. They all described him differently, but the stories had something in common: a man in tattered armor, face shadowed by a dark hood, wielding a red saber—not for conquest, but to shield others. A Sith without a master. A weapon without a leash.
The rumors reached ears they weren't meant to.
It was a rainy dusk on Telres IV when the past found him again.
The wind carried a familiar hum—a low, rhythmic pulse of energy in the distance. Greider stepped out into the open, his hand already on his saber hilt, feeling the tension in the Force like static before a storm.
Three figures emerged from the shadows. Black robes. Pale faces. Eyes that burned with cruel purpose. Sith.
They didn't speak right away. They didn't have to.
Greider recognized the one in the center. Darth Malven, a specter from the Korriban halls—a teacher of pain, a cultivator of hatred. Malven had once praised Greider's ferocity. Had once said, "Your rage could fuel a star."
Now, his voice was silk-wrapped poison.
"You've been busy, Greider. Tearing your way through the galaxy. Making quite the name for yourself… protecting the weak."
Greider didn't respond.
Malven stepped closer, lips curling. "You think this path redeems you? You think you can wash away what you did? What you are?"
"You know nothing about me," Greider said, voice low and steady.
"I know everything about you," Malven snapped. "I trained you. I shaped you. You think that little boy you loved changed you? No. He just softened your edge. Made you pathetic."
Greider's saber flared to life.
A line of red fire in the dusk.
"I'm not that boy anymore."
"No," Malven said, drawing his own weapon. "You're worse. A traitor. To the Empire. To your own nature."
The duel exploded in silence.
The other Sith struck first—two apprentices, blades fast and wild—but Greider moved like a phantom. The Force flowed through him, around him, with him. He no longer fought out of rage. He fought with focus. With purpose.
One apprentice fell in moments. The other not long after.
And then there was Malven.
It wasn't just a battle—it was a reckoning.
Their sabers clashed like thunder, their movements a deadly dance of memory and violence. Malven taunted him, tried to reignite the fury inside him. But Greider's heart didn't burn like it once had. It was colder now. Sharper.
"You don't understand," Greider said mid-duel. "This isn't about redemption. It's about choice."
Malven snarled. "You're nothing but a broken boy playing hero!"
Greider struck then—not with blind rage, but with clarity. A single, precise blow.
And Malven fell.
The rain hissed as it hit the saber's blade, steam rising from the scorched earth.
Greider stood over the body of his former master, breathing hard. Not triumphant. Not victorious. Just… done.
Behind him, the people of the outpost watched. Silent. Wide-eyed.
They had seen what he was.
And for the first time, he didn't feel ashamed.
Later that night, Yula approached him while he sat alone in the mechanic yard, staring up at the stars.
"You should leave," she said softly. "More of them will come."
He nodded. He knew.
"You're not like them, you know," she added. "Not anymore."
Greider said nothing. He didn't need to.
She sat beside him anyway.
And for a while, they said nothing together—just two people breathing in the silence after a storm.
Part 10: The Ghost and the Galaxy
The stars stretched wide before him, endless and cold.
Greider stood at the edge of the landing platform, the desert wind of Telres IV tugging at his cloak. Behind him, the mining outpost slumbered under the watchful glow of the twin moons. It had been months since the Sith came. Months since he'd crossed blades with Darth Malven and buried another ghost of Korriban.
And now it was time to leave.
He could feel it in the Force. The galaxy was shifting. War on the horizon. Worlds trembling under the weight of ancient power and new blood. And somewhere out there, people were suffering—just as Corian had suffered. Just as he had.
Greider had once believed he was broken beyond repair.
But now?
Now he knew the truth: he would always be broken.
But that didn't mean he had to stay lost.
He turned his eyes to the stars. Corian would have loved this view—so many constellations he'd never named, a thousand places they could have run to. Greider still carried his pendant. It hung around his neck now, resting just over his heart.
He touched it gently.
"I'm still here," he whispered. "And I won't stop."
He'd thought revenge would fill the hole in him. That killing those who murdered Corian would be justice. But justice, he'd learned, was more than vengeance. It was protection. It was standing between the innocent and the dark. It was choice.
He had chosen this path—not the Sith, not the Empire, not the Force.
He had chosen hope.
Maybe that was why he still woke with nightmares.
Maybe that was why he still cried sometimes, when no one could see.
But the pain was his now. It didn't control him. It reminded him of what he'd lost. And what he'd never lose again.
Onboard his ship—an old freighter he'd rebuilt with his own hands—Greider sealed the ramp behind him and slid into the pilot's chair. The controls were familiar now, like an old friend. As the engines roared to life, a soft blue glow lit the cockpit. The navcomputer hummed.
He didn't know exactly where he was going.
There were rumors of a resistance cell forming on the edge of Wild Space. A hidden temple where Force-sensitives were gathering—not Jedi, not Sith, just people searching for truth. Maybe it was real. Maybe it wasn't.
But it was enough.
As the freighter lifted off the ground, kicking up clouds of dust and ash, Greider didn't look back.
Telres IV faded behind him, and the stars opened like a map before his eyes.
He was still a warrior. Still a killer. Still a ghost of what the Sith had made him.
But he was also more.
A protector.
A lover, still grieving.
A soul trying, despite everything, to heal.
And somewhere out there—among the endless stars and broken worlds—someone else might need saving.
So Greider Shaden flew.
A phantom with fire in his chest, love in his heart, and the galaxy spread out before him like the beginning of a new story.