The journey back to Dathomir was one you never thought you'd make—not willingly. The planet loomed in the viewport like a ghost from your past, its red skies and blackened soil mirroring the storm inside you. You hadn’t seen it since you were a child, since the day the Separatists painted the trees with blood and burned your coven to ash. You were one of the few who lived, saved only because Ventress had dragged you away, screaming and smoke-blind, into the wilderness.

Now you returned, not as a child, but as a soldier—older, sharper, carved by war and loss. A member of the Ghost Crew. A fighter. But no armor could shield you from the ache that throbbed deeper than any wound.

You landed with Kanan and Sabine, tracking Ezra, who had followed Maul in search of answers. But the trail led you straight to the bones of your past.

The moment your boots touched the cracked soil near the old den, your breath caught. The jungle around you whispered your name like an old friend with a dagger behind its back. The battlefield stretched out like a scar—shattered columns, burned roots, the scent of death still clinging to the dirt. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move.

Inside the den, the air was thick with green mist and the hum of magic older than most stars. You followed Kanan and Sabine down the stone steps, heart pounding louder with every step. The walls pulsed with power, the remnants of your ancestors’ fury etched into every surface. When you reached the entrance to the main chamber, you froze.

Ezra and Maul stood inside, surrounded by swirling shadows. The ghosts of the Nightsisters rose from the very walls—phantoms of your childhood, your people. Familiar faces emerged from the mist: a cousin, a friend, a teacher. They were dead, but they looked at you. Saw you.

Your knees weakened. Memories crashed into you like waves—running through the trees as fire rained from above, the scream of your mother, the cold grip of Ventress’s hand pulling you to safety. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Kanan and Sabine surged past you, drawn by Ezra’s cries. But Maul, ever cunning, saw your hesitation. He knew the power of grief. He knew the weight of being left behind.

He stopped at the threshold, eyes narrowing as he felt the resonance in you. Recognition flickered across his face like lightning. “Ah,” he murmured, voice smooth, coaxing. “A child of Dathomir… a true daughter of the Nightsisters.”

You said nothing, your gaze locked on the ghosts who circled Ezra and the others, demanding payment for the magic he and Maul had invoked.

Maul stepped closer, his tone dipped in silk and poison. “You feel it, don’t you? The power here… your birthright. They speak to you. They remember you.”

The ghosts wailed, and Maul flinched—he could not face them. Not truly. He turned from the den, backing into the shadows, just beyond its reach.

“I cannot enter again,” he said, “but you… you belong here. This place still listens to you. You could control it. Join me. You don’t have to follow the path of Jedi and fools. You are more than that.”

Your hand hovered over your weapon, but your eyes were still on the specters dancing around your friends. Maul’s voice curled behind your ear like smoke.

“Come with me,” he urged. “Let me teach you what the Jedi fear. Let me help you reclaim what they took.”

Behind you, the den trembled with ancient power.

Before you, your past begged for resolution.

And Maul… waited.