An upcoming novel to be published by Random House Worlds

Autorentext

Adam Christopher

Klappentext

NATIONAL BESTSELLER • After Revenge of the Sith, a newly forged Darth Vader hunts for the secrets of life and death under the watchful eye of Emperor Palpatine.

In the wake of Emperor Palpatine’s rise to power, the true nature of his most sinister enforcer remains a mystery. Darth Vader is a dominant yet illusive figure: the shadow cast by a malignant Imperial regime, unknowable to even its top officials. But even as his humanity gives way to myth, Vader remains haunted by the promises of the dark side, seeking the ultimate power that his master has hinted at but withheld—the power to conquer death itself.

On the volcanic world of Mustafar, Vader undertakes a dark ritual, bleeding a kyber crystal to forge his lightsaber. This act unleashes a power far greater than he anticipated, giving him a glimpse into the limitless potential of the Force.

Vader is determined to follow this vision, even if it means defying his master’s orders. Yet he finds the Emperor suspiciously supportive of his mission, even sending Vader to the Diso system to investigate rumors of a Force-wielding shaman able to raise the dead. At his side are a cadre of the Emperor’s scarlet-robed Royal Guard, led by Colonel Halland Goth—a decorated soldier with a very personal interest in Vader’s mission.

Even as the Emperor’s true motivations reveal themselves, Vader falls deeper into obsession. His journey takes him far across the galaxy, chasing rumors and phantoms. But no matter how far he travels, he cannot escape the shadows within his own soul. Haunted by the echoes of his past, Vader circles the true resolution to his quest: only once all weakness is purged can he become a master of evil.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

He Was Used to Following Orders

It took Colonel Halland Goth, commander of the Royal Guard, far longer than he had anticipated to finally reach the location of his summons, buried deep in the Imperial Security Bureau Central Office. Entering the building had been the easy part, but being guided through the maze of internal corridors by a junior officer in a light-gray jacket had taken so long, Goth was wondering whether the whole thing was some kind of joke and whether he should simply turn around and attempt to retrace his steps.

Eventually, Goth was shown into an empty office and left to his own devices. Goth paced five orbits of the room, trying to work out why everything in the ISB building was either stark clinical white or flat black. It was disconcerting, and certainly in his maroon Royal Guard jacket, he felt distinctly . . . obvious.

Finally, the door opened, and the person he was apparently meeting walked in. She was tall and thin, younger than Goth by perhaps a decade, maybe more, with a captain’s rank insignia on her white tunic. The woman swept into the room with a smirk, smoothing her long brown bangs over her forehead as she walked straight to a tall cabinet (black against the white wall) that stood behind the desk (also black) and opened a drawer, only to extract a tall blue bottle with one hand and two short blue glasses with another. She placed them on the desk and into each poured a measure of liquid that looked to be about the same color as Goth’s tunic.

The woman offered a glass to Goth and wasted no time in taking a sip from her own. As she did, her ice-blue eyes were fixed on Goth’s. Goth smiled tightly and took the offered glass, but did not drink. There was an intensity to her gaze he found unsettling.

“I know you won’t ask any questions one might find irritating,” said the woman. “You’re a better officer than that.” She gestured for Goth to take a seat as she lowered herself into her own chair. Goth gave a small nod of acknowledgment as he sat. Then he leaned forward and placed his glass on the edge of the desk, the contents still untouched.

“I’m also a superior officer,” Goth said, sitting back. “I could ask you a lot of questions, and I might just order you to answer them.”

At this, the woman laughed, the sound loud, echoing around the hard white walls of the office. “You can try,” she said, “but I’m not sure it will go as you expect.” She tapped the rim of her glass against her rank insignia. “This is just to give stormtroopers something to salute. The ISB is a strictly civilian institution.”

Goth raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

The woman’s smirk reappeared. “My name is Desler. Korali Desler. ISB supervisor.” She took a sip of her drink, then cocked her head. “Among other things.”

At this, the supervisor laid her left hand flat on the desk between them, then curled the hand into a fist, better to display the signet ring on her little finger. Goth—with reluctance that surprised even himself—glanced down at it.

He knew exactly what the ring symbolized. This captain, supervisor, whatever she was, was also a member of another organization, one that Goth himself wanted to join, if only he knew how: the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order, otherwise known as COMPNOR.

Goth forced himself to pick up his glass and take a sip of his drink—it was spicy and strong, and absolutely not to his taste.

And absolutely what he needed right now.

Like the ISB, COMPNOR was an organization that was both new and mysterious. Less an official entity, it was more like a society, one that had members at every level of the Imperial hierarchy. It was a political movement, certainly, but its members operated in the background, providing a guiding hand to the new regime while also helping to disseminate messages and ideas across the Empire, reinforcing the identity and ideology of the new order.

At least, that was what Goth had heard. He’d only met one other person with a signet ring like the ISB supervisor’s, and while he hadn’t pursued it with any particular urgency, the idea of joining COMPNOR was very appealing indeed.

After all, there was no one more loyal, more dedicated, to that new order than he was.

So . . . was this now his chance?

Goth took another sip of his drink and sat up just that little bit taller in his seat. “Are you saying this is not official ISB business?”

The supervisor withdrew her hand with the ring, grinning. “Is anything the ISB does official?” She sat back and drained her glass. “I knew you were the right man. I like you, Halland. Really, I do. You remind me of another chap we have. A lieutenant. You’d like him, I think. He’s dedicated. Like you are. I can see it in your eyes.”

Goth took another drink. Whatever the stuff was, it was growing on him.

“But he’s . . . fresh,” Desler continued. “Green, as the saying goes. Honored to serve the ISB, unsure quite what that service looks like. So I asked him to tell me what the ISB does, and oh!” Desler waved one hand, rolling it in the air along with her eyes. “He gave me the whole thing. He would have recited the entire operations manual if I had let him. So I stopped him and said he was wrong, and he needed to try again. So he thought about it—I mean, you could see it on his face, he was really trying, you know—and then he gave this whole speech about how the ISB is actually a healthcare provider. We identify symptoms, treat sickness, and so on.”

Goth finished his drink in a single gulp, savoring the burn in his throat. He started to get the feeling this was going to be a long meeting.

“And that was the moment I knew he understood.” Desler chuckled and…