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Chapter Text

The sun crawled across the upper spires of Coruscant, its pale gold filtered through the high crystalline arches of the Jedi Council Chamber. Twelve chairs ringed the room in strictest symmetry—two sat empty, reminders that Master Kenobi hunted General Grievous and Master Yoda oversaw the battle on Kashyyyk. Ten masters were present, and the silence bristled like a charged field.

At the focal point—always—was Windu. He sat with his broad hands folded, scarred knuckles white against the deep purple of his robes. His eyes traveled the ring, marking each master's posture, cataloging every microexpression. "We waste time," he said, not loud, but enough to set the walls vibrating. "He is not ready."

Kit Fisto shifted, lekku twitching with barely contained skepticism. "He's been ready since Geonosis, Master. Since long before that, if you'd only admit it."

Windu ignored the bait. "Battlefield valor does not a Master make. Skywalker's record is exemplary, yes. But so is his disregard for the Code."

Ki-Adi-Mundi leaned forward, voice deliberate. "You all recall how many times Anakin's disregard saved lives. Mortis. The blockade of Cato Neimoidia. Every major Separatist push in the last cycle was blunted by him alone."

Saesee Tiin exhaled through his nostrils, looking more bovine than ever in the angled light. "This is not a contest in tallying military victories. If it were, perhaps we'd knight the entire Grand Army."

Plo Koon said nothing, withdrawing into silence rather than weigh in.

Windu pressed on. "It's his attachment. He holds the galaxy at arm's length but clings to his own. Padmé Amidala. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Even his clone troopers—he leads as a man who cannot let go."

The room stilled. The ghosts of Jedi past seemed to press in from the walls. Ki-Adi-Mundi straightened, knuckles whitening on the armrests. "You cite attachment as weakness, and yet no other commander in the GAR inspires such loyalty. The men would follow him into a black hole."

"Would they follow him to the Dark?" Windu's question rang out. "Or drag us with him?"

Kit Fisto muttered, worn: "There's more than shadow in that one, but I've seen that light too snuffed out."

Depa Billaba, silent until now, rapped a knuckle on her chair's arm. "I propose a compromise."

All eyes pivoted to her. Even Windu gave a grudging nod.

"Interim status," she said. "Honor his deeds, acknowledge his growth. Full Mastery—await the war's end."

Kit Fisto grinned. "The men get their hero, and the Council buys time."

"It's an insult," Windu snapped. "To him and to us."

"It's the best path forward," Ki-Adi-Mundi countered. "Unless you wish to drive him further from us."

Murmurs of assent rolled around the ring. Only Tiin and Windu remained stony-faced.

Depa Billaba raised her hand. "We vote."

A hiss of breathing; a slight tension in the Force, like a taut chord about to snap. Hands lifted—some eager, some resigned.

The motion passed, seven to five.

Windu stood, jaw clenched. "Then so be it. Let Skywalker have his half-measure. But when it fails—"

"—When it succeeds," Ki-Adi-Mundi said, voice almost gentle, "perhaps we'll remember what it means to adapt."

The meeting dissolved, Councilors filing out in a haze of unresolved tension.

Beyond the antechamber doors, Anakin paced. He walked the same six meters, boots clicking in a rhythm more mechanical than the hand flexing at his side. He stared out through the arch, gaze not on the traffic rivers far below but inward, to whatever cauldron simmered behind his eyes.

Even through the thick, oiled wood, he heard them: "Not ready," "loyalty," "attachment." Words snagged in his memory, old wounds reopening. He clenched and unclenched his prosthetic, the whir of servos a quiet counterpoint to his ragged breathing.

The summons came less than an hour later: "The Council requests your presence." The request was ceremonial, the expectation absolute.

Anakin entered the empty seats of Kenobi and Yoda glaring at him like accusing phantoms. Ten masters awaited him, arrayed in a circle that today felt less like a gathering of equals and more like a tribunal.

Windu presided, hands steepled, the hard line of his mouth betraying nothing. "Skywalker," he began, voice as polished as durasteel, "the Council recognizes your contributions to the Republic's war effort."

The words might have been a compliment, but Windu's eyes made them feel like a warning.

"The scale and scope of your service is unparalleled. Many here owe you their lives. The Order itself—" a fractional pause "—has survived in no small part because of your actions."

The room echoed with the quietest of shuffles—Plo Koon adjusting his mask, Ki-Adi-Mundi shifting one leg. Sympathy shone in Ki-Adi's gaze, but it only sharpened the cold edge of the moment.

"In light of these contributions," Windu said, "and with the understanding that the times require us to adapt, the Council has decided to grant you the interim status of Jedi Master."

The title landed like a brick.

A rush of heat. A spike of pride. Then, as Windu's next words unfurled, the cold aftertaste.

"This status conveys all battlefield privileges and responsibilities. Formal trials and induction will take place after the cessation of hostilities. Should you wish to accept, you will have a seat on this Council, effective immediately."

Anakin's next breath was the hardest he'd ever taken. He scanned the chamber, looking for Obi-Wan's approving nod or Yoda's knowing smile—only empty chairs stared back.

"Thank you, Masters," he said, inclining his head in a gesture that might have been respect or might have been defiance. "I will not fail you."

He turned and left, the doors hissing closed behind him.

The corridor outside was washed in sun, a stark contrast to the cool deliberations of the chamber. Anakin paused, fingers brushing the hilt of his lightsaber in a habitual gesture that was half comfort, half warning. He traced the lines of the blade's casing, remembering when he'd built it—when being a Jedi meant endless possibility, not endless scrutiny.

He leaned against a marble pillar, letting the heat seep into his bones. Through the windows, he could see the city's towers, each one a monument to ambition and compromise. The promotion should have felt like victory. Instead, it was just another rung on a ladder that kept stretching into clouds.

He closed his eyes and whispered, "Jedi Master," tasting the words.

They tasted of metal and smoke, and the endless hum of expectations he could never quite silence.

In the great amphitheater of the Republic Senate, thousands of repulsorlift platforms hovered in meticulous disorder, each loaded with delegates—senators, aides, translators, functionaries—drawn from every corner of the galaxy. The cumulative effect was one of engineered chaos, the voices of a thousand worlds distilling into an ambient susurrus that reverberated from the dome's distant apex.

Above them all, on a dais raised high enough to suggest both authority and surveillance, Chancellor Palpatine presided. To the unaided eye, he seemed shrunken by the scale of the chamber, but his voice filled every crevice and corner, calibrated by decades of practice.

"Esteemed Senators," he began, his tone steeped in the honey of grandfatherly concern, "I come before you not as Supreme Chancellor, but as a servant of the Republic—charged with its care, burdened by its sorrows."

The silence that followed was not absolute. It trembled with tension: the flick of a sleeve, the low cough of a Gotal minister, the electronic whine of voting droids poised in readiness.

Palpatine continued. "The war has strained us beyond all prediction. Our Jedi generals are stretched thin, our brave clones exhausted by attrition, our coffers drained by the needs of total mobilization. Every day, the Separatist threat grows more cunning. The Republic must be nimble, decisive—prepared to meet force with force."

He pressed a button on his lectern. Holo-screens shimmered to life around the chamber, projecting bar graphs of military losses, casualty rosters, color-coded star maps indicating the latest Separatist incursions. The air buzzed as every senator's personal datapad updated in real time.

"These measures," Palpatine said, gesturing to the bill before them, "are only temporary. They will grant executive latitude to deploy resources where the need is greatest, to break deadlocks in logistics, to save lives. Once the crisis has passed, the normal operations of democracy will resume—restored, improved, strengthened."

He folded his hands, allowing the words to settle like a benediction.

On one of the central platforms, Bail Organa rose. He was careful to keep his posture relaxed, his expression open. "Chancellor, if I may?"

"Of course, Senator Organa. Your voice is always welcome."

Bail nodded, a slight smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "With due respect, the last set of 'temporary' emergency powers is still in effect, three years after its introduction. Some in this body wonder if we're not constructing a permanent edifice from what was meant to be scaffolding."

Polite laughter rippled from the platforms, more nervous than amused.

Palpatine's smile was pure serenity. "A fair concern, Senator. I remind you, however, that every provision is subject to periodic review, and the oversight committee—chaired by yourself—remains empowered to challenge any overreach."

Bail inclined his head, conceding the point, but his next words came sharper. "The new bill further curtails Senate debate on military appropriations. If we cede this, what remains of our legislative function?"

Palpatine's reply was ready, yet never felt rehearsed. "The measure is a shield, not a sword. It prevents delay in reinforcing our troops at the front lines. The Jedi and the Grand Army need freedom to act without their hands tied by procedural knots. I trust you, and every senator here, to safeguard democracy—but only if democracy itself survives."

A murmur of approval swept the galleries.

Bail might have pressed further, but the mood had turned. A few other senators spoke, none with Organa's gravitas, and none with his ability to draw the Chancellor into a corner.

Palpatine called the vote. Hands were raised, lights blinked, datapads registered intent. The result projected in blue fire above the dais: the motion passed by overwhelming majority.

Palpatine stood, basking in the applause. His face registered humble gratitude, but his eyes—briefly—flared with something colder, more calculating.

The Senate session adjourned. Palpatine moved with fluid grace through the corridors, flanked by aides and sentries, accepting congratulations with practiced modesty. His private office was a study in contrast: from the bombast of the Senate to the hush of velvet carpeting and perfumed air.

He dismissed his entourage with a genial wave. Alone, he crossed to a wide desk and lifted the data tablet containing the amended constitution. He scrolled through the legalese, savoring each clause that bent another lever of power toward his hand.

A tap on the comm—an aide announcing a private visitor. Palpatine smiled, the warmth now unfiltered, and told them to send her in.

But for a moment before she entered, he let the mask drop. The lines of his face shifted, the eyes became shrewd slits, and his mouth twisted in satisfaction.

He closed the tablet, placed it gently atop a growing stack, and composed himself for the next round of games.

The Senate complex was a labyrinth of marble and transparisteel, its corridors perpetually bathed in the crisp white of artificial daylight. Anakin moved through them with the stride of a man accustomed to both war and ceremony, his presence drawing the gaze of every aide, officer, and droid he passed. News traveled fast in these halls; word of his new title had clearly preceded him. Officers in crisp blue uniforms nodded with a respect that bordered on awe. Politicians—some calculating, some simply nervous—gave him wide berth.

He rehearsed the conversation in his head as he walked: how to phrase the Council's decision, how to shape it so the Chancellor would not see the caveat as a slight. Palpatine had always delighted in Anakin's advancement. It would be a small comfort to deliver the news in person, to see the glimmer of pride—real or otherwise—in those pale blue eyes.

But as he turned a corner toward the Chancellor's private office, the world seemed to hiccup.

Anakin halted, every nerve lit by an electric chill. The air grew thin, sounds sharpened and then warped, as if he stood in a chamber where gravity itself had shifted sideways. The Force—normally a steady river beneath his consciousness—had fractured, become a jangle of discordant notes. He blinked, heart pounding, but the corridor remained stubbornly normal. Two protocol droids glided by, chattering softly in trade language. A junior senator fussed with a data pad. No one else seemed to notice.

He waited, breath slow, hand drifting to the hilt of his saber. Was it a warning? A vision? No images crashed through his mind, no words rose up from the depths. It was simply… dissonance. Like an orchestra tuning up, every section playing in a slightly different key.

The sensation faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only a lingering unease in its wake. Anakin shook himself, trying to dismiss the afterimage. He checked the corridor once more—empty except for a pair of naval guards and the echo of his own footsteps—then continued on.

Whatever it was, it had left its mark. He could feel it in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his mind replayed the sensation over and over, searching for meaning.

He reached the Chancellor's door, sunlight streaming in mosaic patterns across the polished floor. He paused, letting the warmth soak into his skin, and tried to steady his breathing.

Then he knocked, and the doors parted with a sigh.

He stepped inside, bearing the weight of his new title—and the subtle, inescapable sense that something in the world had shifted, just beyond the reach of light.

Chapter Text

The Chancellor's private office had always struck Anakin as curiously intimate—a domed vault insulated from the chaos outside, paneled in Naboo wood, every surface lacquered to a soft, impenetrable gleam. The curtains were always drawn, the light filtered through gold, so that the world beyond seemed distant and unreal.

Palpatine sat at his desk, hunched over a scatter of reports, and at first glance he looked very old. Not just tired, but shrunken, as if the ongoing war had siphoned the substance from his bones. Anakin hesitated at the threshold, registering the bow of the Chancellor's head, the tremor in his hands as he set a datapad aside.

"Come in, Anakin," Palpatine said, voice pitched for privacy. "You look as if you've had as little sleep as I have."

Anakin stepped inside, letting the door sigh shut behind him. The carpet muted his steps. "I received your summons."

Palpatine gestured to a low chair. "Please. I would have called for you sooner, but—" he smiled, a weary thing "—your new duties keep you more in demand than ever. Congratulations, by the way. Interim status or not, I knew the Council would eventually see reason."

Anakin sat. The upholstery was rich, but the seat felt suddenly precarious. "You know what happened in there?"

The Chancellor's eyes gleamed. "Word travels. Besides, I keep close ties with several on the Council." A pause. "Not all of them are as inflexible as Master Windu, I'm happy to report."

Anakin's lips quirked in reluctant agreement, but the old camaraderie between them felt blunted, off-axis.

Palpatine folded his hands. "I asked you here because the situation is coming to a head. My analysts agree—the war will end soon. But how it ends… that is now in the Council's hands, more than the Senate's, or even mine." He leaned forward. "That troubles me."

Anakin braced himself. "You know the Jedi serve at the pleasure of the Republic. We're generals because the Senate demanded it."

The Chancellor's gaze flickered to a sideboard, where a pitcher of wine sat untouched, then back to Anakin. "That is the letter of the law. But in truth, the Jedi have become a power unto themselves. When this is over, what happens if the Council refuses to lay down arms? If they decide the Republic is better off under their protection—indefinitely?" He tapped his fingers together. "I have every faith in you, my friend. But faith is a rare commodity these days."

Anakin stared at his own hands, flesh and synthskin, the latter reflecting the amber lamplight. The words felt rehearsed—Palpatine had aired similar concerns before, always couched in terms of hypothetical threats, always with a trace of wounded humility. This time, though, something in the air had shifted. The conversation was not a game; it was a precipice.

"I know what you want to ask," Anakin said. "You want to know if the Jedi will turn against you. Against the Republic."

"I want to know if you will," Palpatine said quietly.

The silence between them was a living thing.

Anakin shook his head. "The Council doesn't trust me. They never have. I'm only on the Council now because they think I'm a weapon they can point at you, or at Dooku, or wherever the fighting's thickest. If they think you're the greater threat, they'll act."

Palpatine smiled, but the corners of his eyes did not move. "You underestimate your influence. And you underestimate their fear."

Anakin's hand crept to his belt, where the lightsaber hung. He didn't touch it, but he let his fingers hover near the hilt. "You're making them sound like Sith, Chancellor. They're sworn to peace."

"Sworn to peace, but steeped in war." Palpatine rose and crossed to the window, hands clasped behind his back. He gazed out over Coruscant's spires, voice softening. "I once studied Jedi philosophy, you know. Not with any depth, but enough to recognize the dangers in dogma. You know what I find most tragic about the Order?"

Anakin said nothing. He could feel the floor tilt beneath him, as if the room itself were being drawn toward the abyss.

"The Jedi," Palpatine said, "preach non-attachment, but their entire existence is predicated on control. Control of their emotions, of others, even of fate itself. But when life defies control—when loss arrives, as it does for all of us—their doctrine offers nothing but guilt and solitude." He turned, eyes wet with an actor's perfect sorrow. "You know this. You've lost, too."

The words struck Anakin like a blow. For a moment, Padmé's face swam before his eyes—smiling, and then gone. He forced the vision down. "That isn't fair," he said. "The Jedi teach acceptance. They teach—"

"—that grief is a fault." Palpatine's voice sharpened. "That to love is to court disaster. Do you believe that, Anakin? That love is shameful?"

Anakin stood, the chair scraping behind him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I don't want to see you broken as I've seen so many others broken. Because I know what you're capable of, and what you could be, if you stopped letting them shackle your heart." Palpatine stepped closer, lowering his voice to a bare whisper. "The ancient Sith understood passion not as a curse, but as a font of strength. The Jedi have lost sight of that. They fear it because they fear themselves."

Anakin's mouth had gone dry. "You're not a Jedi. Why do you care?"

"Because I care about you," Palpatine said, and in that moment it almost sounded true. "I see you—truly see you—in a way the others never will. And I know what it is to lose. My own mentor died in the early days of this war. He was a wise man, but he suffered under the same yoke. In his final moments, he spoke of a power to save those we love from death itself." Palpatine's gaze caught Anakin's, and held it. "He said only the Sith had unlocked that secret. But the Jedi refuse to learn, out of pride. Out of fear."

Anakin's heart stuttered. The words rang too closely to his dreams, his private nightmares. "You're lying."

"I have never lied to you." Palpatine's voice was as smooth as glass, as gentle as a parent's caress. "There are truths the Jedi won't teach. But you, Anakin—you could learn. You could save her, if you dared."

The room spun, the Force itself a whirlpool. Anakin stepped back, and now his hand did close around the lightsaber hilt. Sweat tickled his brow, cold despite the warmth of the room.

"You're a Sith," he said, each word costing him.

The Chancellor smiled, and the mask fell away. In its place was a look of ancient, bottomless hunger.

"I am," Palpatine said. "But not your enemy—never your enemy, Anakin. I offer you freedom. Knowledge. A galaxy rebuilt by the only hands strong enough to shape it."

Anakin's breathing came fast and shallow. His training screamed at him: Draw, now. End this. But the Chancellor had not moved, had not even raised a hand.

"You killed the Jedi. You started this war," Anakin spat. "All those deaths—"

"Were necessary. The galaxy was rotting, Anakin. Sometimes, to heal, one must cut away the infection." Palpatine's eyes burned with conviction. "You have seen it. The corruption, the hypocrisy. Join me, and we will destroy the true darkness—together."

Anakin wavered, the moment stretched past breaking.

Palpatine reached into his robes and withdrew a small, unmarked datapad. He set it on the desk between them, his eyes never leaving Anakin's. "When you're ready to learn the truth, take this to the old Senate archives. It will show you everything. The path is yours to walk, or not."

Anakin stared at the device as if it might detonate.

He backed away, one step, then two. Palpatine did not follow. The Force between them buzzed, violent and seductive.

"You're sick," Anakin whispered. "I'm going to tell the Council."

Palpatine's smile returned, gentle and paternal. "They won't believe you. Not yet. But when you see what's coming—when you see what I have seen—you'll understand."

Anakin turned, nearly stumbling, and fled the office. The hush of the corridor closed around him, but the Chancellor's final words echoed in his skull.

"You'll return, Anakin. When you realize what I offer is what you've always wanted."

Anakin didn't stop until he reached the sunlit atrium. He bent double, gulping air, his mechanical hand locked in a deathgrip around the lightsaber.

The world had, indeed, shifted. And now he felt the gravity pulling him toward something vast, and inescapable, and black as night.

Anakin stormed the Temple's corridors, heedless of the glances that followed him. He walked as if pursued, mechanical hand flexing in time with the rapid-fire calculations ricocheting in his mind. The words "Darth Sidious" blared in his skull like a klaxon, drowning out the everyday hum of Jedi routine.

He reached the high meditation level in half the time it should have taken, not caring who saw. Here, the windows were thrown open to the deepening dusk, and the City of Spires glittered in the valley below. No one else occupied the room—no one ever did, this late—but Mace Windu sat in the far corner, eyes shut, back straight, every muscle in his body stilled to a monk's precision.

Anakin stood at the threshold, drawing breath, willing the tremor from his limbs. "Master Windu," he said, hating how his voice almost broke.

Windu opened his eyes, studied Anakin with the calm of a predator who's never doubted the outcome of the hunt. "You have something to report."

Anakin walked the length of the chamber, trying to remember the words he'd practiced. They stuck in his throat, congealed there by fear, by betrayal, by the sick thrill that part of him—a part he wanted to murder—felt at being the bearer of this news.

"Palpatine is the Sith Lord," he said, finally. "He's Darth Sidious."

He'd expected outrage, or at least incredulity. Instead, Windu merely exhaled, lips thinning to a bloodless line. "You're certain?"

"I—" The memory slammed back, the darkness in the Chancellor's face, the oily caress of the words. "He confessed. Tried to—he said the Jedi were finished, that I should join him. He's been playing both sides this entire time."

Windu's fingers coiled around his own lightsaber, but he didn't ignite it. "Why tell you now?"

Anakin shook his head. "He said the war's almost over. That when it ends, the Senate—and the Jedi—will be obsolete. He wants me to help him take the galaxy by force."

"Did he threaten you?"

A dry laugh. "No. He… offered to teach me."

Windu rose, every line of his body set to purpose. He paced to the center of the chamber, stood a handspan away from Anakin. "Why bring this to me, not the Council?"

"I…" Anakin faltered. "You always said I was too close to him. I wanted to prove—"

"—That you are not." Windu's tone was flat, but the words landed heavy. "Yet you still hesitate."

Anakin met the older man's gaze. "He's been my mentor since I was a boy. The Order gave me a future, but the Chancellor—he gave me purpose. Recognition. I thought…" He couldn't finish. The city lights outside the window blinked, mimicking the tremor in his jaw.

Windu regarded him, and Anakin sensed that the Master was weighing a lifetime's worth of suspicion against the urgency of the moment.

At last: "If you're wrong—"

"I'm not." It came out hard. "The way he spoke, the things he knew. There's no other explanation. He gave me this." Anakin tossed the unmarked datapad onto a nearby meditation plinth, as if it were infected.

Windu didn't so much as glance at it. "We must act. Now. Before he can slip away or cover his tracks."

Anakin stepped back. "What do you mean, 'we?' You want me to come with you?"

"You're the only one he'll let close," Windu said. "And if he's as strong as you say, I'll need every advantage."

Anakin looked at the older man, saw the hard glint of necessity in his eyes. "You don't trust me."

Windu's response was immediate. "I trust you to do your duty. To the Republic. To the Order." He softened, but only a shade. "The Council did you a disservice, Skywalker. We used you for your talent, not your judgment. I see now that was a mistake."

Anakin flinched, surprised by the concession.

Windu drew himself up, the lines of his face sharpening. "We confront him together. If he resists, we act. No hesitation."

Anakin swallowed. "And if you're wrong—"

"We won't be," Windu said. "But if by some miracle we are, I'll bear the blame. Alone."

A moment passed—long enough for the last of the sun to sink beneath the city rim, turning the meditation chamber to shadow.

Anakin felt the future narrowing to a single, terrible point. He drew in a breath, held it, then nodded.

"I'll go with you."

Windu turned, cloak already swirling, and together they vanished into the gathering dark.

They crossed the city in a shadow's breadth, Windu in the lead, Anakin a step behind. Somewhere en route, three more Jedi fell in: Kit Fisto, Saesee Tiin, Agen Kolar. None spoke. The air in the shuttle was electric—thick with expectation, and the sense that they were all about to breach some final, unwritten rule.

The Chancellor's wing was even more deserted than usual, the ornamental guards nowhere in sight. Windu paused at the threshold, eyes sweeping the corridor. Anakin reached out with his senses, felt the entire building suspended in a hush, as if Coruscant itself waited for the outcome.

The doors opened at their approach. Inside, Palpatine sat at his desk, reading by the wan light of an overhead fixture. He looked up and smiled as though nothing could please him more.

"Master Windu. Master Skywalker. To what do I owe this late-night visitation?"

Windu didn't waste time. "Chancellor, you are under arrest. For crimes against the Republic and the Jedi Order. Stand down and surrender your office."

Anakin half expected Palpatine to bluster, to protest. Instead, the Chancellor's face collapsed into something brittle and wounded. "I see." He nodded, lips pressed tight. "So the coup is already begun. I'd hoped for better from you, Master Jedi."

Kit Fisto and the others fanned out, hands resting on their hilts. The air buzzed, the Force pulling tight as a garrote.

Windu's saber snapped to life, violet blade painting the room in ultraviolet. "Don't make this harder than it must be."

Palpatine stood. "You'll do your duty. As will I."

He reached under his robes. Anakin glimpsed a hilt—no Jedi design, all angles and malice—and then the room exploded.

Palpatine vaulted the desk in a blur, his red saber carving a line of pure, screaming energy. Kolar caught it in the gut before he could ignite his own blade; the body folded like paper and collapsed without a sound.

Windu met Palpatine in the center of the office, their sabers clashing with an impact that rattled the glass in the windows. Fisto and Tiin flanked, but Palpatine moved with a speed that bent reality—one instant inside Tiin's guard, the next behind Fisto, blade finding meat with every pass. In three heartbeats, two more Jedi fell.

Anakin's own saber came alive without conscious thought. He circled the duel, searching for an opening, but the two combatants occupied every inch of space with lethal intent.

Palpatine's technique was all angles and violence, strikes delivered with no warning, every movement tailored to kill rather than subdue. Windu, by contrast, was pure control—each parry and riposte calculated, the violet blade a living extension of his will. They moved in a blur, shattering furniture, gouging trenches in the floor. Bookshelves caught fire, priceless artifacts reduced to cinders. Once, Palpatine hurled the burning remains of his own desk at Windu, who sliced it in half with a contemptuous flick.

Anakin felt himself vibrating, barely able to keep up. This was not war; it was raw, animal survival.

"Help him!" a voice shrieked in Anakin's mind. His or someone else's, it didn't matter. He lunged in, blade aimed at Palpatine's exposed flank.

Sidious whirled, saber meeting his with a shriek of metal and light. The impact numbed Anakin's arm, sent him skidding back across a floor slick with blood and ash. Palpatine followed, face transformed now—no trace of the grandfatherly mask. His mouth was a thin, white gash, his eyes molten yellow, slitted and inhuman.

"Is this what you wanted, Skywalker?" Palpatine spat, red blade battering against Anakin's guard. "To be their hound, their executioner? You think they'll ever truly accept you?"

Anakin fought to hold his ground, saber locking with Palpatine's, the Force screaming at him to break free or be broken.

"Don't listen to him!" Windu roared, and then he was back in the fight, the two Masters hammering at Sidious with the fury of a collapsing star.

They drove him toward the windows, Windu pressing every advantage, Anakin circling to cut off retreat. Palpatine let loose a shriek, a wave of invisible pressure that crumpled a row of durasteel cabinets and hurled Anakin across the room. He smashed into the far wall, the air knocked from his lungs. He barely had time to raise his blade as Palpatine descended, sabers clashing an inch from Anakin's face.

"You see it now, don't you?" Palpatine hissed. "The power you could wield—the destiny denied you by these fools—"

Anakin twisted, letting the saber slide off his, and caught Palpatine with a boot to the chest. It was enough to send the Chancellor staggering, just long enough for Windu to close the distance.

For a moment, it looked like the duel would end there: Windu's saber at Palpatine's throat, the two locked in a death-embrace, purple and red sizzling together. But Palpatine smiled—a hideous, triumphant thing—and unleashed a storm of lightning that lit the office white.

Windu caught it on his blade, teeth bared with the effort, but Palpatine pressed the attack, lightning and saber moving as one. The air filled with the stink of ozone and burning cloth. Windows shattered, sending razor flakes of transparisteel everywhere.

Anakin crawled through the debris, eyes fixed on the duel. His instincts screamed at him to run, to intervene, to do anything. He forced himself to his feet, staggered forward, but by then the room was just raw, elemental violence—purple, red, and white filling his vision.

When the afterimages faded, Windu and Palpatine stood at the edge of the broken window, both battered, both bleeding, but neither yet defeated.

Outside, the city's lights burned on, oblivious.

Anakin, torn between the two, felt the universe balance on a knife edge.

It wasn't over. Not yet.

The room was a ruin of smoke and glass. Wind howled through the shattered window, carrying city grit and the scent of ozone. Below, Coruscant sprawled in infinite tiers of light and shadow. Anakin stood transfixed by the tableau at the threshold: Windu, battered but upright, violet saber blazing in his fist; Palpatine, on one knee, red blade fallen from his grasp, robes scorched and eyes sunken to feral yellow slits.

Windu advanced, his free hand radiating force enough to pin the Chancellor to the window's broken lip. "It's over," he said, voice hoarse. "You will stand trial for your crimes. The Senate will judge you."

Palpatine looked up, lips trembling, eyes rimmed with unshed tears. "Please," he whimpered. "Don't kill me. I yield. I'm too weak—"

"Enough," Windu snapped. He pressed the point of his saber closer, its energy burning a crescent into the marble. "The oppression of the Sith ends here. Forever."

Anakin saw the calculation flicker in Palpatine's face—a shadow passing behind the mask of weakness. The Chancellor's eyes flicked, just for a heartbeat, toward Anakin.

"Help me," he whispered.

Windu's jaw tightened. "You're beyond help."

Palpatine's next movement was pure venom. His hands, skeletal and clawed, shot up—unleashing a torrent of blue-white energy that engulfed Windu from head to foot. The sound was not thunder but shrieking metal, the scent not rain but burning flesh.

Windu held firm, blade intercepting the storm. The lightning arced through the saber and reflected back, rebounding onto Palpatine's own body. His face warped, skin blistering and sloughing away, hair burning to ash. In the carnage, he looked less like a man and more like the spirit of every nightmare the Jedi had ever faced.

"Anakin!" Windu shouted, sweat cascading down his brow. His arms shook. "He's too dangerous to be left alive!"

Anakin moved, but the world moved faster. Palpatine, writhing in his own hellfire, drew new reserves of hatred from whatever black pit fueled him. He twisted, focused the lightning into a single, blinding bolt—and shattered Windu's saber hand at the wrist.

Windu screamed, the violet blade spinning off into the void. With a final, desperate lunge, the Jedi Master tried to draw on the Force, but Palpatine was already standing, face a ruin, eyes boiling with yellow hate.

The next bolt hit Windu square in the chest. He staggered back, teetered on the broken ledge.

For a moment, time stopped. The city held its breath. Windu looked at Anakin—no blame, only a weary acceptance—and then Palpatine struck him again, hurling the broken man into the endless night.

Silence.

Anakin stared at the hole where Windu had been for only a moment before acting. Without hesitation, he leaped through the shattered window, propelled by desperation to catch the Jedi Master.

Meanwhile, Palpatine straightened, hunched and trembling, flesh still smoking, mouth contorted in a rictus of agony and triumph. "It is finished," he croaked. "The last of their great defenders, and he couldn't save even himself."

Anakin, as he flew through the air, realized what the Jedi Master had seen too late: not a helpless old man, but a demon in a mask of flesh.

Palpatine turned to where Anakin had been, yellow eyes burning with hunger. "Now, Anakin. Will you fulfill your destiny?"

The wind howled through the office, and Anakin's determined actions were lost in the darkness.

Palpatine staggered to his feet, the smell of burned flesh and old fear thick around him. His face, once so blandly benevolent, was now a mask of craters and lacerations, each twitch of muscle revealing something raw beneath. But his voice, when he spoke, was the same as ever—steady, patient, irrefutably in command.

He crossed the ruined office with the gait of a wounded predator and pressed a hidden panel on the far wall. A section slid aside, revealing a black communications array. Palpatine keyed in the code with trembling, deft fingers.

"Commander," he said, his words unhurried, "the time has come. Execute Order Sixty-Six."

The signal pulsed out, through relays and satellites, through subspace and the very bones of the galaxy itself.

On the rain-soaked slopes of Mygeeto, a Jedi General led her men up a hill that had no summit, only mud and corpse-pools. She raised her saber in silent salute to the fallen, preparing to charge again.

The clone captain beside her received the transmission in his helmet. His eyes, always too human, glazed over in an instant. He said, "Yes, my lord," and with a single hand signal, his squad opened fire.

The Jedi spun, deflecting a dozen bolts with reflexes honed by war, but the clones had trained under her for years—they knew every tell, every pivot. A shot took her through the thigh. Another clipped her saber arm. The rest stitched a line up her chest, and she dropped in the mud, eyes wide in disbelief.

The clones advanced in silence, weapons raised, faces blank.

In a field hospital orbiting Saleucami, a Padawan checked medical scans, her hands gentle with the wounded. She smiled at the trooper on the cot—a boy, really, not a year older than she was.

He drew his sidearm and shot her through the sternum. She folded, mouth frozen mid-sentence, blood pooling on the sterile floor. He stood, executed the two other Jedi in the tent, and limped away to report compliance.

On Felucia, a Jedi Knight was locked in delicate negotiations with separatist dignitaries. The clone major at her side looked restless, impatient. When the comm signal chimed, he shot both diplomats first—then turned and gunned down his Jedi superior as she sprang from her chair.

He finished by burning the Republic insignia from his own pauldron, gaze empty as the vacuum between stars.

Scene after scene, across the Outer Rim and the Inner systems, the same pattern repeated. Clones turned, without hesitation or mercy, on the Jedi who had commanded them, befriended them, saved their lives a hundred times. Betrayal was not even a word for it; there was no passion, no hatred, only the flat inevitability of a switch being thrown.

Lightsabers fell. Robes collapsed in heaps, trampled by boots. No last words, no dramatic declarations. Only the cold and the sudden, clinical violence.

Back in the smoldering office, Palpatine sank into his chair and watched it all unfold on the comm screens. Holograms flickered to life, each one a snuff film in miniature: Jedi falling, outposts overrun, transmission towers burning like torches in the night.

He pressed a button, patching himself into the Senate's emergency broadcast net.

"Citizens of the Republic," he intoned, voice modulated to perfection, "the Jedi have rebelled against lawful authority. They have attempted a coup against your Chancellor, against democracy itself. By the powers vested in me, I have authorized emergency measures to restore peace and security. The traitors will be rooted out. Order will be restored."

He smiled, lips drawn thin over shattered teeth.

Outside, sirens began to wail. Somewhere, a tower crumbled. The sky flashed as distant artillery struck the Jedi Temple.

In the halls below, Anakin heard the first rumble of the coming storm. He stood in the stairwell, one hand braced on the rail, the other locked around his saber. He couldn't move. Couldn't think.

He saw flashes: Padawans torn down in the halls, Masters fighting and dying side by side with their own executioners. All over the galaxy, the Order was dying, and there was nothing left to do but bear witness.

Above him, the Senate rotunda lit up with blue fire. Palpatine's words echoed through the air, repeated by a thousand droids and a million lips:

"The Jedi Rebellion has been foiled. The Republic stands. Long live the Empire."

Anakin knelt, head in his hands, as the world outside burned.

Anakin burst through the shattered window frame and hurtled into the night air. Below him, Mace Windu tumbled, his robes flaring like wounded wings. Instinct and the Force wrapped around Anakin. He reached out, closed his grip on Windu's shoulder, and willed the world to slow. The wind stilled, their fall reduced to a gentle glide. They touched down on the marble balcony, chests heaving, hearts pounding.

Mace slumped against the railing. One side of his face was seared into charcoal, his right arm a raw, cauterized stump. Every breath rattled in his chest. Anakin knelt beside him, voice unsteady. "Master, you're alive."

Windu's remaining eye snapped open, fierce even through pain. "He—Sidious—was ready," he rasped. "The clones… they obeyed without question."

Anakin's jaw clenched. "Order 66." He could feel it like tremors in the Force—Jedi falling across the galaxy in scattered, agonized pulses.

The city around them had erupted. Turbo-lifts lay dead, skybridges thronged with clone patrols. Below, crowds fled in panic or huddled beneath the flicker of emergency holos. The Senate dome, their home since childhood, glowed ember-red against the smoke.

Anakin rose, half-lifting the heavier Master. "We have to move—now."

Windu straightened, bracing himself. He gripped Anakin's mechanical forearm so hard it burned. "The Republic is gone," he said. "But the Jedi must endure."

Duty stiffened Anakin's spine. He nodded, hoisted Windu fully to his feet, and ducked back inside the office. Blaster fire echoed in the corridors. They wove through shattered consoles, past locked security doors, until they reached a service gantry. Anakin summoned the Force again, vaulting them over the chasm to the next walkway.

Every plank threatened to give way; every patrol could be their last. Anakin half-carried Windu, half-supported him, until they dropped into a maintenance shaft. There the Master paused, breathing hard.

"We can't save everyone," Anakin said, voice raw.

Windu's lips curved with grim resolve. "Then save those you can. Teach them what we know."

Anakin glanced at the crumpled city beneath. The clones would descend in minutes—two squads, no survivors. "Where do we go?"

Windu lifted his head on unsteady legs. "Where we're needed most." He leaned on Anakin. "The Temple."

Together they surged forward. Clone patrols fanned out below; searchlights swept the sky. Ahead, the Jedi Temple's spire pierced the smoke—still standing, still a beacon.

Anakin squared his shoulders. With Windu at his side, he strode into the chaos, guardians in a world bent on extinguishing them. They did not look back.

Chapter Text

The Temple was already lost.

Anakin Skywalker caught the sour tang of burning plasteel before he registered the blaster fire—first a distant rattle in the upper corridors, then a thunderous volley that shook the marble floor beneath his boots. The high windows of the main rotunda fractured the evening sunlight into pools of gold and red, as if the Force itself tried to warn him, painting the steps with blood before the first trooper appeared.

They came two abreast in clone commando armor, pristine white now slashed with the blue marks of the new regime. A squad. Not the scattered, shell-shocked survivors of past sieges, but an organized, coldly efficient murder detail.

For a moment Anakin's mind rejected it—clones, inside the Temple, weapons raised at Jedi. Then the lead commando squeezed the trigger and a shock of blue plasma sheared past his head, crisping the air where his face had just been.

Anakin's mechanical hand jerked to his belt and in the same motion his lightsaber snapped alive, the blue blade humming. He dropped low and batted aside a second bolt, feeling the heat splash his cheek. Instinct and training took over—he swept his saber up and to the left, deflecting two more shots, then bounded forward and caught the first trooper under the chin with a flash of energy. The body slumped at his feet, already forgotten as he spun to intercept the next barrage.

"Go!" he shouted, voice hoarse with smoke. The younglings who'd gathered in the entry alcove scattered, brown and gray robes whipping as they vanished into the side corridors. The next two clone shots found their mark—one caught a padawan high in the shoulder, spinning her into a column, the other carved a smoking line through a boy's tunic but left him standing, blinking in shock. Anakin closed the distance with a single leap, the blue blade sweeping in a tight arc. Two clones went down, helmets smoking.

It was then that he heard the cries. Not the ordered panic of a military action, but the wild, animal shriek of children and the guttural bellow of a dying Wookiee Master somewhere up the west transept. The smell of ozone and burning flesh mingled, climbing toward the Temple's domed heights.

He had been a war hero, a Jedi Master in all but name. He'd seen things that would freeze the heart of any civilian. But this was different. This was home.

He fought his way up the main stairs, clearing the landing in three strokes of his saber. A clone tried to flank him from behind, but Anakin felt the presence before the man had even sighted his rifle—he whirled, catching the barrel with the flat of his blade and shoving the clone back into the path of a charging Ithorian Jedi. The Ithorian's four hands pinwheeled, grabbing the clone's arms and snapping them at the elbows. The trooper collapsed, and the Ithorian's eyes—always so gentle in the Council chambers—were now blown wide with horror.

"They're everywhere," she burbled. "Commander Skywalker, the young ones—"

"I know." He had not meant to bark, but the pressure behind his eyes was building, rage and terror and something else—an old, choking doubt. "Get the survivors to the library annex. Hold there until I send word."

The Ithorian nodded, grabbing the unconscious padawan and lifting her over one shoulder. Anakin didn't wait to watch them go. He pivoted up the grand hall, saber whirling, cutting a path through the advancing troopers. They came on in silence, never speaking, never hesitating, even as their front ranks fell.

His mechanical hand flexed around the saber hilt, sensors registering the chill through the glove. He remembered when clones had been brothers, names not numbers, all haunted by the same losses. Now their eyes behind the visors were just mirrors: empty, reflecting only what they were told to see.

Another squad rounded the corner, firing from the hip. Anakin batted away the first volley and Force-pushed the squad into a tangled heap at the far wall. He heard more blasters echoing down the side corridors—these were kill teams, sent to sweep and clear. They knew the Temple's layout as well as he did. He'd fought beside many of them. He'd trained some.

He reached the next atrium, a circular chamber where the glass dome had already spidered from the concussive blasts. In the center, a barricade of overturned furniture and shattered statuary had been erected. Behind it, half a dozen Jedi—two Knights, four padawans—huddled in defensive formation. One of the Knights, a Mon Calamari with a cauterized stump where her left hand should be, waved Anakin over.

"Master Skywalker!" she called. "We're cut off. The lower levels are lost—clones are herding survivors toward the hangar bays."

Anakin scanned the field: the main exits were already blocked, the clones laying down suppressive fire in methodical sweeps. He counted four points of ingress, two already breached, the other two minutes from collapse.

He slid behind the barricade, pulling the wounded padawan with him. The child stared at him, eyes enormous, face bloodless. "They said it would never happen here," the boy whispered.

Anakin gritted his teeth. "It won't, if we act now." He turned to the Mon Calamari. "How many left?"

"Thirty, maybe forty, scattered. Masters Kenobi and Yoda are gone—missing since the alert. Master Windu was seen in the upper galleries, but—" She broke off as a fresh burst of blaster fire rained down, forcing them lower.

Anakin's mind raced. Every instinct told him to rally the Jedi, fight back, retake the Temple floor by floor. But the sheer number of clones—and the way they moved, precise as droids—told him that any direct engagement would end in massacre.

He toggled his comm, sending on the encrypted channel: "To all Jedi, this is Skywalker. Gather all survivors in the lower archives. Prepare for evacuation. Avoid direct engagement—repeat, avoid at all costs."

A burst of static, then a chorus of responses: some panicked, some cut short by blaster fire, one that ended in a wet, sucking sound he recognized from too many battlefields.

A blast panel overhead exploded, showering the chamber with glass. Anakin batted away the shards and pulled the Mon Calamari to cover. A detachment of clones rappelled down from the breach, firing as they descended.

"Cover me," Anakin said. He rose, deflecting a tight cluster of shots, and then jumped straight up into the dome. His boots caught the rim, and he hauled himself level with the clone squad, slicing through the first two before they realized he was among them. He pivoted, ducked a shot, and hurled the third clone off the ledge. The last fired point-blank into his chest; Anakin grunted as the blast scorched his tunic, then cut the clone down with a backhand sweep.

From this vantage, he could see the whole rotunda: chaos, bodies, the marble floor painted with red and black. Smoke rose from multiple fires, and somewhere in the lower halls the sound of detonations rattled the air.

He keyed the comm again. "Emergency systems—who's got eyes?"

A voice, staticky but clear: "Commander, this is Temple Ops. Emergency shields are down. Slicers are sabotaging power nodes—we're running on reserves."

"Lock down the main lifts and seal the sublevels," Anakin barked. "Open maintenance shafts for fallback routes. Send anyone who can walk toward the undercity. I want comms blackout—no transmissions out except on Jedi band."

The voice stammered, "Yes, sir. Orders relayed."

He slid back down, landing beside the barricade. The Mon Calamari had bandaged her stump and was directing the others. "If we don't get out in ten minutes, we're boxed."

Anakin nodded. "There's an old passage, pre-Republic. It runs beneath the archives. Can you hold them here?"

Her answer was a grim smile. "We'll make it cost them."

He took the padawan by the wrist. "You're with me," he said, and the boy, already numb to terror, followed.

They sprinted through the east transept, keeping low. The blaster fire receded behind them, replaced by the distant boom of something massive collapsing—maybe the west tower, or the library vault. At every turn, Anakin saw more signs: dead Jedi, clone troopers still hot from the fight, sometimes locked in mutual death grips where old reflexes had died hard.

He saw the face of every fallen brother. And he remembered them all—every name, every wound.

They reached the archives. The ornate doors, usually a marvel of hand-carved wood and mother-of-pearl inlays, were now blackened and sagging from blaster impact. The inside was worse: shelves overturned, ancient holocrons smashed, the grand chandelier reduced to a tangle of slag.

A dozen survivors had already gathered at the far wall, some conscious, some being hauled in by others. The senior padawan, a human girl not more than sixteen, ran the count. "That's all of us," she said. "The rest—"

"Gone," Anakin finished. "We're out of time."

He crossed to the far panel, feeling along the edge for the hidden release. His mechanical hand left sooty fingerprints on the marble, but he found the seam. A hiss, then the wall split, revealing a staircase winding down into blackness.

"Inside," he ordered. The padawans and the handful of wounded Jedi filed in, urgency and discipline all that remained. He cast a last look at the archive—his childhood, his home, now just a tomb.

They descended in silence, the only sound the uneven shuffling of feet and the occasional sob stifled against a sleeve.

The passage was cold, the air uncirculated for centuries. As they wound deeper, the sounds of combat faded, replaced by the mechanical drone of the city's sublevels. Only when they reached the bottom—a vast, echoing cistern lined with ancient brick—did Anakin allow himself to breathe.

He checked the comm. Static. The Jedi bands were being jammed, or worse.

He looked at the survivors, huddled together beneath the dying lights. Some were too young to stand, others too wounded to hope. All watched him, waiting.

He felt the weight then—not of the sabers on his belt, or the armor on his chest, but the eyes of the galaxy. The future of the Order, what little remained of it, balanced on his next word.

"We move fast and silent," he told them, voice low but steady. "No one gets left behind. If you see a clone, run, don't fight. Get to the old sewer gates and wait for my signal."

A padawan, voice brittle, asked: "Where will you be?"

Anakin let the anger fill him. Not dark, not yet, but hot enough to weld his soul back together. "I'm going to clear the way," he said. "And when we're through, we're not stopping. Not until we're off-planet."

The younglings nodded, some hopeful, some too numb to feel hope. It would have to be enough.

He turned toward the next ladder, the one that led into the city's dead arteries. His mechanical hand flexed—nerves and servos tingling with new purpose. He would save who he could. He would not let the Jedi die on their knees.

And as he climbed, lightsaber at the ready, Anakin Skywalker prepared himself to face the future. Whatever it would bring, it would not find him unready.

The tunnels stank of neglect. Decades of water, mold, and city runoff pooled in every crack, turning each step into a negotiation between urgency and footing. Above, the world burned, every floor of the Temple a crucible; down here, the only heat was from the bodies pressed together, desperate not to be left behind.

Anakin led the way, his saber extinguished for now, using only the Force and the faint luminescence from an emergency glowrod to read the path ahead. Behind him, twenty children shuffled in uncertain lockstep, some still in formal padawan tunics, others in whatever they'd grabbed during the slaughter. Two wounded Knights brought up the rear, one dragging her right leg in a sticky trail of blood.

He paused at the first branch, tilting his head to listen. Above, he could hear muffled detonations—the clones were setting charges to collapse the main stairwells, or maybe to deny escape through the upper airshafts. He motioned them onward, then turned to check the group.

That was when the Twi'lek girl tripped. She went down hard, her lekku slapping the wet stone with an ugly thud. For a second she just lay there, arms splayed, eyes wide with the shock of impact. The boy behind her—maybe five years old—froze, not knowing whether to help or to keep moving.

Anakin moved back, scooping the girl into his arms. She trembled but didn't cry. He could see the blood pooling beneath her, slick and bright against the blue of her skin. "You're all right," he said, gentler than he felt. "We're almost through."

She nodded, pressing her face to his tunic. Her lekku fluttered against his side, and he marveled at her trust, even as the world conspired to erase it.

He set her down when they reached the next threshold—a security bulkhead sealed tight against the stone. This part of the Temple had always been off-limits to all but the oldest archivists, but he remembered the code. Or rather, the brute-force solution for when the code failed.

He flexed his mechanical hand, watching the servo tendons tense under the synthskin. He reached out, gripped the blast door's edge, and pulled. The metal groaned, the strain of ancient welds fighting him for every centimeter, but the door shuddered, then slid half-open with a grinding shriek.

The first few younglings squeezed through. Anakin motioned for the others to wait, then ducked to peer through the opening. The next stretch was narrower, but dry—an old maintenance shaft that led straight to the city sublevels.

He herded the younglings through, one by one, counting them as they passed. The two wounded Knights followed, both pale but stubborn. The last was the Twi'lek girl. She looked up at him, silent question in her eyes.

He ruffled her head-tails, or tried to—he'd never gotten the hang of Twi'lek etiquette, and the gesture came out clumsy. But she smiled, just for a heartbeat, before crawling into the dark ahead.

Anakin followed, pushing the blast door shut behind him. It locked with a final, condemning clang.

They moved through the shaft in silence. He risked the saber once, using the blade's light to check for tripwires or mines. Nothing—either the clones didn't know about this route, or they wanted the Jedi to think they didn't.

He reached the end of the shaft. The exit hatch was scored with blaster marks but unbreached. He pressed an ear to the metal—heard voices, the clipped back-and-forth of clone comms, not far on the other side.

He held up a hand, signaling halt, then called the Force. The passage was barely wide enough for him to crouch, but he flattened himself, listening for a gap in the patrol.

Ten seconds. Twenty. A long minute.

A voice, closer now: "Clear to proceed, sir. We'll sweep the next level."

Anakin waited until the footfalls receded, then thumbed the hatch's emergency release. The panel slid aside with a soft whine, just enough to see through.

There they were: a squad of six soldiers, their armor scuffed yet spotless, rifles shouldered as they advanced in flawless sync. He recognized their leader—Commander Fadil, once his trusted second in countless skirmishes, now hiding any trace of the man he'd known beneath that mirror visor.

Anakin's stomach knotted. He remembered Fadil pulling him from the flames on distant battlefields, the tales they'd traded beneath alien skies. He'd never believed it would end like this.

He swept his group: the young trainees pressed into the shadows, every face a silent question; the wounded Knights braced against the corridor walls, bodies trembling but determined.

He turned back to the troopers, heart hammering. For a moment he considered surrender—perhaps they'd spare the children, maybe there was still mercy left in Imperial ranks.

The comm crackled. Fadil's voice rang out, cold as steel: "Orders are clear: no survivors."

Those words hit him like a verdict.

Anakin stepped into the open. He didn't ignite his saber—yet. "Stand down," he called. "Release the children. They're not combatants."

The soldiers raised their weapons. Through Fadil's visor he felt only unwavering duty. "General Skywalker," the commander intoned, "you are under arrest for treason. Do not resist."

Anakin searched the visor for anything human. Found only protocol.

"Don't make me do this," he whispered.

In unison the rifles barked.

Anakin's blade flared to life, a brilliant blue arc capturing every bolt. The air sizzled with ozone. He redirected two shots back at their sources; two soldiers crumpled without a sound. The rest flanked him, blasters cutting arcs through the gloom.

He moved like water, each dodge and riposte a word in a deadly conversation. A grenade clattered at his feet—he spun, slashed at armor plating, and the man wearing it collapsed. Another sweep of the blade, another life snuffed out. He barely registered the burns or the bruises—only the betrayal shadowing every fallen face.

Seconds later, the squad lay silent. Fadil too, though Anakin never saw when the final blow fell.

The hush that followed felt less like relief than accusation.

He beckoned the trainees forward. They edged past the bodies, eyes downcast or frozen in horror. One older boy lingered over a discarded helmet as if peering into a dark destiny.

Anakin knelt beside the single figure still breathing—Commander Fadil. He lifted the visor, then the helmet, revealing a face carved by fear and remorse.

Fadil's voice shook. "General…why?"

Anakin's reply came thick. "It wasn't your choice."

Fadil coughed, blood at his lips. "We had to obey."

Anakin closed the commander's eyes and stood.

He faced the survivors: the wide-eyed trainees, the exhausted Knights leaning on each other.

"Is it over?" one Knight whispered.

Anakin stared at his two hands—one flesh, one metal, both stained. "No," he said, voice low, "but we're alive."

He led them further into the twisting passages. Behind him lay the testimony of every friend he'd just felled. Ahead—only uncertain freedom, and the chance to choose their own path.

Splitting the survivors wasn't strategy; it was triage.

Anakin corralled them in an abandoned utility alcove, sweat stinging his eyes as he counted heads—six younglings, maybe a dozen padawans, two wounded Knights, and one exhausted Master whose name he barely remembered from Council briefings. There should have been more. There was always supposed to be more.

He took a knee, the children clustering around him in a ragged circle. Their faces were ash-streaked, lips split and hands scabbed from the rush through the city's underbelly. But the eyes—those still worked. Wide, bright, undulled by shock, blinking up at him for answers he couldn't offer.

The senior Knight—a Devaronian woman, her horns scorched from a near miss—caught his gaze. "The main entrance is suicide. The clones have every exit cross-wired."

Anakin nodded. "We go through the stacks. There's an old supply shaft under the grand library. From there, straight to Hangar Cresh. If we move fast, we might get a ship before they cut us off."

The Master, leaning heavy on her saber, frowned. "Hangar Cresh hasn't been used in years."

"That's why they won't expect it." He turned to the children, voice lowering. "I'll take the smallest and the wounded. Master Sima, you lead the others—wait for my signal before you move. If anything happens to us—" He stopped, throat locking. "Keep moving. Don't look back."

Sima, battered but unbroken, gave a single, solemn nod.

He motioned for the youngest—four of them, none older than ten—and the two Knights, one hobbling on a makeshift crutch, to follow. The rest watched in silence as he led the little group through the crack in the wall and into a forgotten service corridor, ancient dust rising in the wake of their passage.

The route took them through the oldest part of the Temple, the original stonework predating the Republic by a thousand years. Even now, with the world ending above, the old stones radiated calm. He felt the lives—millions, maybe more—who'd walked these halls, all the hopes and failures echoing through the Force like the aftertaste of lightning.

They reached the library from below, emerging through a floor hatch behind one of the support columns. The air was already thick with smoke and the reek of scorched paper; flames crawled across the ceiling in orange stripes, feeding on the oxygen from every breach. The stacks themselves—kilometers of shelving, built to last a millennium—were burning, the old scrolls and dataplates popping and sizzling as the fire raced along.

But it wasn't empty. The clones had beaten them here.

A squad swept the central aisle, blasters leveled at chest height, their steps muffled by falling ash. At the end of the aisle, two Jedi—one padawan and a grizzled archivist—were pinned behind a toppled bookshelf, their own blades up and glowing, the green and yellow crossing in frantic defense as the clones advanced.

"Stay here," Anakin whispered to his group. He eased forward, keeping to the shadows, mapping the clones' lines of sight.

He could do this clean, he thought. One strike, fast and surgical, and the children would never have to see it. But then a blaster bolt hit the fallen padawan in the hip, spinning her into the open. She screamed, and three more shots followed, burning through her back. She folded, the saber slipping from numb fingers and rolling across the floor until it came to rest at Anakin's feet.

He picked it up, thumbed it off, and felt something break inside him. Not a snap, but the slow, inevitable twist of a screw.

He ignited his own saber, blue light cutting through the smoke, and charged.

The clones whirled, but he was already in their ranks. He went for the rifles first—cutting them in half, then disabling arms, then legs. The last two tried to fall back, but he dropped them with two quick flicks of the saber. It was clean, almost elegant, and when it was done the only sound was the crackle of burning wood.

He turned to the archivist, a Rodian with a face like melted glass. "Get to the south gallery," Anakin barked. "There's an exit in the reading room—run, don't stop, don't talk to anyone."

The Rodian nodded and bolted, dragging the wounded padawan with him.

Anakin checked the stacks. More clones were coming, the distinctive blue of their armor stripes catching the firelight as they leapfrogged from cover to cover.

No time.

He motioned his group forward, sweeping up the wounded as he went. They made for the reading room, dodging falling embers and the occasional stray blaster shot. Halfway there, a bolt grazed his shoulder, and for a second the smell of burning flesh was his own.

He forced them through the reading room doors, slamming them shut behind. The hinges were old, but heavy; the doors would hold for a few minutes at least.

But the room itself was already half-ruined. The far wall had collapsed, spilling broken dataplates and splintered glass across the floor. Smoke poured through the breach, but so did light—a shimmering beam that illuminated the far side of the room, and the corridor beyond.

He took stock of the group. Two children were limping, one barely conscious. The Knight on crutches had passed out, lips blue, a spreading stain of blood on his tunic.

Anakin knelt, bracing the man's head. "You with me?"

The Knight opened one eye, pupils blown. "Never… liked reading, anyway," he wheezed.

Anakin almost smiled. "Hold on. We're almost out."

But as he reached for the man's arm, the doors behind them exploded inward. The concussion flung him forward, pinning him under the fallen Knight and a rain of shrapnel.

The first clone through was a captain—red stripe down his helmet, blaster already up. "Surrender, Jedi!"

Anakin rolled to his feet, shoving the kids behind him. "Not today," he said, and then the world narrowed to the blue arc of his blade and the impossible, pounding rhythm of combat.

He fought them in the ruins of the stacks, every blow measured, every kill a debt he'd never repay. The children cowered behind a fallen table, eyes round with terror.

At last it was over, and he slumped to one knee, saber hissing in the silence.

He heard the voice before he saw her. The Devaronian Knight, Sima, stumbled through the breach, blood running down her arm.

"They found us," she said, voice ragged. "Lost half, maybe more. But some got clear."

Anakin nodded, too spent to reply. He checked the children—they were alive, all of them. The limp was worse for one, but she gripped his hand with a strength that surprised him.

Sima leaned close, whispering: "There's a kill team in the hangar. At least two platoons. If we run, we might make it. If we wait—"

"We run," Anakin said.

They made for the hangar, down a side corridor warped by heat. Blaster fire echoed from behind, but the clones were slowed by the wreckage and their own casualties.

The hangar was a graveyard. Most of the ships were burning, their fuel tanks ruptured and spilling rainbow rivers across the floor. Bodies—Jedi and clone—lay everywhere, the air too hot to breathe without coughing.

But there was one ship intact: a battered security shuttle, its wings scorched but the hull untouched.

He hustled the children aboard, slamming the hatch behind. Sima followed, dragging a stunned padawan by the collar.

Inside, it was chaos. The controls were still hot from the last preflight. Anakin took the helm, fingers moving through the checklist with muscle memory alone.

He powered up the engines, hearing the whine build in his bones. On the viewport, the hangar doors began to close—the clones had triggered the failsafe, trying to trap them inside.

He pushed the throttle to max and yanked the yoke. The shuttle lurched forward, turbines screaming, then shot through the narrowing gap just as the doors slammed together. The port wing clipped the edge, shearing off a meter of alloy, but the ship held together.

They were airborne.

He took them up, through layers of smoke and anti-air fire. The city spread below, lines of fire tracing the old avenues, the Temple's spires now half-gone, the roof a crater belching flame.

As they climbed, Imperial fighters vectored in. Anakin juked the shuttle, rolling through a curtain of laser fire, and for a moment he was back on Geonosis, or above the moons of Saleucami—only this time, there was no Republic fleet to answer his call.

The comm crackled, and a new voice filled the cabin. Not clone, not Jedi, but something heavier, older.

It was the Chancellor. No—now, the Emperor.

"Citizens of the Republic," the voice intoned, modulated to sound both sorrowful and proud. "The Jedi have attempted a coup against your lawful government. Their treachery has ended the war, but cost us dearly. The Jedi Order is finished. The Empire is born."

The children huddled near the viewport, watching the only home they'd ever known collapse in on itself, flames silhouetted against the night.

Anakin kept the ship steady, hands locked on the controls. For the first time, he felt nothing. Not rage, not grief. Only the cold, clear certainty that everything he'd ever believed was dead.

He set the navicomputer for a blind jump—anywhere but here. The coordinates blurred on the screen, meaningless except for the promise of distance.

He looked back, once, at the kids in the passenger compartment. Sima had wrapped her arms around the youngest, holding them close. In the dim light, their eyes reflected the stars.

Anakin punched the throttle. The stars stretched, bent, became a single, blinding line.

He let it take them, into whatever future remained.

Twilight had always suited Padmé best. In the hours between power and dark, her apartment high above the Senate District glowed with the memory of Naboo evenings: soft cream walls, the gentle gold of indirect lights, the panoramic view of the city's ceaseless horizon. She'd chosen this home for its feeling of permanence, its illusion that civilization could outlast chaos.

She sat cross-legged on the low settee, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the news feeds scroll across the embedded holo-projector in the living room floor. Normally, she found the steady crawl of information soothing, like the rivers on Naboo that shaped and reshaped the land but always in patterns she could learn to read.

Tonight, the feeds were a mockery—broken images, red banners flashing, every channel a different kind of emergency. There were riots downtown. Power brownouts in the lower levels. Rumors of mass arrests, executions, Jedi betrayals. Even the state-run news, usually a model of composure, looked rattled. Somewhere in the din, a junior senator wept openly before the camera, her words lost in a spiral of static.

Padmé sipped at a mug of herb tea, letting the warmth calm her hands. She'd told herself that she was waiting for Anakin's call, or for news from the Temple, but she'd also told herself a thousand little lies in her time. Mostly, she was trying not to look out the window.

When she finally did, she saw it at once: a ripple of black smoke, unwinding upward from the midline of the city. At first she thought it was just another fire, another casualty of a city that devoured itself nightly. But the direction was wrong—the wind up here always drove the smoke east, not north—and the scale was so much greater. The smoke was rising from the Temple District.

She stood, the tea forgotten, and crossed to the window, hands pressed against the cold transparisteel. Her fingers left fog prints that spread, then vanished. She squinted, adjusting the viewport's optical gain.

There, on the distant skyline, the Jedi Temple was burning.

She groped for her comlink, nearly dropping it in her haste. The device snapped open, blue screen flaring to life, and she thumbed in Anakin's private code. The transmission hummed, then fell dead, cycling through three fruitless handoffs before bouncing her back to the public net.

She tried again, this time with the Temple's main line. Nothing but static.

A third time, emergency override—her old Queen's credentials still carried weight in some systems. The connection routed, pinged off-world, then cut out entirely.

Padmé let the comlink dangle from her wrist, her pulse loud in her ears. She braced herself against the window ledge, pressing her forehead to the glass, and stared at the inferno that now erased the city's familiar contours.

The child inside her kicked, an urgent flutter that was more question than complaint. She cradled her belly, as if touch alone could shield the future from the present.

She tried to reason her way through the panic. The Jedi were strong—she had seen them at their best and their worst, and always they endured. Anakin had survived everything the war could throw at him: sieges, assassins, even Palpatine's suffocating demands. He was too stubborn to die, too angry, too full of life. She clung to that, even as the logic unraveled.

She paced the length of the window, each circuit slower than the last. The city was changing before her eyes—skycars rerouted, traffic lockdowns blossoming in neat concentric rings around the Temple. Even from here, she could see the flicker of gunships patrolling the avenues, the way the city's light seemed to retreat from the blast radius of the burning spires.

She returned to the settee and opened the secure comm panel on her console. She keyed in Bail Organa's code, then Mon Mothma's, stacking both calls for priority relay. The messages went out encrypted, but even so she kept her words minimal.

"Bail, Mon—Padmé. The Temple's under attack. I can't reach Anakin. Are your people safe? Respond on this channel."

She stared at the status indicators, waiting for the green light of a return ping. None came.

She tried not to think about what would happen if the whole Senate was swept away in a single night. If everything she'd worked for, all the careful coalitions and shadow alliances, simply evaporated.

The child kicked again, and she realized she was shaking.

She returned to the window, this time letting herself cry. The tears fell hot and quick, catching on her chin, splashing the cool metal beneath her hands. She watched the Temple burn, remembering the first time she'd visited, years ago—a place of serenity, order, the one constant in a Republic that seemed forever teetering on the edge.

She thought of Anakin as he was then—so young, so reckless, full of impossible hopes. She tried to conjure that version of him, to hold it in her mind, but the image wavered, overwritten by memories of scar tissue, half-healed anger, a mechanical hand that sometimes curled into a fist even in sleep.

The comm panel beeped, just once. A pulse—no voice, no text, but the ping of a message relayed and received.

It was enough. Someone was alive. Someone was listening.

Padmé wiped her eyes, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. She steadied her breath, letting the sorrow settle in the pit of her stomach, then made her decision.

She opened the side drawer of her credenza and took out the emergency datacard—the one she and Bail had prepared in the event of a coup, or worse. She slotted it into the comm panel, keyed in the broadcast code, and sent the packet out to every rebel contact she could remember.

She didn't know if it would matter. Didn't know if the world would be different tomorrow. But she did know, with sudden, crystalline certainty, that giving in to despair was not an option.

As the sun slipped beneath the haze of burning city, Padmé sat by the window, comlink cradled to her chest, and waited for the next message.

Somewhere out there, Anakin was alive. She felt it. The future, whatever it would be, had not yet collapsed to ashes.

Chapter Text

Hyperspace was not supposed to sound like a dying animal.

But for the last hour, the battered Republic gunship had howled and shuddered as it tore through the blue tunnels. Every few seconds, something inside the bulkhead let out a metallic screech, loud enough to set Ahsoka's teeth vibrating. The navicomp spat errors in a dozen dialects; smoke curled from a heat-scorched access panel by the starboard intake. The faint stench of ozone, blood, and coolant made the cockpit feel smaller than the coffin it resembled.

Ahsoka hunched behind the co-pilot's yoke, lekku brushing the back of the seat. Her hands hovered over the controls, but she barely dared touch them—each time she did, the whole ship responded with a fresh spray of sparks or a new, more ominous whine. In the pilot's seat, Captain Rex wrestled with the throttle, the right side of his face slick with sweat and engine grime. He looked like he hadn't blinked since they left Mandalore.

"Velocity's bleeding off," Rex growled. "We lose another shield array, we'll come out of hyperspace as a fine mist."

Ahsoka forced a smile. "Think positive, Captain. Maybe the enemy's sensors won't detect vapor."

Rex grunted—his idea of a laugh, these days. He snapped down a series of toggles, fingers dancing with a clone's ingrained certainty. "We're at one-sixth nav power. Hyperlane's decaying. She's gonna dump us on the next random exit."

Ahsoka glanced over her shoulder, toward the cargo hold. "Could be worse. Could be trapped in there with him."

Rex's eyes flicked to the rear of the ship. For a heartbeat, his face went tight. "He's still sedated?"

"Enough to stop a bantha," Ahsoka lied. She wasn't sure Maul could even be sedated, not in any way that mattered. But she'd rigged a triply-redundant stun field around the makeshift holding cell, and unless the ship outright vaporized, it would hold until—

The thought cut off as the cockpit view split apart, hyperspace lanes fracturing into a blinding web of white. The ship spat them into realspace with a bone-snapping jolt, slamming both her and Rex forward in their harnesses. The hull shrieked, then settled into a shivering groan.

For a moment, everything was blue and empty. Then the viewport polarized, and a planet appeared dead ahead.

No Republic records. No name on the chart, just a string of alphanumerics and a red warning about gravitational anomalies. The world itself was an ocean of stormclouds, pale green and gold, writhing with perpetual lightning. In orbit: the twisted frame of a destroyed Separatist supply ship, tumbling end over end like the corpse of a god.

Ahsoka craned forward. "Looks...hospitable."

"I'll get you down," Rex promised, teeth clenched as he fought the controls.

A new alarm wailed, this one urgent and almost apologetic. In the hold, something pounded against the metal—sharp, measured, too deliberate to be anything but Maul.

Ahsoka unbuckled and reached for the manual override, yanking the emergency brace into place. She heard Rex mutter, "Hang on," but she was already halfway to the cargo bay, boots skidding on the trembling deck.

Maul was awake.

His face, pressed against the magnetized bars, was a study in patience. The red and black of his skin looked almost ceremonial in the flickering lights; his yellow eyes burned not with rage, but with anticipation. Even shackled at the wrists and neck, Maul's presence filled the bay, as if he could pull the walls inward by force of will alone.

"You sense it, don't you," he purred. "The change."

Ahsoka felt it—the pressure building in her head, the vibration under her skin. The dark side had always been a pressure, a direction. Now it was a shriek, a tornado circling the galaxy.

"Shut up," she snapped, and reset the stun field for good measure.

Maul grinned, teeth like tiny knives. "You can't run from what's coming."

The gunship lurched as another system failed—gravity buckled for a split second, and Maul's feet left the deck. Ahsoka caught the moment, watched his predatory balance even as he spun in midair, wrists twisted to absorb the impact. When the grav-plates steadied, he landed in a crouch, chains humming.

The comm system hissed to life. At first, just static—then a battered voice, cut in and out by interference. "—all units, this is Republic Command. Emergency Directive follows. Repeat, Emergency Directive—"

Rex's voice, tight and urgent, filtered through the overhead. "Ahsoka! Get back up here, you need to see this."

She punched the control to lock the hold, then double-timed it to the cockpit. Rex jabbed at a console, face set in lines of confusion and dread.

The comm repeated, louder this time: "Execute Order Sixty-Six. All Jedi commanders are traitors to the Republic. Terminate with extreme prejudice. Repeat: Execute Order Sixty-Six—"

Ahsoka's ears rang. She'd heard rumors of hidden kill commands in the clone network, but she'd dismissed it as paranoia. And yet, the moment the message ended, Rex turned his head to her, very slow, like a droid rebooting after hard shock.

"Rex?" she whispered.

His pupils dilated, and his right hand twitched toward the blaster holstered at his thigh. His mouth opened, a voice not quite his own: "Order Sixty-Six. Execute the Jedi."

Ahsoka's hand found her saber, but she hesitated. Rex was strong, the strongest mind of any trooper she'd ever known, but something else—something mechanical—had dug itself into his brain. He trembled, hand inches from the blaster. "I—can't—"

She took a step closer. "Rex. It's me."

He convulsed, fingers clutching the edge of the console until the metal groaned. Ahsoka watched the battle play out behind his eyes—his training, his loyalty, the iron lattice of Republic protocol wrapped around the memory of everything they'd survived together.

"G-go," Rex rasped. "I'll hold—can't—hurry—"

Ahsoka reached for the override on his holster, yanking the blaster free. Rex slumped, gasping, then slammed a fist into the navigation panel. The ship pitched, spinning into a downward dive.

"Hold on," he managed. "Can't fight it. Run."

Ahsoka wanted to answer, but alarms stole her voice: collision imminent, atmospheric entry. She seized the co-pilot harness and strapped in, dragging Rex into the seat beside her. His whole body jerked with the effort of holding back the urge to kill her. The struggle was so intense it left his nose bleeding, his breath coming in snarls.

The planet's storm clouds closed around them, flashes of lightning clawing at the ship. The hull temperature redlined; the cockpit view blurred with superheated plasma. In the cargo bay, Maul howled with laughter—a deep, manic sound that echoed through the hull.

"She can't help you, Captain!" Maul's voice boomed over the intercom, unfiltered by pain or restraint. "The galaxy belongs to the strong!"

Ahsoka ignored it, wrestling the yoke as the ship plummeted. The navicomp was dead, but she could see a rough patch of land through the clouds—a plateau ringed by unbroken forest, the only hope of a soft crash.

The ground came up to meet them.

There was no time for grace, only survival. The ship's retrothrusters fired, then died; the hull hit the trees at three hundred meters per second, shearing off branches, then entire trunks. The forward shields blew out, and the cockpit shattered into a rain of plastiglass. Ahsoka's harness snapped; she flew forward, slammed into the bulkhead, then tumbled into a heap of torn metal and smoke.

She lost track of time. For a long moment, she drifted in blackness, her mind a swirl of voices and memory. When she opened her eyes, the gunship was half-buried in mud and foliage, the sky above a faint yellow through the fractured viewports.

Ahsoka rolled over, gasping, her body alive with pain but mostly intact. Rex was sprawled across the console, blood streaming from a cut at his temple. His eyes fluttered, but he did not wake.

From the rear: silence. The restraints on the Maul's cell flickered, half-lit, the field generator cracked by impact.

Ahsoka dragged herself upright, clutching her ribs. She crawled toward Rex, checked his pulse, then checked again. Alive, but cold and shocky—she'd have to move fast.

Somewhere behind her, the sound of chains sliding on metal. Maul, or what remained of him.

Ahsoka fumbled for her lightsabers, hands shaking. Outside, the wind howled through the torn hull, scattering leaves and ash.

She forced herself to her feet, and prepared to face whatever had survived the fall with her.

After the noise of the crash, the silence rang out sharper than any siren.

Ahsoka emerged from the tangle of cockpit wreckage, each motion sending new stabs of pain through her left arm. The bones weren't broken—she would have felt that. But every muscle from shoulder to wrist throbbed with each heartbeat, and her skin was slick with blood that was either hers or Rex's. She'd seen enough battlefield medicine to know: time was measured now in minutes, not hours.

The gunship lay in pieces in the center of a natural clearing. Around them, the alien forest pressed in: trunks like the bones of ancient titans, leaves so broad and dark they seemed to hoard the sunlight. Mist hung in thick coils between the branches, and the only sound was the slow drip of coolant onto the wet earth.

Ahsoka stumbled toward Rex, who slumped across a console torn free of its housing. She pulled him back, cradled his neck, and checked his pulse with two shaking fingers. He was alive, but his skin felt waxy; a gash above his brow oozed more blood with every breath. The helmet, still clamped to his belt, had a dent the size of a fist. The impact alone should have killed him.

She yanked open the medkit, hands moving by rote. Bacta spray, compress, sealant. She could do this, she'd done it a hundred times, but the sight of Rex—helpless, slack-mouthed—broke something loose inside her. If the Order was right, she shouldn't care this much. She should let go.

She pressed the bandage hard to his wound and let the tremor in her hands run its course.

Movement at the edge of her vision. The aft hull door, half-caved in but still attached, sagged under sudden weight.

Maul, dragging the length of his body through the gap. The magnetic shackles around his wrists and neck had held, but now they sparked and guttered in the open air. He was hunched, breathing hard, but even in defeat he moved with a predator's economy—each step perfectly judged, nothing wasted.

"Good landing," he said, lips peeled back in a smile. "I'm almost impressed."

"Go back to your cage," Ahsoka spat, and activated her saber, blade held tight at her side.

Maul laughed, genuine and hideous. "This planet's already a tomb. You want to dig mine first?"

She held his gaze, unwilling to give ground. "I only need you alive. I don't need you mobile."

He dipped his head, the gesture almost courtly. "Very well, Lady Tano." He eased himself down beside the hull, the shackles hissing where they met his skin. He watched her with the focus of a weapons system: tracking, measuring.

A low groan from Rex. He blinked, once, then twice, as if seeing her from underwater. "Commander…?"

She knelt beside him, squeezed his hand. "It's okay. You're safe."

A pause. Rex's mouth twitched, then went slack again. "Safe. That's funny."

She ignored the sting in her gut. "You took a nasty hit. Do you remember what happened?"

His eyes darted, pupils blown. "We were—there was a message. An order." His fingers flexed, opening and closing on nothing. "Order Sixty-Six. Execute—Jedi."

The words hung in the air, poisonous.

She watched the old discipline take hold. Rex's muscles coiled, his face twisted into a rictus of hatred that wasn't his own. For a second, he reached for the blaster at his belt, but his hand locked up halfway, fingers shaking.

"I can't control it," he gasped. "Ahsoka—run. Please."

She caught his hand in both of hers, squeezed until her fingers turned white. "Rex. Listen to me. You can fight it."

He tried. She saw every tendon in his neck stand out, every muscle quiver with the effort. He managed to hold it back for three breaths, maybe four, before the programming took over again. He lurched up, almost mechanical, and would have drawn the blaster if she hadn't already palmed it from his holster.

"Don't make me do this," he whispered.

She saw the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes and let go of his hand. Instead, she dug through the medkit for a sedative, thumbed off the cap, and jabbed the hypospray into the soft flesh of his shoulder.

He collapsed instantly, the tension draining from his body. Ahsoka let herself sag, the adrenaline bleeding away until all that was left was the pounding in her head.

"Impressive," Maul intoned. "Mercy for the blade at your throat. Jedi through and through."

She turned to him, eyes hard. "You know what this is. Don't you."

He smiled, showing all his teeth. "The chips, yes. Your precious Republic laced them into every clone's skull. A failsafe. A leash." He made a gesture with his shackled wrists, like a puppet cutting its own strings. "And you were all too happy to use them—until the leash jerked the other way."

Ahsoka tasted acid in the back of her throat. "You're lying."

"I was there, Lady Tano. I saw the Kaminoans' handiwork. They were very proud." Maul rocked back on his haunches, savoring the moment. "Sidious never planned to rule the Republic. He meant to hollow it out, wear its corpse as a mask, and use the Jedi as fuel for his new Empire."

Ahsoka shook her head, but the words fit too well. The cold professionalism of the kill order, the way it turned friends into strangers with a single line of code. It made sense, and that was the worst part.

She turned away from Maul, focusing on Rex's face—so peaceful now, as if sleep could cleanse the violence from his memory. She reached up to brush the blood from his brow, and found her hand trembling again.

"You can't save him by pretending," Maul purred. "Remove the chip, and you might have your soldier back. Fail, and he'll kill you in his sleep."

She glared at him. "Why help me?"

Maul shrugged, metal clinking. "We have common enemies now. The Jedi are gone. Sidious will not tolerate me alive—nor you, for that matter." He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Unshackle me, and I will show you how to save him. In return, you grant me one favor."

Ahsoka barked a laugh. "That's not how deals work. I know you, Maul. You'll betray me the second it's convenient."

"Of course," Maul agreed. "But until then, we are allies of necessity. Or have you a better plan?"

Ahsoka opened her mouth, closed it. The silence of the clearing seemed to mock her. She could barely keep herself standing, and now she was expected to save a life and hold back a Sith Lord at the same time.

She walked to Rex, brushed the mud from his armor. Even unconscious, his brow was furrowed, as if he was still fighting somewhere deep inside.

She reached a decision. "I'll unshackle your feet. You move from this spot, I cut you in half."

Maul dipped his head again. "Agreed."

She circled him, feeling the danger in every step. She found the release on the ankle cuffs and kicked them loose. Maul stretched his legs, testing the boundaries, but made no move to run. Instead, he stared up at the sky, face unreadable.

It took a moment for her to realize what he was looking at: the thin contrails of ships entering atmosphere, highlighted silver against the golden haze. Closer now, multiplying.

"Sidious is thorough," Maul said softly. "He's sent hunters to finish the job."

Ahsoka looked up, counted three, then five, then a dozen dots growing larger with every second.

"We have to move," she said, mostly to herself. "Now."

She knelt beside Rex, hoisted his limp form over her shoulder, and nodded toward the trees. "You first," she told Maul.

He smiled—pure, uncut joy, or the closest thing he felt to it. "As you wish, Lady Tano."

They disappeared into the forest, the sound of ships closing in above them.

The forest was made for losing people.

Ahsoka learned this quickly. The farther they staggered from the crash site, the less the world resembled anything she'd ever trained for: the trees knotted into impossible patterns, roots spiraled above the ground, every few meters the mist thickened into a wall so dense she could see only Maul's silhouette and the dead weight of Rex on her back.

She kept her lightsaber drawn, not for the promise of violence but for the white-hot reassurance it offered—a tether against the growing suspicion that, soon, she might lose herself as well.

Maul led the way, wrist-binders dragging wet furrows in the dirt. Freed from the ankle restraints, he moved with supernatural silence, barely seeming to disturb the ground. Ahsoka noticed that when the trees closed in tight, Maul pressed himself flat to the trunk and waited for the silence to shift; only when he was sure the forest would not betray them did he move. The man—or what was left of him—was a master at making himself small.

They found the cave at dawn.

A fissure in the cliffside, visible only if you stood at the exact right angle, half-covered in moss and shadow. Maul ducked inside without a word. Ahsoka followed, dragging Rex by the arm. The inside was colder than she expected, the air sharp with the tang of ancient minerals.

She lowered Rex onto a bed of dried leaves, propped his head on her battered cloak, and pressed the back of her hand to his cheek. Still warm, but his pulse was rapid and thin. The sedative wouldn't last forever. Already, his fingers twitched, as if he was fighting a war in his dreams.

Ahsoka took a long breath, let it out slow. The last twenty-four hours pressed down on her in a single, suffocating instant. She let herself sag against the cave wall, muscles shivering as the adrenaline finally let go.

Maul crouched across from her, wrists still manacled but otherwise utterly composed.

"We'll need supplies," he said, matter-of-fact. "Your Captain will need more than bacta if you want him alive."

Ahsoka leveled a glare at him. "Don't pretend you care."

He tilted his head, birdlike. "I care about survival. And the Empire will not rest until it has the last Jedi skull mounted over its throne."

She swallowed her retort. The pragmatic thing to do—the only thing, really—was return to the crash site before the Imperials burned it out. Anything left behind, from food rations to medical kits, might buy them a few more hours of life.

She stood, wiped her hands on her tunic. "You're coming with me."

Maul's smile was thin and humorless. "I would expect nothing less."

She ignited the saber and gestured to the exit. "After you."

They retraced their steps through the woods. The mist had receded, leaving the world damp and smelling of rot. Somewhere above, the buzz of atmospheric engines grew louder, nearer.

At the clearing, the gunship was a dead animal—broken spine, hull peeled back to expose its nerves and guts. In the hour they'd been gone, the blackened metal had cooled and was already collecting dew. Ahsoka ducked through a torn panel, Maul at her heels.

Inside, the damage was catastrophic. The cockpit was nothing but glass splinters; the hold, a nest of twisted durasteel. But the cargo bins were mostly intact.

She set Maul to rummage through the bins while she searched the medbay. "Touch anything stupid, you lose a hand," she warned.

"Charming," he replied.

She salvaged two ration packs, an intact medkit, a thermal blanket. Maul returned with a coil of rope, a fusion cutter, and a sack of power cells. He'd looped the rope around his waist like a trophy belt.

They moved to the aft hold, and Ahsoka found herself staring at the place Maul's cell had been. Only scorch marks remained. She wondered if, given a thousand years, the dark side would still linger in this patch of dirt.

She heard Maul's voice from the shadow: "You're afraid."

Ahsoka spun. "I'm not afraid of you."

He shook his head, slow. "Not me. The truth."

She felt her jaw lock. "If you have something to say, say it."

He stepped close—closer than she'd allowed anyone in days—and spoke with the calm of a man reciting his own epitaph. "Order Sixty-Six was not the end. It is only the start. Sidious seeded the galaxy with new loyalists—Inquisitors, assassins, even Jedi who serve his will. Your Captain Rex is a prototype. His loyalty was always to the chain of command, never to the Council."

Ahsoka bristled. "That's a lie."

"Is it? You led men to their deaths, believing they would die for peace." Maul's voice softened. "You never understood that peace was a lie. The war was always the point."

Ahsoka's grip tightened on her saber. The urge to lash out was almost physical—a twist in her gut, a spike of heat behind her eyes.

Maul watched her, unblinking. "You were the best of them. The only one who questioned orders. But even you—" his shackled hands rose, palms up, in mock surrender "—even you served the machine."

Ahsoka wanted to scream at him, but the words wouldn't come.

She turned away, stalked back to Rex, and knelt by his side. He moaned, eyelids fluttering, but did not wake.

She pressed the cold medkit to her forehead and tried to banish the memory of every clone who'd died following her into hell.

The whine of drop-ships came next. Louder, closer. Ahsoka peered through the cave's mouth: the skies above the clearing were thick with gunmetal shadows. Imperial livery, crisp and new, shimmered on their hulls.

The first squads landed with military precision. Clones in black-trimmed armor fanned out, rifles at the ready, scanning the crash for any sign of life.

Maul slunk to her side. "We're outnumbered."

Ahsoka nodded. "We have surprise. For now."

Maul's eyes glowed. "Then we use it. Or would you rather face your former brothers in open ground?"

She looked at Rex—still breathing, still trapped inside a nightmare of his own.

She weighed her options. Alone, she could run, maybe buy a day or two. But with Maul—powerful, unpredictable—she might actually stand a chance.

She hated the choice. Hated Maul for forcing it, and herself for agreeing.

She set her jaw. "Hold out your wrists."

Maul did, not without a little flourish.

Ahsoka called on the Force, found the tiny seams in the cuffs, and twisted. The manacles fell away.

Maul flexed his fingers, stretched, and gave her a sly, sidelong glance. "Thank you, Lady Tano."

She bared her teeth. "Don't make me regret it."

He bowed, mock-genteel. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The sound of approaching boots—dozens, maybe more—echoed through the trees.

Ahsoka powered up her saber, crouched by the cave mouth, and waited for the world to catch fire.

The first blaster shot punched through the cave mouth, lighting the air with ozone and melted quartz. Ahsoka ducked, pulling Rex's limp form behind a knuckle of stone. Maul moved the other way, rolling to the wall and flattening himself in the dark.

The next volley came as a coordinated burst, six or seven blaster bolts crisscrossing the opening in a pattern designed to flush prey, not kill it outright. The clones advanced with military precision, a half-moon formation sweeping the entrance, rifles raised and visors aglow.

Ahsoka thumbed her second saber to life. Blue and green arcs illuminated the cave in strobe-lit slices. She pressed her back to the wall, forcing herself to breathe slow and steady.

Maul was already moving. He crouched in the deepest patch of shadow, every muscle tensed for violence, eyes gone glassy with anticipation.

The clones stepped in. For a split second, they hesitated—Jedi were supposed to die easy. Ahsoka made them pay for it.

She sprang, twin blades spinning a corona around her as she met the lead trooper head-on. His armor caught one saber; the second slipped past his block and found the seam under his arm. The man dropped without a sound.

Ahsoka pivoted, deflecting two more bolts into the ceiling, and landed a heel strike that sent the next trooper into Maul's waiting grasp. Maul caught the clone's helmet between his palms and twisted. The neck made a wet, definitive snap.

The others fell back, regrouping outside. Maul lobbed the dead clone after them, a grotesque warning.

The next wave came harder: grenades, spray-fire, the kind of overkill reserved for monsters and ghosts. Ahsoka danced through it, weaving a path that left each shot kissing only air or stone. Her lightsabers blurred, a blue-green shield against the storm.

Maul was less artful, more hurricane than man. He wrenched a boulder loose from the wall, flung it at the cluster of troopers, then charged in its wake. His shackled hands—still raw where the cuffs had been—moved faster than the eye, catching a rifle, snapping it in half, then using the jagged end to impale the clone who'd carried it.

Ahsoka heard herself shouting—orders, warnings, maybe curses, she couldn't tell. The cave filled with smoke and blood. Rex, still unconscious, slid closer to the kill zone with every blast.

She sheathed one saber, scooped Rex by the collar, and dragged him deeper into the cave. Maul fell back beside her, face spattered with blood not his own.

He grinned, breathless. "You have a plan, Lady Tano?"

She bared her teeth. "Try not to die."

The next wave came with flamethrowers. The clones advanced behind a wall of fire, heat licking at the edges of the cave, smoke choking the air.

Ahsoka planted her boots, braced herself, and angled both sabers forward. She redirected the flames with careful, controlled sweeps—using the air itself as a shield, the Force bending each tongue of fire away from her and Rex. The closest clones pressed in, thinking she was blind.

She wasn't. She let them come, then dropped low, cut through their ankles, and used a Force push to send the upper halves skidding into the wall. The smell was unspeakable.

Maul dove into the chaos, roaring. He caught a trooper by the chestplate, lifted him off the ground, and hurled him at the flamethrower team. The man hit the nozzle, jamming it wide open; flame belched into the squad's own ranks, and in seconds four clones were ash.

A moment of silence followed. Both sides took inventory, counted their dead. For a second, nothing moved but the smoke.

Maul crouched beside Ahsoka. "They'll flank us next. We're rats in a hole."

She wiped sweat from her brow, tried to clear her head. "Any suggestions?"

He glanced at her sabers, then at Rex. "Split their forces. You take your Captain, draw them out. I'll handle the rest."

She hesitated. "And then what? You run, leave us behind?"

Maul's smile was a knife. "If that's what you fear, better hope you're a faster runner."

She didn't trust him, but she trusted death less.

"Fine," she said. "On my mark."

She slung Rex's arm over her shoulder, ignited both sabers, and charged for the rear of the cave. Maul waited a beat, then bolted the opposite direction, vanishing into the chaos.

The next squad of clones was already there, rifles leveled, expecting a target half her size. She ducked, rolled, and came up swinging—deflecting their fire into the stalactites above. The rock broke loose, crushing two troopers instantly. The third she took at the knee, then finished with a quick slash through the neck seal.

Blaster fire traced her steps, forcing her into a side tunnel. She pressed herself flat to the wall, Rex's dead weight threatening to pull her down. She counted three, maybe four squads converging behind her, cutting off every escape.

She felt the anger rising—old, familiar, deadly. She let it burn, but only enough to stay sharp. Never enough to tip over.

A hiss behind her. Maul, reappearing out of nowhere, hands slick with blood.

"Nice trick," she panted.

He shrugged. "They don't expect the hunted to hunt back."

He gestured to a narrow passage barely wide enough for a grown man. "In there."

Ahsoka ducked inside, Maul following. They moved in perfect, wordless sync—she led, he watched their backs. It was like fighting with Obi-Wan again, if Obi-Wan had been a homicidal maniac with a flair for the dramatic.

The tunnel wound upward. At the top, the world opened to a bowl-shaped basin, rimmed by cliffs and overlooked by the landing zone. The air was thick with the smell of burning ozone.

"We're outnumbered," she said.

Maul smiled, eyes wild. "But not outmatched."

The clones stormed the basin, fanned out in concentric rings. Maul vaulted the edge, landing in their midst like a grenade. He tore through them with animal efficiency—Force pushing a squad off the ledge, snapping necks, ripping rifles from hands and using them as clubs.

Ahsoka moved to flank, drawing the fire of the outside ring. She drew it in, spinning and deflecting blaster shots until the ground was glassy with heat. Every movement had a purpose: protect Rex, buy time, never let the clones close the gap.

The world blurred—shouts, screams, the buzz of weapons and the whine of blood in her ears.

A blaster bolt caught her in the thigh, just above the knee. She stumbled, bit down on the pain, and drove her saber into the nearest trooper's chest.

The edge of the basin was slick with clone blood. Maul met her there, breathing hard.

They fought back to back—she, all grace and calculation, he, raw power and spite. The clones tried to box them in, but every time, Maul broke the line. Every time, Ahsoka closed the breach.

It lasted forever, or maybe five minutes. When the last clone fell, the world was silent except for the crackle of burning grass and the hiss of their own breaths.

Ahsoka slumped to her knees. Rex, still unconscious, lay in the crook of her arm.

She glanced at Maul, whose red and black face was smeared with the pale mask of clone blood.

"Why did you come back?" she asked, voice raw.

Maul turned to her, something almost like respect in his eyes. "Your rebellion needs my knowledge. And I need allies against Sidious." He paused. "We are not so different, you and I."

Ahsoka stared at him, then at the carnage around them. Maybe he was right.

She dragged herself to her feet, hauled Rex up, and pointed to the horizon. "We move at first light."

Maul bowed, ironic as ever. "As you wish, Lady Tano."

The two of them walked into the dawn, Rex in tow, leaving behind the first, failed army of the new Empire. Ahead: the wilderness, the enemy, and the terrible hope of survival.

For the moment, it would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

The corridor beyond Padmé's private suite was quiet, limned with the shifting glow of city traffic crawling up the megatowers. In her rooms, the false-dusk of Coruscant bled through layers of patterned sheer, rendering the walls a restless, uncertain color: neither blue nor silver, but the color of old bruises. The effect was deliberate—her handmaidens had tuned the glass years ago, craving a hint of home in the endless urban night. It had never truly worked. The city's sky was too busy for melancholy.

She stood in the center of the dressing chamber, arms bare, shoulders squared. Her eyes met themselves in the full-length mirror, measuring the distance between memory and the woman now reflected. The scars were all internal, she supposed, but the cost of survival—of hope—showed in the hollows of her cheeks and the pale runnels of exhaustion pooling under each eye. Concealer had been brushed on in two careful layers, but nothing short of surgery could mask what the last two weeks had done.

The rest of her was hidden. The gown—tailored that afternoon by two of Ellé's most trusted—was a marvel of Naboo craftsmanship and necessary duplicity. If the galaxy had ever needed a symbol for resilience, it was the complex drape and fold of cream silk, the way the panels flared at the hips and fell in careful lines to the floor. A false waist cinched above her abdomen, supported by an internal mesh, and a nested fan of embroidered wings disguised the gentle arc of her pregnancy beneath ornamental excess. Each movement was engineered, each seam a lie told with breathtaking artistry.

Padmé drew a slow breath and tugged the outer layer of the dress, smoothing the lines across her ribcage. At the neckline, a cluster of freshwater pearls caught the last light, their iridescence at odds with the shape of her collarbones.

She rotated, inspecting the effect from every angle. The gown's cut forced her spine upright, but nothing could counter the subtle shift in her center of gravity. She pressed a palm against the small of her back, feeling the familiar ache, the invisible gravity of two worlds. "Perfect," she murmured. Not to the room, not to the mirror, but to the child—children, she reminded herself, plural—inside her.

A soft chime at the suite's entrance. Padmé tensed, then let the breath go as Ellé entered, carrying a tray with a single glass of water and a half-unwrapped protein ration.

"Ten minutes to motorcade, my lady," Ellé said, setting the tray on the vanity with practiced efficiency. "Traffic is atrocious—Tarkin's locked down four sectors for the procession." Her voice was as gentle as her hands were ruthless; she smoothed a stray hair from Padmé's brow and replaced it with a jeweled pin, careful not to disturb the underlying architecture.

Padmé glanced at the ration and wrinkled her nose. "No thank you. If I eat, it will only make them kick harder."

Ellé managed a thin smile, but her eyes lingered at Padmé's midsection with a mixture of pride and unspoken worry. "You'll need energy. There's no telling how long the Emperor will keep everyone standing. They say he's making a speech this time."

Padmé sighed. "Of course he is."

Ellé lifted the heavy train of the gown and checked the fit at the shoulder. "Anything you want adjusted, milady?"

Padmé hesitated. "Only the nerves."

A companionable silence as Ellé fussed with the final pins, then stepped back to survey her work. "You look… indomitable."

Padmé let the compliment settle, then reached for the small velvet box on the vanity. Inside, nestled on a black field, lay a comm unit smaller than a child's fingernail. Padmé pressed it into a shallow groove at the base of her skull, then covered it with a section of braided hair. The device ticked once—a haptic signature she had been trained to recognize—then fell silent, its frequency masked by the metallic weave of her jewelry.

Next: the blaster. It was an antique, Naboo make, grip polished smooth by generations of concealed resistance. The holster was a custom job, stitched into the gown's inner seam, so that the weapon's weight pressed lightly at her hip but vanished entirely once she straightened her stance. Padmé practiced the movement—one step forward, pivot, hand dropping to the pocket, thumb grazing the safety—and found it as natural as a diplomatic bow. She doubted she would use it tonight, but the prospect was less absurd than it would have been a year ago.

She checked her reflection one last time. The effect was regal, unassailable. Even the dark circles lent a certain gravity—if she could not pass for untouchable, she could at least present as unbreakable.

Ellé handed her the evening's clutch: inside, the invitation, a coded pass for the speeders, and a single stimsyringe. "If there's trouble—" Ellé began.

Padmé cut her off. "I'll be fine. The plan is extraction through the kitchen service, if it comes to that. You remember the fallback point?"

Ellé nodded, expression stony. "If you're not back by dawn, we go to ground."

Padmé squeezed her hand, once, and the years of shared danger and conspiracy passed between them without another word.

At the threshold, Padmé paused, one hand on the arch. The lights outside had shifted from bruised twilight to outright night, and the city below was a river of moving fire. She rested both hands—gently, carefully—on her belly. The twins responded with a soft ripple of motion.

"Just another party," she said, and this time, she almost meant it.

The elevator hummed. She squared her shoulders, let the ceremonial mask settle over her face, and stepped into the golden light.

She descended, each floor taking her farther from home and deeper into the Empire's domain.

The Emperor's ballroom was a scar, cut deep into the living surface of the palace. Once, it had been the Senate's reception hall, a cathedral to negotiation, light, and the illusion of shared power. Now, the ceiling soared so high that the banners seemed to float in zero-gravity, each stitched with the new Imperial sigil: a black sun surrounded by a ring of cold, geometric clarity. The old mosaics—Padmé remembered them well, a thousand worlds worked in gold tile—were gone. In their place: panels of obsidian, lines as precise as the edge of a blade.

Senators, now more ornament than legislators, moved through the space in slow orbits, their aides clustering at the margins like the static charge before a lightning strike. Every face was turned toward the dais at the far end, where stormtrooper guards flanked the empty throne. The effect was both theater and threat; Palpatine's genius was knowing when to conflate the two.

Padmé moved into the room on the arm of a minor official, the Naboo colors on his sash faded and careful. She let him guide her through the first knot of dignitaries, smiled at the pro forma compliments ("So radiant, Senator!" "We do so miss your speeches in the full Assembly!"), and made mental notes of who looked away, who held her gaze, and who seemed to measure the shape of her body for any sign of weakness.

She catalogued them all. There was Toska of Kuat, who'd switched allegiance the moment the fleet contract was signed. There, the Bothan Senator, fur slicked back and newly augmented with a discreet Imperial pin. Even the Alderaanian delegation—once the conscience of the Republic—stood in a huddled group, eyes darting between the guards and the refreshments table as if debating which was more likely to poison them.

Padmé's fingers ached to clutch her comm, but she forced them into a relaxed curve against her clutch, affecting the languor of a woman who'd learned to hide the effort of standing tall.

She mapped the exits, as always. Four grand archways, each bracketed by a pair of stormtroopers in ceremonial black. Two secondary doors—kitchen service, utility—unguarded, but she could see the flicker of surveillance cams behind the false marble. Above, a row of observation galleries, the glass so thick it cast its own shadow. She counted five roving security details, each marked by the same predatory walk she'd learned to watch for during the war. Every minute, one would peel off to circle the hall's perimeter, their helmets swiveling in sync.

She was halfway through her first circuit—making her presence known, but not memorable—when Tarkin materialized at her side. He wore the new admiralty grays, cut like a scalpel, each seam mapped to his body's gaunt geometry. He bowed, fractionally, the gesture less acknowledgment than warning.

"Senator Amidala," he said, voice as thin as his smile. "I hadn't thought to see you here, given your recent… indispositions."

She turned to face him, careful to keep the smile in her eyes but not her mouth. "I never miss an opportunity to witness history, Admiral. Especially when so much of it seems to be written in these rooms."

His glance flicked to her waist, then back up. "We must all adapt to the realities of the times," he said. "Survival is, after all, the first duty of a public servant."

Padmé sipped from her glass—nonalcoholic, she could not risk the smallest misstep tonight—and let the silence spool between them. "I was under the impression that our duty was to the people, Admiral. Not to survival for its own sake."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. "The distinction is increasingly academic, I'm afraid. The Emperor has little patience for abstraction."

She let her gaze wander over the crowd, as if bored. "I see many here who once swore themselves to liberty. I wonder how many meant it."

Tarkin followed her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Conviction is a luxury. One that you, perhaps uniquely, can still afford."

Padmé gave him nothing. "I suppose I should count myself fortunate."

He smiled then, sharp and predatory. "I hope you continue to do so. The Emperor prizes stability above all, Senator. Any disruption—personal or otherwise—would be… regrettable."

She felt the message hit, cold and precise as a pin. "How considerate," she said, and let her voice sharpen just a little. "I trust you'll convey my gratitude for the Emperor's concern."

Tarkin inclined his head, the barest nod, and drifted away, absorbed by a knot of naval officers near the bar.

Padmé exhaled, slow and careful. Her hand ached from where she'd clenched the glass. She allowed herself one moment to imagine upending it over Tarkin's head, then dismissed the fantasy as indulgence. The Empire was built on the bodies of the impatient.

She scanned the room. Mon Mothma, dressed in the uncompromising white of her world, hovered near a display of Naboo artifacts. Her composure was perfect; the way she rotated the glass in her hand would have passed for idle, except that Padmé recognized the pattern—a signal from their shared, careful code.

She checked the spacing, counted the security rotations, and angled her walk so that she would pass by the Senator from Chandrila without drawing notice. As she moved, Padmé let her posture relax just a fraction, as if worn down by the evening.

A hand touched her arm—someone from the Corellian delegation, their badge still double-coded for Republic and Empire. She endured two minutes of pleasantries, nodding at the correct intervals, and pivoted the conversation to the new trade tariffs. Her face made all the right expressions. No one who looked at her now would see the woman who'd just been threatened by Tarkin, or who was calculating the odds of leaving this place alive.

She made her way toward Mon Mothma. At the halfway point, she paused near a grand sculpture of the former Chancellor—now discreetly re-faced to resemble the Emperor, the work so recent that the marble still showed tool marks. She let herself feel the old rage, then banked it, storing it for the conversations ahead.

When she finally reached Mon Mothma, she let the mask fall just a little.

"Senator," Padmé murmured, the word both greeting and confession. "You honor us with your presence."

Mon Mothma's lips twitched, the briefest signal of alliance. "It seemed prudent to see what remains of the old order."

Padmé looked at the artifacts behind her, relics of a Naboo dynasty erased by war and compromise. "Some things endure," she said, and the words landed heavier than intended.

Mon Mothma took her hand—not the gesture of a politician, but the quick, secret squeeze of a co-conspirator. "Come," she said. "There's something you need to see."

Together, they vanished into the crowd, the stormtrooper guards none the wiser.

They moved through the ballroom with the slow, deliberate pace of women trained to attract attention only when they wished to. Mon Mothma led, pausing before a cluster of Naboo artifacts encased in transparisteel. The display had been curated for the Emperor's pleasure—Padmé could tell by the number of planetary banners discreetly tucked among the pieces, as if history itself had been conscripted.

Mon Mothma selected a spot before a mosaic bust, its tesserae a microcosm of her homeworld's former glory. She regarded it with the polite interest of a tourist, but her voice—low, tightly controlled—was the only thing that truly moved.

"It's a marvel how they've preserved these," she said. "Some would argue that such artifacts belong to the people, not the palace."

Padmé gave a demure laugh. "I suppose we're fortunate the Emperor values antiquities so highly. Many in the new regime are not so sentimental."

Mon Mothma sipped her wine. The rim of the glass trembled against her lip, though her hand was otherwise steady. "If not for the collectors, I wonder what history we'd have left to us."

The conversation, on the surface, was nothing more than a study in nostalgia. But Padmé knew every syllable had been selected for meaning.

"They say preservation is a kind of resistance," Padmé said, tilting her head toward the mosaic as if admiring the workmanship. "A way to remember what cannot be spoken aloud."

Mon Mothma's eyes glistened, not with tears, but with unshed anger. "The old traditions must be maintained," she said, "even as we adapt to new governance."

Padmé scanned the hall—two security details hovering nearby, one officer with the posture of a man who'd rather be anywhere else. "Adaptation is essential," she replied. "But so is knowing when to defend the core of who we are."

There was a brief silence, heavy with coded meaning.

Mon Mothma smiled, her teeth white and perfect. "I do hope we'll continue to find… fellow enthusiasts for such preservation. Even as the climate changes." Her gaze flicked to a senator across the hall. "Perhaps we'll see each other soon at one of the smaller gatherings."

Padmé nodded, fingers tracing the edge of her clutch in a rhythm that would mean nothing to anyone else, but which confirmed the next meeting's time and place. "I wouldn't miss it."

Mon Mothma's attention darted to the far corner. "Security's moving," she murmured, voice now even softer. "Let's make it look organic."

Padmé switched gears, launching into an animated description of a new textile technique popular on Naboo. They compared notes on the fashion, the climate, the parade of "improvements" imposed on planetary culture by Imperial decree. Mon Mothma asked about the current craze for "subdued earth tones," a phrase that Padmé recognized as a warning—the local resistance had been forced underground, comms channels compromised.

Padmé smiled brightly and agreed that such tones were "a perfect match for the current mood." The meaning was simple: she'd already received and secured the message.

The conversation wound down, two friends simply out of topics. Mon Mothma offered her hand, the gesture warm, but not so warm as to attract suspicion. Padmé took it, and in the web of their palms she felt the micro-datachip, no larger than a fleck of glass. Their grip lingered for one more squeeze.

As they parted, Padmé rotated her hand, and with the practiced ease of a Senate vote-tally, slid the chip into a hollow at the base of her signet ring. The motion was invisible, the security officers none the wiser.

She watched Mon Mothma drift away, dress billowing like the sail of a ship cutting through a storm. There was no need to look back—neither of them ever did.

Padmé circled the artifacts once more, pausing before a stylized relief of Naboo's earliest rulers. Her reflection flickered in the polished glass: the mask of serenity, flawless and unyielding.

She touched her ring, thumb pressing down to click the microchip deeper into place.

Her work here was not done, but the first message had been delivered.

She composed her face, turned back toward the heart of the ballroom, and prepared for whatever audience the Emperor had planned.

In the alcove beyond the main crush of the ballroom, the air was thinner, the light less punishing. A row of tall windows overlooked the city; the traffic outside had thinned, as if the whole planet paused to watch what would happen in this room.

Bail Organa leaned against the edge of a marble credenza, posture as relaxed as he could manage in a place like this. The blue of Alderaan's court was subdued on his formal tunic, but he wore it as if it still meant something.

Padmé joined him, careful to keep her back to the room. For a moment, neither spoke. They let the silence stand, a border neither wished to cross.

"You're brave," Bail said at last, "or foolhardy."

"Mutually exclusive?" She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

He glanced at her, then at the swirl of guests behind. "You know what this costs. Not just for you."

Padmé let her gaze rest on the skyline, the threads of fire and distant movement. "Someone has to be seen standing, Bail. If not me, who?"

His face softened. "Mon Mothma isn't happy you came. She worries you'll be remembered for this, not for the good you did."

"I have to be remembered at all," Padmé said. "Otherwise the past is just… deleted."

A shadow crossed his face, old anger mixed with something like fear. "You always were the one for drama."

Padmé laughed, genuinely this time, but she heard the tension beneath his words. She reached for the glass of water, holding it like a shield.

Bail's voice dropped. "There's talk, Padmé. Some think you're the next to fall. If you need to disappear—"

"I'm not running," she said. The lie tasted thin. "Besides, my mobility isn't what it used to be." Her hand rested for a heartbeat on her side, where the seam of her gown hid everything.

He exhaled. "You're too important. If something happened…"

She placed her hand on his, quick and deliberate. "You'll keep the faith."

He nodded, but his expression was all unfinished business.

A chime sounded—sonorous, unmistakable. The palace's herald appeared at the entrance to the dais, his uniform a beacon. He cleared his throat and announced, "His Excellency, Emperor Palpatine."

A low, involuntary tremor ran through the assembly. For one instant, everyone's masks cracked; the laughter and murmurs died midstream. Even Bail straightened, hand tensing on the edge of the credenza.

He squeezed Padmé's fingers once, hard. "Careful," he whispered, then let her go, blending into the edge of the gathering as if he'd never been there.

Padmé drew herself up, smoothing the fabric over her hips, and rejoined the flow of guests. She kept her head high, composure absolute, even as the dread in her bones amplified with every step.

Across the room, she saw Tarkin waiting for her reaction. He wore the same expression he'd worn during every execution vote Padmé had ever witnessed: clinical, fascinated by the process.

She ignored him, pressing forward into the shifting geometry of the crowd.

The Emperor was coming, and there was no turning back.

Padmé slipped through an archway at the ballroom's edge, trading the rising murmur of Imperial loyalty for the hush of a side gallery. Here, the curation was less propaganda, more personal obsession—a cross-section of artifacts from every world the Empire had claimed as its own. Light was subdued, glancing off vitrines filled with everything from fossilized seeds to fragments of ancient war machines.

She let her breath slow. In this muted world, the noise of the main event faded, replaced by the faint tick of environmental controls and the distant hum of city life.

Someone else was in the gallery: a tall man, late middle age, impeccably tailored but with the tired elegance of someone who'd spent years dressing for occasion and survival both. He stood before a Naboo artifact—a fragment of ceremonial armor, gold chased with lapis in the shape of a crescent—and studied it with the calm, analytical focus of a historian.

Padmé took a step closer, her own eyes drawn to the piece. She recognized it at once: a replica of the first Queen's breastplate, gifted to the Republic Senate after the Great Unification. The original had vanished during the Purge. This was a copy, though so finely rendered that only a native of Naboo would know the difference.

The man spoke without looking at her. "They say Queen Neeyutnee wore this the day she dissolved the last of the planetary militias. A symbol of peace through the end of the blaster."

Padmé felt herself smile—genuine, for the first time that evening. "They also say she commissioned five duplicates for her bodyguards. One was stolen, and the others melted down for parts after the siege."

He turned to face her, eyes gray, smile sly but not unkind. "History prefers a single truth, I find. Even when it's wrong."

She studied him. The lines of his face were carved by something older than worry, but his posture was that of a man who never expected to be off balance. "Are you a collector?" she asked.

"An admirer. Of lost things." He extended a hand, the gesture precise. "Luthen Rael. Proprietor, Rael & Son Antiquities. Most days."

She shook his hand, noting the practiced pressure, the fraction of a pause as if measuring her grip. "Padmé Naberrie. Former Senator, sometimes archivist."

Luthen inclined his head. "A pleasure. I'm honored to meet one of the Republic's true voices."

There was the faintest mocking edge to his words, but not enough to offend. He gestured to the armor. "It's beautiful, isn't it? How the design disguises the function—almost an apology for what it is."

Padmé stepped closer to the case, letting the detail fill her gaze. "On Naboo, form and purpose are never in conflict. Or weren't, once."

He let that hang for a moment. "Once. Yes."

She sensed he was leading somewhere, but not in the way of the Imperial bureaucrats who now governed every conversation with threat or blandishment. Luthen's curiosity felt different—a dry, almost playful desire to see what she'd do with the questions he left unsaid.

He moved down the line of cases, Padmé drifting in parallel. "Did you know," he said, "that after the Siege, the occupying governor tried to melt every artifact with Naboo iconography? It took the resistance less than a week to make copies and flood the market. No one could tell the difference, not even the offworlders."

Padmé raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting forgeries are a form of protest?"

"I'm suggesting history is less about what survives, and more about who wants it to." He held her gaze. "Civilizations fall when they lose their will to tell their own story."

Padmé considered this, weighing the subtext. "Sometimes, it's enough that the story exists. Even if no one's allowed to read it."

Luthen's smile deepened. "Sometimes."

She scanned the gallery, searching for the next security patrol, and caught the flicker of white armor through the glass doors. Luthen saw her glance and stepped aside, blocking the view. "May I ask you a direct question, Senator? Off the record."

She nodded, careful.

He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "Is there anything left to save, or are we all just archiving the inevitable?"

Padmé met his eyes. "If it's inevitable, why keep the archives at all?"

"Hope, perhaps. Or habit." His tone was unreadable. "Maybe even the certainty that, given time, the cycle starts over. Tyrants rise, but so do those who oppose them."

She heard footsteps—Imperial, unhurried, but close. Luthen straightened, smile returning to diplomatic neutrality. "I apologize for monopolizing your time. It's not often I meet someone with real memory."

Padmé forced her own smile, light and idle. "I find memory to be overrated, most days."

As the officers entered, Luthen turned, producing a crisp white card from his pocket. He offered it with a flourish, so smooth it looked accidental.

"Should you ever wish to discuss history," he said, "my gallery is always open to the right guests."

She took the card, palmed it without looking, and nodded. "Thank you."

He stepped away, intercepting the officers with a polite inquiry about the restoration of a recent Alderaanian acquisition. Padmé watched him—just long enough to see the guards lose interest, just long enough to wonder how many truths lay beneath his polished surface.

She looked down at the card: plain, unadorned, but with a hand-etched comm code and the phrase: "History is the future, not the past."

Padmé closed her fist around it. For the first time in weeks, she felt the pulse of possibility. Dangerous, uncertain, but real.

She tucked the card into her clutch and rejoined the party, each step measured against the memory of Luthen's words: Tyrants rise, but so do those who oppose them.

Tonight, that would have to be enough.

The warning came as a featherweight tremor, less a vibration than a whisper against the curve of Padmé's skull. She froze at a display of Holo-Renaissance miniatures, blinking twice in rapid succession to signal the comm unit's activation.

She let her posture relax, leaning one hand on the cool surface of the refreshment bar. The server droid poured her a glass of water—no ice, no garnish, another code for "danger imminent." She lifted the glass and used her other hand to brush a wayward curl behind her ear, pressing her thumb to the concealed pressure pad just under the lobe.

A burst of static, then Ellé's voice: "Extraction in three. Repeat, three."

Padmé's throat tightened. She sipped her water, rolled her shoulders, and let the old training take over. Panic would kill her faster than any blaster.

She drifted away from the bar, weaving through knots of dignitaries as if hunting a better view of the dais. Each step was planned: never too quick, never too direct. She made eye contact with no one, but catalogued every face that turned to follow her progress.

The Emperor had taken his throne, the room's energy focused on his presence like gravity. Tarkin stood at his right, the new Grand Vizier at his left. Padmé watched, detached, as the Emperor gestured with one ruined hand for the assembly to be seated. The hush that followed was absolute; even the server droids seemed to retreat from the charged stillness.

Padmé circled the ballroom, crossing in front of the dais just as the Emperor began his speech. His voice—reedy, rasping, but resonant—cut through the crowd with surgical precision.

"…a new dawn for the galaxy… security and order for all peoples… enemies of the state will find no quarter…"

She barely heard the words. Her mind mapped the last meters to the west exit, recalculated when she spotted two stormtroopers positioned in the direct line. She pivoted, smiling at a minor minister from Chandrila, and doubled back toward the side gallery, her path now an elegant zigzag.

As she entered the archway, she caught Luthen Rael's eye. He stood at the center of a small audience, gesturing with measured intensity as he recounted the provenance of some artifact. Their gazes met for a half-beat, and he raised his chin in the barest nod—a signal, she realized, not for greeting but for confirmation.

He slipped a hand into his pocket, withdrew a data slate, and approached a cluster of Imperial officers. "You'll find the acquisition records most enlightening, Colonel," he said, voice pitched to carry just far enough. The officers turned, momentarily distracted.

Padmé used the opening. She passed through the arch, then down the short corridor to a secondary stair. The lighting was low, the air cooler; with each step, her pulse quieted. At the base of the stairs, a side door—marked "staff only"—slid open at her touch. Ellé waited, disguised as a palace attendant, her eyes sharp above a modest veil.

"Milady," she whispered. "Car is this way."

They moved in silence through a maintenance hall lined with crates and idle droids. The exit was only fifteen meters ahead when footsteps echoed behind them—precise, martial, unmistakable.

Padmé slowed, then stopped. She adjusted the earring again, this time opening the channel for a microsecond burst.

Ellé pressed her back to the wall, hands folded, the picture of docility.

The footsteps resolved into a single trooper, helmeted and anonymous. He paused two meters away, visor blank.

"Evening, Senator," he said, voice filtered through the modulator. "You left the reception early."

Padmé turned, face set in polite apology. "My condition," she said, gesturing to her side, "sometimes disagrees with long speeches."

The trooper said nothing, but the helmet dipped fractionally—a sign, perhaps, of understanding.

Ellé stepped forward, her own voice soft. "I'm to escort the Senator home."

The trooper's gaze lingered on Padmé's stomach, then shifted to her eyes. "Congratulations," he said, and stepped aside.

Padmé moved past him, keeping her pace measured. At the end of the hall, the door hissed open and the night air rushed in—sharp, cold, and impossibly clean after the crush of bodies inside.

They reached the waiting speeder. Ellé helped her in, then slipped into the driver's seat, hands steady on the controls.

As they pulled away from the palace, Padmé let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. The city's skyline—jagged, luminous, alive—spooled past the windows. Somewhere in the ballroom, the Emperor's voice still droned on, a lullaby for the frightened.

Padmé touched the ring on her finger, felt the microchip hidden inside. She remembered Luthen's words—history is the future, not the past—and found herself smiling in the dark.

For now, she was safe. For now, the network held.

And as the speeder vanished into the city's arteries, Padmé knew that every revolution began with a single step away from the crowd.

She would take as many as she needed.

Chapter Text

The forest pressed in, thick with spores and shadows, the air so saturated it congealed on Yoda's tongue. He limped between the roots, each step measured to avoid the fresh scorch marks that traced the ground in crisscrossing lattices—signatures of blaster fire, not yet gone cold. High above, the canopy burned with the orange pulse of artillery. Below, in the mulch and rot, the war was over.

His robes hung in ribbons from his frame, each tear mapping the hours since the first shot. The gimer stick, once a token of dignity, was now an extension of battered will, driven into the mud again and again to keep his failing body upright. Each breath was a negotiation: pain and effort and the copper tang of his own blood, hot where it soaked his side.

The past—days, hours, lifetimes—tumbled in on itself. Flashes: the sudden, monstrous betrayal on the high platforms; the Wookiee battalions scattered by their own allies' fire; the burning Jedi Temple, its screams echoing across a hundred parsecs. Faces came and went, dozens at a time. He tasted each death in the Force, a flavorless bitterness, until he could no longer tell if the pain was in his bones or his mind.

He stopped at the lip of a sinkhole, chest rattling. Far below, two clone troopers picked through the blackened husks of Wookiee bodies, searching for survivors with the cold patience of machines. He pressed himself flat against a buttress root, feeling the vibration of their boots pass up into his sternum. Neither spoke, but their helmeted heads flicked left and right, guns ready.

He waited. Patience was the one resource not yet depleted.

When they passed, Yoda let his head fall back against the bark, the roughness a small reminder of things that still obeyed their own natures. He closed his eyes and breathed—not for rest, but to let the Force swell in, to fill the cracks.

The galaxy wailed. He heard it in the tremor under his skin, the way the light flickered at the edges of his sight. So many, gone. So many more to go.

He followed the pain outward, letting it draw his mind beyond the forest, beyond the planet, through the rippled folds of the system and into the cold wash of space. For a moment, the scale numbed him; then he let go, surrendering to the current.

Past the burning satellites and shattered hulls, past the jagged edges of the hyperlanes, his consciousness caught on something. A thread—fine, almost invisible, but strong enough to pull against the flood.

He focused. Distance became shape, shape became world: a planet, deep blue and green, lit by a sun that stung his old eyes even in memory. No name, not on any chart. The Force pooled there, dense and old, like rainwater trapped in the hollow of a stone.

"Hmm," Yoda said, lips peeling back from his teeth. "Interesting, this is." His ears perked, almost involuntary, as if the sound would help him anchor the vision.

He opened his eyes. Above, the smoke had turned the daylight to gray. He squinted through it, searching for the next marker, the next patch of earth not pitted by explosives.

One more time, he told himself, and set out across the ridge.

The terrain grew crueler the farther he went, as if the planet itself had decided to resist his passage. The vines thickened, thorns massed on every branch, the ground a morass of old leaves and new blood. Once, he would have flowed through such obstacles, letting the Force shape the path. Now, every branch was a barrier, every stone a reminder of how little he had left to spend.

His hand shook as he wiped the sweat from his brow, but he did not stop.

He reached the edge of the treeline, where the land sloped down into a clearing. Here, the trees had been felled in a perfect circle, the earth burned smooth by repulsor wash. In the center, camouflaged beneath a net of broken branches, sat a ship: small, ugly, functional. Wookiee design, with none of the graceful excess of the Republic's shuttles. He recognized the pattern in the markings—the secret code they'd used in the last days, after the betrayals started.

He glanced back, once, at the forest. No pursuit yet. The clones were efficient, but they weren't magicians. He had time, if only a little.

He scuttled across the open ground, gimer stick dragging a furrow behind him. The ship's hatch was unlatched, the ramp canted low to the ground. He entered, ducking under the lintel, and found the cockpit already prepped for emergency launch.

He climbed into the pilot's seat, every joint protesting. The controls were simple, mapped for paws larger than his hands, but he adapted, letting memory take over. The display flickered to life, throwing his battered face into the glass. He looked at it for a moment, measuring the cost, then pressed the ignition.

The engines purred, quiet but ready. Yoda set a course: first to the rim, then to the system he'd seen in the vision. His fingers hesitated on the navigation console, just for a heartbeat, before entering the jump coordinates.

He felt the ship lift, felt the clones' comm signals spike in alarm behind him. He ignored them. He'd lived too long to fear what could not be changed.

As the ship punched through the upper atmosphere, Yoda let himself sag in the harness, eyes closing against the sun. The memory of the planet—blue, green, wild—burned in his mind, the one light that didn't flicker.

He would find it. He would see what called him there, and why.

For the first time since the death began, he felt the faintest trace of something other than loss.

Hope, he thought, and the word tasted strange on his tongue.

He whispered it anyway, and let the stars take him.

The journey through hyperspace was a wound torn in silence. There was no comfort in the hum of the engines, nor in the thrum of the navicomputer as it counted down the jumps. Yoda kept his eyes open, watched the blue tunnel warp and twist, and let each flicker of distant starlight remind him of what had been lost.

The ship shuddered as it dropped to sublight, the stars outside reforming into pinpricks against a velvet dark. Ahead, the planet awaited—no name on the display, only a string of numbers and a grainy, false-color image rendered by the battered sensors.

He stared.

The world was not like any he had known. Swaths of ocean wrapped the globe in shimmering blue, so deep it made him ache. The landmasses were islands, archipelagos, beads of emerald adrift in the immensity. No city lights, no orbital beacons, nothing of the Republic or its war.

He brought the ship in closer, letting the hull heat up in the brush of the upper atmosphere. Below, clouds gathered in complex spirals, shot through with veins of color that shifted—now gold, now violet, now a shade of green so pure it could only exist here. The auroras were visible even at midday, climbing the poles in curtains that rippled and merged until sky and planet seemed to share a single skin.

Yoda keyed the scanners, searching for anything out of place. He expected to feel alone, but the Force pressed in as soon as he crossed the threshold—a gentle pressure, then a flood. It was everywhere: in the charge of the clouds, the churning of the ocean, the way the light bent around the ship. He almost laughed at the suddenness of it.

"Alive, this place is," he whispered, voice hoarse from hours of disuse. "Very much, alive."

He let the ship glide lower, trading altitude for a closer look. The trees—if that was what they were—rose in tangled knots from the cliffs and valleys, their trunks twisted and thick, their leaves aglow with an internal fire. Here and there, he saw breaks in the green: massive stones, shaped by wind and time into spires and arches, their surfaces scored by patterns too deliberate for weather alone.

He circled the planet, letting the Force guide his hand. It led him to a continent-sized island at the planet's equator, a place where three rivers met and a vast forest swept up to the base of an ancient volcanic cone. The sensors showed nothing unusual. But he felt it—the pull, the way the air seemed to vibrate at the edge of hearing.

He set down in a clearing ringed by trees the size of fortresses. The landing struts sank into the loam, soft and yielding. For a moment, he just sat, letting the engines wind down, the silence of the cockpit broken only by the old, irregular thud of his heart.

He stood, gimer stick in one hand, and made his way to the hatch.

The outside air hit him with the force of a revelation. It was cool, sweet, and so thick with pollen and life that he sneezed three times in a row, wiping his nose on the shredded edge of his sleeve. Light fell through the branches in fat, syrupy drops, each one painting the ground with color.

He stepped forward, boots sinking into moss that gave way with a sigh.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was not the green of Coruscant's fake gardens, nor the sharp bite of Kashyyyk's canopy. It was layered, a slow unfolding of earth and resin and something almost like stone after rain. With every breath, he felt lighter—if not in body, then in spirit.

He moved into the clearing. The trees formed a perfect circle, their roots arching up and then diving back down as if they could not bear to break the ring. In the center, a single stone jutted from the ground, its surface layered with moss and streaked with veins of blue crystal. He crossed to it, each step more certain than the last.

He reached out, fingers tracing the line where rock met lichen. The surface was smooth, but under the moss were markings—symbols, barely discernible, but familiar in their rhythm. He leaned closer.

Old Jedi. Not the script of the Temple, but older. Something from the days before records, when words were carved into stone because no one had yet invented the datacard.

He closed his eyes and ran his hand over the symbols, letting their shape call up what memory remained.

"Hiding, this world has been," he murmured. "Waiting."

He felt the ground shift beneath him—not literally, but in the strange, intuitive way the Force had of announcing itself. He turned, surveying the perimeter. At the far edge of the clearing, a plant unfurled as he watched, its petals heavy with dew the color of molten amber. Each drop clung to the surface, refracting the light into tiny, perfect rainbows.

From the trees, a sound: not birdsong, but something more complex, almost as if the forest was whispering to itself. The notes trilled and arced, rising in response to his presence. The sense of welcome was so strong it bordered on discomfort.

"Know I am seen, here," Yoda said, and felt the truth of it ripple outward.

He took stock of himself. The journey, the days of running, the final fight—it had all but emptied him. Yet here, under these strange trees, with the planet's song in his ears, he felt himself begin to refill.

He sat on the moss by the stone, letting the warmth of the sun press down through the haze.

A minute passed. Then another. He heard movement in the underbrush, saw flashes of color—small creatures, some with too many legs, some with none at all, moving in patterns that seemed random but never collided. The planet was crowded with life, but each thing had found a way to fit. A lesson there, if he wished to see it.

He laughed, the sound startling in its volume. "Learn from you, I will," he said to the clearing. "If let me, you do."

He closed his eyes and reached into the Force, not as a Jedi Master but as a living being in need.

What returned was not a vision, but a sense of purpose. The planet was wounded, yes, as all things were, but it had not surrendered. It hid its heart, guarded it, waited for someone who could see without eyes. In the mind's eye, he saw himself walking the surface—alone, but not abandoned.

He opened his eyes and looked at his hands. They were old, but not finished.

He rose, gathered himself, and began the walk toward the distant ridge. The gimer stick was steady now, his breathing slow and even. Each footfall felt less like escape and more like arrival.

He would explore, and learn, and—if he could—heal.

As he moved into the trees, the Force thrummed in time with his heart, and the forest welcomed him home.

He climbed the hill with the caution of a man who no longer trusted his own body. The slope was gentle, but the ground was littered with fallen branches and slick with moss, each step a reminder that even on a world like this, nature took no pity. The gimer stick found each foothold before he did, and he paused often, letting the rhythm of his breath synchronize with the pulse of the forest.

At the summit, the trees parted. Here, the world had made a clearing not by violence but by consensus—no trunk encroached on the stony crown, no vine dared mar the symmetry. In the center, seven pillars ringed the crest, each taller than a speeder, worn smooth by time and crowned with lichen that glowed faintly in the twilight.

Yoda stopped at the perimeter, taking it in.

Each stone was different: one black and veined like old ice, another yellow with the fossilized remains of ancient seashells, a third riddled with holes as if a million insects had tunneled through. Yet they stood equidistant, their alignment so precise it made his teeth itch. He recognized the design—not from the histories of the Temple, but from stories older than the Order itself.

The wind had died, and the air in the circle was utterly still. He stepped forward, the silence pressing in on him. At the center, the ground was bare—no grass, no moss, just a patch of dry earth the color of old bone.

He knelt, setting the stick aside, and settled into the posture of the ancient meditations. Not the formalized, codified stances of Coruscant, but the raw, unfocused kneel of the first Jedi, before there had been rules.

He closed his eyes.

The sounds of the world faded, and the noise inside him rose to fill the vacuum. Every hurt, every failure, every death he'd witnessed in the last days: it came back, not as memory, but as sensation. He did not flinch. He let each wave pass through, naming them as they went.

The last thing he remembered was the voice of the clone who'd tried to kill him on the high platform: "It's nothing personal, General." As if the Order had been a job, a campaign, a box to check on the way to history.

He let it go, and drew in a breath.

Then, quietly, he began to speak.

The words were not Galactic Standard. They were not even words, not in the way most beings understood language. They were a series of modulations, a shaping of breath and intent, a code passed down through lineage and dream. He had not heard them spoken aloud since he was a child.

As the chant grew, the Force gathered—at first a slow accretion, then a torrent. The hairs on his arms rose, the air around him thickened, and the dust that coated the clearing began to vibrate in time with his voice. He spoke, and the world listened.

He felt the strain at once. This was not the careful, gentle guidance of the Council chamber. This was something wild, a bending of reality that came with a price. The sweat broke on his brow and ran down the furrows of his face, stinging his eyes. His joints ached, and his old wound—scarcely scabbed, barely healed—throbbed in warning.

Still, he continued.

The dust lifted, forming a low cloud around his knees. The pollen, golden and fine, swirled upward, caught in a current he could not see. Small stones, once embedded in the earth, rose and circled his head, orbiting like moons. Even the light in the clearing bent inward, drawn to the center by the gravity of his focus.

He lost track of time. The sun set, and the moon rose, but he did not stop. He could feel the galaxy looking for him, hunting for the last embers. Palpatine, perhaps, or others—shadows probing at the edge of the new darkness, searching for what had been left behind.

He steeled his mind. "Shield this world, I must," he whispered, his throat so raw it hurt to speak. "A sanctuary for what remains."

He reached deeper, past exhaustion, past self. The chant doubled back on itself, its harmonics vibrating in his teeth and in the pillars around him. For a moment, the Force responded with a violence that threatened to tear him apart. He gasped, blood flooding his mouth from a nosebleed he couldn't spare the strength to wipe away.

He was dying, and he knew it. But so was the Order, and the galaxy, and if this was the last thing he could give, he would give it all.

The world around him warped, folded, realigned. The colors grew brighter, then deeper, then strange—sounds came back but warped, like echoes underwater. The boundary between matter and energy thinned, until he was not kneeling in a clearing but suspended in a bubble of possibility, every surface humming with the charge of potential.

He poured himself into the weave, each word a thread, each intention a knot. The spell—or whatever one called it—would not only hide the world, but change it: make it unnoticeable, unremarkable, a place the Empire's gaze would slip from, as a tongue slips from a missing tooth.

It took everything.

He did not remember the end, only the sense of completion, a knot tied off so tightly that nothing short of apocalypse could untangle it.

He fell forward onto his hands, the world spinning. He stayed that way for a long time, letting the tremors pass, his face pressed into the sweet-smelling earth.

When he finally opened his eyes, dawn was breaking. The pillars caught the new light and reflected it inward, bathing the clearing in a pale, electric blue.

He looked around. The moss had reclaimed the ground, the dust settled in a perfect, undisturbed layer. The only evidence of what had happened was the trail of blood from his nose to where his mouth now tasted dirt.

He struggled to his feet, using the stick for leverage, and turned in a slow circle.

Everything was the same. But he knew, with the certainty of the Force, that nothing would ever be the same again.

He laughed—a low, broken sound—and let himself collapse back onto the moss, the world's colors too sharp to look at, the silence so perfect it almost hurt.

He slept, and for the first time in months, his dreams were free of ghosts.

The cave was older than the hill itself. Its entrance gaped beneath the tangle of a tree so immense it seemed to have grown not from seed but from a piece of the planet's heart, its roots thicker than starship hulls and just as pitted. Here, under the woven shadows, Yoda found shelter. The air inside was cool and wet, thick with the slow decay of centuries.

He cleared a space near the back wall, laying his battered cloak over a bed of dried fronds. The ground sloped gently, leading to a pocket of warmer air that smelled of sap and distant, unseen flowers. He set his meager possessions in a tidy line: gimer stick, a pouch of rations, and the transmitter module he'd stripped from the ship's navicomputer.

The first task was survival. He built a fire with scavenged kindling, coaxing the flame into life with a touch of the Force and the smallest scrap of patience. The light danced on the walls, throwing back echoes of the seven pillars above.

He ate, sparingly. He drank from the condensation that gathered on the walls, lapping it up with a cupped palm. Each action was slow, deliberate, a way to mark time in a life that had, until now, always been dictated by urgency.

But the real work could not wait.

He set the transmitter upright on a flat piece of stone and began to tinker, fingers moving by memory. The casing was charred, one of the coils fused by an old surge, but the core circuitry was intact. He rerouted the power, bypassed the damaged relay, and rewired the emitter with a length of scavenged filament. The process took hours, not because it was difficult, but because he stopped after each step to rest his trembling hands. Even so, he never once doubted that he could finish.

When it was ready, he powered it up. The indicator flashed blue, then yellow, then settled into a steady pulse—alive, for now. He smiled, the expression a mixture of relief and old, hard-won pride.

The next step was frequency.

He cycled through the bands, searching for a gap in the local interference. The world was quiet; no Imperial traffic, no planetary net. He picked a narrowband carrier and set the transmitter to pulse at random intervals, as the old Jedi distress protocols required.

He composed the message in his head, then encoded it using the cipher every Jedi youngling had learned in their first year. It would sound like static to anyone else, but to those who could read the signs, it would be clear enough.

"Find me, they must, if survive, they did," he said, voice barely above a whisper. The words slipped into the transmission, layered over the pulse of the signal.

He added the coordinates, not in raw numbers, but hidden in the rhythm of the message—a trick that would only work if the recipient already knew how to listen. He attached a brief, tight burst of instructions: how to slip past the Force veil, where to land, what to avoid.

And then, as a signature, he appended a single line: "When darkness falls, embers remain."

He sent the message.

The transmitter chirped as it relayed, then fell silent. The indicator returned to blue. He repeated the process, changing the intervals and encodings, broadcasting on as many bands as the hardware could sustain.

By the time he finished, the fire had burned low and the night air was so cold his breath hung in the cave like fog.

He shivered, and for the first time in a long time, allowed himself the luxury of loneliness. The galaxy was immense, and the odds were poor, but he knew—knew—that someone, somewhere, would hear the call.

He moved to the cave's mouth and looked out. The planet had shifted while he worked; the stars were in different places, the auroras draped across the sky in silent veils. Below, the forest glowed with its own secret language. He wondered if the other survivors—if there were any—would recognize the beauty in this exile, or if they would only see the loss.

He settled onto the stone, cross-legged, and let the trance come.

This time, the Force was gentle. It folded him in, showing him glimpses of what he'd hoped for.

A flash: a ship, battered and scorched, limping through a dust-choked system. Inside, a figure with a red and black face—Maul? No, not anymore, something else—locked in uneasy alliance with a pale, exhausted woman. Her eyes were sharp, haunted, but alive. Ahsoka. The name echoed in the Force.

Another vision: a ruined temple, floors slick with blood and rain. Someone moved among the dead, not a Jedi, but close—a man with half his face gone, still carrying the old sense of duty. Windu. Scarred, not broken. Hiding, waiting.

A moment of silence, then another: a far-off city, all glass and steel, where a woman stood in a high window, two children asleep at her feet. She looked out into the darkness, her hand pressed to the glass as if she could touch the stars. Padmé, Yoda thought, and felt the ache of memory.

The visions blurred, collapsed back into darkness.

He exhaled, the effort wracking his chest.

Still, it was enough.

He opened his eyes to the dawn. The fire was gone, but the cave was filled with soft, diffuse light. The transmitter's indicator blinked a lazy green, ready for the next call.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and moved to the entrance. Outside, the world was new again. He let the air fill his lungs, let the sound of unseen creatures remind him that, for all that had been lost, life endured.

"Begin again, we will," he said, the words echoing off the roots and stone.

And for the first time in a long time, the echo did not sound alone.

Chapter Text

The settlement had been alive once—trading post, hydroponics hub, maybe even a district council if you were charitable. Now it was just a ribcage of duracrete and flame-licked plastoid, the air thick with the smell of fresh vaporization and something worse beneath. Anakin Skywalker's boots found purchase where they could among the craters. His right hand—mechanical, matte black, and still bearing the carbon scarring from his last brush with a lightsaber—drummed at his hilt as if the rhythm could keep the world from falling in around him.

They moved in staggered formation, Anakin at point, followed by the surviving padawans—a grim, disciplined lot who'd aged years in weeks—and four clones in mismatched armor, visors blank, steps perfectly in time. He'd insisted the clones keep their old paint jobs: an unspoken rejection of Imperial whitewash. The effect was more ragtag than ceremonial, but the men (if that term even applied anymore) seemed to stand taller for it.

"Shields up," Anakin snapped over his shoulder. "We don't know who or what's still breathing out here."

One of the padawans, a Zeltron boy whose pink skin was now mostly dust, caught Anakin's eye. "Master, the signal was specific—Jedi, not Imperial."

Anakin grunted. "You'll find that signals and intentions rarely get along, kid. Assume a trap, survive the surprise party."

They picked through the hollowed-out marketplace, skirting the smoldering wreckage of a speeder and the shattered shell of what had once been a vendor's stall. Overhead, the battered awning groaned in the wind, threatening to collapse with every fresh gust. Anakin ignored it. He scanned the avenue, mapping the approach vector from the old city plan burned into his memory.

They were halfway to the central square when he saw them.

Opposite, advancing from the east, a second column—a dozen figures, moving with military precision but without the telltale stomp of clone boots. Anakin recognized the lead silhouette instantly: tall, broad-shouldered, stride slower than usual but still cutting a path through the debris as if the world itself owed him clearance.

Mace Windu.

Anakin felt a pulse behind his eyes—a memory of Coruscant, the Council Chamber, Windu's voice always three decibels too measured, never cracking, never yielding. Now, as the two groups closed the gap, Anakin watched Windu's approach. There was new damage: a ragged scar cut down the left side of Windu's face, a relic from his last meeting with the Emperor that rumors said should have killed him. His gait was stiffer than Anakin remembered—left leg favoring, arm held a little higher, as if the balance of his body had been recalibrated by trauma rather than healed by bacta.

Windu's entourage was pure Jedi: three Knights and a trio of padawans, all older, more battle-tested than Anakin's batch. There were no clones. None at all. The split was deliberate, and Anakin's own troops noticed—hands shifted toward blasters, stances tightened, a microsecond's hesitation in the way they advanced.

The two parties slowed as they reached the threshold of the square. Thirty meters separated them, then twenty, then only the width of a broken fountain whose basin was now a graveyard of spent blaster packs.

Anakin stopped, signaling his group to fan out behind him. Windu mirrored the move, stepping forward with that uncanny poise: unbreakable, even when half the man had been scorched off.

The world shrank to the space between them.

Windu's eyes, sharp and almost metallic in the midday light, locked with Anakin's. It wasn't a challenge, but neither was it a welcome.

"Master Windu," Anakin said, allowing the title just enough respect to be ambiguous.

"Skywalker." Windu's voice was scratchier now, but the measured tone had survived intact. "You've found the signal."

"Had to reroute through five Imperial jammers to do it, but yes." Anakin gestured to the ruin with his metal hand, fingers flexing in a slow, deliberate stretch. "Didn't expect to find you coordinating from the front lines. I thought the Council preferred to delegate these days."

Windu didn't blink. "The Council, as you knew it, is gone. Our mission is survival now. And that requires certain… adjustments."

A flicker of something passed over Anakin's face—regret, or maybe just nostalgia for a time when the rules were clear. He scanned the faces behind Windu: every one alert, every one watching Anakin as if he might detonate at any second.

"Where are the rest?" Anakin asked, softer now.

Windu shrugged—one-shouldered, barely perceptible. "Dead, in hiding, or worse. We catch fragments. There are others, but none close. You?"

"Lost two more last week. Imperial sweep in the deep ring. The rest are here, for now." Anakin's eyes narrowed. "But you knew that already."

Windu's lips twitched, almost a smile. "The galaxy is smaller than it once was."

A silence, long and awkward, filled the square. Overhead, a piece of shrapnel finally gave way, clanging to the duracrete with a sound like the last bell at the end of the world.

Anakin felt his jaw tighten. "So what's the play, Master? You didn't drag me and mine through a warzone just to reminisce about old times."

Windu's reply was instant. "We're here to plan, Skywalker. To fight, yes—but to do it as Jedi. Not as mercenaries. Not as terrorists."

The word hung in the air, pointed and intentional.

Anakin smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Tell that to the ones who are already dead."

Windu took a step closer, favoring his left side but standing tall. "We do not become what we fight, Anakin. No matter the cost."

The message was not lost on either man, and the distance between them, measured in meters and in years of mutual suspicion, suddenly seemed very small.

"Understood, Master," Anakin said, his voice flat.

Behind him, the padawans shifted, waiting for the next move. On Windu's side, the Knights squared their shoulders.

For the first time since he'd set out from Coruscant, Anakin felt the old clarity—the moment when all that mattered was the enemy in front of him and the brothers at his back. He could see in Windu's eyes that the feeling was mutual.

He gestured toward the shell of a building at the edge of the square. "We should talk. Alone."

Windu nodded, motioned his people to hold.

As Anakin walked beside his old rival, through the shattered archway and into the shadows, he allowed himself a single, private thought.

Maybe the future wasn't dead after all. Maybe, somewhere in the ruins, there was still something worth fighting for.

But if there was, it would be decided here, and now, between the last two men in the galaxy who still believed they were right.

Inside, the old council chamber was a shell—no roof, three walls, the original floor now buried beneath a layer of shattered glass and blackened support beams. It should have felt like a grave. Instead, it hummed with a static charge, as if the conversation waiting to happen would tip the entire galaxy into motion.

Anakin was the first to break the silence, pacing a slow circle around the fractured holotable at the room's center. His boots sent up puffs of dust with every step, and his mechanical hand flexed at his side, opening and closing like a living thing. He didn't look at Windu, not yet.

"We're running out of time," Anakin said, his voice pitched low. "The Imperials are consolidating, fast. Every day we sit on our hands, they swallow another system. We can't keep running, Master."

Windu didn't move from where he'd planted himself by the far wall. He stood ramrod-straight, arms folded behind his back, the ruined left sleeve of his robe trailing in the wind. The scar down his face looked almost ceremonial in the broken light. "You suggest what, exactly?"

Anakin stopped, turned on his heel, and fixed Windu with a look. "We need to hit their command centers. Hard. Direct. Cut off the head before they finish growing the new body."

Windu arched an eyebrow. "A decapitation strike?"

Anakin nodded. "We have the numbers, if we can coordinate. My teams are ready. The element of surprise is the only currency we have left."

Windu studied him. "And the cost?"

Anakin's jaw flexed. "We do what's necessary. What's possible."

Windu's eyes were unreadable. "And the collateral?"

"Every minute we hesitate, more die. You know that."

A gust of wind rattled the exposed beams, sending a rain of grit down between them. Anakin brushed it off with a quick motion, impatient.

"We can't afford to play defense anymore," he pressed. "We fight like Jedi, we die like Jedi. But if we fight like—" he hesitated, searching for the word "—like soldiers, like we did in the war, we might actually have a chance."

Windu finally moved, but only to adjust his stance. "We are not soldiers, Skywalker. That was always the lie of the Clone Wars. We lead, yes. We protect. But we do not wage total war."

Anakin laughed—short, sharp. "That's what got us here, Master. That's what let Palpatine slither his way to the top."

Windu's voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Mind your tongue."

Anakin's retort was instant, forceful. "If you had listened—if the Council had acted when I first warned you about Palpatine—maybe none of this would've happened."

The air crackled. For a moment, neither spoke.

Windu stepped forward, closing the distance by half. He looked every bit the Jedi Master, even battered and bandaged, and his words cut with surgical precision. "You think to teach me lessons about vigilance? About consequence? I've seen what happens when Jedi abandon restraint, Skywalker."

Anakin's face hardened. "We're not in the Temple anymore."

"No," Windu agreed, "we're not. But even now, in exile, we have a responsibility."

Anakin paced again, the circle growing tighter. "What responsibility? To a dead Order?"

"To the living," Windu said. "To the ones who still look to us for hope."

Anakin's hand found the edge of the holotable, gripping it so hard the metal creaked. "Hope doesn't win wars."

"Without it, the war isn't worth winning." Windu's tone was steel. "If we abandon our code, our principles—what are we?"

Anakin released the table, the color draining from his knuckles. "Those principles won't matter if we're all dead."

Windu's voice was almost a whisper. "Without our principles, we are no better than the Sith."

The words hit harder than any blow.

Anakin stood, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the ruins beyond the windowless wall. "I'm not asking you to become them. Just to recognize reality."

Windu watched him, and for the first time, Anakin thought he saw something almost like pity in the old man's face.

"You always had the potential, Skywalker. Always." Windu let the words hang, heavy. "But the line between vision and blindness is thinner than you think."

Anakin's mechanical hand curled, slow and deliberate. "I'm not blind. I just refuse to die on my knees."

Windu closed his eyes for a second, then opened them, the focus back and diamond-sharp. "You think to do what the Council could not. I respect that. But don't mistake impatience for leadership."

The standoff stretched. Every muscle in Anakin's body was ready to move, but Windu stood rooted, a monument to the old way.

"We do this my way, or we die," Anakin said.

Windu's reply was cold as the void. "We do this the right way, or we don't do it at all."

For a heartbeat, Anakin thought about igniting his saber—just to prove a point, just to see if the old man was as quick as legend. But then he saw the set of Windu's jaw, the way even the scars seemed to lend weight to his certainty, and he let it pass.

Instead, he turned away, fists at his sides. "You know what the difference is between you and Palpatine, Master?" he said, voice low. "He got results."

The silence that followed was worse than a scream.

When Anakin finally looked back, Windu's eyes had narrowed to slits, unreadable.

Neither man spoke. There was nothing left to say.

The scream of TIE engines was the only warning.

Anakin's senses snapped into clarity, all prior argument burned away by the survival instinct of a soldier who'd spent half his life dodging ambushes. He moved before the thought had finished forming, diving for the shattered windowsill and dragging Windu down with him. The roof overhead disintegrated as a volley of green plasma stitched the horizon, turning the upper floor to fine white dust.

Outside, the square erupted into chaos.

The first TIEs strafed low, picking off the perimeter with mathematical precision. Anakin's padawans—so green, so desperate—scrambled for cover, their lightsabers blinking on like distress beacons in the smoke. The clones reacted with old muscle memory, forming a tight wedge and returning fire in three-round bursts. Every other shot found a target, but the advancing figures on the far side of the plaza didn't slow. Stormtroopers: not clones, but not raw conscripts either. These ones moved with the assurance of true believers.

Windu was already moving, his bad leg forgotten. He vaulted over the blasted holotable, lightsaber spinning up from his sleeve in a seamless motion. The purple blade carved a path through the debris as he barked orders in a voice that somehow cut through the roar of engines and the screams.

"Padawans, fall back to defensive posture! Knights, coordinate on sector three—support the wounded and hold the line!"

Anakin grinned, feeling the old fire in his chest. He thumbed his own saber to life—blue, electric, hungry—and called over his shoulder, "You heard the man. We're not dying in this gutter."

The words snapped his team into action. The Zeltron padawan and his human counterpart flanked Anakin, their faces set and pale but eyes resolute. Together, they pushed forward, slicing through a first wave of scout troopers that had ducked through the side alley. The air smelled of ozone and burnt plastic, every step a dance between precision and raw improvisation.

On the plaza, the clones laid down suppressive fire, pinning the advancing stormtroopers behind the remnants of the fountain. Anakin saw their sergeant—a battered old campaigner with half his bucket painted orange—signal for covering fire as he lobbed a thermal detonator straight into the densest knot of white armor. The explosion painted the square with shrapnel and the too-bright flash of hope.

Above, the TIEs banked for another run. Anakin saw the flicker of laser targeting and dove, rolling to cover a padawan whose foot had caught on a fallen support beam. The blast passed meters overhead, slicing through the building behind them and sending a hail of glass into the open.

The kid stared up at Anakin, eyes wide. "Thanks, Master."

"Don't thank me yet," Anakin said. "Stay alive, then buy me a drink."

A fresh wave of stormtroopers crested the plaza wall, advancing with shields up and rifles locked. They fired in overlapping arcs, methodical and lethal. One shot grazed Anakin's shoulder, frying the edge of his tunic and sending a jolt through the servos of his mechanical hand. The pain was distant, the adrenaline drowning it out.

He saw Windu moving through the open, blade a constant cyclone. The old man was slower, yes, but every movement was exact, every strike designed not just to kill, but to minimize collateral. He caught a blaster bolt on his saber, redirected it into a support beam overhead, and collapsed half a building onto the squad advancing beneath.

Anakin couldn't help it; he laughed. "Show-off," he muttered, and charged the nearest heavy weapons nest.

The position was dug into the lip of the plaza, two repeating blasters bracketed by sandbags and what looked like up-armored trash cans. Anakin motioned to his clones for a feint, then vaulted up and over the barricade, saber a streak of blue heat. He cut the first gun in half, parried a shot from the second trooper, then kicked the third squarely in the chest, sending the man tumbling into the pit behind.

He signaled his team. "Push through! Wipe their comms, then rejoin at the central fountain!"

The Zeltron was first through, slicing a trooper's leg at the knee and finishing him with a neat jab to the chestplate. The others followed, and within seconds the position was theirs.

Across the square, a cry for help.

Anakin turned in time to see a group of padawans—young, barely trained—herded against a collapsed awning by three stormtroopers. Two of the enemy carried riot shields, the third a flame unit. The air shimmered around the nozzle as the trooper prepared to roast the kids alive.

Anakin's instincts took over. He ran, ignoring the blaster fire that sizzled past his ears. He threw out his mechanical hand, letting the Force arc through the servos, and yanked the flame trooper off his feet. The man flew backward, hit the ground hard, and didn't get up.

But the shield bearers advanced, clubs out. One swung for the nearest padawan, who froze.

There was a flash of purple, and suddenly Windu was there, interposing himself with impossible speed. He took the brunt of the shield hit, twisted, and drove his saber through the riot barrier and into the man behind. The second trooper hesitated, and in that half-second Anakin was on him, lightsaber a blur. The fight was over before the stormtrooper could even register the change in odds.

The rescued padawans stared, caught between relief and terror.

"Move!" Windu barked. "Fall back to the extraction point!"

They scattered, Anakin and Windu watching their retreat with twin glances of grim satisfaction.

A new sound: the thud-thud-thud of walker feet. From the avenue to the north, two AT-DP scouts emerged, their cannons leveling at the plaza. The lead walker fired, vaporizing the edge of the fountain and throwing stone chips like shrapnel.

Anakin glanced at Windu. "We need to take those out, or we're not leaving."

Windu nodded, not bothering with words.

They split—Anakin left, Windu right—moving with the synchronized improvisation of generals who'd survived a dozen hopeless battles. Anakin used the wreckage as cover, ducking low and leaping onto a collapsed speeder chassis. He judged the walker's firing cycle, waited for the barrel to swing past, and then sprinted up the side of a leaning wall to get the high ground.

He gathered the Force, pulling the world in around him, and jumped—straight at the walker's viewport.

The pilot had time to shout, maybe, but Anakin was through the transparisteel before the man could finish. He ignited his saber, cleaved the controls in a single motion, and used the dead man's helmet as leverage to swing into the cramped compartment. With a kick, he ejected the pilot's body and took the controls himself.

It was an awkward fit, his mechanical hand fighting the feedback, but he managed to swing the cannon around and target the second walker. He fired—a lucky shot, but it hit true, taking out the other's knee joint. The second walker toppled, firing wild as it crashed to the ground.

Windu finished the job, sprinting in as the walker listed and carving through the leg strut with three perfect strikes. The machine fell, and Windu leapt free as it exploded.

The square was chaos, but the tide was turning.

Anakin climbed out of the walker, saber still humming, and took a quick headcount. Most of his team had survived; a few lay scattered on the stone, but the Imperials had lost half their number and the rest were falling back, firing as they retreated.

He saw Windu at the far end, standing over a cluster of wounded, directing a medic team with the same iron calm as ever. Even the clones deferred to him, obeying without question.

The noise faded, replaced by the hiss of smoke and the moans of the dying. Anakin walked to the center of the plaza, blade still lit, and surveyed the carnage. The fountain was gone, the market reduced to a crater, but most of the padawans were alive. His men had done well.

Windu approached, limping but upright. The two Jedi regarded each other over the ruins.

"Your tactics were… effective," Windu said, each word chosen with surgical care.

Anakin smiled, a real one this time. "And your restraint saved lives."

Windu didn't reply, but there was a glint in his eye—respect, maybe, or just the satisfaction of surviving another day. The old man extended a hand, and Anakin shook it, metal to flesh, the grip strong and sure.

For a moment, the galaxy seemed quiet.

Windu turned, scanning the horizon. "They'll be back, with more."

"I'd count on it," Anakin said. "But so will we."

They stood together, in the smoking aftermath, watching as the survivors gathered and tended to their wounds. The argument wasn't over, not by a long shot. But the schism had shifted—no longer an impasse, but a dialogue, brutal and unfinished.

Anakin looked at Windu and saw not just the scars, but the man beneath them. The teacher. The survivor. Maybe even the ally.

They watched the sun set over the ruined settlement, two silhouettes against a sky that refused to surrender.

Whatever came next, they would face it together.

For the moment, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The world had a way of swallowing sound. Every step in the jungle landed in a mat of decomposing leaves; every word was devoured by the endless hiss of unseen insects, the slow drip of mist from canopy to floor. Ahsoka led her squad through it at a crawl, wet to the bone and covered in half the planet's microbial wildlife. The only thing that kept the group moving was the silent, mutual agreement that stopping—even for a second—meant death.

They were four now, if Maul counted as a person. Rex shuffled along at her flank, helmet off and eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. Behind him, the two padawans: Nira, still limping from the shrapnel wound she'd picked up in the Temple massacre, and Darnel, taller but wound so tight he startled at every snapped twig. Maul brought up the rear, wrists free but gait still shackled by habit, his eyes unblinking and yellow in the gloom. He hadn't spoken since dawn.

The planet was unnamed—at least in Republic archives—but she'd heard Rex call it "the wet rock." It fit. Nothing ever dried here, least of all their nerves.

Ahsoka extended a hand, halting the line. The others stopped instantly, even Maul. Ahead, something wasn't right. The air carried a tang of ozone, not the usual rot and fungal sweetness, but the faint electric sting of shield generators running low on power. She scanned the trees, saw nothing, then signaled Rex forward with a finger.

He crept up beside her, one hand on his blaster, the other brushing aside a fern as thick as his forearm. "What is it?"

She kept her voice barely above a whisper. "Sensor grid. Maybe half a klick out, masking itself against the local background, but I see the pattern. Military tech, but not Imperial standard."

Rex nodded once, just enough to show he'd noticed it too. "Could be a trap. Could be survivors."

Maul smiled, his teeth like broken glass in the wet light. "Or it could be both," he murmured. "You always did attract complicated company, Lady Tano."

Ahsoka ignored him, cycling through their options. They could try to detour, but if whoever had set the sensors was hunting, any movement would be spotted. Or they could walk straight in and hope their quarry was more interested in parley than extermination.

She looked back at the padawans, Nira's face pale but determined, Darnel clutching a battered saber as if it could fend off the planet itself.

She made the call. "We keep moving. Cautious, but fast."

The jungle thickened as they advanced, the trees pressing closer, trunks slick with colonies of blue-white fungi. Here and there, the detritus of war: a broken shell casing, the burned-out core of a ration can, the twisted frame of a low-flying probe droid. They were getting closer.

Rex muttered into his comm, the channel locked to Ahsoka's headset. "They're herding us."

"Let's not make them work for it," she replied.

The sensor grid tripped with no ceremony—a faint blue shimmer across the path, there and gone in an eyeblink. Ahsoka froze, expecting the world to erupt in blaster fire, but nothing happened. Instead, a new sound replaced the insect hiss: the faint, dry click of encrypted comms, maybe twenty meters ahead.

She signaled halt, drew both lightsabers but kept them unlit. Rex's blaster was up, safety off. Maul tensed, every muscle coiled for the first hint of violence.

From the brush to their right, a voice: harsh, gravel-edged, utterly unlike the clipped syllables of clone regulars.

"That's far enough."

Ahsoka pivoted, sabers ready. Three meters ahead, a man stepped from the undergrowth: tall, built like a temple pillar, face painted with the residue of jungle camo. His armor was clone-issue, but half the plates had been replaced with local scrap—bone, alloy, even segments of old droid chassis. He carried a long knife in one hand, blaster carbine in the other, and his eyes—black, sharp—never left Rex.

A second voice, high and nasal, piped up from the left. "I told you the sensor interval was too wide, Hunter. You let them walk right up on us."

Another emerged, short and lean, goggles fused to his face. He held a datapad in one hand and what looked like a repurposed scalpeler in the other. Behind him, a third clone stood—a giant, skin crisscrossed with old scars, a scarlet handprint painted on the faceplate of his helmet. He smiled, a genuine, wide-mouthed grin, and flexed his fingers like he hoped something would break soon.

Rex's voice was a study in control. "Clone Force 99."

The first one—Hunter—inclined his head. "Not often we run into someone who knows the old designation."

Ahsoka's mind raced. The Bad Batch. She'd heard rumors during the war, but never seen them in action. Unorthodox tactics, insubordinate, genetically enhanced for specialties even the Kaminoans considered excessive. All four had their weapons trained on the group, but they weren't shooting. That counted for something.

Maul stepped forward, grinning. "Ah, the legendary aberrations. I always wondered if you were myth or simply failed experiments."

Wrecker, the big one, bared his teeth. "We're plenty real, pal. So's the part where I twist your head off if you blink wrong."

Maul only smiled wider, but Ahsoka caught the flicker of calculation in his eyes.

Crosshair, the fourth, ghosted into view from behind a trunk, rifle already leveled at Darnel's chest. "You're packing Jedi, Hunter," he said, tone bored but intent. "Three of 'em. That's a first."

Rex tensed, shoulders squaring. "Easy. They're not a threat."

"Funny," Hunter replied, "that's what the last Jedi said, right before the brain bucket went hot."

A pause stretched between them, thick with memory.

Rex took a step forward, chin high. "We're not on Imperial business. We're survivors, like you. The chips—" He tapped his temple, revealing the scar above his ear. "Ours are out. I did it myself. These kids aren't on any kill list."

Wrecker's blaster didn't waver. "How do we know you're not lying?"

Ahsoka stepped up beside Rex, hands open, lightsabers dangling at her side. "Because if we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already."

Wrecker snorted. "That a threat?"

"It's a fact," Ahsoka said, level.

Crosshair's aim never wavered. "She's the one from Mandalore. The apprentice."

"Her name is Ahsoka," Rex said.

"Not on any of the Emperor's lists," said Tech, still glued to his datapad. "I checked. The system logs her as K.I.A. during the Siege. Last sighted above Coruscant, then nothing."

Hunter's eyes narrowed. "So what's your angle?"

Ahsoka drew a breath. The jungle's humidity made every word feel like swimming through soup. "We're looking for a way to fight back. The Empire's consolidating. Palpatine's killing anyone who resists—clones included, once the chips burn out."

Hunter weighed this. "Why bring Maul?"

Maul spread his hands, the very image of innocence. "Knowledge is the only currency now. You want to take down Sidious, you need someone who's already walked his labyrinth."

Wrecker's gun dropped half an inch. "So what, we're on the same side now?"

Rex's voice was tired but resolute. "We're on the side that isn't mass-murdering our own."

Hunter made a signal—a twitch of two fingers—and the squad's aim shifted, now arrayed between Maul and the two padawans. He stepped closer to Rex, knife still up but edge angled away. "You really cut yours out?"

Rex nodded.

"Hurts like hell," said Tech, "if the rumors are true."

"Worse," Rex replied. "But worth it."

Hunter looked him over, from boots to brow. "You're not like the others."

Rex gestured to the Bad Batch's own misshapen armor, their modified faces, the way each man stood a little askew from standard regulation. "Neither are you," he said, a small, bitter smile creasing his face. "That's why you didn't follow the Order."

For a second, something like pride flickered across Hunter's features.

The tension in the clearing dropped half a degree. Not gone, but a truce had been declared in the way soldiers sometimes do when they realize the only other survivors are the ones who've always refused to play by the rules.

Ahsoka let her sabers drop to her belt, signaling the padawans to stand down. Darnel obeyed; Nira watched Wrecker, her hand tight on her hilt, but relaxed by increments.

Maul stretched, the movement feline, and sidled over to stand in Ahsoka's shadow.

"Now that we've all introduced ourselves," he said, "shall we stop posturing and compare notes? Or do you boys prefer a more—" his eyes flicked to Crosshair "—direct negotiation?"

Wrecker hooted. "I like this one, Hunter. Can we keep him?"

Hunter sheathed the knife, but didn't let go of the blaster. "We've got a camp a few clicks east. You walk in slow, hands visible, no surprises, or we finish this right here."

Ahsoka nodded. "Understood."

Wrecker took point, the padawans bracketed between him and Crosshair. Tech pulled Maul aside, whispering rapid-fire questions about Kaminoan chip firmware and behavioral override. Hunter and Rex brought up the rear, walking together in silence.

After a minute, Hunter spoke, voice so low it almost vanished into the mud. "You ever regret it?"

Rex didn't look over. "Every day."

"Me too," said Hunter.

They walked on.

The jungle, for once, was silent.

The entrance to the Bad Batch's camp was guarded by two things: a portable shield generator scavenged from a separatist tank, and the bone-crushing grip of Wrecker, who insisted on frisking every new arrival like he expected to find thermal detonators tucked behind their ears. Ahsoka submitted to the search with outward calm, but she could see the tight set of Rex's jaw as Wrecker patted him down, then paused to flex his hands along Rex's arms like he was memorizing the shape of every old scar.

Inside, the camp was a study in warlord aesthetics: a half-gutted Republic shuttle formed the living quarters, ringed by ad hoc barricades of sheet metal and uprooted tree trunks. The main bay, stripped of non-essentials, now served as armory, kitchen, infirmary, and conference room. The air inside was only marginally less humid than the jungle, and layered with the scent of old coolant and unwashed socks.

Tech set up at a makeshift workbench, already elbow-deep in the remains of Rex's inhibitor chip. He'd sliced it from the clone's skull with surgical glee, and now ran a series of scans, mumbling observations to himself in a cadence only droids would love. A battered datapad glowed in front of him, cycling through waveforms and neural maps at dizzying speed.

"Fascinating," Tech breathed, holding the chip up to the light. "You see how the Kaminoans embedded the control protocol? It's not just mechanical, it's epigenetic. It adapts with the host. I'm honestly amazed anyone survived removal, let alone—"

Rex grunted, "Focus."

"Right, right. But you have to appreciate the engineering. If not for our particular mutations—" Tech shot a glance at Wrecker, who was now balancing a ration pack on his nose "—we'd have gone the way of the rest."

Across the room, Crosshair perched on a crate, rifle cradled in his lap, visor sweeping from Ahsoka to Maul to the padawans, then back again. His every movement said: I see you, and if you twitch wrong, you die. The padawans—Nira and Darnel—kept to a corner, their body language all wounded pride and simmering adrenaline.

Hunter held court at the center, arms folded, expression unreadable. He'd set his team to work, but his attention never strayed from Ahsoka or Rex. Every so often, he'd lean in, as if trying to catch a scent, then retreat into his own calculations.

Maul, for his part, wandered the edges, studying every weapon and exit. He did not bother to hide his disdain for the clone's camp, or for the clones themselves.

Ahsoka watched the interplay, searching for weakness or intent. The Bad Batch were unlike any clones she'd known: less bound by protocol, more like wild animals who'd learned to wear armor and quote regulations as camouflage. If Rex was a man whose skin barely contained his sense of duty, these four were men whose skins barely fit at all.

Tech piped up, "It's the regulatory alleles. The Kaminoans designed our neural architecture to resist groupthink. The chips can't compensate for that level of individuality."

Wrecker hooted. "Means nobody can tell me what to do."

Hunter cut in, "Means we had to make up our own minds. Not everyone could."

Rex leaned over Tech's shoulder, staring at the chip. "You've seen what happens when they fail?"

"We lost two brothers before we figured out what was happening," Tech said, voice suddenly quiet. "They tried to kill us in our sleep. Didn't matter what we said or did. The programming doesn't negotiate."

Nira, the padawan, stepped forward. "So you didn't get the kill order?"

"We got it," Crosshair said. "We just didn't care."

A hush fell. Even Wrecker stopped fidgeting.

Maul drifted close, voice oily. "So many variations on a theme. The galaxy's greatest army, and not one batch like the next. Almost as if the Kaminoans knew it would all end in madness."

Wrecker glared, but Hunter stilled him with a look.

Tech set the chip down, suddenly clinical again. "I'd like to run a few more tests. If you don't mind."

Rex shrugged. "We've been lab rats our whole lives. Knock yourself out."

Hunter cleared his throat. "You want to tell us why you're really here?"

Ahsoka met his gaze, searching for the angle. "We're trying to reach a safe world. The chips make every clone a threat, and the Empire's purging the rest. If you've survived this long, you know what that means."

Hunter nodded. "It means we run, and hope they never catch up."

"No," Ahsoka said. "It means we make a stand, before there's nothing left worth saving."

Something in Hunter's face shifted—not hope, but a flicker of the old faith.

"Let's see if you're for real," he said, voice calm but edged. "Crosshair?"

The marksman was up in a flash, rifle angled at Darnel. The padawan froze, staring down the barrel from three meters away. Rex reacted instantly—he stepped between, blaster raised, shielded the kid with his own body.

"Stand down, soldier," Rex snapped, command voice unmistakable even in its uncertainty.

Crosshair kept the bead. Hunter waited, eyes locked on Rex.

Ahsoka watched, ready to move but holding still.

After a long second, Hunter gave a fractional nod. Crosshair holstered, tension bled from the room. Rex's hand shook as he lowered his blaster.

"Just making sure," Hunter said, almost kindly.

Ahsoka exhaled, long and silent.

Wrecker grinned. "You should've seen the look on your face, old man."

Rex glared, but the edge was gone.

A sudden ping sounded from the camp's perimeter. Tech snapped to the console, hands moving in a blur. "Probe droid, east quadrant, vectoring straight for us."

Hunter was already moving, gesturing the team into positions. Wrecker hustled to the outer door, Crosshair up the ladder to the roof, Tech hot on his heels with a palm-sized disruptor.

Ahsoka braced by the entrance, sabers unlit but ready. Maul disappeared into the shadows, his presence a cold wound in the Force.

Outside, the air was still, thick with anticipation. Then, from the canopy, a glint of black as the probe droid broke cover, optics scanning, legs twitching for a landing.

Crosshair shot it from seventy meters, a single round through the primary lens. The droid spiraled, emitting a strangled screech, and hit the ground in a shower of sparks. Tech sprinted in, plugged the disruptor into the access port, and flooded the memory core with static. The droid died with a faint, shivering whine.

Inside, silence returned.

Hunter re-entered, wiping his brow. "They'll know the droid's offline within the hour. We need to move."

Maul emerged from the darkness, clapping softly. "Efficient. Even I'm impressed."

Ahsoka stared him down. "You have something to say?"

Maul smiled, the expression all venom. "If you're quite finished with these tribal displays, perhaps we might discuss matters of mutual survival."

He slid a small data module from his sleeve, set it on the table with a flourish.

"What's that?" Tech asked, instantly reaching for it.

Maul's eyes glittered. "Kamino. The control chips. And why the Empire wants both you and me dead."

The module lay there, silent, as if it had always belonged.

Rex eyed Maul, distrust warring with curiosity. "You could've led with that."

Maul grinned, almost warm. "But then you wouldn't have impressed your new friends."

Hunter took the module, turned it over in his hand, and looked at Ahsoka. "Your move."

She met his gaze. "We do this together."

For the first time, Hunter smiled.

"Good," he said. "I'm tired of running."

Wrecker whooped, slapping Rex on the back hard enough to stagger him.

Outside, the jungle was waking up. Inside the shuttle, the future clicked into place.

They had a plan now. Or at least, a direction.

Sometimes, that was all you needed.

The shuttle's rear storage bay served as the impromptu war room. A battered holoprojector took center stage on the repurposed cargo crate; around it, the clones and Jedi clustered in a ragged semi-circle, eyes fixed on the blue-tinged globe that hovered and rotated above the device.

Tech had coaxed the module from Maul into a streaming inferno of schematics, access codes, and archived security feeds. With each flick of his fingers, the hologram zoomed in, sometimes too fast for anyone but him to follow. "Kamino's main production line," he narrated, "still running at thirty percent capacity, but output is no longer sent to the Republic. All new deployments are direct to Imperial command, with a two-week reeducation period before assignment. Very efficient."

Ahsoka watched Rex, whose hands curled tighter around the edge of the crate with every word.

Tech expanded a cross-section of the cloning towers. "Here: the chip installation." The image unfurled like a blossom, revealing a conveyor of fetuses, each held in a nutrient bath. At the midpoint, spidery droids fitted the chips through tiny cranial ports. "The chips are now primary hardware, not redundancy. Batches from three months ago have a new failsafe—can't be removed without killing the host."

Wrecker stared at the display, face creased with disgust. "That's sick, even for Kaminoans."

Maul, leaning against the wall with a posture of amused detachment, spoke without looking up. "Sidious was never sentimental. He built his victory on planned obsolescence."

Hunter's arms were folded, but his jaw worked as he absorbed the details. "How many?"

Tech didn't hesitate. "Hundreds of thousands, if not more. All wired to respond to a single line of code."

Ahsoka felt the ripple of horror spread through the room. Even Maul seemed to savor it.

Maul straightened, voice theatrical. "The genius of the scheme wasn't the slaughter of Jedi, but the total replacement of will. An army bred for loyalty, then programmed for murder, then bound to its new master by the very chips that made them 'safe' for the Republic. Elegant, if you admire that sort of thing."

Rex's voice was low and raw. "They're making more of us. But not like before. No chance at—" He broke off, shaking his head.

Ahsoka wanted to offer comfort, but she had nothing to give.

Hunter cut through the silence. "So what's the next move?"

Tech shifted the holo to a new section: a planetary schematic, with a red marker pulsing above a highland valley. "Local Imperial communications hub. Every outbound signal passes through it. If we take the node, we control what Kamino hears."

Crosshair grinned, sharp and cold. "Or who hears us."

Wrecker bounced on his heels, eager. "And if we break the signal, clones start thinking for themselves again?"

Tech shook his head. "Not that simple. But it would let us send instructions, override new orders, maybe even warn the unchipped batches."

Maul laughed, the sound sudden and brittle. "You'll never save them all. But you might start a panic."

Ahsoka studied the map. "If we want to take Kamino, we need allies. We need a way to organize, to broadcast. The comm node gets us a start."

Hunter nodded, already in mission mode. "We do this by the numbers. Crosshair takes perimeter, Tech runs the hack. Wrecker and the padawans stir up the sentries, keep attention away from the server core. Ahsoka, Rex, and I punch in, pull the data, and set charges on the mainframe."

Wrecker pumped a fist. "Finally. Real action."

Crosshair's gaze flicked to Darnel and Nira. "You kids ever fire live rounds?"

Nira's face set in a mask of determination. "I fought my way out of the Temple. I'll manage."

Maul stretched, catlike. "And what about me, General?"

Hunter's eyes narrowed. "You stay here. We don't need a Sith wild card."

Maul clicked his tongue. "But you do. You need someone who can walk among the Imperials and not be questioned. Someone who can recognize the changing codes, the new protocols."

Rex shook his head. "No way."

But Maul was already circling the crate, his presence a cold wind. "I won't run. Not when my death would amuse the Emperor so much more if it came in your company."

Ahsoka cut in, "He's right. We need him, at least until we're in."

Hunter weighed the risk, then nodded. "You stick to the plan. You double-cross, you die."

Maul inclined his head, as if accepting a royal appointment. "Understood."

Tech finished the projection, shutting it down with a tap. "We go at midnight. No external reinforcements expected for forty-eight hours, but there's an entire squadron garrisoned on-site. We'll have to be surgical."

Hunter looked to Ahsoka. "You've led Jedi teams through worse. You see any holes in the plan?"

She shook her head. "Just one. What do we do after?"

Hunter glanced at the others. "We keep moving. Find the next weak point. And maybe, eventually, we get to Kamino and do something that matters."

Rex nodded, his old self returning. "We'll make it matter."

Wrecker cracked his knuckles. "Let's do this."

The meeting broke, each heading to prepare in their own way. Ahsoka lingered by the crate, watching the residue of the holo shimmer and fade.

Maul sidled up, voice soft enough for only her. "You're making a mistake, trusting them."

She stared ahead. "I'm not trusting anyone. Not anymore."

Maul smiled, teeth white and sharp. "That's the first sensible thing you've said since we landed."

He turned and disappeared into the gloom.

Ahsoka watched the others gear up, watched Rex and Hunter stand together in the corridor, voices low but faces set with shared resolve.

For the first time since the war ended, she allowed herself the smallest spark of hope.

They had a plan. They had a team.

And for a night, that was enough.

They hit the comms hub just before midnight, when the patrols were at their laziest and the sensor shifts overlapped by precious minutes. The outpost was a relic from the war—clone-era gun towers flanked by newer, sleeker Imperial sensor dishes, all jury-rigged together with black cabling and concrete. Rain slicked every surface, turning the perimeter into a soup of mud and half-drowned tripwires.

Ahsoka watched the compound from her vantage in the treetops, the way the old Republic structures seemed to sink under the weight of new Imperial tech. Below, Hunter and Rex readied themselves at the utility hatch; Maul hovered behind them, his presence a cold miasma in the dark.

Tech's voice came through the comm, crisp and clipped: "Perimeter droids are on a three-minute cycle. Crosshair's in position, east tower. Wrecker, ready?"

From the far side of the compound, Wrecker's guttural laugh crackled back. "Born ready. Give the word, I'll light 'em up."

Hunter rolled his eyes. "Try not to collapse the whole grid this time."

Wrecker's reply was a delighted, "No promises, boss."

They moved on Tech's count. Hunter sliced the utility hatch, wires exposed and rejoined with predatory finesse. Rex went in first, blaster high, then Ahsoka, then Maul, silent as a memory. The tunnel was tight, just wide enough for one, ceiling barely a meter above Ahsoka's head. The air reeked of hot metal and old coolant.

Tech's running commentary painted the path: "Left at the first junction, then down two levels. Security panel on the mainframe is old code; you'll need my bypass key." He was in his element, voice quickening as the challenge intensified. "Crosshair, two sentries inbound. Take them as they cross the mesh."

Ahsoka heard the muffled pop-pop from above, then nothing.

At the second junction, Maul paused, cocked his head. "They know we're here."

Hunter didn't break stride. "They will soon enough. Stay sharp."

They reached the terminus, a steel grate overlooking the main server room. Through it, Ahsoka counted a dozen stormtroopers at their stations, all eyes glued to the primary holotable and the scrolling traffic of outbound signals. Above them, a security droid patrolled on a cable, its optic scanning the crew in slow, even sweeps.

Hunter gestured to Rex. "You're up. Quiet as you can."

Rex nodded, then dropped through the grate, boots landing soft on the catwalk. Ahsoka followed, igniting only one saber, its blue glow a wisp in the dark. She and Rex moved in perfect sync, each step matched, each breath shallow. They flanked the nearest stormtrooper, and Ahsoka dropped him with a flick to the helmet's weak spot while Rex caught the body before it fell.

They cleared a path to the main terminal. The stormtroopers never had a chance; Rex and Ahsoka moved like ghosts, only the faintest blur giving them away before the lights went out forever.

Maul, unbidden, darted ahead to the security droid. He timed its pass, leapt up, and with a twist of his hands broke the optic stalk clean from its housing. The droid twitched, then crashed to the floor with a whine.

Tech buzzed in. "Mainframe is yours. Plug me in at the console."

Ahsoka slotted the relay device. Instantly, the holotable flooded with lines of code, the Imperial firewalls buckling under the assault of Tech's worm.

In the chaos, a door hissed open. An Imperial officer stepped in, younger than most, face lit by the holotable's red warning lights. He saw Ahsoka, drew a blaster, and hit the alarm with his free hand.

Maul reached him first.

There was a dry pop. The officer's body crumpled, hands clutching at his throat where nothing was left to clutch with. Maul released the Force grip, letting the corpse collapse in a heap.

Rex whirled on him. "Was that necessary?"

Maul's eyes burned with cold delight. "Entirely."

Hunter stepped in, shoving Maul aside. "We're on the clock. Tech?"

"Seventy percent on the data pull. Crosshair reports heavy movement on the north side—someone found the bodies."

Wrecker's voice blasted through the comm: "Time for the distraction!"

From outside, a blue flash lit the sky. Seconds later, the world shook. Wrecker had blown the power relay, overloading every sensor and camera in the sector. The stormtroopers on the surface lost their bearings, firing at shadows as half the lights died.

Darnel and Nira, the padawans, worked the edge of the compound, deflecting blaster bolts and drawing the patrols further from the core. They fought with terror and exhilaration, the two emotions indistinguishable in the heat of it.

Inside, the mainframe hummed as Tech finished the download. "Data's secure. Planted the virus. We have five minutes before the system auto-reboots."

Hunter pulled the team together. "Out the south tunnel. Wrecker, rendezvous at grid marker six."

Ahsoka led the way, sabers lighting the gloom. The tunnel exit was already crawling with reinforcements, but Crosshair picked off the lead troopers with surgical shots, each round a clean kill.

They emerged into the open, rain now a downpour, lightning cutting the sky in sheets. Wrecker met them at the tree line, Nira and Darnel behind him, both breathing hard but alive.

Wrecker whooped. "That was the best one yet!"

Hunter grinned, blood running down his cheek from a glancing shot. "We'll debrief later. Move!"

They fell back into the jungle, Crosshair covering the retreat until the last man cleared the ridge. In the distance, the outpost burned, every sensor array sparking in the rain.

They ran until they couldn't hear the alarms, then ran further.

When they finally stopped, Ahsoka slumped against a tree, lungs burning. She looked to Rex, who was already checking the data module for damage. Hunter splinted his bleeding arm, face tight but eyes alive with adrenaline.

Tech popped open the module and flashed a rare smile. "It's all here. Kamino logs, Imperial deployments, even the latest order updates."

Rex sank to the ground, exhaustion overtaking anger. "We did it."

Ahsoka glanced at Maul, who stood at the edge of the clearing, face upturned to the rain. "Why help us?" she asked, honestly curious.

He grinned, thin and feral. "Every empire dies by its own hand. I just like to watch the fingers twitch."

She looked away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of more attention.

Hunter gathered the team, bandaging wounds and counting heads. "We hold here, rest up. Then we move to the fallback site."

Wrecker distributed ration bars, even tossing one to Maul, who caught it without looking.

Ahsoka leaned against Rex, the two of them breathing in the wet, wild air.

They were alive. They had the data.

For the first time, the future wasn't just a word—it was a possibility.

She closed her eyes and let the rain wash away the terror of the night.

They would keep fighting. There was no other choice.

They limped back into camp as the gray dawn filtered through the canopy, the jungle steaming and alive around them. Wrecker was already telling the story, embellishing the number of troopers he'd flattened, while Nira and Darnel patched each other's singed robes and compared bruises like badges of honor.

Ahsoka dropped to one knee beside the camp's central crate, not trusting her legs to hold much longer. Rex found a med kit and set to work on the cut above Hunter's eye, his hands careful but precise. "Hold still," Rex grumbled, then added, almost shy, "Good work in there."

Hunter just nodded. For once, he didn't have a quip.

Tech was in his element, running diagnostics on the data cache as if he could will it to unlock more secrets by sheer force of will. He looked up, eyes wide with excitement. "This is more than we hoped for. Not just comm protocols, but full deployment logs, Imperial restructuring schedules, and—" he tapped a screen, then froze "—Kaminoan cloning cycle updates. The Empire's moved production entirely in-house. They're making a new army."

Wrecker's head snapped up. "Another batch like us?"

Tech shook his head. "Worse. These are engineered for total compliance. The chips are fused at the genetic level; no way to remove or override them."

A hush fell. Even Wrecker lost his usual bravado.

Darnel, voice small, asked, "How many?"

Tech's hands trembled as he scrolled. "Hundreds of thousands. The first units deploy in three months. After that—" He glanced up, swallowed. "There's no stopping it."

Ahsoka looked at Rex, who was staring into the middle distance, fists tight at his sides. "They're not your brothers," she said, trying to cut the pain. "They're just—machines, wearing your faces."

Rex shook his head. "Doesn't matter. The galaxy won't care about the difference."

Across the camp, Maul hunched over a holomap, tracing routes with one long, blackened fingernail. He was plotting escape vectors, but every few seconds his gaze flicked to the flashing Kaminoan marker. Ahsoka caught him at it, and when their eyes met, neither looked away.

"You have a plan?" she asked, almost mocking.

He smiled, thin and dark. "Only a fool believes a stronghold is impenetrable. Even Kamino has cracks."

Rex spat into the dirt. "Funny, I remember you breaking out of there."

Maul's smile widened. "Some habits die hard."

Wrecker stomped over, food bars in each fist. He offered one to Maul, who took it with a brief, baffled pause before tucking it away. "Hey, if we're hitting Kamino, I want first shot at the Prime Minister," Wrecker said. "He owes me five years of nightmares."

Darnel looked to Ahsoka. "What do we do?"

She set her jaw, the decision made before she'd spoken it aloud. "We find more like us. Survivors, anyone who wants to fight back. We build a real resistance. And when the time comes, we take the fight to Kamino."

Rex nodded, the old fire in his eyes. "We'll need more ships. Weapons. Safe worlds to run to."

Tech flipped his datapad around. "I have a list. All the old separatist depots the Empire hasn't found yet."

Hunter watched the interplay, then stepped forward. "We're not soldiers anymore," he said, voice low. "Not the way we were made to be. But we can still fight."

He turned to his squad, then to Rex and Ahsoka. "We join forces. We're stronger together than apart."

Rex met his gaze, and for a second, the years and betrayals fell away. He stuck out a hand. "Brothers, then. Not by birth, but by choice."

Hunter clasped it, hard enough to bruise.

Wrecker whooped, sweeping both padawans into a bear hug. Even Crosshair managed a nod, hands never straying far from his blaster but his eyes softer than before.

Maul looked on, amused but not above it all. "Touching. But unless we move soon, the Empire's response will make tonight look like a schoolyard brawl."

Ahsoka grinned. "We'll be gone before they finish the head count."

She walked over to the map, Hunter and Rex flanking her, the rest gathering close. They bent over the holomap, plotting worlds, weighing targets, daring to imagine what came next.

The day was brightening, sunlight slicing through the mist. The jungle, for once, seemed to hold its breath.

"Time to make some noise," Ahsoka said.

And this time, nobody argued.

They worked through the morning, forging plans, recalibrating hope. For the first time in a long time, the odds didn't seem impossible. Maybe, just maybe, they could make a difference.

By nightfall, they had a list of names, a handful of ships, and a plan bold enough to terrify the very architects of their destruction.

And at the heart of it all, a group of rebels who'd never been meant to survive—let alone win.

But they would try.

Because they weren't fighting for the Republic. Not anymore.

They were fighting for each other.

And for the first time in memory, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The corridor down to the hidden bay was all angles and falsehood, a rib of the city's underbelly that had never known daylight. The only illumination came from ceiling strips running on brownout power, lending the concrete a jaundiced sheen that could turn a senator's complexion to jaundice in three paces. Padmé walked in silence, the throb of blood in her ears louder than her footfalls. Each turn and passage was a study in tension—open, exposed, the sort of space where everything you were might be erased by a single blaster bolt and a shrug from the archivist.

Ellé led the way, her shoes silent, her eyes flicking from shadow to shadow. She wore the drab tunic of a lower-tier hospital aide, the sort of uniform so bland it erased the wearer's memory as you looked at her. Padmé had dressed to match, though the fit over her abdomen was an exercise in delusion—no amount of draping could undo what gravity and biology had built. She caught her own reflection in a length of polished ductwork: face pale, hair tightly coiled and tamed, the body underneath moving with the caution of one who knew a single stumble could be the end.

They reached the last bulkhead, an industrial slab flanked by two dead maintenance droids and a cart stacked high with obsolete data cores. A figure stood waiting by the hatch, tall and upright, coat cut in the style of a Core world bureaucrat but with a grace that belonged to neither government nor fashion. Luthen Rael. He was older than she'd expected—closer to her father's age than her own—but his bearing was not that of a man past his prime. The eyes were all focus, pale and measuring, as if taking the room's full measure even while looking straight at her.

He gestured for them to follow, and with a hiss of hydraulics, the slab retreated.

Inside, the bay was a cathedral of shadows. Shipping crates stood stacked in haphazard columns, some marked with the blue sigils of former Republic supply, others bearing nothing but streaks of oil and the dust of decades. The far wall held a row of powered-down droids, their limbs locked in postures of rest or prayer—Padmé could not tell which.

Luthen led them to a clearing between two stacks, then motioned for Ellé to secure the entrance. The door slid shut, leaving them in a half-darkness disturbed only by the lazy winking of a wall-mounted chrono.

A battered field projector sat atop an upturned crate. Luthen thumbed it to life with a flick, and the holomap that bloomed into existence was almost obscene in its clarity—a miniature Coruscant, layers peeled away to expose veins and nerves. He turned to them with the faintest shadow of a smile, the sort that only existed as a formality.

"Thank you for coming, Senator. You understand the urgency."

Padmé nodded, her voice steadier than she felt. "We're ready. How soon?"

Luthen's fingers danced through the controls. The map focused, highlighting the arterial corridors of the lower city. Red lines pulsed and moved—patrols, checkpoints, response units. "Tarkin's people began sweeping at eighteen hundred. Four sectors locked down before the Emperor's speech concluded. We have a twenty-minute window through the industrial band, then every point of egress is locked until morning."

Ellé set down her bag with a dull thud and began sorting the contents: forged identity tabs, a clean change of gloves, two comm units. She was efficient, wordless, checking for any sign of tampering that might have occurred in the five minutes since she last checked.

Padmé stepped closer to the holo, studying the lines. "The window. How do we reach it?"

Luthen adjusted the projection, the map now highlighting a subterranean tram line and a maintenance corridor running parallel. "We'll take the pneumatic. Unmarked, but not unmonitored. I have two contacts riding shotgun, but if we miss the slot…" He let the sentence dangle.

Padmé allowed herself a breath, slow and even. "And the children?"

Luthen's eyes flicked to her midsection, then back to her face. "My pilot is waiting on the perimeter. She's discrete. Once you clear the outer ring, you're hers."

Ellé looked up from her packing, voice soft but insistent. "They'll be checking all civilian shuttles. If we run late—"

"We won't," Luthen cut in. "If we do, they'll expect politicians and defectors, not a hospital shift and her niece." He looked at Padmé. "The disguise will hold. The records are clean. But you must trust the plan."

Padmé nodded. Trust was irrelevant; the plan was the only air left to breathe.

Luthen handed each of them a comm-chip—small, nearly invisible, each pre-coded to a single frequency. "If you're separated, use these. Transmit only the code phrase: 'The harvest moon rises early.' No deviations. If the line's compromised, keep moving. No contact."

Ellé palmed hers, slipping it behind her ear with the fluency of long practice. Padmé hesitated a second, then did the same, tucking it beneath the collar of her tunic.

The chrono ticked.

Luthen moved to the edge of the holomap, his body casting odd, elongated shadows across the city's ghostly blue. "They're looking for you. Not you as you are, but the version in their data files—the rebel, the icon. You must let that version die tonight, Senator."

The phrase landed hard, but Padmé took it without a flinch. She was good at that—turning pain into posture, fear into momentum. She studied the map a final time, fixing the route in her mind.

Ellé zipped her bag and slung it over one shoulder. "We'll need to go. The next sweep is due in six minutes."

Padmé straightened, smoothing the fabric over her stomach. The babies kicked, or perhaps it was her heart, but either way she let the moment steady her.

She met Luthen's gaze. "And Mon Mothma? Bail?"

For the first time, the veneer cracked. Luthen's smile vanished, replaced by something tired and infinitely more dangerous.

"They've made their choice," he said. "We make ours."

The silence after was total.

Luthen flicked off the holomap. The city vanished, leaving only the echo of what waited above.

He motioned to the hatch. "It's time."

Ellé led the way, this time at a faster clip. Padmé followed, each step a small death for the woman she'd been, a step closer to something unfinished and impossible.

As they moved into the corridor, the lights snapped to full power. Somewhere far above, the city roared.

But here, in the bones of the world, only the next step mattered.

Padmé kept moving.

It was the only thing she could do.

The city changed flavor after midnight. The air, once layered with the promise of power and transaction, became heavy with something simpler: the animal scent of fear. In the lower tiers, light was a privilege, cast only where it might catch a trespasser or a fugitive. The rest was left to shadow, except for the sharp, intermittent glare of spotlights mounted on the new Imperial patrols.

Padmé kept her head down as they moved, matching Ellé's pace and copying the handmaiden's trick of vanishing in plain sight. Luthen walked a half step behind them, the tilt of his head and set of his jaw broadcasting a kind of distilled authority. He might have been a bureaucrat, or a shipping manager, or something else entirely; it didn't matter. What did matter was how the crowds—what was left of them—parted before him, eyes averted, questions swallowed before they could be voiced.

The market district had been beautiful once, a cascade of open stalls and radiant light globes that stayed on for the benefit of night workers and the city's underclass. Now, every stand was shuttered, every alley a maze of refuse and the bitter tang of disinfectant. The only movement came from the drones—low-slung, three-legged, programmed to hunt for "unauthorized gatherings" and to broadcast their findings back to the nearest garrison.

Luthen led them off the main throughway and into a service corridor lined with battered metal doors, some still bearing the faded crests of their old owners. A cluster of workers huddled under a heat lamp, their faces turned away from the passing of a white-armored patrol. Two stormtroopers moved down the lane, rifles angled low but ready. Behind them, a third carried a portable scanner, sweeping it over the crowd with bored precision.

Padmé's heart quickened as the scanner's red beam played over her chest, then Ellé's. She focused on her breathing, let her face drop into the slack-jawed mask of a woman at the end of a double shift. The trooper stared for a moment, visor opaque, then moved on.

They passed a half-collapsed awning and cut through a gap in the wall, emerging into the back lane behind the market. Here, the shadows were absolute. The only sound was the distant thump of generators and the sticky noise of feet on wet pavement.

Luthen slowed, checked behind them, then rapped twice on the door of an abandoned bakery. The panel slid open, and a Rodian—eyes wide, nostrils flared—peered out. He recognized Luthen instantly and jerked his head, admitting them with a speed that spoke of practiced terror.

Inside, the bakery was little more than a shell. The ovens had been stripped, the shelves bare, the floor littered with scraps of plast and bits of broken glass. But the back wall held a secret: a narrow stair, winding down into the guts of the city.

Luthen gestured for them to descend first. As Padmé passed the Rodian, she caught the gleam of a blaster tucked inside the worker's vest. Not for show, she realized. On nights like this, nothing was for show.

They followed the stair, every step louder than it had a right to be. The air grew cold, then hot again, as if each level was a memory of a different planet. At the bottom, a second door opened into a warren of pipes and broken catwalks.

Luthen checked the chrono. "Nine minutes," he said, voice low but urgent. "We move fast."

They cut across the maze, ducking under leaking coolant lines and stepping over the bodies of machines that had once kept the city running. The path brought them up into the service corridor of a maintenance station, where a row of vending kiosks blinked forlornly at the empty air.

As they approached the end, a second patrol appeared: four stormtroopers this time, two holding a line across the corridor, the others directing a dozen civilians into a makeshift inspection queue. A battered terminal hummed, reading identity chips as each worker pressed their thumb to the pad.

Padmé flinched. Her false credentials were good, but not perfect. Luthen noticed, and without a word, shifted position so he stood directly between her and the nearest trooper.

The queue moved slowly. At the front, a young woman in a cleaner's uniform pressed her print, waited, and was waved through. An older man followed; the terminal beeped, and the trooper shoved him aside, directing him to a holding area. No explanations, no appeals.

Padmé watched the troopers' body language, the slow, inexorable tightening of their posture as the queue shrank. They were tired, perhaps, but also bored—and boredom made them dangerous.

Ellé reached into her bag, pulled out a ration bar, and started nibbling it with the distracted air of someone resigned to bureaucratic delay. Luthen took his cue, slumping slightly, the perfect image of a long-suffering supervisor enduring another pointless security theater.

Padmé counted the seconds. When their turn arrived, Ellé stepped up first, scanned her thumb, and was met with a green light. Luthen followed, his print matching with a minor delay that sent a flicker of tension through the troopers, but the next light was green as well.

Padmé's turn. She pressed her thumb to the pad, waited. The terminal beeped once, then flashed yellow.

One of the troopers—a sergeant, by the extra stripe—stepped in, blocking her with a hand. "ID," he said, the filter in his helmet making the word sound like an accusation.

Padmé fumbled for her card, handed it over with a tremor just strong enough to be convincing. The sergeant scanned it, looked at her, then at the chip, then back.

"You look familiar, citizen," he said, not moving.

She forced her face into the bland mask of a nobody. "Just trying to get home, sir. Factory shift ended late." She tilted her accent, dropping it into the rougher, planetless cant of the deep levels.

The sergeant scrutinized her. "What sector?"

"Eighteen," she said, praying that Ellé's drill had taken.

The sergeant checked the card again, then handed it back. "Move on."

Padmé nodded, head down, and shuffled past. Her knees almost buckled with the relief.

They cleared the checkpoint, merging into the slow river of night traffic heading toward the tram lines. Here, the space widened, and the crowd grew. Luthen steered them toward a side alcove, where a battered shuttle waited, half-hidden by crates and old droid parts.

Ellé paused, then "accidentally" let her bag slip open, the contents—loose currency, a bottle of synthol, a sheaf of old invoices—spilling across the floor. As she stooped to gather them, Padmé spotted their contact: a cloaked figure, face obscured by a scarf, waiting by the far wall.

Padmé bent down, ostensibly to help Ellé, but instead palmed the data chip from her sleeve and pressed it into the contact's gloved hand. The touch was fleeting—a second, no more—but the contact's fingers closed tight, and then they were gone, vanishing into the current of passersby.

Ellé straightened, bag now zipped, and gave Padmé a look that was all approval. Luthen glanced at the chrono again.

"Three minutes," he said. "Last barrier."

The shuttle itself was unremarkable, painted in the orange and blue of the city's refuse fleet. The pilot—a thin human with the waxy complexion of one who lived on processed food and anxiety—nodded at them but didn't speak. They climbed aboard, taking seats at the rear.

As the doors hissed shut, a voice came over the intercom: "Please present ID for random check."

Padmé's heart stopped.

A stormtrooper entered, blaster slung but ready, his helmet turning to scan the cabin. He moved down the aisle, scrutinizing each passenger. When he reached Padmé, he paused, visor less than a foot from her face.

He studied her, then the scanner in his hand.

"You traveled alone last week," he said, voice monotone. "Now you are two."

Padmé smiled, the sort of smile that hoped to go unnoticed. "Sister's child," she said, nodding toward Ellé.

The trooper looked at Ellé, then back to Padmé, as if searching for a flaw in the claim.

"Name?"

Padmé stammered, then remembered the script. "Pavan. Pavan Naberrie."

The trooper checked the manifest, hesitated, then stepped back.

"Congratulations," he said, then moved on.

The shuttle lifted off with a whine, merging into the stream of air traffic flowing toward the city's edge.

Padmé exhaled, her hands shaking. Ellé squeezed her arm, discreet but firm.

Across the aisle, Luthen smiled at her, just once.

Then the moment was gone, and they were racing through the city, the lights and sirens of Coruscant receding behind them.

They had survived the first gauntlet.

But the night was not over.

The Senate at night was a mausoleum, every arch and inlay more accusation than comfort. The endless corridors—gilt and polished, haunted by the ghosts of a thousand speeches—held nothing but the echo of their own grandeur. Mon Mothma stood in the shadow of a colonnade, arms folded, eyes tracing the inlaid patterns of the floor as if she might reconstruct the Republic from memory alone.

She heard Bail before she saw him, his steps too hurried to be those of a true believer in the Empire. He wore his mourning well: the deep blues and grays of Alderaan tailored to the very edge of respectability, the house crest pinned low and discreet. He rounded the curve of the alcove and found her in a glance, his worry written plain.

"You got my message," he said, breathless but quiet.

Mon Mothma allowed herself a smile, the kind that signaled not warmth but recognition. "The entire city has your message. The Tarkin security alerts alone are up threefold since curfew. I assume you had something to do with that."

Bail shook his head, then caught himself and offered a ghost of a bow. "You were always better at misdirection."

She stepped aside, gesturing him into the pool of light that spilled from the overhead lantern. It bleached the color from his face, accentuating the lines around his mouth and eyes. He looked older than he should, as did they all.

A cleaning droid trundled past, sensors dimmed to avoid disturbing its human betters. Mon Mothma watched it work, the slow, methodical sweep of its brushes, the small piles of dust it gathered before sucking them into oblivion.

"She's leaving tonight," Bail said, not bothering to clarify who. "I thought you'd want to know."

Mon Mothma inclined her head. "I know. I also know you wish to go with her."

Bail leaned against the wall, eyes darting up and down the empty corridor. "Is that such a crime? She's—" He stopped, pressed his lips together, then tried again. "Padmé is the last bridge between what we were and what we must become. If something happens to her—"

"She's more valuable free than martyred," Mon Mothma said. "And she knows how to take care of herself."

Bail turned, frustration bleeding into anger. "You think I don't know that? I fought beside her long before you ever heard her name." His fists clenched, then released. "But she's not the only one at risk. The network is thinner every day. If Palpatine guesses even a fraction—"

"He won't," Mon Mothma interrupted, voice cold as the Senate stones. "He expects you to bolt. That's your role in his mind: the good man, tragically outpaced by events. If you vanish, it proves his paranoia justified."

Bail's anger faded, replaced by something closer to shame. "You're not wrong."

Mon Mothma allowed herself a real smile then, fleeting and sharp. "I'm rarely wrong, Bail. That's why you asked me here."

A silence fell. Bail studied the marble at his feet, as if he could find the old Republic hidden in the motes of grime the droid had missed.

"The Senate is dead," he said, so quietly she almost missed it. "We're just—decorating the corpse."

Mon Mothma moved closer, her robe a whisper against the stone. "Then we will be its memory. And its conscience."

Bail looked up, searching her face for a hint of doubt. "And if that's not enough?"

She placed a hand on his arm, gentle but insistent. "Then we'll give it a soul. Even if we're the only ones left to remember."

Bail's laugh was hollow, but his eyes softened. "You sound like her."

Mon Mothma blinked, letting the memory wash through her. "She's always been better at hope."

They stood together, two relics in a temple stripped of purpose, each holding a candle against the wind.

"What now?" Bail asked, after a long time.

"We wait," Mon Mothma said. "We listen. We learn what can be used, and who will risk themselves to use it. When the moment is right, we act. Not as martyrs, but as architects."

Bail's voice was almost inaudible. "I wish I could believe in architects."

She squeezed his arm, then let go. "You always do, in the end."

The droid passed again, oblivious to the revolution happening in its shadow.

Bail straightened, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. "For the Republic," he said, the words a benediction and a farewell.

Mon Mothma held his gaze. "For what comes after."

He nodded, once, then vanished down the corridor, a blue-gray shadow absorbed by the darkness.

Mon Mothma remained, listening to the echoes. When she was sure she was alone, she allowed herself a single, silent tear. Not for the Republic, nor for what might come after, but for the brief, impossible hope that they would live to see either.

She wiped it away.

Tomorrow, she would take her seat in the Senate and play her part.

Tonight, she let herself remember what it felt like to have something worth losing.

They reached the airstrip before dawn, the last vestige of night clinging to the tarmac in ripples of chemical fog. The place was a fossil from an earlier age, concrete buckled and scored by centuries of takeoff and return. No security lights—only the skeletal outline of the landing beacon, flashing yellow through the haze. The city proper lay behind them, its towers reduced to a smear of shadow and stray halogen.

Padmé shivered, partly from the cold, partly from exhaustion. Ellé hustled the last of their belongings from the groundcar to the edge of the pad, her hands raw from the strain but her movements precise. Luthen waited by the ramp of the shuttle, a silhouette against the open hold, his features lost to the backwash of the pilot's console.

The shuttle itself was nothing to look at: an unmarked short-haul with its serials scrubbed and the paintwork a patchwork of gray. It could have belonged to any trader or low-tier courier, which was the point.

A breeze shifted, stirring the haze and bringing with it the low, continuous rumble of factory operations. Somewhere across the fields, a klaxon whooped: shift change or security alert, impossible to tell which. Luthen turned, gestured them forward.

Padmé climbed the ramp, knees protesting. Ellé followed, shoulders squared. At the top, Luthen handed her a wafer-thin data crystal, the surface still warm from encryption.

"This is your path," he said. "Do not lose it. The coordinates inside are scrubbed from every Imperial system. Yoda awaits on the other side." He paused, as if considering what comfort might be worth the air it consumed. "You'll find others there, eventually. If you wish to."

Padmé closed her hand around the crystal. For a moment, she wanted to say something—anything—that might grant the moment dignity. But her voice was dust, so she nodded instead, memorizing the lines of Luthen's face in case it was the last she saw of him.

Ellé busied herself with the baggage straps, lashing down the crates with quick, nervous energy. At the cockpit, the pilot's head bobbed, blue skin almost luminous in the dark. The Pantoran woman acknowledged Luthen with a single raised finger, then powered the shuttle's main engines. The hull vibrated, a subtle promise of escape.

The overhead speakers crackled, then came the metallic voice of the city's broadcast system: "All flights within the sector will be subject to inspection. Any deviation from assigned lanes will result in immediate termination of clearance. This is for your safety."

Luthen ignored the announcement. He took Padmé's hand, squeezed it with a gentleness that almost undid her. "I'd wish you luck, but I don't believe in it. Just keep moving, Senator. Never let the next step be the last."

Padmé blinked hard, then turned away. At the threshold, she looked back once, taking in the airstrip, the city, and the thin line of light beginning to fray the horizon. She wanted to weep, but the tears refused her.

"I never thought it would end like this," she said, voice barely above the hum of the engines. "In secret. In the dark."

Luthen smiled, small and knowing. "The night is when seeds are planted. And you carry the most important ones." He inclined his head toward her belly, not as a reminder but as a blessing.

She stepped into the shuttle, Ellé at her side. The hatch sealed with a hush. The cabin lights came up, soft and blue, and the pilot's voice echoed back from the flight deck: "Strap in. We'll be clear in ninety seconds."

Padmé did as she was told, settling into the seat, heart pounding so loud she could hear nothing else. Ellé buckled beside her, their hands finding each other in the space between.

The shuttle lifted, steady and slow, nose angling toward the rent in the clouds that marked their escape.

As the city fell away, Padmé reached into her pocket and withdrew the comm-chip Luthen had given her.

She activated it, tuned to the pre-set frequency, and waited.

There was a brief hiss, then two clicks. She spoke, voice clear, the words hanging in the silence that followed:

"The fire burns."

On the other end, somewhere in the depths of the dying Republic, the message would be heard.

The resistance had begun.

Chapter Text

At the ragged edge of dawn, the world did not so much awaken as resume its slow unraveling. The sky—choked with the residue of distant engines—leaked thin light across the ruins of the settlement, turning clay dust and shattered brick to the color of dried blood. Nothing moved on the main avenue except for a pair of carrion birds, their wings flickering black against the cracked facades. Above them, the spindly remains of a transmission tower sagged under its own defeat.

Obi-Wan Kenobi watched from the mouth of the cave, breath fogging in the chill. The shelter was nothing: a shallow scar in the limestone, disguised with netted vine and the sort of hand-woven camouflage that only fooled the desperate. He wore it well, this desperation. The beard was more salt than sand now, and the hair—once so carefully trimmed—had begun to curl and kink at the edges. The robes were a patchwork of what once had been and what he could find: Jedi tunic beneath the gray husk of a field medic's coat, a thermal undershirt in Alderaanian blue (scavenged, no doubt, from some dead conscript), and boots more glue than leather.

He checked the horizon for motion, found none, and stepped into the open. The light prickled against his skin; after so long in darkness, even the suggestion of morning felt obscene. He did not walk with the measured grace he'd once been famous for—now each step was cautious, tested before he dared shift his weight. It was not fear, not exactly, but the discipline of a man who understood how many things in the galaxy wanted him dead.

At the edge of the compound, he paused to take stock. There had been fifteen structures, once—now, only three stood above waist height. The rest were mounds and hollows, each marked by the black, recursive scarring of plasma detonations. A utility droid—miraculously functional—dragged the remains of a satellite dish toward a refuse pit, its motivator wheezing in protest. The air smelled of char and wet stone.

He followed the path to what had once been the healer's house. Of all the buildings, it was the least ruined: just a collapsed roof, and one wall bowed inward like a lung mid-exhale. He hovered outside the doorway, every instinct telling him to leave. The risk was mathematical—every extra person meant another variable, another mouth, another potential betrayal. But the promise of help, of shared purpose, still called to something brittle inside him.

He gripped the edge of his cloak, knuckles whitening. Then, with a sigh, he stepped across the threshold.

Inside, the heat was oppressive. A makeshift stove glowed in one corner, its embers barely contained by a ring of broken brick. Three cots lined the wall, each holding a form: two children, faces puffy with sleep or trauma, and an old man, his arm splinted with what looked like the frame of a datapad. The woman tending them did not look up, though her posture shifted as soon as Obi-Wan entered. She was tall, with the shoulders of a laborer and hands quick enough to finish binding a wound before greeting her guest.

"Good morning," she said, not bothering to soften the edge. "You're late."

Obi-Wan smiled, the movement stiff with disuse. "I'd hoped you might have found safer quarters."

She shook her head. "Not much point. The next patrol comes, they'll level the whole row. We stay here, or we run into the wastes." Her eyes—gray, sharp—took his measure in a single sweep. "You bring supplies?"

He slipped a packet of dried stim-leaf from his sleeve, set it on the table. "It's not much."

The medic eyed the offering, then shrugged and swept it into her satchel. "Better than the last three so-called messiahs who darkened my door."

He winced, the title hitting harder than it should. "You know that's not—"

"—what you are?" She finished for him, her voice flat. "Master Kenobi, you're many things, but no one here wants another prophet. We want to live long enough to remember our own names." She turned away, stirring a pot with a length of scavenged durasteel. "And what is it you want, exactly?"

The truth caught in his throat. He could say 'help,' but it would sound like an order. He could say 'hope,' but the word had lost all flavor. So he did what he'd always done: he deflected.

"I'm looking for someone. A child. Possibly Force-sensitive, but hiding it."

She looked at him over her shoulder. "Half the orphans on this moon fit that description. You planning to start a new Temple, or just collect them like curios?"

He shook his head, the smile now tinged with bitterness. "No Temple. Not anymore."

She finished tending the wounded, her hands moving with the efficiency of someone who no longer expected thanks. When the children were settled, she crossed to a battered worktable and sat, motioning for him to do the same.

"So what's the plan?" she said, propping her chin on her hand. "You going to teach them the old tricks? Give the Empire a real reason to finish the job?"

He met her gaze. There was nothing Jedi in the way he looked at her—no reassurance, no distant calm. Only exhaustion, and something like shame.

"I don't have a plan," he admitted. "Not a good one. The Inquisitors are hunting anyone with a glimmer of the Force. They'll come for you, for me, for the children. Running won't save us, but I can't just—" he trailed off, hands splaying helplessly.

She studied him for a long moment. "You really are lost, aren't you?"

He nodded. "I suppose I am."

She laughed, a short, hard sound. "All right, then. You want my help, you've got it. But only because I'm curious if the Great Kenobi can actually keep anyone alive these days." She rose, shouldering her satchel, and called over her shoulder. "Name's Dara, by the way. Dara Voss."

Obi-Wan rose, feeling the first stirrings of something that might be gratitude. "Thank you."

She held up a finger, mock-stern. "I'm not doing this for free. First, you help me with rounds. There are two more shelters on the ridge, and I don't feel like carrying another corpse today."

He inclined his head, Jedi-formal. "As you wish."

They left together, moving through the ruined streets in silence. At each shelter, Obi-Wan found small ways to help: cauterizing a wound with the lightest touch of the Force, calming a feverish child with whispered old songs, hauling a barrel of clean water up a set of stairs so rickety even the rats hesitated to cross it.

Dara watched him, evaluating. "You're better at this than you let on," she said, once. "The hiding. The blending in."

He shrugged. "Comes with practice."

At the last stop, she handed him a sheaf of old bandages. "Tomorrow, you teach me the trick with the fever. That one could save some time."

He took the bandages, hands steady now. "Of course."

They made their way back to the healer's house as the sun crested the horizon, igniting the dust and rubble in violent color. For a moment, the world looked almost beautiful. Obi-Wan paused to savor it, and Dara caught the hesitation.

"You miss it, don't you?" she said, quietly.

He considered lying, then shook his head. "Not the fighting. But the order. The sense that things mattered."

She snorted. "Things still matter. Just different things."

He looked at her, the urge to apologize warring with the certainty that nothing he said could ever be enough.

"Dara," he began, then stopped. "If you wish to leave, I'll understand. The work is dangerous, and the reward—"

"—is just more work," she finished, grinning crookedly. "I know. But if the alternative is letting the Empire grind us down one by one, I'll take the long odds." She nudged him with her elbow. "Besides, someone needs to keep you from martyring yourself."

He managed a real smile, faint but honest. "Thank you."

Dara held up a hand, preempting his next words. "Don't make it weird. Just tell me what comes next."

Obi-Wan's voice faltered, the old certainty gone. "We move at night. I'll make contact with the child, but we need to be prepared for… complications."

Dara nodded, all business now. "I'll prep the medkit. And a shovel, in case your plan goes the way they usually do."

He watched her go, then turned to the empty sky. For a moment, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, something of the old world could still be salvaged.

He breathed deep, letting the cold fill him.

Tomorrow would be worse. But tonight, at least, there was work to do.

Dawn clawed its way up the sky as Obi-Wan and Dara left the last vestiges of the settlement behind, trudging into jungle so dense it had no true direction. The path, if it could be called that, was little more than a latticework of roots and ankle-deep mud, the air thick with the hiss and click of things that wanted no part of the human world. Each step was an argument with gravity and memory: why press on, when every branch and shadow threatened violence?

Dara set the pace, machete slicing through creepers with bored precision. She moved with the stoicism of someone who'd long ago accepted the universe's disinterest in her survival. Obi-Wan followed, one hand never straying far from his belt, where his saber lay hidden beneath a triple layer of patched cloak. He hated the weapon—hated the way it made his shoulder ache with anticipation, the way it seemed to pulse when he drew near to violence. But he knew the day would come when it was needed. Maybe today.

They spoke little. The silence between them had become a sort of pact, a mutual understanding that words were a luxury best spent when the sky was clear and the wounds were not so fresh.

After two hours, the brush gave way to a rise, where the jungle retreated from a clearing cut square into the hillside. In its center: a homestead, cobbled together from sheet metal, fusioncrete, and the ribs of an old cargo shuttle. It was a miracle of intent—a thing that should not have endured, but had.

They approached with caution. Obi-Wan felt the Force shift, a subtle rebalancing as they drew closer: the way the light bent, the way the insects fell silent. He glanced at Dara, who sawed at the last tangle of undergrowth and muttered, "He knows we're coming."

"He's always known," Obi-Wan replied, voice careful.

They crossed the clearing, boots squelching in the muck, and stopped at the makeshift porch. The door opened before they could knock.

Kato stood in the threshold, arms folded. He was younger than Obi-Wan expected—early thirties, maybe, with skin dark from sun and labor. His tunic was that of a farmer, but the stance was pure Jedi: weight balanced, muscles loose, eyes heavy-lidded but absolutely present. He appraised Obi-Wan with a flick of the head, then focused on Dara.

"You didn't come alone," Kato said, not quite accusation.

"She's a friend," Obi-Wan offered.

Kato ignored him. "I told you before, Kenobi. You're not welcome."

Dara set the machete down, wiped her brow. "We need your help."

Kato's lips twisted. "So the stories are true. The mighty Jedi, reduced to begging from those they left behind."

Obi-Wan felt the words land, and let them. "We didn't leave you behind. We were slaughtered."

"You survived," Kato said, voice gone flat. "Just like you always do."

They stared at each other, the space between them prickling with things unsaid.

Obi-Wan broke first. "If you wish us gone, we'll go. But the Empire knows you're here. Patrols have swept twice in the last week. You think they won't return?"

Kato's eyes flicked to Dara, then back. "Why bring her?"

"She can help," Obi-Wan said. "She's—"

"Not one of us," Kato finished, gaze unreadable. "And yet, here you are, trusting her with secrets."

Dara bristled, but said nothing.

Obi-Wan squared his shoulders, finding the formality he'd shed long ago. "We have no time for rivalry. The Inquisitors—"

Kato spat on the ground. "The Inquisitors. You mean the Jedi who sold their souls for a salary and a new name."

Obi-Wan did not argue. "Some of them, yes."

Kato turned away, gesturing for them to follow. The interior of the house was spartan—no holos, no relics, just a series of low tables and the scent of boiling roots. Kato sat, gestured to the bench. "If you're here, it means something worse is coming."

Obi-Wan sat, hands folded. "There's a child in the settlement. They're coming for him."

Kato snorted. "A child. That's what you risk everything for?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "It's what we always risk everything for."

Kato's jaw worked, some old bitterness flexing in his face. "I was a child, once. You remember?"

Obi-Wan did. The creche on Coruscant, the lost faces. He saw now the flicker of that boy, preserved in amber beneath the anger.

"You remember what you told us," Kato went on. "That the Order was our family. That we'd never be alone."

Obi-Wan winced. "The Order failed in many ways. I failed."

Kato blinked, taken aback by the admission. "You… what?"

"I failed," Obi-Wan said, letting the words hang. "Not just you. All of you. I taught what I thought was right, and it led us here."

The silence grew thick, broken only by the bubble of the pot on the stove.

Dara broke it, not unkindly. "We need to move. The scouts will come at noon, and if they see signs—"

"They always see signs," Kato said, but softer now. He rose, paced the room. "You want to hide the boy. Or get him off-planet."

"Both," Obi-Wan said. "If possible."

Kato laughed, short and ugly. "You always had faith in the impossible."

Obi-Wan didn't argue. "Will you help?"

Kato stared at the wall for a long time. "You think because you admit weakness, I'll follow? That I'll forget the purge, the friends I lost?"

"No," Obi-Wan said. "But I think you remember what hope feels like. Even if you'd rather not."

Kato looked away, blinking hard. "You don't know what I remember."

Dara gathered her satchel, rose to her feet. "Look. We can fight over whose pain is worse, or we can survive the day. I know what I'm choosing."

Kato met her eyes, and for the first time, something like respect passed between them. He nodded, once, and crossed to a hatch hidden behind a curtain.

"There's an old network of tunnels. Temple ruins, predating the war." He paused, studying Obi-Wan. "You remember how to find your way in the dark?"

Obi-Wan stood, feeling the years in his bones. "I haven't forgotten."

Kato opened the hatch, revealing a ladder descending into earth. "Then let's go. If the Empire wants us, let them search the empty house."

They moved, single file, down into the shadow. The tunnel was narrow, lined with slick rock and the roots of ancient trees. Obi-Wan led, using the Force in small ways to sense pitfalls, to dampen the sound of their steps. Kato followed, grumbling but efficient, and Dara brought up the rear, hand always at her satchel.

They navigated the tunnels for what felt like hours, the air growing colder and wetter with each turn. At last they reached a vault—a chamber lined with strange, luminous moss, the ceiling arching high above.

Obi-Wan stopped, waited for the others.

Kato sat against the wall, breathing hard. "We're safe. For now."

Obi-Wan looked at him, wanting to say something—apologize, maybe, or promise it would get better. But he knew better. Instead, he closed his eyes and let the silence do its work.

Above them, faint and distant, came the shriek of engines: Imperial transports, cutting through the dawn.

They waited in the dark, listening to the future arrive.

The tunnels wound on, a never-ending intestine of damp rock and ancient secrets. Somewhere behind them, the muffled pound of boots announced the arrival of Imperial scouts. Ahead, the passage split in two: left, a narrow vent clogged with tree roots; right, the faint suggestion of torchlight against slick stone.

Obi-Wan slowed, senses stretched to the breaking point. The Force tingled with danger, but not the sharp certainty of blaster bolts—this was the slow suffocation of a trap set and waiting. He motioned for silence, then pressed his palm to the wall. Through the chill of the limestone, he felt the vibration of movement above. Not stormtroopers. Heavier. Something armored.

Dara whispered, "They're blocking the exits. Herding us."

Kato's face was pale in the mosslight. "Can you fight them?"

Obi-Wan almost laughed. "It's never that simple."

He led them down the right passage, counting on the darkness to buy time. But within ten steps, a pair of floodlamps flared to life, painting their shadows three meters high against the far wall.

"Down!" Dara hissed, but it was too late.

Blaster fire stitched the air, blue-white and shrieking. Obi-Wan's hand went to his saber, ignited it without flourish, and let the blue blade soak up the first volley. The noise was blinding—each shot ricocheting off the walls in a howl of chemistry and hate.

He deflected, fell back, moving with a caution born of exhaustion. Kato and Dara hugged the ground, shielding their faces from the hot spray of stone and plasma.

The stormtroopers advanced, three abreast. In the confined space, their formation was sloppy but effective; every shot forced Obi-Wan to block, every block pushed him closer to the edge of the ancient cistern that gaped beneath the walkway.

He tried not to kill—old reflex, old promise—but the troopers left no margin. He redirected a bolt into the knee of the first, watched him crumple and tumble into the pit. The second went down to a glancing strike, armor melting where the blade grazed his wrist. The third, more careful, fell back, shouting into his comm.

"Hostile confirmed! Jedi—repeat, Jedi—on site!"

Obi-Wan powered down the saber, sucked a breath. "Move," he said, voice brittle.

They hustled forward, up a spiral stair of pitted stone. At the top: a vast, domed chamber, pillars supporting a ceiling lost in shadow. The air here was stale, but less oppressive. Light filtered in through a row of broken skylights, painting the floor in a fractured pattern.

Dara reached for Obi-Wan's arm. "Are you hurt?"

He shook his head. "Just out of practice."

"Liar," she said, but not unkindly.

Kato circled the chamber's perimeter, boots quiet on the old tiles. "No other way out. They'll come from the main entrance next."

Obi-Wan nodded. "We'll make a stand, if we must."

Kato's mouth twisted. "Thought Jedi didn't believe in last stands."

"We believe in necessary ones," Obi-Wan replied.

Before Kato could respond, a new voice echoed from the far end of the chamber. Not amplified, but so sharp it seemed to cut through the noise of the world.

"Kenobi."

The word froze the air.

Obi-Wan turned, saw the figure at the threshold. Clad in black, half-shrouded by a ragged cloak, with face a patchwork of red and black, yellow eyes ablaze.

Maul.

His wrists were manacled—some kind of restraining field flickering around them—but his posture was loose, almost mocking. Two stormtroopers flanked him, rifles trained on his spine. Beyond them, a cluster of villagers—ten, maybe more—huddled, hands tied, faces slack with fear and exhaustion.

Dara tensed, voice low. "Is that…?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan said. "It's him."

Maul smiled, a terrible geometry. "You always bring friends, Kenobi. So trusting. So… fragile."

The senior Imperial, helmet off, stepped forward. She was severe, her face angular and her hair scraped into a knot. "Surrender now, Jedi. We have your allies, and your relic." She indicated Maul with a jerk of the chin. "He's been most helpful."

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed. "You think he's controllable?"

The officer shrugged. "He wants you dead. That's sufficient for my purposes."

Maul's gaze never left Obi-Wan. "You remember the first lesson, do you not? Betrayal is the only certainty."

Obi-Wan felt his hand tremble. He gripped the saber tighter, forced his breathing even. "Let the villagers go. You have what you want."

The officer laughed. "You Jedi. Always the martyr."

Dara whispered, "She's right. They'll kill us all, whatever we do."

Obi-Wan weighed the odds. None of them were good.

Maul flexed his hands, testing the restraints. "You see, Kenobi? They leash me like a beast, but all beasts remember the hand that broke them."

The officer waved her team forward. "Take them."

Stormtroopers advanced, rifles raised.

Obi-Wan ignited his saber, interposed himself between the villagers and the troopers. Blaster fire erupted, but this time he pressed forward, cutting through the first rank with a series of surgical parries. He moved not with anger, but with a grim efficiency—each step calculated, each deflection a compromise between mercy and necessity.

Kato joined him, a length of pipe in hand, moving with the raw grace of a Force user trained only to survive. He smashed helmets, broke limbs, always aiming for the incapacitating blow.

Dara crawled to the villagers, slicing their bonds with a medic's scalpel. "Run!" she hissed. "Move!"

The chamber became chaos: blaster fire, screams, the ozone tang of melting armor. Through it all, Maul stood immobile, head tilted, watching Obi-Wan.

When the last of the first squad fell, the officer drew a sidearm and fired. The shot caught Kato in the shoulder—he staggered, dropped his weapon.

Obi-Wan turned to face the officer, blade raised.

She sneered, "You think you've won? The rest of my team is closing in."

Maul laughed, low and rich. "You rely too much on others, Commander. Never a good strategy."

With a sudden, violent twist, Maul broke the field on his manacles—fingers slipping into the mechanism, disabling the locks with a burst of borrowed lightning. The field snapped, and Maul exploded into motion.

The officer barely had time to scream. Maul's hands closed around her throat, lifting her from the floor. He squeezed, eyes never leaving Obi-Wan.

"Now, at last," Maul crooned, "we finish what began on Naboo."

He let the body fall, then turned to the nearest stormtrooper, wrenching the rifle away and snapping the man's neck with a casual flick. The last trooper dropped his weapon and bolted, but Maul sent the rifle spinning after him, impaling the man against a pillar.

Obi-Wan's stomach lurched. The violence was absolute. The old Maul, but also something new: controlled, almost cold.

Maul stepped over the dead, flexed his hands. "You age well, Kenobi. Still hiding behind lost causes?"

Obi-Wan steadied himself. "Better than hiding from my own shadow."

Maul's smile faded. "We both lost everything, Kenobi. But only one of us remembers why."

Obi-Wan advanced, blade humming.

Behind him, Dara and Kato worked to herd the villagers up the stairs, away from the coming fight.

Maul ignited his own blade—red, screaming, a wound in the world.

The temple trembled.

Obi-Wan drew a breath, prepared himself for the memory of pain.

And in the echoing dark, the old dance began again.

Blue and red fire clashed in the dim. The first strike was pure physics—Maul's saber a comet, Obi-Wan's a sunbeam. The impact shuddered up Obi-Wan's arm, bone to shoulder, ringing his skull with the memory of old agony.

Maul pressed the attack, savage and unrelenting. He fought like a thing unchained: no measured steps, no wasted motion. Each lunge was designed to kill, every feint a promise of future pain.

Obi-Wan gave ground, falling into the defensive rhythms of Soresu, old muscle memory made sharp by terror. He parried, spun, let Maul's rage wash around him, searching for a counter. But Maul was smarter now. He anticipated, adapted. For every block, a riposte; for every retreat, a trap.

Their sabers clashed, hissed, set the air dancing with ozone and strobing light.

"You're slow, Kenobi," Maul snarled. "The years have softened you."

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth. "And the years have made you desperate."

They circled the fallen columns, feet skidding on the grit. Maul ducked low, swung at Obi-Wan's knees—a cheap shot, but effective. Obi-Wan barely managed to leap clear, his robe singed at the hem.

Dara and Kato, high on the balcony, urged the last of the villagers up a rickety stair. One of the refugees stumbled; Kato caught her, but a stray blaster bolt from the chaos below clipped his leg. He yelped, fell to one knee.

Maul saw it, laughed. "Your friends will die, Kenobi. All of them. You can't save anyone."

Obi-Wan pushed back, driving Maul across the dais. "Maybe not. But I can try."

Maul's eyes glittered. "Always the fool. Always the liar." He battered Obi-Wan's guard, blow after blow, until the hilts locked and their faces hovered a handspan apart.

"You failed your apprentice, Kenobi. You failed them all."

Obi-Wan recoiled, the words a slap. Maul pounced, landing a kick to Obi-Wan's gut that sent him sprawling.

The saber skittered from Obi-Wan's grip, rolled toward the edge of the platform. Maul advanced, stalking him with the measured tread of a predator who enjoyed the anticipation.

"Where is he now, Kenobi?" Maul spat, voice cracking with hatred. "Where is the Chosen One?"

Obi-Wan lunged for the saber, fingers grazing the hilt. Maul's blade descended, hissing inches from his wrist. Obi-Wan rolled, seized the weapon, and snapped it on, catching Maul's next strike with a howl of blue heat.

"You want him?" Obi-Wan gasped, forcing himself upright. "You'll have to go through me."

Maul grinned, split-lipped and hungry. "Gladly."

They clashed again, blades screeching. This time Obi-Wan pressed, attacking with a fury he hadn't allowed in years. He saw Maul's eyes widen—a flash of uncertainty, a crack in the armor.

Obi-Wan hammered at it, blow after blow, driving Maul back through a column of dust and light. The saber's hum became a roar, echoing off the stones, drowning out the sounds of the dying temple.

But Maul was never only muscle. He feinted, retreated, then unleashed a blast of Force lightning so sudden it tore the world sideways.

Obi-Wan braced, took the bolt on his blade, but the recoil threw him into a pillar. Stone shattered, dust and pain flooding his senses.

Maul stood over him, chest heaving. "You can't win, Kenobi. You never could."

Obi-Wan's arms shook, vision swimming. But he saw, past Maul, Dara and Kato shepherding the villagers through a breach in the far wall. Saw the children huddled together, saw hope—small, battered, but alive.

He forced himself up. "It's not about winning."

Maul snorted, disgusted. "Still preaching, even now. You disgust me."

Obi-Wan advanced, saber raised. Maul met him, red fire against blue. They fought up the staircase, around the rim of the chamber, past the falling stones and the panic of the evacuees.

A blast from above sent a rain of rubble between them. For a moment, they were separated—both breathing hard, both slick with sweat and blood.

Maul leaned against a broken balustrade, eyes wild. "You want to know what he's become, your precious apprentice? He's the reason we're hunted like dogs."

Obi-Wan's voice caught. "I know."

"Do you?" Maul sneered. "Do you know how many of us he's killed? How many children he's burned, in the name of your Order?"

Obi-Wan swallowed, throat raw. "He was lost. I couldn't—"

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" Maul spat. "You left him. Like you left me."

Obi-Wan felt the pain surge, old and new. "We were both pawns, Maul. Sidious played us all."

Maul's laugh was ragged, almost a sob. "At least I know what I am."

Another tremor shook the temple. A column collapsed, sending a tide of dust and noise through the chamber.

Dara shouted from below. "We're clear! Kenobi, move!"

Maul wiped blood from his mouth, focused on Obi-Wan. "He's coming, you know. The Inquisitors. The Emperor. All of them. They won't stop until every last one of us is dust."

Obi-Wan nodded, hollow. "I know."

Maul's voice dropped to a whisper. "You can't save them, Kenobi. You can't even save yourself."

Obi-Wan deactivated the saber, letting the darkness swallow the blade. "Then we die trying."

Maul stared at him, hate warring with something softer—pity, maybe, or the ghost of old kinship.

"Run, Jedi," Maul said. "Save your pets. I'll hold them here."

Obi-Wan hesitated, the words not matching the Maul he'd known. "Why?"

Maul grinned, lips flecked with blood. "Because I hate you more than I hate them. And if you die, I want to be the one who kills you."

Obi-Wan bowed, formal and weary. "As you wish."

He turned, sprinted for the exit. Behind him, Maul's laughter echoed—high, mad, and filled with too many years of pain.

He found Dara and Kato at the tunnel mouth, villagers massed behind them.

"Go," Obi-Wan gasped. "They'll follow us soon."

They ran, feet pounding the ancient stone, the sounds of battle fading behind.

Above, the jungle waited, bright and raw. Ahead, the future—uncertain, maybe impossible, but still there.

Obi-Wan allowed himself a single breath of relief.

Then he kept running, because there was nothing else left to do.

The world above was a storm of sound: blasterfire, the crunch of falling stone, the mechanical shriek of pursuit. Obi-Wan led the way, saber carving arcs of blue through the dust. Dara and Kato were close behind, supporting the slower villagers, navigating by flashes of memory and the scent of open air.

Behind them, Maul's saber howled—no longer hunting, but warding off the troopers who'd followed him down. He fought with his usual ferocity, but now his blows were more distraction than kill. Once, he caught Obi-Wan's eye across the corridor—a brief, silent acknowledgment of what was happening.

They moved in tandem, clearing the path ahead with alternating bursts of energy. For every three troopers that dropped in the gloom, two more replaced them, relentless and unafraid.

A blast from above caved in part of the tunnel, pinning a villager beneath a slab. Dara dropped to her knees, frantic. "I need help!"

Obi-Wan flicked his blade into the seams of the stone, carving a wedge. Maul appeared beside him, hands bare, and together they lifted the block just high enough for Dara to pull the child free.

The shock of cooperation lingered. Maul grinned, wiped a streak of blood from his jaw. "Careful, Kenobi. People might mistake us for allies."

Obi-Wan said nothing, but the moment lodged itself in his mind.

They pressed on, emerging at last into the open jungle. The temple behind them groaned, an old beast dying hard. The stormtroopers hesitated at the edge, wary of the drop and the tangle of roots that hid the fugitives' escape.

Dara laid the child down, checked his pulse. "He's breathing. We need to move, now."

Kato scanned the treeline, grimacing at the glint of white armor in the distance. "They're circling."

Obi-Wan eyed the group: too many to run, not enough to fight. He turned to Maul, who'd found a perch atop a mossy boulder, saber held idle but lit.

"You have a plan?" Maul sneered.

"Improvisation," Obi-Wan said.

Maul's smile twisted. "You always did prefer hope to logic."

Obi-Wan stepped forward, saber held at guard. "You could leave, you know. The path is open."

Maul's face went slack with something like disappointment. "And miss the end of your story? Never."

Another volley of blasterfire lanced through the foliage, singeing leaves and earth. Kato erected a crude barrier with the Force, slowing the incoming fire. Dara hustled the villagers behind cover, working triage on the move.

Obi-Wan and Maul moved together, deflecting bolts, driving the front line of troopers into retreat. They fought back-to-back, silent but perfectly synchronized—the old choreography of rivals forced into step.

At a lull, Maul ducked close, voice a whisper. "They're sending more than clones. The Inquisitors are here."

Obi-Wan stiffened. "You're sure?"

"I know their scent. Old friends, new names." Maul's gaze flicked to Kato, then back. "He'll die first."

Obi-Wan risked a glance—Kato was flagging, his defenses fraying. Obi-Wan willed energy to the barrier, bolstering it just enough for Kato to catch his breath.

The next wave was worse: a squad of black-armored Inquisitorius, each wielding the crimson blades of the fallen Jedi. They fanned out, methodical, their leader striding forward with the certainty of someone who'd killed many times before.

Maul drew himself up, savoring the tension. "Shall we, Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan nodded, resigned.

They met the Inquisitors in a clash of light and flesh. The leader—a woman, maskless, her face marked with ritual scars—locked blades with Obi-Wan, driving him back with a series of brutal overhand strikes. Behind her, the others circled, picking off stragglers with sick delight.

Dara saw the danger, moved to intercept. She hurled a packet of medical incendiary, catching one Inquisitor in the face. The woman screamed, reeled, but another took her place instantly.

Kato joined Obi-Wan, the three of them forming a triangle around the villagers. Kato's saber flickered—old, unreliable, but still deadly. He fought with a kind of reckless beauty, every movement a dare.

Maul took on two Inquisitors at once, alternating offense and retreat. He baited them, lured them into the open, then struck with a violence that left one dead in seconds.

The other, sensing the imbalance, tried to retreat. Maul caught him by the throat, lifted him off the ground. "You used to have a name," he hissed. "Remember it?"

The man gurgled, eyes wide, and Maul let him drop.

The battle reached a stalemate—Obi-Wan and the Inquisitor locked, each searching for a weakness. The woman spoke, teeth bared. "You don't belong in this war, Kenobi. You're a relic."

Obi-Wan parried, voice calm. "Relics have a way of outlasting tyrants."

She roared, drove him back. At the brink, Obi-Wan twisted, catching her blade and hurling it away with a burst of Force so sudden it staggered them both.

Maul appeared, saber to the woman's throat. "This is over," he purred. "Tell your master we're coming."

She glared, face burning with hate. "He already knows. You're all dead."

Maul smiled, pressed the blade closer. "Not today."

He let her go. She stumbled, clutching her neck, then turned and fled.

Obi-Wan watched her vanish into the trees. "You could have killed her."

Maul shrugged. "Where's the fun in that?"

They turned to the villagers—Dara tending wounds, Kato helping the injured to their feet.

Dara approached, hands slick with blood. "Is it done?"

Obi-Wan shook his head. "It never is."

Maul moved to the edge of the clearing, scanning the horizon. "He'll send more," he said. "And worse."

Kato limped over, glaring at Maul. "Why help us?"

Maul smiled, cruel and sad. "Because it hurts them more, when the prey escapes."

He turned to Obi-Wan, eyes narrowed. "We will never be allies, Kenobi. But perhaps… temporary collaborators."

Obi-Wan studied him, the lines of his enemy's face mapped in memory and regret. He thought of Qui-Gon, of Satine, of everything lost to the war. For a moment, he saw Maul not as a monster, but as another casualty—twisted, but not wholly destroyed.

He extended his hand.

Maul stared at it, then at Obi-Wan, then spat into the dirt. "We're not there yet."

Obi-Wan let his hand fall, nodded. "Against Sidious, we need every advantage."

Maul turned away, melting into the trees. His laughter echoed, but this time, it was almost soft.

Dara and Kato gathered the villagers, forming a ragged line. They looked to Obi-Wan for orders, but he shook his head.

"Not orders," he said. "Just the next step."

They moved into the forest, leaving the dead and the ruins behind. Above, the sky was cloudless—pitiless, but clear.

At the last bend in the path, Obi-Wan glanced back. He saw Maul, half-shadow, watching from the ridge.

They stood apart, enemies still, but with a new understanding: the only way forward was through, and neither could do it alone.

The future waited. So did Sidious.

Obi-Wan turned away, following his companions into the unknown.

And in the hush between the trees, for the first time in years, he thought he heard a promise of something more than defeat.

Chapter Text

The mining cavern had never been meant for life, let alone the makeshift rebellion now blooming in its bones. The rock ceiling pressed down in sullen waves, streaked with veins of ore too stubborn for even the Republic's machines to have bothered extracting. Harsh white lamps—some dangling from frayed power lines, others hastily bolted into the stone—cast feverish shadows over the command area. The air tasted of ozone, recycled sweat, and the ghosts of old fuel leaks. There were at least a hundred beings crammed into the space, some huddled in nervous clusters, others hunched over consoles and battered holoprojectors. If the Empire found this place, there would be nothing left but a scorch mark and a rumor.

Anakin Skywalker stood at the center of it all, illuminated by the blue-white glow of a projected map. His back was ramrod straight, boots planted apart as if anchoring himself in defiance of gravity. The map spun in slow, hypnotic revolutions—a three-dimensional wireframe of the Kaminoan facility, every corridor and sublevel rendered in ghostly fire. His right hand—the mechanical one—hovered above the display, fingers flexing in a pattern that had become his new default: restless, precise, waiting to snap shut.

Around him, a ring of faces: Rex, battered and sleepless but stone-calm; Ahsoka, arms crossed tight over her chest, chin tucked down but eyes laser-focused on Anakin; the Bad Batch, all standing in various states of unregulation, Wrecker idly rocking on his heels, Tech muttering under his breath; and, hovering behind a veil of disdain, Maul, arms folded and gaze sharp as cut glass.

And then there was Windu.

Mace Windu stood with hands clasped behind his back, face carved in lines deeper than any the war had left. The scar from Sidious still bisected his cheek, lending a permanent sneer to even his neutral expressions. His presence drew a buffer zone—no one got closer than three meters unless invited, which was never.

Anakin tapped the projection, sending the map stuttering through a set of close-ups: shield generators, primary power nodes, the signature dish of the clone-brain relay at the heart of it all.

"This is the best shot we'll ever have," Anakin said, voice flat but carrying. "The raid on the comms hub gave us what we needed: access codes, signal intervals, troop rotations. For the next seventy-two hours, the main Kamino facility is undergarrisoned. Tarkin's fleet is elsewhere, mopping up the Core. If we want to take out the source—end the clone war for good—it has to be now."

He let the words sink in, watched the ripple as the news passed through the room. Whispers, curses, the shuffle of boots. Even the Bad Batch, who'd seen every kind of impossible, looked at the map as if it might bite.

Rex cleared his throat. "My men can hit the outer platforms, cut the response time for reinforcements. We'll need to go in loud, but if the timing's right, we catch them before they know it's not a test."

Tech piped up, "The comms logs confirm: standard alarm protocols are down by at least forty percent while they rewire the neural net. The remaining guards are minimum complement. With proper distraction—"

Wrecker bared his teeth. "I'm always good for a distraction."

Ahsoka cut across the banter, voice soft but scalpel-sharp. "What about the new generation? The next batch of clones—if the Empire is moving fast, there could be thousands more, unchipped, unloyal. What's the plan for them?"

Anakin's eyes flicked to hers. "We free who we can. Destroy what we can't."

A new voice entered, bass and absolute: "You mean murder."

Windu stepped forward, the crowd parting around him like the pressure wave of a concussion. He studied the map, then turned his gaze on Anakin. "You are proposing a massacre."

Anakin didn't blink. "I'm proposing we end the war on our terms. The Emperor will keep coming, keep building, until the only thing left in the galaxy is more of him. If we let this go, we're all complicit."

Windu's lips twisted, scar white against brown. "We do not become what we fight. That was the last doctrine of the Council, and it remains true."

Maul, lurking, laughed—a dry, razor-wire sound. "How noble. How quaint."

No one acknowledged him.

Anakin circled the table, the projection warping around his motion. "With respect, Master, the old rules didn't work. They got us here."

Windu's eyes never left Anakin's. "And how many children must die before you believe you've won?"

A hush fell. Even the breathing in the room seemed to pause.

Anakin's voice, when it came, was a soft echo of every disappointment he'd ever harbored. "I've lost more brothers than I can count. More padawans than I can stand to remember. I am done with losing. If you want to hold the high ground, you can do it from a tomb."

The challenge was unmistakable.

Windu took a long, slow breath, then spread his hands over the map. His fingers trembled, just barely, as he rotated the holo back to the full view.

"There is another way," he said. "We plant the virus in the relay. We disrupt the order from within. The clones turn on their masters—not the Kaminoans, not the children, but the officers, the overlords. We give them back their agency, and let them choose what to do with it."

Rex spoke up, his face gone still. "You want to start a clone insurrection?"

Windu nodded, the gesture sharp. "Better than genocide."

Anakin countered, "You saw what happened on Coruscant. The last time we tried to destabilize, the Emperor killed three million in a day. He does not hesitate. Why should we?"

Ahsoka broke in, the tension in her voice a steel cable on the verge of snapping. "He's right. Sidious will just torch the entire planet if he suspects a real threat. We can't risk all the lives there on the hope that clones—untrained, scared—can win a civil war."

Windu shot her a look of betrayal, but she didn't back down. "If we're going to do this, we do it with as little blood as possible. But we do it."

The debate orbited, each argument more brittle than the last. The room divided, some aligning with Anakin's cold math, others with Windu's battered idealism. The Bad Batch exchanged glances; even Maul, for once, looked like he might be calculating his own stake in the outcome.

A holographic timer flickered in the background, counting down the window before the Kamino codes went obsolete. Time bled away, second by second.

Anakin turned to the crowd, his voice not loud but absolute. "There is no third option. We strike, or we die. If anyone here has another miracle to offer, I'll listen."

Silence.

Windu's shoulders dropped a fraction, the fight leaking out of him. "You do this, Skywalker, and there is no coming back. Not for you, not for any of us."

Anakin stared at the map. "There wasn't, not since the first shot."

They looked at each other, the old master and the forever student, and in that moment, the line between them became a scar on the world.

Rex broke the tension. "We'll need all hands. No margin for error."

Anakin nodded. "We go at first light."

The crowd began to disperse, each person carrying the weight of what had been decided. Ahsoka lingered, as did Windu. Maul melted into the darkness, his silhouette the last thing to leave the blue-lit circle.

Anakin waited until the last of them had gone, then sat, head in his hands. For the first time, the room was utterly silent.

Across the stone, Windu watched, unreadable.

"We do this together," Windu said, voice a grave. "Or not at all."

Anakin looked up, eyes hollow but hard. "You'll follow the plan?"

Windu nodded, just once. "I'll make sure it is done right."

They understood each other, at last.

Above them, the timer ticked down. The future was a fuse, and it was burning fast.

The command center devolved from order to cacophony in less than a minute. Once Anakin and Windu set their lines in the sand, everyone else did too. The Jedi split, old padawans gravitating to their former masters, half the knights quietly weighing the odds of each argument as if the future could be solved by tallying points. The clones, by contrast, seemed immune to moral debate—once the orders came, they'd carry them out, even if those orders involved mutiny against their own birthworld.

Maul, perched at the edge of the raised observation deck, watched it all with the indulgence of a man at a gladiator match. His face—what was left of it—creased with a knowing smile as he surveyed the Jedi split themselves into pieces over nothing new. There was a black pleasure in the spectacle, though even Maul seemed slightly off-balance. Once, such infighting would have been a sign of victory for his kind. Now, it was a prelude to chaos he couldn't quite control.

Ahsoka hovered near Rex and the Bad Batch, arms folded, expression unreadable. The last time she'd seen Anakin like this, they'd both still believed in the Order—her as a wayward padawan, him as the prodigy everyone knew would change the world. She watched as he argued, every motion precise, every word calculated, but beneath it all she saw the desperation: not just to win, but to be right.

Windu gathered his supporters and spoke with the calm of a surgeon explaining a fatal diagnosis. "The moment we stoop to their level, we hand the Emperor his victory. The galaxy has seen enough butchery. If we die for a cause, let it be as Jedi—not as saboteurs, not as butchers."

Anakin, not even pretending to listen, jabbed his finger at the holo-map. "The cause is survival, Master. We don't get to argue morality when the alternative is extinction."

A low ripple of laughter from Maul, soft and predatory.

"Survival is for the weak," Maul called. "Purpose is what divides the dead from the merely extinct. You're finally learning, Skywalker. Pity you never did in time."

Anakin ignored him. Rex didn't.

He stepped forward, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes locked on Windu. "Every day we wait, more of my brothers are turned into puppets. You talk of the Jedi, but what about the rest of us? We're the currency the Empire spends to buy its future."

Windu's gaze softened, but only by degrees. "We are not the only ones who bleed, Captain. But if we lose who we are, what's left to fight for?"

Rex bristled, the old soldier's mask crumbling. "You ever wonder how many Jedi are still left because a clone chose not to follow the chip's orders? Or do you only count the ones who make it back to the temple?"

Windu opened his mouth, then shut it. The silence that followed was as loud as any shout.

Tech, ever the analyst, filled the void. "If I may: we have empirical evidence the Kamino relay can be shut down remotely. The virus is ready. With the correct deployment window, it can override the control chips for at least half the active clone units, maybe more."

Crosshair grunted, picking at imaginary lint on his blaster. "You want to wait, fine. But the longer we stall, the more the Empire fortifies. And the more clones die. Ours, yours, doesn't matter. They'll all be dead."

Ahsoka turned to Anakin, voice barely above a whisper. "You're sure this is the only way?"

Anakin didn't meet her eyes. "It's the best one we've got."

She studied him, the set of his jaw, the tremor in his mechanical hand. It was the old Anakin, and also someone she'd never quite understood.

Windu, not willing to cede ground, retorted, "A virus is a desperate measure. It could fail. It could backfire. Or it could wipe out every clone on the planet."

Tech shook his head. "The code's been tested. If it doesn't work, nothing will. We only get one shot."

"Then we take it," Anakin said, each word a nail in the coffin of argument.

Another voice, quieter but carrying, cut through the tension: "If the cost is all, the payment must be weighed." The words were old and round, the cadence unmistakable.

The crowd stilled.

From the rear of the command center, Yoda entered, smaller than memory but somehow more present than anyone else. He wore the same battered cloak he'd worn at the end of the war, now patched and stained with the years. He leaned on his stick, steps slow, but his eyes missed nothing.

All conversation stopped. The Jedi and clones alike made a path. Even Maul, for a moment, lost the sneer.

Yoda walked to the center, stopping in the blue glow of the Kamino projection. He regarded Anakin, then Windu, then the assembled crowd.

"Much fear, I sense. Much anger. Both needed, in measure." His gaze swept the room, then settled on the map. "Hard choice, this is. Easy, none of it."

He motioned Anakin closer. "Fight you must. But remember—enemy is not only without. Within, also."

Windu tried to speak, but Yoda silenced him with a lift of the hand. "Sacrifice, always. But what are we, if we forget why we began?"

A beat. Yoda closed his eyes, as if listening to a deeper silence.

"Fight to save, not to destroy. Even the enemy, a lesson can teach." He turned, this time addressing Rex and the clones directly. "Free your brothers, you wish. A gift that is. Not a weapon."

A hush, different from the last: expectant, reverent, afraid to disturb the moment.

Anakin searched Yoda's face for permission or forgiveness—Ahsoka saw both, and neither. Yoda opened his eyes, old and infinite.

"Not just what we fight against, but what we fight for, remember we must."

Rex nodded, and for a moment, the weight in his eyes lifted.

Windu bowed his head, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a reluctant acceptance.

Maul grunted, unimpressed. "Such wisdom. Perhaps the Emperor will surrender if you recite enough proverbs."

Yoda smiled, barely. "Listen, Sidious never did."

That got a laugh, grim but real, from almost everyone.

The room seemed lighter. The debate cooled, crystallized, then passed away.

Ahsoka slipped her arm through Rex's, steadying him as the plans resumed—not in shouts or anger, but in the measured calm of a people who'd seen the end before and chosen to live anyway.

Anakin caught Windu's eye, the old rivalry replaced by something closer to camaraderie. They both nodded, then moved apart, each to their own teams.

The timer in the background ticked on, but now it seemed more like a promise than a threat.

At the edge of the crowd, Yoda watched them all, his face illuminated by the shifting blueprints of Kamino.

"May the Force be with us all," he said, so softly that only the closest heard.

But somehow, everyone felt it.

By nightfall, the cavern no longer felt like a mine. It felt like a forge.

Every alcove, every tunnel-mouth, every re-purposed cargo pod thrummed with new purpose. Gone was the hesitant hope of the refugee camp; in its place, a machine of resolve, grinding away the last of its fear.

Ahsoka stood with the Bad Batch at a half-collapsed mining cart, its surface covered in a mosaic of holo-charts and hand-drawn schematics. Tech and Crosshair argued over the infiltration route—an old subaquatic vent versus a disguised shuttle entry—while Wrecker rewired a salvaged thermal detonator with the delicacy of a jeweler. Hunter watched Ahsoka the way soldiers watch each other when there are no more goodbyes left to say.

"Recon says the storm barrier is weakest at the south tower," Ahsoka said, tracing a finger along the schematic. "We hit there, slide under the sweep. Everything depends on the timing."

Tech's goggles clicked. "The main defense is the sensor grid—can't jam it, but we can spoof the input if Crosshair hits the relay at exactly 0900 local."

"I'll hit it," Crosshair said, voice dry. "If you keep Wrecker from blowing us all up first."

Wrecker grinned, unfazed. "Just making sure we have options."

Hunter's gaze moved from the map to Ahsoka. "You sure about the plan?"

"No," she said. "But it's the only one we've got."

At a makeshift weapons table, Rex drilled a dozen freed clones, the men raw but attentive. Their armor was a patchwork—some wore full sets, others fought in scavenged robes, all stripped of Imperial insignia. Rex paced up and down the line, barking orders with a voice that belonged to a different era. Still, even the most broken of the batch straightened when he passed, drawing strength from the certainty in his stride.

He stopped in front of a clone with a tremor in his hands—likely a fresh rescue, still shaking off the last ghost of the chip.

"What's your name, trooper?"

The man swallowed. "Fives, sir."

Rex blinked, the name a blade to the gut. "You'll do Fives proud," he said, just loud enough for the row to hear. "We all will."

A murmur ran down the line. In that moment, Ahsoka saw them not as products of a failed empire, but as the first army of a new one—one that chose its own wars.

Elsewhere, Windu moved through the preparation like an old general reviewing his last campaign. He checked and re-checked the boarding rosters, cross-examined the infiltration teams, and quietly double-checked every detail Anakin had laid out. He stopped only once, beside Anakin at the edge of the main comms array.

"Are you ready?" Windu asked.

Anakin didn't look up from the holo-tablet, but his voice was softer than before. "I have to be."

Windu nodded, neither judgment nor comfort. "You know the cost."

Anakin hesitated, then met Windu's gaze. "We all do. But for the first time, the cost is ours to choose."

A long silence passed. Windu set a hand on Anakin's shoulder, as if to anchor him.

"If you falter," Windu said, "I'll be there to remind you who you are."

Anakin smiled, tired and real. "Thank you, Master."

Windu moved on, his shadow lingering in the lamp-lit gloom.

In the dim recess near the cave's old refinery, Maul was surrounded by two armed clones and a wall of suspicion. He worked alone, scrawling diagrams onto the floor with the end of a metal rod. Now and then, one of the clones would shift, finger tightening on a blaster, but Maul paid them no mind.

Rex approached, arms folded.

"You're the expert on Sidious's security," Rex said. "You see any tricks we're missing?"

Maul did not look up. "The Emperor always hides a second trap in the first. If you think you've anticipated him, you are already losing." He paused, then added, "Skywalker understands this. That is why he is dangerous."

Rex scowled. "You mean determined."

Maul's smile was a bloodless crescent. "Call it what you will, clone. The result is the same."

Rex considered this, then motioned to the guards. "If you're so certain we're doomed, why help us?"

Maul traced a new line through the dust. "Because even doomed causes have their moments of poetry. And because I would see Sidious bleed, if only once."

The clones exchanged a glance. In the end, Rex let it stand.

As the hour drew near, the cavern took on a hushed expectancy. Final checks, whispered prayers, the clatter of armor and the hiss of venting engines. In every shadow, someone readied for the worst.

Ahsoka found Anakin standing alone, arms folded, watching the map run its simulation for the hundredth time.

"You should rest," she said.

He didn't answer right away. "Do you ever think," he said at last, "that if the old Order had fought like this—without the illusion of righteousness, just with everything they had—we might have won?"

Ahsoka thought about it. "Maybe. Or maybe we'd have just died sooner."

He smiled, then let the smile slip. "I'm proud of you, Snips. I mean it."

Ahsoka tried to hide the impact, but failed. "You too," she said, and squeezed his arm before leaving him to his ghosts.

At the back of the cavern, Yoda sat alone, cross-legged in the blue wash of the Kamino projection. He watched the lines shift and pulse, every new rotation revealing a thousand possible outcomes, a thousand ways to lose or win or survive by accident.

He felt each life in the cavern, the way the Force gathered around the collective hope and fear. The night trembled with possibility.

A clone approached, hesitant, and offered Yoda a ration bar. Yoda smiled and accepted, breaking off a piece and sharing it with the trooper.

"Thank you, General," the clone said.

"Thank you," Yoda replied. "Fighting for something, you are. Not against."

The clone grinned, then hurried off to join his squad.

Yoda chewed, slowly. Then he stood, every joint reminding him of the long road behind. He gazed around the cavern, at every huddle of soldiers, every pocket of Jedi, every flash of orange and blue from the consoles.

"We are ready," he said, to the room and to the darkness beyond.

The engines of the first assault craft ignited, their roar echoing through the mine like a promise.

For the first time in years, the future did not taste of ash.

And as the lights dimmed, and the final preparations ended, the rebellion readied itself to make history.

Or die trying.

Chapter Text

The command platform in orbit above Kamino was less a ship than a siege engine, a slab of durasteel studded with sensor dishes and bristling with the most desperate hope in the galaxy. Inside, the air was ionized and raw, and every surface shivered with the anticipation of incoming violence. At the prow, framed by a panoramic viewport, stood Mace Windu and Obi-Wan Kenobi—two men who had once moved the fate of the Republic with a glance, now reduced to watching it flicker in and out of existence in real time.

Kamino spun below them, equal parts myth and memory: a world of endless gray, its surface pelted by rain so dense it might as well have been falling sideways. The city-spires of Tipoca bristled from the ocean like broken bones, each one crowned in sheet lightning that illuminated the underbelly of the clouds. Every flash painted the inside of the command deck in shades of blue and violet, throwing their faces into temporary relief—Windu's scar, Obi-Wan's beard grown past regulation, both etched deeper by what they'd survived.

The bridge bustled with clone officers, each manning a station with the preternatural calm that came from a lifetime of knowing you were expendable. "Power up the main batteries," called one, hands flying over illuminated controls. "Targeting solutions locked. We are go for synchronized orbital strike on your command, General."

Windu's jaw flexed as he leaned toward the glass, letting the electric light swallow the lines of his face. "Report," he said, voice as flat as the ocean below. The word was not for Obi-Wan, but it hung between them like a dare.

Obi-Wan answered anyway, gesturing to the holo-projector that flickered between them. "The primary shield generators are here and here," he said, two fingers painting glowing circles on the schematic. "Once those fall, Anakin's team can make their insertion through the substructure. It's fast, ugly, and it puts them right on top of the control hub."

Windu's attention stayed fixed on the planet, but the rest of him listened. "And if Skywalker's team fails?"

Obi-Wan traced a line through the blue light, its arc bisecting the very heart of the city. "Then we'll have lost our best chance to free our brothers. And likely the war."

A pause. Windu's eyes flicked to the officers and back. "I would rather die than see Kamino burn, Kenobi. But I have learned to set aside my preferences."

Obi-Wan's lips twitched. "You and me both, Master."

Below them, a storm of green fire lanced from the command platform—brilliant, surgical, the color of fresh-cut grass and high summer before the war. Turbolaser batteries fired in perfect unison, their shots drilling through cloud and rain to stitch lines of light across the Kaminoan shield perimeter. From this distance, it was beautiful.

Obi-Wan watched as the city's outer edge exploded in blooms of plasma, each impact captured and replayed on the holo-table in real time. He imagined the noise on the surface: the shriek of alarms, the hiss of atmosphere venting, the shudder of a thousand clones realizing that the impossible was happening, again. "Direct hits on all three towers," called the tactical officer, voice unflappable. "Shields holding at sixty percent. Estimated breach in ninety seconds."

Windu exhaled, a sound like glass about to crack. "Bring up the next wave."

Obi-Wan nodded to the comms clone, who toggled a command. Instantly, a swarm of icons blossomed on the display—friendly dropships, modded LAATs painted in rebel gray, spiraling toward the surface in tight formation. At their vanguard, the signature of Anakin Skywalker: a beacon burning hot, even in the cold logic of the display.

Windu turned from the glass, folding his arms. The movement was deliberate, calculated to mask the tremor that lived in his hands since Coruscant. "You trust him to finish this," he said, not a question.

Obi-Wan shrugged, a small admission. "He's been preparing for this his entire life."

Another salvo hammered the city, the resonance echoing through the deck. The lights flickered, then steadied. A junior officer—barely more than a child—looked up from his console. "General Windu, new contact on the long-range scope. Star Destroyer, vectoring in-system. She's running hot."

Obi-Wan's stomach knotted. "Tarkin?"

"Negative, sir," the clone replied. "Designate unknown. But they're dropping out of hyperspace right on top of us."

The tactical holomap redrew itself, shifting from clean precision to the ragged improvisation of a fight gone sideways. The new Destroyer flared crimson on the display, her dropships already vectoring toward the surface like hornets hurled at a bonfire.

Windu's eyes went hard. "So much for surprise."

Obi-Wan leaned in, voice urgent. "Redirect our interceptors to screen the enemy dropships. We need to buy Anakin's team time to reach the objective."

"Copy," the ops officer said, his fingers a blur. "Fighter wing Alpha, clear for launch. Beta, you're weapons free on incoming hostiles. Repeat: weapons free."

The deck lurched as the first salvo from the new Star Destroyer crossed the gap and slammed into their shields. Obi-Wan steadied himself on the edge of the table. For a brief, dizzying moment, he remembered the war as a simpler thing—a chessboard, moves and countermoves, always a path to victory if you thought hard enough. Now, the only path was forward.

Windu keyed the secure comm, his thumb turning white on the transmit button. "Skywalker, this is Command. Your window is closing. Imperial reinforcements have arrived."

The reply was instant, raw with static but unmistakable: "Copy, Command. Already on final approach. Don't wait up for us."

Windu toggled off, then fixed Obi-Wan with a look. "If the assault team fails—"

"We won't have to worry about extraction," Obi-Wan finished, soft. "We'll be dead."

The reality settled on the bridge like a shadow. Windu's face, always so immutable, twisted at last. "I sense a shift in the Force. The outcome balances on a knife's edge, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan studied the holomap, the tangled web of red and blue. "It always does, Master. We just don't usually get to see it this clearly."

They stood together in the hush, the deck vibrating beneath their boots, and watched as the battle unfolded below—life and death measured not in days or years, but in the pulse of each new contact on the display.

A warning klaxon went off, shrill and immediate. "Shields at fifty percent," reported a clone, more annoyed than afraid. "We can't take much more."

Windu nodded, then reached for the comm again. His voice, when it came, was the closest thing to comfort anyone here would know: "All batteries, full spread. Show them what it means to fight for something."

The deck shuddered as every gun on the platform opened up. For one long, impossible moment, the night above Kamino glowed green and gold and terrible.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, letting the noise and color burn itself into memory. He'd been here before, a dozen times, a hundred—but never with so much left to lose.

"Skywalker will do it," he said, half to himself, half to Windu. "He always does."

Windu didn't answer, but the words hung in the air anyway.

Somewhere, far below, the shield perimeter flickered and failed. Obi-Wan watched as a gap opened, just wide enough for a single madman to slip through.

And, as always, that was enough.

The LAAT gunship bucked through Kamino's weather like a drunk speeder skidding sideways through a monsoon, every bolt of lightning peeling the world into brief, surgical clarity. Anakin rode the stick with both hands, knuckles white, keeping one eye on the mission clock and the other on the ghostly outlines of Tipoca City as they flickered in and out of existence below. The storm was a living thing, determined to rip the gunship in half, but Anakin relished the fight. He welcomed the distraction.

Behind him, the troop bay seethed with energy. Seven souls, each one more combustible than the last, packed shoulder-to-shoulder and jostling for a last second of mental prep. The white noise of the storm—rain hammering the hull, the thunder's aftershocks—created a natural bubble of privacy, the illusion that for the next three minutes, nothing existed except this battered ship and its cargo of outcasts.

Ahsoka stood first in line, right hand hovering near the hilt of one lightsaber, eyes closed in the kind of focused calm that always made Anakin want to throw things just to break her concentration. Her face was streaked with shadows, but her jaw was set, and her breathing slow and deep. She looked more Jedi than he ever had, and she knew it.

Next to her, Rex hunched over his blaster, fingers working the mechanism with obsessive care. He ran a clean rag through the receiver, then checked and re-checked the magazine, like the ritual might conjure an extra second of life in the battle to come. His helmet sat on his knee, the blue stripes dulled by months of field repair, but his eyes were clear—laser sharp, even under the green pall of the ready lights.

The Bad Batch filled the next four seats: Hunter silent and predatory, already running odds in his head; Tech scrolling through mission overlays on his datapad, glasses flickering with code; Wrecker bouncing one leg with barely contained glee, muttering "Yeah, yeah, yeah" under his breath; Crosshair resting with his arms folded, staring at nothing, body language promising murder to anyone who interrupted his thoughts.

Maul sat apart, unrestrained but watched by all, every inch the predator at rest. He leaned back against the bulkhead, eyes closed, arms folded across his chest. The movement was so at odds with the rest of the team's nervous energy that it made him look almost tranquil—except for the way his fingers drummed on the armrest in a rhythm just shy of madness. Even in sleep, Anakin guessed, Maul would murder you for fun.

The gunship pitched hard as a near-miss flared to starboard, the concussion rippling through every rib of the hull. Anakin toggled the squad comm. "Brace up. Ninety seconds."

He twisted the yoke, dipping low to hug the shadow of a comms tower, then pulled a tight corkscrew to lose the lock from a surface-to-air battery. The city loomed ahead, ringed in fire, its shields already fractured by the orbital bombardment. It looked, Anakin thought, like a crown built for the galaxy's worst tyrant.

He glanced back at the squad, noting who needed a word, who didn't.

"Here's the play," he said, voice clipped and confident. "We hit the west spire and punch through to the central control room. Tech's on the override. Rex, you know the back halls—lead the way. Wrecker, you're with me on breach. Ahsoka, cover Tech until he gets the system unlocked. Hunter, Crosshair, perimeter until we call you in. Maul—" he let the name hang in the air, baiting him "—stay close, and don't get creative."

Maul's lips curled, but he kept his eyes shut. "As you wish, Skywalker."

Wrecker cracked his neck, grinning. "Can I go loud this time?"

"Only after we hit the main deck," Anakin replied. "Until then, think subtle."

Wrecker made a face, but nodded. "Never get to have any fun."

Tech raised a finger, not looking up from the datapad. "Landing vector puts us within five meters of the entry port. I'll need forty-five seconds at the terminal. Longer if the Kaminoans have changed their security since last scan."

Ahsoka cut in, voice cool. "We've all seen what happens if the chips go active. There's no room for mistakes. If you see the eyes glaze—"

"Drop them," said Rex. "Fast."

Hunter flexed his hands, eyes already scanning the gloom outside the viewport. "Expect garrison resistance, but main force is prepping to repel the Star Destroyer. Our window is tight."

The gunship banked again, this time more gently, as Anakin throttled back to reduce their signature. The landing pad was a thin slice of metal suspended above the storm, its far edge already glowing under the staccato fire of blaster turrets. Four other LAATs streaked ahead, each vectoring for a different entry point, but Anakin felt the focus narrow until only his team's approach mattered.

"Final checks," he called.

Ahsoka rolled her shoulders, then shot him a sideways look. "You ready for this, Master?"

Anakin grinned, all teeth. "I was born for this."

Rex snapped his helmet on with a practiced twist, voice now filtered and electronic. "For the Republic. For the brothers."

Hunter cocked his rifle. "Let's make it hurt."

The ready light flipped to red. "Thirty seconds," Tech said. "Hang on."

The gunship hit the platform with a controlled slam, struts sparking against the wet surface. The ramp slammed down, rain and wind rushing into the bay. Anakin drew his saber, the familiar hum a promise in the night.

"Go, go, go!" he shouted.

Ahsoka was first, leaping into the storm, blades at the ready. Rex and the Bad Batch followed, then Maul—who opened his eyes at last, and let the yellow in them shine.

Anakin went last, the rain cold on his face, the heat of the battle ahead already burning in his veins.

They hit the platform running, weapons up, every step a dare to the universe to stop them.

It never could.

The white corridors swallowed noise, but not violence. Every step the assault team took inside the Kaminoan facility left a new scar: scorch marks, shattered plastoid, the acrid stink of spent tibanna mingling with the antiseptic tang of recycled air. The alarms shrieked in three languages, but none of them said what mattered: that the war had come home at last.

A squad of clone troopers blocked the first junction, their armor so clean it looked almost ceremonial. Anakin led the charge, his saber a blue smear in the corridor. The first volley of blaster fire vanished against his blade; the second he batted back with a twist of the wrist, sending two troopers tumbling in a spray of broken visor and blood.

Ahsoka moved in beside him, her twin blades flickering—first white, then electric as she spun and redirected a bolt into a control panel. The wall exploded outward, venting a storm of steam and sparks. Rex's team filled the breach, Wrecker launching a stun grenade through the fog while Hunter and Crosshair swept the stragglers with pinpoint fire. Tech, hunched behind his shield, tapped into the security grid and killed the next alarm before it could call in reinforcements.

Maul hung back, letting the clones absorb the first chaos. When the moment was right, he moved—one liquid stride forward, a flick of his hand, and the last four defenders smashed into the ceiling so hard they stuck for a moment before falling boneless to the floor. He wiped his mouth, almost bored, then glared at Anakin as if he expected more from the opposition.

The next intersection was worse: two squads, entrenched behind a mobile barricade. Wrecker laughed, lifted the entire barricade with a grunt, and used it as a battering ram. He took three hits to the chest, but his armor held. Crosshair picked off the ones who tried to flank; Rex dropped smoke and sprinted through it, blaster on full auto.

Ahsoka saw the change in the clones' eyes as they fired at her: the tiniest shimmer, a blankness behind the pupils. "They're running on base programming," she called out. "No initiative."

"Good," said Maul. "Less room for error."

They pushed forward, corridor by corridor, every meter more resistance and more confusion. Tech led them through a series of maintenance shafts, cutting five minutes from the route but doubling the chance of running into a killbox. At one bend, a pair of gun emplacements spat molten death down the hallway. Anakin sent his saber spinning, cleaving through both guns and the hands that fired them, then recalled the blade and carved an entry through a sealed bulkhead.

Inside, the world opened up into the Kaminoan birthing chamber: a cathedral of glass and water, dozens of cloning vats arranged in concentric rings, each tank glowing an impossible blue. The floor was slick with condensation and the faintest trace of blood.

Rex hesitated. "We're not alone."

Ahsoka saw them—scores of clones in white, standing at parade rest around the central core. None moved. None spoke.

At the far end, flanked by black-armored Purge Troopers, waited a Kaminoan Prime. Her eyes were like twin moons, unblinking, and she stood so still that the only sign of life was the flutter in the folds of her neck.

"Welcome, Jedi," she said, voice soft and sterile. "You have made a grievous error."

Anakin stepped forward, saber lit. "Deactivate the security systems. Recall the kill teams. You can walk away."

The Kaminoan blinked, slowly. "We are not designed for surrender."

Maul grinned, baring his teeth. "Then you'll die as you were designed: obsolete."

Before the Kaminoan could answer, the Purge Troopers raised their repeaters. Maul and Anakin were on them in a heartbeat, red and blue blades slashing in concert. The clones encircled the room, aiming but not firing, as if waiting for a signal.

Ahsoka and Rex took cover behind a vat. "We need to split up," Anakin called, voice echoing off the glass. "Ahsoka—take Rex and Tech to the secondary control node. Hunter, Wrecker, Crosshair: secure our exit route and plant charges at the structural junctions. Maul and I will push for the primary objective."

Ahsoka's protest cut the air. "Master, are you sure—"

"We don't have time to debate this, Snips." The old nickname, sharp and familiar.

She let it hang between them, then nodded. "Fine. But don't get killed."

Maul's smile was razor-thin. "I'd be more concerned about yourself, little one."

Rex pulled Tech by the arm. "Move. Now."

The team fractured—three heading left, three right, Maul and Anakin straight up the central catwalk toward the command sphere.

Ahsoka glanced back once. Maul's presence was a gravity well; even at a distance, it sucked the warmth from the air. She caught Rex's eye, and in that flicker, they both remembered Coruscant, the Temple, the blood on the marble.

"Don't hesitate," she whispered, and he nodded, jaw set.

They disappeared into the next corridor, alarms still wailing, the blue light of the vats following them like hungry ghosts.

Anakin and Maul reached the base of the core. Above, a spiral staircase led up through the heart of the sphere, every step guarded by a new squad of clones.

Maul looked at Anakin, contempt mixing with a strange, reluctant respect. "You have a plan?"

"Hit them hard and don't stop."

Maul gestured, mocking. "After you."

They charged up the steps, blades carving a path. Anakin moved with controlled brutality—no wasted motion, every cut a mercy kill. Maul was wilder, less art and more animal, the air filled with the stink of scorched synthflesh and the high whine of dying machinery.

They breached the top of the staircase together, finding themselves in a domed chamber ringed with consoles. The control node: the brain of Kamino.

Waiting for them were a dozen troopers in prototype armor—sleek, black, unmarked. Their faces were blank plates. The first three opened fire; Maul yanked two into the air and crushed them against the ceiling, while Anakin took the third with a single, spinning slash.

In the momentary silence, Anakin keyed the com. "Ahsoka—status."

"Almost there," came her reply, ragged. "Tech says the security is heavier than we thought."

"Keep moving," Anakin snapped. "If they lock down the mainframe, we're finished."

Maul prowled the room, watching as Anakin jammed his saber into the primary control housing. The smell of melting plasteel filled the air.

"You ever wonder," Maul said, voice low, "if you're on the wrong side? If the Order was just another machine?"

Anakin didn't look up. "You're projecting."

Maul shrugged, as if he'd expected the answer. "Projecting is what the weak do, Skywalker. I am beyond that."

Anakin carved the last layer from the housing, exposing the glowing heart of the node. "You can lecture me after we survive this."

Maul bared his teeth again, but said nothing.

Down the corridor, the sound of running boots—reinforcements. Anakin braced, ready to face whatever came through the door.

This, he thought, was what he'd always been meant to do.

This, and nothing else.

The maintenance corridors ran like veins through the Kaminoan undercity—tight, wet, and dimly lit by the desperate pulse of emergency strobes. Each burst of red or blue cast the world into a different horror: clones at war with themselves, floors slick with the runoff of broken aqueducts, the constant drip of rainwater from the ceiling punctuating every footfall.

Ahsoka led the way, sabers drawn but dimmed to the lowest possible intensity. Behind her, Rex and Tech moved in staggered formation, checking every corner, every shadow. The place reeked of ozone, sweat, and panic.

At the first junction, they ran into a squad of clones—not black-armored this time, just the standard white, faces drawn and confused behind the visors. They'd set up a half-hearted barricade of overturned crates and tangled wiring, but their discipline was off. Ahsoka motioned for quiet, let Rex take point.

He stepped into the open, hands raised. "Brothers," he called, voice carrying over the blare of the alarms. "You're being controlled. You have to fight it. We can help."

The clones hesitated, blasters wavering. One of them—barely out of cadet age, by the look—let his rifle dip, eyes glassy with doubt. Another clone barked an order, and suddenly half the squad snapped back to deadly focus.

Ahsoka could see it in their stance: the programming was still there, but the cracks had started. They fired, and she moved—two steps left, one right, blades a blur as she batted away the first volley. Rex dove for cover, returning fire with measured bursts, never aiming to kill.

"Suppressive only!" he yelled, but the clones didn't care.

Ahsoka dropped a smoke pellet and moved through the haze, disabling three with quick, numbing blows to their armor's weak points. One of the troopers actually cried out as she cut the blaster from his hands—"Don't make me!"—before collapsing in a heap.

Tech crouched at a nearby access panel, hands flying. "I can bypass the local override, but only for a minute—then the mainframe resets everything. I need more time."

Rex kicked aside a crate and laid a hand on the shoulder of the nearest downed clone. "Listen to me," he said, almost pleading. "You don't have to do what they say. You're more than the chip."

The clone looked up, eyes wide, and for a second there was something like recognition. Then the trooper shuddered, teeth clenching, and passed out.

More blaster fire from up the corridor—reinforcements, drawn by the commotion. Ahsoka met them at the choke point, deflecting shot after shot back into the walls, her motions less graceful now, more desperate.

Tech called out, "Almost in. Hold them off—fifteen seconds."

Rex took a glancing shot to the shoulder, cursed, and ducked lower. "You sure this'll work?"

"It will work," said Tech, but his hands shook. "It has to."

Ahsoka caught a bolt on her right blade and redirected it into the leg of a charging trooper, dropping him instantly. The next three tried to flank her; she spun, back-kicked the closest into the wall, and swept the legs from the next. The third clone raised his rifle point-blank, but hesitated—just long enough for Rex to stun him from behind.

The smoke thickened. Tech's voice cut through, triumphant: "I'm in! Localized signal scramble is active. They should stand down—"

As if on cue, the remaining clones froze mid-motion. One dropped his weapon, staring at his hands in horror.

Ahsoka sagged against the wall, breathing hard. "Is it permanent?"

Tech shook his head, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. "We have maybe ninety seconds before they reboot the sector. We need to move."

Rex glanced at the stunned troopers, jaw tight. "They're still in there. Somewhere."

Ahsoka squeezed his shoulder, then led the way forward. They hustled past the groaning clones, down a spiral ramp slick with condensation.

At the bottom, Tech plugged into the next terminal. "I can buy us another minute. Maybe two."

Ahsoka reached for the comlink, thumbed it live. "Master, we're through the first node. Tech has a temporary override, but we need the mainframe for a total shutdown."

Anakin's reply was rough-edged, broken by bursts of static and battle noise. "We're encountering heavy resistance. New Imperial prototypes—some kind of advanced troopers in black armor. Tell Rex to watch his back."

Ahsoka exchanged a look with Rex—confirmation, and a promise.

Ahead, another door hissed open. More clones, eyes blank, weapons raised.

This time, they didn't hesitate.

They hit the main corridor at a dead sprint, Maul's red blade and Anakin's blue cutting parallel lines through the strobing light. The alarms had changed pitch—lower now, a subsonic rumble you felt in your teeth more than your ears. Anakin recognized it as a panic signal: the Kaminoans had unleashed everything.

The first prototype trooper met them at the corridor's midpoint. It was taller than a man, plated in black composite, eyes burning blue behind a slitless mask. It moved with the precision of a droid, but when Anakin reached out through the Force, he felt not emptiness, but something alive. Something terrified.

Maul leapt at the thing, blade slashing down at the neck seam. The saber skittered off, barely scoring the armor. The trooper's response was instant: a gauntleted fist slammed into Maul's chest, sending him crashing through a wall.

Anakin pivoted, saber up. The trooper advanced, uncaring of the debris. He tried to Force-push it back, but it barely rocked on its heels. So he closed the gap, ducked under its first swing, and drove his blade into the joint at the armpit. Sparks, a gout of hydraulic fluid, and then the trooper backhanded him into the opposite wall.

Maul reappeared, grinning and bloody. "Stubborn," he said, and spat a tooth. "Almost admirable."

Two more prototypes rounded the corner, moving in perfect tandem. Anakin and Maul exchanged a glance—truce, for now—and charged together.

Anakin feinted high, drawing the first trooper's block, while Maul slipped underneath and stabbed at the knee. The blade went in this time, shearing through the joint. The trooper collapsed, but kept fighting, arms windmilling in a blur of carbon fiber and death. Anakin finished it with a stab through the base of the skull.

The other two boxed them in, working as one. Maul's saber whirled, but the trooper caught it on a forearm, locked it in a hydraulic vise, and twisted. The hilt screeched, red blade flickering. Anakin dove in, slashing at the second's midsection, but the armor ate the blow. Only when he jammed the saber through the eye slit did the thing finally shudder and die.

Behind you, Anakin tried to say, but Maul was already moving, twisting free and driving an elbow into the prototype's chest. He yanked his saber loose and ignited it inside the trooper's throat.

The hallway went still, except for the hiss of molten plastic and the stink of burned lubricant.

Maul straightened, grinning wider. "Efficient. I expected more struggle from the Chosen One."

Anakin wiped sweat from his brow. "There's plenty more up ahead."

They pushed forward, every muscle straining. The next section of corridor was lined with dead clones, each one bearing the same blank expression: not rage, not even fear—just the certainty of having failed at the only thing they'd ever been good for.

Anakin knelt beside one, helmet off. The clone's eyes flickered. "General…" he whispered. "Don't let it end like this."

Maul made a noise of disgust. "It never ends, clone. It just changes hands."

Anakin closed the man's eyes, then rose. "Keep moving."

They hit the next checkpoint just as a full squad of prototypes turned the corner. These wore no insignia, no colors—just matte black, like the future had already swallowed them. They opened fire, blasters on full auto.

Anakin and Maul worked in perfect tandem now—blue and red blades weaving a net of energy, bolts ricocheting into the ceiling and walls. Maul darted forward, using a downed trooper as a shield, while Anakin advanced in a series of lightning-fast leaps, each one bringing him closer to the enemy.

At point-blank, Maul hurled his saber like a spear. It caught a prototype in the chest, driving it back into the squad. The others hesitated, and Anakin seized the moment—he slammed a fistful of lightning into the nearest, frying its circuitry and sending it to the floor convulsing.

"You're holding back," Maul snarled, retrieving his blade. "Why?"

"They're victims, not enemies," Anakin shot back, breathing hard.

Maul's face twisted in mockery. "Your compassion will be your undoing, Skywalker."

Anakin didn't answer. Instead, he stabbed his saber into the floor, superheating the durasteel. The prototypes stumbled, slowed by the sudden sinkhole, and Maul swept through, blade spinning, and took three heads in a single motion.

The rest went down to teamwork: Maul's brutality and Anakin's precision, the choreography so tight it barely looked real.

The corridor ended at the main blast doors—two meters thick, reinforced, the last stop before the primary control. A chorus of alarms wailed from inside.

Anakin keyed his comm. "Ahsoka, we're at the main node. Time?"

Static, then: "Tech says two minutes. But the new models are everywhere."

Maul turned to Anakin, voice very quiet. "Do you trust her?"

"With my life."

Maul's smile was thin and poisonous. "Then let's see whose faith breaks first."

They braced as the door buckled under a barrage of interior blaster fire. From behind, more prototypes stomped into view, pincering them between the last defenders and the reinforcements.

Maul looked at Anakin, something like respect surfacing for a heartbeat. "Go. I'll hold them."

Anakin stared. "You'll die."

Maul's grin never wavered. "You wish."

He leapt back into the corridor, his scream rising over the blaster fire. Anakin jammed both hands into the door seam, summoning everything left. The Force rippled, metal screamed, and the blast doors tore open just enough for a single body to slip through.

He went.

Inside, the command center was chaos—consoles exploding, Kaminoans screaming, at least a dozen elite clone commandos waiting behind barricades.

Anakin ignited his saber. "I don't want to kill you," he said, voice carrying over the madness.

A commando stepped forward. "Then lay down your weapon, sir."

Anakin looked at their faces, each one a mirror of Rex, of every friend he'd left behind. "I can't."

Then the world went blue, and the fight began in earnest.

The bridge of the command platform was a pressure cooker, all condensed oxygen and adrenaline, the viewports streaked with the pulsing energy of near-misses and dying ships. Above Kamino, the battle had gone from desperate to catastrophic: Imperial reinforcements poured in by the wing, every new Star Destroyer blotting out a little more hope from the orbital sky.

Windu stood at the center of it, hands clasped behind his back, every muscle a cable. The deck lurched beneath him as another broadside raked their shields. "Damage report," he snapped.

"Shields down to fifteen percent, General," called the clone at navigation. "We're patching hull breaches with internal shutters, but any direct hit—"

"Noted," Windu said, voice like a blade.

Obi-Wan stalked the perimeter, analyzing the mess of tactical holos. He swept a sleeve over the largest display, pushing aside icons until the dropship wave was front and center. "They're concentrating everything on the city's core. If Skywalker doesn't finish in five minutes, there won't be a surface left to land on."

A fresh volley hammered the hull, knocking two officers from their stations. Windu didn't flinch. "All batteries, full spread. Prioritize the troop carriers."

The weapons officer—her face half-burned, but steady—nodded and relayed the order. The return fire lit up the viewport in a momentary wash of green, but even so, another squadron of TIEs slipped past and began strafing the upper decks.

Obi-Wan watched the tactical display recalculate, its projections growing bleaker by the second. He set his jaw and keyed the internal comm. "Command to Blue Leader—pull your wing back to cover the ventral docks. All other squadrons, focus fire on the largest troop ships. We need to buy Skywalker every second we can."

A junior officer at sensors glanced up, terror barely contained. "Sir, three new signatures: unknown model. Looks like advanced boarding shuttles."

Windu caught Obi-Wan's eye. "They're coming for the command deck."

Obi-Wan half-smiled, the expression brittle. "At least they're predictable."

The intercom crackled—ground team. Windu answered. "Skywalker, status."

A burst of static, then Anakin's voice: "We're in the main control, but it's locked down tight. Maul's holding the corridor. I need sixty seconds—no more."

"You have thirty," Windu replied. "Then we lose orbital supremacy."

Obi-Wan toggled the mute, leaned in. "If they don't pull it off, there's no extraction. You know that."

Windu nodded. "I know."

The deck shuddered again, more violently this time. Several displays flickered and died. An engineering officer ran to Windu's side, blood streaming from his scalp. "Sir, forward batteries are down. If the next volley hits—"

Windu held up a hand. "It won't."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "You're suddenly the optimist?"

Windu smiled, just for a second. "I choose to believe in miracles, Kenobi. Today, at least."

On the tactical, the enemy boarding shuttles converged on the platform, cutting through point-defense fire as if it were nothing. Each icon flashed red, then disappeared as it docked somewhere along the superstructure.

Obi-Wan moved to the viewport, studying the swarm of TIEs and boarding craft. "We'll need to prep for hand-to-hand. No time for evacuation."

Windu's gaze didn't leave the tactical. "We defend until we can't. Then we improvise."

"Isn't that Skywalker's line?" Obi-Wan asked, eyes glinting.

A distant explosion rocked the bridge, followed by the sharp hiss of atmosphere venting behind the emergency doors. Windu didn't bother to turn. "All stations: arm yourselves. Defensive teams to every ingress point."

The crew responded instantly, a hundred hands moving in sudden, silent unity.

Obi-Wan keyed the comm again, this time to the city. "Skywalker, now or never."

The voice that came back was nearly drowned in noise, but the words were unmistakable: "We're going for the override. Cover us."

Windu allowed himself a single, centering breath. "May the Force be with us."

The command platform trembled, the fate of everything resting on a thin blue line below and a handful of rebels holding it together up here.

Obi-Wan smiled again, genuine this time. "I always did like a good last stand."

And for a heartbeat, hope was a physical thing, alive in the roar of the bridge.

Tech was bleeding from one ear, his fingers slick with sweat and blood as they danced across the Kaminoan console. The terminal itself was a vertical cylinder of shifting holoscreens, lines of code cascading in three dimensions, half of it in a language no human was meant to read. Every time he found the logic thread, the system rewrote itself, like the facility was actively fighting back. "I need three minutes," he gasped, ducking as a fresh volley of blaster fire chewed the edge of the console.

Behind him, Ahsoka and Rex held the perimeter, Rex barking crisp orders to the Bad Batch as they hunkered behind what remained of the birthing vats. Wrecker flung a fallen prototype trooper into a knot of oncoming hostiles, sending them scattering. Crosshair pinged each in the head as they tried to recover, never wasting a shot. Hunter prowled the far flank, knife out, picking off any that slipped through the line.

Ahsoka's blades glimmered in the strobe of failing lights, the arcs of her defense tracing out a perfect hemisphere around Tech. She caught every blaster bolt, every thrown stun baton, and redirected them with barely a glance. Her arms ached, and her breath was coming faster now, but she refused to let the perimeter fall.

"Status?" she called, slicing through a trooper who got too close.

"Almost there," Tech replied, voice hoarse. "The failsafe is recursive—it keeps changing access patterns. I have to guess the next sequence before it executes."

Rex was pinned down by three more prototypes, each one wading through the firestorm like it was a summer breeze. He toggled his comm, yelling over the din. "Wrecker, I need heavy at my twelve!"

Wrecker grunted, then barreled forward, taking every shot to his chest plate. He ripped the nearest trooper in half, then used the upper torso to batter the others aside. "Haha! Now that's more like it!"

Crosshair swept the corridor, eyes never blinking. "They're massing for a push," he said. "Thirty seconds."

Rex dove for cover, a blaster bolt grazing his leg. "We're running out of time, Tech!"

Tech's hands blurred, the world narrowing to the math in front of him. He found the next sequence, locked it, then another, then the last. The terminal pulsed, then went dark.

For a split second, there was silence.

"Did it work?" Ahsoka asked, voice barely audible.

Tech stared at the display, then exhaled. "Initiating deactivation sequence…now!"

A pulse shot out from the tower, visible as a faint blue ripple that passed through every wall and every living being on the platform. Across the birthing chamber, the attacking clones froze. One dropped his rifle, staring at his hands as if he'd never seen them before.

On the deck, Rex crawled to a fallen trooper, flipped him over. The clone's eyes were wild, but this time it was fear, not programming, behind them.

"Sir?" the trooper whispered. "What…what happened?"

"You're free," Rex said, voice cracking. "The nightmare's over."

Above, in the command platform, Obi-Wan and Windu saw the results in real time. The enemy boarding party breached the outer hull, but instead of a coordinated assault, the clones inside turned on their Imperial handlers. Mutiny blossomed in every corridor, every defense point.

Obi-Wan grinned, the weight of the war lifting for the first time in years. "Well done, Skywalker," he murmured.

Back in the birthing chamber, the aftermath was chaos. Some clones wept, some simply sat down, stunned. Wrecker and Hunter immediately started triaging the wounded, dragging them into a safe zone behind the vats.

Maul appeared at the top of the staircase, saber dripping oil and blood. He surveyed the scene, then snorted. "How quickly loyalty shifts when the chains are broken."

Ahsoka turned to face him, both blades up. "This isn't about loyalty. It's about freedom."

Maul's smile was thin as a knife. "Call it what you wish, little one. The effect is the same."

At the console, Tech slumped, hands trembling. "It's not permanent," he said. "The Empire will try to reassert control. But for now—"

"For now, we hold," said Rex. He stood, face streaked with blood and tears, and looked around at the sea of battered brothers. "We hold and we fight."

A commotion at the entrance: Anakin, limping but unbowed, dragging a line of commandos behind him, all disarmed and blinking in confusion.

He keyed the main comm, patched into every system on Kamino. "This is Skywalker. To all clones—stand down. You are no longer under Imperial control. Today, you have a choice. Join us, or leave. But never again fight as slaves."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then, one by one, the clones began to cheer. The sound built, echoing through the empty halls, until even the dead seemed to rejoice.

Anakin limped to Rex, clapped him on the shoulder. "Nice work, Captain."

Rex laughed, a ragged, broken sound. "Couldn't have done it without the team."

Wrecker whooped, Crosshair gave a rare smile, even Tech managed a nod of satisfaction.

Ahsoka sheathed her blades, met Anakin's gaze. "Is it over?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. But it's enough for today."

Maul slinked into the shadows, eyes never leaving Skywalker. "Your revolution won't last," he called back, voice echoing. "But it will be beautiful while it does."

Anakin watched him go, then turned back to the others. "Let's get off this rock before the Empire figures out what happened."

Windu's voice crackled over the comm. "Skywalker. More Imperial reinforcements inbound. Whatever you did, it worked. But now you need to extract."

Anakin smiled, tired and real. "Copy that, Master. We'll be right behind you."

The team gathered the wounded, herded the dazed clones, and made for the landing platform.

Outside, the storm was breaking. For the first time, the sun shone through the clouds, painting the ruined city in gold.

Ahsoka caught the moment, tucked it away.

There was hope, and that was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

The corridor was a wound in the heart of Kamino, bleeding water and blue emergency light. Rex led the way, helmet clamped tight against the stench of ozone and melted plastoid, every step calibrated for silence—but nothing could silence the storm. Rain hammered the hull in waves, rattling every vent and seam, and inside, the world vibrated to the pulse of distant detonations.

Anakin moved behind him, boots splashing through puddles left by the failing ceiling. The place was coming apart: wiring dangled from broken housings, every third panel sparked with raw current, and the familiar stripes of the old 501st banners hung in tatters. The facility was both a tomb and a trap.

The team pressed on in a staggered column—Rex at point, then two of the Bad Batch, then Anakin. They had seven altogether, a patchwork of survivors and the few trusted clones Rex had managed to drag from the refugee muster. Each man wore mismatched armor, each set dinged and scraped by the last two years' worth of running, but every helmet bore the old blue. Loyalty, painted in stubborn hope.

Rex signaled a halt at the first intersection. The junction was lit by a single flickering glowstrip, and beyond it, darkness pooled like oil. "Thermal," he whispered.

Wrecker raised the scope, blinked. "Hot spots, ten meters. Holding pattern. Lotta them."

Rex nodded, signaling Tech to ready the EMP spike. He edged forward and peered around the corner.

The clones on the far side were textbook: two ranks, even spacing, weapons at parade rest but fingers tight on the triggers. Rex recognized the stance instantly—he'd trained it into a generation. The sight made his stomach twist.

He scanned faces, knowing it was hopeless with helmets on, but hoping anyway. The third man in the second rank looked familiar—shorter than the rest, helmet painted with a jagged orange line down the cheek.

"Jace," Rex mouthed, voice gone dry.

The clone's head snapped up, and for an instant, the helmet dipped—like a nod of recognition. Then it reset, expressionless, and the line of rifles leveled at Rex's chest.

Anakin stepped forward, saber unlit but visible. "Captain?"

"Brothers," Rex said. It came out a plea.

"Then let's not waste them," Anakin said. He put a mechanical hand on Rex's shoulder—a gentle squeeze, but strong enough to jolt Rex back into motion. "Remember why we're here. In and out. Minimal casualties."

Wrecker grinned, teeth glinting in the dark. "Never liked killing clones, anyway."

"Stun only," Rex said, and the order echoed down the line, repeated by every helmet.

He flung a flashbang around the corner, then charged with the rest. The world went blue-white for half a breath. Blaster fire lanced the walls, burning streaks into the wet plastic. Rex dropped to one knee, raised his own rifle, and squeezed three rounds at the lead trooper. All blue rings, all set to maximum stun. The first trooper spasmed, dropped.

The rest of the squad responded with terrifying discipline. Even as the first man fell, the second and third stepped over him, firing in interlocked patterns—one high, one low, one dead at Rex's faceplate. Rex saw the next bolt coming, counted the angle, ducked and returned fire. He dropped another, then a third.

For a moment, it was just him and the orange-striped trooper, trading shots. The helmet never wavered; the return fire was perfect, but never lethal—always set to incapacitate. Rex's mind reeled. "He's holding back," he muttered.

Anakin stepped into the line of fire, ignited his saber. The blue blade soaked up the first wave of bolts, spinning them off into the walls and ceiling, where they stitched patterns of molten glass into the plasteel. "Go!" he called, and the team surged forward, fanning out to flank the clones.

Wrecker body-slammed a pair into the wall, knocking them senseless, while Tech darted behind and tagged the next with a handheld zapper, shorting out the man's neural override. The trooper twitched, then slumped.

Rex barreled through the chaos, one eye on the orange-stripe, who dropped his rifle and met him with a knife. The two collided in the wreckage of a fallen doorframe. The knife caught on Rex's chestplate, scraped sparks; Rex slammed the butt of his rifle into the trooper's chin, knocking the helmet loose.

The face underneath was younger than Rex remembered—eyes wild, teeth bared. For a moment, it looked like Jace might actually kill him.

"Don't—" Rex managed, but the knife came again.

Anakin's saber hissed between them, slicing the blade in half. The heat of it burned the air, made both men flinch. The orange-stripe fell back, blinking, and for just a second his eyes met Rex's. There was something human there, something desperate and terrified.

"Help—" the trooper choked, and then Wrecker stunned him at point blank.

The squad mopped up the rest, stacking stunned bodies in a side alcove. Rex knelt by the orange-stripe, hand shaking as he pulled off the rest of the helmet.

"Sorry, brother," he whispered, but he doubted Jace could hear.

Anakin crouched beside him, voice low. "He'll be fine, once Tech gets the override in place. We're not here to mourn."

Rex nodded, wiped his face. "Right."

Wrecker called from up the hall: "Next junction's clear, but we got more movement ahead. Heavy signatures, different from the last batch."

Tech didn't look up from his scanner. "Armor profiles don't match known clone variants. Could be prototypes. New models."

Rex hefted his rifle, checked the power pack. "That's just great."

They pressed on, past the battered checkpoint and down into the guts of the facility. The deeper they went, the colder it got—condensation pooled on every surface, and the air stank of old smoke and something medicinal. The walls were scarred by recent fighting, and at one point Rex stepped over a puddle that was definitely more blood than rain.

The next corridor opened into a wide ramp sloping down toward a blast door, currently jammed halfway open by a mangled loader droid. A red emergency light spun overhead, casting everything in pulses of warning.

Wrecker lobbed a grenade into the darkness, waited for the pop, then ducked through. The rest followed, and immediately came under fire—blaster bolts, but also something else: a stream of hypervelocity darts that sliced through the edge of Wrecker's pauldron and pinned it to the wall.

"Frak!" Wrecker yelled, yanking himself free. "That's new."

Rex squinted, saw movement: figures in black armor, hunched and fast. The helmets were smooth, featureless, with a single horizontal slit of pale blue. They moved like droids, but the sound of their boots was too organic.

Anakin took point, saber humming in tight, controlled circles. "Dark troopers," he said. "Not droids—something worse."

The first black-armored unit charged, arm cannons spitting a hail of red bolts. Anakin blocked most, but one caught him on the shoulder and he staggered, the smell of scorched synthflesh filling the air.

"General!" Rex shouted.

"I'm fine," Anakin grunted, then hurled his saber in a spinning arc. It punched through the chestplate of the lead trooper, who folded in half and crashed into the wall with enough force to buckle the metal.

But three more took its place, firing in tight formation. Rex and the rest returned fire, but their stun settings barely dented the new armor.

"They're shielded," Tech barked, eyes frantic behind his goggles. "Aim for the joints!"

Rex adjusted, targeted the elbow of the nearest unit. The stun blast blew the arm off, but the trooper kept coming, swinging the stump like a club. It caught one of Rex's men in the helmet, knocking him out cold.

Wrecker grabbed the one-armed trooper from behind, squeezed until the black armor groaned, then suplexed it into the floor. He whooped, but the victory was short—two more grabbed him by the legs and tried to drag him off.

Anakin waded into the fray, blue blade flickering, each stroke precise and lethal. Rex followed, firing at the knees, then the neck seam, then anywhere the armor looked thin. It was like fighting animals—no tactics, no hesitation, just overwhelming force.

One of the black-armored troopers tackled Rex, drove him into a wall with enough power to crack the plastoid. The helmet pressed in, the blue slit of its eyes glowing brighter as it tried to crush his throat.

Rex groped for his sidearm, managed to jam it under the chin of the trooper. He fired. The bolt blasted out the top of the helmet, and the trooper collapsed, spasming.

Rex staggered upright, vision swimming. Two more of his men were down, but still breathing. Anakin was a blur, blade carving figure-eights in the air. Tech was pinned behind a fallen bench, frantically swapping power cells on his zapper.

"Move!" Anakin called. "Fall back to the corridor!"

They scrambled for the breach, dragging the stunned and unconscious with them. The black-armored troopers advanced, relentless, but their numbers were thinning—each kill slowed the rest, as if the system needed time to recalculate.

Once in the relative shelter of the corridor, Anakin keyed his comm. "Ahsoka, come in. We need that distraction."

A burst of static, then: "We're ready. On your mark."

Anakin looked at Rex, the old confidence shining through the sweat and exhaustion. "Ready, Captain?"

Rex checked his men, counted the living. Five left, including himself. He nodded.

"Always," he said.

Anakin grinned. "Let's give them something to remember."

They waited, counting the footsteps as the black-armored units approached.

At the far end, a second flashbang detonated, followed by the war cry of the Bad Batch. Wrecker barreled out of nowhere, tackling three troopers at once and dragging them into the void.

Rex leveled his rifle at the lead unit and fired, point blank, into the joint at the hip. The blast sheared the leg off; the trooper dropped, clawing at the floor, but Rex planted his boot on its back and stunned it again.

The rest of the team laid down suppressing fire, herding the black-armored troopers toward Anakin, who finished them with a series of quick, surgical blows.

When the last of the enemy fell, Rex slumped against the wall, panting.

Anakin deactivated his saber, then crouched by Rex's side. "They're not clones," he said. "But they're just as lost."

Rex shook his head, numb. "Everything changes. Nothing changes."

Anakin put his hand on Rex's shoulder, not mechanical this time, just flesh and bone. "We're almost there. One last push."

Tech knelt beside the unconscious orange-stripe, patched a hypo into the neck. "This will keep him stable," he said. "Maybe, when this is over, he'll wake up as himself."

Rex looked at the face—pale, battered, but somehow peaceful.

"I hope so," he said.

Above, the storm battered the city. But inside, for the first time, Rex felt like they might actually make it.

They regrouped, patched their wounds, and advanced.

The control room waited.

The team hit the junction with all the force of a starfighter banking out of hyperspace—no time for finesse, just hard corners and harder choices. The lights here were out completely, leaving only the angry red of the emergency strobes, each pulse carving the world into a new kind of hell.

Rex checked their rear, then glanced at the schematic projected on Tech's forearm. "It's here," he said, tapping the cross-corridor. "This shaft runs up to the control nexus."

"Which is where you're going," Tech said. His voice was steady, but the twitch in his fingers betrayed him. He handed Rex a wafer-thin data spike, the override code they'd spent weeks cobbling together from half-burned files and desperate guesses.

"This should work," Tech said. "But you'll need to get it into the primary console. The secondary won't do."

Rex nodded, accepting the spike. "How long do you need for the diversion?"

Tech adjusted his goggles. "Not long. Once we breach the coolant trunk, they'll have to reroute all security teams." He hesitated. "If you get to the terminal, don't wait for us. Just finish it."

Rex gripped his hand, clone to clone. "See you topside, brother."

Tech ducked his head, then motioned the others to follow. Wrecker gave a thumbs-up, already grinning at the prospect of mayhem, and the team peeled off into the side passage, footsteps vanishing into the rising noise.

Anakin waited at the mouth of the shaft, saber ready but unlit. "They'll be fine," he said, as if reading Rex's mind.

"Yeah," Rex lied.

They moved fast, counting on the chaos to keep attention elsewhere. The maintenance shaft was little more than a crawlspace, studded with tangled cables and pools of water. The air buzzed with static, and the wet floor made every step a calculated risk.

"Go," Anakin said, and they moved in tandem—Rex at point, Anakin a half-step behind.

The first resistance came at the access ladder. Two clones in full white blocked the way, but their weapons were down—caught in the act of rerouting power, maybe. Rex stunned the first, Anakin grabbed the second by the collar and dropped him with the flat of his saber hilt.

They didn't stop to look at the faces.

Further up, the shaft forked left. A faint hiss and crackle carried down to them—blaster fire, close. Rex slowed, checked the schematic. "There's a crawl above the main birthing chamber. Gets us right over the bridge."

Anakin nodded. "Let's take it."

They slid the panel open, emerged into a ledge suspended over what looked like the inside of a moon. The chamber was vast, lit by a grid of ghostly blue, and every square meter was packed with gestation tanks—tens of thousands of clones in every stage, floating like embryos in columns of light. The sight made Rex's skin crawl and burn at the same time. He'd never seen so many future brothers at once.

The bridge was little more than a ribbon of plastisteel, three meters across, no railings, just a narrow passage from one world to the next. At the far side, the door to the control center shone like a promise.

But the way was blocked—six figures in red and white armor, arrayed in a staggered phalanx. Commandos. Old-school, the best of the old batch.

"Could go around," Anakin said, but he sounded like he already knew the answer.

Rex shook his head. "No time. They'll expect us to."

Anakin ignited his saber, its blue light throwing everything into high contrast. He glanced back at Rex. "Stay behind me."

Rex should have argued. Instead, he drew both pistols, set to stun, and nodded.

They stepped onto the bridge.

The commandos opened fire immediately, not a warning or a challenge—just perfect, synchronized violence. Anakin absorbed the first volley, spinning the blade so fast it blurred. The bolts turned to glassy spray, hissing away into the abyss.

Rex flanked left, low to the deck, firing as he moved. First shot caught a commando in the arm; the man didn't flinch, just switched grip and kept shooting.

Anakin advanced in short bursts, always moving, never predictable. He reflected a bolt back, clipped the helmet of a second commando. The man went down, dazed but alive.

The commandos adjusted, laying down a lattice of crossfire. One got lucky—a bolt grazed Anakin's thigh, singing the robes and drawing a grunt of pain.

Rex covered him, emptying both pistols before diving behind a set of floor-level pylons. He reloaded, peeked, saw one commando breaking formation, circling wide for a clean shot.

Rex waited, counted the steps, then popped up and fired. The stun bolt hit the man in the side of the helmet, sending him over the edge. The commando caught the bridge with one hand, hung on, boots dangling above the sea of tanks. Rex hesitated, then pulled him up by the wrist, slammed the butt of the pistol into the back of the helmet, and let him slump, unconscious, to the deck.

"Still a good man," Anakin said, voice tight with effort.

"I try," Rex said, and covered Anakin's advance.

The last two commandos coordinated a counter. One fired a wrist rocket, the other laid down a barrage. Rex hit the deck, the rocket passing close enough to burn his side. Anakin caught the next volley with a two-handed block, then hurled the saber in a wide, flashing arc. It cut the blaster in half, returned to Anakin's grip before the commando could react.

Rex saw the opening, took it, and stunned both men in two quick shots.

Silence, except for the hum of tanks and the distant, sorrowful wail of the alarms.

They moved to the far end of the bridge, breathing hard. Anakin deactivated the saber, wiped the sweat from his brow.

"That's the last line," he said.

Rex knelt by the nearest commando, checked the man's pulse. "He'll live. They all will."

Anakin placed a hand on Rex's shoulder—no words this time. None needed.

They looked together at the control room door, the final barrier.

"Ready?" Anakin asked.

Rex thumbed the data spike, felt the weight of everything in it. "Ready."

Anakin raised his saber. "Let's end it."

They charged the door together, the echo of their steps the only sound in the empty world behind.

The door to the control room blew inward, panel shearing off with a pneumatic shriek. Anakin led the charge, saber lit and arcing, Rex on his heels. The world inside was a fever dream of light and motion—holographic displays swept the perimeter in concentric rings, each one flickering a different madness: production stats, live feeds from the city, kill orders scrolling in endless red.

At the far end of the circular room, a squad of elite guards snapped to ready. They were a hybrid: two prototype dark troopers, built on the old clone frame but sleeved in matte black plating, and three clones in pristine white—no battle scars, just the cold, perfect faces of Imperial purity.

And above it all, on a raised dais, stood the commander.

It was a thing out of a nightmare—two meters tall, shoulders squared with unnatural precision, helmet faceless but for the single blue slit. Its arms were oversized, ending in gauntlets that bristled with built-in weaponry. When it spoke, the voice was pure machine, deep enough to vibrate bone.

"Jedi presence confirmed. Executing termination protocols."

Anakin didn't wait for the rest. He sprang onto the main floor, saber carving a spiral of heat. The commander fired a pulse cannon—Anakin dodged, barely, the blast scorching a molten groove into the deck. He pressed the attack, saber singing against the trooper's armor.

Rex dropped and rolled, firing at the guard line. First shot took a white-armored clone in the hip—he crumpled but kept firing, crawling forward with the tenacity Rex remembered and loathed. The other two split, one going high to flank, the other covering the approach with suppressing fire.

The dark troopers advanced, moving with inhuman grace. Rex recognized the tactic—they were herding him, pushing him toward the console. He gritted his teeth, then did the only thing that made sense: he ran for it, blaster blazing.

The nearest trooper caught him at the ribs, lifted him off the ground like a toy. Rex braced for the crushing grip, but instead the trooper slammed him into a console, shattering the holo-array. Rex fought for breath, then fired point-blank into the thing's helmet. At this range, the stun bolt fried the sensory nodes, and the trooper convulsed, letting him go.

Rex dropped, barely landing on his feet. The control terminal was right there, its surface alive with static and warnings.

He fumbled the data spike, hand shaking, and jammed it into the port. The display screamed an error—ACCESS DENIED—but he stabbed at the override anyway, forcing the code through.

Behind him, the world had shrunk to pain and light. Anakin and the commander blurred together, blue blade against black steel. The saber scored the armor, but never deep enough; every blow was met by a counter, a snap of the gauntlet or a shockwave of energy. Anakin took a hit to the shoulder—Rex saw the white-hot flash, heard the grunt—and for a moment the Jedi fell back.

But he wasn't the old Anakin, not anymore. He found his footing, eyes burning, and waited for the commander to charge. It did, arm cannon winding up for another shot. Anakin let it close, then sidestepped and kicked the joint behind the knee. The trooper staggered, and Anakin's saber slashed the hamstring, then the elbow, then—impossibly fast—the neck seam.

The head didn't come off, but the body went slack. Anakin shoved, and the thing crashed down, shattering the dais.

The remaining white-armored guard made his move, lunging at Anakin with a vibroblade. Anakin caught it on the saber, twisted, and disarmed him with a flick. He threw the clone aside, hard, but not fatal.

Rex, at the console, was losing the fight. The system locked him out at every turn, rewriting its own code to block the override. He heard a step behind—spun, gun raised.

The last of the white-armored guards was there. He tackled Rex, sending them both over the terminal. They tumbled, locked in a grappling brawl, neither gaining ground.

The clone's helmet came off in the struggle, revealing a face Rex hadn't seen in years: the hard lines, the squared jaw, the faint scar under the eye.

"Coric," Rex gasped, the name a shock.

The clone hesitated, eyes blinking. "You—You're supposed to—"

"It's me, Coric! It's Rex! Stand down!"

For a heartbeat, the eyes cleared, a flicker of old memory. Then the chip kicked in, and the face went blank.

"Sorry, Captain," the clone rasped, and slammed Rex's head against the floor.

Rex saw stars, fought back, pinned Coric's arms and rolled on top. "You don't have to do this!" he shouted, desperate.

Another flash of memory—regret? Pain?—but then the clone surged up, nearly breaking Rex's hold.

Anakin appeared, face bloodied but alive. "Rex!" he called, then hurled his saber hilt. It bounced once, and Rex caught it, barely. He didn't think, just jabbed the emitter into Coric's side and triggered the stun.

The clone spasmed, then dropped.

Rex staggered upright, bracing himself against the terminal.

Anakin joined him, voice low. "Can you do it?"

"I have to," Rex said. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely grip the spike, but he stabbed at the interface, forced the code through again and again.

This time, the display flickered.

Then it screamed.

A wave of blue-white energy pulsed from the main node, racing out through every cable, every relay. Across the city, Rex could feel it—like static in the blood, a tingling at the base of every skull.

The clones froze, mid-motion. For a second, there was silence. Then, one by one, they dropped—slumping to knees, hands to their heads.

All over Kamino, all at once, the chips went dead.

Rex stared, stunned. Anakin sagged against the console, breathing ragged.

From the deck, the first of the freed clones lifted his head. The eyes were confused, then shocked, then clear.

He blinked, focused on Rex, and said, "Captain? What's—what's happening?"

Rex crouched beside him, all the fight gone from his voice. "You're free, brother," he said, and the words broke on the air like a prayer. "We all are."

Anakin looked at the ruined control room, then at Rex. "You did it."

Rex shook his head, too tired to argue. "We did."

Outside, the alarms stopped. The silence was immense.

All over Kamino, clones woke to a world that was theirs, at last.

Rex wiped his face, not caring that Anakin saw the tears.

"Welcome back," he said, and the new dawn started there.

Chapter Text

The rain had always been a presence on Kamino, a constant pressure at the edge of hearing, but today it sounded different. Louder. As if the planet itself was trying to wash away the stains of the last war and the new one that had just begun.

On the landing platforms, the world was slick with blood and runoff. Rows of freshly liberated clones moved with an efficiency that had survived the death of the control chips: some formed impromptu honor guards around the fallen, others hoisted wounded brothers onto battered stretchers, and the rest scoured the decks for anything that could be salvaged, repurposed, or weaponized. The clinical Kaminoan white, once blinding, was now streaked with mud and charred by blaster fire. Splashes of blue and orange—from hastily repainted armor plates—bloomed against the haze, rebellion colors announced with zero subtlety.

Anakin Skywalker stood at the head of the main concourse, face set like carved stone, eyes never still. He issued orders, but only when necessary; the rest of the time, he let the men move on their own, trusting the pattern to reassert itself. Every now and then, he'd catch a glimpse of something—two clones pausing to laugh over a private joke, or a medic ducking through a torrent of rain with a satchel clutched tight—and a flicker of something complicated would pass across his features. Pride, maybe, or regret. It was hard to tell with him, these days.

Rex felt it all more keenly. He limped through the mass of bodies, pain burning up from his left leg where a piece of shrapnel still nested behind the knee. His side was bandaged, sloppily, and his helmet tucked under his arm so he could see better, hear better, feel the new world on his skin. The rain hit harder than he remembered, or maybe it just stung more now that there was no numbness to fall back on.

He stopped at the edge of the platform, looking out over the churning ocean. There were maybe a thousand men assembled, and twice as many ghosts. Every face he could see—every set of eyes—looked different. Not just because of the battle, or the wounds, or the exhaustion, but because the old emptiness was gone. The blankness that had always hovered at the edges of their expressions, the certainty that they would fight, die, or stand down if told to do so: erased. They were awake now, all the way through.

Behind him, a battered LAAT set down with a juddering whine. Its hatches spilled out more wounded, more medics, and a trio of Jedi—Windu at the lead, still walking like every joint in his body was a challenge he refused to lose. Rex nodded at the man as he passed, and Windu nodded back, eyes registering the greeting but nothing else.

He kept walking, making his way through the crush of men to where they'd staged the makeshift triage. The clone medics worked in silence, patching up blaster wounds, setting broken limbs, even wiring in new cybernetics with scavenged parts from the facility. Rex stopped beside a pair of troopers working over a downed comrade, arm mangled almost beyond recognition.

"Pressure here," one said, and Rex knelt to help, bracing the man's shoulder while the other clone aligned a carbon splint. The wounded trooper—hardly more than a cadet—looked up at Rex, face pale but determined.

"Did we do it, sir?" he whispered.

Rex nodded. "You did. We all did."

The kid managed a shaky smile before passing out.

They carried him away, and Rex stood. His knee screamed in protest, but he ignored it. There was no time for that now.

The open area beyond the triage was marked by a ragged flag—half a clone cape, half a tablecloth, painted with the sigil of the rebellion in uneven blue. A crowd had gathered there: hundreds of clones, some stripped to the underlayers, others still in full armor. Rex recognized faces from every campaign, every horror of the last decade. Some of them had been his friends. Some of them had tried to kill him, not so long ago.

He stepped up onto the makeshift dais—just an upended crate, but it did the job. The rain battered him, cold and relentless, but nobody flinched.

He took a breath. The words stuck for a second, and he had to force them out.

"We're not who we were yesterday," he said, voice carrying in the hush. "The chips are dead. The orders are ours again. Nobody owns us. Not the Kaminoans, not the Empire, not the Jedi."

A ripple of recognition, some heads bowing, others shaking in disbelief.

"For years, we fought for the Republic. For each other. Some of you—most of you—thought that was all there was."

He paused, letting that settle. The crowd was utterly silent.

"I'm not a speechmaker. Never have been. But I know this: nobody here wants to go back to what we were. The men we lost, the things we did—none of it was by choice. But what happens now is."

He looked around, picking faces from the crowd. Some were familiar; most weren't. Didn't matter. They were all his brothers.

"We don't have a home to go back to. We don't have a government to salute. But we have a future, if we want it."

A murmur, building into something like hope.

Rex raised his chin. "From this day, we fight for ourselves. And for a galaxy free from tyranny."

The words came out louder than he'd planned. It echoed against the platform, out over the ocean.

The clones didn't cheer—not at first. They stood in the rain, soaking it in, letting it fill the new hollowness inside them. Then, slowly, one by one, they started to thump the barrels of their rifles on the deck: a low, drumbeat rhythm. It grew, picked up voices, until the sound rolled across the platforms in a wave.

Rex smiled, just for a second.

He stepped down, knees nearly giving out. Anakin met him at the bottom of the dais, eyes bright with something Rex had never seen before.

"You did good, Captain," he said, clapping Rex on the shoulder. "They're going to need you."

Rex looked up, rain streaming down his face, making the fresh scars burn and pulse.

"They're going to need all of us," he said.

Above, the Kaminoan towers loomed, their white spires gutted by fire and marked with the scars of new allegiance. Someone had already begun to daub the rebellion's emblem on the highest tower, blue over white, the paint running in the rain but refusing to wash away.

In the distance, the next wave of drop ships descended, bringing with them more men, more supplies, and the beginnings of a real resistance.

Rex stood there, the ache in his leg almost a comfort now, and watched as the future took shape—messy, uncertain, but finally, at last, their own.

The observation deck was a hemisphere of transparisteel jutting from the flank of the Kaminoan spire. From here, the sea was a single, endless muscle flexing beneath a sky so black it might have been outer space. Lightning chased itself between cloud banks, sketching frantic veins across the horizon, while the wind lashed sheets of rain against the city's bone-white exoskeleton. In the silence between strikes, it was possible to hear the groan of the entire facility, as if Kamino itself was bracing for something heavier than weather.

Anakin found Mace Windu alone at the deck's far edge, hood thrown back, hands folded behind his back in a posture so straight it almost seemed forced. The old master didn't turn when Anakin entered, but the subtle shift of his weight made it clear he knew he wasn't alone.

Anakin stopped a meter behind him, unsure if he should break the silence. After a minute, he decided he was too tired for ceremony.

"Everything on schedule," he said, voice low. "Rex has the men running drills. By tomorrow, every squad will be operating off the chips for the first time in their lives."

Windu's reflection, doubled in the thick glass, flicked its eyes toward Anakin. "And you? Operating off yours?"

It was almost a challenge, but Anakin let it slide. "As well as can be expected."

Lightning scored the ocean in three consecutive flashes, bathing the deck in electric white. For an instant, Windu's scar stood out like a lightning bolt of its own, bisecting his cheek all the way to the ear.

"You've always been more comfortable in battle than in rest," Windu said. There was no accusation in the words—just observation.

"I was made for battle," Anakin replied, watching the storm. "Everything else was… incidental."

Windu let the silence return, but it was lighter this time, less loaded.

"I didn't thank you," Anakin said after a while. "For trusting me with the plan. With them."

Windu's reflection looked older than Anakin remembered, the lines set deeper, the mouth pulled tight as if every word had to be weighed against its own weight in regret.

"I didn't trust you," Windu said. "I trusted the necessity."

Anakin laughed, genuine. "You haven't changed a bit."

"That's not a compliment, Skywalker."

"Never is, with you."

Windu turned, finally, to face him. His eyes flicked to Anakin's hand, the mechanical one, which was unconsciously clenching and unclenching at his side.

"You lost a lot of men today," Windu said. "You lost something else, too, didn't you?"

Anakin's jaw tensed. He forced the hand to relax, but the memory of Padmé—her warmth, her stubborn defiance, the way she'd looked at him like he was something more than a weapon—rippled under his skin.

"She's alive," Anakin said, keeping his voice flat. "But she's out there. And so are my children."

Windu nodded, as if he'd expected that answer. "When I was a youngling, I believed losing was the same as failing. I was wrong. Sometimes the only way to win is to survive and hope you get another chance."

Anakin let the words settle. In the years since Coruscant, he'd learned that hope was a thing you had to fight for, as real and fleeting as a breath.

"You think the Order has another chance?" he asked. "After everything?"

Windu studied the storm. "I don't know what the Order will be. I only know it can't be what it was. If it is, then we've learned nothing."

Anakin stepped closer, lowering his voice. "There's a part of you that hates that, isn't there?"

Windu's smile was a tiny, bitter cut. "A part of me hates you, Skywalker, for making it obvious."

Anakin grinned. "But not all of you."

Windu let out a slow exhale. "You're a blunt instrument. But even a hammer has its uses."

"Your methods are unorthodox, Skywalker," Windu said, eyes bright with the next bolt of lightning, "but I cannot deny their effectiveness."

Anakin nodded, feeling something unwind in his chest. "And your principles kept us from crossing lines we shouldn't cross."

Windu looked down at his hands—one gloved, the other bare and still stained with someone else's blood. "We both crossed lines," he said. "But you found your way back. That counts for something."

A door hissed open behind them, and the conversation snapped taut. A clone messenger—helmet under one arm, face young and scrubbed raw—waited at the threshold.

"Generals," he said. "Master Yoda's shuttle has just come out of hyperspace. He requests your presence on the primary landing platform."

Windu turned, already in motion. Anakin lingered for a second, watching the rain chase itself down the outside of the dome.

As he followed, his mechanical hand flexed of its own accord, a habit he'd never fully broken. He thought of Padmé, of the twins, of the future that had been stolen and was now, possibly, returning to him in fragments.

Windu caught the gesture, said nothing, but the next time they walked in step, their arms brushed—one flesh, one machine—and neither pulled away.

They descended together, two survivors stepping into whatever storm would come next.

The main landing pad was chaos, but it was organized chaos, the kind that came from shared desperation and a single mind at the center. Shuttles queued three deep, each one belching vapor and plasma as they powered up, while squads of clones and battered Jedi wove between the landing struts, shoving cargo and wounded alike into any available space. The lights of the city, reflected a thousandfold on the rain-slick deck, made it feel like standing at the bottom of an ocean made of lightning.

At the far end of the pad, the battered nose of a Jedi shuttle kissed down with a rattle of hydraulics, and from its ramp emerged Yoda. He was smaller than Anakin remembered—every storm seemed to shrink him further—but when he planted his gimer stick on the deck, the entire platform seemed to rotate around him. Even the clones, who'd seen monsters and gods and every horror in between, stopped what they were doing for just a heartbeat.

Yoda didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Time, we have not," he announced, tapping the stick against the hull. "Move quickly, we must."

Windu and Anakin were the first to meet him. Yoda scanned their faces, reading in an instant every wound, every scar, every fracture between them.

"Plan, you have?" Yoda asked, eyes never quite landing in one place.

Anakin gestured to the nearest transport. "We have control of the platforms. Rex and the others are clearing the upper decks now."

"Enemy pursuit?"

"Minimal. We bought some time when we shut down the chips. But it won't last."

Yoda nodded, then swept past them, his robe flapping behind him like the wake of a much larger ship. He ducked into the center of the staging area, where a battered holo-projector stuttered with the blue outline of the sector.

Windu stood by, watching as Yoda hammered out assignments with the butt of his stick. Every order was brisk, every change of plan received with nods and salutes. The clones responded with a precision Anakin found almost eerie, given how recently they'd thrown off their programming. Maybe some habits died harder than others.

Within minutes, the impossible started to look achievable. The main transports were loaded, the shuttles assigned to points along the perimeter, the wounded placed at the heart of the formation. Jedi and clone alike moved as a single organism, improvising where doctrine failed, trusting each other with the kind of faith that only came from surviving the same nightmare.

Rain drummed against the hulls, loud enough to drown out the whine of the engines. The air reeked of ozone, scorched metal, and the sweet-sour tang of coolant from damaged power couplings. Somewhere above, the city itself let out a groan—either from the wind, or the weight of history finally catching up.

Anakin and Windu stood near the ramp of the lead transport, watching as the last squads assembled. Yoda joined them, pausing in the shadow of the open hatch.

"To the Veil, we go," he said. "Safe haven awaits."

Anakin stared at the small green figure, thinking how easy it was to forget that for centuries, Yoda had held the Order together through sheer will. He'd lost so much—maybe more than any of them—and still he led.

He nodded. "We're ready."

Yoda's gaze flicked to Windu. The two locked eyes, something passing between them that didn't require words. Windu bowed his head, just a fraction, and Anakin felt the shift in the Force—a recognition of wounds that would never fully close, but also of the new world they were building on top of the old.

A muffled alarm sounded. The last shuttle in the formation was reporting all clear.

Yoda turned, addressed the huddled crowd at the ramp. "Forward, only forward," he said, and the first of the clones started up the ramp, carrying wounded on stretchers, passing gear hand-to-hand, moving like floodwater.

Anakin followed them in, Windu close behind. The inside of the transport was a patchwork of repurposed seats, medical bunks, and hastily lashed-down cargo. Rex was already there, organizing his men, a datapad in one hand and a medpatch stuck haphazardly to his neck.

Anakin found a spot near the viewport, just in time to see the city lights flare as the engines powered up. The deck vibrated beneath his boots. The shuttle lifted with a stomach-turning lurch, and outside, the storm closed in—rain whipping past the glass, obscuring everything except the nearest beacon.

They broke atmosphere in less than a minute, the pressure in Anakin's ears replaced by the dull hush of space. Below them, Kamino receded—first as a blur of light, then a shrinking pearl, then just another shadow in the endless black.

He watched it fade, feeling the relief and the grief in equal measure.

Rex slid in beside him, watching too. "Hard to believe it's over," he said.

"It isn't," Anakin replied, the words heavy but true. "Not yet."

Rex nodded, once. "But it's a start."

Behind them, the hatch clanged shut, sealing in the warmth and noise and the ragged hope of everyone on board.

Yoda found a seat near the cockpit, already deep in thought, head bowed over his stick.

Anakin sat back, closing his eyes for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

For now, they were safe. For now, they had time.

And out there, somewhere, a future waited—fragile, impossible, but theirs.

The journey through hyperspace was short but not simple. The destination—an unremarkable G-type star in the Outer Rim—barely registered on any of the charts, and the computer kept flagging the sector as "invalid" every time someone tried to plot the approach. By the time they exited near the coordinates Yoda had provided, even the best nav droids were throwing up error messages in four languages.

On the transport, the tension ratcheted up as the fleet coasted in on sublight. The viewport showed only a dusting of asteroids and an empty sky, the kind of nowhere that spelled death for anyone caught without a plan. Rex double-checked the settings. Anakin, at his shoulder, watched the blue-white ripples of realspace flicker across the glass.

"We lost sensors," Rex muttered. "It's not the ship. Something's jamming the entire fleet."

Anakin leaned closer, feeling the echo of something deep and old vibrating at the edge of the Force. Not danger, exactly. But not comfort, either.

Yoda was already at the front, perched on a repurposed supply crate. His eyes were closed, his breathing so slow it barely moved his robe.

The shuttle lurched, then slowed as the pilot tried to correct for the drifting signal. The rest of the convoy flashed in and out of view, as if the space between them kept rewiring itself.

Anakin put a hand on the bulkhead, steadying himself. "Is this it?" he asked.

Yoda's eyes snapped open, sudden as a trap. "Here, yes. But not yet."

The entire deck went silent as the first ripple struck. It was like passing through water, except the water was a net, and the net was alive. The shuttle vibrated, every system screaming overload, and then—

Nothing.

For a split second, the universe was still. Then, ahead of them, the planet appeared.

It didn't emerge from behind a moon, or fade in from black; it simply arrived, as if it had always been there, hiding between seconds. It filled the viewport: a riot of green, blue, and gold, continents swirling with jungle and lake, ice caps glittering under a warm yellow sun. Clouds wreathed the surface in storm bands, but they were scattered, gentle, nothing like Kamino's endless violence.

The pilot cursed, then laughed. "It's beautiful," he said. "Didn't think anything could look like that."

Yoda nodded, satisfaction written in every wrinkle. "The Veil, it is called. Hidden, from all but those who seek."

They broke atmosphere in formation, the other ships following as if by instinct. The designated landing zone was a wide, grassy plain ringed by ancient stone, half-buried in flowers and the slow drift of time. The transport set down smooth, the landing struts sinking only a little into the soft earth.

Rex stood first, craning to get a look outside. "I never thought I'd see grass again," he said, the words almost reverent.

The ramp opened, and the smell hit them—a wild, rich greenness that reminded Anakin of Naboo summers and everything he'd tried not to remember. Sunlight cut through the hatch, warm and real, and for the first time since leaving Coruscant, Anakin felt the weight in his chest lighten.

They disembarked into chaos, but it was a good chaos. Clones and Jedi spilled onto the field, blinking in the brightness, some laughing, some crying, most just silent as the planet's reality crashed in. There were no guards here, no sirens, no protocols. Just open air, the thrum of insects, and the sound of a thousand beings figuring out what to do with a freedom they'd never prepared for.

Anakin got to work. He split the clones into details—perimeter checks, shelter construction, equipment retrieval. Rex fell into command without being told, and within an hour there were tents, makeshift barricades, even a communications net strung between the nearest boulders. The Jedi congregated under the largest trees, meditating in groups or tending to the wounded, their old colors and new wounds blending into something entirely different from the temple days.

Windu and Yoda conferred at the center of the clearing, heads close together. Whatever they were planning, Anakin didn't care—he trusted them, for now, and trusted himself more.

He found a quiet spot at the edge of the camp, sat down hard on a fallen log, and let himself feel the exhaustion. For the first time in years, his body wasn't prepping for the next fight. The ache was deeper, but it was honest.

The wind in the grass sounded like the lullabies he half-remembered from his real childhood, before the war, before the Order. He closed his eyes, let the sun soak into his skin, and tried to picture what came next.

He almost dozed off, but the hand on his shoulder was firm. Rex.

"They assigned you quarters, General," Rex said, grinning. "You get a whole cabin to yourself. Perks of rank."

Anakin managed a smile. "Remind me to promote you tomorrow."

Rex snorted. "I'm good. Just—don't disappear, okay? The men need you."

"I won't," Anakin said, and meant it.

Rex left. Anakin made his way to the assigned cabin—a rough prefab, but dry and already strung with power. Inside, there was a cot, a desk, a battered data terminal. He sat on the edge of the bed, boots leaving damp rings on the floor.

He listened to the sound of the new world outside—life, not violence. It felt wrong, and perfect, all at once.

He waited for the familiar tremor of darkness, the sense that the other shoe was about to drop.

It didn't. Not yet.

For the first time since everything broke, Anakin let himself believe the galaxy might heal.

He lay down, hands folded behind his head, and stared at the ceiling, not quite willing to close his eyes.

Outside, the sun dipped low, painting the sky with colors Anakin didn't have names for.

Inside, he waited—for what, he couldn't say.

But he waited, awake and alive, as the planet turned under stars no one had ever seen before.

The night on the Veil was cold, but it was a clean cold, the kind that stung only to remind you that you were still alive. Anakin lay on the cot, boots on the floor, eyes open and fixed on the jagged shadows the moon threw against the walls. Sleep was a rumor, somewhere on the other side of the years he'd just spent fighting, but now that the noise had died down, all he could hear was the tight, breathless drum of his own heart.

He should have been making rounds. He should have checked the perimeter, or run diagnostics on the shuttles, or—something. Instead, he lay still, letting the tension bleed out of his body a centimeter at a time. There was nothing to fight. Not tonight.

He almost missed the pulse of the alert—an ancient sound, buried in the comm interface at the back of his neck, designed to be impossible to ignore. He sat up, grunted at the ache in his shoulder, and thumbed the switch.

The terminal on his desk sprang to life. The message was encrypted, triple-wrapped, and the signature code didn't match anything from the resistance network. For a second, the old fear tried to muscle in, whispering that nothing good ever came from secrets. He quashed it, because he'd run on secrets for most of his life, and at least this one was his to open.

He keyed in the override, and the holo-emitter struggled for a moment before resolving into the ghost-blue silhouette of Ahsoka Tano. She looked older, face cut with new lines and a scar above her right brow that hadn't been there the last time he'd seen her. But the eyes were the same: unyielding, and kind.

"Anakin," she said. The word caught in her throat, and the second syllable wavered before she reined it in. "She's safe. They're both safe."

He didn't understand at first. He waited for the rest of the message, but it hung there, static-laced and trembling, as if the universe itself didn't want to move on.

It hit him. The air in the cabin snapped cold.

He leaned closer, voice barely a whisper. "Twins?"

Ahsoka's smile was as crooked as ever. "A boy and a girl. Luke and Leia. Padmé is waiting for you—here, on the Veil."

The room fell away. All the tightness, all the dread and guilt and iron-willed restraint that had held him together since Coruscant, evaporated in a single pulse of something he didn't have a word for.

He tried to speak, but his throat wouldn't work. Instead, his mechanical hand reached for the edge of the desk, gripping so hard the metal creaked and the synthwood splintered. He barely felt it.

Ahsoka's image flickered as she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him. "They need you, Anakin. All of you."

He nodded, unable to do anything else.

The transmission cut, and the silence rushed back, but it was different this time. Not a void, but a hush before the next word, the next breath.

Anakin sat there, motionless, until the weight of everything that had happened finally caught up. He didn't cry—he was too drained for that. But he let his hands shake, let his face break into something raw and unfamiliar.

For the first time since the end of the Order, he felt joy. Not hope, not relief—just the bright, clean ache of wanting to live.

He stood. The room seemed bigger now, the air easier to breathe.

He went to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. The grass was wet under his boots, the moon hanging so close he could almost reach up and touch it. The field was empty, everyone else asleep or keeping watch, but Anakin didn't feel alone.

He looked up at the sky, at stars with names no one had ever spoken, and realized he was finally, truly free.

He started walking. The future wasn't a battlefield anymore.

It was a promise.

And for once, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere of the Veil wasn't like any Anakin had felt before. It pressed against the hull with a low, constant vibration, as if the entire planet was breathing and the air inside the ship was being squeezed out in slow, measured bursts. At first, he thought it was a trick of the landing thrusters. Then he realized the effect went deeper—into the skin, the marrow, even the circuits of his prosthetic hand, which twitched now and again with a pulse that felt organic, not mechanical.

The ship bucked as it dropped through the upper cloud layer, then steadied as the onboard computers compensated. Anakin's hands rode the yoke, knuckles pale, his right palm leaving faint sweat-prints on the throttle. Below, the surface was a field of silver-white haze, boiling in slow-motion eddies. Lightning stitched the mist, not random but in patient, branching paths that recalled the nerves in his own hand whenever he popped the casing and watched the diagnostics run.

The landing pad wasn't on any chart. It appeared only when the sensors almost gave up—a smear of negative space tucked deep in a valley that shouldn't have existed, the slopes on every side overgrown with something too dense for lidar to penetrate. The guidance system pinged off the edges and collapsed, leaving him to land by feel. He could almost hear the snide comment that Tech would have made, could almost feel the tension in Rex's jaw if he'd been sitting co-pilot. But he was alone. That was the point.

He took the ship down on manual, hands rigid but precise. The landing struts hit with a solid thunk. The hull creaked, then settled, and for a moment there was nothing but the bass thump of his own heart. He killed the engines, flicked the switches in sequence. Each one made the silence louder.

He sat back, tried to slow his breathing, but it wasn't working. He flexed the mechanical hand, feeling the whirr and click of servos. They weren't the problem. The problem was inside his chest, somewhere he couldn't open up and rewire.

Through the viewport, the mist peeled away in slow, deliberate ribbons, revealing the approach to the platform. It was built of stone and wood, raw and uneven, the surface slick with recent rain. On either side, the trees rose in columns so wide that a gunship could have parked sideways inside the trunks. The bark was blue-black, and the leaves—where there were leaves—hung in long, needle-fine threads that dripped with gold resin, each droplet glowing faintly even in the muted daylight. At the foot of each tree, enormous ferns curled outward like grasping hands, their edges traced with veins that pulsed from green to yellow to white.

For a moment he wondered if the place would let him in, or if the planet itself would spit him out for what he'd done.

He checked the sensors again, searching for any sign of a perimeter or a defensive net. There was nothing. Only a small knot of figures at the far edge of the pad, not in formation, just standing and waiting. At the front, unmistakable even at this distance, was Obi-Wan—beard trimmed, robes patched and stained by travel, hands clasped at the small of his back in a pose that Anakin remembered from what felt like another life. The sight of him sent a twist through Anakin's gut, equal parts relief and warning.

He didn't see Padmé. He didn't see the twins, either, though he wasn't sure what he'd expected—her at the ramp, children in tow, as if this was a parade and not an ambush by memory.

He found himself reaching for the comm, thumb hovering over the transmit, before thinking better of it. There was nothing to say that hadn't been said and unsaid and said again in the months since Kamino. The words would either fail or make things worse.

He left the comm on standby, grabbed his cloak from the hook behind the pilot's chair, and sat in silence for another long moment. Outside, the welcoming party stood still, a tableau carved from the mist and the patience of people who had learned to wait for the galaxy to shift around them.

He didn't want to go out there. Not yet. The urge to run—back to orbit, back to the edge of the war, even back to Kamino's acid rain—surged up so strong he had to bite his lip to keep from acting on it.

He closed his eyes, tried to find the place inside that still answered to the name Jedi. It wasn't gone, exactly, but it was hollowed out, the edges of the word corroded by everything that had happened. He tried to picture the Code, the words of the old masters, anything that would anchor him. But all he got was the face of his son, blurry and silent, and the sound of his daughter's first scream—high and defiant, as if she'd arrived only to challenge the universe.

He steadied himself, counted breaths, and listened to the storm outside. The air was electric, the Force running so thick through the atmosphere that every hair on his arms stood up. It was as if the planet was alive and aware, and its eyes were on him.

He stood, adjusted the cloak, and went to the hatch.

His hand hovered over the switch. The old confidence—the arrogance, if he was honest—was nowhere to be found. Only the knowledge that if he didn't do this, nothing else would matter.

He opened the hatch. The world rushed in—wet, cold, bright with the shock of unfamiliar life.

He stepped to the top of the ramp and waited, letting the planet see him.

He waited to see if it would let him pass.

Obi-Wan met him at the foot of the ramp, hands still folded, but his face was different up close—less mask, more worry. For a split second, neither spoke. Then Obi-Wan's mouth twitched with a smile Anakin remembered from late nights at the temple, after hours, when the only thing left to do was laugh at the day's disasters.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, voice low and steady. "You made good time."

Anakin tried to answer, but his throat refused. He settled for a nod, then forced his voice into gear. "I got your coordinates," he said, as if that explained everything.

Obi-Wan nodded, eyes searching his face. "It's good to see you, old friend."

He meant it. Anakin could tell. That didn't make it easier.

Beyond the pad, the settlement rose out of the valley floor in a way that looked accidental, as if someone had dropped seeds of civilization and waited to see what would grow. The houses—if you could call them that—were built into the landscape, roofs covered in moss and wildflowers, walls shaped from the trunks of fallen trees. Walkways twisted between the structures, lit by woven lanterns that glowed with the same gold as the tree sap, each casting soft pools of light on the path.

The Jedi had never been much for possessions, but this was something new: every line and angle spoke of improvisation, survival, and a kind of gentle defiance against the old codes. Every element seemed designed to blend in, not stand out. Even the droids moving through the paths wore cloaks of lichen and bark, as if they, too, were trying not to be noticed by the planet.

Obi-Wan led the way, moving with the patient confidence of someone who knew each stone by heart. Anakin followed, feeling the eyes on him from every shadow and doorway. Some faces he recognized—knights and padawans he'd last seen on Coruscant, or in the war, or in the desperate months since. Most were strangers: refugees, children, a few elders who watched with the fierce suspicion of survivors unwilling to trust anything at face value.

He caught a glimpse of a Togruta girl—Ahsoka's species, but too young, and not her. The girl stared openly, her head-tails bound with a cord of bright blue. Next to her, an older man in civilian clothes nodded once, the gesture somewhere between a salute and a warning.

Anakin forced his gaze forward, eyes on Obi-Wan's back. The air here was thick with life, and not just the kind that needed feeding and shelter. The Force was everywhere, humming in the roots and the rain and the hearts of everyone who'd made it this far.

They walked in silence until the path narrowed, hemmed in by brush and the arching limbs of the giant trees. Here, the settlement thinned out. Lanterns hung lower, burning green and blue instead of gold, and the houses were half-hidden in the hillside. Obi-Wan slowed, letting the silence settle between them.

"Padmé is further up," he said, almost gently. "She's been… essential, these last few weeks. With Yoda offworld, someone had to keep the rest from turning on each other. She's better at it than the rest of us combined."

Anakin said nothing. The words were a relief and a knife, both.

Obi-Wan stopped, turned to face him. "She's changed, Anakin. We all have. But she never lost faith in you."

The implication hung there, heavy. Anakin looked at his feet, suddenly aware of how dirty his boots were, how the mud had crusted along the seam where the artificial met the real.

"She shouldn't have," he said, voice barely a whisper. "Not after what happened."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "You're here, aren't you? That's what matters now."

They rounded a final bend, and the path ended at the base of a hill. The house was different from the others: smaller, more deliberate, the door set flush with the earth, its frame carved with a pattern Anakin remembered from Naboo—arches and swoops, a language of memory and homecoming.

Obi-Wan stopped at the bottom of the steps. He placed a hand on Anakin's shoulder, and for once the gesture didn't feel like an order or a restraint. Just contact, meant to anchor him.

"She's waiting," Obi-Wan said. "The children are asleep."

At the mention of them, something in Anakin's chest tightened to the point of pain. His breath caught, and his right hand flexed, metal digits creaking in the damp.

Obi-Wan squeezed once, then let go. "Take your time," he said. "If there's one thing we have now, it's time."

He turned and left, footsteps soft on the moss.

Anakin stood there, alone. The door was in front of him, set with a handle worn smooth by use. Light spilled under the threshold, gold and steady.

He reached for the handle, stopped, and let his hand fall.

He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and listened to the world—just once more—before he stepped inside.

He pushed open the door and stepped into a world he didn't recognize, even though every line of it was a memory. The walls were stone, the color of Naboo rivers at dusk, and the shelves were crowded with books and data pads and small, familiar trinkets—a music box, a holophoto cube, a carved figure from their wedding day, its details faded by handling. There were no sharp edges, no weapon racks, nothing to say this was a place for anything but living.

At the far side of the room, Padmé stood at the window. The light behind her was soft and amber, catching the loose strands of her hair and making a halo he'd only ever seen in the old holos, when they were still allowed to be young. Her back was straight, hands wrapped around a mug, one hip cocked in the way that always meant she was lost in thought. She hadn't noticed him yet.

He stood there, suddenly frozen, the urge to speak locked behind a dam of old guilt and shame. He almost turned and left.

Then she turned, as if she'd known the whole time.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Her face was different—softer at the jaw, sharper at the eyes, a new map of grief and determination laid over the features he'd held on to through every disaster. He saw the lines at her mouth, the circles under her eyes, and wanted to take them all away. But he knew better.

"Anakin," she said. The word came out calm, but he heard the tremor underneath.

He tried to answer, but his own voice cracked. "Padmé."

She set the mug down, came toward him. Not running, not tentative, just moving as if the space between them was something to be crossed on principle.

He met her halfway.

For a moment, neither said a word. She put her hands on his face, tracing the scar at his brow, the stubble he'd let grow out, the edge of the metal plate where it met the bone at his temple. He closed his eyes, let himself memorize the feeling.

She kissed him—not gently, not as a question, but with the need of someone who'd waited too long for one thing and wasn't sure if she'd get another chance. He kissed her back, arms wrapping around her, and for the first time since Kamino, since Coruscant, since any of it, he felt whole.

When she pulled back, her hands were on his shoulders. "You came," she said, as if she'd spent every day since the last waiting for this one moment.

He laughed, or tried to, but it came out as a broken sound. "I always come back to you. Even when I shouldn't."

She shook her head, and for a moment her eyes were fierce. "Don't say that. Not after everything. You did what you had to do."

He felt the old anger rising, aimed at himself, at the galaxy, at all the ghosts he still carried. "I could have done it differently. I could have—"

She pressed a finger to his lips, and the anger snapped, replaced by something that hurt even more. "I don't care about what-ifs, Anakin. Not anymore."

He let out a breath, long and slow. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispered, voice hoarse.

"Never," she said, and the word was iron. "Not even when the galaxy was falling apart."

He rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in. She smelled of spice and rain and something sharp, almost like ozone. He felt her heartbeat through the layers of their clothing, steady and strong.

He opened his eyes, and she was smiling. It wasn't the smile he remembered from the old days, but it was better—hard-won, unbreakable.

"You're thinner," she said, running her hands down his arms, stopping at the joint where metal met flesh. "And taller, somehow. Or maybe I've shrunk."

He shook his head. "You haven't changed."

She laughed, low and real. "You liar."

He grinned. "Well, maybe you've changed a little. But you're still the only thing in this galaxy that makes sense."

They stood there, just breathing each other in, until a soft sound broke the moment—a mewling, then a muffled cry, from somewhere deeper in the house.

Padmé's eyes flicked to the hallway, and for the first time Anakin felt real terror.

She took his hand—his left, the one that was still his—and led him down the corridor. Each step made his heart pound harder.

The nursery was small, but bright. A pair of cots stood side by side, decorated with patterns of blue and silver, and the walls were painted with stars. In the first cot, a bundle squirmed beneath the blanket, small hands flailing at the air. In the second, a child slept, lips pursed and brow furrowed as if dreaming of battle.

Anakin went to the cots, but stopped just short, afraid to get closer.

Padmé smiled, gentle now. "It's all right."

He looked down at the first bundle. The child—his daughter—blinked up at him with dark, unblinking eyes, then let out a burble that sounded suspiciously like a challenge. Her fingers caught at the air, seeking something to hold.

He reached in, let her wrap her hand around his finger. Her grip was strong—impossibly strong, for something so small. She stared up at him, as if memorizing his face.

"She's bold," Padmé said. "Leia. She wakes first, always wants to see what's happening."

"And him?" Anakin asked, voice shaking.

Padmé nodded to the second cot. "Luke. He's quieter. Watches everything, doesn't cry unless he needs to."

Anakin looked down at his son, and something in his heart broke in a way that was almost a relief. He knelt by the cot, reached in, and laid his hand over Luke's chest. The boy's eyes flickered open, and for a second there was nothing but blue—pure, clear, and unafraid.

"He's—" Anakin started, then stopped, unable to finish.

Padmé touched his shoulder. "He's yours."

He let out a breath, then picked Luke up, holding him close. The boy didn't squirm, just rested in his arms, content.

Padmé cradled Leia, who had already tried to chew on her mother's hair.

They stood there, the four of them, the light of the twin moons spilling through the window.

Anakin looked at Padmé, and she looked back, and for the first time in a lifetime, he felt like the future might not be a war.

He held his son and daughter close, and let himself believe, just for this night, that it would last.

Night on the Veil was a different kind of quiet. The air cooled fast, soaking up the day's heat and leaving only the hum of insects and the distant call of nightbirds. The stars were unfamiliar, doubled and blurred by the slow drift of mist that never quite left the valley, and the twin moons rode so close to the horizon that their light drowned the landscape in pale, shifting bands.

Anakin sat on the step outside the house, elbows on knees, cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders. He watched the silver clouds roll and break against the trees, the leaves above him trembling as if the whole world was holding its breath. From inside, the faint sound of the twins' breathing echoed out with every opening of the window, steady and soft.

Padmé came out carrying two mugs, steam curling from the tops, and settled next to him on the step. She offered one without a word. He took it, grateful for something to do with his hands.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence was comfortable, or at least familiar. He sipped the drink—spiced tea, with a hint of something stronger beneath. It stung his tongue, then settled warm in his chest.

"They'll wake up again soon," Padmé said, voice pitched just for him. "You can never count on more than an hour."

He smiled into his mug. "I thought it would be easier. The stories always made it sound easy."

She snorted. "You believed stories?"

"I believed you," he said, then glanced over, suddenly unsure if it was a joke or a confession.

Padmé looked at him over the rim of her mug, eyes glinting. "I never promised easy. Only everything else."

He let the words settle. In the moons' light, her face was all sharp lines and restless energy, her hair pulled back in a loose braid that had started to unravel with the day. He wanted to tell her everything he'd been carrying since he left Coruscant, but the words felt too heavy for a night like this.

Instead, he reached for her free hand and found it, fingers weaving together without effort.

They sat like that, letting the warmth bleed from their palms, until Padmé shifted closer.

"You're worried," she said. Not a question.

He squeezed her hand. "I don't know how to do this."

She leaned against his shoulder, letting her head rest there. "Nobody does. Not really."

"I'm supposed to be a Jedi," he said, staring out at the darkness. "Supposed to lead, to teach, to never let anything get in the way of the mission. But all I want is to keep you safe. To keep them safe."

Padmé traced a slow line down his hand, pausing at the edge of the metal wrist. "The Code never prepared you for family, did it?"

He shook his head, a laugh catching in his throat. "It never even admitted it was possible. Master Windu—he barely looks at me, now. The others pretend not to notice."

"But you notice," she said.

He nodded, the movement barely there.

Padmé shifted, bringing her face closer to his. "Maybe the Code was wrong," she said, gentle but insistent. "Maybe this—" she lifted their joined hands "—is exactly what the Jedi needed. What the galaxy needed."

He looked at her, saw the certainty in her eyes, and let it fill him for a moment. "What if it's not enough?" he said, voice ragged. "What if I can't protect you?"

She kissed him then, quick and fierce. "You already did," she whispered. "We're alive. The twins are alive. That's more than I thought I'd get."

He closed his eyes, let her words build a wall against the old fears.

"They're going to come for us," he said, finally. "The Empire, or what's left of it. Sooner or later."

Padmé nodded. "Then we hold. We fight. And if we can't, we run. Again."

He grinned, despite himself. "You make it sound simple."

She grinned back, all challenge and light. "It is simple. You just have to want it more than you want anything else."

He finished the tea, let the cup drop to the step. "I do," he said. "I want this. I want you. More than anything."

Padmé squeezed his hand, hard. "Good. Because there's nobody else I'd rather face the end with."

A breeze came up, scattering the mist, and for a second the moons lit the whole valley in white fire. Anakin watched the shadows crawl across the grass, the trees standing sentinel and strange.

"Do you think they'll remember this?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

Padmé leaned into him, her hair brushing his cheek. "They'll remember everything," she said. "They're your children, after all."

He looked down at the house, at the window where the twins slept. For the first time, he tried to imagine them grown—taller, braver, maybe even happier than he'd ever been. He pictured Luke with his quiet blue stare, Leia already plotting some impossible adventure, and felt a sharp ache of hope.

Padmé watched him, her gaze unguarded. "What are you thinking?"

He ran his thumb along her palm, memorizing the ridges and lines. "That whatever comes next," he said, "we face it together."

She nodded, and the certainty in her smile made him believe it.

They sat there until the mist returned and the moons slipped behind the clouds, the valley lost in shadow and the sound of two people daring to hope.

Inside, the twins slept. Outside, the night stretched on, strange and perfect.

And somewhere beyond the dark, the future waited—raw and unwritten, and for once, theirs to claim.

Just before dawn, when the air was still sharp with night but the first threads of blue had begun to braid the mist, Padmé brought the twins out to the porch. They woke together—she said they always did—crying only until the blanket was wrapped around them, then settling into a watchful calm as soon as the world opened up.

Anakin took Leia first. She blinked up at him, then squirmed until she could see the sky. Luke was quieter, a fist wrapped in Padmé's braid, head nestled against her collarbone.

They stood there together, the four of them, facing the horizon.

The moons were still out, pale and thin as dreams, but the edge of the sun was climbing fast. The light painted the world in bands: silver on the dew, gold on the high leaves, the blue shadows of the old temple foundations far off in the valley. The entire settlement seemed to hold its breath.

Padmé leaned into him, her arm around his waist, Leia between them like a secret only they knew. Luke yawned, then turned his face toward the rising light.

For the first time, Anakin saw them not as a family on the run, but as a beginning.

He thought of everything still waiting in the galaxy—the enemies, the old debts, the endless cycle of struggle—and let the thought come and go.

What mattered was here.

He held them closer, felt the heat of their bodies, and made a silent promise: that whatever this world became, whatever trials waited on the other side of dawn, they would meet it as a family.

The light reached the porch, caught them full in the face.

They stood there, unafraid, the future wide open.

And for the moment, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning on the Veil was not quiet, but the noise was nothing like Coruscant's: here it was wind through the upper boughs, the click of dew against leaf, the scrape and hush of a thousand beings finding their places beneath the oldest living trees anyone had ever seen. Padmé stood at the edge of the council ring, letting the light touch her bare arms before the day's duties demanded her full attention. She wore the colors of the Veil—green and pale blue, stitched in the style of her lost home—but the cut was unambiguously Naboo: tailored, dignified, designed to hold up under scrutiny and keep its secrets in the right light.

The council had gathered at dawn. That had been Padmé's idea. She wanted the work to begin before memories of Kamino and its haunted dark could resurface. It wasn't just Jedi here, not anymore: the seats were filled by every kind of survivor. Clones in battered blue-and-white, some still limping from the liberation. Civilians with the sharp faces and sharper eyes of people who'd seen empires rise and fall and decided neither was worth the cost. Jedi, fewer than ever, but their presence radiated from the stone benches in measured, self-contained waves. And the new faces: children and teachers, farmers and smugglers, a smattering of droids—each brought in by the last tide of disaster, now part of whatever happened next.

Padmé waited while the noise settled into anticipation. She had no amplification, only the acoustics of the ring and the peculiar attention that came from her story—dead queen, vanished senator, mother, rebel. When she raised a hand, the talk died fast.

"Thank you," she said, voice clear. She had learned not to waste words. "We are here because we are not what the Empire said we were. We are not clones, to be discarded; not Jedi, to be exterminated; not citizens, to be controlled. We are what happens when you cut away everything else. We are what survives."

She let them have that, and for a moment it hung in the air, as sharp and bright as the first rays slanting through the branches.

She didn't smile. "But survival isn't enough. If all we do is run, we become the thing we fled. We have to be more than the end of the Empire. We have to be the beginning of something better."

She took a breath, and the wind caught her hair, blowing it loose from the tight braid behind her head. She left it, let the strands fly. "The Jedi have built a perimeter. The clones have secured our defenses and started mapping the terrain. The first crops are already in the ground, and by the next harvest, we'll have enough to feed not just ourselves, but any others who come. I know some of you fear what will happen if the Empire discovers us. But fear was their tool, not ours. We won't live by it. We live by trust, and by our own hands."

She walked the inside edge of the ring, making herself available to every line of sight. "If you are here to fight, you have my gratitude. But if you are here to build, to teach, to heal, to remember—then you are the future of the Rebellion."

At that word, a current passed through the assembly. Some faces fell, expecting the worst. Others straightened.

"We are the Rebellion," she repeated, softer. "And we will show the galaxy what that means."

Padmé stepped back to the center. Around her, the others formed a spiral—a gesture borrowed from an old Gungan tradition, repurposed for the new world. In the front row, Rex and the other command leads nodded, each in their own way. Behind them, a row of Jedi, led by Obi-Wan and Ahsoka. Further back, the former Kaminoans—now merely guests, tolerated but not yet trusted. And then the rest: a spread of faces from every system, every sector, each one marked by what they'd lost.

She began the assignments with practiced calm, ignoring the pressure in her throat. "Our first order of business is the safe evacuation of any clone, Jedi, or civilian facing immediate threat from Imperial forces. Rex—" she nodded, and the old Captain stepped forward, helmet under one arm—"you'll coordinate with the Jedi to maintain a corridor off-world. Use the blockade runners. If anyone asks for help, we answer. That is our only promise."

Rex accepted the role with a slight dip of the head. Ahsoka, next to him, caught Padmé's eye and smiled. Not the full old smile, but enough to convey support, understanding, and a private memory of what they'd all survived. Padmé let herself have a half-smile in reply.

She pointed to the next section, where a cluster of civilian organizers—ex-traders, ex-smugglers, one retired librarian—waited with notepads and makeshift tablets. "Our second priority is communication. We need to know the galaxy better than the Empire does. We need eyes and ears everywhere. Those who have experience with intelligence, navigation, or codebreaking—" she nodded to a former Bothan resistance officer, who saluted with two fingers "—report to Mon Mothma at midday. She'll coordinate the network."

Someone in the back snorted. "Mon Mothma runs everything." There was a ripple of laughter—tense, but real.

Padmé kept her tone light. "That's why she's still alive."

The laughter faded, replaced by a kind of grim relief. Padmé used it to slide into the next topic: food, housing, medicine. For every fighter, there were three who needed a job or a reason to wake up in the morning. She made sure the work was divided by skill, not by species or rank. She made sure the children were put in schools, not labor squads, and that nobody, not even a Jedi, was exempt from kitchen duty or sanitation when it was their turn.

After twenty minutes of assignments, Padmé checked the sun's position and paused for breath. She could feel the gaze of the whole council on her, hungry for something—reassurance, a plan, an excuse to break down and let the day's brightness in. She would have given it, but a motion at the edge of the ring caught her eye: a figure staggering in from the trees, one hand pressed to his side.

She broke protocol, rushing out to meet him.

The courier was barely more than a boy, his uniform stained with mud and fresh blood. A long cut scored the length of his forearm; his left boot was missing, and his knee bent in a way that said it would never work right again. But he carried the message—a sliver of synth-paper, encrypted and sealed in the manner of a thousand desperate insurgencies.

Padmé took the message, but before she read it, she knelt and pressed her scarf to the wound on his arm. She tore the end off with her teeth, tied it with a motion practiced in three wars, and then, only then, broke the seal.

The writing was simple. Imperial crackdown on Chandrila. Civilians detained. Key contacts eliminated. One name circled, marked for death.

She inhaled once, kept the fear out of her voice. "We need a rescue team. Now."

Rex and Ahsoka were already moving. Obi-Wan raised a hand, but said nothing—Padmé knew what he was thinking, but she also knew she'd won that argument the night before. Every life they saved was another world kept from the dark. Every loss was a wound the Rebellion could not afford.

She helped the courier to his feet. "You did good," she whispered. He nodded, then slumped into unconsciousness, trusting her to catch him. She did.

By the time she stood, the ring had absorbed the event like it was just another item on the agenda. The rest of the council looked to her, waiting for the next order.

She gave it. "Full medical. Transport ready in five. Ahsoka, you have the details. Mon Mothma, alert the contacts on Corellia—if Chandrila falls, they're next. All other teams: keep building. Keep working. The Empire is watching, but so are we."

She waited to see if anyone would object. Nobody did.

Padmé let herself exhale, just once. She walked back to the center of the ring, the scarf still bloody in her hand.

There, on a makeshift table, lay the new map of the galaxy: not digital, not perfect, just a series of star systems inked in bright colors by a dozen different hands. She rolled it out, marked the latest crisis with a blue push-pin, then traced the line from Chandrila to Naboo. Her finger stopped there, hovered, remembering the last time she'd seen the planet whole.

She didn't cry. Instead, she drew a new line, a red one, extending from Naboo out into the wilds—toward the unknown, toward possibility, toward whatever came next.

She turned to the council, her hands stained, her voice steady. "We do not run," she said. "We act."

And then, because it was necessary, because leadership was a job and not a myth, she smiled.

The council broke into teams, into clusters of urgent purpose. The clearing filled with the sound of orders and debate and the first, faint laughter of people who thought they might live long enough to see another sunrise.

Padmé let it all swirl around her. She looked up, through the trees, and found the morning had turned gold.

For the first time in years, the future was bright enough to hurt.

The bunker was a scar dug halfway through the asteroid's skin, sealed at both ends with scavenged blast doors and painted black so no stray glimmer would betray its existence to the void. The only light was the terminal's blue, punctuated by the pulse of ancient indicator diodes and the flicker of a single candle that Luthen Rael kept burning out of habit, not need. He worked in a crouch, eyes flicking between the multiple holo displays like a predator anticipating which tunnel the prey would flee down next.

It was late, by any standard, but time here was measured not in hours but in pings from the comm array—every ten minutes, a ghostly handshake with a resistance node; every twenty, a data dump of intercepted chatter, most of it useless but all of it sifted, sorted, cross-referenced. Luthen's fingers hovered above the console for a second before he started typing, memorizing the configuration of the latest relay in case he had to torch the whole thing and run.

The candle was nearly spent. Its stub of wax clung to the upturned base of a thermal detonator, the irony lost on nobody but Luthen himself. He found the yellow of the flame soothing, even as it highlighted the spartan hovel he'd made his own: a cot, unmade and barely big enough for sleep; three racks of scavenged weapons, all in various stages of repair; a side table cluttered with tools, syringes, and the cold remains of a meal he couldn't remember eating. The walls were lined in old blast mat and newer patches of sensor mesh—each one a different color, a record of the years he'd spent outsmarting, outpacing, and outliving the Empire's best and brightest.

A quiet ping from the terminal, then another, rapid-fire. Luthen straightened, the movement so sharp he knocked the candle, which guttered, then recovered. He flipped the monitor, engaged the encrypted overlay, and watched as the message resolved:

IMPERIAL PATROL INBOUND.

THIRTY-TWO KLICKS. ETA: 18 MINUTES.

He cursed in a language he hadn't spoken in years. The bunker was shielded, but only barely—the Empire had eyes everywhere, and sometimes it was luck, not skill, that kept him ahead. He thumbed a sequence on the comm panel, re-routing the outgoing lines through three decoy buoys before double-blind bouncing them to the resistance relay on Yavin. He'd built the safety net himself; only a few people in the galaxy could have untangled it, and he'd made sure none of them worked for the Empire anymore.

He reached for the blaster on the table—always within arm's reach, always charged—and rested his hand on the grip, listening to the ship signatures as they crept closer. For a moment he let himself imagine what it would be like if they did find him: the flash of white armor in the dark, the polite brutality of the search, the inevitable realization that he was Luthen Rael and not any of his three hundred aliases. He would die quickly, probably, but not quietly. He had contingency plans for that.

But the patrol never altered course. A minute passed, then two, and the proximity alert faded. The comms net had worked. Luthen let out a breath, relaxed his hand, and went back to the business of making the Empire's life hell.

He resumed transmission, this time prepping the packet for "Syfon"—a name he'd invented for the benefit of a supplier whose real loyalty was measured by the hour. The man on the other end of the holo was as forgettable as possible: medium build, hollow eyes, the kind of face that could be seen a dozen times in any cantina and never noticed. But Luthen knew the mind behind it—cautious, ruthless, the exact sort of merchant who would sell out the Rebellion for one more day of profit, then regret it for the rest of his short life.

The connection stabilized, and the face resolved in a haze of static.

"Syfon," Luthen said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Do you have the shipment or not?"

"Depends on payment," the arms dealer replied, his voice high and reedy even through the distortion. "Your last account was flagged. My courier says half the credits are hot."

Luthen didn't blink. "Because I paid you in full, three hours ahead of schedule. If you're worried about the Empire, I suggest you transfer the funds immediately to the Siskeen holding account. Or you can return the weapons, and I'll deal with someone who doesn't wet himself at the sight of a Star Destroyer."

Syfon flinched. "No need for threats—"

Luthen cut him off. "This isn't a threat. It's a favor. If you're still alive by morning, it means you took my advice." He keyed in the next code. "Now listen closely. I'm transmitting coordinates for the next drop. If you deviate, if your team tries anything clever, I will know before you do. And if you attempt to raise your price again, I'll make sure the Empire learns exactly which ships you use for 'unsanctioned trade.'"

The dealer tried to salvage a smile. "You drive a hard bargain."

"I drive results," Luthen said. "The Empire believes itself invincible. That is their weakness. If you want to survive in their shadow, learn from it."

He killed the connection, then spent the next three minutes erasing every trace of the conversation—not just from his terminal, but from the memory banks of every relay node between here and the Veil. He didn't trust the technology, didn't trust anyone, really, but the work was its own kind of comfort.

He sat back, listening to the hum of the vent fans, the tick of the geiger counter buried in the wall, the soft, arrhythmic beep of the heart monitor he'd jerry-rigged to the medical unit in case his own finally gave out. He checked the message queue one last time: nothing urgent, nothing that couldn't wait until he slept.

Except he never did, not for long.

He stood, stretched the kinks from his back, and went to the small safe built into the floor. He spun the dial—one, four, eleven, seven—and lifted the lid. Inside were three things: a stack of blank ID chips, each preloaded with a different life; a datadisk with every communication, confession, and secret he'd pried out of the Empire in the last six years; and a battered holo of a young girl, smiling through a haze of smoke and wreckage, her name written in ink on the corner.

He took a chip at random, slipped it into his pocket. He could be anyone, anywhere, at a moment's notice. That was the job. That was the burden.

He blew out the candle, leaving the room in total darkness. Only the blue glow of the console illuminated his face, angular and unforgiving.

Tomorrow, he would play a different role. But tonight, he watched the stars, and waited for the next war to begin.

The Senate never slept. Not in the old days, when the pillars of the Republic still shone with hope, and not now, when everything glittered with Imperial excess and every corridor was a mirror for someone's ambition. Mon Mothma's footsteps sounded soft on the marble—she had learned the trick of walking without echo—but the echo was there anyway, in every glance that trailed her, in the way the page droids peeled aside at her approach.

She wore white, as always, the color of mourning and defiance, with a narrow belt of Naboo silver cinched at her waist. At her side, Bail Organa matched her stride, his own regalia in blue and gold, the cut impeccable, the fit perfect. Together, they looked every centimeter the galactic elite—two pillars of the new order, united by sorrow and the impossible task of holding it together.

They paused at the entrance to the main hall, where a holo-statue of the Emperor presided over a sea of empty desks and data screens. The statue's eyes tracked them, luminous and unblinking. Bail bowed his head, just enough to pass for reverence.

"After you, Senator," he said, lips barely moving.

Mon smiled, all teeth. "Thank you, Senator. How gracious of Alderaan to remember protocol."

They entered, ignoring the sidelong stares of the other senators already milling at their stations. The air was perfumed with the scent of real flowers, imported at criminal expense from the gardens of Coruscant, but beneath it Mon caught the tang of machine oil and ozone—evidence of a security sweep, recent and thorough.

A junior senator from Taris intercepted them, her face smooth with the practiced insincerity of a lifetime in politics. "Senator Organa," she said, bowing. "And Senator Mothma, it's an honor. Will you be supporting the motion today?"

Bail's reply was as warm as the sunrise. "We're always eager to hear new ideas."

"Of course," said Mon. She let the smile reach her eyes. "But we find ourselves drawn to the old ones. Like democracy. And restraint."

The woman's face flickered, caught between offense and calculation. Then she bowed again, and moved on.

Once at their assigned seats, Bail leaned over, voice pitched for her alone. "The security is heavier than last session. Third ring—note the black uniforms."

Mon didn't look, but she knew he was right. "They're nervous," she said. "The Empire won't admit it, but every crackdown on the Rim only breeds more trouble. They can't keep up."

Bail tilted his head, acknowledging the point. "Rumor says the Veil's survivors landed two weeks ago, and already have supply lines. They're making contact with cell leaders from the Expansion Region to the Core."

Mon nodded, eyes on the empty dais where the Grand Moff would soon preside. "I have my own sources. We may need to accelerate the schedule."

"Tonight, then?"

"Tonight," she agreed.

The lights dimmed, and the murmur of the chamber faded as the holoprojection of Grand Moff Tarkin snapped into existence above the podium. He was as gaunt and severe in light as he was in flesh, his voice as cold as a vacuum.

"Esteemed members of the Senate," he intoned. "It is my regret to inform you that the recent insurrections in the Expansion Region have cost us dearly. Imperial resources are stretched thin. In the name of stability, I move to increase the standing army and grant emergency funds to restore order."

There was a moment of manufactured silence. Then the chamber filled with debate, much of it hollow.

Bail looked to Mon, and she nodded. He stood, raising his voice in a masterful blend of concern and scorn.

"With respect to the Grand Moff, Alderaan believes that military escalation will only inflame tensions. Instead, we propose an immediate audit of local governance structures, and a humanitarian package for worlds affected by collateral damage. Without hope, there can be no loyalty."

Several senators murmured agreement; a few sneered.

Tarkin's image arched one eyebrow. "Compassion is admirable, Senator, but peace cannot be purchased with handouts. Only decisive action brings order."

Mon stood, this time. The room fell quiet, sensing a speech.

"Order is not peace," she said, voice low but unwavering. "A galaxy that rules by fear will find only silence in the end. If the Empire wishes to endure, it must prove itself more than a regime of boots and blasters. It must inspire trust."

The statement wasn't a challenge. It was an invitation—one the Empire had no answer for.

Tarkin's gaze lingered on her, eyes narrowing just enough to register the slight.

"The chair thanks Senator Mothma for her perspective," he said, voice edged. "But the majority will decide."

The session dragged on. Motions, amendments, more thinly veiled threats. Mon kept her features neutral, but inside she clocked every ally, every abstention, every flicker of real dissent. When the session ended—predictably, with the motion carried by a narrow margin—she stood, smoothed her robe, and left the chamber without waiting for Bail. They'd rehearsed the exit, in case one was detained.

The corridors outside were quieter, the luxury of the hall replaced by cool stone and the hiss of recycled air. Mon found a side passage, ducked into an alcove where the light was low and the surveillance minimal.

Bail was there, already waiting.

She glanced at his sleeve—three black bands, a signal that they'd been followed, but not closely.

"We have a window," he said, voice softer now. "Twenty minutes before the committee meetings."

Mon nodded, and let her voice drop into the rhythm of rehearsed innocence. "You'll take budget oversight, then?"

"Only if you cover appropriations."

"Of course. The funding must reach the right people."

They let the silence stretch, giving time for any would-be eavesdroppers to get bored.

Bail was first to break. "Supply routes on the Rim are holding. We lost two ships last cycle, but the crews escaped. Mon Cala's shipyards will deliver in a month, maybe less."

Mon smiled, but the tension didn't leave her shoulders. "I have word from the Veil—Yoda is alive. So is Skywalker. They're training, regrouping. Padmé is leading the council."

Bail closed his eyes, just for a second. "That will make a difference."

"Not if we fail here," Mon said. "The Empire is closer than ever. We can't wait for the Jedi to save us. The politics have to be right, or nothing else matters."

Bail met her gaze, the weight of a million dead in his eyes. "If they push too far—"

"We'll know," Mon said.

A shadow moved at the edge of the alcove. Both turned, hands poised to play any role required.

It was only an under-secretary, trembling under the weight of too many secrets and too little sleep. Mon offered a thin smile, and the woman managed a bow before hurrying off.

Bail let out a breath. "We're all haunted, now."

"Better haunted than owned," Mon replied.

A clatter of footsteps, this time not so timid. An Imperial security officer rounded the corner, boots shining and uniform immaculate.

"Senators," the officer said, bowing with perfunctory respect. "I'm to escort you to the subcommittee chambers."

Mon nodded. "Lead on, officer."

As they followed, Bail whispered, "Next contact, High Sun at the Plaza."

Mon murmured assent.

They reached the meeting room, a circular chamber with high windows and too many mirrors. The officer left, and Mon and Bail found their seats, flanked by senators loyal to nothing but their own survival.

The chair opened the session with a recitation of the day's agenda. Mon let her attention drift to the glass, watching the city beyond—skylanes threading the towers, banners rippling from the spires, the world below oblivious to the future being decided up here.

At the end of the session, as the others stood and gossiped about titles and honors, Bail brushed her arm, just once.

"Until next time," he said.

Mon smiled, genuine this time. "Until next time."

She left the chamber, moving down the golden corridor, her steps careful, measured, each one carrying her further into the next layer of treason.

The Empire would never see her coming. That was their first mistake.

She intended to make it their last.

The Veil's meadows had a way of holding the sun long after it dipped below the trees. Obi-Wan watched the light stretch in golden sheets across the grass, painting every stone and shadow with the slow patience of a world that had never known blaster fire. It was nothing like Coruscant; it was everything the galaxy had needed and never given itself the time to become.

He sat cross-legged on a stone near the center of the field, cloak pooled behind him, boots caked in honest dirt. The other Jedi—some in piecemeal robes, some in threadbare tunics, a few with the spattered armor of a war they still hadn't finished fighting—arrayed themselves in a loose ring, their silence not the rigid quiet of the old Council but something more alive, more attentive. The stones they sat on were uncut, mossy in places, each one dragged here by hand. It had been Yoda's idea. "Learn from the ground, we must," he'd said, and Obi-Wan had laughed, because he could no longer tell if it was a joke or a lesson.

Ahsoka arrived late, as always, but this time she brought a half-dozen initiates with her—kids, mostly, though the word felt wrong given what most of them had seen. She herded them to the edge of the ring, ruffled the montrals of the smallest Togruta girl, then settled herself in the circle without ceremony.

Obi-Wan caught her eye and tipped his head, a gesture of welcome and apology. She grinned, flicking him a mock salute with two fingers.

Yoda presided at the center, his gimer stick planted deep into the soil, as if he was taking root. His ears twitched at every sound, but his eyes never left the horizon, where the sun bled out between the trees. He waited, giving space for the last stragglers to arrive.

When the circle was full, Yoda hummed—a low, contented sound—and shifted his gaze to Obi-Wan.

"Well begun, our work is," he said. "But finished, it is not."

Obi-Wan inclined his head. "We have food, water, security. The clones and the survivors have built shelter for all. But the young ones…" He glanced at the initiates, clustered at the edge, their faces part hope, part fear. "They need more than safety. They need teaching."

Ahsoka spoke up, her voice carrying further than she intended. "They also need truth. No more lies, no more secrets. If we're going to rebuild, it has to be different. Better."

Several heads nodded, some reluctantly.

One of the older masters—a Mirialan with scarred knuckles and a voice like gravel—growled, "The Code is not the enemy, Tano. It held us together for a thousand years."

Ahsoka shrugged. "And it almost ended us in one."

Obi-Wan held up a hand, not in admonition but as a gentle boundary. "Balance, perhaps. If we keep the wisdom but shed the arrogance, we might yet deserve to teach them."

Yoda closed his eyes, letting the debate rise and fall. When it died down, he spoke again, softer. "Not masters and padawans, now. Equals, all. Learning from each, and the Force."

Obi-Wan tried to picture it—a Council without hierarchy, a training regimen that bent instead of breaking, an Order that didn't demand obedience but invited loyalty. He thought of Anakin, and the cost of trying to hold anyone too tightly.

He said, "Perhaps we start with the young, and let them guide us as much as we guide them."

Yoda smiled, his ears drooping in pleasure.

The next hour was given to logistics and needs: who would farm, who would build, who would take first watch when the night creatures began to prowl the perimeter. There was talk of outreach—how to train the new arrivals, how to quietly invite Force-sensitives without drawing the wrong kind of attention from the Empire. A few argued for more secrecy, others for open defiance. The words overlapped, but the energy was not one of conflict but of creation, the kind of debate that seeded ideas instead of choking them.

As the sun dipped lower, Ahsoka stood, stretching her back. "Come on," she said to Obi-Wan, "let's give them a demonstration."

He smiled, rising easily. "Anything to avoid another hour of committee."

They moved to the center of the ring, facing each other with the easy intimacy of old soldiers. Ahsoka drew her lightsabers—white, not the blue she'd worn in the war. Obi-Wan kept his hilt at his belt, hands open, at ease.

She attacked first, as she always did: a feint high, a low cut, a spin that would have fooled anyone who hadn't watched her grow up. Obi-Wan flowed around her, never blocking, only redirecting. He let her press him, then shifted the momentum, using the weight of her own attack to guide her steps. She grinned, delighted at the freedom, then ramped up the speed, white blades humming through the dusk.

They danced like that for a full minute, neither scoring a touch, but each movement a lesson for the watching initiates: precision, restraint, joy.

Obi-Wan called, "Now," and Ahsoka reversed, letting him set the pace. He led her through a series of classic Soresu maneuvers, then broke the rhythm with a Makashi flourish—just to see if she was paying attention. She was; she countered with a Shien riposte and stuck a hilt to his ribs. He laughed, bowed, and the ring broke into applause.

Yoda nodded, pleased. "See, you do, what we must become."

Ahsoka panted, blades off, smiling as sweat darkened the neck of her tunic. "You're getting old, Kenobi."

He wiped his brow. "You say that like it's a failing."

She let him have the last word. That was new, and he found it oddly touching.

The council resumed, now more relaxed. Talk turned to the nature of the Force, and how best to teach it. One of the younger knights—a Chagrian who'd never been to Coruscant—asked, "If the Code isn't our foundation, what is?"

Ahsoka answered, "The Force is bigger than any one rule. We can serve it without being slaves to tradition."

Another master, grizzled and stoic, countered, "But without structure, what stops us from making the same mistakes?"

Obi-Wan found his answer in the faces of the children watching from the edge of the meadow. "We listen. To each other, to the Force, to the people we protect. That's the only safeguard worth trusting."

Yoda seemed content with that. He stood, staff braced, and looked at the ring of survivors.

"Not guardians of a broken Republic we are now," he said, "but defenders of a future yet unwritten."

The sun caught the side of his face, burnishing the wrinkles into gold.

He hobbled to the center of the circle. "Stand," he said. "Join hands, all."

There was some hesitation, but one by one, every Jedi in the ring stood, even the ones with knees that crackled like dry twigs. They took hands: blue, green, brown, gloved and scarred, old and small and everything in between. The initiates joined last, squeezing in where they could, laughing at the awkwardness.

Obi-Wan felt the pulse of the Force as it moved through the circle. It was not the rigid, cold discipline of the Temple. It was a river: messy, strong, alive.

Yoda closed his eyes, and the meadow brightened, the air ringing with a music that was not sound but presence.

Obi-Wan closed his own eyes. He thought of Anakin and Padmé, of Satine and the home he'd never let himself want. He thought of the millions lost, and the millions yet to save.

He thought of hope, and how it was never as far away as it seemed.

When the sun finally set, the Jedi let go, one by one. But the connection lingered—stronger than fear, stronger than the memory of failure.

In the darkness, the Veil glowed from within.

And for the first time since he'd put on the robes, Obi-Wan Kenobi believed the Order could be more than it was.

He believed it could be enough.

Chapter Text

Cassian Andor loathed silence. It wasn't serenity—it was a cage. Silence meant waiting for screams that never returned, listening for voices swallowed by the void: his mother's frantic calls, his father's laughter among the trees, the hum of lanterns fading at dusk. All gone. He crouched beside the charred hull of the Imperial transport, fingers trembling from adrenaline. Smoke curled from its twisted wing, scorched like crumpled paper. The fire had died hours ago, but the acrid sting of burned flesh and metal clung to his nostrils. Cassian's eyes darted to the treeline—a black wall of mist. Nothing stirred. No cracking branches, no shouts, no whispers. He hadn't spoken in days. Not since the shrieks stopped.

The jungle felt alive yet suffocating. Before, he welcomed its secrets. Now it pressed down with its vast, empty silence. Footsteps. He froze, pressing against a rusted strut, stone blade in hand. Two voices. One clipped and precise. The other low, like distant thunder. "That's the crash site," the deeper voice said. "No survivors on board." "Except here," the clipped voice countered. "Small prints. One survivor."

Cassian readied to bolt. Then a tall figure stepped into the clearing. Dark skin, weathered brown robes, eyes snapping to Cassian before he moved. Behind him, a second man in battered armor and a leather tabard, hood drawn, power crackling around him, electric and wild. Cassian froze.

The tall man raised a hand slowly. "We're not here to hurt you." Cassian didn't understand the words, but the tone cut through him. He backed away. The armored figure knelt, leveling his gaze. His voice was soft but insistent. "You don't have to run." Silence. Then a ration pack landed at Cassian's feet. "For you."

Hunger and fear warred in his gut, but Cassian stayed rooted. The tall man produced a small disk—an old translator. He activated it. Cassian crept forward, snatched rations and disk, then retreated. "We are Jedi," it buzzed in broken Basic. "We saw the crash. We came to help." Jedi. A name whispered like myth.

"Where is your family?" the armored man asked. Cassian's hollow eyes skimmed the jungle. Shadows swallowed the answer. He shook his head. The armored Jedi bowed. The tall one whispered unheard words. Then the armored man—Anakin Skywalker, though Cassian didn't know the name—stood and extended a hand.

Cassian's heart thundered. He stared. Then he took it.

Days stretched languidly into nights as Cassian found himself lingering on the periphery of a settlement known as the Veil. It was a name shrouded in mystery, evoking images of hidden realities and half-truths. Cassian, arms folded tightly, stood watchful and wary, his senses prickling with overstimulation. The settlement was an assault on his once-muted world—colors leapt at him, sounds crashed around him, and the chaotic life within its confines felt like an unchecked storm. Each voice slicing through the air was an echo of something broken, sharp and disruptive, stirring memories of those he'd lost to silence.

Anakin and Mace Windu had spirited him away from the remnants of his past, bringing him aboard their starship with a firm but gentle insistence. They had pressed cups of water to his parched lips and wrapped him in dusty blankets that smelled faintly of foreign worlds. Despite their kindness, Cassian's heart remained guarded; five words he'd uttered in total since meeting them—a mere whisper against the cacophony that surrounded him now. The translator disc they'd entrusted to him felt cold and restrictive against his skin, its incessant hum distorting his thoughts and tongue. Yet it bound him to this new reality, a lifeline amid unfamiliar currents.

Guided by a scout through the bustling encampment, Cassian's steps were soundless on paths beaten by countless feet before him. He gazed at warrior souls honing their skills on sparring grounds where lightsabers clashed and sizzled like lightning across a stormy sky. His eyes were inevitably drawn to two figures standing apart—Mace Windu exuding calm authority beside Anakin Skywalker, whose focused stare followed Cassian's every move with an intensity that matched the young man's own disquiet.

Amidst this moving tapestry of determination and resilience, Windu's voice rang out clear as a bell above the din. "This is a place of survivors," he announced with conviction born from experience. "You will not stand alone." Those words contracted around Cassian's heart, squeezing emotion from him like water from a stone. His gaze flickered between Windu's saber hilt—an emblem of strength—and Anakin's steady presence.

As Anakin spoke next, his offer was both daunting and inviting. "You don't have to fight," he assured gently. "But we can teach you how." The translator buzzed faithfully at Cassian's side, delivering each syllable with rugged fidelity that moved his bones even as it irritated his soul.

Cassian's shoulders drew taut at the word "fight," shadows of old nightmares threatening to envelop him anew. But he straightened defiantly; acceptance came slowly yet surely as he nodded—once for trust, twice for determination.

Anakin's reassuring grip settled upon Cassian's shoulder like a promise or perhaps an unspoken vow. Instinctively, Cassian flinched while casting furtive glances towards the rows of small tents that dotted their surroundings like islands amid churning seas of activity.

Barely discernible amid these humble outposts was a figure—feminine grace composed beneath watchful eyes; Padmé Amidala observed with quiet forcefulness that tempered her surroundings and softened Cassian's guarded edges without uttering a single word—not discomfort but rather unexpected solace emanated from her gaze.

For one fragile moment spanning eternity itself—a heartbeat unbroken since those haunting screams—Cassian comprehended safety vested in shared humanity rather than solitude's embrace.

"We go slow," Anakin reiterated soothingly with gravitas befitting time-honed wisdom unearthed beyond youthful years. "No pressure—all you—and time."

Cassian regarded training sabers gleaming under sunlight; children danced amidst them like ephemeral shadows caught between laughter's lightness versus life's weightiness—a duality mirrored within grave reflections residing behind eyes weathered beyond tender ages they inhabited.

Yet here life thrived—a spark ignited deep inside dormant places awoke anew as Cassian stepped willingly forward into realms unknown yet quietly accepted: His world lay shattered but never again would he choose to remain broken.

After a brief meal and a wary medical scan, Cassian was led through the winding paths of the Veil's interior, away from the bustle of patrols and hangars. The clone escort, face hidden behind a scratched helmet, said nothing—only nodded toward a shaded gate before stepping back into the shadows.

Cassian stood still for a moment, gripping the edge of his tunic with uncertain fingers.

Beyond the archway was a garden carved from the forest itself. Ferns lined the path in neat rows. Vines coiled up marble columns, and smooth stepping stones led to a moss-lined bench near a pale fountain. The sound of running water mingled with the low drone of insects and the whisper of wind in the canopy above.

He didn't know what to expect.

Then—footsteps.

He turned.

Padmé Amidala stepped into the clearing, her presence quiet, but steady. Not like the Jedi. Not like the soldiers. She wore no armor, no saber, no badge of power—just a simple ivory robe and a satchel slung over one shoulder. A lock of her hair had slipped loose in the breeze.

Cassian didn't speak. He watched.

She stopped a few paces from him, eyes calm, mouth soft with some unreadable expression. Then she lowered herself gracefully onto the bench beside the fountain.

"I hope this is alright," she said.

The translator disc around his neck buzzed awkwardly: Permission. She sits.

He nodded, still wary. His hands were curled tight in his lap.

"I thought you might be tired of people standing over you," she said gently, with a glance toward the gate where the clone had gone.

From her satchel, she withdrew a small glowing datapad, a slim red-leather book, and a wrapped package that gave off the faintest warmth and the scent of spice.

"Cassian," she said, careful with the syllables.

He looked up. Met her eyes for the first time.

"I brought tea. And something sweet. I hope that's not too… forward."

She opened the cloth, revealing a small tin cup and a few dense, honey-glazed pastries. Steam curled into the cool evening air.

Cassian's fingers twitched, as if unsure whether to reach for the tea or flee the whole moment.

She didn't push. She just poured two cups—one for herself, one for him—and set it gently beside him on the bench. The scent was unfamiliar but comforting.

When he finally picked it up, his hands shook slightly. She noticed, but said nothing.

"It's alright," she said. "This is just a quiet place. For learning."

He sipped.

Then blinked. A slight wince at the unfamiliar flavor.

Padmé grinned faintly. "Strong, isn't it?"

The translator struggled. Taste. Strange. Sharp.

Cassian let out something between a grunt and a cough. She handed him one of the sweets instead. He sniffed it, then bit the edge. His eyes flicked up, surprised.

That drew a genuine laugh from her. Not loud, not showy. Just warm.

"I'll bring more of those next time."

Then, she reached into her bag and opened the red-leather book. "This is Basic. Letters, words, sounds."

She turned to the first page. It bore a single letter, etched large and bold.

Her finger traced it. "This is A."

Cassian leaned slightly toward the page. The translator echoed the sound. He repeated it, mouth stiff.

"A."

A nod. A flicker of something in his chest he hadn't felt in days—certainty.

"Good," she said, not clapping or cheering. Just smiling. "It starts with one letter."

She flipped the page. "B."

He tried it. Fumbled the syllable.

She gently corrected him. Then had him repeat it.

Again.

Again.

His mouth shaped the sound until it resembled hers.

The datapad translated sporadically, not always catching the nuances. But Padmé's face never showed frustration. Only patience.

They continued like that—C, D, E—each letter a small mountain, each one conquered with silent defiance. Cassian barely noticed he'd shifted closer on the bench. Or that his grip on the teacup had relaxed.

She paused midway through the alphabet and offered him another sweet. He took it without hesitation this time.

Then, without warning, he asked—quietly, in his own dialect:

"Why me?"

The translator buzzed. Why. You. Help.

Padmé looked up at the branches overhead, where the light fractured into golden slants through the canopy. She let the question settle in the space between them before answering.

"Because someone did this for me," she said. "When I was younger. When I was afraid and angry and small. They gave me words, and with them, I found my voice. And with that voice, I found a way to change things.

He looked at her, unsure if he understood.

"You don't have to stay quiet," she added. "Not here. You don't have to be what the Empire wanted you to be."

Cassian stared at the letters on the page. His brow furrowed. "They… wanted me… scared."

The words came slowly. Pieced together. He tapped the translator once, then mimicked the Basic sounds.

"They want fear."

Padmé nodded. "Yes. They do."

He turned a page, unprompted. His finger hovered over a new letter.

"G."

His voice cracked slightly, but the shape was there.

She leaned in just a little. "You're learning fast."

"Fast," he repeated. A half-smile—not fully trusting, but real—tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She tilted her head. "You don't have to smile if you're not ready."

"I didn't smile," he said, quickly.

She raised an eyebrow, feigning seriousness. "Of course not. Must have been a hallucination from the tea."

Cassian blinked. Then let out a breath that might have been the ghost of a laugh.

They sat like that for another hour, the datapad flickering in the dimming light, the translator working less and less as Cassian mimicked her words directly.

When the sun dipped low and the garden lights flickered on, Padmé finally closed the book.

"I'll see you again tomorrow."

Cassian looked down. Then back at her.

"You'll come?"

She smiled. "You'll get tired of me long before I get tired of you."

He didn't know what to say to that. So he just nodded.

She rose, gathered her things, and paused at the archway.

"Sleep well, Cassian."

Then she was gone.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Cassian stayed sitting.

Still.

Safe.

Night settled like a blade over the Veil. Anakin stood on a ridge, wind tugging his dusty robes, eyes fixed on the training fields below.

Beside him, Obi-Wan handed macrobinoculars to Commander Rex. The clone shifted them to watch the settlement's lights—sparks against the dark.

Laughter and sparring rang out, the heartbeat of the Veil.

Anakin broke the quiet. "There's something about that kid."

Rex lowered the binoculars. "Cassian from Tira Seven?"

Obi-Wan corrected gently. "His name is Cassian."

Anakin's gaze hardened. "He's mute in Basic, starved, haunted—but I don't see fear. I see resolve, a coil waiting to spring."

Rex nodded. "Survivors like that—ordinary people with iron hearts. I saw them in the wars."

Obi-Wan folded his arms. "Most children would break. Not him."

Anakin's voice fell almost to himself. "It isn't the Force. I reached out—nothing. But his will is power enough. He refuses to break."

Rex grunted. "He could teach clones a thing or two."

Anakin shook his head. "He needs a path."

Obi-Wan studied Anakin. "You see yourself in him."

Anakin offered a half-smile. "I never had someone help me then. I want him to survive what I endured."

Rex grinned. "I call blaster training."

Obi-Wan sighed. "He needs structure. Patience—rare in you."

Anakin's expression flickered. "Then teach him."

They shared a quiet laugh, not careless but full of promise.

Below, Padmé guided Cassian through his first words, each letter a step toward a future.

Anakin watched them burn bright against the dark.

"He doesn't need the Force to matter," he said softly. "He just needs to be seen."

Obi-Wan rested a hand on his shoulder. "Then we'll make sure he is."

They stood in the hush before dawn—three veterans guarding the first steps of something new.

Something worth everything.

Chapter Text

The Emperor's private meditation chamber was a cathedral of rage. Obsidian and polished stone swallowed all sound; the only illumination was a sullen glow leaking up through the window from Coruscant far below, where the planet's surface blazed with city lights and the red of a perpetually burning horizon. A lesser man might have found comfort in the heat or the silence, but Emperor Palpatine found both intolerable. He craved pain, and in the absence of an external source, the wound in his own face would do.

He sat alone at a table hewn from a single slab of obsidian—an altar, really, though no priest had ever blessed it. On the holoscreen in front of him, reports scrolled in harsh blue: casualty lists, fleet losses, sensor logs sliced from Kamino minutes before the city's collapse. He played one in a loop—a drone's-eye feed of the prime cloning tower as it buckled, raining Kaminoan architecture into the acid sea. He watched the clones, helmeted and unhelmeted, fire on their own command staff, the whites of their armor marbled in blue spray and plasma burn.

The Force in the room was a living thing, thick with agitation. Palpatine's gloved hands flexed once, and the holoscreen sputtered. A hairline fracture appeared in the obsidian table, running from his left thumbprint to the edge of the slab. He did not notice. Or rather, he did, but he savored the loss of control, the way the raw, primitive energy of anger animated even the stone beneath him.

He watched the massacre again. Again. Each time, his yellow eyes narrowed a fraction more, until the pupils became thin cracks in a field of sulfur. The betrayal on Kamino had been absolute: the chips disabled, the programming subverted, the army he'd forged from birth now weaponized against the very machine of Empire. The raw numbers did not disturb him. Losses were inevitable. But the precedent—resistance, then open revolt—was a blade pressed to the vein of Imperial inevitability.

He tasted the thought, let it roll over his tongue like venom. Then he closed his eyes and reached out through the Force, probing the city below, the great shipyards beyond, the tiny minds of every being who drew breath within a hundred kilometers. There were billions, but he sifted them as easily as sand, searching for the ones that shivered when they thought of him.

Most of them did.

A soft chime sounded at the chamber's far end—imperceptible to any but the Emperor, yet deafening to him. He kept his eyes closed for a count of three, then opened them.

"Enter," he said, though he never raised his voice.

The doors hissed apart, and the air pressure changed with the arrival of the new Grand Inquisitor.

She was enormous, a monolith even in motion, the black of her armor a matte that drank the room's crimson light and gave nothing back. Her helmet was a single unbroken plane, smooth as an egg, featureless save for a slit at the mouth and twin red strips running vertical at the temples. She moved with the slow assurance of someone who expected to be obeyed, and the weight of the Force around her was a crushing wave, hard and absolute.

She stopped five paces from the Emperor's chair and knelt, one fist braced on the floor, her head bowed so that the helmet's slit caught the glow and reflected it up into Palpatine's dead, ruined face.

"My master," she said, her voice amplified and rendered genderless by the helmet's filters.

Palpatine considered her for a moment, then flicked a finger at the holoscreen. The feed froze on a frame: a clone captain in mid-stride, mouth open in a scream, blaster raised against a squad of stormtroopers. The contrast was exquisite. The clones had been beautiful, once—designed to obey, sculpted for loyalty. Now they were a warning.

He turned the feed off, and darkness reclaimed the space between them.

"The Jedi have proven more… resilient than anticipated," he said. There was no rage in the voice; only an echo, the promise of something deeper and more patient. "It seems our methods require refinement."

The Inquisitor's head never moved. "The Jedi are clever in their desperation, my Emperor. They twist even failure into a weapon."

A fine answer. Palpatine smiled, which was to say the left side of his face twitched and the scar that bisected his mouth opened another millimeter. He let the silence grow until it became oppressive, then gestured for the Inquisitor to stand.

She did, fluid and economical. Even at rest, her gauntlets flexed, as if the fingers were dying for a neck to crush.

Palpatine rose from his seat, the motion so smooth it was as if the chair rejected his presence. He was shorter than the Inquisitor by half a head, but in the chamber, size was meaningless.

He drifted close, examining the reflection of his own face in the obsidian of the helmet. For a moment, master and monster, twin blurs in the blood-colored dark.

"Your predecessor disappointed me," he said, voice velvet and iron at once. "I do not tolerate disappointment."

The Inquisitor bowed again. "You will not know it from me, master."

Palpatine's fingers hovered at her jawline, almost stroking the helmet, then withdrew.

"There is an infection in the ranks," he said. "It must be cleansed with fire. The Jedi believe themselves safe—they think the Veil, their new nest, is beyond reach. But a nest can be burned, if one is patient and waits for the eggs to hatch."

He circled her once, the hem of his cloak never quite brushing the floor.

"I am patient. But I am also hungry," he said. "Are you?"

She straightened, voice unwavering. "Yes, my Emperor."

Palpatine smiled, the ruined flesh pulling at the bone beneath. "Good. I am releasing you from the leash. Take whatever resources you require. Hunt them. Make a feast of their suffering. But do not return until you have crushed the spirit of every last one."

He stepped back, and the air seemed to thaw.

The Inquisitor dipped her helmet in assent, the motion more feline than human. "It will be done."

She turned to leave, but Palpatine stopped her with a wordless wave.

"One more thing," he said, almost an afterthought.

She waited, silent.

"The Jedi you capture—do not kill them all. I require… candidates. There are traditions to uphold."

The Inquisitor nodded, her helmet a black sun eclipsing all light.

"It will be as you wish," she said, and the door sealed behind her with a sound like a blade sliding home.

Palpatine was alone again. He went to the window, hands clasped behind his back, and stared down at the city planet, every lit spire another vein in a web he'd spun himself. He felt the thrum of power, the infinitesimal shudders of a billion hearts, and knew that above, below, and beyond, every soul in the Empire belonged to him.

His fingers worked unconsciously at each other, and when he looked down, a bead of blood had appeared at the tip of his left thumb. He pressed it into the crack in the table, watched as it vanished, and smiled again.

The hunt had begun.

The underbelly of the Imperial Palace was never meant to be beautiful. It was a place of utility, the functional guts of the city-sized engine above—maintenance corridors, power substations, storage vaults the size of markets. But in the years since the rise of the Inquisitorius, a new purpose had been welded onto the bones: a crucible for breaking and remaking every being too stubborn, gifted, or dangerous to kill outright.

The training chamber was three stories deep, shaped like an inverted amphitheater. There were no seats—only tiers of grated walkways and observation platforms ringed with guard rails so thick that even a lightsaber would take a minute to saw through. Every surface bore the marks of violence: gouges where sabers had bitten into metal, scorch-marks from plasma, spatters of dried blood that never quite faded despite the custodial droids' best efforts.

At the lowest level, two figures circled each other—both in the identical matte black of the Inquisitor apprentice, faces masked and bodies stripped of ornament. Their sabers were not real, but the simulation was close enough; each hit pulsed with a charge designed to numb, then overload, then finally blackout the nervous system.

Third Sister Voss watched from the uppermost tier, back pressed flat to the wall, arms folded in a posture of patient contempt. She had been told to observe, not intervene. It was a test of restraint, but she was well practiced in that.

The duel below was a lesson in predictability. The first fighter—a human, thick in the neck and slow on the backhand—relied on brute force and single-minded aggression, hammering the other with a relentless series of overhead chops. The second was smaller, Twi'lek, quick on her feet but too eager to evade rather than counter. Each time she slipped away, she lost ground. It would end soon.

Voss scanned the other observers: a dozen Inquisitors arrayed in small, tight knots, some silent, some muttering commentary into their gauntlets. Most had come up through the same grinder: Jedi, once, or Force-sensitive children stolen from backwater planets and forged in the Emperor's foundry. Some wore their scars on the outside, proud. Others hid them, as if denying their own history might make it untrue.

The fight reached its inevitable conclusion. The human landed a blow to the Twi'lek's hip, sending a pulse of blue-white through her body; she faltered, staggered, but did not fall. The next strike caught her across the faceplate, splitting the mask and dropping her to one knee.

The human stood over her, saber poised for the death-blow.

Voss felt her own breath slow. The rules were clear: submission, or execution. The point was not victory, but absolute surrender.

The Twi'lek's hand trembled as she reached for her weapon. Her voice, thin and sharp through the mask, called out: "Not yet."

There was a pause—a heartbeat, no more. Then the human, true to type, raised the saber.

Voss shifted her weight, ready to move.

At that moment, a shadow fell across the duel. Second Brother—taller than any in the room, armor scored and re-scored with past glories—dropped from the walkway to land with a bone-rattling clang on the floor. His saber was real, the red blade igniting with a scream that sent the air thrumming up through the metal.

He marched toward the Twi'lek, crowding out the victor with nothing more than presence.

"Pathetic," he said, voice booming. "The Emperor's time is wasted on such as you."

He raised his blade, the arc cold and final.

Voss was moving before she realized it, vaulting the railing and landing upright, knees flexed to take the shock. She covered the distance in three strides and caught the Second Brother's wrist as it swung.

The impact sent a bolt of pain up her arm, but she locked her grip, holding the blade inches from the Twi'lek's throat.

Second Brother's helmet cocked. He let out a short, ugly laugh. "Careful, Sister. Mercy is a luxury we do not afford."

Voss stared through the visor's crimson wash, jaw clenched. "The Emperor demands soldiers, not corpses," she said. Her voice was even, stripped of any inflection that might betray what she really felt. "If you want to cull the weak, do it in your own time."

The other Inquisitors crept closer, drawn to the scent of conflict. They circled the periphery, each one watching for the first sign of true violence—waiting for the law of the pack to assert itself. Voss noted them all, mapping the potential angles of attack. She saw the moment one considered drawing a weapon, then abandoned it.

Second Brother twisted his wrist, testing her grip, but she did not yield.

He leaned in, visor to visor. "You're not one of us," he said, low enough that only she could hear. "You never will be."

The words stung, but not for the reason he thought.

She released him, shoving the hand away so hard the saber grazed the floor and spat sparks up to the ceiling.

The Twi'lek was still on her knees, dazed, but alive.

Voss turned on her heel and strode to the edge of the arena, not looking back. The challenge had been issued, the line drawn. She knew what would happen next: the Second Brother would goad, the others would circle, and one day soon she would have to choose—kill or be killed, predator or prey.

She did not fear it. She had survived worse.

On her way out, she passed a cluster of younger recruits. One—a pale boy with shaved eyebrows—muttered something as she walked by. Voss caught only the last word: "traitor."

She smiled behind the mask.

Let them talk.

In the corridor outside, the air was colder, drier, with none of the electric charge that lingered in the training pit. Voss removed her helmet, tucking it under one arm, and let the recycled breeze wash over her sweat-streaked face.

Her comm beeped—a priority signal.

She thumbed the receiver, expecting a summons from one of the Inquisitor handlers.

Instead, the message came direct from the Emperor's personal office.

THIRD SISTER VOSS. IMMEDIATE PRESENCE REQUIRED. LEVEL ZERO. ENTRY CODE 1138.

The Emperor's signature, unmistakable, pulsed in the message header.

Voss replaced her helmet, sealing in the taste of adrenaline and recycled air. She took the lift up, traveling in silence, watching her own distorted reflection in the polished black of the elevator door.

As the lift rose, she felt the eyes of the Palace shift toward her—sensors, monitors, maybe even the Emperor himself. The Empire ran on scrutiny, and every step she took was one more bead of sweat on a string.

She reached the destination. The doors opened onto a corridor even more severe than the training levels below: bare durasteel walls, every two meters a guard in pristine black, each with the blank-eyed focus of men who knew they'd be replaced within the week.

She strode past them, not breaking pace, until she reached a final door—unmarked, but with a thumbprint of blood on the panel. She pressed her own hand to it. The door shuddered, then let her in.

Inside, darkness. A chill so deep it made the inside of her mouth ache.

And at the far end, the silhouette of the Emperor—smaller than myth, but denser, like a black hole in human form—waiting for her.

She advanced, stopping the required three meters away.

He did not rise from his seat, but even so she felt him looking through her.

"Third Sister," he rasped.

She bowed.

He did not speak immediately. She could feel him sifting her thoughts, his presence in her mind a cold finger dragging through old wounds.

"You interrupted a killing," he said, each word deliberate.

Voss waited, unsure whether to answer. She chose honesty, the only currency he respected.

"The girl could be made useful," she said. "Wasted as a training example."

A sound—maybe a laugh, maybe just breath escaping through ruined lungs.

"Compassion is a disease among your kind," he said. "But sometimes disease is instructive."

He gestured with a clawed hand. "You will take the Twi'lek as your shadow. Mold her. See if your instincts are worth the price."

Voss nodded, understanding both the challenge and the trap.

"Do not fail me," the Emperor said, voice dropping into the register of threat. "You are not irreplaceable."

She bowed again, deeper this time.

He dismissed her with a flick of the hand, already reaching for the next message in his queue.

Voss backed out of the room, then turned, walking the corridor in reverse, each step measured and silent. When she was sure she was alone, she removed the helmet, pressed it to her chest, and let herself breathe.

There were lines that could not be uncrossed. She had known that when she first joined the Inquisitors. She knew it still.

But she was not ready—would never be ready—to let the Emperor draw them for her.

The hidden arteries beneath the Imperial Palace were reserved for only two things: secrets, and those trusted to keep them. The deepest of these was a chamber older than the Palace itself, an architectural fossil that the Emperor had never allowed to be mapped or catalogued. Only the most loyal—and the most expendable—had ever set foot here. None had left unchanged.

Emperor Palpatine entered the chamber with his new apprentice gliding a half-step behind. The entrance was a wedge of pure shadow, the transition from corridor to sanctum marked only by a pressure drop that squeezed the lungs and made the skin want to crawl away from the bones. Once inside, the light changed: gone were the reds and golds of the upper citadel, replaced by a sullen, bioluminescent blue that pulsed from hidden seams in the stone. The walls themselves seemed alive, crawling with the glyphs of dead Sith dialects, each character carved by hand and blood centuries before.

Rows of statues lined the walls: Sith Lords, some human, some monstrous, all rendered in a style that favored the obscene over the idealized. Between them, vitrines displayed relics of the old Sith wars: masks, weapons, a mummified hand encased in a slab of transparent alloy. In one corner, a pyramid of holocrons flickered with fitful malice, their faces lit in cyan or orange as if in constant argument.

Palpatine paused before the largest of the statues, a twisted thing whose face was a mass of fangs and whose eyes had been set with stones that drank the blue light and reflected nothing. He rested a hand on its base, feeling the shiver of the Force as it curled upward and licked at his palm.

He gestured to the apprentice, who stopped precisely at his right.

"Do you know what this is?" he said.

The apprentice considered, then shook his head.

"It is the tomb of Darth Sanguis, whose life was measured not in years, but in deaths." Palpatine traced the glyphs with a fingertip, his voice thick with pleasure. "He fed on despair. It was said a world could weep itself dry in his presence."

He turned, eyes glinting. "Your predecessors believed themselves fit to inherit such a legacy. All failed."

He led the way deeper, past a row of benches carved from the bones of extinct predators. At the far end, a wall had been fitted with a display of lightsabers—each one mounted with precision, each hilt a silent accusation. Some were crude, others elegant. The uppermost row was reserved for blades of the greatest Jedi Masters to have fallen during the last purge.

Palpatine ran a finger down the line, pausing on a saber with an ivory grip.

"Do you recognize it?" he asked.

The apprentice did not respond, but his eyes did not leave the weapon.

"Master Kenobi's first saber," Palpatine said. "Recovered from the ruins of the Temple, where he left it as a symbol of his intent to betray the Council. And here—" he tapped a smaller, darker hilt "—the blade of Depa Billaba, lost at Haruun Kal. The collection grows, but too slowly."

He looked at his apprentice, reading the face for any sign of pride or fear.

"Your predecessors lacked vision," Palpatine said. "They failed to understand that destruction is not an end, but a beginning. They hunted the Jedi to extinction, but never considered what might take their place."

He strode to the center of the room, activating a holoprojector with a wave of his hand.

The air above the dais filled with the map of the galaxy, rendered in blue and white. At first glance, it looked like any other chart, but upon closer inspection the highlighted systems pulsed with subtle difference. Some marked in red—sites of recent insurrection or loss. Others in yellow—surveillance targets. And a handful in black, as if the map itself hesitated to mention them.

"These are the systems where the Jedi still linger," Palpatine said, voice almost reverent. "They think themselves hidden, shrouded by allies and old magicks. But even now, they radiate their stench. The Force betrays them."

He narrowed in on a cluster of points at the galaxy's fringe. "The so-called Veil. Their new sanctuary. They believe that because they have escaped the leash, they are free."

He laughed, the sound thin and brittle in the cold air.

"The clones, too, have found their voice. They rebel, they defect, they claim kinship with the Jedi they were bred to exterminate. A flaw in design, perhaps. Or a virus planted by the same traitors who now pose as heroes."

He let the map rotate, then stabbed a finger at another cluster. "It is a game of attrition. The enemy grows bold with every minor victory. They forget that the Empire does not require patience. Only will."

He deactivated the map and turned to face the apprentice, cloak spreading around him like the wings of a carrion bird.

"That is why I have chosen you," he said. "You are not bound by the old failures. You will not repeat the mistakes of your betters."

He stepped closer, voice dropping to a confidential whisper.

"The time has come to do more than destroy the Jedi. We will make them obsolete. We will teach the galaxy that their myth is a corpse, and that only Empire—only power—endures."

He produced a crystal shard from the folds of his robe, held it up to the blue light until it refracted a ring of color onto the apprentice's face.

"You will deploy the new units," he said. "Clones, yes, but not as before. These are immune to subversion, bred for loyalty to you and you alone. Each programmed with the knowledge of how the Jedi fight, how they think, how they beg for their lives."

He closed the apprentice's hand around the shard, pressing until skin whitened.

"Take the Inquisitors. Expand the program. Find the children, the outcasts, the wounded. Break them, then remake them. Every new failure is raw material."

He straightened, satisfaction crackling at the corners of his ruined mouth.

"In time, the Jedi will have no one left to save. And the Rebellion—such as it is—will see that hope is the ultimate heresy."

The apprentice nodded, head bent in fealty. He was a strange one—mute by choice, or maybe because the Emperor had not yet allowed him a name. His presence in the Force was a spike, all sharp edges and latent violence. Palpatine enjoyed the uncertainty.

He dismissed the apprentice with a gesture, and the man vanished into the corridor's dark.

For a moment, Palpatine was alone with the artifacts, the statues, the persistent memory of power.

He closed his eyes, let the silence deepen, and reached out into the web of the galaxy. The Force responded instantly, a thrum of pain and hope and terror. He could feel every pocket of resistance, every flicker of doubt in his own minions, every world that thought itself above the reach of his gaze.

But there—at the edge of perception, a pulse he recognized.

Anakin.

Palpatine's breath caught. For a split second, he was the apprentice again, the acolyte in the shadows, desperate for a master's approval. Then the moment passed, replaced by the pure, white heat of hatred.

He opened his eyes.

"Our game is not yet finished," he said, voice echoing in the crypt.

He looked up at the wall of sabers, then at the blue-lit holocrons, each one buzzing with secrets and curses. He thought of the Veil, of Skywalker, of the next move in a game only he knew how to win.

He smiled.

Then he turned off the lights, and left the chamber to its ghosts.

Her quarters were little more than a cell: a slab of cot, a basin in the corner, one high window that let in the institutional glare of corridor lighting and nothing else. The walls were the color of dirty ice, covered in fine scratches where the previous occupant had tried and failed to carve a message before being transferred—or disposed of. Voss had left the scratches as they were. They had a certain honesty.

She entered, waited for the door to hiss shut, and slumped against it. The armor, though sleek and engineered for maximum intimidation, was heavy as remorse. Her fingers shook as she released the locks at her throat and peeled away the helmet.

The air on her face was a mercy and a curse. It stung the lines of her scar—a jagged slice running from right cheekbone to the hinge of her jaw, pink and still angry even years after it was given. She pressed her palm to it, feeling the raised ridges, letting the pain center her.

She moved to the cot, sat, and reached under the frame. Her hand found the old seam instantly; she had worn the path to the hidden compartment into muscle memory. Inside: a small, battered holoprojector, wrapped in a scrap of once-white cloth.

She set it on her knees, activated it.

A blue circle flickered into being. Six faces, frozen in a moment of collective hope: children, younger than the age when the Empire allowed Force-sensitives to live. She watched them, one by one. A Mirialan girl with impossible green eyes. A human boy whose smile was half-missing teeth. Two Togruta, always side by side. A pale, thin child with a birthmark across her forehead. And there, at the front, a Twi'lek with a chipped front tooth and a lekku that curled under her chin in defiance of every rule of grooming.

Voss stared at them for a long time, long enough for the faces to blur. The Twi'lek reminded her of the recruit she'd spared in the training pit—not identical, but kin enough to twist the knife of memory.

The comm on her wrist beeped, jerking her back.

She shut off the holoprojector, rewrapping it and returning it to the compartment. The cold of the metal was comforting, familiar.

She raised the comm.

"Voss."

The reply was immediate, uninflected. "You are to assemble a task force. Destination: Alderaan system."

She frowned. "Alderaan is neutral."

"Not anymore." The voice was filtered, genderless. "Intelligence indicates a high probability of Jedi sympathizers. Substantial resources have been allocated to support your operation. You are to use all necessary methods."

Voss's mind filled in the blank: enhanced interrogation, even for diplomats. Especially for diplomats.

She flexed her hand, feeling the faint tremor in the tendons.

"Objective?" she asked.

"Senator Bail Organa," said the voice. "Any suspected Jedi presence. Bring them in alive if possible. Dead, if not."

Voss absorbed this, the echoes of the Emperor's voice from earlier still ringing in her memory.

She ended the call and stared at her hands. They had steadied now, the tremor gone.

She stood, moving with purpose. From the storage drawer, she selected the blade she preferred—single-sided, black hilt, inscribed with the numerals of her batch and the symbol of her former life. She considered the helmet, still resting on the cot, then picked it up and regarded her own reflection in the polished dome.

Behind the helmet, her eyes looked old. Not tired—just finished with hoping.

She crushed the impulse to look at the projector again, jammed the helmet onto her head, and sealed it with the click of finality.

Her boots echoed down the corridor as she went to assemble her squad.

She would bring in Organa. She would deliver the Jedi, or whatever remained of them.

But as she walked, a single line from the old days—one of Master Yoda's, or maybe a joke from a fellow padawan—kept unspooling in her head, impossible to ignore:

Mercy is not weakness. It is the last defense of the strong.

She shut the memory down, hard. If the Emperor ever learned she still remembered it, she would join the others on the wall of failures.

But she remembered anyway.

If the Emperor's meditation chamber was a cathedral of rage, his throne room was a weaponized cathedral—designed not to comfort, but to shatter the will of anyone summoned within its reach.

The hall was three hundred meters from end to end, a cavity of dark stone and burnished metal lined with banners the height of apartment buildings. Each one bore the sigil of Empire: the sharp black cog, the lightning-red slash of the Sovereign. Columns rose at intervals, spiraling in patterns meant to induce vertigo in the peripheral vision. Between the banners and the columns, two hundred stormtroopers stood at rigid attention, eyes front, armor polished to the point of blinding.

At the room's center, beneath a corona of lights engineered to mimic an artificial eclipse, Emperor Palpatine sat on his throne. The chair was simple in form—more a seat of judgment than a symbol of comfort—but it stood on a dais raised above every other point in the hall. At the foot of the dais, the Empire's highest ranks arrayed themselves in precise geometric order: Grand Moff Tarkin, gaunt and severe, lips pursed in perpetual judgment; Admiral Thrawn, blue-skinned and inscrutable, his red eyes taking in every microgesture; a dozen other Grand Admirals and Moffs, each marked by the medals and scars of a dozen campaigns.

At the Emperor's left and right, the Grand Inquisitor and her new apprentice stood as living bookends, their black armor making the old guard in their white dress uniforms seem frail and unfinished by comparison.

The chamber was silent, save for the low, electrical whine of the lights and the occasional clink as a nervous officer shifted weight. Palpatine waited, steepling his fingers, letting the silence do its work.

He was the smallest man in the room, but no one doubted for a moment who was in control.

He surveyed his court, reading the ambitions and anxieties as if each man and woman wore them on their sleeve. Most did. Only Thrawn gave nothing away. The Chiss had a mind like a laser: cold, precise, and always five moves ahead.

Tarkin was first to break the silence.

"Majesty, the situation is deteriorating in the Outer Rim. The rebel incursions are no longer random—there is evidence of coordination. Entire fleets have gone missing."

Palpatine smiled without moving his lips. "The Grand Moff underestimates his own adversaries. They are coordinated. They are, in fact, brilliant."

A few heads turned, uncertain if this was mockery or praise.

Thrawn spoke, his voice low and careful. "The enemy's strength lies in adaptation. They lack resources, but make up for it with improvisation. The recent losses on Kamino were not, I believe, the result of chance."

The Grand Inquisitor shifted, helmet catching the corona's light. "The traitors on the Veil have already begun to recruit from the clones. Their network grows every day."

Palpatine made a sound that might have been a laugh, or just a clearing of the throat.

"Good. I would be disappointed if they did not." He leaned forward, the motion slow and deliberate. "They have stolen a victory. Let them savor it. It is all they will ever taste."

Tarkin stepped forward, datapad in hand. "We have prepared a solution. The design has been accelerated—"

Palpatine raised a hand, and every voice in the hall stopped dead.

He rose from the throne, moving with a care that was both show and threat. He descended the stairs, passing so close to Tarkin that the Grand Moff flinched.

He circled the gathered leaders, a wraith among monuments, and then gestured to the projection tank embedded in the floor.

A star map erupted into the air, rings and vectors and highlighted targets. At the center: a single, pulsing sphere.

"This is the future," Palpatine said. "A battle station, unlike any before. A fortress and a weapon, capable of reducing worlds to dust. The Jedi could not imagine such power. But I can. And so can you."

He flicked his wrist, and the map shifted. The orbits of the Rebellion's safehouses were overlaid, each now marked with the future's crosshairs.

"The Rebellion will come to fear it. But that is not enough. The Rebellion must become irrelevant."

He turned, addressing Thrawn. "And when they adapt?"

The Chiss gave a tiny, respectful nod. "We adapt faster."

Palpatine's eyes gleamed. "Precisely."

He stalked back to the dais, every step an accusation, every word a tattoo of fate.

"The Jedi are finished. Their survivors are ghosts, chasing a past that will soon be erased." He swept a hand at the Inquisitors, then the assembled brass. "The Republic is a failed experiment. Sentimentality disguised as virtue."

He sank back into his seat. "The future belongs to those who can take it."

There was a silence, thicker now, charged not with fear but with a kind of awe. The commanders glanced at each other, saw the resolve—or terror—in their fellows' eyes.

Tarkin knelt, datapad held high. "For the glory of the Empire," he said, and the phrase was taken up by the next in line, and the next, until the hall vibrated with it.

Palpatine allowed himself a real smile this time.

He gestured, and the ceiling panels parted, revealing a dome of transparisteel.

Beyond it, the city of Imperial Center unspooled in every direction, lit by the pulse of a trillion lives, all stitched together by the discipline of fear and the promise of order. And above that—hanging in formation, silver as a fresh blade—the fleet.

Lines of Star Destroyers, each as long as a city block, arrayed in mathematical perfection. At the apex, the flagship: Executor, as black as deep space, bristling with weapons and the promise of total war.

Palpatine watched the fleet for a moment, felt the throb of power in the Force, and then turned his gaze back to his audience.

"Go," he said. "Build my Empire."

They bowed, every last one of them, then filed out in order, heads bowed, voices hushed.

Only Thrawn lingered, his eyes on the projection, already tracing the next phase of the plan.

Palpatine waited until the last officer had left, then dismissed his own guards with a flick of the hand.

He sat alone, high above a world that was both his prize and his cage.

For a long moment, he watched the city, the banners, the stars.

Then, when he was sure no one could see, he let himself laugh.

It was the sound of victory, and the promise of ruin.

Chapter Text

Hey guys, I just wanted to write this little disclaimer just to talk directly to you.

First of all, thank you so much for reading this story, and I hope you have enjoyed it. As I have said to some of you, it is my first fanfic, and as English isn't my native language, I know it is not perfect and can be improved in many ways, that's why I greatly value your feedbacks, wether it is good or bad. Please tell me anything that can be improved, wether in the timeline explanation, or in the pace, grammar etc.. You can leave a review, send me a message or contact me on discord if you want ( )

Beside, I also wanted to give some precisions on the overall project. There will be 3 parts, the first one is the shortest and serve more of an introduction, that's why the pace and chapter organisation seemed blur and unpredictable. I wanted to include all the major characters and set a good foundation for what will come. The second part will probably start in the end of the month, and I would love to have your opinion on some aspects of it, wether about the release schedule, or about some elements I am not sure about. I am also looking for one or two people to proofread the chapters before their release, so if you are also a writer or are simply interested in it, please send me a message on discord.

Moreover, while I finish the part 2, I wanted to let you know that I have written on my spare time a dozen of One shots exploring Anakin and Padmé's relationship, focusing on the inner struggles of the both, especially the possessive and jealous side of Anakin, as well as his background and how the Clone Wars are affecting them. These one shots were sort of a training for me, so they aren't perfect, but I tried to make them as good as possible, as well as lore and canon accurate. So if you are interested about reading some harsh relationship snippets, please tell me and I will start releasing them in the week.

Finally, I am considering starting a discord server, where we could chat about Star Wars, or any other fandom, were we could exchange ideas either for my Fics or the fics of another member, so if you think that is a good idea, please send me a message !

Thank you again for your support, and may the Force be with you.

Samsam