"Not all storms shout. Some wait with quiet purpose."
The ship slipped out of hyperspace with a soundless shiver, as if the fabric of space itself had exhaled. Through the viewport, Troiken emerged—a jagged world of crags and dusk-colored plains, its surface veined with the faded scars of old mining routes and abandoned facilities. Though quiet from above, the planet did not feel still. The Force stirred faintly, like something lying beneath a thin layer of dust, waiting to wake.
In the command deck of the diplomatic cruiser, a soft chime pulsed as the Jedi ship requested planetary clearance.
"Clearance code acknowledged," came a filtered voice from the surface station. "Jedi diplomatic vessel, you are cleared for descent to Pad Twelve, Troiken Assembly Hub. Planetary broadcast silence remains in effect. Avoid traffic lanes along mining sector Theta."
Qui-Gon Jinn nodded from the co-pilot seat, his fingers resting lightly near the console, but not touching it. The ship required no real piloting now. Most of it was automated—and yet, he remained attuned, as if steering by instinct alone.
Behind him, Elai stood near the viewport. He had been quiet since they exited hyperspace, his gaze fixed on the planet growing ever larger. The new black tunic he wore, simple yet precise, shifted with the hum of repulsorlifts adjusting trim. Both sabers were secured at his back. No longer hidden.
Next to him, Senator Valorum adjusted his robes. "Troiken," he murmured, voice unreadable. "It looks smaller than I imagined."
"Size deceives," Master Tyvokka growled from deeper within the deck. "Many things do."
The ship tilted slightly as it began its descent, slipping into the upper atmosphere. Friction shimmered faintly along the hull. Clouds parted. Sunlight spilled in golden lines through the windows—then vanished again behind the smog-dusted haze of Troiken's lower sky.
From above, the assembly hub resembled a rusted spine grafted into the cliffs—a collection of towers and open-air platforms suspended above cavern ridges. Industrial scars stretched in every direction, where extraction drills had once fed galactic veins.
"Visual confirmation on the diplomatic landing zone," Obi-Wan reported, his tone steady. "No hostiles. Scanners clear. Local patrols are minimal."
"Minimal by choice," Adi Gallia said sharply. "That means eyes are watching elsewhere."
The ship circled once, then aligned with the pad. A flicker of landing lights blinked in response. The repulsors activated with a deep, chest-felt thrum, slowing descent until the ship settled with a muted thud.
A hiss escaped the outer vents as pressure equalized.
Then silence.
Valorum rose first. His expression tightened, diplomatic mask returning. "Remember—no weapons drawn, no challenges issued. Not unless they force our hand."
Tyvokka gave a low rumble, noncommittal.
Plo Koon simply moved to the ramp.
Qui-Gon turned briefly toward Elai. "You ready?"
Elai looked at the door.
Then to the sky.
Then back to Qui-Gon.
"I am."
The ramp extended slowly. Dust rode the wind across the platform. Sunlight cut in long angles, painting shadowed shapes at their feet. And beyond that—waiting just beyond the threshold of light and metal—the first shapes of the delegation began to emerge.
The silence before negotiation.
The air just before something breaks.
The arrival had begun.
The heat on Troiken was a dry, iron taste—thin, clinging, and full of old ash. As the delegation descended from the ship's ramp, the scent of mineral dust and worn metal coiled in the air like a memory.
A group of local escorts approached across the platform: four officials dressed in civilian uniforms marked with neutral planetary insignia, and two armed guards standing behind them. Their faces were schooled into calm, but the way they held themselves was tight, too precise—like they were walking choreography, not conversation.
One of the delegates stepped forward and offered a short, practiced bow.
"Welcome to Troiken, representatives of the Republic and Jedi Order. We are honored to receive your presence and will accompany you to the Assembly Chamber."
Senator Valorum returned the bow with measured dignity.
"We come in peace. Lead the way."
The group began to move, boots echoing in staggered rhythm across the durasteel bridgeway that linked the landing pad to the primary hub. Below them, the canyon floor stretched in quiet desolation, the bones of old industry visible in collapsed scaffolds and rust-scarred cable nets.
Tyvokka walked just behind Valorum, his heavy cloak dragging faintly as he moved. Plo Koon and Adi Gallia followed near the rear, scanning the edges of the cliffs, always alert. Obi-Wan kept a hand near his belt, but Elai noticed—he didn't rest it on his hilt. Just close enough to reach.
Qui-Gon walked beside Elai near the middle of the group. Their steps fell in time.
The escorts began a hollow conversation—details about the air quality, surface temperatures, seismic activity in the last month. Valorum nodded politely, adding questions now and then to keep the rhythm of diplomacy alive.
But Elai wasn't listening.
Something… shifted.
It came not as a sound, but as a weight. As if the air, for one instant, leaned sideways.
Elai slowed his steps.
Then stopped.
The others took a few steps further before noticing. Qui-Gon turned. Plo Koon paused.
But it was Tyvokka who noticed first. He had been watching the boy more closely than anyone realized. The Wookiee halted and crouched, lowering his head until his yellowed eyes met Elai's.
"You sense it too?" Tyvokka asked in a low, gravel-thick tone.
Elai didn't answer immediately. He turned his head—slowly—eyes narrowing. The Force wasn't loud here, but something under it… rippled. Wrong. Like a string stretched too tight beneath a song that had not yet started.
"It's not watching," Elai whispered, his voice low enough only Tyvokka could hear. "It's listening. Waiting."
Tyvokka gave a rumble of affirmation.
"Something lingers beneath this meeting. Do not reach too far into it now. If it wants to be heard, it will speak."
Elai looked up at him.
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then let silence be your shield. For now."
Qui-Gon stepped closer, sensing the exchange but not interrupting. He looked from the Wookiee to the boy, and though no one explained what had been shared, the crease between his brows deepened.
"I'll walk beside him," Qui-Gon said.
Tyvokka grunted approval, rising to full height once more.
The group resumed movement.
The bridge curved now, leading toward the open gates of the Assembly Tower. The stone and metal blended together in the local style—brutalist and ancient at once. Statues lined the inner corridor, faceless figures holding tools, not weapons. Miners. Laborers. Builders.
Elai walked between two shadows—Tyvokka's quiet weight and Qui-Gon's steady rhythm. But the pressure hadn't gone. The Force still bent somewhere just out of reach.
And whatever was listening… had not stopped.
The chamber on Troiken had once been a cathedral. Age had hollowed it into a diplomatic sanctum, a place neutral enough to host enemies who might pretend to be partners—if only for an hour. The long stone table at the center had been reforged from the planet's native basalt. Cold. Heavy. Unyielding.
The Jedi and Republic delegation arrived first—Senator Finis Valorum, tall and tired but composed; Adi Gallia beside him, her measured step softened by silk robes that concealed armor beneath; Plo Koon, calm and unreadable behind his mask; Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, quiet shadows; and the boy Elai, watching everything with the eyes of someone who'd already seen too much. Tyvokka took the seat at Valorum's right, his Wookiee frame towering even seated, his fur streaked with age and wisdom.
The Combine delegates arrived next.
Iaco Stark entered with no weapon on his belt—but he needed none. Confidence walked beside him. He was flanked by his four co-directors: Boor-Daa, heavy and broad-shouldered; Tam Gozon, narrow-eyed and sharp; Lom Portom, whose gait suggested cybernetic legs; and Troodos, a silent giant in worn mercenary armor. They settled across from the Republic contingent with an air of amusement, like kings sitting at a farmer's dinner.
Gunray followed last, pushed into place by his mechno-chair. The Trade Federation minister offered no greeting, no eye contact. Just silence—and behind that, something twitching with calculation.
The room hushed.
"Let us begin," Valorum offered gently.
But Tyvokka shifted forward in his seat and spoke before anyone could protest.
"No speeches," he said, voice low but clear. "Time is thinner than we think. Stark—speak your truth now."
Stark didn't blink.
"As you wish," he said, then smiled thinly. "Minister Gunray?"
A soft click echoed. From beneath Gunray's chair, a signal pulsed through the Force like a flare. Elai felt it—cold, precise, hungry. It reached into hyperspace like a spear.
Plo Koon's head turned sharply. "A beacon…"
Qui-Gon stood.
Stark did not.
"You should know," Stark said, turning his attention to Valorum as if commenting on the weather, "your militarist friend Tarkin has a fleet en route. Gunray gave them the coordinates."
Valorum's breath caught. "You what?"
"He wants to crush us all," Stark went on, unbothered. "Republic, Combine, and Jedi. A neat little massacre. But I knew he'd try. So I gave him… corrupted data."
Gunray's mouth twitched. "What?"
"A virus," Stark said, lacing his fingers. "Inside your chair's signal. The navicomputers of every ship in his fleet are now… improvising."
Far above, dozens of Republic ships snapped from hyperspace in confusion—some into systems they did not recognize, some into stars, others into open voids. Only a handful—less than a quarter—emerged near Troiken.
And they were already under fire.
Stark leaned back.
"Now. I believe we were discussing surrender?"
Valorum stood in fury. "You've damned thousands!"
"I've saved millions," Stark snapped back. "From the stranglehold of your bloated Republic and its precious Federation puppets."
"You speak of freedom," Tyvokka rumbled, rising slowly. "But you deal in the shadows."
"Coming from Jedi," Stark said, "that's a compliment."
Weapons snapped up.
Boor-Daa and Troodos were already moving, hands at their belts. Blasters came free with practiced ease. The Combine drew first—
But not alone.
Gunray panicked, shouting, "Security droids—defend me! Eliminate them!"
The room exploded in motion.
Droids poured from hidden alcoves, weapons primed. But something glitched. They did not discriminate. Blaster fire tore into both Combine guards and Jedi robes alike.
Tyvokka roared—not in rage, but warning—as he hurled the stone table into the first wave of droids. It shattered, a burst of Force-backed fury clearing a path.
"Go!" he called. "Protect Valorum!"
Gallia moved fast, shielding the Senator. Obi-Wan leapt high, severing a droid's head midair. Elai stood frozen—until Qui-Gon's hand found his shoulder and pushed.
"Run."
But not all could.
A bolt struck Tyvokka through the side. Another followed. He stumbled—but refused to fall. His eyes found Plo Koon's.
A final surge of Force crushed the remaining droids—then the old Wookiee slumped.
Elai screamed—but his voice was lost in the chaos.
Stark and his co-directors were already gone. Smoke poured through the hall as the Jedi gathered the living and retreated toward the hangar.
Behind them, fire devoured the chamber where diplomacy died.
The smoke from the ruined chamber clung to their clothes as the Jedi and Republic survivors made for the landing platform. The Consular-class cruiser waited—scorch marks already marrying its hull from the droid crossfire.
Gunray's personal shuttle had been parked alongside it just moments ago.
Now it was debris—torn apart mid-takeoff by blaster fire from Stark's forces. Its twisted frame burned in a heap against the permacrete.
Valorum stumbled as a tremor shook the ground behind them. Adi Gallia caught his arm and pulled him forward. "Move! That was only the first wave!"
Qui-Gon half-dragged Elai up the ramp, Obi-Wan covering their retreat with tight saber arcs, deflecting bolts with grim focus.
Inside, the cruiser's systems flared to life. Plo Koon sealed the hatch with the Force as the engines groaned to full burn.
Tyvokka was dying in the rear of the ship, propped against a bulkhead, his fur matted with smoke and blood. He waved off medical droids with a slow, firm hand.
His words came low and final—spoken in Shyriiwook, but understood.
"Gallia—protect Valorum. No matter what."
She nodded, expression tight.
His eyes shifted to Qui-Gon.
"Find a way to end this. The virus. The rot. Something deeper stirs. You must hear it."
Qui-Gon bowed his head. "I will."
And then, finally, the old Wookiee turned to Elai—who had not cried, not spoken, but knelt beside him like a shadow.
"You already know," Tyvokka said. "But be careful… who listens when you sing."
His breath left him like wind in deep caverns.
Tyvokka died as the cruiser broke the atmosphere.
—
Above Troiken — Fracture in the Stars
Tarkin's fleet tore into realspace—and into ruin.
A split second after reentry, the void was full of debris. What should have been a triumphant arrival—dozens of heavy cruisers and corvettes fanning into formation—was instead a scattered, broken surge of ships, alarms already screaming, fire trails spiraling off hull plating, and crews yelling over one another as systems failed.
Some never arrived at all.
Others came in far off-target, isolated across the gravity well.
And many more—hundreds—were simply… gone.
Lost to black holes. Vaporized against suns. Crushed by moons they blinked into without warning. Stark's virus, embedded in Gunray's signal, had gutted the attack before the first shot could be fired.
The ambush had failed.
Now they were the ones surrounded.
The Combine Descends, from the cover of Troiken's upper orbit, the Combine fleet began its advance—fast, low, coordinated.
Not a proper navy, not by Republic standards. But that made them worse.
There was no uniformity. Just a wall of jagged ships: refit blockade runners, scavenged freighters welded with hull guns, ex-Confederacy corvettes tagged with mercenary glyphs. Crews were a mix of ex-militia, pirates, defectors, and gun-for-hire captains who had no loyalty to anything but their pay—and their contract was clear.
Stark had summoned them to make a point.
And they answered.
They emerged from every angle, no formation, no hesitation—just velocity and violence.
Green fire lanced across the stars. Ion bolts tore into Republic flankers. The Valor, a midline escort ship, was the first to go—its engine cut by a strafing run before it could complete a turn. It drifted briefly, then exploded without ceremony.
Another—The Ecliptic—tried to escape downward, only to catch a broadside from two Combine gunships hiding behind a debris cluster. Its hull cracked like dry bone. Flames spewed from its midsection.
In less than a minute, five ships were down.
And the Combine kept coming.
Aboard the Invincible
The Invincible groaned as fire slammed into its forward shields. Sirens flared across the command deck, red strobes sweeping across sweat-lined faces.
"Damage on deck seven! Stabilizer two venting!"
"We've lost signal from the Redoubt—she's not answering comms!"
"Dorsal batteries are charging slow—too much drain!"
The bridge was a storm of voices, but in the center of it all, Tarkin stood like carved iron.
He watched the chaos unfold on the tactical display.
Fifty ships.
Now thirty-four.
And still dropping.
His plan—carefully orchestrated with Gunray's reluctant treachery—had unraveled in seconds. No signal. No cohesion. And no time to maneuver.
But no retreat.
Not yet.
"Transmit emergency vector pulses to any ship still tracking us," he ordered. "Set the Invincible as the rally axis. Patch into all available backup bands—Command Override."
A comms officer hesitated. "That will open every frequency. Combine will hear it too."
"Let them."
The officer obeyed, Fleet-Wide.
Across what remained of the fleet, battered ships flared to life. Republic officers saw the signal—the raw pulse of command.
They turned toward it like survivors clinging to a beacon.
A corvette missing half its crew surged forward.
A dreadnought with fractured armor limped into alignment, sparks dripping from its stern.
Gunships shifted into escort wedges, trying to reform wings even as fire rained down.
None were unscathed.
But they answered.
Fire Continues.
The Combine did not relent.
They accelerated into the converging Republic force, lashing it with ion cannons and plasma bolts. Another three ships fell. Another hull split in half.
But the response was sharp.
A Republic carrier, The Bastion, fired back with its full broadside—ripping the shields off two attacking cruisers and sending one spinning into the atmosphere in flames.
Turrets began to sync. Republic formations realigned.
It wasn't clean.
But it was holding.
For now.
And in the Center — Tarkin Watched
His face was unreadable.
His hands are steady.
He watched his armada bleed—but not fall.
"They're not fleeing," muttered a nearby officer.
"No," Tarkin said quietly. "They're following orders."
He stepped forward to the viewport.
"Prepare all main guns. Bring the Invincible to the center line."
The ship was damaged. Hull integrity failing. Starboard stabilizer crippled.
But it was still the largest thing in orbit.
And it would not be the first to break.
Aboard the Consular Cruiser — Descent to Avos
The deck hummed beneath their boots, vibrating with a tension that wasn't just mechanical.
Valorum sat rigid in the rear passenger section, his face no longer carrying the calm of a diplomat. His robes were askew, his knuckles white on the edge of the seat. The mask of the Republic's seniority had slipped.
He looked toward the floor, jaw clenched, and exhaled through his nose. "We were supposed to prevent this."
No one answered.
Near the forward viewplate, Plo Koon remained still. Hands clasped behind his back. The glass reflected the distant flashes of fire above the stratosphere—ships spiraling, flaring, disintegrating. He didn't flinch at the sight.
Only his voice moved. "We'll make for the mountain ranges. The old spice tunnels beneath Mount Avos are buried deep—hardened rock, pre-Republic construction. The mines have been sealed for decades. But they'll serve."
Adi Gallia stepped beside him, eyes tracking the streaks of flame overhead. "What's left of the fleet?"
Obi-Wan, seated beside Elai but leaning forward now, spoke in a clipped, quiet tone. "Less than a quarter made it out of the jump. Most of the rest… didn't survive the arrival. Some of the survivors are falling back toward the surface. Trying to regroup near the northern canyons."
"Too few," Gallia murmured. "And not enough time."
A sharp vibration passed through the floor—then a resonant thoom behind them, as though space itself had exhaled.
The cruiser lurched.
Alarms blipped red for a moment, stabilizers whining to compensate.
"Fighter on our rear flank," the pilot called from the cockpit. "Not locking—just chasing. Might try a parting shot."
"We're already parting," Plo Koon said. "Evasive, keep descending. Don't engage."
Qui-Gon had turned, sensing more than hearing the tremor that passed through Elai's posture.
The boy hadn't spoken.
He hadn't moved.
He was seated near the starboard side, head slightly turned, looking not at the cockpit, not at his companions—but beyond. Beyond the flames. Beyond the broken horizon.
His gaze was in the dark.
"Elai," Qui-Gon said softly. "You alright?"
The answer came only after a long moment. A nod. Small. Mechanical.
But his eyes didn't shift.
They remained locked to the stars that no longer shimmered with wonder—but with warning.
The cruiser's hull groaned as it cut through Troiken's upper atmosphere. Turbulence rocked the cabin in slow pulses. A plasma trail stretched behind them like the tail of a falling comet.
Below, the mountain ranges rose—sharp, jagged, carved from tectonic upheaval centuries before the Republic ever touched this sector.
Mount Avos loomed in the distance, half-lost in mist and cloud cover, but unmistakable: a spine of obsidian stone flanked by rust-colored plateaus and empty excavation rails. Ancient mining towers still clung to its cliffs like broken sentinels. Their lights had long since died.
"Approaching the outer ridge," the pilot called. "No contact. No readings. Looks clear."
Qui Gon Jinn form shifted slightly in the seat behind Valorum, arms folded in thought. "If Stark means to encircle us," voice low and gravel-lined, "this will be his chance."
Plo Koon didn't look back. "Let him try."
In orbit above, the Invincible was dying.
Its superstructure buckled as power failed deck by deck. Fires raged through bulkheads. Escape pods launched in staggered groups, carrying the last of the crew into the upper cloud bands.
From the half-intact bridge, where consoles sparked and support beams sagged, a transmission repeated:
"Abandon ship. Regroup at Avos."
Then again.
And again.
Until the voice behind it—whoever had remained—was drowned out by a structural collapse and the deep, groaning thunder of gravity's pull.
The Invincible, once a symbol of Tarkin's ambition, turned into a falling star.
It descended in slow arcs—its engines cold, its hull splitting apart as it was drawn toward Troiken's surface.
The ship did not explode.
It fell.
Glowing like a blade pulled from fire.
The Republic's flagship screamed silently across the dawn sky—and vanished behind the distant cliffs of Mount Avos.
Inside the Cruiser
Everyone watched it go.
None spoke.
Even Valorum, mouth slightly parted, could only stare.
Elai leaned forward, barely whispering: "That was…?"
Obi-Wan nodded, grim. "The Invincible."
A long silence passed.
Then Qui-Gon murmured, "It won't be the last to fall."
Mount Avos — Outer Slopes
The Republic Consular-class cruiser slammed into the dust-worn plateau with a shudder that reverberated through its frame.
Its landing struts, battered from the violent descent, groaned as they locked into place—just barely catching before the ship could list to one side. The hull hissed, pressure adjusting with a mechanical sigh, as a final puff of exhaust vented into the thin mountain air.
Outside, the wind was sharper than any blade.
It howled across the ravine-carved cliffs that loomed over the plateau, carrying with it the scent of char and ozone. The soil underfoot was dark with oxidized iron, cracked and broken by time. Echoes from distant bombardments rolled in low and slow—muffled thunder striking just over the ridge, inching closer.
Above, the sky burned in smears of red and silver as debris rained from the upper atmosphere. Tiny escape pods shimmered against the clouds, like falling stars torn loose from a broken constellation.
Plo Koon descended the ramp first.
The wind tugged at his robes. He raised a hand—not to shield, but to feel. His gaze swept the horizon, scanning the ridgelines, the empty watchtowers, the shadows near the cavern mouths.
Then he closed his eyes.
Stillness radiated from him. A center of gravity in the chaos.
When he spoke, it was not with urgency, but certainty.
"Clear," he said. "For now. But the slope won't hold if they target this ridge."
He turned to the others. "Inside. Everyone. Now."
Valorum didn't argue. His face was ashen, but he moved quickly—boots crunching over the dirt—flanked by Adi Gallia and Obi-Wan Kenobi, who kept a sharp eye on the cliffs above. Elai followed in silence, steps light despite exhaustion, Seryth padding beside him. The Loth-wolf's fur had darkened slightly with ash and soot, but her eyes remained alert, nose twitching with every gust of wind.
She hadn't left his side since the summit.
Not once.
Qui-Gon lingered at the top of the ramp. He stood tall, backlit by the stormlight sky, eyes turned toward the aerial debris trail left by the Invincible. Pieces of the flagship still burned as they fell—one massive section vanishing behind a nearby peak in a ripple of smoke.
He muttered, more to himself than to any companion, "We have minutes at best."
Then he followed.
The Cavern Threshold
The team passed beneath the crumbling arch of an ancient industrial shaft. The durasteel support frame had long since rusted, but the stone and ferrocrete bones of the mine endured.
A faint hum rose as Obi-Wan reconnected the internal generator grid. Low emergency lights flickered on, casting uneven shadows along the tunnel walls. Dust danced in their glow, stirred by movement and memory.
The mine stank of stale air, copper, and old oil.
There were crates piled haphazardly along the walls—most split, their contents long pillaged. Rusted loader droids sat slumped in corners like forgotten sentries. One flickered slightly as power touched its lines, but failed to wake.
A figure emerged from the shadows.
Republic uniform. Singed. Bloodied.
One of Tarkin's men.
He limped forward with one arm slung across his torso, pausing only to salute with the other. His voice was rough from smoke inhalation.
"Fifteen pods made it to the surface. Maybe more, but… scattered. Others—" He shook his head. "Burned or lost on entry."
Plo nodded solemnly. "They'll follow the signal. Once they're close, we'll guide them in."
The Gathering at Avos
Outside the mines, the plateau was coming alive.
From the edge of the slope, more escape pods began crashing down—some intact, others tumbling on impact. Their hatches burst open to reveal wounded soldiers, engineers, even a handful of medics. Some carried what little remained of field rations. Others brought medkits and datapads wrapped in salvage tarps.
A corporal dragged three injured comrades by their harnesses, refusing aid until all of them were inside.
A sniper with a broken arm refused treatment until his scoped rifle was accounted for.
Some of the survivors wept upon reaching cover.
Others stared blankly, unblinking, as though still waiting to die.
Gunfire echoed distantly down the mountain's east face—sporadic and sharp. Combine scouts were probing the outer slopes, likely triangulating positions. They hadn't yet found the mine entrance.
They would.
Qui Gon emerged near the threshold, arms folded, silhouette towering beneath the arch. His eyes held clarity—watching each survivor, measuring the lines of panic in their movement, the weight behind each footfall.
He looked toward the far ridge.
"They're coming."
Mount Avos – The Rescue Line
The ground shook again.
Another escape pod came screaming down through the sulfur-tinged sky, trailing smoke and fire. It struck the edge of the plateau beyond the mine entrance, bounced twice, then skidded across the gravel before slamming to a halt. Its hatch burst open—too soon, still hot—and a dozen shapes stumbled free into the open.
Behind them, across the ridge—
Blaster fire erupted.
The Combine had arrived.
Jagged formations of mercenaries in patchwork armor surged across the rocks, shouting to one another in garbled comms. Their advance was messy but aggressive—designed to overwhelm quickly, seize the high ground, and take prisoners if possible. The Republic survivors—many unarmed, others injured—were easy prey.
Unless someone stood in their way.
And someone did.
Elai moved.
Before any command could be issued, before the others could react, the boy was already gone—his silhouette vanishing past the outer blast doors in a blur of movement. Wind kicked back in his wake. Dust curled from his steps.
Obi-Wan blinked. "Elai—?!"
But he was already there.
At the Edge
The ground was cracked, scorched from earlier orbital debris, broken crates and shattered durasteel shards scattered across the open field between the mine and the impact site.
Elai reached it first.
He passed the smoke plume of the fresh pod, made eye contact with one of the wounded soldiers trying to drag a comrade toward the mine, and then—
He ignited his saber.
No hesitation.
A snap-hiss echoed like thunder across the slope as the first blade ignited—pure white, outlined with silver, humming with quiet purpose. His second blade followed a heartbeat later—dark red radiating like a pulse, not with anger, but with silent resolve.
The Loth-wolf Seryth raced alongside him, then veered to take cover behind a nearby boulder—alert, watching, ready.
The blaster fire began in earnest.
Dozens of red bolts cut across the battlefield like lances.
But none passed Elai.
He stepped into their path—unflinching, centered. His twin blades rotated with impossible precision, one high, one low, always in motion. Sparks cascaded with every strike. A burst of blasterfire—five, ten, twenty bolts—rebounded in every direction.
He did not falter.
A Combine sniper repositioned to the ridge and took aim. The shot cracked like lightning—dead-on, straight for the head.
Elai turned his saber vertical.
The bolt deflected skyward without effort.
Two mercenaries charged from opposite sides—flankers, vibroblades drawn.
Elai advanced—not toward one, but between them.
He ducked low, swept his white blade in a crescent arc, catching both blades at once, then flipped backward over the stunned attackers and sent a precise, forceful kick into the lead one's chest. The mercenary crumpled before he hit the ground.
The other ran.
The line of survivors grew behind Elai now—dozens pouring in from the ridgeline, some staggering, others carrying wounded, a few still in their pod uniforms.
Elai held the gap.
The Combine paused.
Their entire line slowed—not from tactics, but from uncertainty. The child before them didn't retreat. Didn't shout. Didn't even breathe heavily. He just stood there, sabers crossed at the ready, deflecting every single shot that dared come his way.
A few of them started to murmur. What is that?Who is he?Is he alone?
And then, the deeper realization set in.
If this was a child…
What were the Jedi Masters capable of?
Fear crept in.
Behind Elai, the inner mine rumbled with footfalls.
Obi-Wan emerged, blue saber igniting as he joined the outer slope—cutting down a trio of mercs who tried to flank through the ravine. Adi Gallia followed on the high ridge, her saber a sharp crimson-pink blur that danced through enemy formations with surgical precision.
Plo Koon descended with a squad of survivors at his flank, pulling two wounded into cover as he sent a Force push through a collapsing ridge, blocking one line of fire completely.
But still—Elai held the front.
And still—they did not break through.
Tarkin, among the rescued, leaned against the rocky overhang as he coughed up dust, watching the battlefield with blood on his uniform. He said nothing at first—just stared at the child, at the glowing blades, at the defiance of it all.
Then he muttered, mostly to himself, "We let this one grow… the galaxy will never forget."
A nearby soldier blinked. "Sir?"
Tarkin shook his head. "Nothing. Just… observe."
The Last Push
A final squad of survivors broke from the edge of the slope, some limping, others dragging what was left of field equipment and wounded comrades. The combined fire intensified again—more panicked than precise.
Elai stepped forward.
His blades rotated outward now—one hand high, one low. A sudden shift in stance. His boots pressed into the dirt, shoulder squared. And then—a full burst of blasterfire met his form.
Dozens of bolts.
Not one got through.
The moment passed.
The battlefield fell silent.
The final survivors reached the cavern threshold.
Obi-Wan ran up beside Elai, blade still at the ready, eyes scanning. "That was reckless."
Elai didn't turn. "It worked."
Obi-Wan exhaled, quiet, almost smiling. "Yeah. It did."
Back to the Cavern
As the Jedi fell back in formation, Elai remained until the last soul crossed the threshold.
Only then—when all were safe—did he power down his sabers.
The light vanished.
And for a long, stunned moment, no one spoke.
Then came the sound of blaster packs reloading in the distance, footsteps shuffling among the Combine ranks far below.
But no one dared charge again.
Not that hour.
Not with what they had seen.
And certainly—
Not with him standing in their way.