"A storm commands, but it cannot explain the wind.
A weapon gleams, but not all light obeys the forge.
Some truths are not made—only revealed."
Aboard the Combine Flagship
Bridge Chamber – Mid-Orbit, Troiken
The war room trembled with each roar.
Captain Sarn and the other officers had long since stopped trying to speak. They stood frozen in place, their boots locked to the deck, heads bowed slightly—not from respect, but from survival instinct. No one interrupted Stark when he was screaming.
And he had been screaming for several minutes.
A half-shattered datapad lay embedded in the holotable's edge, the shattered remains sparking intermittently. Stark had thrown it there moments ago. The bridge lights flickered under the strain of his fury.
"I told you—wipe them out! The pods were exposed! You had the ground! You had fire superiority! You had every angle!"
He slammed his fists on the edge of the holotable. "So what happened!? Why—why—are they still alive?!"
The holo blinked.
Several pirate commanders appeared—helmeted, soot-stained, field-transmission quality. Static warped their outlines, but their panic was clear. The central figure stepped forward—visor cracked, one pauldron melted from a near miss.
"We couldn't push, sir," the pirate said, breath short. "The Jedi moved too fast. They reached the pods before we did. They were everywhere—"
"You're not afraid of a few glowing sticks," Stark hissed. "They're Jedi. You've seen them before. What stopped you?"
"We—uh—sir, one of them blocked everything. A kid."
"A kid?" Stark spat. "You're telling me a child held back your entire squad?"
Another voice broke in—a different angle on the same comm line. "Not just that. Sir, we were told Jedi use blue and green sabers, right? A few red ones, if they've gone wrong. That's all. That's what we were told."
"So?" Stark growled.
The pirate hesitated, then finally said it.
"He had white… and black."
Silence.
Utter silence.
Even the background hum of the command deck seemed to fade. A flicker from the holo array cast sharp shadows over Stark's face.
"What did you say?" he asked slowly.
"He had a saber," the pirate repeated, "one was white. Not pale. Pure. The other—looked black. But not dull. Black like… like space burning. The edge glowed red. It wasn't a reflection. It was real."
"That doesn't exist," Stark snapped. "No Jedi wields that. There's no such—"
"We thought so too. But—sir—we got footage."
Stark blinked. "What?"
"Some of the boys were trying to record the fight, maybe sell the footage later to a newsnet. One got lucky."
A new light flared in the holotable as the pirate officer uploaded the data.
It began to play.
Grainy. Shaky. But visible.
A young figure moved across the smoke—two lightsabers spinning in a mirrored spiral. One white, radiant even in grayscale static. The other black at the center, but alive with a thin outline of molten red. Blaster bolts rained toward him—none landed.
He advanced alone.
He holds the line.
The file ended in a static crackle.
Stark didn't speak.
Didn't breathe.
One hand gripped the edge of the table hard enough to crack the metal. The light of the holo reflected in his narrowed eyes. No color. No detail. Just the shadow of something impossible.
"Find out who that is," he said at last. Quiet. Controlled. Deadly. "And where he came from."
Another pause. Then:
"Because if those sabers are real—then so is the war I don't understand yet."
Mount Avos – Deep Anterior Chamber
Several Hours After Retreat
The mine breathed in silence. Not resting. Not safe.
Only the rhythm of survival.
Rust-laced corridors stretched like veins into the heart of the mountain. Distant footfalls echoed against ancient walls—Jedi patrols weaving through collapsing scaffolds, soldiers reinforcing blind corners, medics scavenging for anything still sterile. The flicker of lanterns revealed motion like ghosts behind rock and iron.
And in the center chamber, beneath crumbling rock and the weight of memory, a wound in the Force had begun to fester.
Elai sat cross-legged again, his body still, his mind open. Seryth, ever near, had curled against his right side—silent, but alert. Her nose twitches occasionally. Her fur bristled at unseen intervals. Even she could feel it now. Not presence—absence. The lingering hollowness left by a life that once stood like a wall between chaos and collapse.
Tyvokka.
That name no longer rippled in the Force with quiet mass. No deep resonance. No rooted calm. What remained was emptiness. A shadow of what should have been.
And something… moving within that silence.
Elai exhaled slowly, tuning inward. Not to remember, but to listen. To the vibration between breaths. To the small tremors that weren't footsteps. The Force trembled—not loudly, but with a whisper that traveled beneath the surface.
Wrong.
Something beneath. Or behind.
No—through.
He stood before he even knew why.
Across the chamber, no one noticed. Or rather—they were too occupied to question. Gallia conferred urgently with Valorum near a rusted pillar. Obi-Wan spoke with an injured scout, voice low and measured. Plo Koon had vanished deeper into the halls, likely reinforcing fallback routes. Qui-Gon knelt beside a fallen console, repairing a shorted junction.
Elai turned from them all. Not out of secrecy. But because the ripple was moving.
He followed it down a half-collapsed corridor. Past a broken tram rail. Through a bent bulkhead that groaned with each breath of wind. The tunnel beyond was almost forgotten—no longer on the map, a relic from when the mountain's veins were still full of spice and coin.
The Force here pressed against his skin. A low-frequency warning. The kind that didn't come in words, but in the pulse behind them.
A shudder rocked the stone above. A real one this time.
The mountain shook. Explosions thundered from somewhere far above—the first barrage of Stark's siege. Earth fell from the ceiling in a fine mist. Pipes rattled. Somewhere behind him, alarms flickered to life.
They would think he was caught in the quake.
They would not know he had already passed through it.
Elai kept walking.
The tunnel narrowed. He saw light—unfiltered, sharp. An exit.
Or—
An entry.
He stepped toward it, just as motion flickered beyond the open metal frame.
Enemy troops. Pirates or mercenaries—he didn't care. They were moving fast, silent, sweeping in from a lower slope entrance that had been left unsecured. Their armor bore mismatched sigils. One held a datapad. Another signaled to set charges.
None of them expected a child to be standing there.
And none of them had time to react when Elai ignited both sabers in a single breath.
White and black. Light and shadow. Together, they lit the tunnel like a prophecy.
They charged.
They fell.
He moved like a force of nature—not with rage, but clarity. Every step is a measure. Every blade arc is a verse. Blaster bolts flew, but none found purchase. They bent, deflected, vanished against mirrored steel and invisible will. The black saber carved arcs of molten stone. The white cut clean—precision given shape.
By the third heartbeat, the survivors hesitated.
By the fifth, they broke.
Two tried to flee. One shouted something incoherent. The last raised a hand, surrendered half-formed.
It didn't matter.
Elai disabled, not slaughtered. Their limbs fell limp, weapons scattered. Their numbers collapsed.
But one—only one—still breathed. He twitched near the wall, throat burned but not torn. And his fingers, fumbling, found a fallen blaster.
He aimed at Elai's back.
A growl answered him.
Seryth moved like frost on a blade—silent, sudden. Her fangs sank deep into the attacker's throat before the trigger could be pulled. His shot veered wildly—scorching a pipe, not a child.
Elai turned slowly. His sabers were still humming, but he didn't raise them again.
He looked at Seryth.
The white Loth-wolf released her grip, stepped back, and stared.
Elai smiled—not triumphant. Grateful.
"…Thank you."
He deactivated both sabers and walked to the frame.
Beyond the edge, he saw the narrow valley from which the intruders had come. More might follow. But not through here.
Elai tapped the emergency seal panel. The old mining door groaned once… then slammed shut. He reached beneath the console—reversed the lock and burned the mechanism with a precise flicker of saber heat.
No more entries.
No more mistakes.
He stepped back, breathed in the dark.
The Force whispered—not victory, not even relief.
Just continuance.
And that was enough.
Mount Avos – Surface Strike
Above the fractured cliffs of Troiken, the sky had begun to scream.
The first bombardment came not with fanfare, but with force—an impact that shuddered through the mountain like a thrown verdict. Stone buckled along its seams. Rock dust fell in the curtains. Lights along the ceiling rails buzzed, dimmed, and fought for steadiness.
The war, which had stalked them from orbit, now had a voice.
A second impact followed—closer, sharper. Somewhere near the northern ridgeline, an outcrop gave way in an eruption of dust and metal. The mountain trembled again. Not yet wounded, but challenged.
Inside the central chamber, Obi-Wan Kenobi emerged at a sprint.
"Shells incoming—north face!"
His voice snapped every soldier and Jedi to motion. Elai rose without thinking. Nearby, Adi Gallia activated her commlink with a sharp tone, already issuing orders.
"Redirect scouts to fallback points Delta and Theta. Move the wounded to sublevels. I want reinforced gates at every shallow corridor by the hour."
The hum of motion returned—clipped, decisive. The Jedi moved with precision. Troopers shouted names down side tunnels. Dust blurred the path of light from the few working sconces. Somewhere in the background, a support column groaned under its own fatigue.
Elai stood near Qui-Gon, who had not reached for his saber.
"We knew this would come," the Jedi said, his voice even.
Elai nodded slowly. "I still hoped."
Qui-Gon did not look away from the trembling ceiling. "Then let hope survive in what you do next. Not what you wish had changed."
The mountain rumbled again. And in its own silence—massive, unmoving, cold with ancient breath—it made no promise of protection.
Mount Avos – Tunnels Beneath the Earth
Later
Hours passed in the rhythm of survival.
The strikes had slowed—but not ceased. The enemy was pacing themselves. Softening them. The old spice tunnels groaned now and then, sometimes from pressure, sometimes from memory.
Within, life adjusted.
Key junctions had been reinforced. Not with durasteel, but scavenged plating, collapsed rock, and grim intention. Ration inventories began—there would be ten days if nothing else went wrong. Water still trickled through the spring chamber. But medical supplies were near exhaustion. And bacta, once plentiful, had become mythic.
The quiet was not peace.
It was fatigue that didn't speak anymore.
Elai sat cross-legged beside a group of Republic soldiers huddled around a chemical burner. They laughed too loudly at a joke one of them had told three times. The others nodded along. Eyes twitching toward the ceiling after every subtle tremor.
A few glanced at Elai.
He wasn't one of them—but none questioned why he sat near. His silence carried the same weight they all now bore.
Across the corridor, the air shifted. Plo Koon entered without sound.
The soldiers fell quiet. One of them stood to salute, only to freeze halfway when Plo simply raised a hand.
"Rest," the Jedi said gently. "Your strength is in the time between."
Then his gaze fell to Elai.
Without a word, the boy rose and followed.
Mount Avos – Secluded Alcove
They walked in silence. Not far. Just far enough for the sound of breathing to return. The stone here was older, darker—less touched by the recent rush of war.
Plo gestured toward a bench formed of old duracrete. Elai sat, but his hands stayed curled around each other in his lap.
"They didn't get past," Elai said finally.
"I know," Plo answered, lowering himself to a crouch nearby, resting a hand on his knee. "We found them. All of them. Not one passed the seal."
"They weren't strong," Elai said. "But… it still felt wrong."
Plo inclined his head, golden eyes narrowing slightly behind the mask.
"You mean the way it ended."
Elai nodded once. "I didn't feel angry. Not even afraid. Just… clear. But I didn't like it either."
"That clarity isn't darkness," Plo said. "Not on its own. It becomes darkness when we begin to crave it. When that control feeds the parts of us that thirst."
Elai looked down. "I didn't thirst."
"Then you didn't fall."
For a moment, nothing passed between them but the quiet rhythm of the tunnel.
Then Elai lifted his gaze. "I've seen Jedi push. In the tests… and before. Some could pull. Some… moved without touching."
"You're speaking of telekinetic Force manipulation," Plo said. "Yes."
"I want to know how," Elai said. "I didn't ask before. I think Kcaj didn't show me because I never asked."
Plo considered this, then nodded once.
"There are techniques—yes. But at their core, they are simply focused. The Force surrounds all things. Some techniques attune to the mind's will—movement, pressure, redirection. You do not control the Force. You offer it shape."
"Shape?"
"Like water," Plo continued. "Or wind. You do not invent the motion. You make a channel. And the current flows."
"Push and pull?"
"Two sides of the same channel. Push when you call the Force to flow outward. Pull when you open it inward. But there are other ways as well. Pressure. Compression. Flow disruption. Even vibration."
Elai's fingers twitched slightly. "Can you show me?"
"I will demonstrate," Plo said. "But you will not learn through mimicry. Not fully. You must listen to the Force. Let it move through you. Then offer it the shape it already seeks."
Plo lifted a small piece of broken mining gear from the floor. It floated gently upward, then hovered between them.
"Begin here."
While Elai focused on the lesson, Plo let his breath steady.
But he did not truly watch the training.
He reached inward—through the web of threads that danced always just beneath awareness. The Force shimmered around them all. But above it, around it, pressing against its edges like a fracture seeking weakness—
There was Stark.
Plo let his awareness stretch—through conflict, through silence, through cold intent.
He wasn't searching for the enemy's position. That would come.
He was searching for the echo of motive.
What Stark wanted.
And what would come next.
Stark's War Room
Simultaneously witnessed—silently—by Master Plo Koon through the Force
The room was low-lit but tense—too many voices in too little space.
In the center, Commander Iaco Stark stood still, arms behind his back, facing the main tactical display. Star maps shimmered in overlapping layers. Red spheres pulsed over Troiken. Lines of interdiction. Chokepoints. Bombardment arcs.
He said nothing.
But the others did.
"—Your promise was a fast surrender."
"That mountain should've cracked by now."
"You said Jedi don't fight wars."
Stark turned slowly.
The voices belonged to his own allies. The so-called co-directors of the Combine. Mercenary lords. Syndicate representatives. Outer Rim war profiteers too used to quick kills and quicker profits.
Portom of the Free Gas Ring leaned forward, jabbing a finger. "We burn fuel to bombard ghosts while your Jedi child plays shield wall! That's not victory—it's an expense!"
Boor-Daa, fat and half-rotted in his cybernetic sling, croaked, "We gave you armies. We gave you ships. If the Jedi are still breathing, that's on you, Stark."
Others grumbled. Some nodded. Two holo-frames flickered in silent agreement.
Stark's jaw tightened.
"We are in control," he said quietly.
"No," Portom snapped. "You said the virus would scatter their fleet. It did. You said they'd surrender after one strike. They didn't. And now they hold a mountain we cannot breach."
Stark's voice was steel. "Then you breach it."
"The men below won't push again. They're afraid," Portom spat. "Afraid of a child with a white blade."
Stark stepped forward. "You've lost your stomach, not ground."
Boor-Daa rasped, "Or maybe we misjudged. Maybe the Jedi aren't relics."
Stark's hand hovered over the table edge. Not trembling. Coiled.
"You think I've lost control," he said. "But you forget the nature of pressure. They are cracking. You just haven't heard it yet."
The room was quiet for half a beat.
Stark's eyes narrowed. "But I do."
In the silence, elsewhere—unseen by all but the Force itself—a presence lingered. Watching. Listening.
Plo Koon, deep in Mount Avos, did not move. His body remained still in meditation. But his mind drifted like a shadow in Stark's wake.
So… not fear, but the edge of it, Koon thought. The doubt spreads sideways. Not through Stark—but those around him.
And he listened deeper still.
Mount Avos – Sealed Operations Alcove
The door closed with a soft hiss.
Inside, light from portable projectors cast the makeshift war room in hues of faded blue. Maps had been spread over stacked crates—some hand-drawn, others modified with field reports. A few blinked with outdated data the Jedi were slowly overwriting with their own.
Around the space: Adi Gallia, arms folded, sharp-eyed. Obi-Wan, crouched near the edge of the holomap, marking fallback routes. Qui-Gon stood nearby, quiet, assessing. Valorum sat to the side on a ration crate—drained, but still poised like a man who refused collapse.
When Plo Koon entered, silence followed him.
"I have reached Stark's mind," he said.
Every gaze lifted.
Obi-Wan straightened. Gallia leaned forward. Even Valorum stirred more upright.
"The Combine is dissatisfied," Koon continued. "Their co-directors—Boor-Daa, Portom, the rest—they wanted a swift surrender. They did not expect us to endure."
Qui-Gon's brow furrowed. "You mean to say… Stark is losing control?"
Koon paused, considering the texture of what he had seen—not just the words, but the cracks beneath them.
"Not fully. But he holds them through projection. The illusion of inevitability. He claims our collapse is moments away. That is the thread binding them."
Valorum's voice was hollow. "Can he be reasoned with?"
Koon shook his head once. "Not yet. His ego survives on the idea of inevitability. He believes we are already defeated."
Gallia stepped closer to the map. "But the virus fragmented our fleet. The Senate is still debating intervention. He has no reason to doubt himself."
"Unless," Plo said quietly, eyes narrowing, "we give him one."
Obi-Wan frowned. "What do you suggest?"
"Doubt," Koon said. "Whispers that reach him through the very minds I can observe. A planted idea. That we have reserves. That we've intercepted a countermeasure to the virus. That reinforcement is coming—not in weeks, but now."
Valorum looked up. "Can you do that?"
"I cannot lie," Koon said. "But I can suggest truth with the shape of uncertainty. I can lean into his mind, already wondering if Stark is fallible."
Gallia turned. "And what then?"
"Then," Koon said, "they begin to question whether dying for his vision is truly in their interest."
"Plant dissent," Qui-Gon said softly. "Divide the Combine."
"And in that division," Koon finished, "perhaps we find time. Or a path out."
He looked to Elai, now seated near the edge of the alcove, watching with quiet stillness.
"Even pressure cracks stone," Koon murmured. "Especially when the mountain pushes back."
A Deeper Pulse — Beneath the Siege
The stone chamber hummed low with buried resonance. Though the mountain groaned under distant bombardments, here in the hollowed alcove near the cistern springs, there was stillness—a breath before the tremor.
Plo Koon knelt once more.
His mind reached—not outward, but inward through the current of the Force. Across the void, through fractured stars and jamming signals, a thread remained. Stark's mind was shielded in ambition and distrust, but not invulnerable.
Koon touched it again.
This time, he did not announce himself. He simply pressed.
He released no thought, no word—only feeling.
Doubt.
Not his own, but one harvested and sharpened like a sliver of light through cracked transparisteel. He offered the Combine's infighting, the silence from the Republic, the ghost of Tyvokka still haunting the mountain. He left it all bare in Stark's mind—not as accusation, but as potential.
The message was not clear. It didn't have to be. Stark would shape it himself.
They'll fracture. You just have to wait.
And just beneath that…
They are already watching you.
Koon withdrew.
The current rippled.
Combine Flagship – Strategic Dome of the Raptor
The arguments grew louder.
"...our troops haven't seen their pay cycle since Thyferra," barked Portom. "They'll break before the Jedi do."
"They're myths," sneered Boor-Daa. "We have them surrounded."
Stark did not respond. He stood before the holomap, watching the siege ring pulse with red indicators. The Jedi had not sent a transmission. They had not run.
But something had reached him.
Not sound. Not speech. Something cooler. Calculated. Detached, but aware.
The Kel Dor. Koon.
Stark gritted his teeth. He had seen Jedi strategies before—stubborn, but direct. But this? This was a misdirection. Manipulation. The kind that crept behind leadership.
A cold feeling moved behind his ribs.
They're baiting me.
But… for what?
Mount Avos – Training Alcove Near the Heart of the Mine
Elai stood with his palms forward. The air between them shimmered faintly.
A loose crate had been positioned at the end of the corridor—heavy enough to matter, but not immovable.
He exhaled slowly, centering.
The Force does not move for command.
It moves when you understand what must move.
He focused again.
His hand extended—fingers loose, wrist relaxed.
Nothing.
The crate remained still.
"Not will," came Koon's voice from the edge of the alcove. "Awareness."
Elai blinked. "I am aware."
"Of the crate. But not of yourself," Koon said.
The boy hesitated. His posture shifted slightly. He listened.
To the crate.
To himself.
To the narrow space in between.
And then—there. A strand of possibility.
He reached—not forward, but inward.
And the crate slid. A foot. Then two.
Elai staggered.
His breath caught—half joy, half effort. Seryth gave a low, satisfied huff behind him.
Koon stepped closer. "Good. Again. This time, the pull."
He turned the crate around and placed a datapad on top. Elai faced away.
"You do not drag. You allow it."
He raised his hand behind him.
The pad slipped.
Tilted.
Lifted.
Then sailed smoothly into his waiting grasp.
A chime echoed softly in his awareness. Familiar. Systemic. Resonant.
[Skill Unlocked: Force Manipulation – Basic Telekinesis]
"You have learned to listen beyond tension.
You may now Push and Pull through awareness of motion, weight, and need."
[Stat Gain:]
Force Connection +1
Elai looked at the datapad, then at his hands.
"They called it Force Push in the archives," he said quietly.
Koon nodded. "Or Pull. Or Grasp. But they're all fragments of the same thing."
Elai turned to him. "Why didn't Kcaj show me this?"
"He was showing you presence," Koon replied. "You never asked for power."
Elai's lips curled, not into a smile—into thought.
"I'm asking now."
Koon placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then learn what to do with it before you use it."
Outside, the mountain trembled again. A new wave of fire descended on the slopes. But in the alcove—Elai's mind was still.
He was listening again.
And farther away—on the Raptor—so was Stark.
And Koon's voice whispered in his mind once more:
Look at how they stand. What happens if they rise?
The path sloped downward without a map.
Elai wandered past the flicker of safety lights, into stone that had not heard footsteps in years. The mine shifted here—less a place carved by hands, more a place swallowed by time. Damp air clung to the walls. Old cables snaked across the floor like forgotten veins.
He walked in silence.
Not because there was peace, but because the noise inside him had grown louder than the world.
Each step brought new weight to his shoulders. His breath slowed. He focused on the currents around him, trying to shape them—small pulses of motion in the dust, subtle flicks of the Force. He practiced the technique again. A tool, Koon had said. Push and pull were beginnings, not endings. The energy would respond if called correctly, with presence, with understanding.
Elai reached out. A loose plank shuddered, hovered, rotated midair. It snapped back into place with a hum of resistance. He winced.
Too sharp. Too impatient.
Again. And again. He would learn to control it—not for pride, not for power, but for the one moment that had never left him.
Tyvokka.
The Wookiee's final stand burned in his memory—not just the loss, but the silence that followed. A silence heavy with what might have been done. Could he have moved faster? Could he have pushed the enemy back? Pulled Tyvokka aside?
He didn't know.
But he would never stand frozen again.
As he descended farther into the mines, another presence gathered.
Not one of light.
It began in fragments. Whispers that followed no tongue. Shapes that didn't belong. Echoes he had never invited.
A breathless question formed behind his ear:
Why didn't you give us a chance?
He stopped.
There was no one.
But the voice didn't leave. Another followed.
You could've warned us. We were afraid too.
A third—
We never fired. We just ran.
Elai turned sharply, lightsaber unclipped but not ignited. The air grew colder.
Figures emerged—not physical, not full. Shades. Impressions.
The soldiers from the tunnels. The ones who hadn't escaped.
The ones who never would.
"You raised your weapons," he said aloud, voice low.
We were cornered. You gave us no path.
"You would have shot the wounded."
We never had the chance.
His breath caught.
A glint of blue light flickered at his side—then went out. His hand trembled.
[SYSTEM NOTICE – MENTAL LOAD APPROACHING LIMIT]
Instability rising.
Emotional pressure interfering with Force precision.
Recommend grounding. Anchoring presence required.
"I didn't want to kill anyone," he said. "I only wanted them safe."
So you became the blade. Was there another way?
"I don't know."
Then why did you choose silence?
"I didn't… I didn't have time."
The phantoms grew closer—not attacking, not mocking. Just presence. Surrounding him with the weight of choices made in seconds, consequences echoing for days.
He fell to his knees, hands pressed to the cold stone.
The Force pulsed around him—uneven. Cracked. Like a vessel near breaking.
The guilt did not shout.
It whispered.
That was worse.
And then—warmth.
Not of light. Not from above.
A single thought brushed his mind, foreign but familiar. Steady. Centered.
Elai.
His eyes widened. He looked up.
Seryth stood just beyond the flickering shadows. Her ears alert, her eyes calm.
"You…"
He reached toward her in thought, and this time—something reached back.
I watched you fall. I could not let it go longer.
Her voice—mental, not spoken—resonated with a quiet clarity he had never heard from her before. Not emotion. Not instinct. Words.
"You've never done that before."
I always could. But your kind listens differently. I had to learn.
Her presence pressed into his mind—not forceful, but certain. Anchored. Like Plo Koon's, but not Jedi. Wilder. Closer to the pulse of something old and unspoken.
Seryth stepped closer.
Pain is not failure, she told him. And you did not break.
"I couldn't save all of them," he whispered.
No one does. But some still try. That is what you are.
He stared at her, vision clearing. The cold began to lift. The echoes receded, not vanished, but dimmed—replaced by breath. Awareness. Contact.
[SYSTEM UPDATE – STABILITY RESTORED]
Mental clarity reestablished.
Force efficiency normalized.
"I want to be strong enough," Elai said softly. "To move faster. To change what happens next time."
Seryth circled once, sitting beside him. Her tail rested across his feet.
Then learn. And stand when you're ready.
Elai closed his eyes.
The mine didn't feel as heavy anymore.
Not silent. But listening.
The glow panels overhead pulsed faintly, their power cells waning—each flicker a reminder of how little time the mountain could still pretend to be safe.
Heat had long fled the stone walls. Soldiers sat in clusters wrapped in thermal sheets and repurposed canopy scraps. The medics moved like ghosts now—hushed, focused, always short one more vial or patch. Even Jedi robes had been sewn or cinched with field-thread. Scarcity had settled into the bones of the place.
And still—they remained.
Plo Koon knelt beside a boy no older than fifteen, his skin pale, sweat cooling against his temples. The infection hadn't spread too far yet, but without bacta, the line between recovery and failure was thin as wire. Koon laid one gloved hand on the boy's wrist, closing his eyes. Not to heal—but to listen.
The Force shimmered softly in the air around them, like water disturbed by breath. Gentle. Measured. The child's trembling eased—not cured, but calmed. Enough to sleep. Enough to survive another few hours.
When Koon opened his eyes, he remained still for a breath longer, letting the moment anchor itself.
Obi-Wan stepped up behind him, quiet.
"Where's Elai?" he asked. "Haven't seen him since morning drills."
Koon turned slightly, expression unreadable beneath his mask. He extended a thread of awareness into the deeper levels of the mine—sensing, tracing, following subtle markers in the air.
"He's still moving," he said at last. "In the lower shafts. Following the seams along the western edge. I believe… he's searching."
"Searching for what?" Obi-Wan asked.
Koon's answer came gently.
"Another way out."
A pause.
Obi-Wan's brow furrowed, but he didn't challenge it. Not anymore.
Command Alcove — Emergency Strategic Council
The old ore-mapping room had become their central planning chamber. A cracked table, a repurposed display, and a series of battery-linked holo emitters now served as the final line of control for what remained of the Republic presence on Troiken.
Tyvokka's absence filled the room as tangible as breath. His death had cast a long shadow—but Adi Gallia did not flinch beneath it. She stood at the head of the table, one hand braced on a projection flickering with topographical data. Her eyes held sharp focus.
"We won't hold this line forever," she said. "But if we can reach Coruscant with proof of Stark's betrayal, the Senate will be forced to act. And that—"
"—would change everything," Qui-Gon finished. "But getting there is the question."
"The tunnels extend past the primary collapse," Gallia said. "Some of the old spice routes connect to the southern valley. But it's a risk."
"There's always Dallin," Koon offered. He stood quietly at the far edge of the table, his voice steady. "He's already volunteered to make noise where it counts. If he can draw their attention long enough, we may slip out unnoticed."
"And once we're out?" the Judicial pilot asked, folding his arms. "Even if we get a ship airborne, the Combine still controls orbit. No way we make it past that blockade."
Gallia locked eyes with him. "You'll be flying."
The man hesitated—then gave a sharp nod. "Understood."
Qui-Gon exhaled, looking toward the stone ceiling. "We don't moved yet. Not until we see the gap."
"Or make it," Koon said.
Silence followed.
It wasn't an agreement. It was a calculation. Cost versus consequence.
Valorum leaned forward at last. His voice was low, but steady.
"How many more days can we hold?"
The room remained still.
Plo Koon didn't answer immediately. He studied the holo projection—the tight weave of corridors, the fallback points already compromised, the subtle pressure points where the mountain would begin to collapse if struck from above.
"We hold," Koon said finally, "until the moment the Force shows its door."
"Let's hope we see it in time," Gallia murmured.
From above, another faint rumble echoed through the stone—distant artillery or rock settling. No one flinched anymore.
The siege had become a rhythm.
But that didn't mean it wouldn't break.