"The bond was offered, but not returned.So silence asked—and teeth replied."
The tunnels sloped downward, past where old markers had faded, past rusted lifts and broken scaffolds, past the last breath of lamplight. Elai moved in silence, his steps careful, deliberate. Stone pressed in on every side—old, cracked, and dry as bone. Here, the air was cold and stale. It tasted forgotten.
Seryth remained behind this time, resting near the higher tunnels. Elai had insisted. Not because he feared danger—but because something in the dark was listening.
He could feel it now.
A tension in the stone. A kind of stillness that wasn't still. The Force didn't hum here—it shivered. A restless ripple, brittle and sharp. And threaded through it all, low and constant, was a hunger. It wasn't aimed at him directly. Not yet. But it was real.
Elai paused at a widening chamber, the rock above veined with old mining scars. Silence thickened—until it didn't.
A faint scraping.
Then another.
He turned.
They emerged like shadows peeled from the walls—skittering limbs, hard as bone. Jagged jaws. Shells marked by battle and age. Challat eaters. The stories hadn't exaggerated them. They were massive. Fast. Carnivorous.
One of them raised its head, twitching.
Elai inhaled, closing his eyes for a moment.
He reached out.
Not with fear. Not with command.
With bond.
A thread from his mind extended outward—quiet, offering, searching for recognition. He had touched beasts before. Seryth. The wolves of snow and song. Even birds in the Temple gardens. This was different. Deeper. More primal.
But the minds that met him now…
Nothing opened.
Nothing responded.
Just a whisper in the Force:
Hungry.
One of the creatures lunged.
Elai's hand snapped forward. The Force surged, not with anger—but clarity. The creature was thrown back, smashing into the stone. It twitched and hissed but didn't rise again.
The others froze, momentarily.
Elai didn't strike. Not yet.
He stood there—small, alone, lit only by the glow of his saber. white and dark light carved long shadows. The air grew tighter.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said softly.
But the hunger surged again.
It came like a tide.
Six more rushed him.
He didn't hesitate.
Elai moved—not with panic, but with rhythm. His blade spun cleanly, deflecting claws and snapping limbs. He ducked under a lunging jaw, then used the Force to shove two creatures into the far wall, bones cracking with sickening force.
The chamber howled with shrieks. The sound echoed deep into the mine.
More were coming.
The fallen ones convulsed on the floor. One of them—a younger one, smaller—screeched louder than the rest.
A call.
The ripple went out.
Now the Force felt sharp. Not just hungry.
Summoning.
Elai exhaled through his nose.
No fear. Just focus.
Another pack spilled in from a narrow break in the wall—ten or more. Their limbs clicked like blades over stone, their eyes gleaming with primal intent. But they hesitated.
He stood untouched among the broken shells of their kind.
And he didn't retreat.
Elai raised both hands, letting the Force gather along his arms—not a wave, not a shield, but a crush. Stone and air bent around him as he slammed the power forward.
The front line buckled. A wall of pressure sent three of the creatures careening backward, pinning one into a jagged corner until it stopped moving. Others circled, skittering with renewed rage.
He met them.
No wasted movement. Blade and Force became breath and rhythm.
One leapt, its mouth wide.
He spun under it, lifted his hand, and pulled.
Not toward him—into the ground. A brutal slam. The shell cracked open like overripe fruit.
Another screeched, charging.
He reached out—pushed.
It slammed into two of its kin, and his blade was already cutting before they rose.
The battle stretched longer now. Sweat lined his brow. His breathing slowed, deliberate. Each step was a stance. Each motion, a choice.
They kept coming.
And he kept standing.
The pile of the fallen grew.
But something changed.
The next wave did not leap.
They circled instead—watching him. Tracking his every movement. Not with hunger anymore, but something else.
Caution.
It took them too long to realize what he already knew:
They had no advantage.
He wasn't prey.
He was the wall.
One of the older ones hissed again, uncertain, its claws scraping at the edge of the stone.
Then it retreated.
The others followed.
They did not flee in panic. They withdrew with the slow, reluctant pace of beasts who had misjudged their odds.
Elai stood alone now.
The light of his saber hummed in the aftermath.
Bodies surrounded him.
But he didn't flinch. Didn't step away. His hand lowered, his breath even.
He reached out again, just once more—not to bind, not to command—but to listen.
No hunger answered him now.
Only silence.
And in that silence, the Force pulsed faintly—steady, centered.
[System Update: Force Skill Acquired – Telekinetic Control]
Skill Application Tier: Combat Tier I
Stat Increase: Force Connection +1
Elai has demonstrated high-stress application and restraint. Further potential observed.
The darkness no longer unsettled him.
Elai moved with deliberate steps, blades quiet at his sides, the air still carrying the scent of acid and burnt chitin. The last cluster of challat eaters had withdrawn, but he knew they hadn't gone far. The Force warned him—not with fear, but with presence. Their hunger lingered. Relentless. Waiting.
Then, without sound, something brushed his thoughts.
Not an intrusion. A familiar current.
Elai.
The voice was calm. Measured.
Master Koon? he answered, halting his stride.
You've gone far, Koon replied through the link. Where are you now?
Elai took a breath, eyes scanning the tunnel around him. "Still heading down. I'm trying to find another way out. A tunnel. A lift. Anything."
A pause followed. Not disapproval—only reflection.
That was part of the plan, Koon said. We're preparing for a break. Dallin will draw them out. The rest of us move once the path clears.
Elai's fingers tightened slightly on his hilt. "Then I'll make something happen. A diversion. Something they can't ignore."
Koon's presence sharpened for a moment—not warning, but care. Be cautious, Elai. If you need to return, do so. We can't afford to lose you to the dark or the swarm.
"I won't fall," Elai said, quiet but firm. "Just… tell them to listen for the noise."
We will. May the Force remain with you.
The contact faded.
And almost immediately—he heard the clicking.
Another cluster rounded the corner. Then another. Dozens now. Drawn not just by scent or sound, but the memory of his light. The way he'd cut down the last swarm. The way he had refused to run.
They surged.
Elai moved first.
His right saber snapped to life mid-spin, cutting down the lead beast with a clean horizontal slash. The others followed without fear, driven by instinct deeper than pain.
The boy didn't retreat.
His footwork was narrow, tight, blades sweeping just wide enough to keep from hitting stone. Dark light arced. White light answered. Sparks flew, shadows danced along the walls in patterns of violence.
He dropped to a low stance, kicked off the ground, and twisted mid-air—blades crossing through three attackers in a single motion. He landed in a crouch, pushing off again before the bodies had hit the floor.
They still came.
Every breath was timed with movement. Every sound vanished beneath the chaos of shrieks and claws.
He didn't fight like a child.
He fought like certainty.
The swarm circled, began probing—testing where his range stopped, where his pattern might slip. A few fell trying. One managed to scratch his shoulder. He ignored the pain.
Then a scream—not his. Another had died. Another had called. And more came in response.
Still, he didn't flinch.
He stood alone in the tunnel, two blades burning. Blood on his boots. Stone underfoot. Echoes behind.
And none of them passed.
Not yet.
The silence never lasted.
Elai pressed forward through the dark, each step echoing with the hiss of breath and the hum of blades held at rest but never far from awakening. The air changed with each level—thinner now, dry and coarse, soaked in old minerals and something far more primal.
The tunnels were growing narrower. Older. Carved before proper support, long before the Republic ever cared about spice or strategic ground. Here, the walls felt alive—slick with condensation and riddled with holes where the stone had given way to time or burrowing things.
His fingers brushed the wall as he passed, listening.
The Force trembled through it—raw, scattered. There was no harmony here. No rhythm. Just pulsing hunger. The same sensation he had felt when he first met the swarm above… but now deeper, rooted like bone beneath skin.
Then the clicking returned.
Faint at first. Then louder. And louder still.
He stopped near a bend where the path sloped steeply downward and waited.
Dozens of limbs scraped against stone. A hiss. A screech.
They came from the ceiling this time—dropping like knives from the dark. He didn't ignite his sabers right away. Not yet.
Instead, he extended one hand and reached.
The Force responded instantly. No hesitation now. No question. His will met their velocity and reversed it.
A wave of pressure slammed into the falling forms, flinging the leading six back against the cavern wall with a crunch of broken limbs and shrieking confusion.
The rest paused. Then charged.
Elai ignited both sabers as he moved to meet them.
His footwork had refined itself—learned from battle, from necessity. A full rotation of the hip, and his right saber cleaved upward through two overlapping bodies. The left blade followed low, spinning in a tight arc that severed a stalked limb before it reached him.
One of them leapt for his throat—its mouth unfolded in layers of jagged teeth.
He stepped inside its arc and slammed his boot upward, catching it midair and sending it tumbling back down the slope where more were trying to climb.
But they just kept coming.
Claws scraped from every direction now—wall, floor, ceiling. It was not a strategy. It was a storm. Their instincts had locked onto him fully.
And still, he stood.
His heart beat fast, but not wild. His breathing was deep—centered, aligned with each motion. The tunnel spun around him, flashes of chitin and fang, and his blades kept pace like extensions of thought.
One. Two. Four. Eight.
Bodies hit the ground in pieces.
Still more came.
A narrow passage collapsed to his right from the chaos, shaking the tunnel and dimming the light from his saber for just an instant. That was when one of the creatures got past his guard—claws raking down his leg.
He cried out, more from shock than pain, and drove the white blade straight through its chest.
Its body twitched. Then stilled.
He breathed hard now, the copper scent of blood thick in his nose, but didn't stop. Couldn't.
Not while more voices scuttled up from the lower depths.
His hands lifted—this time not in defense, but command.
The Force obeyed.
A shockwave rippled outward in every direction. Not a push, but a pressure—low and dense, slamming into every creature that wasn't already dead. The tunnel moaned under the strain. Rocks cracked. Dust exploded from the ceiling like a sigh of the mountain.
Silence.
Then came the second wave.
The ones who had heard the screams of their kin. Larger. Heavier. Scarred from old battles. And behind them, something worse. Something he hadn't seen—only felt.
He was close now.
Too close.
But he didn't retreat.
He adjusted his stance. Let his sabers rest at his sides. Closed his eyes for a moment and listened—not with ears, but with instinct.
The Force wasn't singing down here. It was whispering. Fractured. Scattered.
Still, he could feel his footing in it.
The ground wasn't his enemy.
Only what crawled through it.
The new wave came into view, and Elai inhaled slowly.
"I'll hold," he murmured.
And then he moved—again into the dark, blades raised, heart steady, carving a path not toward safety… but toward the source.
Deep Mine – The Hollow Nest
The tunnel narrowed, then widened suddenly into a vast hollow—an old mining chamber, half-collapsed long ago. Pillars of jagged stone stretched upward like broken teeth. The walls were slick with old mineral runoff, the scent of rust and decay thick in the air. Elai stepped cautiously into the open space.
And froze.
The ground moved.
No—seethed.
They were everywhere.
Dozens at first glance. Hundreds upon a second. Skittering bodies, slick shells, claws scraping against each other in agitation. Clinging to the walls. Hanging from the ceiling. Nestled in the crags and ridges of old boreholes. Challat eaters—not in patrol, not in pairs.
In brood.
The nest had awakened.
He didn't speak. He didn't move.
But they had already seen him.
A high-pitched scream tore through the chamber, echoed by a dozen more. The hive surged—every limb, every fang, every instinct turned toward the small figure who stood alone at the chamber's threshold.
Then, behind him—
The tunnel shuddered.
More claws. More breath. More bodies.
He turned.
Another wave approached from the path he'd come—drawn by the slaughter behind, by the scent of blood and the fury of loss. The nest wasn't defending anymore.
It was hunting.
He was pinned.
Surrounded.
The sound was deafening now—an avalanche of shrieks, scraping, the rhythmic clatter of claws hitting stone from every angle. His fingers clenched around his lightsabers.
And then—
He moved.
The first dozen fell like leaves in a storm. His sabers whirled, arcing wide then cutting tight—his steps weaving between strikes with impossible control. One saber blocked high, the other cut low. The Force rushed through him like floodwater in a narrow channel, blasting outward as he threw his hand toward a climbing cluster—crushing them mid-scramble.
Bodies fell. Dust rose.
Still more came.
They swarmed from above, from beneath shattered scaffolding, bursting from old mine vents like vermin from a corpse. They wanted him—wanted his heat, his blood, his motion.
Elai turned with a grunt and forced both hands outward—a pulse of pure pressure—the nearest wave slammed back against the stone with a wet crunch. Limbs broke. Shells cracked. The Force screamed through the nest now, meeting hunger with clarity, chaos with presence.
Still…
It was not enough.
The rear tunnel cracked open further, and from the deeper dark came a dozen more.
Then twenty.
Then more.
He was no longer fighting a patrol. Not even a swarm.
This was a hive war.
And he stood alone.
Until—
A howl shattered the air, wild and sharp.
From above, leaping across broken scaffolds and falling with the weight of fury, came Seryth.
The white Loth-wolf crashed into the flank of the rear swarm, fangs already bloodied, claws raking through soft underbellies and carapace. One body slammed into the wall. Another was crushed beneath his landing. And the pack screamed in surprise.
Seryth did not give them time to adjust. He moved like frostfire—fast, brutal, radiant in the gloom.
Elai didn't hesitate.
With his companion holding the rear, he turned fully toward the nest ahead. The central brood.
A towering Challat screeched from the ridge—a matron or something close. Taller than the rest. Heavily armored. Her eyes gleamed with black malice.
Elai raised his sabers, and ran straight toward her.
Shells cracked beneath his feet as he advanced. Limbs clawed at his robes. One tore a line across his arm—but his momentum never slowed. He became motion itself. Precision in a storm. Anger never touched him—only necessity. Only intention.
The matron charged to meet him—fangs extended, mandibles wide.
At the last moment, Elai dropped to a slide—his right saber cutting upward into her underbelly, his left blade rising like a mirror to meet the exposed nerve bundle behind her mandibles.
Her scream was cut short.
She collapsed.
The nest paused—for the first time.
And that was all he needed.
Elai exploded upward, hands rising. The Force bent.
Dozens of bodies lifted from the stone as if gravity had forgotten them.
He turned them—then threw them.
Crushed them into the wall. Drop them into the crags below. The weight of death echoed through the Force, but he did not waver.
Behind him, Seryth tore through the last of the rear flank, blood dripping from his muzzle, breathing hard but steady.
And finally—
Silence.
Elai stood in the middle of the ruined nest. His sabers dimmed. The glow faded. The air was thick with the stench of acid and smoke. And stillness.
A few twitching limbs. But nothing more.
Seryth padded forward and sat beside him, pressing his head briefly against Elai's side.
Elai didn't speak.
He couldn't.
His body shook, not from fear—but from effort. From the weight of what had passed.
And what might come next.
But this path—this moment—was carved in him now. There would be no turning back.
He looked toward the far wall, where the tunnel widened once more into the deeper dark.
And he moved forward again.
Deep Mine – Hidden Exit
The tunnel narrowed into fractured stone, then leveled out.
Elai could feel it before he saw it—the change in air pressure, the faint tickle of wind no longer stale from months trapped in a sealed passage. The scent was there too: distant cold, a faint trace of moss or soot or maybe burnt fuel.
He stepped cautiously forward, sabers dimmed but still in hand, his steps quiet even on the loose gravel beneath.
Then, finally—light.
Not the glow of torches or artificial power cells, but a thin silver gleam filtering through a jagged opening just wide enough to crawl through. Moonlight. Real moonlight.
An exit.
Elai didn't smile.
He staggered.
The chamber just before the breach sloped slightly upward, forming a small ledge sheltered by the curve of the rock. He reached it and dropped to his knees.
His whole body ached.
The last battle had cost him more than he'd realized. Even with Seryth now pacing slowly beside him, ears pricked for danger, Elai felt the edge of emptiness.
Not hunger.
Drain.
He sat cross-legged and closed his eyes.
The Force was still there, but thin. Like stretched silk over water. He drew it close—not to command, not to act. Just to feel.
Stillness. Echo. Breath through stone. The memory of pain.
And the absence of something else.
He opened his eyes, focusing inward.
"System."
Silence.
"How do I increase Force reserves?"
Nothing.
"What quests are available?"
No reply.
"Please. There must be a way to grow stronger—faster."
Still, the system remained still, quiet. No hum. No thread. Not even the soft flicker of interface light that sometimes marked its presence.
He frowned, pressing his palms together, steadying his breath.
"Why won't you answer?"
Only wind through stone.
It wasn't rejection. It wasn't even punishment.
It was simply absence.
Like it, too, was waiting.
He let out a quiet sigh, then shifted his focus. Not forward. Not upward. Inward.
Why am I asking for more power?
The memory of the Challat nest returned. The weight of bodies. The instinct to cut, not question.
And beneath that—Tyvokka's fall.
Elai closed his eyes again. Not to reach for answers, but to rest.
And for a while, he sat there, the cool wind pressing gently from the cave's mouth, and the Loth-wolf curled beside him like a living anchor.
Outside – The Slopes of Mount Avos
It was night.
Stars hung cold and sharp above Troiken's fractured peaks. The air here was thinner, touched with frost, the kind that clung to stone and made each breath bite just a little.
Elai stepped cautiously from the crevice, cloak drawn tight, eyes adjusting quickly.
The landscape stretched outward—jagged mountain ridges folding down into misted ravines. But what caught his attention wasn't the terrain.
It was the sky.
The distant hum of engines echoed off the cliffs. A flicker of light—then another. Dropships.
He dropped low behind a boulder and watched.
One. Then two. Then another.
Small transports descended near a broken ridge two kilometers north, illuminated only by faint underglow and the shimmer of their repulsorlift fields. They never stayed long—just enough to unload, then lift away and vanish into the stars.
Supply line.
Elai narrowed his eyes.
He couldn't see the camp from this distance, but the pattern was clear. The landings weren't random. Always at the same angle. The same hover pattern. The ships weren't circling. They were returning.
A base.
He crouched lower, hand resting against the stone, steadying himself. The Force was still thin inside him, but his awareness had begun to return—sharper now that he'd paused. The cold helped. The dark helped more.
Seryth nudged his shoulder with a quiet huff.
"I see it," Elai murmured. "We go that way."
The Loth-wolf dipped his head.
They moved slowly. Quietly. No longer fleeing. No longer just seeking escape.
The night was no friend.
But it offered cover.
And ahead, somewhere below the cliffs, the Combine was building something.
Elai would see it.
And if the Force still carried meaning in this war—
He would stop it.
Troiken – Outer Combine Landing Site
Infiltration – Nightfall
The ridge narrowed as Elai advanced.
He moved low to the ground, cloak mottled with dust and ash from the mountain's underbelly. Each breath was measured. Each footfall softened by instinct and training. The terrain around the Combine landing zone had been reshaped—blasted flat in places, rough-built in others. Spotlights had been mounted on rusted pylons, but most didn't rotate. Too few guards. Too many assumptions.
Elai moved between the gaps like shadow, with Seryth several paces behind, paws silent on the rock.
Ahead, the ships.
Most of them were ugly—misshapen transports and jagged, retrofitted freighters. The kind of vessels welded back together in orbiting junk yards or outlaws' refit bays. Colors clashed. Panels mismatched. Power coils hummed with strain.
But one was different.
It stood out even at a glance—sleek lines beneath newly added armor, a long dorsal spine that hinted at heavier shielding, and a recessed hangar hatch on the underside. The hull had been re-coated in matte gunmetal, but the structure beneath was clean, angular, and symmetrical.
A Republic design.
Elai's breath caught.
It looked familiar—too familiar. He'd seen this design before. During his time on the mountain. The fleet above Troiken.
This was one of Tarkin's ships.
But not just any one.
Its shape echoed the very model he had glimpsed from the viewport during the descent—his descent—before the summit. A Consular-class frigate, but modified. Outfitted for heavier resistance. Sleeker, more dangerous.
Why is this here?
He crept closer.
Near the starboard landing strut, two pirates slouched on a crate of fusion welders, laughing under half-whispered tones. Their armor was mismatched. Their rifles are uncharged. Neither looked particularly alert.
Elai knelt behind a piece of discarded hull plating, still blackened from an earlier skirmish.
"…I'm telling you, once they finish patching the vector thruster, it's ours," said the first pirate, nudging his companion. "Full tactical package. Combat class. Stark said we can re-ID it next cycle—get clearance codes loaded and everything."
The other scoffed. "What about the old signature?"
"We keep it," the first said, biting into a ration stick. "Always useful to have a ship with clean Republic tags. Makes raiding easier. Pop into a system like we're official. Get what we need, and pop right back out."
"So it's really one of Tarkin's?"
"Yup. Crew's still locked up somewhere. Engineering Bay's fried from the virus hit, but they got a slice from command. As soon as we get Stark's clearance, it's good to fly."
The second pirate gave a low whistle. "How the hell did we get this lucky?"
"'Cause the Republic's too busy choking on its own blood to notice. We clean it up, run a few ops, and suddenly we're top-tier. Better than those scrapheads Boor-Daa keeps sending."
They laughed again.
Then wandered off.
Elai stayed crouched for another full minute, waiting for footsteps to fade.
Then he moved.
Around the side of the vessel, shadows clung like fabric. A portable refueling station had been erected nearby, but no one was monitoring it. A half-disassembled hoverbike lay in pieces under a tarp. Seryth waited outside, crouched low behind a supply crate, silent and still.
Elai approached the loading ramp.
Then stopped.
Just before the ship's access hatch, someone had left a datapad resting on a metal case—its screen still active, flickering faint blue with a ship schematic.
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
Deck plan.
Power relay layout.
Hangar bay systems.
Engine diagnostics.
They weren't just repairing it—they were integrating it. Lines of code were still in mid-write. Names of stolen parts. Notes about splice protocols. A trace of virus residue flagged for deletion.
He studied it all. Committed it to memory. Cross-checked positions. Found the internal access stairwell closest to the aft systems core.
Then he slipped inside.
The hatch wasn't sealed.
"They really are careless," Elai whispered to himself. "No patrols. No rounds. Not even a sensor lock."
The inside of the ship was dim. Lights flickered in standby mode. A few sparks hissed from an open junction box. Tools lay scattered across the floor of the forward bay, where it looked like pirates had tried and failed to fully repair auxiliary systems.
But no guards.
No active crew.
The pirates had claimed a ship they barely understood—and they had left it sleeping.
He padded through the narrow corridor silently, letting the Force guide him around pressure-triggered plates and worn edges. Every breath slowed. Every motion is precise.
The deeper he went, the quieter the ship became.
And with it, Elai's thoughts sharpened.
This isn't just a vessel.
It's a weapon.
And now it was in the wrong hands.
But maybe—if he could reach the core, if he could access the locked systems—
It wouldn't be for long.
Elai moved through the lower decks without resistance.
Not a single soul blocked his path.
No guards.
No cameras.
Not even a passive sensor sweep.
Only stale, recycled air and the hum of overtaxed power lines vibrating faintly in the walls.
Seryth walked beside him in perfect silence—white fur barely visible under the dull red emergency lighting that blinked lazily along the floor trim. Pipes hissed above them. A cracked maintenance sign read BRIG 02 – RESTRICTED ACCESS in rust-streaked Basic.
Elai slowed as they turned into the cell corridor. The doors here were simple—magnetic seals with backup hydraulics. Meant to hold people, not protect them. A few had flickering displays showing vitals. The pirates hadn't even bothered turning off the monitoring system.
"Honestly," Elai murmured, eyes narrowing, "this is embarrassing."
He glanced toward Seryth, voice dry.
"They've claimed a warship, captured a full crew, parked the whole thing on a hostile world in the middle of a siege… and left the brig completely unguarded."
Seryth huffed softly—less a growl than a breath of agreement.
"I could take the entire ship," Elai added, still walking. "Not just the cockpit. Everything. And I'm pretty sure they wouldn't notice."
As he moved, one hand traced subtle motions over a data interface embedded into the wall—a small display pad, barely online. The other hand worked a palm-sized slicing device, stringing together lines of code from stored protocols. He wasn't deploying them yet—just laying groundwork.
Loops. Backdoors. Misdirection scripts. An eventual distraction.
All eyes will be on me, he thought. Or at least… on this ship.
He paused at the central cell.
Seven officers inside—three Humans, two Duros, a Sullustan, and one Rodian. All looked exhausted. Dirty. Still wearing the remnants of Republic naval uniforms, torn and stained from captivity. They were seated or leaned against the bulkhead—half asleep, half alert.
As the lights outside their cell flickered to full brightness, one of them looked up.
And blinked.
"…what the—?"
Elai tilted his head.
"I'm going to take this ship."
Silence.
Then—
The Sullustan barked out a laugh. Another officer followed. Then the Duros snorted, muttering something in disbelief. It spread through the cell in waves—amusement, incredulity, dismissal.
"You're joking," one said. "Right?"
Elai didn't answer.
Instead, he extended his arm—and with a subtle hum, his twin-hilt lightsaber snapped into existence. The corridor lit up in White and dark light that danced along the walls.
Laughter died.
Completely.
Several of the officers stood instantly, backing away from the door.
One of them whispered, "…are you a Jedi?"
Elai just smiled.
Then asked again, quiet but firm:
"Is that a no?"
Rodian shook his head immediately. "No. No, it's not."
"We're willing," the Duros added quickly, hands raised. "But the pirates—they're everywhere. This ship's crawling with them. Even if we help, we won't make it halfway to the bridge before—"
It was Elai's turn to laugh.
And he did.
Not mocking. Not cruel. Just... utterly amused.
"Those pirates?" he said, voice light with disbelief. "I walked in here. Through the loading bay, engineering, and half the crew quarters. Didn't hide. Didn't rush. No one looked twice."
The officers exchanged glances, visibly unsettled.
Elai extinguished the saber. The corridor returned to dim red.
He stepped closer to the cell door.
"You're not Tarkin's crew anymore," he said evenly. "You're mine. I'm not going to bark orders or pull rank. But if you stay here.."
He let that hang in the silence.
"Or… you get your posts back. Your control. Your dignity."
"But—Coruscant," one said, unease creeping in. "Tarkin will be tried?"
Elai's gaze didn't waver.
"Yes"
The weight of that truth settled over the room like gravity.
A long pause.
Finally, the Rodian nodded. "Better than waiting to be sold."
Another stepped forward. "We're in."
The others followed. No further questions.
Elai turned back toward the corridor. As he walked, he called over his shoulder:
"When the time's right, the door will unlock. Until then, get some rest. And when it opens—go back to your stations. Stay quiet. Don't interfere. Don't draw attention."
He disappeared into the flickering shadows.
Seryth padded after him, silent as snowfall.
The cell behind them remained still.
But something had changed.
A spark had been struck.