Chapter 40: The Empty Throne
Anakin Skywalker leaned against the cool metal railing of the command ship’s observation deck, arms crossed, watching the last of the LAAT/i gunships ferry wounded clones up from Christophsis’s scarred surface.
The planet still smoked in places—black columns twisting lazily into the upper atmosphere like it couldn’t quite decide whether the battle was really over. His scar throbbed under the fresh bandages; the stitches pulled every time he scowled, which was often.
Nothing a little meditation wouldn’t fix later, but right now the discomfort kept him grounded. Alive. Victorious.
Not a bad first real command-level scrap, he thought, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite everything. Could’ve gone worse.
Around him the bridge hummed with the familiar post-battle rhythm: clone officers trading casualty reports in low, clipped voices, technicians rerouting power from damaged sections, and the occasional burst of relieved laughter from troopers who’d made it through their first taste of real war.
Rex was down there somewhere coordinating the evacuation, voice steady as durasteel. Good man.
Ahsoka bounced on the balls of her feet beside him, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, while Obi-Wan stood a few paces away in that calm, hands-clasped-behind-his-back pose that somehow made even victory feel measured.
Maris and Ben lingered near the tactical holo-table, the pair of them unusually quiet. First battle nerves, probably. Or maybe Ben was still replaying that tangle with Ventress. Kid had handled himself well—better than well, really—the first time Anakin fought a Sith on his own, he lost a limb.
But something about the way Ben and Maris moved together down there had felt… off.
Too in sync. Too sharp. Anakin made a mental note to tease him about it later. Or start a quiet betting pool with the clones. Ben definitely had a thing for Maris. Or maybe it was Ahsoka. Either way, credits were credits.
… Jedi were allowed to gamble, right?
A priority chime cut through the ambient noise. The main holoprojector flickered to life, bathing the deck in cool blue light as the stern face of a Republic Intelligence analyst materialized.
“General Kenobi, General Skywalker,” the man began without preamble. “We have confirmed reports from the Outer Rim. Jabba the Hutt is dead.”
Anakin snorted before he could stop himself. “Yeah, no kidding. Mom told me almost a year ago. I threw a party in the hanger. Took a whole week to clean the coolant stains off the walls.” He felt the others glance his way and shrugged, unapologetic. “What? Guy had my mom living in fear for decades. Excuse me for not sending flowers.”
The analyst didn’t smile. “The death itself is not the primary concern, General Skywalker. Hutt Space has not remained a power vacuum. It has been… conquered.”
The words landed heavier than they had any right to.
Conquered?
Anakin straightened, the grin fading as the holo shifted to star charts and grainy reconnaissance footage. Trade routes that should have been wide open now showed as locked down with fresh nav-buoys and patrol markers. Whole sections of the cartel’s territory blinked under new control flags—systems that had answered to Jabba or his cousins yesterday now flew unfamiliar banners.
And that wasn’t the end of it. Cartel leaders missing. Fleets scattered or absorbed. Mos Eisley transformed from a lawless hive into something that looked uncomfortably like an actual military occupation.
Obi-Wan’s expression tightened. “Conquered by whom, exactly?”
“Two individuals identified only as Darth Sol and Darth Nox,” the analyst replied. “They appear to command a highly disciplined force that includes large numbers of HK-series assassin droids and other… non-standard assets. Initial estimates suggest they seized key worlds with surgical efficiency. Tatooine, in particular, is now under their direct administration.”
Anakin blinked. Then barked a short laugh that echoed across the bridge. “Wow. Those guys sound evil.” He shook his head, the name alone dripping with theatrical menace. “Darth Sol? Darth Nox? What, were ‘Darth Edgelord’ and ‘Darth Obviously-a-Sith’ already taken?”
Ahsoka let out a nervous chuckle that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She shot a quick sideways glance toward Ben and Maris before looking back at the holo. “Yeah… super evil sounding. Definitely the kind of names that scream ‘please trust us with your hyperspace lanes.’”
Maris folded her arms, her usual sharp-edged smirk absent for once. She cut her gaze toward Ben without turning her head. Ben, for his part, stood very still—too still—the faint sheen of sweat on his brow catching the blue light from the projector. He swallowed once, hard, then tried for a casual nod that came off more like a twitch.
Anakin frowned faintly.
Poor kid. First big win and now this? Battle shock hit everyone differently. Or maybe the names really did freak him out.
Ben had always been a little tightly wound under that calm Jedi initiate mask. Anakin made another mental note: drag him and Maris through some relaxed sparring once they got back to the Temple. Loosen them up. And definitely start that betting pool.
Yoda’s small form appeared in a secondary window beside the analyst, ears lowered in thought. “A serious matter this is. Access through Hutt Space we required for supply lines and flanking maneuvers against the Separatists. Now blocked, these routes are. Investigate, we must. Before this new power can tip the balance further.”
Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, stroking his beard. “A diplomatic mission, then. Carefully chosen. The last thing we need is another front opening while we’re still licking our wounds from Christophsis.”
Anakin felt the shift in the air—the easy post-victory buzz draining away into something heavier, more political. He rolled his mechanical fingers, the new hand still feeling too light, too precise. Another mystery. Another complication.
Just when he thought they’d earned a breather, they suddenly had Sith-wannabes playing king in the Outer Rim. As if the war didn’t have enough sides, already.
He glanced again at Ben, who still looked like he was fighting the urge to bolt for the nearest escape pod, and at Maris, whose expression had gone carefully neutral in that way that usually meant she was calculating three moves ahead.
Whatever. They’d handle it. They always did.
But as the holo faded and orders began circulating for a small task force to Tatooine, Anakin couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this particular mess was going to be a lot more personal than anyone realized.
…
Count Dooku stood motionless before the grand viewport of his flagship’s command sanctum, hands clasped behind his back, watching the distant stars drift past in silent formation. The bridge crew moved with practiced efficiency around him, their voices low and deferential, but he paid them little mind.
His thoughts lingered instead on the elegant web he had spent months spinning—one that should have drawn the Hutt Cartel neatly into his grasp like so many fat insects into a spider’s silk.
Frame the Republic for an attack on Jabba’s precious spawn. Kidnap the sluglet Rotta. Turn the crimelord’s considerable influence against the Senate. Secure the hyperspace lanes through Hutt Space for the Separatist cause. It had been a flawless design, worthy of a true statesman.
Now it lay in tatters.
A fresh intelligence packet glowed on the holotable beside him. Jabba the Hutt was dead—publicly, messily executed in his own palace. Tatooine had fallen under new management. Entire stretches of Hutt Space reported locked-down trade routes, missing cartel enforcers, and fleets either scattered or pressed into unfamiliar service. And at the center of it all sat two names that dripped with theatrical arrogance.
Darth Sol. Darth Nox.
Dooku’s lip curled in distaste.
How utterly predictable. Some upstart Sith pretenders with delusions of empire, playing dress-up in the Outer Rim while the real game unfolds.
He had felt the ripples in the Force, of course—something sharp and new cutting across the galaxy’s underbelly—but he had attributed it to the usual rabble of dark side opportunists. Not this. Not an actual conquest.
“HK-series droids in significant numbers,” his intelligence officer reported from the holo, voice carefully neutral. “Disciplined formations. Coordinated strikes that suggest professional military training rather than typical pirate rabble. Leadership remains unidentified beyond the two Sith titles.”
Dooku allowed himself a soft, humorless chuckle. “Amateur pretenders,” he murmured, the words tasting like spoiled wine. “They seized the throne while I prepared the proper coronation. How… disappointing.”
Irritation flickered through him, hot and bright, but not panic. Never panic. The Force did not favor the frantic. Someone had simply beaten him to the first move. That was all. An inconvenience, not a catastrophe.
He turned from the viewport and paced slowly across the polished deck, the hem of his cape whispering behind him. The original plan could be salvaged, reshaped. The Hutts were not one mind but a bloated family of scheming rivals. Remove the central pillar—Jabba—and the rest would scramble for power like mynocks fighting over a power coupling.
A new strategy crystallized, cleaner in some ways. Let these so-called Darth Sol and Darth Nox enjoy their fleeting conquest. He would fan the flames of civil war among the surviving Hutt clans. Whisper promises of restored glory. Convince them that Tatooine—and the new regime squatting there—represented an insult to their ancient lineage.
Point them like a blaster at the upstarts and watch the Outer Rim consume itself in glorious, profitable chaos.
Dooku reached the comm station and activated a secure channel. One by one, encrypted signals reached out toward the scattered Hutt kajidics—those still breathing, at least. His voice flowed smooth and cultured as he began the careful dance of manipulation.
“The Republic grows bolder,” he told the first contact, a lesser Hutt lordling hiding on Nar Shaddaa. “They allow these pretenders to seize what is rightfully yours while they play at democracy. But there are those who remember the old ways. Those who would see Tatooine returned to proper Hutt hands… with the right allies.”
He continued the calls, planting seeds with surgical precision. Retake Tatooine. Destroy the false Sith. Restore order. Each conversation ended with the same subtle promise: the Confederacy would support the “rightful” heirs.
When the final transmission closed, Dooku allowed a slow, satisfied smile to curve his lips. The Hutts would rip each other apart beautifully. And whether these Darth Sol and Darth Nox survived the onslaught or fell, the resulting instability would serve him either way. Chaos was, after all, the finest fertilizer for revolution.
He glanced once more at the starfield, eyes narrowing with cold amusement.
Enjoy your empty throne while it lasts, pretenders. The game is only beginning.
…
Padmé Amidala gripped the edge of her senatorial pod as it hovered in the vast chamber, the usual orderly hum of the Galactic Senate replaced by something closer to a hive of angry insects. Voices overlapped and clashed across the tiers—some indignant, others openly panicked—as delegate after delegate demanded the floor.
The news from the Outer Rim had hit like a thermal detonator.
With Jabba dead, everything the Hutt Cartel touched was unraveling. Spice routes that fed half the mid-rim’s black markets had gone dark overnight. Smuggling networks that everyone pretended not to rely on were collapsing, choking supply lines for everything from medical supplies to luxury goods.
Hyperspace lanes once considered “neutral” territory now sat locked down under unknown control, and already freight haulers were refusing runs through what used to be Hutt Space. The economic tremors reached all the way to Coruscant’s polished corridors.
One slug dies and the whole galaxy feels it, Padmé thought, a mix of frustration and grim satisfaction twisting inside her. She had spent years fighting the corruption the Hutts enabled. Part of her wanted to celebrate Jabba’s demise. The rest recognized the dangerous vacuum it had created.
Supreme Chancellor Palpatine’s voice cut through the din from the central podium, calm and measured as always. “Order, please. This disruption serves no one. We must respond with clarity, not chaos.”
A Rodian delegate nearly shouted over him. “Clarity? Our trade contracts are worthless! Half my sector’s economy depends on those lanes!”
Another voice, a Sullustan this time, rose in agreement. “The Cartel may have been criminals, but at least they kept the routes open. Who controls them now? These so-called Darth Sol and Darth Nox? Sith names! This is a direct threat!”
Padmé watched the panic spread like ripples in a pond. She had reviewed the intelligence briefing on the way here—grainy reports of disciplined forces, HK droids marching in lockstep, and two shadowy figures who had somehow conquered Hutt Space in a matter of months. It didn’t add up.
Criminal takeovers were messy, opportunistic. This felt… structured.
She activated her pod’s speaker before she could second-guess herself. “Chancellor, if I may.”
The chamber quieted somewhat as her pod drifted forward. Palpatine turned toward her with that familiar, grandfatherly smile. “Senator Amidala. Your insight is always welcome.”
Padmé kept her voice steady and professional, the way years in the Senate had taught her. “The death of Jabba has created a power vacuum that could destabilize entire regions. We cannot afford to let unknown actors seize control of critical hyperspace routes.”
So far so good. And now comes the hard part…
“I propose a diplomatic mission to Hutt Space. A small delegation to assess the situation, open lines of communication, and determine whether these new rulers can be reasoned with—or if they represent a greater threat to Republic stability.”
A murmur swept the chamber. Someone laughed outright. Another delegate called out, “Let Naboo’s princess deal with the Hutts? Better her than any of us!”
Padmé ignored the jab, chin lifted. Let them think she’s naive or idealistic. Better that than admitting no one else wants to wade into this mess.
Officially, this would be a fact-finding diplomatic effort. Unofficially, she needed to see the situation for herself. If new players were consolidating power in the Outer Rim, especially ones bold enough to use Sith titles, the Senate’s usual hand-wringing wouldn’t be enough.
Palpatine nodded thoughtfully. “A courageous offer, Senator. The Republic thanks you. You will, of course, have Jedi support should the situation prove… delicate.”
As the session moved on to arguments over emergency trade subsidies, Padmé sank back into her seat, already mentally drafting the mission parameters. She would start with known Hutt contacts—anyone still alive and reachable.
That list led quickly to one name: Ziro the Hutt. Jabba’s uncle, a notorious schemer and political operator within the Cartel. If anyone knew the inner workings of what had happened, it would be him.
Hours later, after the session finally adjourned, Padmé stood in a secure communications room with Captain Typho and two of her handmaidens. The encrypted link to Ziro’s last known location on Nar Shaddaa took several attempts to establish. When it finally connected, the holo flickered to life showing not the flamboyant Hutt she expected, but a nervous-looking Twi’lek attendant.
“The Great Ziro is… unavailable,” the attendant stammered, eyes darting off-screen.
Padmé leaned forward. “This is Senator Amidala of the Galactic Republic. I need to speak with him on a matter of urgent mutual interest. Jabba’s death has changed the landscape. Ziro will want to hear what I have to say.”
The Twi’lek swallowed hard. “He cannot speak. He is… in custody.”
Padmé’s brow furrowed. “Republic custody? I was not informed of any arrest warrant.”
“Not Republic,” the attendant whispered, voice trembling. “They call themselves the First Order. They came without warning. Took the Great Ziro and many others. Their soldiers… they were precise. Efficient. Not like typical bounty hunters.”
A chill ran down Padmé’s spine. The First Order. She had never heard the name before today, and now it appeared twice in classified briefings linked to the Hutt takeover. “Where did they take him? What do they want?”
The attendant shook his head frantically. “We do not know. They left no demands. Only a warning: do not interfere in their territory. Then they were gone.”
The transmission cut abruptly, leaving static in its wake.
Padmé stared at the empty holo projector, mind racing.
The First Order.
Another shadowy player in an already crowded field of mysteries. Not the Republic. Not the Separatists. Not even the typical criminal syndicates. Whoever these people were, they had snatched one of the most connected Hutts in the galaxy right out from under everyone’s noses, after executing another.
She turned to Typho, jaw set with determination. “Prepare the ship. We’re moving up the departure timeline. I need to see Tatooine for myself—and find out exactly who this First Order serves.”
Whatever game was being played in Hutt Space, Padmé refused to let the Senate—or the Republic—remain blind to it. Too many lives depended on understanding the new order rising from Jabba’s empty throne.
…
Aurra Sing—Darth Song, as her so-called masters had half-heartedly dubbed her—lounged sideways across the oversized throne in what used to be Jabba’s audience chamber, one long leg draped over the armrest while she idly spun one of her custom blaster pistols around her finger.
The place still smelled faintly of old slime and desperation, but the worst of the mess had been scrubbed out. Now it looked almost respectable. That was the problem.
Mos Eisley sprawled beneath the palace windows in perfect, unnatural order. Patrols of HK droids marched the streets in precise intervals, red photoreceptors glowing as they scanned for trouble. Armed checkpoints controlled every major entrance and exit.
Smugglers who once swaggered through the streets now kept their heads down and their mouths shut, paying their new “protection” fees without the usual whining. The cantina brawls had dropped to nearly zero. Even the Jawas seemed… disciplined.
Boring. So kriffing boring.
She holstered the pistol and sat up as another stack of datapads was deposited on the low table by a trembling protocol droid.
“More shipping manifests and ‘resource allocation requests,’” the droid announced in a quavering voice. “The moisture farmers on the outskirts are asking for leniency on the new tithe, and three smugglers request audiences to beg for their ships back.”
Aurra’s lip curled. “Tell the farmers to pay or dry up. And shoot the next smuggler who whines about his ship. I’m not running a charity.” She waved the droid away, already regretting the promotion.
Conquering the palace had been fun. Feeding Jabba to his own rancor had been very fun. Ruling the aftermath felt like being handed a crown made of bureaucratic bantha fodder.
A priority chime sounded from the comm unit built into the throne. One of the sleek black First Order terminals the HK droids had installed everywhere lit up. Aurra tapped it with a painted nail.
“Announcement: Darth Song,” came the modulated, eerily polite voice of the HK unit currently handling central command. “Republic vessels have entered the system. Small diplomatic task force. Jedi signatures detected among them. Estimated landing in Mos Eisley within the hour.”
Aurra’s eyes lit up for the first time all day. She leaned forward, a sharp grin splitting her face. “Jedi? Finally. I was starting to think this job would turn me into a desk slug. Prep an ambush. I’ll greet them personally—maybe take a few heads as trophies before Sol and Nox even hear about it.”
There was a brief, calculated pause on the other end. “Denial: Negative. Darth Sol and Darth Nox have issued standing orders: avoid direct engagement with Republic forces at this stage. Provoking open war would be… premature. Divert the Jedi. Delay. Observe. Do not engage.”
Aurra hissed through her teeth. “They’re walking right into my city and you want me to play nice? I could end this today.”
“Warning: Caution is advised,” the HK droid replied smoothly. “The masters were quite specific. Your role is governance, not provocation. We will handle misdirection.”
She slammed her fist on the armrest. “Fine. But if one of them so much as looks at me funny, all bets are off.” The line went dead before she could argue further. Typical. Her new Sith lords played the long game while she got stuck babysitting a dusty spaceport.
With a frustrated growl, Aurra stood, snatched her rifle from its rack, and headed for a side exit. She’d at least patrol the streets herself. Maybe the Jedi would get lucky and miss her entirely. Or maybe not. She smiled thinly at the thought as she strode out, red hair swaying like a banner of warning behind her.
…
I kept my expression carefully neutral as our shuttle settled into the wrong docking bay—Bay 42 instead of the main diplomatic pad we’d been assigned. A “navigational error,” the pilot had called it. I’d made sure of that with a subtle Force suggestion during descent.
No way was I letting us land anywhere near the palace or the central cantina where Aurra might actually be holding court.
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow as the ramp lowered, sand whipping around our boots. “Curious. The docking coordinator was quite insistent on Bay 87.”
“Outer Rim navigation systems,” I shrugged, keeping my voice light. “Half of them still run on salvaged tech older than the Republic. We’re here now. Might as well start with the local cantina and work our way up.”
Maris shot me a quick, knowing sideways glance—sharp and amused in that taunting way of hers—but said nothing. Ahsoka bounced down the ramp beside me, eyes scanning everything with that mix of excitement and suspicion only she could pull off. Obi-Wan followed more measuredly, hand resting near his saber, tucked securely into his belt.
Mos Eisley felt… wrong. Too orderly. The usual chaos of hawkers, drunks, and desperate deals had been replaced by armed HK droids stationed at intersections, their metallic voices directing foot traffic with mechanical politeness. Citizens and spacers alike moved in tight, nervous lines. No one met our eyes for long.
Huh.
Maybe I wasn’t the benevolent dictator I thought I was.
We turned down what should have been a direct street toward the old central cantina—only to find a construction barrier blocking the way, complete with a freshly painted detour sign. “Roadwork,” I muttered, steering us left down a narrower alley instead.
Another convenient misdirection. I’d nudged the right minds at the right moments since we landed. Nothing overt. Just enough to keep us circling the edges, always a few minutes behind where the real action probably was.
Ahsoka wrinkled her nose as we passed a patrol of four HKs. “These droids are creepy. Way too coordinated for standard bounty hunter scrap. And the whole city feels… militarized. This isn’t normal crime syndicate stuff.”
“Indeed,” Obi-Wan murmured, stroking his beard. “It has the marks of actual occupation. We should proceed carefully. The cantina should give us a sense of the local mood.”
We stepped into a smaller, dimly lit drinking hole instead—the wrong one again—where the bartender nearly dropped a glass at the sight of Jedi robes. Conversations died instantly. I leaned against the bar, ordering water for all of us while subtly steering the conversation toward recent “changes in management.”
The locals clammed up fast, eyes darting toward the windows where another HK patrol marched past.
Maris sipped her drink, voice low and edged. “This is bigger than we thought. Someone’s actually running this place like a proper government.”
I nodded, heart hammering harder than it should have been. Yeah someone was running this place. Me and Maris. Through proxies. While we stand here pretending to investigate ourselves. The irony tasted like sand in my mouth… no, wait. That was actual sand.
I hate this planet.
By the time we finally worked our way toward the palace district, reports from street chatter said the tall redheaded woman who’d been “overseeing things” had left the area only minutes earlier—heading back toward the old Hutt palace in a speeder surrounded by droid escorts.
We’d missed her by that much.
I exhaled slowly, masking my relief as simple post-landing weariness. This was going to get a lot more complicated before it got better.
…
Ahsoka Tano had reached her limit.
She waited patiently until Obi-Wan and the newly arrived Padmé were deep in conversation, to the jealousy of Anakin, with a whole cluster of local officials near the shuttle landing zone, then grabbed Ben by the sleeve and dragged him—and Maris with him—around the corner of a weathered docking pylon.
Sand crunched under their boots as she shoved them both against the sun-baked wall, keeping her voice to an angry hiss.
“What the heck are you two going to do?” she demanded, eyes flicking between them. “We’re standing in the middle of a city you conquered. There are assassin droids everywhere. And basically the entire planet worships you. Sith you. Whatever!”
“Yeah.” Ben sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in an equal amount of frustration.”Things might have gotten a bit out of hand.”
“A bit?!” Ahsoka wondered if she sounded half as hysterical as she felt. “I had to lie to the entire Jedi Council for weeks while you were off playing Sith Lords on Korriban, and apparently everywhere else, and now we’re supposed to investigate you? I’m an accessory to treason at this point!”
Maris folded her arms, her usual sharp smirk firmly in place. “Relax, ‘Soka. You’re acting like we didn’t plan for this. We always have a—”
“Not helping,” Ben cut in smoothly, stepping slightly between them. His voice stayed low and steady, the way it always did when he was trying to talk someone off a ledge.
It didn’t help as much as she’d like.
“Ahsoka, breathe.” He insisted.” We have a plan. The PROXY droids are running the show right now. They’re programmed to handle exactly this kind of diplomatic visit—stall, deflect, give us information without blowing our cover.”
In other words: don’t get caught.
She was getting really sick of that plan.
Ben continued. “No one’s going to get hurt. We’re just going to gather intel for the Jedi, feed them the version of events we want them to have, and keep everything stable until we figure out the next move.”
Ahsoka stared at him, arms crossed tight. Ben’s calm always worked better on her than Maris’s sarcasm, and he knew it. Still, her montrals twitched with frustration. “You make it sound so simple. This is insane, even for you two.”
Maris shrugged. “It’s worked so far.”
Before Ahsoka could snap back, the low whine of another shuttle echoed overhead. Padmé’s sleek diplomatic vessel settled onto the pad beside theirs, Ahsoka hadn’t even noticed she was moving it. Obi-Wan waved them over, his expression already shifting into that measured negotiator mode.
“Come along, Padawans,” he called. “Senator Amidala is ready to depart. We will proceed to the palace as a full delegation.”
Ahsoka shot Ben and Maris one last warning glare before they fell into step, rejoining the group as they moved through the eerily orderly streets of Mos Eisley toward Jabba’s former palace.
The place looked completely different from the holos—banners torn down, Hutt iconography replaced by stark, unfamiliar emblems. Even the air felt cleaner than it should have been. Not to mention colder than the rest of Tatooine.
They entered the grand audience chamber, and Ahsoka’s stomach twisted. A group of Twi’lek dancers—beautiful, graceful, and very much still dressed in the revealing silks Jabba had favored—waited near the empty throne dais. One of them, a blue-skinned woman with intricate head-tails, stepped forward with a practiced smile.
“Welcome, honored guests of the Republic,” she said warmly. “I am Ce’na. Darth Sol and Darth Nox regret they cannot greet you personally. They are currently visiting some of our outer territories but left instructions to make you comfortable. May I take a message for them?”
Ahsoka’s head snapped toward Ben so fast her braid whipped her shoulder. She glared daggers at him, voice dropping to a furious whisper only he and Maris could hear while the adults spoke with Ce’na.
“Dancers? Really? You kept Jabba’s dancers? After everything?”
Ben winced, raising his hands slightly. “It’s not what it looks like. They wanted to stay. Most of them had nowhere else to go, and the alternative under Jabba was… worse. We gave them actual salaries, new quarters, and no one gets fed to anything anymore.”
Ahsoka blinked. “Fed to…?”
“Jabba had a rancor.” Ben explained, and she wished he hadn’t. “I fed him to it. And then I fed it to the sarlacc pit. It was this whole thing.”
Maris leaned in closer on his other side, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh sure, tell her all the good parts. And not the part where you bought the dancers fancy new outfits and told them the dress code was ‘optional but encouraged.’”
“They liked the outfits!” Ben whisper-hissed back, cheeks coloring. “And I never made them—”
Ce’na turned back toward them with perfect timing, still smiling serenely. “Is everything alright?”
“Perfectly,” Ahsoka said through gritted teeth, forcing a smile while shooting Ben another death glare.
Before Ben could dig himself any deeper, the main doors hissed open again. Two figures strode in—tall, imposing, clad in flowing black Sith robes with full-face masks that evoked the old Sith Eradicator designs.
The one on the left moved with Ben’s exact confident gait. The one on the right carried herself with Maris’s sharp, predatory grace. Even their presence in the Force felt… familiar. Very familiar.
The lead figure stopped a respectful distance away and inclined his head.
“Hello there,” the modulated voice said, calm and professional. “I’ve been told you were looking for us.”
Ahsoka’s eyes widened. She knew that voice pattern. That exact polite lilt hidden under the vocoder. It was the same PROXY droid she had spent weeks babysitting back on Coruscant while covering for Ben and Maris. The realization hit her like a speeder.
Ben leaned over just enough to whisper near her ear, voice barely audible. “Told you we had a plan.”
Ahsoka stared at the two disguised droids standing before the Jedi delegation—before her masters—and felt the weight of everything they had built pressing down on her shoulders. She was in so far over her head.
And yet, as the “Sith Lords” began their carefully scripted greeting, a tiny, traitorous part of her couldn’t help but feel the thrill of it all.
This was going to be a very long diplomatic mission.