Chapter 48: Cloak and Daggers
If the Jedi Council had a collective brain cell, it was currently trapped in a hyperdrive vacuum, suffocating under the weight of their own sublime, catastrophic arrogance.
I stood near the perimeter of the Temple’s main briefing sala, my hands buried deep within the oversized, heavy sleeves of my Padawan robes, doing my absolute best to look like a perfectly compliant, submissive little monk.
It was an exhausting performance.
Internally, I was running the logistics of my secret empire, calculating the fuel efficiency of the Katana fleet’s latest patrol routes near Hoth, and trying to figure out how a teenage self-insert who had literally conquered Tatooine was currently being sidelined by a committee of walking, talking historical blind spots.
If the Jedi Council was any more oblivious, they’d be more blind than a Miraluka.
Right in the center of the room, the holoprojector cast a flickering, ghostly blue light over the faces of the Jedi elite. The miniature, glowing form of the Tranquility rotated slowly in the air between them, a stark reminder of the high-stakes prisoner transport they were currently finalizing.
Nute Gunray was in custody, which was great, except for the tiny, monumental detail that the universe was practically screaming its intention to stage a jailbreak.
“The transport requires absolute discretion,” Master Luminara Unduli said, her voice carrying that trademark, unyielding serenity that always made me want to chew on a thermal detonator. She adjusted her severe, dark Mirialan headdress, her posture so rigid she looked like she’d been carved from a block of obsidian. “The Viceroy is a critical asset to the Separatist command structure. Count Dooku will not allow him to remain in our hands for long.”
“Agreed,” Obi-Wan Kenobi murmured, rubbing his beard with a deeply stressed, intensely paternal hand. He looked like he hadn’t slept since the First Battle of Mandalore, which was fair, considering his biological secret kid was currently standing ten feet away, and causing him no small number of headaches. “We cannot risk an overt show of force. A standard capital ship deployment would only invite a massive Separatist fleet action. A small, elite security detail is our best path to ensuring safe arrival at the detention facility.”
Beside him, Anakin Skywalker was leaning against a structural pillar, his mechanical hand twitching slightly against his leather tabard. He looked incredibly bored, a man completely divorced from the concept of diplomatic patience. “As long as we keep the droids off the hull, it’s a simple escort mission. Ahsoka and Maris can handle the perimeter checks while Master Unduli manages the interrogation, Obi-Wan.”
“A valuable experience for them, this will be,” Yoda croaked from his floating repulsor chair. The ancient troll was hunched over his gimer stick, his large, bulbous eyes half-closed as if he were drifting off to sleep, though I knew better than to trust the apparent senility. He was tracking every micro-expression in the room with terrifying precision.
I glanced over at the rest of our little golden trio.
Ahsoka was subtly shifting her weight, her montrals twitching with suppressed excitement at the prospect of a real mission, while Maris Brood stood right beside her, practically radiating a shield of pure apathy. Maris’s hand was resting casually near her hip, where her hilt hung against her dark tunics. They were ready. They were eager.
And they were walking straight into a meat grinder.
My gaze drifted slightly to the right, landing on Barriss Offee.
The Mirialan Padawan was standing quietly behind Luminara, her hands neatly folded, her expression a flawless picture of gentle, pious innocence. She’d been sidelined from the mission due to an engineering project—she was currently assisting the Temple Archives in cataloging ancient, delicate healing texts that required her specific, meticulous touch.
She caught me looking and offered a soft, entirely friendly smile. “Hello.”
“…” Yeah, I’m not saying nothing.
In fact, I think my stomach did a violent, instinctual flip. I knew exactly what she was going to do to the Temple hangar in a few years. I knew the exact brand of radicalized, micro-terrorist madness lurking beneath that pristine, sweet demeanor. It was the ultimate curse of meta-knowledge.
You couldn’t trust the nice ones because the nice ones were the ones who eventually framed your best friend for murder.
I kept my face an impenetrable block of stone, cataloging her in my mind under Potential Threats to Eliminate with Precision Later.
But right now, the immediate problem was Captain Argyus. The smug Senate Guard was already waiting aboard the Tranquility, his pockets lined with Confederacy credits, just waiting for Asajj Ventress to knock on the front door.
“Masters,” I said, stepping forward just enough to break my disciplined posture, letting my voice drop into a tone of earnest, dutiful concern. “If I may… I’ve been reviewing the security protocols for the sector. Given the recent intelligence leaks regarding Separatist movement in the Outer Rim, a dual-padawan escort might be leaving the Tranquility’s inner security flank exposed.”
I took a deep breath.
“I strongly recommend that I accompany the transport as well. A third blade could ensure the interior corridors remain locked down against any infiltration.” And I could kill that Captain Judas, and keep my brainwashed Gunray exactly where I wanted him to be.
“Ben, the Council has already determined the allocation of forces.” Obi-Wan turned his head, his brow furrowing with a mix of surprise and that exhausting, instinctual skepticism he reserved for my most unorthodox suggestions. “The Tranquility is heavily armed, and Commander Gree’s clone complement is more than sufficient to handle internal security. Your presence isn’t required for a routine prisoner transfer.”
“It’s not the routine I’m worried about, Master,” I pressed, trying to inject just enough subtle urgency into the Force to make them blink without revealing that I was secretly utilizing techniques pulled from the Holocron of the Emperor’s Wrath.
It’s be a lot riskier if, as priorly mentioned, the Jedi Council wasn’t so oblivious.
“Securing a high-profile prisoner requires a total lockdown of the command staff’s loyalty.” I pointed out, reasonably. “If there’s even a single weak link in the Senate Guard or the security detail, the entire operation falls apart, and we get nothing. Let me go. I can run an independent audit of the ship’s internal logs before we leave orbit.”
Anakin let out a short, amused huff. “Relax, kid. You’re overthinking it again. You handled Christophsis and the Malevolence, but you don't need to fight the whole war by yourself. Trust the clones. Trust the Senate Guard. They know how to hold a prisoner.”
Oh, you beautiful, tragic idiot. They really don’t.
Before I could formulate a more aggressive, legally binding argument, the sharp, heavy thwack of a gimer stick against the stone floor echoed through the sala, cutting through the air like a sonic boom.
“Sufficient, the security is, Padawan Kryze,” Yoda decreed, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that signaled the end of all democratic debate. He leaned forward on his cane, his ears dropping to a sharp, authoritative horizontal line as he stared up at me. “A different path, the Force has for you today. On Coruscant, remain you must. For deeper spiritual alignment, the Temple requires your presence. Yes. Tested, your patience must be.”
A cold spike of absolute dread settled into the pit of my stomach.
“Spiritual alignment” was Yoda-speak for I am going to psychologically dismantle you for my own amusement. The green menace had been treating me like a personal project ever since the armistice ended, and every single time he mentioned the words “patience” or “zen,” I usually ended up covered in swamp mud or nursing a micro-aneurysm.
There was no arguing with him. The Council session was officially dismissed, the holoprojector dying with a soft, metallic click that felt entirely like a cell door locking me inside the capital.
Luminara and Barriss offered their formal, sweeping bows, turning to exit toward the hangar bay while Anakin and Obi-Wan fell into a low, murmured conversation about supply lines. I stepped back into the shadows of the corridor, my mind racing as Ahsoka and Maris walked toward me, their boots clicking softly against the polished stone.
“Sucks to be you, Kryze,” Maris muttered, her dark lips curling into a wicked, snarky grin as she crossed her arms. “Have fun meditating on the inner peace of a blank wall while we’re out there actually doing the job. If I see Ventress, I’ll tell her you said hi.”
“Don’t joke, Maris,” Ahsoka sighed, though she couldn’t entirely hide the sympathetic twitch of her montrals as she looked at my miserable face. “He’s going to be stuck doing katas until his limbs fall off. Try not to let the Grand Master break your spirit, Ben. We’ll be back before you know it.”
I didn’t waste time with witty banter. The clock was ticking, and the Tranquility was already prepping its engines. I stepped forward, wrapping them both into a brief, tight, uncharacteristic hug that caught them completely off guard. Ahsoka stiffened in surprise before softening, while Maris let out a low, confused grunt against my shoulder armor.
As I leaned in, I brought my lips right against Maris’s pale ear, my voice dropping into a fiercely quiet, lethal whisper that didn’t carry a single ounce of Jedi warmth. “Listen to me very carefully, Nox. Captain Argyus is a Confederate traitor. He is going to shoot his own men and open the cells the second Ventress hits the hull. Do not look for evidence. Do not wait for permission. The moment the alarms go off, you dismantle him. Do what must be done.”
I pulled back instantly, my face reverting to a perfectly smooth, innocent Padawan mask before she could even gasp. Maris stared at me, her yellow-ringed eyes widening with a sudden, sharp spike of dark-side-honed intensity. She knew my true identity as Darth Sol; she knew that when I used that specific tone, it wasn't a guess—it was a directive from the throne of our hidden empire.
She gave a single, microscopic nod, her jaw tightening as she gripped her lightsaber hilt.
“May the Force be with you,” I said aloud, offering them a perfectly disciplined, respectful bow as they turned and marched down the long, sunlit corridor toward the hangar.
I watched them go, praying that my butterfly effect hadn't completely broken Maris's ability to crack a skull. I stood there for three long seconds, taking a slow, deep breath to steady my nerves, before turning around to face my doom.
Yoda was waiting for me.
The Grand Master hadn’t moved from his repulsor chair, but the gentle, grandfatherly demeanor he usually displayed for the Senate was completely gone. In its place was the look of a 900-year-old military dictator who had spent the last millennium figuring out exactly how to make teenagers suffer for the sake of enlightenment.
“Ready, are you, Padawan?” Yoda asked, a terrifyingly cheerful glint appearing in his eyes as he tapped his cane against the side of his chair. “To the lower training sala, we go. A great deficiency in your Form III, I have sensed. Too much reliance on aggression, there is. Correct it, we must.”
Ten minutes later, I was living in a gravity-defying nightmare.
The lower training sala was completely devoid of the elegant, sunlit tapestries of the upper levels. It was a stark, cold room filled with heavy, bronze repulsor platforms that floated at variable heights over a deep, cushioned pit. I was currently upside down, balanced entirely on the palm of my left hand on a platform that was drifting three feet in the air, while my right hand was tucked firmly behind my back.
My muscles were screaming, a steady stream of sweat trickling down my forehead and burning my eyes, but I didn't dare move a single millimeter.
“Steady, the mind must be,” Yoda’s voice boomed from the observation walkway above. He wasn’t even looking at me; he was casually peeling a piece of dried fruit, completely unbothered by the fact that my entire skeletal structure was currently undergoing a stress test. “A leaf in the wind, a Jedi is. Unmoved by the storm. Focus, Ben! Focus!”
Without a single word of warning, the ancient troll reached into a leather pouch at his waist, pulled out a solid, heavy bronze meditation sphere the size of a thermal detonator, and hurled it directly at my ribcage with the velocity of a starship point-defense cannon.
My precognition flared a fraction of a second before impact, a sudden, violent jolt in the Force that allowed me to twist my torso just enough to catch the sphere squarely on my armored shoulder plate instead of my lungs. The heavy metal ball bounced off with a loud, echoing CLANG, the force of the blow nearly rattling my teeth out of my skull and sending my floating platform into a wild, sickening wobble.
“Too slow!” Yoda shouted, already winding up his arm for a second launch. “Relying on your eyes, you are! Sensed the trajectory before it left my hand, you should have! Again!”
Thwack.
Another bronze ball caught me right in the hip, sending a blinding wave of pain radiating up my spine. I grit my teeth so hard I thought they were going to shatter, fighting down the sudden, massive urge to drop my handstand, ignite the Darksaber, and show this little green menace exactly how a Sith Lord handled long-range artillery.
It was maddening.
I had a battalion of HK assassin droids at my command, a secret fleet of dreadnoughts waiting in the deep void, and an entire criminal syndicate running like clockwork on Tatooine and over a half dozen other planets, but right now, I was being physically pulverized by an alien who looked like an ocean-salvaged trolls-doll.
“A break, I must take,” Yoda suddenly announced, letting out a long, dramatic sigh as he tucked his remaining spheres back into his pouch. He checked a small pocket chronometer hidden within his robes, his ears drooping with a look of profound, theatrical exhaustion. “A very busy schedule, the Grand Master has. A session with the Finance Committee, I must attend. To explain why so many starfighters, Skywalker has destroyed this week. A migraine, it gives me.”
I flipped right-side up, landing on the slick metal surface of the platform with a heavy, breathless thud. I dropped to my knees, panting heavily, my chest heaving as I rubbed my severely bruised shoulder. “Go, Master. Please. Do not let me keep you from the Republic’s fiscal responsibility.”
Yoda shuffled toward the heavy blast doors of the sala, but right before the sensors could activate, he stopped, turning his ancient, wrinkled face back toward me with a smile that made my survival instincts scream louder than they had during the Malevolence crisis.
“Left a small task for you, I have,” Yoda croaked, gesturing toward a small, reinforced hover-crib that was parked quietly in the shadows near the entrance. “A youngling, needing supervision, there is. To the creche, the attendants could not take him. Too active, his mind is today. Look after him, you will. Keep him from mischief. Test your patience, this will. A true Jedi exercise.”
The blast doors slid shut with a definitive, mocking hiss, leaving me completely alone in the massive, echoey room.
I let out a long, ragged exhale, sliding off the floating platform to drop flat onto my back on the floor, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. My entire body felt like it had been run over by a juggernaut tank. I just needed five minutes. Five minutes to lie here, pretend the Clone Wars didn't exist, and regret every single life choice that had led to me being reincarnated into this specific galaxy.
A soft, wet, high-pitched cooing sound echoed from the corner of the room.
I slowly turned my head, my eyes narrowing as the small hover-crib drifted closer, its automated tracking sensors locking onto my location. Two large, perfectly round, innocent dark eyes peered over the padded rim of the pod. A pair of long, oversized green ears twitched with absolute delight, and a tiny, three-fingered hand reached out into the air, waving frantically toward me.
Grogu.
The future imperial fugitive, fifty-year-old toddler, and the single most chaotic biological entity in the entire outer rim was currently staring at me like I was a highly entertaining climbing structure.
“Great,” I muttered into the cold floor, rolling over onto my stomach with a heavy groan. “The troll left me with the mini-troll. Fantastic.”
Grogu let out a happy, bubbling squeak, his tiny body wriggling with sudden excitement as he locked his gaze onto something sitting on the equipment bench behind me. I turned around just in time to see a specialized, breathable glass terrarium containing a fresh shipment of rare, highly toxic Dagobah swamp-frogs—specifically brought in for Yoda’s bizarre dietary needs—suddenly begin to vibrate.
The tiny green toddler closed his eyes, his face turning an intense shade of concentrated green as he extended his small hand toward the glass. The heavy, automated locking mechanism of the terrarium gave a sharp, metallic click as the Force-sensitive baby smoothly bypassed the electronic security codes with a telekinetic nudge.
“Hey! No! Bad baby!” I scrambled to my feet, my bruised muscles screaming in protest as the glass lid slid open and three massive, slimy, yellow-spotted amphibians leaped out onto the floor with loud, wet thuds.
Grogu let out a victorious, high-pitched screech, his mouth opening wide, revealing a set of tiny, predatory teeth as he used the Force to lift the largest, slimiest frog directly into the air, drawing it toward his face like a hovering snack.
I lunged across the floor, sliding on my knees and snatching the airborne frog out of the air a mere two inches from his mouth. The creature secreted a cold, pungent slime all over my leather gloves, but I didn't care; I was too busy using my left hand to telekinetically slap the terrarium lid shut before the other two frogs could escape into the ventilation shafts.
“We don’t eat the bio-hazards, Grogu,” I panted, holding the squirming amphibian at arm's length while the toddler let out a deeply offended, tragic wail, his big eyes instantly welling up with dramatic tears. “I don't care how hungry you are. Yoda will literally execute me if his lunch goes missing.”
The baby didn't care about my political survival. He dropped his hand, his ears pinning back against his head in a full-blown pout, before his gaze drifted downward, locking onto the left side of my waist.
Specifically, onto the sleek, rectangular, ancient metal hilt of the Darksaber.
Before my brain could even register the danger, the black-hilted weapon violently ripped away from my belt clip, flying straight into Grogu’s small, uncoordinated hands. The toddler giggled hysterically, holding the weapon upside down, his tiny, clumsy thumb drifting dangerously close to the primary obsidian activation switch.
My heart completely stopped. If he ignited that blade right now, he was going to slice himself, the hover-crib, and half of the lower training sala into perfectly clean, melted pieces.
“Grogu, put the ancient artifact down!” I yelled, projecting a massive wave of pure, unadulterated calm through the Force, desperately trying to soothe the toddler’s chaotic mind before he could turn the room into a war zone. I reached out with my mind, gently but firmly wrapping an invisible telekinetic grip around the hilt, pulling it away from his fingers with the slow, agonizing care of a bomb squad technician dismantling an orbital strike platform.
The Darksaber slid out of his grasp, floating safely back into my hand. I immediately concealed it deep within the inner folds of my heavy robes, shaking my head as the baby let out another disappointed, gurgling sigh and began to chew aggressively on the sleeve of his own oversized tan tunic.
I slumped back against the base of the floating platform, covered in swamp slime, bruised from bronze spheres, and completely, utterly drained. I ran a hand over my face, letting out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to losing my sanity.
The First Order was currently expanding across three planets. My HK droids were maintaining a flawless logistical chokehold on the Outer Rim’s black markets. I had personally outmaneuvered the Hutt cartel, beaten Pre Vizla in single combat, and survived a duel with Asajj Ventress.
But right now, sitting in the damp, cold shadows of the Jedi Temple, I was being completely, thoroughly defeated by a green infant and a 900-year-old troll with a stick.
The universe truly had a sick sense of humor.
…
The Tranquility smelled exactly like a textbook.
It was a sterile, suffocating blend of recycled oxygen, industrial floor wax, and the vague, metallic tang of hyperdrive grease. Walking down the corridors of the cruiser felt less like embarking on a high-stakes prisoner transport and more like serving a life sentence in a Coruscant dental clinic.
Ahsoka Tano kept her shoulders squared, her boots hitting the polished deck plates in perfect, synchronized rhythm with the two women walking beside her. To her left, Maris Brood was practically treating the march like a funeral procession, her pale face set in an expression of complete, aggressive boredom.
To her right, however, was the real problem.
Master Luminara Unduli glided down the hallway with an eerie, disturbing lack of friction. The Mirialan didn't walk; she existed at a constant, uniform velocity, her hands neatly tucked into her wide sleeves, her spine so perfectly straight it looked like it had been reinforced with structural durasteel. She was the living embodiment of the Jedi Archives come to life, and after forty-five minutes of her company, Ahsoka was ready to jump out of an airlock.
Anakin Skywalker was a lot of things—loud, reckless, constantly covered in engine grease, and prone to blowing things up just to see what happened—but he was never, ever boring. Luminara, by contrast, felt like an active threat to Ahsoka’s mental health.
“A Jedi’s mind must mirror the vessel we occupy,” Luminara said, her voice dropping into that smooth, borderline condescending vibrato that belonged in a lecture hall for younglings. “Calm. Unyielding. Entirely detached from the immediate desires of the self. To guard a prisoner like Nute Gunray is not a victory to be celebrated, Padawan Tano. It is merely a function of the Force’s grand equilibrium.”
Ahsoka suppressed a massive, soul-crushing sigh, her montrals twitching uncomfortably at the sheer density of the philosophy being thrown at her. “Of course, Master Unduli. I just meant that keeping him secure gives the Republic a real chance to end the blockade lines in the Mid Rim.”
“A perspective born of attachment to outcomes,” Luminara replied, not even turning her head to witness the way Ahsoka’s jaw tightened. “We do not fight for outcomes. We fight to maintain the harmony of the present. When you allow your emotions to become tethered to the concept of winning or losing, you invite the dark side to dictate your reach. True detachment means accepting whatever the Force provides, even if that provision is our own defeat.”
Ahsoka bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. Accepting defeat? If Anakin ever heard someone say that, he’d probably laugh in their face and then fly a starfighter backward through a Separatist dreadnought just to prove a point. Even Ben, with all his weird, brooding calculations and cryptic warnings, actually focused on getting things done. Luminara’s philosophy sounded less like inner peace and more like a very polite excuse to let the galaxy burn.
She caught Maris’s eye across the corridor. The pale Zabrak raised a single, heavily dark-penciled eyebrow, her gaze flickering toward Luminara’s flowing, midnight-black robes and the severe, tightly pinned headdress that framed her patterned face.
Ahsoka leaned a fraction of an inch closer to Maris, her voice dropping to a barely audible whisper beneath the hum of the ship’s ventilation. “You know, for someone who lectures us about the radiant light of the Force, she dresses in more dark, brooding clothes than you do. Seriously. She looks like she’s about to summon a ghost.”
Maris’s eyes narrowed instantly, a sharp spike of genuine offense flashing through her expression. “Excuse me? My wardrobe is a meticulously curated aesthetic of refined cynicism. She’s just wearing a glorified sack.” Maris shot a pointed, lethal glare down at Ahsoka’s midriff. “And at least her outfit covers more than three square inches of skin. Some of us don't fight the Separatist army in a tube top, Tano.”
Ahsoka opened her mouth to mount a fierce, legally binding defense of her choice in combat gear, but the words died in her throat as they reached the heavy blast doors of the primary detention block.
Standing at absolute attention outside the security barrier were Commander Gree and Senate Guard Captain Argyus. Gree looked every bit the disciplined soldier, his green-striped armor showing the faint, honorable scuffs of frontline deployments.
Argyus, on the other hand, looked like he had spent the morning being polished by a team of protocol droids. His blue Senate Guard armor was practically reflective, his heavy cloak draped over his shoulder with a level of theatrical precision that made Ahsoka’s stomach turn. He held his helmet under his arm, a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face that screamed I am the most important person in this room.
“Master Unduli,” Argyus said, his voice dripping with an oily, aristocratic charm as he offered a sweeping, unnecessary bow. “The prisoner is secure within the ray-shielded block. My elite guards have established a continuous perimeter. You may rest assured that under the watchful eye of the Senate’s finest, the Viceroy isn't going anywhere.”
Ahsoka felt an immediate, violent wave of irritation wash over her. The guy hadn't seen a single day of real combat on Christophsis or Tatooine, yet he was talking to a Jedi Master like he personally ran the Grand Army of the Republic. She could practically hear Ben’s voice echoing in her head from their departure at the Temple: Captain Argyus is a Confederate traitor.
At the time, she’d thought Ben was just suffering from another one of his localized bouts of extreme paranoia. But looking at the smug, punchable curve of Argyus’s jaw right now? She was starting to think Ben’s only mistake was not throwing the guy out of a hangar bay before they left Coruscant.
“Thank you, Captain,” Luminara said, her tone remaining flawlessly polite, entirely unaffected by the man’s posturing. “Your diligence is appreciated. Padawan Tano and I will conduct the initial interrogation now. Commander Gree, ensure the external comm-relays remain monitored.”
Maris stepped forward, her hand instinctively dropping toward her blue lightsaber hilt, ready to follow them through the threshold.
Luminara raised a single, pale hand, halting Maris in her tracks without a backward glance. “Not you, Padawan Brood. Your master requested you focus on structural security. You will remain in the outer corridor with Captain Argyus and assist with the guard rotation.”
Maris stiffened, her jaw locking so tight Ahsoka could hear the faint grind of her teeth. The sheer frustration radiating off her was enough to lower the temperature in the hallway by five degrees. She clearly wanted to object, to argue that she belonged in the room where the action was, but under the heavy, unyielding weight of Luminara’s calm gaze, she was forced to swallow her pride.
“Understood, Master,” Maris muttered, her voice tight as she stepped back into line beside a grinning Argyus.
The heavy blast doors hissed open, and Ahsoka followed Luminara into the dim, red-tinted light of the interrogation cell block. The heavy metal doors sealed shut behind them with a definitive, pressurized thud, cutting off the outer world entirely.
Sitting in the center of the room, trapped behind a glowing, crackling wall of violet energy, was Nute Gunray. The Neimoidian looked utterly pathetic, his massive, ornate mechanical headdress slightly askew, his long hands wringing together in a display of pure, unadulterated cowardice. The moment he saw the Jedi enter, he shrank back into his seat, his large, red eyes darting around the room like a cornered tooka.
“Ah,” Gunray stammered, his voice a high-pitched, warbling wheeze. “The… the Jedi. I demand to speak with a legal representative from the Senate! This detention is entirely unlawful! The Trade Federation will not tolerate such treatment of a high-ranking executive!”
Luminara stepped up to the edge of the ray-shield, her arms folding into her sleeves, her expression as smooth and unbothered as a frozen lake. “Your executive privileges were forfeited the moment you financed the slaughter of Republic citizens, Viceroy. You are here to answer for your crimes against the state.”
“I know nothing!” Gunray shrieked, his hands waving frantically in the air. “I am a victim of circumstance! A scapegoat! Count Dooku forced my hand! I had no choice!”
Ahsoka took a slow step forward, letting her boots echo sharply against the floor. She leaned against the control console, crossing her arms and letting a cold, dangerous smile spread across her face. If Luminara wanted to play the role of the serene, unyielding statue, Ahsoka was more than happy to play the role she’d learned from Anakin Skywalker: the nightmare at the end of the hall.
“You know, Viceroy,” Ahsoka said, her voice dropping into a low, predatory purr that made the Neimoidian flinch. “The Republic intelligence officers down on Coruscant aren't nearly as patient as Master Unduli. They have whole departments dedicated to stripping apart minds like yours. By the time they’re done with you, you won't just tell us Dooku’s codes—you’ll tell us what color pajamas he wears.”
Gunray gasped, his skin turning a sickly, pale shade of green as he pressed himself flat against the back of his chair. “You… you wouldn't dare! The Jedi Order code strictly prohibits—”
“The Jedi Code protects people who don't launch orbital bombardments on innocent planets,” Ahsoka snapped, taking another aggressive step toward the energy field, her eyes locking onto his with terrifying intensity. “Right now, you’re just a giant, walking liability to Count Dooku. Do you really think he’s coming to save you? Or do you think he’s just going to pay someone to slip a lethal dose of toxin into your next meal to keep your mouth shut? If you want to survive the week, you start talking to me. Now.”
Gunray was trembling so violently his heavy robes were rustling against the metal seat. “I… I can provide coordinates! Financial records! Just keep those… those Republic interrogators away from me!”
It was working perfectly. Ahsoka felt a sudden, exhilarating rush of satisfaction. Bad cop was an art form, and she was painting a masterpiece.
“Padawan Tano.”
The words weren't shouted, but they carried the weight of an avalanche. Luminara hadn't moved, but the air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thin. The Mirialan Master turned her head slowly, her dark eyes pinning Ahsoka to the spot with a look of profound, chilling disapproval.
“Step back,” Luminara commanded.
Ahsoka’s satisfaction evaporated instantly, replaced by a hot, defensive flush that crawled up her neck. She took a step back, her fists clenching at her sides as Luminara turned her attention back to the trembling Viceroy.
“The Republic does not coerce its prisoners through fear, Viceroy Gunray,” Luminara said, her voice returning to that maddening, smooth serenity. “You will be treated according to the strict parameters of galactic law. Take time to consider your position. We will return when you are prepared to speak without the influence of panic.”
Without waiting for a response, Luminara turned on her heel and glided toward the exit. Ahsoka glared at the back of her head, completely incredulous, before following her through the opening blast doors.
The moment the doors sealed shut behind them, isolating them from the guards and the cell block, Luminara stopped. She didn't turn around, but her posture radiated a lecture that Ahsoka knew was going to be agonizing.
“Your conduct inside was entirely unacceptable, Ahsoka,” Luminara said, using her first name like a verbal disciplinary paddle. “To threaten a prisoner with psychological violence is a betrayal of everything the Jedi Order stands for. We are keepers of the peace, not torturers.”
“Master, he was breaking!” Ahsoka argued, her voice rising despite her best efforts to keep it contained. “He was literally about to give us financial records! Anakin always says that if you don't squeeze them early, they’ll just use the time to come up with a better lie!”
“Skywalker is a highly unconventional knight, and his methods frequently border on the reckless,” Luminara replied, her voice dropping into that calm, condescending register that made Ahsoka want to scream. “But you are not Skywalker. And you are currently under my supervision.”
Don’t remind her…
“When you use fear as a tool, you are not controlling the situation—you are letting your own impatience control you.” She continued her lecture. “The dark side feeds on the desire for quick results, Ahsoka. If you cannot maintain your discipline, you will find yourself walking a path you cannot return from.”
Ahsoka stared at her, her montrals burning with suppressed rage. It was infuriating. They were in the middle of a galactic war, dealing with a traitorous snake who had the blood of millions on his hands, and Luminara was treating the situation like a classroom exercise in proper etiquette.
She wanted to fire back, to tell the woman that pristine traditionalism didn't win battles on Christophsis, but she forced the words down. She looked over at Maris, who was leaning against the far wall, watching the entire exchange with a look of profound, dark-lipped amusement.
Ahsoka just leaned back against the durasteel paneling, crossing her arms tightly over her tube top, wishing more than anything that she was currently anywhere else in the galaxy.
…
If Master Luminara Unduli’s lecture had dragged on for another thirty seconds, Maris Brood was entirely prepared to test whether a lightsaber could cauterize a mental headache.
Fortunately, the blast doors had sealed, trapping Ahsoka inside the interrogation cell with the walking monument to neutral tones and leaving Maris out on the sterile, glowing command walkway. It was a marginal upgrade. She leaned her shoulder against the cold durasteel wall, crossing her arms over her dark tunics and letting her gaze drift over the row of heavily armored Senate Guards flanking the corridor.
She was supposed to be reviewing structural security. In reality, she was mentally cataloging the fastest way to slit the throats of every non-clone in the hallway if the situation demanded it.
It was a lingering habit from Korriban.
When you spend months under the digital tutelage of a Sith Holocron learning how to be Dark Lord of the Sith, your default setting for galactic politics tends to skew toward pre-emptive execution. Her lightsaber hilt was a comforting weight against her hip—a deliberate piece of Jedi camouflage obscuring the fact that she currently co-ruled a burgeoning Outer Rim empire with a battalion of HK-series killer droids at her beck and call.
“You know, little girl, a Star Destroyer’s detention block is no place for a child playing at being a soldier.”
Maris didn't even blink. She slowly turned her head, her yellow-ringed eyes locking onto Captain Argyus. The Senate Guard commander was standing a few feet away, leaning casually against the guard rail with his helmet tucked under his arm, sporting a smile that made her want to re-enact Jabba the Hutt’s final moments using Argyus’s own cloak.
“The Grand Army of the Republic must truly be desperate if they’re sending nursery school dropouts to handle the Separatist vanguard,” Argyus continued, his voice dripping with an aristocratic, Coruscanti condescension that he probably thought sounded commanding.
He ran a gloved hand down the edge of his pristine, reflective blue chestplate, adjusting his heavy cape with an insufferable level of self-importance.
Dick.
“But I suppose that’s the tragedy of your Order. A bunch of celibate monks trying to fight a real war. Fortunately for the Republic, you have the Senate Guard here to handle the actual security. We represent the true elite authority of the capital, not some mystical fairy tale.”
Maris let out a low, dry chuckle that didn't hold a single ounce of warmth. It was almost poetic. Ben’s frantic whisper in her ear back at the Temple—Captain Argyus is a Confederate traitor—had sounded like his standard, hyper-paranoid timeline-scrambling. But listening to this absolute clown dig his own grave made everything perfectly clear.
She knew exactly what a traitor looked like. She and Ben were currently running the largest, most elaborate, multi-planetary deception in modern history right under the nose of the Jedi Council. They were masters of the craft. Argyus, by comparison, was an amateur trying to play saboteur while wearing neon blue armor and a cape that practically screamed look at me, I have a massive ego.
“The elite authority of Coruscant,” Maris repeated, her voice dripping with a sharp, dark-edged mockery that made the smile on Argyus’s face falter slightly.
She straightened up from the wall, taking a slow, predatory step toward him, her boots clicking softly against the deck. Just the way she liked.
“That’s incredibly adorable, Captain.” Maris crooned. “Tell me, does that elite authority involve a lot of standing around in air-conditioned rotundas, or do you occasionally have to polish each other’s ceremonial breastplates to keep from dying of pure boredom?”
Argyus’s jaw tightened, his chest swelling beneath his polished armor. “Listen here, kid—”
“No, you listen, shiny,” Maris cut him off, her tone dropping into a freezing, lethal register that caused the clone guards down the hall to subtly shift their weight, sensing the sudden change in atmosphere. People had a lot of negative things to say about them, but in her experience, clones were smarter than your average officer.
Case in point.
“You’re standing here bragging about being a soldier on a front-line capital ship, but your armor doesn't have a single carbon scorch on it.” She noted, offering a disparaging glance down his entire outfit. “Your cloak looks like it was dry-cleaned twenty minutes ago. So, either you’re invincible, or the closest you’ve ever come to a real fight is yelling at an unruly protocol droid in the Senate parking sector.”
Maris shrugged, and smiled ‘innocently.’
“We can always put you in the front lines. See which version matches up.”
Argyus’s face rapidly transitioned from its pale, smug baseline to a deep, violent shade of purple. His fingers twitched near his blaster holster, his eyes bulging with an anger that he was clearly struggling to keep beneath his professional veneer.
Bring it.
“You arrogant little brat.” He snarled. “I have commanded the security forces of the Republic’s highest-ranking dignitaries while you were still crying in the Temple crèche! You Jedi think because you can wave a glowing stick around, you’re entitled to dictate terms to men who actually run the logistics of the state!”
“We dictate terms because when a droid army lands on your planet, your shiny blue armor doesn't do anything but give the battle droids a bright target to shoot at,” Maris purred, leaning in just close enough for him to see the complete, unadulterated malice in her eyes. She was thoroughly enjoying this.
Dismantling a man’s ego using nothing but her raw, unfiltered personality was almost as satisfying as a proper Force-lightning strike.
“You’re an empty suit, Argyus.” Maris patted his shoulder, though it wasn’t sympathetically. “A glorified bouncer with a fancy helmet. If Count Dooku actually knew how pathetic his opposition was, he’d stop manufacturing droids and just send a couple of toddlers with heavy sticks to take the Senate building.”
Argyus let out a strangled, furious gasp, completely losing his aristocratic poise as he took a step toward her, his face contorted in pure rage.
Before he could unleash whatever grand, self-important speech his deflated ego was currently scrambling to put together, the entire Star Destroyer violently shuddered.
The heavy durasteel deck plates groaned beneath their boots as a deep, reverberating THOOM echoed through the lower hull of the ship, followed instantly by the shrill, deafening wail of the secondary proximity alarms. The crimson emergency lighting flooded the command walkway, casting long, bloody shadows across the walls.
“Report!” Commander Gree’s voice barked over the local comm-channels, his weapon already drawn as he spun toward the security terminal. “Bridge, what was that impact?”
“We have an unauthorized boarding party!” the officer’s voice crackled through the static, masked by the sound of distant blaster fire over the speakers. “Multiple drop-pods have pierced the lower hull levels near the detention block! Infiltration droids and an unidentified assassin are moving toward your position!”
Argyus froze, his purple complexion instantly draining into a pale, hollow mask of shock as he looked toward the lift tubes.
Maris didn't hesitate. Her hand flew to her waist, her fingers wrapping around the cold, metallic hilt of her lightsaber with a level of practiced, lethal speed that Argyus couldn't have matched in his wildest dreams. Her dark-side-honed instincts were already screaming, the Force swirling around her in a violent, chaotic vortex that signaled the arrival of a real predator.
Ventress was here.
Maris let out a slow, wicked grin, her thumb resting directly over the activation switch as she looked at the terrified Senate Guard commander. “Well, Captain,” she whispered over the sound of the alarms, her eyes gleaming in the flashing red light. “Looks like you’re finally going to find out what a real war feels like.”
…
The sudden, violent drop in atmospheric pressure rattled the montrals on Ahsoka’s head a split second before the primary explosions ripped through the lower decks.
The Tranquility groaned, a deep, structural screech echoing through the durasteel deck plates as the crimson emergency lights flared to life, painting the dim detention block in a pulsing, bloody glow. Inside the ray-shielded cell, Nute Gunray let out a high-pitched, pathetic shriek, dropping to his knees and covering his heavy, ornate headdress with his long hands.
“What is happening? We are under attack!” Gunray wailed, his eyes bulging in pure panic. “They have come to destroy me!”
Ahsoka’s hand was already on her lightsaber hilt, her green blade igniting with a sharp hiss that cut through the wailing of the proximity sirens. “Get down and stay quiet, Viceroy!”
Before Luminara could even offer a serene, entirely unnecessary instruction to stay calm, the reinforced ventilation grate in the ceiling shattered. Heavy metal shards rained down onto the floor, and a slender, pale figure dropped through the smoke, landing in a perfect, low crouch.
Asajj Ventress straightened up, her twin curved hilts snapping into her hands. Two brilliant, blood-red plasma blades ignited with a vicious hum, casting a sinister glare across her chalk-white face. She didn't waste breath on a witty greeting; she lunged forward, her crimson sabers weaving a deadly path straight toward Luminara’s throat.
Luminara didn't flinch. Her green blade came up in a flawless, textbook arc, meeting Ventress’s frantic assault with the precise, defensive elegance of a Master trained in Form III. It was a beautiful display of standard Jedi procedure—calm, measured, and entirely static.
The problem was that Ventress wasn't playing by the rules of the Jedi Temple. The Sith assassin pivoted mid-air, using the momentum of Luminara’s parry to kick off a nearby terminal, sending a flurry of sparks into the air as she aggressively utilized the tight geometry of the room to force Luminara backward.
Ahsoka spun, ready to leap into the fray and flank the assassin, but a sudden, chaotic commotion on the other side of the security threshold drew her gaze. Through the transparent plastoid viewpoint of the heavy cell doors, the outer corridor was descending into an entirely different kind of disaster.
Captain Argyus had drawn his blaster. But he wasn't aiming it at the lift tubes where the boarding droids were cutting through the outer defenses. He was aiming it directly at the backs of his own Senate Guards.
Zap. Zap.
Two bright blue plasma bolts tore through the heavy cloaks of the guards, sending them crashing to the floor. Argyus sneered, his face twisting into a mask of pure, self-important malice as he spun his weapon toward Commander Gree’s head, his finger tightening on the trigger to finalize the jailbreak.
Ben was right, Ahsoka realized, a jolt of pure adrenaline spiking through her core. The absolute snake really is a traitor.
But Argyus never got to fire that third shot.
Maris Brood was already moving. Because Ben had whispered a direct, unyielding warning into her ear back on Coruscant, the pale Zabrak hadn't spent a single second trusting the shiny blue armor of her companion. Before Argyus could even complete the rotation of his wrist, Maris extended her left hand, her fingers curling into a sharp, invisible claw.
A terrifyingly precise wave of the Force slammed into Argyus’s chest. The Senate Guard captain was violently yanked off his feet, his reflective armor scraping against the ceiling before he was hurled across the corridor, smashing face-first into a reinforced durasteel bulkhead with an echoing, bone-shattering CRACK.
The blaster flew from his grip, skittering across the floor as Maris closed the distance in a single, blurring stride. She didn't use her lightsaber; she used pure, brutal, practical efficiency. Her boot came down hard on Argyus’s wrist, pinning it to the deck plates until the joints popped, while her other hand slammed his head back into the metal floor, knocking him entirely out of his self-important delusions.
In less than three seconds, the grand master plan of the Confederacy’s inside man had been completely, thoroughly dismantled by a teenager with a grudge.
Inside the cell block, Ventress parried a sweeping strike from Luminara, her red eyes flickering toward the viewpoint. Seeing her contact pinned to the floor like a broken insect under Maris’s boot, a flash of genuine, ugly panic shattered the assassin’s confident smirk. Her asset was compromised, the security doors were still sealed, and she was trapped in a room with a Jedi Master and Anakin Skywalker’s aggressive Padawan.
“Incompetent fools!” Ventress hissed, her voice cutting through the hum of the blades.
Rather than continuing her duel with Luminara, Ventress swung both of her red sabers downward in a brutal, sweeping crescent. She didn't aim for the Jedi; she aimed for the cluster of high-pressure cooling pipes lining the lower wall of the cell block.
The plasma blades sliced through the thick conduits like butter.
Instantly, a massive, deafening roar filled the room as scalding, blinding white steam erupted from the severed pipes, instantly obliterating all visibility. The sheer force of the thermal pressure sent a wave of blistering heat tearing across Ahsoka’s skin, forcing her to raise an arm to shield her face as her montrals ringed with the sudden, chaotic noise.
Through the thick, white fog, the piercing alarm of the ray-shield terminal shrieked. Ventress was using the distraction to move.
“Protect the Viceroy!” Luminara’s voice commanded from somewhere in the mist, her green blade slicing blindly through the steam as she reverted to standard defense protocols, dropping into a protective stance near the main terminal.
Ahsoka grit her teeth, her instincts telling her that staying put was exactly what Ventress wanted. She lunged forward, her green blade cutting a path through the blinding vapor toward Gunray’s position, but she was a fraction of a second too late.
The distinct, electric crackle of a lightsaber piercing a control panel echoed through the room, followed by Gunray’s terrified yelp. Ventress had sliced the primary lock mechanism of the cell door from the inside.
Ahsoka burst through the clearing steam just in time to see the silhouette of the Sith assassin grabbing the sniveling Neimoidian by the heavy, expensive fabric of his robes. Gunray was flailing like a landed fish, but Ventress didn't care; she dragged him backward with supernatural strength, throwing him into an open maintenance shaft behind the cell.
“Hey! Drop him!” Ahsoka yelled, leaping over a ruined piece of console and thrusting her blade forward.
Ventress shot her a cold, parting glare of pure hatred. With a flick of her wrist, she threw a heavy metal junction box telekinetically at Ahsoka’s head, forcing the Padawan to duck, before sliding down the shaft after the Viceroy. The heavy, automated blast door of the maintenance hatch slammed shut behind them, the emergency locking bolts sealing with a heavy, pressurized echo that told Ahsoka the pursuit was officially dead.
The primary ventilation systems finally kicked into overdrive, sucking the remaining columns of blinding steam out of the room and leaving the detention block in a state of dripping, ruined silence.
Ahsoka deactivated her lightsaber, her chest heaving as she stared at the sealed maintenance hatch. They had lost Gunray. The Separatist leader was gone, swallowed up by the dark underbelly of the Star Destroyer.
The heavy blast doors to the outer corridor hissed open, and Commander Gree stepped into the room, his weapon lowered, followed closely by Maris.
Maris was dragging Captain Argyus by the collar of his expensive, ruined cape. The Senate Guard commander looked completely pathetic—his nose was broken, leaking a steady stream of crimson down his polished chin, and his right arm hung at a useless, dislocated angle. Maris tossed him onto the floor at Luminara’s feet like a sack of garbage, before stepping back and resting her hand casually on her hip.
Luminara deactivated her own weapon, her expression returning to that smooth, unyielding serenity, though there was a noticeable, tight line around her eyes that hadn't been there ten minutes ago. She looked down at the bleeding traitor, then turned her gaze toward Maris and Ahsoka.
“The Viceroy has escaped,” Luminara stated, her voice carrying a rare, faint note of frustration. “A severe setback for the Republic’s intelligence network.”
“Yeah, but we kept the snake,” Maris muttered, her dark lips curling into a sharp, satisfied grin as she nudged Argyus’s ribs with the toe of her boot, causing the man to let out a low, pathetic groan. “If Ben hadn't told me to watch this idiot like a hawk, he would have shot Gree, opened the cells from the outside, and left with Ventress. We would have lost the Viceroy and the security logs.”
Ahsoka looked at Maris, then back to Luminara, crossing her arms over her chest. The contrast between Luminara’s pristine, textbook approach and the chaotic, practical reality of the war was staring them right in the face. If they had followed standard procedure and trusted the Senate Guard blindly, they’d be dead in a hallway right now.
Luminara stood entirely still for a long moment, staring at the pathetic, beaten form of the traitor captain. She closed her eyes, taking a slow, deep breath to reclaim her composure, before looking up at the two Padawans.
“It appears…” Luminara began, her voice tight, as if the admission were being pulled from her throat by a tractor beam. “That Padawan Kryze’s unconventional… paranoia… has saved us from a total catastrophe. I will ensure the Council notes his foresight in the official record. Commander Gree, secure this traitor in a reinforced cell. We still have questions for him.”
…
Every muscle in my body was currently holding a committee meeting to discuss the immediate assassination of Grand Master Yoda.
I dragged my boots down the quiet, dimly lit corridor of the Padawan residential wing, leaning heavily against the polished stone wall whenever the hallway took a sharp turn. My robes were a complete disaster—stained with dried mud from the lower levels, covered in a highly pungent layer of Dagobah swamp-frog secretions, and missing a significant portion of the hem where Grogu had tried to use the Force to eat my wardrobe.
I looked less like a promising Jedi initiate and more like a civilian who had barely survived a thermal detonator blast in a garbage chute.
Reaching my private quarters, I palmed the door panel with a shaky hand. The door slid aside with a soft hiss, and I stumbled over the threshold, fully prepared to face-plant directly onto the floor tiles and stay there until the next galactic armistice.
“Oh, thank goodness! Master Ben, you’ve returned!”
A gleaming, overly polished golden figure immediately shuffled into my line of sight, his hydraulic joints whirring with a pitch that managed to vibrate right through my localized skull fracture. C-3PO dropped the silk cushion he was aggressively plumping and threw his metallic hands into the air in a gesture of pure, automated panic.
“My goodness, look at the state of you!” 3PO launched into his monologue without a single second of operational hesitation, his high-pitched, anxious voice filling the quiet room as he began to fuss over my sleeves. “It is absolutely unconscionable! I simply cannot comprehend what the maintenance droids of this Temple are doing with their maintenance cycles.”
I can. I’ve been chased by quite a few of them in my hay-day.
“The dust in the eastern corridors is thick enough to choke a bantha, and yet they leave you to wander around looking as though you’ve been thoroughly dragged through a geonosian foundry!” I love my droid. “Do sit down, Master Ben, before you suffer a catastrophic system failure!”
I didn't argue.
I dropped onto my modest seat, letting out a long, ragged groan as my bruised spine finally met a soft surface. I rubbed my aching temples with both hands, completely tuning out the rest of the galaxy. Between running a secret Sith empire through proxy droids, and playing nanny to a green toddler with a taste for lightsaber switches, I was running on absolute fumes.
3PO continued his frantic domestic crusade, bustling over to a small heating element and pouring a stream of hot, steaming liquid into a porcelain cup. “I have prepared a fresh blend of Alderaanian herbal tea, though I must express my deepest reservations regarding the purity of the local water filtration grids. Really, the lack of synthetic refinement in this establishment is quite distressing for a droid of my programming.” He carefully slid the saucer onto the side table, hovering over me like an overly protective, gold-plated nurse. “There you are. Do drink it while the thermal output is optimal.”
“Thanks, Threepio,” I mumbled, my voice sounding raw as I reached for the cup. I took a slow, burning sip, the warmth finally starting to settle the screaming nerves in my chest. I stared blankly at the wall, my mind completely blank. “Any word from the Tranquility? Did the security relays pick up any encrypted priority pings from the Outer Rim fleet?”
3PO paused, his golden head tilting to the side as his internal processors cataloged the query. “Military communications? Oh, no, Master Ben. There have been absolutely no official updates transmitted to the domestic terminals regarding the transport ship. The bureaucratic grid remains entirely silent.”
Great. There goes my last hope of feeling better today.
3PO adjusted his posture, his vocal modulator dropping into a tone of intense, dramatic discretion. “However, Master Ben, you do have a visitor waiting for you in the adjacent sitting alcove. A most distinguished guest who insisted on completely bypassing the standard Temple reception protocol. I must say, her security detail was exceptionally firm regarding her privacy.”
I blinked, the porcelain cup freezing halfway to my lips.
A visitor? In my private Padawan quarters? At this hour?
My mind instantly scrambled through the list of potential candidates. If Anakin had bypassed protocol, he would have broken the door. If Obi-Wan wanted to see me, he would have summoned me to the Council chambers to deliver another exhausting, disappointed lecture about my lack of traditional discipline.
I carefully set the tea down, my hand instinctively checking the inner fold of my robes to ensure the heavy, rectangular silhouette of the stolen Darksaber was completely hidden from view. You never know when you needed to defend yourself from a potential assassin.
I stood up, my bruised muscles protesting every single inch of the movement, and took three slow, cautious steps toward the adjoining archway that separated my sleeping quarters from the small, recessed sitting alcove.
I rounded the corner, and the breath completely died in my throat.
Sitting gracefully on my modest, utilitarian couch was a woman who looked entirely, spectacularly out of place amidst the austere, stone-faced minimalism of a Jedi residence.
She was dressed in an intricate, deep teal gown, the heavy, elegant Mandalorian embroidery catching the dim light of the room’s single luminescent orb. Her hair was pinned up in a flawless, royal crown of pale blonde braids, though a few stray strands hung loosely around her face, softening her usual public severity.
Duchess Satine Kryze.
She was currently holding a delicate teacup of her own, sipping the hot liquid with the absolute, unyielding poise of a planetary sovereign. But as I froze in the doorway, her icy blue eyes lifted from the porcelain rim, locking directly onto my mud-stained, disheveled face.
The regal, unreadable mask of the Duchess faded for a fraction of a second, replaced by a deep, profoundly maternal exhaustion that she only ever showed behind the locked doors of the royal palace in Sundari. A faint, knowing, and entirely dangerous smile touched the corners of her lips as she carefully set her cup down on the low table.
“Hello, Ben,” Satine said, her voice carrying a quiet, melodic warmth that immediately made the entire Jedi Temple feel very small, and very complicated. “You look as though you’ve had a rather busy afternoon.”
I stood there like a malfunctioning protocol droid, my mouth half-open, completely and utterly stunned as the realization of the impending family drama hit me like a capital ship dropping out of hyperspace.
“Hi, Mom…”