Chapter 5
She shouldn't have turned around.
Fallah knew it even as her boots hit the loose soil again, sliding over stone and fallen leaves. She'd felt the change in Aelom like a dagger in the Force — sharp, ugly, seething. The kind of flare she'd trained him never to give in to. But when it hit her, when that wave of rage lanced across her mind, she hadn't hesitated.
She turned.
And in that single heartbeat of fear and guilt, she forgot everything else — the clone patrols, the terrain, her wounds. She just moved. Fast, reckless, too loud. Her mind screamed calculations — distances, ridgelines, maybe a ravine to slide into — but her heart beat one word on repeat: Aelom.
She didn't know if he was alive. She didn't know if he'd fallen — really fallen — or if what she felt was just survival bleeding into instinct. But she knew that if she didn't try, if she didn't reach him…
She'd never forgive herself.
The path curved tightly through the trees. Lasan's forest had grown steeper, the ground shifting to shale and root. She slipped once, caught herself on a branch, and hissed through her teeth as her ribs flared with pain. She hadn't fully recovered from the crash. Her side still burned. Her arm was tight from the bandage. Her robes clung to her like wet cloth.
She was breaking.
Not all at once — but in cracks. And Aelom's scream in the Force had driven another one clean through her spine.
The Jedi Code echoed in her mind, faint and useless.
There is no emotion, there is peace.
She almost laughed.
The only thing she felt now was the certainty that she was too late.
She dropped into a narrow ravine, sliding down on her side through the dust. She hit bottom hard, stumbled, and pushed off again. Somewhere ahead, the canyon curved back toward the base of the cliffs where Aelom had fallen. If she could find a slope or a split in the stone, maybe—
A branch snapped behind her.
She froze.
Not the wind. Not an animal.
Too clean. Too precise.
Fallah dropped to one knee, her hand brushing the ground. She reached outward with the Force — not far, just enough to listen.
Three signatures. Maybe four. Heavy. Synchronized.
Clones
They'd caught up.
She stood slowly, muscles coiled, heart pounding in her throat.
I shouldn't have turned back.
The thought came again — but it didn't matter anymore. The trap was already closing.
The forest pressed in around her like a closing fist.
********************************************************
Every step forward came harder now — not because of distance, but because the air itself seemed heavier. The trees were too tall. The light too thin. The canopy had darkened into a cage of pale bark and whispering branches, and the wind had gone silent, as if the planet itself was holding its breath.
Fallah moved fast but low, her fingers brushing trunks and moss as she passed. Her cloak snagged on a thorn branch — she tore it free without stopping. Her breath came shallow through clenched teeth, and every few paces she winced, favoring her wounded side. She didn't bother hiding it anymore. Speed was her only ally now.
She was getting closer.
She could feel Aelom again — faint, distant, but alive. His presence pulsed through the Force like a fading heartbeat. But it was twisted now, too raw. The calm she once knew in him had frayed. Where there had been potential, now there was pressure. Heat. It was like sensing a storm brewing in someone's soul.
But there was no time to dwell. She had made her choice. She had turned back. And now the consequences were catching up.
Fallah pressed herself behind a cluster of dark-stemmed trees, forcing herself to pause. She closed her eyes, pulled the Force close — let it ripple out around her in a controlled, shallow wave. She wasn't looking for Aelom this time.
She was listening for ghosts.
And there they were.
Three signatures. Moving in a wide arc behind her. Spreading. Pacing. No words. No thoughts. Just the cold discipline of soldiers bred for pursuit.
The clones had found her trail.
She gritted her teeth and opened her eyes. Sweat ran down her brow, stinging her eyes. Her pulse beat against the inside of her skull like a war drum.
This wasn't a battlefield. It was a hunt.
And she was the quarry.
Her saber was still at her side — but she didn't reach for it. Not yet. A fight now, in this terrain, with her ribs already damaged and her limbs stiff? It would be short. Loud. Deadly.
She needed an exit.
Her eyes scanned the brush. The slope ahead bent downward — possibly toward one of the canyon's feeder gullies. If she could reach it, slide partway down, and vanish into the fog… maybe she could lose them. Maybe.
Another branch snapped — closer this time.
Fallah backed away, careful not to rustle the leaves behind her. She moved to the edge of the slope and crouched low.
She could hear them now — the faint static of helmet comms, the occasional brush of plastoid against foliage. Cold. Methodical.
They weren't running.
They didn't need to.
Because she was already cornered.
**********************************************
The first blaster bolt came from her left — sharp, blinding.
Fallah spun, saber igniting in a single motion. Green light flared in the gloom, catching the bolt midair and sending it shrieking into a nearby tree trunk, which burst into flame.
Then the air erupted with fire.
Three more bolts followed — one high, one low, one aimed directly at her chest. She moved by instinct, feet slipping in loose soil, blade slashing through each attack with practiced form. Her ribs screamed. She grit her teeth and kept moving.
They were close. Much closer than she'd realized.
No commands. No shouts. Just movement — precise and deadly. Shapes in the trees, armor glinting, rifles steady.
She dipped into the Force — not for calm, but clarity. A flicker of presence to her right — moving fast.
She turned toward it, stretched out her hand, and pulled.
The clone nearest her was yanked off his feet, armor clattering as he flew forward — directly into her reach. In the same motion, she spun behind him and shoved his body in front of her, just as another wave of fire erupted from the trees.
The clone took the bolts square in the chest.
He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Fallah let him fall and moved.
The second was closing fast — aggressive, direct, shoulder lowered to slam into her. She stepped back once, hesitated — tricked him — then slashed upward in a fast, brutal arc as he lunged.
Her saber struck beneath the helmet line, slicing through plastoid and bone.
Two down.
The third was waiting.
He stood across the clearing now, armor dirtied and blaster steady — CT-9423.
Strake.
He didn't fire. Not immediately.
Fallah held her blade low, breathing hard. Blood dripped from her forearm where a bolt had grazed her earlier. Her shoulder burned. Her ribs were useless.
Strake didn't speak. His visor gave nothing away. He just stared — calculating. She felt his intent through the Force, but it was clouded. Not indecision. Not fear.
Control.
Why isn't he firing?
Fallah shifted her stance. "You waiting for permission?" she hissed.
He didn't answer.
Then, without warning, he lifted his blaster and began to circle — slow and deliberate. He wasn't shooting to kill. Not yet. He was testing her. Pushing her. Every step was a provocation. Every movement an insult.
She stepped forward.
He stepped back.
Then he fired — but not at her head. Not at her heart.
She blocked the bolt, closed the distance, swung.
He parried with the stock of his rifle, spun, struck her side with the butt — pain shot through her ribcage like lightning. She gasped, dropped low, slashed his thigh. The blade glanced off armor. He grunted, stepped back again.
She chased him, driven by instinct now. Rage flickered in her chest.
He's playing with me.
And that was when it hit her.
Not the realization.
The shot.
A sharp, snapping crack from the trees — different angle. Different weapon.
She didn't even see it — only felt it.
The bolt slammed into her shoulder. Her body twisted from the impact, the saber flying from her grip as she fell sideways into the dirt. The pain was instant — white, hot, blinding.
She hit the ground hard, rolling onto her back, gasping.
Strake stepped forward, rifle raised again.
From the treeline, a fourth clone emerged — the marksman. His armor was sleeker, lighter. Modified for speed. Fallah could barely make out his silhouette through the haze of pain.
Her arm wouldn't move.
Her saber was meters away, blinking weakly in the dust.
She looked up at Strake.
He stood over her now, blaster aimed at her chest. He didn't fire. He just… watched.
Like he was waiting.
Fallah's vision blurred. Her ears rang.
Somewhere far away, she thought she felt Aelom again.
Anger. Pain.
Her own chest ached.
She tried to move. Failed.
Strake's voice came through the helmet — low, even.
"We have her."
Then blackness swallowed everything.
******************************************************
The silence felt heavier than the fight.
Aelom knelt in the dirt, chest heaving, blood running warm down his thigh and shoulder. The saber was gone — shattered — pieces still smoldering where he'd dropped them. The kyber crystal sat in the center of it all, pulsing faintly with a light that wasn't green anymore. Not even close.
It glowed a molten orange. Like fire trapped in glass.
His hand trembled as he reached for it. The crystal was warm to the touch — not hot, but alive, almost like it could feel him. He didn't want to pick it up. But he couldn't leave it behind.
Fingers closed around it.
His knuckles were cut and bloodied. His nails were chipped. He didn't remember half the fight, only the end. The blur of motion. The weight of the blade in his hand. The scream inside him that hadn't come from his mouth.
He looked at his hands again, turning them over slowly.
He didn't recognize them.
The crystal pulsed once. He closed his fist around it and turned away from the bodies.
Then he heard it.
Up above — distant blaster fire.
Sharp. Repetitive. Short bursts.
His heart lurched.
Fallah.
He tried to reach out with the Force — tried to feel for her — but it was like pushing through wet stone. There was something… a shadow, a shiver. Then it was gone.
"Master…" he whispered, but no one answered.
The hill was too steep. His leg wouldn't take it. Even if it did, he couldn't fight again. Not like this. Not after that.
So instead, he crawled to the nearest clone.
The man's armor was scorched and split down the chest. Aelom turned his head away as he searched the belt pouches — medpac, stim, field dressing. The clone's hand twitched once in death reflex, and Aelom flinched hard before cursing under his breath and ripping a plastoid plate from the fallen man's shin guard.
It wasn't Jedi-like.
He didn't care.
The silence felt heavier than the fight.
Aelom knelt in the dirt, chest heaving, blood running warm down his thigh and shoulder. The saber was gone — shattered — pieces still smoldering where he'd dropped them. The kyber crystal sat in the center of it all, pulsing faintly with a light that wasn't green anymore. Not even close.
It glowed a molten orange. Like fire trapped in glass.
His hand trembled as he reached for it. The crystal was warm to the touch — not hot, but alive, almost like it could feel him. He didn't want to pick it up. But he couldn't leave it behind.
Fingers closed around it.
His knuckles were cut and bloodied. His nails were chipped. He didn't remember half the fight, only the end. The blur of motion. The weight of the blade in his hand. The scream inside him that hadn't come from his mouth.
He looked at his hands again, turning them over slowly.
He didn't recognize them.
The crystal pulsed once. He closed his fist around it and turned away from the bodies.
Then he heard it.
Up above — distant blaster fire.
Sharp. Repetitive. Short bursts.
His heart lurched.
Fallah.
He tried to reach out with the Force — tried to feel for her — but it was like pushing through wet stone. There was something… a shadow, a shiver. Then it was gone.
"Master…" he whispered, but no one answered.
The hill was too steep. His leg wouldn't take it. Even if it did, he couldn't fight again. Not like this. Not after that.
So instead, he crawled to the nearest clone.
The man's armor was scorched and split down the chest. Aelom turned his head away as he searched the belt pouches — medpac, stim, field dressing. The clone's hand twitched once in death reflex, and Aelom flinched hard before cursing under his breath and ripping a plastoid plate from the fallen man's shin guard.
It wasn't Jedi-like.
He didn't care.
*********************************************************
He wasn't sure how long he slept.
The blackness was warm at first. Quiet. It wrapped around him like a blanket pulled too tight — thick and still and safe in a way that only numbness could be. The canyon, the clones, the crystal — they all slipped away. He didn't dream. He didn't think. He just floated.
Then came the voice.
Low. Raspy. Alien.
He didn't understand the words, but the tone was careful — curious, not cruel.
Aelom's eyes cracked open for a second. Blurred shapes hovered in the haze above him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. One knelt beside him. Blue skin. Sloped muzzle. Familiar.
The Lasat.
His mouth moved. He tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
He slipped under again.
The second time he woke, there was fire behind his eyes.
Someone gripped his leg — firmly, but not unkindly. Another set of hands pinned his shoulders. His back arched, mouth opening in a silent scream just before—
POP.
The pain was incandescent. His vision went white. A voice barked something sharp and clipped, and then something shifted — not just in his leg, but in his chest.
He blacked out again before the scream finished leaving his throat.
The third time, the world returned in pieces.
He was lying on a padded surface — not stone. Something woven. His cloak had been removed. A thick salve clung to his ribs. His leg was wrapped tight in bark and cord, immobilized but aligned. A crude splint, yes — but a proper one. The throbbing was distant now, dulled by something humming faintly under his skin.
There was a low murmur of voices nearby — two, maybe three. He couldn't understand them. The consonants were sharp, the cadence tribal, but something in the tone felt deliberate. Measured. Like they were debating.
About him.
Aelom turned his head slowly. A shape moved in the dark — tall, robed, backlit by a soft orange glow.
The same Lasat from the canyon ridge.
He stood just outside the small shelter, speaking in low tones to someone unseen. One hand rested lightly on a long wooden staff, the other gestured as he spoke — not with anger, but with a quiet urgency.
Another voice replied. Feminine, older, harder. Still unseen.
Aelom's heart pounded. His fingers found the edge of the bedding beneath him and curled tight.
Was he captured?
Was this kindness… or something else?
His mind tried to reach the Force — just to feel it, to reach Fallah again — but the moment he did, pain bloomed behind his eyes and his strength vanished like breath in frost.
Still broken.
Still too far.
He clenched his jaw.
The Lasat turned toward him, just slightly. As if he felt the shift in Aelom's breath. Their eyes met — yellow and green, tired and blazing.
There was no malice in the gaze.
But there was expectation.
Aelom tried to sit up. Failed.
The Lasat stepped forward, silent.
Then darkness took him again.
He didn't know how many times he came back after that.
Once, he tasted water on his lips. Another time, someone dabbed his forehead with a cool cloth. Once, he awoke long enough to hear a different voice — younger, curious, speaking in Basic with a thick Lasat accent.
"He doesn't look like a warrior."
Then sleep again.
Then pain again.
Then silence.
In one waking moment, he caught the edge of his own reflection again — this time in a polished metal plate propped against a nearby wall. His face was gaunt, blood dried at his temple, and his eyes…
His eyes burned.
Molten orange flickered just beneath the green, barely visible — but real.
The crystal was still with him. Wrapped in cloth. Tucked beneath the binding on his arm.
He hadn't lost it.
He wasn't sure if that comforted or terrified him.
The last flicker of waking came with motion.
He was being lifted. Carried.
He could feel the sway of limbs beneath him, the rhythmic bounce of cautious steps on uneven ground. The sound of the canyon faded — replaced by something else.
A tunnel? A cave? The air grew cooler. The scent of smoke and herbs hung faint in the air.
He opened his eyes — just a crack.
Above him, the stars.
Blurred. Distant.
He blinked.
A silhouette moved above him — the same Lasat figure, cradling him over one shoulder like a wounded brother.
Aelom tried to speak. His throat made a sound like dry leaves.
The Lasat looked down at him. Just once.
Aelom thought he saw something there.
Recognition.
Then, the canyon vanished.
*******************************************************************
Aelom awoke to silence, broken only by the steady drip of water.
His body didn't feel like his own — stiff, leaden, wrapped in layers of cloth and pain. The scent of smoke and herbs clung to the air, thick enough to choke on. Light filtered through slatted wooden walls, casting angled stripes across the rough-hewn floor. Morning, maybe. Or something like it.
He shifted, groaning. Every muscle ached. His leg throbbed like a drumbeat out of time.
And yet... he was still alive.
The last thing he remembered was being carried — the slow rhythm of someone else's stride, a cool breeze across his face, the stars.
Now, he was in a hut. Simple. Round. No doors, just a thick hide pulled across the entrance. A clay bowl of water sat beside him, half-filled. A bundle of herbs hung from a rafter, swaying gently in the draft. His cloak lay folded at the foot of the bedding mat, his boots beside it.
His lightsaber — or what remained of it — rested on a flat stone shelf nearby. The hilt was cracked open, scorched down the middle, the emitter blackened and split. Inside, nestled in a dented casing, the kyber crystal pulsed softly beneath a cloth shroud.
Aelom turned his face away from it.
He didn't want to look.
Didn't want to feel it.
A few minutes later, the hide lifted and a figure stepped inside — young, tall, clearly Lasat. The boy couldn't have been older than Aelom by much. Pale lavender fur, yellow eyes, a loosely wrapped cloth vest. He carried a small basket and a wary expression.
When he saw Aelom awake, he paused, then knelt slowly and set the basket down. Inside: dried strips of something like meat, two hard rolls, and a pouch of what smelled like tea.
"You eat?" the Lasat asked in halting Basic. His voice was deep but uncertain.
Aelom nodded once, throat dry.
The boy left the food and backed out without another word.
Silence again.
Aelom reached for the water bowl with a trembling hand and splashed a little across his face. The cold made him flinch.
He looked down at his reflection — saw nothing but blurred color.
Still, he pulled the bowl away quickly.
He didn't want to risk it.
Didn't want to see if the orange was still there.
Even though he knew — somehow — it wasn't.
His eyes had returned to green. He could feel the change. The fury had gone, for now. The fire banked low.
But the memory lingered.
The screams.
The saber humming like a storm.
The crystal cracking under the weight of his will.
Aelom closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall.
He was alive. But something inside him wasn't.
The food was bland. Tough, too — dense strips of dried meat that tasted like dust and wood smoke, chased by hard bread that scraped his throat going down. But it was warm. Real. Sustaining.
Aelom ate slowly, forcing his body to remember how. Every bite sat like stone in his stomach, but he welcomed the ache. It meant he still had something left to feel.
Once the bowl was clean, he pulled the blanket aside and looked down at himself. His robes had been replaced with a simple tunic and loose cloth trousers, both stitched from heavy, homespun fabric. His ribs were bandaged tight beneath it. His leg — splinted and braced from hip to ankle — was swaddled in layers of padded bark and cloth.
It looked primitive.
But it worked.
He reached for his cloak, folded beside the bedding mat, and tugged it into his lap with one arm. It took effort to pull it on. His limbs moved like they belonged to someone else — stiff and slow, every motion pulling at pain.
Then, with a grunt, he tried to stand.
His good leg found the ground. The other shifted, and the second he bore weight—
A sharp cry broke from his throat. He pitched forward.
Strong arms caught him before he hit the ground.
The young Lasat had returned — silent as a shadow. He steadied Aelom with surprising strength, brow furrowing as he eased him back down.
"You're not healed yet," the Lasat said, voice low. "Rest for now."
Aelom clenched his jaw but gave a short nod. No thanks. No more words.
The Lasat lingered only a second longer before retreating again.
********************************************************************
Time passed — hard to measure, but Aelom felt it in his body.
Days, maybe a week.
He was permitted small freedoms: limping laps around the hut, supervised visits to the fire circle in the courtyard. Always the same Lasat by his side — the youth with careful hands and fewer words. Aelom never caught his name.
Each day, a little farther. A little stronger.
But never alone.
When he strained too far, the pain punished him. He'd collapse by the stream or slump beside a carved post, breath shaking, arms trembling. The Lasat would always appear within moments, watching, waiting — never scolding, just present.
The others… kept their distance.
He saw them in glimpses — tall, furred figures with solemn faces, watching from doorways or rooftops. Their homes were carved into the canyon walls, connected by wooden bridges and rope ladders, smoke curling from stone chimneys. Children stared at him with wide golden eyes. Elders nodded without warmth. He heard singing once — low and harmonic, like a prayer passed mouth to mouth.
But no one spoke to him.
Not truly.
He wasn't one of them.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Night fell like a shutter drawn over the world.
The firelight from the village cast a low orange glow against the slats of Aelom's hut. Wind whispered beyond the walls, stirring dry leaves and distant chimes. Inside, the silence pressed down — heavy, intimate, suffocating. He sat hunched in his corner, arms wrapped loosely around his stomach, leg splinted and propped, breath slow and uneven.
His saber — or what remained of it — lay on the floor beside him, wrapped in coarse cloth, the fractured hilt concealed. But the thing it held… that he could still feel.
The kyber crystal.
Not shattered, no — still whole. But changed.
He hadn't bled it — not intentionally. That took focus. Purpose. Rage channeled into will.
And yet… it had started. Somehow, the crystal felt different now. Warmer. Heavier. Like a coal smoldering in the dark, waiting for a gust of wind to turn it white-hot.
Aelom turned his face away, but it didn't help. The heat sat in his chest like a buried sun.
He reached out and unwrapped the saber, hands shaking slightly. The hilt, warped and scorched, split along its core. The emitter was beyond repair — maybe salvageable for parts, but the weapon it had once been was gone.
His fingers brushed the crystal inside. It pulsed softly. Not red — not yet — but the green was tainted, the hue clouded with flickers of molten orange.
Just like his eyes had been.
His jaw clenched.
And with that came the memories.
The cruiser.
The alarms.
Veteran clones — men he'd bled beside, trained beside, trusted — turning without hesitation. No hesitation in their eyes. No questions. Just orders. Fire. Fire. Fire.
He remembered the heat in his limbs as he fought them.
The way his blade found gaps in armor without thought.
The way he didn't hesitate either.
And then the canyon — two more clones. Trained killers, disciplined. One laughed before he pulled the trigger. Another called him "traitor." They kicked him, pinned him down.
Demanded he betray Fallah.
And he had answered with fury. Not calm. Not balance. Not peace.
Fury.
He had let the Force rip into him like a storm, drawn the saber with a shout and turned it loose. He had watched them die — one bisected, one crumpled with his throat cut by heat.
And he felt good doing it.
Aelom's hands trembled.
His chest felt tight.
He dropped the hilt and turned away, fingers clawing through his hair, digging into his scalp.
"I didn't…" he whispered. "I didn't want to…"
But the truth was there. He had wanted to. In that moment, nothing had ever felt more natural.
And it broke him.
The sob caught in his throat before he could stop it. Sharp, sudden. His eyes burned.
Tears followed — hot and angry and full of shame.
He curled forward, clutching his sides, the breath knocked out of him in waves. His shoulders shook. His body wracked with a grief too big to name.
He didn't know if he was crying for Fallah… for the Jedi… for the clones… or just for himself.
He had survived everything.
But for what?
To be alone? Broken? Watching himself become something he didn't recognize?
The Force had always been a constant — quiet, distant, but there. Now it was like standing at the edge of a void. No warmth. No balance. Just the echo of what he used to be.
His tears stained the mat beneath him.
He didn't hear the hide lift. Didn't notice the Lasat youth standing just outside the threshold. The boy stayed silent, watching — not intruding, not moving.
And then, just as quietly, he left.
*********************************************************************
Time passed.
The sobs slowed. His body emptied itself of grief the only way it could — through exhaustion.
Aelom lay back, barely breathing, sweat clinging to his brow.
The saber remained where he'd dropped it. The crystal still pulsed.
Not red. Not yet.
But closer.
He stared at the ceiling of the hut. Watched the candle's shadow flicker and fold. And somewhere deep inside, he promised himself:
No more.
No more steps toward that edge.
No more slipping.
But even as the thought formed, doubt trailed behind it like smoke.
Eventually, sleep came. It didn't comfort him.
But it claimed him all the same.
The morning light filtered through the narrow cracks in the hut wall, thin and gold like it was afraid to touch him.
Aelom blinked slowly.
His face felt tight, his eyes sore. The blanket was half-pushed off his chest, his splinted leg stiff and throbbing. He didn't remember falling asleep. He barely remembered stopping the tears.
But something in him had cracked last night — and through that crack, clarity was starting to leak.
He sat up slowly, breath catching as the pain in his side reminded him how broken he still was.
There was no food yet. No sound of footsteps. Just silence.
Until there wasn't.
The hide at the doorway rustled.
Aelom looked up.
It wasn't the young Lasat this time.
The silhouette that stepped in was broader, taller — and familiar.
It was him.
The Lasat hunter from the canyon. The one who had given them a night. The one who had told them to leave.
Now he stood in the doorway, staff slung across his back, arms folded.
His expression hadn't changed since that first meeting — wary, unreadable, stern. But his eyes lingered longer now, and not with suspicion. With expectation.
"You're awake," the hunter said.
Aelom gave a small nod. "Barely."
"Good. Then hear this."
The Lasat stepped forward, each footstep deliberate, weighty. He stopped a few paces away and crouched low, resting one arm on a bent knee.
"You don't belong here," he said plainly. "Once you can walk, you leave."
Aelom met his gaze. "I'm not healed yet."
"You will be."
"And when I'm gone?"
"That's not my problem."
Aelom stared at the floor for a moment. Then raised his eyes again, slow and searching.
"Is the cruiser still here?" he asked.
The hunter's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"The one in the sky. The Venator. It was here when we fell. Is it still around?"
There was a pause — a breath too long.
Then: "Yes. Still patrolling the southern ranges. Dropships come and go. They haven't left orbit."
Aelom's jaw tightened.
He didn't look away.
"I want to steal a ship from it."
The hunter blinked. Slowly. "You want to what?"
"I need off this world. I can't keep hiding. Not here. Not in these mountains. If the Empire is hunting Jedi, they won't stop. I'll bring danger with me wherever I go — even if I don't want to. But if I can reach another planet—"
"—you'll bring it there instead," the Lasat interrupted. "You don't even know where to go."
Aelom didn't flinch. "No. But staying isn't safer."
The hunter stood again, folding his arms.
"You're not ready. You're still limping like an old man. You fall over putting on your boots."
"Then I'll train."
"You'll die."
"Then I'll die trying."
There was silence again. Not heavy. Not hostile. Just... still.
Finally, the Lasat gave a grunt. "Foolish."
But he didn't say no.
He turned for the door. Paused.
"You have maybe a few weeks before they sweep this range again. If you want to do something that reckless, you better stop crying and start climbing."
And then he left.
The hide dropped shut behind him.
Aelom stared at it, breath shallow, heart pounding — not from fear, but from something else.
Resolve.
It was foolish. Reckless. Maybe impossible.
But it was a goal. A reason to stand. A direction for his fury, his guilt, his grief.
He looked down at the broken saber on the mat.
Then, slowly, reached for the splint on his leg.
It was time to start again.
*******************************************************
The wind tugged softly at the edge of Aelom's tattered cloak as he stood on a ridge just beyond the village, overlooking the dense forest below. His leg, once swollen and useless, now held steady beneath him — still stiff, still aching, but solid enough to carry weight and intent. His breath came slow, measured. Focused.
Strapped to his back was a scavenged clone trooper chestplate, mismatched and scorched. The helmet hung from his hip, dented and faded but still serviceable. Bits of armor — forearm plates, a shin guard, a blackened utility belt — completed the patchwork disguise. The rest of the armor had been too damaged, or too bloodstained, to wear.
What he couldn't take from the dead, he shaped himself. Painted over insignias. Filed down sharp edges. Anything that might help him blend in — just long enough to slip through the wolf's den without being eaten alive.
His saber, still broken, lay in its pouch beside the remains of the kyber crystal — now clouded, faintly glowing with that strange molten orange hue. He'd tried more than once to fix the hilt, piecing it together with parts from clone tech and village scrap. But he didn't have the right tools. Or the right knowledge. Or maybe… maybe the crystal no longer wanted to be wielded.
So he made a choice.
At his side, tucked into a sling, rested a DC-17 blaster pistol — stripped from one of the clones he'd killed weeks ago. It felt wrong in his hand. Cold. Efficient. But he'd forced himself to train with it. Slow at first, then faster. Not for vengeance. Not for cruelty. But for survival.
He was done waiting to feel whole again.
Behind him, the hunter approached, silent as ever. He stopped a few paces away, observing Aelom like one might a strange animal that had wandered into the village and refused to die.
"You're leaving soon," the hunter said, not a question.
Aelom nodded.
"You'll be alone."
"I've been alone since the crash."
The hunter didn't challenge that. Just tilted his head. "You've grown stronger."
"Stronger doesn't mean better," Aelom replied.
A long silence followed. The wind shifted.
Finally, the hunter said, "The cruiser still lingers. Patrols rotate every three days. One of their landing parties is based in a ravine near the canyon. If you're going to make a move, that's where you start."
Aelom's grip tightened on the sling at his side.
"I only need one chance."
The Lasat stepped closer, his voice quieter now. "And if they see through it?"
Aelom's gaze drifted to the forest, where mist curled like breath between the trees.
"Then I stop running."
*****************************************************
The trek to the ravine began at first light.
Aelom moved with careful rhythm — cloak drawn tight, blaster secured beneath it, helmet hidden in his sling until it was needed. Each step through Lasan's wild terrain was purposeful but cautious. The forest here was different than the slopes near the village. Denser. Noisy in some places, deathly quiet in others. As if even the trees were listening.
The weight of the clone armor pieces slowed him, the uneven plating not meant for his frame. But he wore them anyway. Not for protection — for camouflage. And for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel broken when he walked. He felt... unfinished. Still healing. But healing forward.
He didn't speak. Didn't reach for the Force. Not here.
The closer he drew to Imperial presence, the more he instinctively hardened. Not emotionally — tactically. Breath under control. Footsteps measured. Eyes scanning every angle. The habits of a Jedi on a warfront returned like muscle memory, even if his weapon was wrong and his stance just slightly off without a saber at his belt.
Hours passed. The sun crept higher, then dipped again toward afternoon.
By the time he reached the final ridge overlooking the ravine, his thighs burned and his leg throbbed under the strain. He ignored it.
Aelom dropped low, crawling the last few meters on his belly through the underbrush until the cliff's edge opened up before him — and the ravine came into view.
His breath hitched.
A steel-gray LAAT gunship squatted on the flat canyon floor like a predatory insect, flanked by temporary supply crates, comm towers, and a mobile uplink unit still unfolding its satellite dish into the wind. Troopers moved in pairs and clusters below — no more than a dozen in sight, all in Phase II armor marked with red unit insignias and pauldron ranks.
A command tent had been pitched between two slabs of stone near the base of the cliff. Aelom saw another squad prepping for patrol — helmets off, laughing. He watched their movements closely. Studied the cadence. Noted which way they looked first when stepping outside the tent. Noted how long it took for one of them to light a ration heater and how fast the uplink operator reacted to the beeping alert from his console.
There was no security fence. No mines. This wasn't a battlefront — it was a staging area.
But still. This was a nest of wolves.
Aelom lowered his head just below the brush and exhaled, slow and quiet.
He'd expected more. But that didn't make it easier. If anything, the casual nature of the clones below unsettled him more than a fortified bunker might have. These weren't soldiers on high alert. They were men doing a job — efficiently, confidently, without fear. Because no one feared Jedi anymore. Not now.
He pulled the stolen helmet from his pack and rested it on the ground beside him.
This wasn't suicide.
It was a start.
*************************************************************
The forest moved in rhythm with the wind, tall golden leaves whispering overhead as Aelom waited in the undergrowth. Hours had passed. His body was still, but every muscle was taut beneath the mismatched armor he wore. The blaster rested at his side. Powered. Silent. Alien in his hands.
He hadn't moved in nearly a full cycle of patrol rotations. But he'd learned the timing now. Clones in this sector followed routine. Predictable. And one in particular — a perimeter scout with blue stripes across his chestplate — always wandered a little farther than the rest.
And there he was.
Boots crunching dry leaves. DC-15S rifle loosely slung. The clone's visor swept the brush with casual discipline, but no urgency. Another day, another empty perimeter check.
Aelom watched him pass. Counted ten steps. Then twenty. Waited.
He struck from the blind side — low and fast.
The clone had no time to scream. Aelom's arm clamped across his neck from behind, the blaster muzzle jammed under his ribs, trigger depressed once. A hiss of energy. A burst of heat.
The body went limp.
Aelom held him a moment longer, breathing hard through his nose, then lowered the trooper slowly into the brush. No sound. No alarm. No one saw.
He stared at the body for a long second.
Then went to work.
The armor was too clean. He dirtied it with ash and mud. The scout's rank insignia was scratched off with the corner of a knife. He took the comm puck, the coded ident-tag chip, and what little rations he could carry. The clone's voice wouldn't help him — but the body language, the way he'd moved — that could.
He practiced for an hour. Rifle slung just-so. Chin tucked. No eye contact. Keep moving.
By nightfall, Aelom had the armor on. The scout's helmet clicked into place, sealing him in.
He wasn't a Jedi anymore.
He was a shadow walking in the skin of the enemy.
*************************************************************
The blaster rifle was heavier than Aelom remembered.
It pulled awkwardly against the strap on his shoulder as he moved toward the ravine, each footstep placed with purpose. The clone armor chafed under his tunic, unfamiliar against his skin. His breaths came steady through the helmet's filtered intake, the heads-up display flickering in the lower corner with comm static he didn't dare activate.
He descended the canyon trail just as the next dusk patrol rotated out. Four troopers passed him on the path, their body language relaxed. One gave a casual nod. Aelom mirrored it and kept walking, silent, his hands steady despite the pounding in his chest.
No one stopped him.
Not yet.
The landing zone opened around the next bend — lights mounted to jagged stone, crates stacked high in makeshift supply rows, clone officers barking orders near a portable command post. The LAAT gunship still rested in the clearing's center, its engines ticking as they cooled from a recent run. Another squad prepped for a return flight near the forward gear rack, checking weapons, adjusting pauldrons.
Aelom moved along the far wall, hugging the shadow of a stacked comms array. He kept his head low, pace measured — not fast enough to look nervous, not slow enough to draw attention.
Every clone here walked with confidence. The kind born from routine, not pride. And Aelom had lived long enough among them to know that pretending to belong mattered more than a code cylinder or chain of command.
He spotted the access ramp leading up to a perimeter tower, where two pilots stood chatting beneath a flickering holo-map. Beyond them, a narrow ridge extended to a landing pad — a small platform where a transport shuttle sat idling. Not a warship. Just a personnel hauler. But it would get him off the ground.
One step at a time.
He walked past the pilots without turning his head. Just another trooper doing his rounds. The comms in his helmet chirped once — static chatter between two squads coordinating a recon sweep. He didn't touch the earpiece. Didn't engage. The moment he spoke, it would all fall apart.
Two officers moved from the command tent as he passed it — one of them turning slightly toward him.
Aelom dipped his chin, offering a sharp, wordless nod as he'd seen others do.
The officer didn't reply. He barely noticed.
Good.
Aelom made it to the edge of the landing pad and stopped, pretending to adjust his rifle sling as he scanned the shuttle. Two clones stood guard at the base of the ramp. Not casual. Alert.
He couldn't bluff past both.
He'd need a moment — just one — where one of them stepped away.
Then he could vanish into the cargo bay.
He exhaled through his nose, low and slow, watching the patrol shifts in motion.
And waited for his chance.
Aelom moved when the timing seemed perfect.
One of the clones at the shuttle ramp was called away by a comms ping, turning and striding off toward the perimeter array. The remaining guard stayed posted, rifle slung low, visor pointed down the canyon path. Aelom didn't hesitate. He angled his stolen helmet lower, kept his posture stiff, and walked directly toward the shuttle as if he belonged.
Three paces from the ramp, the guard turned his head.
"Hold up."
Aelom froze.
The clone took a step forward. "I don't recognize you. This isn't your patrol zone. Let me see your ident-tag."
Aelom kept his hands visible, slowly lifting them, palms out. "Command sent me. System check—"
The clone's tone sharpened. "That wasn't an order. Tag. Now."
Aelom's mind raced. He couldn't overpower him. Not in this armor. Not injured.
So he reached for the Force.
His voice lowered, calm and deliberate, laced with the training passed down from Master Eldrel. "You don't need to see my tag. I'm cleared to board."
For a breath, the clone's posture slackened. His grip on the rifle loosened slightly. Aelom could feel the sway starting to take hold.
Then—resistance. Like pushing through thick oil.
The clone's voice shifted. "Wait—what the hell did you just do?"
The spell cracked.
Aelom barely got his hands up before the rifle butt slammed into his chestplate, sending him staggering backward. The clone shouted — "INTRUDER!" — and lunged again. Aelom ducked, elbowed him in the side, drew the blaster from his belt.
Too slow.
The clone tackled him into the side of the ramp, driving the wind from his lungs. The helmet display cracked on impact. Alarms across the landing zone began wailing as red floodlights bathed the canyon floor in siren light.
They were on him.
The clone grabbed for his weapon again — Aelom drew his stolen blaster and fired point-blank. The shot took the clone in the neck joint, burning through the under-armor weave. He collapsed without a sound.
Aelom didn't wait. He sprinted — limping from the impact — up the shuttle ramp as another pair of clones shouted from across the clearing.
"Hey—HEY!"
Blaster bolts flew. One grazed his shoulder pauldron, spinning him into the shuttle wall. He slapped the door control, and the ramp hissed upward just as a second shot pinged off the metal behind him.
He stumbled into the pilot seat, throwing the corpse of a slumped officer to the floor. The controls flickered.
Systems online.
He didn't ask permission. His hands moved automatically — throttle open, fuel cells charged, lift engaged.
The engines screamed.
Outside, a clone pounded on the hull before the ship lurched upward, scattering crates with the force of its exhaust. Blaster fire chased him into the sky — but the ship held.
Altitude climbed.
Aelom gritted his teeth, scanning the radar. The cruiser loomed above — its vast underbelly shadowed by nightfall. Red lights pulsed along the hangar's docking rails. He banked hard, teeth rattling in his jaw as he rode the arc of his climb like a blade rising through water.
Comms chirped. A voice crackled through the shuttle: "This is Hangar Command — unrecognized shuttle, respond and identify."
He ignored it. Not enough time to mimic a response.
The hangar doors ahead began to close.
He slammed the throttle forward.
The shuttle screamed through the narrowing gap, scraping sparks from its hull as it cleared the lip of the bay and crashed hard into the hangar deck, skidding sideways. Sparks and smoke filled the air.
Alarms flared.
Aelom coughed as he kicked the hatch open and staggered out, blaster drawn. Clones in the hangar turned toward the noise — some shouting, some reaching for weapons — but he dove behind a crate stack before they could fire.
Now he was inside.
Trapped, but inside.
He yanked off the ruined helmet, sucking air, heart pounding like a war drum. His body screamed from impact — old wounds flaring, new ones forming — but he was alive.
And aboard the very machine that hunted him.
Smoke choked the air.
Aelom coughed hard as he staggered into cover behind a crate near the edge of the hangar deck. Sparks showered from the shuttle's impact trail. The ship had skidded hard across the durasteel floor, gouging lines into the plating, crates overturned in its wake. Sirens wailed. Lights blared.
His hands trembled, blood still thundering in his ears.
Then he saw them—two flags on the far wall, high above the blast doors.
One was faded, but proud: the crest of the Galactic Republic, its clean lines and silver filigree framed in honor.
Beneath it, hanging newer but colder, was the mark of the Empire—black, angular, sharp like a wound carved into steel.
Aelom stared.
His breath caught in his throat.
This is what we fought for? This is what they replaced it with?
He shook his head violently and forced himself to focus.
Clones were shouting. A squad had formed up, rifles sweeping the perimeter, boots thudding in tight rhythm. They moved with brutal coordination — no hesitation, no chatter. This wasn't a search.
It was an execution squad.
Aelom slid lower behind the crate stack, mind racing. He had seconds — maybe less.
One wrong move and he was ash.
He scanned the crate beside him. Markings: "MED SUPP — C-479." He pried it open and found a broken stim pack, a roll of sealant, and—he grabbed it—a fragment of torn armor with a rank tag still attached.
Footsteps neared.
"—came from the shuttle!" one clone barked. "He's not a pilot. He's an imposter."
Aelom clenched his jaw.
No more hiding.
He surged out from cover and fired.
The first bolt struck a clone in the knee — down. The second missed, but the third hit a control panel on the wall, flooding the deck with hydraulic steam and throwing off their line of sight.
He ran.
Shots followed, burning hot past his head.
Aelom ducked under a service gantry and shoulder-rolled behind a support pillar. He fired blind to keep heads down, then bolted again. He saw a stack of fuel canisters and dove toward them—
Too late.
Something slammed into his ribs.
He hit the floor hard.
A boot crunched down on his forearm, pinning him. Aelom cried out, trying to twist free, but two more clones closed in fast. One struck him in the temple with a stun baton. His world spun.
Another jabbed a rifle barrel into his back.
"Don't move!"
Aelom's head lolled sideways. His vision blurred.
Then—impact. His side flared with pain as another kick landed. They grabbed him, rough hands yanking the blaster away, pulling his helmet off.
"Got him!"
"Commander, we have the intruder."
Fallah, Aelom thought, even through the haze. I'm sorry.
Then blackness took him.
***********************************
The dream was fire.
Aelom stood in the ruins of the cruiser — bodies of clones scattered in the corridor. His lightsaber burned molten orange. Fallah was ahead of him, screaming his name — but she faded like mist the closer he came.
He looked down.
His hands were stained red.
He woke with a gasp.
His mouth was dry, his limbs stiff and heavy. The cell around him was silent — durasteel walls and a low energy field at the door. There was no window, no vent, no light but a blue bar over the entrance.
He was alone.
His wrists were raw from binders. His ribs throbbed — bruised, but not broken.
He leaned forward and let his forehead rest against the wall.
For a long time, there was only silence.
And then—
It stirred.
Not a sound.
Not a voice.
A feeling.
Warm. Distant. Familiar.
His eyes opened slowly.
It wasn't memory. It wasn't trauma.
It was her.
Fallah.
Somewhere aboard this ship, in all this steel and fire and blood — she was alive.
He couldn't hear her voice. Couldn't reach her clearly. But her presence rippled like soft waves under ice — restrained, flickering, faint… but real.
Aelom closed his eyes and breathed.
After everything — the betrayal, the canyon, the screams, the fire — something in him held firm. Not peace. Not clarity.
But hope.
And maybe that was enough.
*********************************************************************
The silence in the cell had grown thick — like gravity itself was pressing against the walls. Aelom sat still on the bench, ankles shackled to the floor, his head bowed slightly but his eyes sharp. He could still feel her… faint, distant… but real.
That flicker of Fallah's presence was the only thing keeping him anchored.
The lock hissed.
Aelom looked up, spine straightening instinctively.
Bootsteps. Not the mechanical weight of clones, but sharper, deliberate.
The Admiral stepped into view.
She was tall, dressed in a high-collared Imperial officer's uniform of charcoal and bone-white trim, her hands clasped behind her back with clinical elegance. Her dark hair was pulled tight, her expression unreadable — but her eyes gleamed with interest, not cruelty. Not yet.
Two clone troopers flanked her, their visors fixed on Aelom. Neither spoke.
The Admiral regarded him for a long moment.
"A child," she said at last, tone smooth as glass. "And here I was expecting something more... formidable."
Aelom said nothing.
She took a single step forward, clasping her hands loosely in front of her. "You're quiet. Good. Listening is valuable. Far too many Jedi spent their final moments talking."
Still, he didn't respond. His fists clenched at his sides.
The Admiral tilted her head, eyes narrowing.
"I wonder…" she said. "Was it pride or desperation that sent you crawling into my hangar bay like a rat?"
Aelom's gaze flicked up. "You're not the one I'm afraid of."
Her lips curved — not into a smile, but something close. "Of course you're not. You're Jedi. You fear nothing. Feel nothing."
She let that hang in the air a moment before reaching for her belt.
"Or so you tell yourselves."
From beneath her long coat, she unclipped a lightsaber hilt — worn, but familiar.
Aelom's heart froze.
Fallah's saber.
The curved grip, the emerald-inlaid accents, the way the power switch was slightly misaligned from a long-ago battlefield repair.
It was hers.
He stood up without meaning to, straining against his ankle restraints. The chains rattled, metal grinding against metal.
The Admiral ignited it.
The green blade snapped to life with a mechanical hiss, casting shifting shadows across the cell. It buzzed with restrained fury — a guardian's weapon in a predator's hands.
"She screamed your name, you know," the Admiral said, voice low. "When we found her."
Aelom's throat tightened.
"Of course, she tried to fight. Quite well, too. But she bled like anyone else. The only difference was how long it took."
She stepped closer. The blade hovered inches from Aelom's chest.
"I wonder if she bled for you."
Aelom glared into her eyes, but he didn't move.
"Do it," he said.
The Admiral's brow lifted.
"Do it," he repeated, louder. "You don't want information. You're not here to interrogate me. You came here to gloat. So go ahead. Kill me."
She didn't.
The green blade remained steady, humming low — a traitor's lullaby.
Then she stepped back and deactivated it. The cell went dark again.
"I've found," she said, returning the hilt to her belt, "that death is not the worst thing a Jedi can experience."
Aelom stayed standing.
"You're going to learn," she said as she turned to leave, "what it means to be forgotten. Not martyred. Not remembered. Just… discarded."
She paused at the door and glanced back over her shoulder.
"Tell me — when you saw her last… did she even try to come back for you?"
The door hissed shut behind her.
And Aelom finally sat, breathing hard — every part of him shaking, not with fear…
But fury.
And guilt.
And something far more dangerous.
***************************************************
The cold hum of the Venator's detention wing echoed through the Admiral's boots as she strode toward the command post. A faint crimson hue from the overhead lights reflected off the durasteel walls — a subtle signal that the status of the Jedi prisoners had been elevated to "high threat."
Her officers stiffened as she entered. One stepped forward with a datapad.
"Transmission received, ma'am," he said. "Inquisitor-designate has entered the system. ETA: three hours."
The Admiral didn't take the datapad. She already knew the details. Her expression tightened.
"So the jackals circle."
The officer hesitated. "Orders, ma'am?"
She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing with resolve. "I don't intend to hand over two Jedi on their knees. Especially not after the stunt that whelp pulled in my hangar."
She thought of the young Zabrak — ragged, wounded, but far from broken. He had somehow breached their perimeter and nearly escaped with a clone's blaster in hand. That kind of defiance, if properly weaponized, could be cracked into loyalty. Or shattered for demonstration.
"Bring the female up from her cell," the Admiral said, voice even. "Isolate the main observation room and purge the databanks after. No surveillance. I want this off record."
The officer looked uneasy. "Protocol mandates the Inquisitor—"
"I said purge it." Her voice was razor sharp. "Do you believe the Inquisitor will reward us for simply keeping the Jedi in chains? No. He'll take the glory. The credit. And he'll leave us behind like every other corpse of the Republic."
She stepped forward, lowering her voice to a dangerous calm.
"I want them broken before he arrives."
The officer nodded stiffly. "Yes, Admiral."
She turned away, the edge of her coat slicing the air behind her.
************************************************************************
Down in the holding cells, Fallah Eldrel stirred against her restraints.
She hadn't spoken since capture. She'd refused to respond to clone interrogators, medical officers, or even the Admiral herself. Her silence wasn't defiance — it was preservation. Every word spent was a piece of strength lost.
But today, something shifted.
She could feel it — a tremor through the Force, distant but nearing. A shadow moving toward her. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.
Then the cell door hissed open, and the lights grew brighter.
Two shock troopers entered.
Her body tensed, pain radiating from the deep wound in her shoulder — the mark of a sniper's bolt weeks prior. She didn't flinch. Pain was a teacher.
The clones didn't speak. They just unlocked the restraints from the wall, keeping her wrists and ankles bound. A black hood was pulled over her head, sealing her in total darkness.
And yet… beneath the synthetic fabric, she breathed deeply. Not because she was calm.
But because the storm was coming.
***************************************************************
Fallah was hauled forward into the heart of the ship — not to the brig, not to an interrogation cell, but to a chamber she hadn't yet seen. Her boots dragged along smooth deck plating before the hood was yanked from her head, flooding her vision with stark white light.
The room was circular, sterile, and brightly lit — walls padded to absorb Force impact, ceiling reinforced, and guard placements tucked into shadows behind observation slits. A containment room. One built specifically for Jedi.
The restraints around her ankles clicked free. Her knees buckled slightly, but she straightened before either clone had the chance to catch her. The only sound was her breathing and the quiet hum of the systems around her.
And then she saw her.
Admiral Harven Drel stood alone on the far side of the chamber. No guards at her side. No weapon in hand. But her presence filled the room like a vice — composed, poised, and watching Fallah as though examining a broken instrument.
Fallah held her gaze without a word.
Drel took two calm steps forward. "Still silent, Master Eldrel. Even now."
Fallah said nothing.
"You Jedi were always so good at cloaking yourselves in stoicism," the Admiral continued. "Detachment. Discipline. But I wonder how long that mask holds when everything underneath is crumbling."
Still nothing.
Drel circled slowly, her boots tapping softly on the reinforced floor. She came to a stop only a few feet from Fallah — just out of reach. Her eyes narrowed as she reached to her belt and unlatched something.
Fallah's breath hitched for the first time.
From the Admiral's gloved hand, a lightsaber hilt emerged — elegant, dented from battle, and unmistakably familiar. It was her lightsaber.
Drel ignited it.
The brilliant green blade sprang to life with a sharp snap-hiss, casting its glow across both their faces.
"Recovered from the canyon," the Admiral said, turning the hilt slightly in her hand, admiring it. "You lost a great deal of blood there, didn't you? The clones said you moved like a ghost… until the sniper hit you."
Fallah's jaw clenched.
Drel took a step closer — the blade still humming, its tip angled low but forward. "He's still alive, you know. Your apprentice. Aelom."
Fallah's nostrils flared.
"I've seen him up close," Drel whispered. "He's not a Jedi anymore. Not really. You should've seen the way he killed my troopers in that canyon. Ferocity… anger… desperation. It was beautiful."
She brought the saber up, the emerald blade now held between them.
"I wonder," she mused aloud, "how much of you he remembers when he closes his eyes. Or does he only see red now?"
Fallah's voice was quiet, trembling with control. "You don't understand him."
"No," Drel said, smiling. "But I will."
She raised the saber high — and for a split second, Fallah thought this was the end.
But it wasn't. The Admiral paused, staring into her eyes… then deactivated the blade.
She clipped it back onto her belt and turned away.
"We'll see how silent you remain when I bring him in here. Let's see what your mask looks like then."
She gestured to the clones. "Put her back. But keep her awake."
Fallah didn't resist as the hood returned — but her hands, still bound, curled into fists behind her back.
Because in that moment… her silence wasn't about preservation anymore.
It was about patience.
*****************************************************************
Back in the dim silence of his cell, Aelom stirred. The cold of the floor pressed into his skin, the stink of recycled air and durasteel thick in his lungs. Pain ebbed through him like a tide, but it wasn't what woke him. It was her. A whisper through the Force — faint, but unmistakable. A flicker of warmth buried beneath exhaustion and dread. Fallah. She was close. Alive. And afraid. His fists clenched slowly, the bruises still raw. They hadn't broken him yet. But something told him… they were going to try.
