The Force of Magic [Star Wars SI]

Boroda Orka · Oct 2, 2026

The Supreme Chancellor was deep in thought. Lately, his mind had been returning far too often to the sorcerer from Jabiim. At first, reports of a new organization of Force-sensitives had merely prompted him to make a note to investigate them later—potential threats were not something one left unattended. But there was always too much to do and never enough people he could truly trust, so for the time being, the matter had been left in limbo.

Then came their face-to-face meeting at the opera, during which Palpatine had all but convinced himself that he was dealing either with a representative of yet another cell of Dark Side Force-users—or with someone who had known Plagueis.

A kaleidoscope of thoughts and possibilities flashed through his mind, theories taking shape only to be discarded moments later. His formidable, disciplined intellect worked through every possibility, refusing to dismiss even the wildest assumptions. Beneath it all, passions churned in the Sith Lord's soul—not masters to obey, nor mindless slaves, but loyal, unruly companions kept firmly under control.

Anger and fury never clouded his judgment; they drove him to act. Fear forced him to revisit hundreds of moments when the Sith might have slipped up and compromised his otherwise impeccable disguise. Pride steadied him, keeping reflection from curdling into self-reproach. Excitement kept him sharp. And beneath it all burned the hunger for power—the determination to claim what was rightfully his, and the will to keep moving forward.

A finely tuned engine of unrestrained power, built not on the weakening calm of serenity but fueled by emotion, carried the adept of the Great Force toward his ultimate Goal: the fulfillment of a grand design a thousand years in the making. It was a perilous path. The weak or the foolish risked sinking so deeply into darkness that nothing remained of them but a bloodthirsty monster—or, worse still in Sidious's eyes, becoming a madman unable to master the immense power of the Dark Side and destroying with his own hands everything that men like him had worked toward for a millennium. A dangerous road. Dangerous and fraught with risk—but one that granted extraordinary power, freedom of choice, and the means to realize his Ambitions.

Palpatine exhaled softly through his nose. The barely audible sound was enough to make Sly, seated nearby, straighten at once and turn toward her master with a look of immediate readiness to serve.

"Am I correct in assuming you couldn't get inside the red-eyed one's head?"

"Yes, my Lord. The sorcerer was protected. I didn't even try to probe the defenses—they were too unusual. I did, however, read his little Twi'lek slave, though how useful the information will be to you..."

"That judgment is mine alone," the man said with a nod, holding out his hand expectantly.

The woman immediately reached out, her slender fingers brushing against her master's open palm. She allowed herself the faintest smile, and a barely perceptible glimmer of pleasure appeared deep within her white eyes. For nearly a minute, neither of them moved. Then Sidious broke the contact and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

"Living dead..." the Chancellor murmured thoughtfully without opening his eyes. "This just keeps getting more interesting."

"And in that conversation with the slave, the sorcerer said he'd never met any Dark Side Force-users," Sly Moore ventured, daring to draw her Lord's attention to one more detail from what she had shown him.

"That too," the man agreed with a nod, paying no attention to the Umbaran holding her breath. "It doesn't add up..."

In the vision, the little Twi'lek was massaging her master's shoulders while he studied something on a datapad. The sorcerer was groaning with such obvious pleasure and occasionally letting out such contented little grunts that, for a moment, Sidious found himself tempted to summon a masseuse of his own... Perhaps he would indulge himself. Later.

"I'm starting to think the Jedi are basically Sith who castrated themselves," the red-eyed sorcerer grumbled, setting the datapad aside. "I can't make heads or tails of these Force-users. This whole concept of the Force having two opposing sides is something else entirely. And everything the Jedi make publicly available is so damned lofty and spiritual that I can barely figure out what they're actually saying. As for the Sith, it's nothing but horror stories—which, to be fair, makes sense."

"Would you like me to ask Shmi to make you some more herbal tea, sir?" the Twi'lek's voice chimed like soft bells.

"That would be lovely, Suti. Thank you."

Judging by the surroundings, this was already on Coruscant, and the sorcerer's words suggested that he had thrown himself into researching the Force, the Sith, and the Jedi in earnest. Most likely, this had been after his visit to the Temple—possibly even after the opera.

The now-empty mug earned a moment of the Chancellor's attention as well. It was a large one, easily half a liter, with the words "Do Not Mention the Pantaloons" printed across it. The meaning of the phrase escaped the Sith entirely, but its sheer absurdity still brought a faint smile to his face.

"And then there are these Jed-eyes... balance-shmalance..." Siith muttered as he scrolled through the data on the device he'd picked up again, while the girl contacted the servants over her comlink. "How do I steal the Jedi Archives without anyone noticing? Although if I'm stealing the Archives, I'll have to swipe Lady Nu too. I'll never make sense of all this high-minded mystical gibberish on my own. 'Feel the Force,' Dozdrogodul damn it! I can always feel magic, so what? How the hell do you glowstick paladins use magic like this? There isn't even a speck of divine power involved. If someone had told me about it, I wouldn't have believed them..."

"That proves nothing," Sidious said with a slight shake of his head, surfacing from the memories he had been replaying. "He may simply have allowed the slave to see and hear exactly what he wanted her to. Especially since he acquired her only recently—a readily replaceable asset. Perhaps even a disposable tool."

If one assumed the Umbaran's abilities were known, then a gambit like that was certainly possible. But why? The more the Sith thought about it, the less sense any of it made.

His new acquaintance seemed almost insane. One moment he appeared to be deliberately provoking a Sith, the next he behaved like a child—only to look at the Chancellor a heartbeat later with the eyes of a very old man.

With every sentence, the sorcerer added another pinch of chaos to Sidious's thoughts. One moment he had Palpatine nearly convinced that all his suspicions about the man's ties to some secret Dark Side sect were nothing more than paranoid nonsense—that Siith was simply a Force-user who interacted with it in a completely different way. Then, almost immediately, something would slip from the sorcerer's lips that convinced the Chancellor of the exact opposite.

The one thing the politician—and, incidentally, powerful Dark Side adept—was certain of was that the sorcerer had nothing to do with the Jedi. Those squeamish purists would never have anything to do with raising the dead in any form. But the possibility that the JMG belonged to some kind of Sith cult could not be dismissed. There were simply too many suspicious details, from the literature—the Chancellor glanced at the two volumes lying on the table—to little things like that deeply unsettling smile.

Palpatine allowed himself a quiet chuckle. The theory that the sorcerer was simply insane fit rather nicely with an amusing thought that had just occurred to him: perhaps the red-eyed man simply hadn't wanted to give up his habitual nasty grin and had invented an explanation so absurd that everyone had actually believed it.

But jokes aside.

"Visions of the future?" the Chancellor asked, once again regarding the Umbaran with focused seriousness. Sly faltered, and the Sith caught a rare expression on her face: genuine confusion.

"It was strange, my Lord. In the vision, the sorcerer was little more than a vague shadow. Everything around him was blurred and indistinct. Everything except one strange black kath hound with claws instead of hooves. It looked straight at me—and the vision ended."

"Some kind of protection?" Palpatine asked the empty room irritably, then calmed somewhat as he considered the implications. "If so, that's very interesting. Perhaps these sorcerers really are as good at defensive magic as they claim."

With a glance, Sidious dismissed the Umbaran. Then he drew a deep breath and returned to considering the situation.

Even after pulling together everything available so far, there were still too many questions and nowhere near enough answers. Unfortunately, Jabiim's brutal weather and the almost paranoid level of scrutiny directed at outsiders had made reliable intelligence difficult to obtain. Even so, several points stood out.

Siith had appeared out of nowhere, yet somehow managed to establish good relations with the leadership of that rain-soaked planet. Rumor even had it that he was either Cordelia Stratus's secret husband or her lover. At present, she headed Jabiim's internal security service.

The Stratuses, who had become his "patrons," had risen to power almost at the same time the red-eyed sorcerer appeared, following an extremely peculiar epidemic. An epidemic that had been almost absurdly convenient for them, to be precise. The Jabiim Fever had done the rain-soaked world one undeniable favor: it had sent the popularity of healthy living through the roof, wiped out the most committed addicts and alcoholics, and—what a surprise—taken out most of the ruling elite as well. Those who survived were politically dead, because the public never forgave them for being friendly with actual corpses. After the dead were gone, so much filth came pouring out about them that execution by lethal diarrhea would almost have counted as merciful.

The accounts of wealthy dead magnates emptied out, the planetary treasury filled up, and both the military and civilian sectors began expanding at a breakneck pace. Pirate raids ended in bloodbaths, while nature itself seemed to be siding with the Jabiimites—opening "windows" in the cloud cover and ion storms almost exactly when they were needed...

In short, genuine magic. Sidious gave a crooked smile and drew a slow, deep breath. Nothing even remotely like this had ever happened on that mudball before. Jabiim had been a truly backward world, plagued by endless problems: ion storms, ceaseless rain, corrupt leaders... and then suddenly, this. Well, not a transformation just yet. More like the beginnings of one. But the signs were promising.

"There's definitely some kind of scheme at work here. Small, insignificant—but it may be part of something larger," Sidious murmured thoughtfully to his reflection in the mirror.

After another few minutes of consideration, the Chancellor ordered Pestage to find and prepare three loyal but uninformed young men, along with a fourth who was diligent but expendable. All four would be sent to Jabiim to study magic. The last one, however, Sidious would personally tear apart afterward, extracting every scrap of knowledge he had acquired.

He would also need to contact Tyranus, Palpatine thought. At least one Dark Side Force-user thoroughly familiar with concealing himself in the Force should try his hand at sorcery. There was no reason for Palpatine himself to fly out there and experiment firsthand, and Dooku hardly belonged in a classroom.

The Chancellor had not fully discarded a single one of his theories about Siith. In his position, with the stakes in the Great Game as high as they were, the price of being wrong was unacceptable. For now, the priority was simple: learn as much as possible about the sorcerer and his Guild. Decisions could come later—whether to begin integrating them into the New Order while maintaining ostensibly friendly relations; eliminate the most powerful among them, seize their knowledge and novices, and put the latter to use; or wipe them out root and branch, just as he intended to do with the Jedi.

The Chancellor cast another glance at the two volumes Siith had given him, then picked one up and opened it to the page he had marked. Vivec, in Sidious's estimation, was an intelligent man: driven, ruthless, cynical, effective. Some of the traditions described among his people even made the Chancellor shake his head in admiration from time to time. The dark elves were Sith in spirit through and through—but without, let's be honest, the excesses. Some of their principles would have had many of his fellow Sith, dead and otherwise, choking on their own bile.

Darth Bane himself would have appreciated it: "The apprentice, in the course of training, learns from the Master, gains wisdom, and tries not to die. The Master, while training the apprentice, learns how best to beat knowledge into him, gains wisdom, and tries not to die. To complete his training, the apprentice must either kill the Master—or survive. The Master has it harder: he must survive himself while trying to kill the apprentice in such a way that the lesson sinks in and the apprentice doesn't."

In general, sorcerer mentorship among the "ash folk" was remarkably similar to the Sith approach: "If your apprentice hates you, they'll learn combat sorcery faster," or, "Beat your apprentice often enough, and they'll master defensive spells sooner." Unfortunately, there wasn't much of that sort of thing in these books. They were, after all, primarily the work of a politician writing about politics. Still, since Vivec himself was a sorcerer, the occasional remark like that slipped through.

Hmm... Did Siith have any actual treatises on teaching written by Vivec?

Our new bird was carrying us to Corellia—more specifically, to the local shipyards. Shmi, Romri, and I had already sketched out a rough plan for remodeling the ship's interior. I wanted a proper cabin of my own, with an en suite bathroom and an enormous bed. Suti would live in the smaller adjoining cabin next door, still with all the amenities; she had turned out to be an extremely useful assistant. The ship already had a galley and a common room, so aside from those changes, most of the work would simply involve replacing some of the internal systems with better ones.

A message came in from Jabiim: the literature I needed had been released onto the Net, and special programs would periodically send out messages introducing people to Hecate. The target audience was students. Personally, I thought it was brilliant! That whole army of slackers would eat up the idea of a patron goddess of knowledge, and more than half of them probably wouldn't even pay attention to the fact that there was some magic-shmagic involved as well. Especially since I hadn't been smacked in the back of the head with a book when I suggested adding "better memory" and "eloquence during exams" to the list of benefits, so I figured the Moon Goddess didn't object. In any case, I considered that the bare minimum needed to fulfill the goddess's task: with billions of sentients out there, someone was bound to perform the initiation on their own, and once Hecate had an actual devotee, she could establish contact with them herself.

I knew firsthand how superstitious students could be. Just look at those idiots who used to lean out of windows before exams and shout, "Freebie, come to me!" Morons... The instructors had long since gotten into the habit of tagging them with tracking spells the night before exams and grading those freeloaders more harshly than anyone else—if only to keep their ignorance from embarrassing the reputation of a respectable institution.

The memories of teaching brought on a faint bout of melancholy. Vacation had turned out to be a wonderful thing, with one enormous drawback: it ended. Never mind that I hadn't even reached the halfway point of the time I'd set aside for myself—the mere thought of it was depressing.

It wasn't that I didn't want to get back to work. Quite the opposite—I'd be perfectly happy to return to projects I actually found interesting. What weighed on me was the thought of having to run a school of magic. We called it an academy, sure, but let's be honest: three or four youngsters doing the teaching, plus one genuinely experienced instructor—me—made it a school. And it was going to stay that way for another five years or so...

And after that it would only get worse: hordes of students, reckless young idiots, drunken dorm parties ending in every kind of disaster imaginable... cleaning up the aftermath, putting students back together from assorted body parts... And fine, if a heap of remains that had once belonged to three sentients could be reassembled into three sentients again. But what if I ended up with only two? Or, Hecate forbid, FOUR?!

And then there'd be the inevitable contempt between departments, because obviously they—the combat mages—were the best of the best, unlike those... artificers. Ugh. Or flocks of young women desperate to get into healing... And healing, in my humble opinion, was second only to chimerology in how brutal it was to master. Blood, guts, shit, horrific deaths. A good healer had to be cynical, decisive, ruthless, and extremely well trained. To be fair, some truly excellent sorceresses did go on to become outstanding healers, but most switched departments after a couple of practical lessons.

The best student to pass through the healing department during all my years of teaching was a hulking orc brute named Ghazghull—two and a half meters tall, nearly two meters across, all green flesh and steel-hard muscle. Brusque, intelligent, ruthless, and outrageously talented.

I'll never forget one of his exams. He grabbed a mortally wounded criminal—freshly released from stasis—by the head in one enormous hand, and while casting diagnostic spells on him, roared straight into the terrified man's face loud enough to make half the examiners' ears ring: "If you die, I'll gnaw your face off and then fuck the corpse."

He went on to become one of the finest practicing healers around, by the way. Rumor had it that for some patients, one look at his kindly smile was enough to cure whatever was wrong with them on the spot.

"Ah..." I sighed, staring unfocused through the three-dimensional schematic of the ship-control interface, now more or less finished in rough form. It was a complicated piece of work—both to build and to use.

"Would you like anything, sir?" chimed the Twi'lek's bell-like voice as she looked up from the training assignment she had been working on.

"I do, Suti." I nodded sadly, looking at the focused girl with outright longing. "Take over the Guild for me, would you? Please?"

She really was adorable, I thought, feeling the melancholy drain out of me. At first, the girl drew her brows together as she processed what I'd just said. Then she shot me a startled look and flashed a sweet, slightly shy smile.

"I'll help you with anything, sir. Would you like me to bring you some caf and sweets? Or put on a holovid of Romri counting money?"

"All of it," I declared with a regal wave of my hand, sprawling comfortably in the chair as I closed the schematic. They say there are three things you can watch forever: fire burning, water flowing, and other people working. But watching our Togruta sort through credits while giggling and occasionally snorting with delight was a pleasure all its own. "And then we'll do your homework together! Oh, don't look at me like that—I'm interested!"

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 3, 2026

We made it to Corellia without incident and in relative comfort, though I still found myself missing the apartments on Coruscant. The Consular, now proudly bearing the name Rung, was a fairly comfortable ship—at least compared with the shuttle and the Hammerhead. It was a relatively old vessel that had seen action in a couple of conflicts, including the Hyperspace War, but we'd bought it secondhand in good condition.

At the shipyards themselves, I ended up having quite an argument with some young engineer. Upgrading the ship's guts with newer, more powerful systems wasn't a problem, but when it came to rearranging the cabins, I eventually had to fall back on the argument of "I want it this way because I want it this way."

It even got as far as a meeting with one of his older superiors. The man listened to us, listened to the engineer, gave him a tired look, and asked, "What, exactly, is fundamentally impossible about altering the passenger compartments of a Consular-class vessel—a modular ship of our own manufacture?"

After a brief exchange in fluent engineer-speak, the supervisor suggested that Shmi, Romri, and I go enjoy "the excellent caf in our customer lounge, where everything is completely free." The look on his face made the unspoken rest of the sentence perfectly clear: while I teach this wet-behind-the-ears idiot a thing or two.

After tasting the caf, I remarked quietly enough for only my own people to hear that Shmi's was much better. The Togruta, already sinking her teeth into a pastry, nodded in agreement, while Skywalker gave me an appreciative smile.

"The caf here is pretty good," the former slave said, shaking her head and giving us a look of gentle reproach as she defended the local fare.

"If it were bad, I wouldn't be drinking it," I snorted.

"But the pastries are amazing. Try one, Boss," Romri said once she'd finished chewing.

I saw no reason to refuse and gave the local cuisine its due. The pastries really were excellent.

We sat there for about fifteen minutes before a polite young woman came over and escorted us to another engineer, one who had already been briefed on what we wanted. This man looked a little older than the first, though not by much. After discussing the "project" with us, he pointed out the weak spots, quickly sketched out his own rough version on the hologram, explained his reasoning in a way that was actually easy to follow, and named the price—which was, I have to say, rather substantial. Romri clutched at her chest and squeaked, "My heart!" Shmi giggled, and I shook on it with the engineer. Well, figuratively speaking. What I actually did was ask where I needed to sign to authorize the professionals to start developing the project.

I practically had to drag Romri out of the engineer's office by one of her lekku—she was already itching to start haggling the price down right then and there.

"My little aurodium Togruta," I said soothingly, stroking the hand I was still holding. "What's got you so worked up? That's only a rough price. They haven't even drawn up the project yet, much less given me a proper estimate. What are you going to haggle over now? Once we have all the paperwork in hand and something concrete to argue about, then we'll think about it. It's not like buying a blaster from a Toydarian! They're practically going to take our bird apart bolt by bolt—replace the reactor, hyperdrive, engines, part of the hull plating, the life-support systems. You said yourself it'd be expensive and difficult."

"You could've bought a brand-new Consular for less," the girl said, looking at me with tears in her eyes.

"Romri, you were the one saying we needed to upgrade the hyperdrive to a Class One," I sighed. "And there are better options than the standard package for pretty much everything else too."

The Togruta only let out a shaky sigh, clearly mourning the credits. Never mind that they were mine—she was suffering sympathy pains.

"But just imagine," I murmured into her ear, slipping an arm lightly around her shoulders. "You'll have a shower... your own personal shower."

"A shower..." the Togruta whispered, eyes lighting up as she clenched a fist and raised it in a determined little gesture. "For a private shower, any girl would kill without a second thought!"

Shmi was laughing softly beside us. Catching the look I gave her, the woman put on the same determined expression as Romri, repeated the gesture with her arm, and asked with a cheerful smile:

"Who do we kill, Boss?"

"What bloodthirsty women we have in this crew," I said with a smile, shaking my head as the female half of the crew laughed. "And while they're busy scratching their heads over the project, I say we all head down to Corellia. I hear the beaches there are absolutely incredible!"

Tano was delighted by the prospect, while Skywalker looked practically radiant with happiness. Hardly surprising—after so many years in the desert, getting to see actual seas and oceans had to feel like a dream.

Corellia greeted us with warm sunshine, fresh air... and customs. I was so sick of them I couldn't think of a single printable word to describe it. As if the regular officers weren't enough—and they were absolute hellhounds—there was a young Jedi there too.

That green little troll of a Jedi got on every last one of my nerves, mind-fucked me senseless, and left me feeling a sudden, burning sympathy for the Sith!

As if that weren't enough, those sadists descended on Arvik. They made him drain his flamethrower, threatened to "temporarily confiscate" every rocket for his launcher, and made him empty the fuel from his jetpack, leaving him with nothing but his blaster. By that point, the Mando's helmet was practically radiating bloodlust. Then, after I took off my amulet—which immediately began radiating power once it left the masking field of my robe—and handed it over to be logged and inspected, since the damn thing was big enough to smuggle spice in, Greenie started in on me. Apparently it was a Force artifact, and just who exactly was I supposed to be, walking around with such a lovely name as Siith?

Ooooh... And after I showed him all my documents again and told him I knew members of the Jedi Council personally—that he could check with Masters Windu, Yoda, Yaddle, or Rancisis if he wanted—the bastard somehow managed to become even more obnoxious.

"We're not going to bother the Council over something this trivial," the asshole told me with the most infuriating smile imaginable. Hand over the amulet and the dagger, he said, and go with the Force—but those two? Absolutely not. Who knew what those things even were...

I thought it over for a moment, then turned to the others.

"All right, people. Screw Corellia, the beaches, and the ocean. Fuck it. Let's head back. We'll stop somewhere else later—preferably somewhere with intelligent life."

The others looked disappointed, but for the most part they backed my decision with a chorus of agreement. I turned back to the "politely smiling" Jedi and bared my teeth at him in a vindictive grin.

"And you, Greenie—and you officers too—pass this up the chain: never, NEVER, will the Jabiim Mages' Guild sell you so much as the shittiest little artifact. Not one Corellian will ever be trained at our Academy! Not for any amount of money or promises!" I fixed the green bastard with a hard stare as confusion began to creep across his face. "Anything we sell to the Order will come with one condition: that it is NOT passed on to your green-robed brotherhood. And even if you decide not to tell your superiors about this, when your shipyards eventually ask me, 'Why Kuat and not us?' I'll give them the exact date, time, customs checkpoint number, and your names. And when the higher-ups realize exactly what opportunities you personally pissed away for the entire system, your asses are in for an unforgettable adventure."

And back we went, noses held high and huffing with offended dignity. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed another Jedi—a somewhat older woman—come over to Greenie and start asking him something, but by then I no longer cared. Corellia could go straight up Dozdrogodul's ass as a string of anal beads, along with all its sister planets. I was pissed at the lot of them. And so what if I hadn't gotten to spend any time on the beaches myself? I felt bad for the girls. Romri, at least, was a free woman, but Shmi and Suti had never even seen the sea. One had spent her life in the desert; the other had lived underground.

I could, of course, have tried contacting Windu, but... something in me rebelled at the idea. It would feel like I was some little kid running to complain to the scary grown-up. Petty revenge like this was childish too, of course, but my soul demanded that I dump one big, steaming, fragrant pile* of lost opportunities right on the Corellians' doorstep—let them choke on the smell. They'd find ways around my "sanctions," obviously, but at least it would inconvenience them and ruin their day. We, meanwhile, were off to Rendili.

"Boss, why not Kuat?" Romri asked over lunch in the common room. At the moment, we were on our way to Rendili, planning to finally get the work done on our Rung that we'd left undone on Corellia.

"Tours," I snorted. "Both places let visitors tour active shipyards. Supervised and with plenty of precautions, obviously, but it can be done. Rendili interests me more—they've got a lot of relatively small orbital facilities, and Alto wants us to put something like that in orbit over Jabiim someday. Nothing major, just enough to repair and service our little fleet. Maybe build a few smaller things too—we've got the ore for it. So I want to see for myself what a real orbital shipyard actually looks like."

"Yeah," the Mando nodded. "Kuat's got the Ring. No way we could pull off something like that."

"Right now, sure. Give it twenty or thirty years and we probably could—but it would take one hell of an effort. Not that Jabiim needs anything like that at the moment. I doubt we'll need it anytime soon, either. The Commander-in-Chief has his eye on building up our metallurgical industry."

"Aren't you worried it'll poison the planet?"

"No, we've accounted for that. I'm actually going to start training mages on Jabiim specifically to design and operate facilities that process ore into metal, and that process is far less toxic than most environmentally friendly methods used for the same job. Orbital facilities are probably cleaner, granted. And the waste can be recycled into something at least relatively useful."

For a couple of minutes, we ate in silence, but then Arvik asked another question. Ever since we'd set out for Corellia, the man had been unusually pensive, and now he was clearly turning something over in his head again.

"Boss, listen, I know this is kind of a personal question, but why are you doing all this? Training those spellcasters of yours and everything. Don't take this the wrong way—it's just that I've noticed you always grimace whenever the subject comes up."

"That's a deep question, and it deserves a fairly long answer," I said with a grin, glancing at the interested faces turned toward me. I wasn't about to explain all my reasons, of course. The goddess's request—and the possible reward for fulfilling it—were definitely staying to myself. "First and most importantly, I suppose, because I believe it's the right thing to do. Sorcery, whatever anyone may think of it, is first and foremost a science. The science of magic. And like any science, it requires both theoretical research and practical experimentation. The more people there are working to push that research forward, the better."

"And before long the galaxy will be crawling with mages shooting plasma from their fingertips," the Mandalorian said with a crooked smile.

"True enough, but believe me, Arvik, pulling off tricks like that takes a lot of study and a hell of a lot of training. Your average combat sorcerer, after a couple of years of lessons and practice, might be able to throw out a shot like that once every twenty or thirty seconds. And let's be honest—while he's standing there straining himself to shape the right construct with an aura that's barely developed, even the clumsiest Dug with grabbing limbs growing out of his ass would fill that 'god of war' with plasma up to the tonsils."

"Boss, that's not fair to Dugs," Romri giggled. "They're really agile, and jokes like that piss them off."

"Truth hurts," I said with a shrug. "Getting back to sorcerers: by the standards of my homeland, I'm an above-average one. I'm good when it comes to knowledge and considerably worse at applied sorcery. I've been through wars in my time, and every now and then I used to go out and wipe out bands of brigands, but the path of a combat sorcerer—with their almost reflexive casting of a limited repertoire of magical constructs—was never for me. There are, of course, certain little secrets, tricks, and toys that can make even a noncombat sorcerer considerably more dangerous, but those are usually the preserve of spellcasters from powerful bloodlines or exceptionally skilled specialists in fields that aren't, strictly speaking, combat disciplines. Necromancy, chimerology, artifact-making, golemcraft, healing, and plenty of other branches can offer enormous advantages once developed far enough. On top of that, all of them have countless points of overlap, reinforcing one another—sometimes quite dramatically. But!"

I gave my listeners a serious look, emphasizing the importance of what I was about to say by raising my fork.

"All of that takes an absurd amount of time and effort, people. Otherwise everyone back home would be a mage, understand? Mental discipline, determination, the willingness to spend years pursuing a goal—that's what it means to be a real spellcaster. The overwhelming majority of my countrymen master such a tiny fraction of the Art that calling them mages would be ridiculous. Light a campfire after five minutes of huffing and puffing while shaping the most primitive construct imaginable? Oh, yes! A Great Sorcerer! Lord of Magic! Child of Hecate! Bah. Skilled craftsmen do a little better—they pick a niche, memorize a handful of weaves, and spend their entire lives perfecting them, selling their services for money: charging mana reservoirs, casting reinforcement or waterproofing enchantments, making magical lamps, things like that. Anything truly complex takes a long time: gathering knowledge, developing the idea, then actually bringing it to life. You understand? Take the Jabiim speeders, for example. Those are my design."

I glanced at Ras, who was listening as closely as everyone else. He nodded to show that he understood what I meant.

"A design I simply handed over to a couple of my students. On their own, it would have taken them... a very long time to come up with something like that and actually build it." I stopped myself before giving a number. The Stratuses had asked me to keep that information quiet, and after giving it some thought, I agreed with them. "Now it'll become their family legacy—something that could keep the families of some of my first students prosperous for generations. Assuming they don't squander it all by resting on their laurels and sliding into stagnation and decline."

"Complicated..." the Togruta drawled.

"Well, what did you expect?" I snorted, giving the girl an amused look. "Wave your hands around, stomp your foot, recite a funny little rhyme, and that's it? Nooo. Academies give you an initial repertoire of spells as part of your tuition, along with the theory behind them. Spellcraft theory, construct modeling, ritual design, mathematics, physics, geometry, biology, anatomy. Magic isn't some kind of miracle. If you're creating a spell of your own, you need to know and understand how it's going to work. Mana is simply energy with an almost limitless potential for transformation and application. What matters is skill—and skill depends on your knowledge, experience, a developed aura—the tool you use to interact with magic—as well as your reserves and your mind. All of that together is what makes a true spellcaster. So," I said, glancing at the Mando, "you don't need to worry about the galaxy being overrun by mighty mages anytime in the next thousand years. Unless, of course, I decide to train someone personally and generously hand over my own developments to the student—like I'm doing with Karray and Karina on Jabiim."

"Jedi have it easier, though, me thinks," the Gungan put in. He had already demolished his portion and was now sprawled blissfully in his chair.

"Oh, don't remind me," I grimaced. "'Feel the Force, guide the Force,' all in the finest traditions of Eastern-style monks—only somehow even more obscure. Sorcerers have it easier: you go through your first initiation with any practicing mage, learn how to control your aura... and then you're off on a journey millions of kilometers long, one that often ends for a very simple reason: laziness."

"No offense, Boss," the Togruta giggled as the others smiled knowingly, "but that doesn't sound any damn easier."

I looked at those muzz— mug— faces, waved it off, and popped another bite of food into my mouth. Even Suti was smiling, though hers was more sympathetic than amused.

"Sorry," Romri said, making her eyes big and pitiful as she spread her hands—nearly poking Koit in the eye with her fork in the process. "And getting back to Arvik's question: why didn't you just recruit a chosen few and concentrate all that power in a small inner circle of your own?"

I gave the girl a skeptical look. She didn't seem to be joking...

"Look at it this way: suppose I settle down on Jabiim, recruit a dozen 'Padawans,' and start training them. Secretly, 'under cover of darkness,' so no one outside our little circle ever learns about my 'mighty order.' What are we supposed to live on? Sell amulets? How long do you think it would take smart people to connect a suspicious little group of sentients with the sudden appearance of magical artifacts? Even if we sold them in the farthest corners of the galaxy, sooner or later someone would start pulling at the thread—and besides, you need contacts to sell anything in the first place. Magic or no magic, there's a reason sentients are called sentient—they have brains. Eventually some very serious men and women would come knocking and suggest that I share. Suppose we killed them all. Then they'd send more people, and we'd kill those too, move somewhere else, and repeat the whole cycle. Sooner or later, enough people would come after me that it would turn into an actual war—and I'm not omnipotent."

I took a sip of caf, squinted in pleasure, and gave Shmi a grateful nod. She smiled back.

"And then there's the problem of my students getting fed up with living like that. They want to eat well, sleep comfortably, and show everyone how 'powerful' they are—not spend their lives hiding in the shadows. Give it enough time and, best case, they run away from me. Worst case, they sell me out for money or kill me once they learn what kind of security measures I've put in place. So in the end, I either go live somewhere in the mountains with the goats, or I deal with society—which, in my case, means Jabiim, represented by the Stratus cousins. And we came up with the whole 'share the knowledge' strategy together, because sooner or later everyone is going to find out anyway. Then we're right back to the first scenario, only on a planetary scale—with a blockade fleet parked overhead, like Naboo."

We spent a full two weeks at one of the Rendili shipyards. It ended up costing less, though, because some of the orbital facilities were sitting idle.

After a bit of negotiation, they even allowed us onto the worksite, though they very firmly asked us not to get in the way. So for most of the work on the Rung, Shmi, Ras, Romri, and I were just observers, occasionally pestering the engineers and foremen with questions whenever they were in a good mood and had some time to spare. Most of the workers were happy enough to answer, though. I think the professionals were a little flattered that the client was actually interested in their work instead of constantly hounding them to go faster. Romri and Shmi were also a pretty good incentive for most of the male technicians to be extra helpful. Ras, meanwhile, somehow managed to strike up a romance with one of the women working on the ship.

So much so that by the time the work was finished, Risha Trant had signed on with us as the ship's engineer and mechanic.

At the same shipyard, we stocked up on maintenance droids, bought ourselves an astromech of the "bucket on wheels" variety, and picked up some "exclusive" hyperspace route charts. Romri explained that there wasn't much truly exclusive about them, but they did include several safe routes that our navcomputer didn't have.

And then we took off for the sea. Our destination was the Togruta homeworld, Shili. The planet lay in grid square L-8, relatively nearby—Rendili was in M-11—and for anyone with a ship boasting a Class One hyperdrive, it was practically next door. Romri promised us an introduction to her family, authentic Togruta cuisine—meat, meat, and more meat—seas, beaches, gorgeous landscapes in red, orange, and white, hunts for the local predators known as akuls**... and absolutely no customs! What a wonderful planet!

Author's Notes:

*"Fragrant pile" — a pile that has already been dumped, but won't make its presence known or start stinking until sometime in the future. Came up with that one myself.

**An akul is a large, dangerous predator with a powerful body covered in reddish fur. It moves on four legs and is known for its powerful jaws. Akuls breed well in captivity, and albino specimens have occasionally been born. (Honestly, I have no idea how this thing is supposed to pluralize. If I got it wrong, please correct me.)

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 4, 2026

"Well, basically, I finally lost my patience, Alto. So if they come sniffing around the JMG later, don't agree to anything. We won't be able to supply the whole market anyway, so we'll have to pick and choose. Better to stick with Kuat and Rendili. Kuat's been buying our ore for a damn long time already, and the Rendili folks struck me as a pretty decent bunch."

"Got it. Won't be a problem," Alto's hologram said with a grin. "So, how's the vacation?"

There was something in the way he asked it—an irrational hint of reproach, along with a trace of envy so faint it was almost imperceptible.

"That's it? Just like that?" I asked, surprised by how easily the Commander-in-Chief had waved away the prospect of selling anything magical to Corellia.

"Yeah, just like that," Alto snorted. "We've already sent the first shipment of metal ingots to Kuat. The shipbuilders liked the quality, so they've promised us favorable contract terms for more of the same. I also arranged to have the ships escorting our transports repaired and serviced there. We'll rotate them through, and as long as we keep trading with the Kuat shipyards, the whole fleet should stay in good shape."

"Well, good. I was worried I'd messed up some plans of yours," I admitted. And I really had been worried—though, admittedly, the thought had only occurred to me after I'd calmed down.

"Bit late to start worrying now," came an annoyed female voice from just beyond the edge of the hologram. I recognized Cordelia immediately. The image pulled back slightly, revealing the two cousins in full.

"Cordelia, good to see you," I said with a smile. Her face became a study in skepticism. "Hey, what's with the face? I really am glad to see you! How's Karray? How's Karina?"

"They're both fine," the stern head of Internal Security said, softening a little. "You could check in with your own Guild more often, you know. The girls miss a certain red-eyed sorcerer who, the entire time he's been away, has spoken to them exactly one damn time—and every other time has only sent letters with training plans and instructions! Siith, do you even have a conscience?"

"The Quartermaster ate it," I said, promptly throwing my pet under the speeder when he chose that exact moment to poke his head out of my pocket.

"Ooooh! That furry little bastard can eat more than just women's underwear and food from the kitchen?!" Cordelia shouted angrily, fixing the hamster with a murderous stare. The little beast merely twitched his nose in response, looking utterly innocent. "Only you could end up with a fetishist for a pet!"

"Did you ever actually catch him red-handed?" I asked, putting on an offended expression to match the little beast's innocent face. "If not, then it's all slander and malicious lies! He only got caught once... uh... slipped up once... mm... And anyway, Luritta forgave him!"

Our conversation was interrupted by Alto's laughter. When his cousin shot him a puzzled look, he just waved a hand and said, "Make sure you watch the recording later."

I chuckled to myself too. Cordelia could get worked up at the drop of a hat, but she never took it past friendly banter.

"All right, so how's the vacation going? At least tell us something," the former Nimbus general said once he'd stopped laughing.

"Mixed. Mostly interesting—I've learned a lot of new things. I'll tell you what happened in the capital in person. And I changed ships like I'd planned. After thinking it over, I decided to keep the Consular."

"Weren't you planning on getting a Diamond?" Cordelia asked in surprise, while her cousin merely raised an eyebrow.

"Well... the Consular was cheaper, and modifying it was faster. The Diamond is considerably bigger, and I've got far too many ideas for one of those. We could've easily been stuck at the shipyard for a month—I'd have wanted to cram in a hangar, a pool, a sauna... and I didn't want to waste that much time. Same crew size too, even with droids—and that gets expensive. Maintenance is a lot more complicated as well. Besides, I've got an idea. I'll tell you about it when I get back. And for that particular plan, the smaller the starship, the better. The shipyard handled all the preparations I needed, but I'll actually put it into practice back home on Jabiim."

At those last words, I saw both cousins' eyes light up with satisfaction. I paused for a second, thinking... Ah. Right. Home—Jabiim. They just liked hearing me call it that.

"We're about to land on Shili. We'll do some hunting, see how the locals live, stuff ourselves with meat, soak our bellies in the oceans, and then move on. I'll send you some holorecordings."

"Th-th-thank you, Siith," Cordelia said with a smile that somehow managed to look almost threatening. Alto's face twisted strangely too, for some reason... Very suspicious, I thought, snickering nastily to myself.

Romri's homeworld turned out to be a lot of fun. I met her family. Togruta were incredibly social people, so the sheer number of sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and assorted other relatives of our Togruta with the soul of a dwarf who were eager to meet us was simply staggering.

The Togruta turned out to be sociable, cheerful, good-natured people. Their tribes did have a kind of elder-junior hierarchy, but nothing excessive. No one was bowing and scraping, and people spoke to one another casually, though elders—whether by age or social standing—were still treated with respect.

After spending a full day with our little red Togruta's parents and closest relatives—and stuffing ourselves with meat to the point of near-death—we headed for the coast, where there was a settlement inhabited by even more of her relatives, though supposedly not such close ones. Once we arrived and started meeting everyone, I actually began to doubt that. The villagers were wary at first, but the moment they learned that Romri had come to visit with friends... "Yes, yes! Little Romri's back for a visit! That Romri." So, naturally, another feast courtesy of our hospitable hosts awaited us, along with a marathon of stories from us about life out in the galaxy.

Even Arvik, responsibility incarnate, gave up trying to organize my protection with just himself and his two companions. The Mando took off his helmet, happily swapped stories about his life, listened to tales of local customs, and drank weak alcohol with everyone else. I was the only one who didn't drink, and even then, refusing turned out to be a real challenge.

When the conversation turned to the bane of the locals—the akuls—our Mando immediately perked up. In fact, those animals were thought to be one of the reasons Togruta society had become so communal in the first place. These days the predators weren't nearly as dangerous, but back in the old days, before the locals had decent weapons, they'd had no choice but to band together against the toothy threat. Hunters were held in high regard: they protected gatherers and other civilians and organized hunts that supplied most of the settlements' food. Togruta were predominantly carnivorous, and while they could digest plant matter, they held meat in very high regard.

What caught the Mando's interest was one of the traditions practiced by Togruta hunters. Alone, armed with nothing but a spear and a knife, the brave hunter would head out into the night and return with the carcass of a slain akul. Doing so earned prestige, respect, a reputation as a badass hunter, and an exclusive piece of montral jewelry made by the women of the tribe from the beast's teeth.

After hearing that story, the Mandalorian spent a couple of minutes thinking, then asked a string of questions about the predators' habits and where akuls could be found nearby—and started taking off his armor. Once he was down to nothing but his undersuit, Arvik borrowed Koit's spear after removing its power cell, strapped his own knife to his belt, and, with great ceremony, asked the Gungan to keep an eye on his armor.

Koit puffed up with pride. A Mandalorian's armor meant an enormous amount to its owner, and leaving it in the Gungan's care was a powerful gesture of trust and respect. After listening to equally solemn assurances from the long-eared Gungan that the Mando's gear would be perfectly safe, Arvik disappeared into the darkness, promising to return with an akul carcass in a couple of hours.

"Romri, uh..." I was a little baffled. "What was that about?"

"He's a Mandalorian," the Togruta said with a shrug, taking a sip of the local drink. "Arvik loves this kind of thing. Don't worry, Boss, he's a damn good fighter. I'm pretty sure he really will come back dragging a dead akul with him."

Romri giggled and flicked her eyes toward the clusters of young women from the tribe, who were whispering animatedly among themselves.

"And when he drags that carcass back, he's going to be in for quite a surprise," our beauty said with a mysterious look.

"Boss-sa," Koit said, dropping into a seat beside us, already a little tipsy. "Tell me, how do folks on Jabiim treat non-humans?"

"Haven't you already picked out a place for your house?" I asked, surprised by the Gungan's question.

"Ah, not asking for myself. Plenty of Gungans on Naboo don't like how friendly we've gotten with the Naboo humans," Koit said, flicking his ears. "Been thinking about it for a while, though. Jabiim's got plenty of water, plenty of room. Think your big Boss, Stratus-sa, would take in some of my people?"

"Hmm..." I thought about it for a few seconds. "I can't say I've ever noticed anyone treating other races or species badly. We barely have any non-humans at all, but that's mostly because hardly anyone is lining up to move to Jabiim in the first place. Tell you what—I'll just ask Alto about it. I doubt he'd object to a Gungan enclave, as long as they obey Jabiim's laws, of course."

"Thanks, Boss-sa. You're a good human. If you were a Gungan, I'd introduce you to my little sister. Ooh, she's a beauty now, though!"

"Thanks, Koit," I laughed at the cheerful thoughts going through the guy's head. "You're a good Gungan too. I've been pretty lucky with sentients these past few years, come to think of it. Aside from pirate scum and assorted bandits, it's been one pleasant acquaintance after another."

"Except for that Naboo Chancellor," Koit snorted. "Don't trust him, Boss-sa. Them Naboo humans are all sneaky liars and thieves, though."

"Don't worry about it," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Politicians are almost never honest, so I know what I'm dealing with."

"And yet you praise him," the Gungan objected, giving me a sidelong look.

"I do. Compared with the Republic's previous leaders, Palpatine stands out—and in a good way. He fights corruption. Not all of it, of course; I'm sure he leaves the useful kind alone, gathering information and stockpiling dirt on the right people. But you can't fix a situation like that by magic. Sheev takes his time, moving step by step and trying to improve things however he can. If he goes off the rails and starts purging everyone in sight, he won't last a year." I scratched my beard thoughtfully. "The fact that he came to see me personally, without guards and with only his aide, tells me he has phenomenal instincts and excellent intelligence, Koit—not that he suddenly found some savage from a mudball fascinating. He wanted something from me, but the way he went about getting it only speaks in his favor. Not a trace of arrogance, not a single demand. I knew that he knew that I knew he wanted something. And I gave it to him. I promised cooperation, guaranteed his people first priority once commercial training begins, and laid out what we can offer and the prospects for mutually beneficial cooperation."

I took a sip of the brew made from a blend of unusual local herbs and gave the Gungan a searching look.

"I was dealing with a clever politician—the head of state. Yes, it's a great honor, it's flattering, and I happen to enjoy flattery. And all of that, Koit, is exactly why I think the Chancellor is the right man for the job. He's intelligent, wise, dangerous, and powerful—but intelligent, wise people don't slaughter the bantha that gives them milk unless they have a damn good reason."

"Sounds like the description of a first-rate bastard," Romri put in, tossing in her two credits as she listened to our conversation.

"That's exactly why I'm saying I like Palpatine. In my opinion, a politician should be a bastard. The important thing is that he be a decent one," I chuckled. "The Supreme Chancellor makes decisions that affect the lives of billions—decisions that make things better for some and worse for others. A soft-hearted, kindly ruler... I don't know. I've never seen much respect for rulers like that. They usually ended up with nicknames like the Weak, the Foolish, the Fat, and so on. Unless they happened to live in an age when everything in their realm was already going well. Then they might not get a nickname at all. They'd just go down in history with a number attached to their name—Branor the Eighth or whatever."

"They're all bastards," the Gungan said sadly, his ears drooping as he took another sip of his drink.

"Not all of us, Koit. I'm wonderful! That's why I try to stay as far away from politics as possible. If I do end up stepping in it, of course—like what happened on Coruscant—I try to do it with style. But as far as I'm concerned, even running the JMG is already way too much!"

The celebration was gathering steam. Ras and his Rendili girlfriend had gotten well into the local drink and were now doing their best imitation of Togruta dances in the firelight alongside the merrymaking locals. Koit wasn't about to be left out either and had borrowed someone's spear to show off something Gungan—one of their war dances, apparently. It looked impressive, actually. The weapon hummed in the skilled spearman's hands, tracing intricate patterns at incredible speed, and Koit moved in a way that swept every thought of him being funny or clumsy-looking clean out of my head. He was a good warrior—the kind of man whose spear was a deadly weapon, not just a stick with a sharp end.

The whole celebration was taking place in the village's large central square. The houses themselves were more or less modern, and landspeeders and airspeeders were parked here and there, but in the middle of the settlement the locals had lit bonfires, dragged out hides, low benches, and short tables, and were making merry "the way our ancestors used to." Somewhere nearby, drums were pounding away, wind instruments were blaring, and strings were jangling, all of it coming together into lively music that somehow reminded me of orcish festivals.

It all looked incredibly colorful and was a stark contrast both to Coruscant and to the time we'd spent at the Rendili shipyards. The Togruta women were an especially pleasant sight. Slender, athletic, graceful predators who weren't exactly burdening themselves with much clothing provided my eyes with no shortage of aesthetic enjoyment. Even Romri, who kept casting sidelong glances at my pleased mug from time to time, eventually ran off somewhere and came back dressed in traditional attire.

"Well? How do I look?" the Togruta asked, twirling on her heels.

"Absolutely stunning, our little aurodium treasure," I clicked my tongue appreciatively, admiring Tano in her traditional dress. "Can't take my eyes off you."

"Come on," the smiling Togruta said, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the dancers. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Suti pulling off some incredible moves of her own, dancing something fast, bright, and energetic in the middle of a circle of admiring Togruta, who clapped along to the music for her.

There was a genuinely happy smile on the Twi'lek's face, and I felt a small pang of guilt. Suti had lived for dancing, and I, insensitive red-eyed bastard that I was, had never even stopped to think that she might miss it. I made a big mental note to ask her to dance for us every now and then. The girl worked hard enough as it was, throwing herself completely into her studies.

"Romri," I tried to fend off the prospect of having to dance myself. "I'm not much of a dancer!"

"I'll teach you. There's nothing complicated about it," the little red Togruta laughed.

And then came the task of teaching yours truly Togruta dancing. I had to alter my robe first because it kept getting in the way, after which I proceeded to demonstrate my formidable talents. Not that I was actually a bad dancer. An experienced chimerologist rarely has the luxury of being out of shape or poorly coordinated. I simply wasn't much of an enthusiast. Still, I wanted to ruin the girl's celebration even less than I wanted to dance, so I did my best.

We danced for quite a while, with breaks here and there. During those, the winded Togruta kept shooting surprised looks at me, standing there and breathing perfectly normally. And, overall, I actually enjoyed myself. There were no rules, no schedule, no idiots staring. Everyone was just having fun. Some people drank while half-reclining on hides and chatting, others stuffed themselves at the tables and then went off to "work off the meat" on the dance floor, and a few barely left it at all. Young couples were making the most of the darker corners, and every now and then one would disappear off toward the houses... All in all, a good party. I approved.

About an hour and a half after setting off on his hunt, our Mando came back carrying a good-sized akul carcass across his shoulders—orange in daylight, though in the firelight it looked almost blood-red. Arvik caused an absolute sensation among the locals, who erupted into cheers and praise. The carcass was taken off his shoulders and carried away somewhere into the darkness, while Arvik himself was hoisted into the air and carried around in celebration, given time to put his armor back on, and then dragged into the circle of hunters who had accomplished the same feat. There were six of them in the village: five grim, scar-covered men and one woman.

"Well, that's it," Romri giggled. "Now they're going to get him drunk and grill him with questions, and after that they'll torture him with their own stories—the same ones everyone in the village has heard a thousand times already."

"What a terrifying monster," the Twi'lek said, hugging herself around the shoulders. She'd already drunk and danced her fill, so she'd come back to us tired and happy.

"Come on, Arvik may not exactly be handsome, but monster is a bit harsh," the Togruta objected.

"Nooo! I meant the animal!" Suti protested, flailing her hands while I burst out laughing.

Romri stared at her in stunned silence for a couple of seconds, then burst into peals of laughter when Koit added, "So that's what you think of your commander, Romri!" That even made Shmi—who had spent the whole evening sitting quietly and watching the celebration with a smile—laugh out loud.

"Here we go—watch!" Romri said once she'd stopped laughing, pointing toward some commotion among the bonfires. "Whoa, four of them at once!"

And sure enough, four women split into pairs and started sparring in two small clearings the dancers had made room for. They knew what they were doing; even Koit occasionally offered approving comments. But when he remarked, "Very good, though. Especially for women," Romri snorted.

"Our men are bigger and tougher than our women, but that doesn't mean the women are weak. When the men went off to hunt or fight, it was the women who protected the village and the children from akuls. When the men were wounded and couldn't go hunting, we went instead. On Shili, it used to be—and sometimes still is—deadly dangerous not to know how to defend yourself. All Togruta are predators, and all Togruta are strong."

"Then why don't you swing a spear around like that, though?" the Gungan snorted.

"Because I have blasters," the girl replied, flashing her teeth.

Meanwhile, the two winners faced off against each other to see who was stronger. That fight ended fairly quickly, and the champion of the little tournament ran off in the direction where they'd carried the akul's carcass.

"Saiya herself is going to pull the teeth from the akul Arvik killed, then make the ornament from them," Romri explained when she caught my questioning look. "Well, most of the work will already be done, but she'll remove the teeth herself, clean them, treat them, and set them into place. Then she'll present the beast's teeth to the one who killed it. And they fought because only the strongest unmarried woman among those who wanted the honor is supposed to make the ornament and give it to the hunter."

"And the fact that Arvik doesn't have montrals isn't a problem?" Shmi asked.

"Eh, he can wear it around his neck," the Togruta said with a dismissive wave. "It doesn't really matter. We just like decorating our montrals, and that way everyone can see the trophy right away. Come on, let's go dance some more!"

And so we danced, then rested, then danced some more, and after all that we scattered to the houses set aside for us and promptly passed out. It had been a damn good time—and tomorrow we still had the beach to look forward to! I even found myself, sinful thought though it was, feeling grateful to that green little troll. If he hadn't been such an asshole, we probably never would've ended up on Shili in the first place.

The morning after the celebration, once we got to the beach, we discovered that Arvik had apparently gotten roughed up pretty badly the night before.

With his armor and undersuit off and nothing on but his underwear, the Mando was sporting a back covered in scratches and several bruises across his shoulders and neck.

"The akul was a serious opponent," the Mandalorian said without batting an eye when he saw our puzzled looks.

"Uh-huh. Sure," the Togruta said, nodding as she examined the bruise on his shoulder. "Sneaky bastard, too. That bite mark looks exactly like a Togruta's."

"Saboteur akul, though," the Gungan said cheerfully, nodding along.

"Tough opponent," Arvik agreed with complete seriousness, adjusting the elaborate necklace around his neck. "Want to go diving?"

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 5, 2026

We spent two weeks on Shili. The sea was great. We swam so much that by the end of it, none of us even wanted to look at another wave.

Speaking of the sea, I should probably mention Shmi. She was genuinely happy. Every now and then, though, I caught a shadow of sadness on her face; I suspected those were the moments when she wished her son were there with her. But overall, she was absolutely delighted by the sheer amount of water. She didn't even want to learn how to swim, preferring to splash around in the shallows. "The thought of all that deep water beneath me gives me the creeps." More than anything, she simply reveled in the open sea like a little girl, every so often gazing in wonder at the endless waves stretching all the way to the horizon.

I absolutely loved Romri's homeworld. Her people showered us with gifts for the entire two weeks. Little by little, in small batches, but every single day. By the end of it, each of us had stacks of beautiful hides, piles of carved bone ornaments, several sets of traditional clothing—which Suti absolutely adored—and traditional weapons. Koit was especially thrilled by the latter, particularly the spears; our Gungan was a true enthusiast when it came to cold steel. Hell, the villagers even made furniture for us while we were there. We installed some of it in our cabins on special mounts, replacing the ship's standard interior fittings.

And all because I had disguised my large-scale study of the Togruta species as medical checkups and healing. Yes, I'm that shameless a bastard—and proud of my cunning, utter lack of scruples, and sheer genius. The sorcerer studies healthy Togruta to gather statistics, then treats the sick and crippled because now he knows how their bodies are supposed to work. Why, I'm practically the embodiment of a storybook villain. I even indulged in bouts of mad laughter and cries of, "Bring in the next test subject!" And they did, laughing at my "jokes" right along with me. Meanwhile, I amassed a mountain of data on the species, with everyone participating entirely of their own free will. The bravest even agreed to vivisection—painless and nonlethal, mind you.

So by the end of those two weeks, the locals had two completely healthy villages—their own and the neighboring one. We had a mountain of gifts, storerooms crammed with meat and local fruit, vegetables, and roots, and an absolute ocean of information on Togruta. And I had acquired a reputation as something close to a holy ascetic, personally sent to Shili by the Gods, the Force, and their precious little Romri.

Another benefit of our little operation, aside from the mountain of gifts, was the good reputation and free publicity—not just for me, but for the JMG as well. Shili might not be the most technologically advanced planet, but gossip was practically the ultimate information-delivery system. Give it a couple of months, and on the other side of the planet they'd be telling stories about "the great holy healer from Jabiim, a sorcerer from Jabiim's Mages' Guild." Sooner or later, that story would reach the Jedi, who would once again reassure themselves that I was practically dressed in white, despite the black robe.

And then all kinds of sentients would start coming to me for treatment. I'd work something out with Stratus and set up a waiting list for healing, with one condition: "If you come yourself, bring ten healthy members of your species with you—of both sexes." As for payment, we'd do it in the finest tradition of my world: charge according to what the patient could afford, which was essentially what had happened here anyway. An excellent idea, especially considering Karray's progress in chimerology. The little one needed practice, and she certainly wouldn't be the only chimerologist around.

Speaking of the Jedi, the idea worked even before we left. The day before our departure, we received a visit from the Order's local representative, Shaak Ti, along with her Padawan, Fe Sun. The meeting was perfectly calm and cordial. I suspected the older Togruta had contacted her superiors and gotten some information about me, because she greeted me as none other than "Master Siith."

The woman was, like every Jedi I'd met, calm and level-headed, and by the end of our conversation I'd decided she was pleasant company as well. She spoke with me for about half an hour, then went off on her Jedi business—training her apprentice, who was also a Togruta, though not from Shili. As far as I understood it, Shaak Ti was preparing her for something like a Jedi ranger role: someone meant to operate out in the wilderness with minimal contact with other sentients. Otherwise, I had no idea why you'd train an apprentice in the wildest parts of her homeworld, as Shaak Ti herself put it, "far from civilization."

I also kept working on my own projects in the calm, relaxing atmosphere. Every now and then I'd take a datapad, a small table, and a chair out to the beach and work there in peace, sipping juice made from local fruit or caf and herbal brews. Suti often kept me company, working on her own studies. She'd also talked the village women into teaching her Togruta dances, which made her very happy; she took great pleasure in showing us the new dances she'd learned while dressed in local traditional clothing.

When we left, the entire village came out to see us off, and along with all the gifts, we took with us some very warm memories of that wonderful planet. No exaggeration—Shili was the best world I had ever visited, inhabited by some of the finest sentients I'd ever met.

The vacation was coming to an end, but the galaxy didn't seem any less full of interesting things. So the Rung was already headed for our next destination—we intended to see as much as we could with the limited time we had left.

*** Shili. The wilderness. A few days after the Rung departed. ***

"Master?" Fe Sun said, drawing her teacher's attention. "I want to talk about that... sorcerer."

"I'm listening," the Jedi Master said with an encouraging smile.

"I know he did a lot of good for the villagers here on Shili, but I think his real purpose was evil!" the girl blurted out, finally voicing what had been troubling her lately.

"And what makes you think that?" the Togruta asked, still smiling gently and looking at her apprentice with approval. Shaak Ti encouraged Fe to reason her way to answers for herself. Later, she would always discuss the girl's conclusions with her, gently correcting her where needed and smoothing out the rough edges.

"He's... suspicious! And creepy! When he looked at me and smiled, I got scared! I can't even imagine what someone must be thinking to smile like that! And he looked at everyone that way! He dresses all in black, he has red eyes... and his name is Siith!"

The Jedi Master allowed herself a quiet chuckle.

"There are countless races and species of sentients in the galaxy, Padawan. Their traditions, habits, and behavior can often seem strange or frightening to us. I agree that there is something unsettling about Master Siith's appearance. But remember this: a Jedi must judge by deeds, not by how a sentient looks. There have been cases in the Order's history when misunderstandings led to terrible consequences precisely because the Jedi... failed to understand the situation properly. The man we're talking about helped Master Tholme and his Padawan, rescued Knight Chatak from pirate captivity, met with Masters of the Order, among them Grand Master Yoda, and was granted an audience with Chancellor Palpatine. And here on Shili, he treated our people while refusing payment and accepting only symbolic gifts."

"He's still..."

"Suspicious," Shaak Ti agreed with a nod. "Though Master Rancisis is absolutely delighted with him—especially his sense of humor. But Padawan, the fact that the Order has not sent Knights or Masters after Master Siith does not mean he will not be watched. The same goes for his Mages' Guild. And remember this as well: not everything is what it seems. When you earn your Knighthood and begin traveling the galaxy on missions for the Council, you will meet countless sentients. Some will look dangerous and prove to be exactly that. Others will hide their vile nature behind pleasant smiles and an eagerness to please..."

The Jedi Master faltered and fell silent. Her apprentice waited patiently while her mentor considered whatever thought had just occurred to her.

"Fe, I need to think," the Togruta told her apprentice seriously. "Study on your own for a while. We may need to make some changes to your training plan."

"Master?" the young Togruta asked, watching Shaak Ti in surprise as she settled into a meditative pose.

"Patience, Padawan," the woman said with a reassuring smile. Then she closed her eyes and let her mind sink into serene stillness.

Jedi never stop learning. Younglings learn from their instructors in the Temple. Padawans learn from their Masters. And those who become full-fledged Jedi do not leave learning behind, devoting themselves to service and self-improvement until the very end. They draw wisdom from everywhere: from other Jedi, from their own experience, from the sentients around them, and, strange as it may sound, from their own Padawans. Today, Fe Sun had given Shaak Ti something to think about.

More specifically, she had made Shaak Ti question her approach to Fe's training. Jedi were diplomats, investigators, and warriors. Was Shaak Ti really doing the right thing by training her in places where encounters with other sentients were few and far between? And Togruta themselves... Her people on Shili were, for the most part, decent sentients. Their dangerous world fostered solidarity, mutual support, and empathy. Scum certainly existed, but encountering them was genuinely rare. Would Fe truly be prepared for what awaited her out in the galaxy after the kind of training Master Ti was giving her?

The vacation was over. I could say I was disappointed, but that wouldn't be entirely true. There was a little regret, sure, but I was practically itching to sit down and get back to real work. Besides, I'd had enough new impressions for a while. Everything in moderation.

After Shili, we flew to Mandalore—Arvik's ancestral homeworld. It was relatively close to the Togruta red-orange predator paradise. I wanted to see the cube-shaped cities rising from a planet whose biosphere had been completely wiped out during one of its conflicts.*

Honestly, Mandalore didn't impress me. The cities were smaller versions of Coruscant, and there was no nature to speak of—just wasteland. It looked a lot like the area around my Mentor's home. The locals themselves called their society "pacifist"...

Well... I could understand them, in a way. The Mandalorian way, as a philosophy, hadn't exactly brought their world much good.

"I'm Mando'ade, but even so, I've never actually been to Mandalore," Arvik said suddenly, sounding a little thoughtful as we left the spaceport and decided to take a walk through the city.

Customs, by the way, was handled fairly professionally. The rules were pretty similar to Corellia's, but the locals were polite, despite the sideways looks they kept giving Arvik in his armor. The Mando knew what to expect, so we'd left the nastier weapons aboard the ship, and the mercenaries carried only stun weapons. Ten minutes of instructions, signatures confirming that we'd read the basic rules for staying on Mandalore, a brief conversation between Arvik and the shift supervisor, and we walked out of the inspection post without any trouble.

"For me, this planet is the ancient homeland of my ancestors. The place where the philosophy I follow was born. That's all. I don't feel any real connection to it."

"Uh-huh." To be honest... I couldn't have cared less. I was just looking around with mild curiosity, feeling a little disappointed by the complete lack of anything interesting. No one had asked Arvik anything. He'd started talking on his own, which was a little unexpected. Maybe it had something to do with those occasional thoughtful spells he'd been having ever since meeting that Fett fellow, another Mandalorian.

"Again..." Romri muttered quietly, with a trace of melancholy in her voice. Apparently, someone had heard something like this before.

"Arvik, no offense, though," the Gungan joined in, "but I'm starting to get the feeling you're trying to convince yourself of that."

"In a way, yeah," the Mando said with a snort, taking off his helmet and resting it in the crook of his arm. "Far too often, when I'm around other Mando'ade, I hear people going on about the lost glory of our ancestors and how Mandalorians have degenerated into a bunch of pacifist bastards."

"And what's your take on it?" I asked, intrigued by the sarcastic edge in our stalwart warrior's voice.

"Simple, Boss. Long ago, the Taung came here from Coruscant after losing a war. They were the first Mandalorians. Thousands of years passed, war followed war, and history repeated itself. The Mando'ade yielded this world to the Mandalorians. That's what I call the local pacifists. But you know what the real problem is, Boss?" Arvik asked, then continued without waiting for an answer, sweeping a hand at our surroundings. "It's that the real Mando—the ones who wear the armor and make war their trade—have somehow gotten themselves hung up on this dead piece of ground. They howl themselves hoarse about how wrong the path these locals have chosen is. Why? What for? As if the clans care where they raise their children! We are warriors! If this planet wants nothing to do with us, then to the demons with it, as you like to say. The armor matters! The language matters! The prosperity of the clan matters! Raising the young matters! The Mand'alor matters—not the planet, but the leader! A real one. A worthy one! This world is nothing more than a place where true Mandalorians happened to live for thousands of years!"

"But that's not nothing, Arvik," I said with a shrug. "Sentients tend to grow attached to the place they call home. Still, I think I get what you mean. I've never been particularly attached to the land myself."

"And Jabiim? You call that home, don't you?" the Togruta asked in surprise.

"Jabiim..." I gave the girl a faint smile, which made one of the passersby stumble. "If I'm being completely honest, Romri, I used to feel absolutely nothing for that world. But Arvik had a point—the place itself doesn't matter. The people do. The Stratuses matter; they've become companions of mine, maybe even friends. Karray, my ward, matters. So does Karina, my apprentice. Very serious Rob—who is actually Ras—matters. My former students matter too, though not so much that I lose my mind worrying over their well-being. Even the people who serve in my manor matter to me, in their own way. And all of them, despite the climate, the endless rain, the ion storms and everything else, love their world. So if I don't particularly care which planet I call home, why not Jabiim? All those good people must have found something in it."

"So basically, Boss-sa, you just don't care," Koit concluded with a cheerful grin.

"Pretty much," I said with a simple nod. "And Arvik doesn't care either."

"That's about right," the Mandalorian snorted. "It just pisses me off that those of us who wear beskar'gam waste so much time and effort on a world that rejected us. There are pitifully few of us left in the galaxy as it is. And instead of forgetting about this place—or just letting it go—and focusing on rebuilding the clans, raising the young, growing stronger... Mando like those idiots from the Watch waste their time on bullshit like terrorism, revolutions, and coups."

The man drew a deep breath and looked with a kind of pity at the pedestrians hurrying back and forth and the speeders gliding along their routes. There was disgust in his eyes, sadness, and... a trace of understanding.

"And for what?" he said sadly, all the earlier fire gone from his voice. "For this patch of lifeless ground? For these people, every last one of them either dar'manda or descended from them? They abandoned their heritage. They left the path. They betrayed the Resol'nare! You can't become dar'manda and then suddenly change your mind and—boom—you're Mando'ade again! That's like... like a whore deciding she's done being a whore and announcing she's a pure maiden now! 'Take back Mandalore!' It's nonsense. Complete nonsense. You might as well say we should take back Coruscant because it was the Taung homeworld!"

"To be fair, their descendants aren't really to blame..." I began, but Arvik cut me off.

"It's not about the descendants or what their ancestors did. The point is, no one's stopping them. Any one of them can leave Mandalore, undergo the trial, and join a clan."

"Hah. Yeah, because passing your trial is sooo easy..." Romri laughed.

"If you want it badly enough, our little aurodium treasure, you'll find a way," the Mando said, baring his teeth. The Togruta only snorted and rolled her eyes. "If there's a will, there are options. But there isn't any will! Just like there's no point in clinging to Mandalore."

We spent less than a week on Mandalore. There was practically nothing to do there: a couple of trips out into the barren desert, mostly out of curiosity. On the last one, I performed an analysis ritual and got a general idea of the damage that had been done to the planet. We visited a couple of cantinas and tried the local food. I lost a thousand credits playing sabacc, which had Romri grumbling at me all evening. Our Mando got into a fight with a group of local pacifists who were taking themselves far too seriously. He ended up behind bars because of it, but getting him out turned out to be fairly simple: both the witnesses and the holocam recordings confirmed that he hadn't been the one to start the trouble.

After leaving Mandalore, we set course for Ossus. I wanted to see one of the monuments left behind by the ancient Sith-Jedi feuds. In the Adega system, we found a half-dead world occupied by a Jedi archaeological expedition. I'd already assumed we'd be politely—or not so politely—told to get lost, but the local Force-users turned out to be a pretty hospitable bunch. In exchange for a hundred kilos of meat and another hundred of fruit and vegetables from Shili, which we "gifted" to the Jedi, who were delighted by the prospect of some variety in their meals, we got two full days of guided tours with a lively, cheerful apprentice and a Knight who clearly loved his work.

The senior of the pair, a Gran named Shalak Zoko, buried us under a mountain of ancient history as he explained the purpose of the halls we wandered through in the excavated ruins of the local academy. The Knight was passionate about his work and an excellent storyteller, so everything he told us was genuinely fascinating. That was how I learned more about Tython, the world the Jedi had come from before settling here. About the balance maintained by the ancestors of the modern Jedi—the Je'daii. About how that balance had been broken, triggering cataclysms on their world and the first war among Force-users, who split into several factions.

His Padawan, a Miraluka named Laa Tanaka, wasn't particularly well versed in history, but she seemed to have ants in her pants and an incredibly easygoing nature. The young woman in the blindfold—barely more than a girl—bombarded Romri, Shmi, and Suti with questions about our travels. She grilled Koit about the Gungan underwater cities, and his stories ended up catching both her Master's interest and mine. She tried to draw our Mando into conversation too, but he simply put on his helmet and pretended he wasn't there. I didn't escape her attention either: "Are you really, really sure you're not a Sith?" "Can Jedi enroll in your Academy?" "How much would it cost?" "Are there any age limits?"...

All in all, it was engaging, interesting, and at times even fun. And the Jedi revealed yet another side of themselves to me. I already knew Force-sensitives did more than diplomacy and waving glowsticks around, but reading about Jedi archaeologists and actually meeting them were two very different things. I found these people much easier to relate to: they were passionate about their work, loved what they did, and practically lived for it. Pleasant sentients.

Next came a visit to Mon Cala, where we toured the underwater cities. Very unusual, though I can't say I have anything particularly specific to tell about the world. Beautiful underwater... landscapes, I suppose? An enormous variety of aquatic flora and fauna. Chilly relations between the planet's two native sentient species... And that's about it.

All in all, I'd had a pretty interesting vacation, I thought as I walked down the Rung's ramp, followed by the sentients who had become my crew and traveling companions. A large transport was waiting for us below, basically Jabiim's answer to a landspeeder. The only thing that made me slightly uneasy was Cordelia's far-too-stern expression as she stood there with her hands planted on her hips. She was giving my companions a suspicious once-over, paying particular attention to the women, and frowning more deeply by the second.

Hmm... Wonder what that's about?

Author's Note:

*The Mandalore canon used here comes from The Clone Wars. I know the hardcore Mando crowd will probably snort in contempt—but I just couldn't pass up the chance to meddle with the Kryze sisters' storyline.

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 6, 2026

Once we returned to Jabiim, it was time to get back to business. It started with the pleasant part—seeing friends, acquaintances, wards, and students again. Then came handing out the gifts we'd picked up everywhere from Tatooine to Mon Cala. The Jabiimites also got some of the gifts the Togruta on Shili had given us.

Alto, for example, took quite a liking to the spear one of the Togruta hunters had given me. The Commander-in-Chief even posed with it for a holo as a keepsake.

Cordelia, on the other hand, examined the traditional Togruta women's clothing with some surprise, though she accepted it all the same. I could understand her reaction—the designs weren't exactly suited to Jabiim's climate, but as souvenirs they were quite nice. For some reason, the head of Internal Security was angry with me, speaking through clenched teeth, but after a couple of days she thawed out on her own and resumed our occasional caf get-togethers in my library.

Karray had barely left my side since the moment I returned, right up until I shared the data I'd gathered on the sentients I'd examined during the trip. After that, the girl practically skipped off to the laboratories to start digging into the new information. Truly, I'd been lucky enough to stumble across a diamond that, with the right cutting, might one day reveal a brilliant chimerologist to the world.

Karina gave me a concise briefing on how the training was progressing and earned herself a whole heap of praise. Once I finish getting back up to speed after the vacation, we'll all continue working with the students together.

I made a quick trip to our "metal-casting" plant—still a small operation for now, but you have to start somewhere. I carried out a thorough inspection of the artifact complex and took the data from its monitoring modules for analysis. I'd need to go through the "logs" from the entire period of operation, make adjustments if necessary, and then start expanding production. The customer had been pleased with the metal ingots, so from now on we'd be moving much larger shipments.

My mercenaries settled down on Jabiim. Their request that I put in a good word for them with the powers that be didn't come as any surprise—they'd never exactly hidden the fact that they wanted to keep working with us. And, frankly, I liked the lot of them.

Arvik was now officially an instructor at the military academy where the Nimbus forces trained. After talking with him, Alto became enthusiastic about the idea of adding units equipped with jetpacks as well. And in general, while the Nimbus was extremely effective in our climate and across the open terrain of the planet, there was still plenty of room for improvement when it came to storming buildings, boarding ships, or simply operating outside its usual environment. That was what the Mandalorian would be working on, and he also promised to get in touch with some Mando acquaintances who might be willing to take instructor positions.

Koit, just as he'd planned, bought a plot of land on the coast, about twenty minutes' flight from my estate. The enterprising Gungan already had plans for "my dream house, though," and construction was supposed to begin within days. While the place was being built, he intended to fly to Naboo and campaign among his friends and acquaintances in favor of resettling here. He and the Stratuses reached an agreement pretty quickly. Alto gave Koit documents containing his personal guarantees, along with a list of the rights and responsibilities of Jabiim's citizens. I didn't look too closely at the details, but according to the Gungan, there was no difference at all between what applied to him and what applied to Jabiim's human citizens.

Our little aurodium Togruta was now officially the Rung's chief pilot, while also studying remotely at the Muun Higher School of Finance. She was still taking preparatory courses—her prior education had turned out to be... less than stellar—but a passion for money like hers needed to be steered in the right direction. She could become the Guild's treasurer someday. Romri, by the way, was also planning to enroll in our Academy and train as an artifact-maker. I could only shake my head. I had no idea where the girl was going to find the time for all of it. Worst case, I'd meet her halfway and stretch out the program so our lekku-and-montral wonder didn't work herself into the ground.

Suti became my secretary, with Emthree assigned to assist her. The little Twi'lek, by the way, looked very much like a genuine "sorcerer's victim" to the Stratuses. That particular misunderstanding gave me a good laugh. Slavery was viewed very harshly on Jabiim, so once word of the green girl's status reached the ruling circle, I was very politely called on the carpet. Cordelia was clearly furious, even if she was keeping herself under control, and Alto wasn't exactly radiating warmth either. The conversation itself, however, turned out to be fairly brief and forced Cordelia to swallow most of the scolding she had clearly prepared in advance.

"Siith, that Twi'lek who came back with you. Your slave..." the Commander-in-Chief began, and I cut him off at once.

"Ah, yes, Alto. You'll be able to help her get citizenship quickly, won't you? And in her case, I'd like to handle all the bureaucratic matters personally."

"Mmm?" Stratus asked with tremendous profundity, to the accompaniment of his cousin's raised eyebrows.

"She's panicking," I explained, putting on my most patient and understanding expression. "She's afraid she'll be thrown out onto the street. She's a good girl—quick learner, gives an excellent massage, and when she dances..." I actually rolled my eyes, remembering the way Suti moved. "There are no words, my friends. You have to see it. I just want all the paperwork ready in advance so the girl doesn't get scared. You know—call her in, tell her first that she's officially my secretary now, and only then drop the fact that she's been freed from slavery on her."

"And why not just free her?" Cordelia asked with a frown.

"Ah..." I sighed. "Cordelia, how about we go on vacation together next year? To a Jabiimite, slavery is a horrifying fate. Suti, though, was born into a society where slavery isn't just normal—it can even be something others envy. She was raised as a slave. People genuinely envied her, because not every free Twi'lek eats as well as a slave does. Not every free Twi'lek gets the same kind of education. To that girl, freedom is terrifying. It's something she'll have to face. Alone. She's educated enough to understand just how hard it is to make enough money on your own to guarantee even a basic living. She's scared because she knows that apart from reading, writing, arithmetic, and pleasing a master, she doesn't really know how to do anything."

I scratched at my beard, looking into Alto's cousin's eyes, and was relieved to find thoughtfulness there instead of hostility.

"I need sentients who help rather than create problems, Cordelia. You and Alto want there to be not even a hint of slavery on Jabiim... well, aside from the pirates we've captured," I allowed myself a faint smile, which the Commander-in-Chief mirrored. Double standards in their purest form. "I know that, and I respect it. I don't care whether Suti works for me as a slave or as a free citizen. That's why I'm asking you—let's make this as painless for the girl as possible."

And that, more or less, was how the only "war" over Twi'lek freedom on Jabiim came to an end. I did have to draw up a contract afterward and carefully break the news of her new status to the newly freed woman. Contrary to my concerns, she didn't panic and took it quite calmly. I think she'd simply gotten to know me better by then, so there was no reason left for her to be nervous.

Shmi Skywalker made it through every bureaucratic hurdle with durasteel composure, though I had softened the process for her as much as possible, and took charge of the Guild's first and only orphanage. Skywalker threw herself—there really was no better way to put it—into the children's problems and needs, pouring into them all the maternal care she'd never had the chance to give. And no one could have been better suited to the role. Literally the very next day, a list of requests and recommendations for improving the children's living conditions landed on my desk, complete with explanations and justifications for every item.

Ras was perfectly fine with taking the position of the Rung's second pilot and decided to pick up navigation as an additional specialty. His girlfriend, whom he'd gotten together with at the Rendili shipyards, remained our cruiser's engineer and mechanic, but I signed a separate contract with her as well—extremely strict when it came to confidentiality, and extremely lucrative. Risha Trant would be helping me with Project "Void Hide," handling the mechanical side of things and the ship's internal systems.

I had conceived a mad fusion right on the border between golemcraft, chimerology, necromancy, and local technology. For now it existed only as rough drafts, but if it actually worked... When the girl looked over my sketches, she seemed extremely enthusiastic, and afterward we added a clause to the contract stating that her name would appear on the work as a co-author. I respect a hunger for recognition—I'm exactly the same way. So if the project succeeds, our future control interface will be called the "Dziha-Trant Control Module." And as for the surname "Dziha" being in the name...

A day after we returned, I received an unexpected visitor.

I'd settled into an armchair in the library, set my enormous mug on the side table, picked up a datapad, and opened the schematics for the portal project, intending to relax while making a couple of adjustments. I reached for the mug—and it wasn't there. I felt around the table, found the warm spot where it had been, and looked around in surprise.

Hecate was sitting in the armchair beside mine. With my mug in one delicate hand. The goddess was looking at me reproachfully, lightly tapping a finger against the inscription: "DO NOT MENTION THE PANTALOONS."

"Well, I'm... I'm trying to break the habit!" I blurted out before I could stop myself, while thinking, Siith, you mountain goat, how the hell did you forget about that inscription when you stare at it every damn day?!

"This should make it easier to remember," said the girl—still little more than a child—with a mischievous smile, sliding an identical mug toward me. Just like last time, she had duplicated it from the original, almost as if she'd simply pulled the second one out of the first.

Only this one had my ugly mug in profile at the exact moment a very thick book came flying into the back of my head. It was almost physically painful to look at, and to complete the masterpiece, there was a caption across the top: "Ouch! That hurts!" Yeah... all right. That was, in fact, very clear and highly motivating.

"Sit, Siith'khara'Dziha," the enchanting woman who looked to be just past thirty said with a sigh, giving a little wave of her hand. Well... I sat. More than that, I pretty much dropped straight back into the armchair I'd been about to rise from so I could kneel before the Goddess.

"So, if I understand correctly, the Dziha bloodline came to an end on the shell of the Great Turtle?" I asked after a few seconds of thought and a sip of caf.

Now looking like a young woman, she briefly closed her beautiful silver eyes in assent, a faint smile touching her lips—satisfied, yet sympathetic at the same time.

"Your former uncle somehow managed to incur the wrath of the Merciful Ones. The result was the death of every member of the family. But..." Her smile widened, and I was treated to a conspiratorial divine wink. "But the Merciful Mother asked me to tell you that she has no quarrel with the new Dziha line. More than that, my friend has added your family name to the list of those who will be shown no mercy."

"And naturally, in gratitude, I should—"

"You don't owe anything," the First Mentor cut me off with a quiet chuckle. "The situation back home is such that the entire Pantheon is looking for excuses to do you favors without making it look like outright sucking up."

"And the slaughter of the Dziha..."

"A fortunate coincidence. The head of the old Dziha family really did have the misfortune of drawing the displeasure of Those Who Grant the Final Mercy. The scale of their wrath is, admittedly, rather puzzling, but I think you've already figured it out."

"I have," I said with a nod.

What was there not to understand? When I first arrived here, the possibilities had been staggering, but I hadn't fully grasped them. Over time, though... To put it briefly, the Gods were hungry for access to a new feeding trough. The problem was, I had no intention of letting them in. Without Hecate's blessing, spellcasters would have a hard time resisting madness, but this universe would definitely be better off without the Merciful Ones. I was grateful to the Lady of the Last Breath, sure, but nobody had asked her, had they? No. So she could damn well do without.

And being "untouchable"... With the Merciful Ones, I wouldn't put it past them to arrange a "last breath" for everyone around me if the mood struck them. Servants aren't family. Friends aren't family. And there you'd be, living on and watching everyone you grew even slightly close to die. The family line would end too, because no prospective wife or husband would live long enough to make it to the wedding. No, no, no. To Dozdrogodul with that.

I already had more than enough to deal with in this galaxy. The Jedi, who I was sure would be keeping an eye on me. The Sith, lurking somewhere out there and bound to take an interest in new wielders of the Great Force. Politics, which I'd already gotten tangled up in despite having absolutely no desire to touch that shit in the first place. And I was more than certain this universe had no shortage of all sorts of people who would find spellcasters very interesting.

"A sound decision," the goddess said with a nod, watching my face. "For now, at least."

Hecate smiled brightly, once again looking like a young girl, and stretched with obvious pleasure. The sight was so mesmerizing that every thought vanished from my head, leaving behind nothing but a ringing emptiness. The goddess glanced at me and gave an amused snort.

"By the way, Siith'khara'Dziha, I want to thank you. That idea of yours with the students has been an incredible success. A little clarity of thought during an exam, a boost to memory, a touch more eloquence... and the happy young men and women thank Hecate generously, sharing their faith with me. They've even started raising toasts in my honor!"

The enchanting elderly lady giggled coyly, covering her mouth with one hand.

"They're only tiny streams, but there are already thousands upon thousands of them. Thanks to your efforts, I can now remain freely in my Libraries in this world. I'm even coming out ahead. And back home, I've grown considerably stronger as well. I never chased power, child, but... this kind of might is simply astonishing!"

Her slender fingers clamped down hard on the armrests, making them creak pitifully. In the span of a heartbeat, that beautiful face lost all its serenity and took on something predatory and dangerous. The charming smile twisted into a sinister grin. Her silver eyes flashed, the irises turning molten gold, and I... think I finally understood what people meant by "shitting bricks."

My hair stood on end in sheer terror as a kaleidoscope of thoughts flashed through my mind, all of them neatly summed up by one very expressive word: fuck. A goddess—the most accomplished of all sorcerers—under the madness of magic? That was the end. I had absolutely nothing that could stand against her. Even setting divine power aside, millennia of mastering Hecate's Art would leave me no chance whatsoever in a magical duel, but I wasn't going to give up... Wait.

A scandalously cheerful giggle reached my ears. I looked back at the Mistress of Magic... and once again lost every coherent thought, this time from sheer surprise. The goddess noticed my stare, stopped trying to hold it in, covered her mouth with one hand, and burst out laughing.

Um... was that a divine snort just now?

"Ah-ha-ha-ha! Siiiiith! You should have seen your face! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Oh, I can't—! Aaaah-ha-ha-ha-ha!" the young woman howled from the armchair, slapping her left hand against her knee. I think something in me broke...

"G-goddess?" Demons. Now I was actually stammering.

"Ahhh... oh, whew... hee-hee-hee... ah..." Hecate wiped a tear away with her pinky, flicked it somewhere onto the floor, and looked at me seriously. "That's for the pantaloons, sorcerer. And besides—female solidarity."

Then she giggled again, gave me a wink, and vanished.

"Um... mmm... right... ahem... Can't even put this into words without blaspheming, can I..." I scratched my beard with hands that were still trembling slightly. "I should ask for a calming herbal brew instead of caf. Yeah. Excellent idea, Siith. I could use the walk too."

I was already on my way out of the library when I froze, then shot back like a meteor toward the spot where the Lady of the Moon had deigned to flick away her tear.

"Well..." I held the small crystal up to the light and peered through it. A god's tear. Dozdrogodul take... someone. A treasure. Now that was Hecate for you: prank me and reward me in the same breath. I didn't believe for a second that she had simply forgotten the tear. Gods did not treat things like this lightly.

I only remembered that I'd meant to ask for a calming brew once I was back in my quarters, carefully tucking the priceless treasure into an enchanted casket. On the way to the kitchen, though, all I could think about was how to make Hecate laugh like that again. Never mind that my heart had nearly launched itself out through my anal sphincter—I'm a chimerologist. I'd survive somehow. Crystals of Divine Tears, on the other hand, were exactly the sort of thing worth keeping around. The Quartermaster, currently stuffing himself with treats at Maria's, would back me up on that.

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 7, 2026

This afternoon, Jabiim would welcome its first intake of fee-paying students. Every single place had been snapped up the instant—literally the very first second—the option to buy one appeared on the HoloNet. And just a couple of hours later, word got out about an auction on Tatooine where those very same places would be resold.

Over the past year, ever since a certain red-eyed sorcerer returned from vacation, Jabiim had begun attracting quite a bit of attention. It wasn't as though news about mages was echoing across the galaxy, but the people who needed to know, knew. They knew you could buy protective charms and amulets there whose capabilities sometimes surpassed those of certain models of personal shield. They knew that, for a decidedly immodest sum, you could significantly strengthen a ship's hull on that rainy little world. And they knew that the JMG could regrow a lost limb with phenomenal speed, restore damaged organs, and even correct congenital defects.

The JMG administration apologized, but there was nothing they could do about it anymore: Jabba Desilijic Tiure's people had completed the purchase entirely aboveboard. They did, however, promise to change the purchasing and registration process for the next intake.

For all those reasons, quite a few sentients headed to Tatooine hoping to buy one of the training places from the new, as some people whispered, "finally useful Force-sensitives." There was even talk of a brief shootout breaking out, but Jabba's kajidic enforcers restored order.

And now, in a rather pretty park on the small plaza outside the administration building, fifty sentients had gathered beneath a force-field dome—the ones who had secured their places. Thirty-five had bought theirs on Tatooine, ten had come from Coruscant, and the remaining five were sentients who, one way or another, worked for Jabba.

The Academy complex itself consisted of a five-story administration building, with every floor above the first given over to dormitories. Behind it stood a large building listed in the brochure as the academic block. On one side was the training ground, and on the other, the sports complex.

The future students, along with those accompanying them, were waiting for the start of some sort of "small welcoming ceremony." A modest podium had been set up by the building, though no one was on it yet. There were about twenty minutes left before the event began. Most of those gathered were human, though a few members of more exotic species were present as well.

Probably the most diverse little group consisted of a Miraluka, a Devaronian woman, a lanky Muun towering over everyone else, a human man and woman, two silent Sephi of opposite sexes, and a blue-skinned, red-eyed girl no one seemed to recognize.

The group had only just begun introducing themselves and exchanging cautious greetings when they were interrupted.

"Quiet. Do you hear that?" the blue-skinned girl said, raising a hand to stop the conversation. A flicker of surprise crossed her usually calm, almost expressionless face.

Somewhere in the distance came a long, bloodcurdling roar, sustained on a single note. There was pain in it, terror, and utter hopelessness.

"I think it's coming from over there," said Visna, the Miraluka, nodding toward the academic building, which rumor had it used to be some kind of factory. "Whatever it is, it's definitely big... and it doesn't sound like it's doing well."

"Uh... kinda losin' m' desire to enroll here," the young Muun muttered with a shiver. He either had an odd way of speaking or some kind of speech impediment. When they'd introduced themselves, he'd given his name as Penro.

"I'm honestly surprised a Muun decided not to go into... finance. No offense," said Tolvit, a young black-haired Rendili man with green eyes, looking curiously at the tall humanoid.

"That's just st'reotypes," the Muun said, giving a slow, indifferent shrug of his narrow shoulders. His species was, after all, closely associated with banking. "Dunno why everyone thinks that if you're Muun, you've gotta have your own p'rsonal bank."

The alien's lips curved into a faint, mocking smile.

"M' family specializes in security systems, and my brother studies at the Higher School of Finance. That's where he met a Togruta who sold us those same Jabiim protective amulets without making us wait in line. And the wait for those things is m'nths long now. The family made some inquiries, the elders thought it over, and... here I am."

"Amulets? Not charms?" asked a short, very young Devaronian woman. The girl, who had introduced herself as Shella, was quite pretty, with soft-looking white fur and large, curious yellow eyes. She did seem rather nervous, though—uncertain of herself.

"Am'lets," the long-faced Muun confirmed with a nod. "Though ch'rms are hard to get too."

"Look," the blue-skinned girl spoke up again, indicating the approaching figures with her eyes. Several sentients were striding toward the entrance of the administration building. A fairly tall man in a black hooded robe, red eyes glowing ominously beneath the hood, was animatedly discussing something with a broadly grinning Devaronian. A girl of about ten or eleven trotted along beside them, while a green-skinned Twi'lek in a modest but stylish suit brought up the rear.

"That's my dad," the young Devaronian girl sighed, her eyes darting around in embarrassment. "And the one in the robe is the sorcerer—the Academy Director and head of the Jabiim Mages' Guild."

"Your father kn'ws Siith'khara'Dziha?" Penro asked, surprise and respect mingling in his voice. He was clearly making an effort to pronounce the name correctly; for a moment, a look of intense concentration crossed his face.

"He does now," the fluffy little Devaronian whispered miserably, her face falling.

"Quiet, l't's listen," the Muun whispered. The group had stopped almost right beside them, and their conversation was anything but hushed.

"I'm telling you straight—Willy is offering you his friendship from the bottom of his heart!" the Devaronian's voice carried over to them. "There's nothing Willy can't get for his friends, savvy?"

"Wilmar, give it a rest," the robed man said, rolling his eyes up toward the dome holding back the rain. "All the places are taken. I've already told you that! I can't just squeeze your daughter in. Come back next year, just don't forget to register through the HoloNet. We're changing the purchase system, so this kind of problem won't happen again."

Every eye in the little group turned toward the fluffy girl, who immediately did her absolute best to pretend she wasn't there.

"Friend, listen," the Devaronian went on, still beaming. "Just one extra sentient! Willy will cover every expense of keeping her here, pay the same price as the most expensive place bought from that slippery Jabba—only the money goes to the JMG, not him—and help his friend Siith buy or sell absolutely anything!"

Another roar from some kind of monster echoed from the Academy grounds, and the man they had called Siith abruptly stopped looking like someone who wanted nothing more than to get rid of the Devaronian.

"Absolutely anything?" he asked Wilmar, glancing toward the direction the horrible sounds were coming from.

"Absolutely anything!" This time the horned man flashed such a dazzling smile that a few people felt the urge to blink.

"Excellent!" The man answered the Devaronian with a smile that made Wilmar's own smile falter, while those watching the exchange went through a whole round of nervous swallows. The blue-skinned girl actually started patting around her belt. Maybe she was looking for a blaster.

"Dad!" the girl squeaked, grabbing the red-eyed man by the sleeve of his robe.

"Don't 'Dad' me, Karray! That monstrosity of yours eats enough for ten and shits enough for... four. Dozdrogodul... scratch her! Anyway, Grark, you find me a buyer for a four-assed acklay,* and I'll enroll your daughter on the same terms as everyone else. Deal?"

"Of course, friend," the Devaronian said, flashing that smile again now that he'd recovered. Then, a second later, he faltered. "A what kind of acklay?"

"Four-assed," the red-eyed man repeated calmly.

Those watching noticed the Twi'lek standing behind the sorcerer start to shake—shoulders and lekku both. She was trying desperately to hold it in. Her face managed to stay composed, but the rest of her body was laughing despite her best efforts.

"Dad! It's an omnivorous acklay with a modified metabolism and digestive tract!" the girl exclaimed, actually bouncing in place with excitement.

"Too bad the toothy bastard itself hasn't figured out that it's an omnivore now. Or that it absolutely has to eat fifty kilos of fruit and vegetables every day because someone went and rebuilt the damn thing's entire biology! And I still have absolutely no idea why that creature needs four asses!!!"

"I'm little and inexperienced!" the girl pointed out quite reasonably, blinking up at him with perfect innocence.

"Oh, how convenient!" the sorcerer exclaimed, throwing his hands toward the heavens, though amusement was dancing in his eyes. "When it's 'Dad, buy me an acklay,' suddenly we're grown-up, seasoned chimerologists. But the moment we grow three extra, completely useless organs for defecation, we're little and inexperienced?"

"They were justified!" young Karray protested, stamping one little foot.

"Oh, really? And how exactly?"

"Because I wanted them!"

"Ahem... Well, that is an argument, yeah," the red-eyed man said, scratching his beard and nodding in agreement as the eavesdropping group exchanged baffled looks. "But that doesn't change the fact that we have to force-feed the beast plant matter! I've told you dozens of times that making changes like this to living creatures is difficult and tedious. Enhancing traits they already have—that's what you should be doing at your level of skill! I thought you wanted to create an unstoppable, heavily armored killing machine, with bones tougher than beskar, reflexes faster than a Force-sensitive's, and enough strength to make rancors sulk in a corner with envy!!! And what did you make instead? A former predator turned omnivore that'll die without the right diet!"

"But it worked," the girl insisted.

"Partially, Karray! You never finished the project! Your acklay has to eat plants, but it doesn't understand that!"

"But you said yourself that working with the mind or instincts was beyond my level." Her lips pushed out in an offended pout, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. The robed man looked at this embodiment of misery, sighed, then crouched down beside her and rested a hand on the little girl's head.

"Sweetheart, I've told you hundreds and hundreds of times: there's no such thing as an unsolvable problem. Think about it. If your creation doesn't understand that it needs to eat greens, what can you do about that? Why, for example, do you love chocolate so much?"

"Because it's..." The girl's eyes widened, her mouth fell open into a little O, and both hands flew to her cheeks. "Because it tastes good!!! Taste recognition! The way taste and smell are interpreted! If Force thinks grass tastes good..."

"He'll eat it on his own," the red-eyed man said with a nod, ruffling the girl's hair. "I'm surprised it took a hint for you to arrive at something that obvious."

"And why didn't you tell me earli—"

"Because you need to think for yourself," the sorcerer snorted. "A flexible mind is a sorcerer's greatest weapon. His most important tool. You did the core work well—if we ignore the creature's four asses—but one poorly thought-out detail turned this place into a full-blown circus. Hell, those lunatic Mando have started sending fighters to feed your beast like it's a training exercise. They even set up a betting pool. I've already had to put warriors back together six times!"

"Sorry, Dad..." the child said, looking downcast. The red-eyed man sighed and bared his teeth in a terrifying grin. Apparently, that was supposed to be an encouraging smile.

"Don't apologize, sweetheart. I hit the jackpot four times. Just learn something from this mess and go finish the job. I think Wilmar will have a much easier time selling your omnivorous acklay if it actually eats grass on its own. Four asses and all, yeah... And with the money we get for it, we'll buy you something else to work on. Sound good?"

"Yeeees!!!" The little girl bounced excitedly in place, then took off at a run toward the direction the mournful roars kept coming from. "Dad's gonna buy me a rancor! Or a krayt dragon! Or even a sarlacc!!!"

Meanwhile, the sorcerer turned his attention back to the Devaronian.

"So, we have a deal? The beast will be delivered to you tomorrow. Don't worry—it'll be sedated, and we'll give you enough sedatives for the trip as well. You sell the creature, keep ten percent of the profit so you've got an incentive to get a good price instead of just dumping it on the first buyer you find. And your daughter..."

"Shella Grark," the horned man supplied, somehow managing to beam even more brightly. The red-eyed man nodded to the Twi'lek, who made a note on her datapad.

"Shella Grark will be admitted to the Academy on the same terms as everyone else."

"Deal, my friend! You'll see—Willy will handle everything perfectly and squeeze the maximum profit out of it!"

The robed man gave a nod and headed toward the podium. The Twi'lek—apparently his secretary—kept pace right behind him, while the Devaronian looked around, spotted his daughter, and made his way over with a dazzling grin.

"See, princess?" the horned man practically radiated good cheer. "Your father handled everything perfectly, and you didn't believe me."

"If you hadn't forgotten about the auction, none of this would've happened," the girl pouted. "Playing sabacc on the Smuggler's Moon was more important to you than flying to Tatooine for your own daughter!"

"That's not true, sweetheart. Besides, it worked out even better than I expected!" Wilmar said smugly, putting an arm around his daughter. She was already quite a bit taller than he was, though—Devaronian men were short, unlike their women.

"Hmph," Shella snorted angrily.

"No need to snort at me, sweetheart! You got into the Academy just like I promised, your Director solved his acklay problem, and your father is about to make some very good credits off a unique animal! You really shouldn't imitate your mother so much, or I'll want to go back to Devaron even less than I already do. And think about it—what happens if Red-Eyes suddenly needs something hard to get? Or wants to sell something exclusive? Who's he going to call? Some random outsider, or the father of one of his students? Obviously he'll call his new friend Willy. And Willy will make damn sure your Director is happy."

"What about the fact that the animal is..." one of the Sephi finally spoke up, hesitating as she searched for the right word.

"Four-assed?" the smuggler barked out a genuine laugh. "That's perfect! We've had dwarf acklays, trained acklays, cybernetically enhanced acklays—I've even heard something about Force-sensitive ones! But Willy has never heard of a four-assed acklay! And exclusives always sell well, savvy? I heard Jabba himself was mourning the loss of his favorite pet about a year ago."

The red-eyed man stepped up onto the podium, drawing everyone's attention away from the conversation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice carried across the entire plaza despite the complete lack of any visible microphones. Only the Miraluka reacted strangely, flinching and looking around. "My name is Siith'khara'Dziha. I am the Director of this Academy and head of the Mages' Guild. Welcome to Jabiim on this beautiful rainy day."

"At least they put a dome over us," the Rendili muttered.

"Yeah, the dome is handy," the sorcerer on the podium agreed, making everyone look back and forth between the Rendili and the Director in surprise. "It's an extremely useful spell, one you'll be able to master fairly quickly, and the number of ways you can use it may pleasantly surprise you. But you'll hear all about that in class. For now, let me say a few words about the boring stuff—the rules and the Academy itself."

The man allowed himself a faint smile, which stirred a quiet murmur among the gathered crowd.

"First of all, until you complete your training, forget about anything that clouds the mind. Alcohol and drugs of any kind are strictly forbidden to spellcasters. Anyone who can't resist the urge to turn themselves into an animal will be expelled. After graduation, do whatever you like, but I have no intention of watching my students suddenly start exploding their own heads, growing hooves, or developing some other ridiculous complication. Everything else is exactly as stated in the Academy brochures, except for one thing I want to emphasize: experiments on sentients may only be carried out with the sentients' own consent. Written consent."

The Sephi man sneezed at that.

"Bless you," the sorcerer said with a nod. What followed was a short speech, most likely prepared in advance. The Director's opinion of it was obvious from his bored tone and the way he kept rolling his eyes whenever he reached one of the more grandiose passages.

"I think the Director doesn't li—" the Rendili started to whisper, only to get elbowed by the human woman beside him. Littia was a native of Kuat and had practically glowed with delight earlier when she realized there were no Corellians here.

"What—" the young man started to protest, then glanced toward the podium, where the red-eyed sorcerer was watching him with interest even as he continued his speech. "Ahhh..."

The more observant members of the audience could have sworn they saw a flicker of disappointment cross the Director's face before it gave way to weary resignation.

Only the blue-skinned girl—the one who still hadn't introduced herself—was typing something into her datapad, occasionally glancing first at Wilmar Grark, then at the Academy's increasingly miserable-looking Director. The latter, incidentally, kept casting the occasional look her way as well. Later, someone even suggested that, given their unusual matching eye color, the two might belong to related species. Possibly even be close relatives.

Author's Note:

*Acklay: one of the most terrifying predators of Vendaxa—a planet known for its rampant fertility and for having one of the most diverse ecosystems in the galaxy. Acklays were especially prized in gladiatorial arenas, since capturing one was extremely difficult. Without regular feeding, they grew hungry very quickly, and a starving acklay had enough appetite for several bloody performances a day. (Stolen from Wookieepedia.)

I'm happy to announce that the original author is finally getting back to continuing this story — which, personally, I'm absolutely thrilled about.

I'd also like to introduce another one of his works set in the DxD universe, which won the majority of the votes in the translation poll.

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 8, 2026

"Lord Sidious." The hologram of a distinguished man with a neatly trimmed beard dropped to one knee as the connection with his Master stabilized.

"Lord Tyranus," the figure completely concealed beneath a black robe replied with a nod.

"The dark Force-sensitive trained in Force concealment has been sent to our acquaintance's Guild. Everything went smoothly. I've just forwarded you all the data on the acklay and the corpses."

"Good. Briefly—what do you make of the samples?" Whatever else Sidious might have thought of Dooku, he had a high opinion of the Count's intellect, so his assessment genuinely interested him.

"The animal carries only residual traces of the Force that altered it. The corpses are saturated with it and continue to exist through it, but in neither case is there any trace of the serenity of the Light or the passions of the Dark. The Force there feels impersonal, almost lifeless. All I sense is an impression of precise forms, perfect geometry, and elegant mathematical formulae. The zombies, in addition, carry a sense of hunger and an inexplicable cold. But unlike the... acklay, they do not eat."

At the mention of the animal, the Sith Lord felt a wave of anger and dislike from Tyranus.

"The creature was extremely troublesome to feed," the Count of Serenno said with a grimace. "According to the smuggler who sold it, a little girl—the sorcerer's daughter—was the one who worked on it. I suspect the young witch made some kind of mistake, because the beast would eat nothing but plant matter. I was present for one of its feedings. It was... tedious."

Palpatine allowed himself a faint smile. He knew that, during that particular feeding, the beast had broken free of its restraints and tried to tear apart the ones responsible for upsetting it—the Count among them. His apprentice had been forced to put in some real effort to subdue the acklay without killing it. In the back of his mind, Sidious noted that the whole situation was very much in the finest tradition of dark-elven training: dangerous, potentially lethal, and impossible to solve through simple brute force.

Yes, the Chancellor had found Vivec's works on training young mages and sorcerers. Some of the books were available only in print and had to be ordered from Jabiim, which his people had done, making him the owner of The Mentor's Burden: Principles of Upbringing, the Nature of Relationships, and Methods of Influence. Vivec frequently cited the works of a certain Rung, quoting him in language that was often vicious and cutting.

Unfortunately, the works of the "ancient orc" could only be read in person at the Guild library. This particular author had been designated "not for distribution" by the head of the JMG himself, Siith'khara'Dziha—which, frankly, only made Palpatine more curious. So he had already sent a trusted agent to copy the book.

I'll have to get it printed properly, the Sith thought. He had grown rather fond of this archaic way of storing information. There was something satisfying about the rustle of pages and the weight of a physical book.

"The zombies, on the other hand, are remarkably calm. They simply watch the living, and if you meet their eyes, they inspire terror—extremely effective against the weak-willed. Every biological process in a reanimated corpse has stopped; they don't even decay. The dead brain sends out impulses through the Force, and the Force drives the muscles... I'm genuinely surprised this spell isn't part of Sith sorcery."

The Master and apprentice spoke for a while longer before ending the call. Both had plenty of other matters demanding their attention besides a bizarre animal and a collection of walking corpses recovered near one of the entry points to a hyperlane—the very one the captured Hammerhead had used.

This new kind of Force-user interested them both. Each was considering what use could be made of the mages—and how to keep them from interfering with his own plans.

A teacher again. Imagine that. I never thought I'd come back to this after so many years. Teaching one sentient or even a group was one thing, but running an entire school... I remember always wondering why the headmaster of the institution where I once worked had such a difficult personality. Now I understood the man. Not completely, of course—the half-elf had held the position for two hundred years. Hardly comparable. The worst part was that it would still be quite a while before anyone capable of replacing me appeared.

It wasn't even about knowledge or personal power, though both were necessary. The real issue was authority, which, as I was surprised to discover, rested on more than just my skill as a sorcerer. Old habits die hard: back on the Turtle, an experienced mage was automatically someone of consequence. So I took the students' respectful attitude for granted until I happened to overhear a group of newcomers discussing yours truly in all his magnificence. And, come to think of it, their reasoning was perfectly sound. The Director was friends with both the ruler of the planet and the head of Internal Security. He was welcome in the Jedi Temple and, according to rumor, casually chatted with members of their Council. He went to the opera with the Supreme Chancellor, and in the evenings the Chancellor himself sometimes dropped by to visit him without so much as a security detail.

Then there was the outright nonsense, which I mostly remembered with amusement. Depending on the version, I was actually some ancient Sith who had decided to make peace with the Jedi, was playing both them and the Chancellor for fools, or had outright subjugated the leadership of the Order and the Republic so they wouldn't interfere while I raised an army of Force-sensitives.

They even had arguments that sounded almost convincing. There were just as many Jabiimites studying at the Academy as there were fee-paying students, and the locals weren't exactly eager to mingle with the newcomers. The planet already had around twenty Mando, tirelessly drilling the Nimbus special forces, the planetary defense troops, and the boarding units of our little fleet. A Gungan enclave was being built at full speed, populated mostly by veterans of every war Naboo had seen and their families. And let me tell you, those guys were genuinely tough bastards. Covered in scars, speaking almost entirely in profanity and their own military slang. More than anything in the galaxy, they loved their families, their spears, their boomers, and cursing "that idiot Binks." So the conspiracy theorists—or people who simply wanted a good laugh—eventually concluded that we were preparing an underwater military contingent as well.

Where did all that information come from? Rumors and word of mouth, mostly. We weren't exactly hiding any of it. We were training highly specialized mages whose schedules were so packed they barely had time for idle conversation—getting their work done and catching a decent night's sleep was hard enough. Improving combat readiness wasn't a secret either. Every state did that from time to time. And the Gungans had simply moved here permanently. It just so happened that the ones most eager to put the Naboo humans behind them were those who had fought against their mercenaries—especially since Koit's recruitment campaign made a point of mentioning that we knew how to heal people here...

Most sensible sentients could, of course, compare the scale of the galaxy to Jabiim and recognize the wilder theories for what they were: the eternal student urge to have a good laugh. But there were also those who sent dispatches that amounted to outright panicked screaming. We neither intercepted nor censored student mail. I simply saw no point in it, so I only learned that one particular idiot had taken my supposed "conspiracy against the Republic" seriously when Master Rancisis told me about it in person.

More precisely, I learned it from Master Rancisis, Master Tholme, Aayla Secura, and some Weequay, all of whom walked into my office together after Suti informed me of their arrival.

Or, to be completely precise, I learned it from an absolutely delighted Master Rancisis, whose very first words were, "Master Siith, hello! Quickly, show me your army of four-assed rancors and krayt dragons!" followed by that hissing laugh of his, while the other three stood behind him wearing equally crooked smiles.

"Good to see you, Master," I said with a polite but puzzled smile. "And you as well, Master Tholme, Padawan Secura, and..."

"Master Sora Bulq," the Weequay supplied with a neutral nod.

"Aayla is a Knight now," Tholme said with a gentle smile, while the blue-skinned Twi'lek lifted her chin just a little.

"Congratulations, Knight Secura," I said, making my smile as gentle as I could. "Honored Jedi—caf? Herbal brew? Suti will arrange everything."

I nodded toward the assistant standing behind them and, once everyone had settled on their drinks, returned to the beginning of the conversation.

"Master Rancisis, could you elaborate on this army of rancors and everything else?"

Once I figured out what was going on—and even read the complaint filed against me that the Order had received through the Chancellor's office—I actually laughed. The whole thing sounded like complete nonsense, especially considering that the Academy had ten people sent there on the head of the Republic's behalf, one of whom was obviously security, and I spoke with him fairly often. I hadn't noticed so much as a hint that the Chancellor was unhappy with Jabiim or the JMG.

"The thing is, Master Siith, the head of the Republic has personally departed for negotiations... in one of the outlying systems. The situation there is tense, and the Chancellor decided that his presence, together with our diplomats, might help defuse the conflict before it escalates," the Master explained, winding his beard around one claw. "We can't contact the diplomatic mission at the moment, so the Council decided to combine business with pleasure: send us to look into the information we received, and at the same time ask you to heal one of our fellow Jedi."

"I see..." I drawled, reading the data from several tracking wards that had been triggered by an "unregistered visitor." "Tell me, Master, would your fellow Jedi happen to be a white-haired woman who likes staying out of sight, uses a Force technique that lets her turn invisible, and is most likely suffering from an acute case of curiosity?"

"Ahem... no," the Jedi replied, then immediately corrected himself. "Or rather, she is a Jedi too, but she isn't the one who needs healing. Only... how do you know about her? Master Kuro is supposed to be on Coruscant right now..."

Without a word, I created a projection above my desk. The disturbance in the magical currents made the Weequay and Secura tense, while Tholme merely raised an eyebrow and the Thisspiasian tilted his head slightly, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

"A Force illusion," Sora Bulq commented as the image appeared.

"I suppose you could call it that," I said, scratching the back of my head. Then I started narrating what we were looking at. "Those are the ceiling beams in one of the artifact-making classrooms in the academic block. And that is, presumably, your fellow Jedi's butt. Eight out of ten, by the way, in my humble opinion."

The three-dimensional image did indeed show a woman perched high above, staring intently at something below. The classroom occupied what had once been a factory workshop—a vast space with towering ceilings and long metal beams running beneath the roof, one of which the woman was sitting on. I had divided the room into individual sections, one for each student, giving everyone plenty of space both for the necessary equipment and for any... incidents. The sections themselves were separated by waist-high partitions that merely marked out each student's area; the actual protection against whatever might go wrong was handled by energy shields.

"Master Siith, did you choose that angle on purpose?" Knight Secura asked, with a very noticeable edge of irony.

"No! I swear!" I said, pressing a hand to my chest. "She just keeps moving around. See? Like right now."

The woman did indeed turn around. Very quickly—I didn't even notice when a lightsaber hilt appeared in her hand. Her face was quite beautiful, but very stern, and she was staring intently... almost as if she were looking straight at the observation construct. Strange. It was concealed. Could she sense the attention focused on her?

"Well, well..." I murmured as Master Tholme said, "That really is An'ya," and shifted the observation focus back to the woman's rear.

A few moments later, the Jedi turned toward the point of observation again. Now that was interesting. I'd heard that people could sometimes feel when they were being watched, but sensing attention through an observation construct? I repeated the experiment several more times, moving the watcher around and getting the same result every time, then reached for my datapad. I needed to write this down. Fascinating effect, but... how exactly was I supposed to test it? Did surveillance and observation spells still bother her when no sentient was actually looking through them? Did the number of observers matter? Or was it because some of the observers were Force-sensitive?

"Whoever you are, prankster," a low, threatening voice—almost a hiss—came through the illusion, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turned my attention back to the woman and, more importantly, remembered that I wasn't alone in the room. The lady's blue eyes were fixed on me with a decidedly severe expression. "Whoever you are, I will find you, and then we're going to have a very thorough conversation about why you find my butt so fascinating."

With that, her figure blurred and then vanished from sight.

"Master Tholme..." I said reproachfully, giving the Jedi a disapproving look and slowly shaking my head.

"What?" the Jedi asked, genuinely baffled. "Me?"

"Well, obviously," I said with a mournful nod. "I was busy taking notes on my datapad, Master Rancisis is a Thisspiasian, Master Bulq is a Weequay, and Knight Secura is a woman. Although..." I pretended to think it over.

"No 'although,'" the Twi'lek cut in quickly, hastily disowning my vile insinuation as the Thisspiasian let out a series of quiet hisses. The girl's cheeks even darkened slightly with indignation.

"Well then, by process of elimination..." I shifted my gaze back to Tholme, who had already recovered. The Jedi was smiling faintly, clearly appreciating how skillfully I'd managed to shift the blame onto him. Even the usually serious Master Bulq, incidentally, let the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

Once Rancisis had finished laughing, he turned serious. "That woman really is a Jedi. A Jedi Shadow, and one who takes the threat of the Dark Side very seriously. When we spoke with Master Vos—the one who needs healing—she was in the Healing Halls as well. I think that after hearing about the report we mentioned, our colleague decided to lend us a hand."

"Without telling anyone," Tholme sighed.

"Tell me, Master Siith, can you locate her using your methods and contact her? I would do it myself, but she's almost certainly disabled every communication system she has..."

"Let her work," I said, staring at the Master in confusion and receiving four surprised looks in return. "She's not violent, is she? She's not going to start attacking the students?"

"Uh..." Oppo thought for a moment. "She shouldn't... But what about the security systems? The Guild's secrets?"

"Oh, come on, Master. What kind of security systems would you expect in a school full of young idiots? Surveillance and alarms, that's it. Otherwise they'd get themselves killed. I'm not stupid enough to station cerberuses on every floor of an academy packed with young people, for example. Those kids are itching for adventure from head to toe—they'd torment the poor dog to death. And as for Guild secrets... Well, she can watch the artifact-makers work. She won't understand a thing. You've got an advanced degree in higher mathematics, don't you? How much would some random outsider understand from your notes besides a few familiar letters? Although... hold on a second."

I turned away from the somehow-surprised-again Jedi and tapped my comlink. Rancisis looked slightly stunned as he studied me, while the others glanced at him in confusion.

"Karray, sweetheart."

"Dad, I'm busy," came my ward's brisk voice. "What is it?"

"Oh, look at you, all serious," I cooed, earning an indignant grumble from the little squirt. "Listen, there's a Jedi woman wandering around the complex playing hide-and-seek. If you happen to spot her, pretend you didn't. Don't invite her to take part in any experiments, don't offer her money, and absolutely no 'she climbed onto the table by herself,' understood?"

"Yeah, yeah, all right. Jedi woman, don't notice her. Got it. Is that all?"

"That's all. Sorry for interrupting."

"It's okay, Dad," the girl said, her voice softening. "Bye. Love you!"

"Love you too," I muttered quickly and cut the connection. I think I even blushed a little. Well... saying things like that out loud still makes me awkward.

"Master Siith," Oppo addressed me again. "How did you know about my degree?"

"It's public information. On your Temple profile," I said, tapping at the datapad before handing it over to the Thisspiasian.

"Huh. It really is... I've never actually looked at this before... Oh, there's even information about my Master!"

"Ahem..." Tholme coughed.

"Ah, right. I'll read the rest later," the Master said with a grin, handing the datapad back to me. "So you really don't mind Master Kuro playing hide-and-seek around the Guild grounds?"

"For Hecate's sake, no. We're not breaking any laws. Well, aside from training an army of Gungans mounted on four-assed underwater rancors," I allowed myself a laugh, drawing a few smiles from the Jedi. "Honestly, I'd rather she look around and put her mind at ease than sit there feeding her own suspicions."

"Knowing An'ya, she'll probably convince herself that anything illegal is just very well hidden," the Weequay said with a snort. He seemed to like how casually I'd shrugged off having a Jedi snooping around. His eyes looked a little more relaxed now, at least. There was something about him that reminded me of Windu, the Korun.

"We don't suffer from paranoia. We enjoy it," I sighed with a shrug. "So, what happened to your wounded man?"

"My former Padawan," Tholme said. "Jedi Master Quinlan Vos. He's a Kiffar. On his last mission, he lost an arm and suffered extensive damage to his internal organs. The healers managed to deal with the internal injuries, but the limb*..."

"Right, got it," I said when it became clear there was nothing more coming, and reached for my datapad. "Kiffar, Kiffar... ah, there we go..."

I spent a few minutes reading up on the near-human species, then remembered that during the vacation I'd scanned several people I'd taken for humans with facial tattoos that looked a lot like Kiffar markings. Maybe that was what they'd been. Either way, I had the data, and the principle of symmetry still applied. Worst case, I could simply accelerate the regeneration and make the Jedi eat like there was no tomorrow. Hook him up to nutrient drips as well. It wouldn't exactly be pleasant, but a Jedi Master should be able to handle it.

"You didn't bring any healthy Kiffar with you?" I asked, just to be safe.

"No, Master," Rancisis replied. "Unfortunately, of everyone currently in the Temple, Quinlan is the only member of that species."

"You could've hired some mercenaries. Or rounded up a few bandits," I muttered. Honestly, like dealing with children. Dozdrogodul bite them. "All right, there shouldn't be any problems. If you're not in too much of a hurry, I suggest we do the procedure tomorrow morning."

"As you say," Rancisis replied with a measured nod. I noticed Aayla's face light up with relief. Even Tholme let out a barely audible breath.

"And in the meantime, if you're not tired, how about a little tour?"

"If it's not too much trouble," the Thisspiasian said with a smile, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Show us your army for conquering the Republic!"

"How small-minded!" I said, feigning offense. "The entire galaxy! And then my ward will create living four... engine starships out of sarlaccs, and we'll move on to conquering the whole universe."

We left the office in good spirits. Rancisis and I were chuckling, while the other Jedi simply smiled. The Weequay still looked a little puzzled, but I figured he'd get used to it.

In one of the corridors, our group ran into one of the students. The young man gave me an almost exaggeratedly respectful nod, then gave the Jedi a strange once-over. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Secura watching him a little more closely than necessary. There was surprise in her expression—and wariness.

He was a rather strange sentient, actually. On the outside he looked completely human, and inside his anatomy matched closely enough as well, but certain quirks in his biology pointed to some kind of shapeshifting chimera only distantly related to humanity. I didn't particularly care what species he belonged to, but I had been keeping an eye on him. He was quiet and calm, yet during the first theory classes the skepticism in his eyes had been impossible to miss, along with the occasional sharp, sarcastic smile tinged with resentment and anger.

But after the initiation, his first interactions at the aura level, some basic manipulation of unstructured mana, and the creation of his first absurdly primitive spell, all those expressions disappeared. For the first few days afterward, he moved around in something of a daze, quiet and thoughtful. Then he threw himself into his studies with tremendous diligence. He also began treating me with very deliberate respect, and after hearing Karray call me Dad, he started showing her the same deference.

The reasons behind that behavior escaped me, but once I was convinced he wasn't wasting his time and was actually studying, I stopped watching him so closely and kept only half an eye on him. Same as with the blue-skinned, red-eyed beauty. Another strange girl—quiet by preference, and always steering the conversation away whenever anyone asked about her species or homeworld.

Author's Note:

This chapter is dedicated to proper CHEESE.

*Quinlan Vos's injury—let me explain this right away, before the hardcore canon experts bazedeltanol me to death in the comments. The thing is, Siith interfered with the canonical course of events on Ryloth. He changed things. As a result, Aayla never met Vos during the rescue of the Secura heir. Events took a slightly different path from there. The infamous "butterfly effect," basically. One of the Council's missions didn't go the way it would have in canon, and as a result... Well, I think you can figure out the rest.

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 9, 2026

Tann watched the group of Force-sensitives passing in the distance out of the corner of her eye, with just a hint of curiosity. At their head were the visibly pleased Academy Director and a chuckling Thisspiasian. The Chiss pretended to be absorbed in the notes on her datapad. Yes, while standing in the middle of the corridor. Strangely enough, that was perfectly normal here—the students had a habit of picking up some of the Guild Master's quirks.

No anger stirred in her at the sight of the Jedi, nor any resentment. She found them interesting; she didn't particularly like them, but that was as far as it went. Her patron and teacher, however, had a... complicated attitude toward Force-sensitives who followed the Light Side. The Count never missed a chance to make some cutting remark whenever he encountered them. "A shadow of former strength." "Fragments of a glorious past." That was roughly how the aristocrat spoke of his former Order. And often, somewhere deep beneath the obvious disdain and the generous helping of contempt, a very attentive observer could glimpse a trace of bitterness and disappointment.

But to the Chiss, the Jedi were simply opponents. The young woman had a quick, powerful mind and was skilled at gathering and analyzing information from every available source. She had been trained for it—back home on Csilla and here, in Republic space. And from everything she had learned about those who followed the Light... she had no desire to follow their path. That insane mountain of restrictions they piled onto themselves and carried for the rest of their lives held no appeal for her. No enjoying the fruits of hard-earned glory, no personal possessions, no family.

At the thought of family, the Chiss failed to keep her expression perfectly composed. The faintest hint of an angry grimace crossed her beautiful face, forcing her to pay closer attention to controlling her emotions.

Vandalor...

Fucking sex-crazed piece of four-assed acklay shit! When Sev'rance found out what that primate had been doing after completing the Count's assignment... she did nothing. There was no point in arguing or making a scene. As always when dealing with outsiders, the Chiss kept a mask of icy composure on her face and simply handed him a datapad containing a recording of how he had spent his time in a Nar Shaddaa brothel. That was all that piece of filth deserved. After that, she stopped paying him any attention. If "a little variety" mattered more to him than she did, then he was welcome to enjoy all the variety he wanted.

Those who knew little about the Chiss tended to think them almost unemotional. The young woman allowed one corner of her mouth to lift in a faint, mocking smile. That wasn't true. It was simply a matter of her people's traditions. Emotion was reserved for those close to you—friends, family, those you respected enough to consider worthy of seeing what you truly felt. Showing everyone else what was in your heart was weakness, and weakness deserved no respect. The sex-crazed bastard she had once considered her lover had proved unworthy of that privilege.

Yes, Tann allowed for the possibility that all of this had been some elaborate game on the part of her patrons. Whether it had been the Lord's initiative or his Master's made no difference. But that did nothing to lessen Vandalor's guilt. Nor did it give her any reason to resent her mentor or his Teacher. In fact, even if the information that had found its way into her hands—and that animal's little adventure in the brothel—had all been arranged by the Count, she could only thank him for it. Who knew how long it might otherwise have taken for her former lover's true nature to reveal itself in all its glory? It had been another harsh lesson. Whether from her Teacher or from life itself, she had learned it.

She had learned the lesson, drawn her conclusions, committed them to memory, and moved on to the Count's next assignment. A disciplined, responsible officer—that was how the young woman saw herself—and she kept her attention firmly on the task at hand: mastering sorcery, studying the Guild, documenting its teaching methods, and becoming acquainted with the most important figures on Jabiim. The last part, at least as far as circumstances allowed.

So far, the only person she had managed to meet was Siith'khara'Dziha. A man of... contradictions. Probably human. She simply wasn't sure. After spending some time at the Academy, she had even begun to wonder whether he might be part Chiss. Sometimes, especially when meeting someone for the first time, his face remained just as cold and unreadable as those of her own people. But when he smiled, he reminded her of Count Dooku in the moments just before an especially painful lesson.

A faint air of madness seemed to follow their Director wherever he went. Talking to him, it was often difficult to tell whether he was discussing some serious, important philosophical subject or simply making fun of everyone involved. One moment he would look at the people around him like some ancient sage; the next, he would be animatedly discussing some moment from an online game with the young Togruta, Romri. Then he might suddenly stop in the middle of a corridor, his face intensely focused and his gaze fixed on nothing, only to pull out his datapad half a minute later and start frantically typing out notes. His lectures were lively and packed with easy-to-understand analogies. Easy to understand, yes—but most of them were either downright crude or outright indecent. Much like his sense of humor.

Then there was that habit of walking down the corridor with a glowing sign over his head that read I'M NOT HERE. If anyone tried to speak to him, the Director would look at them as if they were an idiot and point at the sign. And the nicknames he gave the students? Penro the Muun had become "Stretch," the Devaronian girl was "Hit-Girl," the Rendili was "Shipwright," and both Sephi were "Ears." The girl from Kuat, at least, had gotten lucky. He called her by her name—Littia. When Shipwright objected, the Director explained, "Shipwrightess sounds awful, and everyone will think the two of you are a couple." The Rendili refused to give up. Pointing at the two Sephi, he noted that they weren't a couple either. The Director looked surprised, asked the natives of Thustra, learned that they were brother and sister, shrugged, and said, "Still relatives."

Some of the students complained, but Tann saw more than simple mockery in it. There was recognition there as well: everyone the Director singled out in his peculiar way had caught his attention during practical lessons. The Devaronian girl, Wilmar Grark's daughter, had earned her nickname after she literally killed one of the other students with a bolt of fire. Burned a fist-sized hole straight through his chest.

While some of the students—including the killer herself—were busy losing their lunch and the rest stood frozen, unsure what they were supposed to do, the Director gave the fluffy girl a light pat on the shoulder and said, "Not bad, actually, but you need to work on your directional vector. Don't puke. I've seen spells with a lot more mistakes than that." Then, right in front of them, he held the body suspended with his aura and, with a running commentary, stripped the dead student to the waist, closed the hole, restored the organs, bones, muscles, and skin... and brought the corpse back to life.

"First corpse," the Academy Director said with a satisfied squint, clapping the slightly unsteady young man on the shoulder. "Go join the others, Deadman. Thanks for giving me a chance to demonstrate what chimerology can do. Next time, though, catch the pulsars with your head—the circlet will protect you."

And that was the full extent of the man's reaction. Though after watching the sorcerer work with her own eyes, Tann could understand why he was so calm: Deadman, a young man from Coruscant, had been dead for no more than ten minutes, and any problems involving his dead brain had been taken care of by the student circlet on his head—the only item of the uniform that everyone was required to wear.

Siith had added at the time, "If you somehow manage to drop dead, this artifact will keep your head in stasis for a week, giving me enough time to repair any damage done to the body. And if the brain itself is threatened, it'll generate a shield that keeps your skulls from suffering irreparable damage."

"Yes, young man?" the Director said in response to the raised hand of the student with a hole burned through his clothes where his heart had been. He was still a little pale, but he was standing steadily now, which earned him a small measure of respect from the Chiss.

"Why does the circlet protect only the head and not the whole body, sir?"

"So you'll have some motivation to learn the basic defensive spells as quickly as possible, obviously," Dziha said with a snort. "Pain, suffering, lost limbs, torment, the agony of death... You have no idea how motivating that can be!"

Tann could imagine it quite well. Pain, at least, was a perfectly workable motivational technique in her Teacher's repertoire. She herself had occasionally used similar methods back home to motivate certain subordinates.

"Admit it—after seeing how efficiently our fluffy beauty," the red-eyed man said, giving the Devaronian a playful wink, "breaks boys' hearts, every one of you thought you should probably put a little more effort into learning defense, am I right?"

At the low murmur of agreement from the students, the sorcerer bared his teeth in a grin that was both cheerful and unnerving, prompting a wave of nervous flinches through the room.

Speaking of names and nicknames, Dziha called the Chiss herself by her full name, which had sparked yet another wave of rumors that the two of them were, at the very least, acquainted—and still left the blue-skinned woman herself puzzled.

But none of that mattered. Why had so many Jedi been sent here? And with an actual Jedi Master—a member of the Council—leading them? That would definitely have to go into her next report. Before that, though, it might be useful to have a word with her new friend. Suti was a busy Twi'lek, but she was also very open and friendly. Tann could easily drop by for ten minutes after classes. The Director usually spent that time in the laboratories, working on his own projects.

The Dark Woman watched the strange little girl work. She was tiny, yet handled the Force with complete confidence. Just as the Jedi who had encountered these sorcerers before had said, the Force felt strange around them. There were no shades of either Dark or Light at all. Instead, there was a sense of rigor and precision—and in this case, a taste of blood and the stench of slaughter.

On the metal table near the center of the fairly large room lay a young bantha. The breed was called a "swamp bantha," though in truth it was simply adapted to worlds with rainy climates. Shorter fur, broader hooves—that was about all the Jedi knew about it.

The room itself was some strange hybrid of a spacious surgical ward, a sorcerer's lair from an old tale, and a technician's workshop. Medical equipment stood alongside cabinets filled with vials of various substances. There were machine tools, two medical droids, everything was sterile and spotless... and a little girl in a floor-length black robe, her hood thrown back.

The Jedi herself remained motionless under concealment atop one of the tall metal cabinets, which looked more like a safe than anything else.

Her independent mission had gone smoothly enough... if she ignored the journey here, when she had been forced to hide from her fellow Jedi, and that peculiar moment when someone—or something—had begun studying her intently from behind. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't identify the source of the observation, and after several attempts the woman had started to feel rather foolish, twisting around beneath the ceiling. Once she activated her concealment and moved to a new vantage point, the sensation of being watched disappeared.

In Kuro's opinion, the Council was taking the newly formed Guild far too lightly. Especially with the shadow of the Dark Side shrouding the future so completely. And the JMG's controversial leader himself raised far too many questions. Who was he? Where had he come from? What exactly was he trying to achieve with the organization he was building? The woman trusted the Grand Master and the Council, but... a little independent verification couldn't hurt. Especially since Master Rancisis was clearly far too favorably disposed toward the red-eyed man.

"Yes!" The girl standing in front of her "patient" jumped up, throwing both fists into the air in triumph. Then she launched into some incomprehensible but exuberant little dance. The redhead's face was glowing with joy and triumph. Very cute child, the thought slipped into the Jedi's mind before she could stop it.

The little girl darted toward the comlink lying on one of the tables, then suddenly froze. "But something's missing," the young sorceress drawled thoughtfully. "Right! The color sucks!"

A few quick steps, and the girl once again froze over the bantha in intense concentration. An'ya felt the Force begin to pour out of the child again. The amount was relatively modest, but the structure of it was another matter entirely. The redhead stood perfectly still. Only her darting pupils, focused on something visible to no one but her, and the faint twitching of her fingers betrayed the fact that this statue was a living person.

Nearly twenty minutes passed with neither of them moving. Then a wave of change swept through the animal lying on the table.

"Heh-heh-heh," the girl giggled in the cartoonishly sinister way only children could manage. "A pink, dwarf, swamp, guard killer bantha. P.D.S.G.K.B.-1. Heh-heh-heh. Dad's gonna lose it! Or maybe... Naaah... The four-butts joke won't be funny a second time. Hee-hee!"

"Mistress, have you finished?" the 2-1B medical droid spoke for the first time. Its companion, an FX-6, also began blinking to life as it came out of standby.

"Yeah, I think that's it." The girl ran her fingers into the hair at the back of her head and scratched thoughtfully. Kuro remembered seeing Siith'khara'Dziha make exactly the same gesture in a holorecording. "Pillkin, you, uh... keep an eye on the PDB... er... PDSGKB-1, hee-hee-hee. If the bantha's still doing fine in an hour, ask someone to move her to a separate enclosure. We'll test her tomorrow—there are Jedi visiting Dad, and I want to see the ones I'm actually allowed to notice!"

The girl grabbed her comlink and dashed out of the room, but not before casting a sly, barely suppressed look of amusement toward the spot where the Jedi was hiding, making her raise an eyebrow in surprise. The Dark Woman did not believe in coincidences like that, so...

A few seconds of silence followed, broken only by the sounds of the medical droids moving about—and by a quiet voice, too soft even for the machines' sensitive sensors to detect:

"I feel... stupid again..."

The young Knight Secura was a little disappointed. She had expected something far more insane from this place than an atmosphere that felt much like an ordinary school. The students they passed gave the sorcerer respectful nods, which he sometimes ignored entirely as he showed the Jedi around his domain.

Lecture halls, rooms for "practical exercises," testing grounds, laboratories... Allowing for the Academy's unusual specialization, it all looked like an ordinary educational institution. Even the students resembled perfectly normal young screwups—or, at the opposite extreme, overachieving nerds hurrying off to whatever they had to do. And for a complex this large, there really weren't that many people around. Aayla had been in places like this before, and while she wouldn't always have described herself as especially... disciplined, she did consider herself observant.

One of the students they passed did make her a little uneasy—a young man who felt very strange. His emotions were there, clear enough, but in the Force... not quite a blank spot, though close to it. It was as if, instead of a young man nearly six feet tall, she were sensing some small animal. His emotions were odd as well: dislike and envy mixed with a sense of... superiority? A rather unusual combination, but... the galaxy was vast. There was no telling who—or what—you might run into.

The biggest dose of cuteness, though, came from the Director's daughter—the red-haired child Aayla had seen at the library opening. She joined the tour right near the end, promising her father a "huuuge surprise" tomorrow. Siith seemed to have mixed feelings about that. His expression held both obvious fondness and a trace of apprehension. Though if the stories about the acklay were true, Aayla could understand why.

"Well, that's about it," the sorcerer said, spreading his hands with that perpetually unpleasant smile of his. "How about dinner now? My house isn't far, and my cook... Trust me, you need to try the food."

"If it wouldn't be an imposition," Master Rancisis said, looking at him questioningly.

"No, not at all. As soon as I was informed that the arriving Jedi were headed for the Academy, I gave orders for dinner to be prepared with guests in mind. And you can tell me what's been going on out there in the wider galaxy. I've been buried in work—only rumors ever seem to reach me," the man added with an exaggeratedly mournful sigh. "We can bring your injured colleague along as well."

"No. He's on a restricted diet and bed rest," Aayla cut in, giving Master Rancisis a stern look. The young woman had no doubt that if Quinlan were offered the chance, he would cling to the opportunity to escape the ward with his teeth and his remaining hand. Her former Master... wasn't exactly disciplined either. "Master Vos is still far too weak to go visiting."

"That's all right. Tomorrow, after the treatment, he can try Maria's cooking," the sorcerer said with an easy shrug, then turned his head toward an empty corner. "What about you, Master Kuro?"

The Jedi turned in surprise toward the white-haired woman who had appeared out of nowhere.

"Damn it! Third time today I've felt like a..." she muttered, trailing off before finishing the sentence, then fixed the red-eyed man with a suspicious stare. "How?"

"The concealment is good," Dziha said with a serious nod. "You just decided to hide in the home of a reasonably competent artifact-maker. And I have a hundred students here, Master. A hundred novice magic-users. Demons only know what might pop into their heads at any given moment. And the instructors aren't much better—mostly youngsters who were sitting behind desks themselves just yesterday, and most of them have already amazed me with the sheer force of their stupidity..."

"Hmph." Karray lifted her little nose, making Aayla smile. The child clearly did not consider herself one of those who had impressed her father with the sheer force of their stupidity.

"So, what about dinner?" Siith'khara'Dziha repeated.

"I don't mind. And what exactly gave me away, you're not going to tell me, are you?" the Dark Woman asked with a caustic, bitter smirk, casting a strange glance at the girl.

"Why wouldn't I?" the sorcerer said in surprise as he headed toward the exit from the academic building. "Body mass and scent particles—that was what gave you away first. And you kept tripping the security system's sensors, which don't rely on the visual spectrum alone. Echolocation, for example."

"So that's what those clicks I keep hearing are," exclaimed the Master, slithering along beside the sorcerer and occasionally shooting Master Kuro looks that promised a conversation later.

"You can hear them?" the red-eyed man asked, surprised all over again. "Your auditory system must be more advanced than ours."

"That's right," the Jedi Master said with a smile. "But don't even think about vivisection!"

"All Jedi are stingy," Karray snorted, still holding her father's hand.

"Karray!" the sorcerer said, giving her a reproachful look.

"But Dad, it's true!"

"Karray!" Dziha said firmly, shaking his head. "No name-calling. Apologize to our guests."

"Ugh..." The girl pulled such a mournful expression that Aayla giggled. "I'm sorry."

"That's better," the sorcerer said with satisfaction, ruffling the child's hair. "Tomorrow you'll be assisting me with the treatment of an almost-whole Jedi Master!"

The girl's eyes went wide with delight, and with a squeal she launched herself at her father for a hug.

"Children," the red-eyed man said to the Jedi with an apologetic smile, though somehow it still came out a little unsettling. "It takes so little to make them happy..."

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 10, 2026

"That little one gives me the creeps," Vos confided to his former Master, flexing his new arm. The Jedi was still impressed by how quickly they had restored the limb and rid him of the lingering weakness left by his severe injuries.

The operation had gone surprisingly quickly and, despite Quinlan remaining conscious at his own request, was almost completely painless. The only discomfort came from faint, sharp twinges as the nerves were connected. There were even "bonuses," as the sorcerer put it. After grafting the arm in place—which the spellcaster had pulled out of some kind of tank full of "soup"—he went over the Jedi's entire body as well. "Everything looks good overall, but we can make it just a little better. At the very least, I can get you off that diet right now," Dziha had said, instantly putting an end to any hesitation on the part of the Jedi Master, who was thoroughly sick of eating extremely healthy and completely tasteless paste.

Overall, Quinlan found himself liking the sorcerer. There was something cheerful and reckless about him, much like Quinlan himself. Even the looks the Jedi occasionally caught him giving his red-haired ward felt familiar. Vos had looked at his own Padawan, Aayla, much the same way—and the girl looked at her adoptive father exactly as the little Twi'lek had once looked at the Kiffar who had saved her. It was obvious there was a deep bond between them, no matter how hard Siith tried to act like a Mentor rather than a father. Not that it fooled anyone outside the two of them. If anything, it felt more like some private game between two people who were very close, with rules only they understood.

The only problem was the way the little thing looked at the Jedi... like a child eyeing a new present. A toy. He had seen little girls happily giggle as they pulled the arms and legs off their dolls, then "played doctor" with them. Brrr... And then there were comments like, "Oh, that's interesting! Dad, look at his gallbladder!" followed by delighted clapping, or, "His respiratory system is completely standard. Boring, even," accompanied by a disapproving shake of the head and a reproachful look aimed straight at the Kiffar. For a second, he had actually felt ashamed of having such unremarkable lungs!

A charismatic little thing. Charismatic—and frighteningly well versed in anatomy, biology, biochemistry... Well, compared to the Jedi Master himself, at least. Most of the terms the girl casually rattled off while peering into a Force projection visualizing the state of his body went completely over his head, even though the education provided at the Temple was very good.

"Come on, Quinlan," Tholme said with a smile. "The child is simply brilliant—and very enthusiastic."

"About your inner world, Master," Aayla giggled, looking over the now whole and healthy Jedi.

"I'd say our inner world," the healed Jedi Master said with a snort, sweeping his gaze over his fellow Jedi. "Not implying anything, but if we ever send one of our people here again, make sure there are at least two of them."

"I second that," Master Bulq said with a crooked smile. "'Mister Sora, you're a Weequay, right? I've never met a Weequay before,'" he quoted the little girl.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," the Twi'lek nodded, then continued. "'Nothing hurts, does it? No? Pleeease?' Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And then she just bats those eyes at you."

"You may find it funny, Knight Secura, but I nearly blurted out that an old leg fracture—healed for five years now—still aches from time to time," Bulq said with a snort. "Sweet child, but yes, a little terrifying. I just hope she doesn't grow into someone we'll have to hunt down."

"Exactly," the Jedi Shadow said darkly, looking at Oppo Rancisis. "With all due respect, Master, you are far too well disposed toward Siith'khara'Dziha."

The Jedi let out a short, weary hiss and rolled his eyes slightly.

"Master, I think you're looking at the situation from the wrong angle. Yes, there is no Darkness in them—the mages, I mean. But there is no Light either. I consider the sorcerers from both sides: their neutrality can be both a danger and an advantage. And I believe I'm handling this correctly. Even you, An'ya, think the old Thisspiasian is taking this new institution that has appeared on that rain-soaked world far too lightly. But I'm not. That is precisely why a member of the Council is here. And not alone, either—Master Bulq is with me, one of the finest swordsmen in the Order. Master Tholme and Knight Secura came to Jabiim with me as well, as Quinlan's former Master and former Padawan. No younglings. No Padawans. Knights and Masters. Not every Council assignment gets a team this strong."

"Master?" the blue-skinned Twi'lek asked, raising her brows in surprise. "So you're not actually fond of the sorcerers—you're only pretending?"

Rancisis laughed cheerfully and shook his head.

"No, Knight Secura. I genuinely like the Guild as a whole, and Master Siith in particular. But two hundred years in the Order have given me a great deal of experience. Not everything is what it seems. Supposed friends stab you in the back when you least expect it. Sentients who seem noble and kind can turn out to be rotten and vicious. And a man named Siith, who looks like a Sith, has red eyes like a Sith, and wears a sinister, unsettling smile... may turn out to be a perfectly reasonable and pleasant fellow, while his Guild may prove a useful ally—or, at the very least, a reliable supplier of Force artifacts. Do you understand, Knight Secura?"

"Master Rancisis is here," Sora Bulq said, nodding to himself. "And he's doing exactly what he should. We're investigating this remarkably stupid report with a team that, in my opinion, is even stronger than necessary. The JMG restored Master Vos's missing arm, which is excellent in its own right. Besides, Master Rancisis's genuine goodwill is far better for diplomatic relations than a grim-faced Master Kuro—or me, for that matter, forgive my bluntness." The Weequay gave the woman an apologetic nod, and she merely waved it off. "And no one tried to obstruct you either, Master. Siith took your... hm, little game of hide-and-seek rather well."

"And that, An'ya, is exactly what spared you an unpleasant conversation with the Council," the Thisspiasian said, shaking his head in disapproval. "It was a reckless decision to go sneaking into the home of Force-sensitives we know so little about. Especially while your colleagues were trying to persuade the leader of those same Force-sensitives to heal one of our own. What would you have said to Master Vos if Siith had dug in his heels and refused to treat him?"

Quinlan merely smiled good-naturedly at that and waved his new hand. Secura, however, gave the Shadow a look that could hardly be called friendly.

"What would you have told the Council if Dziha had refused to work with us the way he refused to work with Corellia? The Greens are still chewing on their lightsaber hilts in frustration, while Corellian shipwrights seem to spend half their time spitting in the direction of the enclave and the customs officials. Our new acquaintances' products have already become extremely, extremely sought after. Jabiim physically cannot meet the demand from the thousands of companies interested in buying their protective amulets, charms, and all sorts of other useful items. And those new hull-strengthening devices? Those alone are worth a fortune. The JMG could simply downgrade the Temple's priority and lose absolutely nothing. We, on the other hand, would lose the already tiny trickle of those concealment rings. You liked those, didn't you, Master? And the amulets that make it much easier for our people to survive combat missions aren't exactly useless either."

"I took the possible threat seriously..." the Shadow began, raising her voice slightly.

"So did I. So did the Council, Master Kuro. So did Grand Master Yoda, who asked me to test the waters as carefully as possible," Rancisis cut her off. He looked perfectly calm, but an attentive observer would have noticed the faint, irritated twitching at the tip of his tail. "I probably would have brought you along without a second thought if you'd come to me with your concerns. I would have calmly taken responsibility if you were discovered. But! Not only did you act on your own, you also made me and the Council look like fools who can't even keep one of their own Masters under control! You're a Shadow, after all—an experienced Jedi Master, not some young Padawan!"

The Dark Woman stood there frowning, doing her best not to meet the eyes of the Council member, who was very clearly in a bad mood.

"Perhaps, Master, it would be better to speak with Master Kuro in private?" John Tholme suggested mildly, casting his colleague a sympathetic look.

"And we'll speak in private as well," the Thisspiasian said with a nod. "But Master Kuro needed to put herself in my place—to feel the embarrassment, the awkwardness, the sheer stupidity of the situation. And it was twice as unpleasant because of how indulgently Master Siith treated the whole thing. He called your little escapade 'a game of hide-and-seek,' An'ya. And he reacted more calmly than some Masters do to youngling mischief. Perhaps, Master Kuro, he meant nothing demeaning by it. Perhaps you see nothing particularly terrible in it either. But I do not like one of the Order's strongest Shadows looking, in the eyes of outsiders, like some girl who not only got caught, but apparently knows nothing about discipline."

An'ya Kuro took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Then she exhaled and looked directly at the Thisspiasian.

"I'm sorry, Master. My actions were reckless," the woman said, bowing her head in acknowledgment of her fault.

"Ah..." Rancisis sighed, almost like a human. "Our lives are an endless education. All of us Jedi, from younglings to Masters, must walk our path with our eyes wide open and listen carefully, so we don't miss the lessons life chooses to teach us. I only hope that you, Master Kuro, everyone here, and myself included, can take at least a grain of wisdom from this situation. We must remember that the actions of a single Jedi can have consequences for the entire Order."

For about a minute, silence hung over the ship's compartment as everyone processed what the Master had said.

"Ahem..." the healed Jedi cleared his throat. "By the way, whoever this Maria is, she's an incredible cook. During dinner, I actually found myself regretting for a moment that Jedi aren't allowed to marry!"

"Pfft." The Twi'lek snorted. "That's only because you've been living on paste this whole time, Master."

"Envy is the path to the Dark Side," Quinlan said with a snort. Master Rancisis chuckled softly, while the others answered with smiles of varying width. Even Master Kuro allowed herself a cautious smile, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly.

"Laugh it up," the Twi'lek said, folding her arms across her chest. "Let's see how funny you find it when the healers get their hands on you and start checking your health." Then, watching the Kiffar's face fall, she added with a wicked little smile, "Vokara Che in particular. She wasn't exactly thrilled by the idea of you being treated by 'some shamans.'"

"Master Rancisis, don't you happen to have some assignment for me? The Force is whispering that I really shouldn't go back to the Temple just yet."

"That's not the Force. That's your survival instinct," the Weequay said with a snort. He was a frequent visitor to the Order's medical wing and knew the head of the Healing Halls' formidable temper firsthand.

"Take it easy for now, Master Vos," Oppo Rancisis said cheerfully. "Tomorrow we still have a trip to the 'military base of the ruthless Gungans' and a tour of the local metalworks. But I think you should start mentally preparing for your meeting with Master Che as early as possible."

"Where am I supposed to find you a Weequay?"

Karray's big, beautiful, terribly sad eyes stared up at me, full of pleading.

"No, sweetheart, we are not kidnapping Master Bulq!"

The girl shifted her pleading gaze to the head of Jabiim's Internal Security Service, who was sitting in the chair beside her.

"And don't look at Cordelia like that! She's not going to kidnap a member of the Order either just so one tiny manipulator can poke around inside him!"

"Well, technically..." the head of Security began hesitantly.

"Cordelia, have you lost your mind?!" I stared at the tough young woman in outrage. One look from my ward and she was already starting to melt. "Stop that immediately! We are not kidnapping Jedi! At least not while they're here on an official visit to Jabiim!"

"Pleeease! Daddy, pleeease! Please, please, please!" Those enormous eyes held all the sorrow in the universe.

"That won't work on me! And besides, you already have a project to work on!"

"Dad, it's a bantha! What could possibly be interesting about a bantha?!"

"What you made out of it! P.D.S.G.K.B.! Venomous spines that stand on end whenever it senses danger, hollow fangs full of venom, the instinct to stay at the edge of the herd, away from other similarly modified banthas... No, it turned out well, I'll give you that. Predators will go for them, get a dose of venom, and die. I even understand the pink fur—it draws attention! But why doesn't it moo? Why does it scream 'SHAZUUUUUU!'?"

"Hee-hee-hee-hee! Did you see how that blue Twi'lek jumped?" the little menace cackled shamelessly, remembering how Aayla Secura had practically leapt like a mountain goat when the redhead's creation suddenly let out its roar earlier that day. "But I'm almost done anyway! One more week, tops, and that's it! Dad, come on, huh? Just one Weequay! Their hides are really tough! They can even take a blaster shot! Besides, they started it! Spying! Aunt Cordelia, tell Dad!"

"Siith, what if we took that white-haired one and..." Stratus perked up when Kuro came up. She wasn't being serious, of course—mostly just teasing me—but the Jedi Shadow had taken a painful swipe at the young woman's professional pride, so the joke carried a distinctly unhealthy amount of enthusiasm.

"No, no, and no! How about... how about I get you a rancor instead? You wanted a rancor, right?"

"Daaaaad... Rancors are boring!"

"What do you mean, boring? Even a five-meter one weighs two tons! And those ugly bastards can grow up to twenty meters! Hide like armor, nearly sentient, fangs, claws, a mouth big enough for you to crawl right into! Come on, say yes and I'll contact Wilmar! Good old Willy will bring you the finest rancor on Dathomir, huh?"

"Can he get one here within a week?" the girl asked thoughtfully.

"Of course he can! Grark's been whining about upgrading his Inferno for ages. I'll hint that we'll move him to the front of the line—he'll come running faster than he would for a request from his daughter. Or an order from his wife. Heh... Those Devaronians are all horned, henpecked husbands."

"Okay, Daddy..." Karray drawled sadly, letting out a mournful sigh. The little girl trudged toward the library door, then sloooowly closed it behind her, watching me all the while with a gaze full of inhumanly profound sorrow. Only the cheerful tap-tap-tap of my ward's little feet spoiled the image of galaxy-sized despair.

"Seriously?" Cordelia raised an eyebrow with a mocking smile. "'Devaronians are all horned, henpecked husbands'? And I'm the one she can twist around her little finger? Karray played you perfectly, and you fell for it! My little darling was after a rancor from the start, not a Jedi. Or maybe a krayt dragon."

"Pfft..." I gave her a condescending look. "As if I didn't know. I'm the one who taught her tricks like that. Just asking for a rancor would've been boring for her, and I didn't want to disappoint her. Let the little one enjoy her small victory."

"Tch, you're annoying!" she snapped, waving me off like some bothersome student before going back to her book.

We sat like that for another ten minutes. Stratus read her book, I read mine, taking occasional sips of caf from an enormous mug.

"By the way, did you know Alto asked your employee out to dinner?" she asked, pulling me away from the page with a distinctly mischievous edge in her voice.

"Shmi?" I asked without looking up from the text.

"Tch. You knew!" Another irritated click of the tongue.

"I didn't know. I guessed," I said with a snort, taking another sip of caf. "I figure after his adjutant landed himself a wizard in the kitchen like Maria, our Commander-in-Chief started thinking that man does not live by the army alone. And Shmi, if she falls short of the mistress of my kitchen at all, it isn't by much. She's a good person too. And after I put her through a few cosmetic procedures and repaired the damage slavery had done to her health... well, she turned into quite the beauty."

"You two are obsessed with cooking," my companion grumbled. Her own culinary skills amounted to opening a self-heating ration pack or ordering from a restaurant.

"You're being unfair." I brushed off her grumbling easily. "Cooking is a good thing, but it's nowhere near the most important one. Skywalker is a wonderful woman in her own right. Very kind, pleasant, caring, fond of children. She has plenty of virtues, one of them being an almost complete lack of self-interest. And you and your brother... you're practically relics in that regard."

"We simply do what's right."

"I'm not arguing with you." I set the book aside and met Cordelia's stubborn stare. "Besides, Shmi is closer to his age, and generally speaking... Suti would be intimidated by him. Romri... her personality just isn't the sort that would appeal to Alto. A couple of the instructors are practically kids themselves. It's only the new students chasing after them. So that really leaves Shmi Skywalker. Especially since your brother was over at her new domain just the other day, inspecting our orphanage."

"Oh, whatever!" The irritated Security chief buried herself in her book again, snorting angrily.

What was wrong with her this time?

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 11, 2026

"Oh, woe is me. Why didn't I die in my cradle?" I practically collapsed into the chair, and a couple of seconds later felt my assistant's gentle but surprisingly strong hands begin kneading my shoulders.

"Thanks, Suti. What would I do without you?" I groaned, closing my eyes. Four days without sleep. Yeah, it had been a long time since I'd buried myself in work this completely, but it had been worth it. Now all that remained was to run a series of tests... Yeah. Right. "All that remained." Pfft. The tests would uncover a whole pile of flaws, and then it would be right back to work again. Sigh...

"I honestly don't know, Boss," the Twi'lek said, and I could practically feel her smiling behind me. "You'd find another assistant?"

"Nah..." I drawled blissfully as she worked the tension out of muscles that had gone rock-hard. I could've used magic, but this was much nicer. "You, my dear, are irreplaceable! Where else am I going to find someone smart, beautiful, dependable, hardworking—and who can dance, too? Just remember one thing: you're the best!"

"Thank you." Suti's soft voice rang with delight. Everyone liked having their efforts acknowledged. I tried not to miss opportunities like that and actually say it aloud, because that sort of thing mattered to loyal people close to you. I had read about—and seen—far too many supposedly devoted sentients betray their patron simply because they no longer felt valued in his eyes.

"So, you said something about a proposal from one of the students?"

"Yes, Boss. Sev'rance and I went into town about a week ago—to a café, for sweets and a chat. Anyway, she asked me to pass along that her employer would be happy to speak with you about the 'Void Hide.'"

"Hmm..." I fell silent. The project was secret. As secret as anything could be under the circumstances, with only one small dock and outside personnel involved. The Stratuses were doing their best, but things still leaked. And I trusted Suti's discretion. The girl wouldn't have blabbed about something like this. We'd worked through far too many lessons on a patron's confidentiality together for that. "So why didn't she come to me herself?"

"Saving her quota," Suti giggled, and I snorted too. Personal meetings with me, as head of the Guild, were limited to one audience per year. Anything beyond that had to go through the secretariat in writing. The rule existed because, during the first year, I'd been absolutely buried in business proposals. That was the downside of having students who were far from nobodies on their own worlds or within their organizations.

I had no desire to deal with anyone outside Jabiim either. I'd had enough of them too. The only exceptions I made were for the Jedi Order and the Chancellor's office. Neither abused the privilege, though. And talking to Palpatine himself, when he once decided to contact me personally, had actually been quite enjoyable. A very charismatic man and an interesting conversationalist.

"Reasonable, though a little petty... Ooooh... Yes, yes, yes! Harder right there! Mmm... Perfect..." I nearly grunted with pleasure. "Set up a meeting with her for next week. Pick a time in my schedule and remind me the day before, all right? And tell Tann I'd be very interested to know where she got her information about the 'Hide.'"

"I'll do it," the Twi'lek replied, and I could hear the delight in her voice.

Suti, for all her lovely personality, was rather reserved and shy whenever she wasn't dancing, and she hardly spent any time on herself. There was always too much work, and her studies ate into what little free time she had. So she didn't have many friends. I just hoped that blue-skinned girl with the pretty eyes wasn't taking advantage of my assistant's fondness for her. Otherwise, I might have to curse someone.

"Would you like caf or an herbal brew?"

"Let's go with the herbal brew. I'll drink something hot and grab a couple of hours of sleep," I decided, but then I glanced at the message that had just popped up on my datapad and changed my mind. "Actually, no. Suti, bring me a stimulant, please. Blue vial, third shelf in the bar. The Jedi have finally arrived."

I sent a reply to the comms staff, and they routed the call from our long-awaited guests to my workstation. A hologram appeared above the desk, showing a fairly young Jedi with a short beard and the Order's traditional robes.

"Master Dziha, greetings," he said. Despite his attempt at the usual Jedi composure, it was obvious the man was nervous. "I'm Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. The Council should have informed you about us."

"Greetings, Knight Kenobi. Everything's been arranged. Bring the patient to me—we're ready to get started."

"Thank you," the Jedi replied, obvious relief entering his voice as his whole posture relaxed. "We're already coming in to land."

"I'll be waiting." I nodded to the hologram, which vanished a moment later, and headed for the office door, downing the vial Suti had handed me as I went. Chimerology or no chimerology, the body still needed certain substances to function at its best.

"Wait." I stopped by the door. "Kenobi... He's the one training Shmi's son, isn't he?" At Suti's puzzled look, I just shook my head. Talking to myself.

I called Skywalker on the comlink.

"Shmi, hi! Listen, I just had an idea. Gather the older kids and bring them to the Academy. We'll give them a tour—just make sure you bring one of the caregivers with you. Yes, I need you here too. Great. I'll make sure someone meets you when you arrive."

I turned to my assistant.

"Suti, find a free instructor and have them organize an unscheduled tour for the kids. Just make sure they don't half-ass it—tell them to stretch it out for a while. Have them take the children to the dining hall for lunch, walk them through the classrooms, show them the animal enclosures too, but carefully. The last thing we need is those little monsters tormenting our animals."

Once the Twi'lek nodded and pulled up the class schedule to find someone suitable, I called in the next elemental force of chaos.

"Karray, my joy, I need your unparalleled acting skills... What?! You little— Have some shame, you pint-sized version of that greedy Togruta! Where am I supposed to put a sarlacc for you?! And that's way too much for ten minutes of hamming it up! A chocolate cake! Fine, two—but your greed is starting to scare me! Are you sure Romri hasn't bitten you? All right, all right, listen carefully..."

"Knight Kenobi." I nodded to the man. Behind him floated a repulsor stretcher carrying the patient, followed by a young Padawan and a scowling Twi'lek.

"Master Dziha," the Jedi said with a slightly strained smile. "It's good to finally meet you in person. Allow me to—"

"I'm Master Healer Vokara Che. This is Anakin Skywalker, Padawan," the Twi'lek cut him off rather brusquely, gesturing toward the boy, who shot her an annoyed look. "Now, to business."

"Business it is, then." I nodded, letting the delegation into my private workshop. "Pillkin, let's get to work."

While the droids transferred the patient, I layered on a cascade of diagnostic spells and activated the necessary modules of the artifact complex built into the "workbench." Judging by the way the Jedi kept turning their heads uneasily, they could sense the magical constructs moving, but aside from a certain wariness, they showed no reaction.

The door slammed behind me...

"Dad! You've got a patient, and you didn't call me?!" There was so much surprise, disbelief, hurt, sadness, and disappointment in little Karray's voice... A born actress, no question. And the best part was, every bit of it was genuine.

Some Jedi could sense an outright lie with ease. Useful, sure—but people had learned how to fool them a very long time ago. Even on the HoloNet, on certain sites, you could find thousands of articles along the lines of "How to Fool a Jedi." Almost all of it was garbage, but hey. Anyone with a functioning brain understood that if you couldn't lie, then you simply had to tell the right truth. So that was exactly what Karray and I were going to do—serve up the truth, seasoned with genuine emotion.

"Sweetheart," I began, playing the part of someone caught red-handed. "This is a very difficult case. I'm not even sure I can pull it off myself, so you'd only be a distraction."

"But... but..." The sniffing behind me made it clear just how "deeply" I had wounded my ward.

"Karray, my joy..." There was a slap as a new, fully charged amulet landed beside the old stasis amulet. I turned to the girl, tears already running down her cheeks. I caught the boy giving me a hostile look and chuckled inwardly. Perceptive kid. I liked him already. I crouched down and looked into the eyes of my "hurt" little ward. "This is a very serious case of poisoning. The patient literally died just as she was being placed in stasis. Please..."

Then I "suddenly noticed" Skywalker. He had softened a little, but was still clearly upset. The teenager cast a look full of pain and hope toward the table where the patient lay, then lowered his head with a heavy sigh.

"Please, Karray, show Anakin around our Academy. He's a real Jedi." The boy clearly started to object, then thought better of it, lifting his chin slightly and giving his Padawan braid a little toss. "And he can tell you all about the Order. You'd like to hear what real Jedi are actually like, wouldn't you?"

"Really?" The girl's eyes lit up with wide-eyed admiration as she looked at him, and the boy visibly straightened his shoulders before giving her an important little nod.

"Kenobi..." the Master Healer said impatiently, looking at the boy's teacher.

"Yes, ahem... Anakin, go take the tour. Master Rancisis said there are plenty of interesting things to see here."

Skywalker gave Obi-Wan a slightly wounded, accusing look, then glanced back at the patient's body, sighed again, and gave my ward a genuinely pleasant smile.

"Want to go? Jedi life isn't all that exciting. But if you want, I can tell you about a couple of missions where I had to save my Master from some pretty difficult situations..."

I nearly laughed under my breath. From the look of things, the two of them had a pretty good relationship if the boy listened to his Master but wasn't afraid to throw in his own two credits. Kenobi's long-suffering expression was pretty funny too.

"Back to business," the blue-skinned Twi'lek practically growled, fixing me with a demanding stare. Then, after a long exhale, she bowed her head apologetically. "Forgive me, Master. It is difficult for me to see Master Yaddle in this condition."

"I understand completely." I nodded gravely as I approached the workbench. "There's no need to worry. The job is difficult, certainly, but not impossible. I recently had to regrow a student's torso—now that was a pain. Deadman lived up to his nickname yet again..."

Muttering under my breath, I had already brought up an illusion of the dead goblin woman's body in front of us. Whatever had happened to the Jedi, they had at least managed to get a stasis amulet onto Yaddle in time when the lethal dose of toxins killed her. The Jedi had very quickly come to appreciate just how useful those artifacts were. So much so that Alto and I were starting to consider raiding pirates ourselves, because the sort who specialized in robbery and slave-taking had become rather scarce visitors lately.

Anakin walked beside Dziha's ward, listening to her chatter and answering her questions, but he was a little distracted. The teenager was worried about Yaddle. The kind, wise, and sometimes amusing Master had quite literally sacrificed her life, using a Force technique to draw all the lethal poison the villains had released into herself. She had saved everyone else at the cost of her own life.

"And then, after all that, my Master says to me..." Anakin smiled softly as he told the amusing story he had promised about one of his adventures with Obi-Wan. Even as he talked, his thoughts kept drifting back to their frantic journey to Coruscant, to the healers throwing up their hands in the Healing Halls, and to how Vokara Che herself—who had recently put Master Vos through endless tests and examinations and was none too trusting of the sorcerers from Jabiim—had ultimately been the one to suggest contacting Master Siith.

The boy was glad his Master had volunteered to accompany Master Che and Master Yaddle to Jabiim, and he had flatly refused to stay behind at the Temple to rest. There was little he could actually do, but Skywalker felt that coming with them was the right thing. No, it wasn't the Force whispering to him. It was his conscience. He needed to be there for the one who had died so that he could live.

"And these are our little ones," Karray's bright voice broke the brief silence that had followed Anakin's story. Some of the children in the group—about twenty of them altogether—looked roughly the same age as the sorcerer's ward, which made her dismissive "little ones" rather amusing. "Some of them might become mages too, if they want to! Hi, Shmi! How are you?"

"Oh, Karray." The woman, who had been standing with her back to them a short distance from the group of children, turned toward Anakin and the young witch. "Do you know where Bo—"

She froze, staring at the Padawan and completely forgetting what she had meant to ask Karray. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then began looking around frantically, perhaps searching for the other Jedi. Her gaze flicked over the sorcerer's student before returning to her son's face, which she stared at in disbelief.

"Ani..." she whispered, barely audible, taking one small, hesitant step forward. Then she stopped.

Anakin had no idea how long he stood there motionless, staring at the painfully familiar features of his mother's face. His mother, whom he had left behind on Tatooine. Whom he had abandoned in slavery. Force, how many hours had he spent blaming himself for leaving with the Jedi? How many times had he begged the elders to save her? And how happy had he been when that letter finally came... He would be lying if he said he had flown here for her. But saying he hadn't expected to see her would be a lie too.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no..." the girl beside him suddenly wailed in a very unconvincing voice, wearing a strangely bright, sad little smile. "I just remembered! I haven't fed my rancor! I have to go right now! Shmi, could you please show the Jedi around the Academy? I'm really, really late! Pancake gets grumpy if he doesn't eat!"

"What... Ooooh..." the teenager drawled as realization finally dawned on him.

"Yeeeep," the little menace said with a cheerful grin, giving the Padawan a roguish wink. She took a couple of steps, stopped, then turned back again. "There aren't any classes in the north wing today, Shmi. Oh, and just so you know—I like chocolate cake!"

By then, the girl had already put enough distance between herself and the Skywalkers that they couldn't hear her giggling to herself and counting her winnings.

"At least four cakes! Two from Dad, and Shmi will definitely give me two more. And if that boy isn't as stingy as the rest of the Jedi, he'll cough up another cake or two! Then I'll invite Romri over to help me eat all the goodies!"

Yaddle thought she was dead. Those were the first thoughts that came to her when awareness returned. The one thing arguing against death—and dissolving into the Force—was just how utterly awful she felt. Everything hurt. Literally everything, right down to the tips of her ears. She was badly nauseous too, and there was such a fierce ringing inside her skull that she couldn't hear anything else.

The moment she opened her eyes, she regretted it. The blurry ceiling seemed to have a life of its own, performing some kind of insane dance. Oh, this felt awful...

The Master remembered how, a very, very long time ago, just after earning the rank of Knight, she had made a mistake in a cantina and drunk quite a lot of something sweet that had turned out to be alcoholic. Fortunately, she hadn't had a Padawan at the time. A vomiting Master was a poor example for a student.

"So I survived," she didn't so much whisper as breathe out softly, closing her eyes again. The mad dance of her surroundings threatened to have some very unpleasant consequences.

She had no idea how long she spent fighting the nausea. Maybe a minute. Maybe a couple of hours. It was hard to focus on anything. But then, in one beautiful, glorious moment, a soft, gentle warmth enveloped her mind. The pain began to fade. The nausea receded. Even the vile high-pitched ringing in her head slowly died away.

"Ooooh..." she heard a vaguely familiar male voice, tinged with respect and admiration. "So that's what Force healing is like! What finesse, Grand Master! I'm impressed!"

"I'm a Master," came a voice Yaddle knew very well. Vokara Che—the stern Twi'lek, senior healer of the Medical Corps, and a good friend of hers.

"Swinging sticks around and shoving people with the Force doesn't take much brains!" the man spoke again. "But your skill—that's practically a divine miracle! Believe me, I know what I'm talking about."

"You don't need to flatter me. And besides, Master Siith, I need to concentrate. Could you perhaps..." Vokara fell silent, but Yaddle could practically hear the unspoken request for him to kindly fuck off to Sith-knows-where. She smiled faintly. The Twi'lek rarely bothered choosing her words when someone got in the way of her work.

"Understood, Grand Master. I'll be quiet," the man said. Yaddle was certain that if she opened her eyes again, she would see that terrifying but cheerful smile on the Jabiim sorcerer's face.

After that, she lay in relative silence, washed over by waves of gentle, healing Force. Somewhere in the background, she could hear the sorcerer speaking softly, heaping praise on the Jedi art of healing. Knight Kenobi answered him in the same hushed tone. It was obvious that the young but very talented Jedi appreciated the praise. Even Vokara, standing nearby, radiated a quiet sense of approval.

"Yaddle, how are you feeling?" the Twi'lek suddenly asked.

The Jedi Master risked opening her eyes again. The result pleased her: the ceiling was barely swaying now. Granted, Master Che seemed to have four eyes and an extra lekku, which made the diminutive Jedi break into a rather silly smile.

"Better than before," she replied quietly, feeling her tongue stumble over the words. Only three words, yet saying them had exhausted her so much that she could feel herself rapidly slipping into sleep... Or was Vokara working her magic again?

The Temple's finest healer let out a relieved breath. Master Yaddle's life was no longer in danger. Praise the Force. The woman allowed herself a quick glance at the sorcerer standing nearby and, catching his questioning look, gave him a grateful smile.

"Master Siith, would you mind if we stayed here for a couple of days?" Truthfully, she would have preferred to return to the Temple, but Yaddle would be better off resting for a while. Space was unpredictable—and dangerous.

"Of course." The sorcerer smiled faintly, sending a small herd of goosebumps racing between Vokara's shoulder blades. "I was actually going to suggest the same thing. To be honest, right up until the very end I wasn't sure it would work. Master Yaddle was literally saturated with that filth. Yes, Master Che, if it hadn't been for your help..."

The presumably human man gave a sealed jar of black-and-red sludge a shake—only for Knight Kenobi to immediately take it away from him.

"I'm a Master," the Twi'lek said wearily, shaking her head with a faint smile and giving Obi-Wan a small nod. "And I can say the same to you: without your method of removing the toxins, the stasis, and the ability to work on each organ separately... The Force may be all-powerful, but I am not."

"Well, I'm not a Master either," the sorcerer snorted, glancing toward the young bearded Jedi, who was tucking the jar beneath his robe while wearing an expression of complete innocence. "And since you Jedi insist on calling me by that title, I'm now honor-bound to exact terrible revenge, Grand Master!"

"Indeed," Kenobi said with a smile as he closed his robe over the jar. "A truly devious revenge. And if I understood correctly..."

The man glanced questioningly toward the sleeping Yaddle. Master Che closed her eyes in satisfaction.

"Everything went well. We'll keep her under observation for a couple of days together with..." The healer gave the head of the JMG an exaggeratedly vindictive smile. "Together with Master Siith. After that, we should be able to fly back to Coruscant."

The sorcerer was smiling cheerfully, which made both Jedi a little uneasy, though by now they were almost used to it. Almost. Master Rancisis hadn't spent all that time briefing them before departure for nothing. The Thisspiasian had lamented over comms that he couldn't accompany Che and Kenobi himself, but he had done his best to prepare them for meeting the Jabiim sorcerer.

"Then, my dear guests, would you honor my household by allowing me to host you at my manor for these two days?"

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 12, 2026

"So... yeah." Karray stared at the enormous box, trying to imagine just how big the cake inside must be and how much chocolate it contained. The Jedi boy had turned out to be a decent guy after all, not a cheapskate like some members of his Order.

"Thanks." Karray wasn't stupid. One look at the boy, several years older than her and concentrating hard on keeping his bulky load balanced, told her she should accept the gift, but doing it right here in the corridor was probably a bad idea.

As for the gift itself... She looked at the young blond's face, happy and serious at the same time.

Yeah. He meant it.

Which meant...

"Come on, hurry up. That's gotta be heavy, right?"

Ignoring the Padawan's raised eyebrows, Karray scampered toward her private workshop. It wasn't far, and the young chimerologist could easily have carried the oversized sugary token of the Jedi boy's gratitude herself, but... She was a girl, right? And a boy had given her a cake to make her happy! Besides, she was so very delicate. Dad still wouldn't let her start tinkering with her own body.

"'Better not start making changes until your body's fully developed,'" she muttered, mimicking Dad under her breath. Karray understood the reasoning, but it was still interesting! She didn't believe for a second that he couldn't deal with any negative consequences. Dad was just busy.

And lazy.

Anakin was huffing and puffing right behind her, so Karray hurried to pull open the door to her inner sanctum and let him go in first.

"Put it right here... yeah... just don't squash it!" The boy set the box down with obvious relief. "Careful, Ani! There's a cake in there!"

"A huge cake!" the Padawan breathed, looking around. "Whoa. This is just like Master Siith's."

"Of course it is." The girl tilted her nose proudly into the air. "This is my workshop. I study and work here! Dad says you should never skimp on your workspace. That's how you end up making really stupid mistakes. And the huge cake is chocolate, right?"

And then the dummy went and opened the box! She almost smacked him. Half the fun of getting a present, after the present itself, was unwrapp...

"Wooooow..."

"I heard you wanted a sarlacc. I don't have a real one, so..."

"No waaaay!!!"

Young Skywalker smiled with satisfaction as he watched the sheer delight spread across the girl's face.

The cake was a genuine work of art, one Anakin had ordered in Jabiim's capital. The top had been made to look like desert sand, with a deep pit in the middle and the maw of a gigantic monster peeking up from its depths. The sides and interior were made from layers of chocolate cream in different shades and the softest sponge cake.

The cake itself was huge, and then there was the rush delivery on top of that. Jedi weren't allowed to own personal property, but flying around with no credits at all would have been stupid and inconvenient. If only his Master would bring a little more money on missions.

In the end, Anakin had spent every credit he had on the cake.

Though compared to what Master Siith and his apprentice had done for him, the gift still felt like such a small thing.

"And that's not just decoration," Anakin said with a chuckle, pointing at the maw. "There's an actual chocolate sarlacc buried inside the cake."

"That is so coooool..." the girl breathed in awe, then slapped the Padawan on the shoulder. "I've never eaten a sarlacc before. Not even a chocolate one! Thanks!"

The boy actually grunted in surprise. Well...

"Actually, I'm the one who should be thanking you," he said, shaking his head.

"You know..." The girl suddenly looked at the Padawan with complete seriousness. "I lost my parents when I was very little. All I remember is their scent, their warmth... vague images..."

Karray fell silent and stared at the cake. A few seconds passed before a sly glint appeared in her eyes and she looked back at Anakin.

"Have you ever fed a rancor by hand?"

"You mean with my hands? As you can see, I still have both of them, so no," the Padawan snorted, holding up his intact hands.

"Come on, I'll introduce you to Pancake!" the little witch lit up, grabbing Anakin by the sleeve and dragging him toward the door. She was already reaching for it when she glanced back at the cake.

"We need to hide it!"

The young Padawan found himself released while Karray scampered over to something that looked like a safe twice her height. She shielded the password interface from view, tapped it a few times with one finger, and the obviously heavy door began to swing slowly open. A breath of cool air drifted out.

Boxes stood on the shelves inside. Anakin counted six of them, all different sizes.

"Put it right here, please," Karray said, pointing to an empty spot on the bottom shelf.

Without a word, the teenager picked up his gift and set it in the designated spot. Then he raised one eyebrow and looked at the little witch.

"You did not see the strategic cake reserves," Karray said with a solemn little face, waving one hand in front of Skywalker's eyes while using the other to hit the button that activated the closing mechanism.

The boy's eyes widened at first, but when he felt no touch of the Force, he burst out laughing at the girl's utterly serious expression. Then he pulled himself together, wiped the grin from his face, and stared blankly off into nowhere.

"I did not see the strategic cake reserves in the refrigerator with the vault door."

His composure lasted all of a few seconds before he started laughing again.

The little menace gave him a sly grin, snorted, grabbed him by the sleeve again, and dragged him toward the door.

"Now we're going to see Pancake. Just don't be scared. He's nice, and really smart. Way smarter than an acklay. He even understands what people say. Dad told me they ride rancors on Dathomir," the little witch chattered as she towed Anakin toward the animal enclosures. "He promised that once he's sure Pancake is safe, he'll let me ride him too."

The Padawan was about to say a few words about how dangerous ambitions like that could be, but the little chatterbox cut him off.

"Just imagine it! Me all in black, hood up, riding a rancor to the pastry shop! That's epic levels of epic!"

"Exactly, Master! Just imagine it. Us in flowing robes, lightsabers ignited, charging the enemy... on rancors!"

"Anakin..." Obi-Wan Kenobi wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We are not training rancors."

"More's the pity," his Padawan huffed, pretending to be offended. Kenobi knew him far too well to believe it. "It'd be epic levels of epic!"

"Quite an impression Pancake made on you, young Skywalker?" Grand Master Yaddle asked with an amused but tired smile. She was sitting with the others in the ship's common room.

"Oh, definitely." The young Jedi scratched the tip of his nose. "A giant monster obeying a tiny squirt without question is not something you forget. And when Karray made him wear a sheet like a bib before we started feeding him... I'd read that rancors were semi-sentient, but still. It was amazing. There's a lot of interesting stuff there in general."

"Master Che?" Kenobi tried to change the subject, turning to the healer, who had fallen deep into thought. "You've been awfully quiet. Is everything all right?"

The blue-skinned Twi'lek slowly raised her eyes to the Knight. It was obvious she still wasn't quite with them.

"What?" the Jedi Master and head of the Healing Halls asked in surprise, as though only just realizing she was sitting there with everyone else.

"All right, are you, Vokara?" Even Yaddle was beginning to worry. "Deep in thought, you seem. About what?"

"Ah! Yes, I'm fine." The healer smiled a little sheepishly and made a reassuring gesture with one hand. Then she looked seriously at the Grand Master. "Yaddle, we need to send someone to Jabiim to study. Please support me when I bring it before the Council."

"Not so skeptical of them anymore, are you?" Skywalker asked with a faintly teasing grin.

After they had arranged for him to see his mother, and after Master Yaddle had been healed, Anakin had come away with a very favorable impression of the mages. And then there was the fact that Dziha had bought his mother from Watto, taken her away from Tatooine, freed her, healed her, and given her safe work she genuinely enjoyed.

After that conversation with his mother, Anakin felt calm and happy, perhaps for the first time since leaving Mos Espa. For the first time, he understood the peace of mind the older Jedi spoke of so often.

His mother was safe. He no longer had to fear that some drunken mercenary might shoot her in a fit of rage and settle things with Watto afterward for a mere handful of Hutt credits. Or worry that some failing machine might explode and maim her. Or... there had been so many things to fear. Far too many.

Young Skywalker couldn't even remember how many times he had woken from a nightmare with his mother at the center of it.

So Anakin felt deeply grateful to Master Siith. And he liked little Karray too. The energetic girl was a little cheerfully unhinged, just like her adoptive father, but as the Padawan had already realized, that was perfectly normal in their strange family.

"Well... he didn't adopt me. I dadopted him," the little squirt had giggled as she told Anakin how she and her sister had been taken out of the orphanage. "The moment I saw him, I decided that the cool red-eyed guy was going to be my dad. He still puts up a fight and won't call me his daughter, but I'm not stupid. I can tell how he feels."

Listening to Karray's stories about all the crazy things that happened in her life, Anakin had thought he wouldn't mind having a fun adoptive father like that himself.

And life with mages just seemed more... eventful, somehow. With a touch of chaos and mild insanity. Something was always happening. Things exploded, extra asses grew where they shouldn't, limbs got torn off and then reattached by a grumbling headmaster... One of the local students, nicknamed Deadman, had even managed to die four times. Compared to the Jedi Order's usual solemnity, there was definitely no chance of getting bored here.

But he also remembered what Master Che had said about the Jabiim mages and the doubts she had voiced about them. He remembered, and it bothered him a little. The teenager knew he shouldn't feel that way, but he couldn't help it.

"Anakin," Kenobi chided his Padawan, but Vokara only gave a quiet snort.

"I stopped thinking of them as clowns when Quinlan Vos came back with a working arm instead of a stump, young Padawan." The Twi'lek smiled faintly at the young Jedi's challenging look. "I've spent many years devoting myself to healing my brothers and sisters. And I didn't become a Master Healer through stubbornness alone."

Then, as if she had forgotten what she was saying, Vokara fell silent. Her fingers traced the seam of her robe, and her gaze wandered around the common room.

"What I saw was a miracle, Padawan Skywalker." The healer's sharp, intelligent gaze settled on the blond Padawan, taking some of the wind out of Anakin's sails. "The work of our healers is a miracle too. It's just that our miracles are different. There are things the sorcerers do less effectively than we do, and vice versa. Their methods are different. They don't work with the Force the way Jedi or Sith do. Until recently, I would have considered what Siith was doing impossible."

"It was also extremely unappetizing," Obi-Wan said with a grimace, remembering the operation on Grand Master Yaddle.

"If it means my brothers and sisters don't die in my arms, I'm willing to do a great deal. Even sort through every organ one by one, the way Dziha does."

"There is no Death," Yaddle said calmly.

"There is only the Great Force," the healer agreed with a nod. "But I see no reason to rush off and meet It."

For a while, the Grand Master stared thoughtfully at her palm. Back then, on Mawan... If not for Kenobi and that Jabiim artifact, she would not be sitting in this common room now, listening to this conversation.

She had gone to her death knowingly. Her life in exchange for the lives of two young, promising Jedi and an entire city behind them was a fair price. It was difficult to put into words what she had felt when, after being revived, the turmoil in her mind and senses had finally subsided.

Life... was wonderful.

She had always known that. But to understand that simple truth in all its detail, to see the countless shades hidden within that one small word, life, to savor its full taste and feel every letter of it, she had needed to die.

And no, the Jedi Master was not afraid of death. It was hard to fear something you understood and were prepared for. But she had realized just how much she loved being alive.

And if, as Vokara said, Master Siith and his methods could save even one mortally wounded Jedi, then Yaddle simply had no right not to support the healer. More than that, the Council's lack of urgency on the matter no longer seemed prudent to her. It seemed criminal. And in the eyes of the head of the Medical Corps, Yaddle saw her own thoughts reflected back at her.

Regrowing Master Vos's arm in such a short time, then attaching it successfully, had already dealt a serious blow to Che's skepticism toward the JMG. Fast, effective, cheap. It sounded like a scam or a fairy tale.

That was why the Twi'lek had practically tortured the Kiffar with analyses, tests, and examinations. And she had found nothing.

The arm was as good as his own. No defects. Not even a scar. The healer had found nothing suspicious, nothing worrying, nothing that gave her pause. Quinlan felt perfectly fine and was already putting his newly restored limb through its paces, while complaining every day about the atrocities committed by the Order's healers.

And now Yaddle. They had literally taken her dead body apart organ by organ, put her back together, and revived her. And, as Dziha had put it, "patched up a few minor things as a bonus." According to Vokara, the Grand Master now had the healthiest insides in the entire Order.

"How do you see this working?" the Grand Master asked, turning her attention back to the Twi'lek.

"Send two Padawans to Jabiim to study: Barriss Offee and Aubrie Wyn. They're the most gifted healers of the younger generation. If they can master the art of magic as well, then..." Vokara Che let the thought trail off, but the pleased, almost dreamy look in her eyes said everything for her.

"Hmm... Young, they are, Vokara," Yaddle said doubtfully. "And their Masters, Unduli and Sirrus... Two Masters spending years sitting in Jabiim's rain is not an idea the Council will approve. Nor will they send them there alone. What may come of Siith's influence if it proves less than beneficial, we do not know. See Jedi fall again, neither I nor the Council wish to. Knights, perhaps. Only Knights could be sent, Vokara."

"Mmm..." The Twi'lek closed her eyes briefly in agreement, accepting the logic of Yaddle's argument. "Then Knight Stass Allie and Knight Rig Nema, who currently serves as a healer with the Medical Corps. Allie is already close to earning the rank of Master, and Nema's talent never ceases to impress me."

Yaddle smiled at the flicker of displeasure that crossed Vokara's eyes. The Master Healer took any weakening of the Medical Corps very personally, and this proposal of hers... One might say she was practically tearing Knight Nema away from herself. It was a sacrifice that showed just how seriously her friend took the matter.

"Very well." The Grand Master nodded. "At the next Council meeting, your proposal I will bring up for discussion. Support you, I shall. Speak with Oppo, I will, and with the Grand Master as well."

"Um... Grand Master, with all due respect," I said, staring at the hologram of the little goblin with a mixture of confusion and mild irritation.

My colleagues were right: if you're going to do good, do it in such a way that people only come to you as a last resort. Apparently, I'd overdone it showing everyone what wonderful, upstanding people my mages and I were. As if I didn't have enough to do already without teaching Jedi.

Although...

Hmm. How would magic behave in the hands of Force-sensitives? Hmmm...

And besides, getting the students into diagnostic rituals would be ridiculously easy. I could study the whole phenomenon of Force users while I was at it. Looked at that way, they were practically handing me experienced Force-sensitives who already knew what they were doing.

"Master Siith?" the little old Jedi reminded me of his presence, eyes narrowing in amusement. "Still with me, are you?"

"Mmm... Yes, yes. Got lost in thought. So, Grand Master. In principle, I don't mind, but I won't take more than three. Two would be better. We don't teach chimerology at the Academy, so it would have to be personal apprenticeship. And I'll warn you now: it'll be expensive, take a long time, and be very, very miserable..."

"Hmm? We were planning to ask you to take two. Why would the students be miserable?" the little goblin asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I'll be miserable," I sighed, scratching my beard mournfully. "It's the time, Grand Master. I hate giving up the time. I just hope they're not children?"

"No." The goblin's good-natured smile returned, and somehow it still irritated me a little. "Both are Knights. One nearly a Master is. Strong healers, both are. Master Che recommended them. Trouble for you, they will not cause. Speak with them, I will."

"Then we have a deal, Grand Master. I very much hope the candidates know how to listen to their teacher. Otherwise, no hard feelings, but I'll send them straight back to Coruscant. Chimerology has no patience for carelessness or foolish stubbornness."

"Good. Acceptable, that is." Yoda nodded gravely.

We talked for another hour or so. About this and that: the students, the problems that came with them, Grand Master Yaddle's condition, the state of the galaxy in general, and the separatist sentiment spreading everywhere.

That last point, incidentally, had Alto seriously worried. Our Commander-in-Chief had been grumbling about the trouble it might cause. Jabiim had only just begun clawing its way out of crushing poverty, chronic shortages of practically everything, and a miserable standard of living when unrest started brewing across the Republic, and the reports from our analysts were anything but reassuring.

Stratus had even, astonishingly enough, wished the Jedi luck in restoring order during one of our conversations. Whatever his feelings toward the Temple and the Senate, Jabiim's well-being always came first for him.

Yoda, as it turned out, was just as concerned about the situation, and so was Chancellor Palpatine. The diminutive Jedi shared no classified information, but according to him, both the Order's diplomats and the Senate's diplomatic staff were being run ragged trying to stabilize the Republic.

"A will behind all this, I can feel. An evil, dark will," the Jedi said with a frown. The Grand Master gave me a sharp look and worried his lower lip for a moment, as though hesitating. "Certain we are that the Sith are behind it. The heirs of Darth Bane are stirring up trouble across the galaxy. Unseen, they taint everything their schemes touch. Even the Order can feel the foul breath of the Dark Side. More Jedi are falling. Master Yaddle's condition, too, was the result of unseen puppet masters and their intrigues."

The Grand Master let out a heavy sigh and spent several seconds staring grimly at some point beyond the hologram.

"Old I am, Master Siith'khara'Dziha." He smiled, but not as he usually did. There was sadness in it, and a trace of bitterness. A couple of seconds later, though, he gave a quiet huff and let the mood go. Or perhaps merely hid it, his usual good-natured, faintly sly amusement returning to his face. "With age comes the urge to complain, especially in the company of the young. Pay it no mind. Know I do that you understand the burden of command. Only the scale differs between us."

So the goblin and I spent a while grumbling like a pair of old men. Truth be told, talking to him, or to Yaddle for that matter, still catches me off guard sometimes. I'm too used to members of his species being short-lived back in my world. There were exceptions, obviously, but still. And their conversations usually revolved around three things: fucking, drinking, and fighting.

Some part of me probably still expects Yoda to start bragging about how many young Knights he's managed to bed over the past fifty years.

Yeah. Mental inertia.

All right, that was all well and good, but today I had a meeting with another Jedi. A former Jedi this time, one who had left the Order and gone back out into the world, so to speak.

The Count of Serenno, Sev'rance Tann's patron, had struck me as a very respectable representative of the aristocracy. We hadn't spoken for long, just enough to arrange our upcoming meeting, but I found both his manners and his calm, friendly way of speaking quite pleasant.

And his beard was almost as good as mine.

A man with a beard that well groomed simply couldn't be a villain.

I smirked at the absurdity of the thought as I made my way toward the conference room at an unhurried pace. Right then, a message popped up on my datapad informing me that the Count was already waiting.

Everything was lining up perfectly.

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 13, 2026

Shella Grark strode briskly into the dining hall and headed toward her usual group of students. The Academy's second-year veterans had begun looking down their noses a little at the latest batch of first-years, and not without reason.

This place did not forgive carelessness. And when students ended up injured or maimed, the administration and instructors usually laughed and piled on with some truly venomous mockery.

The daughter of a smuggler well known in certain circles had been spectacularly lucky. In all her time at the Academy, she had never suffered so much as a bruise. Her fellow students in the combat department were nowhere near as fortunate. There was a reason she had two nicknames: Fluffy and Hit-Girl. Sometimes, mostly when the Director was involved, the two were combined.

One of her friends was Deadman, a student in the General Magic department. At this point, it was probably both a nickname and a calling.

Despite being human and from Coruscant, the guy had no particular prejudice against non-humans, so he had fit easily into their little group of oddballs. Well, that and the fact that the other humans had started giving him a wide berth. Apparently, the young man had left all his luck back home. He died about once every couple of months.

Rarely through any fault of his own.

The first time, Shella herself had been the one to kill him. The guilt gnawing at her afterward, along with a heavy dose of remorse, became the starting point of their surprisingly pleasant friendship and of the human's eventual acceptance into the little group of assorted species.

And after that, things really got rolling.

He broke his neck falling down a staircase. Then some Mando's blaster decided to fire all by itself and put a bolt through his throat. After that, Karray's pink Killer Bantha mauled him to death because he smelled like a local predator. During a visit to the enclosure, he had somehow managed to step directly into one of the creature's scent marks.

Karray had been extremely grateful to her involuntary "test subject" afterward. According to her design, the animal wasn't supposed to attack humans.

Apparently, nobody had told the bantha.

And so on, and so forth. As for injuries and missing limbs, he had long since lost count. Director Dziha had even given him an amulet enchanted with anesthesia, for which Deadman was deeply grateful to the red-eyed sorcerer.

And now Shella had heard that her friend had somehow managed to die yet again.

Maybe some people found it funny, but Shella had seen what came after. Every time Deadman came back, he spent the next few days quiet and miserable.

"Deadman, how in the name of a Hutt's slimy tongue did you manage to kick the bucket again?" the fluffy Devaronian exclaimed, throwing up her hands as she reached the lunch table where the rest of their little group had already gathered.

The Coruscant native only let out a heavy sigh and gave a mournful shrug. The cute little Devaronian took every one of his deaths harder than he did himself. In a strange way, it was almost nice.

The accusatory tone, though, was a little depressing. As if he were doing it on purpose!

The young man had only just come from the Director's workshop. By then it was already lunchtime, and he had missed all his morning classes.

Now he'd have to catch up.

Again.

"He botched the water-condensation spell, and before that he forgot to put up protection against direct effects. Blew up like a soap bubble. Splattered half the classroom," the young Sephi snorted, rolling her eyes. "This isn't funny anymore, human. That was basic magic. We learned it practically at the very beginning! What were you even thinking about during class?"

The Muun sitting beside him continued eating with impeccable manners, merely nodding in agreement and giving the human, once again recently deceased, a disapproving look.

It wasn't that Deadman's habit of dying at random particularly bothered him.

What bothered him was that the last time the man had exploded, he'd decorated the Muun with most of his internal organs.

Lunch had suffered.

"I think it's the nickname," Tolvit, the Rendili native everyone called Shipwright, said thoughtfully, rubbing his cheek with one finger. "You know how it is with starships. Give one a name, and sooner or later it starts living up to it. I suggest we try not calling Deadman 'Deadman' for a while."

"Oh, sure. Next you'll tell me that after a whole year you'll somehow switch gears and start calling him by his actual name. Even the instructors use the Director's nicknames for everyone," snorted the male Sephi whom Siith'khara'Dziha had, with characteristic generosity, also dubbed Ears. His sister was Ears too.

She only let out a heavy sigh. Their nicknames had driven her absolutely insane at first, but eventually she had gotten used to them and accepted her fate.

"And Deadman..." her brother went on. "It just fits him way too well, you know? At this point, we're stuck in a vicious circle."

"Um... actually, buddy, what's your name again?" Tolvit asked awkwardly, scratching the back of his head as he looked at his perpetually dying friend.

They had introduced themselves once, but that had been a long time ago, and the nickname had stuck to the Coruscant native like glue.

"Kenny McCormick," the guy answered calmly.

He was, in fact, the most even-tempered sentient in their entire year. Even the long-lived Sephi and the slightly stuffy Muun seemed overly emotional by comparison. Kenny himself explained it by saying that Death had touched him far too many times. Sooner or later, you started looking at life from a slightly different angle, and little things simply stopped getting under your skin or stirring much emotion.

"Don't worry, Kenny." The Devaronian gently stroked the back of his hand, mistaking the guy's philosophical calm for distress. She had already taken her seat and started working on her lunch. "It's just that the Academy is a little more dangerous than..."

A loud crack snapped from the next table. Something shrieked through the air. There was a heavy impact, and Deadman's chest simply burst open.

Hot blood hit them first.

Then came the rest.

Wet scraps of flesh and shredded tissue slapped across the table, splattered the food, and stuck to clothes, fur, and faces. For one frozen second, nobody moved.

"...than everywhere else," Shella Grark finished grimly, staring down at her ruined clothes and the fresh streaks of blood matting her fur.

"Oh my God, they killed Kenny!" Ears said mournfully, shaking her head as she glanced at the shocked group of first-years at the next table. Whatever had hit their friend had come from over there.

Actually, what the hell had that been?

"Bast'rds!" Penro growled, using two fingers to pull a shard of rib out of his arm.

At that exact moment, the once-again-dead Deadman pitched face-first into the bowl of soup he'd been eating before everything went to hell, sending a generous splash straight over the Devaronian sitting beside him.

"Well..." What followed was a complex string of obscenities in Fluffy's native language. The serving of broth had been the final shot to what remained of her patience. "Hutt-damned first-years!!!"

And it probably would have ended in bloodshed, because Shella had already conjured a pulsar in her palm, a spell she was the best in her year at handling, and turned toward the terrified cluster of first-years.

A couple of them, overwhelmed by the sudden carnage, were busy losing their lunches. The rest looked distinctly pale and green around the gills.

Even the Rodian, whose skin was green to begin with, somehow looked a little sick.

So yes, a couple of deaths were probably about to happen, followed by a lecture from the Director and almost certainly a call from her father. Maybe even her mother.

Shella was prepared to accept the consequences.

The brand-new, obscenely expensive dress she had put on for the first time that morning looked absolutely perfect with her fur, and she had been planning to show it off in front of one very handsome Mando who happened to be on duty at the animal enclosures today.

And now it was ruined.

Her fur was a mess.

She reeked of blood...

And soup!!!

Grrrr!!!

The first-years were saved by the delighted squeal of a little girl behind the Devaronian.

"I told you we needed to check on Deadman!" The Director's adopted daughter sounded absolutely thrilled, and that cheerful squeal cooled young Grark's temper a little. "We got lucky! Thank Hecate and the clumsy hands of beginner artifact-makers! Did you see the amulet go flying? And how it splaaattered?! Blood everywhere!!!"

"Karray, you shouldn't be happy about someone else's..." began a delicate-looking green-skinned Jedi, trying to admonish the girl.

"Blah-blah-blah, la-la-la! I can't heeeear yoooou!" The little girl clapped her hands over her ears and cheerfully hurried over to the body lying face-first in the soup.

With a flick of her aura, Karray tipped Deadman back against the chair, presenting the room with a hole in his chest roughly the size of a child's head. You could see his spine through it without even having to squint.

"Ooooh... That hit hard! What did you guys shoot him with?"

"Bleeergh!" came the answer from the next table.

Deadman's friends looked a little shaken too, though none of them showed any particularly strong signs of disgust or horror. After a year and a half at the Academy, they had seen plenty. And if they hadn't personally witnessed horrific-looking injuries and even outright death being fixed by the Director or his ward, most of them would probably have fled the Academy long ago, non-refundable tuition be damned.

Against that backdrop, the two Sephi stood out rather favorably, calmly wiping themselves clean with napkins, as did the red-eyed Sev'rance Tann. She, in fact, had managed to dive under the table in time, and her perfectly clean, neat appearance was currently irritating Shella more than a little.

"Was that a force-field umbrella?" The speaker was answering Karray's question, but his voice was practically overflowing with uncertainty.

"...Huh?" Karray froze for several seconds with one finger raised and an utterly blank expression on her face. It was such a simple artifact, practically one of the first things students learned to make on their own. Especially for the local weather. "But that's... How... how did you even manage that?!"

The girl stared into the killer's eyes with a hint of admiration, trying to imagine what you had to screw up badly enough for an artifact to launch itself across the room and then explode like a weak, unstable pulsar.

But the shock and utter confusion on the would-be artifact-maker's face made her sigh sadly. Apparently, there would be no explanation.

And the little artifact that had gone berserk, probably not even an amulet but just a simple protective charm, was... well.

It had killed Deadman.

"Eh, whatever." She waved it off and turned her attention back to the body, which slid off the chair and onto the floor under her gaze. "Come on, girls! I'll show you how it's done. You can assist and get some practice."

An aura tendril wrapped around the corpse's ankle, and the body went dragging along behind Karray as she headed for the cafeteria exit, leaving a bloody trail across the floor.

The two Jedi women exchanged a look, sighed, and followed the little girl.

"Karray, listen, you really can't just drag him like that..." Knight Rig Nema tried once again to steer the Director's daughter onto the right path, only to be cut off immediately.

"La-la-la! I can't hear you!!!" The girl clapped her hands over her ears again and quickened her pace. "Hecate, why couldn't they have sent Ani here to study? He's definitely not this much of a bore," she muttered under her breath.

Stass was at least fairly easy to get along with. Rig, on the other hand, was the very definition of a goody-two-shoes. All her "you can't do that," "that's wrong," and similar lectures had already driven the little witch up the wall.

The people watching the three chimerologists and today's test subject leave fell into two distinct camps. Those who had already survived their first year and were heading into their second simply went back to eating as if nothing had happened. The more squeamish among them just swapped seats with someone less bothered by the view so they wouldn't have to look at Deadman's table.

The newer students, who had only just started practical training, were having a much harder time working up an appetite.

The table of the "killers" stood out in particular. One especially sensitive girl from Naboo was already on the verge of hysterics. No one blamed her for it; plenty of them had gone through something similar themselves.

But then she said something that made everyone's attitude toward her words change rather abruptly.

"...! And that psycho little br—"

The girl from Naboo never got to finish. Shella Grark seemed to teleport across the room and clapped a hand over her mouth. Fortunately, she'd at least managed to scrub the blood... and soup... off her palms first.

"Girl, what are you doing?! Are you completely out of your mind?" Despite the indignant tone, the Devaronian was suddenly smiling very broadly and very openly, her whole demeanor changing in an instant. "That is the sweetest little girl, Karray. A chi-me-rol-o-gist and a sorceress. And she's also the personal ward of Siith'khara'Dziha, our Director!"

The girl from Naboo tried to say something, but the Devaronian pressed one finger to her lips.

"Shh, shh. Let Shelly finish first, and then you can do whatever you want, okay? Now listen, girl. Shelly's trying to help you here." The fluffy Devaronian bared her teeth in a smile that was somehow both predatory and friendly. "Little Karray learned surveillance spells a while back. And she will find out what you say about her. Kids are curious! And they get offended easily too, trust your friend Shelly on that one. I should know. Every new little brat Mom produces after Dad's latest visit to Devaron somehow ends up becoming my problem."

The girl from Naboo tried to speak again and once again got cut off.

"Shhh. She'll find out if you say something nasty about her, and Hecate forbid she takes offense. The kid's a genius, and she's making incredible progress in chimerology. And lately the Director's been dumping most of the injured on her to deal with, savvy? Shelly sincerely does not want you waking up after 'treatment' and discovering that instead of one adorable little ass, you now have four."

Watching the Naboo girl's eyes widen as understanding dawned, along with the rest of her table, young Grark stretched her friendly smile even wider and gave the girl a hearty pat on the shoulder.

"No, of course she'll fix the unfortunate little mistake. She'll even apologize. If you're lucky, the sweet girl might give you some cake too... But that'll all be later, savvy? She might suddenly have something urgent to do, and your life won't exactly be in danger, right? So you'll spend three or four hours shaking four asses around. Maybe a couple of days, until she gets some free time.

"And don't forget, friend, sweet little Karray might decide your buddies think badly of her too... Want me to keep going?"

The entire group shook their heads in unison. Satisfied, the Devaronian winked at the now even paler student from Naboo.

"There we go. Much better! Shelly's glad she could help her new friend and all her buddies! And hey... if you ever need something rare, don't be shy. Come to Shelly. We're friends now, and the Grarks always give friends a nice discount."

Under the deathly silence of the whole group, the girl headed back toward her own friends. They were getting ready to go change and had only been waiting for her. Sev'rance, oddly enough, was still with them too, just for the company.

"Shelly, in m'ments like this, y' remind me of your father," the Muun said with a smile.

"Spit that out! Hecate forbid my fur starts falling out!" young Grark widened her eyes in mock horror. "And look who's talking! The second you hear credits clinking, your ears perk right up."

"Pffft. Weren't you the one who just offered to smuggle things for them? Even promised them a discount?" Ears chuckled quietly.

"Mollob, look at me!" the Devaronian said, rolling her eyes. "This dress cost almost six hundred credits! At the rate my wardrobe keeps getting destroyed, I'll be walking around naked soon! Tolvit, not a word!"

The Rendili, who had already opened his mouth with a lecherous grin spreading across his face, deliberately clicked his teeth together and shut his "talker." That earned a round of amused snorts from everyone around him. Shipwright had long since earned himself a reputation as both a joker and a womanizer, so it wasn't hard to guess what he had been about to say.

"Anyway! Dad pays me a modest cut of every client deal, so my wardrobe has a very personal stake in the prosperity of the family business."

"And, if it's not a secret, how modest a p'rcentage are we talking?" Penro asked.

"Secret! But between us, for his own daughter, he could afford to make it a little less modest. Horned miser," the girl grumbled. "By the way, Pen-Pen, if you're interested, I happen to have a couple of kyber crystals..."

"Still a bit early f'r me to work with those," the Muun sighed.

"I'd like to see them," Tann suddenly spoke up. "Will you show me?"

"Of course, friend." The girl, who had been looking a little deflated, immediately perked back up and broke into a wide smile. In her imagination, she was already counting the credits she could use to refresh her wardrobe. Maybe even buy herself a new pair of shoes. Jabiim's shoemakers only made closed leather shoes, but they were beautiful and exceptionally well made.

"You don't need to change, right? Then come on, let's go to Shelly's room! Shelly will show you her whole collection! They sparkle and shimmer like treasure from a fairy tale! Trust me, even if you don't end up needing them, you can always sell them to some Jedi!"

"And there goes the sales pitch," Ears said, rolling her eyes as the others laughed.

"I'm practicing. I can't live off my mother forever. Besides, I'm not the heir, so I need to prepare for an independent life." The Devaronian lifted her nose proudly. Under normal circumstances it would have looked rather cute. Covered in blood as she was now, however, the effect was mildly infernal. "So my plan is to have my own business, a normal husband who keeps his nose out of women's business, and a couple of clever daughters."

"Ah-ha-ha-ha!" the Sephi burst out laughing. "Make a move on the Director. He'd be perfect for you! He's got more than enough of his own business to deal with, so he definitely wouldn't stick his nose into yours... Uh... Shelly?"

The young Devaronian was frowning in deep concentration, clearly giving the idea serious thought.

"Wait..." she muttered. "He does keep calling me Fluffy... Maybe he likes me? I mean, why not? He's a good-looking man, doesn't waste his time on stupid things, doesn't chase after girls. Unlike my father! And he's a chimerologist. I doubt species compatibility would be much of a problem for him!"

"Whoa, whoa, friend!" Tolvit exclaimed. "You're forgetting he doesn't just call you Fluffy. It's Fluffy Hit-Girl! Or sometimes Furry Death! And if all those rumors are true, there's already been a whole pack of predators circling him for years!"

"You don't circle around a good man," young Grark said instructively, raising one finger. "You whack him over the head with a club and drag him back to the cave by the horns! Men never understand hints anyway."

"Uh-huh," the Sephi snorted. She knew perfectly well that her friend had been eyeing a young Mando for quite a while now, one already sporting a few scars and often assigned to duty at the animal enclosures.

Funny how Shelly was never seen anywhere near him with a club.

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 14, 2026

Alto Stratus was quietly happy. Cautiously so, still not quite trusting the feeling, but... For more than a year, not a single citizen of his world had died at the hands of bandits looking to profit off Jabiim. Six months had passed since every library promised to Siith had been completed. Four months since the foundry had reached full capacity. For the past two months, modern hospitals had been fully operational in every major city, staffed with doctors hired from the wider galaxy. His own people had been sent to study at prestigious medical schools, while three chimerologists were now gaining practical experience in the capital: young Karray and two Jedi.

And home... Yes, his home—a place he had probably visited once every six months at best, spending most of his time in quarters scattered across military bases or in the living space set aside for him in the government building. His wife lived there now, and at last the Commander-in-Chief actually wanted to go home. Of his own free will. Eagerly. Happily. Impatient to get back. A small, private happiness for a man who had spent so long trying to make his whole world happy.

Looking back, he remembered the road he had taken. Long, difficult, bloody, exhausting. But every hardship along the way had been worth it. He had chosen that path himself, and he alone was responsible for everything he had done. Back then, still just a boy, standing over the bodies of his mother and father, he had understood one thing with absolute clarity: the life of an ordinary civilian was not for him. He simply could not live that way.

Now Commander-in-Chief of Jabiim's armed forces and, in practice, the leader of his world, Alto had long since mourned his parents. Their deaths had not broken the boy. They had hardened him. Maybe even poisoned something inside him. Back then, watching the accursed Lythian ships vanish into the rain-dark sky, Alto had thought that a strong Jabiim would never have allowed this to happen. That was the moment the dream first caught fire in him—a dark, hungry flame, orange-red like the houses burning through the downpour, roofs collapsing inward as fire chewed through timber and flesh alike. Black smoke rolled low and greasy through the rain, thick with the stink of scorched meat, wet ash, and blood turning cold in the mud. And inside the crackle and hiss of the flames, Alto could almost hear it all again: the broken groans of the dying, the raw screams of those who had survived by accident, and beneath them both, heavier than any sound, the silence of the dead.

A dream of strength. Not for himself, but for all of them. For old Vort, sitting there with empty eyes beside the mangled body of his daughter, too numb even to notice the blood still running from his own wounds. For their neighbors, whose son Alto would never again be able to visit so they could play on the game console his uncle had brought back from Pzob. For everyone who, in that moment, could not decide whether to be grateful they had survived or collapse under the weight of everything they had lost. And for Alto himself. A dream of a future where bastards like the ones who had just descended from the sky would be dead—and the people of Jabiim would not.

But dreams were for the weak, so young Stratus chose to act. He gave the dream a new name, called it a goal, and set out on a road made of millions of steps. He chose the path of a warrior and poured every spare hour into training. Then came his first battles, his first kills, and with them the fierce satisfaction of knowing that those particular bastards would never hurt anyone again. There was an old saying: "If you kill a killer, the number of killers in the world stays the same." So what did that mean? Simple enough. You just had to kill more than one. Then the numbers worked out.

In every battle, Alto tried to make the galaxy a little cleaner, as much as his strength and circumstances allowed. But he never lost his head. There were always good people of Jabiim fighting beside him, and their lives depended on his judgment. One mistake, and those who rushed to save an overzealous comrade who had trapped himself through reckless action could die with him. And their deaths would be on the hands of a fool who had thought too highly of himself. Bronze Halo, one of his world's elite units, was not a gang of idiots but a force of serious professionals, and earning a place among them had cost Alto an enormous amount of work. Even with the help and influence of his uncle, Cordelia's father, who served as a captain in the planetary-defense forces, they would never have taken him if he had not scored highly in the selection tests.

For that, he trained until the blisters bled, spent the lion's share of his inheritance on instructors, tutors, and endless hours at the firing range. He even managed to persuade a veteran of the Black Gloves to train him, which, truth be told, had not been all that difficult. The old warrior, a true patriot of his world, had recognized and respected the young man's determination.

His first promotion. His first real success in his career. Another step toward the goal he had set for himself. More battles fought beneath sheets of pouring rain. Victories and failures for his unit alike. The most bitter failures were the ones that had not been his fault at all, but the fault of Bronze Halo's command, which at the time was made up almost entirely of the second and third sons of aristocratic families.

Aristocrats. Most of them could not have cared less about the problems of ordinary people. A break in the clouds, and two pirate ships had gone down through it? There was a small settlement and a mine below! Send a unit to secure the mine first. The settlement could make do with whatever was left.

And the result... A mine left completely untouched, because the pirates had never even looked its way. There was too little room in their holds for stolen ore to bring in any worthwhile profit. And a settlement left in ruins. Homes looted. Civilians murdered, wounded, raped, dragged away into slavery. The endless rain seemed like the bitter tears of his homeland, weeping for the maimed, the dead, and the lost. Jabiim suffered, and young Alto suffered with it. Unlike his world, however, the young man hid his own tears behind his helmet. Bitter, furious tears. Salty drops running down his cheeks, each one carrying a promise of death for every bastard he crossed paths with.

The decorated officer's rise through the ranks was slow from then on. Not because he lacked merit, but because he had made the mistake of speaking far too honestly about the wealthy to someone who should never have heard those opinions. Even so, he eventually forced his way to the very top. First he became commander of Bronze Halo, and later, after earning the unofficial title of People's Hero, he took part in consolidating four elite units into a single formation.

The Black Gloves, D.E.E.P., Stone Avalanche, Bronze Halo. All four became part of a single organization: Nimbus. And Alto Stratus stood at its head. He approached the job thoroughly. Most of the aristocracy's little darlings could be pushed aside one way or another: framed, removed through carefully arranged accidents, or helped into transfers to more comfortable posts in the capital. Patrol routes were redrawn, greatly improving the effectiveness of the special forces. And so the already famous name of Alto Stratus began to be heard across Jabiim even more often, and with ever greater weight.

His soldiers were everywhere, and often he was there with them. The commander went into battle alongside his people, generously watering the soil of his homeland with enemy blood. Nor did he forget the fallen, fighting successfully for increased benefits for the families of soldiers who had given their lives defending the people of Jabiim. Support for disabled veterans, better weapons and equipment for the troops, promotions for officers who had earned them. He was loved and respected. People followed him. His name was spoken with admiration, and young Jabiimites dreamed of "being like Alto Stratus—the Hero of Jabiim."

But despite all the Commander's successes... it still was not enough. Nimbus could not be everywhere, and sometimes it simply could not arrive in time. Stratus tried to secure funding to expand its ranks, purchase air-defense systems for smaller settlements, and obtain authorization to form local militia units, but the aristocracy...

Stratus had become far too influential among the military establishment. The local bigwigs feared that one day he might use the soldiers who adored him for something other than defending the planet—namely, overthrowing the government. Without even realizing it, they pushed Alto closer and closer to that very idea. And in the end, it was they who convinced the Commander that such measures might indeed be necessary. Cordelia, his cousin and most loyal supporter, uncovered several agents who had been preparing to bring the Hero's glorious career to a permanent end.

Those men met tragic ends in yet another battle. A simple matter of unfortunate circumstances. A shortage of personnel had forced even headquarters staff into the fighting, after all. Nimbus was an elite unit, where even the accountants were trained to fight and kill.

They had a plan. Alto, Cordelia, and their most trusted supporters were already working to put it into motion. Only two things held them back: the Republic, and their unwillingness to spill the blood of their own people. The same Republic that could not have cared less about Jabiim might still interfere. Justiciars and senators well greased by the aristocracy could easily draw attention to what was happening. And after that... it would come down to luck. Coruscant might shrug indifferently, as it usually did, or it might send in peacekeepers. And then there was the prospect of civil war...

He did not care how many offworlders died, but he wanted no deaths among his own people, no slaughter of Jabiimites by Jabiimites. Revolution always meant fratricide, and Alto was not desperate enough for that. Again and again, he sent the plan back for revision, postponed it, bargained with new allies, and waited for the right moment—for an opportunity that would guarantee both the least possible bloodshed among his own people and no response from the thieves on Coruscant.

And then he met Siith. The red-eyed sorcerer, whom Alto had initially taken for a Sith, was blunt, candid, utterly unscrupulous, and at first glance perhaps even insane. After a while, the commander of Nimbus stopped doubting that Siith knew about most of the plans concerning him and simply regarded them with indulgent amusement. He openly showed Alto and Cordelia what he was capable of, making no attempt to hide it, and spoke with disarming directness about things that could easily have been dismissed as the ravings of a madman. But when madness was backed by facts, could it still be called madness?

The sorcerer began working for Nimbus and Stratus. At least, that was how someone unfamiliar with their relationship might have described it. In reality, it was more of an exchange of favors, a peculiar kind of "barter in gratitude." Siith, for example, supplied Nimbus with cheap but remarkably effective equivalents of personal shields, while Alto provided him with whatever he needed. Siith healed wounded soldiers, and Stratus "thanked" him in material terms. The sorcerer demonstrated his power over the weather, and the Commander ensured that he had every prospect of a comfortable life. Siith never inflated his prices or tried to gouge them simply because his abilities were unique, and Alto Stratus did his best to match that same sense of fair dealing.

Clever old sorcerer. The Stratuses had not even noticed when he stopped being a suspicious Force-sensitive and became instead the man with the habitually unsettling smile, someone to whom they owed a great deal and no longer thought of as an outsider. There had been frank conversations whenever their schedules allowed, fascinating stories, enticing possibilities. And generosity, yes. Generosity that seemed almost unbelievable to the Commander and the head of his Security Service, though the sorcerer himself did not consider it generosity at all.

Sharing knowledge? Gladly. The sooner there were mages capable of churning out charms and amulets themselves, the less often people would bother him about it. The "airspeeders," whose design he had simply handed over to a pair of students, waving aside any talk of royalties or a percentage of the profits. The slightly frightening little Karray and her sister Karina, both of whom adored their patron and whom he was teaching the deeper mysteries of the sorcerer's Art.

And his goals? His goals were to work on his own projects in as much comfort as possible. "I'm investing my time in Jabiim and the JMG so that, a few decades from now, I'll have a place to work where no one keeps dragging me away from it, and perhaps a group of spellcasters who share my interests," the sorcerer had once said.

That had been after the "pandemic" did all the dirty work for Alto. It killed off most of the aristocracy and his political opponents, opened up positions throughout the government, and made it possible to hold genuinely free and democratic elections. Fortunately, the information that surfaced in the process meant he barely had to worry about campaigning at all. More than ninety percent of the planet's population logged into the voting portal without hesitation and chose him as the new leader of their world.

Then came... office work. Ohhh... Ooooooh... No, there had been plenty of it when he was general of Nimbus too, but the scale was incomparable. Alto shuddered inwardly whenever he imagined the sheer mountain of work resting on the shoulders of someone like the Supreme Chancellor. And Palpatine, unlike Valorum—may his name not be spoken after dark—clearly took a much more active role in the affairs of the Republic.

The Commander-in-Chief would gladly have dumped all that paperwork on someone else and gone off to fight another battle. But first, there was no one to dump it on: Cordelia was already working herself to the bone, and all their supporters had their own posts and more than enough to do. And second, he had not fought his way to power for so long only to finally gain the ability to change something and then shove the burden onto someone else.

And so Alto and his people threw themselves wholeheartedly into an offensive against corruption, bureaucracy, military weakness, the lack of a fleet, the poor standard of living, and the appalling state of healthcare. Jabiim's problems could have filled a very long list, and fighting them consumed an enormous amount of time.

But the results... Alto narrowed his eyes in sheer satisfaction as he took a sip of the excellent caf his wife had made before disappearing into the bath. A former captive of a desert world, she could spend an eternity soaking in water, and her love for Jabiim's endless rain never ceased to delight her husband.

The results brought deep satisfaction in the work they had done. A small squadron capable of repelling most pirate raids; an expanded Nimbus force; better-trained troops; small militia units established throughout the planet; air-defense systems, and in some places even anti-space defenses, protecting nearly every settlement.

The last part had turned out to be mildly amusing. The people of Jabiim had suffered pirate raids for thousands of years, and they welcomed the small military installations so warmly that the rations sent for the soldiers and support crews were almost never needed. Village matrons, kindhearted townswomen, and simply concerned citizens had gotten into the habit of feeding the troops home-cooked meals. The soldiers were only too happy to oblige, and command mostly turned a blind eye to it, especially since the men chipped in for groceries in return, even if some of the locals protested. The only problem was that when the Commander-in-Chief happened to attend one inspection in person, he found, instead of ten lean, fit soldiers, ten well-fed little dumplings with rosy cheeks and bellies already beginning to form.

Stratus furrowed his brow ominously as he watched those rosy, well-fed faces drain pale, then issued an order requiring the personnel at every air- and anti-space-defense installation to pass their fitness standards at least once every three months. He swept the ten soldiers with a disapproving look, sighed sadly, and asked whether they understood that if the enemy ever broke through the defensive fire of their little battery, those who survived would have to take up arms and protect the very civilians who, out of kindness and a certain lack of judgment, insisted on stuffing their soldiers without restraint. Were people's lives really worth their laziness, negligence, and gluttony—especially when all that loving care was already beginning to spill over their belts? There were no punishments the first time around, but the squad leader was marked for closer scrutiny, and the regional defense chief received a verbal dressing-down.

The fact that pirates had been "treating" their world to raids less and less often did not give the planetary-defense forces any right to relax. Every soldier and officer had to be ready for anything, because Jabiim remembered not only raids by squadrons of two to five ships, but also massive assaults by entire pirate fleets.

And thanks to the weather-control artifact complexes, command had plans for just such a scenario. The part of the squadron stationed in orbit would evacuate the personnel from the orbital dock and withdraw, while openings in the cloud cover and ion storms, created where and when they were needed and then sealed again at the right moment, would allow the planetary-defense forces to destroy the invaders on the ground—under conditions where Nimbus would tear the enemy apart the way Siith's mysterious dog would tear up a rag.

Recent tests had shown that even specialized cloud-dispersal compounds were almost useless if the weather-machine operators pushed their systems to maximum counteraction. So if the Lythians or Trandoshans ever risked launching a raid on that scale, they would drown in their own blood, while Jabiim would gain a substantial supply of "resources" for the creation of stasis amulets—artifacts whose value was measured against the most precious thing their planet possessed: the lives of the sentients who called it home.

Another of Stratus's victories was Jabiim's industry, finally clawing its way out of the humiliating position the aristocracy had left it in. Siith had a hand in that as well, once again stirring a wave of gratitude in the Commander-in-Chief. Once again, the sorcerer had not made the whole enterprise dependent on himself. He had created a smooth-running process, trained the necessary personnel, and generously handed the whole thing over to the people. This time, Stratus simply could not bring himself to accept such a gift for free and made sure a percentage of the profits was regularly transferred to Siith's account. If he had done otherwise, his conscience would have strangled him... and most likely Cordelia would have finished the job.

Now that the foundry had reached full capacity, it was providing a substantial boost to the planetary budget. Local manufacturing had begun to grow as well. Not exactly like mushrooms after rain just yet, but the private sector was gradually coming to life, slowly but steadily supplying the domestic market and even producing some goods for export.

Those same "speeders" were wildly popular on certain worlds and among particular groups of sentients, largely because even a military-grade EMP could not disable them. Their main drawback was that rapidly recharging the reservoirs required special stationary pump platforms, but even so, buyers kept taking them and asking for more. They also kept sending the machines back for tuning and routine maintenance. Production remained limited, which was unfortunate—but scarcity did make it possible to put truly enormous markups on units intended for export.

And Siith's latest project was something else entirely. The "Void Hide": an interface module that allowed a mage to control a starship as though it were their own body. It required an initiated mage as the pilot, and learning to "fly" it—or, as the sorcerer put it, to use a "puppet body"—was an extremely difficult and dangerous process. The human brain had to adapt to being a starship as well, with sensors instead of eyes and engines instead of limbs. The pilot had to learn how to maneuver, take off and land, interact with the life-support systems, and push the engines into afterburner. It was difficult not only physically, but psychologically as well. Their only pilot had complained that she sometimes got confused and tried to take off in her real body. Dziha had reassured her, though, that it would pass with time.

For now, the project remained relatively classified. Access was limited to Jabiim's fleet and small craft. Well... and to the Count of Serenno.

Alto grimaced as though from a toothache and took another sip of the fragrant drink, trying to wash away the bitter taste of his Security Service's defeat and the phantom sting of a finger-flick to the nose. As always, caf made by Shmi Stratus reconciled him with reality and drew a resigned sigh from his lips. It had been far too naive to assume that powerful sentients would be unable to get around the information-security defenses of what was, if he was being honest, a backward world.

It was fortunate, at least, that Count Dooku was a man of genuine honor. He demanded nothing, made no threats, and attempted no blackmail. During his very first face-to-face conversation with Siith, he had even promised that if the sorcerer refused, the information would remain secret. The ruler of Serenno, a former Jedi who had somehow learned that testing of the sorcerer's latest development was complete, had become eager to have a Dziha-Trant Control Module installed aboard his own ship.

The ship itself, incidentally, was truly one of a kind, and Tano, who was teaching the Count how to use the new interface, practically drooled over it—both over the exclusivity of the modified model and over its staggering price tag.

As one might expect, the Count's request—a very well-paid request—was granted. Siith performed Dooku's initiation as a spellcaster, showed him exercises for developing his aura, promised to offer advice if needed, and then dumped the Count on his only mage-pilot so far: a greedy Neimoidian in the body of a pretty Togruta, the aforementioned Romri Tano.

Their meeting as fellow rulers had gone very pleasantly as well. The former Jedi's views on the Republic's current state resonated strongly with Alto; the Count's criticisms of the situation were simply too precise and too incisive not to. The result, as Dziha liked to put it with one of his sly, unsettling smiles, was a successful test of the system with a Force-sensitive, a substantial sum transferred to their dock—and therefore into the planetary budget—and generous payments to Tano as the instructor, to the sorcerer himself, and to the young engineer from Rendili who had co-authored the technical side of the project and was now the wife of Ras, second pilot and navigator aboard the sorcerer's personal cruiser, the Rung. And then there were several verbal agreements with the ruler of Serenno which, in the future, could bring Jabiim a healthy profit... and Alto himself a fair amount of satisfaction.

In particular, Count Dooku had hinted, lightly but unmistakably, that he would be willing to take part in a raid on Lythia, whose pirates occasionally harassed Serenno's merchant ships in the surrounding sectors. And that was another slap on the ass for the Security Service, because such a plan did exist—but only as something still being developed, not even as a proper draft yet.

The Jabiim government had launched a "Return of Our Own" program, under which any bounty hunter or slave owner who brought an abducted Jabiimite home could expect a cash reward. For now, the payments were modest—the treasury was not bottomless, and the number of people who had been taken away ran into the thousands... But Alto was working on that, as was the planet's entire population, donating whatever sums they were willing and able to part with to the program's accounts.

Besides those willing to return his people voluntarily, there were also places like the pirate capital of their region. Those bastards were never going to negotiate. So headquarters was now trying to figure out how to hit them as hard as possible, evacuate as many slaves as possible, and avoid getting smacked down by the Republic's justiciars, who were unlikely to appreciate a unilateral military operation.

Alto had given the Count no definite answer yet, only promised to think it over. The Commander-in-Chief had never been spoiled by kindness from outsiders, and alongside his growing regard for the ruler of Serenno, the situation stirred his suspicions as well.

Author's Note:

Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you so much for still reading this fanfic. Huge thanks as well for all the moral support in the form of likes and comments—and for the financial support too. Hapsiel smooches-smooches to everyone.)))

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 15, 2026

Vacation. Now there was a funny invention. Dangerous, too. Terrifying, even. Worse than drugs. You try it once, and that's it—you're hooked. The sentients of this universe had invented something truly monstrous. If anyone had told me ten years ago that one day I'd be counting up my banked vacation days, I would have laughed in their face. Neighed, more like. Vacation? What for? Work was fun. And if you got tired and felt like seeing the world, you packed your crap and went. And yet... here I was.

But things worked a little differently here. For one thing, a good chunk of my time went to things I didn't actually find interesting. Teaching had its own charms, especially when I got to shock the student body. Trouble was, the little bastards eventually got used to everything. These days, the veteran assholes who had survived more than a year here even made sure to prepare the first-years in advance. Which took a great deal of the fun out of it. Granted, the "veterans" themselves were hardly above finding some creative way to screw with the newcomers.

The portal project, for example, remained almost entirely theoretical. It was too soon. The sheer scale of this universe made the whole thing problematic enough, and then there was the small matter of that one successful breach having dumped me clear into another universe...

In short, until I can build a research complex on some lifeless planet where there's no risk of unleashing a full-scale apocalypse on the local sentients, I've decided to hold off. I have to be honest with myself: opening a window onto one of the demonic planes is entirely possible, and there is no one here capable of dealing with whatever comes through. I'd get eaten alive, plain and simple, by an endless tide of lesser demons, and the greater ones are ancient creatures thousands of years old—powerful, cunning, intelligent things for whom one sorcerer would amount to little more than a light snack on the way to several trillion much tastier souls. Hecate couldn't handle that alone, not at her current level of power, and I have no intention of letting the rest of the pantheon in here. Gods accumulate far too many strange fixations under the influence of worship and their own aspects.

So. Vacation. I'd finally accumulated enough time for a proper trip through a few interesting worlds. My "best friend" Willy had sold me, at a fairly merciful price, safe and little-known routes to several planets that had caught my interest. This time it wouldn't be another mad dash across the galaxy, but a proper scientific expedition. The witch clans of Dathomir, for example, had caught my attention.

These Force-sensitives not only breed and train rancors... though that isn't quite accurate. The local ladies have, in a sense, integrated the semi-sentient creatures into their society and use them as transportation, combat assets, and heavy machinery—something along the lines of bulldozers and excavators. Rumor also has it that the witches of Dathomir practice not only Force techniques but some form of sorcery of their own, which interests me a great deal. That was also the world where young Pancake, my daughter's beloved pet, had been purchased. Karray absolutely adores the ugly brute, and the rancor himself is surprisingly intelligent, obedient, and deeply attached to the young sorceress.

And yes, the little menace finally wore me down. I officially adopted her. Karray'darla'Dziha joined my bloodline, becoming my daughter and first heir. She handled the blood-changing ritual remarkably well. The only downside was that the Lightbringer's curse transferred to her as well, so now the little brat struts around with black sclera and red irises. Damn divine curses. Fortunately, she wasn't upset. Quite the opposite. Now we scare the students together. Karray has even started taking lessons from Romri in the "Siith smile," paying for them with little get-togethers where the two of them bare their teeth at each other, make Suti laugh, and eat cake.

The second world that interested me was Korriban, also known as Moraband. The planet had spent long stretches under the rule of the Sith Order and had, at times, even served as their capital. It was also the homeworld of the species that bore the same name, a people renowned for powerful practitioners of the Dark Side. These days, the little rock drifting through the endless void was of little use to anyone. It sat under the Commercial Guild's wing. I had no idea what they were doing there, but the planet was open to visitors, and we had already reached a preliminary agreement regarding my trip. Korriban was home to countless Sith tombs, and the rumors surrounding them were rather unpleasant... I was positively itching to see what was actually there.

Our Jedi ladies immediately started wailing in unison about how visiting that world was oh-so-terribly dangerous. The Dark Side was strong there, you see. Frightfully strong. Perfect. Just lovely. We'd set up camp well away from the "cursed" lands with the tombs, and I'd finally get a chance to study what this Dark Side actually was.

I suspected it was nothing more exotic than the pressure of death magic or dark magic. Possibly Chaos as well, tinted toward the negative end of the spectrum. What convinced me was the fact that the situation hadn't corrected itself in centuries, and that sort of thing happened mostly with "dark energies." Once a certain area reached critical mass, neutral mana began converting itself on its own, preventing the dark background from simply dispersing. I used to raise the ambient necroenergy in my necropolis artificially so that my undead could become self-sustaining without any additional conversion.

Back home, on the Turtle, the same thing happened naturally at the sites of particularly vicious massacres or other sufficiently horrible events. Especially when the clergy waved the problem away and couldn't be bothered to clean up after anything soaked in negative energies. That was where all those supposedly cursed places came from, the ones where "Death herself raises the dead." Right. Sure. As if the Pale Lady had nothing better to do than raise low-grade undead. Can't eat, can't sleep—too busy running around the ass end of the world desecrating village graveyards and cursing old battlefields. Meanwhile, the fat-assed priest who does his duties half-heartedly, assuming he does them at all instead of simply eating his way through the donations and groping the village girls, bears absolutely no responsibility whatsoever. Nope. None at all. A holy man, that one. The fact that he can barely squeeze through the temple doors is merely his patron's divine grace swelling inside him.

On the other hand, old necro-geezers and liches absolutely loved taking jobs to lift those kinds of "curses." The liches rarely bothered with anything that petty, but young necromancers would come whooping and hollering to any village graveyard that would have them. Necroenergy is heavy stuff. Converting neutral mana into the mana of the dead is dangerous for the inexperienced and takes a fair bit of work, while topping off your reservoirs with free energy is a lovely thing indeed. And here they'd even pay you for it—or feed you if they had no money. If you got really lucky, you might even tumble some pretty young thing in a hayloft. The important part, if you were young and inexperienced, was managing to get away from her father and brothers afterward. The young but experienced ones usually put on a whole show with illusions of assorted horrors and a few fireballs for good measure. That way you got beer with your meal, and the girl's father and brothers tended not to chase the shameless bastard quite so enthusiastically.

So. If the magical background on Korriban really worked that way, I could buy some land there and build a JMG complex. Then I could send the dark-magic faculties there for serious practical training. I doubted the Commercial Guild would object. Especially if a couple of gifts happened to find their way into the hands of its local management.

I was also interested in the planet's wildlife, which had almost certainly mutated under the influence of energies from the negative end of the spectrum. Creatures like that sometimes developed very interesting traits—natural mechanisms an experienced chimerologist could borrow for his own work. And then there were the tombs themselves, of course, and especially the so-called Sith "ghosts" that, according to rumor, could be encountered there. I was very curious to find out, assuming they were real, exactly what they were: a successful attempt at immortality, or some peculiar magical phenomenon?

There were also repositories of Force-sensitive knowledge—holocrons—and, again according to rumor, the Jedi had not cleared everything off this world. Very, very tempting to get my hands on something like that. I had no intention of telling the Order about it, of course, but thanks to Wilmar Grark and Arvik—or, more precisely, thanks to Fett, who shared Arvik's devotion to the Resol'nare—I had contacts for a couple of rogue Jedi. Aurra Sing, for instance, might well agree to activate one for a sufficiently generous fee if I couldn't manage it myself. The important thing was making sure the fellows in robes never found out. They'd lecture me into suicide.

The two healers training to become chimerologists had gotten on both my nerves and Karray's so thoroughly with their lectures about what was right and what was wrong that eventually we had to have a serious talk with them.

"Director, we need to have a serious conversation," the green one began. Well, yes. To be fair, it was the Jedi who actually initiated the serious conversation. But I'd been planning one too... I'd put it off every single day, sure, but I had been planning it. That still counted, right?

"Sit down, then, if it's serious," I sighed, gesturing toward the chairs for visitors. "Suti, sweetheart, make me some caf, please. Ladies, anything for you?"

"No, thank you," Knight Rig declined, while Allie merely shook her head. "We wanted to talk about Karray, your ward."

"She didn't share her cake?" I gasped in mock horror, already realizing that I was about to have sex with a pair of Jedi. Well, more precisely, sex with their philosophy and dogma. Mmm... My favorite. Not.

"Director," the green—and admittedly very cute—healer Knight said, shaking her head reproachfully. I only snorted. She hadn't earned the right to wag a finger at me yet. Little glowstick runt. Seeing that I had failed to grasp the full abyss of my moral downfall and was merely studying her with amused attention, the girl continued. "Master Dziha, with all due respect, your ward is terribly spoiled."

I raised an eyebrow in surprise, silently asking her to elaborate, and let out a weary sigh. Another preacher of morality and virtue, fresh out of the temple and projecting the philosophy of her own brethren onto the entire world around her. "She humiliates others, mocks them, and respects no one except you and a handful of other sentients. She takes other people's health, their lives... and their appearance far too lightly!"

"Hold on, Knight Rig Nema," I said, raising a hand and sighing again. The little green one's heated stream of accusations had worn me out almost immediately. Stass Allie, on the other hand, was a pleasant surprise. The Tholothian kept her expression unreadable and simply watched events unfold with close attention. She was there to support her fellow member of the Order, but showed neither approval nor disapproval. "Let's start from the beginning. When, exactly, and how does my ward humiliate other sentients?"

"Just recently! Kenny McCormick died in the cafeteria! And she dragged his body across the floor!"

"So?" I raised both eyebrows, making it perfectly clear from my expression that I had no idea what the problem was.

"That was disrespectful!" Knight Nema even raised her voice slightly.

"Oh..." I closed my eyes for a moment, accepting the caf and thanking my assistant. "Suti, be a dear and send any second-year student to my office, please. Whoever's closest."

While the little Twi'lek went to snag the first student passing by, I savored my caf, glancing at the puzzled Jedi with growing anticipation.

"Director, you called?" Shella Grark asked with a sweet smile as she entered the office, and I gave an inward hum of satisfaction. Hit-Girl certainly wouldn't let me down.

"Hello, Fluffy. Stand still for me, please," I told her with a warm smile, which made both Jedi visibly shudder.

I leisurely pulled a powerful blaster from my desk drawer—a gift from Arvik—aimed it at my student, who was watching the whole thing with perfect calm, and fired three shots. The Devaronian merely watched the little sparks showering down onto the floor, while the Jedi had already scattered to opposite corners of the room, trying to wrench the weapon out of my hand with the Force. I calmly put it back where it belonged. Turns out, pulling a blaster out of my grip while it's wrapped in my aura isn't so easy. Aura-tendril telekinesis: one-nil.

"Knight Nema, tell me what I just did," I said, turning back to the outraged little green woman as though nothing had happened.

"You tried to kill your student!" the healer snapped angrily.

"First of all, calm down," I said, drawing my brows together sternly. "Anger is the path to the Dark Side. And second, if I had wanted to kill Fluffy, she wouldn't be standing there perfectly intact right now. Shelly, sweetheart, tell me, please—what did I just do?"

"You fired a blaster at me three times," the young mage said with a smile.

"Exactly right, Hit-Girl. Exactly right. Thank you very much. You can go."

"Director. Knights." The girl gave us a nod in farewell and left the office.

"Now then. Listen carefully, my dear students. And sit down already. I'm not planning to shoot anything else for the foreseeable future."

The Jedi settled back into their seats. Rig was still indignant, though she was clearly working to restore her inner balance, while Stass looked thoughtful. There was a reason people were already talking about making her a Master—she was obviously drawing conclusions.

"Out in the galaxy, beyond the walls of our Academy, death is, for the most part, final. The price of ignoring safety procedures in the workplace isn't limited to fines or getting fired. It can mean mutilation, death, all kinds of poisoning, burns. A sentient sentient—pardon the tautology—follows safety rules because they don't want to hurt themselves, end up crippled, or die." I took another sip of caf, watching the tension smooth itself from Knight Allie's face.

"At the JMG, things work a little differently, and the reason is you, me, and Karray. Chimerologists. You two are still inexperienced, of course, so you wouldn't be able to properly 'resurrect' a person yet. But I can, and to a lesser extent, so can my ward. Sounds like a good thing, but there's always a catch. Sometimes more than one. And in this case, they're pretty damn big. The first, and for me the most important: a careless student who manages to die at an inconvenient time distracts me from my work. Serious work. The same goes for Karray, though in her case it also makes for decent practice. Even so, she has her own curriculum, her own interesting projects... And then, just like that, the bastards kill Kenny again."

"But that—"

I cut the Knight off with a raised hand.

"Patience, Greenie. Patience is a virtue in any professional. Mage, warrior, Jedi—it doesn't matter. The second catch is the illusion of immortality. Let me explain: a sentient can get used to the idea that Death is no big deal. And yes, you can get used to that too. Sentients can get used to anything. And we get used to the good things fastest of all."

"How is that supposed to be a good thing?" the girl finally burst out.

"So resurrection and healing are bad now?" I asked, genuinely surprised this time.

"No, that's not what I mean! The pain, and then all that humiliation with the... transportation," she explained.

"That, Knight, is the price. The price of death. When a sentient dies, they die, understand? Here, the natural order has been broken. The dead man died, but he didn't stay dead. And dying is supposed to be bad! Savvy? Otherwise you lose respect for the End of Life. Now, back to Karray. The girl can't lift a heavy corpse yet. Her aura isn't developed enough. That's one. She healed every injury caused during transport. That's two. And most importantly: no honors, no respect, nothing for an idiot who got himself killed doing something stupid! That's three!"

"But it wasn't his fault..."

I slammed my palm down on the desk hard enough to make every loose object on it rattle and send ripples through my mug of caf.

"Stop interrupting me, Knight Nema! Listen until I'm finished, because I am not done! The dead man was at fault! That day, he was at fault three times over! Three times! The only reason I didn't expel him six months ago is because he is carelessness incarnate. A cautionary tale for everyone else! A laughingstock. And I pity him, too, because if I throw him out, he'll simply get himself killed for good. Maybe he has a wonderful inner life—he must, if perfectly decent students are willing to be friends with him—but as a mage, right now, he's already a corpse."

By then I wasn't even trying to hide my irritation and was practically lecturing them at full volume. Suti, clever girl that she was, silently slipped away to the little kitchenette to prepare a calming brew. Yes, I'm that kind of pervert—the sort who can drink caf and then happily wash it down with herbal tea.

"First, during morning practice he forgot to put up protection against direct effects. That's basic. You have to know that. It needs to be hammered into your skull, into your reflexes: the moment you start working with spells, put up protection. Or use the proper artifacts. He did neither. Second, he inflated himself because he forgot to specify the coordinates of the water-condensation focus point and forgot to set a limit on the volume of condensate. Blew himself up like village children blowing up frogs with a straw shoved up their ass! Then he burst and sprayed half the classroom and his fellow students with his own shit and guts! And third, despite dying with a regularity that would make the economies of most Outer Rim worlds jealous, the idiot still doesn't wear a protective amulet! This is..."

I closed my eyes and let out a long breath through my nose, forcing myself to calm down. Yes, the ridiculous shit Deadman got up to amused me—let's be honest about that—but his attitude toward his own life could only be described as insanity.

"I just can't wrap my head around it, you understand?" I said, returning to a calmer tone. "Protective amulets are easy enough to buy from artificers here. Shella Grark—Fluffy, that is—bought her protective ring from Romri Tano, who charges our own people, mages and sorcerers, only a thirty-percent markup instead of the three hundred percent she charges everyone else. And the artifact is genuinely high-quality, because I personally helped her with the design. It protects against more than just blaster fire: kinetic impacts, pure energy... hell, it even has a built-in climate-control module and an automatically deploying force-field umbrella. Put a ring like that on and you've got nothing to worry about. Just remember to recharge it every evening."

The Jedi tried to interrupt me again, but I pinned her in place with a heavy stare. These little outbursts from the audience annoyed me quite enough even during lectures. Remember the question and ask it when the lecturer pauses. That is what the pauses are for.

"Dozdrogodul take the amulet! You can buy the same kind of charm for a couple of wupiupi from any artificer with six months of training! What respect for Deadman are you talking about when he has no respect for my work or my ward's? The girl who, in her entire life, has ended up as my patient exactly once—because she ate so much cake she gave herself indigestion. At eight years old. Why can't he put an end to this endless string of his own deaths with a shred of mental discipline or a handful of credits? Hecate is my witness, I even gave him an amulet with a painkilling effect as a hint! Jedi Knights, have I made my position clear regarding respect for those who fall in battle against their own stupidity?!"

"Yes, Master Dziha," Stass Allie spoke for the first time, giving a calm nod.

"But that's not all," Knight Nema said, shooting her fellow Jedi an indignant glare. Apparently she had been hoping to keep going in the vein of but that's wrong. "She had an argument with an Alderaanian girl, a first-year, and three days ago, when she was treating her for an injury... she grew... on her..."

"She grew clusters of warts on the Alderaanian girl's ass?" I supplied helpfully when the girl hesitated.

"You knew?!" I honestly couldn't tell which there was more of in the healer's eyes: outrage or surprise.

"Of course I knew," I said with a calm nod. "The girl called my ward a filthy little plebeian brat. That idiot is worse than Deadman, and she should be grateful."

"For the warts?"

"For the fact that she'll be going home alive," I said flatly. "We are not Jedi. We are spellcasters. We don't have a rigid code of conduct, and we aren't bound by the Order's rulebook. I'm more than certain that idiot would never have thought to insult one of the Mandalorians, because only a complete moron mouths off to a warrior from a warrior clan. They'd just shoot her. Simple as that."

"What about the laws of the Republic?" the Jedi protested.

"No body, no case," I said with an indifferent shrug, earning a choking cough from Greenie. "I'm exaggerating, obviously. Relax. Karray is a very kind girl, and if you've noticed, for all her restlessness and 'spoiled' behavior, she never insults other sentients. She's brilliant, talented, frighteningly intelligent. She's proud of herself, and deservedly so, but she never puts others down. That little childish revenge was necessary. Besides, the warts disappeared after three hours. It helps build her reputation as a dangerous sorceress—a kind of passive defense against idiots and loudmouths. And it taught that fool an important lesson: never be rude to your doctor. A spellcaster should generally be polite to fellow practitioners. I'll go even further: everyone should be polite to everyone. I swear, if all sentients suddenly started treating one another with basic courtesy, the mortality rate across the galaxy would plummet."

"But revenge isn't the answer!" the young Jedi sighed sadly.

"Depends on the revenge," I disagreed. "See, if that Alderaanian hadn't started screaming loud enough for the whole Academy to hear, nobody would ever have known something had grown on her ass. Even if she'd come to me, it would have ended quietly. I'd have scared her a little with my friendly smile, explained that calling people names is a bad idea, and then told her that 'the horror' would disappear on its own in a couple of hours. You understand? A scandal-loving aristocrat, used to strutting around Alderaan like a peacock, humiliated herself. Killing her over something like that? Yes, that would have been excessive. She wouldn't have learned anything. There would have been no lesson to take from it. But now? Maybe she'll think before deciding what to say and to whom. She might even realize that this isn't her homeworld, and nobody here is going to coddle her."

"You make it sound as though Karray can do no wrong," Rig Nema said, a hurt note creeping into her voice as she looked at me sadly.

"And that's exactly how it is, young and kindhearted Knight Nema. Exactly how it is. You see, you two are my students. I'm obligated to teach you chimerology under my agreement with the Grand Master of the Jedi Order. Karray, on the other hand, is my ward. I don't merely teach her. Strange as it may sound, I also raise her. Sometimes that means taking a belt to her backside; sometimes it means long conversations. From your Jedi point of view, she's a terrible child. From mine, she's an exemplary sorceress—one who, when she grows up, will be able to live on her own, won't let parasites latch onto her and live off her, and won't get herself killed through stupidity or misplaced trust. We're simply different. Just as your training methods and your way of life can look utterly bizarre to non-Force-sensitives, we're just as different in our own way. I couldn't care less how someone who died through sheer stupidity gets transported. But if Karray ever showed that kind of disrespect toward Master Yaddle, who quite literally gave her life to save an entire city and two Jedi, I'd give her such a belting she'd be sleeping on her stomach for a week."

"But the vivisections! She's constantly offering people money to let her cut them open—"

At that, I very rudely burst out laughing and interrupted her.

"Sorry, sorry." I raised both hands. I'd just spent all that time lecturing her about how rude it was to interrupt people, and now here I was doing exactly that. "It's just that she switched entirely to advanced diagnostic spells about three years ago. She doesn't actually need to cut anyone open anymore."

"Then why does she—" the representative of the Healer Corps began, only for Stass to cut in.

"The image?" the girl asked with a smile.

"Exactly," I nodded. "Besides, she enjoys watching everyone jump out of their skins. Just don't go spreading that around, or she'll get offended with me. And to answer your question before you ask it: those two Neimoidians who agreed to the procedure simply slept inside diagnostic ritual diagrams while Karray ran her tests. She even fixed up a few things in their bodies as a reward for their bravery. Though... in their case, I suspect it was greed strangling their survival instincts. And before they woke up, she simply set the proper mood—scattered saws and knives all over the place and smeared everything with Neimoidian blood she'd made from the 'soup.'"

The Tholothian laughed merrily, closing her beautiful violet eyes. I would have called her an attractive woman if not for that creepy headpiece with its weird dangling ornaments, which she wore all the time. Until her first examination, I had actually thought the things were some kind of lekku. Impressive craftsmanship, I had to admit. I hadn't exactly stared, but fooling the trained eye of a chimerologist was no small achievement.

In any case, she was a pleasant girl. Knight Rig was too. That one was downright adorable. She reminded me a great deal of Suti, with the same light, almost airy quality. If only there were a little less idealism spilling over into preachiness... But that was youth. Give her another forty or fifty years, and I suspected she'd grow into a thoroughly charming Lady in every sense of the word.

And after that, we simply said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. As far as I could tell, Stass had had her concerns about the whole matter, but my answers satisfied her. Rig, on the other hand, was still convinced I was wrong. Well, Dozdrogodul take her. Sorcerers aren't peggats. We can't be liked by everyone.

Yeah. Some bright idea that was, agreeing to teach these cousins of paladins. Ah, well. Could be worse. Vacation was close. I'd gather the old crew and head off in search of adventure. The guys had already agreed, and Arvik had brought in another couple of Mando from among his own people. So we'd get some rest, clear our heads, and who knows—maybe we'd even run into some pirates!

It was a shame I couldn't take Karray with me. At least one competent chimerologist had to remain on Jabiim. The Jedi weren't ready yet—the sheer volume of knowledge they still needed was simply too great, though the combination of Force and Magic was formidable. At Choala Hospital, they were going to start worshipping those two and Karray before long. Oh, what magnificent healers they were going to become...

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Oct 16, 2026

"There has been a change of government on Ryloth," the pretty young woman read from the news report. "Today, during a session of the Republic Senate, Senator Orn Free Taa of the Twi'lek homeworld announced that a month ago, the traditional rule of Ryloth's five most influential families came to an end, giving way to a single elected leader. The first to hold that office is former exile Kh'aris Fenn. It has since emerged that all accusations against the Twi'lek were fabricated in order to remove a promising young politician whose presence on Ryloth had become inconvenient for the previous Five. In response to the surprise and confusion of his fellow senators, the honorable senator presented the results of his world's popular vote, along with statements from the current ruling council of five, whose respected members declared that no violence or coercion had been used against them. The planet's former leaders nobly accepted the will of the people, who, in the words of one of them, Lon Secura, 'had long been waiting and preparing to take the step from moss-covered tradition toward civilization and enlightened democracy.' The former rulers stepped down with remarkable ease, without having to depart for the Bright Lands in the process. In response to doubts raised by several members of the Senate regarding the legality of the changes, Orn Free Taa asked representatives of the Jedi Order and the Supreme Chancellor to initiate an independent investigation."

"My homeland has nothing to hide. These changes have been necessary for a long time, and what happened is merely the inevitable arrival of the future," the corpulent Twi'lek said gravely in the hologram. Admittedly, the weight of his words was somewhat undermined by the sheer number of chins, but even so, he looked imposing and serious. "I know... No, we know who has the least interest in seeing a united and strong Ryloth. Drug traffickers, and those who have exploited our kin without restraint under long-term contracts. The new government has no intention of carrying out reprisals against the families engaged in what, let us be frank, amounts almost to slave trading. For thousands of years, Ryloth..."

A theatrical pause followed. Pain and remorse flickered in the Twi'lek's eyes. Anyone who did not know the man well might easily have believed the feelings he was displaying so openly.

But not the viewer sitting behind his desk.

The senator, who dearly loved to eat and absolutely loathed physical exertion, might indeed have been upset—but if so, the reason was the mountain of compromising material in the possession of the silent gray-skinned Twi'lek behind the desk. As Orn Free Taa's monologue continued, the man's exhausted face slowly blossomed into a vicious but deeply satisfied smile.

"Raised its own children for sale," the corpulent senator continued with a heavy sigh, as though confessing his own sins. "Harsh climatic conditions, a shortage of living space, a lack of food—all of it forced my ancestors onto a low and shameful... but, at the time, necessary path. But now we are ready to change ourselves and our world. We have found another road, and Kh'aris Fenn will lead my people down it! I—we—" the man gestured toward the two attractive Twi'lek women standing behind him. "All Twi'leks long for a truly free Ryloth! Free of illegal ryll miners, free of criminal cartels, free of selling our own children!"

Kh'aris Fenn leaned back in his chair and, adjusting the lekku draped over his shoulder, switched off the recording. The thought crossed his mind that there could hardly be another sentient in the galaxy more exhausted than he was. For almost three months now, he had been sleeping three or four hours a night. Even with the team of Twi'leks he had brought with him—people who shared his goals, loyal men and women raised and trained specifically to help carry out his plan—the work remained unimaginably difficult. His local kin were hidebound, frozen in time, bound hand and foot by tradition, and they fought him every step of the way. Yes, every last one of them dreamed of a better life, yet they clung tooth and nail to privileges "sanctified by centuries."

"Even if those privileges are nothing but lilek shit. Still shit left behind by the most dangerous predator our ancestors ever faced," the gray-skinned Twi'lek muttered, massaging his tired eyes.

"Boss?" asked his bodyguard from his post by the office door, having failed to catch what he'd said.

Kh'aris merely waved him off. To'gur had always been with him, ever since before the young son of Ro Fenn was exiled. He had followed the "young Boss" off Ryloth, helped him, protected him. The Twi'lek bodyguard had personally talked his own father into sending him along with Kh'aris "to keep an eye on him."

The tall, powerfully built Twi'lek did not consider his patron a bastard, even though by every standard of law and morality the man was a criminal. Nor had he called him Master in a very long time, having been granted his freedom when he followed Kh'aris into exile. He was one of the few who knew why Kh'aris had betrayed and killed, why he had gotten involved in the drug trade.

"If there's no easy road, then I'll wade through every last pile of shit in the universe to reach my goal," the exiled Fenn used to say.

And he did.

He grew rich, built up capital, acquired useful friends and a long list of people who owed him favors. He endured defeats, hardship, contempt, but never gave up. "Dirty bastard Fenn," stained to the very tips of his lekku with blood and filth, walked over corpses and shattered lives...

Home.

To'gur respected his Boss. More than that, he agreed with him: if you wanted to build something beautiful, sometimes you had to get your hands dirty.

But the people the Boss was working with now...

They made the bodyguard uneasy.

Kh'aris knew it. Knew it, and wasn't exactly thrilled with them himself.

Count Dooku and those standing behind him knew far too much about the former exile of House Fenn. In effect, Kh'aris had become their pawn—and their property—because if all the dirt his so-called friends had collected on his past life and the methods he had used to seize power ever came to light... nothing could save him.

Kh'aris harbored no illusions about the Count of Serenno's nobility. Dooku was pursuing his own goal as well, and if achieving it required publicly destroying Fenn or blackmailing him with everything they had gathered, he would do it without a moment's hesitation.

And that was another reason the Twi'lek was working himself to exhaustion. There was no telling how much time remained before... something began. A decade? Years? Months? But he was certain some kind of major catastrophe was coming. Too many signs pointed that way.

He had to accomplish as much as possible before it did. Enough that his people would have no way back. Enough that they would see another path and experience another way of life.

Contracts to supply ryll to pharmaceutical companies had already been signed. Kh'aris poured money freely into creating local spice-mining companies and paid mercenaries generously to purge his world of the gangs that had flocked there from offworld. He was burning through his dirty money as fast as he could, because if they ever decided to take him down, he would have no further use for it, and whatever remained would either be seized or stolen. Kh'aris had no qualms about hitting Hutt proxies where it hurt, wiping out criminal outfits wholesale, or taking bites out of the bastards from the Syndicate. Who better than him to know where and how every kind of scum hid? Takes one to know one. Was he afraid? Oh, yes. But not so much of the death he knew would eventually come as of failing to finish what mattered most before it did.

After a remote—and rather expensive—consultation with Siith'khara'Dziha, Fenn hired five ritual mages on Jabiim. Their job was to create the necessary biomes inside large caverns that had recently been sealed off from the outside world. In the near future, those caverns would be turned into mushroom farms on an unprecedented scale.

The schools for "contract workers" were being reorganized at breakneck speed, along with the contracts themselves. From now on, his people would actually work under contract, receiving real credits for their labor, while Ryloth would earn its share through a normal, civilized income tax.

Of course, it would be impossible to completely shut down either the drug flow or the export of slaves. Conditions on the planet were too dire, and there was simply too much work to do. Kh'aris would do everything he could, but if he failed to finish the job...

Then his work would be carried on by the gray-skinned Twi'lek's new "enemy"—Cham of House Syndulla.

Cham was a young Twi'lek who was beginning to gain popularity among the people. Fenn had had to work damn hard to support him discreetly—with money, political backing, and careful reputation-building; to help him deliver a couple of suitably convincing speeches denouncing Kh'aris; and to quietly arrange introductions to genuinely respectable Twi'leks who had kept their hands clean and were regarded as wealthy, influential patriots of their homeworld. In short, Fenn had worn himself out making sure the young man could stand alongside serious political figures instead of looking like some piece of controlled opposition.

Kh'aris liked Cham. He was a patriot with an open mind, treated women with a fair degree of respect, and opposed the old habit of viewing them as possessions. Under different circumstances, they might even have become friends. But right now, Fenn could not afford to compromise Syndulla simply by associating with him.

Cham was clean. Untainted. A little too idealistic, perhaps, but time would cure him of that.

And if Fenn started to sink—or rather, when his patrons decided it was time to play the Kh'aris card and then discard it, or when the criminal underworld finally paid enough to hire someone like Fett or Bane—Cham would be able to take over the process the planet's current leader had begun.

No matter what happened, RYLOTH WOULD BE FREE!!!

The necessary contingencies were already in place. Once he was gone, Syndulla would receive documents containing all of Fenn's plans: contacts for every sentient he might need, mountains of compromising material on influential families and the current senator, Orn Free Taa; account numbers and passwords for the funds Kh'aris had set aside; recorded confessions and explanations.

The gray-skinned man had no desire to whitewash himself or make excuses. But Cham had to know why Fenn had cast aside his honor and dignity.

He wanted no forgiveness.

All Kh'aris wanted was for Cham to understand—and to accept a dead man's help despite all the filth that came with it.

Sooner or later, fathers here would stop selling the mothers of their own children simply because, "I'm tired of this woman." Sooner or later—perhaps when he was already dead—little boys would no longer cry because the only person who had ever loved them was now gods knew where, decorating some Hutt's court or stripping in a brothel. They would no longer look back with aching hearts on sisters who had been given away as gifts to curry favor with someone powerful.

The gray-skinned Twi'lek ground his teeth in anger. It was a shame his father was already dead and he could no longer kill the bastard with his own hands. Such a damn shame that fat piece of filth had died without Kh'aris having anything to do with it.

With a heavy sigh, he turned his gaze back to the holographic display above his desk. New reports had come in.

Break was over.

Time to get back to work.

Lord Tyranus ended the transmission with his Master. Another successful step in their larger plan was gratifying, as was the steady progress of his protégé on Ryloth. Some time ago, Dooku had realized with surprise that he was thinking less and less about the reasons that had set him on this path in the first place, becoming wholly absorbed in the road toward the greater Goal.

And the realization that, for all the filthy methods involved, he had still helped make an entire world a little better stirred a small but distinctly pleasant sense of pride in the former Jedi.

Walking unhurriedly through the empty corridors of the vast estate, the Count gave a faint smirk. Ironic, really. The "dirty drug dealer" had set about putting his homeland in order with a degree of determination no "honest" Twi'lek ruler had ever shown. Their ancient rule of five had long since degenerated into a mutual-protection racket for wealthy families.

Another spit in the face of the convictions Dooku had cast aside.

Scum, plain and simple—despised by everyone who knew the truth, and at the same time a genuine patriot.

A mockery of every ideal the Republic claimed to uphold.

Surrealism made real.

The Count of Serenno had come to know Kh'aris fairly well, but even so, he had expected less of him. He certainly had not expected the gray-skinned Twi'lek to throw himself into the work with such intensity, burning through the fortune he had built on the drug trade.

Fenn was no fool. He knew he was being used, understood it perfectly well, and was racing to do as much as he could for Ryloth while he still had the chance. Dooku had no intention of getting in his way. If anything, he would even shield him from the criminal organizations whose most sensitive interests Ryloth's new leader had been trampling with enthusiasm.

Fenn would not have enough time to become too powerful, nor would his world. And the agreements and contracts being put in place would bind Ryloth to the Siths' plans far more tightly than any oath of friendship ever could.

Even young Syndulla, if he ever managed to bring Fenn down, would not be able to ignore Dooku and the new order that would soon come into being. The money paid for ryll by pharmaceutical companies under the Count's influence would mean prosperity. The new contracts for Twi'lek workers—contracts other worlds might try to boycott—would be readily accepted by Dooku's allies.

And by the Hutts, for that matter.

The slugs knew how to appreciate high-status, well-trained Rylothians and were unlikely to be particularly upset by the changes. Quite the opposite, in fact: higher prices meant higher status.

Cheap labor, after all, could always be found somewhere in Hutt Space.

Dooku stepped out into the garden and looked around with quiet pleasure. He had a little time to spare, so the Count intended to take a walk beneath the rustling leaves, enjoying the warm sunlight and the soft fragrance of flowers.

A couple dozen minutes of peace and quiet—that was exactly what he needed right now. Glancing toward the yacht resting on the elevated landing platform, he let out a short sigh. Not now. There was far too much to do to indulge in minor personal pleasures.

He gave another soft sound, somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. Who would have thought that, this late in life, he would still discover something new capable of giving him such delight?

A remarkable invention, created by remarkable sentients.

It was somewhat embarrassing to remember that a Count, a former Jedi, and now a Sith Lord had spent his time racing his yacht around an empty star system like an overexcited boy. As Romri Tano, who had taught him the finer points of using the new interface, had warned him, the hardest part of the first flight was stopping.

He had ended that first flight on schedule, exactly as agreed. A trained mind and strong will had kept him from getting too carried away in front of outsiders.

But on the journey home, Dooku had truly cut loose.

So thoroughly, in fact, that the inertial compensators screamed and the backup thrusters howled under the strain of sustained afterburner.

To become a massive, armored, powerful, sentient creature of the void was an indescribable sensation. To feel the steady pulse of a reactor instead of the beat of a heart; to see through sensors across a vast array of spectra; to perceive space not as an endless emptiness dotted with rare celestial bodies, but as a billion possible paths, any one of which you could choose—like a bird that had finally taken wing.

Dooku, while hardly obsessive about it, was genuinely fond of his yacht. Its exclusivity gave a pleasant little boost to the ego he had allowed off the leash ever since leaving the Order. So when his agents dug up information on the "Void Hide," the Sith Lord decided to combine business with pleasure. Establishing personal contact with Dziha and Stratus was necessary for larger matters; having the yacht upgraded merely provided the excuse—and a very enjoyable bonus.

To be completely honest, before flying to Jabiim the Count had resented the time he would have to spend there. For all the growing popularity of its spellcasters, the rain-soaked world inspired neither confidence nor admiration, and its importance in the events to come would be minimal. There were simply too few Force-users of this new kind to have any serious impact on what lay ahead.

The Sith regarded the world more as a promising asset—one that would begin providing real value only after the main events had played out... or as an inevitable loss, should the spellcasters ever begin seriously interfering with the designs of the Lord and his Master.

Later, once everything was over—assuming things ended favorably for the JMG—the spellcasters would receive generous funding and be integrated into the system. Their abilities would be recognized as useful to the newborn state that would rise from the ugly, malignant construct of the Republic. The child he and his Master would cleanse of parasites and corruption would have plenty of use for specialists in all manner of fields, whose work would either offer a profitable alternative to existing methods or provide something entirely new, opening up additional possibilities.

So, what had looked like a waste of time turned into an interesting experience and a whole range of unusual impressions, from pleasant to downright unsettling. The Jabiim sorcerer was slightly mad, quick-witted, fascinating, deeply absorbed in his work... and almost completely indifferent to anything beyond his world's atmosphere unless it fell under the category of "interesting to study." His patron—though "partner" was probably the better word—Alto Stratus turned out to be much like Dziha, except that unlike the sorcerer, he was far more focused on his homeworld and watched the growing separatist crisis with wary concern.

A few years ago, he could have been won over easily enough, but Jabiim was now enjoying a surge of growth in several areas, and most of the forces driving that growth were tied to the opposing camp. In any case, he and his Master had decided not to disturb such a fat bantha without good reason. Better instead to make Stratus indebted not only to the Supreme Chancellor, but to Dooku as well.

Which meant Jabiim would receive several profitable contracts with Serenno—and a successful raid on Lythia. The Count would provide Alto with military support, while Palpatine would add another debt to the tally by shielding the raid from the Republic's justiciars.

Passing a flowerbed, Dooku frowned slightly. One of the stones arranged to border the flowers had shifted out of place, spoiling the composition. A few seconds of concentration, and an aura tendril carefully nudged it back where it belonged.

Dooku exhaled in satisfaction.

The aura techniques available to an initiated sorcerer opened entirely new possibilities to the Count of Serenno. And the very idea...

A sorcerer. Imagine that.

As Siith had put it, "You, Count, are the first doubly gifted one I have encountered. Sorcerer and Jedi. Consider studying sorcery, do you, hmm?"

Dooku had nearly laughed then. The red-eyed man's phrasing had sounded so unexpectedly like his former Master.

Perhaps, once everything he and Sidious had planned finally came to pass, the Count of Serenno would take a few lessons. But for now, tempting as these new paths to power and strength might be, he simply did not have the time.

The sensation of Force energy reshaped through sorcery was genuinely beautiful and astonishing, as were the colors of the magical constructs woven from it. During a brief tour of the Academy, Dooku had asked the sorcerer about the kaleidoscope surrounding the students as they worked their spells—and discovered that he himself was a sorcerer, just like Siith and his daughter.

The Count stopped and focused on the weave the head of the JMG had shown him.

"The very basics are drawing," the red-eyed man had said with an unpleasant little chuckle, demonstrating the patterns shaped by his aura. "You need to develop the tool you use to interact with the world. Even if you have no intention of studying magic, an alternative to telekinesis will never be a bad thing."

The multicolored "picture," visible to him alone, hovered in the air before him, gradually dissolving back into the surrounding Force.

He chuckled quietly. Good thing no one except sorcerers could see that mess. The aura tendril was still difficult to control properly, and using several at once was completely out of the question, so the pattern looked like the scribbles of a one-year-old.

But there was one thing Tyranus was in no hurry to tell his Master about. He even tried not to speak of it aloud. At the moment of his initiation, Dooku had felt someone's attention settle upon him. Something ancient and immensely powerful was watching him from behind. He sensed neither threat nor benevolence from it, only the faintest trace of curiosity, but the sheer power of the unknown presence was overwhelming. And then it was as though someone embraced him. In an instant, a burden weighing thousands of tons seemed to lift from his soul. His shoulders straightened without conscious thought, and he drew a deep, easy breath. For several moments Dooku could not understand what had changed within him—until he realized that the Abyss had vanished from the edge of his perception. Hungry. Greedy. Brimming with rage and madness.

The Sith had always walked along the edge of the Abyss. For any Force-sensitive who had refused to fear the dangers of the Dark Side, there was always the possibility of falling.

The Fallen were little more than mad beasts. Dooku had seen enough of them to know. A Sith trained to walk that razor-thin line and juggle his passions with precision remained wary, forever skirting the lip of the Abyss and always ready to stop himself before one careless step sent him over.

The Jedi, though...

Ironically, it was the adherents of the Light who, when they fell, plunged so deep into the Abyss that they often lost even the ability to speak coherently, becoming knots of animal cunning, rage, and Force.

Mad. Cruel. Powerful.

Stupid.

Beasts whose entire intellect had been reduced to a single directive:

Destroy.

The shock Lord Tyranus felt when he realized the danger was gone was almost impossible to describe. All the strength of anger, all the power of rage, all the advantages of the Dark Side remained his—without the risk of losing himself to it.

The ruler of Serenno had to summon an enormous amount of self-control to keep from throwing himself at Siith. And the Count did not even know what he wanted to do to him.

Strangle him with the Force?

Crush him in a grateful embrace?

Kill him? Torture him? Thank him?

What had THAT been—and what would IT demand in return?

The former Jedi, who had spent decades forging his will into durasteel, held himself back from any rash action and began asking careful questions. What he learned was that there existed some kind of "madness of magic with amber eyes," and that Hecate, patron goddess of sorcerers, protected them from it with her blessing.

And also a pair of very thick books that he kept meaning to read.

It was only a couple of days later that he began to realize the disappearance of the Abyss was not the only change. Dooku could now look back on dozens of past decisions and see them for what they were: deeply questionable. Needlessly cruel. Unnecessarily harmful to others. He could have acted differently and achieved the same result, if not a better one. Worst of all were the emotions those decisions had stirred in him—subtly alien, somehow his and not his at the same time. When he finally understood that the Abyss had been influencing him, infecting him with a hunger to destroy, to cause pain, to revel in the suffering of others without his even noticing it, a wave of gooseflesh ran down the old man's spine.

Was his Master affected by it too?

Remembering those events stirred that faint unease in him again. Questions Dooku had never had the time to think through properly began circling in his mind once more.

Now that there was no longer any danger of falling...

Was he still a Sith?

Not a Jedi. Not a Sith.

Then what was he?

"Sorcedi, Dad!"

"Sorry, what?" I gave Karray a puzzled sideways glance as she walked me to the Rung's boarding ramp.

"Well, remember how you were wondering what to call someone who's both a sorcerer and a Jedi? There you go: Sorcedi. Short, neat, and tells you exactly what it is!"

"Uhhh... It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, kiddo," I said with a snort. At the sight of my daughter's offended little face, I ruffled her hair, earning an indignant squeak. "All right, Karray, I'm off. Behave yourself, don't torment our Jedi, and if anything comes up—"

"For anything Academy-related, go to Suti. For anything serious, Aunt Cordelia. For anything really serious, Uncle Alto. Don't eat too many sweets, don't ride Pancake into the city again, and don't call Wookiees animals!"

"Don't call anyone names at all!" I said, raising an instructive finger.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" the girl protested. "I thought someone had let a new animal out of the enclosure and dressed it up as a joke! You're the one who's always saying, 'Animals back in the pen!' I apologized, by the way, and I even gave him a cake! Rratchuuk forgave me, actually! I'll be a very good girl!

"And Dad... will you bring me back a female terentatek from Korriban?"

I stared at the little fidget in surprise as she did her best to disguise herself as an innocent angel. Only those shameless red eyes gave away our Dziha nature, even while she tried to make them look sad and guileless.

"Why?"

"Well... Pancake gets lonely?" the girl said, batting her eyelashes innocently.

"Now listen here, young lady. We are not crossbreeding a rancor with a terentatek! You can't handle a project like that on your own, and I don't have the time for it!"

"But Daaad, they're distantly related!" The little brat dropped the innocent act in an instant, becoming focused and businesslike. "It shouldn't be that complicated! You'd only need to check my work before I start the experiment, and that's it!"

"Presumably distantly related, Karray. Presumably! No serious research has ever been done! According to another theory, those monsters came from Tython; according to a third, the Sith created them through alchemy..." I shook my head, wondering where one might find a Sith alchemist—and what it would take to bribe one. "Besides, their reputation is downright atrocious. Compared to them, your Pancake is a sweet little house pet."

"He already is sweet and totally domesticated!" my daughter protested, stamping her foot.

"This is all very fascinating, of course, but could you maybe finally get the hell out of here and go on your vacation?" Cordelia, standing a couple of steps away from us, finally snapped.

"All right, all right, I'm going!" I grinned at her, earning a viciously envious glare in return. "Don't overfeed Karray..."

"With sweets. I remember," the head of the Security Service nodded, a dreamy expression spreading across her face. I immediately understood: by the time I got home, my daughter would have been fattened up into a perfect little ball.

"And don't bring back any witches from Dathomir!" she shouted after me. "We've got enough of our own!"

I merely rolled my eyes without turning around. Sorceresses were one thing. Witches from Dathomir were something else entirely!

Hell, I'd bring back a Sith too if I found one.

What's the most important thing in a necromancer's line of work?

That's right.

A shovel and the right grave!

Author's Note:

I know, I know. Not everyone likes the thinky bits. Still, I consider this chapter pretty important. The MC has done a serious amount of stomping on butterflies, and as a result, some people's fates have changed. In my opinion, not showing that now would be a bad choice. Spreading it throughout the story wouldn't work either: some of it would get lost among other events, and some of it would inevitably be misunderstood.

I've already cut the events of the "wider world" down to the bare minimum, so I fully expect an incoming wave of grumbling. I understand that some people "only wanna read about the MC," but Star Wars has always been a space opera with a large cast, no matter what certain odd individuals may say while demanding a single-character story from me and amusingly trying to disguise themselves as an entire "audience."

(And no, I'm not going to make some crude joke about certain people having trouble following more than one plotline. I won't. I'm above that! Besides, it's ultimately a matter of taste. And most of those scenes are more like fanservice interludes anyway, meant to show the everyday lives, personalities, and studies of certain characters.)

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Saturday at 2:56 PM

Dathomir was a beautiful world. A rhyme worthy of Emperors.

The planet looked strikingly vivid and unusual from space. And it wasn't because of the blue oceans, green forests, patches of desert, or swamps.

Magic.

Its concentration here was roughly twice the galactic background level. Which meant that, on the surface of this world, the practically inexhaustible reserve created by the peculiarities of this galaxy would simply stop mattering.

Concentrated mana swirled around the planet, forming a kind of aura. Though, technically speaking, that was exactly what it was. I suspected that if a sorcerer could get far enough away from my native Turtle-world and enter meditation, the sight would look much like what I was seeing now. The scale, of course, was incomparable to a human aura, and the structure was very different as well. But even so, the planet was alive. And, in its own way, sentient.

And wounded, too.

Even from here, I could see it: enormous scars the size of continents. Not fresh ones, either. Old. Ancient. By the look of them, they had to be many thousands of years old, perhaps even tens of thousands. And yet the wounds were still healing. I couldn't even begin to imagine what could injure a being the size of a world.

Who?

That wasn't even a question. I'd bet my beard the culprits were sentient. Despite what the word might suggest, creatures blessed with intelligence are very often spectacularly stupid. This looked like one of those cases. The scars suggested the damage had been inflicted from within. Terrible wounds, with emanations of pain still strong enough to be felt before I had even entered orbit.

No wonder people said, "The Dark Side is strong on this world."

When old, horrific wounds ache, when broken bones throb and healing scars itch, it does not exactly encourage positivity or joy.

I emerged from meditation and immediately suppressed the faint annoyance and irritation brought on by the sudden flood of voices behind me and the bustle of the mundane world. A hearty meal was already waiting on the mess-hall table. Meditation always left me absolutely ravenous.

"So, Boss?" Arvik asked from one of the armchairs, casually sipping his caf. The others turned their attention to me as well, pelting me with curious looks. "Are we going down?"

"Not yet," I grunted, cutting a piece from a juicy steak. "Romri, keep us in orbit for now. I want to check something first. I'll send you the position in a moment."

I tossed the piece of meat into my mouth and, while chewing, pulled out my datapad and plotted the orbit I needed.

"Get us as close as possible to what I sent you, please." And with that, I could finally give the food the attention it deserved.

"On it, Boss," our pilot's voice came through the speaker. Connected directly to the ship through the Void Hide, the Togruta was everywhere the sensors were.

"I want to check something," I explained in response to the Mando's questioning look. "Sorcery stuff. You know how it is..."

"Will there be dancing around a bonfire?" asked another Mandalorian woman aboard my ship.

Mlada Vast was... hmm... a warrior in her early thirties. Calling her a girl while she was in beskar'gam didn't quite work, but "woman"... no, for the life of me, I couldn't bring myself to use that either. Black-haired, emerald-eyed, with slightly sharp, predatory features that did nothing to detract from her looks—if anything, they gave her a dangerous sort of charm—she was an acquaintance of Arvik's, someone he had personally recommended I bring along.

Like all... like almost all Mandos, she was a well-trained, intelligent, cunning armored killing machine. She liked a good fight, good food, and toys that could get you killed. And outside combat or duty, she made absolutely no effort to rein in what was, frankly, a rather obnoxious personality. Honestly, it was like dealing with two different people: on watch, a focused, terse, attentive warrior; off duty, sprawled in her seat, tossing out irritating little jokes and looking one step away from scratching her crotch.

A very charming person. I'd taken a genuine liking to her within the first few hours.

"An open flame aboard a starship is extremely dangerous! Master Dziha, I strongly recommend refraining from anything of the sort until we have landed on the planet's surface."

And that was Threepio. A very valuable electronic blockhead, Dozdrogodul kiss him.

Emthree, my own protocol droid, I had given to Suti, and he had stayed behind at the Academy. The girl already had enough on her plate—all the administrative work was falling to her until I returned—and she and M-3PO had worked well together. She still considered him "cute, funny, and useful." So I foisted him off on her and couldn't be happier.

And this silver-plated* bore had been enthusiastically recommended to me by Mrs. Stratus.

Yeah, thanks a lot—from the bottom of my sarcasm.

I did try to fend Shmi off at first... but the woman looked so genuinely concerned, so eager to help. Alto had told her, apparently, that a translator might prove extremely useful on my journey. The man standing behind his wife wore such an innocent expression that I understood immediately: Threepio had driven him completely insane. And he couldn't exactly have the droid stripped for parts—it was a gift from her son, a keepsake and all that.

Ah... the things beloved women can do to some men. Twist them around their little fingers.

Not me, though!

There was this one time Ir'rina wanted to put green curtains in my office, and I thought they clashed with the decor. I stood my ground, and that was that.

We put up emerald ones.

Mlada merely rolled her eyes, while I chuckled inwardly. If there was one thing that had blunted more than a few of her jokes, it was the droid. A blockhead was a blockhead.

"We'll run a couple of rituals," I told the Mandalorian anyway. "We'll stay in orbit for a day. No big deal. That'll give us time to contact those ladies whose details Willie gave us."

"A whole tribe of women," the second new Mando drawled dreamily.

Karr Vast was Mlada's older brother, three years her senior, with the same jet-black hair and predatory features. His eyes were a less vivid shade of green, though, and his personality was a good deal easier to handle. And yes—he was one hell of a womanizer.

"Incorrect, Mr. Vast," Threepio spoke up again. "This world was once used as a prison colony to which convicts were exiled. With the arrival of the banished Jedi Allya, who took apprentices from among the local Force-sensitives, power passed into the hands of women. The level of technological development is extremely low, with no industrial production and no spaceports.

"Dathomiri society consists of relatively small tribes ruled by shamans and clan Mothers, and both roles are reserved exclusively for women. Men are present as well, but they occupy secondary roles and traditionally maintain the household.

"The only exception is the cult of the Nightsisters, but that sect is closed to outsiders and will certainly not permit us to land within its territory. Furthermore, according to unconfirmed reports, they keep their men in conditions little different from slavery. Males within the sect serve either as bound warriors or as breeding thralls."

"Mmm... Vast as a witch's sex slave. Now that I'd like to see," the warrior snickered wickedly.

"We're brother and sister! What the hell is wrong with you?" the Mando gasped in mock horror. "I warned you that your HoloNet porn addiction wouldn't end well! And look where we are now! My own sister... imagining me with some witch... Horrifying!"

"Incest is a family affair," Mlada replied without the slightest embarrassment, grinning smugly.

Her brother, on the other hand, choked.

"All right, before this turns into an orgy, I'm heading down to the cargo hold," I snorted, glancing out the viewport. The Togruta had almost brought the ship into the position I needed. "Arvik, don't disturb me for the next three hours. Romri, once you can, disconnect from the Hide. I know these rituals, but I'm going to test how they behave with our new toy without you plugged into the ship."

"Got it, Boss. Give me another ten minutes and I can put her on autopilot," the Togruta's amused voice came over the speakers.

"Will do, Boss," Arvik said with a nod, getting to his feet, draining the last of his caf, and pulling on his helmet.

"I'm heading out too," Koit spoke up, already finished with his meal. "I've got a fiancée, though. Can't go doing anything indecent. Sorry, Mlada."

That got everyone laughing, including the warrior herself.

"Pum-purum... Pum... Pum-pum..." I hummed thoughtfully, repeating some tune I'd heard somewhere.

The data I'd gathered confirmed my suspicion: the damage to the world's aura had been inflicted from its surface. By something immensely powerful—and spatial in nature. I couldn't say exactly what; I was still a novice in this field myself, but someone here had definitely been playing with portals. I'd have to dig into it more thoroughly.

And I really hoped I hadn't done anything like that to the Turtle... Though if I had, Hecate would definitely have given me a scolding, at the very least.

I suspected that even if my portal had damaged the Turtle, it had probably been nothing more than a tiny puncture—too small for anyone to even notice. What happened here, though, had either involved something immensely powerful or been repeated far too many times. Either way, I made a note to avoid any experiments with spatial magic on living worlds for the time being.

As for the world itself: it really was alive. There was even something resembling intelligence, but... mmm... it was as unlike anything I had encountered in my previous life as it possibly could be. Then again, even that wasn't certain.

At a glance: a different perception of time, a different kind of logic—if it had logic at all. And there was a trace of divinity mixed in as well. First, it wasn't hidden in any way. Second, it was almost completely inactive. Third, it was spread throughout the entire world and rather weak.

Hecate could sneeze a god like that into dust.

I, of course, was nowhere near that level, but we did have a library-shrine aboard the ship. So there was some protection in place, and I figured the Moon Goddess would either come to an understanding with it or let me know if something went wrong.

Or simply ignore it.

Still, there was a way to make things a little safer by appeasing... hmm... the world, I suppose?

A labor-intensive ritual—one that cost me two dozen souls from the soul vault—would ease the pain of old wounds within a ten-kilometer radius and accelerate their healing. Judging by the complete lack of any reaction, either I hadn't been noticed at all or what I'd done simply wasn't considered significant, given the tiny area affected. The effect should last a couple of years and speed the recovery up a little. I deliberately chose the ugliest scar I could find, just to demonstrate my good intentions.

Anything more significant was out of the question. It would be far too costly. I'd either have to sacrifice hundreds of thousands—if not millions—or spend decades creating a ritual capable of healing an aura the size of an entire planet. I had no desire whatsoever to get my hands dirty with the first option, and I simply didn't have the time for the second.

Maybe in a hundred years.

I'd never worked with the aura of an... uh... organism this large before. But for now, I was far too busy.

I stepped onto the bridge, nodded to the crew, and settled into the captain's chair. No one snapped to attention, no one shouted that the captain was on the bridge, none of that. I had strangled any attempt at introducing "glorious naval traditions" in its cradle. Too distracting. It pulled me away from my thoughts and the others away from their work.

"Ron, what's the situation on the surface? Did you get in touch with Mother Raging River?"

"I'm Ras, Boss. Mother Rashli didn't look particularly pleased, but she confirmed permission to land and sent the coordinates."

"Romri, you can take us down," I said with a nod to the girl, who immediately perked up and turned back to the controls. Climbing into the Void Hide just for the landing didn't seem like the best idea, and I still wanted to check everything over myself. The ritual had been fairly large-scale; I needed to make sure nothing had gone wrong.

Rashli regarded the landed starship with mixed feelings. On the one hand, outsiders meant stress, worry, and trouble. On the other, they meant profit for her clan.

Not credits—who needed those here?

Droid spare parts, power cells, weapons, tools, newer datapad models, HoloNet transmitters and relay units—those were valuable. There was no industry on Dathomir because the clans had no desire to pollute their home, but refusing the benefits of civilization altogether was a rather questionable choice.

Even the Nightsisters, for all their hard-line traditionalism, traded with the outside world from time to time. Though the merchandise they offered in return...

Rashli grimaced.

The "Sith of Dathomir," as the clans sometimes called the Nightsisters, were a constant pain in the ass for the planet's small population. Dark Side practices drew rebellious gifted girls like a magnet. Almost every little "I'm not like the others" type—who, of course, naturally, unquestionably (!!!) knew far better than her elders—sooner or later entertained the idea of joining Dathomir's dark Force-users.

It would have been one thing if the Nightsisters really were nothing more than a haven for misfits and teenage rebels. But Mother Talzin was a first-rate bitch with ambitions of power, strength, and domination over everyone around her. So those foolish girls were quickly worked over, their heads filled with exactly the thoughts and ideas the dark Force-user wanted them to have... and every so often, the result was a raid by former clanmates who came back to rob and kill, intent on "taking what was rightfully theirs."

The woman spat.

Just two days ago, they had managed to intercept three fools trying to run away and join the Nightsisters, and now Rashli had to spend hours talking to them. Patience, understanding, respect—as Allya had taught.

But Force, there were times when Mother Rashli wanted nothing more than to forget all the subtleties and whip the stubborn little idiots across the backside with a soaked switch. Except at their age, that would no longer help. It would only drive them further away.

She sighed. Sometimes she regretted that the clans were far gentler with their young than the Jedi Temple ever was. On very rare occasions, she even caught herself thinking that Sith training methods had something going for them. That last thought was a joke, of course. But she did sometimes find herself thinking about the Jedi ideal of "serenity."

Then again, Allya herself had been exiled to Dathomir because of her beliefs. The Founding Mother had seen the Jedi's downfall precisely in their excessive restrictions. Of course it was easier to forbid than to explain and guide, frightening everyone with the Dark Side. "Attachment leads to the Dark Side," for example. What kind of nonsense was that? A sentient being with no attachments at all was emotionally crippled. A biological droid programmed to "protect the Republic."

The clans, of course, had never spread their influence across most of the galaxy, and they had their runaways and their traitors too. But that was normal. That was simply the natural way of things.

"I can barely imagine what it must be like to live without loving a man, without holding your own children, without ever having a real friendship. And all those emotions those polished Force-users from the Temple keep shoving down as deep as they can... what a nightmare," thought the head of the Raging River Clan as she watched the sentients descending the cruiser's boarding ramp.

"He really does look like a Sith straight out of the old stories. Mother Talzin would be delighted," flashed through her mind as she got a better look at the leader of her guests.

She knew of Siith'khara'Dziha. Even their backwater had access to the HoloNet, and seeing a sentient who was fairly well known in certain circles with her own eyes was rather interesting.

Straight-backed. Unhurried stride. Black robes. A face carved from stone. And curious, slightly insolent red eyes set against black sclera.

Five others followed a little behind him: three Mandalorians, a Togruta, and some floppy-eared creature with eyes on stalks carrying a long infantry spear. The unknown sentient might have looked ridiculous, but an experienced Force-user could see the readiness for a fight beneath that seemingly awkward gait, along with the easy balance of a trained warrior. Then again, none of the others looked like harmless nuna either.

"Cocky son of a bitch," the woman muttered as she met the Jabiim sorcerer's gaze and gave him a welcoming smile.

She didn't like visitors. Understood their usefulness, yes, but didn't like them. Especially when, before landing, they put on some kind of light show up in the stratosphere that seemed to make all of Dathomir sigh in pleasure.

And on top of that, these... these people had come recommended by "her friend Willie."

That slippery womanizer.

Horned, charismatic, Devaronian, perpetually horny, red-assed bastard whom at least a dozen pretty girls in the clan dreamed of either killing or fucking to death.

Which made the planet's satisfied moans about three times more suspicious!

"Greetings, Lord Siith," she said, taking the welcome right up to the dangerous edge of outright mockery.

He gave a strange little grunt, then looked her over in surprise and said something in an unfamiliar, guttural language before fixing Rashli with an intent stare.

"What's with him?" the clan Mother wondered.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, I thought you were speaking my native language..." The red-eyed man paused for a moment, then broke into a bright, deeply threatening smile.

Mother Rashli felt the Force stir. The Sisters had clearly drawn their energy bows, ready to repel an attack on the matriarch. A flick of her hand, and the bows dissolved. Rashli knew about this particular quirk of the sorcerer's—Wilmar had warned her several times, and quite insistently, about that trait of his.

"What made you think that?" the woman asked, arching an eyebrow.

"The translation was remarkably accurate, but it turns out it was just a play on words." His smile never faded, giving the Mother one more reason to feel irritated. "Siith'khara'Dziha translates as Siith, Lord of Dziha. The latter is my family's domain, and I was named after it."

The man thought for a moment, glanced cheerfully at the Sisters around them, and decided to clarify:

"Honestly, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the Sith Order. I swear by Hecate's pant—by my beard, but even I'm starting to get annoyed by these coincidences!"

The sorcerer looked so genuinely indignant at that moment that the woman smiled despite herself. He clearly wasn't one of those Jedi-addled types, so perhaps the red-eyed man wouldn't completely devour her nerves while staying on Raging River Clan territory.

Author's Note:

At the time, C-3PO had not yet acquired his golden Imperial Power Armor. (Heh-heh-heh.)

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Sunday at 5:33 PM

"Good, no problem there," I said with a smile, sipping a rather decent brew made from local herbs. I'd have to ask for the recipe and stock a couple of containers with the ingredients. The woman was made of stern stuff, by the way. From the very first time I smiled at her, she'd shown nerves of steel and perfect composure. "The droids will have the payment cargo ready in two hours. In return, I want a guide, two rancor cubs, and a copy of the esteemed Allya's work on the proper handling of these big fellows."

"Agreed," Mother Rashli nodded. "But I'll say it again: the Jedi destroyed the temple. You're unlikely to find anything worthwhile there. All the technology the Kwa had left behind was destroyed along with the Nightsister detachment."

"Fine by me," I said with a careless wave, looking up for a moment from the list of goods the Raging River Clan had requested in exchange for their hospitality, a guide, and information. "I don't need those Force-based superweapons even for free. They'd be far more trouble than they're worth: everyone we'd expect—and plenty we wouldn't—would come running. What interests me are the principles behind them, and even from the wreckage I should be able to piece together at least some idea of how they worked." And the corpses, yes. There ought to be corpses there, and corpses could be raised. With a bit of effort, I could even strengthen the Shadow of Life enough to get one conversation out of them. But there was no need to mention that just yet. We were still trying not to advertise necromancy too widely, corpse animation in particular.

"Suit yourself," the woman said with a shrug. "But if you get into a fight with the Nightsisters, my girls wash their hands of it. They're guides, not bodyguards."

Honestly, they're more tour guides than trail guides, I thought, though I merely nodded to the woman as I left her home. We had an entire cruiser that could simply fly us there, not to mention airspeeders, but Dathomir was known for more than girls flinging Force arrows and the ruins of ancient structures. It also had an incredibly rich variety of flora and fauna, and that interested me just as much.

So we might as well mix business with pleasure: take a walk, get some fresh air, have a look at what was left of the ancient temple the Jedi had smashed to hell, and on the way back collect a few assorted specimens that caught my interest. Some for the greenhouses, and some for the menagerie.

"Boooss," Mlada drawled from where she stood by the entrance to the local matriarch's rather neat little wooden house. "That's not fair!"

"Hmm?" I raised an eyebrow and glanced at the Mandalorian. She wasn't so much guarding me as keeping Koit company, since it was his watch at the moment. Though, to be perfectly honest, she was really just tagging along with us.

"These are… the wrong kind of boss-women for a matriarchy," the warrior said, gesturing at the settlement around us.

"Ahhh… You mean because right now our boys are probably eating and drinking their fill, and later they'll be tumbling into bed with the local beauties?"

"Yes, bantha poodoo, exactly that! I thought they'd look at men like they were that same poodoo! I even put together a whole separate file of jokes! And these… these…"

I gave a short laugh, glancing at the Gungan, who was grinning broadly.

"When some curvy beauty starts making it perfectly clear to our boys that she'd like to have some proper fun on the furs, Mandos aren't exactly in the habit of playing the blushing virgin. Frankly, I'd be surprised if any of them answered with something like, 'Nooo, not tonight, I have a heaaadache…'"

"Reality is such a disappointment…" the Mandalorian drawled mournfully. "And they've gone and hidden all the good-looking ones from me!"

"What do you mean?" I gave the Gungan walking beside us a meaningful look, sending him into immediate mock alarm.

"I got a fiancée, though!" Koit protested brightly, ears flapping. "Leave me out of your kinky nonsense!"

"I wasn't planning to," Mlada said, lifting her chin. Then she gave the spearman a doubtful look. "Though those ears of yours…"

"Easy now, keep your distance!" the Gungan yelped, hopping aside and giving his spear a twirl. "Till you grow yourself some eyestalks, you don't stand a chance, though!"

"You're mean, Koit," Mlada pouted. It lasted all of a few seconds before the three of us started snickering.

"By the way, Boss, why the hell did you tell the droids to throw in that container of women's underwear as a gift?"

"Well, Quartermaster's off on a little outing," I said with a shrug and a smile. "I'm surprised you never suffered from his… mmm… culinary tastes."

"I don't wear any," the woman snorted. "You don't wear underwear under this jumpsuit, and when I'm out of it, I don't need underwear in the first place."

"We'll skirt the edge of the Red Marshes," our guide said seriously, though without the pointed displeasure she'd shown before.

For the first few days of the journey, the clan guides had treated us with a certain amount of disdain, but the seriousness and discipline of my companions had reassured the women somewhat and softened their attitude toward us.

They were a little irritated by how often we stopped to collect plant specimens that caught my interest, and they liked it even less when we occasionally stopped to catch some of the local wildlife, but all of that had been part of our agreement, so there was nothing to complain about.

"Anything interesting in there?" I asked the woman, studying the reddish haze spreading across the lowland ahead.

"There are," the guide said after a moment's thought. "Nightsisters. But we'd really rather not run into them. Some of them are completely unhinged."

"Some?" I scratched my beard thoughtfully, looking at the woman.

Dathomir had an interesting culture, at least where our hosts were concerned. Raging River was a comparatively reasonable clan with a distinctly matriarchal way of life. It was a little odd to see so many tall, striking women and girls—brash, sharp-tongued, impressively muscled, and dressed rather revealingly—while the men were, almost without exception, quiet and unassuming. For a tribal society, of course.

We hardly saw any men at all, so I only learned the broadest details about how they lived: there were slaves, and there were men of the clan. The former had no rights whatsoever; the latter lived much like the women of the Turtle's desert continent—quietly, modestly, and with no say in anything.

Why had things ended up this way here? I couldn't say for certain, but I had a few ideas. Allya, the exile. A Force-sensitive woman who had managed to find common ground with a living planet and point her followers in the right direction. For some reason, those followers were exclusively female, and over time they built what amounted to a magical matriarchal society led by shamans. The strongest among them were gifted both in the Jedi tradition and in shamanism. The most respected of these women eventually became the Mothers of their clans.

And in general, there were plenty of Force users among the women here, though most of them were frankly weak by Jedi Order standards, while almost any woman could learn Dathomiri magic. I suspected that was a gift from their world. I often heard the locals talking about spirits, and Dathomir itself frequently came up in connection with the Great Spirit. That fit rather neatly with some thoughts I'd been having.

Could the spirit of the planet be looking kindly upon its inhabitants, generously granting them gifts in exchange for their refusal to pursue "progress"? The idea of defiling the world—not with technology itself, but with large-scale industry that polluted it and caused it "pain"—was practically one of the central tenets of the clans' worldview. That didn't stop them from using imported droids, technological devices, and similar conveniences, or from maintaining small workshops to service them, but that was about as far as their technology went.

Everything the locals made themselves—clothes, footwear, primitive tools, some of their buildings—was made with as little harm to the environment as possible. In short, this was a true world of shamans with a touch of druidism.

Then there were the local gods, though they seemed more like avatars of the world itself: the Fanged One and the Winged One. The first was a gargoyle embodying the darker aspects: fury, anger, vengeance, war. The second represented the lighter ones: life, fertility, healing, peace.

Threepio had, in general, given me an accurate briefing on the planet and its population, but there were plenty of details that never made it onto the HoloNet. For example, besides the major tribes, there were also smaller clans and clan associations. And if the Nightsisters were something of a pillar of Darkness in this world, then most of the smaller groups were little more than ordinary bands of raiders. They were women cast out by their own people, rejected by the Sisters, or simply unwilling to submit to Mother Talzin.

They raided settlements, carried men off into slavery, stole other people's slaves, schemed, fought among themselves, and often dreamed of one day becoming a major clan or even a tribe in their own right.

Funny thing was, the more or less light-aligned Dathomiri hated the latter even more than the Nightsisters. Why more or less light-aligned? Because the locals didn't practice anything resembling "Jediism." Raging River, for example, might favor the Light Side of the Force, but they weren't above making use of certain aspects of the Dark.

The gangs, meanwhile, were despised for their terrible discipline. With the Nightsisters, it was sometimes possible to come to an agreement, and you could even expect them to keep their word. Any deal with one of the bandit clans, on the other hand, lasted only until their leader changed—or until the current one changed her mood. Both happened fairly often, because the gangs simply had no idea how to handle Darkness properly.

"Depends," the woman said with a sigh. "If you weren't here, I wouldn't be worried about trouble, but with so many unattended men…"

The Dathomiri woman smirked and left the thought unfinished, but it was clear enough anyway.

"Koit, you hear that? You're in danger again!" Mlada laughed from under her helmet.

"Terrible planet, though," the spearman agreed, twitching his ears in exaggerated fear. "Crazy women hunting almost-married Gungan. Me, I starting to feel bit-bit sexually harassed!"

Even our guides burst out laughing at that.

"You know, Long-Ears," the younger one spoke up, "if I were you, I wouldn't joke about that. Exotic types tend to attract admirers."

"Hah, Koit! So if they round us all up, looks like you might get a little something sweet out of it too!" Vast joined in. "Just close your eyes and picture some pretty long-eared girls."

"Mother," a tall, very pale woman said, bowing respectfully before her matriarch. "Two have come to us. They fled from Raging River."

"Mmm?" Talzin raised an eyebrow, prodded the slave massaging her feet with her toe, and waited for the rest. Runaways from the tribes were not exactly common, but neither were they the sort of thing that warranted an urgent report. Which meant there was more to it.

"Raging River has guests. The Rung, a Consular-class cruiser, belongs to Siith'khara'Dziha, a sorcerer from Jabiim. He set out for the ruins of the Star Temple two days ago with a Gungan and three Mandalorians. Today, if we've guessed their route correctly, they should have been passing along the edge of the Red Marshes. Two hours ago, one of the patrol groups failed to check in."

"What kind of group?"

"The punishment detail. They've been wandering around out there for a month now. I wouldn't have disturbed you over that, but after hearing what the runaways had to say about Raging River's guests, I suspect the patrol ran into the sorcerer and the Mandos."

"Interesting." Mother Talzin interlaced her fingers, considering. The Sisters themselves were no great loss. Their punishment was meant to carry a risk of death; no one would mourn them. The mysterious sorcerer who had piqued even her interest some time ago, however, was another matter entirely. "Prepare a detachment. You'll go to the Temple. Scout the area, and do not attack first. As soon as you find the Jabiim party, contact me. I want to speak with this sorcerer."

"Yes, Mother." The woman bowed respectfully, then left the matriarch's chambers.

"A sorcerer, then," the ruler of the Nightsisters murmured, settling back into her lavish chair. The slave seated on the floor beside her immediately resumed massaging her feet with practiced hands. "So he was the one behind whatever happened in orbit? Curious…"

Something was stirring in the wider galaxy. Something connected to this man—if he was, in fact, a man. The Sisters did not live in isolation. The HoloNet, certain Force practices, and sorcery all brought knowledge of events beyond Dathomir. The emergence of a new branch of the gifted had not exactly shaken Talzin; it had merely piqued her interest. What truly intrigued her was that neither the Force nor magic had been able to tell her anything useful.

The visions were clouded. She had not been able to get so much as a glimpse of Jabiim's future, while her sorcery had run up against a powerful form of protection unlike anything she knew.

She had even considered sending one of the Sisters to Jabiim to study there—someone level-headed and properly motivated. The possibilities such methods offered for concealment interested her far too much to ignore.

"Tum-tum-tum, tu-tudururu-tum…" I hummed contentedly as I looked over our trophies. Five Dathomiri witches. I had definitely chosen the right world for my first vacation! Less than five years ago, I'd been wondering how to get my hands on some gifted people all to myself, and now… bam! They'd come to me all by themselves! And chances were they knew at least something about the local shamanism, too.

I was also downright delighted by how effective our Mandos were. With amulets like the ones I'd given the Jedi Council, three fighters had dropped those silly girls as if they were children, all with their blasters set to stun. And they really were young, foolish girls. I'd even be careful when working with them. Partly because they were simply pretty and rather cute when they weren't pulling those contemptuous faces, and partly because I had no desire to seriously antagonize the Dathomiri locals.

It was one thing to say, "They attacked us, so we stunned them. Here, take your girls back." Quite another when there was no one left to return.

Given the change in circumstances, I called the Rung in to pick us up. We were aboard now, having sent the Raging River guides on their way. I wasn't about to complicate matters by continuing on foot and collecting specimens with prisoners in tow; we'd simply fly the rest of the way. These five would give me plenty to do.

Talli seethed in silence. While the other four of her "friends" were practically frothing at the mouth, hurling insults and threats at their captors, the young witch preferred to save her breath and think. Unlike those dregs of the clan, she understood that threats were going to get them nowhere.

The problem was, their group had brought this situation on themselves. Their leader's "brilliant" plan had been simple: they would win, drag the prisoners back, and be forgiven. Simple and elegant. Apparently, after a month of crawling around the swamps, the woman had finally gone completely off the rails—and she'd never been entirely on them to begin with.

The bunch she'd ended up with were scum. First-rate, top-shelf scum. Their leader and her friend were a pair of losers who, together with a third companion—now deceased—had once attacked their former commander. That wasn't why they were here, of course. They were here because three of them had jumped one woman and still somehow managed to get their faces beaten in, with one of them even ending up dead.

Half the clan had laughed at the pathetic idiots, and that was probably what had finally sent their commander over the edge. The mockery had always driven her absolutely insane.

Another one had tried to fuck the senior shaman's personal slave. Crazy idiot. As if there weren't enough men in the pens already. Talli still couldn't understand how the moron hadn't gotten herself killed over it. She certainly would have killed someone for touching her property. Especially some uppity little brat.

Sharing with a friend was one thing, maybe. Even then, "Dark gifted" and "sharing" didn't exactly go together unless you'd already grown bored with the toy.

The last one might have irritated her most of all. She was… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Passive, sluggish, lazy. As far as Talli was concerned, there were only two places for someone like that: exile or the altar. Just… trash.

She was the only normal one here, though she accepted that her punishment was deserved. She'd gotten caught. She had broken into the senior shaman's house and been caught rummaging through her library. But at least Talli had a reasonably respectable reason for it: among the Nightsisters, finding a mentor willing to teach beyond the bare minimum for free was difficult—almost impossible.

Knowledge had a price, and she, a young gifted woman, had nothing that would interest her elders. She could have tried sucking up to someone, put her tongue to good use, or found some other way to make herself useful, but her pride would never allow it.

Talli saw herself becoming, if not a Mother, then at least a high-ranking shaman within the clan. The very thought of having to grovel or satisfy the lust of Sisters who took pleasure in making other Dathomiri women submit sent a storm of rage through her. She yearned for might and the power of knowledge. The secrets known by the elders called to her, and the Mother's skill and power filled her with awe.

And yes, there was status, respect, and authority too, of course, though… those were hardly the main point. More like a pleasant bonus: comfort, and the ability to kick idiots around instead of having to put up with them.

One mistake, and Talli had ended up in the swamps… "Long Patrol" was where screwups got sent. Supplies were replenished at locations specified during check-ins, there were no comforts to speak of, predatory flora and fauna were everywhere… and no one knew when they'd be allowed to return.

There had been cases where groups like theirs never came home at all. The patrols either got eaten, died in clashes with crazed raider bands, or simply ran away themselves. The Sisters didn't mourn them. All that "my dear sister" and "my beloved daughters" sounded nice enough. In practice, if you were trash, you were treated accordingly.

Talli exhaled angrily through clenched teeth. Their situation had gone from bad to absolutely fucking awful. They'd been taken prisoner and locked inside a portable animal pen, which the mysterious red-eyed Boss had reinforced with some kind of artifacts. They had no weapons, an energy grid blocked the way out, and trying to jump over it was useless thanks to a field that instantly slammed anyone who tried straight into the ground. The girl had even taken a certain amount of pleasure in watching the idiots from her group plant their faces in the dirt over and over again.

They were camped beside the ruined pyramid-temple, while their captors had a fucking starship, one of its twin laser-cannon turrets aimed squarely at their pen. At any moment they could simply be thrown aboard and flown away, and then… best case, they'd be sold into slavery.

A shitty situation no matter how you looked at it.

And most importantly, unlike those idiots, she absolutely did not want the Sisters to come and "rescue" them. If that happened, the damage to her reputation would be catastrophic. They had been captured by men. And no one in the Clan would give a damn that one of the Mandos was a woman. There were more men. And their leader was a man!

The only way Talli could preserve even a shred of the Sisters' respect was to escape on her own, but with these stupid banthas…

Her thoughts returned to the captors' Boss. Creepy bastard—may the Fanged One eat him! And the way he had looked at them?! With the same love and eager anticipation she felt when looking at some new records of ancient knowledge she'd managed to acquire through sheer cunning. And he'd been smiling too, damn him, like some fucking deranged lunatic who had sunk so deep into Darkness that Mother would have slit his throat without a second thought.

Those little smiles sent shivers racing over her skin and left her genuinely afraid. He was obviously one of the Dark gifted. Strange, unusual, but gifted all the same. The floating objects and the ripples in the Force with that odd undertone made that clear enough.

The fact that she couldn't sense the Dark Side from him did little to reassure her. A man dressed like that all but announced some kinship with the Sith—if he wasn't one himself.

"Damn it," the girl hissed when she caught the red-eyed man looking at her with interest. Only now did it occur to her just how much she stood out among those shrieking idiots. And it looked like that was about to cost her…

Because the bastard in the black robe had finished whatever he was doing with that strange Force-tinged thing, and now he was walking toward their pen, looking straight at her.

Looking at her with anticipation…

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Monday at 2:56 PM

Tension. Fear. Anger… Curiosity. The girl's emotions shifted and churned no matter how hard she tried to pull herself together. Talli had devoted a great deal of attention to honing her body, her abilities, and her control over the Dark Side, so she had long since understood and accepted the principle that "emotions should serve the gifted, not the other way around." A Dark gifted who couldn't rein in their passions was little more than a dumb animal, as their commander and her closest lackey had so clearly demonstrated today. Pride, arrogance, stupidity, and underestimating the enemy had landed them in captivity. At least it hadn't gotten them killed. But for all that Talli considered herself restrained and cunning, their current situation was doing no favors for her control over those passions. Even the comfortable cabin, lined with bookshelves and furnished with a small table and two comfortable armchairs in the middle, did little to help. If anything, it only left her more confused.

The man sitting across from her wore a faint smile. An unpleasant one. His red eyes studied the Dathomiri woman with open interest, and every so often the sheer brazenness of his stare sent a surge of anger through her. A man was shamelessly gawking at her, and only the understanding that Dathomir was not the whole galaxy—and that she was this man's prisoner—kept her from putting the red-eyed brute in the black robe firmly in his place.

What irritated her even more was that Talli had last bathed three days ago, while the cabin was spotless and everything in it smelled pleasant except her. No, it wasn't embarrassment—the very thought of looking pathetic and filthy disgusted her. The realization that once she got up from the comfortable light-gray armchair, she'd leave a mark from her dirty ass on the upholstery was both infuriating and, in a small way, satisfying. A tiny bit of revenge.

"I am Siith'khara'Dziha," the red-eyed man finally said. "Not Sith. Siith. It's a name. I'm the Director of the Academy of Magic and head of the Jabiim Mages' Guild. I have nothing to do with the Dark gifted."

The man fell silent, looking at the girl expectantly. Talli spent a few seconds digesting what she had just heard, then decided not to make the situation any worse. Talking while sitting in a comfortable chair was far preferable to screaming out answers while strapped to a torture table.

A witch had to know when to bend if she wanted to survive among the Nightsisters. Grudges against those stronger than you were meant to be stored away until the right moment came—then unleashed all at once, with the revenge properly savored.

The man had already demonstrated his strength when he had "invited" her to this conversation aboard the ship. The memory of her "friends" writhing beneath arcs of electricity snapping from the red-eyed man's fingertips warmed her heart, while their groans after the "lesson" filled her with deep satisfaction.

Just as satisfying was the thought that she had been right to hold herself back and wait to see how the Sisters' attack on him played out.

"Talli V'arna. Nightsister, assigned to a Long Patrol group," she said, allowing herself a cutting smirk. "Dark gifted."

"Pleasure to meet you, Talli." The red-eyed man smiled unpleasantly again, though his friendly tone matched the words. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the smile itself being pleasant. Rather strange. Mother Talzin, for example, could play the role of a loving elder relative so convincingly that after speaking with her, you could spend the next week remembering her with awe and adoration—even knowing full well that Mother was a dark, vicious female rancor gone rabid.

"Likewise," the Dathomiri woman lied. Truth be told, the girl was confused. So she decided to test the waters and see if she could clear things up a little. "Why am I here?"

At that moment, the door opened, and a silver protocol droid entered carrying a fairly large caf pot with two cups and a small dish of something on a tray.

"Your caf, Master Dziha," the protocol droid announced as he set the tray on the table.

"Thank you, Threepio," the red-eyed man said with a nod.

Once the door had closed behind the droid, the man who had introduced himself as Siith poured the steaming drink into the cups and pushed one of them closer to the girl. A pleasant aroma reached Talli's nose. She liked caf, but unfortunately drank it only rarely: the beans were brought to Dathomir by the occasional trader or smuggler, and only a small fraction of them had the courage to deal with the Sisters. In short, it was an expensive and rare indulgence even for the elders, let alone for her… And the quality was usually downright poor.

"Go ahead, Talli. Help yourself." That unpleasant smile again, and he nudged the little dish toward her. It seemed to hold some kind of sweets. The girl had never seen anything like them before, but they looked extremely tempting.

"Uh… thanks." The whole situation was only getting more confusing. The uncertainty still had her tense, frightened, and angry, but a small sip of the hot caf made it all a little easier to bear.

Of course, he could have slipped something into it, but she wasn't exactly in a position to be picky. Even if it was laced with psychotropics, there was nothing stopping them from simply forcing the stuff down her throat if the Dathomiri woman decided to be stubborn.

"Getting back to your question," the man said, taking a sip from his own cup and narrowing his eyes in pleasure. "You're here because your group attacked us, and we took you prisoner."

"That's… obvious." Was he serious? Was he an idiot, or was this supposed to be some kind of joke? Anger stirred inside her again, threatening to spill out in a biting remark, but Talli held it back, remembering the Sisters writhing in the pen.

"Yes, but that's not all," the red-eyed man said with a chuckle, confirming her suspicion that he was mocking her. "Out of your whole group—which, I have to admit, was remarkably reckless to walk out into the open with bows drawn and demand our surrender—you were the only one who kept quiet. No insults, no taunts, no boasting. You just stood there with a look on your face that said, 'This is a stupid idea.'"

Talli snorted despite herself. She really had thought that pathetic excuse for a plan was idiotic, and had even tried to talk some sense into the group, only to be told to go sit on a rancor's cock until she popped.

So at the time, the girl had been frantically figuring out how to make a run for it… unfortunately, everything had happened far too fast.

A dense barrage of stun bolts from three blurred figures came with deadly accuracy. Even precognition was little help: the professionals led their shots and often saturated the places the Dathomiri women might try to dodge into. Their own arrows simply burst apart in pretty showers of sparks when they struck some incomprehensible force field.

And the red-eyed man with that vile smile of his, along with his floppy-eared companion, simply stood there behind some unknown protection and watched with perfect calm.

"Honestly, right up until the end I thought it had to be some kind of clever plan," the man said, scratching his neatly trimmed beard and giving a small, disapproving shake of his head. "I figured either you were illusions, or your Sisters were hiding in the bushes and trees, somehow concealed from me. You didn't see it, but when my guards knocked you all out, I was genuinely surprised."

"Our commander… made a mistake," the Dathomiri woman said, barely managing to keep her thoughts about that idiot to herself and answering as neutrally as possible. If the reason she was being treated gently was her self-control, then Talli had no intention of disappointing the bastard.

"Definitely," the man laughed, popping one of the sweets from the dish into his mouth. After a brief hesitation, Talli followed his example.

Delicious. Very delicious. And after what she'd been eating for the past month, it was insanely good!!!

The man, meanwhile, continued. "And once you woke up after we got here, you were still the most restrained of the lot. That's why you're sitting here now in a comfortable chair, drinking caf and having a conversation with my charismatic self. I prefer talking to people who have brains inside their skulls rather than a vacuum."

"Flattered," the girl said, unable to keep a crooked smile from tugging at her lips. It was satisfying to know she had read the situation correctly. And being judged sensible, unlike those four idiots, did her pride no harm either. "And the point of this conversation?"

"Yes, yes, straight to business." The red-eyed man nodded. "You look like someone I can actually come to an agreement with, so I'd like to make you an offer. You see, I'm a sorcerer. Not a shaman, like in your local tradition, and not gifted in the Jedi or Sith sense. A sorcerer. I'm interested in new knowledge. I enjoy learning what I don't yet know. By nature, I'm a researcher. And you gifted people interest me."

Talli relaxed a little more and even found herself looking at her host with a trace of sympathy. The so-called sorcerer's words struck a chord with her. She, too, was drawn to knowledge. If the red-eyed man wanted information, she had no objection to sharing it. The alternative would be torture, wouldn't it?

She herself would have started with that, of course, but the red-eyed man had five witches at his disposal and could try a different method on each of them. Which meant… she needed to be more useful than the others.

Talli had no positive feelings whatsoever about torture when she was the one on the receiving end.

"So," the red-eyed man continued after another sip of caf, confirming Talli's suspicions more and more with every word. "I want you to be my guest, not my prisoner. What I've seen, together with what I know about the Dark gifted, is enough for me to suspect that you're… mildly indifferent to the others. Am I right?"

That's putting it mildly, she thought with dry amusement. At the very least, Talli would have been delighted to see her commander dead, along with that sycophantic little friend of hers. As for the rest… she couldn't care less.

Except…

"Of course, we treat our guests with the utmost care. They're always welcome at our table, and we can provide a comfortable cabin with a shower, a refresher, and a change of clothes. And I never vivisect my guests in order to explore their inner world." The man's ever-present smile somehow became considerably more unsettling.

"Ahem…" She had to take another sip of caf; her throat had suddenly gone dry. Well, there was some incentive to stay cooperative. To her own surprise, Talli realized the sorcerer was beginning to earn a certain amount of respect from her. "And guests are expected to…"

The girl trailed off pointedly, waiting to hear the terms imposed on those who wouldn't be opened up on a surgical table.

Or simply opened up… wherever happened to be convenient.

"Why, of course, they're expected to enjoy the company of such a charismatic and pleasant conversationalist as myself!" The red-eyed man winked, stroking his beard. "You and I are going to talk about the Force and Dathomiri sorcery! You'll show me a few interesting things while standing inside the pattern of an analyzer ritual, I'll satisfy my curiosity, and when we leave, I'll thank you with something valuable and useful. You can tell your people you tricked and deceived me into letting all of you go! Make up some story about how you wormed your way into the confidence of poor, foolish me and explained all the trouble I'd be in if I killed you or refused to release you. I'm sure you know better than I do what you need to say. How does that sound?"

"And what about the vivisection? Wouldn't that leave corpses?"

"Pff." The sorcerer snorted and leaned back in his chair. "No one has ever died on my table unless I wanted them to, so don't worry."

The girl fell silent, thinking. It all sounded… very good, actually. Spending her captivity in decent conditions… with a shower, proper meals, and a real bed, even if it was only a shipboard one… Very tempting.

Of course, it could all be a lie, but why? Talli couldn't see the point. Then again, she couldn't quite understand the excessive leniency and generosity of the offer either. And there was even the promise of a reward…

Though he could always say, I'm giving you your life, and honestly, she'd be fine with that too. This man was clearly no Jedi, so deliberately provoking him into violence seemed like a very bad idea.

Hmm… As for that reward… maybe…

"What if I asked for some of your knowledge as my reward?" the Dathomiri woman ventured, holding her breath. Knowledge was the most valuable thing on Dathomir. Because knowledge was power. Power meant authority! And authority opened the way to even greater knowledge!

The man who called himself Siith fell thoughtful. He popped another sweet into his mouth, chewed it carefully, took a sip of caf, gave Talli a considering look, and nodded.

"Hmm, why not? I've never been stingy with knowledge. If you want to learn and I have the time, it's nothing but a pleasure for me. But I'll be honest: we won't be here long. Two or three weeks at most. Showing you things, explaining them—no problem. Actually teaching you, though… well, perhaps the equivalent of telekinesis: aura manipulation."

Under the girl's astonished gaze, the caf pot, the dish of sweets, and the sorcerer's cup rose into the air. No, what surprised her wasn't the fact that the objects were floating—she could do that herself—but that she felt no ripple in the Force. It was as though the objects had simply lifted off on their own.

"I want to make one thing clear from the start," the sorcerer said, looking at her seriously. "This is a skill you'll have to keep refining constantly, because at first, the most you'll manage is dropping all of this on the floor. But if you devote even an hour a day to it, then in a couple of years you'll effectively have an extra pair of hands. Strong hands. With good control over aura manipulation, they'll be perfectly capable of snapping a person's neck from up to five meters away. Interested?"

"And the training? In two weeks, I mean…" The Dathomiri woman hesitated. It all sounded very tempting, especially considering what he had laid out as her side of the bargain, but…

"I'll show you. The important part is understanding the principle. A couple of days should be enough for that; after that, it's all persistence and practice. It's like physical training, except there's no upper limit. Progress gets harder, of course, but you won't hit a wall the way you do with muscles once you reach peak condition. You can keep strengthening your aura indefinitely, until you get sick of it. And I'll think about what else I can throw in on top, as long as there's enough time."

"Then…" The girl thought for a couple of seconds. Dozens of possible uses for a skill no one could sense flashed through her mind. For the first time during the conversation, Talli smiled broadly—though the smile was anticipatory… and probably a little malicious.

"I agree, Teacher."

The red-eyed man tilted his head to one side and studied her face for several seconds before breaking into open laughter. The laugh was genuine, the smile unsettling, and his eyes full of amusement.

"Good, then, Apprentice," the sorcerer said, laughter still dancing in his red eyes. And why did Talli suddenly have the feeling that her little joke had been a mistake? "Come on, I'll show you to your cabin. By the way, that smile of yours has a lot of potential."

"Get yourself cleaned up. Once you're done, contact Threepio." The sorcerer set a communicator down on the table. "He'll bring you something to eat. You've already missed lunch, and dinner is still a long way off."

He watched her face with a hint of amusement while the witch tried to keep her expression neutral. But the prospect of taking a—miracle of miracles—hot shower, changing into clean clothes, and stretching out on that inviting bed made it very hard to maintain her composure.

Once the sorcerer left the cabin—after honestly warning her that she would still be watched—the young witch swore. Filthily and with feeling, invoking rancors and the various forms of sexual intercourse her team ought to engage in with the beasts.

But there was no anger in it.

If he had simply left a Dark gifted woman completely unsupervised, she wouldn't have understood it at all. She would have felt nothing but contempt for such idiotic trust—if something that stupid could even be called trust. No, Talli was cursing because she was impressed.

It seemed she had even developed a tiny bit of gratitude toward her idiot commander, whose stupidity had landed her here.

Talli had expected some cramped little cubbyhole, but the sorcerer had brought her to a genuinely comfortable cabin. It was even larger than her cell back home. A convertible bed: single, double, or sofa; a table and armchair made of real wood, though fitted with magnetic fasteners; a wardrobe built into the wall with a pull-out vanity table for doing makeup; a private refresher; a large stack of clean, good-quality clothes… Even the underwear, though plain, felt very pleasant to the touch. "Guest quarters," the sorcerer had said simply, sweeping a hand around the room. If these were the guest quarters, she'd really like to see the owner's.**

Impatiently stripping off her stale clothes, the witch hurried into the shower. First she needed to get everything she could out of the situation right now; she could think afterward. With this many temptations dangling in front of her, her mind was going to keep drifting in the wrong direction until the Dathomiri woman satisfied her immediate wants.

Bliss… yes, that was the word for it. Right now, she would have turned down even a handsome slave in her bed. Laziness and contentment had settled over her like a heavy blanket. She was clean, full, satisfied, wearing fresh underwear, and for the first time in a month she didn't have to worry about some creature trying to eat her.

And the food… mmmm. Not military rations, but proper cooking from a good chef. Soup, a main course, a little salad, caf, dessert. If all of the red-eyed man's apprentices lived like this, she would really like to…

Talli froze for a second. The gears in her mind creaked, clicked, then suddenly spun into overdrive. She thought she finally understood what the sorcerer was up to.

"I have nothing to do with the Dark gifted," he had said!

Red-eyed liar! May she be "treated" to arterial worms injected into her veins every single day*** if this black-robed, sly Sith-bred bastard wasn't trying to seduce her in the most obvious way possible.

Not in the sense of trying to fuck her—though that was possible too; Sith often had no objection to enjoying the charms of their apprentices—but in the sense of studying a gifted Dathomiri witch. Ha-ha! Two weeks weren't enough for him, so now he wanted her to ask, willingly, to be taken along.

Comfort, convenience, training, politeness… In two weeks, she'd be howling at the mere thought of going back to her cell, never mind the Long Patrol, and probably start dropping hints herself that she wouldn't mind continuing her studies under the sorcerer—forgetting all about the fact that he was an obnoxious male brute. For benefits like these, she could afford a little hypocrisy.

She would never get anything remotely like this from the elders, even if she let them do whatever they wanted with her. Everyone could be bought if you offered the right price—one high enough to make them shove their pride as far up their ass as it would go.

"Clever bastard," the girl murmured, unable to keep the admiration out of her voice.

Still, she needed to think it through properly instead of rushing to conclusions. She might be wrong. His sorcery might not even work for her…

Fine. She still had time.

Author's Note:

** The Consular-class cruiser is a modular design that can be configured as a diplomatic vessel or a comfortable luxury yacht—which is, in part, what Siith had done with the Rung.

*** A very painful form of torture that kills everyone except Dathomiri witches. A worm is introduced into the victim's bloodstream, producing, to put it mildly, extremely unpleasant sensations.

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Tuesday at 12:07 PM

"@₽#@&&!!!" Talli breathed under her breath so no one would hear as she approached the sorcerer and one of the Senior Sisters. The Dathomiri woman walked quickly, but with her head bowed respectfully and her eyes lowered. Right now, she was terrified. More terrified than when she'd been caught in someone else's library. More terrified than during the Long Patrol's scrapes. More terrified than after their group had been captured.

"@₽#@&&!!!" she repeated, this time only in her head, barely suppressing a whimper when she felt the emerald-green gaze of the third most powerful Senior Sister in the clan settle on her. Mother Talzin. Fucking Mother Talzin was controlling the body of the Nightsister group's leader right now. No one else would have had the strength to take control of a gifted woman that powerful. And the Third Sister would never have allowed anyone else to crawl into her skin.

How did this happen? Why? The only thing worse would have been Mother's personal presence. Though having some of the clan's stronger fighters here, plus a medium possessed by Talzin, was still one hell of a pile of rancor shit.

Talli hadn't expected anyone to come for them at all. Her patrol "friends" had been waiting for help, but V'arna had been hoping they'd simply be written off. Her Sisters from the patrol didn't understand that being forgotten would have been far better for them than being rescued. It happened often enough: no one was surprised when another bunch of Long Patrol screwups vanished without a trace. The next group sent along their route would try to find out what had happened to them, but that would be the end of it.

After spending a week aboard the Rung and getting to know the sorcerer and his crew, the girl was almost certain that nothing particularly terrible was going to happen to her personally. The sorcerer didn't seem to have any intention of killing the idiots in the pen either; otherwise, it was hard to explain why all his "research on the gifted" had been so remarkably humane. So Talli had been counting, at the very least, on getting her freedom back once Siith left Dathomir. Shame her best-case plan had probably just gone straight to Sith hell.

Why the hell did they have to come after all?! the girl panicked, cursing the universe. Everything she had done over the past week had probably been for nothing, and what awaited her now was unlikely to be pleasant. If anything awaits me at all, came the bleak, hopeless thought.

Life in captivity had been calm and pleasant. Siith had turned out to be a perfectly reasonable person once you got used to his smiles, and a good Teacher who explained things remarkably well. Talli shared her own knowledge in return and behaved with the utmost respect. The rest of the people aboard the ship treated her either with indifference or even with some degree of sympathy. The latter, of course, was thanks to the Dathomiri woman making a deliberate effort to leave a good impression on everyone.

She wasn't stupid, so for the first two days she watched the sorcerer's interactions with his subordinates very closely. That was what kept her from putting her foot in it. The kind of contempt and harsh treatment of those lower in the hierarchy that was perfectly normal in her clan simply wasn't practiced here. Siith gave orders and commanded, but the atmosphere was nothing like the tyranny of the strong she was used to among the Nightsisters. The girl adjusted quickly, shoved her pride and arrogance as far down as she could, and set about making a good impression on the entire crew, from the sorcerer himself all the way down to the tedious, irritating protocol droid. Yes, even with that metal idiot she was unfailingly polite. Any little thing could ruin the favorable impression she was working so hard to build, and she was certain she was being watched closely.

So Talli's relationship with the owner of the Rung and his crew was perfectly normal, and for the most part she was satisfied with how things were going. Especially considering that no one had even thought of humiliating her. But more than anything, it was the level of comfort she'd never known before her captivity that warmed her heart and made it easy to put up with the role she had chosen.

To be perfectly honest, for the first time in her life she was almost completely satisfied with the conditions she was living in. A born Nightsister, daughter of one of the clan's gifted women and a Zabrak slave, she had grown up like everyone else—in an atmosphere of brutal competition. Competition for a mentor's attention, for knowledge, for decent equipment. Hell, even for decent food and bed linen that wasn't torn.

The concept of "maternal care" wasn't exactly popular among the Nightsisters. Talli hadn't even learned such a thing existed until she was already a teenager and came across it on the HoloNet. They all had one Mother, and her name was Talzin. Everyone else was merely a sister. Shitty sisters. Absolutely fucking awful ones. Really, judging by those same holofilms, Talli had one remarkably rotten family. Her own biological mother could quite easily arrange a brutal punishment for her daughter if she stepped out of line. Blood relatives were punished even more harshly than everyone else, so no one could accuse anyone of favoritism or of trying to build a rival faction. Running into your actual mother in a corridor guaranteed only one thing: the kick she used to send you out of her way would hurt more than anyone else's.

Talli had always been alone, always against everyone. Concepts like friendship, respect, or love were difficult for her to grasp, though she had tried to imitate something resembling them. Dark gifted had enough trouble simply coexisting; positive feelings toward one another were almost out of the question. What held them together as a single society was fear. Fear of Mother's power. Fear of the shamans' wrath. Fear of the inevitable destruction that would come at the hands of other clans and raider bands if their unity ever fell apart. And until now, Talli V'arna had believed their way of life was the only correct one.

The strong and capable moved forward, leaving the failures behind to choke on their dust. Intrigue, sabotage, clever little schemes that ended with your "friends" falling out of favor with the Seniors while you walked away with the rewards. Talli liked that. She took pleasure in her own cunning and in watching the despair of whatever trash had lost out this time. Right up until the moment she found herself among that trash.

On patrol, her life had gone from merely shitty to a full-blown nightmare. Constant filth, an unwashed body, the stink, not even the bare minimum of comfort, sleeping in trees, and endless watches. Danger to life and limb, disgusting food, and the miserable company of "sisters" who held her in exactly the same contempt she felt for them.

And now she was a prisoner. A prisoner. Ha! May a rancor tear her apart, the contrast between her "free" life and what Talli had now was so fucking spectacular that she was seriously considering selling herself into the sorcerer's slavery. Hell, she could even throw herself in as part of the deal. Talli had already dropped a couple of hints that she wouldn't mind thanking her new Teacher with more than just the knowledge in her head. So far, though, he either had all the sexual perception of a rock, had his lust more than adequately taken care of already, or simply considered bedding a witch a needlessly creative way to get himself killed.

The last option was, of course, the sensible one. The problem was, Talli had no intention of harming the sorcerer. Quite the opposite. She wanted to earn enough of Dziha's favor that he would actually want to take her off Dathomir and, ideally, keep teaching her. What Siith could do with his sorcery had impressed the Nightsister deeply, and she was very, very interested in learning magic. Dathomiri sorcery fascinated her too, of course, but there was a rather obvious difference between vague prospects within the clan and the very real opportunities standing right beside the red-eyed man. Nothing was stopping her from learning everything she could from him first, then returning to Dathomir and taking the witches' secrets not by begging for scraps, but by right of strength! Hell, she could even trade for them afterward. Even at a terrible exchange rate.

So Talli took her Teacher's request to bring two mugs of caf perfectly calmly. She'd noticed that the metal idiot, Threepio, irritated Siith almost as much as he irritated her, so she was "happy" to help the sorcerer keep his interactions with the tedious droid to a minimum, quietly earning herself a few more points of favor in the process. And staying near the red-eyed man as much as possible—without making it too obvious—was part of the plan anyway.

The Dathomiri witch went into the galley, picked up a tray with two mugs of caf from the dispenser, and headed back outside. The instant she saw the Nightsisters' combat group, she nearly dropped the tray. And when she realized the gifted women were being led by a Senior Sister possessed by Mother herself, it took everything she had not to turn right around and retreat back into the cruiser. A day that had begun with a delicious breakfast after a night in a soft bed was now completely ruined by fear—and by the looming collapse of every plan she had made.

What calmed her somewhat was that Mother merely flicked a glance in her direction before returning her attention to the sorcerer, who was enthusiastically telling her something with yet another of those unsettling smiles. The other Sisters, standing a short distance away while Talzin spoke with the robed man, looked more or less relaxed as well. They were surveying the camp with open curiosity and smirking mockingly at the pen holding Talli's "comrades."

"…and if you boil it all down…" Talli caught Siith's voice as she drew closer. He fell silent for a moment, thoughtfully stroking his beard, then continued. "I'm almost certain the Fanged One and the Winged One are one and the same entity. They are Dathomir—or rather, avatars of it, each embodying a different polarity."

Mother remained silent for several moments, studying the sorcerer's face, then her lips curved into a benevolent smile.

"Unfortunately, Lord Dziha, neither the Fanged One nor the Winged One has ever answered us." The voice of the Senior Sister possessed by Mother was not entirely human. A terrible, otherworldly echo ran beneath it, carrying Talzin's true voice and sending shivers over Talli's skin. And the way she had addressed the red-eyed man… could he really be a Sith after all? "There have been times when the two fought one another, but among Allya's records preserved by our clan are theories very close to your own."

"There's nothing strange about their conflict. We fight with ourselves too when we have difficult decisions to make; it's just that, for ordinary mortals, the struggle doesn't leave marks on the world around us. Still, I'd be very interested in seeing Master Allya's records, if that's possible, of course," the sorcerer hinted with remarkable shamelessness as he took a mug of caf from the tray. "Thank you, Talli. Please, Mother Talzin, help yourself. Excellent caf—Jabba Desilijic Tiure sent it to me as a gift. The rogue made a tidy profit reselling admission slots for the Academy's first intake. I suspect he was having a quiet laugh at my expense, but caf made from Hutt beans is genuinely superb. Somehow, I don't even feel like taking revenge."

"Thank you." The second mug left the tray, and Talli let out a silent breath of relief when Mother didn't even spare her a glance. She was already preparing to head back to the cruiser and hide somewhere deep inside when—

"Stay a moment, child," Mother's voice stopped her, though she continued smiling pleasantly at the sorcerer. "As for the Hutts, I suspect it was a sincere expression of gratitude. Something like a gift to thank the man who gave Jabba the opportunity to profit. You didn't actually lose anything because of his little scheme, did you?"

"Nothing except my dignity," Siith snorted.

"That means very little to them. The way Hutts treat other species is very different from how they treat their own kind." A soft, infernal chuckle escaped Mother's lips. "But they are extremely useful. The Nightsisters conduct most of their trade through Hutt smugglers."

"Smugglers…" The sorcerer's expression became complicated.

"Your old friend Villie?" One eyebrow of the possessed Sister rose slightly, and a trace of irony entered her voice.

"The very same," Siith snorted. "His daughter studies at my Academy. I have to admit, she's quite talented. Both as a mage and as a businesswoman."

"Hardly surprising, with a father like that," Mother said with a quiet chuckle of her own. "A pity not everyone inherits their parents' better qualities." The possessed woman turned her head toward the pen for a couple of seconds. The emerald glow seemed to settle on the witches inside with displeasure and reproach.

We're fucked, Talli realized with a quiet sigh. It looked like Talzin had plans for the red-eyed man, and the screwups could very well be killed just to demonstrate Mother's goodwill toward her guest.

Her mood was atrocious. Fear gave way to anger, anger to fear, and then back again in an endless loop, while Mother and the sorcerer carried on talking about all sorts of nonsense. Dathomir, the Jedi, trade, separatist sentiment across the galaxy, Count Dooku, slavery…

Gradually, faint glimmers of hope began to break through the dark curtain hanging over Talli's seemingly hopeless future. She shouldn't have gotten her hopes up.

"Master Siith, would you mind if we stepped aside for a private word?" the witch asked with a charming smile, looking at the sorcerer after they had finished discussing the Kwa, a race that had lived on Dathomir many thousands of years ago before being wiped out.

"Of course not, Mother Talzin. She is your daughter, after all, and this is your world. I'm merely a humble guest who came here to satisfy his curiosity."

"If only some of our guests had your humility…" the woman drawled with mild irritation, nodding for Talli to follow her toward the group of Nightsisters.

They stopped among the group of Dark gifted. The young woman trembled beneath the emerald glow of the possessed Sister's eyes, while a black sense of dread spread thicker and thicker through her chest. Siith's words had made one thing painfully clear: no one was going to fight for her. He was only a guest.

"I see, child, that you had enough sense to make yourself comfortable?" Talzin asked, looking Talli straight in the eyes.

"Yes, Mother." The girl dropped to her knees the moment she felt the powerful witch's pressure. The young Dathomiri began trembling, and her heart felt ready to burst out of her chest. She bowed her head, fixing her gaze on the ground at Mother's feet. Everything she had been holding in since the moment she saw the Sisters and the possessed woman crashed down on her all at once, tearing through her composure and drowning her mind in a wave of panic.

"Stand up, daughter." The tenderness in the possessed woman's infernal voice nearly made Talli V'arna whimper. She found the strength to rise to her feet again by sheer miracle.

"Tell me." One word, spoken with a warmth and concern Talli had never heard from her before. It was gentle and… something she had longed for? Talli felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, while something in her chest tightened with a strange, aching warmth. Love? A mother's love. The thing the girl had dreamed of so desperately without ever truly knowing what it was. A lonely child, lost in a cold and endlessly hostile galaxy. At last, she understood what it meant. A mother.

And Talli began to talk. She told her everything—what had happened, how she had ended up on Long Patrol—breathlessly, with every nuance and every tiny detail. Because Mama would pity her. Mama would understand and forgive. Mama wouldn't scold her. She was the closest, dearest person in the entire universe. The only one who loved her… And all that bliss bloomed over an all-consuming terror buried deep in the girl's mind. Down there, another Talli thrashed in an ocean of fear and panic, struggling to reach the surface, to regain control, to shut up that idiot who was practically pissing herself with happiness while talking her own way toward a death sentence.

Terror and love. Half and half. That was what Talli felt now, split between two selves as she poured out everything that had happened to her and those idiots from the Long Patrol. She couldn't make herself stop, adoringly sharing every last detail with her beloved Mama. She feared her anger and craved her approval.

Wet. Wet tracks of tears down her cheeks. Resentment. Resentment toward her idiot commander. Toward the hypocritical girls from the patrol who had never appreciated her, even though they were supposed to become comrades united by one goal: making it back to the clan. Toward the greedy shaman who had thrown her into Long Patrol just because Talli had broken into her library. The blind witch simply hadn't recognized Talli's talent! Mama would understand. Mama loved her… She did. Didn't she?

"Child, tell me about your encounter with Siith." Mama's warm palm gently stroked her cheek, wiping away the tears of resentment. "How did my daughter end up a prisoner?"

"Forgive me, Mama!" Why hadn't she realized that this was what Mama wanted to hear about? Of course she wanted to know about the sorcerer! She probably already knew perfectly well what had happened back in the clan. Talli was such an idiot…

She ignored the desperate scream that no one could hear but her own—the voice inside her, warning her to be careful, which Talli simply brushed aside. Because Mama was asking. And Mama would never hurt her daughter! So there was nothing stopping the girl from honestly telling the one person in the entire universe who loved her everything. The words poured out of her in a torrent, and Mama listened, nodding with understanding, gently stroking her hair, smiling. Talli's heart ached with warmth…

"Pathetic." Mother's word came down like a slab of concrete when Talli finished recounting their clash with Siith and his Mandalorians. She wanted to simply collapse and die. Her heart skipped a beat; her breath caught. What was the point of living if Mama—

"Stop." The gentle smile and the soft touch of that beloved hand practically brought her back to life. "You're a clever girl. This was all the patrol leader's fault."

Talli's breathing came quick and shallow. Mama had told her to stop crying, but that praise… The girl had dreamed of hearing those words for so many years. Even the Talli screaming from somewhere deep inside, warning Mother Talzin's daughter to be careful, fell silent. Because for the first time in her life… for the first time in so many years… someone had praised her.

The tears came harder, but now they were tears of relief and happiness. Talli couldn't stop them, and the gentle, affectionate touch of her mother's hand nearly made her cry out in sheer delight.

"Easy now. Be a good girl. You don't want me to be disappointed in you, do you?" The young witch bit her lip, trying with all her might to calm herself. Of course she didn't want to disappoint Mama. "Now tell me what you've been doing with the sorcerer all week."

From somewhere deep in her mind came a furious scream, warning her not to trust, not to tell her everything, but… what nonsense was that? Mama had asked! Asked! So she had to tell her! A mournful howl from the depths of her mind accompanied every word the young witch spoke.

Talli, trapped deep inside a mind flooded with false bliss, bitterly mourned the life that was about to end. Mother Talzin, having thoroughly clouded her thoughts, would never forgive plans of betrayal, and that was exactly what the girl was confessing now: that she intended to leave Dathomir with Siith, who had already begun teaching her. At least the part of her mind drunk on love wasn't admitting that she had recently planned to learn everything she could from Siith, then return home and take the witches' knowledge by right of strength. That was the only thing giving her any hope of a quick death instead of a long stretch of agony at the hands of some Senior Sister who'd gone completely mad with sadism.

"Hmm… And do you think you have a chance of interesting the sorcerer?" The strange question startled the blissfully besotted idiot on the surface and silenced the young witch trapped inside, who had been mourning her own impending death. The emerald glow in the possessed woman's eyes seemed to see straight through her. That question… Did Mother actually want Talli to have a chance?

"Yes." For the first time in the entire conversation, both Tallis wanted to give the same answer, and they gave it firmly. One wanted to please Mother. The other wanted to survive.

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · Wednesday at 6:22 PM

Watching the Nightsisters depart, I let out a long, relieved breath. It wasn't that I disliked them outright, but with ladies like these, you definitely had to keep your wits about you. They reminded me far too much of the drow women who worshipped Lolth, and Talzin was practically a perfect copy of the matriarch of one of their Houses. They, too, knew perfectly well how to smile charmingly while slipping a sacrificial knife between someone's ribs.

Throughout our entire conversation, I couldn't shake the feeling that she was planning to either kill me, abduct me, eat me outright, or lay me out on an altar. Good thing I'd taken care of my protective spells as soon as we landed. Despite Mother Talzin being pointedly friendly the whole time, unfailingly polite, and even apologizing for her former daughters, I still had the distinct sense that a hungry spider was watching me. Even in the emerald glow of her eyes, there was greed, hunger, desire.

So our lovely Nightsister neighbors, camped about a kilometer away from us for the entire week, kept us pretty damn tense, even though they behaved themselves well enough. The only one who graced me with her attention was Talzin, wearing the skin of one of her daughters.

To be fair, though, the lady was far from stupid. She was interesting to talk to, and her knowledge of her homeworld and of "Dathomiri sorcery" was impressive. And, oddly enough, she was better informed than I was about what was going on in the galaxy. Savages or not, would you look at that—they were up to date on all the latest news.

We also struck a couple of deals. The first was for the training of two of her daughters, whom Villie would bring over in time for the next intake of students. Talzin promised that both would be level-headed, motivated to study, and wouldn't cause me any trouble by picking fights with Jedi. Both would receive amulets from me to conceal their Dark Side nature, and according to the witch, they would also be trained to hide themselves in the Force. In exchange, I would receive a copy of part of the archive held by the Nightsisters. Specifically, their methods for introductory training in shamanism and all the works of the Jedi Allya, who had been exiled to Dathomir.

The second deal wasn't quite as interesting, but the result was sure to make Karray happy. In exchange for a dozen protective amulets, a couple of concealment rings, and a hundred charms, Talzin's girls hauled in a whole pile of interesting specimens of local flora and fauna. Most of the creatures were deadly, as were some of the plants. In short, exactly the sort of thing my little girl loves. I can already picture her bouncing around the enclosures once we get back.

Hmm… what I can't picture is what those critters will eventually turn into. My little "Kavvy" is smart, and she certainly isn't short on imagination.

"Boss, if you decide to take her up on that offer, it'd be better to come visiting with a hundred Mando'ade," Arvik's voice cut into my thoughts, muffled by his helmet. The warrior was clearly just as relieved to see our guests finally head home.

"Exactly. Never thought I'd be this happy to see a bunch of half-naked girls leave my company," Karr Vast agreed.

"What, you never even thought about getting into their shorts?" Despite Mlada's latest jab being delivered in her usual carefree manner, there was weariness in the warrior's voice, along with the last of the tension draining away.

"I'd sooner stick it up a Hutt's ass," her brother replied sincerely.

"Ewww…" Arvik and Mlada drawled in unison.

"Whole ship full of perverts, though," Koit said sadly, shaking his head as his ears flapped comically. "Only me and you normal, Boss-sa."

"Truth it is," I nodded, stroking my beard. "Remind me to give you a bonus for chastity."

"A bonus?" The commlink came alive with Romri's voice. "Bonuses are good! Don't forget about me, Boss!"

"What for?" our Gungan asked in surprise.

"For chastity, of course!" the pilot explained in a tone that said isn't it obvious?

"You don't qualify," Arvik cut her off. "You have an unnatural love of credits."

"And peggats," Karr added with a chuckle.

"Moneyphilia, though," Koit said, pulling a hilariously exaggerated face as he flapped his ears.

"You're all just greedy cheapskates," the commlink snorted haughtily before going silent to the quiet laughter of everyone gathered there.

"That's all well and good, Boss, but what about the witches? You're not planning to take all five for yourself, are you?"

"Mmm?" I glanced at the Mando in surprise. "You suggesting I hand some of them over to you? Sure, take your pick. Just not Talli, and not that… uh… basically, the most nondescript one."

"No!" The warrior quickly raised both hands in denial. "Sith take that kind of joy. I just mean that five Nightsisters aboard one ship could stir up quite a bit of trouble."

"Ahhh…" I waved a reassuring hand. "Don't worry. In the end, I'm only taking two of them with me. The apprentice and that nondescript one. The rest, whoever survives, we'll just dump on the nearest habitable planet afterward. They're far too unstable, and I don't want to bring people like that home."

"Whoever survives?" Mlada asked in surprise, glancing toward the prisoners' enclosure.

"Yeah, we'll take them along for experiments," I said, scratching my beard thoughtfully. "Talzin did something to her 'former' daughters. I'd rather not experiment on Talli—the girl has potential, and her values are close to mine and pleasing to Hecate. It'd be a shame to scramble her brains for good. And Little Miss Nondescript just isn't suited to this whole Dark Side business. She simply has no motivation; she's just drifting through life. But even a witch like that could still be useful, especially if we find her something worthwhile she actually enjoys doing…"

"Yeah, she's got a nice ass…"

"Karr, enough," Arvik cut his subordinate off. "So those other three…"

"Yeah. Whoever survives and keeps their sanity, we'll let go."

"On Korriban? Not that I'm against it, but that'd be pretty much a death sentence," Mlada said, taking off her helmet, tucking it under one arm, and shaking out her mane of hair. "There are so many horrifying rumors about that world, it simply can't be safe. Maybe we should just shoot them? Quick and humane."

"So this is what Mando'ade mercy looks like," I snorted. "We'll see. It's not like there'll be a shortage of worlds along the way. Worst case, we set down somewhere for a day or two."

"Dark witches turned loose on the galaxy…" Arvik drawled pointedly, taking off his helmet as well.

"Pff. The galaxy's already got plenty of those. Three more, three less," Karr disagreed. "Mlada and I shot some fallen Jedi about four years ago. So don't make it sound worse than it is, Arvik."

"It's not exactly urgent either way," I said, bringing the discussion to a close. "We'll decide once I figure out what exactly Talzin shoved into the heads of our little 'gifts.'"

"Gifts are something you give. That witch just threw her daughters away," Arvik said, rubbing the stubble on his chin.

"Doesn't really matter. Dark Side Force-sensitives are actually just what I need right now. You two," I turned to the Vast siblings, "you mentioned that fallen Jedi. You wouldn't happen to know any exiles, or anyone who left the Order, would you? I could use some Light Side ones too. For the sake of experimental purity."

"Count Dooku?" Koit looked at me with wide, innocent eyes on their stalks.

I just snorted. "Count, would you mind taking part in a couple hundred experiments?" Yeah, sure. A man around whom sentients dissatisfied with the Republic's policies were now gathering would obviously come running just to satisfy my curiosity. I wasn't even counting on anything like that. We'd had a good conversation, of course, and the former Jedi had left quite a favorable impression, but first, the politician simply didn't have that much time to spare, and second, I doubted Alto would be thrilled if the Count started regularly visiting Jabiim, or if I started flying off to Serenno.

Our world was currently trying to stay as far away from galactic politics as possible. Alto's analysts believed that sooner or later, something in the galaxy was going to blow. And when it did, it would blow loudly and spectacularly. Too many sentients had grown dissatisfied with the current state of affairs. Even the Supreme Chancellor's reforms weren't so much fixing the situation as merely slowing down a process already underway.

"All right, pack up your things. Knock the witches out and keep them sedated. I'll get the final readings from the analysis weaves, and then we can take off. We'll stop by Raging River, pick up the rancors and the Quartermaster, then head for Korriban."

"Hope the girls don't take offense at the furball," Arvik snorted.

"I compensated them in advance," I waved it off, remembering the container of women's underwear we'd delivered to the Raging River Clan. Even our fetishist hamster couldn't chew through that much.

"They're gone," Mother Rashli sighed in relief, watching the sorcerer's ship disappear into the distance.

"Thank the Force," one of the senior shamans said, even spitting on the ground. "At least they took that rat with them."

"Next time, let them make arrangements with some other clan. Singing Mountain, for example. Let Mother Rell have the headache," Rashli agreed grimly with her daughter. "Three weeks of madness and chasing that panty-eater around wore me out more than any 'diplomatic negotiations' with Talzin ever did. Anything involving that red-assed Villie brings nothing but trouble, just like I thought. Sith-damned Devaronian…"

"Well, apprentice, how are you feeling?" Surprisingly, the sorcerer's frightening smile stirred no negative emotions in her. Quite the opposite—young Talli was actually glad to see it.

They were in her cabin. Barely a couple of minutes had passed since Siith had worked some kind of spell, and with the twang of a snapping string, Talli felt the false thing that had taken root in her mind vanish. For half a minute she felt sick, the cabin walls and the smiling sorcerer spinning before her eyes, but once everything settled, the girl was flooded with the euphoria of freedom… which proved even harder to deal with than her stomach's attempts to dump lunch onto Siith's knees as he sat in the chair opposite her.

"Fine," she muttered through clenched teeth. She was still a little nauseous, but the condition that had felt so much like schizophrenia had receded, and thoughts of Talzin no longer made the girl happily piss her panties. Figuratively speaking, of course.

"I don't know whether you'll be glad to hear it, but all your friends are alive. We did have to knock them out, though—they were that angry. The spirits planted in your minds have been successfully exorcised, I've performed the 'farewell to the flesh' ritual, so for the moment, all of you are independent sentients and can decide for yourselves."

Siith looked pleased as he took another sip from his trademark oversized mug, this time filled with yet another kind of hot drink. For a second, Talli felt like doing something nasty to him, but she quickly pushed the foolish thought aside. Strangely enough, her usual simmering hostility toward everyone around her was nowhere to be found.

To be honest, it had disappeared quite some time ago. Talli had simply chalked it up to the comfortable conditions aboard the Rung and having her personal needs met. It was only after Talzin had worked on her that, while thinking over her situation, the young witch suddenly realized that something in her had changed.

And it wasn't the effect of that bitch Talzin's "motherly love," either. It was something else, something that had happened before that. The emotional whiplash that would have practically guaranteed Talli a breakdown once Mother released her wasn't doing any serious harm. Yes, the real Talli was furious. Yes, waves of despair still washed over her. And yes, the fake Talli's bouts of adoration for the old bitch were unbelievably irritating. But the witch didn't feel as though her mind were plunging into the abyss of Darkness.

No, she hadn't suddenly become nice, nor had she felt any overwhelming urge to find harmony with the universe. But the Dark Side had stopped being… the most important thing, perhaps? Talli no longer sensed any mortal danger from it. And she'd adapted to her condition surprisingly quickly.

That sorcery—the spirits Talzin had planted inside her, as the sorcerer put it—was vile, but tolerable. As long as she didn't think about the fact that the old bitch had simply enslaved Talli's mind. Everything would be normal until any thought of disobeying Mother, or any anger toward her, knocked the rational part of the girl down into the depths of that false, saccharine love for Talzin, and the fake Talli came to the forefront instead, like a puppy desperate to do everything exactly as Mother wished. It felt as though she'd been violated in the filthiest way possible. Though she'd honestly rather have been raped for real than subjected to this… Disgusting…

The girl's thoughts stumbled for a moment. That wasn't true. Or rather, not entirely true. On some level, it had genuinely felt good. And that only made her feel even more disgusting.

A twisted pleasure in emotions that had been forced on her—emotions she had never felt before, but, as it turned out, had desperately craved. Only after experiencing that adoration for Talzin, artificial though it was, did the young witch understand what she had been deprived of.

She remembered her earliest childhood, when, as a little snot-nosed brat, she had tried to reach out to the adults around her. How they had toyed with her, offering false affection only to hurt her badly in the end, shoving her into an abyss of shattered hopes and expectations. How the little girl's trust had been betrayed again and again, how ugly faces twisted into mocking grins as they laughed cruelly, savoring her despair and tears.

Raising her…

"I'm glad for them," Talli lied evenly. Or did she? Hard to tell yet. A partial lie, maybe? Whatever she thought of her sisters, the witch wouldn't wish THAT on them. Pain was better. At least the screams from torture were truly your own. Better to die than be trapped inside yourself.

"Mentalism… is a rather vile branch of the Art," the sorcerer said, sliding a mug of fragrant, steaming drink toward her. "I'll show you how to protect yourself from it. And I'll give you an amulet, too."

"Thanks." She didn't really feel like talking, but something inside her warmed a little. She liked this sort of treatment from a teacher. He didn't pry into her soul, yet with just a couple of sentences he had both lifted her mood a little and calmed her down.

"Nothing to thank me for yet," the red-eyed man said with another smile, and Talli somehow managed a toothy smile in return. "Tell me about Nondescript from your squad."

"About Lara?" Talli remembered which of the witches the sorcerer had given that nickname to and snorted. It suited her surprisingly well. "There's almost nothing to tell. She barely drags along behind everyone else, just managing not to cross the line where they'd kick her out of the clan—or simply kill her. The only things that stand out about her are her almost complete lack of ambition and a pretty face. Leave her alone and she'll spend all day sitting on her ass, staring blankly at the clouds. That's why she ended up on patrol in the first place. The elders figured it might give her some motivation. Or finally get rid of her. All she ever did in the squad was try to imitate the other idiots so they wouldn't take things out on her. Didn't work all that well, though."

"So, in short, she won't cause any trouble?"

"Definitely not." Talli snorted contemptuously and took a sip of the brew. The hot drink didn't dissolve the cold knot of hatred she felt toward Talzin and her darling daughters back on Dathomir, but breathing became a little easier. "Want her for yourself? I can talk to her. Give her even a fraction of what you've given me, and don't treat her like complete shit, and she'll become your obedient little toy. Though I doubt she has any experience with men at all. As far as I can remember, she was never once given a slave for the night."

"Uh…" The witch almost laughed when her teacher stared at her in surprise. "That's not really what I meant…"

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," Talli said, shaking her head and doing her best to keep the smile on her face understanding rather than mocking. From what she'd learned, the sorcerer showed no interest in women beyond the purely aesthetic, and every attempt to seduce him bounced off his truly wooden obliviousness. In other words… Siith was a genuine, utterly impenetrable block of wood.

"It's only natural for a man to be drawn to women. Lara is a little too passive for my taste, of course, but if Teacher prefers meek ones…"

"Right… I can see someone's been spending a little too much time around a certain Mandalorian maiden, huh?" the sorcerer snorted and got up from his chair. "Rest today and tomorrow. By morning, ship's time, we'll be landing on Korriban. We'll spend a day at the Commerce Guild complex, then get down to our own business. Talk to Lara; they'll move her to a separate cell. I need one more witch for research. Promise her decent living conditions and good food. I'll even pay her for her voluntary-compulsory assistance to such a generous and kind soul as me. Once I'm done studying Dathomiri Force-sensitives, she'll be free."

"Got it." Talli nodded, wiping the smile from her face. The sorcerer was already on his way out when she finally called after him.

"Teacher!"

"Mmm?" His red-eyed gaze settled on her questioningly.

"Thank you." The word came easily. It felt strangely as though, with it, some of the weight that had been pressing down on her soul finally lifted, easing the burden that still wouldn't let her fully relax. She wasn't thanking him for the cabin or the food. Not even for promising to teach her how to defend herself against mental attacks. That "thank you," so sincere that it surprised even her, was for freeing her from the shit that old bitch Talzin had shoved into her head.

"You're welcome." A smile crept back onto her teacher's face, only this time Talli couldn't say she found it frightening or unpleasant.

"Whoa… Whoa, whoa, whoa!!!"

"What is it?" Knight Nema glanced over at the young sorceress, who was reading something on her datapad.

Today they had flown to the hospital in Choppah, Jabiim's third-largest city. Every other day, the three chimerologists traveled from one hospital to another across the rainy world, honing their skills through practice and healing those in need. Initially, the internship had been confined to the capital, but their good results—and a flood of pleas from other medical facilities—had forced a change of plans.

Later, once they were more confident in their abilities, each of them would take shifts alone. But for now, Rig Nema was honest enough with herself to admit that neither she nor Knight Allie could handle truly difficult cases on their own. Simple injuries and wounds, sure—but ordinary med-droids and doctors could deal with those just as well.

"Daddy sent a message," the girl explained with a giggle, wearing a rather alarming expression. "They caught tons of creatures on Dathomir. And almost all of them are interesting!!! They're even bringing back artery worms! Once Dad gets back, we'll have lots of specimens to study! I just hope they grabbed a terentatek from Moraband* too."

"And I hope Master Dziha won't be that reckless," Knight Allie sighed. "And honestly, going to Korriban* at all was a bad idea. There's nothing there but empty tombs, the pressure of the Dark Side, and deadly flora and fauna."

"Ugh… Why are you all so boring? Every single critter is supposedly dangerous. You said the same thing about acklays and rancors! They're adorable!"

"You know, Karray…" Stass hesitated for a moment. "I really don't want to meet a creature that you don't consider cute. I really, really don't."

A shiver ran down the green-skinned Jedi's spine. Come to think of it… what kind of creature wouldn't the young sorceress call cute? Or, for that matter, what would she actually consider dangerous? Karray treated practically every living thing as cute and interesting. And somehow, inexplicably, she always managed to find common ground with them.

"All right, break's over," the senior Jedi's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Let's make one last round and head back to the Academy. Force forbid someone's gone and put the Dead Man to rest again…"

Author's Note:

Moraband and Korriban are two names for the same planet.

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

Boroda Orka · 2026-10-22T14:52:41+0100

"Oh-ho-ho-hooo!" the portly man sitting across from me chuckled happily. "Master Dziha! Anything you want! Honestly! Do whatever you please on this damned planet! Even if you start taking the 'local attractions' apart stone by stone"—the face of the head of the Commerce Guild branch on Korriban twisted into a grimace of disgust—"I swear, every last one of us will pretend we never noticed a thing. In fact, it's always been that way!"

"Thank you, esteemed Macron," I said with a nod, keeping an impassively dignified expression on my face. My welcoming smile upon landing on Korriban had triggered a minor firefight which, only thanks to sheer luck and the composure of this short, rather amusing-looking man, had failed to turn into a genuine bloodbath. "Naturally, I have no need for such extremes, but I do intend to visit the 'local attractions' in the near future. I've heard and read quite a lot about the tombs of the ancient Sith, so I'm extremely curious."

"Anything! You! Want!" the man declared with deliberate solemnity, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling with obvious pleasure, as though savoring the very "taste" of the air. "But I do want to warn you again that it's extremely dangerous out there. Of the ten expeditions we sent into the tombs, eight disappeared completely, one came back only partially, and everyone in the one that returned intact went insane."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said with a thoughtful nod, inwardly rubbing my hands together and narrowing my eyes in bliss.

The planet looked extremely promising. And news of losses that severe… It wasn't that I was exactly happy about them, but something like that practically guaranteed the tombs hadn't been picked clean and that there was still something interesting left inside!

"And now," Kronus Macron said with a conspiratorial wink, "how about a little banquet? I guarantee you'll enjoy it! The cooks have gone all out for our dear guests and saviors!"

"Saviors, are we?" I said, feigning embarrassment while snorting inwardly.

"Benefactors!" the man laughed. "And don't even argue! I'm thinking of naming my son after you!"

"Uh…" This time I really was a little embarrassed. "I don't think that's a good idea. The Jedi couldn't handle another Siith."

The head of the Korriban branch burst out laughing again, flashing a genuinely warm, white-toothed smile.

"Phew, Boss. The locals creep me out." Romri thoughtfully sipped caf from her mug. "And I honestly can't decide which version scares me more: when they're gloomy and hostile, or when they're freakishly friendly."

Instead of the single day we had planned to spend at the Commerce Guild headquarters on Korriban's surface, we ended up staying there for four. A profitable little side job came up, then there was a genuinely decent banquet, after which several members of the crew had to be treated for hangovers… Only today had we finally managed to break free, so to speak.

Right now, we were sitting in the Rung's common room. The ship had landed at a suitable spot not far from the Moraband necropolis. There were landing pads large enough for us right by the tombs, but we had decided not to take unnecessary risks. Only three of us would be going to the burial complex itself: me, Arvik, and Karr. The others would stay behind aboard the ship, safely protected from whatever nasty surprises might be lurking out there. Mlada had complained, of course, but at least one Mando had to remain on the Rung.

"First, make someone feel absolutely miserable, then put everything back the way it was. That's it—you're their best friend." Arvik drummed his fingers against the helmet sitting on the table in front of him. "Can't really blame them for either the welcome we got or the way they started treating us after Boss fixed their problem. The locals damn near had a collective breakdown when Korriban finally stopped pressing down on their minds."

"Yeah," Mlada said with a shudder. "Being outside the Rung is genuinely creepy. You don't notice it at first, but after a couple of hours you start feeling like something's watching you. Not in a friendly way, either—more like a threat. Even the air starts to feel… heavy, I guess. Like it tastes wrong."

"An extremely high concentration of negatively aspected mana," I said. I'd explained this already, but the "atmosphere of Korriban" was a popular topic among the crew right now. "So high that people in poor health waste away and can even die, while sentients with low mental resilience and weak willpower go insane. Paranoia, obsessive thoughts, sociopathy… And those who already weren't entirely right in the head can go completely off the rails."

"Boss-sa, you mean that case where the security guy chopped up a couple dozen Guild workers?" the Gungan asked.

"That one. Macron mentioned the guy wasn't exactly a psychopath, but he'd been through a nasty mess on the Smuggler's Moon. Sending him here 'to rest' was a pretty reckless decision. Bureaucrats are bureaucrats everywhere. Still, I think the Commerce Guild will be a lot more careful about mistakes like that from now on. And they'll probably be more than happy to sign contracts with a couple of our malefics and necromancers. While we're at it, we might even scout out some land for an Academy branch—and perhaps buy it outright while Macron is still running things here."

"You didn't even charge them!" the Togruta burst out. Apparently, the mention of contracts and buying land had struck a nerve somewhere deep in her soul—the nerve labeled lost profit.

"You really shouldn't be so greedy, my little aurodium girl," I told her with an affectionate smile, while Mlada giggled merrily. "I've already wrung free deliveries of filled negative-energy reservoirs out of the Guild, and on top of that I got complete carte blanche to do whatever I want around the tombs. A man has to have some conscience."

"Conscience is something you listen to, not something you have," Karr guffawed, though he quickly deflated under Arvik's reproachful stare.

"Jokes that are tens of thousands of years old," Mlada sighed. "Brother, your sense of humor isn't just ancient. It's mummified."

"Force ghost of Sense of Humor, though," the Gungan agreed with a solemn nod. "Karr found it in ancient tomb of bit-bit shitty joker."

"For decades, our Mando studied the ancient wisdom of millennia-old recycled jokes, until his dead Teacher finally decided he was Ready!" Romri picked up the story.

"And so the ancient Evil broke loose upon the Galaxy," I joined in, unable to resist.

"And only the Great Mlada Vast stands between her brother and the Republic being plunged into the nightmare depths of shitty humor," our warrior declared smugly, lifting her chin.

"Oh, fuck all of you," the target of our attack said with feigned offense, making a moderately obscene gesture at everyone in the common room. "Nobody loves me except Talli!" The guy winked at the faintly smiling Dathomiri.

"In the Nightsister clan, witches are taught to ignore stale jokes." V'arna's faint smile turned into a mocking grin as she figuratively stabbed the Mandalorian in the back. The guy had been strutting around her like a peacock for days now, but the witch seemed completely uninterested in him. "By the way, Teacher, what did you do to block the Dark Side's influence on the Guild personnel?"

"An absorption barrier. The simplest kind of ritual-artifact complex, built on mana-conversion principles and powered by this world's natural background energy." I broke into a blissful smile. Sometimes it was nice to simply switch my brain off and work on something primitive. "Twenty ritual circles, each five meters across, absorb negative mana around the perimeter of the Guild complex and fill simple—and therefore rather bulky—quartz reservoirs. Then the inner conversion circle takes over, purifying the output from the reservoirs and sending already-neutral mana into basic artifacts built beneath the ritual-circle platforms. Those, in turn, generate a spherical barrier over the entire Commerce Guild complex, repelling negative energy and filling the space inside with neutral mana. That's it."

"Simple," Romri snorted indignantly. "Don't believe Boss, Talli. There's nothing simple about it. I've been making amulets and charms for sale for years, and I still couldn't make sense of whatever our Chief Sorcerer cooked up there."

"That's because you neglected rituals, my little aurodium girl," I said with a cheerful wink at the Togruta, who pulled a displeased face. "I told you a dozen times that was a mistake. All magic began with rituals. They are a divine gift bestowed by the First Mentor herself—the point where it all started."

"Might as well be speaking Ancient Huttese," Mlada muttered.

"Can't understand a thing, though," Koit agreed.

"Will you teach me?" the witch asked, fidgeting as she put on an utterly pitiful expression and fixed me with an adoring stare. Oh, she was laying it on thick. Really laying it on. Still, pleasant enough. I was extremely fond of her hunger for knowledge. Sometimes the witch reminded me of a dog in a butcher's shop: she wanted to devour everything in sight and was deeply distressed by the fact that both her stomach and her mouth had limited capacity.

"I will," I agreed, winking at the girl as she smiled in satisfaction. "Once you've mastered the basics, we'll move on to the simplest rituals."

"A moment of silence for our little witch's brain." Romri raised her mug of caf with a mournful expression. "I tapped out while calculating the 'most basic' dependency patterns for the positions of celestial bodies."

"You're just not interested," I said, shaking my head. "You learned how to crank out amulets and charms, the credits started rolling in, and now you don't care about anything except those and piloting."

"Not anything. Far from it," Mlada giggled mysteriously, earning a raised fist from Romri. "All right, all right, I'm shutting up…"

"Did I miss something?" I asked, looking from the Togruta to the Mandalorian in surprise.

"Don't mind her, Boss." Romri waved a hand dismissively. The usual reddish-orange tone of her face had deepened slightly. "She's just talking nonsense…"

For some reason, Talli let out a long sigh, looking at the Togruta with something almost like sympathy.

"Tum-tum-tum, tum-tudum-tum-tudum…" Lately, humming the solemn, ominous tune I'd so often heard from Ir'rina had become something of a habit.

And now, as I stood there wondering whether to activate the spell and unlock the secret door or leave the tomb first, I couldn't help myself.

"Nah. Who knows what might crawl out of there?" I made up my mind and trudged toward the exit, ignoring the ancient gifted one's insistent, indignant muttering. Like I was going to let some dark ghost that looked like a solidified humanoid fart tell me what to do.

"Do you even know…" The undead seemed to have started in on the same rant for the twentieth time already.

"Do you even know who you're dealing with, huh?" I cut the ridiculous thing off. "Seriously! All I ever hear from you are the same tired threats and boring promises. Maybe your creator really was a powerful gifted, but she clearly half-assed it when she made you!"

"I am my own creator!!!" the ghost shrieked.

I just spat to the side in irritation.

Noisy undead, but an unusual one. It could use the Force, too. Not on the same level as a living gifted, but it might have been enough to deal with some Padawan. Mostly, though, this flying bedsheet kept trying to scare the hell out of me with psychic pressure and Jedi mind tricks. Intelligent undead were traditionally good at laying on the horror, while suggestion was, so to speak, a "native" ability of the gifted in this universe. But I'd eaten more than one ghoul in my time, and I was hardly a novice either in necromancy or in defending myself against mind-probers—people I wouldn't say I hated, exactly, but whose company I certainly never enjoyed.

"Oh, don't bullshit me." I waved a hand dismissively while catching the chunk of stone flying at my head with an aura tendril. "You're just an ordinary projection of a Life Shadow. There isn't a soul in you at all. You fly around, howl, frighten people, tempt them. I'd bet good money that somewhere deep inside your cozy little 'home' there's something like a phylactery containing a crude imprint of the personality that projects you outward. Primitive, but effective."

"I'll kill youuuuu!!!" the monstrosity howled, but I was already ignoring it.

An exceptionally persistent creature. I couldn't even discorporate it properly. Or rather, I couldn't make it stay discorporated. After being dispersed, this fart of a dark cloud—sometimes looking more like a torn rag—needed only a couple dozen seconds to come back.

Much easier to just ignore it.

At first, I tried to be polite, strike up a conversation, introduce myself like civilized sentients. But apparently this projection really had been slapped together with zero effort. First, as I said, it simply tried to crush me with Dark Side pressure, fear, and suggestion. Then it started hurling objects with telekinesis, zapped me once with something like lightning, and when none of that had any effect, it moved on to swearing at me, telling me to fuck off, and spouting nonsense about how I was supposedly "unsuitable."

How am I unsuitable? I'm the perfect candidate to be entrusted with every last secret!

The ghost let out yet another furious, offended hiss when I chuckled in anticipation. This tomb, like several others, radiated more than just Korriban's general Darkness; it had its own distinct "personal" emanations.

And what did that mean?

It meant there was something here.

At the very least, the undead interested me. I knew how to create similar guardian phantoms myself, but I was just as curious about the principles behind creating this sort of sentry within a Force-based tradition.

I hoped these weren't those legendary ghosts of the Ancient Sith. Otherwise, I was going to be seriously disappointed.

Although… I'd already gotten plenty of pleasant things out of visiting this planet. Good relations with the local boss, for one, and regular shipments of filled reservoirs to Jabiim. Even with the conversion cycles, Korriban's background was simply too saturated with Darkness and Death; the quartz would wear out quickly. So instead of supplying ordinary consumables, I'd decided to make the storage crystals themselves the consumables.

Once a year, the locals would simply replace the crystals with fresh ones. I'd already unloaded the first two batches from the Rung's cargo hold, and twenty spent crystals—one from each ritual circle—would be shipped back to the JMG. We'd give them the next batch of new ones free of charge, then drain the negative energy from the used crystals into a proper high-quality reservoir.

There was no such thing as too much Darkness and Death, at least not on Jabiim. We had no necropolises, no cursed places, and I considered that a blessing. Ordinary cemeteries wouldn't produce this kind of "output" even in a hundred years.

So, basically, I'd arranged to export the Dark Side of the Force from Korriban.

Heh.

If only I could find something genuinely tasty in the tombs. A Sith holocron, for example… yeah…

Probably not in this particular burial site, though. The swearing phantom hovering nearby hardly lived up to the reputation of the "terrifying and nightmarish" ghosts of the Ancient Sith.

"On the other hand…" I actually stopped for a second just before leaving the tomb. "Maybe this sort of thing simply isn't scary to me, but would be plenty dangerous to the Jedi! After all, I'm carrying protections that not every fortress back on the Turtle could afford…"

"Listen, Xo-Kusan," I said, turning toward the "dirty rag" hanging in the air nearby, which had gone quiet when I started speaking. "What level of gifted could you actually pose a serious threat to, roughly speaking? If we measure it in Jedi terms. Padawan? Knight? Master?"

The Shadow froze. In every sense of the word. In midair, and otherwise. Just hung there in silence.

No matter. I'm a patient man. I could wait for the dead "brains" of a Life Shadow to catch up.

For about five seconds, we stared at each other. Then it started screaming at me again.

Hmm… maybe there really was a soul in there after all? Inside that same phylactery, perhaps? Because a mere projection shouldn't be capable of flying into a rage like this.

The screaming was so furious that I couldn't even make out individual words—the infernal overtones in the ghost's voice didn't help either. On top of that, I had the distinct impression that, given another moment, the phantom would start spraying ectoplasm like spittle from sheer fury.

"What a temper…" I shook my head disapprovingly, raising a force dome to protect myself from a hail of rocks. "Oh! Now that's something new…"

A Force construct of some incomprehensible design tried to close over me, but got stuck against the shield dome.

To my surprise… the damn thing started eating through the shield!

And quite vigorously, too.

Well, well…

I added a couple of conversion blocks to the weave, which had already begun losing stability, and changed the mana in the dome from neutral to light.

"Well, that's no fun at all," I said, almost offended, when the apparently vampiric structure burned away and the ghost, howling as if in pain, darted off into the depths of the tomb. Probably swallowed a mouthful of light mana and gave itself indigestion.

Still, the structure of that peculiar spell had been several times more complex than the Force Pushes demonstrated to me by our chimerologist trainees, Rig Nema and Stass Allie. I'd even say it looked more like magic than Jedi techniques. The only problem was, I hadn't understood the underlying principle at all.

"Could that be… actual Sith sorcery? Or alchemy? Well, the spell itself is nothing special, of course, but I'd really like to understand the principle behind it. Better not destroy this undead thing after all. I should swipe it instead… might come in handy."

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

The Force of Magic [Star Wars SI]

Getting sticky.

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