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He thought the worst of it was feeling Lothal get blown to bits, and hearing Ezra’s ragged, keening sob as they both felt millions of lights go out (many, he reflected later, that Ezra had known).
But Kanan was never that lucky.
No, the worst of it was when he’d commed, and the signal had come up dead.
“Spectre Two?” he breathed into the comm, voice ragged. “Spectre Two, do you copy?”
Still static.
“Spectre Two? Hera, do you copy?”
Nothing.
“Kan– Kanan,” Ezra said from beside him. The boy’s voice hitched, and Kanan could hear the rough jerk of tears in it. “She’s– she’s not—“
“No. Don’t tell me that. Not now, not—just don’t.” He wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t.
Shaking, he raised the comm to his mouth again. “Hera, do you copy?”
Static.
“Hera!?” He turned to his Palawan, holding his commlink out. “I’m hitting the right button, right? And it’s her channel?”
“You– you are,” Ezra whispered. There was a dead weight in his voice.
“Then why isn’t she—“
“She was on Lothal, remember?”
He did.
“She volunteered to go with– with the x-wing team to take down those broadcasting towers.”
She had.
“When we last checked in with her, she was still– she was still there.”
She had been.
“But she’s not dead,” he said, voice hoarse.
“I’m sorry,” is all Ezra said.