Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The future does not exist. The past has ceased to be. Only the present is real.

— Obi-Wan Kenobi, 40 BBY

Only the crunch of glass under her boot and the saber’s hum keeps her present and grounded in the room. Before her, the expansive glitter of Coruscant’s upper district sparkles like a vast extension of the night sky, unaware of the chaos that’s unfolded in the vast dome that overlooks the city. Strings of speeders dart through the metropolis in layered grids, mapped and measured to the millimeter. If she listens carefully, she can hear each of their engines thrumming, billions of them buzzing across the city planet like gnats. Rain streams down on them, drops of water tinkering against steel and plastoid and glass. Rivulets running and collecting in puddles and cracks, the small spaces of the city. She hears all of that too.

Coruscant: the home world of humanity and the birthplace of the Republic. A millennia of dreams, sweat and labor, buildings reaching for the sky with hope and aspirations of a brighter future. Standing at the peak of galactic civilization, she looks down the long blade of history and sees only suffering and death. Everything has been leading to this moment. It is happening right here. It is happening right now.

She shifts her feet, refocusing on the room. Listening to the symphony of electric hums that emanate from twin pillars of blue light. Skywalker stands several paces in front of her, his deep blue lightsaber angled towards her own.

This is Anakin Skywalker. The Hero with No Fear. The Jedi Knight who has fearlessly led the Republic into battle for the last three years. The man saved by the Jedi, who’s chosen again and again to doom them.

The sabers’ glow casts his angular face in deep shadow, and she glimpses his eyes simmering like two pools of molten gold. She doesn’t know those eyes anymore—though she wonders now if she ever did. Rage bubbles deep within the man, and beneath it, fear. A cold deathly fear, wrapped like a serpent around his heart, constricting the air even now. She can feel it, in his stance, in the way breath leaves his lips, in the buzz and crackle of the sapphire blade levelled toward her. Rage, fear and hatred. He moves mechanically, a precise, unfeeling automaton of evil. Her own saber is in ready position, hilt slick with sweat under her clenched fists, barely shaking from exertion and the burn in her chest.

She keeps her own saber trained on Skywalker as they circle each other through the expansive senatorial chamber. Be mindful, she tells herself, be ready. Everything around her is dialed to a hundred. The rough hew of her collar scratches. The cool press of metal hidden under her robes, strapped to her arm. The crystal hanging around her neck. Dried blood on her boots—whose was it? Everything, everyone.  Too many lives lost. Too many lives still left to save.

Behind her she can sense her Master, his own saber pointed forcefully at the shadow lying against the frame of the room’s gaping window. His voice shatters the silence. “He has control of the Senate and the courts. He's too dangerous to be left alive.” Mace Windu’s mouth is set in a thin line, thick beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. The shadow lies supine against the edge of the wide window.

”No,” Skywalker protests, “I need him ALIVE!” He lunges towards the window, towards Mace, but she swings her lightsaber, blocking the blade with a CRASH. A second swing, two crashes. Then…

…stalemate. Back to silence. She steps carefully, mirroring Skywalker’s movements. Keeping herself between him and her master. Just a few moments in a millennia, that’s all she needs.

Mace Windu tries again. It’s no use, she knows—it’s why she’s here. He tries anyway, desperate to save the Chosen One, pouring every ounce of strength and hope into preserving the Order he’s served all his life. He cares about Skywalker. More than that, he cares about the light. Preserving the warm flame of hope and life against the approaching cold. Mace Windu will try again, she knows now from bitter experience, because for all the times they’ve been here his resolve has never faltered.

“Skywalker — Anakin,” Mace says, urgently. He’s almost pleading now. “It’s not too late. You can help end this madness.”

Skywalker glances to the window. He’s distracted. And desperate—desperate to kill her and Mace, and save the Chancellor. Save Padmé. Desperation can be powerful, she thinks. A caged nexu with nothing left to lose will tear its captors apart. But Skywalker isn’t the only one with nothing left to lose. After what she’s done…what’s one more life?

Just one step closer. One step.

She tenses her right arm. It’s a subtle movement—unnoticeable to most—but enough that a duellist as skilled as Skywalker can pick up on it. He sees her, feels her through the Force, anticipates her wide swing and steps towards her as she raises her arm, plunging his lightsaber into her body.

She gasps involuntarily, feeling the air rush out of her chest as Skywalker’s blue saber buries itself in the folds of her robes. Her hand opens and her lightsaber tumbles to the floor, its blade vanishing into the silver hilt. Triumphant,  Skywalker retracts his own blade with a sickeningly wet flourish, standing so close she can feel his breath hot and labored on her forehead. There is so much pain and anger and fear in the room that she no longer knows whose it is. Then she lets it go.

One life. One moment to end it all.

The Force converges around her. Lightning flashes through the room and for a second, she thinks she sees someone standing behind them all in the distant sky, framed by the stars. Somewhere in the room, she senses Master Windu’s grief, then resolve, as he swings his saber down. She hears the shadow cry out in  pitiful rage—“Please, Anakin! Help me!”

“Sleemo,” she chokes out, feeling the words rattle her dying lungs, staring up at the Chosen One standing before her. “Time to die.”

With her final breath, she pulls the dagger from her sleeve and slashes it forward. Time slows. The point of the blade arrows through the air with little resistance, kissing home into its fleshy target, two galaxies colliding. The last thing she sees is Anakin's shocked golden eyes as he realizes what she's done.

Chapter Text

The woman rushed through the market, tripping on the brown wrap that trailed around her ankles. The ruins of the stalls that populated the street were empty save for a few fruitsellers and off-world travellers who needed to restock on supplies before continuing to their next destination. Milax V was the aftermath of something that could have been great, a caesura slipped between serenity and obsolescence.

“A healer,” she called. “Please, a healer—a doctor, anyone!”

She stumbled on the cracked clay and felt the needling pinch of gravel in her shoes. There hadn’t been a doctor in Ta’Ah for years, but it was worth a try. Sometimes when strangers from off-world passed through they brought with them medical supplies. Bandages, pills. Dried herbs, the taste of other worlds. A few moons ago a professor from the University of Alderaan visited the outpost, intending to conduct research on the neighbouring moon. Out here her currency was as good as stones so she’d traded knowledge and supplies for shelter and advice. It was a long time since the city’s glory days, and very few tended to pass through the broken-down trading port anymore.

If there was a chance, she would take it. Her hands grasped in the stagnant air, as if by sheer force of will she could summon a solution to her unfolding nightmare. Time slipped through her fingertips, sending her tilting again toward the ground. Something skinned her knee. But nothing else mattered.

“Please,” she said, spotting a man salvaging parts from a speeder-bike. She grabbed his arm, gripped the green-grey sleeve with sweat-slicked paws. “Sir,” she continued. “We need a doctor. Do you know—”

The man shrugged her off, unsettled, eyes filled with caution. “I’m sorry,” he said, shoving a pouch deep into his pocket. “I don’t have any credits on me.”

“Sir, please. It’s our baby. We need a doctor for our baby,” she felt her paws scrabbling against his cloak as he turned to walk away. He looked down at her with narrowed eyes.

“And what makes you think I can do anything about that?”

Warra Sati watched him walk away before wheeling around. There was barely anyone else in the market, but any chance was better than none at all. So long as there were people, hope remained. Hope was its own kind of purgatory and she drowned herself in its depths, a bead of oil suspended in dark vinegar.  Her baby would survive. There was no other option to consider.

“Anyone?” she asked. She grabbed the shoulders of a panicked fruit seller, shaking him. His lekku quivered in horror.

“Help!” she cried. “Help, please!” Her voice was cloudy and echoed from outside of her, her ears buzzed with a shrill, persistent ring. She wasn’t sure whether she was shouting or whispering, if anyone could even hear. She gripped the Twi’lek man and felt his hands prying at her paws. He pushed her roughly away and she stumbled back into the dirt, bones aching against the hardened earth.

“Get off me,” he spat, brow heavy with disgust. “And don’t touch me again or I’ll make you regret it.”

Warra staggered away. She would keep looking. If there was a doctor in the city, she would find them.

When she returned home she could barely see for the rivulets of tears and sweat that trickled down her face and over her eyes. Her bones burned and she struggled to fill her lungs with air as she waited for the world to catch up to the rest of her body. The air around pressed in on her, crushing and suffocating. Hope collapsed in on her. Beyond it she saw the glimmers of a wasteland.

“Warra, is he here? Did you find a doctor?” Grandmother’s pale face shone with tears. The Bothan woman shook her head frantically.

“No one. No one in the whole district.”

“Something’s happening to the baby.” Deep creases of fear pulled Grandmother’s face into panic as she clutched the newly born infant. “The child…not breathing… The baby—The baby is going to die.”

Hania moaned weakly in the corner. The mattress was soaked in blood. Warra thought she might throw up. It looked like Hania had been stabbed through the gut, but Warra knew what it was. This was what they’d been afraid of. Fear entered like a shaft of light. Radiating, inevitable.

“There must be someone,” cried Grandmother. “Someone in the city can help us.”

Warra stood frozen, closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle. Whatever cosmic gods or spirits were out there...the Force, if it existed—wasn’t that what Hania promised? Prayer was simply a battle of wills, an endurance test in the calculus of the universe. If only she could push through the crushing wall of dread she might reach salvation on the other side. Her knees were folding in on themselves, she could feel the weight of the sky collapsing onto her shoulders, against her chest, her heart caught in a perpetual lurch, falling mid-beat.

“We’re losing them,” Grandmother muttered. “We’re losing the child and Hania. We have to do something.”
Hania shivered weakly, eyes tightly shut. Her dark hair, always so soft and wavy, now hung wet in ragged strands. Warra wasn’t sure if she was aware of what was happening. She wasn’t sure if she wanted her to know what was happening.

“Grandma,” Warra said, voice barely escaping her throat. “Can you do anything?”

But even now, Warra realized, it would be too late. Even now, if they could somehow find a doctor, or a healer—it was too late. Hope was a death knell, laughter in a dark room.

A tear stained Grandmother’s cheek.

“NO!” Hania wrenched herself from the bed, grabbing for her baby. “No, no, no —”

Grandmother held the child, patting that tiny, round face, ears pressed against a small, bloody chest.

Warra Sati took a step towards Grandmother. The elder was clutching the tiny infant to her chest and shaking uncontrollably. The look in her eyes was enough.

Grandmother nodded, ashen-faced, and Hania Lark sobbed. She sobbed, doubled-over, her body heaving, the world they’d allowed themselves to build in their mind coming apart around them. Warra knelt and gathered her wife in her arms, clinging to her like it might be the only thing that would stop them from falling into the cold that awaited.
The fire burned out and winter came.

Chapter Text

Syenna scanned the wreckage. Plumes of smoke still billowed from the permacrete carcass of the legislature, mangled steel and unrecognizable fragments reaching into the overcast sky overhead so that earth and sky smudged into one another, the entire scene a monochrome cloud of grey smeared across the horizon. An edgeless tableau, a lightbox stage.

The ringing in her ears was like a thread pulled taut through her skull.

By now the shock of silence had already dissolved, and through the fog Syenna could see the flashing red lights of emergency responders flocking to the scene, speeders spurred quickly into action, their shiny shells glinting like beetles through the haze of smoke. News and understanding spread slowly through the city, bleeding outward from the core districts as people glanced out of their windows, turned on the HoloNet News or burst into the streets around her to witness the ugly violence for themselves.

Fear could slide quickly into hate, hot and overwhelming. That was something Genevva had taught Syenna, early in their apprenticeship. It hurts becomes you hurt me. The surface of hate binds collectives, forms the skin that distinguishes a threatened body from those hateful, hurtful others.  Around Syenna, people trickled from crumbling buildings and ancient, repurposed starship hulls, soft murmurs of disbelief quickly simmering into ugly, defensive paranoia.

Syenna sat on the side of the street, unable to wrest her emotions under control. Anger and fear thrummed over the planet, grief worming its way through the crowds before her as people heard news of their loved ones’ deaths in the explosion.

Thousands had died. Among the dead: hundreds of civil servants, lawyers, legislators, clerks, technicians, janitors, chefs, messengers, assistants, secretaries, managers, electorate officers, groundskeepers, lobbyists. Among the dead: streets of civilians who lived under the shadow of the legislative building, caught in the immediate blast or demolished in an instant from flying shrapnel and crumbling infrastructure. That was the thing about building a city on a planet of ruins and discard. One big explosion turned homes and infrastructure into one enormous flechette bomb, blasting millions of jagged, rusted projectiles rapidly through streets, businesses and homes, smashing through trees and muscle and bone. Those people who were outside at the time of the blast were lucky, vaporized or torn to shreds in a flash of a moment. But countless others, those trapped under collapsing buildings or wounded by the flying shrapnel, would suffer. Even those who somehow avoided airborne projectiles were not spared, the blast’s pressure tearing through tissue and damaging the organs and brains of every citizen unlucky enough to be nearby, human or otherwise.

Was it better to die in a flash or to watch yourself deteriorate through the eyes of those around you, to see your own demise seep into the behavior of others? In the slow drip of disease, perhaps living was the greater punishment.

Syenna turned her head, but everywhere she looked the same scene repeated. Death, suffering, screams, grief.

Among the dead: three clone troopers, each vibrant and young, brown eyes wide with optimism, ready to make their mark on the galaxy.

Among the dead: a Jedi Master, whose death might have set the entire galaxy ajar, everything sitting slightly off-kilter as though someone had moved the world by a fraction of a milimeter when Syenna wasn’t paying attention, so that now as she reached desperately for balance she found her steps misplaced beneath her feet.

Hate circulated through the Force around her. The planet’s long resentment and pain converted into a wild, undirected anger searching for something to burn and break. Someone had attacked Taris, bombed their capitol into rubble just as it had been thousands of years ago, and now someone had to pay.

It didn’t matter whether or not the bombing had claimed the lives of those currently in power. It didn’t even matter who was behind the bombing or to what ends. What mattered was that something had broken the inertia of the status quo, and this was a planet that had long reached its boiling point.

The crowds surged through the street, converging on the smoking capitol with blood in their mouths and hatred in their hearts. Violence was an expression of grief.

It was all her fault.

She was the reason for this, one moment of destructive chaos that would reshape the political landscape of the galaxy.

Syenna knew before she made her decision that there would be consequences for her actions. There were always consequences, that was the curse of being Syenna Lark, no matter how many threads she plucked or wove together there was another seam waiting to come apart, the galaxy fraying under the weight of thousand year long plan.

Somehow, in her growing desperation, she’d made an unconscious choice that this was worth it. She would do anything for a scrap of time, it seemed, sacrifice anyone, even those she loved, because the force that propelled her onward was stubborn and unrelenting. Syenna wondered briefly if there was truly a greater design to it all—if the Force was something other than the soil crumbling underfoot or the ashen air she now felt chafing through her nose and mouth, coating her throat. Was she working against its will, dashing herself against a wall over and over again? Or was this its intended plan for her, a life slipping between dreams and madness, burdened by an uncanny realization that she was doomed to write and rewrite her story, time folding in on itself, for eternity?

The sky was white and featureless, a porcelain prison. Fires smouldered in the wreckage: funeral pyres for lost dreams. She thought of Genevva’s keen eyes and stern questions, imagined the Jedi Master’s voice at her shoulder. Why now, Syenna?

Why now? Syenna turned the question over like a stone in her hand, rolling it between her fingers and pressing it to her palm until it was smooth and shapeless, just a round, impenetrable thing. She was beginning to see the outline of an answer, but it was an enormous, terrifying thing to consider.

Chapter Text

Warra Sati ran through the city, tunic tangling between her legs. She pinwheeled her arms, almost comical, knees scraped and bloody against the unyielding surface of the planet.

The ruins of the stalls were mostly empty, the barest gesture of life hanging like the last brown leaves on a deadened branch.

“A healer,” she called. “Please, anyone! A healer, or a doctor, anyone!”

She stumbled through the dust, losing her balance before recovering. She had to stay calm, though how could she when she couldn’t breathe, and every time she opened her mouth the sky poured in to her lungs. Laminar rain sheathed the streets like sheets of glass.

“We need a doctor!”

Warra scrubbed the water from her face and tumbled into the main street. There were a few travellers here, wandering the stalls with their bags or hovering pallets. Several ran for cover under canvas awnings weeping with rain.

“Please!” Warra shouted. She looked mad, she knew, but if there was a chance, she would take it. “A doctor!”

There—she spotted a tall, dark-skinned man strolling through the downpour. He wore simple garb—plain brown cloth and a stole, a simple robe—and moved elegantly among the stalls. He moved as a dancer: gentle, thoughtful, precise. Perhaps…? It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try.

She approached him quickly, and he turned before she spoke.

“Can I help you?”

“Please, sir,” she said, looking low to the ground. She held a steady bow, but felt her legs quivering uncontrollably. If he was from off-world, he was wealthier than most of the city. If he was a doctor, he would certainly be wealthier than the population of the city and its surrounding regions. “She– giving birth– our baby needs a doctor. If you can help, please. Please, please, help us…”

Silence.

A slender hand pushed her chin up and she looked into two focused brown eyes.

“Your name, miss…?”

“Warra,” she managed to choke out, every fibre of her being struggling to find the words she needed to convince this man to help her. “Warra Sati, sir, I’m a meknek, I live with my wife, Hania, and—”

“Warra,” he said, softly. “I will help you the best that I can. Show me the way.”

***

“Lucky you came when you did, doctor,” said Grandmother, nuzzling the newly-born infant she held tenderly in her arms. “Without you, this child would have been lost far too soon.”

The man was standing by the table, towelling off his fingers with a crisp white cloth Warra had procured after the bloody ordeal. She watched his hands rustle through the fabric, ten slim dancers in a ballet. Warra couldn’t quite bring herself to look again at her baby, her baby, lest she burst into tears.

“Ah,” said the man, from the corner of the room where he stood. “I must apologise to you, elder. I am not a doctor—though I am trained in the healing arts. In this instance, it was simple enough to save your child. Just one cut to the cord and the child could breathe freely. “My name is Mace Windu. I am not a doctor—but I am a humble servant of the Republic and an emissary of the Jedi Order.”

Grandmother looked sharply at Warra.

“You haven’t brought a doctor here, ononi,” she scolded. “You brought a charlatan! I know about the Jedi—they steal children away from their families and induct them into their cult. And all the while, the Republic allows them to do it...in the name of peace and security!”

Warra wheeled around in horror, but the man’s face softened. He wasn't offended by the harsh words. No, Warra decided, he didn't seem upset at all. She trusted the man—and not just because he’d saved her child.

“I understand your feelings,” said Windu. “Though I cannot agree with them. I can only offer you my promise that your child will not be leaving this planet with me today. Perhaps one day, if they possess the gift of the Force, a fellow member of the Order will return. But for today, I simply wish you well. You’ve been blessed with a beautiful child.”
Grandmother spluttered, but Warra stepped forward and clasped Windu’s fingers. His grasp was firm and sure. How could she express her gratitude? Not through a gift, but if the Jedi were as noble as he seemed, perhaps a promise would be enough.

“Thank you, Master Jedi,” she murmured. She gestured back to Hania, who lay exhausted in the bed, and Grandmother, who was peering down again at the swaddled infant in her arms. “From all of us. You saved our child, and we are in your debt forever.”

“Not at all,” said Windu. He was still smiling, and Warra noticed his gentle gaze on the baby burbling in Grandmother’s eyes.

“We are truly grateful,” Warra repeated. She looked sternly at her grandmother, and again smiled at the Jedi. “And if you return to us, you would be an honoured guest. Please, allow me to offer you some food before you set out on your journey.”

Warra felt herself walking toward the kitchen. After the events of the past hours, she felt numb—but her hospitable instincts, it seemed, had kicked in without a second thought.

“I’m grateful for the offer,” the Jedi said. “But I will not trouble your family further. I offer my warmest congratulations to you and your wife, for children are truly a gift. It is my honor to protect them, in any way that I can.” He bowed three times.  “And may the Force be with you. Always.”

Warra accompanied him to the door and stood at the entrance in a daze, watching his brown robes swish around the corner of the street before returning to the bedroom.

“Protect children…” scoffed Grandmother, though Warra now noticed her gaze had softened. “We'll see about that.”

Warra ignored her and went over to Hania again. Her wife was asleep, and though her dark complexion was unusually pallid, she looked restful. Hania had always been the religious one, but Warra found a lump in her throat as she thought about what might have happened had the day’s galactic stroke of luck not befallen them. Whichever deities placed the Jedi Master in this town on this day, Warra thought to herself, I’m thankful for them. Whether or not the Force had anything to do with it.

For now, Warra just sat next to Hania. She was hesitant to sleep, not now, not after all that had happened— but her body was tired, and soon sleep took hold and she drifted into unconsciousness.

In the morning, Hania woke to see Warra sitting by the bed, the baby nestled in folds of thick burlap and sleeping peacefully.

“So beautiful,” Hania breathed.

Warra looked up, startled. Her nose twitched. Adorable. Hania never got tired of that. “You’re awake!”

Hania smiled and stretched out her arms. Warra helped her out of bed and passed the baby over carefully. The human child had inherited Hania’s warm round eyes, the Bothan noted, and her round nose. She’d have to work extra hard to influence their personality then. They couldn’t have a complete copy of Hania in the family, one was enough to handle as it was.

Hania stood by the round window, looking out at the morning sun. The star breathed warmth into the room and rays of gold kissed soft purple shadows around them. Framed against the filtering light, she looked like a radiant angel, the window a halo around her head. Warra made her way over and leaned into her wife.

“Fate has blessed us,” she said. “Our miracle child.”

Their baby gurgled and looked out at the open sky. Far above in the radiant blue, a convor circled amidst the clouds.

***

Growing up in the Outer Rim, Hania Lark had seen many strange things. None of them, however, prepared her for the sheer chaos of raising her child. More often than not, she returned home to find the baby sitting in strange places around the house. Sometimes she found the burbling infant lying peacefully on the highest shelf in the kitchen, several feet from the ground, leaving no clue how she'd gotten there. Other times Hania would find crumbs in the cot, from biscuits that she kept in a tightly sealed jar.

Hania was sure that something was unusual about their baby — she just wasn't sure what, exactly, that was. Most days, Warra’s grandmother, who lived in the unit above them, cared for the child while Hania and Warra were at work.  The older Bothan woman’s stews filled the dwelling with aromatic spices, creamy notes of curry in the air. Her songs wove the soundtrack of their baby’s early months. But Grandmother never seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Hania suspected that Warra hadn't noticed anything strange about the toddler either, because Warra had never been particularly familiar with humans before leaving her rural colony and meeting Hania at one of Bothawui’s major trading cities. Even while they lived in the city,  Warra spent most of her time tinkering with speeder bikes and engines while Hania took care of customer service. Machines were the Bothan woman’s expertise, but Hania radiated a hearthy presence that complemented Warra’s surly exterior. After their engagement they'd moved out to Milax V with Warra’s grandmother. The planet had a small human population too, and Hania supposed Warra’s limited exposure to human infants hadn't given her cause to question their child’s unusual behaviour. For all she knew, all human babies were gifted climbers with a strong grip.

***

Weeks became months, which blurred into years. It was not an easy life, to be sure. But Warra, Grandmother and their child formed the building blocks of a world Hania had seldom let herself imagine so many years ago.

After a particularly grueling workday—involving a misplaced hydrospanner and a particularly obnoxious Zeltron customer—Hania found herself walking home the long way around, taking the time to appreciate Ta’Ah’s grimy streets and its familiar, comforting sounds. The clay dirt underfoot was warm and hard, baked under the midday sun such that it radiated heat all through the evening. The warmth of Milax V’s packed earth surface gave the impression of an immense, ancient beast underfoot. Some travellers found it unnerving. Hania loved it.

When she returned home at last, she found the house quiet and empty. Warra was at the garage still. But Grandmother should have been home. 
Minutes passed and confusion slowly slid to concern. Hania moved through each room of their small flat, lifting cushions and chairs in case her baby had crawled into a nook or corner somewhere in the house.

“Hello?” she tried. “Gran?”

No response. Perhaps… the bathroom?

Empty.

She almost slipped on the cold tiles as she spun around to search the next room. Try to control your breathing, Hania reminded herself. Grandmother might be asleep upstairs with the baby. Or—she’d searched the whole house, after all—maybe they had gone out for a walk.. That was probably the answer. Nothing was wrong, though it couldn’t hurt to take a look outside and make sure they were okay.

As she made to go and see where Grandmother might have wandered off to, she glanced up. Mostly out of habit. Hania had it drilled into her from an early age to make sure the lights were off before she left the room—energy wasn’t cheap, not least for working families in the Outer Rim. And yet, when she glanced up at the lights, she saw…

She blinked twice. Hania’s eyes did not deceive her. Her baby was bobbing gently in the air, bumping against the ceiling with glee. Hania didn’t hesitate. She rushed under the burbling child with arms outstretched—terrified the spell would break at any second, terrified her child’s tiny body would plunge to the floor in a blur. Instead, though, the infant somersaulted through the air and giggled, looked upside down at Hania in wonder, before drifting into her arms. Hania looked at the child—a round, pudgy, precious thing—and pressed her baby to her chest, if only to convince herself the tiny human in her arms was really there.

The baby stared back up at her with round brown eyes, and giggled. Then Grandmother burst in.

“Oh, Hania,” the elderly woman said, visibly distressed. “I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find the child—”

Hania turned and smiled shakily.

“All is well, Gran. But… I think we need to talk.”

They waited until Warra got home. After explaining what had happened, or at least, what Hania could piece together from her frantic memory of the afternoon, they came to a somewhat unanimous resolution. Grandmother groused, but she too agreed that there was only one person who would know what to do.

“How do we contact the Windy fellow?” asked Grandmother. “And I don’t want him showing up just to take the child back to his cult.”

Warra sighed, head in her hands. Hania rubbed her head gently, let her fingers work through Warra’s bristly fur.

“Still so young,” murmured the Bothan. “We can’t, not yet—who knows how long this training will take. Would our baby really have to live on Coruscant?”

Hania looked at their miracle child, wrapped in a layered periwinkle turban in Grandmother’s lap. Peacefully sleeping, their child looked like a tiny purple flower—sweet and delicate. Not yet ready to face the perils of the galaxy.

“We’ll send a message. Talk to Master Windu first,” Hania decided. “They’ll make it work. We’ll make it work.”

Chapter Text

As it turned out the Jedi Temple was relatively easy to contact, and Warra was able to put through a short transmission to the mysterious peacekeepers’ headquarters at the spaceport. Although Mace had been unavailable, the Jedi on duty informed them that their troubles were not uncommon for children with a strong connection to the Force. When there was next a Jedi passing through their sector, the gravelly-voiced Nikto master told her, they would visit their home and evaluate the baby’s Force sensitivity. Until then,

Warra and Hania would have to learn how to handle their child’s unusual abilities.

“This is a gift from the Force,” the Jedi had said, before cutting the transmission brusquely.

“It’s a gift,” Grandmother grumbled, “But the Force had nothing to do with it. You’ve got some weird genes somewhere in your heritage, sweetheart,” she said, patting Hania on the shoulder. “Perhaps an alien species from a planet with different gravity.”

Hania wasn’t sure if that made sense, but it wasn’t any more absurd that the idea of a living, invisible energy field that made babies float through the air.

Syenna made it to her fourth summer without incident. By now she knew how to say her name, though it rolled clumsily from her small tongue and sounded like music from her mothers’. The sun bore down on the dirt streets of Ta’Ah outpost and stifling heat scorched the dry, packed-mud town. In the distance, the rumbling thunder of conveyex trains carried scrapped ships and hyperdrive parts from the depot to major trading hubs on the other sides of the planet, the hum of their enormous journeys vibrating through the planet like a heartbeat. Scraps of coloured fabric, tied to the tops of houses that lined the winding streets, sputtered in the intermittent atmospheric gusts that Syenna had come to know and love.

Syenna—still at an age where her legs felt too short for her body—waddled through the small street, chasing an inflatable ball through the dirt. Hania sat on the steps of their home, watching from a distance. There weren’t other children in Ta’Ah, at least not those of Syenna’s age, and Hania knew that this might have set Syenna back a little. But their family was always been enough.

There was an easy rhythm to things these days. Syenna woke, always excited, and met the morning sky without trepidation. Hania envied her that endless well of energy. Then Warra gave them each a kiss and went off to work. Hania worked too, but found herself losing the stamina she’d once had to work from the early morning hours to night. By the time the sun brushed the highest point in the sky, she was back home to take care of their child. Hania was never sure what, exactly, she was meant to do with Syenna. There were no schools on Ta’Ah, and Grandmother hadn’t much experience with schooling to offer, except for a repertoire of Bothan folktales she would tell to Syenna every night. She didn’t believe in forcing young children to work, either. There would be enough of that in the years to come.

So she contented herself to let Syenna play in the open air, to taste the earthen planet and know the dry, hot wind: its rustle against your skin, sand and air whispering like sheaves of sundried leaves. When she was old enough, Warra would train her as a meknek. That was her ticket off-world, Hania thought, to a better life or more exciting planet. If she wanted it, that is—Syenna adored her family and home. There was always something new or exciting to find. Syenna helped Hania see the tiniest things in the world in a new light—and that was everything.

“Not too far,” she called, noticing Syenna stumbling after the ball to the end of the road, where the intercity freight lines ran perpendicular to the urban rookeries they called home. “Don’t walk on the tracks.”

Syenna paused and looked back at her mother. Her hair caught the sun and for a moment she seemed ringed by a halo. I’m doting on her too much, Hania reprimanded herself. But then again, could she be blamed? After everything she and Warra had been through to have their child survive—happy, and healthy—surely she was entitled to a little pride.

The ball bounced into the air and Syenna reached for it, giggling. Her peals of delight carried through the quiet air and Hania beamed. Her daughter pushed the ball into the air again, watching it float weightlessly above the tips of her fingers like a bubble.

A gust of summer wind pushed the ball from Syenna’s tiny hand. It bounced onto the tracks, small and round, rolling under the gargantuan steel rails. Syenna reached to snatch it back, hands small and fat, arms not quite long enough. Hania felt the tremors of the afternoon conveyex express line. She felt it in the ground first, before she heard it—and saw too late a cloud of dust kicked up into the air as the iron behemoth hurtled towards her child.

A flash, a sound, no time to scream. The warmth of the sun was gone and only a cold white remained.

Winter fell upon them.

***

The cold never came to Milax V. Baked under the heat of its blue sun, the cracked clay of the planet’s soil radiated with warmth long into the night even after darkness fell. That was how Hania liked it. When she lay on the ground, pressed her hand against the earth, it pressed back at her. Warm and alive like a friend. When the wind blew, thick and hot, she imagined the planet’s long exhale whispering to her words of strength and assurance. It was why she was content to let Syenna play outside even after the sun fell.

Warra worried. Grandmother fretted. But on Milax V, the darkness of night was a friend too. Mud rats and burrowsnakes, sensitive to the harsh light of the blazing sun, emerged from their earthen holes. They, like Hania, enjoyed the warm embrace of the night without the punishing rays that accompanied daytime on Milax V. Syenna loved to chase burrowsnakes through the street, slow and clumsy, stout legs wobbling across the dirt. Neither creature held malice toward the other, Hania knew, the small child perceived more as a nuisance than a genuine predator or threat. Syenna’s laughter pealed through the air, soft music under the purple sky.

Hania sighed. She was tired and felt older than she was. Every day brought fewer customers and the trickle of business at the spaceport grew ever smaller. She briefly toyed with the options. Should she go back to school? Take on a second job? She shook her head. Schooling was for those born into the Core and Inner Rim. Even Bothawui was a planet of tiered lives; the cosmopolitan universities and institutes out of reach for her parents too. That was okay, she and Warra would manage. Milax V was a friend, her family protected in its clay embrace.

Now where had Syenna gotten to? She cursed her human eyes, which had only started deteriorating in the last year. The darkness was peaceful, but she couldn’t quite see…
The road through the center of town led down a hill to a small clearing that in turn yawned into a massive desert. Through the desert ran enormous intercity freight lines—the engine of Milax V’s economy. No one on Ta’Ah ventured past the tracks.

“Syenna?” Hania stumbled down the street. Where had that girl run off to?

Too late she heard Syenna’s yelp, clumsy feet and too-short legs tangling and tumbling as she tripped and fell to the ground, rolling toward the train tracks. Hania felt the rumble of the oncoming train, tasted dust on the air, saw the enormous metal beast that barreled through the darkness. No no no no no. She took off toward the rails, failing legs and tired eyes working against her. Hania reached the tracks in minutes, but by then the dust had cleared, the train shrinking into the horizon.

The tracks were empty, the desert still and silent. Where Syenna had been just moments ago, she saw a tall, frog-like man. He held Syenna in one arm as he stepped toward her.

“Your child needs to be more careful,” he said sternly. “If I hadn’t been passing through, this youngling would most likely not be here, standing in front of you.” He set her down and pushed her towards Hania. Syenna stumbled, disoriented, and ran to her mother. Hania could think of nothing else but Syenna’s pudgy hands clutching at her leg as she bent down to lift her child into her arms. Syenna burrowed her face into her mother’s rough tunic and breathed deeply. Hania felt herself inhaling too, though whether it was to calm herself or assure herself of Syenna’s presence, she wasn’t sure. Syenna was warm and soft against her. Her baby. Still so fragile.

“I’m grateful,” Hania managed to say. “Beyond words.” She waited for his response, but the man stood still, regarding her almost haughtily. She looked down at Syenna, then back at the tall man. He had saved Syenna—at least, it seemed—but she didn’t want to get too comfortable around a stranger who had appeared out of nowhere. It wouldn’t do to let her guard down, and she still felt on edge from the train and Syenna’s near accident. “I have to say, I haven’t seen you in these parts before. There’s not much that goes on here including new arrivals that everyone else doesn’t find out about eventually.” Not the whole truth, though the implicit warning gleamed like a dagger. “Can I help you?” Hania did her best to summon her friendliest sales associate smile.

“As a matter of fact, you can,” he said. “I was travelling through the sector on a remote mission when I received a message alerting me to your family’s presence. As I understand it, you requested that the Jedi Order evaluate your child for recruitment.”

Hania’s stomach dropped. The Jedi Order.

“Well, I—” she paused. It was true, Syenna still exhibited some...strange qualities, but now that she and Warra had grown used to it she no longer knew if they even needed the help and training Master Windu had hinted at four cycles ago. “That was two years ago—we did send a message, but I didn’t realise you would be coming.”

She felt stupid saying that. Of course, what else had she expected? But suddenly, the possibility of losing Syenna felt very real. Deep down, she’d always felt that this joy, this gift of life that she and Warra had received in the form of their angelic child, might be temporary. Conditional. That there were some kinds of cosmic strings attached, or that the fates or whatever spirits out there had bigger plans that didn’t look much like anything Hania or Warra were imagining. It had been too good to be true, to have Syenna all to themselves. And now, Hania thought grimly, it was happening. They were going to try and take her away.

The Jedi seemed offended.

“There are a great many force-sensitives in the galaxy. You’ll forgive us if we had limited resources with which to get here sooner.”

“Of course,” she hurried. “I suppose you just caught me off-guard. Would you…” she paused, not sure how to proceed. “Would you like to come inside? My wife will be back from work, and perhaps—perhaps we can discuss with her. She’ll want to speak with you too, as I’m sure you’d understand.”

The Jedi nodded.

“As I expected. But I will wait.”

A tall, intimidating alien in brown robes was not what Warra expected to see when she arrived home, but the look on Hania’s face snapped her out of the initial shock. Soon, Hania explained why the man was here (all the while, Warra noticed somewhat sourly, he looked out the window impatiently). Hania was careful to mention how the Jedi saved Syenna’s life—probably to ease the brewing tensions at the table—but Warra had enough sense to know that Hania was no more comfortable about this than she was.

Syenna was in the next room, deep in sleep after her ordeal at the train tracks. Warra intended to speak quietly, but she heard her words come out loud and sharp.

“So, you just take her?” She tried to keep the incredulity from her tone. Warra didn’t want to antagonize this man—who seemed to have an ego to match his size—but it all felt ridiculous. Here was a stranger who appeared out of nowhere and was now telling them he needed to take their only child away to a distant Core World planet. It was a joke. Her grandmother agreed.

“Syenna is their child,” Grandmother said. “While I admit she’s shown behaviors that are. . . unique, we’ve come to live with it.”

“I’m no fresh-faced initiate, ma’am,” the Jedi said, looking down his nose at the elderly Bothan woman. “I’ve seen countless Jedi initiates, and witnessed dangerous bursts of power. I’ve heard your line from other parents many times, and each time, they have come to regret it when their child’s raw power exploded in their face.”

“Excuse me?” Warra was taken aback.

“It’s only a matter of time before your offspring’s connection to the Force outgrows your ability to handle it,” argued the Jedi. “Most children begin training at this level of maturity. For humans, some enter the temple at an even earlier age.”

“If it was so important that she be trained right away,” Grandmother shot back, “You would have sent a Jedi to take her when we sent our initial message. Now that we’ve had a few more years to understand Syenna’s unique talents, you decide it is the right time to train her?”

“Syenna is happy here,” Warra added, fiercely. “My daughter is happy here.”

“Enough!” bellowed the Jedi. “The Jedi Code gives us great responsibility. We have a duty to ensure Force-sensitive children are taken to the temple for training. It is for their safety as much as it is yours.” He leaned forward, the table creaking under his muscled elbows. “The galaxy is a dangerous place for Force-sensitive children. Pirates, smugglers—all would go to great lengths to acquire someone with such potential. Any child who joins the Order will be raised safely and appropriately, trained to fulfil their potential as a member of our ranks. A knight, who will guarantee order, peace, and justice to families throughout the galaxy.”

Grandmother regarded him sceptically, but Hania looked at the Jedi intently. If he was right, would they be hurting Syenna by keeping her here? Were they really qualified to raise her? Two working girls from a run-down town on Bothawui, who’d tried to make it big but ended up in another run-down town on an abandoned trading planet. But they loved her, too, Hania thought fiercely. More than any order of knights could.

Warra noticed her discomfort. “Give us a day, at least,” she offered. “We need to talk about this. Without you.”

The Jedi looked annoyed but nodded.“I have errands in this system I can attend to while you make your decision. But do not take too long—I'm due for a mission in the next rotation. I'll return tomorrow. I expect you to have made your decision by then.”

First there was silence. Warra stared wildly around the room.

“Are we seriously considering this?”

Hania just looked into her lap. Warra felt herself reaching across the table to take her hand, but stopped herself.

“Hania,” she repeated. “You’re really considering this?”

Hania just sat there. Warra felt herself growing angry. It wasn’t like her wife to be so— so quiet, so— hopeless? Hania was a dreamer, an optimist. Warra couldn’t believe she would so easily. Especially over Syenna.

Grandmother was firm. “I do not trust the Jedi,” she spat. “This one especially.”

“It’s a farce.”

At last Hania cleared her throat.

“I love our daughter,” she said, and now she looked directly into Warra’s eyes, daring her to protest. “I love her more than the fields love the rain. Our daughter is special. She has powers no ordinary human or Bothan has. We don’t—we can’t—understand those powers and we won’t know how to protect her. Or if we can protect her.”

“We don’t understand her powers,” Warra protested. “But we understand her.”

“Yes. I’m scared, Warra. No one knows Syenna like us. And the Jedi will never take that away from her, or us. But we’ve said we want a better life for her, you know that. If this is it...she will be safe, at least.”

Warra slumped onto the table. The room swam hazily around her, like it had the day of Syenna’s birth—the day the Jedi had come into their lives and saved their baby.

Grandmother shook her head, steadfast. “I cannot agree.”

They argued. Hours, it felt like, until dawn crept faintly through the window and the three women's hushed voices grew hoarse.

In the end it came down to Warra. Breathing shakily, she forced a jagged lump down her throat.“I’ve made my decision.”

***

The morning, Syenna woke to find her parents already gathered in the dining room.

“Syenna?” Hania’s voice broke.

“Mama?” She’d listened to the discussion that continued late into the night and she didn’t like the sound of it at all. There was something strangely final about the way Hania said her name, the way she stared at her daughter so intently, she though she was trying to freeze her in carbonite using only her eyes.

When Hania stretched her arms out, Syenna felt something break inside of her. She ran to her mother, plunging her face into her mother’s shoulder. Tears spilled from her eyes hot and fast.

“Mama!” she cried. She didn’t want to leave. Surely she would see them again, Syenna was certain that she would, there was no question. So why were her parents crying so much, and why did she want to hurl the contents of her morning’s breakfast right up out of her mouth? She gripped onto her mothers, terrified that at any moment the Jedi would tear her away and carry her out of the building.

“It’s alright,” murmured Hania, and she let Syenna bury her face in the crook of her neck. Let her daughter breathe the lingering perfume of flowers that she picked for the dining room every day. “It’s alright my love. It’s going to be alright.”

She paused, rubbing her daughter’s tiny shoulders. “When you go with the Jedi today, I need you to remember two things for me.”

Hania pulled back, staring feverishly into her daughter’s eyes.

“Remember who you are and why you’re going. Syenna, you are going to be a Jedi. A hero. You’re going to save the galaxy. Okay? And remember that I—we—love you so, so much. Never forget where you come from. Because you will always be here with us.”

Then Warra wrapped them tightly in her arms, trying to squeeze every inch of her love into Syenna—as if, perhaps, if she hugged her tight enough the love she held in her heart would seep into her daughter. Make her unloseable. Forge some kind of connection, permanent and unforgettable, to comfort and nourish her in the years to come that she’d know to be her mothers’ love. Or perhaps she hugged Syenna so tightly because she couldn’t bear to let her go. If she let go, Warra knew, if she loosened the embrace even slightly, she would never be able to wrap her arms around her daughter again. There would be no going back.

“I love you,” Warra said. She said it again, and again, pulling her daughter tighter with every word. “We will always love you. So much.”
When she finally let go, she fell to her knees and felt Hania sink to the ground beside her. She leaned into her wife and sobbed as Syenna hugged Grandmother goodbye and, finally, took her first steps into a galaxy without her parents.

***

The road was dry and gravelly underfoot. Syenna felt a piece of stone in her left boot, rolling and pressing into the heel of her foot. As she trudged forward, she cast her mind around, unable to unsee the faces of her mothers streaked with tears, red and ugly with grief. She fixed her eyes on the clouds which drifted lazily across the sky, trying to imagine what it would be like to soar through them, to relax into their soft, pillowy beds or burst through them like running through a field of flowers. Something swooped overhead, circling above them both.

She dared a glance behind, her home no longer visible behind the crooked teeth of Ta’Ah’s buildings, suddenly both thrilled and afraid at the idea that her world was about to become is much larger and her place in it infinitely smaller.

“Come, child,” said the Jedi, wrenching her from the daydream. He gripped her arm roughly, and Syenna scurried to catch up with his broad steps. “We have a transport to catch to get to Nistu spaceport. We’ll rendezvous there with a Master who’ll take you to the Temple.”

***

The clang of the shuttle as it set itself down broke Syenna from her sleep. Hot steam, humid and smelly, hissed through the air and Syenna felt strands of hair dancing at the edges of her vision as she disembarked the crowded transport ship. She brushed her hair aside absently, focused only on the sheer size of the massive hangar she’d just stepped into. The cavernous, silver ceiling gaped above her like a distant mirror, and thought it wasn’t as clear as glass she could see the faint, blurred movements of the crowd reflected in its burnished veneer. She watched the colored blobs shifting in the hazy reflection. They reminded her of the spots that appeared when she looked too long into the bright sky, only their shifting forms were accompanied by the cacophony of travelers and the hiss of spaceships.

“Come on,” repeated the Jedi as he marched ahead. “We must find Master Windu. He’ll take you back to the Temple, because I have an important mission on Maldo Kreis.”  He said this in a slow and exaggerated voice, as if he thought she didn’t understand. The Jedi man marched her through a crowded corridor to another hangar, where he stopped impatiently and crossed his arms. The rush of chatter in a hundred alien languages swarmed around them. Syenna almost covered her ears, but instead fixed her eyes on her feet and tried to focus on the way her boots were laced up. Another reminder of her parents, kneeling over her as they explained the looped knot once more.

“Hmmph."

Syenna stayed quiet. He didn’t seem like someone who wanted her to say anything. He tapped his thick leg impatiently and as Syenna looked at him, she saw him absently clenching one of his hands open and closed, veins bulging at his wrist. Syenna felt a spike of terror, as if the Jedi would explode at any second and grab her by the neck with his meaty fingers. She was broken from the thought by the arrival of another figure, approaching from the far side of the hangar.

“Master Windu! You’ve arrived,” shouted the Jedi, his deep voice booming across the space. Syenna saw a man strolling towards them. His slender frame cut a surprisingly elegant figure against the chaos of the spaceport, and his bald head and high cheekbones gave him a regal look.  He reminded her of the tall trees at home, commanding and wise. The man’s beige tunic and his gentle demeanour seemed familiar, almost comforting, and for a moment Syenna stopped thinking about the angry frog Jedi, or the yawning hangar, or her mothers’ arms wrapped around her.

“Yes,” said the man. His voice, calm and confident, resonated through the air. Syenna latched on to every word. “I’m afraid I was held up.” He paused. “And you are our soon-to-be initiate.”

“Not yet,” barked the Jedi. “But this child shows potential. Or so the family says.”

The man looked down at her. Syenna stared into his brown eyes. They seemed thoughtful and wise, but there was a steel to them too. Syenna imagined him battling ferocious dragons in the clouds, serpents expelling streams of flame, broadswords hissing against molten scales.

“I’ll leave you to your mission,” the man said, nodding to the tall Jedi, who began to stride off immediately. Syenna felt the pressure lift as the intimidating man disappeared into the crowd without a second glance.

“May the Force be with you, Master Krell,” said the man, drolly. Then he took her hand. “You can call me Mace. Come, little one. Our journey to Coruscant awaits.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Syenna noticed about Coruscant was how endless it was. Through the viewport she could see an expanse of gleaming metal and glass that stretched so far into the distance she could barely make out where the dusty horizon met the cloudless sky. The transport shuttle scraped roughly onto a landing pad, and the man who accompanied her—Mace?—touched her lightly on the shoulder.

“Little one,” he murmured, “We’ve arrived.” Syenna stared up at him. She felt like she could see the entire universe in his brown eyes. And perhaps the universe was staring back at her. Afraid to speak, she just nodded. Already Syenna was missing her mothers, longing to bury her face in their soft hair or worn robes. She could almost smell the cloying flowers they hung in the living room and her mothers heating sweet pink milk in the kitchen each night. But Syenna couldn’t burrow into their side here, and there was no pink milk on Coruscant. So she clung to the man, gripping a fistful of his tunic as they forged through the throng of travelers who piled off the transport. And what a throng there was—lumbering beings with hulking heads and two great eyes on short stalks, slender figures with pale skin and slit-like nostrils, scarlet-skinned men with pink hair who pushed their way across the platform. A whiff of sour air startled Syenna, and she saw a green-skinned woman with glowing red eyes like jewels push past, the smell of her stress glands leaving a bitter trail in her wake. No one seemed to come to Coruscant without a purpose. Each traveller around Syenna walked brusquely and with intent. They were going somewhere, pursuing something. Syenna thought of her mothers. The two women had never walked like that. They already had everything they needed. Syenna was here with a purpose, though. She remembered her mother’s words. Syenna was here to become a Jedi—someone who could save the galaxy.

“This is the business district,” Mace said. Syenna wasn’t sure what he meant, but she liked listening to his calm voice. It was easy to focus on the words amidst the raucous crowd and constant hum of speeders and machinery flitting through the atmosphere. “The Jedi Temple is not far from here. The city trains are busy, so we’ll take an airspeeder. Looks like this one has been reserved for the Jedi.”

The man gestured to an unassuming, blue airspeeder with a low roof, as if amused by a surprising coincidence. In truth, Syenna thought, he had known the speeder would be available. Maybe he was playing a kind of game.

Syenna nodded numbly. She felt a little guilty for not responding, but the planet was overwhelming. She’d never seen anything like Coruscant before and she wasn’t sure whether she liked what she was experiencing. Mace didn’t seem to mind. As they clambered in, he continued to speak, until his voice became a soft, calming drone at the back of Syenna’s mind as the cityscape flashed past them.

“Coruscant is the capital of the Republic,” he said. “There are many powerful people here, from the furthest reaches of the galaxy.”

They flew past an imposing, domed building that seemed to rise from the towers like a giant mushroom.

“The Senate,” Mace said. “Both the heart, and bane, of peace and democracy.”

Syenna watched a majestic yacht docking next to the Senate, and a parade of blue robed figures lining up to greet the passengers. From here, they looked like tiny scurrying ants, marching in a line from the imposing cruiser.

“Others live in the lower levels,” continued Mace. “Coruscant is home to billions, not just Senators. And none of them,” he paused, turning back to look at Syenna, “are any less deserving of our respect or support.”

This part, Syenna understood. She nodded, forcing herself to meet Mace’s steady gaze. On Milax V, everyone worked, and everyone’s work was valued. Each contributed according to their skills and abilities. And when the fruit of their labor was shipped off-world, everyone got what they needed, rewards distributed accordingly.

A grey transport ship rumbled past them, its lumbering hull obscuring the vast mass of the Senate building and instead mirroring the glimmer of buildings beneath them. As Syenna glanced over the speeder’s edge, letting her gaze drift past the silver towers into the dark recesses below, she sensed that the principle of sharing that so defined her life on Milax V might not be the case on this planet. How many people had come to this place, purposeful and brisk like the travellers on their transport ship, seeking dreams and new lives—only to fall down into the depths of a tangled pit of steel and grime? She wondered how long it would take to fall all the way to the bottom. Could you even survive down there? It seemed so cold, impenetrably far from the sun. Smoke, thick and grey, drifted low between the spires of metal that stabbed at the sky.

She was broken from her daydreams by a mechanical sputtering. Ahead, a sleek, white airspeeder wobbled erratically, dipping in and out of the assigned lane they were flying in. Mace tsked, shaking his head. The airspeeder’s pilot must not have been using the autonav systems that kept the layers of traffic on Coruscant orderly and precise—or, perhaps, the vehicle’s nav system was broken. No normal pilot, navi-system or not, would fly so unpredictably. Something was wrong, and Syenna felt prickles on her shoulders as a sudden wave of warmth shook her body. Sweat stung the back of her neck. She watched the speeder jolt in and out of the skylane, skirting close to the other drivers. It skittered back and forth, like an insect with a broken wing. Left, then right. Up, then down. Mace gave a hum of disapproval, and turned back to check on his young charge.

Something cold sliced through her, as if someone had taken an icy blade to her gut. Past the back of Mace’s head, Syenna saw the white airspeeder dip a little too far. It collided with the grey transport ship, and the two spiralled out of control and sliced through the air towards them. In the hurtling blur of shrieking metal and light, she couldn’t see what was happening, only felt Mace’s hands close around her arms as he leapt clear of the speeder. She felt the heat of the explosion, a fierce wave of blinding light and fire that seared her skin, and the rush of air that pushed outwards as Mace tried to ride the wave of the explosion to a nearby vehicle—something they could land on, something to roll onto—before a second explosion ripped through the skylane and engulfed the two, girl and Jedi Master, in a roiling ball of flame.

Winter came, swift and merciless. 

***

43 BBY

TWENTY FOUR YEARS BEFORE THE FALL

ABOVE RO MIRA

Mace Windu reached out through the Force. With his eyes closed, the Jedi Master could sense tensions and threads stretched out in a vast network around him. He was one node in an infinite lattice of possibilities and outcomes. Each connected. Each contingent.

He felt Master Yoda’s presence back on Coruscant, glowing and connected to so many others, his old teacher and friend an ever present node in the crystalline structure of the universe. There was Depa, his old Padawan. A familiar presence in the fractal, growing stronger by the day as her choices branched into new pathways. Mace was proud of how far she had come. Mace sensed his friends, Qui-Gon Jinn and Kit Fisto, and other Jedi he’d grown up with in the Temple. Then, further out, planets he’d visited on missions, familiar places each vibrantly and rigorously recorded in his vast banks of memory as well as back on Coruscant in his carefully organized journals.

But something else tugged at him, a smaller axis further away. Unfamiliar…What was it? Or rather…where was it? Mace pushed further, honing in with methodical precision. 

“Not far to Coruscant,” Azita Cruuz said. “But I sure hope my legs still work when we get there, Master Jedi.”

The two were cramped into the cockpit of Mace’s Delta class starfighter. Not an ideal arrangement, after the Jedi Master had been forced to sacrifice Azita’s larger ship in a fight with an unhinged Devaronian back on Ro Mira. 

“The Jedi Temple healers are more than equipped to handle any joint-related injuries you sustain from this journey,” Mace said, trying to let go of the spiking pain in his knee. He could feel his legs growing numb against the dashboard. Was he truly so old already? It felt like yesterday he’d been a Padawan, fresh as a jogan fruit, somersaulting and stretching with ease.  “Think of it as…fringe benefits for your coaxium payment.”

“Very generous, Mace. Then to Haruun Kal, if you’re still set on that mission. Feeling homesick?”

How strange that he would meet, of all people on Ro Mira, another Korun. It was a big galaxy, but in many ways, not so big at all, he thought. That too was the Force at work, its lattice binding each and every being together in tensile balance. And Mace always listened to what the lattice had to say.

“Looks like we might need to stop for fuel,” added Azita. “Ironically.  I guess this ship isn’t made for two.”

Ironic indeed, Mace thought. Azita’s joke had helped him make sense of that tugging feeling in the Force. 

At the heart of irony lies contradiction, and Mace Windu knew all about contradiction. Points of tension in the fractal of the Force that can’t resolve themselves, instead carrying the potential for total transformation. Shatterpoints. Mace sensed one now: strike a shatterpoint, change everything. That was what he felt pulling on him through the Force. A keystone upon which so many possibilities rested. A planet, or a person?

“Milax V,” he said. “We will refuel on Milax V.”

“Not exactly on the way, Mace.”

Doubt not the ways of the Force, Yoda had told him as a child. Doubt not yourself is what the wise master truly meant, couched in language that appealed to Mace’s sense of responsibility. He knew that now.

“Maybe not, Azita. But today it’s in our way.”

Mace Windu trusted the Force. It had never let him down.

***

Light—blinding, brilliant, white light. The roar of Coruscant tightened Syenna’s chest. Screaming speederbikes whistled past, and she felt the rush of smells—hyperfuel exhaust, smoke, whiffs of alcohol and spice—swimming through her nose and to her brain. Her skull throbbed. The open platform felt too exposed, its wide metal surface somehow prying open her skin like it was an overripe fruit, offering her body to the city’s hostile air.

Syenna felt herself crouching low, afraid a stray gust of wind from a transport ship would blow her off balance and push her right over the edge, sending her to her doom. Ambience was one thing, but the sounds were screaming at her now from every angle. Speeders seemed to fly toward her, ready to crash, smashing her to pieces against the metal platform. The buildings swayed, menacing and toppling like trees to crush her under their shining metal canopies. Her knees locked up, she grasped unsteadily for balance. Her legs wouldn’t move. Why weren’t they moving? She strained, but she felt so weak, as though the ground was swallowing up her feet.

A few paces ahead, Mace turned.

“What’s wrong, little one? I know Coruscant can be overwhelming.”

She shook her head, trying to lift her legs. Something was wrong, pulling at her stomach. She needed water. Or air. Something to stop the rising pressure at the back of her throat. Her breath came short and quick now and her head spun. It was like her brain was swelling, pushing and writhing inside her skull and threatening to explode. Syenna had never felt so sick before, not even when she contracted a virus when she was two years old. 

Back then, Warra tucked her into bed with every blanket they’d had in the house. She wiped Syenna’s face with a cloth as Syenna’s vision swam. The shadows of the room fluttered and spun around her, flickering purple shapes on the walls transforming into flocks of birds and leering serpents that loomed over Syenna as she clung to the blankets in terror and delirium. Syenna struggled, sitting up, desperate to tell her mothers about the creatures that seemed to stare directly into her soul. Hania and Warra held her hand, whispering, until a restless sleep claimed her for several days. 

But this sickness felt worse, so much worse. The creatures weren’t here but the speeders, the buildings, the crowd all loomed around her like cresting waves, ready to crash and flatten her against the ground.

Mace knelt beside her.

“Little one. Are you alright?” His stern voice echoed from a distance. Smoke seemed to surround her. Through the haze, Mace’s voice was little more than a distorted warble.

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. A voice—no, not a voice, more like a feeling. GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK. Syenna stumbled, feeling Mace’s hand closing around her arms to steady her. She retched. It was too much. GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK. The shapes pressed closer, chaotic and bright, muttering and spitting their chant at Syenna from every angle. WRONG WRONG WRONG. GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK. She opened and closed her mouth. Air wasn’t going in, air was meant to be going in. She tried to move her lungs, gulping and swallowing.

“Little one!” This time his resonant voice was clearer, a thread piercing the haze and finding its mark at the center of the storm. Syenna grasped onto it, clinging to the thread as she tried to stop herself being swept away by the tide. It was all she could do to keep breathing, desperately holding onto the tether as she felt Mace pick her up and carry her from the landing platform. Sounds echoed past her—voice, machinery, she wasn’t sure. The air rushing through her ears was hot and cold. The voices and shapes moved faster and further, a hurricane of whispers, until at last they began to fade. 

Soon the flurry of chanting dulled into a mumbled buzz at the back of her eyes before fading away to nothing. Her brain no longer pressed at the seams of her skull. Air flowed into her lungs with ease.

When she opened her eyes, she was looking over Mace’s shoulder as he stood in an empty area under cover. It was a lower level of the building they’d first landed on.

“Are you alright?” he asked, still holding her like Hania used to, before Syenna got too heavy for her mother’s aging back.

She nodded cautiously, afraid the whispers might return. They did not.

“I must apologize, young one,” he said. “I forget how different Coruscant is. We’ll take the train to the Temple. It will be much quieter—less busy—than the skylanes at this time of day.”

Syenna could say nothing. She focused on her breaths—felt the air push in and out of her chest, slow and purposeful. She savored the fullness of each inhalation, every breath a gift after the horror of what she’d experienced. When they boarded the train, she sat wordlessly next to the Jedi as the doors closed and the transport hissed away from the platform.

“Those who do not understand the Jedi,” said Mace. “Think we believe that fear must be banished.” The train was mostly empty, and he spoke into the air without looking at her. “That to feel fear is to succumb to the dark. To fall.”

The train rushed through its metal rings, lights flashing as buildings skimmed past outside the long windows. Syenna let the gentle thrum of the train’s repulsors lull her to a daze.

“The mudfish feeds in the shallows of a swamp,” Mace mused. “When the beak of a shyyyo bird breaks the surface of the water, it feels fear. It flees.”

Syenna watched another train platform rush past. Neon signage displayed the HoloNet feed—the briefest glimpse of an old man in a heavy robe. Someone important, by the way he carried himself.

“Is the mudfish, then, a creature of the dark side? It is connected to the Force, as all living things are.”

Syenna stayed silent, turning the Jedi’s words over in her mind. She wasn’t sure what they meant, exactly, but she repeated them in her head. It was, she found, a nice distraction. She pictured the mudfish scrambling through the mud, burrowing away from the long-legged waterfowl. Its beak thrust downwards. Faintly, Syenna thought she felt a ripple through the air—a nudge, some kind of cry of pain far above them, perhaps—but it faded as quickly as her thoughts of mudfish and water birds. The train rumbled on, and in the distance she heard the wail of sirens.

“No one is immune to fear,” Mace said, after a long pause. “Fear can help us survive. But as Jedi, we are called to a higher purpose: to meet that fear with the light of the Force. For if the mudfish turned toward the surface, it might see that the shyyo bird’s beak was but a drop of rain, falling from a limitless sky.”

By the time they left the train, and had made the journey to the Temple entrance (at least, one of the many), Syenna had almost forgotten the episode of panic and fear she’d experienced on the platform. Now, the shapes and whispers felt more like a bad dream. Her boots felt grounded on the hard temple floor, and her senses here were sharp. Still, murmurs lingered at the edges of her vision, threatening to catch her off-guard. Perhaps they were just the shadows of sleep, Syenna thought. Already, the day’s end was approaching her. She felt the overwhelming need to curl up on the floor. When her eyelids drooped, heavily and thick, she managed to hold them high enough to see two robed figures approaching. A man, red-skinned with striped headtails, and a tiny green goblin with a hunched back and long ears.

“I’m glad you’ve arrived safely,” said the man. “There was an airspeeder collision in one of the skylanes this afternoon. Two confirmed casualties. Several hospitalized.”

Mace nodded seriously.

“I thought I sensed it when we were on the train. Were any Jedi dispatched?”

“One, to the hospital. Master Braylon went to speak to the witnesses.”

Syenna watched the three Jedi confer. The green one nodded and harumphed, his diminished frame leaning heavily on a twisted cane. He was even smaller than Syenna. 

As if sensing her gaze, the three turned to regard her. She squirmed.

“Welcome, youngling,” said the green one. “Master Yoda is my name. Time it is to meet the rest of your clan.”

Syenna looked at him, puzzling the words out. Mace nodded.

“You’ve been assigned to Bear Clan,” he added.

“My clan, that is,” Master Yoda said. He looked piercingly at Syenna, and she gulped. Something about the wizened teacher’s gaze jolted her wide awake. Where Mace’s eyes were calm and cool, Syenna looked into Master Yoda’s eyes and saw centuries. Eons, stretching back and forth through the galaxy. Rugged planets, ancient trees soaring high, and the deaths of fiery suns. Something darker lay beyond those visions too. A sense of danger. She stepped back, pulling away from the expanse she’d almost fallen into.

Master Yoda squinted.

“Hmph,” he said, and turned down the corridor.

Syenna followed the three Jedi down several hallways, each lit with soft golden light and furnished with soft brown accents. When they finally came to a halt, she found herself looking at a rounded doorway. The three masters stepped aside and gestured to the entrance.

For a moment, Syenna felt a spike of fear. What was waiting for her beyond these doors? She reached out tentatively, probing for whispers and chaos. But there was no sign of them, nor the horrible sickness that had come over her on the platform. For the first time that day, Syenna allowed herself to relax. She was safe. The doors slid open.

In the room stood six other children. All seemed to be around Syenna’s age, although nonhuman age was often difficult to tell.

“Your clan, this is,” said Master Yoda. “Spend much time with each other you will, in the next weeks. Learn to trust one another. Then, begin training to become Jedi Knights you will.”

Syenna nodded, and Mace patted her on the shoulder.

“We take our leave, little ones,” he said. “I trust you will make yourself comfortable.”

She watched Mace’s tall, slender frame—accompanied by the squat shuffle of Master Yoda—exit the room, doors hissing shut behind them. Then she turned back to see the group of people with whom she was meant to spend the next several years of her life.

The crowd of children had relaxed immediately after the elders’ departure, slumping lazily against the walls and cushions. Syenna took them all in. Closest to her was a chunky alien, thick necked with two eyes on either side of his head. Then, a red-haired human girl with striking green eyes. She saw a blue-skinned girl wearing neatly pressed robes. A Twi’lek youngling with blotched purple lekku, leaning against a silver-skinned boy with a mischievous smirk. There was an insectoid youngling whose large mandibles and golden eyes might have looked menacing on another being, but instead twitched and blinked anxiously. Syenna tried to memorize each of their faces, the thrill of meeting new friends almost overtaking her ability to process each youngling’s appearance. Master Yoda had said they would be spending much time with each other, and Syenna hoped desperately that they would like her; that she would meet the close, trustworthy friends that had featured in Grandmother’s tales of adventure and myth. What stories would they share together? What adventures?

The Teevan boy stepped forward. “I’m Tru,” he said with a grin. “This is the best clan here. Who are you?”

***

The first thing Syenna learned about being in Bear Clan was that it was both a blessing and a curse. Master Yoda’s status as a Grandmaster and age meant that he was often called to meetings or other commitments around the temple. As a result, many of the classes that would usually be taught by their clan instructor were shared among other Masters, some of whom Syenna would come to develop a distinct dislike for.

A few days after her arrival at the temple, daily training began. Primeday morning proved to be the worst possible start to her week. Master Kelleran Beq woke them from the crèche in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had edged past the jagged Coruscanti horizon. The former dean of instruction, who'd only recently been appointed to a position at the temple after decades at remote stations throughout the galaxy, led them in a morning meditation. (Syenna couldn’t help but fidget at the edge of her new robes, but luckily the bearded Master had his eyes closed and didn’t seem to notice.) Then came physical training. Master Beq’s bright demeanour and chirpy instructions did little to blunt the pain of their morning runs and fitness exercises as they sprinted through obstacle courses, did push-ups, and raced each other up increasingly difficult climbing walls.

“Do you think Beq thinks this is funny?” Hiya Ramadia, the blue-skinned Pantoran youngling, asked. She stopped and waited for Syenna to catch up to the golden tree Master Beq had told them to run to before turning around. Syenna rested her hand on the tree’s smooth bark and tried to fill her lungs with oxygen. The sun’s light was bleeding into the sky and she could see the first speeders of the bustling Coruscant economy beginning to flit through the expansive skyscrapers.

“Why—” she said, taking another breath, “do you think that?”

Hiya frowned, as they took off back to the starting point.

“Well, he’s always smiling. When clearly this is just physical torture.”

Syenna liked Hiya. She was a little older than the other initiates, and wasn’t afraid to say what was on her mind. She also loved using her advanced vocabulary to give the other younglings (and some of the Masters) a piece of her mind. Syenna knew Hiya had been given a talking-to by several of their instructors, but she supposed that growing up with a planetary governor as your father made you more confident (or more likely to say things like ‘physical torture’.) Still, Syenna would never dare question any of the instructors’ wisdom—let alone refer to them as ‘Beq’ and not Master. Hiya meant well, Syenna decided, but she’d learn that the Masters deserved more respect than that.

Syenna’s unwavering love for senior Jedi quickly came into question during their second class of the day. It was Galactic Standard Basic with Master Braylon. If Syenna had found the morning exercise difficult, it was nothing compared to Galactic Basic. Braylon was dull, dry and strict. The Aurebesh glyphs blended into one another and Syenna dreaded the moments when the older woman would call on her to answer a question. Whenever she gave what she thought was the right answer, Master Braylon would grunt and move on. Whenever she was wrong, the Master would gaze at her incredulously and call on the next student. Syenna found herself struggling to remember each letter of the alphabet, and Master Braylon’s lilting accent did little to help. Neither did the fact that most of the other younglings in Bear Clan seemed to already have been taught the basics of Aurebesh. Hiya certainly had, and she began to recant the mnemonics her private tutor had given her, until Braylon told the two of them to focus on what she was saying.

If Syenna were to fail her training and get kicked out of the Jedi Order, she was certain Master Braylon would be the one to blame. Syenna’s mind wandered far and wide while Braylon closed the class with Bear Clan’s second meditation of the day. When she heard the Master dismissing them for their mid-day meal, she could barely believe they were only halfway through their first day.

“That was the worst time of my entire life, ever,” Syenna said, tripping briefly on her silk trousers, which had somehow come untucked from her boots during the day and whose hems were just a smidge too long for her legs.

“That’s okay,” Hiya said, “I’ll help you. I already know the whole alphabet because of what Liana taught me. Liana is my tutor. I can read it all, and I know how to write a heap of words too. Come on, I’ll show you at lunch.”

Syenna hurried after the Pantoran and tried to convince herself it was true. When she caught up to Hiya some corridors away from the Aurebesh classroom, she realised that the rest of Bear Clan was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Oh,” said Hiya, “I wasn’t following them. Let’s explore before we get our midday meal!”

“WHAT?” Syenna couldn't believe Hiya had been so foolish as to go off on her own, with no thought as to what might happen. They could get lost—who knew how big the temple was—or worse, get in serious trouble.

“It's okay,” said Hiya breezily. She skipped ahead, twirling around to make sure Syenna was keeping up. “We just need to find the cafeteria,  get our food...and then we’ll say we got left behind!”

Syenna glanced behind the blue-skinned girl’s cheery face and her stomach dropped. A small green alien made his way over to them, tapping his stick on the floor and looking at them curiously with his large, bulbous eyes.

Her worst fears were about to be realized.

“Younglings,” said Master Yoda. “Lost, are you?”

Syenna shuffled her feet and looked nervously at the ground.

Hiya cleared her throat, lost for words. Her cool demeanor quickly dissipated in the face of the legendary Grandmaster.

“Er…”

“Separated from the rest of the clan, were you? Perhaps...left you behind, they did?” Master Yoda narrowed his eyes, and Syenna felt like the oxygen had been drained from her lungs. If Master Yoda realized they hadn't been left behind - they'd snuck off! - they were done for.

“Or perhaps,” said Master Yoda, “Snuck off on your own, you did.”

He knew. Of course he knew, Syenna reminded himself. He was hundreds of years old and the Jedi Order’s wisest teacher. How could she be so stupid? Syenna's mind raced for an excuse, but in the end, she decided that the truth would be the best option. Maybe Master Yoda would take pity on the two of them, and keep them on as cleaners for the temple rather than kick them out for being such lousy students on their very first day of training.

“I'm sorry Master,” she said, bowing her head. “We went off on our own.”

Master Yoda stared at her. Then he laughed. “Around the corner, the refectory is,” he chortled, “turn left at the end of this hallway, and reach your destination you will.”

He turned and continued hobbling down the passage, his tiny cloak trailing behind him on the golden floor. As soon as Master Yoda was out of sight, Hiya and Syenna dissolved into fits of terrified giggles.

“Do you think he's going to punish us later?” gasped Syenna.

“No, silly,” said Hiya. “He was laughing!”

“Maybe he was laughing because we were so stupid to go off on our own and get lost...on our very first day of school!” remanded Syenna. “Come on, let's go. We have to find the rest of Bear Clan, remember?”

***

After her exhausting classes and the embarrassment of the Master Yoda Incident, Syenna decided that the only moment of the day that could make it slightly bearable would be dinner. Syenna felt her legs carry her into the refectory, where the server droid offered her a ronto wrap  and sealed box of moof juice. She was about to follow Hiya to a table in the corner when she saw — Force forbid — the wizened form of Master Yoda entering the refectory.

“Oh, no,” she hissed, tugging on Hiya’s sleeve. “It’s him! We have to hide. After what happened today, if he sees us again he’ll kick us out of the Order for sure.”

Hiya hissed back. “No way! He didn't care.”

Syenna couldn't shake her feeling of anxiety. “He might have! Let's just avoid him in case he changes his mind and kicks us out anyway.”

She looked back at the doorway but couldn’t see Master Yoda anymore.

“Kick you out, who will?” croaked a voice from her elbow.

Syenna felt her stomach drop. Master Yoda’s eyes crinkled in a mischievous smile.

“Found the refectory, I see you have,” he said. “Worry not about expulsion. Plenty of opportunities to explore the temple will you have, yes. Many things there are to see, many things to discover.”

Syenna could only nod her head. She felt rather stupid.

“Curiosity, the mark of a great Jedi is,” Master Yoda added. “But be not anxious to prove yourself. Your place here is—as a student. Much to learn, you have. Now, let us join the rest of Bear Clan.”

Master Yoda turned to go but paused briefly to speak to them again.

“Bring your trays, younglings. Outside, we shall eat.”

When Master Yoda had corralled the rest of Bear Clan into the courtyard with their meals, he sat them in a circle under the shade of the golden tree Syenna had clung to that morning. The sunset blazed over the horizon like a campfire, all gray smoke and a ruby-red brushstroke sky.

“Time, it is, for our final meditation of the day,” said Master Yoda, from his perch on the steps. The younglings shoveled their final spoonfuls into their mouths and turned to face the wizened troll. “The fifth one it is,” he continued. “Five precepts there are in the Jedi Code. And five meditations. Coincidence might this be, hmm?”

Syenna closed her eyes and tried to focus her mind, letting her senses drift past her like mist blowing in the wind. By the time they were dismissed for the evening, the glittering nightscape of Coruscant had sparked to life and Syenna barely had enough energy to drag her eyes over the few pages of homework she was assigned before she collapsed into bed.

***

Centaxday came and went. Master Zang Arraira taught them introductory Force Studies in the morning, including the basics of the Jedi Code (this was particularly interesting to Syenna, and Master Arraira’s youthful energy made the five precepts vaguely understandable). After the midday meal, they joined Hawkbat Clan for lightsaber instruction with Master Sinube—another brilliant teacher, in Syenna’s opinion—to go over basic katas. After a few weeks of training, though, Syenna decided that Taungsdays were her favorite. On those days, her clan followed Master Yoda from morning through night. In the late morning (the only time of week the younglings could ever sleep in), the small, green elder would train their reflexes and skills, reinforcing the lessons Master Sinube had drilled into them the day before. In the afternoon, Master Yoda led them through a variety of exercises. Some days he brought them to the courtyard to tell them stories or to the archives to meet Master Nu. Other days he wouldn’t tell them what to expect, just led them through the winding corridors of the temple with a mischievous smile and a giggle, until they discovered an entirely new place they had never seen before. The first week, Syenna was thrilled to discover hidden gardens deep within the temple—an arboreal space gently lit by an enormous skylight far above, and filled with mossy rocks, broad wooden platforms and a trickling stream. Inside she felt a great sense of serenity and when class ended she had barely felt the hours pass.

But between the monotony of her other classes, Syenna found herself looking forward to Benduday. Benduday was a day of rest, when the younglings were given a break (ostensibly to do their homework). Syenna invariably left her duties to the last possible moment, preferring to spend as much of the radiant sunlight playing tag in the courtyard with Hiya under the watchful eyes of the temple guards.

It was on one such Benduday that Syenna and Hiya found themselves running up and down the gentle steps that surrounded the courtyard and its enormous tree. Syenna lept down two steps and hit Hiya’s shoulder with a triumphant smack.

“I got you!”

“Okay,” Hiya said, staggering to a halt. Sweat gleamed off the two girls’ foreheads.  Hiya flopped exhausted onto the lowest stone step. She lay flat on her back, shielding her eyes from the sun with one small blue hand.

“Come here,” she told Syenna. By now Syenna was used to her friend’s mildly bossy tone, though Hiya had learned to dial it down around the Masters.

“What?” she asked, but joined Hiya on the steps.

“It’s warm,” Hiya said.

Syenna nodded, trying to find a comfortable position against the stone.

“It’s never warm on Quas Killam,” Hiya added. “It’s mostly cold and swampy. I like it. We don’t have nice sunlight like this. Just bright light and wet shoes.”

She paused, thinking. “What planet are you from?” she added.

Syenna thought. It took her a moment, and with an unsettling jolt she realized she’d begun to associate the word ‘home’ with the temple and all its gifts. Guiltily, she thought about her mothers. She hadn’t sent them a holo—not that she would have been allowed to, probably, but it gnawed at her.

“Helloo?” Hiya asked, poking Syenna in the side. “Coruscant paging Syenna! Do you read?”

Syenna shoved Hiya away but instantly found herself missing her friend’s comforting presence. “I read! I definitely read.”

“Well?”

“Sorry,” Syenna said. “I felt bad. I haven’t written to either of my mums since I left.”

“That’s okay,” Hiya said. “They’ll understand. We’re not meant to be attached, remember? Anyway, I don’t even remember much about home anymore. Just the cold. And this horrible soup I had to eat every week. . .”

“I guess.”

She stared up at the sky. Warra and Hania had laid on the ground with her before. They’d pointed out different shapes in the clouds. Today’s sky was blank, a brilliant blue canvas that stretched in all directions, pricked at the corners by the tops of Coruscant’s skyline. The steps warmed her back, and though the stone was hard, there was a comfortable toastiness that eased her tired limbs. More than anything, Syenna loved to bathe in the sunlight. It was when the Force and her physical sense of self felt most aligned. Warmth all around her—in the summer air around her and radiating from the baked stone beneath. And in the Force, that same warmth, comforting and full of life.

“I’m not attached,” Syenna muttered. “I just don’t want them to worry.”

She heard a faint snore. Hiya, it seemed, was asleep—basking in the sun, mouth slightly ajar.

Syenna rolled back over and pressed the stone beneath her hand. She blinked sleepily, closed her eyes, and let the glow of the sun kiss her face. Peace and calm washed over her, and she leaned into it. Her parents wouldn’t worry. They knew where she was. When she finished training, she’d go back to see them as a full blown Jedi Knight. That would be good. Until then, she had to work hard. She had to learn everything she could. She had to make sure she never lost control the way she had that first day at the platform. There is no emotion, she thought to herself, nestling into the embrace of her soft robes. There is peace. No chaos, only harmony. There is no emotion, only peace…

Though she did not yet know, every year for the rest of her life Syenna would recall this scene in times of trouble, when life began to spin too quickly from beneath her feet, when the surety of things like the sun or stone beneath her faded into smouldering mist, leaving only the barest sketch of memory behind. A happy memory, the Force like a warm blanket over Syenna and Hiya in the sun, two friends snug and comfortably silent, safe in the other’s proximity. Things had not yet begun to fall apart, the cold still held so far at bay that none of them ever really registered its lurking presence. Syenna had not yet felt the texture of grief or the savage pain of betrayal. Those would come later. For now the future did not exist. 

Only the present was real.

Chapter Text

Syenna couldn’t think straight. The wind whipped past her face and stung her eyes, and she struggled to grip the dirt beneath her fingers. She pushed her fingernails into the sand, felt the grit biting into her skin with tiny claws. She couldn’t get purchase on the slippery terrain.

Her hands were the only thing stopping her from falling and plummeting from the ledge she was currently hanging onto. This was meant to be a training exercise, but as Syenna was beginning to realize, the Jedi did not do things by halves. When she’d diverted from the obstacle course, some of the ground hadn’t quite been as firm as she’d thought, and, well…

She allowed herself a quick glance down and immediately wished she hadn’t. It was a steep drop from the dusty cliff to a jagged ravine below. There were a few puddles of water—echoes of a stream that must run fully during the rains—but those would barely be deep enough to cushion the drop. Syenna didn’t trust herself to use the Force to slow her fall. That kind of thing only worked if you were practiced and trained. And if you weren’t having a panic attack.

She struggled to breathe. The ground was slipping away beneath her fingers, loosening into soft crumbs like a teacake, and she knew that any sudden movements could result in her death. Syenna closed her eyes but couldn’t unsee the ravine. Maybe this was a true test of a Jedi. If she survived, she’d prove herself as a resourceful and resilient student.

But the longer she hung there in the silent forest, the more she realized that tests only worked if you passed them. And Syenna Lark was not going to pass this test. She could barely feel anything but for the fire that burned through her hands and arms as she clung to the side of the cliff. She tried to call out, but could barely manage a gasp without her body twitching in agony. How long could she stay like this? She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. Focus, Syenna. Focus. Closing her eyes, Syenna tried to reach out with the Force, but the physical effort of holding herself up seemed to have clouded all her senses.

Syenna thought she could hear a muttering of chants, urgent and harsh in her ears, whispers at the edge of her awareness. Where had she heard those voices before? They overtook her thoughts, her mind scattered amid the piercing pain in her arms as they threatened to give up. She couldn’t hold on much longer. Her left arm spasmed and she struggled to regain her purchase. The whispering grew louder. The voices were telling her the same thing she knew: winter was coming. It always did. She was going to die.

Syenna let her fingers relax and felt the ground slip away from her hands as she fell.

“Hey!” A hand closed around Syenna’s arm and she felt a jolt run through her body. She wasn’t falling.

“Help me pull you up!” Hiya’s strained voice came from above as Syenna’s wrist twisted painfully. Syenna could only gulp for air. Hiya gripped Syenna with two hands and pulled, every muscle and tendon in Syenna’s arm searing with pain. When Hiya had lifted her a few inches, she groped weakly for a vine or rock to hang onto, finding purchase before summoning the last drops of strength that she had and pushing herself upward. Hiya wasted no time in dragging her away from the edge.

“What were you doing?” Her friend’s blue face loomed large, eyes wide and frightened. Syenna could only gasp for air, still thinking about that second of weightlessness as she’d let the wind take her. It was hard to feel anything but the strength of ground beneath her. Syenna blinked. The sun was bright and her vision swam. “You could have died,” Hiya added, unhelpfully. She folded Syenna’s limp body into a hug. “Lucky I found you.” It was all Syenna could do not to sob when she buried her face in Hiya’s robes. The voices were gone, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had failed. 

The walk back to the ship was slow, mostly because Syenna could barely take another step without thinking of her body smashed to pieces across the teeth of the ravine. As their Pelta-class frigate rumbled into hyperspace, Hiya tried to make conversation. The other initiates chattered in the background, Darra Thel-Tanis regaling their peers with the story of how she’d scaled one of the forest trees to retrieve a Zeilla flower.

“It would have been okay, Sy,” Hiya said. “You know that, right? You’d have slowed your fall with the Force.” Syenna couldn’t find it in herself to respond. “Well, I would have saved you either way,” Hiya added. “That’s what best friends are for, after all.”

“Hiya—”

“I know I’m not the best initiate, but I would do—”

“Hiya.” Syenna gripped her friend’s arm, and she stopped at last. “Thank you for helping me. It’s just…can we talk about anything else? I’m still kind of feeling anxious about the whole almost dying thing.”

When she looked up at Hiya’s face, she saw tears in her friend’s violet eyes. The girl’s upbeat chitter had been a cover for the same terror that gnawed at Syenna even now. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay. You’re right,” Hiya said. “What do you think Master Yoda’s favorite snack is?”

Syenna smiled. “Why don’t you ask him when we get back?” Just like that they were back to normal, the terror fading as the planet shrank into a dot beneath their ship. 

***

“GATHERING!?”

Hiya’s ear-splitting shriek momentarily quelled the murmurs from the rest of Bear Clan’s initiates. Sometimes, Syenna thought that Hiya just craved the attention her parents had never given her. It was a harsh assessment, perhaps unfair, but her friend’s early childhood had been a far cry from the attentive love of Syenna’s own two mothers. Syenna knew it was wrong to miss her parents—indeed, she’d almost entirely mastered that feeling, thinking of them only occasionally with fond distance—but she also knew that much of Hiya’s chaotic behavior was shaped by how she had been treated before she came to the temple.

“Calm, please! Younglings!” said the padawan–Siri Tachi was her name, though Syenna hadn’t met her before. Tachi rubbed her ears and winced, combing her hands through her blonde hair and fiddling with her braid. “As initiates, you have faced many tests, but none so great as this—"

“I totally called it,” Tru said. “None of you believed me.”

“I hope I get a yellow one,” said Hiya. “Or pink—is that a thing, Siri?”

“Some legends speak of pink seeker crystals,” Noxi said, ever the scholar.

“That’s so sync,” crowed Hiya.

“Thank you, younglings. Now, if we could perhaps save our questions for Professor Huyang?” Siri looked faint. “In fact, let us head aboard the Crucible now, please. Quickly—Tru, not that quickly!”

On the Crucible, the younglings chattered happily. Syenna chose to remain silent. A lightsaber was more than just a laser sword to swing around. It was a symbol of the honor and duty that came with being a Jedi. Still, all things considered—they were pretty good initiates. Syenna felt glad to have come so far with them, to reach this pivotal moment in a Jedi’s journey. 

“If we’re making our lightsabers,” Hiya asked, “does that mean we’re almost Padawans?”

Syenna nudged her. She had thought the same thing, of course, but knew the correct answer was to focus on the present moment. Getting ahead of oneself would be arrogant. “Be patient! We haven’t even gotten our crystals yet.”

Hiya looked at her knowingly.

“Well,” Syenna relented. “I suppose so. I would love to start training with a Master. Someone who knows all about the Jedi Code and the Force. Someone like Master Unduli.”

Hiya laughed loudly, and some of the other initiates glanced over. “Of course you’d say that. She’s so boring and scary.”

“She’s an exemplary Jedi! A diplomat, a scholar, and a guardian of the light.”

Hiya snorted. “She also acts like she has a lightsaber up her butt.”

Syenna gasped.

“The Force is all about rules, initiates! I’m one with the Code and the rules are with me.” Hiya adopted an exaggerated affect in imitation of the Mirialan Jedi.

“Hiya, that’s rude! Rules exist for a reason. They guide us to the light. If you follow the rules, you succeed. Master Unduli is an amazing Jedi Master.”

“She’s the kind of Jedi you think you want to be. But you’re not going to become Master Unduli, Sy. Besides, I thought Mirialans only trained other Mirialans.”

Syenna frowned. She was still trying to figure out what Hiya meant by that. “There are exceptions!”

Hiya just giggled. “I bet she’d choose you too. You guys are practically made for each other. But it would be such a waste!” 

Syenna chose not to respond. “You still haven’t done your homework,” she said. “You can do it now, before we get to Ilum.”

“Components of a lightsaber,” Hiya muttered. Last week the initiates had been assigned work on the spiritual and mechanical qualities that gave the lightsaber its unique connection to the Force and its wielder. The idea was that they would know exactly how to piece together and repair their saber even before Professor Huyang supervised the process of construction. “Crystal, emitter, a bunch of buttons I guess. What else do we need to know?”

“The crystals are kyber. They sing to us,” Syenna reminded Hiya, but Hiya was already speaking.

“The crystal chooses us,” she said, gazing past Syenna as if she could see the unsettled blue whorls of hyperspace around them. She seemed subdued, suddenly, her teasing banter fading into a look of consternation as she furrowed her brow. “A kyber crystal looks into our heart and it chooses us.” She paused. “I know it sounds stupid, but I’ve never been wanted like that before,” she said. “Not specifically. But each crystal—it only sings to one person.”

Syenna frowned. “The Jedi wanted you. That’s why you’re here.”

Hiya shook her head, wisps of pink hair falling over her eyes. “They wanted force sensitive kids. Not me. If I wasn’t force sensitive—or force sensitive enough—they would never have cared one bit. Hiya Ramadia isn’t exactly top recruit material.”

“Your parents—” 

“Wanted someone who could be them. That wasn’t me—it never will be. I can’t be the person they hoped for. I tried really hard.

“At first I thought it was because they wanted the son they thought they were gonna get. But even after they accepted me being, um, me…They wanted me to be like them. A politician, I guess. They worked so hard to build a life on Quas, to get to where they are. All I wanted was… ” Hiya trailed off. “Just to be a girl. That and to be wanted. No matter what. I know they care about me because I’m their kid, but I just wish they loved me the way other parents loved their kids. The Prime Minister—she had a son and you can tell she wanted him, not just a son, but him. I just wish…I wish they hadn’t always tried to pretend I was someone I’m not.”

Syenna had already known that Hiya Ramadia’s parents were prominent political leaders on Quas Killam, a multiracial industrial planet in the Mid Rim. Hiya had begun her schooling early, her parents hoping to shape her into a successor for their political dynasty. Of course, that had changed when the Jedi took Hiya to the temple. Syenna suspected she still didn’t know the full story of how that had happened, and why Hiya rarely liked to talk about those early years on Quas Killam. Hiya’s natural aptitude for the Force was even weaker than Syenna’s, but she saw in her friend the same fiery determination to succeed. Even if it came with an independent streak and rebellious attitude most Jedi Masters squirmed at.

She felt Hiya’s head slump against her shoulder. Her blue face was damp with tears.

“I miss them,” Hiya mumbled into the folds of Syenna’s robes.

“Well,” Syenna said. “You’re here now. I’ll always want you by my side. You, specifically.” She clutched Hiya tight, and realized she meant it. No one else at the temple mattered as much as Hiya did. “So that makes two who want you. Me and your crystal.”

“You’re a good friend, Sy.”

“I heard one of the Masters saying something the other day,” Syenna murmured. “The strongest stars have hearts of kyber.” She poked Hiya. “That’s you.”

Hiya hummed happily, snuggling into Syenna’s side. She was falling asleep to the thrum of hyperspace, and Syenna felt her eyelids growing heavy too. One moment full of energy, the next ready to crash—Hiya’s energy was always unpredictable, but there was something comforting about that, Syenna thought. As clingy as she was, she was also full of life and love. She made everything much more exciting, Syenna decided, even if the practiced calm of the Jedi Order never seemed to come naturally to her. If only there was a way to ride that energy without the accompanying chaos.  Things were easier when you knew what was going to happen and how to respond.

“Don’t wake me up before we get there...”

Hiya trailed off into a snore, but as Bear Clan headed to Ilum, Syenna’s fear and unease gnawed at her until at last she fell into a restless sleep.

***

The wind on Ilum was vindictive and stung like a cloud of fireants. Syenna could barely see through her tears, and her lips swelled and tingled in the cold. The younglings had gathered briefly around Master Yoda before being dispatched into the icy caverns with vague instructions and a warning about Ilum’s labyrinth of caves and ice.

Syenna had done enough reading to know her crystal would call to her through the Force, but she didn’t know what that would sound like—or what else she might need to do. The labyrinth of caves under Ilum’s surface would be easy to get lost in. As she trudged through the snow, she let her subconscious guide her through forked paths and endless icicles. Something felt strange here. She’d seen nothing but endless burrows of ice and snow, but a low hum seemed to buzz through the entire planet, vibrating ever so slightly as if it were a great machine—or as if it were alive. It was eerie, to feel the wind but not the sky. Ilum’s stone tunnels were twisted and uneven, and Syenna wasn’t sure if they had been crafted thousands of years ago by prospecting Jedi, or if flood and weather had simply worn through the planet’s surface rivulets and ruts large enough for her to traverse through.

As she walked, Syenna thought of the poem she’d uncovered in her preparatory research. She hadn’t shared it with Hiya yet, but she would once the two had their crystals and were back on the Crucible. She had a feeling her friend would take comfort in it.

The crystal is the heart of the blade. Syenna let the Force guide her through a cavern, soft blue light filtering from a crevice and refracting through quartz and ice. The heart is the crystal of the Jedi. She listened to the thrum of the planet, searching for the frequency that was for her alone. The Jedi is the crystal of the Force. She leapt across a small chasm, landing with a tumble in the snow. The Force is the blade of the heart. 

After climbing through a few more tunnels and caves that looked suspiciously similar, Syenna suspected she might be going in circles. How long had she been here? It felt like hours. She shook her head. Focus, Syenna. The Force would show her the way. The crystal is the heart of the blade—

She stopped.

A boy stood at the far end of the tunnel, his back to her. He was shorter than Syenna and tattered brown rags hung loose around his small frame. His short blonde hair was cut round like a domed cap—he looked like an astromech, Syenna thought. 

“...Hello?” 

The boy didn’t move. Syenna edged down the tunnel, trying to make out the figure of the child in the dim light. He stood straight as a wroshyr tree, his clothes too flimsy for the harsh cold. Had a Jedi youngling been left here during another mission? Lost or abandoned somehow, thought dead?

“Hello?”

The boy turned around, and she gasped. His face was mottled with grime and purple bruises.

“Have you come to free me?” The boy’s small voice echoed across the tunnel. Syenna made her way forward, keeping her eyes open for danger. How long had he been down here?

“Don’t move,” she called. He didn’t seem to be in immediate danger, but something about him made her uneasy. “I’m here to help.” She walked faster. The boy seemed to be moving further down the tunnel, though he stood stationary, his arms hanging loose beside his frozen legs. The tunnel bent around her. “I said don’t move!”

The boy just gazed at her, his eyes motionless.

“I’m here to help! The Jedi can help you, just—come over here!” she tried. Why wasn’t he getting any closer? “I’ll walk to you, and you walk—”

“I had a dream I was a Jedi.” The boy’s voice seemed to be getting louder now, though he was further away than before. She stretched out her hand. 

“Come over here, then. I can help you. You just have to—” Syenna broke into a run. Something was stopping her from reaching the boy, but she knew she had to save him. Fear burned inside of her. Why couldn’t she get to him? He was right there. She ran faster. The ice was slippery underfoot.

“No.”

He spoke in a low, rasping voice, and Syenna felt colder than she’d ever felt before.

“The Jedi must die.”

Syenna slipped and fell with a crack, sliding forward along the ice as her face burned against the cold surface. She stumbled to her feet.

The boy was gone. 

Instead, where he had stood, was a single glowing light blinking in the snow. Kyber. He’d been a vision from the planet, then. An illusion—nothing more. Something to test her will. She rubbed her eyes as she approached. Yes. There, at her feet, the pulsing glow of a crystal. And all around her, a rushing wind through the tunnel that sang to her with the timbre of a reed flute. Her crystal. She felt its pull through the Force blossom outward, like a single drop of ink blooming in still water. For a moment, Syenna thought she heard her mothers’ laughter pealing in the air, smelled her grandmother’s hotcakes steaming on the stove. Her fingers closed around the kyber, and she pulled it from the snow. It felt like greeting an old friend.

Behind her, the dim glow of the tunnel dropped into darkness, and she realized the light had been coming from the crystal. Now nestled in her hand, the sliver of rock felt almost weightless. 

Syenna blinked, trying to adjust to the pitch black around her. She’d gotten her crystal. Years of training had led her to this moment. Still, it was not the time to gloat. She had to make it back to the Crucible. Going back the way she’d come was not an option—now that she’d taken the crystal, the caverns would be too perilous to climb through. No, Syenna would forge forward through the tunnel. The rocks around her still felt dangerous, but there was light ahead. The tunnel would take her where she needed to go.

As she followed the winding path, the glimmer of light grew into the glow of sunlight overhead. Reaching the end of the tunnel, Syenna saw that the path opened up into an enormous cavern. Above her, cracks in the cave revealed a strip of clouded sky. That wasn’t the problem, though.

At the end of the tunnel was a tapered ledge of ice and a dark drop below—at least eighty feet. Even with sunlight filtering into the cavern, Syenna could barely make out the snow and rocks below. Several feet across from her was the entrance to another tunnel, carved into the opposing cliff face. Perhaps the tunnels had once been connected by a bridge. Speculating would do her no good, since the bridge—if it ever existed—was long gone. Syenna frowned.

“If I was Master Unduli, what would I do?” she asked herself out loud, pushing off the memory of Hiya’s teasing. She calculated the length she would need to jump. Could she make it? She’d made similar jumps using the Force before, but only with a running start. That would be too dangerous on this ice. Could she climb down? A glance at the sheer drop shut that idea down quickly—too steep, too slippery. Think, Syenna. She had to be tactical about this. Perhaps she could turn her belt into a grappling hook? Too short and nothing to hook onto. What would Master Unduli do? Her breathing quickened, short and sharp in the frosty air. The answer was probably that she wouldn’t have gotten into this situation in the first place! She would have found a better way to navigate the caves. Focus. She tried. She tried so hard to focus, but Syenna’s mind couldn’t stop racing with thoughts and possibilities.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the shifting snow, or the cracks in the ice, until the tunnel collapsed above her.

The cold came upon her quickly.

Chapter Text

Ilum was a frozen planet: crushed ice, powdered snow, geometric glaciers layered like bismuth shale. The ground itself was slick and perilous. As Hiya hurried through the frosted tunnels, she slipped and tumbled, landing hard on her back. At least it wasn’t windy here. But as she turned another corner, a hum buzzed at the back of her mind. Not her mind—somewhere in the cave. Was she imagining it? mmmmMMMM. There it was again.

Okay, Hiya. Maybe it was just some air whistling through an ice fissure. Or the echo of your footsteps, she thought. She paused again. There was definitely something. Tendrils of energy—a disruption. Like a thread unraveling. She reached out into the Force and there it was, a hum that grew into a ringing like the peal of a bell, melodic and clear in the air. Hiya followed the song, its notes drifting toward her, tune sad and slow. The crystal sang of longing and grief, loneliness and hope, the kyber’s lament tender and loving. It grew louder, ringing in Hiya’s ears, until at last she reached out into the darkness and—there, yes, in her hand—ice-cold in her ungloved hand—a crystal, nestled in a small outcrop of rock.

Her crystal.

A jolt down her spine broke the spell.

Something was wrong in the Force. Hiya slid the crystal quickly into her robes and focused. It wasn’t time for triumph or excitement, not yet.

For Hiya, the Force had always been vague and difficult to grasp, like catching glowbugs with your hands—but now it rumbled like an approaching storm as something wrenched at the pit of her stomach. Something was terribly, terribly wrong, and it was happening right now. Focus, Hiya. She trailed her fingers along the ice, sensing, reaching. What was wrong? A flash of fear, bloody fingers gripping an icy ledge. Someone was in danger—no, Hiya thought, glimpsing startled brown eyes through the mirk of the Force—Syenna was in danger. And that was all she needed to see before she took off, running through the tunnels and leaping over cliffs, guided only by the Force and a steady love for the girl who was her only friend.

***

Syenna calculated the length she’d need to jump. Could she make it? She’d made similar jumps using the Force before, but only with a running start. That would be too dangerous on this ice. Could she climb down? A glance at the sheer drop shut that idea down quickly—it was too steep, and again, too slippery. Think, Syenna. She had to be tactical about this. Her breathing quickened, short and sharp in the frosty air. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the shifting snow, or the cracks in the ice behind her until—

Something hit her from behind, pushing her forward. She felt a rumble and a huge crash just behind her, a puff of wind and a spray of snow at her back. Syenna’s face slammed into the ground, and everything was so cold—

***

“Syenna, help!”

“Hiya?” Syenna forced herself to stand, feeling her cheek throb with a fresh bruise. Behind her, she saw a pile of rocks and ice from where the tunnel had caved in. “You saved me!” Hiya had pushed her out of the way just in time. Syenna spun around, trying to find her friend. 

“Sy, over here!” The voice came from further away—the ledge. When she got closer, Syenna saw Hiya desperately clinging to the edge, fingers white with strain.

“Hiya!” As she’d pushed Syenna clear from the crumbling ice, her own footing must have slipped, Syenna realized. The ice in this part of the cavern was so smooth she could see her terrified reflection held within it.

“Just like Tanoo,” Hiya called out, from over the ledge. Her voice squeaked with fear. “Now we can both say we’ve fallen off a cliff! Just pull me up now please.”

Syenna was in no mood to laugh. Where the mud on Tanoo had been earthy and firm, the ice was slippery and uneven. She crawled on her knees toward her friend, trying to move carefully. One wrong move could send her sliding over as well—or worse, collapse the ledge. She had no idea how strong it was or how much weight it could hold.

“I’ve got you.” Lying on her stomach now, Syenna shuffled toward the drop. Peering over the edge, she could see Hiya’s wide eyes and frosted hair staring back up at her in terror. Past Hiya’s boots, the glint of ice below seemed a impossible distance away.

Syenna shuffled further to the edge and pulled off her gloves, letting them fall to the ground and pushing back a cry of pain as her fingers tingled in the cold air. It hurt like hell, but her grip would be better without them on. Reaching down, she gripped Hiya’s slender wrists and tried to wriggle herself backward. It didn’t work.

“Keep holding on, okay?” she called. Hiya had saved her again. Now she would save her friend.

Hiya just shut her eyes. Syenna shuffled her legs, trying to anchor herself to the ice with her feet. The surface was unyielding. Difficult, but not impossible. Nothing was impossible through the Force. She closed her eyes, reaching out to the Force. Ilum was a crystal planet, and its crystals were alive. The kyber would give her strength. I’m one with the Force, and the Force is with me. The Force had never failed her before. Pouring every drop of energy into her body, she grimaced as she wrenched her arms toward her. I’m one with the Force, and the Force is with me. Her shoulders shook and her neck burned as she pulled Hiya up. I’m one with the Force, and the Force is with me. Now she felt Hiya’s forearms scraping the ice, both hands grasping for purchase as her friend tried to lift her elbows onto the ledge for leverage. Once she did, she’d be able to pull herself up. I’m one with the Force, and the Force is—

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. The words split her focus with ear-splitting pain. The cavern seemed to spin around her and Syenna heard a crow of voices, sickeningly familiar as she recalled her arrival on Coruscant five years ago. But these were no whispers. They rushed upon her like Ilum’s cold wind, eager and hungry, ripping through the air all around her. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG! Lashing every corner of her mind, somehow pushing inward and bursting outward at once, her mind an exploding star.

No! She gasped, choking on air that wasn’t there. No no no no no. Shapes and flashes of smoke, crowding her vision, laughing, sinking their teeth into her face, tearing away skin and muscle and picking at chips of bone. She felt herself coming apart. Syenna was outside of herself now, everywhere in the wind but her own body, which she vaguely saw laid out on the snow below her—screaming in pain as the cold overtook her—

***

Sunlight shone bright and white into her eyes, purple spots dancing across her vision. Syenna jolted up. Glinting fractals of ice above her moved in and out of focus. Whistling lightly through the caverns, a soft wind tapered off. 

The voices were gone and the shapes had disappeared. Her body was her own once again. Now all Syenna could see was ice, and snow, and—

She started around. Syenna was alone on the ledge, its white outcrop of snow gleaming and unmarked. Silence. 

Which meant–Hiya.

Syenna dared not look over the edge or even call out. Her heart twisted in her chest, her breath coming quick and fast now.

All she could do was push through the pile of ice that had collapsed behind her, blasting back rubble with the Force to clear a path, and then run, run through the caverns until she could find Master Yoda. 

Master Yoda would fix it. Hiya was going to be okay. Yoda would make it right, he was a grandmaster and he could do anything. The Force had never failed her before. It wouldn’t now. She ran and ran, weaving through stalagmites and ice and digging through a drift of snow to reach the chamber where they'd all come in, pushing past Noxi and Tru, and she shouted something at Siri Tachi, and the padawan said something, but none of the words reached her ears. All she could hear was a rushing wind and her heart beating like a drum. Yoda will fix this, I need to find Yoda. I need Master Yoda. The Force— 

Siri grasped her arm gently, and Syenna let the padawan lead her back into the caves, her eyes fading in and out of focus and her legs not her own.

At some point they must have both found Yoda, because there he was, kneeling at the bottom of the cliff, his small frame bent over his cane and his green head bowed. But all Syenna could see was the crumpled mound behind him, clad in worn brown robes. The mound didn’t move. Lit by the glow of Ilum’s sun overhead, Syenna saw wavy purple hair, fanned out on the ice like a sunrise. Two blue hands protruded from the robes, one stretched to the side and the other loosely clutching a sliver of crystal. A corona of fractures splintered outward from where the falling body had struck the ice. At last Syenna let herself reach out through the Force.

She knew the answer even before she felt the outline of Hiya’s shape described by her absence, a sickening hole where there had once been comfort and warmth. A missed step in the dark, a lurch, a missed breath suspended in disbelief; the sky and the ground had swapped places, the radiant glare a blinding prison around her, and now she felt herself float dizzyingly into despair. She sank to the ground. She couldn’t look at Hiya’s face. Her heart pounded in her head and though she tried desperately to cry, she found she could do nothing but let out dry, choked gasps as she sat drowning in a world without her best friend.  

Chapter Text

The cold did not come for Syenna, though she wished it would. No matter how much she tried to focus on her studies, Syenna couldn’t shake the feeling that Hiya should have been the one to return to Coruscant. The voices hadn’t returned and Syenna knew that she wouldn’t let them. Not again. 

The year since the Gathering was one of the worst years of Syenna’s life. At every corner of the Temple Syenna expected to run into Hiya, to see a glimpse of wispy purple hair or a bright blue smile, to hear her laughter echoing too loud through the Archives followed by a scolding from Jocasta Nu. False expectations were their own kind of torture, Syenna knew, but found she couldn’t tear herself from its addictive pain. 

And the year had also been, in the eyes of the Jedi, one of her best.

“Know why I have summoned you here, do you?” Yoda asked her. She’d been called to meet him in a quiet antechamber just after dinner, and now the warmth of Coruscant’s golden hour filtered through a long window and cast them in a soft glow.

Yes—Syenna knew why Yoda had summoned her. The whisperings had only grown of late, after many in her cohort of younglings had undertaken their Initiate Trials—herself included. Boisterous Tru Veld was the first in Bear Clan to be selected as a Padawan. It was only a matter of time before it was her turn. Syenna had been on edge for the last week, and expected to be this way until Master Luminara Unduli at last confirmed her selection, when she said the words herself:

“Initiate Lark, I would like you to be my Padawan. Your studiousness and your diligence have shone bright through the Force. You followed the rules and it’s paid off—now allow me the honor of training you in the art and practice of being a Jedi Knight. One day, you will make as fine a Jedi Master as myself.”

After the last year, Syenna knew that no other initiate was as good a candidate as her. Being humble was an important virtue of being a Jedi—but so was being clear-eyed about one’s abilities. Syenna had excelled. She was a brilliant student, studious and intelligent. She was a determined duellist, and filled her spare hours with drills and formations. She’d taken additional classes with Master Soara Antana, and even bested Darra and Tru, two of the best duellists of her cohort. She’d taken to her rotation in the Halls of Healing with aplomb—Nema and Che had given glowing reviews. After years of effort and research, she was even in Jocasta Nu’s good graces. Syenna was good at diplomacy. Or at least, she’d spent hours reading about various cultural practices and formalities. That one would need more practice in real-world situations.

She’d even overcome great personal tragedy, facing grief and death with acceptance and focus. Or at least, that's how the masters saw it. 

“Am I to be a Padawan, Master Yoda?” She looked at the stooped green master, his face thoughtful. 

“Yes.”

Unbidden, Hiya’s face flashed before her eyes. Syenna tried desperately not to think of her friend as she poured herself into her studies. That had been the right thing to do of course. Jedi were supposed to celebrate those who transformed into the Force—then move on. Every day since Hiya’s death—then every week, and every month and every hour—Syenna had done just that. She tried not to miss her. She tried so hard. She filled every day with activities—and when Soara Antana wasn’t available to duel with, and when Jocasta Nu ushered her out of the archives at night, she meditated. I’m one with the Force, and the Force is with me, had become more than a mantra, now the drum that punctuated each hour of her day. 

It didn’t work. Each day brought new opportunities for false hope, every empty second of spare time a chance for Syenna to imagine wild, fantastical ways that Hiya might return to her. And every night, no matter how tired she was, Syenna spent hours in bed replaying that moment on Illum over and over again until she fell into a restless sleep. Maybe she would wake up on Illum the next day. Maybe she could fix this. At the least, if she could have one more day with Hiya… Instead, each morning she awoke to the light of Coruscant’s dawn, a dull ache in her chest, sweat soaking through tangled sheets. Every day she pushed down the choking feeling of grief. She meditated and got ready for another busy day. But no matter what she did and how much she trained, come nightfall the cycle would begin again.

And now she couldn’t help but think of Hiya and Hiya alone, who would too be ready for Padawan status were she standing alongside Syenna today.

What had Hiya been saying to her on that fateful day on the Crucible? It seemed so recent, but now the words struggled to take shape in Syenna’s mind. How she wished to take Hiya’s hand now and feel it squeeze hers with reassurance. All she could conjure were passing images of the snow, the rocks, and the coldness of Hiya’s soft blue fingers in hers.

“Initiate Lark,” Yoda said. “Much fear I sense in you. Much turmoil.”

“I’m sorry, master.” Syenna tried to still her nerves. “I trust in the Force and its will.” Yoda’s eyes glinted.

“As you should,” he croaked. “Waiting for you, your master is. Leave you to get acquainted now, I shall.” The old master smiled. “A journey must I now take, to the Mid Rim. The Force beckons, and keep it waiting I must not. Keep it waiting you should not.” He gestured toward the antechamber, and began his slow walk away.

Syenna reached into the pouch on her belt. It wasn’t proper for a Jedi to savor the moment—that was indulgent. But Syenna found that she didn’t feel triumphant or proud. No, Master Yoda had looked into her soul and pulled the truth from its depths. She was afraid.

For years she’d trained to reach this moment. She’d failed—over and over again. Most of all, she’d failed Hiya. She failed the Jedi, too, by holding on to her grief. But she kept going, if only because she found she couldn’t stop. Even when she bolted upright in the black of night, feeling the lingering touch of Hiya’s fingers in her own.

The Force is with me, and I’m one with the Force. I’m one with the Force, and the Force is with me. The Force is with me… She allowed herself two long puffs of air, then another for good measure. Master Yoda was gone, and Syenna Lark stood alone. 

Her lightsaber was buckled at her hip, but with one hand she reached for the cool touch of Hiya’s kyber crystal. It hummed reassuringly. Syenna turned it over for luck, and finally stepped forward. The doors hissed open.

***

The room was empty save for a tall Mikkian woman standing near the window. Like most Mikkians, the top of her mauve head ended in countless ribbon-like tendrils. But while most Mikkians’ headtails floated about their head with weightless elegance, this woman’s were piled in a haphazard nest on her head, save for two tendrils on either side of her face which seemed to have escaped of their own accord. Her eyes creased with wrinkles, purple lips pressed into an absent-minded pout. Robes muted and grey like slate draped over her shoulders, and a tattered jute shawl did little to offset her matronly disposition that hardly seemed suited for battle. She stood so precariously on her heeled boots that Syenna half expected her to topple over.

This woman was no warrior, and her awkward demeanor lacked the edge of a consular diplomat. If Syenna was being uncharitable, she might have said the woman looked more like a cafeteria worker than a Jedi Master. In one hand she held a small datapad. In the other, Syenna noticed her fidgeting with the hem of her cloak.

Syenna paused, her mind racing. The woman turned her gaze toward Syenna, then, and she felt a spike of horror as the truth sank in.

“Syenna,” said the woman. “I am Genevva Pol, and you are to be my Padawan.”

***

“You?” Syenna was surprised to hear the word leave her mouth. She’d never heard of Genevva Pol before. Certainly none of the masters or Padawans mentioned her name in Syenna’s six years at the temple. She hadn’t come to any of the initiates’ trials—or at least, Syenna didn’t notice her there. She didn’t have the athletic frame of a guardian, or the cool composure of a consular. She just…stood there.

Master Pol didn’t acknowledge Syenna’s response. Swiftly the woman began walking out the door with a gesture for Syenna to join, her heeled boots striking the polished Temple floor like a drum. Syenna thought that they seemed a little too big and heeled—and a little too black—to be standard issue. As she stomped, Master Pol’s tangled Mikkian headtails bounced on her head, giving the impression of an unhappy red scarf that had come unravelled. She numbly followed down the hall. Syenna didn’t know where they were headed, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She was still trying to figure out who Genevva Pol was and why Master Yoda had approved this match.

“You must be wondering who I am. You were a highly regarded initiate, deserving of an excellent teacher,” she said at last. “Many Jedi Masters were hoping to train you—including some on the Council.”

One Council member would have been an honor. Sitting Council members rarely took Padawans due to the volume of their duties—but several? 

“Whatever reputation you may have with the Council, I do not share,” Pol continued. “I’m sorry to say this but you know nothing, Syenna Lark. You want to be a Jedi Knight? Watch carefully and listen closely.”

Syenna felt like she’d been slapped. Master Pol didn’t sound sorry to say it at all. In fact, she seemed to relish it. Syenna walked in silence but inside she reeled. There was no way this woman was going to be her Jedi Master.

There was a sinking feeling in Syenna’s stomach as she mustered up the courage to ask, as innocently as she could, “Master Pol, I’ll truly be honored to learn from you as a Padawan. Do you think I could learn Makashi? I think I’ve mastered the other forms, but…I want to better myself in swordsmanship.”

“I don’t waste my time on honorifics, and neither should you,” said the woman. She scowled and fixed her eyes on Syenna. “You may address me as Genevva or Pol. I don’t know Makashi and have little patience for Jedi more interested in form over function. In time you’ll learn that most of your training is seldom relevant in the field.”

Was Master Pol joking? Syenna didn’t think so. The corridor walls closed in on her like the jaws of a beast. This was a test, it had to be. Or some kind of practical joke. Any moment, one of these doors would open and Master Yoda would jump out and yell “Surprise! Trick you I did!”

But as they walked down that endless corridor, Syenna felt horror pooling in her gut. Syenna was stuck with this woman—someone who barely seemed qualified to teach. She wanted to scream. Was this some kind of punishment? Perhaps Yoda had lost faith in her after Illum. He’d decided to stick her with the most incompetent Jedi he could find to minimize any further damage Syenna could cause. But no, that line of thinking was dangerous, too resentful. It would lead her down a dark path.

A few paces ahead, Master Pol paused and frowned, glancing up from her datapad. 

For a moment, Syenna thought the Jedi Master had sensed her distress through the Force, that she would ask her new Padawan what was wrong, that she would realize Syenna needed someone else to train her—someone more qualified, more experienced, more knowledgeable in the ways of the Force. Someone like Master Unduli. Or one of those Council members she had mentioned.

Instead, Master Pol rubbed her stomach. “We’ll stop at the refectory,” she said. “I need caf.”

Caf? It was all Syenna could do not to turn and run to Yoda, to tell him what a big mistake had been made. Instead she took a breath.

The heart of a Jedi is unwavering, she thought. A Jedi meets all challenges as they come. A Jedi respects the wisdom of the Jedi Council, who look toward the Cosmic Force.

She was so lost in thought that she almost missed Master Pol taking a sharp left turn in front of her.

Syenna hurried after Master Pol toward the refectory. As the Jedi Master marched across the eating area, arms swinging briskly at her sides as she wove through empty tables, Syenna took a moment to glance around. It was late in the evening and the usually bustling refectory was eerily quiet.

In the corner, a Mon Calamari Jedi Master she recognized as Bant Eerin sat with her Padawan. The holoscreen showed a rotating display of galactic news, though no one seemed to be watching. Only a server droid behind the buffet counter made any noise, squeaking away as it wiped the countertop. Syenna supposed most Jedi chose not to linger here between mealtimes. They were probably busy doing other, more important things—meditating, traveling on missions, helping the needy. To her surprise, the Jedi Master she was following proceeded to duck behind the counter, slipping past a server droid to head into the kitchens.

“Master Pol? Are we allowed back here?”

The Jedi Master answered without missing a step, making a beeline for the rear of the kitchen. 

“Wrong question, Padawan.”

Syenna hurried past the droid cooks, who seemed unfazed by the intrusion as they went about their preparations. She dodged a droid carrying a tray of bread. 

“I’ll give you two more tries.”

“Two more tries for what?”

“One left.” Master Pol trudged through a doorway at the back of the kitchen, where Syenna found an enormous pantry. The Jedi Master teetered on a stool, reaching to open a steel cabinet.

“Master P…Genevva—why are we here?”

The woman stopped and looked down at her. “Closer, Syenna. You’re a quick learner.”

Syenna struggled to contain her frustration. A quick learner? Why was Master Pol patronizing her like this? The stress of the day bubbled up and at last she couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“I haven’t learned anything yet,” she heard herself say, “except that the server droids will let you walk straight through the kitchens and raid the pantry if you’re brazen enough!”

Genevva Pol stared down at her, face frozen in shock and anger. A minute passed and Syenna looked away in shame. Blowing up was a great way to show Yoda that she didn’t deserve a Council member for her Master. If she ever hoped to be reassigned, she would need to excel, no matter the obstacles. Even if she had to stay calm with the most irritating Jedi Master the temple had to offer.

“I see we both have more learning to do,” Master Pol said coolly. She stepped down from the stool, holding a packet of instant caf. “Five minutes ago, I received an urgent message from my source on Nar Shaddaa. Which you might have noticed if you weren’t too busy scowling at your shiny boots. You should have asked: Why now?” She rummaged for a mug.

“When I entered the kitchens, you were too anxious about whether we were allowed inside to notice that the server droids already knew me. You should have asked: How did this come to be?

“And,” Master Pol said, pouring a mug of caf. “The third question you should have asked is: May I have some caf?”

The woman passed a steaming mug to Syenna. She took it. Had the woman lost her mind? That was a question the frumpy master probably wouldn’t appreciate.

“The urgent message means we know what your first mission will be.” She picked up a fried zuchii bar and began to unwrap it. “The droids let me through because I keep my own food stocks in the back. I have an excellent palette, ill-suited to their recipes. Temple food, it’s Core Worlds health slop. Serve that druk on Nal Hutta and they’d shoot you for it.” 

“And the caf?” Syenna managed, taking a sip from the mug. It tasted foul.

“You’ll need the energy. A Jedi has been kidnapped—and we’re the only ones who can save them.”

***

At the back of the pantry was a supply elevator.

“This will take us to the lower level,” said Master Pol. “I keep my ship on a disused platform. We’ll slip out without the hangar crew noticing and jump to Nar Shaddaa as soon as we clear atmosphere.”

Syenna’s head spun with information. It was not a good sign that Master Pol wanted to “slip out”, a phrase that implied their mission was not only secret but perhaps unsanctioned. Why were they going to Nar Shaddaa? Was the Jedi Master’s so-called excellent palette just a cover for furtive comings and goings through the kitchen?

Then again, she noted sourly, the Jedi Master was still carrying her caf in one hand and crunching on the zuchii bar with the other, spraying crumbs onto her discolored tunic.

“Does the Council know about this?”

“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to, Padawan.”

Syenna fumed in silence. The elevator dinged.

“The Council has left Coruscant. Their timing is convenient for us, and time is of the essence. Especially now.”

“The entire Council left Coruscant?”

The elevator took them to the lower level, and the platform took them to the ship, and Master Pol pressed a button to lower the ramp. Syenna had never been to this part of the Temple before, and she suspected not many did. The platform was old and weathered, hardly well maintained, with a scratched and smoke-stained metal finish. The ship parked on it looked to be in the same condition.

“The Diathim,” Master Pol said, by way of introduction.

It was a square-shaped freighter, unassuming and vaguely asymmetrical. Its hull was a particularly dull shade of brown—like a rotting leaf, Syenna thought grumpily. She had never been the type of youngling interested in starships and their various subtypes, but she decided that this was probably one of the ugliest models in the galaxy. 

Master Pol stomped up the ramp, metal creaking under her heavy steps. With a breath, Syenna did the same. She found her master in the cockpit flicking switches and checking the navigator.

“Take us to the jump point, Padawan.” Master Pol brushed past her and marched toward the back of the ship. “I need to change our transponder signal and let our contact know we’re coming.”

Syenna’s mind still reeled from the Jedi Master’s comments. How did she know what the Council was up to at a given moment? In her first hours as a Padawan, was she being roped into an unsanctioned mission? She suspected the Jedi Master would dismiss those questions, as she seemed to do with everything Syenna asked.

“I’ve never flown before,” she said instead. “Just simulators.” Master Pol patted her shoulder as she stomped to the rear of the ship.

“For kriff's sake, Padawan. Were you planning on staying in the Temple your whole life? Don’t forget your seatbelt, I’ll brief you when we’re in hyperspace.”

***

The flight into upper atmosphere was surprisingly easy, Syenna found, despite the pit in her stomach that formed when air traffic control acknowledged them as an Alderaanian diplomatic vessel. She was pretty sure impersonating a delegation to the Galactic Senate was an intergalactic crime, even for the Jedi. In any other situation, there might have been something relaxing about being behind the controls of an actual spaceship. She could just follow the lane of traffic into the sky and guide the freighter gently to their jump point. At least Genevva Pol made herself busy elsewhere in the ship, so Syenna had a chance to catch her breath alone and stew over the evening’s events.

She wasn't sure what to make of it all. One moment Yoda had been speaking to her, and the next this strange woman had dragged her through the kitchens and onto an impromptu trip to one of the most notorious crime worlds in the Outer Rim. Syenna tried to imagine how Hiya might have handled a situation like this. She’d probably be having a great time. At the very least, she would have jumped at the chance to go behind the Council’s back and commandeer a freighter. A Jedi meets all challenges as they come, she thought.

Not for the first time that day, Syenna wished Hiya was around. Not that it would have mattered even if she was alive. At some point, Jedi had to learn how to handle things without their clan. That was the whole point of being a Padawan. 

She opened the pouch at her belt and took out Hiya’s kyber crystal. It thrummed reassuringly in her hand. It didn’t sing to her, and Syenna wondered what it might say to her if it did.

“Look at you, moping around.”

Syenna started.

In the co-pilot’s chair next to her sat Hiya Ramadia, her purple hair and bright smile the same as it had always been. Syenna stared at her, pain twisting in her gut.  “You’re not real. You died.”

Hiya smirked. “So much for there is no death, there is only the Force, then.”

Here was Hiya Ramadia, in all her mischief and warmth. Syenna felt for her presence in the Force. Hiya looked exactly the same as she had one year ago.

“You’re in my head.”

“Yeah,” Hiya frowned. “Weird. I can’t believe you robbed my body and took my crystal. Greedy girl.”

“I needed something to remember you by.”

“Attachment? What would Master Unduli say?” Hiya laughed.

“It doesn’t matter. I have to deal with Genevva Pol now. She’s insufferable. I just—I just wish you were here by my side instead.”

Master Pol stomped into the cockpit, and Hiya was gone. Syenna stuffed the crystal back into its pouch. 

“Ditch the Jedi robes, that doesn’t play on Nar Shaddaa. Options in the closet.” The Jedi Master had shed her robes, opting for a thick gray coat over a grimy flight suit. She looked like a smuggler who’d fallen on hard times.

“Why are we going to Nar Shaddaa?” Syenna asked. It felt like a reasonable question, but she held her breath nonetheless. Thankfully, Master Pol seemed to think so as well. 

“When we were back on Coruscant,” she said, “My source told me about a job for three Class One bounty hunters. Three means something big is about to happen. Not everyone has credits to splash out like that. She also told me a new cartel is auctioning off a captured Jedi. No one in the Republic or the Order knows about this. That Jedi is out there all alone.”

Syenna thought about what Master Pol said. “They're connected?”

“That's a good question, Padawan.”

“You'd need several high level hunters to catch a Jedi,” she ventured.

Master Pol nodded. “Or to kill one.”

***

Hutta Town was unlike anywhere Syenna had been before. Crowds of people ambled through dingy streets lined with trash and glowing signs. Many of them looked like they belonged on a Republic “WANTED” list. A pungent aroma—was something rotting?—wafted through the humid air, and Syenna did her best to ignore it. Around them, the tinny music of several cantinas blended discordantly in the air like an orchestra on spice. Syenna struggled to keep up with Master Pol, sidestepping a pair of brutish Gamorreans and almost tripping over a mousey Chadra-Fan. By her feet, a bedraggled Gotal in rags leered at her, his horns twisted and grimy. Syenna thought she heard someone moaning in the distance. She shuddered and fixed her eyes to Master Pol.

Perhaps it was like this everywhere. Though Syenna had grown up on Coruscant, she knew most places in the Core were a far cry from the peaceful halls of the Jedi Temple. Her memories of Milax V faded as she aged, but she remembered the planet quieter and emptier than Nar Shaddaa, even if everyone there had also been poor, scrounging for credits and scraps to make their next meal. 

That was one of the reasons that the galaxy needed the Jedi. To light a fire in the furthest corners of the universe, giving hope to those who had none. At least, that was what the Masters at the Jedi Temple had said. Master Yoda glowing about the role of Jedi outposts, Kelleran Beq regaling younglings with fantastical tales of far-reaching Jedi adventures during the High Republic.

On Nar Shaddaa, people didn’t dream of the High Republic. They kept their heads down, and their eyes open, and their hands over their blasters. Everyone was a mark on Nar Shaddaa. Everyone was watching everyone else.

“Keep up,” Master Pol said. “That one.” She nodded to a cantina. Its pink neon sign flickered in Huttese, and Syenna could see the glow of a crowded bar inside. They entered, and Master Pol made a beeline for two of the empty seats at the bar. Music wheedled and whined from behind the crowd, orange lights flickered overhead. The sounds around them were raucous and indistinct, laughter and anger dissolving into one another.

Syenna’s new outfit—a pair of meknek overalls and a leather jacket she’d pulled from Pol’s closet, both slightly too big—didn’t seem to quell a few curious stares they drew from around the cantina. She avoided making eye contact with anyone, though a human smirked at her anyway from over his drink, startling blue eyes tracking her movements across the cantina. Syenna tried to make herself smaller, wishing she’d chosen an outfit with a hood she could disappear under.

“Two large spotchkas.” Pol pushed a handful of coins to the bartender, a square currency Syenna didn’t recognize.

Syenna frowned. “Master Pol, I’ve never drunk alcohol before.”

Master Pol sighed. “An anoat malted for the kid.”

They took the drinks, Master Pol greedily grabbing for both spotchkas as the bartender slid a dubious-looking mug toward Syenna. Some thick brown liquid sloshed over the edge and oozed down the side of the cup onto the countertop. Syenna eyed the drink reluctantly and took a sip. It was better than Genevva’s caf, that was for sure, though its vague sweetness was undermined by an off-puttingly viscous texture.

A thin, reedy-voiced Balosar man appeared at her right. He placed one gaunt hand on the bar next to her forearm. “Hey,” he leered, words slurred. “You’re a little young to be here.” 

Syenna suppressed a flinch. The man was roughly shaven, with beady eyes and two thin head-stalks atop his receding hairline. She could smell the sweet, pungent mix of spice and alcohol on his breath and it made her nauseous. The man seemed to sway toward her, unsteady on his feet. The stench was overpowering. Syenna looked at him in the periphery of her vision. She wasn’t sure if the right move was to keep ignoring him, push him away, or simply to wriggle out from under his shadow looming and run out of the bar, but she wanted to get as far away from the foul-smelling man as possible. She dared a glance at Master Pol, who gulped eagerly from a glass of teal liquid. The Mikkian woman seemed unperturbed, barely even looking at Syenna or the man. 

Syenna tried to breathe lightly, unwilling to keep smelling the man’s sweat and breath. She ran through the options in her head. The discordant music and loud conversations that flooded the cantina were hardly helping. Then the man lifted his bony white hand and placed it on her arm, fingers closing in a vice-like grip. Syenna now wanted nothing more than to wrench her arm from the Balosar’s hand and punch him in the face. He pressed his face toward her and she felt his breath hot against her ear as he chuckled lowly.

At last Master Pol glanced over. “Hands to yourself,” she said, voice dismissive and casual. “That kid’s on my crew.” Was she slurring her words too? The Mikkian Jedi had a bead of spotchka on her lips and seemed to sit unsteadily on the stool, Syenna noticed. Just great. What had she gotten herself into? 

“Oh, yeah?” The Balosar man loosened his grip on Syenna’s arm and turned to Master Pol, leering at the older woman now. “Your…crew.” He frowned, as if processing the information was difficult. Then he shrugged. He didn’t care. “Now what do these feel like?” 

The Balosar reached a hand clumsily to caress one of Master Pol’s many red head tails, curled and twisted atop her head. The Jedi Master’s smile tightened. She put her drink down carefully and dragged the back of her hands across her lips before drying them roughly on her coat. The man narrowed his eyes, examining her face.

“Would you like to find out?”

Syenna watched with confusion as the Balosar thug, surprised and delighted, stumbled a few steps toward the Jedi Master, his balance off and his hand pressed against the countertop for support. His back was to Syenna now as she watched Master Pol straighten herself, sitting taller on the stool, and pull the drunk man closer toward her. The older Jedi’s wide pink hands framed the man’s face thoughtfully as he leaned toward her, salivating eagerly, hands eagerly grasping for her head tails.

Then he dropped to the floor, body folding in on itself like a sack of vegetables. 

Syenna wasn’t sure how it had happened. All she knew was that one moment Master Pol was holding the Balosar man’s face in her palms, and a second later he lay prone, sprawled and motionless, limbs splayed across the sticky floor of the cantina.

No one around them seemed to notice and the music played on. Master Pol waved Syenna closer with a loose hand. Dazed, she shuffled her stool closer. What had happened to the man? She poked cautiously at his body with her boot, but he didn’t move. 

Master Pol considered the man for a brief moment before speaking to Syenna. “Get him over to the corner,” she said, and gestured with her head to an empty booth on the far side of the cantina. “He passed out from too much drinking and hit his head on the table.”

Syenna nodded numbly, hopping off her stool and leaning down next to the prone man. She grasped his ankles and tugged. The strain burned her shoulders and thighs; he was heavier than she expected. He was, thankfully, not of a larger alien race like the hulking Houks or the muscular Wookiees, but no twelve year-old human could move a fully grown man’s motionless body on their own. Luckily, Syenna thought with a grim flavor of irony, she had the Force on her side. 

With a great deal of effort and deep breathing she managed to drag the Balosar over to the shadowed booth. She propped him against the wall, his head lolling to one side as he sat there with shoulders slumped. It took a few tries to get him stable, his body somehow insistent on collapsing to the floor in a limp heap. This was already turning out to be more than she’d bargained for when they left Coruscant.

With a sigh she stood and made her way back to the bar. Syenna realized that someone else now sat next to Master Pol, the two women engaged in conversation.

Syenna took a free seat on the other side. “All done,” she said, then thought to add, “Master Pol…He’s not dead, is he?” 

“Master Pol?” The new woman laughed lightly, barely looking at Syenna. “Wow. Is this her first day?”

 Syenna caught a whiff of the newcomer’s perfume. Beneath fruit and florals, the fragrance had a rougher, oxidized note to it too—like steel or blood. The woman spoke with an airy affect, but Syenna couldn’t quite place the accent. She wore a patterned wrap around her head and a weathered leather jacket hugged her torso. Black ink stained her poised lips, and soft cracks spidered across her green face in a pattern Syenna found strangely enticing. She looked like an actress from one of Hiya’s holodramas—if holodrama stars could be cold-blooded killers. 

“After all these years,” the green woman snorted. “They finally trusted you with a kid.”

“Thanks for making the trip to this skug hole,” said Master Pol, her voice higher and smoother than Syenna had heard thus far. “I know it’s been a while.”

The green woman tilted her head. The gesture felt…predatory, Syenna thought. Like she was looking for weaknesses and waiting to pounce. “I never say no to a free drink.” The woman took one of the blue spotchkas and drank heavily. “Especially on the Republic’s dime. A year isn’t that long, darling.” 

“Long enough to forget about the incident on Pyrr IX, I hope.”

“I don’t forget anything,“ the woman lifted her drink, “But this will clean your slate. I appreciate our time together, my dear. But I know how you hate to waste time. So what brings Genevva all the way to Nar Shaddaa?”

“The information you sent me. I sense…darker forces at work.” Master Pol’s brow furrowed, her usual irritated disposition replaced by something more serious. If Syenna didn’t know better, she would have said that the Jedi Master sounded anxious.

“Maybe so.” The green woman waved the bartender for another drink, and Master Pol tossed him a few more coins. “I was surprised you took a personal interest. Rescue missions don’t seem like your speciality.”

“It doesn’t matter what my speciality is. I have to follow this, especially if what you said is true,” Master Pol leaned toward the green woman, her mouth smiling but her gaze fixed. “About the kidnapping and the person hiring Class One bounty hunters. Do you have the chit?”

“Back to business,” sighed the green woman, tutting. Syenna watched the woman swirl her drink, clawed hands twisting the glass in light circles. “Sometimes patience is the path to pleasure, darling. And you still owe me for the information that brought you here.”

Master Pol’s fingers danced restlessly on her lightsaber. “I have your payment,” she said. “Same as usual. But the information is useless unless you tell me where the auction is.” 

It struck Syenna that this was some kind of game, though she wasn’t sure what they were playing to win. It was like a dance between two gravball players, watching the volleys go back and forth. 

“It’s invite only.”

“That’s what the chit’s for.”

The green woman sighed. “Xrexus Cartel is hosting. Small-time mercs. Started in droid manufacturing, switched to crime for a bigger payout. Ask around, sell them some of your special trinkets. Maybe they’ll even give you a plus one.” She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms behind her head. Under her leather jacket, Syenna saw a skintight bodysuit, its red material cut to reveal glimpses of smooth skin. Syenna wondered how many beings had fallen under this woman’s allure before realizing they were dealing with someone more dangerous than they bargained for.

“Don’t make this difficult.” Master Pol adjusted her cloak and let the light glint off the saber at her belt. “You told me you had a chit to get us into the auction.”

The green woman arched an eyebrow, unfazed. “I didn’t tell you that, you just inferred it. And I’m reconsidering. Really as a gesture of kindness, darling. Some things are best left alone.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that Jedi aren’t invincible, even if you like to think you are. Xrexus are amateurs, they’re trying to get on the map. So they’re erratic. On the up and making friends you don’t want to mess with. If you spook them, I’ll find your pretty body in a sewer on Nal Hutta.” 

“I have the kid with me. She’s a quick learner.”

“The girl?” 

That was the first time either of them had acknowledged Syenna’s presence. She felt the sudden force of their attention, two women equally mysterious in different ways. Master Pol, tense and coiled like a spring. The green woman, lithe and languid like a predatory waiting for her prey to let its guard down. She glanced at Syenna, her golden eyes flitting up and down appraisingly, her tongue drawn across her lips as though Syenna were a roasted nuna at the market.

 Syenna stared back at her, doing her best not to show fear. That was what you were supposed to do with predators, right? Play dead, run away, or act bigger than you were. Syenna chose the third option. If this was a test, she’d pass it. She wasn’t scared of a hot green lizard lady, even one who talked like a practiced killer. Syenna was a Jedi and the Force was with her. If Genevva Pol wanted to throw her to the wolves, she’d show the Jedi Master she could hold her own.

“I’m not just any girl.” Syenna said. She gathered all the confidence she could muster. “And I have a name too. Do you?”

The green woman smirked, and Syenna’s stomach flipped at the strange way her mouth twisted. 

“I do. But you don’t, not to me, if Genevva has taught you anything. If you want my advice, you’re both in over your heads.” The green woman shrugged. “If you want to chase shadows, it’s your funeral.”

Master Pol swigged her spotchka. “Your payment for the information, then,” the Jedi Master said. She tossed the green woman a pouch, who caught it with a clink. “We’ll find our way to the auction without the chit. And Deva—we’re even.”

The green woman grinned, and Syenna saw rows of glinting teeth. 

“Who’s keeping score?”she said, and her laughter followed them out of the bar.

***

Back on the Diathim, Syenna burned with questions. As Master Pol shrugged off her coat, she tried to decide which might offend her master the least. It wasn’t easy. The Jedi Master seemed to have two moods: grumpy or dismissive. Maybe that was one mood.

“The chit has the auction’s location on it,” she ventured. “But she—Deva—didn’t give it to you. How do we know where we’re going next?”

“Not the right question, Padawan.” So much for that. “You should have asked why we left the cantina.”

This time Syenna couldn’t stop rolling her eyes. She held her own in the cantina. She’d been harassed at the cantina and her Master hadn’t so much as lifted a finger until the creep touched her. She was a good student, a good Padawan, and she’d received nothing but belittling comments and feigned boredom for her efforts. The frustrations of the day roiled to the surface, spitting out of her in sharp words she regretted as soon as she spoke. She’d followed Master Pol on this madcap rush to Nar Shaddaa. “Okay,” Syenna snapped, “Why not just tell me, then?”

“Disrespectful,” said Master Pol. “Flippant, thoughtless, insouciant!” She drew herself up, looming over Syenna with tendrils flailing wildly on her head. Her eyes wide and her nostrils flared. It was ridiculous, but Syenna couldn’t help but feel small, the way she did whenever Yoda caught her and Hiya skipping class.

“I got the chit,” the Jedi Master hissed. “I picked her pocket when she was talking to you. We don’t have time to waste with foolishness. You walk like a Council member crossed with a Senator and you called me Master Pol as soon as we arrived, which I told you not to do. By now, everyone on Nar Shaddaa must know the Republic’s top cops are sniffing around. I don’t like explaining myself, and I don’t like repeating myself. I certainly don’t like your attitude.”

Master Pol scanned the chit. “I told you, Padawan, you’re here to learn. If that’s not what you want, I’m sure the Republic can find other work for you to do. I expect better when we get to the auction. Looks like it’s on Akiva. A Jedi is counting on us.” She stomped out of the cockpit, pausing at the doorway only long enough to shake her head in disappointment. “New location—new outfit. You know where to find it.”

***

For the second time that day, Syenna stared out of the viewport and tried not to despair. The turbulent blue swirls of hyperspace felt like the insides of her stomach, tumbling this way and that. She didn’t know if it was her wounded pride or that malted drink from Nar Shaddaa. It didn’t help that she was running incredibly low on sleep. At this point, she imagined the Jedi back at the temple would be waking up after a night of restful sleep. Including the rest of Bear Clan—those who hadn’t yet been chosen as Padawans. A night of sleep during which she and Genevva Pol had illicitly traveled to a criminal-infested planet and met the shadiest woman in the galaxy. She’d also been scolded. That almost stung more than anything else. 

For just over a decade of life, Syenna had never been spoken to in such a harsh, eviscerating manner. Her mothers hadn’t had it in them, and even vague memories of her grandmother painted a picture of an elder who was gentle but firm. She’d excelled in all her classes. She’d almost never gotten into trouble, and if she did, it was passed off as Hiya’s bad influence. Master Braylon was strict with everyone, but even she had never belittled and raged at Syenna like Master Pol just had. That look in her eyes—it hadn’t just been anger, but disappointment. And Syenna didn’t know what to do with the wound it had left in her heart.

When she’d said goodbye to her family six years ago, she’d done so because of what her mother had whispered in her ear. They’d wanted a better life for her. One they couldn’t afford. Syenna knew that by joining the Jedi, she’d helped her family, in a way. It would have been difficult for her mothers to work for a living and raise a child. Instead, her mother had told her through tears, Syenna would be a hero. She’d save the galaxy. 

And that drove everything Syenna did. She would be the best Jedi in galactic history. A beloved hero, a respected Jedi Master. She had to be the best, because it was the only way to make it all worthwhile.

“Silly Sy,” Hiya said, swinging her feet next to her. “I got scolded all the time, and I still would have been a great Jedi.”

“You would have been an okay Jedi,” Syenna said. “But still my best friend.”

Hiya snorted. “Humble, too.”

“I don’t get it, Hiya,” Syenna said. She turned to look at her friend, all wrinkled robes and wispy purple hair. “I’ve worked harder than anyone to be the best Padawan in the Order. I don’t have the highest midichlorian count and I didn’t learn Aurebesh when I was three. But I know I’m the best.

“I thought I’d be a good Padawan, but nothing about Master Pol makes sense. I really tried, Hiya. I tried on Nar Shaddaa. But she’s more like a bad-tempered bounty hunter than a Jedi. She hasn’t taught me anything about the Force, and nothing I do is good enough.” She sighed. “I failed you, and I must have failed Master Yoda. I don’t know if you heard what Deva said on Nar Shaddaa, but…She hasn’t even been allowed to train a Padawan until now. Why else would he have stuck me with…with such a loser Jedi?”

Hiya wasn’t there anymore. Of course she wasn’t. Hiya was one with the Force, and Syenna was alone. 

“Padawan.” Master Pol entered behind her. Syenna wondered if the Jedi Master had sensed Syenna’s thoughts. She doubted it. The Jedi seemed more interested in the shuura fruit she was crunching on. 

“Yes?” 

“You’re distracted.”

Syenna didn’t know how to reply. The Mikkian Jedi sat beside her, impaling the shuura fruit against one of the dashboard’s control sticks with heavy finality. Syenna imagined a fleeting, horrifying image of her own heart being impaled by the Jedi Master in a fit of rage.

“I’ve read your file,” said Master Pol. “Every Jedi Master knows what happened a year ago on Ilum.”

The words were like a slap across her face, swift and merciless. Syenna’s gut twisted with shame and she stared fixedly at her hands, trying not to let the Jedi Master see the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

“Remember this, Padawan,” said Master Pol. She gazed coolly at Syenna. “Your emotions do not belong to you, they simply create the surfaces through which we apprehend other beings. You must not let a wound become something that is, instead of an event that unfolded in time and space.”

Syenna turned the words over in her head, but Master Pol had already moved on, pulling up a datapad of information in front of her.

“The Xrexus Cartel,” she said. “I don’t know them, but if they’re amateurs, then Deva is right. They’ll be trigger-happy and we have to be careful. So I need you listening and learning, more than you have been today. If you can’t do that, I can send you back to Coruscant and continue on alone. Is that what you want? Or can I trust you?”

Could Master Pol trust her? Syenna thought of her mothers, and her grandmother. They’d trusted her to leave home and become a great Jedi. She thought of Hiya, who’d trusted her as her only friend. Maybe she’d been going about this the wrong way. She’d succeeded in her trials before. She could do so again.  Putting up with a stern, embittered Jedi Master would be a challenge—but one she could turn to her own advantage. After all, what greater lesson than a challenge she’d never faced before? 

“You can trust me,” Syenna said. But as they flew toward Akiva, where a captive Jedi was waiting for them, Syenna wasn’t sure she meant it.

Chapter Text

Syenna Lark had never been in a firefight before, but as bolts of energy flew overhead, she decided she hadn’t been missing out.

As soon as she felt the blaster’s muzzle at the back of her head, everything exploded into chaos. Master Pol slammed her arms outward, palms open and fingers splayed. Syenna flew backwards, tumbling in a heap with the rest of the crowd.

Now as she got to her feet, she thought, “So that’s what Master Pol meant by trigger happy.”

Everything went smoothly at first. Deva’s chit got them inside with a genial welcome from the security droids. The buyers—no more than a hundred, from over a dozen criminal gangs—mingled inside the sleek ballroom, more interested in the cocktails and food than two Jedi in disguise. 

Of course, that ended as soon as Master Pol cornered the Toydarian auctioneer and tried to mind-trick him into telling them where the prisoner was. Apparently that didn’t work for Toydarians. Might have been useful to know beforehand, Syenna thought. Just how many alien races did that even apply to?

Now a hundred gangsters were gunning for an even bigger prize than what they’d come here expecting: not one, but two Jedi. And the Jedi Council, Syenna thought glumly, had no idea they were even here.

Master Pol wasted no time. Shedding her cloak, she spun her lightsaber and swung its brilliant white blade through several security droids, cleaving them through the middle. Their metal limbs clattered against the floor, adding to the cacophony filling the air. Cocktail tables crashed to the ground, glasses shattering and purple drinks splattering across pristine white tiling. Master Pol’s saber was a blur, spinning and slicing amid the chaos of red and orange blaster bolts. The electric smell of blasters and the singed smoke of burned flesh filled the ballroom as Syenna struggled to free herself from several of the auction’s overeager attendees. 

She swung her firsts blindly and felt her hand connect hard against metal, knocking a blaster from the hands of a stout Weequay who’d leveled it at her head. Around her, pirates and gangsters fought each other for a chance to take the Jedi themselves, weapons firing and fists flying as they attacked each other as much as they attacked the Jedi. Mayhem. Somewhere in the din of the chaos, Master Pol cut through more droids and slammed two armored men into the wall with a crash. 

“Padawan, your saber,” yelled Master Pol, and Syenna broke from her stupor, grabbing for her lightsaber. Her saber had landed several feet away from her, the silver hilt rolling across the floor. She would have to make her way to it, she thought, as it disappeared under the wrestling bodies of a Trandoshan and Ithorian. At least neither of them had noticed or thought to pick it up and use it. Syenna crawled across the ballroom, trying to stay below the line of fire, and rolled behind a fallen table. It provided her scant cover as she looked again for her saber. 

 A stray blaster bolt ricocheted against the wall and toward the ceiling, hitting an ornate sparkling chandelier above them. The crystalline structure plummeted through the air, and Syenna rolled hard to her right, feeling the light fixture smash into shards nearby. Oh no—her hand was bleeding. At least it had taken out some of the thugs.

Syenna dodged another blaster bolt, but a Zygerrian to her left began firing on her. A stray shot singed her sleeve as she tried to jump. Somewhere an alarm was ringing, ear-splitting and insistent. Four destroyer droids rolled into the room.

She sensed the Dug behind her too late, the thug’s long arms and muscular legs swinging through the air and slamming into her back with a resounding thwack! Briefly winded, Syenna ate the hit and landed in a forward roll. Ugh. Even further from her saber now. Master Pol waded through the chaos toward her, batting away stray blaster bolts and disarming the gangsters with unsettling indifference. The woman was surprisingly athletic, her chaotic movements and vicious strikes throwing the assailants off-guard. 

Apparently viewing Syenna as an easier target, one of the destroyer droids turned and began firing on her, its duel arms sending deadly pulses of energy through the air. Allowing instinct to take over, Syenna sensed the exact moment and trajectory each blast would take, allowing nudges from the Force to guide her moment as she flipped and twisted through the air to avoid the onslaught. It took all her focus and energy. One wrong twist, one moment of hesitation and she would be gone.

Focused on dodging the blaster bolts, Syenna almost missed the hulking ogre-like Dowutin bearing down on her, electropike leveled squarely at her chest. Just in time, Master Pol wrenched the destroyer away with the Force, sending it skidding across the room and straight into her waiting saber. 

“Thanks!” Syenna managed. 

Now the Dowutin.

Summoning every bit of focus she could muster, she threw her hand toward the crowd and called her crystal to her. There is no chaos, there is harmony.

From the chaos, the gleaming hilt of her lightsaber flew into her hand with a thwack, its blue beam leaping from the emitter. 

Syenna heard the kyber's song and smiled. Not that cutting enemies down was something to take pleasure in—but for the first time that day, she knew exactly what she was doing.

Because Syenna was a hard worker. She was the hardest worker of them all. And even though Syenna Lark had never been in a firefight, she had spent hundreds of hours with four, then five, then a dozen training remotes firing upon her. With a grin, she leapt over the Dowutin, slicing her lightsaber in a beautiful arc. The alien howled in pain, the pike clattering to the ground along with the hand still holding it. Syenna landed in a crouch and spun her blade in circles, twisting and turning as she deflected blaster bolts back at oncoming droids and pirates alike. One of the destroyers went down. Another rolled in to replace it. Xrexus Cartel sure loved their droids. In the corner of her eye, Master Pol gestured wildly to the door.

“Padawan! Auctioneer!”

The Toydarian auctioneer was flying full speed toward the exit, his small wings beating furiously as he dodged scrambling gangsters and spindly droids. Syenna nodded and ran to intercept him, somersaulting through the chaos. With her saber in hand, training and instinct took over. This was just like the training exercises she’d practised so many times with Bear Clan, then Hiya and then alone. She vaulted forward, springing off the wall, and flew right at the Toydarian just as he slammed a button to open the exit.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Syenna reached out with the Force, willing herself to move a little faster. With a breath, she closed her hand around one of his spindly legs and he gave a shout, swerving and dragging her across the floor as he tried to stay aloft. 

Syenna swung her saber, deflecting blaster bolts as she tried to keep her grip on the flying man. “How much weight can this guy even carry?” she thought sourly. 

“The door!” shouted Master Pol. 

Syenna understood. As the auctioneer dragged her out of the ballroom, wings fluttering desperately, she plunged her lightsaber into the outside door controls and the door began to hiss shut. With astonishing speed, Master Pol leapt over the remaining pirates, barely sliding through as the doors slammed shut behind her. 

Muffed shouts echoed from the room as the pirates tried to unseal the doors. Master Pol gripped the Toydarian’s arm and he wailed in terror.

“Where is the Jedi?”

***

The auctioneer agreed to take them to the Jedi after Master Pol reminded him that even if mind tricks didn’t work on Toydarians, lightsabers still did.

“Xev Xrexus won’t be happy,” he groused. Master Pol had produced a length of wire from her belted pouch and used it to bind the Toydarian’s arms behind his back. “She said to keep the Jedi locked away until the bidding began.”

Later, when Syenna discovered the bodies on Drazkel’s moon, she would remember the Toydarian’s words and the question that had glimmered in the back of her mind: Where was Xev Xrexus? The answer, “not on Akiva”, should have been clear to her from the moment she and Master Pol entered the ballroom. Perhaps if they’d realized this earlier, the Jedi might have had time to save countless lives. It was, like most things she experienced during her apprenticeship, both a lesson and a warning.

“There’s not going to be bidding, you idiot,” Master Pol said, glaring at the Toydarian. She prodded him with her saber hilt menacingly and he hissed a curse in Huttese. “Hurry up.”

The Toydarian reluctantly led them down a winding corridor to the factory’s detention facility.  The cold hallways echoed with the thump of Master Pol’s heavy steps and the softer patter of Syenna’s. The facility itself was far from well maintained, its walls stained and rusted, light panels flickering and faded. Deva was right; Xrexus Cartel didn’t have the credits or the manpower to maintain a facility this large, Syenna thought. Indeed, so quiet and empty was the building that it occurred to Syenna that Xrexus didn’t even seem to be operating here at all.

They passed two spindly security droids posted at each end of the corridor.  Syenna guessed that most of the building’s security had been stationed at the auction and the rest had moved there after the fighting started. Master Pol deactivated them both just in case. They moved ahead cautiously, expecting to turn a corner and come face to face with a complement of Xrexus gangsters or guards. But all they found were more empty, abandoned halls.

Where is everyone? Syenna thought to herself. She glanced at Master Pol, but the large woman seemed focused on their prisoner, keeping the hilt of her saber emitter pressed against the back of his head as they forged on.

At last the Toydarian auctioneer came to a halt, round body fluttering grumpily in front of a cell barred by a red energy field. “The Jedi,” he said. “As requested. Will you put that thing away now?” He nodded warily to Master Pol’s saber.

In the corner of the cell sat a Quarren man in tattered Jedi robes. Slumping against the wall, his eyes seemed hazy and he held his webbed hands aloft as if in prayer. The tentacles around his mouth drooped mournfully and he seemed to be muttering a kind of incantation to the Force. There was a mysterious puddle of water in the cell that Syenna tried not to look too closely at.

“Who is that?” she started to say, but Master Pol grasped the Toydarian by his shoulder and shook him forcefully.

“That is not the Jedi.” 

The Toydarian scowled indignantly, his elephantine trunk wrinkling into a snarl. “I can assure you, our mercenaries captured this Jedi from a shuttle crash site. Xev Xrexus informed me herself that we had acquired a fully grown Jedi warrior.”

Master Pol paced back and forth, frustrated. “I know what a Jedi looks like,” she said. “That is not a Jedi.”

“May the Force be with you,” said the Quarren, from inside the cell. His voice was wet and rough, his eyes unfocused.

Master Pol looked furious. Syenna tried to understand what was happening. “Deva lied?”

“No,” the Jedi Master spat, head-tails waving furiously. “She doesn’t lie. Dank farrik. Xrexus must have set up a decoy event. The real auction is somewhere else. That’s why I didn’t recognize any of the syndicates in attendance. Strange for a low level cartel to go to all this trouble. Something weird is going on.”

“Low level?” the Toydarian squawked. 

Master Pol ran her fingers through her head-tails. For the first time since they’d met, Syenna thought she seemed completely flummoxed. The older woman worried her lips, chewing on nothing as she muttered to herself with half questions and ideas. 

“Miss Jedi?” The Toydarian poked at Master Pol, who jerked upward and glared at him, eyes cold.

She gripped the auctioneer’s shoulders and shook him again. “I don’t have time for this. I’ll ask you again. Where is the real Jedi?”

“The Jedi is here,” he said, aggravated. “Right in that cell. Look, lady, I did what you asked. Now let me go!”

“That is a man your boss pulled off the street and pumped full of spice!”

But it was Syenna who knew the right question to ask. Her frustration overcoming her focus, Master Pol had forgotten the one thing that should have tipped them off in the first place—the question they should have asked even before the blaster fight broke out. 

Recalling Master Pol’s own unsubtle threat back on Nar Shaddaa, Syenna let her hand linger over her lightsaber, shifting her hips so that its silver hilt gleamed ominously under the light. She looked directly into the Toydarian’s eyes.

“Sir, where is Xev Xrexus?”

The auctioneer eyed the saber nervously. “No need for any messy business, kid. She’s on Drazkel. She had some other business. Just please don’t tell her I told you.”

“Son of a—the Mid Rim?” Master Pol swore. “Shit, shit. Several hours away at best. We have to leave right now.” The Jedi Master’s head-tails had come fully undone from their pile, chaotic curls tumbling around her face as she shook her head in frustration. She wrenched the Toydarian towards her. “You’ll be coming with us.”

“What?!”

“Can’t have the schutta know we’re coming.” Master Pol gave him a steady look. “We might no longer have time on our side, but we still have surprise.” She stomped down the corridor and Syenna hastened to follow, dreading the journey back to the ship. By now, those criminals trapped in the ballroom must have broken free. They’d have to fight their way back to the Diathim, and all they’d accomplished in the meantime was to delay their real mission. 

“Wait! Please don’t leave me here.” The Quarren looked at them mournfully. 

Syenna paused, her hand hovering over the door control. “Master P–Master Genevva? They did kidnap him. We could take him with us and drop him after.”

For a second, Syenna thought the Jedi Master would shout at her. Instead she just sighed. “If we must, Padawan. But move quickly. We don’t know what kind of danger that Jedi is in.”

Syenna turned to release the Quarren, her mind racing at the idea of more danger and fighting ahead, limbs still buzzing from the adrenaline of the blaster fight. It was a short sprint back to the Diathim, Syenna running to catch up with her Master, two prisoners hot on their heels as they fought their way past clusters of assailants. Only later would Syenna realize that Genevva Pol had been right about several things. They no longer had time on their side, and they did not know what kind of danger the kidnapped Jedi was in. If they had known, perhaps they might have turned back or thought of a different plan, perhaps they could have prevented the tyranny and horror soon to reign across the galaxy. Perhaps things might have gone differently for Master Pol and the victims on Drazkel’s moon. It was so difficult at the time for Syenna to imagine that Genevva Pol might have been just as lost as she was—plunging desperately into the darkness in an aching bid for control, grasping for a lifeline in a galaxy that was coming apart.

Chapter Text

Unlike their trip from Coruscant to Nar Shaddaa, the hyperlane to Drazkel was supposed to take just a few hours. But as the Diathim raced toward the Xrexus hideout, each minute spinning into an hour, Syenna couldn’t stop herself from thinking that their detour on Akiva might have set them irreversibly behind. If the kidnapped Jedi had already been sold to the highest bidder, who knew if they could even follow the trail from Drazkel.

The freighter was also less tranquil with the addition of two prisoners. The Toydarian auctioneer grumbled and whined about his restraints and then begged Master Pol to share her food until the Jedi Master, in a fit of frustration, made him a tea that immediately put him to sleep. 

The Quarren was more peaceable, though he still seemed under a spice-induced trance, occasionally muttering vague maxims about the galaxy. Shortly after they had entered hyperspace, Syenna asked him for his name. 

“The Loremaster,” he said. “For I see all that there was and will be.” She didn’t bother continuing the conversation after that.

“All is as the Force wills it,” muttered the Loremaster. He gazed around the cockpit in wonder. Hiya would have enjoyed him.

“He’s like your exact opposite,” said Hiya, appearing next to her. “A Jedi who’s so relaxed he doesn’t give a womp rat’s ass about anything at all.”

“He’s not a Jedi. And I can be relaxed too! I just—I apply myself to challenges with maximum effort.” 

“Stopped listening after ‘apply’, and you haven’t even stopped to think about what Genevva was trying to teaching you.”

“How can I?” Syenna asked, suddenly desperate for a real answer instead of the empty rejoinders Hiya’s ghost had given her thus far. She clutched Hiya’s hands, squeezing them tight, searching for that familiar press of warmth that had accompanied the gesture for years. “How can I, when this all feels like one big punishment from the Force for letting you die?”

“We’re coming up on Drazkel.” Master Pol’s sharp voice broke her thoughts, the Jedi Master’s boots clattering back into the cockpit. “They’ll be on alert when they see us, so we’ll have to signal that we’re here for the auction. Let’s hope we’re not too late.” 

The ship dropped out of hyperspace with a shudder, blue clouds streaking into pin prick stars in the black of space. 

***

Syenna only got a brief glimpse of the silver space station, its round hull and needle-like spires glinting with starlight, before the first barrage of laser fire hit them. Explosions pummelled the ship. 

The Diathim shuddered, laser and flak rocking the freighter as turrets on the station turned and battered them with bolts of energy.

“Agh!” Master Pol gripped the controls and nosed the ship into a dive. “They aren’t welcoming late arrivals.” 

Today was a day for many firsts, Syenna thought, desperately missing the comfort of the Jedi Temple. Unlike the firefight on Akiva, they were in space—too many lucky shots from the station, too many hits against the ship’s shields and hull, and she and Master Pol would be sucked into the vacuum of space. Faced with rapid decompression, the air in her lungs would expand rapidly: a swift and unavoidable death returning her to the Cosmic Force within seconds. The chaotic movements of the Diathim were enough to distract her from the gruesome thought as she tried to keep her stomach’s contents down.

The Loremaster screamed as the Diathim flipped upside down, avoiding most of the station’s blasterfire. Syenna closed her eyes and tried not to throw up. Her stomach seemed to be losing all sense of direction. There was no up or down in space, though starships’ artificial gravity and inertial compensators typically worked to maintain the illusion of normality. Unfortunately, they didn’t do much to counteract the effect of seeing everything through the viewport rotate a full three hundred and sixty degrees.

The station was below them and then it was above them. Explosions and lights flashed outside, an alert ringing incessantly from the console. Master Pol scrambled to adjust their shields, reaching this way and that before returning to the steering yoke.

The Toydarian auctioneer, now awake, grabbed onto the back of Syenna’s chair as Master Pol took the Diathim on another evasive manoeuvre.

“What’s going on?” He shouted. “Patch me through! I’ll tell them to stop!”

Syenna didn’t wait for her Master’s response. She flipped the comm onto an open frequency as the freighter’s sudden moves slammed her back against her seat, tightened her seatbelt and swallowed down terror and bile.

“Lady Xrexus,” the Toydarian wailed. “Please do not fire! It’s me! DO NOT FIRE!”

Master Pol leaned on the controls and the Diathim tore toward the station, flipping into a tight spiral as more blasterfire flashed against the cockpit’s front canopy, flak ricocheting of the viewport.

“Shields losing capacity,” Syenna said, nervously eyeing the readouts in front of her. This was not good. The Diathim was a freighter, not a gunship. With power diverted to their shields, there was no telling how soon they would be able to make it into hyperspace—or where they could go.

“Who is this?” An imperious woman over the comm, her voice smooth and disinterested. “Identify yourself.”

The Toydarian sniffled pitifully. “You know me! I commed you on Akiva, my lady!” Another boom sent the freighter spiralling before Master Pol wrestled it back under control.

“Imonewiththeforceandtheforceiswithme—” the Loremaster muttered, braced against the deck.

Syenna glanced at the dash again. “30%, Master.”

“No more chatter!” The Jedi Master’s voice went tight as she brought the freighter over and around the station, forcing the turrets to cease firing as they flew closer to the station’s outer shell, its shiny surface so close Syenna thought they were going to skim it with the ship’s hull. It was a good strategy, Syenna thought, to get past the blaster turrets’ range—until the Xrexus Station revealed its other self defense system: a targeted missiles array.  

“Well,” Xev Xrexus said, as a volley of missiles shot toward the Diathim. “You did your duty by informing me of the Jedi’s arrival. Xrexus thanks you for your service.”

That sleemo sold them out, Syenna thought. Before they’d even captured him, he must have sent a message to her. 

The Diathim raced forward, missiles approaching from behind. The ship’s hull creaked from the stress of the manoeuvres.

Genevva Pol was a good pilot, but she was not good enough. The barrage of missiles hit the Diathim with full force, a fiery explosion that ripped straight through the hull.

***

Syenna woke to a rough palm against her cheek.

“Padawan. Wake up.” 

That was Master Pol’s voice, an urgent whisper from somewhere above her. Master Pol slapped her lightly again and Syenna scrambled to get up, her head spinning. Around them, the ruined remains of the Diathim smoked, its metal carcass twisted beyond recognition. Fragments of the hull, silver and brown, lay around them. Wires sparked nearby, the console a mess of smashed-in readouts and charred buttons. Smoke plumed into the air around them.

They’d crashed on Drazkel’s moon, the ship’s emergency systems keeping its passengers alive, Syenna realized. She blinked her eyes, tried to banish the fog hovering around her head. 

“Master—Where are we?”

“They shot us down.” Genevva Pol held her steady, and Syenna stumbled over a crumpled metal beam. “I slowed us just before we hit the surface.” The Jedi Master stepped gingerly across the wreckage toward the moon’s barren surface. “Quickly now. They’ll send a crew to salvage the ship and finish off any survivors.” She seemed oddly calm, moving carefully to extract a dataspike from the ruined console and attach it to her belt. 

The Loremaster whimpered from the ruined deck of the freighter, the tentacles near his mouth twitching and wet with terror. Syenna glanced around. The ship had torn a scar through the earth, cracks spidering through the dirt beyond the wreckage that lay smoking around them. It was night and the sky was purple and cloudless above.

Syenna shifted her gaze, noticing only scattered rocks and muted sand stretching to the horizon. In the distance, a few barren hills and rock formations cut into the sky like teeth. The air was still. A dead moon.

“We’re all alone out here,” she said.

“You’ll learn,” Master Pol said. “That there is always someone watching. The question on your mind should be who.” Her cloak, rumpled and singed, snagged on a piece of wreckage, and she shrugged it off. The tunic she wore underneath was torn from the crash, the Jedi Master’s head tails even more unruly than before as they flopped about in a tentacled heap on her head. “It’s possible the Jedi escaped here or was shot down like us. I sense–” She broke off and looked around. Syenna realized then that Master Pol wasn’t calm at all, even as her brusque sentences and flat tone tried to suggest otherwise. Something had set her on edge. “We’ll get out of sight and look around. Someone—or something—is in pain. There’s a…strange presence.”

Syenna heaved the Loremaster to his feet, who hurried to stand near Master Pol after a muttered prayer. The Jedi Master frowned. “Padawan—where’s the other one?” 

The Toydarian. Syenna found the answer almost immediately. Lying under a crushed metal bulwark, she saw his crumpled body, his wings snapped at an unnatural angle and his limbs limp and splayed. Beads of dark blood dotted the Diathim’s slanted deck around him. He wasn’t breathing and his eyes stared emptily into the sky. Motionless and wide-eyed, he almost seemed alert. A bizarre pantomime of watchfulness. 

Syenna tore her eyes away with a shudder. It was not her first encounter with death. That had happened too suddenly and soon on Ilum. But this time, Syenna thought, the death had been entirely the Jedi’s fault. They’d taken him prisoner, holding him captive in case he alerted Xev Xrexus—which it turned out he already had. He was a petty criminal who died for nothing. 

Syenna realized that she didn’t know his name. Discomfort twisted in her stomach.

“What’s done is done, Padawan.” Master Pol’s tone was stern but not unkind.  She draped his body with her tattered cloak. “He’s with the Force now. Let’s go.”

***

Syenna wasn’t sure how long they had walked, only that Master Pol sensed something in the Force that she hadn’t yet. A disturbance. 

“The Jedi is that way,” she muttered. “But something is wrong.”

The desert was endless and the rock formations she’d spotted earlier weren’t getting any closer. The sky above them was dormant and unchanging, a huge canvas of nothing that only made the desert feel larger. The air was dry and harsh in her nose and throat.

Master Pol stomped faster, her boots crunching briskly against gravel. Syenna found herself breaking into a jog to keep up, trying her best not to slip and fall against the loose soil.

“Hurry, Padawan,” Master Pol urged, eyes wild. “There’s something close—”

And then Syenna felt it.

It came upon her suddenly, a rush through her body. Like an icy blade wrenched into her heart, so immediately cold and achingly visceral it felt as though the cold was spreading inside of her already, that it had always been there, freezing her from the inside out. She shivered, her feet catching on the dirt. Behind her, the Quarren began to wail. 

Syenna had felt the comforting warmth of the Force her entire life. It came as easily to her as each breath of air she took. On Milax V, the Force had been a part of the planet, clay surface always hot under the sun’s life-giving rays. She grew up in the warmth of her mothers’ embrace and the comforting heartiness of Grandmother’s cooking. Then on Coruscant, she’d been surrounded by hundreds of Jedi, each a radiant candle in the Force. She’d enjoyed the toasty comfort of Bear Clan training and playing and laughing all around her. Lying next to Hiya under sun, the Great Tree’s life and presence in the Force had radiated like a hearth. Syenna bathed in the embrace of heat, and it was everywhere, with no distinct shape or intention. That was how the Force felt—that was how it had always been.

But now there was only cold. 

Syenna felt sweat prick at her neck, hairs raised on her arms and legs. Everything was…wrong. She tried unsuccessfully to breathe without her teeth chattering. Master Pol glanced over.

“You feel it, Padawan.”

“C-cold,” was all she could say. “So cold.” 

It was a cold unlike the winds of Ilum. This cold was freezing Syenna from the inside out. Pain pulsed through her, throbbing in her head, her mouth sore and thirsty for water.

“The dark side,” Master Pol said. 

They came to a stop at a small ledge, and Syenna heard the Quarren whimper before she saw—or smelled—what had happened.

Past the ledge, just a few feet below them, she saw a pile of bodies. 

They were so motionless Syenna might have missed them were they not in their path. Five or six people, splayed on the rocks like ragdolls, their heads at odd angles and limbs draped unnaturally over the uneven ground. She recognized several of them as Weequays, leathery grey skin barely visible under the night sky, their clothes ripped and worn. Others were fish-like Pykes, their black bulbous eyes staring blankly at the sky, mouths agape and green-blue skin sallow and soft. Blasters and electro pikes lay scattered around them, weapons forgotten and useless on the ground. 

There was no rhyme or reason to their arrangement. Some of the bodies lay face down, backs exposed with their arms outstretched. They’d evidently died while trying to escape, crawling on their hands and knees in various chaotic directions—but escaping from what?

Their bodies had already begun to decay, strange and twisted, as their limbs stiffened and stomachs leaked gas with a faint, grotesque hiss.

They were dead. That was the cold she sensed in the Force. So much death in one place, violent and terrible. In every direction otherwise, the desert remained quiet, empty, and impervious to the sickening tableau.

When Hiya died, the Jedi Order had given her a proper burial, honoring and commemorating her before helping her body fully return to the Force. She had seemed so peace, her eyes closed, her lips in a gentle smile, her hair tenderly brushed and braided. At the Diathim’s crash site no more than a half hour ago, Genevva had tried to offer the Toydarian an approximation of honor and dignity, giving up her cloak to shroud his body and grant him rest. But these bodies had simply been discarded and left to rot, frozen in their moment of terror and agony, residues of violence and fear still lingering in the Force like thick smoke.

Syenna caught a whiff of decaying flesh and it was all she could do to keep her body from revolting, her stomach overturning and every inch of her body urging her to turn and flee from the horrifying scene. 

Behind her, the Quarren retched, expelling a stream of bile onto the earth as he collapsed to his knees at the sight.

It was a while before she trusted herself to speak, a sickening knot twisting in her stomach. 

“…Who did this?”

Master Pol said nothing, leaping down from the ledge toward the bodies. Syenna stumbled after her. Ahead of her, the Jedi Master placed her hands on one of the Weequay bodies, swiftly rolling him over to reveal a deep, charred gash in the figure’s torso. She swore, quickly repeating the motion with one of the Pykes nearby.

Master Pol didn’t need to continue. Syenna saw the same thing her master did. Each of the bodies was heavily scarred with fiery slashes and wounds. The figures’ clothes were singed where something had cut through them, exposing skin red and rough where tissue had been cauterized and burned. Syenna noticed a few figures lacking arms or legs, their knees or shoulders ending in cauterized stumps. She wasn’t eager to look around for missing limbs.

“Master,” Syenna said. “Perhaps…someone stole the Jedi’s lightsaber and attacked them?” Her head felt light, her heart pounding against her ribs. What had she stumbled into?

Master Pol’s face was grim. She turned from the bodies, standing quickly. “We should keep moving. Some questions have answers too terrible to be asked.”

They moved in silence after that, though Syenna’s mind lingered on the terrible scene they’d stumbled upon. She couldn’t unsee the bodies, twisted violated and unable to rest even in death. They are one with the Force, she repeated to herself. It didn’t make her feel any better.

They reached the rock formations that had seemed so distant when Syenna first saw them. Tall, scraggly spires and pinnacles pierced the sky, while lowing plateaus and arches around them shielded the horizon from few. The way ahead would be a stone maze of crags and crevices between the low cliff faces.

“I sense the Jedi nearby,” Master Pol said, grimly. “They must have escaped Xev Xrexus and fled here. Though what happened remains unclear to me. Stay close, Padawan. Keep your hand on your saber and your focus on your surroundings.” She glanced about, eyeing the Loremaster with concern. “Quarren, behind us.”

They crept into the rocks, Syenna’s eyes darting around the darkened structures. The sick feeling in her stomach was getting stronger, roiling in her stomach and pushing at the back of her throat. The Quarren whimpered again, and Master Pol shushed him. They continued onward, treading carefully over gravel and dirt.

Master Pol had sensed the dark side when they crashed on the moon. Now Syenna could feel it as well. The cold, no longer limited to her heart and stomach, seemed to seep through her bones. Every nerve and muscle felt tight with strain. She couldn’t stop shivering. 

There was something worse than the bodies up ahead. A frigid center to the cold storm that swirled through the Force, malicious and vile, radiating with deathly pain and hatred and rage. Whispering, waiting. 

Master Pol came to a sudden stop and the group fell into silence. Syenna held her breath. The cold was only growing stronger, though the rocks around them remained silent and still. Not a whisper of wind or crunch of rock broke the silence.

 Then Quarren screamed briefly, a horrible gurgling screech through the air that cut off as abruptly as it began. Master Pol ignited her saber, its bright pillar of light flashing across their surroundings as she spun around. They saw the Quarren fall slowly to his knees, then to the ground. Dead.

Syenna whirled around, stumbling backward into a cliff-face as Master Pol pushed past her, saber swinging, only to stop.

No one was there. The rocks around them were lit by the flickering white glow of Master Pol’s saber, but otherwise remained unchanged. The Loremaster lay motionless on the ground. He wasn’t breathing. Syenna leaned heavily on the rock at her back, trying desperately to regain her composure. Her head spun. She reached for the warmth of the Force but felt nothing. Only that incessant cold, growing ever stronger around her. 

Something had killed him, Syenna knew. But she and Master Pol were alone down here. All she could hear was the sound of their breathing and the buzz of Master Pol’s saber as they looked around, trying to understand why the Quarren had died. Except—

Moving almost faster than her eyes could see, Syenna glimpsed a shadow racing toward her from the cliff above, its shape a dark blur against the night sky, lithe arms stretched toward her with dark red hands.

“NO!” Master Pol shouted behind her. Syenna saw a flash of red in the dark and heard a scream. An invisible force slammed into her and she flew backward, landing hard against the gravel. When she finally scrambled to her feet, her breath caught in her throat.

A few paces away, where she had just been standing, Master Pol knelt on the dirt and cradled her right arm. On the ground, Syenna saw a pink hand, its wrist charred and fingers limply grasping Master Pol’s lightsaber hilt. The Jedi Master had pushed Syenna out of the way, and lost her hand for it.

Standing over Master Pol was the same shadow that had plunged toward Syenna from the cliffs above. A dark cloaked figure clad entirely in black. A hood draped loosely over its head, clawed red hands barely visible under billowing sleeves. Something about the scene felt wrong, like someone had dragged a blade through the very fabric of the galaxy and left a gaping, person-shaped wound where the shadow now stood. 

Syenna knew then that the mysterious assailant was the source of the cold they’d sensed all night. Fear and hate radiated from the figure like a hurricane. A scream rose, barely contained, at the back of her throat. Why couldn’t she move? The shadow was doing something to her, or had done. A bone-splitting pain sliced through her limbs and ribs, dizzying in its immediacy. Through the Force, she felt vice-like claws rip through her skin and into her chest, taking ahold of her lungs, squeezing them with slow compression, tearing through muscle and tissue.

Syenna pushed back, reaching desperately for the Force, stretching out for something to cling to as the freezing sense of dread and suffocating pressure took over her body and mind. It was like being trapped underwater, clawing at an iced-over surface, her body seizing up and her mind under siege by a cold and unrelenting tide. 

She watched, frozen, as the shadow reached out with one clawed hand and gripped Master Pol by the throat, red and black fingers drawing blood and slamming her against the rocks with a sickening thud. The Jedi Master screamed, a choked sound from beneath the shadow’s hands, her head-tails crushed against the stone.

“I haven’t killed a Jedi Master just yet…” The shadow’s voice was low and smooth, heavy with malice. It grated against Syenna’s mind, like a blade dragged across rough stone. “A pity that you put up such little challenge. You will be the first of many.” 

It was too much. Syenna felt sleep at the edges of her mind, consciousness slipping away, the onslaught of terror overwhelming her senses and her mind. Wrong, everything screamed at her. Wrong, get away, wrong, get away. She tried in vain to crush her fear, to rekindle her strength in the Force, that brilliant warm lifeline she’d taken for granted all her life. 

I’m one with Force and the Force is with me, she repeated. Nothing. The Force, it had ever been there to begin with, was no more. All that remained was fear and the cold, and Master Pol’s quiet sobs piercing the silence.

“Your apprentice is weak,” the shadow snarled. “Pathetic and helpless. Before you die, I will kill it. The one you tried in vain to save. How does that make you feel, Master Jedi?”

Syenna barely registered the threat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t she move? Master Pol whimpered, coughing wetly beneath the shadow’s grip. It was a terrible sound, and Syenna realized she had never heard a Jedi Master cry. 

She forced herself to ignore the scene, closing her eyes and reaching out further. Beyond the desert, beyond Drazkel’s moon. I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me. The Force is with me. Hands, scrambling against the ice. Lungs, tight with pressure. Her head spun, light and shapes dancing behind her eyelids.

I am one with the Force. The Force is with me. 

The galaxy was bigger than one shadow. The Force was so much greater. 

A trace of warmth sparked inside of her. A tiny, flickering feeling, but it was something. The Force is with me, I’m one with the Force. The faintest hint of heat, against the overwhelming cold that froze her in place. 

It wasn’t enough. How could it be, when the dark side was endlesss and unrelenting? What was a single spark against a fierce, unyielding blizzard? Syenna wrenched her eyes open, unable to stop the tears that spilled from her eyes, a shrill hum buzzing in her ears.

“Please—” Master Pol gasped, the sound hoarse as dark beads of blood trickled down her throat. “Let my Padawan go. I’ll pay you—I have kn-knowledge of d-dark side objects…useful knowledge that will strengthen your abilities. Secrets of ancient S-Sith— P-plea—“ 

The shadow snarled softly and stood, leaving Master Pol to fall limply to the ground, the Jedi Master’s body thrashing as she choked down air. Once imposing and larger than life, she seemed old and frail as she crawled on her knees at the shadow’s feet, one foot twisted at the ankle as her boots dragged along the dirt. Syenna steadied her breath, each drag of air a serrated blade scraping against her cold lungs. 

“…You speak the truth.” The shadow was surprised. It stepped back, confused, head tilting unnaturally beneath its hood as it re-evaluated the limp Jedi at its feet. Beneath the cloak, Syenna saw a glimpse of gleaming golden eyes, a flash of stained teeth pressed neatly together in rows of white tombstones. 

The shadow stared at the Jedi Master at its feet, intrigued. “What does a Jedi Master know of the dark side?”

No, Syenna thought grimly, reaching for the spark of the Force inside of her, the last thread of warmth that remained. Not a Jedi Master. The woman lying on the ground was Genevva Pol, her Jedi Master, and she needed the help of her apprentice. 

Syenna was her Jedi Padawan, entrusted by the Order to safeguard the light. For even where there was chaos, there was harmony. And even when there was fear, there was peace. Her emotions did not belong to her, so she let them go, fear washing over her in a sudden, crushing wave until all that remained was a retreating tide.

She closed her eyes and drew on the Force with all her strength. 

I am one with the Force and the Force is with me. 

Hiya’s grinning face flashed across her vision, and immediately Syenna felt the spark blaze to life within her, a burning fire thawing the cold that had frozen her in place. Through Hiya’s crystal, humming at her hip, she sensed a warm shadow of her friend in the Force. 

Hiya Ramadia was one with the Force, but so was every Jedi—including Syenna—for the Force was all things and all beings. Without pain, without guilt. She heard Genevva’s voice like a whisper in the curvature of her ear. Boundaries and surfaces could melt away, leaving only one Force, binding them all together. Hiya, the Force, and Syenna. Syenna, Hiya, and the Force. 

I’m one with the Force and the Force is me. Syenna drew her lightsaber with a cry, the last throngs of fear dissipating as she tore her feet from the ground, forced her limbs into sluggish action, and leapt toward the shadow in a desperate, insane frenzy, her blue blade igniting, her kyber crystal and Hiya’s both singing with a ringing peal, banishing the terror and pain from within her as they shone with the brilliance of stars.

She caught the shadow by surprise.

With a shout it staggered backward, clumsily dodging Syenna’s onslaught as she slashed her saber towards it. 

One second of surprise was all that was needed. From beneath them both, Genevva Pol threw herself to her feet, the Jedi Master’s remaining hand drawing something from her right sleeve. It happened so quickly that Syenna saw only a flash of metal as the Jedi Master plunged something deep into the shadow’s heart. A dagger.  

With a ragged scream, the shadow whirled around and slammed the two Jedi back with the Force. The sky spun around her as Syenna tumbled across meters of dirt, back cracking hard against the rocks as everything faded into darkness. Genevva landed next to her with a heavy thud.

Syenna didn’t know how long she lay there unconscious. When the two Jedi finally got to their feet, the shadow was gone, a trail of pain and hatred disappearing into the night.

***

For a moment, they stood in the wasteland air. Then Genevva pulled Syenna into a hug, both of them frail and limp with exhaustion, covered in dirt and blood.

“Well done,” she said, voice thick and broken.

Syenna nodded numbly. “Your hand—”

Genevva closed her eyes and for a moment Syenna thought she might be meditating. Instead, the Jedi Master combed her left hand through her headtails, brushing dirt from the limp tangle upon her head and gingerly massaging some that had been injured in the attack. Her neck had stopped bleeding, now only a scar and streaks of dried blood remained.

“We have more important things to worry about.” Genevva extracted her lightsaber hilt and gingerly hooked it back onto her belt with her left hand. On the ground next to her severed hand lay a simple metal dagger, slick with dark blood from where the Jedi Master had wrenched it into the shadow’s side. Genevva went to retrieve it, faltering slightly as she reached with her right arm, before picking it up and wiping it on her tunic. The blade left wet stripes against the fabric.

“Cortosis,” she said, voice faltering. She passed the blade to Syenna. “Lightsaber resistant and Force dampening. You may think little of me, Padawan, but I know what it takes to be prepared.”

Syenna took the blade. It was roughly crafted, sharped to a point with a serrated edge. It seemed like a primitive tool, but then again, Syenna thought, it had done its job well enough. The shadow never sensed it coming.

“Master—Genevva…what was that thing?” Syenna’s voice came out in a whisper, barely audible. The burning flame inside her had simmered back to a steady glow as she fought to regain her composure and slow the burn of adrenaline. Her heart beat quickly against her ribcage, the oxidized smell of blood almost suffocating her mouth and nose as she sought to slow her breathing. Her mind was everywhere and nowhere. Flashes of moments from seconds ago cycled through her brain. The feeling of ice seeping through her arms and legs. Genevva crying on the ground. The shadow, hooded and cold. Her saber. Genevva’s hand. The dagger. Screams and pain. What… was all she could think. Who—and why—

Genevva only shook her head. “A fallen being, driven to the dark side. Something evil, Padawan. A terrible being.” Her voice wavered. “Let us see if any of its other victims left spacecraft behind. I’d like to leave this planet as soon as possible.”

***

They retraced their steps, following the trail of death through the Force, stopping only to pile stones atop the corpses they’d encountered in the desert. Eventually they came upon an abandoned mercenary gunship, more bodies strewn around its entrance. These were Trandoshans, their reptilian bodies no less mutilated than the Weequays and Pykes they’d come across earlier. After rummaging through the ship’s supplies, Syenna found a medkit and bandaged Genevva’s arm. Like the bodies, her wound was already seared and cauterized, leaving only a raw arm stump weeping with a layer of thin, clear fluid. She cleaned her master’s wrist and applied a bandage the way she’d been taught back at the Temple.

My first time attending a lightsaber wound, Syenna thought. Her training in the Halls of Healing had not prepared her for the sickening reality in front of her. It was a wound almost as psychological and spiritual as it was physical, the symbol of a Jedi’s commitment to peace and defense used so brutally against them. She could feel the turmoil simmering in her Master as the Jedi struggled to regain her composure. 

“My price to pay for failure,” Genevva said at last. Her voice, normally so brusque and confident, sounded wet and broken. “And a lesson not to underestimate the power of the dark side.” She looked away from the bandage, stowed the bloodied dagger and busied herself with useless tasks in the ship’s cockpit. 

After they left the moon’s atmosphere, they lingered briefly near the Xrexus station, which had shot at them so recently but now floated dormant and lifeless, its viewports mirror-like against the black of space. 

The dark side hung like a fog around the metal structure.

“No point in landing,” Genevva said, taking them to the jump point. They both knew that they’d find no one left alive on the station.

They set course to Coruscant after that. Seated side by side, the Jedi sat in cold silence for hours. Syenna tried to meditate but quickly gave up, her mind too fractured and overwhelmed to do the ritual any justice. It was awful. Too terrible to know what to say.

“Padawan.” Genevva broke the silence at last. She sat in the co-pilot’s chair, where Hiya had sat before, and turned to face her. Syenna was struck by how tired the Jedi Master looked, how the events on Drazkel’s moon had seemed to age her. She tried not to think about Genevva’s screams and sobs as she writhed in the dirt. “You should spend some time in the Halls of Healing,” her Master said. “When we return. What happened today should never have happened.” 

Genevva sighed and leaned forward in her chair, pink headtails hanging lifelessly around her face. Some of her head-tails had not recovered from being crushed against the rocks on Drazkel, and hung twisted and swollen in a horrible tangle. “Deva was right—I should never have taken that chit. I led us down a path of danger and darkness in the foolish hope that I was onto something, that things were finally….” She trailed off. “I hope you can forgive me.”

Syenna glanced at Genevva’s bandaged wrist. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Red talons and a dark hood flashed through her mind. All of her training at the Temple: her studying, her practice, her meditations and duels and research. Nothing had prepared her for what had happened. When faced with the sheer scale of death and destruction on Drazkel’s moon, or the overwhelming terror and power of the dark side as it froze her in place, icing over that precious, life-sustaining connection to the Force… she couldn’t even defend herself against one lone assailant. 

Her master had leapt in front of her and saved her life. And she’d lost her a hand in the process, the shadow—the dark Jedi—slicing it off with their own cursed lightsaber. Even then, Syenna had stood frozen, unable to move or think or even touch the Force, until the very last moment. What kind of a Jedi was she? Had she truly been so arrogant to think herself more deserving than being apprenticed to Genevva Pol?

If anything, Syenna thought, she shouldn’t be a Padawan or a Jedi at all. How could she, when her strength in the Force had so easily been destroyed by one dark side adept? Her heart ached and her insides felt like a twisted mess. Syenna had never felt so lost before. Inside she wanted to scream and weep. Cry for everyone whose deaths they’d failed to stop. For Genevva’s hand. For failing. 

Syenna found herself staring into the blue whirls of hyperspace. At her belt, a hum—Hiya’s kyber crystal. She took it from its pouch and rolled it between her fingers, the familiar shape of the crystal grounding her. It resonated in the Force, a countermelody gently harmonic with her own crystal’s song. A reminder of Hiya and what her friend’s sacrifice had meant. A reminder to make the most of it—to be the best Jedi she could be. For just as much as the Force had given Syenna the will to break free from the dark side’s hold, it had also been Hiya’s presence that restored her strength in the face of fear. Hiya and the Force. Without her fear and pain and guilt, the surfaces dissolved and Syenna perceived Hiya the same way that she felt the Force: a warm, comforting glow. They were one and the same after all. 

Syenna would keep going then, as hard and horrible as it was. She would tend the flame within her, rebuild her connection to the Force. It was what Hiya wanted. She exhaled, stowing the crystal safely.

Hyperspace was…calming. Hiya always enjoyed it, falling asleep on the way to each offworld mission the younglings had undertaken. Syenna on the other hand had found it cold and unnerving. But now the turbulent blue didn’t seem so unsettled. There was chaos yet harmony. Peace and purpose. Syenna looked at each blue cloud, flickering and dissipating and reforming, casting a soft glow through the ship’s viewport.

“Most likely they will reassign you to Ki-Adi-Mundi.” Genevva seemed to be speaking more to herself than to Syenna. “He wanted to train you in the first place. He’s insufferable, but he is a great Jedi.”

Syenna at last found the courage to speak, her voice dry and cracked. She swallowed hard. “But you requested me. And Yoda said yes.”

Genevva sighed and Syenna sensed the depth of her master’s sadness—striking, unfathomable, vertigo on the edge of a crevasse whose limits plunged further than the light could reach. “My path as a Jedi has been unconventional. I’ve done things many Jedi would never dream of. Things that have made me question my connection to the Force and what it’s worth. Some of those things have been in service to the Council’s requests. Others have not.”

“On the moon… you said you had knowledge of the dark side. And you carry that dagger.” Syenna was a good student. She knew Jedi weren’t supposed to know things about using the dark side, nor were they meant to use weapons other than their saber, itself a symbol of defence and protection.

She chose not to say anything about how Genevva had offered to trade those secrets to the shadow in exchange for their lives. Perhaps it had simply been a lie, a ruse to catch the assailant off guard. Or maybe she would have sold that knowledge in a heartbeat. It was hard to know, and harder still to judge whether she might have been right to do so. Her training had not posed questions like these.

Genevva winced.  “I’ve helped the Council find and destroy many dark side artefacts sold on the black market. Ancient objects with the power to cause great suffering. I’ve killed criminals and collectors alike in the service of the Order. Investigating the dark side is not an easy road to walk alone, and I’ve always wanted to train a Padawan. But the Council has never allowed it.” Her eyes glistened. “I believe many of them disagree with the choices I’ve made. Several are waiting for me to make a mistake big enough to permanently confine me to the Temple. Or worse.”

Syenna thought about the first question she’d failed to ask Genevva, back in the refectory on Coruscant: Why now? By now she’d figured out the answer to that herself. If Genevva was right, Syenna thought that Yoda had only changed his mind about letting her take a Padawan because he wanted to keep Genevva Pol on a leash. Rule-following, by-the-book, perfect student Syenna would be the perfect candidate to keep Master Genevva in check and report any dangerous violations to the Council.

Before this expedition, Syenna might have felt proud—Master Yoda trusted her to do what no other initiate could. Now she felt only sorrow and dread. The events of the past two days were too great and frightening to grapple with. The implications and questions too enormous. But nothing about this felt right. Even now, the Jedi Council waited comfortably for Genevva and Syenna’s return, upon which they would mete out appropriate punishment and reassign Syenna without a second thought, with no true idea of the horror both Jedi had experienced.

She remembered the anguish and pain she’d sensed on Drazkel. Not all of it had been the shadow’s. 

“I will give the Council our full report,” said Genevva, sighing. “Though I doubt they will have much use for it. A fallen Jedi who slaughtered his criminal captors and escaped into the darkness after fighting two Jedi who weren’t supposed to be there. No footage or evidence to show. All witnesses dead. We don’t have enough pieces to form even half of the picture.”

“Master—Genevva…why did we go on this mission?” Syenna tried to understand when things had started to go wrong after they rushed through the kitchens and onto the Diathim. Like Genevva, she felt as though she were grasping at shapes in the darkness, impossible to make out but lurking all the same. It was a blur, but behind the smudged shadows something nagged at her. “You said it was to rescue a kidnapped Jedi. But on Nar Shaddaa, you said something to Deva about darker forces. Bounty hunters and who hired them. We didn’t find the answers to any of that. Just a dark Jedi who escaped their captors.”

Genevva rubbed her face. “A lesson to not act in haste. I was sure this would lead me to something big. I felt it. There are whispers in the trade of dark side artefacts. Rumors of a larger plan that connects it all together. The Jedi, the underworld, the syndicates, the dark side. I thought this would help me tie it all together.” She shook her head in shame. “But I was chasing shadows. When you shine a light on shadows, Padawan, they disappear. I don’t know what role Xev Xrexus or the bounty hunters played, but if there was more to be discovered, it’s gone now.”

The freighter jolted into realspace above Coruscant, the city planet’s criss cross of lights welcoming Syenna home. She felt a sudden pang of homesickness enter her chest; she was desperate to feel the warm embrace of the Temple again, its presence in the Force steadfast and strong.

“Genevva?”

“Yes, Padawan?”

“Can you call me Syenna?”

Genevva smiled. It was a rare smile, Syenna thought, oddly out of place on Genevva’s face. But it felt like an achievement.

“I thought you'd never ask.”

“I have one more question,” Syenna ventured, deciding to push her luck. “What you said before we left Coruscant, those questions I was meant to ask you. Why now, how did this happen. I can’t help but wonder about them now. Why did Xev Xrexus choose this moment to kidnap a Jedi? Why did the Jedi turn dark? Why now?”

“Those are excellent questions, Syenna.” This time there was sadness in Genevva’s voice. “But not all excellent questions have worthy answers.”

Long after they had both returned to the Temple, Syenna thought about the kidnapped Jedi, Xev Xrexus’ abandoned station, and the bodies they’d encountered, nameless faces hacked and stabbed with a saber. She thought about the shadow’s cold rage and how Genevva had sobbed and shivered on the dirt of Drazkel’s moon. How Deva had warned them against pursuing their investigation, how unsolved mysteries of bounty hunters and false auctions had led to a door with nothing behind it. Why? Why now? Her Master was right. The answers they’d set out to find had only left them with more uncertainty. 

***

“Concerning, this is.” Master Yoda leaned heavily on his cane. A number of Jedi had been reported as deceased over the last several years. This fallen Jedi, kidnapped by Xrexus Cartel and now on the loose, could have been any one of those. Or an errant Jedi Knight, who’d somehow slipped past the notice of all others at the Temple. Perhaps an untrained Force-wielder who’d been missed by the Jedi Searchers and developed an untamed affinity for the dark side—that seemed most likely. This lost child had acquired a lightsaber on the black market, only to be captured by criminals, and unleashed his anger out of fear and desperation. 

Amidst their work on Kwenn preparing the planet for its bicentenniel celebration, only a handful of the Council had gotten the chance to review Genevva Pol’s full report. It simply added to the growing pile of tasks awaiting their return on Coruscant. Not that it mattered. From what Master Pol and Padawan Lark had written, it seemed unlikely that the fallen Jedi would resurface any time soon, having fled the scene after massacring his kidnappers. 

“A great many things are concerning.” Mace Windu stared down at the hologram of his old friend. Unlike Master Yoda, he stood on the deck of the Assurance, a Republic corvette of the Diplomatic Fleet. It was a hectic time for all Jedi Masters. “Including Genevva Pol’s unsanctioned behavior.”

“Hmmm.” Yoda closed his eyes. “Requested to stay on as her Padawan, young Syenna Lark did.”

Mace raised his eyebrows. “She was a promising student.” 

“A promising student, she is.” Yoda’s flickering blue figure poked at Mace with his cane. “A great trial she faced on this mission. A test of courage, skill and faith. Much left to teach each other, those two still have.” 

“Or much danger.” Mace wasn’t convinced. 

“Confuse not independence for recklessness,” Master Yoda groused. “Committed to the Order are both of these Jedi. Guide them, we shall. Not punish. A home for many kinds of Jedi, the Order must be.” He trailed off. Remember Dooku, Mace knew was the implication. Remember Keeve Trennis. If he didn’t know better, Mace thought, the Grand Master almost sounded sentimental. But though Yoda spoke from the heart, his feelings were mediated through centuries of experience and instruction. The small green Jedi’s sharp insight into the interpersonal and cosmic alike were as mathematically vast as his age, an order of magnitude beyond most Jedi’s capabilities—Mace included.

Still, as Mace ended the call, he couldn’t shake the dread that sat at the bottom of his stomach. Why had this happened? And why now?

Chapter Text

The answer to Syenna’s questions came sooner than expected. Mere months after the failed mission to Drazkel, Syenna heard whispers through the temple that a Sith Lord had emerged from hiding. Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and his padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had encountered and fought this supposed Sith on Tatooine. Syenna knew immediately that it was the hateful shadow they’d met on Drazkel’s moon. The Sith, long thought dead, had at last come out of hiding.

“I need to speak with Qui-Gon,” Genevva said. “He’ll be meeting with the Council now. Wait here.” She marched off and Syenna crossed her legs and sat on the hard floor. 

They’d just finished dinner at the refectory (not all of Genevva’s exotic foods were so bad after all) when the Jedi Master overheard a conversation between Tholothian Padawan D'urban Wen-Hurd and her friend Osska Vi. Did you hear about the Sith Lord on Dantooine? I heard he was ten feet tall with fiery red eyes and four red lightsabers. After interrogating the nervous Padawans with characteristic bluntness, Genevva Pol identified the source as Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’d just returned from Tatooine with his Master. 

It wasn’t the most dignified way to wait, but Syenna found she didn’t care. She leaned back, closed her eyes and sighed. The flat stone of the Temple wall pressed back against her hair.

In the months since their first mission, Genevva and Syenna’s relationship had improved. Unfortunately a condition of that improvement seemed to be that the Mikkian Jedi hardly spent any time actually teaching Syenna concrete lessons about the Force, lightsaber duelling or what it meant to be a Jedi. Instead, Genevva Pol would pose a single question or paradoxical statement every Primeday morning and then leave it with Syenna to determine out how she wanted to spend the rest of the week in response. At times the question was as straightforward as “Why does the Jedi Temple refectory serve Spiran caf?”, “How many credits will Gojuni Motts pay for this Kyberite necklace?” or “What is the daily special at Cobe Café?” These were standard problems with quantifiable answers, and prompted Syenna to archival research and field expedition. She spoke with Temple workers to understand the policies and process of caf procurement. She read about the economies of Kyberite and then tested her bargaining skills in a luxurious Coruscanti apartment opposite Genevva’s erstwhile friend and millionaire artist Gojuni Motts. She took the train across Coruscant to survey dingy restaurants in the lower levels of Quadrant H-46.

On other days, Genevva’s questions seemed more like metaphors or thinking exercises. “What are planets made of?” had stumped Syenna until she’d ended up offering her Master a range of possible answers at the end of the week. To make matters worse, Genevva seldom revealed any judgement on whether her Padawan had responded in the way she’d been intended to. All the Mikkian woman ever did was purse her lips and nod. 

But Syenna had begun to notice that almost all of Genevva’s research questions had something to do with lore, mysticism or the grey market economies of Force-related artefacts. While combing through the galactic flow of caf production, Syenna stumbled across what appeared to be a shell corporation that specialized in the tax-free trade of Ordu Aspectu archaeology. Kyberite, valued for its aesthetic properties, was rumored to shield one’s mind against Jedi mind tricks. Even the daily special at the Cobe Café held secrets of its own. The chef’s spicy stew originated from Brendok, a planet whose population was wiped out during a great hyperspace disaster centuries ago—and when Syenna started digging through Temple files on the abandoned planet, she discovered an intriguing footnote about a coven of Force witches who had once reclaimed the planet as their home. 

Sometimes Genevva’s puzzles seemed more like games than lessons. On one of her more recent errands, Syenna realized she’d been sent to a diner in the industrial sector of Coruscant to retrieve a decadent creamcake she later discovered was for her own eleventh birthday celebration.

Syenna suspected that by keeping her busy with low stakes and cerebral tasks Genevva was trying to shield them both from any more traumatizing experiences in the field. After Drazkel her nighttime minutes could never be the same. Forever in the shadows on the edges of her dreams there lurked something greater and more dangerous than comprehension. She was lesser than a candle flame, a flicker in the gloom. In the weeks after Drazkel, Genevva urged Syenna to meet with Rig Nema in the Halls of Healing. Syenna found the meetings profoundly unhelpful. There was only so much talking about her feelings could do. What she wanted was to do something meaningful again: something active, something that would help her become a better and stronger Jedi—not just busywork in the Archives.

Something inside her simmered like hyperfuel: a seductive poison, explosive and iridescent. For as hard as she meditated, and as much as she talked to Master Nema, the cold feeling of dread and the dark side had never quite left Syenna since the incident on Drazkel’s moon. The only cure, Syenna thought, was to do what she always did. To fill her life with purpose and action, to replace that dreadful void with so much color and energy so that it could be permanently erased.

“What are you doing?”

Syenna bolted upright. “Uh—”  

A boy stood in front of her, curious and shy. She stared back, her heart racing. His dome haircut framed his small, freckled face like a helmet. He wore a rough grey tunic, belted at the waist, and thick, wrapped boots. Though his voice was anxious his eyes beheld a mischievous spark. He no longer wore the same tattered rags he’d worn on Ilum—but he looked almost exactly the same as she remembered. 

Syenna felt the weight of time press in on her heart, the dizzying idea of the Force as something so much bigger than her that had woven this strange thread through her life. A raindrop falling toward an ocean.

“It’s you.”

“I’m Anakin,” he said. “Pleased to meet you!”

***

Why had the Force connected them in this way? The boy was friendly enough, though Syenna sensed that he didn’t recall her at all from the tunnels of Ilum. If he had even been there to begin with. She tried not to think too much about that day. Visions and prophecies were viewed with suspicion by the Jedi Order, and the memory of Hiya’s death was already unpleasant enough.

“I’m Syenna Lark,” she said simply. “Padawan to Genevva Pol.”

The boy grinned, his face alight. “You’re a Jedi, then. You help people?”

“Hoping to. Mostly I’ve just been running errands and going on random assignments.” Syenna tried not to let the sour tone creep into her voice. He looked about her age—maybe younger—but there was a wholesome optimism to him that seemed so earnest she was afraid to damage it. She tried to banish the unsettling images of Ilum that came unbidden to her, focusing instead on the boy’s strange appearance in front of her.

“That’s wizard,” he said. He reminded her a little of Hiya, bouncing on his toes, always restless. His attention like an asteroid belt, tumbling in entropic loops. “Master Qui-Gon brought me here because he says I can be a Jedi too.” Anakin’s voice trailed off, his smile slipping away. “But the Jedi Council isn’t going to let him train me. They think I’m too afraid and I miss my mom too much. I don’t get it.” He sat next to her, drawing his knees to his chest. He was almost as tall as Syenna, though he seemed impossibly small. “So I don’t know if I’ll ever be a Jedi.”

Syenna patted his arm. She was never great with people and had relied for too long on Hiya’s charms to navigate most interactions. Months with the dour Genevva Pol hadn’t helped either.

“I’m…sure it will be okay,” she said. “You’re quite old to be a Jedi Initiate, aren’t you?” She knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say. Anakin’s face scrunched up like he was going to cry.  “I mean,” she hurried. “That must mean you’re special. I doubt you would have been brought here otherwise.”

Anakin shrugged. “Master Qui-Gon says so,” he said, one hand scratching absently at his torso. Syenna wondered if he was wounded. “He says I’m a chosen one.”

“Uh…” Syenna grasped for the right thing to say, caught off guard by Anakin’s confusing statement. “If Master Qui-Gon has chosen you for anything, that has to be a good thing. Master Genevva thinks he is a great Jedi.”

Anakin smiled and Syenna allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction. She could handle people then, at least she wasn’t completely off-putting. 

“Come, Anakin.” Above her Master Qui-Gon appeared, tall and demure in his long brown robes, greying hair flowing elegantly over his shoulders. Syenna and Anakin scrambled to their feet, Syenna ducking her head in deference. 

Master Qui-Gon gave her a wry smile and wink. Syenna had the thought that he was Genevva’s opposite in many ways, lanky and smiling, his posture relaxed and his hair straight and untangled. Yet they both hummed with the same sort of energy in the Force; a lively, buzzing presence that Syenna had come to associate with crowds rather than individuals. Nonetheless the two Jedi Masters were friends, or at least shared a few interests; more than once she had been summoned by Genevva only to find the two drinking tea together in the refectory.

“Padawan Lark,” he said, gravel voice teasing and affectionate. “Your Master tells me your training is proceeding at great pace. Be good to her.” 

The compliment was as surprising as it was unusual; certainly Genevva had never offered any such feedback, but Syenna accepted the words with a grateful nod. Then Qui-Gon Jinn was off down the corridor, striding along purposefully with Padawan Kenobi and Anakin hurriedly trailing behind. What an unusual group, she thought, though she guessed her and Genevva looked similarly mismatched in appearance and manner. Did Jedi Masters choose their apprentices because they wanted to train someone unlike them, she wondered? Or did the pairing itself cause the disjunction—Padawans diverging from their Masters as an act of rebellion and independence.

She didn’t know it then but it was the last time she would ever see the Jedi Master. Years later, Syenna would think back to this moment—to how invincible a Jedi could be, so large and full of the Force, and yet so easily slain by the Sith. Had she known then what was to come, she might have run after them, screaming and begging, urging them to wake up to the danger rising throughout the galaxy. Instead she let them go, two Jedi and a lost child disappearing down the corridor. 

Syenna waited for Genevva to reappear but the Jedi Master seemed to have retired for the night, so she went back to her room. That night she dreamt of sinewy shadows, their swirling lightsabers filling her vision until red was all she could see.

Chapter Text

Syenna Lark dreamed.

The sky was blood red, the stars distant flickers of candlelight. She saw a shadow approach, swift and lethal, then a flash of light, blistering pain lancing through her gut. Somewhere to her left Genevva Pol cried out. The sound seemed so very far away, and faded fast.

Snow fell. Winter came upon her.

Chapter Text

43 BBY

Mace Windu surveyed the damage. Azita Cruuz’s freighter lay in smoking ruins where that depraved Devaronian man—what had he called himself? “The Shroud”?—once stood. He turned back to Azita, surprised to find his face stretched into a smile. She’d grown on him after all.

“You still have the coaxium ultra sample and formula,” he said. If you don’t, the last of it just got destroyed, he chose not to add.

 Azita smiled. Her skin glistened lightly with the sheen of exertion. “Right here. The rest is ash, so the Jedi will be the only ones who have it.” All in all, a reasonable outcome, even if it hadn’t been the one he expected.

Mace had been a Jedi Master long enough to know that sometimes things worked themselves out quite nicely if you had the wits to seize the right opportunities at the correct moments. Like Azita Cruuz.

How strange that he would meet, of all people on Ro Mira, another Korun. It was a big galaxy, but in many ways, not so big at all, he thought. That too was the Force at work, its lattice binding each and every being together in tensile balance. Every node of the lattice was conceivably its centre, which that meant even small decisions could have galaxy-wide consequences. And Mace always listened to what the lattice had to say.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Once we deliver this fuel to the Order and I get some answers about “The Shroud”, let’s both pay a visit to Haruun Kal. It’s been too long, and maybe we could do some good.”

He wasn’t being entirely truthful. Still, this mission had uncovered more loose ends than he felt comfortable leaving alone. He hadn’t met Azita or The Shroud by chance. For her part, Azita seemed keen to continue their work together. That pleased him. 

“Not too much good,” she said drily. “It doesn’t agree with me, constitutionally.” She was a scoundrel after all, even if there was a beating heart somewhere under the bluster. And she was competent. One of the most important resources in the galaxy, Mace thought, rarer than coaxium and yet infinitely more valuable—was competence. Though Mace Windu believed that the Force resided in all beings, he also knew that everyone had limited time in their life before they returned to the Force. He preferred not to waste that precious time on incompetence.

 “We might need to make a stop first,” Azita added. “That little fighter will burn through its fuel carrying the two of us.” She gestured to Mace’s one-person Delta-7—their only way back to Coruscant.

“You’re right. Know any…disreputable planets where we can refuel the hyper-ring?” Something tugged at him through the Force. A strange, distant feeling. How odd. He brushed it off. They already had enough to worry about.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

***

On Milax V, the flame burned out and winter fell.

Chapter Text

Every Padawan in the Temple loved to talk about Anakin Skywalker. They were the right age to be invested in the trade of whispered hearsay without shame or guilt. Syenna didn’t envy him, even if it wasn’t only bad things that she heard. She suspected most of the rumors stemmed from jealously; he was supposedly a whiz with a lightsaber and an ace pilot too. She never bothered to verify these stories, though she knew several Padawans and younglings who gathered to watch his sparring sessions. 

He was a late starter, a former slave from Jabba the Hutt’s criminal fiefdom on Tatooine. That kind of background was sure to make some of the Padawans nervous. It was an uncomfortable reminder of how lucky each of them were to have grown up in the luxury and comfort of the Jedi Temple.

She didn’t spend time worrying over those matters. To Syenna, the Jedi Order had always seemed to be the great idyllic equalizer of galactic opportunity. Sure, you needed to have a certain aptitude for Force Sensitivity in order to become a Jedi, but neither bloodline nor wealth could influence the creation of midichlorians. And while some arrived at the Temple clad in Dramassian shimmersilk and others in burlap swaddling, spend enough years as a Jedi and your early childhood became little more than a blip, one small stitch in the vast quilt of your life. 

Most Jedi managed to find out what their midichlorian counts were by their third year as Initiates. Syenna’s was slightly below average. But there was no way to tell what kind of childhood Master Luminara Unduli had had compared to Master Mundi or Master Windu, Master Tiplar or Master Billaba. In the end, discipline, experience and hard work—those were the determining factors of a successful Jedi.

And swinging a lightsaber was not a Jedi skill. That’s what Genevva said, over and over again. Being a Jedi was about asking the right questions and then knowing how to look for answers. Nine years into her apprenticeship, Syenna often wondered if she might have finally figured out everything that Genevva was trying to teach her. Until her Master invariably put her in her place. “You’ll be ready for the trials when I say you are,” Genevva said. And that was the end of that.

Still, Syenna thought, she was probably doing better at her training than Anakin Skywalker, who for the last hour had sat in the corner of the refectory watching the holodisplay.

Was that…podracing? Syenna didn’t even know the Jedi Temple streamed channels like that. In her time moving in and out of the kitchens with Genevva, she seldom paid much attention to the holoprojector. But they surely always displayed menus and news feeds, schedules, notices and logistics. The dangerous sport of podracing, which Syenna knew also fuelled an unsavory gambling industry across the Outer Rim, seemed trite and out of place. Didn’t Skywalker have anything better to be doing with his time? Even practising his lightsaber showmanship might have been more productive.

As if sensing her gaze, Anakin turned his head, steel blue eyes briefly meeting hers across the room. She glanced away with a flush, burying herself in the holobook before her. 

Genevva had disappeared earlier that day, scurrying through the kitchens with a vague promise to be back soon. She’d left Syenna with a stack of holos from the archives, promising that they’d soon get back into the field.

It wasn’t like they never left Coruscant these days. In the nine years since Drazkel, Genevva and Syenna had recovered a missing holocron on Corvus, rescued a village from raiders on Dantooine, and apprehended an illicit lightsaber dealer on Pijal. They’d bought the Diathim II on Nar Shaddaa (Syenna had learned a great deal about the theatrics of bargaining from the Mikkian Jedi Master) and tracked down an ancient cuneiform tablet on Jakku. Occasionally, Syenna even had the chance to apply some of the arcane knowledge she’d picked up during her early years of research and errands.

Still, Genevva seemed particularly distracted of late. Her “secret project”, as Syenna silently called it, took the Jedi Master on frequent solo trips off-world, all while Syenna was relegated to the busywork of her youth back at the Temple.

It was the Sith. Syenna was sure of it. 

Well, it was the Sith or her Master had a secret long-distance lover, which seemed unlikely.

Because for all the field missions Genevva had taken her on, none of them had ever come close to touching the matter of the Sith. 

Qui-Gon Jinn’s death at the hands of a Sith Lord weighed heavily on them both. Had they been strong enough to kill the shadow on Drazkel’s moon, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Master might still live today.  Syenna did her best not to think about things in those terms. After all, they only narrowly avoiding being killed by the Sith Lord themselves. Genevva had a harder time letting go. Syenna suspected a cocktail of pride and guilt were at play, Genevva’s prosthetic hand an eternal reminder of her failure.

Her Master, who prided herself on always being prepared, who carried a kriffing Force-cloaked dagger on her at all times, had not been able to defeat the first Sith Lord seen in generations. And if Genevva Pol had failed, that surely meant all the terrible things she’d done in her research of the dark side had been for nothing. They’d encountered the Sith on Drazkel’s moon, and they’d let it escape, and too many Jedi had paid the price.

Maul.

That was the name Viceroy Nute Gunray had given Republic Intelligence. Darth Maul.

The name was ugly and violent. Just thinking it sent cold shivers down Syenna’s spine. It had no written matches in any news, records or archives that Genevva could find.

Darth Maul, who killed Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. Darth Maul, who almost killed Syenna and Genevva. Darth Maul, whose fellow Sith remains unknown and at-large. For the Sith crave the power of two, Genevva had said. A master and an apprentice.

Now, years later, her own Master was still chasing shadows. Trading credits for rumors and whispers in the criminal underworld, taking unsanctioned trips while Syenna invented increasingly outlandish alibis for her Jedi Master’s absence from the Temple. 

Genevva never said more than a few words to Syenna about the secret project, but she wasn’t a child anymore. She could put the pieces together: Genevva was trying to hunt the Sith.

She only wished that her Master trusted her enough to take her along on those missions. After nine years of training, hadn’t she earned the right?

Lost in thought, Syenna missed the figure approaching until a shadow dropped across the table. 

“Am I disturbing you?” Anakin Skywalker’s chirpy voice startled her from her thoughts. 

“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to,” she groused, vaguely horrified to realize how much she sounded like Genevva. She pointed to the stack of holos. “I’m reading.”

“Sure,” Anakin said. He sat down opposite to her, elbows leaning on the table. “I didn’t realize Aurebesh was so difficult for you. That holobook’s been showing the same screen for the last half hour.”

Startled, Syenna saw that he was right. She’d been so lost in thought that she’d barely progressed past the first page. She spluttered. “And how would you know that? Or is…Ben Quadinaros…less riveting than you hoped?”

Anakin frowned, fidgeting with his hands. “I thought I’d say hi,” he said, defensive. “It’s been a while. You looked stressed.”

Syenna felt a pang of guilt twist in her stomach. She hadn’t intended to come off as truly hostile. She’d seen Anakin around the Temple a handful of times, of course, but only in passing or from a distance. The two Padawans hadn’t spoken in years, not since they’d briefly met as children, but she realized now that he still saw her as a friendly face. Knowing how the other Jedi bullied and teased the boy, she couldn’t blame him. Without Hiya, her first years as a Jedi would have been overwhelming and lonely as well.

And of course, Genevva and Obi-Wan weren’t the only Jedi who’d lost a friend to Maul. Anakin had too.

“You’re right,” she amended. “Sorry.”

Anakin shrugged. He didn’t seem too upset. “Quadinaros isn’t that bad,” he added. “But I’ve beaten him.” His mouth quirked, pulled into a lopsided smile. 

“You raced him?” Syenna narrowed her eyes. “Since when do Jedi podrace?” 

“It was for a mission!” Anakin held his hands up, grinning. “Well, the second time it was.”

Syenna shook her head. She had no idea what the guy was blathering on about. “It sounds like you and Master Kenobi have been busy.”

“I’m always pulling him out of trouble.” He blinked, remembering himself. “Actually I was coming over to ask where Master Pol is. The Council’s sending us on a mission and Obi-Wan can’t get in contact with her.”

“Master Pol…?” Syenna tried to process the information Anakin had suddenly dumped on her. His mind seemed to move at a different pace to hers, words jumping between topics like a wild womp rat skipping across the sand. “Oh, uh, she’s visiting the… nerf museum in… CoCo Town. I’ll comm her.” She paused, mind racing. “Did you say us?”

Anakin nodded enthusiastically. “Obi-Wan and Master Pol. We’re going with them.” He jumped to his feet. “Better get her quick. It’s not a good idea to keep the Council waiting. Trust me.”

Syenna watched the tall boy race out of the refectory, then she gathered her holobooks. Hopefully Genevva hadn’t gotten too far from Coruscant yet.

She glanced over again at the holoprojector. The racetrack had been replaced by the HoloNet News, where a journalist was speaking to a young Senator from the Mid Rim. She was pretty, brown hair braided in an elaborate hairstyle. At least Anakin had switched the podracing off before he left.

***

Syenna had only been in the Jedi Council chamber once before, after Qui-Gon Jinn’s funeral. She’d stood, feeling even smaller and younger than she was, in the center of the dizzying room, watching speeders and airships zip through Coruscant’s skies as voices came at her from different directions. The gruff voice of Saesee Tiin, the horned Iktotchi probing her for clues about Maul’s origins. Plo Koon’s commanding questions about how and why she and Genevva had been on Drazkel in the first place. Mace Windu’s familiar presence, a steady calm that anchored her to the floor, reassuring her that she was not in trouble. 

Now she stood alongside Kenobi and Skywalker, wishing fiercely that Genevva had not chosen this moment to go off-world and work on her secret Sith project. She stammered out an excuse that her Master must have forgotten her commlink, silently cursing the unpredictable woman for her secrecy. It was clear that the Council didn’t buy it, though no one seemed to blame her.

“This mission is highly sensitive. Randon is greatly important to the Republic.” Mace Windu leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped and brow furrowed.

“Randon is a major producer of silicax oxalate,” Master Mundi said. Much like the Land & Sky Corporation of Aakaash or Czerka’s operations on Pijal, Randon was governed by its homegrown Randon Mining Corporation. This arrangement was largely unspoken, since the planetary legislature remained legally independent and democratically elected. But for all intents and purposes, Mundi explained, both entities acted in accordance with the directives of Randon Mining.

The planet had recently elected a new representative to the Galactic Senate, only for the Senator to mysteriously disappear several rotations ago. Her body had not been recovered, and no ransom note had been found. She had simply…vanished.

“You suspect foul play?” Obi-Wan Kenobi to her left, his hand resting thoughtfully on his ginger beard.

“That’s for you to find out,” Master Windu said. His voice was stern but not unkind. “As Jedi, you possess the ability to investigate and judge impartially, without getting involved in the sophistries of politics.”

On cue, two blue holograms flickered to life at the center of the Council chamber. Syenna recognized the Supreme Chancellor immediately: Sheev Palpatine was well-liked through the Republic, having ascended to the office of Chancellor somewhat by accident amid the Trade Federation’s invasion of Naboo. He was a genial, if sometimes out of his depth, vaguely middle-aged career politician with a penchant for committees and bureaucracy. Syenna found him supremely boring. 

The other figure was a broad-shouldered Falleen man. Through the flickering hologram, Syenna noted that he wore a tasseled mantle, its plain design belying the dense weave of an expensive fabric. He was large and muscular, though he seemed to shrink in on himself, shoulders hunched and head bowed. 

“Chancellor Palpatine,” Windu said, nodding. “Minister Jant. Thank you for being with us.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances,” Palpatine said, nodding sorrowfully. “I congratulated Senator Miria myself when she was elected, and was most looking forward to working with her. But I have no doubt the Jedi will get to the bottom of this…concerning turn of events.”

Minister Jant cut in, his accent broad. “I appreciate your kind words, Chancellor, but we are still conducting an internal investigation. It is not yet clear whether additional support from the Jedi would help or hinder their work. Perhaps we can revisit this option after my team has reached some initial findings.”

A ripple passed through the Force as the Jedi Council silently reacted to this statement. Only Master Windu raised a poised, deliberate eyebrow.

“My apologies, Minister,” Plo Koon said. “I thought the request for a Jedi investigation came directly from Randon.”

Minister Jant’s eyes narrowed. “Randon Mining Corp has the resources to support a full-scale investigation. Our homeland security has made this a matter of priority. We intend to find our Senator and return her safely home.”

Palpatine cut in smoothly. “I understand your hesitation. Truly, I do. But as a Senator, Miria is not only a representative of Randon to the Republic, but an ambassador of the Republic to Randon. I believe this matter falls under the jurisdiction of my office. Fortunately we have a capable team of Jedi on hand to uncover the truth.” His translucent blue hand gestured to Anakin. “I can personally vouch for young Skywalker. He is most impressive.”

Syenna frowned. Palpatine had committed an odd diplomatic faux pas, practically ignoring the more senior Kenobi in favor of his impulsive Padawan. The Council certainly noticed this, Windu’s eyebrow twitching ever so slightly. Was Chancellor Palpatine… friends with Anakin?

Anakin seemed perfectly pleased with the attention. He practically beamed as he said, “We’ll find out what happened, sir. You can count on us.”

Syenna winced. Obi-Wan sighed.

“I see,” said Minister Jant, his voice resigned. “Well in that case, I will look forward to your arrival.”

“We’ll have the hangar crew identify a suitable vessel,” Windu said. “Kenobi and Pol will leave tomorrow at first light with their Padawans. Time is of the essence if the Senator is to be recovered safely.”

“What a relief.” Palpatine’s voice shook ever so slightly. “I do hope Senator Miria is alright. To disappear without a trace…A stark reminder of how illusory our safety can be. Elected office has its burdens as well as its privileges, I suppose. Thank you, Master Jedi.”

The two holograms blinked out, leaving the Council chamber in silence.

Master Yoda spoke. “Make your preparations, Obi-Wan and Padawan Skywalker. Padawan Lark…a word, might we have?”

She watched Obi-Wan and Anakin file out of the chamber, Skywalker shooting her an encouraging smile as he left. Then she turned back to face the Council again.

“Concerned, we are,” Master Yoda said. He sighed. This was Master Yoda. The oldest and wisest of the Jedi, a teacher for centuries who had lived through it all—now at a loss for words. The small green Jedi looked older than ever, eyes tired and forehead creased.

“Genevva Pol has often been independent,” Windu said. “But to ignore a summons for a mission is… unusual.”

Syenna squirmed. She didn’t want to lie to Mace—or to any of the Jedi. “She assured me she would return later tonight. I will catch her up on the briefing. We’ll be ready to go by tomorrow morning.”

“Be that as it may,” Master Mundi said, crisp voice polished and stern. “She should be reachable at all times. Especially since you are both on mission rotation.”

Syenna shuffled this way and that. She found she was barely able to keep up with the destabilizing onslaught of contributions. Rumbling and authoritative, the unified voice of the Council bounced around the chamber like a ventriloquist’s. 

“We believe Master Pol has become distracted by her personal interests,” Coleman Trebor added from behind her, the horn on his large grey head dipping in concern. “It’s possible that her work with dark side artefacts is leading her astray. This mission will help her focus on her true duties: serving the Republic and training you.”

Syenna didn’t like the way the Jedi Master was speaking about Genevva, even if she had to agree with the substance of what he was saying. Genevva had gotten distracted. It wasn’t like Syenna hadn’t just been thinking the same things in the refectory. But why were they telling her this?

“If anything should happen that makes you uncomfortable, please come to us immediately.”

“We have faith in your training, Padawan Lark. Rest assured that we are just one call away.”

“You need only tell us. And you will receive no punishment for her actions. That is our promise.” 

Were they asking her to… report on Genevva? Syenna pushed down her squirming discomfort. It was what her Master herself had said after their first mission. The Council didn’t trust her, and they were asking Syenna to relay any infractions directly to them. But the request, brought to her without her Master’s awareness, felt wrong—deceptive, almost, even though Genevva’s absence from this meeting was her own doing. Syenna wondered what the Council would have said instead if Genevva were here.

Then again, that was entirely the issue at hand—she wasn’t here when she should have been.

“Thank you, Masters,” Syenna said at last, squashing her unease and finding the confidence to look them each in the face. Coleman Trebor smiled encouragingly. Mace Windu, always perceptive, narrowed his eyes. “I’m confident Master Genevva will help us lead a successful mission on Randon.” Syenna didn’t trust herself to speak further, afraid something in her voice might give her away, might break the tide of the unspoken battle she now found herself in the midst of. 

Yoda stared at her for a long time. “Hmmm,” he said at last. “You may go.”

 Syenna let the doors shut behind her, then walked to her quarters as fast as she could, pulse racing and mind in turmoil. What was that? She’d defied the Jedi Council. Had Genevva been a bad influence on her? Hiya would have loved to hear it, but in that moment all Syenna could think was that the Jedi were asking her to divide her loyalties between their request and her Master’s trust. She commed Genevva along the way. This time the Mikkian woman finally answered.

“Syenna?” The sharp voice crackled from the commlink. After nine years, Syenna knew what stress sounded like from her Jedi Master. Whatever Genevva had been doing had rattled her. “I’m almost back to Coruscant. What is it?”

Syenna considered asking her where she’d been. If she shared what the Council had said, would her Master finally give in and allow Syenna into her confidence? Or would she close her Padawan out even more? But it didn’t matter, there was no point. The Council was certainly right to be concerned, but it was her prerogative to keep that to herself. Syenna would keep an eye on her Master and make sure everything was okay. There was no need to complicate things further than they already were, her loyalty split and her duties muddied. All she could do was what she always did, when things began to spiral out of her grasp.

“We have a mission,” she said simply. “We leave tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Take heed my child and listen to the seeds,

the planet’s voice cries out to you and me.

For when our dot was lush and green,

we gorged ourselves on fruits and roots

and grains and beans: it teamed with life,

we found no scarcity nor strife. 

And on the dot we lived in peace,

for we all knew that our fruits grew

from the light of others: That was the story

taught to saplings by their mothers— 

“What are you reading?” Anakin plopped himself next to Syenna, looking at her datapad. She closed it with a snap. They were sitting in the back of a broad-winged T-6 shuttle, the thrum of hyperspace barely perceptible within the giant vessel’s passenger section. Genevva and Obi-Wan were in the cockpit talking shop. Or whatever adult Jedi talked about.

“One thing Genevva taught me. There’s always a bit of truth in legends. Sometimes local tales can teach you a lot about a place or culture.”

“Oh really?” She could tell he wasn’t convinced as he fidgeted beside her. Did he ever stop moving? He was playing with the hem of his tunic now, a dark leather ensemble layered under chocolate robes. She assessed him, perhaps longer than was polite. He didn’t seem to notice. His mind was constantly racing and she didn’t have to be a mindreader to sense the chaos whirling through his thoughts and emotions. The Force hummed, unsettled around him. She could tell from his eyes that he was elsewhere.

“It’s an old Randon nursery rhyme. Did you know it wasn’t always a mining planet?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t know that.” 

Great, she thought. All that Temple chatter about how charming Obi-Wan Kenobi is, and his so-called Chosen One Padawan had the social skills of a robuma calf. “How about you?” she tried. “Did Master Kenobi tell you anything about Randon?” 

Anakin frowned at the mention of his Master. “Just more lectures about being patient and diplomatic. He never stops, Syenna. He’s a great Jedi really. But sometimes I think he’s more interested in giving advice than hearing what I have to say.”

Syenna had to restrain herself from saying that this was probably because Obi-Wan was a Jedi Knight and Anakin was not. What was the deal with those two? They seemed friendly enough and shared a number of inside jokes she wasn’t privy to during their journey so far, but there was also a strange tension between them. Anakin knew exactly which of Obi-Wan’s buttons to press to get a reaction, and seemed to delight in pushing the boundaries of his Master’s tolerance. In turn Obi-Wan was wont to snap at Anakin in a way that seemed more fitting of an older Padawan than Jedi Master.  

Then again, hadn’t she reacted the same way when she’d first met Genevva Pol? She shook her head. She’d been just over a decade old. And now Anakin was…she wasn’t sure actually. About her age, though he certainly didn’t act like it. Then again, possessing an unprecedented affinity for the Force probably imbued one with a certain level of confidence not available to the rest of his peers.

Anakin grumbled a little longer before opening a storage bin and offering her a meal pack; the foiled packs were standard issue for off-world Jedi missions. The four Jedi left early in the morning upon Genevva’s return without time to grab a fresh meal from the refectory. Meal packs and rations would be their sustenance during the hyperspace jump. Except for Genevva, who even now slurped from a bowl of fragrant sweet porridge she’d seemingly procured from thin air. 

“Thanks,” Syenna said. She cracked the heat seal and as the meal rehydrated she smelled a stew with fragrant spices. “Not bad.”

“Seriously?” Anakin gagged, rolling his eyes. “It doesn’t even compare to food from home.”

Syenna paused. He couldn’t be talking about Temple food. She didn’t know much about Anakin’s background, just that he’d been enslaved on Tatooine until he was nine years old. But hearing a Jedi refer to a place other than the Temple as home was… odd. How strange must it be, for one’s home to be both a site of unspeakable trauma and nostalgic comfort. “I don’t really remember much food from Milax V,” she said carefully. “Just…a warm feeling, and the smell of sweets.”

“Hmm,” Anakin said, and dug into the stew anyway, eating ravenously. Syenna supposed it was a teenage boy thing, though looking at Anakin’s barbaric table manners she wasn’t entirely sure.

“Coming up on Randon in one hour,” said Obi-Wan, entering the main cabin. He was slim and rather handsome, Syenna thought, with a ginger beard and shoulder-length hair—both changes since she’d last met him as Qui-Gon Jinn’s Padawan. His polished Core World accent matched his ramrod posture, and though he stood a fraction shorter than Anakin he carried himself with calm, unflappable confidence. He reminded Syenna of a sly Tooka cat, eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. Genevva stomped in shortly after, her wide frame and shock of head-tails a stark contrast to Obi-Wan’s trimmed beard and pristine robes. 

“Master Pol, how was the nerf museum yesterday?” Anakin grinned, only slightly intimidated by the stern woman.

“The nerf museum? Yes, do share.” Unlike his Padawan, Obi-Wan seemed more bemused than enthusiastic, though he turned to Genevva with a curious glint in his eye.

Syenna met Genevva’s gaze and fought valiantly to keep her lips from twisting into a smile. If the Mikkian Jedi was going to keep her own Padawan in the dark, so be it. It was only fair she face the consequences.

The Jedi Master only sighed. “When we leave hyperspace, Syenna will land the shuttle,” she said, giving her Padawan a baleful look. “She can use the practice.”

One stressful hour later, Syenna nudged the shuttle into Randon’s atmosphere, hands gripped tightly around the yoke. The T-6 was an enormous craft, its dashboard dizzying and vast compared to the Diathim II. Normally she might have enjoyed the immense vista from the shuttle’s large viewport. This time, Syenna thought bitterly, she was too focused on piloting an enormous ship that Genevva had never bothered to teach her about. Her Master believed flying wasn’t a skill that needed special instruction. So long as you could get a craft from Aurek to Besh, you were fine. Lessons like this one tended to involve Genevva surprising Syenna with a piloting task on short notice. The last time that had happened, Syenna had almost crashed their stolen freighter into a rural village.

She shuddered and drew her focus back to the present. Never again.

From space, Randon was a mottled brown orb, spots of gold and green flecked across its surface beneath swirling white clouds. Randon was a desert planet, mostly dirt and rock, with sparse areas of grassland and shrubbery where the farmlands grew grains and other crop. She could see the silver geometry of Randon’s cities, which spiralled across the planet’s equator in a hexagonal pattern, mirror-bright buildings and roads arranged in a tessellating grid that snaked across mountainous topography. Beside the gleaming silver cities, she saw a thick, dark line snaking like a scar across the planet’s muddy brown.

On the other side of the scar, hundreds of tiny grey shapes clustered the length of the line. Syenna wondered what those enormous landmarks could be, visible all the way from space. Clustered like barnacles, pimpling the land: perhaps they were dense settlements or large rock formations. 

“Ease on the accelerator. Level us out,” Anakin chirped next to her and she jumped, jolting the T-6 briefly before regaining control. The ship groaned, hull creaking in the atmosphere. “No, that’s the opposite of what I said.”

Syenna sighed. Did he have to act like he knew everything? They were practically the same age, for kriffsake. 

“Look, we can’t all be professional racers.”

Obi-Wan looked queasy, one hand placed subtly over his stomach, so she reluctantly followed Anakin’s instructions. To her annoyance, the shuttle levelled off smoothly and they glided toward the city. In the corner of her eye, Syenna saw Anakin smirk in satisfaction. She didn’t dignify him with a response.

As they were hailed toward an open platform, Syenna took a moment to take stock of the city where they had landed. Randon’s capital was just as silver and bright as it had appeared from space, the engines of its mining economy having fuelled unfettered construction and migration such that the busiest areas of the city rivalled even Coruscant. It was Coruscant unsullied, Coruscant without the underbelly, the original surface of the planet still visible on sunlit streets and roads that cut neatly through residential areas and into the bustling metropolis. 

Here was a planet that represented everything Milax V could have been. Beings of all races moved through the city, myriad colors, a sea of hair, feathers and scales flowing like water through courtyards and paths. An orderly grid of roads gave the city the appearance of an enormous metal honeycomb, each cell filled with energy and life. And in the shining centre of everything, the capitol building: an enormous silver spire, thin and elegant like a single strand of hair, that stretched up from the planet toward the tips of the clouds. The building was ribbed with crystalline purple windows, Syenna noticed. Silicax oxalate—showcased as the symbol of Randon’s progress, embedded in their site of governance as a reminder of where the planet’s success and wealth had come from. At the tip of the spire, an enormous holographic crest depicted the logo of Randon Mining Corporation—the mining collective that had built the planet’s success and now oversaw its peoples and economy. Randon’s capitol building was a beautiful marvel, its delicate spire a testament to how far one could reach for the sky if only they could just dig deep enough. 

***

Syenna considered herself a tolerant person. But as Minister Jant cleared his throat for the fifth time, she briefly toyed with the idea of whipping out her lightsaber, waving it at him, and telling him to take a lozenge or else.

The Minister of Randon was a tall, broad-shouldered man who moved and spoke like a frightened skittermouse. The Falleen’s athletic figure might have been imposing were his eyes not constantly darting to the corners of the room, neck bobbing as he swallowed dryly, incessantly making an eh-hem sound in the background of his throat. 

“J-Jedi,” he said, smiling weakly. “I hope your journey was smooth.”

“It was a short jump,” Obi-Wan said. “Thank you.”

They were seated in a small room near the peak of the capitol spire, floor to ceiling windows showcasing the bright sky and the sprawling city below. Genevva tapped Syenna’s shoulder, so she took a mental inventory of the room: two security guards at the door, both clad in Randon Mining Corporation’s silver and purple livery. Minister Jant seated at the far end of the long table, an aide standing at his shoulder, the four Jedi sitting on either side of the room. She nodded to her Master. Nothing amiss, and she sensed none of Minister Jant’s fear in the aide or the guards. Except… Genevva seemed ill at ease, Syenna thought. She wasn’t sure if the Jedi Master could sense something she couldn’t, or if she was simply frustrated to be taken away from her Sith investigations.

Tea was served, a fragrant herbal blend that warmed Syenna’s stomach and put her somewhat at ease. Minister Jant drank thirstily and Genevva drank nothing at all. Obi-Wan sipped politely, though his eyes keenly scanned the room.

“You seem nervous, Minister,” Anakin said. His voice, Syenna thought, was a fraction too loud for the small space. 

Obi-Wan placed a hand on his shoulder hurriedly. “What my Padawan means to say,” he said, giving Anakin a stern look, “Is that we hope our presence is not disruptive to your important legislative work. We aim for the highest standards of discretion. If at any point we start stepping on any toes…you need only say the world.” He smiled gently.

Minister Jant seemed mollified, anxious disposition easing into suppressed unease. “I appreciate that, Master Kenobi. As I told the Council, Randon Mining Corporation is conducting its own investigation into Senator Miria’s disappearance. We have allocated considerable resources and credits into this effort. Randon’s security infrastructure is among the best in the galaxy and we have hover cams stationed around the city. Law enforcement is already combing through the footage. It’s only a matter of time before we solve this wretched mystery. Who knows, perhaps Miria eloped with a secret lover. She might be enjoying a honeymoon on Mon Cala as we speak!” He laughed weakly, and when no one else did, he cleared his throat. “However, the Chancellor was quite insistent on sending Jedi.”

“Insistent? Why, Chancellor Palpatine is–” Anakin started to say, but Syenna cut in before he could cause a diplomatic incident.

“Padawan Skywalker and I are just students. We’re here as much to learn as we are to help our Masters with the investigation. I’m sure Randon has a lot to teach us. The architecture of this building is quite impressive.”

She widened her eyes sweetly, channeling the perfect student energy she knew had endeared her to so many Jedi Masters growing up at the Temple. Sure enough, Minister Jant gave her a warm smile, even as she heard Anakin suppress a snort of disbelief.

“I’m sure, my dear. Now how may I help?”

The Jedi proceeded with their questions. Their task was to get a lay of the political landscape, though Syenna knew the Jedi Council and Chancellor Palpatine both suspected foul play, perhaps with Minister Jant’s involvement. Anakin certainly seemed to think so.

From Minister Jant they learned that Senator Miria had won a four-way race, barely eking out the planet-wide popular vote to beat Randon Mining Corporation’s favored candidate. According to the Minister, Miria had no experience and little knowledge in the way of economic policy. Her disappearance a week after her election was as sudden and unexpected as her ascension to high office.

While speaking, Syenna noticed Minister Jant had finished his tea twice over. If he’d had the Senator killed, she thought, he could stand to be more subtle about it.

“Miria was already unpopular,” Minister Jant continued, wiping his brow. The tea had loosened him up, now the words flowed unfiltered from his lips as he shrugged his broad shoulders. “To be quite frank, and I’m counting on your Jedi discretion to keep this between us, she only won because the Commerce Guild poured their outsider money into the race. Their Mining Guild cronies have been circling Randon for decades. Randon Mining Corp is independent and we always will be. Our candidates for office know this. They have the experience and knowledge ready to defend our way of life. Silicax production should benefit Randon, not a galactic corporate structure.”

His chief of staff chimed in, a human woman with cropped brown hair. “Senator Miria ran as an outsider propped up by the Commerce Guild. No one wants machine politics coming to our planet. Anyone on Randon could have had the motive to kidnap her, if they realized the threat she posed to our economy.”

“Or kill her,” Minister Jant said, and looked like he regretted the words. 

Obi-Wan leaned forward. “You believe a civilian is responsible for Senator Miria’s disappearance.”

“It’s our most plausible lead,” Minister Jant said. “We’ve received no ransom note, so we can only assume it was an individual and not a political movement. Perhaps a person unwell— or a political extremist who used the wrong methods to defend their way of life. I only hope that poor Miria is locked in that fool’s basement, and not…” He shuddered. “N-Not…”

“Dead in a ditch,” Genevva said unhelpfully. “And none of her security noticed?”

“Well, I—we haven’t traditionally assigned personal security to government officials. This looks to be a one-off.” Jant swallowed heavily. “Our top agencies are going through the security feeds with a fine tooth.”

“Would such an act be so common on your planet?” Obi-Wan stroked his beard. “The city seems to be thriving.”

“That we are,” Jant said hurriedly. “We’ve simply been having some…unrest of late. I’m afraid the recent reconciliation bill passed by the Republic has had an adverse effect on our economy. We’ve had to adjust some of our spending to minimize the impact. A small minority were unsatisfied.”

Unsatisfied enough to kidnap or kill the planet’s Senator? Syenna sensed there was something that Jant wasn’t saying, but by the time she thought of a question to pose he had moved on to discussing the planet’s free expression laws and new measures to safeguard democracy in the event that Miria could not be found. 

They thanked the Minister and headed down the spire to the legislative offices, complete with high-level passes from Jant’s office. There they met several of Jant’s supporters, including Randon Mining’s unsuccessful Senatorial candidate, Razana. She had placed second to Miria in the recent election by a narrow margin. A human woman, Razana was a mining executive who’d also served in the legislature for several years. Her answers to their questions were vague and unhelpful, though Syenna suspected that was more an artefact of media training than it was an admission of guilt. Most of the politicians she’d met bore the same manner of speech much akin to flag dancers, their rhetorical affectations flowing elegantly around a tightly choreographed routine.

The Jedi next spoke with Miria’s most senior ally in the legislature, a delegate named Dirin. Like the absent Miria she was human, with tanned skin and long hair that fell across her back. According to Dirin, Miria was a beloved voice for the long-neglected farming constituency, which Dirin herself had grown up in. Dirin’s theory, which she delivered in hushed tones and furtive glances, placed Minister Jant at the center of a deep state conspiracy to silence Randon’s farmers and uphold Randon Mining profits by any means necessary.

The theory could have resembled something of the truth, but the whiff of spice emanating from Dirin’s office was concerning to say the least. 

“The corpo bastards did it,” Dirin said. “Mark my words. They’ll be after me next.”

The four Jedi excused themselves and spoke with various legislative officers, aides, staffers and representatives until the sunlight faded from the windows of the tower and the murk of night began to seep through the sky. 

“What a load of poodoo!” Anakin threw himself onto a low leather sectional. The four Jedi had been assigned a guest suite with adjoining bedrooms and a central chamber furnished with almost ridiculously oppulent furniture. It was certainly one of the more comfortable places Syenna had stayed in while on a mission. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction, running her hands over the velvet fibres and smooth wooden finishings. 

It was nice not to shelter under a lightning-stricken tree, or huddle under the awning of an open-air drug market. In the trade of dark side collectibles, one was just as likely to meet in a back alley as a penthouse. Syenna much preferred the missions where she and Genevva dealt with the wealthy. They were still wont to kill you, but at least there were high thread counts and aromatic wines to enjoy before the inevitable betrayal.

Syenna turned back to Anakin, who slumped dramatically amid the plum cushions.

“Jant was clearly hiding something,” he said, glancing around at the others.

“Well, I needn’t be a Jedi to see that,” Obi-Wan mused. “But we should remain cautious before making pre-emptive judgements. Minister Jant’s anxieties are natural for any politician who doesn’t want a delegation of Jedi poking around in his business. Common garden corruption doesn’t make him responsible for the Senator’s disappearance.”

Miria’s ally Dirin seemed to think otherwise, Syenna thought. But there was no evidence yet that supported that idea.

“This is hopeless,” Anakin said. “Everyone has theories but no one has any concrete evidence to share with us. Don’t these people have brains?”

“Patience, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said. He massaged his temples, exhausted. “We’ll get nowhere with invective like that. Let’s take the evening to sort through our notes and look for clues. Tomorrow we’ll move into the city, find additional witnesses and catch up with local law enforcement. Master Genevva, do you have any insights for us?”

Syenna’s master was staring out the window, seemingly deep in thought.

“Hmm?” The Mikkian’s head tails flared as she jolted back into awareness. “Sorry, Kenobi. I was…preoccupied.”

Obi-Wan frowned and lowered his voice. “Master Genevva, might I have a word?”

He placed a gentle hand on her arm as they retreated to the corner of the room while Anakin and Syenna played mindlessly with their datapads and tried not to look like they were eavesdropping.

“Master Genevva— if I may be blunt…don’t seem to have your full focus…”

“You’re right, Obi-Wan. I’m sorry. But—There are… deal of things happening in… Sketches of rumors… almost traced to the source. Maul—the Sith Lord who killed Qui-Gon…Every day… closer to finding the truth of where he came from.”

Syenna couldn’t catch all of the words, but what she heard froze her in place. Genevva was telling Obi-Wan about her secret project? She fixed her eyes desperately on the datapad in front of her, even as she honed as much focus as she could on listening to the two Jedi.

“…Five years ago,” Obi-Wan was saying. “…spent hours in the archive…Nothing. If there are more Sith out there, we simply can’t find them…Even Dex…”

Genevva’s tone grew louder, her whisper fierce. “…like you to give up! ….more important than…Qui-Gon deserved better….How can we—“

Obi-Wan cut her off, voice now loud enough for Anakin and Syenna to hear. “I’m well aware of Qui-Gon’s death. I was there.” Genevva flinched. Obi-Wan continued. “You cannot let attachment distract you from your duties on this mission. From your duties to your Padawan.”

“My Padawan is well trained,” Genevva snapped, and made her way back to the couches at the center of the room. Syenna and Anakin busied themselves, suddenly finding the hems of their sleeves incredibly fascinating. At any other time Syenna might have glowed from the rare praise. Now she just felt desperately awkward. The tension in the room was thick as a humid summer and the two Jedi regarded each other tensely from either side of the accent table.

Obi-Wan’s face was tight, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Anakin,” he said, voice clipped. “Master Genevva has decided to retire for the evening, so I will be reviewing our notes from today. Perhaps you and Padawan Lark might want to explore the city? I dare say mingling with Randon’s populace will offer a broader perspective on the planet than we could gain in the capitol. I’m quite curious to learn more about the ‘unrest’ that Minister Jant spoke to us about.” He paused meaningfully. “It’s what Master Qui-Gon would have done.”

Anakin and Syenna hastened to rise, throwing on their cloaks. The disagreement hung oppressively in the room, and it was all the two Padawans could do not to flee immediately from the strange scene. 

“Yes, Master Kenobi,” Syenna said, trying to give him a diplomatic smile. She nodded to Genevva. “We’ll comm if we have news or pick up any signs of trouble.”

***

The sun had vanished behind the horizon by the time Anakin and Syenna made their way into the city proper. Though the night was brisk and cloudless, crowds of people still bubbled through the streets, music and laughter guiding the way toward a bustling night market. Under floating orbs of light, couples and families spilled like a cornucopia through the stalls, human and nonhuman alike. Syenna watched an enormous Anx woman purchase a platter of fried hotcakes, saw an Anzellan hawking shiny crystal jewellery.

Randon City’s night markets were as heterogeneous as any Coruscant street she’d walked. But any similarities Syenna might have drawn to the city planet ended there. Instead Randon’s markets were so refined, each stall so quaint and artisanal, that Syenna almost felt underdressed in the slate robes she typically wore on field missions. Across winding cobblestones she saw rows of sprawling silver canopies, each embroidered with ornate patterns and vibrant palettes, deep purples, rich burgundy, crisp whites. Sizzling meats and stir fried vegetables scented the air, steam ribbons snaking into the air like skydragons. Visitors and vendors alike dressed in heavy fabrics and many of them sported jewellery that sparkled with the iconic purple sheen of Randon’s signature mineral.

She gaped at the sight of a stall selling brightly glazed pottery urns, each carved with hundreds of fish scales and coated in a rich flambé glaze. The ceramics gleamed with a flawless glossy finish and looked as though someone had hand painted thousands of multicolored streaks dripping up and down each vessel’s surface.

“Incredible! The glaze—the colors—” she gushed. The Rodian seller genuflected.

Anakin fidgeted, impatient to move on. Syenna pretended not to notice.

“Was this technique inspired by the clay dynasty of Kang Xi?” 

The seller beamed, delighted to speak about his work. “You have a discerning eye, young lady. I trained on Kang Xi under the old Yaobian masters!”

Syenna’s eyes widened. The claywork techniques developed on Kang Xi were a dwindling practice in galactic art. “How did—”

“Syenna, come on.” Anakin tugged on her sleeve and she spun around, annoyance sparking in her stomach. 

“Excuse me,” she said. “This technique was developed over two thousand years ago in an Outer Rim system. It’s incredible that pieces like this are for sale here on Randon. Our directive was to mingle, so if you could wait for a single minute, that would be tremendous.”

He stared at her, something moving behind his eyes. For a moment she wondered if she might have offended him, and she wished she could take back her frustration, reel it back inside of her. But he only scoffed and looked away. 

“Fine. If you want to be like that, go ahead. Enjoy the art.” He disappeared into the crowd.

The Rodian shook his head pityingly. “You know,” he warbled, “there are plenty of men in the galaxy who can appreciate fine art. Are you looking to purchase anything today?”

Syenna glanced at the price tag and swallowed. The urns were going for prices that would’ve made Genevva’s art dealers balk. She was pretty sure she’d paid less for a genuine Sith chalice. “Not today, no. I’m just visiting.”

The Rodian shrugged. “Enjoy your night. Randon’s night markets are legendary, you know.”

She nodded her thanks and extricated herself from the conversation, trying to see through the crowd to where Anakin might have gone. She didn’t understand what his deal was. One minute he was friendly and outgoing; the next he seemed irritable and strangely sensitive.

“Anakin?” She tried to squeeze past a family of chattering Gozzos, the long-legged Avians absorbed in a discussion about Core World vacation spots. “Anakin, where are you?” Syenna shook her head and scoffed. This was hopeless. 

For several minutes she tried to navigate the throng, attempting to utilize some of the techniques Genevva had taught her: fix your eyes into the distance and stride forward; people will part around you. Keep your shoulders back and your arms by your sides. That didn’t seem to work as well here. 

It was becoming clear to her that the bustle of the night market was too chaotic for any meaningful research or investigation to be done. There seemed to be few hints of the political and economic unrest Obi-Wan had been so interested in finding out more about. Instead her senses were overwhelmed by sweet smelling spices and the hiss of frying oil and seared fat, gentle woodwind melodies and a dense, unrelenting hubbub of conversation and chatter. Her progress through the crowds was halting and uneven as she inched forward one short step at a time.

At last she glimpsed Anakin standing on the side of the street in a gap between two stalls.

He looked taller from a distance. Between the soft coronas of two hovering candledroids he cut a striking figure in his dark cloak: a lone brushstroke inked decisively from top to bottom, bisecting the happy glow on either side.

When she pushed her way through to him she saw that he was holding two small sapcakes in one hand, each garnished with a twisty black topping. One of them was for her, she realized. An apology cake. Syenna pushed her frustration aside. They were here to work together after all.

“Sorry for being short with you,” she offered. “Genevva and I are always dealing with ancient objects, so I thought I’d take the chance to actually enjoy some art that isn’t being sold by Sith-worshipping fanatics.”

Wordlessly he handed her one of the sap cakes. She took it gingerly, careful not to brush her fingers against his.

“I saw one of those vases before,” he said. “Didn’t care for it.”

She nodded—fair—but he didn’t meet her eyes. What wasn’t he saying? Syenna wracked her brain for a suitable question to ask, but by now the silence had lasted too long and she could only say, a little too late, “I see.”

He nodded and looked distantly to the side. They stood motionless, watching the market-goers amble past.

She knew their minds were both desperately straining for a way to break the tension; she could practically sense the discomfort pressing in on them like an invisible wall as they fumbled for the outline of something beyond comprehension.

This wasn’t like her. She had plenty of interesting things to say, a veritable omakase of tasteful and thrilling anecdotes she’d picked up from her training and field missions with Genevva. So why couldn’t she think of anything to say right now?

Syenna fixed her eyes on the stalls, letting her eyes dart over handspun scarves and gleaming tumbled crockery. Think, Syenna. Was conversation normally supposed to be this impossible?

She realized, too late, that they probably just had nothing in common. Anakin’s interests and experiences as a Jedi—podracing, flying, lightsaber duelling—were so foreign to her that she had no idea what to talk to him about.

“Have you, uh, learned anything about Randon tonight?” 

“No.” His voice was flat and toneless. “Have you?”

“Uh. Not anything that would help our investigation.”

Anakin cleared his throat quietly and fell back into silence. Syenna licked the last crumbs of the sapcake from her fingertips, if only for something to do. She was minutes away from tearing her hair out. Why did everything have to be so excruciatingly awkward? She allowed herself to imagine an enormous groundquake splitting open the street beneath her and swallowing her up in its depths, never to be seen again. That would be preferable to enduring this painful, stilted purgatory. 

She was put out of her misery by a sudden shout of alarm. It pierced the burbling chatter, an angry cry from one of the vendors.

“Stop! Thief!”

Shouts rose through the crowd as visitors turned to look. Syenna leapt into action, Anakin close behind her. Across the street she glimpsed a figure darting through the crowds, shimmering necklaces wrapped around their arm. 

“Come on,” Anakin said. Finally some action.

Syenna wriggled through the crowd while Anakin simply chose to vault to the other side of the narrow street, using the Force to leap off a nearby table and fly several feet through the air. Dank farrik. Why couldn’t people get out of the Force-damned way? 

“Coming through!” She threw her shoulders through a small opening and stumbled between an affectionate Gotal couple. When she finally caught up to Anakin, her brow uncomfortably wet with sweat, she saw that a small circle among the market-goers had formed. At the center of the circle, a dark-skinned woman with brilliant white hair stumbled across the cobblestones, attempting to crawl away from her captors. Out of her shoulder bag spilled a number of intricate silver necklaces, each of them inlaid with purple silicax. 

The crowd closed in, jeering and shouting.

“That’s her!” A reedy voice from the crowd. “She stole my necklaces!”

“Thief!”

“Get her!”

Hands extruded from the crowd, plunging toward the woman like the teeth of a great Sarlacc maw. People weren’t just trying to hit or grab her; they were also trying to tear the necklaces from her arms and bag. The group surged forward and Syenna sensed an ugliness festering in the Force, a feverish outrage that was quickly curdling into something more violent.

“Um, hi!” She pushed her way to the middle of the circle, waving the crowd back. “Can everyone calm down?”

The group jeered. One man, a taller Shistavanen, tried to spit at the woman on the ground. Instead it landed wetly on Syenna’s sleeve. She tried not to flinch. Gone were the merriment and sophistication that had filled the street mere minutes ago. Now there was only anger and contempt.

Anakin stepped to her side and glared at the quickly-growing audience. 

“That’s enough! This is Jedi business.” 

He waved his lightsaber hilt for all to see, letting the candledroids’ glow bounce off the silver handle. With his dark cloak, angular features painted by golden light, he cut a frightening figure.

Anakin gestured toward the woman lying on the ground. “We’ll handle this. Now back off before someone gets trampled.” 

With a grumble the crowd acquiesced, clearly intimidated by his saber and robes. Syenna shook her head with a sigh as the rest of the bystanders turned back to their shopping. A few lingered behind, unashamedly gawking at the two Jedi, until she shot them her best Genevva Pol glare and they quickly looked away.

She glanced down at the woman, who had stumbled to her feet and now eyed the two of them with a terrified glint in her eyes.

“I’m sorry—“ Her lips trembled with fear. “I think there’s been a mistake.” 

The woman, Syenna noticed, was gaunt; sharp cheekbones accentuated hooded eyes and a forehead barely covered by thin tufts of white hair. She looked between Anakin and Syenna, offering only her empty palms. Her clothes were ornately patterned and decorated at the hems with dried twigs and seed pods. Something about her struck Syenna as unsettling. Not from any perceived threat, but through the Force she detected a desperate, defiant glimmer that burned within the woman before her. It was more than what she might have expected from a petty thief. There was more at play here.

Anakin frowned. “You don’t have to lie to us. We’re Jedi. We’re here to help.”

The jewellery vendor who’d identified the thief approached. He was a younger human male, with wispy facial hair that reminded Syenna of a fluffy gushiro’s whiskers. “That’s the one who robbed me.” He narrowed his eyes at the woman. “Filthy farmfolk.” He spat at her and Anakin quickly stepped between the two.

“Hey!” Anakin towered over the vendor and Syenna saw his eyes darkening with anger. “Don’t speak to her like that.”

“Like what? Her people are practically subhuman.” The vendor’s eyes were wide with frustration. “What are you waiting for, then? Arrest her.”

Anakin’s hand went to his saber again, anger rising at the vendor’s words. Syenna moved quickly to stand between the two. “Jedi aren’t law enforcement. We’re peacekeepers.” She picked up the bag of necklaces from the ground and offered it back to the man apologetically. “Here’s your merchandise. We’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

The man scoffed but accepted her offer. She gave him a gentle nudge back towards his stall, and then the Padawans watched him disappear back into the crowd before turning back to deal with the woman who’d tried to steal the necklaces.

She was gone. 

Where she had stood the street was now empty, interrupted only by a few visitors who trickled out of the roadway as they returned home with laden bags and full bellies.

“Must have run while we were distracted,” Anakin said. “Can’t say I blame her.”

“I wish we could’ve spoken to her. If it was credits she was after we could easily have bought her a meal.” 

Anakin shrugged. “Who knows. There’s hungry people everywhere. Even on this planet with all its fancy crystals and pottery.” He looked at her meaningfully. Not for the first time, Syenna felt her breath catch at the intensity of his gaze, a piercing and unblinking blue stare that arrowed in on her from beneath his darkened brow.

She double checked the streets behind them but found no trace of the woman.  In fact, were it not for a small silver ring lying at her feet, there was little evidence the entire confrontation had happened at all: not even the hostility that had bubbled up in the crowd remained. The market scene was now just as jovial and cosy as it had seemed moments ago; vendors and customers alike went about their activities with cheery aplomb. Music warbled, hotplates crackled. Credits clinked and exchanged hands. The incandescent droids overhead seemed to glow more intensely than before.

“That was weird, right?” Syenna glanced at Anakin. “The way the people spoke to her.”

“Sure.” Anakin scoffed. “That’s one way to put it. I was going to say disgusting.”

“That too.”

“We should head back to the capitol. This city gives me the creeps.”

Syenna shook her head. “I have a better idea.”

***

They left the night market streets behind, following a maze of roads that slowly emptied the dregs of festivity into urban warrens. Now Syenna followed a different trail: the distant thump of music and clusters of inebriated strangers leading to the entertainment district, where clubs and cantinas punctuated darkened windows. Syenna smelled spice on the air, muddied by sweat and piss.  

“Follow the drunks,” she said by way of explanation, and motioned for Anakin to keep up. If their Masters wanted to hear a different perspective from the gleaming capitol or the gentrified night markets, this would be it. And alcohol and spice tended to mean looser tongues. 

The sky was cloudless, the shining gleam of Randon’s silver buildings replaced now by an obsidian black. Amidst the shouts of laughter and sounds of Randon’s nightlife, she saw more spherical droids hovering at the major street intersections, each casting a small golden glow in their perimeter. Up close, she noticed that each of the droids was pimpled with bulbous, shiny black lenses. The candledroids were streetlights that doubled as surveillance droids. Now she understood what Minister Jant had meant when he’d told them about the city’s famed security infrastructure. With a hover cam lurking silently at every corner, the ubiquitous presence became background noise; eventually, she imagined, one might stop seeing them altogether.

Still, she wondered how much of the droids’ presence was simply performance, given that there was currently a woman dealing spice within full view of a lurking camera. Was Randon’s law enforcement truly capable of using the footage for anything other than deterrence?

Syenna thought back to her first mission with Genevva, when the two of them had visited the cantina on Nar Shaddaa. She glanced down the street, trying to identify which place seemed most similar to the one where they’d met with Deva. In the end it came down to which looked seediest: a doorway marked by a flickering sign, two scantily clad nonhumans kissing rather aggressively just outside. 

“Geez,” Anakin said. “Couldn’t take me someplace nicer?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” he said hastily, as Syenna led them toward the bar. 

“Maybe we’ll finally get some answers about Randon. And hood up,” she said, pointing to Anakin’s conspicuously swinging Padawan braid.

He reluctantly complied, throwing his brown hood over his head and tucking his braid into its shadows. “How come you don’t have a braid?”

“For this exact reason! It’s undignified to flaunt your… your Jedi-ness.” Every day, Syenna thought, Genevva’s influence snuck up on her in stolen phrases or unconscious tics that she only ever recognized after they’d made themselves at home in her daily habits. Maybe she’d learned more than she thought. 

They made their way inside, and Syenna tried not to cough when the sudden stench of sweat and booze hit her like the side of a bantha. The thump of electronic bass rattled her bones as throngs of Randonites, human and nonhuman, ate, cheered, danced, drank and swore loudly. Dancers moved against each other suggestively on the dance floor, one making eye contact with Syenna and whistling. She blushed and looked away, searching for the bar. It was a maelstrom inside, the insistent music like a battering ram against her skull.

She pushed past a red-eyed Duros and hulking Houk, then barely dodged an insectoid S'krrr who was throwing back a fiery pink shot into their mouth. Purple and orange lights flashed through the club, a dizzying strobe effect that caused Syenna to stumble briefly into Anakin. He propped her upright. 

“Careful, Master Lark,” he said. She didn’t dignify him with a response.

“Two spotchkas,” she said to the Nikto bartender, doing her best Genevva impression as she hopped onto a seat. She pushed the bartender some coins from her pouch and the woman took them wordlessly, opening a blue bottle.

“Oh,” Anakin muttered to her. “Obi-Wan doesn’t usually let–“ 

“Business is good, then?” Syenna tried desperately to seem casual and friendly. 

The Nikto eyed her. “Yes.”

“That’s good.” She took a sip of the spotchka and forced it down, her throat burning like hellfire. To her left, she tried not to notice Anakin gagging. The drink was warm inside of her, and the hard thrum of the club music faded into a mellow beat. She took a moment to examine the glass, swirling the electric blue drink and watching the eddies slowly disappear back into stillness. “Ah…I’m glad business is good,” she continued. “…What with the new ah… Senator ’n all, krikking on the economy. We even saw someone stealin’ from the markets earlier tonight.” She was doing a horrific imitation of the broad Randon accent, she realized with horror, but found she couldn’t stop the words tumbling from her mouth as it happened. 

The Nikto’s eyes narrowed, suddenly on guard.  “You some kind of cop?” she asked. “My liquor license is valid. No shady business in this club.”

This is a disaster, Syenna thought. She hadn’t quite nailed Genevva’s ability to fit effortlessly with people wherever they went. What she’d thought was unconscious code-switching on her part had turned out to be offensive…at the least. Or was her hair too neat—did she seem too put together for a wild night out on the town? Perhaps it wasn’t the accent that had exposed her but something else, the way she carried herself or even something about her face and the way it moved. Sometimes Syenna found herself staring in the mirror, micro-examining her features and the way they were laid out on the canvas of her face, not out of any sense of narcissism but a morbid fascination with how other people might perceive her.

Too late Syenna realized that she’d never had to work undercover without her Master before. Maybe there was a way to salvage this, pretend to be a police officer and force the bartender to answer their questions—

“Skungy Gungus!” Anakin cut in nonsensically, gesturing to the dance floor. The spotchka had a weird effect on him, Syenna thought. She hoped he wasn’t allergic. But the bartender grinned, tension suddenly dissolving.

“Good, eh? You heard the latest album?”

“Yeah,” Anakin said, suddenly alight with joy. “But nothing beats Look Up.”

Syenna realized they were talking about the music that blared from the club’s speakers. The electronic sounds resembled a traffic accident mixed with a broken kloo horn, she thought, but Anakin must have recognized it. Was he actually a fan of this stuff?

The Padawan was engaged in a heated conversation with the bartender about whether “Skungy Gungus” had been a better artist before or after breaking off from the Refractors, which she assumed had to be some kind of band.

“Oh, this is Syenna,” Anakin said. “Syenna, this is Rena.” The Nikto smiled at Syenna with more warmth this time. “I’ve been trying to get her into music, but she’s more into politics. She wants to study at the University of Alderaan.”

“Stuka lapti publiko sleemo,” chortled Rena, though there was no malice in the words. “Well, you should listen to your friend. No good comes from politics, my girl.”

Syenna grimaced. She’d ask Anakin about the Huttese later. 

“You ask me, Senator Miria got what was coming,” Rena added, evidently satisfied that Anakin and Syenna were just outlander teens instead of law enforcement or health inspectors undercover. “That koochoo would’ve destroyed our planet. She was in the Commerce Guild’s pocket alright, all her babble about honoring the harvest, sounding all farmfolk. Good riddance.” It was the same thing Jant had told them. Evidently Miria had not been as popular as her allies at the capitol made her out to be.

Anakin grimaced. “I heard the uh, farm folk love her,” he said.

The bartender barked with laughter. “Oh, they do,” she said. “That lot don’t have the Randonite spirit you gotta have in the city. Always got something to complain about. Too much time tending crops, not enough time talking to people, not enough time hustling. Makes your mind go funny if you ask me. You want a refill, hun?” Rena pointed to Syenna’s glass, which she’d managed to drain. She shook her head weakly and smiled.

“That’sss not quite true.” A new voice from Syenna’s right—a Trandoshan woman, leaning against the bar as she sipped her drink. “The ffarm ffolk are sstruggling, alright.” She smiled at Syenna, baring rows of sharp teeth. “I ssee it when I deliver droid partss to the farm disstrict. But I sssupose they do blame everyone elsse on Randon, instead of innovating or improving like the ressst of us.”  

Rena laughed. “All this politics is killing the mood, Laissy. I gotta get back to my job.” She turned back to cleaning glasses, but the Trandoshan—Laissy—leaned in to Anakin and Syenna, her yellow eyes curious.

“If you assk me? That poor girl was naive and foolissh, but corrupt? I’m not sssure. A usseful idiot either way. Her parentss were farm folk after all.”

 Syenna’s mind spun with all the information, the club pulsing around her, music fading in and out. She tried to think of what to say, but the words came to her slowly. Maybe she shouldn’t have drank all that spotchka. Something strange tugged at her through the haze, a glimmer in the Force. If only everything wasn’t so foggy, she might be able to figure it out. What was that feeling? 

The hairs on her neck stood on end, a strange creeping shiver, and she turned to look behind her, the world taking a few seconds to catch up with her throbbing head. Was someone…watching them? But she saw only the same crowd of dancers, and behind them, club goers seated at game tables, drinking and gambling, lit by the colorful strobes. So why did she feel like someone in the club was looking directly at her?

Anakin was still talking to Laissy, the older Trandoshan, saying something about the corporate guilds. 

Syenna dared another glance behind but saw nothing out of the ordinary. She blinked hard, trying to push through the haze of alcohol and figure out what felt so familiar about the presence she sensed in the Force.

“If she was paid off by the Guild,” Anakin was saying, “Maybe she deserved to disappear. Czerka, the Commerce Guilds…they’re all slave-trading scum.”

She whipped her head back to him. Under the flashing overhead lights of the club, his face seemed gaunt and hawk-like, angular and predatory, short ginger hair and a smattering of freckles across his face accentuating the look. Anger burned behind his eyes. 

“Anakin—” she said, and he turned away from Laissy, directing his gaze toward her. Icy blue and unblinking.

“If Miria really represented the people,” he said, voice suddenly fierce, “She wouldn’t have taken money from the Commerce Guild. If the farm folk are struggling, I’d say it’s even worse that she pretended to care about them to get their votes. People like her are the reason the Senate doesn’t do anything to help. Maybe we shouldn’t be investigating her death! So what if someone took matters into their own hands? It’s not like the Republic ever would.”

His words hit her like the sudden heat of a furnace door flung open, fever burning her cheeks. Where was this anger coming from? She frowned. He’d pulled her attention away from the crowd, any trace of their mysterious watcher had to be long gone by now. Her mind spun, trying to reply to Anakin while searching the Force for a clue about what she was sensing. “Anakin, I don’t think this is a good place to have this discussion—“

“Oh really?” he said. “If you saw what I’ve seen, you’d agree. The Chancellor showed me firsthand how Senators trade favors for credits. They take bribes and use their power for themselves. And here we are trying to save one of those scum.”

“Justice is not for us to decide based on whim and rumors,” she said, willing her tone to remain even. The club refused to sharpen into focus even as she leaned an elbow on the bar to steady herself, ignoring the sticky residue from a spilled cocktail. She felt too hot, her cheeks burning with spotchka. The air shimmered like water. “The Jedi serve the electoral system and the rule of law. If Senator Miria has done wrong, that’s not for us to decide. Don’t be foolish, Anakin. You should know better.”

“All very well for you to say. You didn’t grow up on Tatooine.” He spat the planet’s name out like it was cursed.

That was unfair—It wasn’t like she’d come from royalty either—her parents had been poor, they lived on Milax V. And life at the Temple was hardly luxurious. Syenna had never been one to use Anakin’s background against him, so why did he seem so determined to do so now?  “That’s not—I wasn’t—“

 With a huff he turned away and shoved his unfinished drink toward the Trandoshan. “Here,” he muttered. “You can have the rest. And by the way, Syenna.” He glared at her. “That vase you liked so much? Gardulla the Hutt had one on display when she owned me.” He pulled his cloak further around him and melted into the crowd, his dark robe flapping behind him. 

Gardulla the Hutt. Syenna shook her head, the effect of the alcohol slowly fading. Shit. Shit shit shit. Anakin’s words hurt more than she cared to admit, but worse still she felt utterly foolish for misreading his earlier discomfort as simple, childish impatience. If she’d only paid more attention, perhaps she might have learned what had been bothering him so much about the night market.

A stubborn, insistent part of her debated whether she was in the wrong. There was no way she could have known about Anakin’s history with the Kang Xi vase. Just because Gardulla the Hutt had owned a similar piece didn’t mean there had to be tension between the two of them. But she knew, despite her bristling denial, that Anakin’s response was more than a personal attack.

He’d been dehumanized to the greatest extent a person could be in the galaxy: made property, inscribed with an object purpose just the same as a vase or hydrospanner. What should a life be for? The enslaved were the only people in the galaxy for whom this answer was determined by someone other than themselves. Of course the lavish artworks sold at Randon’s night market had set him on edge. That kind of trauma didn’t go away; it stayed with you like a scent rubbed into your skin—spectral, intangible. Another kind of captivity. Dank farrik. Syenna rubbed her face in frustration. Any chance they’d had for a real investigation was rapidly slipping away with the night. Though she could admit it was partly her fault, Anakin’s outburst had drawn too much attention and the strange presence she’d felt in the club had vanished from the Force. 

She tried to recall what had caused the argument. Clearly Anakin had some deep-seated qualms about their mission on Randon that he’d withheld until seconds ago. Of course there was corruption in the Republic, everyone knew that. But that didn’t mean Senator Miria deserved to be kidnapped or killed. Anakin’s cold anger unbalanced her; she wasn’t quite sure what to do or how to handle it. And she was now uncomfortably aware that the two Padawans were even less friendly than she’d thought.

Syenna wanted desperately to get the other Anakin back, the version of the boy who was so excited to talk about podracing, who moments ago had been grinning about some obscure Outer Rim music. He seemed to have no issue conversing with the others at the bar, so maybe she was the problem here. The thought sent an unreasonable ache through her chest.

Making her way out of the club she found him waiting outside, the music fading into a dull thump as they took in the fresh night air. Her skin pricked with sweat flash-dried in the sudden cool and she dragged a sleeve across her forehead, trying to rub alertness back into her face. Anakin determinedly avoided her eyes, shrugging off his hood so that his tufted hair and Padawan braid were silhouetted by the moonlight. The gentle purple of the night had softened him a little, no longer so sharp and angular as he’d appeared in the club. With a round nose, full lips and a dimple in his chin, long dark eyelashes resting over high cheekbones, he almost seemed angelic. 

He turned to her, brow creasing in confusion, and she had the sudden urge to place her thumb between his eyebrows and smooth the wrinkles into his soft skin. Though the open air seemed to have cooled his temper, the rift between them remained achingly wide. Syenna wasn’t quite sure how to repair the fragile rapport they’d managed to sustain until tonight. There had to be a way to reach across the interminable distance between them, to fold the emptiness into something more manageable, something she could hold in her hands.

Syenna frowned and pushed the thought away. Neither Padawan owed the other anything beyond professional courtesy. Blasted spotchka—how did Genevva tolerate so much of it? She decided that she wouldn’t drink during a mission ever again.

“Master Obi-Wan commed me.” Anakin gazed at her coolly. “He’s turning in for the night.”

Syenna stared up at the stars, tiny pricks of light in a wide black canvas. 

“I’m gonna head back,” he added. “Unless you have any objections, of course.” 

“Right.”

She let his jab go, pausing only to peer behind her into the street behind them. There it was again—a strange feeling, a messenger pushing at the door of memory. Syenna couldn’t quite figure out if it was a dangerous feeling or just a familiar one, but she was sure someone was watching them even now. Everything felt jumbled up inside of her and the spotchka had affected more than just her connection to the Force. Genevva was right; all that training in the Temple had hardly prepared her for the messy realities of a field mission without her Master’s guidance. 

Chapter Text

When newly sprouted children scoffed and spurned

the lesson, then they fought and slaughtered, learned

of what it means to mourn and grieve,

buried the newly dead with soil stained red. 

***

The first thing Syenna noticed when she woke up was that Genevva Pol had already risen for the day. This wasn’t a surprise; the older woman barely seemed to sleep when they were in the field. A tumultuous relationship with sleep was something the two of them shared. 

What surprised her was that Genevva’s bed, a few feet across from her own, was neatly made; the sheets and bedding tucked flawlessly around the mattress. Genevva Pol did not typically have the patience for such things.

HELLO, JEDI EMISSARY SYENNA LARK. A silver housekeeping droid hovered at the foot of her bed, two slender appendages dangling tidily from its round body. YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED FOR A MEETING WITH CHIEF MINISTER JANT.

“…Hello.” Syenna dragged herself upright and tried to wake her facial muscles with some well-placed eye massages. The droid waited patiently, its yellow photoreceptor blinking slowly. “Sorry,” she added. “Uh, what time is it?”

Too late she realized that Randon’s solar rotation was much shorter than Coruscant’s; she had to adjust to the planet’s shorter day and night cycle. After she combed some water through her tangled hair and made her way to the correct floor of the Randon Mining spire, she found Chief Minister Jant waiting in the office where they’d first met upon their arrival on Randon. Obi-Wan Kenobi was, in typical fashion, alert and composed, his mop of hair neatly tucked behind his ears. Genevva Pol looked as bedraggled as she always did. Anakin was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s coming,” Kenobi said apologetically, and Syenna slid into a seat at the long table.

“I appreciate you meeting on short notice,” the Chief Minister said. He fidgeted with his hands and tugged on his necklace, something Syenna had picked up on as a nervous tic during their first meeting. “I thought I ought to provide an update on our investigation and see how your efforts have progressed.”

Jant didn’t seem at all happy about the task before them, and Syenna suspected that something—or someone—might have forced his hand. Or maybe she was simply being uncharitable, as Anakin was wont to do.

Speak of the devil indeed. Anakin Skywalker hurried into the room and, avoiding her gaze, slumped into the seat beside her. He seemed even more time-lagged than she felt, his eyes hooded and his cropped hair prickling at all angles. She refused to meet his eyes, though she was uncomfortably aware of his presence beside her. With his dark cloak and tall frame, Anakin wasn’t exactly understated. Instead he radiated warmth, his silhouette in the Force sun-like and burning ever brighter. She could practically feel the furnace of his presence singing the side of her face off. Syenna wondered if he was aware of how disruptive his presence was.

Obi-Wan proceeded to outline a detailed timeline of when exactly Senator Miria might have disappeared. Her last known sighting in the city’s comprehensive hover cam system had been several rotations ago, but the coverage was not without its gaps. Given the Galactic Senate was currently in recess, there was little in the way of official duties or diarized events to narrow down the timeframe of disappearance. Jant promised to have his office arrange an afternoon meeting with the city’s chief of police, which Kenobi received enthusiastically. The citywide police force had gathered a dossier of forensic evidence and vast amounts of data that needed to be combed through. 

“Perhaps your Jedi intuition will shed new light,” Jant said, wiping his brow. “Now is there anything else I can do to support your efforts?”

Genevva raised her eyebrow. “Yes, actually. The breakfast catering was quite appalling.” 

Jant blinked. In the corner of her eye Syenna noticed Anakin crack a smile. She wanted to slump forward onto the table and bury her face in her sleeves.  Genevva, she suspected, was doing this for a reason—though she wasn’t sure if the older Jedi was trying to unsettle the Minister or simply get him to underestimate her. Genevva’s methods, as usual, were as perplexing as they were embarrassing. 

Syenna wondered if Obi-Wan Kenobi was the only Jedi in the room who was actually serious about diplomacy on this mission.

“She’s joking,” she said quickly. 

Genevva glared. “I most certainly am not.”

Jant blanched. “Apologies, Master Jedi. I…I’ll have a word with our head cook.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Genevva said. “I’ll speak with them myself. I have a background in Mid Rim cuisine, you know. I’m something of an epicurean.”

After they adjourned for the day—Genevva Pol brandishing the contact information of the capitol building’s hospitality team—Obi-Wan pulled Syenna aside. 

“Padawan Lark,” the Jedi Knight said, voice clipped and polite. “How was your outing yesterday? I thought it wise to wait until after the meeting to discuss your findings.”

She tried not to look guilty as Anakin’s angered face floated into her mind. His frustration at Senate—at the Kang Xi vase—at the capacious injustice of the galaxy. At her own insensitivity and abrasive attitude the night before.

“I think I’m starting to understand the planet a little better. But I’m realizing that even the city as a whole offers an incomplete picture. There’s something going on with the farm folk—a tension on this planet—that Jant isn’t telling us about.”

Obi-Wan nodded and considered her carefully. “I see. Good work.” He paused. “I trust Anakin behaved himself. It’s his first time working with another Padawan in the field. We’ve only been on mission rotation for five years.”

Had she studied under anyone less devious than Genevva Pol, she might have fallen for his trap. Obi-Wan Kenobi was fishing for information, clearly not oblivious to the stilted tension between the two Padawans. She wondered if Anakin had said anything. No, she decided. He was too proud, too stubborn. And he and Obi-Wan didn’t seem to have that kind of relationship.

“It’s my first time too, Master Kenobi. I’ve always found working with others to be a good exercise in personal development.”

Obi-Wan considered her, his face impassive. He was, she realized, far too perceptive and wily for his own good.

“I see,” he said blandly. “Well, far be it for me to intervene in the social lives of Padawans. Actually, I’ve been meaning to make a request of you both, if Genevva can countenance your absence for a few days.”

“How may I be of service, Master Kenobi?”

“I think you might be onto something with the farm folk. See if you and Anakin can find us a local guide to take us out of the city and into the rural villages. They may very well be the key to this investigation.”

She nodded, gratified by his support. Just one small problem remained. 

“Does, uh, Anakin know about this assignment? Or will you be telling him shortly?”

Obi-Wan allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “I thought to leave that task with you. Consider it an exercise in personal development.”

***

Finding someone willing to take four strangers into Randon’s farming region proved more difficult than Syenna expected. No one she spoke to was interested in leaving the city limits, even with the promise of compensation. Several were appalled that she would even ask.

She’d underestimated the level of animosity between Randon’s two populations. If the average Randonite was to be believed, the planet’s agrarian communities were uncivilized, deluded, and even downright dangerous. The very idea of their existence was antithetical to Randon’s emerging identity as a hub for silicax mining and economic growth. Minister Jant projected an image of unity and cohesion but this now seemed far from the truth.

Perhaps a civilian really had murdered Senator Miria, Syenna thought. If the woman really styled herself as a champion of the farm folk, no wonder her election was poorly received among the city’s populace.

When dusk arrived with no solution in sight, Syenna thought to try the nightclub they visited the night before. Laissy, the Trandoshan woman she’d spoken to, had mentioned delivering droid parts to the farms. If Syenna could find her again perhaps the Trandoshan might be willing to act as a driver and guide.

Anakin simply nodded and shrugged on his cloak, hiding his hands in billowing brown sleeves.

Besides what was necessary, the two hadn’t spoken to each other all day. Instead they moved silently between cafés, streets and shops, taking turns to approach strangers and ask for help navigating the city’s rural outskirts.

She wasn’t ignoring Anakin per se. More like…minimizing conflict. Syenna wasn’t petty. Anakin simply had different ideas about what it meant to be a Jedi. And at this point any friendly rapport they’d shared before the mission had faded away, replaced by stilted silence.

Syenna felt a traitorous pang of guilt as she remembered once more the pain of Anakin’s past and his look of anger and hurt the night before. But she couldn’t do anything about that, and there was no time to regret how things had played out. They had work to do on this planet more important than squabbling.

“We’ll split up in the club,” she said, and they turned down the street. “Cover more ground. Comm me if you find us a guide.”

Anakin nodded curtly.

Sometimes people didn’t work well together, and that was just how things were. There was no need to catastrophize—a habit that Genevva had pointedly called out plenty of times over the years. Just because she offended Anakin and he overreacted didn’t mean they couldn’t solve the mystery of Senator Miria’s disappearance. So why did their tense stalemate bother her so much?

They reached the nightclub with little difficulty. Rena, the bartender they’d met the night before, was there again, and Anakin was all too happy to talk about music with the older Nikto woman.

Syenna spotted Laissy sitting to the side of the bar. She spent a few minutes watching the Trandoshan nurse her drink before approaching with a friendly greeting. After forging through the necessary small talk, Syenna pitched her idea to the meknek.

“You want to ssee the farms?” Laissy seemed skeptical. “Trusst me, there’ss nothing interesting or good out there to ssee.”

“It’s really the only part of the planet we haven’t seen. I think it’ll be important for our research assignment.” She smiled vaguely, trying to summon the innocent smile Hiya had used on Jocasta Nu when they’d been caught trying to sneak into the restricted section.

Laissy remained unsure. “I only drive out there to make deliveriesss. My next shipment isn’t due for ssseveral cycles.”

“Would you be willing to move your delivery up to tomorrow? We’d be happy to pay for the inconvenience.”

Laissy shook her head. “The partss won’t be ready. I need time to repair them firssst.”

Syenna wracked her brain for a solution. “Then we can help! The trip is several hours, right? My friends and I can fix the rest of your droid parts on the journey.”

Laissy considered the idea.

“My mothers run a meknek shop,” Syenna added. “So I’m used to dealing with droid parts.” The latter wasn’t entirely true, but Genevva had taught her how to run basic repairs on the Diathim II. How different could droids and ships be?

It did the trick. Laissy grinned, rows of teeth lined neatly in a wide, genial smile. In exchange for assistance with loading and repairs, she was more than happy to take the four Jedi out to Randon’s farming settlements. After finalizing the logistics of their departure, the Trandoshan woman shook Syenna’s hand and winked. “You have yourssself a deal. Now if you’ll excusse me, I ssstill have a few hours of my night left to enjoy.”

***

Dawn broke on Randon and the city awoke. Leafs danced in the wind, a soft sway of green and golden shapes shimmering and flashing dappled shadow across the streets. Tufted white clouds floated gently across the sky like enormous whales shoaling toward the horizon. Airspeeders slowly whirred into the sky, a symphony tuning and coming to life. She watched a pair of swallows chase each other across the seashell sky.

Syenna took a deep breath, smelled the smokey tang of the planet’s industry, the air of a world on its way up. She sighed. 

She was early to their agreed meeting; Laissy’s meknek shop remained shuttered as she lingered outside. She pulled her coat around her and rocked on the soles of her feet. The crisp morning air whispered cool and gentle against her cheek.

“Syenna.” Anakin nodded briefly in greeting. Things remained awkward, though Syenna had a feeling he’d cooled off from the days prior. The sky belonged to the breeze and in the fresh unfurling of dawn it was impossible to generate any real anger or hostility.

He’d let loose his Padawan braid and unclipped the short ponytail at the back of his head so that his hair hung freely around his shoulders. It was longer at the back and messy, the ends forming the bare suggestion of soft curls. Syenna thought it gave him a fittingly wild and carefree look. He wore a grey poncho, the rough hewn fabric draped over his shoulders and hiding his telltale Jedi robes. Under the lightbox of Randon’s sunlight they made for an unremarkable pair of civilians. Which is what they were: Today Syenna and Anakin would be two aspiring students at the University of Alderaan, keen to investigate Randon’s farms for their geographical research assignment.

Obi-Wan and Genevva were due to arrive soon. Last night she’d mentioned the two Jedi Masters to Laissy, though she described them instead as chaperones: instructors from her university who’d accompanied Anakin and Syenna to Randon.

“It’ll be a tight sssqueeze,” Laissy had said, “But if you can make yourssself useful, I won’t sssay no to extra handsss.”

The Padawans stood outside the shop for a moment, unsure what to say. Syenna tried to take a visual inventory of their surroundings but quickly lost interest. She couldn’t focus with Anakin looking intently at her, gaze even and unwavering. Someone needs to tell him to go easy on the eye contact, she thought, glancing at his scuffed boots instead. 

“I’ll comm Genevva,” she said. It wasn’t like her master was reliably responsive in her communications, but they’d agreed in advance to meet here for their farm visit.

Obi-Wan’s voice crackled over Anakin’s commlink. “I’m afraid—won’t be joining you,” he said, the transmission broken by static. “I’m—little—caught up at the moment.”

Anakin frowned and looked up at her quizzically. She shrugged. Obi-Wan’s response was just as opaque to her.

“Looks like it’s just us,” Anakin said. “Unless Master Pol makes a surprise appearance.”

Genevva’s absence unsettled Syenna, though she had gotten used to independent work by now. Still it was yet more evidence that the Jedi Master had drifted further away from her of late.

“Good morning!” Laissy’s bright greeting pulled her from her thoughts as the older Trandoshan waddled up to them, shorter and rounder than she’d seemed in the club the night prior. Despite a night at the club, the meknek looked like she’d been awake for hours, bustling about happily as she opened her shopfront and unlocked the door with a quick scan of her clawed hand. “It’ll be a few hoursss to the farmlands, and you’ll have to ssspend the whole day there. I drive back to the city at sssundown.” She grinned amiably. “Your chaperonessss aren’t coming?” 

“They were held up.”

“More ssspace on the truck for you then. It’ss round the back. Plenty of droid partss to be cleaned and repaired on the way. Ssaved the work just for you!” She laughed in a soft hissing sound. “Idle handsss do young girls no good.”

“Uh—right.”

 Anakin shot Syenna a questioning glance and mouthed, droid parts?

She shrugged and his lips quirked.

Laissy’s repulsor truck was small and clean, an off-white older model with two seats at the back for a driver and passenger, and a low flat platform in front where the Trandoshan woman had stacked a number of deactivated loader droids, droid limbs, and other parts that Syenna didn’t recognize. She and Anakin helped the older woman load the rest of the machinery onto the truckbed before hopping on themselves, leaning against the platform’s low walls. 

Even surrounded by mechanical skeletons, restraining bolts and memory cores, it was surprisingly spacious, though there was no way to sit without their legs pushed together. Syenna tried not to let herself notice the warmth radiating from Anakin through the Force. There was too much to be done today. Getting annoyed by the Padawan’s outsized presence was hardly going to help.

Laissy clambered into the driver’s seat, the truck rocking slightly as she wrestled with the switches. “About two hundred klickss due north,” she said. “If you can, I’d like ssome help with the lassst of the loader droid arms. With all the mining dusst, their jointss need replacing all the time—dirt’s alwayss getting stuck in those little gaps.”

Anakin smiled innocently. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Syenna will have it all sorted out.”

Once they’d gotten under way, the hover truck zipping through the city toward the fields beyond, she settled back against the truckbed and thought about what they might learn from the farm folk villagers of Randon. They’d have to be intentional about their questions, meticulous about their observations. There was clearly some kind of tension or prejudice between the city Randonites and the rural-dwelling farmers. The question was why—and whether it went both ways.

She watched the city buildings flash past them as they followed Randon’s meticulously planned streets, traveling further from the capitol. Skytowers faded into smaller housing units as the sun crept higher into the sky, a round golden yolk emblazoned in spotless blue. 

Eventually she noticed that they’d almost left the city entirely and were traveling on a worn dirt road carved through an expansive golden grassland. Low-rise buildings dotted the fields. They were making good time, though she knew the nearest farming settlements would still be a while away. 

Laissy hummed faintly behind them from her driver’s perch, content to drive and listen to music on her headset without conversation. Syenna turned to the droid parts scattered around them. It was clear which pieces needed repairing: joints clogged tight with sand and rocks, detached limbs and pistons bent out of shape. Thankfully Laissy had left them a toolkit in the truckbed.

How often had she watched Genevva repair the Diathim II—surely at least three times, if not four. How hard could this really be?

Syenna pinned her hair up with a stick, picked up a hydrospanner, and got to work.

It was harder than it looked.

“What are you doing?”

Anakin’s voice snapped incredulously in her ear. Startled, she glanced up at him. He was staring at her with horror, eyes fixed on the silver droid arm in her lap. 

“Fixing these parts in exchange for this ride.”

Anakin scoffed. “Fixing?” He looked pained. “I can’t believe this.”

“What?”

“This might be news to you, but usually people fix things by making them better. Not destroying them.” 

They stared at each other for a beat before he made a grab for the droid part. 

“Stop! I’ve got this handled!” She tried to hold on, but it was too late. Anakin plucked the metal arm and hydrospanner easily from her grasp. His gangly arms lent him an unfair advantage.

“If you keep doing that,” he said, “You’ll have to explain to our good driver why you permanently dismantled the droid parts you promised to repair.”

She glared at him. In truth she’d only been guessing at what to do, but destruction seemed like a bit of an exaggeration.

“Droids aren’t tools,” Anakin continued, staring her down. “They’re complex beings. You can’t just treat these parts like they’re scrap metal. You have to be careful with the insides.”

“Oh yeah?” She swiped at the tool but he held it aloft.

“Yeah. You could be causing all kinds of internal damage.”

“So you’re a droid expert now?” Syenna rolled her eyes. “What can’t he do?”

 “Very kind, Syenna,” Anakin said, in a way that suggested anything but. “You know, I’d offer my help, but I’m much too foolish.”

Now he was just being childish. But the guilt of their argument two nights ago still lingered on her mind and she couldn’t bring herself to snap at him, even in jest. 

“Look. I’m sorry.” Syenna steeled herself under his unflinching gaze. “I shouldn’t have called you foolish. Will you please help me fix Laissy’s droids?”

Anakin pouted, and for once in his Force-damned life, said nothing. She winced. He wanted her to say more? “I’m, uh, sorry about the Kang Xi vase too. I should’ve listened instead of dismissing your feelings. I mean, the path of the Jedi is through harmony. Uniting all beings through the peace of the Force. And instead I’ve been closed off…” She trailed into silence, not daring to meet his eyes. 

Anakin considered her for a long while. From the corner of her vision she could see his brow furrowed again, his lips pursed into a small frown. 

“…Was that from the training manual?”

She shrugged. 

He shook his head, a touch of a smile crossing his face. “Okay, Syenna. Since you asked so nicely, I’ll fix these droids. Just watch—I'll get them working better than before."

She gave him a small nod, which he tentatively returned. Obi-Wan was right. Finding ways to work with others—however difficult they might be—would make for a good exercise in her growth and development. 

***

Anakin was silent, attention rapt as he tinkered with the droid parts strewn around the truckbed. Syenna watched him push the longer strands of his hair behind his ear as the curls at the nape of his neck fluttered in the wind. He was focused on making some kind of adjustment to the droid arm cradled in his lap, blue eyes unblinking and brow creased with focus.

She studied him for a while. He was clearly in his element. With a micropoint tucked behind his ear, Anakin carefully unscrewed a metal panel, exposing a tangle of wires, before gently brushing clumps of sand from the droid’s inner rivets. His fingers moved deftly and carefully, the motions second nature as he worked through each of Laissy’s remaining droid parts. Something about this calmed Syenna—maybe the precision of each movement, or the way each component seemed to fit perfectly in place. It was a lot less stressful, she thought, to watch Anakin repair the droids than attempt to do it herself.

“Urgh,” he said, “this stuff gets everywhere.” He dusted his hands off the side of the truck, sand tumbling into the wind.

“You like fixing things,” she said, unthinking. Anakin looked up.

“Yeah.”

“Do you do that a lot? Back at the Temple?”

“When I can. Master Plo even let me modify his Delta 7B prototype. No offence, but some of the people at Kuat really don’t know what they’re doing.”

She let that comment pass. For all she knew, Kuat’s shipyard engineers really didn’t know what they were doing. She was hardly one to know. 

Syenna thought back to her conversation with Laissy the night before. If she hadn’t joined the Jedi Order, would she now be repairing droids in her parents’ workshop on Milax V?

“My mother—one of my moms—is a meknek,” she ventured. “They run a shop together at Ta’Ah outpost on Milax V.”

Anakin considered her. “Seen them lately?”

Odd question. Jedi didn’t maintain contact with their family. That was how attachment was formed. Even though she’d missed her parents at first, she now found that she rarely thought of them at all. Her mothers had each other and they had Grandmother, and they all knew Syenna was safe and training to become a Jedi where she belonged.

But of course Anakin had come to the Jedi Order much later than she had. It made sense that his family burned brighter in his memory.

“Never mind.” Anakin turned back to the droid arm, once again preoccupied with the machinery. Only now he seemed less focused.

She sought to remember her mothers’ workshop: the sheen of rust, the assortment of tools. She could summon only vague colors and the distorted voices of customers. Images out of focus.

“Here,” Anakin said at last, setting aside the last of the droid parts in a neat pile on the truckbed. He waved at Laissy to remove her headset.

At some point during their conversation, Syenna realized, scattered housing units and straw fields had flickered into vast green cropland, the towering skyline of Randon’s city now at their backs and the sun fixed firmly above the horizon.

“All finisshed?” Laissy grinned down at them. “You are gemsss. Thank you. We’re nearly there. I hope you ssfind what you’re looking for.” 

Anakin looked unabashedly pleased with himself.

“We were hoping to talk to the farm folk about their experiences on Randon. You mentioned how they’re struggling?”

Laissy laughed ruefully as the repulsor truck glided slower through the rustling fields. “Oh, they are. It’s a sshame too. In the city we’re lucky. The sssilicax never runss out and it’sss brought our planet to life. Just decadess ago you wouldn’t be caught dead in the streetss past sundown, it was awful. Now look at uss. But the farmerss never could share in our successs.”

“Why not?” 

“I ssuppose if we knew the ansswer to that, they wouldn’t be sstruggling now, would they?” She tapped the steering control and the repulsor truck swerved onto a worn path through the field, tracking toward a distant settlement where Syenna could see a clump of large, misshapen mound-like buildings through the hazy air. “The farmerss claim that the mining hass made their cropss go bad. They used to protesst in the city. But none of them hass ever taken official action, never taken Randon Mining to court or filed a complaint.”   

“Because they have no evidence?” Syenna asked.

“Worse. The government commisssioned multiple independent sstudies, but the results were all the ssame: no correlation. Jusst ssimple ssuperstition on the farmerss’ part. Sscientifically sspeaking, it'ss not the mining. Could jusst be that their old farming traditionss aren’t keeping up with our growing population. More and more of their people are moving to the city or off-world.”

It was hard to reconcile Laissy’s indifference with the kindness she’d shown the two Padawans so far. Unlike the crowd who’d jeered and heckled the thief at Randon’s night markets, Laissy didn’t seem innately hostile to the planet’s farming community. Syenna supposed that was a result of doing business with them. But the Trandoshan woman also didn’t seem to mind that people out here were struggling. 

If the farming sector failed, surely Laissy would lose business too. But the terms she used—simple, superstitious—reflected an unconscious bias. Words have meaning, Genevva often said, but they also make meaning. Like Sith incantations, language held power. Language could shape and define the social fabric of planetary systems and societies.

Anakin fiddled with a restraining bolt, turning it over in his hands. Syenna watched the dark iron shape dance between his pale fingers.

“A few nights ago, when we first met,” Syenna ventured. “Rena—at the bar—said the Commerce Guild was funding Senator Miria’s campaign. But why would they support her if the farm folk oppose mining and want to shut it all down? Surely the Commerce Guild has an interest in the silicax profits too.”

"Beatss me.”

Syenna frowned. “The farm folk and Miria both oppose the mining industry. But the mining industry is what makes Randon successful. Who would vote for Miria, besides the farmers? Even if the Commerce Guild was using her to break the Randon Mining Corporation monopoly…she’d still need the planetwide votes to win.” 

Syenna knew that the elections for Randon’s Senator were held democratically. That meant Miria would have needed to win the popular vote—people who, by all counts, seemed to be in favor of Randon Mining’s continued dominance. People like Laissy, who couldn’t care less about the planet’s dwindling farming community. 

Syenna had learned in her research that the farm folk made up less than a third of Randon’s population. That meant the rest of the planet dwelled in the city regions and benefitted directly from the mining company’s economic gains. 

How had Senator Miria won the election? And who might have had the strongest motive to make her disappear?

No, that was the wrong question, Syenna thought. The real question was why she had only disappeared after she’d won the election. 

If Miria posed such a great threat to the mining industry, might someone not have sniped her during the campaign itself? 

Syenna let the questions percolate in her mind for several additional minutes before shelving them. There was no point dwelling on such speculation without further evidence. When they heard from the farmers, perhaps a new perspective would be unlocked.  

“Just a short distance left,” Laissy hummed. 

Syenna smiled gratefully.

The repulsor truck whirred onward for a half hour until a shadow fell over its three passengers. Syenna realized they were passing by the farming settlement she’d noticed earlier, large round buildings looming over the horizon and cutting into the bright mid-morning sky.

Except the buildings she’d seen from a distance weren’t buildings at all.

Gazing upward, she saw that the shadows instead came from enormous mountains—no, not mountains. Piles. Grey mounds of sand and fragments of rock, each piece no larger than her hand but piled together into vast structures almost as high as skytowers, so tall they shaded large swathes of the ground from sunlight. 

There were at least five of them that she could see, though countless others no doubt lay beyond, stretching into the distance.

They were tailings, she realized with a shock: unwanted residue leftover after the mining pits had been excavated and filtered for silicax oxalate.

Around the base of the mountains of sand and rock were clusters of tents; ragged canopies of wood and fabric in chaotic growths built along and atop the tailings. Beyond, Syenna thought she caught a glimpse of an enormous canyon—the famed mines of Randon, deep pits carved into the surface of the earth, together forming a thick dark scar that snaked across uninhabited regions of the planet.

That was what she’d seen from space, Syenna realized. The thick dark line next to the city, and on its other side, hundreds—hundreds—of enormous grey barnacles.

They weren’t settlements or natural rock formations—they were vast, enormous piles of waste.

Her stomach churned, glancing at the small huts and tents dwarfed by mountains of dirt and crushed stone. Of course this was what many mines looked like around the galaxy. You couldn’t summon ore from out of the ground, it had to be dug and extracted.

But the scale was unlike anything she’d ever imagined; the haphazard lumps of stone and sand a far cry from the city they’d departed from. She could make out in the distance ant-like figures: humanoid workers who traversed the mountainous tableau with droids, digging and excavating and searching for more crystal. This was the engine of Randon’s gleaming city. 

Syenna watched in silence, turning backward to look at the tailings as Laissy drove onward. Soon the immense piles were once again just abstract shapes on the horizon, though the memory of them was seared into Syenna’s mind.

Most disturbing of all, she thought, was that for all the references to Randon Mining and crystalline infrastructure woven throughout the city, no one had mentioned the mines while they were in the city itself. The planet’s wealth came from silicax, and silicax came from the planet. Like an incantation, she’d accepted the idea at face value, barely stopping to think about the mechanics of the process. A simple equation belied something that suddenly seemed terribly important.

Minister Jant described silicax as the beating heart of Randon. He’d meant it metaphorically, triumphantly even; the mineral was the fuel of Randon’s economy, it fuelled the planet’s cultural and economic expansion. 

But now Syenna couldn’t shake the image of the planet’s heart being torn from its body, violent and bloody, piles of entrails and flesh left discarded in mountainous heaps of grey.

“We’re here!” Laissy’s voice cut through her thoughts and the repulsor truck powered down, coming to a gentle halt. 

Compared to the immense tailings piles, the farming village before them seemed positively idyllic. From atop the hill they had stopped upon, Syenna saw a grassy valley populated with no more than twenty thatched huts arranged in two concentric rings. A Gran farmer walked up the hill to greet them, several ramshackle loader droids lumbering behind him.

Syenna helped Laissy and Anakin unload six deactivated droids from the repulsor truck, then watched as the Padawan and meknek began installing the newly fixed replacement arms on the droids the farmer had brought over. It was slow, methodical work, and after a while Syenna realized she was getting in their way. She stepped to the side and cast her eyes over their surroundings.

They were parked in a small clearing, a patch of flattened dirt that opened into a meandering road running down a gently sloping hill and through the village. Syenna waded into the tall grass and looked back in the direction they’d come from. She could see the vague shape of the tailings mountains shimmering on the horizon, hazy and light with atmospheric distance. Despite the flatness of the terrain, Randon city itself wasn’t visible from here, and Syenna realized that it had to be obscured by the tailings that beaded the clear blue skyline. The farms and the city were literally cut off from each other by the silicax mines.

“I picked the kidsss up in the city,” Laissy said, gesturing to Anakin and Syenna. “They wanted to learn about your farmsss for a project.”

“You’re too kind,” the farmer grumbled. “Not sure what good they’ll get of it anyway, ‘less they want to shut down the Randon Mining. Corpos poisoned our crops and now they’re killing the planet for a few credits in their pocket.”

“Alright,” Laissy said, hissing through her teeth. They’d clearly had the conversation before. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and started working on another droid arm.

“Not that it’s your fault,” said the farmer. “But ’tis strange for outsiders to be showing up here now. Something must be happenin’ in the city.”

“Oh, sssomething happened alright,” Laissy said. “You heard what people are ssaying about the Sssenator?”

The farmer only chuckled sadly. “Like I said. Nothing changes.”

Anakin frowned, impatient. “Wait—tell us more. We need to know what's going on out here.”

The farmer bristled, an invisible wall suddenly palpable between the two men. “Easy, son. Didn't know this was an interrogation.”

This time it was Syenna's turn to step in.

“Hold on. What do you mean it’s strange for us to be here now?”

The farmer turned and examined Syenna, six beaded eyes narrowing simultaneously. Syenna tried to keep her face placid and wondered if the farmer’s range of vision offered them clues that were otherwise inaccessible to two-eyed humanoids. 

“Last night,” he said, voice gruff and solemn, “We lost another girl.”

“Lost?”

“Aye, lass. Folk disappearin’. Mothers, daughters, wee-uns vanished in the dead of night. No one knows what’s happened to them. Rottin’ government never said anything about it. No one is safe out ‘ere. Whole planet’s sick and gone off balance.”

Syenna frowned. “How many people have disappeared?”

The farmer shook his head, eye stalks quivering sadly. “Too many to count, year after year. Five in our village just this season: Zamshot…Corrin…wee Angel and ‘er baby sisters. Plenty more in the neighborin’ towns.” 

This had not come up in Minister Jant’s meetings, nor in the briefings the Jedi had received before coming to Randon.

If these disappearances were widespread and had been happening for many crop cycles, it indicated a serious problem. Five this season. Multiple towns. There was no reason for the farmer to lie—for all he knew, Syenna was just a student passing through. But the grief in the farmer’s eyes made her heart stop still.

Something rotted in the farms of Randon—something bigger than the disappearance of one Senator.

“I had no idea,” she said. “How awful.” Syenna wracked her mind for a way to proceed. “How long has this been happening? And the authorities haven’t figured out what’s happening?”

The Gran chuckled mirthlessly. “Authorities? Ye mean the mouldy seat sniffers in the city? There’s some who say ’tis them—them and the Minister what are to blame.”

“Chief Minister Jant? How so?”

The Gran narrowed his eyes. “Well wouldn’t that just be perfect? ’Tis what him ’n the silver men have wanted all these years. No more farm folk gettin’ in their way. They’re eatin' the planet, lassie, and they want to eat it all.”

Beneath the accusation, Syenna detected an unshakeable truth. Something about the Gran farmer’s words also rang familiar. He’d called Jant and Randon Mining the silver men—where had she heard that before? She shook her head and tried to clear her thoughts. Too much information, too many pieces. The missing Senator. The missing women of Randon’s farm folk. The simmering resentment between those who lived in the city and those who worked in the farms.

Anakin fidgeted, fingers dark with grease and dirt, and turned his attention back to the droids. The farmer seemed far more sympathetic to her than he did to Anakin, and she had a growing suspicion that the young women he’d said were missing might all have been around her age.

Something about the way he looked at her—like she, too, was a ghost—

Syenna twisted a strand of her hair, mind racing. Farmfolk women disappearing, Senator Miria gone, Chief Minister Jant blamed. There was a thread here.

Had they been thinking about this the wrong way? Had Miria’s disappearance been part of a larger pattern rather than the freak occurrence it was being treated as? How many women went missing in Randon’s fields? 

“If you can tell us everything about your missing women,” she said at last. “We’ll do what we can to help.”

***

The disappearances had been happening as long as the Gran farmer—Bamy was his name—could remember. Every winter as the nights grew longer and the shadows darker, women and children vanished from Randon's rural sectors. They left behind no clues, only bewildered, grieving families.

Randon had no natural predators. No gundarks lurked in the fields. The only monsters on Randon, Bamy said, were the ones Randon Mining Corporation brought to the planet.

“Once there were thousands of villages,” Bamy told her. “All across the planet. Since Corpo arrived…” he trailed off. He didn’t need to finish his sentence. Syenna knew from her research that much of the planet’s cropland had been sacrificed in favor of its immense silicax mines.

Randon was unique in the galaxy. Settled during the Old Republic, it was home to a thousand different races—human and nonhuman—since its inception. It was not until relatively recently, during the age of the High Republic, that Randon Mining Corporation established itself on the planet. A hyperspace disaster caused a massive meteor strike to unearth enormous masses of rock containing silicax. Randon Mining Corporation emerged shortly after.

Over several centuries the Corporation slowly developed its operations on the planet until Randon was known throughout the Slice as a consistent supplier of high quality silicax oxalate: a growing center of culture and industry.

What Syenna hadn’t known—what hadn’t been included in the official briefing—was that much of the cities’ population came not from pre-existing farming settlements but instead from workers hired from across the galaxy and brought to the planet by the Corporation.

Since then, Bamy told them, Randon Mining had tried everything it could to dislodge the planet’s agrarian population and advance its operations even further. Using legal loopholes they took advantage of the planet’s disparate villages to claim large swathes of land, playing farming communities against one another and snatching up cropland while their leaders were distracted. The Corporation ran aggressive recruitment campaigns promoting the Randon Promise: a scholarship that helped train rural youth in corporate jobs. They wove bureaucracy and jargon into convoluted mechanisms that stifled complaint or accountability. Their town halls and listening sessions, Bamy said, were simply a strategic way for people to vent and let off steam. 

Syenna sat with Bamy in one of the thatched huts as he brewed a pot of herbal tea and unfurled the long history of the planet, his lilting words meandering like the plumes of steam rising from the stone kettle. Somewhere outside, Anakin and Laissy worked on repairs around the village. 

It was just as well Anakin wasn’t here for this, Syenna thought. Injustice after injustice spilled from Bamy’s mouth. She could only imagine how angry it would make him. Krikking hell, it was taking all of her training to remain calm and listen sympathetically rather than leap to her feet in rage.

“I don’t understand.” Bamy had recounted Randon’s history in a calm, matter of fact tone, but the Corporation’s actions over the last hundred years were nothing short of deliberate, premeditated colonization. “You must be able to do something. Have your people submitted a petition to the Senate? Or—the election. Surely Miria isn’t the first candidate to represent your interests.”

Bamy stared at her, six eyes wide with befuddlement. “The election? Lass, have you been listenin’? Nothing Corpo made on this plant exists for us. Elections are the least of our problems. Not even the newfangled HoloNet is on our side.”

Things were worse than she’d thought. 

“My mother,” Bamy said, “Tried to fight back. Went ‘round to each and every village in the sector. Banded together a delegation, she did. She knew what was happening. She knew Corpo was poisoning our planet….

***

“The villages in the east laughed at her when she showed up. Armed with stories from her village and a rucksack full of rotten crops. They called her ignorant. Idealistic. 

Every year it's getting worse, they said, but there's nothing to be done. Making trouble's a dead man's game.

Still she had hope. Burning ever bright, like sunlight on her face.

On Randon all fruits grow from the light of others. She'd learnt that from her mother. If she could make ‘em see what was happenin’, shine a light and reach their hearts... The bosses at Corpo had mothers and fathers too. That was a start, she said. And they had families living in those silver towers. They just needed kindness from one person in power. One drop of regret that their actions had caused so much pain and death. They could do something to help. They could stop the rot and help our planet heal.

So my mother left the east, and went instead to the villages in the west.

They'd suffered most of us all, downstream of the great mine pits. Every winter the winds whipped 'cross the planet, east to west. A deadly blitz. Threw up dust and dirt from those grey mountains they did. Made a kind of rain from hell. Dust over everything, choking, burying. Centuries of breathing dust. Who can live like that?

In the west people listened. My mother was a daughter of the fields. You could see it in her eyes, black like berries. You could hear it in her voice, soft like birdsong. 

They're killing us, she said. Every day, so slow we can hardly see it. This grey dust is a veil upon our eyes. But still the veil flutters. And when our young'uns are born unable to think, unable to speak, we see behind the veil. When the burowga herd bleeds inside their bodies, we see behind the veil. When the fruit rots on the branch, we see behind the veil.

A man of the village stepped forward. Later he'd be her husband—my father. On that day he raised his voice to her words:

They're killing us, he said. They deny it but we see it. When our young'uns are born with lungs too small, we see it. When their guts twist into knots and they die not one day old, we see it. When our mothers' bones splinter, when our fathers' hearts falter, when the burowga milk is clotted and thick—we see it.

Another stepped forward. When our water runs brown with their waste, we smell it. When our wells run dry, we taste it. When our elders fall, bodies stuffed with dust, we feel it. When they send our children into the mines, into the depths of the ground, to die....

They're killing us. They're killing us.

She gathered their stories by the hundreds. She took their leaders, their children whose skin sagged off their small bones. Across the planet she led them to the city of silver.

All fruits grow in the light of others, she shouted. We'll show them our light, and they'll see.

The rest of them chanted: Follow the light. Follow the light. Follow the light.

Like a flood they entered the city, poured through the streets like a mudslide. They paraded past crowds, though I know not what they thought of us. At last at the base of the tower they waited. They called, they sang: Hear us. See us. Hear us. See us.

Days passed. For years they chanted, my mother leading them every day. 

I was born under the shadow of the silver tower. My cries joined the chorus of my people.

Follow the light. Follow the light. Follow the light. We shouted til our throats bled, watered the planet with tears. Still, every year, there were less of us. Hope is a slow poison.

In the seventh year a woman came down from the tower. At last! She was tall, clad all in silver. She listened, she wept, she saw us and she heard. She was a mother and her heart broke for our pain.

She said: Thank you for your voices. We will stop this. And into the tower she went; a dew drop into the air.

For many months we waited at the base of the tower. When their response arrived, it came as a surprise. We were the afterthought of their inconvenience.

They'd done a study, then they'd done three more. Just to be sure.

They presented this datapad to my mother. I still have it here.

...Based on our estimations, pollutants do not exceed the necessary threshold of micrograms per cubit to qualify for legislated policy response. Independent review identified limited exposure pathways for pollutants described by community petitions. Though flora and fauna may be affected by changes in terrain and environment, independent review registered no humans involved in such cases. In the absence of positive testing outcomes, attribution of community superstition to mining-related externalities is at best irresponsible, at worst dangerous. The Office of Community and Culture recommends no further action.

My mother died the next year. And that was that.”

***

Syenna sipped her tea, the thick liquid tasteless in her mouth. Once again the realisation that none of this had been included in the Jedi’s mission briefing lay heavy in her stomach. How much of this planet's history was stored in the ageing bodies of farmers like Bamy?

“Randon Mining Corporation has been taking women from your communities ever since,” Syenna guessed. 

Bamy nodded. “Sure seems it.”

“And Senator Miria was the first of your community elected to galactic office.”

Bamy nodded again.

“And now she’s gone.”

Bamy sighed, stretched his back with a crack, rubbed his many eyes. Syenna shook her head. Rage, hot and sharp, snaked through her gut. It was outrageous. More than outrageous—deplorable. And it had gone on for centuries. 

Did the Republic know?

It didn’t matter, she thought. This wasn’t a failure of the system. It was the system working as it was meant to. The question now was what could be done.

She finished her tea and stood, returning the cup to the saucer Bamy had served it in. His simple act of generosity had moved her to tears. In spite of the suffering and death he’d seen at the hands of Randon Mining, he’d opened his home to a strange offworlder and shared his story with her. 

He didn’t know she was a Jedi. He expected nothing in return.

But she was determined to help nonetheless. And for once, she was confident Anakin would agree.

“Thank you for trusting me. You’ve given me a lot to think about,” Syenna managed. “I have to get back to my companion now, but—“ Her voice caught. “Don’t give up. There must be something I can do. There has to be.”

Bamy only sighed. “You should speak to my son, Atabon. Works in the mines. There’s a fire in that one. But my anger….it ran dry years ago.”

“I will speak to Atabon,” she promised. “We’ll do something to stop this. We'll find a way.” She had never been meant anything more. The work of a Jedi felt so indescribably inadequate in the face of such violence, like a speck of sand in a mountain of rock and mineral, less than a farmer, less than the seeds they tended or the soil beneath their feet. But something good would come of this mission. She’d make sure of it.